The Gathering Storm
Page 145

Cobbo laughed. “Never did I think to see the day that beast would get his own back! How it made me laugh to see him humbled!”
Unlike his soldiers, Sanglant gained no pleasure from Bulkezu’s humiliation and fear; he recalled his own too well. “Stay alert.” He nodded and went on.
The camp was laid out in concentric rings, the tents set in uneven ranks so as to break up the blowing wind as much as possible. He paused at each tent to inquire after the soldiers within. Certain companies always had the privilege of being set up within the inner ring. When the healer came out to greet him, the man wheezed as the cold air hit his lungs.
“Whew! Each night I think it can’t get any colder. Then it does!”
“How many are sick this evening?”
“Not more than twenty. Chustaffus was the worst of them yesterday, but he seems better today. These Quman witches have a brew that brings the fever down and clears out the lungs. After the first two, poor lads, we’ve not lost a single man to the lung fever, which I count a miracle. Chuf’s a strong fellow. I don’t fear for him now.” Sanglant nodded and went on.
Resuelto and the remaining Wendish horses—about a third of the stock had died—had to be stabled at great inconvenience in shelters.
“Nay, it’s true,” said the stable master while Sanglant groomed the gelding and, when he was done, fetched from his pocket the last of the apples they’d brought from Sordaia. It was withered, skin all loose, but Resuelto gobbled it up and slobbered on his shoulder, hoping for more.
“We’ll lose another tonight,” continued the stable master. “Colic. They can’t take the weather, poor beasts. I’m nursing along six that are foundering, but two of those won’t last. The weak ones aren’t much to eat, either, with so little flesh left on their bones.”
“I never thought to eat so much horseflesh,” said Sanglant wearily. Even sturdy Resuelto had suffered, losing the flesh that would give him some protection against the cold. Sanglant prayed that they had survived the worst of the winter, yet although Breschius and Heribert had counted off the days and assured him that the new year had come and that it was by rights spring, he had no idea how long this crushing cold might last.
The stable master’s hands were seamed with work and hatched with white scars. He sniffed, wiped his nose. “Never stops running,” he said, then waved toward the crowd of horses. “I hope the meat doesn’t turn us into geldings like the ones we’re eating!”
“They’re keeping up their spirits,” said Breschius when they left, continuing along the second ring of tents.
“So they are. Here, now, Ditmar. Berro. How fares it with you this night?”
“Well enough, my lord prince.”
“We’re dicing, my lord.”
“Nay, we’re dreaming of decent women, my lord. Those Quman woman are the ugliest creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on! They don’t have noses!”
“I saw one who was as handsome a maid as any Wendish girl! That was back before it got so cold.”
“And where is she now? Bundled up in furs, most like, and oiled up with stinking grease like her mother!”
The slave woman stood back and said nothing.
So it went, tent by tent. His soldiers greeted him cheerfully despite the searing cold and the interminable journey eastward across the bleakest land he had ever laid eyes on. The men had stitched together smaller tents into larger ones, crudely strung up but strong enough to withstand the howling winds and able to house more all together and thus keep everyone warmer through the terrible nights.
He had placed his most experienced, strongest men along the outer rim of the encampment together with the steppe horses who suffered the cold and could dig through the drifting snow to find grass, twigs, or tree bark. Like Quman women, Quman horses were as ugly as any he had seen, but they were tough.
He lifted a hand to greet four sentries huddled in what shelter curtains of felt provided against the cutting wind, which thrummed merrily against the cloth. The covered lamp Breschius held rocked as the wind caught it square on.
“My lord prince! It’s cold to be out tonight.”
“How do you fare?” he asked them.
“We’re having a pissing contest, to see whose piss can reach the ground without freezing.”
“Sibold left his sword out too long, so it froze off. Now he’ll never get a wife!”
“A few sticks bound together will serve him well enough, won’t they, Surly?”
“I hope so, since that’s more than you have, Lewenhardt!”