West woke with a start and tried to jerk up to sitting. Pain shot up one leg, across his chest, through his right arm, and stayed there, throbbing. He dropped back with a groan and stared at the ceiling. A vaulted stone ceiling, covered in thick shadows.

Sounds crept at him now from all around. Grunts and whimpers, coughs and sobs, quick gasping, slow growling. The occasional outright shriek of pain. Sounds between men and animals. A voice whispered throatily from somewhere to his left, droning endlessly away like a rat scratching at the walls. 'I can't see. Bloody wind. I can't see. Where am I? Somebody. I can't see.'

West swallowed, feeling the pain growing worse. In the hospitals in Gurkhul there had been sounds like that, when he had come to visit wounded soldiers from his company. He remembered the stink and noise of those horrible tents, the misery of the men in them, and above all the overpowering desire to leave and be among the healthy. But it was already awfully clear that leaving would not be so easy this time.

He was one of the wounded. A different, contemptible and disgusting species. Horror crept slowly through his body and mingled with the pain. How badly was he injured? Did he have all his limbs, still? He tried to move his fingers, wriggle his toes, clenched his teeth as the aching in his arm and leg grew worse. He brought his left hand trembling up before his face, turned it over in the dimness. It seemed intact, at least, but it was the only limb that he could move, and even that was a crushing effort. Panic slithered up his throat and clutched at him.

'Where am I? Bloody wind. I can't see. Help. Help. Where am I?'

'Fucking shut up!' West shouted, but the words died in his dry throat. All that came up was a hollow cough that set his ribs on fire again.

'Shhhh.' A soft touch on his chest. 'Just be still.'

A blurry face swam into view. A woman's face, he thought, with fair hair, but it was hard to focus. He closed his eyes and stopped trying. It hardly seemed to matter that much. He felt something against his lips, the neck of a bottle. He drank too thirstily, spluttered and felt cold water running down his neck.

'What happened?' he croaked.

'You were wounded.'

'I know that. I mean… in the city. The wind.'

'I don't know. I don't think anyone knows.'

'Did we win?'

'I suppose that… the Gurkish were driven out, yes. But there are a lot of wounded. A lot of dead.'

Another swallow of water. This time he managed it without gagging. 'Who are you?'

'My name is Ariss. Dan Kaspa.'