Olan Thorensen - Cast Under an Alien Sun

“I know, I know,” said Vorwich. “The ether and the new lanterns are impressive. I wasn’t so sure about some of the others, but my wife and daughters assure me the . . . ah . . . personal products have given him considerable status among the women of Clengoth. I’ve also heard complaints from some of our craftsmen about this Kolsko ruining their trades with all these innovations.”

Sistian nodded. “I can see the argument, but Yozef has been a boon to Abersford workmen, and he’s extraordinarily generous in putting coin into works that benefit all.”

“Yes,” said Vorwich grudgingly, “I’ve heard several of the workshops in Clengoth are using his tools and techniques. It’s those who cling to their traditional methods who complain the loudest.”

“Believe me, I understand . . . and Diera even more so. There are still a few district medicants who resist the new treatments, including ether, and one brother at St. Sidryn’s still suspects Yozef is somehow an agent of the Evil One.”

“That seems doubtful, given those for whom the ether is considered a God-send, and if he really did help save Abersford and St. Sidryn’s from the Buldorians. I would have to say that gives him considerable credit to draw on.”

The boyerman looked around again at the courtyard. Only remnants of the barricade remained. His gaze touched the piles of raider weapons and armor, the pools and swatches of drying blood on the courtyard ground—and shook his head. “However you did it, you all deserve my respect.”

He turned again to Sistian and Denes. “What’s the final butcher’s bill?”

The abbot’s lips pursed, and his jaws clenched. Then he sighed and forced himself to relax. “I know it could have been far, far worse, but we have fifteen dead, about twenty-three serious wounds, a couple of whom might not live, and perhaps thirty lesser injuries.”

“How many dead Buldorians?”

Sistian looked at Denes. “I’m told one hundred thirty-three bodies,” answered Denes with a satisfied snarl.

“My God. A hundred and thirty-three dead Buldorians and only fifteen or more dead Keelanders,” summarized the amazed Vorwich.

“Only eleven of our dead were here at the abbey,” said Denes. “The other four were villagers who didn’t leave in time—one too ill to walk, two older citizens who either didn’t want to leave or physically couldn’t leave in time, and one younger man who his friends think was sleeping off a drunk.”

“Even more amazing,” said Vorwich. “The actual fighting to result in one hundred thirty-three to eleven dead, and the Buldorians all experienced fighting men. I’m willing to believe it a miracle from God.”

“Oh, I assure you, there will be many a prayer of thanksgiving this day and for years to come,” declared the abbot. “This will be a day Abersford remembers for many lifetimes.”

Vorwich motioned to one of his men to come forward. The man carried a leather pouch across one shoulder and reached into it for a pen and paper he then handed to his boyerman. “I need to send a rider back to Clengoth to semaphore on to Hetman Keelan the general situation. I’m sure he’s hard to be around right now, wondering what’s happening here. He needs to know the situation is stabilized, and there’s no need to send more men.

“Abbot, I know you have more immediate tasks, but as soon as you can, write a detailed report of everything that happened. Best if you and Denes both write separate reports to get different perspectives. Although I don’t think there’s any chance the Buldorians will return, just in case, the fifty men I brought with me will stay the next two days, until your other men return from Gwillamer and patrol. The rider carrying the message for the hetman should meet the additional men coming from Clengoth. I’ll include instructions for them to turn back. I don’t see they’re needed here. I’ll return to Clengoth tomorrow, so have your reports ready by tomorrow morning.”

For several more hours, Yozef sat on a stone curb, watching people moving about. His leg throbbed from his wound and the stitches. He relived the minutes of the battle a hundred times. It was late afternoon by the time he recognized signals from his body. His muscles ached, his throat was parched, and his stomach growled to remind him that despite what had transpired, he was still alive and had not eaten or drunk anything since the morning meal.

It was a slow walk to the cottage, aided by a forked tree branch serving as a makeshift crutch. Seeing the cottage exactly as he had left it that morning seemed . . . wrong, as if the intervening time might have been another dream . . . or a nightmare.

Elian sat on the porch. As soon he rounded the hillock a hundred yards from the cottage, she rose and went inside. When he approached, Brak appeared in the doorway of the barn he had built to replace the original dilapidated one. He held a pitchfork in one hand, the other arm bandaged and tied to his side. Brak gave him a curt nod and disappeared back into the barn.

He entered the cottage. It smelled of freshly baked bread and a meaty stew. The table was set for one.

“Is Brak all right?” Yozef asked. “His arm is bandaged.”

“A minor cut from the abbey this morning. The medicants treated it, and we came back here.”

“Is he working in the barn with an injury?”

“There’s work to do,” Elian said matter-of-factly. “He’s not one to let needed work be put off.”

Not even if wounded in a life-or-death fight that morning ?

“Sit and eat,” Elian said. “I bet you haven’t eaten anything since morning meal.”

She never asked about his limp or the condition of his pants leg.

Yozef sat. Elian set a bowl of stew, a covered loaf of warm bread, and a flask of phila wine in front of him, then stood there to be sure he ate. He looked at the food . . . at the older woman . . . at the food . . . and ate.

He thought he had caught a glimpse of her at the abbey this morning. She and Brak must have moved as fast as their aging bodies would let them get to the abbey before the raiders, taken part in the defense, then come back here for Brak to work and Elian to bake fresh bread.

Who were these people?

Culich Keelan couldn’t sit. He had been on his feet for ten hours, ever since first word of the raid on Abersford and St. Sidryn’s had arrived from Clengoth via semaphore. His bad knee ached, and Breda gave up trying to get him to sit. Maera didn’t try; she knew it was futile and was surprised her father didn’t wait for news at the semaphore station in Caernford, instead of at the Keelan Manor.

The men in the main hall also waited for news, but most sat. Word had spread throughout Caernford, and those with families and friends at Abersford, along with those simply concerned, milled by the hundreds around the semaphore station just outside the clan’s capitol.

For the fifth time, Culich asked the same question. “Pedr, Vortig . . . you’re sure we shouldn’t be sending men to Clengoth?”

For the fifth time, Vortig gave the same answer. “Not from the reports we’ve had so far. Boyerman Vorwich dispatched a hundred and fifty men. They should be at St. Sidryn’s by now, although even they are likely too late to make any difference. If the pattern is the same as raids on other clans, the raiders are gone within a few hours. All we can do is wait and hope for the best.”

For the fifth time, the answer did nothing for the hetman’s mood.

Maera and Breda watched the latest exchange from a doorway to the main hall.

“I wish your father would get off that bad knee of his,” Breda said. “What good does it do to aggravate it?”