Chapter Forty-Nine
T hree faces turned toward Ardahl as he entered the clearing. Dornach was in the act of helping Donen up onto one of the ponies. The lad looked stupid with shock. Cathair swung around with his sword in his hand.
Cathair.
Ardahl wanted to rush at him. To put his already-bloodied sword to the bastard’s throat.
He had not the opportunity. Dornach’s face lit at the sight of him, and he cried, “Ye made it away? By all the gods! Cathair, gi’ him the pony. He is winded. Ye can go afoot.”
Cathair did not argue it, but the glare he gave Ardahl—bitter with hate—declared he had neither expected nor wanted Ardahl to survive.
With the last of his strength, Ardahl vaulted onto the pony.
“They are still coming,” he told Dornach. “Behind me.”
“Aye.”
Those were the last words spoken for moments beyond counting.
They ran till Cathair was well winded. Then Dornach doubled with the lad, and Cathair took his mount.
The air turned gray around them and grew bright with dawn. Any sounds of pursuit had faded away.
At last, Dornach drew up. “That is your father’s land ahead,” he told the boy.
They entered Brihan’s lands just as the air turned bright around them. All too swiftly, they met members of Brihan’s guard, who exclaimed in amazement and joy to see their chief’s son with Fearghal’s men. Swiftly, they were escorted to Brihan’s hall.
“Chief Brihan, Chief Brihan, your son is returned!”
Brihan rushed out from his hall, stark disbelief on his face. The worry and weariness fell from his features when he saw Donen on the back of the pony. He held out his arms, and the boy half launched himself, half fell into them.
Donen’s mother ran from the hall behind him, wailing. She rushed at the pair and enfolded the boy in a frantic grip, weeping.
Leaving the boy to her, Brihan turned and likewise embraced Dornach. “Ye did accomplish the deed! By all the gods. I cannot express my gratitude.”
Dornach held him off. “Your man, Granan, is dead. He gave his life to get that lad away.”
Grief clouded Brihan’s features.
“As for the rest o’ it, ye may thank this man.” Dornach gestured at Ardahl, who had dismounted and stood by. “He held off the pursuit single-handed so we could get the lad away. This is Ardahl MacCormac, the greatest warrior our clan has ever known.”
Ardahl found himself enfolded suddenly in a hard grip. Brihan looked into his eyes. “Thank ye. If ever ye need the last drop o’ my heart’s blood, ’tis yours.”
“Keep him safe, just, Chief Brioc.”
“I have set a stout guard and will increase it even now. I ha’ no doubt Dacha will be furious. He will come wi’ an army.”
Dornach nodded. “He will, surely. I do no’ doubt ’twill all be battled to an end. But ye will fight wi’ us, aye?”
“We will. To the death, if need be.”
Dornach grimaced. “Dacha will find us no’ so easy to kill.”
*
“Aye, so,” Dornach said as they rode away. “We ha’ won his loyalty, and no mistake.”
Cathair said nothing. Ardahl could tell from his glances that the man had not much liked the declaration Dornach had made.
Naming Ardahl the greatest warrior of all their clan.
Aye, well, they had a score to settle, did he and Cathair. For Conall’s sake, and Ardahl’s own.
They rode into their home settlement well after full light. Fearghal came out instantly, proving he had been keeping watch for them, his expression raw with worry. It eased only marginally when he saw all three of them returned.
He hurried to them and laid a hand on the bridle of Dornach’s pony, his eyes searching those of his war chief. “All is well? The deed is accomplished?”
“It is, my chief. Brihan’s son is safe wi’ his family again.”
Fearghal looked so astonished, it was clear he had more than half expected them to fail.
“And,” Dornach went on in a low rumble, “Chief Brihan has confirmed his commitment to an alliance. He is setting up his defenses against Dacha and swears he will hold strong.”
“By all the gods!” Fearghal’s wild gaze moved among them. “Are ye all whole?”
“Brihan’s man whom he had there wi’ Dacha lost his life. And Ardahl here did a hero’s work, hanging back to mount a defense while Cathair and I got the lad clean away. He has a nasty slash to his arm.”
Fearghal turned to Ardahl. “Ye must see the healer at once. And ye have my deepest gratitude, along wi’ that o’ all the clan.”
Ardahl nodded. He wanted but one thing, not to see the healer but to go home to the small hut where he’d left his heart. The area where Fearghal had met them was busy, and his eyes searched for her everywhere.
“Aye, my chief. I would go home first—” And then he saw her. Liadan with his mam beside her, cutting a path toward him through the bustle. Mam had tears in her eyes. Liadan’s face looked bone white, her eyes full of agonized relief, as she beheld him.
She wanted to run to him, that he knew. And he wanted nothing but to take her in his arms, hold her close for the sheer reassurance of it. He could not. He could not .
Even though it would provide all the healing he might need.
Fearghal still spoke to him, going on about the ugliness of the slash to his arm. Cathair stood strangely silent.
He would have to speak with Fearghal about Cathair.
Mam reached him, embraced him. He returned her embrace gently, his eyes meeting those of the lass who stood behind her. Liadan quivered, and so many emotions brimmed in her eyes, he thought the others must see.
“Mistress MacCormac,” Fearghal said, “take him home and make sure he sees the healer.”
Once more, Dornach’s hand came down on Ardahl’s shoulder. “No guard duty for ye this night. Get some rest.”
“Aye, so.”
As the three of them walked away, Mam with her arm still around him, Ardahl heard Dornach say, “He is a hero, Chief Fearghal. Wait till I tell ye all—”
“How badly are ye hurt?” Liadan walked at Ardahl’s left side, not touching him though he wished with all his being she would.
He had injuries aplenty. The gash to his arm. One to his shoulder. The skin of his back abraded where he’d anchored himself to the tree.
He looked into her face. “It does no’ matter. None o’ that matters now.”
His mam led him into the hut, relieved him of his weapons, and sat him beside the fire. “Liadan, run and get the basin. We shall clean his wounds here as best we may before I fetch the healer.”
Liadan obeyed, looking as if she would burst. Ardahl felt the same way—he would come to pieces if he did not touch her soon. When she brought the basin, Mam waved her to the task, and Liadan knelt beside Ardahl with her pot of soap.
As soon as she laid hands upon him, her cool fingers on his torn arm, the agony eased. The terrible tension inside Ardahl backed down a few steps. He could breathe more easily.
For Liadan, the tears came. They brimmed up from her eyes and ran unheeded down her face even as her fingers caressed him.
“Och, by all the gods, I did not think I would see ye again.”
From the corner of his eye, Ardahl saw his mam go out into the clear light. The moment she did, Liadan came forward into his arms. Settled across his knees and wrapped both arms around him. Held him tight, and tighter.
“I tried to keep believing,” she said in a broken voice. “As ye bade me do. I did my best. But the fear—”
“Aye.” He wove his fingers into her hair. Absorbed the feel of her, breathed in her scent. “There were times I doubted I would be able to return. But I did. I did.”
He gazed into her face. “I ha’ so much to tell ye, Liadan. Conall was there.”
“What?” Her eyes widened.
“He came to me. Fought beside me. I hung back so Dornach and Cathair could get the lad awa’. I did no’ expect to survive. But then—he came. Him, or his spirit. Fought beside me. Fetched me awa’ in a ghostly chariot—”
She drew back a little, laid one hand on his cheek, and ran it up to his brow.
“Nay,” he told her, “I do no’ have fever. It happened, Liadan. And he told me—”
“He spoke to ye, my brother?”
“Aye. He saved me. And he told me what happened the day he died.”