Arran hobbled upthe path, doing his best to bear Rhodry’s weight. The man’s arm was slung across Arran’s shoulder, Arran’s free arm was around his waist, but even so, Arran staggered under the burden.
“Not much farther,” Arran muttered. “Ye are gonna be just fine.”
Rhodry groaned, his head lolling on his neck, his feet scrabbling at the dirt as he tried and failed to take his own weight.
“It… bloody… hurts,” he wheezed, a line of bloody drool hanging from his lips. “But I… got the bastard… eh?”
“Aye,” Arran agreed. “Ye got the bastard.”
In doing so, Rhodry had taken a sword thrust to the gut. The wound had been packed and bandaged as best Arran was able for the ride home, but it had been touch and go whether Rhodry would make it back at all. Arran had seen such wounds before. If the sword thrust had missed any of Rhodry’s internal organs, then he had a chance. If it hadn’t and he was bleeding internally… well, there would be only one outcome of that.
Arran’s stomach clenched with angry frustration. Rhodry had been one of his father’s men and had been a rock of stalwart support once the leadership had fallen to Arran. Without him and his sensibleadvice, he would have made far more mistakes than he had and the clan would have been in even worse straits than they were. Now, it seemed, the clan was going to lose one of its most experienced and valued warriors, and all because of those thrice-cursed raiders.
Dun Tabor’s three healers—Martha, Evangaline and Bethan—were waiting at the door to the infirmary, holding it open as Arran helped Rhodry inside, followed by the rest of the wounded that had made it back from Tollman’s Gate. In truth, he should be pleased. Their casualties were far fewer than they had any right to expect, and they’d driven off the raiders. Arran would have liked to take some of them prisoner, but they fought so ferociously that Arran’s men had been forced to kill or be killed. What kind of zeal drove a man to face death rather than be captured?
Njord sends his regards and thanks you for keeping his islands warm for him.
Who was this Njord? A Norse lord? Some Norwegian or Danish chieftain who coveted Skye for himself? If so, he would not be the first, but Arran was determined that he would bloody-well be the last.
He helped Rhodry onto one of the many beds inside the infirmary, all filled now that Arran and his warriors had returned from Tollman’s Gate. He stepped back as the healers fussed around Rhodry, unwinding the bandage to get a look at the wound. Arran looked away. He had no desire to see the damage the raider’s sword had done to his friend. He looked around at the beds full of his warriors, some groaning, some unconscious, some thrashing and shouting with pain as the healers tried to work on them.
Impotent rage churned in his belly like acid. These were his men, his people. They followed him with a loyalty that left him humbled. But what had he led them to so far? To pain and death and a home that seemed to be in terminal decline.
He felt a hand touch his arm and turned to see Sister Evangaline looking up at him. She was dressed in a nun’s habit, as she always was, even though she’d left the convent of Saint Maria’s on the mainlandmany years ago to return to her ancestral home on Skye. She was elderly now, but vigorous all the same, and along with Martha and Bethan, was one of the best healers in all of Alba. Arran was lucky to have them.
“Leave them to us, my laird,” she said in her soft voice. “Go get some rest. There is no more than ye can do here.”
Arran nodded at Rhodry who was swearing loudly enough to turn the air blue as one of the healers cleaned his wound. “Will he be all right?”
“It is in God’s hands now,” Sister Evangaline said. “We will do all we can for him, but whether he lives or dies is for the Lord to decide.” She squeezed his arm and moved off to tend one of her patients.
Arran sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Lord above, he was tired. Every one of his muscles felt like it was made of iron and it took all of his willpower to walk to the door, pull it open, and step outside. He leaned against the wall, pulling in a deep breath of the evening air.
The sun was setting, and the air was still and redolent with the scent of spring flowers. The herb garden where the healers grew medicinal plants to use in their cures was filled with the heavy drone of bumblebees as they went from flower to flower collecting nectar. It was a peaceful scene, ruined only by the sudden scream of pain from one of his men inside. His eyes slid closed. Gods, he needed sleep.
“Arran!”
His eyes snapped open, and he saw Jenna hurrying down the path towards him. At the sight of her, some of his exhaustion fell away and he walked to meet her, hoping to shield her from the sights inside the infirmary.
“Jenna. What are ye doing here?”
“Looking for you. Mal said you’d returned.” She looked him up and down and her bright green eyes, he noticed, held an odd shimmering cast like sunlight through new leaves. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
A strange tingle went along his skin as she studied him, and that odd shimmer in her eyes intensified. “You arenotall right,” she said. “You have a cracked rib and lots of bruising.”
Arran started as he realized she’d been using her magic on him. He shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked it.
“Come, lass,” he said. “Let’s get back to the keep.”
“Mal said your injured were being brought here.”
“That’s right. This is the infirmary. The healers are working on the wounded as we speak.”
“Good. Take me to them.”
“What?”
