The sounds of pursuit had been gone for a while by the time he staggered onto his own land. It would have been sensible to hang back and hide, waiting to make sure he was not being followed, but he knew deep down that he didn’t have the strength.
Ned doesn’t know where I live, so they don’t know where I live. Does it matter, though? They’ll find me eventually.
And when Laird Grahame finds out where I am, it’s all over. All over. All of this will have been for nothing.
The grimy, low-ceilinged house that served as his home was all dark, no lights on in the windows. No one was waiting up for him. He stumbled inside, collapsing onto the hearth. The house was cold, of course, the kitchen fire long since gone out and left to cool.
He kept his eyes closed, even as padding paws approached. A wet, soft nose nudged his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Argentum, I can’t play with ye tonight,” Brendan rasped. “I’m… I’m not well. Just got to sleep a wee bit, then I’ll put on the fire and get us something to eat, eh? Eh?”
Then the darkness closed in.
When Brendan woke up,more time had passed than he’d expected. The door, which he’d left swinging open, let in the chilly gray light before dawn, along with gusts of icy wind and a speckling of snow. Lying in front of the hearth, Brendan was half-frozen with cold. Argentum curled up alongside him in atight ball, cold and miserable. The dog’s ears pricked as Brendan stirred, and his tail thumped lazily on the ground.
Brendan had been beyond foolish, acting the way he had.
What sort of fool am I, stumbling noisily home in the dark, not even checking to make sure I wasn’t followed? And then leaving the door open for any wild beast to wander in.
It’s wild beasts of the human variety which worry me the most.
There was no time to lie and wallow, however. There was work to be done. Brendan began to push himself up into a sitting position, but a stabbing, sickening pain knocked him back. He flopped back, gasping, and memories of his injury came flooding back.
The neat cut, nothing to worry about. Fergus’ kicks. Blood, dripping sticky down my skin.
He risked a glance downwards. His leather jerkin covered much of his torso, but when he gingerly pulled it aside, he saw that the linen shirt underneath was almost completely red. All around his waistband was red, with stains running down his trousers. The red climbed up over his stomach almost to the center of his breastbone.
So much blood,he thought dizzily, fear tasting cold and acrid in his mouth.
Beside him, Argentum whined.
“Nothing to fret about, laddie,” Brendan gasped, but his voice was uneven with pain. He finally managed to sit up, resting his back against the cold stove, and carefully pulled back his shirt.
It was stuck to his skin, and came free with a sickening squelching noise and fresh flares of pain. Brendan had to bite back a moan of fear when he saw the wound underneath.
The clean cut of before, done with a clean sword and ready to scab over entirely, was gone. It had split open with the kicking he’d received, a jagged cut around the length of his forearm. Itwasn’t deep, which was a mercy; otherwise Brendan might now be trying to put his own organs back inside himself. However, the edges would struggle to knit together, and the wound still bled and oozed.
That wasn’t the worst of it. Sweat, dirt, and even mud had made its way into the cut, he could see the debris. Picking it all out would be a hellish, painful nightmare, and even that might be too late. Already, the edges of the cut were inflamed red, hot and sore to the touch.
He let the shirt fall back. It was obviously ruined now.
“Well, lad, this isn’t good,” he whispered softly, and Argentum whined again, butting his head against his arm. “But we’ve been in worse scrapes, eh? I’m not alone, anyway. I’ve got ye, laddie, haven’t I?”
Sensing kind words, Argentum’s tail thumped on the ground and let out a short bark.
“Ye are right,” Brendan murmured, biting back a groan of pain. “I can’t just lie here and wait to die, can I? Up we get, then.”
In one movement, not giving himself time to edge upwards and think about the pain, Brendan hauled himself up into a crouching position, and then up onto his feet. The pain hit him like a wall, making his vision blur, and he sagged against the counter, groaning aloud.
Bandages. Bandages, dressings, stitches. But before any of that, it needs cleaning.
Usually, he would go out to the well to fetch clean water, and use that to rinse out the wound, before dipping some cloth in alcohol and using that to do a more thorough, painful clean.
He knew that he’d never make it to the well in this state, let alone back again with a bucket of water. His hands were shaking beyond control, and it seemed almost laughable that he’d be able to do much to clean his own wound.
Crawling across the kitchen, leaning on the counter, Brendan aimed for an opened bottle of whiskey. It was bad stuff, sour and strong, but better than nothing. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and spat it out, not caring where it went. He took a long, slow slug —for courage, he told himself—and then, gritting his teeth in preparation, he poured the rest of the bottle over the wound on his side.
The pain was immense, jolting him backwards and making him cry aloud. He drummed his feet on the stone floor, as if that would do anything, and Argentum barked and bounced around at the noise, clearly distressed.
