‘I don’t know.’
‘I brought some food,’ said Thorn, handing Ananais a loaf filled with creamed cheese. Ananais had taken one bite when the drums began beating once more.
*
Five attacks were launched and repulsed before dusk, and one night attack was turned back with heavy losses among the Drenai.
Ananais remained on the wall until two hours before dawn, but Decado assured him no further attacks were planned and the general finally staggered away from the ramparts. Valtaya had a room in the hospital, but he resisted the impulse to go to her; instead he moved into the trees and fell asleep on a grassy knoll.
Four hundred men had been removed from the battle; the wounded overflowed the hospital and had been laid on blankets on the grass around the building. Ananais had sent for reinforcements, two hundred and fifty men of the reserve force.
At Tarsk, he learned from Acuas, the losses had been fewer, but then only three attacks had been launched. Turs, the young warrior who led the Tarsk troops, had done well by all accounts.
It was now obvious that the main thrust would be aimed at Magadon. Ananais hoped the Joinings would not be sent in tomorrow, but in his heart he knew that they would be.
Across from the hospital buildings a young warrior tossed in his sleep as the nightmare grew. Suddenly he stiffened and a strangled scream died in his throat. His eyes opened and he sat up, reaching for his knife. Reversing the blade, he slowly pushed it into his chest between the ribs until it sliced into his heart. Then he withdrew it and stood up. No blood ran from the wound . . .
Slowly he walked to the hospital building, staring through the open window. Inside Valtaya was working into the night, fighting to save the worst of the wounded.
He moved away from the window to the woods beyond, where some two hundred refugees had pitched their makeshift tents. By a camp-fire sat Rayvan, cradling a babe and talking to three women.
The dead man walked towards them.
Rayvan looked up and saw him – she knew him well.
‘Can you not sleep, Oranda?’
He did not reply.
Then Rayvan saw the knife and her eyes narrowed. When the man knelt beside her, she looked into his eyes. Blank and dead, they stared back unseeing.
The knife flashed up and Rayvan twisted and dived, turning her body to protect the sleeping babe as the blade raked her hip. Letting the child roll clear, she blocked the next blow with her forearm and smashed a right cross to the man’s chin. He fell, but rose again. Rayvan pushed herself to her feet. The other women were screaming now and the babe had begun to wail. As the corpse approached, Rayvan backed away; she could feel the blood oozing down her leg. Then a man ran forward, holding a blacksmith’s hammer which he brought down savagely on the dead man’s head. The skull cracked, but still no expression crossed his face.
An arrow flashed into the dead man’s chest; he merely gazed down at it and then slowly pulled it clear. Galand ran forward just as the corpse reached Rayvan. As the knife came up, Galand lashed out and the knife-arm sailed from the body. The corpse staggered . . . And fell.
‘They want you dead pretty badly,’ said Galand.
‘They want us all dead,’ replied Rayvan.
‘Tomorrow they will get their wish,’ he observed.
*
Valtaya finished stitching the nine-inch cut on Ray-van’s hip and then smeared a thick ointment along the wound.
‘It will help to prevent an ugly scar,’ said Valtaya, covering the wound with gauze.
‘A matter of indifference to me,’ said Rayvan.
‘When you get to my age, no one is going to notice a scar on the hip – if you take my meaning?’
‘Nonsense, you are a handsome woman.’
‘Exactly. It is a rare man who notices a handsome woman. You are Darkmask’s lover, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Known him long?’
‘No, not long. He saved my life.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’
‘You are a nice girl, but maybe you take debts too seriously.’