Mercedes Lackey - Owlflight

Except that for it to work, someone had to hold the rearguard, and the most logical group was the mixed archery squad guarded by a handful of swordsmen.

They fought their way back toward Valdemar, step by step, until the only barrier between them and safety was a river with a single wooden bridge. One man with a bow could hold the enemy off long enough for everyone else to get across - and by that time, he was considered the best shot in the group.

So, of course, like a young hero who hasn’t quite grasped his own mortality, I volunteered.

That was when he learned the great and vital truth about being a bowman.

When you run out of arrows, you can do virtually nothing against a man with an ax.

He had fended off attacks for a few moments with his bow and knife, getting some painful wounds in the process, and the last thing that he remembered was watching the flat of the ax blade descending in strangely-slowed time toward his head.

He had awakened in the infirmary tent; after his heroic efforts, there hadn’t been a man in the decimated ranks willing to allow him to go down without trying to rescue him.

But his skull had been cracked like a boiled egg, and it had only been good fortune and the fact that Wizard Kyllian was present at that very site that had kept him alive to thank his rescuers.

Kyllian himself was too old by then to take part in any battle-magics; he had confined himself to instructing the new Herald-Mages and to helping the Healers when their own ranks grew too thin, for Fireflower was a School that produced mages who were equally versed in Healing and mage-craft. Reputed to be a great friend of Quenten, the head of the White Winds School at Bolthaven, Justyn really didn’t know why he’d chosen to come North when the Valdemarans sent out a call for mages through Quenten. Perhaps it was some need of his own that drew him there, or some urge to leave the sheltered confines of the Fireflower Retreat. He didn’t confide his reasons to Justyn, who was just one among many of the patients that he pulled back from the soon-to-be-dead and into the land of the living.

It was obvious almost at once that Justyn was not going to be any good for fighting anymore; the blow to his head addled his vision enough that he would never be able to accurately sight an arrow again, and he simply had never had the strength of body to be a swordsman. Nor did he ride well enough for the cavalry.

But there was still magic - the magic he’d despised, that suddenly seemed desirable again.

But like a lover scorned, his magic had left him as well. Much of what he had learned, the blow to his head had driven from his memory; he had trouble Seeing mage-energies with any reliability, and the mind-magic he had was so seriously weakened he could no longer lift anything larger than a needle for more than a few moments.

He had gone in a single instant from hero to a discard. And what would he do with himself outside of the mercenary Companies? He had no skills, no abilities, outside of those of the magic that was now mostly gone from him.

When he was able to get out of bed and care for himself, the Healers turned him loose to complete his recovery on his own, and the Pack gave him his mustering-out pay and their good wishes. The Captain expressed his regret, but pointed out that the Pack couldn’t afford anyone who couldn’t pull his own weight, and suggested that he might find employment somewhere as a server in an inn, or the like.

A server in an inn? Was that what he had come to? All at once, he couldn’t bear the idea that he must give up all of his once-promising future to become a menial, a drudge, another cipher with no future and no prospects. That was when he had approached the great wizard, hat in hand, like a beggar, and asked for advice.

He must have fairly radiated despair, for Kyllian had sent away the people he was talking with and took him into his own tent, sitting him down and presenting him with a cup of very strong brandy.

“I suppose you think that your life is over,” the great wizard had said, wearily but kindly. “And from your perspective, that’s an appropriate response. I understand you put on a fairly brave show out there.”

He had flushed. “Brave, but stupid, I suppose - “

“Depends on who you would ask. Your fellow mages, now, they would say it was stupid, I’m sure, risking your Gifts as well as your life in physical combat - but the fellows you shot covering fire for would have a different opinion.”

He had been rather surprised that Kyllian remembered the details of how he had been injured, but there were more surprises in store for him.

“So, you’re brave enough to die,” Kyllian had continued, watching him closely. “But are you brave enough to live? Are you brave enough to learn skills that will get you little gratitude, brave enough to practice them among people who will probably despise you and certainly won’t believe your tales of battle heroics, but who nevertheless will need what you can do?”

What could he answer, except to nod mutely, having no notion of what that nod was going to get him into?

“It wasn’t magic that saved you, boy,” the old man had told him bluntly. “It was simpler stuff than even you are used to practicing. Bonesetting and flesh-stitching, herbs and body-knowledge, patience and persistence and your own damned refusal to be a proper hero and die gloriously. Do you know what’s happened, out there in the hinterlands of Valdemar?”

He had shaken his head; obviously, how could he have known? He wasn’t a native of the place -

“Well, I do, because the Healers come and wail on my shoulder about it at least three times a day. There are no Healers out there now; they’ve all been pulled east to take care of this mess. Even the old wisewomen, the herbalists, and the beast-Healers have turned up here; anyone that could travel has come here, where the need is greatest. That leaves vast stretches of territory without anyone that a sick or injured farmer can turn to - not an earth-witch, not a hedge-wizard, not even a horse-leech. No one. And people are going to die of stupid things like coughs and festered wounds unless people like you take the time to acquire a few more skills and go out there to help them.” Kyllian had eyed Justyn shrewdly. “And I can virtually guarantee it will be a thankless proposition - but you’ll be doing a world of good, even if no one is willing to acknowledge it.”

“Why do you care what happens to the people of Valdemar?” he’d asked, with equal bluntness. “And why should I?”

The old wizard had smiled, an unexpectedly sweet smile that charmed Justyn in spite of himself. “I care - because I don’t care what land people own allegiance to, so long as they are good people. And I suppose I care because of the philosophies that made me choose the School I chose. Ask any Healer of whatever nation how he feels about Healing a man from another land, even one that is his enemy, and he will look at you as if you were demented for even asking such a foolish question. Healers don’t see nations, boy. They see need, and they act on that need. That is why I care.”

“And why should I?” Justyn had repeated.

“Why did you volunteer to hold the bridge?” was all Kyllian asked, and although Justyn had not quite understood the question then, discovering the answer had formed a large part of his life from then on.

But at the time, given his utter lack of anything else he thought he could do, and the fact that the great Wizard Kyllian certainly seemed to want him to volunteer, that was what he had done.

First, though, he needed to begin a new course of learning. He had apprenticed himself to the leeches and herbalists and wisewomen on the battlefield, absorbing their knowledge of matters other than the injuries of combat when they weren’t all up to their elbows in blood and body parts. He acquired herbals and other books, brought what was left of his magic up as far as he could, and when Herald-Mage Elspeth and Hawkbrother Darkwind and Adept Firesong did whatever it was they did to end the war with Hardorn, he was there for the celebration of victory, then volunteered his services to both the Healers and the Heralds. After all, he was at least a little bit of a mage, as well as a certified bonesetter and herb-Healer, and Selenay of Valdemar had decreed that Valdemar still needed mages. Kyllian had been right, and he was assured that Valdemar could use anyone with either of those skills, and desperately. Ancar’s mages hadn’t confined their attentions to killing Valdemaran fighters; they’d made a point of going after the tents of the Healers and other noncombatants, contrary to every accepted convention of war. Far too many of the Healers and leeches who had volunteered were not going back to their homes again.