Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
The Druid
They returned to camp to find it fared only somewhat better than they. The air stunk of sweat and death. The Vaich’s fingers remained tight around the druid’s hand.
When the Sun Matron saw them covered in blood, she screamed and rushed to cup her son’s face in a trembling hold.
“We are well,” said the Vaich. “Is anyone killed?”
“None of ours,” said Rask.
“But many of theirs!” said Greyv, thumping his chest. “The River Beast stakes his claim in the grasslands! Praise the Béig úil!”
“Damn the fools,” said Jor.
“My Vaich, one has been injured!”
A man lay by the fire, his spaulders and mantle stripped away. He was muttering, near delirium by the sound of it.
“Is the wound rough?” asked the Vaich.
“There is a lot of blood.”
“Cré ma nighm!” he hissed. “How far to the village?”
“A two hour’s ride.”
“Can he stay up?”
“Not for much longer, sire.”
He pulled free of the Vaich’s grasp.
“Druid!”
He went to the fireside and knelt with the cooks tending the man.
They had packed the bloody wound with linen rags, and the druid carefully peeled them away.
The cleft was long, jagged and inflamed about the edges.
A clean strike, but not deep enough to cut to bone.
The man was still conscious, but his eyes were glazing.
The druid said, “Do not rest now, we have work to do.”
The man searched for him through his fog. “Ye… Yer Majesty?”
Glancing at the cook, the druid said, “I’ll need my satchel. Would you fetch it for me?” He nodded towards his tent and the cook hurried off.
He then withdrew his golden dagger, and the Aards tensed, stepping closer, but the Vaich said, “You all stay put and dinnae do anything stupid.”
The druid ignored them, cutting a long strip of wool from his cloak, which he set aside. The cook returned with his leather satchel and the druid sifted through, finding a bundle of moss. “Have you brought any bee sap with you?”
“Aye, some.”
“It’ll ward off the rot.” The cook went and fetched it as the druid lined the wound with a thick layer of the moss. “ón túr nó fuil, aen fuil nó túr.”
“Is it… magick ye do?” asked the man, drowsily.
“Tis the power of the earth and no more,” said the druid, turning to their audience. “I’ll need spirits.”
There was hardly a pause. The Aards scrambled, reaching for their kits. The first to find his flask passed it to the druid, who nodded in thanks. Carefully, he plucked out the moss. The wound had clotted, and the men muttered in disbelief.
“That's not natural, that is…”
Once the wound was free of sod, the druid lifted the flask and poured its contents over the raw flesh. The man hissed in pain, and there were some grimaces from the crowd.
“He’s nae like to forget that,” said Greyv.
The final application was a bit of bee sap over the tear, after which the druid bound it up with the wool strip. “It will set awhile, and in the eve, I will stitch it. Until then, I will make you something for the pain.”
“Isnae much now,” said the man.
The druid nodded. “Soon enough, it will be.” He got to his feet, wiping his hands on his bloodied gown. He remembered he had only just avoided death himself.
The bodies of bandits lay rotting in the mud and a few of their tents had been torn to bits.
There was a long moment in which the events of the last few hours dripped into him. He tried to reconcile what had happened, but the Féin still watched him. None more intense than the Vaich.
“I’ve heard of the druids’ magick…” It was Rask to speak first, though there was caution in his voice. “I didnae believe it.”
“Let’s be grateful then,” said Jor, “we’ve a healer amongst us.”
“Aye,” said Rask.
“Aye,” said the men.
The Vaich was silent.
Then came a figure up the hillside, and everyone drew their weapons. It was Korv, returned from the river down the bank.
“The cursed flame took you so long?” barked Greyv. “Didnae ye hear us?”
“Eh?” Korv looked as out of sorts as he’d been that morning.
“The bastard might have had a nap in the bramble,” said Cían.
A heat rose and the Vaich came forwards. The druid stiffened as he passed his shoulder, stopping before the man’s swaying form.
“You ought to have stayed at the river,” the king hissed. “You ought to have died there.”
“What’s the trouble, Yer Majesty?”
The Vaich let out a curt chuckle, then reared back and slammed his fist into Korv’s face.
The Aard dropped instantly. All the men went still as statues.
The king gripped the front of Korv’s mantle, bringing his fist repeatedly across his jaw till his body was limp in the soil.
And even then, continued to beat him—rage flaring in his eyes.
“Stop,” muttered the druid, hardly understanding what he was seeing. He rushed forwards. “Stop!” The Vaich paused, turning that burning gaze on him. “Release him, or I’ll be sewing up another man tonight.”
The Vaich looked reluctant, sending Korv’s unconscious form one last glare before shoving him down and getting to his feet.
“Stack the bodies,” he said to his men, “and leave them for the crows.” He stormed towards his tent and disappeared inside.
The command had been given, yet no one moved. The druid took a breath. He looked from Korv to the others, still gathered in confusion.
“Is anyone else hurt?” he asked. They shook their heads and went off to tend the dead.
He was left there amongst the mess. Medhin eyed him in suspicion; Hirí with pride.
He ignored both. Instead, glanced towards the king’s tent.
The wind bit at his exposed skin.
He could not forget the Vaich’s words; his pleas. He had never seen such desperation.
Maybe his destiny was to drive a king to madness.
The convoy made way. The druid went by wagon with the injured warrior, making routine checks on his wound.
By evening, they’d put leagues between them and the pile of bodies.
Though the stench of blood was still clotted in his garments.
The men gathered by the fire and a post was made around the perimeter to keep watch.
“Don’t be careless with it,” the druid chided, helping the man out of his mantle. His name, he learned, was Alak. Alak was a good listener and didn’t talk too much. “Come by the fire and let me get it stitched before we lose the daylight.”
The druid slid off the end of the cart and turned to help the man down.
Alak was a fair measure larger, and the druid had to use both hands to steady him.
As he took a seat aside the pit, the druid sifted through his satchel.
He had made a bone needle and had bartered some thread in the villages in the days prior, though had not expected to need it so soon.
With careful hands he cleaned the wound and prepared his tools with a flask.
With a knowing look, the druid held the flask out in offering.
“Aye,” Alak said, taking a long swig.
Suturing flesh was a gruesome business. It was quiet, but some distant murmuring about the pit.
The Vaich had not spoken since morning, save a loud and heated argument between he and Aard Rask, which everyone heard and pretended not to.
No one ought to have been privy to a father berating his son, and indeed, the druid might have closed his eyes and imagined the king as an unruly child.
After that embarrassing display, the Vaich hid himself away in his tent, and with his silence, the mood for revelry had died.
“There,” said the druid, paring off the thread with the edge of his blade.
“Ye’ve been a great help to me,” said Alak. “I thank ye, woodsingr.”
The druid nodded and let the man go off to fetch his plate.
For a time, the druid observed the Féin.
Some sent him curious glances, as if wondering what trick he might perform next.
Others went on, ignoring him entirely. Korv was there, hobbling about the camp.
Memory seemed to spare him a great deal, but the king’s beating had not.
The “why” seemed a question on no one’s mind.
No one’s… except the druid’s.
Try as he might to forget what happened in the forest, it pinched at him like unseen pests. The Vaich’s frustration burned at him hotter than any ill-intentioned touch. A body was a body, but a mind another matter. He supposed, in that battle, he had won.
But the druid felt no joy. He couldn’t recall the shape of it. Even out here, beneath the sky, he was made no more whole. The parts of him that had been left along the way were scattered to the wind, and he returned to his wilds most unfamiliar.
It ached.
Not the heat of the fire or that undeniably sought-after place between his legs, but the ring on his finger and the crown on his head. He was born soft and fleshy and had been made into metal, and felt ugly and resentful of all of it.
And who was to blame?
Men or their gods or unlucky happenstance?
Maybe he ought to give up. Maybe he ought to have let them all become bones on a battlefield.
They were already so very hollow.
“Fine dagger, that. Ken how to use it?”
Startled, the druid looked up to see Nacht. He hadn’t heard him come up. In fact, he hadn’t heard anything. It seemed less a testament to the enormous man’s prowl, and more to do with the druid’s quiet dissolution.
“I…” He tried to remember the question. “No, I’ve…”
“It’s no use to you if you cannae wield it. And you ought to, out here on the road.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but my people do not believe in violence.”
“Maybe they should.”
The druid felt a flicker of anger, but the holler shook his head. “It willnae be their choice in the end. That’s the matter of it. If you cannae defend yourself, your principles are dust.”
“So we should lower ourselves to meet those who would create violence against us?”
“Aye.”