Waylander by David A. Gemmell

The chief surgeon – a spare slight man named Evris – approached Dardalion. The two had struck up an instant friendship and the surgeon had been overwhelmingly relieved when the priests augmented his tiny force.

‘We need more room,’ said Evris, wiping his sweating brow with a bloody cloth.

‘It is too hot in here,’ said Dardalion. ‘I can smell disease in the air.’

‘What you can smell is the corpses below. Gan Degas had nowhere to bury them.’

‘Then they must be burnt.’

‘I agree, but think of the effect on morale. To see your friends cut down is one thing, to see them tossed on a raging fire is another.’

‘I’ll talk to Karnak.’

‘Have you seen anything of Gan Degas?’ asked Evris.

‘No. Not for several days in fact.’

‘He’s a proud man.’

‘Most warriors are. Without that pride there would be no wars.’

‘Karnak used hard words on him – called him a coward and a defeatist. Neither was true. A braver, stronger man never lived. He was trying to do what was best for his men and had he known Egel still fought, he would never have thought of surrender.’

‘What do you want from me, Evris?’

‘Talk to Karnak – persuade him to apologise, to spare the old man’s feelings. It would cost Karnak nothing, but it would save Degas from despair.’

‘You are a good man, surgeon, to think of such a thing when you are exhausted from your labours among the wounded. I will do as you bid.’

‘And then get some sleep. You look ten years older than when you arrived six days ago.’

‘That is because we work during the day and we guard the fortress by night. But you are right again. It is arrogant of me to believe I can go on like this for ever. I will rest soon, I promise you.’

Dardalion walked from the ward to a small side-room and stripped off his bloodied apron. He washed swiftly, pouring fresh water from a wooden bucket into an enamelled bowl; then he dressed. He started to buckle on his breastplate, but the weight bore him down and he left his armour on the narrow pallet bed and wandered along the cool corridor. As he reached the open doors to the courtyard the sounds of battle rushed upon him – clashing swords and bestial screams, shouted orders and the anguished wails of the dying.

Slowly he climbed the worn stone steps into the Keep, leaving the dread clamour behind him. Degas’ rooms were at the top of the Keep and there Dardalion tapped at the door and waited, but there was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside. The main room was neat and spartanly furnished with a carved wooden table and seven chairs. Rugs were laid before a wide hearth and a cabinet stood by the window. Dardalion sighed deeply and strode to the cabinet. Inside were campaign medals ranging over forty years, and some mementoes – a carved shield presented to Dun Degas to celebrate a cavalry charge, a dagger of solid gold, a long silver sabre with the words FOR THE ONE etched in acid on the blade.

Dardalion sat down and opened the cabinet. On the bottom shelf were the diaries of Degas, one for every year of his military service. Dardalion opened them at random. The writing was perfectly rounded and showed a disciplined hand, while the words themselves gave evidence of the military mind. One ten-year-old entry read:

Sathuli raiding party struck at Skarta outskirts on the eleventh. Two forces of Fifty sent to engage and destroy. Albar led the First, I the Second. My force trapped them on the slopes beyond Ekarlas. Frontal charge hazardous as they were well protected by boulders. I split the force into three sections and we climbed around and above them, dislodging them with arrows. They tried to break out at dusk, but by then I had deployed Albar’s men in the arroyo below and all the raiders were slain. Regret to report we lost two men, Esdric and Garlan, both fine riders. Eighteen raiders were despatched.

Dardalion carefully replaced the diary, seeking the most recent.