He was not meant to survive this fight. Somewhere beyond the western horizon, Conall waited for him. The important thing was to stop the enemy before he died.
Someone attacked him from behind, a slice of a blade in the shoulder of the padded leather armor Liadan had helped him don.
Liadan.
He whirled and took the man’s head without looking into his eyes. Someone shouted over and over, a hoarse, repetitive sound.
It was him.
Conall! Conall!
His heart called to his friend. His throat rendered the sound senseless. The enemy fell away before him.
He heard Dornach shouting, shouting.
They pursued the enemy to the far edge of the stream and beyond. Dacha’s warriors fled away over the green turf, and Fearghal’s men chased them down. On foot. By chariot.
Suddenly Cullan was there again beside Ardahl. Staring. Staring. “Come aboard!”
They pursued the men in flight. Cut them down. Cullan’s handling of the ponies was erratic. They nearly overturned again and at last came to a rocking halt.
Dornach called to them. Called them back.
Cullan turned in the cart and stared at Ardahl.
“Are ye hurt, man?” Not the first time he had asked.
“Nay.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Was he? Ardahl looked down at himself. He felt nothing. But aye, blood ran down his arms, and the armor bore deep slices. Conall’s sword ran with blood.
Cullan blinked at him. The hostility had left his eyes. “We must go back. Dornach calls.”
Ardahl nodded. Not till the cart turned and rattled back did he wonder,Why am I still alive? Why am I not flying to join Conall at Tír na nÓg?
Their forces, and a mountain of dead men, awaited them on the other side of the stream. Fearghal’s land. Many of the dead were the enemy, and far too many their own.
Dornach stood among his remaining warriors. The big man towered over the rest and had still the remembrance of killing in his eyes.
As Cullan drew up, his gaze touched Ardahl. It lingered a heavy moment before moving on to the others. Counting. He was counting his surviving men.
An odd silence fell, broken only by the groans of the wounded. The dying. The chuckling of the stream that now ran red in places. The breeze had picked up and the scent of the far hills warred against that of blood.
“A battle well fought!” Dornach called into the eerie silence. “Ye ha’ well demonstrated Fearghal’s might this day. Not a man among ye of whom I am no’ proud!”
Did Dornach’s gaze touch Ardahl again? He could not tell. Reaction had caught up with him. Exhaustion. His whole body throbbed like one great wound. His sword arm had gone limp.
“Cathair, Ardan, set a guard. The rest o’ ye, locate our wounded. And our dead. Any living members o’ the enemy—ye know what to do.”
Leave no enemy warrior living. It was an ancient edict.
“Come on,” Ardahl said to Cullan, forgetting for the moment he was not Conall.
“Ye need tending.”
“What?”
