“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 stateof 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.
