And he hadn’t been trampled! He reached, felt his bloody thigh. The man who’d struck him had been right handed, had had to swivel in the saddle as he’d passed, and the blow had lacked force. Even so, he couldn’t stand, but lay shocked, mentally and physically.
What manner of enemy were these, so full of rage and deadly purpose? Shouting “Ferny Cove” as they rode in pursuit. Who had looked at him with such hatred? Kormehri, obviously.
Colonel Morghild inspected his smashed camp, his shattered companies. As force commander, he’d sent two companies of his own cohort along with Cearnigh’s. Holding back three, along with the militia cohorts. Then the Rude Landers had come, and most of the militia had scattered without fighting. His own men had fought of course, fought and fallen. And the enemy, after trampling the camp, had whirled back westward.
Fragments of Cearnigh’s companies had ridden, walked, or been helped back to camp, some still straggling in after sunup. Altogether, of more than 1,100 imperial officers and men, 362 were known to be fit for duty, and 334 others reported wounded and unfit. Which left some 400 killed or missing. Morale too had been smashed, would take time to rebuild.
As far as the militia was concerned, if he had his way, they could stay wherever they’d scattered to. But having one’s way wasn’t part of military service, so he would round them up, all that he could, eat the ass out of their officers, and see what could be made of them.
As for the Rude Landers, they’d been ferrying men across since midnight. Apparently they had no intention of fortifying their landing zone; attack was their strategy.
And “Ferny Cove!” their rallying cry. Their attackers had almost surely been Kormehri. Quaie’s atrocities against the Sisterhood had received most of the publicity, perhaps properly so, but it was well known that Quaie had slaughtered the Kormehri companies he’d overrun, taking no prisoners and butchering the wounded.
And now, Morghild told himself, we have our reward. Too bad Quaie isn’t here so they can pin it on him in person, with a Kormehri saber.
35: Duinarog
The jingling persisted, plucking at a corner of his dream until his wife laid a hand on his shoulder. “Raien,” she said, “Talrie’s ringing.”
The Cyncaidh pushed himself upright, groaning. The angle of sunlight through the gap in the curtains told him it wasn’t nearly seven yet; why would Talrie be waking him this early? He swung his legs out of bed. “What is it?” he called.
“Your lordship, I have an urgent message for you from the palace. You’re wanted there for an eight o’clock meeting. The courier is in the foyer, awaiting your acknowledgement.”
Cyncaidh grunted, and turned to his wife. “I hope this doesn’t mean what it might,” he muttered, then raised his voice again. “Just a moment.”
At the door, his steward handed him an envelope, its wax seal pressed with the emperor’s signet. “Thank you, Talrie,” he said, and went to his dressing table, where his penknife lay in its sheath. Slitting the envelope, he withdrew the paper folded inside, scanned it, then turned soberly to where Talrie stood discreetly outside the door. “Tell the courier I’ll be there in good time,” he called, “and have our horses ready by seven.”
Varia had already disappeared into her bathroom. Cyncaidh went to his, and instead of drawing a bath, knelt in his tub, drew a pitcher of cold water, and poured it over his head, sputtering and gasping. Then he drew warm water, and washed. Shaving wasn’t necessary. It was a rare ylf who grew facial hair below the eyebrows; they were likelier to be hairless entirely.
When both had dressed, they went together to their private dining nook overlooking the Imperial River, and the splendid park below their bluff. The morning was cool, and the broad balcony doors only slightly ajar, just enough to let in birdsong from the trees below. Morning sunlight slanted through the numerous panes, and Talrie had adjusted a shade wing so it wouldn’t shine in her ladyship’s eyes.
While waiting for their omelettes and toast, they sipped the almost obligatory sassafras tea with honey. Varia reread the short message, then looked up, frowning.