Tamas resisted the urge to twitch away from Olem’s needle. Olem had shaved the side of Tamas’s head and cleaned the bullet gash with frigid mountain water and now he made tight stitches with catgut. The wound ran almost the entire length of the side of Tamas’s head. It was an eerie feeling, knowing that had the path of the bullet been an inch to one side, it would have turned Tamas’s head into a canoe.
“Sorry,” Tamas muttered.
The air reeked of death as the corpses of thousands of men and horses stank in the midmorning sun. His soldiers had labored the entire rest of the day after the battle and all this morning in an effort to dig all the bodies from the trench. The men had been laid out, their kits and supplies stripped from them, while the horses were prepared for eating.
War may need decorum, but his army needed food and supplies.
The moans and cries of the wounded reached him. Both Kez and Adran were being treated to field surgery in an impromptu hospital. Neither army had a proper team of doctors beyond the rudimentary skills of soldiers who’d seen countless wounds.
Tamas watched as Gavril picked his way through the camp toward him.
All signs of the chaos and disorganization they’d used to lure in the Kez cavalry were gone. A team of engineers was hard at work making a proper bridge over the Big Finger. Cook fires everywhere smoked with horsemeat. Quartermasters took stock of supplies they’d stripped from both Kez and Adran dead. There were piles of boots, kits, blankets, and tents, along with rifles, ammunition, even powder horns and charges.
Gavril reached Tamas and sat down on the ground beside him. “General Cethal is dead.”
Tamas bowed his head for a moment of silence, further frustrating Olem’s attempts at stitching.
“I’m surprised he lasted this long,” Tamas said. “Tough old dog. What reports?”
“Based on the bodies so far, we’re guessing about two thousand dead on our side. Another three thousand wounded. About a quarter of those will join the dead within a week. Half our wounded are incapacitated.”
Thirty-five hundred casualties to this battle. Over a fourth of Tamas’s fighting force. It was a heavy blow.
“And the Kez?”
“Based on bodies alone, we can guess that only twenty-five hundred of them got away. The rest are either dead or captured.”
Tamas let out a long breath. A decisive victory in anyone’s book. Most of the enemy, including all of their high officers, either killed or captured.
“Give our boys a rest,” Tamas said. “Any Kez who can stand, put him to work burying the bodies.”
“What are we going to do with all these captives?” Gavril asked. “We can’t take them with us. Pit, we can’t even carry our own wounded — don’t forget that Beon’s brother is still coming on hard with thirty thousand infantry.”
“When will he reach us?”
“Our prisoners are being sketchy about time frames, but piecing things together, I’d guess they are about a week behind us.”
Close enough that if Tamas allowed himself to be slowed by wounded and prisoners, the Kez infantry would catch him before he could get to Deliv.
“How is Beon?”
“Asked to see you,” Gavril said.
“Right. Olem?”
Olem wiped the needle off on his jacket. “All done, sir. Doesn’t look pretty, but the stitches are tight. Try not to do any strenuous thinking in the near future.”
Tamas held up a field mirror. “I look like a bloody invalid. Bring me my hat.”
“It’ll rub against the stitches.”
“Wrap it in a handkerchief. I’m not going to parley with the enemy looking like this.”
Olem wrapped Tamas’s head, and Tamas gingerly sat his bicorne hat on top of it.
“How does it feel, sir?”
“Hurts like the bloody pit. Let’s go see Beon.”
Tamas let Gavril and Olem walk out in front of him as they crossed the camp. Gavril had come through the battle with little more than a black eye, while Olem had a tendency to ignore his own wounds. His left hand was wrapped tightly, and fresh blood soaked through his white shirt at the shoulder. “Olem, see to yourself,” Tamas said as they neared the prisoners.
“I’m all right, sir,” Olem said.
“That’s an order.”
Olem relented and limped back to camp. Tamas was sorry to see him go, but Olem needed rest and medical attention.
The prisoners had been put in a makeshift stockade overnight. They were bound hand and foot and watched over by the Seventh Brigade. The Ninth couldn’t be trusted with prisoners right now — they’d taken the worst of it in the cuirassier charge, and most of them still wanted blood.
“Field Marshal to see General Beon,” Gavril said to one of the guards. The man headed into the stockade. He emerged a few minutes later with Beon in tow.
The Kez general didn’t look so well. His left arm was in a sling. Stitches on his forehead and the back of his right hand looked crooked and painful. He walked with a pronounced limp.
“General,” Tamas said.
Beon gave him a weary nod. “Field Marshal. I should thank you for saving my life from your men yesterday.”
“You are most welcome.”
