The first attacker persevered and delivered blow after blow, but Arran moved expertly and dodged each one with ease. Blackwell’s man caught him one time on the arm, and the wound stung.
Skye gasped when she saw blood trickling from the wound. She looked at Arran, but the wound seemed to only give him more strength. He gritted his teeth, and with a mighty swing of his sword, he struck the man’s wrist. The man cried out and dropped his blade with a thud.
“Ye are beaten,” Arran stated. “Surrender, now.”
But the man still did not give up. He lunged at Arran with a roar, his fists swinging wildly.
Arran sidestepped, landing a swift punch on the man’s jaw. The man staggered but recovered quickly, and he launched himself at Arran again. Arran punched him square in the jaw a second time, harder now, and the man stumbled back once again, dazed. Arran took him by the shoulders, bent him back over his extended leg, and pushed him down to the ground.
The attacker lay on the forest floor, breathing heavily. Arran stood over him, his sword pointed at his chest.
“Yield,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the pain in his arm.
The man hesitated, and Skye thought it was finally over. But the man turned his head and lunged for Arran’s leg, ready to bite him. Arran anticipated the move and swung his sword up one final time, before plunging it down directly through the man’s neck.
Skye looked away quickly but could hear the blood splatter everywhere as the life drained from the eneme’s body.
Arran looked at the man and then back at Skye, noticing the tears in her eyes. Skye’s heart pounded hard as she watched the man’s blood pool onto the forest floor.
Arran, oddly composed, turned to her with a nod. “We need to move, Skye,” he said. His voice was steady, but she sensed his urgency. “There might be more.”
Skye nodded but then reached to the hem of her skirt. She used her belt knife to tear strip of cloth from the bottom of her chemise, and wrapped it around his wound.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked.
“Nay, Skye. It is just a scratch. I’ve had worse. Leave it now. We must go.”
She mounted Iona, and Arran climbed onto Devil. Without another word, they left the pool and the cool forest cover. As soon as they reached the road, each urged their horses into a gallop.
The wind whipped through Skye’s hair and dried the tears on her face. She stole glances at Arran as he rode steadfastly at her side. She knew Devil was faster, but neither stallion nor man would leave her and Iona behind.
Her heart clenched at the sight of the bloodied cloth around his arm. The battle had been horrible to watch. She had never seen a man get killed, but Arran’s injury pained her more. She was terrified it might get infected without the proper treatment.
As soon as they’d rode a fair distance and neared home, she noticed something that filled her with dread.
Arran leaned to the side in his saddle, his usually erect posture slumped. Skye steered Iona closer to Devil, only to see that Arran’s face was as pale as a sheet.
“Arran!” she called, but he didn’t respond.
Panic surged through her. She spurred Iona forward, pulling ahead of Devil. She reached out and grabbed the reins of Arran’s horse and brought both animals to a halt. Devil snorted and stomped his hooves on the ground, sensing the tension.
Skye dismounted swiftly and with trembling hands pulled Arran down from his saddle. He was heavy, his body limp. She lowered him to the ground as quickly as she could, her heart racing with fear. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing shallow.
“Arran, stay with me,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. She quickly tied the horses to a nearby bush. She would need them.
She examined the wound on his arm. The edges were an angry red, and dark veins spread from the cut, a telltale sign of poison.
“No,” she whispered.
She’d seen this before, but she had no healing potions or tonics with her. The few she had were all back at the keep.
“Hold on, Arran,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Just hold on.”
Quickly she went to the bag hanging on Devil’s saddle. She took it to Arran’s side so she could keep an eye on the wound. She pulled the root from it, scrubbed it as clean as she could on her skirt, then placed it in a fold of the cloth that had been their table linen. She used the haft of her belt knife to pound the root into a pulp.
As she placed the pulped root over his wound, Arran’s eyes fluttered open, and he managed a weak smile. “I’ve faced worse,” he murmured, though his voice was strained.
“Daenae talk,” Skye ordered, her tone firm despite her fear. “Save yer strength.”
