The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) (27 page)

“Prince Basaal.”

It was Sean. Basaal looked up then around himself, where dozens of soldiers in red were waiting in uncertainty.

“The trumpet,” Sean began. “And the men, the emperor’s men, they all began to run back towards their camp in retreat.” It was an uncertain, untrusting statement.

“Why would my father have sounded the trumpet for retreat?” Basaal muttered in Imirillian.

Ashan, third in command of Basaal’s army, knelt on the other side of his prince. “The emperor has called the men back.” Then, he added, “At least half of your remaining army banded together to fight for you. They drew their swords against the foes of their prince.”

Sean looked confused, and Basaal could not remember what he was supposed to say to either of these men. He moved his fingers to the red Safeeraah on his arm and closed his eyes.

“Basaal?” Sean spoke in his Aemogen tongue.

“The trumpet call,” Basaal heard his own voice say, “was of final retreat. The Imirillian army has declared itself defeated. I have never thought, in all my days, I would live to hear such a sound.”

Basaal opened his eyes and placed his hands on the ground, steadying himself as he rose to his feet. Ashan and Sean, one on each side of Basaal, did the same. Basaal scanned the plain, awash with fallen soldiers. Here and there, small groups began to gather in confusion. Men cried out from wounds. Bands of red began to gather and make their way towards Basaal’s immediate guard. A wave of purple, what was left of it, was on the far field, retreating towards the Imirillian camp. Eleanor’s soldiers were calling out, uncertain. They were weaving among Basaal’s soldiers, searching for the wounded, finding each other, clasping hands.

“I couldn’t leave him,” Sean was saying at Basaal’s left. “I came upon him screaming and quickly saw there was nothing to be done. So I ended his pain there, for pity.”

Dazed, Basaal turned towards Sean. “Crispin?” he asked.

“No,” Sean replied, looking struck. “Your horse, Refigh. I believe Crispin is dead.”

“Yes,” Basaal said as he shook himself awake. “Yes, I know. I saw it happen. He saved me, damn it. Damn it all.”

“What do we do now?” Ashan asked, watching Sean with uncertainty.

It was sudden as a lightning strike, and it shot through Basaal with force. His heart felt it again, and agony jolted him wide awake to the destruction of the day. Basaal shook his head, startled, taking a moment before he could look Ashan and Sean in the face.

“We must organize the men,” he said in Imirillian. “Search for the living among the fallen. Bring all the wounded Imirillians to the western rise. Count the survivors, both able and injured. But let us be vigilant. Do not let the men believe in this retreat until I can confirm it is so.”

He turned to Sean and spoke in Aemogen, giving the same orders. “Take all the Aemogen wounded to the eastern rise, below the trees. Have you seen the other officers? What about Aedon?”

“I cannot say,” Sean replied, looking grim. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, The man was covered in the burnt color of drying blood.

Basaal reached for Sean’s arm and stepped forward. The injury in his leg from earlier in the day had hardened into a stiff, swollen pain. With a sharp breath, Basaal began to limp towards the band of red-clad men who had surrounded him, men who had sworn to uphold Basaal until his death. As they gathered him in—however bittersweet this reunion might be—Basaal was home.

Chapter Sixteen

Ammar stood at the door of the tent, waiting for Shaamil’s general to return.

“It is done,” he told Ammar when he did. “The captains under me are organizing the retreat, pulling all the men back.” He looked at the physician prince with skepticism on his face, as he held the trumpet in his hands.

“Once all the men have pulled back,” Ammar said. “I want them away from the battlefield, at the far western end of the camp, until we can assess the casualties and discuss the burying of the dead with the Aemogens.”

“And the emperor?”

“Has asked I leave him in peace,” Ammar said the truthful statement casually.

“The conquest, then, is over?”

“It is over,” Ammar said. “Send a messenger to discover the fate of Prince Basaal, seventh son. Notify me as soon as he is found.” Then Ammar turned back towards the tent.

***

Eleanor and Zanntal laid the bodies in the stable yard behind Colun Tir. Even the dead Vestan were carried down to await their burials. The thought of leaving Hastian lying in his blood on the tower any longer was beyond what Eleanor could endure and so Zanntal obliged her quietly when she had insisted he allow her to help carry her dead.

The hole that had begun inside of her upon hearing of Doughlas’s death, the grave that had opened there, was larger now, and the weight of Hastian and the other soldiers, found dead outside the tower, worked to enlarge this gap between her ribs and her heart. Eleanor’s white dress was soiled with dirt and blood, forever stained. Her heart felt much the same.

Thaniel, her fen rider, arrived as they had just brought out the last body.

“Your Majesty!” he called, out of breath as he reared his horse up and dismounted, a flurry of news and exhaustion. “The Imirillians have ordered the retreat. We have begun counting the dead, seeing to the wounded. Sean asked me to send this report in hopes of finding you safe.”

“I will come down soon.” Eleanor motioned toward the bodies there as if in explanation. “And Basaal?”

“Prince Basaal has gone to ask for assurances from the Imirillian camp.”

Eleanor drew in a breath and pressed her fingers to her eyes. He was alive. It took a deep breath, and then another, before Eleanor could again feel her lungs, not realizing until now how much she had been waiting for this news.

“That is not all,” Thaniel said. He had caught his breath, though the sweat from riding fast across the late afternoon still glistened on his face. “The prince received a message from his brother before leaving for their camp: Emperor Shaamil is dead.” He gave a ghostly grin despite himself. “The emperor is dead, and the conquest is over.”

“Shaamil is dead?” Eleanor cried. “By whose hand?”

Zanntal stiffened, seeming to guess what had been said.

“I know no more than this,” Thaniel answered.

It was as strange as it was miraculous, but Eleanor did not feel the miracle of it yet. She only felt hollow and thin. She reached a hand out, and Zanntal steadied her. The fen rider, having delivered his message, finally saw the blood on Eleanor’s dress. Then he studied the bodies lying on the ground, his eyes ending on Hastian. He walked slowly towards the corpse of the Queen’s Own, crouching down and touching Hastian with the barest edge of his shaking fingertips.

“Not Hastian,” Thaniel said as he bent his tired head. “Not all the good men.”

“Who else? Aedon? Crispin?” These words escaped from Eleanor faster than she could stop them, for she did not truly wish to know. It was too endless, this knowing.

The fen rider shook his head. “We have just begun gathering the dead, but—”

“Speak no more.” Eleanor held up her hand. “I will come down…I will see for myself.”

***

Basaal refused the horse they had offered him and began to walk towards the Imirillian encampment, followed silently by his own, red-clad, battle-weary soldiers. They stepped over endless bodies, and when Basaal came upon his own horse, its throat slit compassionately by Sean, he stared at it numbly until Ashan moved him onward.

They continued across the plain.

Upon arriving at the burned encampment, Basaal saw that Emperor Shaamil’s men had been ordered to the far end of the desolated Imirillian camp. Death had come here, with the aid of the devilish powder devices, and men and horses were scattered with abandon across the earth. The emperor’s tent still stood, farther up the hill, untouched.

It was there that Basaal carried his tired soul. No guards greeted him, and he motioned for his men to remain in wait. He pulled back the tent flap and let himself in.

Ammar sat in a chair, quiet and contemplative, swirling the contents of a brass cup in his hand. Basaal’s entrance caused him to look up.

“Where is he?” Basaal asked. His own words sounded young in his ears.

Ammar nodded towards a drawn flap that led to the emperor’s private sleeping quarters inside the pavilion. Basaal crossed the room, passing his brother, moving his fingers along Ammar’s shoulder to anchor himself before moving on, pulling the ornate curtain aside. He entered the enclosed bedroom and stood, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness around the lifeless figure on the ornate sofa. Basaal stared, blinking back the oddity, the power vacuum he was now surrounded by. The emperor of Imirillia was dead.

Basaal had always loved the Zarbadast theatrics as a boy, the plays and performances, the grief and triumph of the players. Now, as he took a few steps towards the silent, still man before him, the memory of these plays crossed his mind, and he knelt down, feeling as though he were doing, perhaps, some great thing and should feel more emotion for his father’s death. But, whether it was the carnage of the day—growing stale in the late afternoon—or his own exhaustion, or both, Basaal could not access the feelings of his heart, certainly nothing worthy of a son kneeling beside the corpse of his father.

He lifted his hand and touched his father’s brow. Shaamil’s skin was cold, already stiff, but Basaal moved away as if he had been burned by fire. The gray hairs around his father’s temple and in his neatly trimmed beard were accompanied by quiet lines of age around his eyes. His father was dead. Annan was dead. Crispin was dead. Everything was death.

“You were always your mother’s son,” Ammar said from behind Basaal. The younger prince turned towards his brother. Basaal’s mouth twitch. Shaking his head, he looked back down at the lifeless corpse.

“Yes. But I feel as if I have always been my father’s shadow.”

“Do you believe I did right?” Ammar asked. It was a rare moment of hearing a tone of question in Ammar’s voice.

Slumping over, bent and bowed, Basaal shook his head, staring at the ground. “Do not ask me what is right and wrong. I am of the damned. I know nothing of such things.”

Ammar did not respond. The sound of the curtain dropping into place was followed by quiet. There was a prayer, Basaal knew, that was to be spoken over the body of a dead Imirillian emperor. But he did not know the words, and his father had stopped allowing holy men to travel with him to war.

The rush of energy that had propelled Basaal to organize the chaos on the battlefield and then stumble up to the Imirillian camp was now gone; he fell into a numb state, so lost he could not remember what it had ever been to be found. For several hours, Basaal knelt before his dead father. The afternoon ended itself, and the dim light of dusk filled the space around him. Candles were lit and torches set as darkness fell. And still Basaal did not move from his place of numb mourning.

***

Eleanor and Zanntal had buried Hastian before descending from Colun Tir. The other soldiers would have to wait. The bodies of the Vestan Eleanor would send back across the plain. Aemogens who had survived were walking the battlefield, searching for wounded, and gathering them to a single place just inside the woods. It was there that Eleanor found Sean.

“We’ve begun to gather in our wounded men,” Sean said as he took Eleanor aside after greeting her. “A company was just sent up the road to bring down some large tents that we’d placed inside the storeroom—and food, with whatever blankets can be found. Some of the wounded should not be moved, even to the tower,” he explained. “Edythe will bring the women through soon, I suppose, with more supplies.”

It was then that Sean brought Eleanor to Crispin’s body.

“Briant is dead,” Sean said flatly. “And Crispin, as you see. I am about all that’s left of your war council.” Her councillor of husbandry was looking at Eleanor, but she was not certain he saw her. She did not mind. The air around Eleanor was heavy and stiff, and as she moved she kept thinking to convince herself it was all a dream. Why should it not be the same way for Sean?

“And Aedon?” she managed to say.

Sean shook his head. “He is not yet accounted for.”

Eleanor blinked, and swallowed, glancing aside as Sean continued speaking. “We’ve a messenger back just now from the Imirillian camp, sent by Prince Basaal. The retreat is final, the emperor no more, and the Imirillians will be returning to their country once they have worked out the logistics of burying their dead.”

“Did the prince say when he would return?” Eleanor asked as she looked tiredly across the plain toward the rise of the Imirillian camp.

“No,” Sean answered.

Tents were brought down, erected on the edge of the woods, a short trail away from the overgrown road that ran north of the pass to Colun Tir. Eleanor asked that Crispin’s body be placed in the smallest tent, tucked behind and apart from the others. Once his body had been laid out, Eleanor meant to leave and attend to the wounded, to organize the men and ask for reports on casualties, and to send a message across the plain. But, as darkness fell, it was here that Eleanor sat, beside the cold, torn body of Crispin.

Sean did not let her stay any longer. When he guided her away from Crispin, Eleanor concerned herself with the first wave of her wounded soldiers, working into the night, attempting to bring them comfort, to clean their wounds, to call for desperately needed water—and more water. But, when the fifth man died as she held his hand, Eleanor—her vision blurry, her head heavy as a stone—gave strict orders to notify her once Aedon was found and disappeared into the small tent to convince Crispin somehow that he could return back to life…that he should return back to life.

Hours passed, but each time she reached for his hand, there was still no response. Eleanor would press the back of her hand against her forehead, supposing perhaps she had gone mad, wondering why she still hoped that Crispin’s fingers would respond to hers.

Later, when night was at its deepest, and when Eleanor could no longer sit beside Crispin wishing she could take back the day, she left the tent and asked Sean for a report on the wounded.

There were more men than the tents could hold. Eleanor found herself again weaving through rows of bodies. The groans and cries were insufferable until Eleanor learned she could close her ears, stop the sounds from penetrating, remain apart, even as she mopped their wounds with a rag and a bucket of water. It was the only way to move from one soldier to the next.

“Your Majesty!”

Sean had been asking her a question, or so Eleanor thought.

“Yes?” she asked.

“The dead. What would you have us do with the dead?”

“Have all the wounded been brought up?”

Sean’s eyes were rimmed red from exhaustion. “As many as we could find in the darkness. We’ve begun to bring up the dead now and have found one or two men yet alive amongst them.”

Eleanor brought a hand up to brush her hair from her face and paused. It was bloodstained. Bringing it down slowly, Eleanor looked out towards the battlefield. There, men holding torches were wandering the plain in groups of three or four, lifting and carrying corpses until they were piled below the tents of the wounded. Someone had found a wagon and was bringing the dead back a dozen at a time. Some of the torches belonged to the Imirillian soldiers, who moved about in their operations as a mirror image to Aemogen’s as they took their own dead back to their camp.

“It’s a devilish business,” a soldier said to Eleanor and Sean at some point during the night. “We are stumbling around these fellows, none of us speaking a word of the same language, gathering our own dead and ignoring the fact that the man next to us, who is gathering his dead, would have killed countless of our men.”

Those words were still stuck in Eleanor’s head when she answered Sean’s question regarding the place of burial. “We will bury the dead here,” she said. “This side of the mountain range is still Aemogen land. We will bury them here, at the edge of the woods, and will make a single marker for each man, using the surviving fen lords—or any man—who can identify the dead. We must also keep a record of where each man has been set to rest—for his family. If King Staven finds cause to complain,” she added, “well, let the man fight me for it.” Then Eleanor went back to her work, whatever that work was.

There had yet to be news of Aedon.

Eleanor could not remember later when it had happened or how many hours from dawn it might have been, but, at some point, arms began to surround her, soft, matronly arms. Eleanor became aware that the Marion women had come with blankets, food, and teas; fires were lit and kettles were put on. The men who still drew breath in agony, facing the horror of their half-hacked limbs, were given gentle treatment, or soothing stories, before they lost a hand, or a leg at the knee.