The druid’s mouth parted and closed, but said nothing as the Vaich turned away.
“Even if it’s me.”
Chapter forty-two
The Druid
They returned to camp to find it fared only somewhat better than they. The air stunk of sweat and death. The Vaich’s fingers remained tight around the druid’s hand.
When the Sun Matron saw them covered in blood, she screamed and rushed to cup her son’s face in a trembling hold.
“We are well,” said the Vaich. “Is anyone killed?”
“None of ours,” said Rask.
“But many of theirs!” said Greyv, thumping his chest. “The River Beast stakes his claim in the grasslands! Praise the Béig Úil!”
“Damn the fools,” said Jor.
“My Vaich, one has been injured!”
A man lay by the fire, his spaulders and mantle stripped away. He was muttering, near delirium by the sound of it.
“Is the wound rough?” asked the Vaich.
“There is a lot of blood.”
“Cré ma nighm!” he hissed. “How far to the village?”
“A two hour’s ride.”
“Can he stay up?”
“Not for much longer, sire.”
He pulled free of the Vaich’s grasp.
“Druid!”
He went to the fireside and knelt with the cooks tending the man. They had packed the bloody wound with linen rags, and the druid carefully peeled them away. The cleft was long, jagged and inflamed about the edges. A clean strike, but not deep enough to cut to bone. The man was still conscious, but his eyes were glazing. The druid said, “Do not rest now, we have work to do.”
The man searched for him through his fog. “Ye… Yer Majesty?”
Glancing at the cook, the druid said, “I’ll need my satchel. Would you fetch it for me?” He nodded towards his tent and the cook hurried off.
He then withdrew his golden dagger, and the Aards tensed, stepping closer, but the Vaich said, “You all stay put and dinnae do anything stupid.”
The druid ignored them, cutting a long strip of wool from his cloak, which he set aside. The cook returned with his leather satchel and the druid sifted through, finding a bundle of moss. “Have you brought any bee sap with you?”
“Aye, some.”
“It’ll ward off the rot.” The cook went and fetched it as the druid lined the wound with a thick layer of the moss.“Ón túr nó fuil, æn fuil nó túr.”
“Is it… magick ye do?” asked the man, drowsily.
“Tis the power of the earth and no more,” said the druid, turning to their audience. “I’ll need spirits.”
There was hardly a pause. The Aards scrambled, reaching for their kits. The first to find his flask passed it to the druid, who nodded in thanks. Carefully, he plucked out the moss. The wound had clotted, and the men muttered in disbelief.
