"I found this in the captain's tent," Tabb reported, as he and Tadrie lugged two burlap sacks behind them. Soterius knew at a glance where the Margolan captain had acquired such a collection of odd coins, jewelry and small trinkets.
"Spoils from the village they looted." Soterius felt his anger rise once more. "Bring it. We'll use it for provisions for the refugee camp. Since we can't return' it, it's as close to recompense as we can make." Tabb and Tadrie nodded soberly, tying off the bags and slinging them across their shoulders.
The refugee-fighters scoured the camp, bundling up the dead soldiers' cloaks and weapons. Distasteful as looting the dead would be under normal circumstances, Soterius had seen the conditions in the refugee camps. Even the gold that Tris and Staden had sent would not fully tend to the needs of so large a crowd. This time, there were horses to gather as well.
"At this rate, we're going to need storehouses and stables," Soterius said under his breath to Sahila, who clapped him on the back.
"A good problem to have!" Sahila said with a sharp laugh. "You'll need both horses and weapons if you mean to ride to Shekerishet."
"True enough."
Alle was waiting for them at the entrance to the cave, tending to a battered girl who looked just a few years younger than Soterius. The girl's bruises and torn clothing left no question as to the soldiers' actions, and when her dark eyes met Soterius's he saw pain verging on madness. Any guilt he felt about the raid on his own colors died at the look in the girl's eyes.
"Can she walk?" Alle shook her head. "I'll carry her." Tadrie stepped up. He was old enough to be the girl's father, and he squatted down to look her in the eyes. "You've nothing to fear from me; I've a daughter of my own. Will you let me help you?" He held out one of the pilfered cloaks, and Alle helped the girl wrap it around herself.
The girl paused for a moment, but her injuries won out over her fear, and she nodded. Gently, Tadrie lifted the girl into his arms. Behind him, Alle murmured a string of curses, angry at the abuse the girl had taken at the hands of the Margolan soldiers.
Soterius, Alle, and Sahila field-dressed the worst of the injured fighters' wounds. One man had taken a bad cut to the bone on his forearm and a deep shoulder gash. Another was limping badly from a sword stroke that had sliced his hip and thigh. The other injuries required only splints or minor bandaging.
