Macurdy was one of the last to leave, looking toward the site of the infantry battle as he rode. It too was over, had been for a while. His infantry had substantially outnumbered the ylvin and militia infantry to begin with, and when the militia broke, it left the ylver at a severe disadvantage, despite their byrnies and training. After heavy slugging, they’d withdrawn, leaving their dead and wounded to the badly reduced southerners.
Macurdy found Jeremid back before him; the Ozman had ridden out with the last cohort committed, and was grinning ear to ear, his byrnie splashed with blood not his own. “You look like a butcher, Macurdy!” he called in greeting.
Macurdy looked down and found himself bloodier than Jeremid. “Get me something white!” he shouted.
“White?”
“I want to parley with the imperial commander.”
“Something white!” someone called. “Get the marshal something white!” The call spread through the cohorts, but no one came forth with anything white. Macurdy trotted his horse back onto the battlefield, where leaning far down, he snatched a fallen spear on the trot, and put his helmet on its point. Holding it high, he trotted Hog toward the little hill.
The ylver commander watched him come, making no move to meet him. At fifty yards, Macurdy stopped. “A truce!” he shouted. “A truce!”
The ylvin general rode out then, his youthful face grim. At twenty yards he too stopped.
“To what end?”
“To do what we can for the wounded!”
For a long moment the ylf stared. “Have you surgeons?”
“And Sisters; healers. I suppose you have your own.”
The ylf nodded. “A truce then. Till when?”
Macurdy’s face worked. From now on, he thought. Forever. “Until sunrise tomorrow.”
“A truce till sunrise. Agreed.” The ylvin general trotted back to his staff, and Macurdy turned toward his. Partway there, he could hear ylvin trumpets, presumably signalling the truce, for the general’s aura had shown no sign of treachery. The southern army had no bugle call for a truce, so when he reached his own men, Macurdy sent couriers to inform the cohorts.
And one to bring the Sisters. They trotted their horses to him, their Tiger platoon riding straight-backed and expressionless behind them. Macurdy sent them out to where hundreds on hundreds—thousands!—of dead and wounded strewed the ground, then looked around and spoke to Jeremid. “Where’s Melody?”
The Ozman’s face fell. “Shit!” he said, scanning around. “I told her to stay here! That she was in charge till I got back!”
“I’ll find her,” Macurdy said. “Get litter bearers organized; what we’ve got aren’t nearly enough. And commandeer buildings in Ternass for the wounded.”
Then he ordered a courier to follow him, and rode out to the last place they’d fought. If Melody was alive, that was probably where she’d be. He went to her like a needle to a magnet, found her sprawled across a dead horse, still and bloody as a corpse. From thirty feet distant, he wanted to die, for he could see no aura. When he reached her, he swung from his saddle. There was an aura after all, thin and dull. Her face was ash pale, her splash of freckles a contrast and alarm. Simply removing her badly dented helmet strengthened her aura. He raised her a bit, and with the courier’s help, pulled off her byrnie. Seemingly the blood was not her own, for there was no visible wound.
“Bring a litter,” he ordered, then watched the courier mount and canter off.
When she’d been taken away, Macurdy looked around. His impulse was to take one end of a makeshift litter and help carry, but there were many who could do that. His job was to be in charge. Not that he was much good at it just then; Jeremid gave the orders. Much of the time, Macurdy sat silent and motionless in the saddle, watching litter bearers; carters stripping byrnies from the dead and gathering weapons; and after a bit, crews of surrendered militiamen and his own troops hauling and stacking wood and straw for funeral pyres.
Near noon, he rode to the house where Melody had been taken, one of numerous filled with wounded. As chief of staff, and assumed to be their commander’s lover, she’d been put in a small room by herself. He found her there in bed, conscious but groggy, head aching. She didn’t remember the battle at all; didn’t even remember getting up that morning. Macurdy kissed her forehead and told her she’d be all right. Meanwhile she was to stay in bed; that was an order.