82. Injuries.

Aldwin sat on a dropped shield, too hurt and exhausted to attempt walking all the way up to the castle without help. He did not hear precisely what Smalltooth shouted to surviving snowlanders before collapsing, and decided that asking can wait until later, but whether by his words, or by beheading of their chieftain, Smalltooth broke their will to fight. They started laying down their weapons even before woodlanders, and those unfamiliar rodents from the castle, entirely recovered from the panic caused by their attack, and that prudence probably saved them from getting slaughtered. It probably saved the remaining Gallopers as well. And Ewalt who now sat next to Smalltooth, keeping watch just in case one of woodlanders deems the ermine an enemy, too. Smalltooth himself remained unconscious. Aldwin allowed Ewalt to take care of the Sword of Martin for now. That seemed proper.

"C-captain?"

"Better sit down, Sovna. You sure seem still groggy. Would be a shame to live through the blinkin' blasted battle just to die from fallin' and hittin' your head."

Sovna did as he said, deciding probably that the rain already soaked her enough to not care about wetness of the grass, before holding out the long dirk with the pommel made out of green stone to him. "This is… your blade, Captain, isn't?"

"Keep it," Aldwin shook his head. "Proper Salamandastron steel, forged by Lady Violet herself. She said that it is not for me, that I shall give it to a beast, who would be in need of a weapon. And so I did. Without thinkin' about her words, hah."

Sovna did not answer. Before Aldwin thought of anything to say, he saw a familiar squirrel approaching, at the head of a small company of woodlanders. Old Belk looked as if he took quite a beating as well, but then, who didn't on this night?

"Need help to get you under the roof, Aldwin? And who are th…" at that moment Belk saw the Sword of Martin.

"Belk, meet Ewalt the Ghost and Smalltooth, I told you plenty about them, haven't I? Ewalt, meet Belk the Warrior of Redwall, I believe that shiny sword you're holdin' is his."

"Belk. Well met," Ewalt nodded. He sounded pretty grim, but then again, he was injured and tired. "And everybeast but me needs help here."

000000000000000

The battle was over. There most likely were a few runaways, plus raiding bands and other detached companies that weren't present in the camp this night, but insofar as Belk could see, the war was mostly over too. Likely here still would be fighting, but there no longer was a slightest chance of vermin actually prevailing.

That was good, for Belk was no longer of any use in war. His left paw felt as if it got dislocated at the shoulder again, when the black fox yanked his own spear out of his paws. And his age weighted on him like never before. He could not help but wonder what Myns would say upon seeing him not just somewhat past his prime, but obviously old, aged ten seasons in half a moon. Surely, such low thoughts could only appear in his head due to injuries and weakness, but he was unable to banish them.

Then again, there were still important things to do on the battlefield, instead of rushing right to his wife. Although victorious, surviving woodlanders were lost and confused, too many of their chieftains and commanders slain or wounded when fighting in the front ranks. And King Gwynfren was left far behind, with other non-fighting beasts, so at the first half an hour or so, they looked at Belk to tell them what to do. So he did, ordering beasts to gather the prisoners in one place and guard them, to form teams for transporting the wounded into the castle, to place sentries along the palisade in case some enemies were still lurking nearby, and so on.

Now, when some approximation of order was restored, and the Sword of Martin was found, he had no more excuses postponing his return to Castle Floret. And so he walked up the great stair towards the gates, and the lowered drawbridge. Just a few seasons ago he would have been able to run up a stair like this and back without losing his breath. Now, with his remaining healthy paw occupied by the great sword, using which as a walking stick felt quite improper, that was a trial in itself. His fighting days definitely were as over as the battle of Castle Floret.

Myns was right at the gatehouse, instructing woodlanders coming from the battlefield where to carry the wounded. She did not notice him until he was within a few steps. And then she stopped mid-phrase and looked in shock. "Belk?"

"Yes, me. I fear…"

"Belk! You're alive!" Myns almost bowled him over, as she threw herself at him and hugged him. She would have done so, had she not realized at the last moment that he is in poor shape right now. "Thanks all the seasons and thanks Martin! What happened to you? Oh dear, what those vermin did to you, my beloved!"

She was crying, and then Belk realized that his eyes were wet too

000000000000000

Melayna Firebright's contribution to battle was nothing to boast about, though not something others could shame her for either. She always thought that she had quick wit, but when the first bolt of lightning stunned and scared everybeast, Ewalt the Ghost thought and spoke quicker than her. And after that, when the beasts from Castle Floret stormed the palisade, she was one of the handful unlucky enough to run into a foe and get hit by a couple of spear thrusts, as she tried to climb out of the ditch. One slid off the chainmail protecting her shoulder, another went right through her right paw. Alas, her mail, though beautiful, was woven by a master who worked in seasons of long peace, and its sleeves reached only her elbows, not her wrists. She managed to give as good as she got and others finished off the spear-carrier, but the wound was so abominably painful that she could no longer hold a sword. Retreating to the castle and having it bandaged was wiser than bleeding out while providing the vermin with another target. By the time she left the infirmary, the battle was over.

Once Melayna thought that she had warrior's gift, but now she admitted to herself that she thought wrong. Real battles against trained and experienced soldiers were far too different from chasing cowardly vermin robbers and brigands at the borderlands. She did not want to lie down and rest while there may have been something she could do to help beasts in worse condition, but she was glad that the fighting was finished without her.

Melayna returned to the gatehouse, where torches now burned, illuminating the scene. Wailing and sobbing, and moans of the wounded were now heard across the courtyard. So Melayna did not pay attention to Myns immediately, and then did not recognize the beast in her embrace for a few seconds, and when she did, she felt a bit of shock. Belk of Redwall was quite handsome and impressive before, but now he looked like a grandfather, even though so little time had passed. Could exhaustion of battle and wounds age a beast so much? Or was it an illness? She felt more than a little frightened, and did not feel like greeting Belk at all, instead moving aside quietly.

000000000000000

Rowanbloom could say without boasting that throughout the night of battle and the following morning she saw more blood and horror than any warrior. Without southswarder assistants she would have worked herself into unconsciousness or killed one of her patients by a fatigue-induced mistake. Probably both, for that matter. Espadron was of limited use tonight, limping from an arrow wound and his left paw swollen after a heavy axe blow that would have chopped it off outright if not for armor.

And the number of injured seemed endless. Hundreds upon hundreds of woodlanders were laid low in battle, but even among unarmored beasts few were killed outright by weapons that struck them down, and this time the vermin rarely had opportunities to finish off the fallen. Some bled out, others were trampled by foe or friend, or smothered by bodies of more injured falling upon them in the ditch surrounding the camp, but the good majority still lived. And they were going to keep living, if Rowanbloom had anything to say about it. Thankfully, somebeast thought of carrying all the wounded to Castle Floret at the very beginning, for trying to treat such numbers in cold, rain-soaked forest would have been a nightmare.

By the time when red glow of sunrise was replaced by daylight, and eastern wind chased away the heavier clouds, allowing warm rays to fall upon the castle, Rowanbloom still kept cutting and stitching, and only closed to midday she finally had a chance to get outside and have a bit of rest. It probably would have been wiser to try getting some sleep, but she was still afraid that somebeast would need her help urgently. Now that she had a moment of quiet, she started counting her friends and companions, and the wounds they took, as she sat right on the sun-dried stone of the castle wall.

Well, Ewalt was going to be just fine. The wound on his shoulder was more nasty-looking than dangerous, bleeding almost stopped before he even got to the infirmary. And some cracked ribs were going to cause him a lot of inconvenience, but were not going to kill him. Father too escaped the battle without grievous wounds. Selvathy got a lot of welts and scrapes, from grazing blows and beasts trampling her after she got stunned, as far as Rowanbloom could tell, but she already was conscious and could speak, so nothing particularly bad happened to her head. The Gallopers were all accounted for. Young Shotel got injured terribly, a spear went straight through his neck, not slaying him outright only by sheer luck, but Mahaira worried her the most. Metal of her helmet caved in far enough under the blow that dropped her to leave a bloody wound, and though the skull appeared to be intact, Rowanbloom could not tell what happened with the brain inside, and could do little to help her. And Talwar, Mahaira husband, nearly bled out from the arrow that tore up his shin. The rest of the hares were in no danger at all.

Then there were worse cases. Kethra remained unconscious, and given the wound's position, the dagger with which she was stabbed could have pierced her liver, placing her beyond help. Suran was beaten to a pulp and torn to shreds. Rowanbloom had sewn his hide back together, but could only guess what internal damage he may have. And at least half of the bones in his right wrist were broken. Even if the old fox was going to survive, Rowanbloom doubted that he would be able to hold anything heavier than a spoon with his right paw ever again, despite all her efforts to set broken bones right. And Smalltooth… he was going to have trouble holding even spoons without his thumb. Worse still, he remained unconscious for reasons Rowanbloom could not recognize.

Unexpectedly, running the list of gruesome injuries in her head made Rowanbloom brighten. Somehow, they all made it out alive of the biggest and most terrible bloodbath she ever witnessed. Sure, some were still in peril, but this outcome was much better than what she feared on the eve of battle.

"Miss Rowanbloom?"

Rowanbloom looked to see a middle-aged grey castle squirrel, who served as her assistant, standing in the tower door, a few steps away. Rowanbloom could not remember her name. "Yes?"

"Well… there are the enemy wounded, in the lower hall down there, with the rest of the captives. We thought to ask you what to do with them, you're sorta our head healer right now, after all."

Rowanbloom closed her eyes and sighed. She hated all these vermin, savage soldiers of Kunas and rapacious corsairs. From experience, she was sure nearly all of them deserved to rot and die for their cruel deeds. Nearly all… She never had enough passion for real hate, capable of banishing this "nearly" from her mind, and at the moment she almost regretted that. "For seasons' sake. What answer but "patch them to the best of our ability" do you even expect?"