Chapter Sixteen

A s their warriors fought at the border, Liadan warred within her own heart.

She did her best to keep busy at her fireside. To tidy the hut and look after Mam, who once more stirred before falling into what seemed a more peaceful sleep.

Flanna came home, pale-faced and worried. They were used to fretting for Conall at such times as these. They did not need to fear for him now, but the habit died hard.

Liadan would not worry for Ardahl MacCormac. She would not . But watching him wheel away in the cart had tugged at her heart. Only because he wore Conall’s armor and carried his sword.

Habit.

“Come,” Flanna bade her. “Let us see what the women are saying.”

“The women know nothing. And Mam—”

“She is safe asleep.”

“Och, very well.” If Liadan stayed here in the hut, she would likely go mad.

The settlement felt completely different with the warriors gone. The women came out, left off their tasks and chores. They stood in groups of two or three speaking in low voices. The old men emerged likewise and told their tales to any who would listen of old battles, the horrors faced. Of wounds and death and blood.

Children, picking up on the peculiar energy, ran about making a din, not knowing why.

A fact of life that all the men who went away, either on foot or rattling in the chariots, would not return. A battle lost could be a devastating thing, costing them dear. The border, though, must be held.

There would, aye, be a cost.

Whose son, brother, husband, lover would come back over the hill?

Whose would not, save on his shield or on the bottom of a chariot?

Liadan might never see Ardahl MacCormac again.

And so what? He was a serpent, was he not? He had taken Conall from them.

Only, he swore he had not.

And was that not just what he would do, the traitor? The betrayer?

Chief Fearghal stood outside his hall with his wife, Bridie, at his side and their two young children running about. During anything save outright attack, Fearghal always stayed back to defend the settlement and hold strong if the very worst happened.

The very worst could right well happen. A crowd of enemy warriors could come screaming over that hill.

For now it was quiet, save for the muttering of the women and the old men holding forth. Fearghal spoke reassuringly to a knot of women.

“Let us hear what the chief has to say.” Flanna dashed off. Liadan did not follow. What could the chief say? He knew no more than they what was happening at the border.

One woman stood alone with her shawl raised over her head, half shadowing her face. Shunned by the others.

Liadan took the place at her side. “Mistress MacCormac.”

“I did not get a chance to speak a farewell to him.” Tears ran down Maeve’s face. “I may no’ see him again.”

“I bade him farewell and gave him Conall’s armor. He went bravely.”

Maeve turned and stared into Liadan’s face with what might be astonishment.

“Ye did him that kindness?”

“Not a kindness. He has taken Conall’s place and has a right to his belongings.”

“Och, I was so afraid. His armor is all at my house. I thought—”

Liadan put her arm around the weeping woman. “Courage. My mam always says we who wait back must be twice as brave as those who go.”

“’Tis the not knowing that hurts so.”

“Aye.”

Maeve adored her son. Whatever he had done, whether he be the serpent Liadan thought him or not.

It could take days for word to reach them from the border, even though it was not far. The battle itself could take that long. The agony of waiting might well continue.

But as they stood, she saw Fearghal summon a lad to him.

“Let us see what the chief is about,” she bade Maeve.

“Nay, I will no’ approach him.” Maeve turned and went off away, back home.

Liadan joined the group near the door of the hall, where Flanna already stood.

“The chief is sending runners to see what is happening,” Flanna told her.

“Good.” Aye, it could be good. Or it could be woeful and terrible. Such runners had been slain before now. Or they had returned with the very worst news.

Better than not knowing? She was not sure. At least now they had this small bubble of time.

And hope.

*

In the state of half-dazed awareness that enfolded him, Ardahl could not understand why he had become the focus of so many stares and so much whispering. Did they speak yet, these fellow warriors, of his guilt, of what they believed he had done? Of Conall’s death. Och, aye, it would take far longer than this for that anger to lie down.

And he must bear it. Somehow, amidst all the other pain, he must find a way to hold up his head and endure.

“Ardahl!” Dornach stood before him, speaking directly into his face.

“Aye, master?”

Dornach’s dark eyes performed a rapid inspection. “Did I no’ tell ye to get your wounds tended?”

Cullan spoke, repeating himself to all who were nearby. “Did ye see him? In the fight. I ha’ never seen a man, any man, battle so.”

Dornach jerked his head at Cullan. “Take him to the healer. Then we are for home.”

Men—some already wearing bandages and some with open wounds—moved out of the way as Cullan led Ardahl along. The healer’s apprentice himself had brought an assistant, no more than a lad who hurried to fetch and carry. This was rough care indeed, given out in the open. Not what some of the horrific wounds deserved. But the men could be seen by Dathi and his fellows when they reached home.

A string of men waited to be seen. They all stared as Cullan led Ardahl up. Some of them shuffled aside, as if offering up their places.

Ardahl waved a hand. “Nay, I will wait my turn.”

“But, man,” one of them said, “ye be running with blood.”

Was he? Ardahl once more looked down at himself. Only then did he begin to feel the pain.

Cullan embarked on his familiar tale. “Did ye see the man? Did ye see him in the battle? I was his charioteer in Conall’s place. Ne’er have I seen a man fight so. He turned the flank, he did. Single handed. That let us move in upon them.”

In Conall’s place . In truth, that was all Ardahl heard.

The healer’s apprentice gestured to him. The others waiting in line had moved aside.

“Nay,” Ardahl protested.

Earnestly, the apprentice said, “We are treating in order of need. Come along.”

The healer had eyes of two different colors, one green and one brown. He assessed Ardahl’s condition much as Dornach had and pushed him down on a rock they’d been using as a seat.

“This may hurt a wee bit.”

An understatement. It was rough treatment indeed, the healer more clumsy than skilled. Perhaps he was merely overwhelmed at the magnitude of Ardahl’s injuries. A dire cut to the left arm—that which streamed with so much blood—one to a leg, and one to his shoulder that the healer informed him would have killed him, but for his armor.

Conall’s armor.

A long slice to one side of his face, ending at the jaw.

He sat throughout, stoic and unmoving. The other men awaiting care watched. He could feel their eyes on him. Cullan flapped his gums while the soft afternoon air flowed over them, down from the hills, warring with the stench of death.

At last Ardahl stirred and looked at Cullan.

“Leave off, will ye?

Cullan looked surprised, but he went silent. Ardahl wondered how long he would remain so.

He barely remembered the trip home. Cullan drove him in their chariot, one of the long line carrying wounded and dead. A stout guard had been set, manned by those least injured. Dornach, himself heavily bandaged, rode the lead chariot.

By the time their settlement came into view, Ardahl clutched the front rail in order to keep himself upright. He had nothing left but his self-respect. He would not let his fellows, or those waiting at home, see him fall.

A near thing, though. A crowd of clansfolk awaited them. The pony minders ran forward to take the animals. Ardahl leaned down and spoke to one of them.

“This pony on the left—he’s taken a cut to the chest.”

The lad nodded.

Ardahl’s da, among the finest of all charioteers, had always put the beasts ahead of himself. Ardahl could hear him now, in his head, saying to do so.

Just as he could hear Conall saying what he always had when they reached home after a sharp battle.

We ha’ done well, my lad. We ha’ done well.

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.