“To be sure I will,” Fearghal averred.
“Whether, as the chief says, we fight here in the settlement or at our border, I want ye, Ardahl, at his side. D’ye accept this charge?”
Ardahl well understood what Dornach asked him. He was being requested once again to lay down his life for the man who led his people. And he had no choice. He had sworn fealty, had he not? He and Conall had, in the same ceremony.
That meant Fearghal—and his family—would not die unless he, their defender, perished first.
But what of his own folk? His mam and Liadan? He wanted to swear his sword to them.
Everyone there watched him. Once more, he inclined his head.
“I accept the charge, Master Dornach. Chief Fearghal, my sword is your own.”
“And,” said Tamald, his voice still thin, “may our rewards be found in the next life.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
“Ihave sentanother messenger to Chief Brihan,” Fearghal said when the meeting broke up and he, with Ardahl and Dornach, stood at the door. “He will have a runner ready to send us, should Dacha attack him.” The chief corrected himself wryly, “WhenDacha attacks him. We shall then have enough notice to march out. I confess, I would rather make a stand on our border than here. That way our folk can once more move out for the hills. Some o’ them, at least, may survive. All o’ our blood will no’ be lost.”
Ardahl eyed the chief, who now bore deep lines in his face. “Permission, Chief Fearghal, to speak plainly.”
Dornach eyed him, but Fearghal said, “By all means. Ye ha’ earned it.”
“Your words make me think ye do no’ believe we will win the upcoming fight.”
“That is not so. By no means. It all depends upon how matters fall out, and that no man can tell.” He gave a wan smile. “Not even the druids, casting their stones. I think ye will agree, Ardahl, Dacha will no’ be easy to defeat.”
“He will no’.”
“And unless we defeat him whole, he will merely lick his wounds and keep coming. Our chances are better wi’ Brihan fighting alongside us than with us facing both Dacha and Brihan under Dacha’s thumb.
“Should Brioc go down to defeat”—Fearghal stopped speaking abruptly and struggled visibly with his emotions—“then our fate is in the hands of the gods and men such as ye, Ardahl MacCormac. Will we live on, or will we be naught more than a story told in some other chief’s hall on a cold winter’s night?”
Ardahl had no answer to that. He and Dornach walked out together to find the rain had slackened, but fell still in a fine silver curtain.
“Master Dornach,” Ardahl said when they stood as alone as they might amid so many, “I wish to speak to ye about Cathair. He will no’ be happy wi’ the praise Chief Fearghal has heaped upon me.”
“’Tis not up to him to like or dislike it. Ye have earned the praise.”
“I do not trust Cathair.” Ardahl met the war chief’s gaze. “I believe he will no’ rest till all such honor goes to him.”
He dared say no more. But he saw the spark of comprehension take hold in Dornach’s eyes.
“Ye think he means ye harm?”
“I think he has already caused me great harm and would do more still.”
Dornach grunted. “I will speak wi’ him. Make it clear that ye ha’ been elevated by Fearghal, and any man who moves against ye moves against his chief, and so betrays the fealty sworn to that man.”
“Aye, so.”
Dornach lowered his voice. “’Tis difficult for a man to battle if he must watch his back the whole time.”
“Aye, master, it is.”
“Go home. Ye are relieved o’ assignments this night. Continue healing so ye will be ready to stand for your chief.”
“I am ready now. If there be attack—”
