today.â
âTwo of my âfat friendsâ, as you call them, are prisoners of theTsurani this day,â Father Corwin replied, and there was checked anger in his voice. âI volunteered to serve with the army as a healer. I just pray I donât have to work on you some day. Stitching together flesh that has no soul is bitter work.â
The priest turned and stalked away. The middle part of the column, made up of the stretcher-bearers was starting off and Corwin joined them.
Gregory chuckled softly.
âWhat the hell is so funny?â Dennis snapped.
âI think he got you on that one. You did go a bit too hard on the boy.â
âI donât think so. He almost got us all killed.â
âHe made no mistakes, I was but ten feet from him. I made sure he was well concealed.â As if thinking of something, Gregory added, âThat priest has unusually sharp eyes.â
âNevertheless, the boy goes back.â
âIs that what Jurgen would have done?â
Dennis turned, eyes filled with bitterness. âDonât talk to me about Jurgen.â
âSomeone has to. Thereâs not a man in your company that doesnât share your pain. Not just over losing a man they respected, but because they bear a love for you as well, and now carry your burden of sorrow.â
âSorrow? How do you know what I feel?â
âI know,â Gregory announced softly. âI saw what happened too. Jurgen made his choice, he left himself open in order to save the boy. I would have done it, so would you.â
âI donât think so.â
âYou and your Marauders have become hard men over the years, Dennis, but not soulless ones. You would have tried to save him, even at the cost of your own life, as Jurgen did. The lad has promise. You might not have noticed, and Iâm not even sure he remembers it, but he did kill the first Tsurani that closed on him. The one that almost got him came up from behind.â
âNevertheless, the boy goes.â
âItâll kill him. We both know the type. Next battle heâll do something stupid to regain his honour and die doing it.â
âThatâs his problem, not mine.â
âAnd what if he gets a half-dozen others killed as well? What would Jurgen say of that?â
âJurgen is dead, damn you,â Dennis hissed. âNever speak to me of him again.â
Gregory stepped back, raised his hands, then shook his head sadly, and walked over to the grave. Looking down at the rich brown earth being covered by the falling snow, he whispered, âUntil we stand together again in the light.â
Then he went to join the company. Tinuva fell in by his side and the two of them headed up the trail in the opposite direction, double-checking to make sure that nothing was following the unit.
Dennis was left alone as the last of his men abandoned the clearing.
The heavy flakes swirled down, striking his face, melting into icy rivulets that dripped off a golden beard which was beginning to show the first greys of middle age.
When all were gone, and he knew no one was watching he walked up to the grave, reached down and picked up a clump of frozen earth.
âDamn you,â he sighed, âwhy did you leave me like this, Jurgen?â
Now there was no one left. Nothing but a flood of memories.
The holdings of the Hartrafts were not much to boast about; forest lands lying between Tyr-Sog and Yabon. A scattering of frontier villages on the border marches, a rural squireâs estates that the high-blood earls, barons, and dukes of the south and of the east would have scoffed at, or tossed aside as a trifle in a game of dice. But it had been his home, the home of his father and his fatherâs father.
Jurgen had been a young soldier for Dennisâs grandfather, old Angus Hartraft, called âForkbeardâ, who had first been granted the lands on the border for his stalwart service against the