The warbands had crashed together like two great waves, a concussive explosion of noise slapping him, a physical blow that made him stagger. From his vantage point he could see individuals, see pain etched upon faces, see limbs severed from bodies, hear the screaming, smell the sweat and blood, the urine and excrement as death claimed victim after victim. Crows circled the air, hundreds of them, and he wondered if Craf and Fech were in the carrion horde.
He was standing on a small rise at the rear of Domhain’s warband, overlooking the battle. Tents were behind him, a score of healers gathered close by, bracing themselves for the coming work. Brina was amongst them, and had asked for his help. At first he had said that he would be fighting, but Rath had come and seen him soon afterwards and told him to keep out of the combat until dusk, if it went on that long. He had another plan up his sleeve.
So Corban had found Brina and told her he was able to help. It would be better than doing nothing. He was not so sure now.
Warriors started to trickle into the tents – some staggering, supported by comrades-in-arms, other carried on litters. Many were screaming, others delirious with pain. Corban spent much of his time giving men sips of usque, or poppy-milk that had been ground and mixed the night before. He had never seen so much of the pain reliever in his life, but it did not last that long. By highsun most of the jugs were empty.
‘Hold him tighter,’ Brina snapped at him. They were hunched over a warrior lying upon the ground, his foot and ankle a bloodied mess. He had been screaming, flailing with the pain a short while ago, but half a jug of usque had quietened him. Now he was groaning, until Brina started digging around in his wound with her knife.
‘Tighter,’ Brina ordered as she moved her blade around. ‘No point stitching him up with all of this filth in here,’ she muttered, pulling out slivers of leather and cloth, bits of the man’s boot that had followed the blade that had stabbed him into his wound. ‘His leg will just go green and swell, and he’ll die half a ten-night later.’ She stood up straight. ‘It’s going to have to come off.’ She looked about. ‘You’ll need help to hold him.’
‘I’ll help,’ a voice said behind them, a man stepping close. Ventos the trader.
Brina bustled off to get hot water and cloths, a saw.
‘I didn’t know you were here,’ Corban said to Ventos.
‘Might as well do something useful,’ he said. ‘The best way out of Domhain for a wain is the giants’ road, and it’s blocked at the moment. If I’m stuck here I might as well help in some way. And, as much as I like Eremon and Domhain, I don’t feel strongly enough to draw my sword and stand out there.’ He nodded towards the battlefield, where the muted roar of battle drifted on the cold wind.
Brina returned with her arms loaded. ‘Hold him tight, both of you,’ she said. ‘It’ll be hardest at first, but he won’t stay conscious for long.’ She looked at them both. ‘Ready?’
‘Aye,’ they both said, although Corban wasn’t.
The man screamed like Asroth was ripping his heart out, but Brina was right, he lapsed into unconsciousness soon after Brina’s saw started cutting into the bone of his lower leg. Still, after Brina had sawn for a while, Corban wasn’t sure which sound he hated most – the screaming or the iron grating through bone. Then came the cauterizing of the wound, the stench of burning flesh, the sewing of skin. The wrapping of bandages. By the time Brina was finished Corban’s hair was plastered to his face with sweat.
‘Go and rest for a while, get some air, drink some water,’ Brina muttered to him and Ventos.
Corban looked about the tent they were in and made for the entrance. He passed another healer bent over an injured warrior, saw the healer cut the man’s throat with a sharp little knife. It was not the first time he had seen that small mercy handed out today. He saw his mam, mopping blood from a gaping wound in someone’s shoulder.
He left the cloying heat of the healers’ tent and stepped into the cold air. It was late in the day now, the sun sinking into the west, sending shadows stretching east.
The battle still raged. It had moved back towards the mountains, leaving a field carpeted by the dead, startlingly still in contrast to the frenetic activity only a few hundred paces further on. The bravest crows were already swooping down. He just stood there, breathing deeply, the cold air sharp in his lungs, then turned around and stepped back into the healers’ tent.
A hand tapped his back. He was emptying a bowl of blood for Brina. He turned and saw Rath, blood spattered, a cut grazing his forehead.
‘Brina will see you soon,’ Corban said.
‘I’ve come to see you, Corban. Come, step outside now.’
Corban followed him out of the tent, felt a presence behind him and saw his mam had followed. Gar was leaning against a tent post.
‘We’re winning this battle,’ Rath said. ‘I think we could end it with you and your wolven’s help.’
Corban looked past him, saw Rath’s giant-killers lined behind him. Coralen nodded to him. She was already wearing her wolven pelt.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked Rath.
Corban buckled on the clawed gauntlet and drew his sword.