Morning's Journey (45 page)

He heard a struggle nearby. Never mind his condition; Lady Morghe needed help!

Galvanized by that thought, he stripped off his tunic and tied it about his midsection to stanch the blood. Standing presented another problem altogether, but fighting off dizziness and nausea, he made it. The divine Lugh Longarm favored him, for the nearby rock mass lent him balance, strength, and concealment.

As he inched around the rock, a glint of metal caught his eye. A dagger lay at his feet. Another stroke of fortune! Hand upon the rock, he stooped to retrieve the weapon, scarcely daring to hope Lord Lugh would grant him a warrior’s death.

Gripping the dagger’s hilt with his unmaimed left hand was a new experience, but he managed well enough. He straightened to peer past the rock. The man Lady Morghe had called Accolon lay sprawled on the ground. Another stood panting nearby, a well-muscled youth clad, strangely, in naught but a dirty loincloth. The good Lord Lugh alone knew what had become of Lady Morghe, her companion, and the babe. His gut churned.

The lad turned toward him, and Lughann gasped.
Lord Angusel!

Lughann stepped from behind the rock. The lad’s head moved, catlike, as if gauging a distance. Accolon’s foot twitched. Angusel would die unless Lughann acted fast.

Gritting his teeth against the eye-popping pain, he lunged for Angusel, connected with him in midair, and shoved him beyond reach of Accolon’s sword. The sword sliced into Lughann’s gut and back out. Pain burned a fiery trail. Lughann collapsed. Accolon kicked him, and he rolled down and down, over rocks and roots and dirt. He fell with a splash into a stream. The water enveloped him.

The fire in his gut yielded to cool numbness. The world’s reddish haze dimmed to black, then flared to dazzling silver. Lughann felt his lips relax into a smile. Blessed Lugh Longarm had granted his wish.

DEAD SILENCE dominated the forest.

Skirts hitched, Morghe crossed the stream in three wet leaps and ran back toward the road, knees trembling and tears streaming. Angusel lay near the cart, blood oozing from a head wound. His arms and torso bore several crimson cuts. Accolon stood over him, panting and swaying, sword poised to deliver the killing blow.

“Accolon, hold!”

He turned, revealing the bloody mess of his left shoulder. “Kind of you to save me the trouble of hunting you down, my lady.”

Angusel, eyes closed, moaned. Accolon pressed his sword to Angusel’s throat.

“Please—no!”

Not moving his sword, he twisted his head to regard her. “Why should you care if this whelp lives or dies? Better he died. One less witness.”

The fate of Loholt and Tira was too great a secret to bear without the added burden of Angusel’s death. She whispered, “He was—is—my friend.”

“Bah. This friend”—his lips made the word a curse—“will betray you to Arthur and Gyanhumara.”

“He wouldn’t! No, he couldn’t have—he didn’t recognize us.” She hated herself for the dithering fool she must sound like. Hands on hips, she said, “I’m sure of it.”

“Are you?” Up swung his sword as he pivoted to face her. His eyes glinted as hard as the blade. “Care to stake your life on it?”

She refused to flinch. Although Accolon’s face looked drawn and pale from pain and loss of blood, it didn’t make staring down the length of his sword any easier. She sucked in a breath. “A compromise, then. We leave him here, untreated, and let the Fates do what they will.” She glanced at Angusel and sighed. “If he dies, he dies.”

“What if he lives and remembers?”

“If he lives, I doubt he’ll remember much.” She injected her words with a confident tone. “I’ve seen many soldiers forget how they’d gotten injured.”

“It’s a stupid risk. I’ll be better off without him.” He tightened his grip on the sword and advanced on her. “And you.”

As she watched with a runaway heart, his eyes widened and lost focus. His stride faltered. The sword slipped from his grasp as he fell against the side of the cart. The jolt revived him, and he clawed at the wood for support.

Morghe snatched up his sword. Gasping and clinging to the cart, he could only watch her. She pointed it at him and grinned. “It seems you do need me after all, Lord Accolon.”

He gritted his teeth and groaned. “Just kill me and be done.”

“I need you to tell Urien that his orders have been followed.” She tried not to dwell upon the fact that she could scarcely heft the weapon, never mind her chances of wielding it lethally.

“I’ll be lucky to make it to the next village.”

She surprised herself by saying, “I’ll bind your shoulder.” Her eyebrows lowered. “Only if you promise not to move while I get something to use as a bandage.”

Accolon regarded her with suspicion but didn’t refuse. She moved to the opposite side of the cart and opened the sack containing Loholt’s effects. Sword in one hand, she rummaged awkwardly through the sack for a swaddling cloth and returned to him.

He winced and extended a hand. “My sword, if you please?”

“So you can kill me?” She kept the sword’s point leveled at him. “I think not.”

He laughed harshly. “As you’ve observed, Lady Morghe, I’m in no shape to do anything to anyone. I’ve field-dressed enough battle wounds to know you’ll need both hands for this one.”

She despised having to give up her advantage, but, Fates curse him all the way to Hades’s realm, he was right. Nodding her agreement, she said, “Besides, if you kill me, you’re too weak to hide my body. Someone will link me to Loholt and, through us, trace this whole bloody business back to Urien. If your chieftain doesn’t kill you, my brother surely will.” She grinned triumphantly. “Have I your word that you won’t harm me?”

He sighed. “My word.”

After cleaning the sword on Loholt’s blanket, she gave it to him. Grimacing, he sheathed it.

She drew closer to get a better look at his shoulder, but the mangled leather obscured her view. “Dagger?” she asked.

“Is it that bad, then, that you’ll have to put me out of my misery?” He smiled wanly, but she chose to ignore the jest. Smile fading, he presented his dagger to her, hilt first.

She cut away the bloody fabric and leather to expose the wound. Splinters stuck out at odd angles. The surrounding flesh looked inflamed between the purple and blue mottling, and blood seeped from the gash.

With the dagger’s point, she pried out the largest splinters. His frequent gasps suggested she was doing more harm than good. She surprised herself again by regretting she had no valerian for him.

She stopped to regard him frankly. “Except for the bandaging, I’ve done all I can with this. Without my salves, I can’t prevent infection from setting in,” she admitted. “You’ll have to find a physician as soon as possible.”

He inclined his head. “My compliments, my lady.” As she wrapped his shoulder with strips torn from the swaddling cloth, he continued, gruffly, “And my thanks.”

She tied off the final strip, helped him climb into the saddle, and handed over his dagger. “Just remember our agreement.”

Tersely, he nodded and nudged his horse’s flanks. As the animal started forward, he reeled, pressing a hand to his temple, but didn’t fall. He disappeared around the bend.

She clutched Loholt’s torn, bloody blanket and picked her way down to the stream. It snagged on a bush and pulled from her hand. An edge settled to trail in the water. She crouched beside her distorted reflection. Tears brimming, she bowed her head and bid farewell to Lughann and Angusel.

Chapter 24

A
T THE SOUND of footsteps, Gyan leaped from her chair and all but flew to meet her visitors. Her father entered the chamber, followed by Rhys. Both wore grim expressions. Her heart twisted.

Yet she had to ask, “What word?”

Rhys bowed his head. “Loholt and his nurse are not within Arbroch proper.” He met Gyan’s gaze. “Nor on the festival grounds.”

Fists clenched so hard that her nails stabbed her palms, she spun and returned to the window. Not to look down but up, to ask the One God where her son could be found, why Tira had taken him, and how, and when. She glared at the peaceful heavens, willing them to divulge their answers, feeling anything but peace.

Ogryvan’s arm settled across her shoulders and squeezed, but for the first time in her life, she drew no comfort from the gesture.

Your son will be a great warrior.
Her tears failed to wash away the prophecy’s dreadful conclusion:
and you shall posses his soul
.

Maybe the High Priest had been wrong…and maybe it was better this way. Her battle trophy flashed to mind. As a proven enemy of Caledon and Breatein, Niall the Scáth had deserved his fate.

Her son did not.

Loholt’s wee face appeared in her mind’s eye: smiling, crying, laughing, and sleeping. All his moods seemed infinitely precious, and now she feared they would be lost to her forever.

“
No!
” Gyan pounded the window ledge, ignoring the sting and shrugging off her father’s arm. Death couldn’t be the only way to defeat this prophecy. Life begat hope. It was all she possessed. “He must be alive!”

“Gyan, we’ll widen the search,” said Ogryvan.

“We must! Tira doesn’t know how to ride. She can’t have gotten far in less than a day.” That, at least, lent some comfort. “But with all the woods and hills, glens and burns…” Hands on hips, she regarded Rhys levelly. “This is nothing against our men; the territory is just too big. We must request a detachment from Artyr to help.”

“Aye.” Ogryvan said to Rhys, “Send Seumas.”

His most trusted bodyguard? Yet it made sense. Seumas could escort a burning candle through a blizzard, and he certainly knew how to be discreet. She gave her father a grateful glance and turned her thoughts to composing Arthur’s message. But the idea of committing the terrible reality to parchment nauseated her. She clutched her belly.

“Rhys, please see that Artyr gets an accurate report.”

“Aye, Chieftainess.” Instead of saluting, he briefly clasped her hand. A breach of protocol, and everyone in the chamber knew it, but she hoped Rhys could read the gratitude in her eyes.

As Ogryvan and Rhys left, she wished with all her heart that she could join one of the search parties, but her place was at Arbroch to coordinate the search, to be here for her son the moment he returned, and to bear the agony of waiting.

Agony no prayer could relieve.

ANGUSEL WOKE to a chilling breeze and dragged a hand across his eyes. The memory of the fight slammed into his mind, followed by intense pain. He tried to curl up and will it away, but nausea forced him to hands and knees, leaving him weak and gasping. His stomach heaved and heaved, but nothing came up.

How long had he lain unconscious?

More important, was anyone lurking about to finish him off? For he doubted he could defeat anything more deadly than a fawn.

He pushed to a crouch and peered into the gloom. The fight might have occurred hours ago or days. Enough moonlight filtered through the trees to show he was alone. The silence, complete save for the leaves’ rattling and the burn’s
plash
, confirmed it. No cart, no swordsman, no women. No Loholt.

Not caring which god heard him, he fervently prayed Loholt was safe in Gyan’s arms.