‘That will fester,’ one warrior said gently, it should be cut out, and the wound allowed to drain.’
‘I haven’t time,’ Keyoke said, his voice not as steady as his hand. The agony that cut through him had little to do with pain, which he had known before and endured, as now, when necessary, if the arrow is not removed and the gods-damned head keeps rubbing against my leg bone, I will likely lose consciousness. Most certainly I will not be able to walk and continue commanding our troops.’
The soldiers said nothing, but their unspoken reproach was noticed.
Keyoke reined in his anger. ‘Do you think any one of us will be alive for long enough for me to die of a wound gone bad? Tie off this leg and push the damn thing through!’ They reluctantly obeyed. Pain caused Keyoke’s vision to swim, and for a few minutes he lost his sense of time and place. After a few moments of darkness, his wits returned and he found the soldiers binding the wound; the agony in his leg fell off to a dull ache.
Keyoke ordered the warriors to help him to his feet and he stood unsteadily for a few moments. He refused to cut a cane from the brush, but stumped about with half-steps, his thigh throbbing angrily and each bump and jostle of motion a torment. But no man in Acoma green would dispute his authority; he was still in command of his army.
He promoted a particularly bright young soldier, Sezalmel, to acting Strike Leader, only to watch the man die less than an hour later. Reacting in inspired frenzy, Sezalmel had repulsed the largest Minwanabi offensive since sundown, the second near breaching of the barricade. His sortie drove the attackers back, but only in exchange for heavy losses. The Acoma were tiring, while the Minwanabi warriors seemed inexhaustible. Keyoke took no time to promote anyone else. There was no need, with Acoma numbers fallen below that of a small strike force. A second commander would be superfluous.
Keyoke shuffled wearily over to the servants and instructed a distribution of rations. Given the fatalities, there was now enough food for every man to eat as he wished. If the soldiers could not have enjoyed a hot meal, at least they would be restored by a full stomach. Keyoke took a cake and piece of jerked needra. He had no appetite, but he forced himself to chew. The painful throbbing in his right leg and the burning ache of swollen tissue were incessant. In the end, when no one was looking, he spat the tasteless morsels on the ground. He drank when the water skin was passed, and controlled the heave of his stomach. His throat still seemed dry from the cake, and he wondered if he was beginning to get feverish. Then, as always, his thoughts returned to his command.
Keyoke estimated that more than three hundred and fifty Minwanabi had fallen before the barricade throughout the day. The night’s numbers would be fewer, lessening as his soldiers tired. At least fifty enemies had perished after the hour of sundown. His soldiers were killing Mara’s foes at a rate of five to one. Losses were increasing, however, and very soon would become critical as his own forces were cut down until, inevitably, the Minwanabi would win past the barricade and rush through to slay the survivors. Keyoke concluded his review with pride. The Acoma forces had surpassed expectations, and the end might be prolonged until dawn.
Sitting back against the icy damp of the rock wall, Keyoke removed his helm. He scraped back soaked grey hair and reflected that he had never known such fatigue in his life.
The exhaustion brought on a regret: that he should be guilty of an old man’s vanity. He berated himself for not spending more time training Lujan and the other Strike Leaders. He should have insisted all the officers dine with him in the servants’ hall, instead of in the barracks with their own companies, while he took his meal with Lady Mara, or Nacoya, or Jican. Every chance missed to educate those young soldiers came back to haunt him.
Too late, now, to wish a younger man here in his post. A hot flash of pain from his wound reawakened anger. Cursing himself for a fool, he put aside his sorrow. He refused, at the last, to be a man caught up in black contemplations. A battle continued to be fought, and morbid reflections required effort better spent on the field.
Keyoke propped his wounded leg out before him and was racked by a stab of agony. He made no sound, but only sweated under the weight of his armour. By the gleam thrown off by banked coals, the flesh around the puncture looked red – a deception of light, or inflammation, he had no means to tell — and it throbbed unmercifully. No matter, he thought. A wound was but a way to measure growth for a warrior. Life was pain and pain was life. His circling thoughts drifted as his body attempted to fight off the aches of battle, injury, exhaustion, and age.