Chapter Fifteen
U pon entering battle, a man’s mind switched to a single line of thought and a narrow vision. At least, so Ardahl’s mind tended to do. He saw only what was before him—opponent by opponent, obstacle by obstacle—and all his being flowed to it. No thought for aught else, save his partner aboard the chariot.
Conall was not with him now. But aye, mayhap he would see him soon.
Before that, he could not let a man of Dacha’s clan set foot on their land.
Dornach gave the signal—a mighty cry and a wave of his sword—and they went in down the slope to the stream, the cart crashing into the water. Ardahl could feel in his bones that Cullan was not the driver Conall had been. The cart nearly overturned at the outset, spilling them both.
“There. There!” he shouted, gesturing wildly with Conall’s sword. Conall usually knew by some instinct where he wanted to go.
Cullan turned the cart and they headed for the thick of their opponents. A chariot, driven correctly, could be a weapon. A chariot carrying a man flashing a sword could do twice the damage.
So it did now, despite Cullan’s clumsy handling. The ponies, fearless, splashed through the water, and Ardahl, focusing on one face at a time, laid to. On their left, he heard men hollering and screaming, the crash of arms. Strangled cries that denoted death.
He heard Cullan cursing in a steady stream. He saw intent in the eyes of an opponent. Blue eyes they were, with death in them.
Conall’s sword took the man’s head.
A good sword, was Conall’s, though not as good as Ardahl’s own. He ached then for his own blade, as he might for a part of his arm. As he ached to have Conall there with him.
No time for lamenting, any more than thought. Their chariot, surrounded, rocked as they were swarmed by enemy warriors. Cullan dropped the reins and drew his own sword to defend the ponies.
Their opponents fell to Conall’s sword. One, two, three. Swiftly were they replaced, but they had to tread upon their fellows to get close.
Without thought for himself, Ardahl leaped down.
He heard Cullan call to him, what sounded like protest or warning. The din of battle grew so loud then, he could hear naught else. He saw only faces, one after the other coming at him. Felt nothing of wounds. Disregarded the protest of his muscles and swung again and again until—
No new faces appeared before him.
Someone was screaming nearby, as the pace of the battle fell away. Cullan it was, calling to him.
“By the goddess, get aboard!”
Moving by instinct, Ardahl obeyed. The cart, no longer marooned amid corpses—Cullan must have leaped down and dragged them away—turned. Rattled to the left. Toward a knot of their warriors, still fighting.
A part of Ardahl’s mind—that narrow part—accepted the new challenge. They waded in, and the new fight surrounded them until it penetrated to his mind that they had turned the flank, there in the water. A good thing.
When they were once more surrounded by dead bodies, when the ponies trod upon flesh instead of stone, Cullan stopped and hollered into Ardahl’s face.
“Be ye hurt?”
“Eh?”
“Hurt? Be ye—”
Disregarding the question, Ardahl leaped down and ran to rejoin the fray further along the stream.
He was not meant to survive this fight. Somewhere beyond the western horizon, Conall waited for him. The important thing was to stop the enemy before he died.
Someone attacked him from behind, a slice of a blade in the shoulder of the padded leather armor Liadan had helped him don.
Liadan .
He whirled and took the man’s head without looking into his eyes. Someone shouted over and over, a hoarse, repetitive sound.
It was him.
Conall! Conall!
His heart called to his friend. His throat rendered the sound senseless. The enemy fell away before him.
He heard Dornach shouting, shouting.
They pursued the enemy to the far edge of the stream and beyond. Dacha’s warriors fled away over the green turf, and Fearghal’s men chased them down. On foot. By chariot.
Suddenly Cullan was there again beside Ardahl. Staring. Staring. “Come aboard!”
They pursued the men in flight. Cut them down. Cullan’s handling of the ponies was erratic. They nearly overturned again and at last came to a rocking halt.
Dornach called to them. Called them back.
Cullan turned in the cart and stared at Ardahl.
“Are ye hurt, man?” Not the first time he had asked.
“Nay.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Was he? Ardahl looked down at himself. He felt nothing. But aye, blood ran down his arms, and the armor bore deep slices. Conall’s sword ran with blood.
Cullan blinked at him. The hostility had left his eyes. “We must go back. Dornach calls.”
Ardahl nodded. Not till the cart turned and rattled back did he wonder, Why am I still alive? Why am I not flying to join Conall at Tír na nóg?
Their forces, and a mountain of dead men, awaited them on the other side of the stream. Fearghal’s land. Many of the dead were the enemy, and far too many their own.
Dornach stood among his remaining warriors. The big man towered over the rest and had still the remembrance of killing in his eyes.
As Cullan drew up, his gaze touched Ardahl. It lingered a heavy moment before moving on to the others. Counting. He was counting his surviving men.
An odd silence fell, broken only by the groans of the wounded. The dying. The chuckling of the stream that now ran red in places. The breeze had picked up and the scent of the far hills warred against that of blood.
“A battle well fought!” Dornach called into the eerie silence. “Ye ha’ well demonstrated Fearghal’s might this day. Not a man among ye of whom I am no’ proud!”
Did Dornach’s gaze touch Ardahl again? He could not tell. Reaction had caught up with him. Exhaustion. His whole body throbbed like one great wound. His sword arm had gone limp.
“Cathair, Ardan, set a guard. The rest o’ ye, locate our wounded. And our dead. Any living members o’ the enemy—ye know what to do.”
Leave no enemy warrior living. It was an ancient edict.
“Come on,” Ardahl said to Cullan, forgetting for the moment he was not Conall.
“Ye need tending.”
“What?”
“Man, ye’re running wi’ blood!”
“There’s work to be done.”
Cullan stepped closer. “I ha’ never seen anyone fight so. How many did ye kill?”
Ardahl shook his head. It was a blur. He did not remember.
“Come, let the healer look at ye.” The healer’s apprentice, it was, no more than a young lad. The tribe’s healers were far too valuable to risk in battle.
“Not now. Mayhap later.”
Dornach appeared beside them. It seemed to happen almost magically—not there one moment, there the next. He eyed Ardahl with a measuring stare.
“Did ye see him, master?” Cullan asked. “Did ye see him?”
“I did. Ardahl, go get your wounds tended.”
“I am no’ bad hurt. There’s still the dead and wounded—”
“Will ye offer me disobedience?”
“Nay, Master Dornach.”
Cathair appeared beside them. His pale-blue gaze flicked over Ardahl with disdain before he turned to Dornach.
“Master Dornach, we have located a wounded man—Chief Dacha’s brother, so we think. D’ye want him slain?”
“No’ yet. Bring him back wi’ us. And Cathair—ye fought well.”
Cathair’s gaze flickered over Ardahl again. He nodded.
Numb to the bone now, Conall’s sword still dangling from his hand, Ardahl stood where he was.
As it had back on the training field, Dornach’s hand descended on his shoulder.
“As for ye—I will speak wi’ ye anon, back at the dun.”
“Ha’ I done somewhat wrong?”
“Ye? Only turned the battle. Ye’re the blessed hero, ye are.”