Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7)

They waited, braced for the worst, but no attack resumed. It was as if the world had died beyond the walls’ barrier, as if every living thing had died and maybe even the forest and the land vanished into the pit so they were surrounded only by an infinite black yawning nothingness.

“Hanna?”

“Eh! What?”

“You were whimpering, Hanna.” That was Folquin’s familiar, pleasant voice. She recognized it now.

“My head hurts.”

He grunted his assent. He was crouched behind her, with Leo and Stephen close behind him.

“Think they’re still waiting out there, Ingo?” Folquin asked.

“I’m not betting otherwise. Are you?”

“Well, I’d not volunteer to be the first to walk out past those torches, if that’s what you’re asking. But Leo will gladly take that stroll, will you not, Leo?”

“After I piss on your grave,” said Leo amiably.

“Who’s dead?” asked Hanna.

“No one you knew,” said Ingo. “But anyway, there is one we called Corvus for his black hair.” He pointed to the closest body. It was too dark to see the corpse’s face; he was only the anonymous dead, unknown and now unknowable except as a name and a few anecdotes. “There’s poor Ermo who had a girl he wished to marry back home. There, his cousin Arno, who was not quick in his wits but could split a cord of wood faster than any man I’ve seen.”

The old, sick choking swelled in her throat, and she knew she was about to weep. She rose, instead. “I’d best see to the captain.”

“Hurt?” asked Ingo, voice dropping into a register of dread.

“Is the captain dead?” whispered Folquin, laying a hand on her shoulder more for his own comfort than hers, she guessed.

“Let me go see,” she said, “though I fear it.”

Leo cursed under his breath. Stephen caught in his breath in a sucking sound, between clenched teeth. Folquin released her. Ingo rose with her.

“Let me know,” he said quietly. “I’m next to be captain, as I’m most senior of those left. Better if he lives, to my way of thinking.”

“And for the rest of us, not wanting to dance to Ingo’s tune,” said Folquin, trying a joke, but it fell flat.

She loped back to the hall, pausing at the steps that led to the raised porch. Beyond the wall she heard the wind sough through the trees, picking up again. The flavor of the night with its taste of dying smoke and scent of lush damp green growing things had shifted imperceptibly to something familiar and seemingly safe, almost like an ordinary night.

From inside, a man screamed in raw agony. She cringed away, then caught herself before she bolted. She stood there, gasping, as the cry cut off—as sharp as a sword’s cut. Voices murmured. She smelled a horrible stench. Caught there, she wept freely until Sergeant Aronvald emerged from the hall, found her, and clapped her roughly on the shoulder.

“There, now, Eagle! Stop that! You’re yet living. I lost another man.”

Four in all.

“Is the captain—?”

He shrugged. “That nun is not one I’d want to cross. Whew! She burned the stump to stop the bleeding.” He swayed a little. “Thought I would faint, but she never wavered.” Abruptly, he stumbled sideways and vomited and, in between heaves, waved a hand at Hanna as if he wanted her to go.

Cautiously, she went inside to discover a dead man, a living one who had been wounded in the leg but not yet convulsed into death, and an unconscious Thiadbold with Acella kneeling beside him. Acello held the stump, which was all raw and singed and stinking, but was lecturing to a pair of younger nuns, one of whom looked interested and the other of whom looked like she was ready to follow Aronvald’s example. All of Rosvita’s young clerics except Gerwita had fled into the shadows. Hilaria sat at Thiadbold’s head, holding his shoulders in case he moved. She had, evidently, helped Aronvald hold him down.

“It is the minions of the Enemy who kill,” Sister Acella was explaining to her charges. “They can’t be seen by mortal eyes. They inflame the humors that balance the body. Fire chases them out and will staunch the flow of blood, which would also kill him. We’ll need salves to further staunch the bleeding, to ease the burn, and to lessen the inflammation. If we can hold the Enemy at bay, the captain may yet survive. I’ll need dead nettle. Sister Hilaria, will you help me?”

All at once, the four nuns rose and walked away to the other end of the hall, where a single lamp burned. Above, noise thumped along the roof beam; someone had gotten up on the roof and was probing for hot spots. There was a leak down where Mother Obligatia lay. Hanna saw someone moving there, pacing back and forth. After a moment she recognized Sapientia’s posture and form.