“A large force, they say.”
“How close?”
“Approaching the border. Aldur wants to know, should he engage them?”
Dornach hesitated. The border must be held, aye. It would take him precious time to organize his warriors and reach the place. For the guards there to engage a large force, however, would mean certain death.
“Send a runner. Tell them to fall back. Tell them we are on the way. Someone run to the chief. The rest o’ ye—to arms!”
At those words, a familiar sensation flooded Ardahl. Part dread, part anticipation, part determination. It would be a large encounter, this. A fierce one. It could well mean his death.
He had never before faced such a battle without Conall at his side.
That thought struck through the dread and the determination both, and left him hollow.
How could he do this?
Dornach called orders for the chariots to be readied, and he wondered again.
How to go to battle without Conall in the cart with him? Who would drive their chariot now?
Men scrambled. There was little time to prepare. Some might hurry home under the guise of fetching their weapons, only to impart a frantic kiss on the lips of a wife or the heads of their children. No opportunity for proper farewells.
Some lovers might never see one another again.
For some reason, his thoughts flew to Liadan.
She would not care if he lived or died.
As at some inaudible signal, women came running. Always it was so. Perhaps it was as simple as one of the young lads who haunted the training field running to tell. It seemed far more magical than that.
For several moments, what had been an ordinary training field fell into chaos. Then Dornach, with Chief Fearghal now at his side, began hollering again.
“To order, men! To weapons, and take your places.”
What was his place now? Conall’s, aye, but Conall had been his driver first, and his defender second.
Chariots drawn by men and lads rattled out over the green turf. Other men led out the ponies.
Ardahl must take himself to Dornach. Tell him—remind him—he no longer had a partner.
He turned and saw someone approaching him.
She came across the grass softly despite her burden, face chalk white, eyes grave. Fixed upon him, she hurried faster when their gazes met.
“Mistress Liadan? What is all this?”
“I heard. Ye go at once?”
“Aye.”
“Ye must have Conall’s armor.”
“But—”
“Ye canna go without.” Again her gaze met his, the contact searing. “Ye have taken his place, have ye no’? Then this should be yours.”
She tossed the items down in a heap, helped him into the padded hide over-tunic. The hammered metal wrist bands.
