Chapter Fifty-Five

T heir chariot rocked violently as Dacha’s men mobbed it. Deep in among the enemy, their only allies now were Brihan’s men, who fought here in a desperate knot, making a last stand.

Get down and fight! cried a voice close beside Ardahl. Out o’ the cart now!

Conall. He once more stood at Ardahl’s side, clad for war with a sword in his hand and his fair hair flying.

“Why?”

Conall turned his head and looked into Ardahl’s eyes. If ye do no’, ye will die.

He was going to die anyway, Ardahl thought even as he leaped clear of the chariot, which went over, swarmed by Dacha’s warriors. Their ponies screamed. Ardahl did not see what happened to Kell.

Just ahead, Dacha fought amid a group of his warriors, facing Brihan and his desperate defenders. The head of the spear, Ardahl thought even as, slashing at attackers to the right and left, he ran straight for the man.

Conall had gone. Ardahl was alone deep in enemy territory. But Brihan, his face running with sweat and blood, looked up and recognized Ardahl as he came in, swinging his sword around his head.

No excuses now. No doubt. No fear. As a warrior, Ardahl existed for this moment. He must take out Dacha before he died.

Brihan cried out and made room for him there in that knot of struggling men, facing Dacha’s best warriors. Two of Brihan’s men, both badly wounded, fell back leaving Ardahl as—

The point of the spear.

For several moments then he knew nothing but the whirl of swords, blow upon blow from all sides, swearing and hollering, and the sight of Dacha’s face, toward which he must fight. Dacha’s defenders were fierce, and Ardahl took wounds, though he neither heeded nor felt them.

A man fell before his blade. Another. Another . Dacha stood directly in front of him.

The man appeared half maddened, eyes far too wide, face still fixed in that terrible rictus.

He too bled. On his feet. It would be up to Ardahl to take him down.

Then—only then—could he let himself think again.

Conall’s sword felt good in his hand, a part of him even as his own sword might. He imagined he could hear Conall again, speaking in his ear.

Right. To the right! Left. Turn! Turn! In upon him there. There!

Ardahl spun, his feet digging into the grass, his blade and every intention aimed for Dacha’s head. When his blade met flesh, sinew, and bone, it would end.

A chariot came crashing in upon them from his right. It rocked violently as the ponies dispersed Dacha’s defenders.

A man leaped down.

Amid Ardahl’s shock and the fighting rage, he recognized a fellow warrior—a man easy to know for his height and the color of his white-blond hair, now marked by blood.

Cathair.

Here.

Ardahl grunted and tried to bump him aside. Dacha and his defenders, still in a knot, recovered from the intrusion and regained their feet.

Ardahl needed room to fight.

But there was no room. The chariot, half tipped and with Cathair’s driver still aboard, had him trapped and curtailed his sword arm. A crush of men on his left and others—enemies—at his back.

Cathair leaped forward—a magnificent surge of power that took him directly at Dacha. Ardahl knew the truth then. Cathair wanted the glory of that kill, wanted the privilege of being the man to slay Dacha.

First among warriors.

Yet Dacha saw Cathair coming and raised his sword in time. The two blades met with a furious clang.

Ardahl, well occupied against Dacha’s men, had little time to spare for that battle. Let him have the glory so long as Dacha dies. So long as it ends.

He took down one of Dacha’s two remaining defenders. The man fell in a shower of blood and Ardahl had time to draw a breath. To turn his eyes on Cathair and Dacha.

Yet another man came at him from the right. Without conscious thought, Ardahl drove him down beneath the hooves of Cathair’s team, which stood nearly on top of them, trembling, and ran his sword through the man’s heart.

A mighty roar snared his attention. He spun in time to see Cathair, trapped between Dacha and the wheel of his own chariot, lose his footing in the slick grass and fall back.

Back, and back.

Ardahl saw it all in an instant. Dacha’s sword at the ready, drawn back for a blow that would take Cathair’s head. The shocked realization in Cathair’s eyes as he grasped that he would die. Die here on a day that barely yet reached for dawn.

Ardahl’s sword moved without his direction. A great, whirling sweep it made, cutting through the pale light of the morning. Ending in Dacha’s neck.

Dacha’s head flew, the intent to kill still in his eyes, and his sword fell from his suddenly flaccid hand before it could complete the blow it had begun, and end Cathair’s life.

Cathair fell hard down beside the wheel of his chariot. Dacha’s head rolled away with the force of Ardahl’s blow.

Ardahl and Cathair stared at one another for a moment suspended amid the screaming, the struggling, and the slaughter.

Cathair began to scrabble up. He still held his sword in one hand. Ardahl reached down swiftly and hauled him up by the other.

Cathair gawked at him, gazed clear into his eyes. “Ye saved my life.”

Ardahl had, if not consciously. It had been instinct. No time to worry over it now. Dacha’s remaining men, having witnessed the death of their chief, came on.

“Fight!” he bellowed at Cathair. And they did, standing shoulder to shoulder till they were joined by others of their men. Dornach, standing strong. And Fearghal, streaked with blood, moving up beside him.

The enemy fell back and back over the broken ground now lit to gray by the morning. Until, deprived of their chief, they broke and ran, and all that remained was the silent dead and a litter of broken chariots and abandoned weapons.

*

Following the battle, when the last of Dacha’s men had fled, pursued by whatever of Fearghal’s chariots remained, Fearghal and Brihan embraced one another. Even though Ardahl stood nearby, he did not hear what was said. Words of gratitude, he supposed, and mayhap fealty.

Dacha’s men had recovered his body but not his head. That, Fearghal eventually picked up and used to decorate his chariot, the visage still fixed in the ugly grimace with which he’d faced Cathair.

The sun climbed victoriously into the sky and Ardahl tried to come to terms with the fact that he was still alive. He had not thought to survive this battle.

“Ye can put that down now, I think.”

Someone stood in front of him. Hollering at him. After the din of the battle, everything sounded muffled and yet too loud.

He stared at Dornach, who addressed him. The war chief ran with blood and the ugly wound on his cheek had been reopened, but aye, he too had survived.

Ardahl felt glad of it.

Dornach jerked his head at Ardahl’s hand. “Ye can put away your sword.”

“Oh. Aye.”

Ardahl sheathed the weapon and only then realized his hands shook.

“Are ye bad hurt, lad?”

“I—” He did not know. “Nay.”

“I saw what ye did. We all saw.”

He nodded at the group of men standing together, and Ardahl counted heads as he might treasure. Fearghal had survived, aye. And he saw, miraculously, Kell just beyond. Cathair.

“Have we lost many?”

“Too many. But, by the gods, I believe it is done. Wi’ Dacha dead and our two tribes united this way, I do no’ think any will soon step out against us.”

Dornach’s hand came down on Ardahl’s shoulder. “Ye ha’ done well this day. I marked how ye fought—rushing in there without thought for yourself. And your honor, it did no’ bend.”

Ardahl said nothing.

“Come get your wounds tended. Grand news—the healer also survived. But he will be kept busy this while. Come.”

Ardahl did not expect to be tended ahead of the chief or Dornach himself. When he reached the group among which the chief stood, Fearghal embraced him, thumped him hard on the back.

“The hero o’ the battle! First among our warriors.”

Ardahl did not know what to say. His gaze met that of Cathair, who stood close by. In Cathair’s wide, blue eyes he saw—

Not the jealousy he anticipated. Nay, indeed, but something far different. Hesitancy. A marked lack of the usual aggression.

Gratitude?

No time to ponder it, then. The healer took him into care, and he suddenly and painfully remembered just how many wounds he had.

He sat staring at the sky, an expanse of achingly perfect blue, and endured the treatment. He would return to Liadan torn and shredded, a remnant of the man he’d been.

He would return to Liadan .

Suddenly his heart bounded so strong and triumphant, he knew nothing else. He would look into her eyes. Catch the gift of her smile. Even if they never shared anything more than that, it would be enough.

It would be enough.

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