Again, Ardahl bowed his head. “I will be honored to practice wi’ ye, since ye ask it.”
“I do. Have I no’ declared ye foremost among our warriors? No’ formally, perhaps. There should be a declaration in the hall.” Starkly, Fearghal concluded, “There is no hall.”
“’Tis no’ necessary, my chief.”
“It is quite necessary, especially given the circumstances. I know fine ye stand disparaged in the eyes of many. But I want ye to stand anyway at my side.”
He nodded at Dornach, who stood by silent, his eyes watchful. “Though he will no’ freely admit it, my war chief is sore injured. Ye may be injured also. That did not keep ye from preserving my life.”
“My laird, the other men—they will protest if ye name me first among them.” Cathair would, though Cathair too bore livid wounds, including one that coursed across his forehead and fair disfigured him. “They will no’ want to yield a place o’ such honor to one they consider disgraced.”
“Mayhap not,” Fearghal admitted.
“Cathair—he will believe the place should be his.”
“Ardahl.” The chief’s clear blue eyes met Ardahl’s. “I do not know what happened between ye and Conall. He was a high-hearted, valiant young man, and I liked him right well. He is dead, and his blood was on your hands. But I saw ye fight in this last battle, and had Dornach’s account of the one before that. These being dire times, I want ye at my side.”
Emotion fair choked Ardahl’s throat. “May I speak plainly, chief?”
“Please do.”
“I am no’ at all certain either what happened between me and Conall. How he came to have a dirk in his heart. I would have sworn blind he could not turn on me in anger as he did, but ’tis what occurred. And the dirk did end in his breast.
“I now carry his sword, no’ my own. I fight—and live—in his place. If ye want Conall’s sword at your side, ’tis at your command.”
“Good man.” Briefly, Fearghal gripped Ardahl’s shoulder. “When again we roll out to fight, your chariot will be second only to mine. In any battle, you will fight at my right hand.”
“Ye think, chief, we will enter battle again?”
“Och, aye.”
“Soon?”
“I hope to deal wi’ Brihan first. He is supposed to be my ally, at least nominally. Instead, he came onto my land and slew innocents while I was away fighting another enemy. He needs to be challenged for that. If he has turned his cheek, we indeed have a great problem on our hands.”
Fearghal let his eyes wander over the field. “I must, aye, challenge Brihan. But I would stall it as long as possible. We need to heal. And mourn.”
“Aye, chief.”
“To be sure, if Dacha decides to return and attack us at our weakest—perhaps wi’ Brihan’s help—we will no’ be able tochoose the time o’ our battles. We will be fighting here.” His eyes met Ardahl’s. “For our lives.”
“I understand.”
Only, Ardahl would not be fighting for his own life, or even Fearghal’s. For his mam. And for the woman who had so inexplicably taken possession of his heart.
They drilled for the rest of the day, even after the clouds lowered and the threatened rain began to pour down. Ardahl did his best to ignore the stares of the other men who watched him drill with their chief. And the glares from Cathair, whose ugly expression might well have felled him.
Trouble there,Ardahl thought as he at last left the field. But aye, they had nothing but trouble.
Fearghal had worked hard, no one could deny it. So had Ardahl and his wounds stung as he started away. He longed for nothing—not even food or drink—so much as to see Liadan.
He would walk past the hut to see if she was still there—better perhaps to spend the night there than in the open, given the rain, even if she felt uneasy in the place.
The door of the hut was tied shut—against the rain?—and firelight flickered around the edges of the leather door. He knocked at the doorframe, and Liadan swept the curtain aside.
“Mistress? Might I come in?”
“Please.”
