64th of Spring, 514 AV
Continued from The Night Watch.
Continued from The Night Watch.
Tamson was not among them. Oh, he walked next to them surely enough, but his mind was somewhere else altogether. Isana could see it in his eyes. The squire walked in a haze, eyes wide and staring, but seeing precious little of the walls on which they walked. His hands hung loose at his side, scabbard flicking back and forth like a pendulum with each meandering step. Isana said nothing, eyes flickering to the blood that soaked her hands and mail, staggering on next to Varner. What did you say at a time like this?
"You did well lad." Varner rested a hand on the young man's shoulder, face for once free of his hood. He'd recovered quickly, Varner, his stride slowly regaining its earlier vigour as their feet carried them from the Broken Casket like an athlete shaking off an aching muscle. Tamson said nothing, eyes staring ahead, silent save for the clatter of his shifting plate. Then, that was to be expected.
Death had a way of hanging over you, long after you left the bodies behind. You could train all you liked, swing steel against dummies from first light to last every day you lived, but nothing ever quite prepared you for the first time you saw a blade split human flesh. There was a moment there that banished any illusion of fine technique, of careful craftsmanship to the trade of war.
Certainly, there was skill enough involved, she warranted - the existence of the knights was proof of that – but theirs was not a subtle art. Some coped with that reality better than others. Some threw their swords away in dismay, took up careers as farmers and bakers, but they were a minority. Most, like Tamson, simply grew quiet for a time while their mind caught up with the reality of what they had seen. Then, there were an altogether blacker sort who simply laughed and lived for the day they would see it again. Those, Vathan had once told her, were the type of twisted creatures who were more beast than man.
"Will he live?" Tamson's voice was flat, little more than a whisper. "The one they attacked."
"Not my place to say." Varner shrugged. "Could be that he does, if the healer knows his trade. Depends on how deep the blade went. It's a hard thing to guess at."
"It seems like a waste." Tamson said. "For him to die."
"Few enough deaths that aren't." Varner retracted the hand from Tamson's shoulder, wheeling the squire to face him. Isana simply watched, too preoccupied with the ache in her throat, pulsing with each breath, to speak. The haze of the fight had long since departed and now all she wanted to do was lie down on something soft and sleep until the pain past into memory. Varner continued.
"You did right, lad. There's few things more wasteful than a death uncalled for, but those men tonight, they would've killed again. Maybe not here, maybe not tonight, but you can bet your blade they would have. We saved more lives than we took tonight, you hear me?"
"Yes, ser." Tamson blinked. It was the most emotion he'd shown since they left the bloodstained floors of the Casket behind them.
"Good. You remember that." For a moment he looked as though he would say more, then Varner turned back toward Bittern, slipping up the hood of his cloak and raising one finger toward the towering district. "What am I pointing at?"
"You did well lad." Varner rested a hand on the young man's shoulder, face for once free of his hood. He'd recovered quickly, Varner, his stride slowly regaining its earlier vigour as their feet carried them from the Broken Casket like an athlete shaking off an aching muscle. Tamson said nothing, eyes staring ahead, silent save for the clatter of his shifting plate. Then, that was to be expected.
Death had a way of hanging over you, long after you left the bodies behind. You could train all you liked, swing steel against dummies from first light to last every day you lived, but nothing ever quite prepared you for the first time you saw a blade split human flesh. There was a moment there that banished any illusion of fine technique, of careful craftsmanship to the trade of war.
Certainly, there was skill enough involved, she warranted - the existence of the knights was proof of that – but theirs was not a subtle art. Some coped with that reality better than others. Some threw their swords away in dismay, took up careers as farmers and bakers, but they were a minority. Most, like Tamson, simply grew quiet for a time while their mind caught up with the reality of what they had seen. Then, there were an altogether blacker sort who simply laughed and lived for the day they would see it again. Those, Vathan had once told her, were the type of twisted creatures who were more beast than man.
"Will he live?" Tamson's voice was flat, little more than a whisper. "The one they attacked."
"Not my place to say." Varner shrugged. "Could be that he does, if the healer knows his trade. Depends on how deep the blade went. It's a hard thing to guess at."
"It seems like a waste." Tamson said. "For him to die."
"Few enough deaths that aren't." Varner retracted the hand from Tamson's shoulder, wheeling the squire to face him. Isana simply watched, too preoccupied with the ache in her throat, pulsing with each breath, to speak. The haze of the fight had long since departed and now all she wanted to do was lie down on something soft and sleep until the pain past into memory. Varner continued.
"You did right, lad. There's few things more wasteful than a death uncalled for, but those men tonight, they would've killed again. Maybe not here, maybe not tonight, but you can bet your blade they would have. We saved more lives than we took tonight, you hear me?"
"Yes, ser." Tamson blinked. It was the most emotion he'd shown since they left the bloodstained floors of the Casket behind them.
"Good. You remember that." For a moment he looked as though he would say more, then Varner turned back toward Bittern, slipping up the hood of his cloak and raising one finger toward the towering district. "What am I pointing at?"
