“There is naught ye can do for her, lass.”
Later, Liadan wondered if it was the rain that saved them. Back outside, it fell like spears thrown from the sky. They dodged and ran the gauntlet of it, Maeve now leading the way with the child clutched to her chest.
Faces appeared out of the confusion. Those they knew turned and followed them. Enemies they fought. Liadan’s mind, too burned and blasted to function aright, saw only obstacles and dealt with them.
They made their way into the trees. Hushed voices sounded around them. Gasps. Soft sobs. The babe had fallen silent.
Liadan’s mind stuttered. It sought to shut down.
Mam.
They made their way through the trees and up the brae. Behind them—
Nay, but she could not look behind.
No one pursued them here. The clamor from the settlement died away, but the rain accompanied them, thunder rolling overhead like the voice of an angry god.
At last they stopped. Someone touched Liadan’s arm. Maeve, it was. Liadan blinked at her. She would not have recognized the woman had she not still the sword in her hand and the babe in her arms. Soaked to the skin, she had turned paler than milk, a haunted look in her eyes.
“Are ye hurt?”
“Eh?”
“Ha’ ye any wounds, lass?”
Liadan could not comprehend the words. She saw only her mam sprawled beside the fire.
An old man—Liadan knew him, though she could not find his name—came up and took the sword from Maeve’s hold, gave Liadan a doubtful look. She realized they were surrounded by others, elders of the clan mostly, men and women. A child or two. The young ones were weeping.
Liadan drew away from the man. She did not want him to take her sword.
“Brihan’s men,” the old man said bitterly. His voice seemed to come from far away. “Those were not Dacha’s, but Brihan’s men. He is in it with Dacha. Must have made an alliance with him.”
Did it matter? Did it matter who wielded the swords? They had brought death.
“A scheme!” cried someone else. “They waited for our warriors to go away.”
“At least they cannot burn us out,” came another voice, filled with hard irony. “The rain has defeated those efforts.”
Sluggishly, Liadan’s brain tried to comprehend it. She stepped away from Ardahl’s mother and peered down the hillside.
Great gouts of black smoke rolled up from the settlement like curses, trapped by the rain. Here and there, flames still licked up. Impossible to see what else happened there. How much death.
She said something even she could not hear.
“What?” Maeve came up beside her. Someone had taken the child.
Liadan repeated, “Are we the only survivors?”
“No,” answered the old man. Aye, Ferghan was his name. It came floating up from the deep pit of Liadan’s mind. “There will be others, fled away to the hills.”
And many who could not flee. The small. The weak. Those with no one to defend them.
Like Mam. She had left her mam.
Ferghan said, “We will wait for nightfall and climb higher, search out the others. Aye, there will be others.”
Liadan wondered if he lied to himself.
