“Be safe,” she implored, and he went out into the morning leaving the better part of his heart behind.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
They went intwo chariots, Ardahl himself driving the chief’s fine cart and Cathair piloting the other with Tiernan aboard. Since there had been no announcement, not many saw them go, but folk who realized what was happening were quick to spread the word.
Some of them ran alongside, asking questions till Dornach came out and called them back.
Save for the rattle of the carts, silence ensued. No one spoke. It was a beautiful morning, and the new sun rising behind them lit the world to gray and green and gold, a pale-washed blue lighter than the color of Liadan’s eyes.
A reminder of everything for which they fought. As if he needed it.
They headed for the stream where the last battles had been fought and they would no doubt encounter Brihan’s guard, who would either challenge them or let them pass. From there, the gods alone knew what would befall them.
Ardahl needed to be prepared at any moment to lay down his life. Until then, he need only drive, a skill his da had taught to him at knee height. Da had wanted so for him to follow him as a charioteer. If he had, would he be where he stood now?
All warriors should be able to drive, so Da had insisted. A man’s driver could well fall in battle and he would need to step in, get himself and perhaps an injured companion safe away.
Da had himself fallen in battle. As had Cullan.
In this world, it seemed there was no safe place to be. But surely Ardahl did not dwell on the question of death as they went, glaring as the possibility was. He thought instead of Liadan. Of seeing her again. Her fair face like a flower, the color coming and going in it like light. Her wide eyes and trembling lips.
In his mind he swore a vow.I will return to ye. I will always return to ye.
Should he have repeated that to her before he left? His heart argued so. Yet as a promise, it seemed near impossible to keep. Feeling for her even as he did, what promise could hope to hold across distance and death?
Fearghal murmured something beside him, and Ardahl glanced at the chief. Anchored with both hands clutching the crossbar, he looked tense.
“The border,” he said in response to Ardahl’s glance.
So it was—the broad swath of earth at the foot of the rise with the stream cutting along it, the water glinting silver. The area, churned and scarred and torn, still showed signs of their battle.
No dead remained. All those had been collected.
Instinctively, Ardahl slowed the ponies. Cathair’s cart rattled behind them.
“Where’s the guard?”
“I do not know.” Fearghal’s eyes narrowed. He scanned as far as the eye could see. Brihan’s dun was farther on, out of sight.
“Somewhat is amiss.” Ardahl’s whole body told him so, the very blood beating through his veins. No matter how long the border, Brihan should keep a presence.
“Aye,” Fearghal agreed.
Cathair called, “My chief? Do we go on?”
“Aye.”
They splashed through the stream, broad and shallow enough here to serve as a ford. A rough track led across the turf beyond, and on up a slope covered with rowan and hazel trees.
An army could wait beyond that rise. Was Ardahl about to die?
But nay, why would Brihan or even Dacha root an army here? Neither knew their party was on the way.
Not until they’d scaled the hill did Ardahl breathe again. Beyond the rise, they saw—
“Here they come,” Fearghal called over his shoulder. “Hands off weapons.”
A difficult order to follow, even though the men advancing on them did not at once appear aggressive. They too were aboard a chariot—a patrol, as Ardahl realized. Far more mobile than men afoot.
