CHAPTER TEN #4
Time began to slow as Allie turned to the next of the wounded—and then the next.
So many were burned and the projectiles had caused serious head injuries, but the stab wounds were the worst. Allie had never seen anything like the mayhem caused by this medieval battle, but then, she’d never been in any kind of military conflict before.
She healed four more of the wounded when Royce touched her shoulder.
“Ailios, Malcolm needs ye to heal his best man, Seamus. Claire has tried an’ failed an’ MacNeil be with a wounded Master. ”
Allie simply sat still for a moment. The battle was finally over, the last of the invaders having fled.
But the keep was filled with female sobs, quieter, subdued male conversation, as well as the moans of the wounded.
A terrible pall hung over the castle grounds.
The day had turned dark, as if the Ancients grieved, and death and misery had become tangible, casting a heavy weight upon the grounds, one Allie could actually feel upon her shoulders.
Allie rubbed her temples and blinked. She was feeling weak and just a bit faint, and she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her if she stood.
She needed a moment of respite, when no real interlude was to be had.
The dying could not wait. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that there were more wounded.
She hoped MacNeil could heal half of them.
She was pretty certain her reserves were dwindling.
“Ye dinna have enough power, do ye?” Royce demanded, his gaze searching.
“I can’t argue with you now. Where’s Seamus?”
Royce led her through the ward, stepping carefully to avoid the corpses, the wounded calling out to her as she passed. She smiled at each and every man. “I’ll be right back,” she promised them all, meaning it.
“I can feel that yer tired!” Royce exclaimed. “Ye can’t heal all the rest! MacNeil doesna have infinite power, either! Ye’ll have to pick an’ choose.”
“I am not a god, to decide who lives and who dies,” Allie said grimly.
“Aye, today ye are,” Royce flashed.
Allie faltered. That wasn’t fair. She could never dispense life in such a manner. “Don’t try to stop me from doing what I have to do,” she warned softly. She did not want to waste her time or her strength arguing. Then she saw an ashen Claire, gesturing to her.
Allie hurried over to a big, middle-aged man with iron-gray hair. He was unconscious and he had been bleeding from the abdomen. From the amount of blood staining the ground, she was afraid he’d slip away at any time.
“I stopped the bleeding, that’s all,” Claire cried. “I can’t do more. He’s dying, I can feel it!”
Allie knelt, felt his life flickering weakly and drew her white power from within and cast it over Seamus.
Then she pushed it into him, through him, seeking his life first, nourishing it with her power, feeding it.
When it blazed strongly, she focused on his wound, sweating now.
It had become a distinct physical effort to find the power and cast it, much less sustain it.
She felt faint again and her stomach was so upset she was nauseous.
Allie found the strength to sustain her power. Eventually Seamus looked at her, blinking.
Allie couldn’t smile. The ground was tilting. She sat down in the dirt, gasping for air. She told herself that she could do this—and she would.
Royce knelt, putting his arm around her. “Ye’ve done enough this day.”
“Give me a moment,” she said, hoping her tone sounded soft, not weak.
Royce stared at her. When she didn’t look at him, he tilted up her chin, forcing her gaze to his. “Ye’ve never healed like this, have ye?”
“I’m not a war veteran.”
He grimaced, clearly not comprehending her. “Can ye hurt yerself? Kill yerself?”
Allie had no idea. “Of course not.”
She knelt over another wounded man, ignoring Royce’s expletive. He clasped her shoulder. She said quickly, “Please don’t interfere. I can do this.”
“I dinna think so.” But he released her, his face tight and grim.
Allie tried to find her power. It seemed weak and far away and almost nonexistent, like the illusion of an oasis in the desert.
Shit, she thought. The man lying prone in the dirt was conscious and he was regarding her with wide, hopeful but pain-filled eyes. She sucked up all her determination, all her strength. She found the white light flickering inside her and seized it, somehow. It felt so elusive now.
She pushed it at the man, who had been stabbed many times. He gasped as her warm healing power washed over him.
But bathing him in her light wasn’t going to heal him.
She needed to flood those wounds, Allie thought grimly.
She trembled and on all fours, reached deeper than she would have ever believed possible.
The white light was there. She pulled it out, hurting physically now, as if someone was pulling her organs out of her body while she lived and breathed and watched.
Sweat blinded her. She wanted to moan—she did.
Then she summoned up all her strength and flooded the man with healing light.
The ground spun. The day turned ominously gray. She felt Royce’s hands on her as she fell forward into the dirt.
As he lifted her into his arms there was so much relief and even more exhaustion—and then blackness claimed her.