Ardahl was no different. He spared pats for the ponies as he passed them by, but abandoned Cullan’s corpse, hoping someone would look after the charioteer, and the ponies, and started through the rubble that had been the settlement.
Each man who returned had someone for whom he cared. That was the reason they’d been fighting.
IfTír na nÓgbe a paradise, this must be its opposite. His step faltered as he went. His nostrils quivered at the scents of burning and blood. Death overlay all.
Many of the living, aye, were on their feet. They appeared dazed and stared at him with empty eyes like those of Liadan’s mother.
Liadan.
Ahead lay her hut, the door open as a gaping wound. It had once more escaped burning, and his heart leaped with hope. Inside, though, all lay in disorder as if an ill wind had scoured every item from its place. Empty.
He went on and heard someone call his name.
“Ardahl!”
“Mam?”
She ran at him as a girl might, and was suddenly in his arms. She did not weep—it came to him that his mam was too strong for that, and pride twisted his heart. She had endured so much.
She squeezed him impossibly tight before seizing his face between her hands. “Be ye hurt?”
“Some.” No one returning did not carry wounds. “My…charioteer is dead.”
Dark horror invaded her eyes. “Many are dead. They are saying it was Chief Brihan’s men.”
“We heard. Liadan…?”
“Here.” Mam looked over her shoulder. “Here!”
This time Ardahl’s heart near convulsed.
“But her mam—”
“Och, nay.”
Mam moved out of his arms. Liadan stood behind her, though Ardahl would scarce have recognized her as the same lass he’d left behind. Clothing in rags and stained with blood. Damp hair hanging down. Eyes overly large in a pricked white face.
But alive.Alive.
He did not remember moving, nor did he see her move. Suddenly she was in his arms, smashed against him as if she would become one with him, flesh for flesh. He felt her trembling. Felt her shock and fear. Her need.
She hid her face in the crook of his neck, arms clenching at him fiercely.
“She is dead. My mam. My mam. It is my fault.”
“Hush—nay, lass, it is not. Hush now. How could it be?”
He could smell blood on her and smoke and sweat. She was the best thing he’d ever touched.
“Lass, be ye hurt?”
“She is.” Mam stepped forward, since Liadan did not reply. Over Liadan’s shoulder, her eyes met her son’s. “We had to fight our way free.”
“Flanna blames me.” Liadan spoke from his neck. Mam’s eyes filled with tears that she still did not shed.
“Liadan.” He tried to disengage her from him, without success. “We will make it right. We will.”
“Ye came back. Ye came back alive. Had ye no’, I could not have gone on.”
