“That's not natural, that is…”
Once the wound was free of sod, the druid lifted the flask and poured its contents over the raw flesh. The man hissed in pain, and there were some grimaces from the crowd.
“He’s nae like to forgetthat,” said Greyv.
The final application was a bit of bee sap over the tear, after which the druid bound it up with the wool strip. “It will set awhile, and in the eve, I will stitch it. Until then, I will make you something for the pain.”
“Isnae much now,” said the man.
The druid nodded. “Soon enough, it will be.” He got to his feet, wiping his hands on his bloodied gown. He remembered he had only just avoided death himself.
The bodies of bandits lay rotting in the mud and a few of their tents had been torn to bits.
There was a long moment in which the events of the last few hours dripped into him. He tried to reconcile what had happened, but the Féin still watched him. None more intense than the Vaich.
“I’ve heard of the druids’ magick…” It was Rask to speak first, though there was caution in his voice. “I didnae believe it.”
“Let’s be grateful then,” said Jor, “we’ve a healer amongst us.”
“Aye,” said Rask.
“Aye,” said the men.
The Vaich was silent.
Then came a figure up the hillside, and everyone drew their weapons. It was Korv, returned from the river down the bank.
“The cursed flame took you so long?” barked Greyv. “Didnae ye hear us?”
“Eh?” Korv looked as out of sorts as he’d been that morning.
“The bastard might have had a nap in the bramble,” said Cían.
A heat rose and the Vaich came forwards. The druid stiffened as he passed his shoulder, stopping before the man’s swaying form.
“You ought to have stayed at the river,” the king hissed. “You ought to have died there.”
“What’s the trouble, Yer Majesty?”
The Vaich let out a curt chuckle, then reared back and slammed his fist into Korv’s face. The Aard dropped instantly. All the men went still as statues. The king gripped the front of Korv’s mantle, bringing his fist repeatedly across his jaw till his body was limp in the soil. And even then, continued to beat him—rage flaring in his eyes.
“Stop,” muttered the druid, hardly understanding what he was seeing. He rushed forwards. “Stop!” The Vaich paused, turning that burning gaze on him. “Release him, or I’ll be sewing up another man tonight.”
The Vaich looked reluctant, sending Korv’s unconscious form one last glare before shoving him down and getting to his feet.
“Stack the bodies,” he said to his men, “and leave them for the crows.” He stormed towards his tent and disappeared inside.
The command had been given, yet no one moved. The druid took a breath. He looked from Korv to the others, still gathered in confusion.
“Is anyone else hurt?” he asked. They shook their heads and went off to tend the dead.
He was left there amongst the mess. Medhin eyed him in suspicion; Hirí with pride.
He ignored both. Instead, glanced towards the king’s tent.
The wind bit at his exposed skin.
He could not forget the Vaich’s words; his pleas. He had never seen such desperation.
