favor?
“A blow to the head?” I repeated, considering my options. If his complaint was a matter of fluids creating pressure in the skull, then a trephination might suffice, though I didn’t relish the notion of boring a hole in the High Commander’s skull. But if it was more than that, my skills would likely be insufficient. “There may be something I can do, but I was pinned in History, not Medicine. No doubt I can do more for him than an Army Scriber, but…” I shrugged my shoulders. I could not refuse to treat the King’s nephew, but I did not want that responsibility. If Uran Ord died under my care, it would go very badly for me, especially considering the other marks on my record.
“Whatever you can do will be appreciated, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine said.
With little left to say, we lapsed into awkward silence. After a time, I crawled back to the rear of the wagon. I had no desire to speak to Bryndine further now that my questions had been answered, and I had noticed my chest sitting near where I had woken. I opened it and saw that someone had finished my packing; clothes, books, and writing supplies were all stowed neatly in the box.
I rummaged through and found my journal, a quill, and some ink. I had not yet recorded the previous night’s events, and I could practically hear Illias’ voice in my head, scolding me for putting it off. I had been unconscious, of course, but the Scriber’s instinct was ingrained too deeply in me to accept excuses. Though the shaking of the wagon made my hand rough and uneven, I began to write what I remembered of the attack.
* * *
The sun was low in the sky when the wagon came to a stop, and I was forced to put away my journal as dusk descended. By the time the long train of soldiers and villagers behind had gathered at the chosen site, it was full dark, and the First Company was busy erecting camp by lantern-light. Bryndine took the time to issue orders to her company before bringing me to see her cousin, and while she did that I stood stupidly in place, watching the soldiers set up camp with no inkling of what I might do to help.
The people of Waymark milled about among the men of the First Company, though scattered amid four hundred soldiers, fifty villagers were hard to pick out. Those I did see had nothing but smiles for me, and a few even greeted me with enthusiastic handshakes. I saw Penni making moon-eyes at the young soldiers, and was surprised when she rushed over to embrace me and kiss me on the cheek before running away giggling. I had thought the villagers would be resentful, considering I had called them all fools less than a day before; such warm treatment was wholly unexpected.
It was not until I spoke to Logan Underbridge that I understood. He shouted my name as he jogged towards me, his round cheeks still flushed red from the long march.
“Scriber Dennon! Glad to see you up, looked like you got hurt pretty bad.” He clubbed me on the shoulder enthusiastically with a meaty hand. “I was a fool last night and I don’t mind sayin’ it—if you hadn’t got us movin’, and seen them Burners, we’d all be dead and burned, and that’s a fact. Them Dragon-damned women would have seen us all killed!”
That was the answer, of course. The townsfolk were making a hero out of me so they didn’t have to admit Bryndine had saved them. I did not mind them hating her; though they did not know it, she had chosen to leave the village in danger for a full day without warning. But the women she commanded deserved credit for what they had done. I wanted no part in this mass denial.
“I did nothing praiseworthy, Logan. I was unconscious for most of it. Those women saved you, not me.”
“They didn’t!” he insisted. “It wasn’t them got us out, it was the First. The Bloody Bride and hers only made it that long on account of you seen the Burners comin’. They hardly knew what they were doin’ with those weapons.”
It was a laughable claim—I
“A blow to the head?” I repeated, considering my options. If his complaint was a matter of fluids creating pressure in the skull, then a trephination might suffice, though I didn’t relish the notion of boring a hole in the High Commander’s skull. But if it was more than that, my skills would likely be insufficient. “There may be something I can do, but I was pinned in History, not Medicine. No doubt I can do more for him than an Army Scriber, but…” I shrugged my shoulders. I could not refuse to treat the King’s nephew, but I did not want that responsibility. If Uran Ord died under my care, it would go very badly for me, especially considering the other marks on my record.
“Whatever you can do will be appreciated, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine said.
With little left to say, we lapsed into awkward silence. After a time, I crawled back to the rear of the wagon. I had no desire to speak to Bryndine further now that my questions had been answered, and I had noticed my chest sitting near where I had woken. I opened it and saw that someone had finished my packing; clothes, books, and writing supplies were all stowed neatly in the box.
I rummaged through and found my journal, a quill, and some ink. I had not yet recorded the previous night’s events, and I could practically hear Illias’ voice in my head, scolding me for putting it off. I had been unconscious, of course, but the Scriber’s instinct was ingrained too deeply in me to accept excuses. Though the shaking of the wagon made my hand rough and uneven, I began to write what I remembered of the attack.
* * *
The sun was low in the sky when the wagon came to a stop, and I was forced to put away my journal as dusk descended. By the time the long train of soldiers and villagers behind had gathered at the chosen site, it was full dark, and the First Company was busy erecting camp by lantern-light. Bryndine took the time to issue orders to her company before bringing me to see her cousin, and while she did that I stood stupidly in place, watching the soldiers set up camp with no inkling of what I might do to help.
The people of Waymark milled about among the men of the First Company, though scattered amid four hundred soldiers, fifty villagers were hard to pick out. Those I did see had nothing but smiles for me, and a few even greeted me with enthusiastic handshakes. I saw Penni making moon-eyes at the young soldiers, and was surprised when she rushed over to embrace me and kiss me on the cheek before running away giggling. I had thought the villagers would be resentful, considering I had called them all fools less than a day before; such warm treatment was wholly unexpected.
It was not until I spoke to Logan Underbridge that I understood. He shouted my name as he jogged towards me, his round cheeks still flushed red from the long march.
“Scriber Dennon! Glad to see you up, looked like you got hurt pretty bad.” He clubbed me on the shoulder enthusiastically with a meaty hand. “I was a fool last night and I don’t mind sayin’ it—if you hadn’t got us movin’, and seen them Burners, we’d all be dead and burned, and that’s a fact. Them Dragon-damned women would have seen us all killed!”
That was the answer, of course. The townsfolk were making a hero out of me so they didn’t have to admit Bryndine had saved them. I did not mind them hating her; though they did not know it, she had chosen to leave the village in danger for a full day without warning. But the women she commanded deserved credit for what they had done. I wanted no part in this mass denial.
“I did nothing praiseworthy, Logan. I was unconscious for most of it. Those women saved you, not me.”
“They didn’t!” he insisted. “It wasn’t them got us out, it was the First. The Bloody Bride and hers only made it that long on account of you seen the Burners comin’. They hardly knew what they were doin’ with those weapons.”
It was a laughable claim—I
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