Orson found Aleksandr before dawn. Aleksandr was brushing Dascha, some distance from the only other members of Steelshod that had already risen for the day. That gave them privacy to speak, and Aleksandr was unsurprised that Orson would seek him out first thing.
It’s time for the report on Anatoly’s condition. Aleksandr ran the brush down Dascha’s flank one last time as he heard Orson stop behind him.
“He’s going to die, sir,” Orson said quietly. He did not bother to specify who. “Bad blood in his head. On his brain. I’ve seen it happen once or twice before.”
Aleksandr sighed. I honestly expected this days ago, he thought. And when he didn’t say it, I began to hope…
“You are sure?” Aleksandr asked. He stowed his brush in Dascha’s saddlebags, and gave the horse one last scratch along the jaw.
“No,” Orson said. “Definitely not sure, not with a wound like this. I’m not a healer, sir. Not really. I could be wrong.”
“But you believe it,” Aleksandr said. He turned to face Orson, giving him his full attention.
Orson nodded.
“What has changed, then?”
“His fever is worse. He woke up twice in the night. Once to vomit, then he fell back asleep. The other time, he was awake for a few minutes. I tried to talk to him. He couldn’t tell me who I was, and his voice was slurred. He was disoriented, and he fell back asleep quickly.”
Aleksandr frowned. “But he woke. Is this not better?”
“Not really. He’s woken a couple of other times, never for more than a few minutes. But I think his disorientation is getting worse, not better. That means there’s something getting worse in his head.”
“I see,” Aleksandr sighed. “You did expect this. That first night. You said there was something that could be done. What was word you used… trepanning?” Orson did not reply, and Aleksandr went on. “Could you not try this? You said it might save him.”
“I know what I said,” Orson snapped. He snapped his mouth shut, and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Sorry sir.”
Aleksandr waved away the apology. “Is fine. What is wrong?”
“Sir…” Orson swallowed. “What I told you that night, it’s no simple thing. The other times I’ve seen men die from head wounds like this… they just died. My mother told me about trepanning, once, when someone was brought to us like that. But it was too late to try, and she said she’d never done it anyway. He died quickly. I never saw her do it at all. It’s an old Cassaline technique, I think. The sort of thing a highly trained lord’s chirurgeon might know how to do. Not a... a soldier. Nor a midwife.”
“So you cannot do it?” Aleksandr asked. He clasped his hands in front of him, willing himself to remain calm. Panic will not encourage him.
“I can try, of course,” Orson said. “She told me how she might have tried it, if she’d had more time. But… if I make a mistake, I could kill him easily.”
“If you do not then he will die anyway, da?”
Orson rubbed a hand across a light stubble growing on his chin. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess I said that, didn’t I?”
“Da.”
“So you want me to try?”
Aleksandr opened his hands, palm up, in a subdued shrug. “I want us to do everything in our power. If Anatoly dies, I want to know that we did what we could for him. If you think this might help, and you are willing to try… then da. I wish for you to try.”
Orson nodded. “I—I guess I knew you’d say that. Alright. I suppose this campsite isn’t bad for it, with the stream so close. I’ll need water and light and quiet and no movement. We’ll have to stay here a while longer. A full day. Maybe more.”
“Understood. I will have some of the men ride patrols,” The louder ones. “To ensure we are safe here.”
Orson smiled, but the expression died quickly. He seemed to swallow back a nervous grimace. “Alright then. Guess I’d better get ready.”
“Da. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Orson said. “I’ll need it.”
The camp was quiet through the morning, save for Anatoly’s intermittent cries. Orson enlisted Prudence, Levin, and Cameron to join him as extra pairs of hands. They came and went from the back of the sick wagon where Orson worked. Bringing fresh cloth, boiling water, washing bloodsoaked linens. Several times Levin stepped out and wordlessly dumped bowls of dark crimson blood onto the grass.
Aleksandr kept half the company riding circuits around the area at any given time, particularly the members he thought might distract from the work at hand. Giancarlo and his porters kept their distance, quietly resting and periodically seeing to chores and busywork around camp. Those that remained close by sat uneasily by the fires, exchanging nervous looks and occasionally speaking in hushed tones.
Anatoly did not scream as much as Aleksandr expected. A few moans and cries early on, and once or twice more as morning turned to midday.
He is likely spending much of the time unconscious. A small mercy, Aleksandr decided. Orson had only a few herbs for pain, and he had already said none of them were up to the task of numbing Anatoly for this procedure.
It was late in the day when Orson finally emerged. Blood spattered his clothes and stained his arms up to his elbows. Blood was even smeared across his brow. Levin and Cam followed him, both streaked with blood as well. Levin broke away and walked down towards the stream. Orson and Cam approached Aleksandr directly.
“It is done?” Aleksandr asked.
“Mostly,” Orson said. He was wiping a bloodstained linen between his hands, trying to clean them to little effect.
“He still lives?”
Orson nodded. “For now. I think I’ve drained all the bad blood. There was a lot of it.”
“Then you have saved him,” Aleksandr said.
“Maybe. I think it’s too soon to tell, though. I’m no expert, Aleksandr.”
Cameron snorted at that, and smiled. “Could’ve fooled me, lad,” he muttered.
“Da, he is right,” Aleksandr said. “You have done well, Orson. What is next?”
“Prudence is monitoring him for now. I’ll relieve her after I get cleaned up. There’s not really much more for us to do, though,” Orson grimaced. “Either this works or it doesn’t. He’s in God’s care now.”
“Very well,” Aleksandr said. “How long before it is safe for him to be on a moving wagon again?”
Orson shrugged. “Soon. The wagon’s not too rough on him. Tomorrow or the next day.”
“That is fine,” Aleksandr said. He saw Levin walking back to camp. He hooked a pot of water over one of the cookfires and stuffed some linens into it. “Rest. Clean yourselves, eat some food, anything you need. The men will see you taken care of.”
Orson mustered a meek smile, and he headed over to join Levin and clean himself with the hot water and clean cloth.
“Lad doesn’t give himself enough credit,” Cameron said. “Madness, that was. Carved a hole right in the Ruskan’s skull. That he ain’t already dead must be a blessing from God, and proof Orson’s as good as any chirurgeon. Hope you ken that, even if he can’t.”
“Da,” Aleksandr said, nodding. “He is invaluable, Cam. I am aware.”
The highlander scratched at his red beard with a bloodstained hand, then gave a judicious nod. Satisfied, he wandered over to join the others and get cleaned up. A little while later Orson went back to check on Anatoly, and Prudence emerged to get cleaned up as well. She had a quiet word with Yorrin when he came back in from riding a patrol around the camp.
They stayed put for the rest of the day and night. Orson spent a while at Anatoly’s side the next morning, and eventually he emerged to report to Aleksandr and Yorrin.
“He’s doing better,” he said. “Seemed more clearheaded when he woke up. Complained of pain, obviously, but that’s to be expected.”
“So you really did save his life by cutting open his skull?” Yorrin asked, fascinated. “It was the bad blood that was killing him?”
“Looks that way,” Orson said.
“How long do you think it will be before he is safe to travel?” Aleksandr asked.
“From the wagon?” Orson pursed his lips in thought. “I’ll sit with him. Uh, if that’s alright with you, sir. I don’t mean to shirk other duties—”
“Of course,” Aleksandr said, waving his hand to dismiss the idea that he might think such a thing. “We will take care of your horse, and give you anything else you need.”
“I think we could head out today,” Orson said. “If it seems like the bumping of the wagon’s too much for him, I’ll let you know we have to stop. That work?”
Yorrin frowned. “It’s not ideal,” he said. “We’ve got a good camp here. Water, cover, clear sightlines all around. If we have to stop at some random spot on the roadside…”
“We will make do,” Aleksandr said. “Better that we try to make some progress. The war does not wait for us.”
Yorrin nodded immediately, giving no further disagreement. He has voiced his concern, Aleksandr thought. Now he will execute faithfully anything I decide.
Yorrin’s iron loyalty gave Aleksandr pause, sometimes. It had come on so suddenly, when Aleksandr vouched for him, and never once wavered since. It was as if Yorrin had simply decided that henceforth he was Aleksandr’s man, an inviolate unspoken vow that he would die before breaking. He is so different from the thief and urchin I took him for when we met.
Aleksandr sent Orson back to tend to Anatoly, and gave the order for Steelshod to ready the wagons and horses. They would make for the road, and for Caedia’s capital city, with as much speed as they could muster.
They reached the Cassaline road a little before nightfall, and found a suitable spot to camp. Orson said Anatoly was still doing alright. Sleeping most of the time, but his fever was lower and he seemed more lucid when awake. That was the best they could hope for, so Aleksandr considered it a boon.
The next day they were able to break camp just after first light. Between that and finally putting the wagons on the proper stone of a Cassaline road, they would make the better time than they had since first entering the Wncari Hills.
And they did. For a few hours, at least. That was when the sound of battle resounded from up ahead. Men shouting, horses screaming, and the clash of iron. Aleksandr called most of Steelshod forward. He noticed, with satisfaction, that Miles stepped forth alongside everyone else, mace in hand.
Aleksandr bid them to mount up, leaving behind Robin, Orson, and Cam to come up slower with Giancarlo and the wagons. The rest he led onward in a charge at full speed.
They came to a bend in the road, sightlines broken by a few low hills with ridgelines facing the road. When they rounded it, they saw a battle in progress. A few dozen Caedians had made a formation in the road, protecting a few meager supply carts and beset on all sides by Svardic warriors.
It was obvious at a glance what had happened. The Caedians had been traveling the road, and the Svards had used the steep ridge to lay an ambush. Their trap was sprung, and it was obvious the Caedians were in a bad way. Aleksand saw nearly as many fallen peasant conscripts and men-at-arms as he saw men still struggling to hold formation. A couple of mounted knights had tried to break through the Svardic lines, but they were hard-pressed, and several of them and their horses lay bleeding on the cobblestones.
There was only one way this battle was going to end.
The Svards have fully committed, Aleksander realized. They’ve left none of their force behind to defend against possible reinforcements.
He barked a few quick orders, and Steelshod moved to follow them.
Dylan took the ridge. He kept Prudence, Cara, and Conrad with him. They began raining arrows down on the Svards’ farthest flank.
Aleksandr led the charge on the opposite flank. A few of his men—Bear, Yorrin, Gunnar, and Miles—leapt out of the saddle on the way, making the last twenty feet of the charge on foot. They would serve as cleanup. Aleksandr rode on at a gallop, with Levin, Nathan, and Perrin in tight formation around him.
They ripped through the back ranks of the Svards like a blizzard wind hitting a hay bale. Aleksandr noted as one by one his fellow riders were caught up in the melee. He trusted in the second wave of footmen to ensure that none of them were surrounded, and he kept Dascha galloping full speed through the Svards. He laid into them with Kholodny, and Dascha crushed underfoot any that did not get out of the way.
The battle was short and decisive.
The Caedians rallied when they realized what was happening. A man on horseback, clad in mail with a white and brown tabard, shouted orders to the men-at-arms. They redoubled their efforts as a second wind rejuvenated them.
Conversely, the Svards’ nerve crumbled quickly. They were spread too thin in trying to encircle the Caedians, which left them with little ability to defend themselves from Steelshod’s rear assault. When they broke, they broke hard.
At least a score of Svards scattered in every direction. Aleksandr let his mounted men give short chase, cutting down a couple of them, but he called out for them to stay close. He wheeled Dascha around and trotted towards the Caedians, nodding at the man he suspected led them.
“Hail, and well met!” the man shouted. Up close, Aleksandr could see something he had missed in the heat of batte.
He’s so young. The realization was disquieting. The man was likely no older than Miles, with a similarly scruffy attempt at a beard barely marking his soft cheeks. His tabard was white and brown, and one of his men-at-arms carried a banner of a white ram on a field of brown.
“Hello,” Aleksandr said. He lowered Kholodny, letting blood drip off the tip of the blade.
“I am Lord Bradley Cavanaugh, and these are my men. I daresay we owe you and yours our lives. May I have the honor of your name, sir knight?”
The young man spoke eloquently, but Aleksandr could hear a strained timbre in his voice that belied the words. Around them, Cavanaugh’s men regrouped, dragging their wounded and dead together.
“Aleksandr Kerensky,” Aleksandr said.
If Cavanaugh had missed his accent with the single word “hello” he did not miss it in Aleksandr’s name.
“Not Caedian, then,” he said.
“Ruskan.”
“Given that you just saved our hides, please believe that I mean no offense… but what are Ruskan soldiers doing in Caedia?”
“We aren’t Ruskan soldiers,” said Yorrin. He had sidled up beside Aleksandr. His dagger was already sheathed, and he wiped blood from his thin steel sword before sheathing it as well. He wordlessly passed the cloth to Aleksandr, and Aleksandr accepted it to clean his own sword.
Cavanaugh blinked in surprise. “Oh. Oh! Mercenaries?”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “Steelshod company.”
“I’ll remember the name. You’re in Caedia’s employ, then?”
“Ah,” Aleksandr shrugged as he sheathed Kholodny. “Not exactly. We are bound for Arcadia, where we hope to find service.”
Cavanaugh’s brow furrowed. “Not hired by anyone yet?”
“No.”
“But… well… once again I hope you forgive me, but—”
“You wonder why we intervened,” Aleksandr said.
“Indeed,” Cavanaugh nodded. “Sellswords aren’t known for their charity. I suppose… well, we haven’t much coin on our persons, but my keep isn’t far, and—”
“Lord Cavanaugh,” Aleksandr interrupted, his voice firm.
“Yes?”
“We intervened because you needed help. And because the Svards have earned our ire. We expect no pay from you.”
“Oh.” Cavanaugh blushed. “Sorry again, I—”
“Is fine. You have wounded, da?”
“I expect so. We’ve lost a few good men as well, no doubt,” Cavanaugh frowned. “The Svards attacked so quickly. I—I fear I did not lead the men as well as I could have.”
“First time at war?” asked Perrin from where he had led his steed to stand nearby.
Cavanaugh nodded. “Very much so.”
“We have supply wagons coming up behind us,” Aleksandr said. “And a healer among them. He can help see to your wounded, if you do not have a healer of your own.”
“Oh! No, we don’t. Not really, anyway. An old physiker back at my keep, but he’s not fit to travel, and a few of the men can keep a steady hand stitching up wounds.”
“Your keep is behind us, then?” Aleksandr asked.
“That it is. Not much of a keep, in truth. Woolsby—that’s my keep, Woolsby—isn’t much more than a wooden hall beside an old stone tower that threatens to collapse every winter. But it’s home. We’re but a stone’s throw from the Wncari Hills. Just two days march back down the road, and you could likely ride it in half that.”
Behind him, Aleksandr could hear the others arrive. Orson was soon moving through the Cavanaugh knights and men-at-arms, assessing their wounds as best he could. In the corners of his eyes Aleksandr could see a few of his men moving amongst the dead Svards, stripping them of their mail, their helms, and their weaponry.
Grisly work, but no doubt smart, he thought. Mail is valuable, and Caedia could likely use it if nothing else.
“You bound for Arcadia?” he heard Perrin ask Cavanaugh.
The young lord nodded. “King Edric has called his banners. I fear I’m late, actually. It took some time to get things settled at home, get the keep garrisoned, and raise some men. I haven’t all that many men-at-arms in the first place. Nor very many peasants to levy.”
“Perhaps we could travel the rest of the way together,” Aleksandr offered. “There is safety in numbers. And several of my men are skilled outriders. They have done well to keep the road scouted, and alert us of any possible ambush.”
Cavanaugh’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s a capital idea!” he said. “You’re sure? Even though I haven’t got much coin to—”
“We’re sure,” Yorrin cut in. It was clear he was not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Or else Aleksandr wouldn’t have offered.”
“Right, of course. Sorry,” Cavanaugh ducked his head apologetically, seemingly unconcerned or unaware that a common mercenary had just told him off.
“Cara, Levin!” Aleksandr called out.
The two of them rode up easy earshot a moment later.
“Prepare to ride ahead with Yorrin. We will move out as soon as Orson has seen to the wounded. Make sure no Svards lie in wait ahead, da?”
“Aye,” Cara said. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Come on, Levin. You comin’ Yorrin?”
“Just need to get the horse,” Yorrin said. He jogged off to fetch it.
Cavanaugh, meanwhile, was staring at Cara with an open mouth.
“Something wrong, Lord Cavanaugh?” Aleksandr asked, though he felt he could guess the issue.
“Um. Pardon...” Cavanaugh edged his horse a little closer and lowered his voice. “Is she an Wncar?”
Cara smiled at Cavanaugh. “Aye, she is,” she said. She dug her heels into her horse and it began trotting away before the dumbfounded lord could reply. Levin gave Cavanaugh a skeptical look, then rode after her.
Cavanaugh looked at Aleksandr in confusion. “Apologies, Sir Kerensky, but… a savage? Why?”
Aleksandr shrugged. “Everyone deserves a second chance in this life, my lord. In Steelshod, if nowhere else.”
“Huh. I—I see. I think.”
“Come,” Aleksandr said, dismounting. “Let us see how your men are doing, da?”
“Right,” Cavanaugh slid from the saddle absentmindedly, still glancing towards Cara as she receded down the road.
They passed Robin and Gunnar, who were among those stripping the dead Svards. Gunnar had a suit of mail laid out beside him, spattered with a few bloodstains, and he had just finished pulling off his own hauberk.
“Changing out your armor?” Aleksandr asked.
He nodded at Aleksandr. “Ja. I did not think anyone would mind,” he said. “This one looks like it will fit better than Gorm’s.”
“Da, of course. Good idea,” Aleksandr said. “Though—you might wish to clean it.”
“Psh, good luck with that,” Robin said. “To a fellow like Gunnar I bet the blood of his foes is a heathen sacrament!”
Gunnar grinned. “Blood spilled in service to Vlar is not so bad. But… ja, of course I will clean it. If it fits.”
Aleksandr allowed himself a small smile. He is fitting in well already, I think, he decided as he continued walking towards Orson.
Beside him, however, Cavanaugh was once again agape. He froze in shock, and Aleksandr paused to wait for him. “Are you alright?” he asked.
Cavanaugh hurried to catch up, but he kept an eye on Gunnar as he did. Once he reached Aleksandr, he leaned in close.
Aleksandr knew what was coming before the young lord even opened his mouth.
“Is that a Svard?”