by Mia Pride
Though not a single star could shine through the thick layer of clouds, the moonlight shone eerily over the land, casting a bluish hue over the towering bare trees overhead. Even if it was pitch black, Flynn had traveled this way enough to know that the abandoned shelter was less than a mile north of their location.
It did not take long for their horses, as weary as they must have been, to bring them to the entrance of the cottage. Fortunately, the rickety byre on the side of the home still stood against the storm. Dismounting swiftly from his black stallion Arawn, named after the god of war, Flynn kicked the two wooden posts that firmly held the byre roof up against the dwelling. Deciding that the shelter was more than sturdy enough to protect their precious horses for the night, Flynn grabbed Arawn’s rein and pulled him beneath the roof, tying him to the post.
“’Tis a blessing to have found this cottage all those moons ago,” Brennain shouted, tying up his own horse. “I would not relish sleeping in this weather, as much as I enjoy the wilderness.”
“Aye,” Flynn agreed. They had slept in the worst sort of weather while traveling with their fellow warriors in the past, but nobody would choose to sleep in such conditions when a dry place awaited them.
The horses secure and fed for the night, they both entered the cottage, certain it was still unoccupied for no smoke escaped from its pointy thatched roof. With the pitch dark and frigid chill that engulfed Flynn upon stepping in, he knew no person would stay within these walls without burning a fire. It was colder within than it was outside.
“I will start the fire,” Brennain said. He left the door open so some natural moonlight could guide him in his task.
Flynn dropped his satchel to the ground and dropped heavily onto one of the furs around the hearth. His body ached from being wet and cold for hours. He wondered if he was catching a chill, for seldom did the elements affect him physically.
He watched as his brother struck his flint stone and a small iron rod together, creating a spark that ignited the kindling. Blowing gently to encourage the fire, Brennain tossed it onto the pile of dry logs and they both watched in silence as the sparks roared higher. Blowing on his hands, Flynn then rubbed them together to try to warm up his stiff limbs. It crossed his mind that it would be warmer sleeping outside beneath an oak tree but knew the fire would eventually heat up the room.
“On the morrow, we will be able to track down Mal if he has moved. Once we find him, we will need a cover story. Who are we and where did we come from?”
Brennain plopped down next to him by the fire, also blowing on his fingers for warmth. “We must say we are from Darini, our old tuath before we moved to Ráth Mór. I do not want him knowing we came from Tuathal’s new village, or else he may try to pry information from us.”
“True, but all the people of Darini relocated to Ráth Mór over a year ago. Why would we not have followed?” Flynn’s brow furrowed, trying to make sure they had a plausible answer for any questions.
Brennain ran his hand through the stubble along his jaw as he thought. “Same reason most of these men defect, I suppose. Because they would rather seek their own rewards than be faithful to their king. Mal is offering these men power. Is that not what drives many men?”
“Aye, I suppose,” Flynn said warily. In truth, his body ached, and his mind was too tired to plot or plan anymore. “I need sleep. Let us discuss this in the morn on our way to seek them out.”
Brennain looked at him curiously. He knew Flynn was not acting like himself. He usually planned every move down to the very last detail. It was what made him good at being an informant.
Flynn truly felt wretched as another chill made his body ache. He was almost certain he had grown ill on their journey, or mayhap it was lack of rest. Either way, he would continue his mission. No illness would slow him down.
“As you say, brother,” Brennain responded with a frown. “If you are not well, I can continue on without you while you rest.”
His brother knew him well. “’Tis not necessary. I just need sleep.”
Without another word, Flynn arose from the cushion, feeling every ache and pain in every joint of his body as he stretched and shuffled over to the bed he usually claimed as his own in this hut. Aye, just a wee bit of sleep and he would be refreshed and ready to track down Mal by the morn.
* * * *
Curse all the gods, he was more ill than he had realized. His throat felt as if he had swallowed a hive of bees and his chest felt as if a wild boar sat upon it. A deep, hacking cough forced its way out of his lungs as Flynn climbed out of bed and put his still-damp trousers back on. The hearth fire had dried most of his garments and he had endured worse than slightly damp clothing in the past. Although this morn, his skin felt so sore and sensitive that just pulling his tunic over his head made him flinch.
“You are not well enough to travel.”
Flynn narrowed his eyes and stared at his brother. “I have nay choice. We must carry on. I will be well by the morrow,” he lied. It cost him just to speak. His voice was raspy and another horrid cough shook his body.
Brennain scoffed and pulled his blue tunic over his head. “Whatever you say, Flynn. I can do this alone, but I know ‘tis nay use to reason with you.”
“Nay, ‘tis not. Eat this and let us be off.” Flynn tossed an apple to his brother and grabbed another for himself. However, after one bite he decided the pain of swallowing was worse than the gnawing in his stomach. He tossed the remainder of his apple back in his satchel for later.
Of all the times to become ill. He had spent his life traveling and had never been ill even once, but now that he had his most important mission yet, he was weaker than a foal.
An hour passed in silence as they traveled, aside from Flynn’s inconveniently persistent cough. Mal’s men would find them before he found Mal, if he could not contain his coughing. But it was a losing battle, for every few minutes, another storm of hacks attacked him, causing him to wince at the pain in his throat.
“You will get us both killed, Flynn. You need to turn around and let me handle this,” Brennain growled. “Do you think I cannot do it?”
So that was his brother’s issue. Brennain took Flynn’s stubborn need to proceed as a lack of trust in his skills. “Brennain. I am quite positive you can do this on your own. That does not mean it is necessary. Tuathal wanted us together. ‘Tis safer together.”
“Not with you hacking so loud the spirits in the Otherworld can most assuredly hear you.” Brennain snorted, but they kept on traveling for a few more moments before he stopped his brown mare completely, forcing Flynn to pull back on Arawn’s reins.
“This is foolishness. We cannot do this with you so ill. If we get set upon, you are too weak to fight.”
Flynn’s pride bristled at his brother’s rebuke, but he knew he was telling the truth. If they were set upon, Flynn would not be able to fight back with his usual strength. He wanted to be stronger than whatever illness consumed his body, but he was also intelligent enough to know that they must decide on a plan. Either Brennain went on alone, or they both went back to the hut until Flynn was well. It would only be a day, mayhap two, he promised himself.
“All right. What would you have me do, Brennain? I admit it. I am unwell.”
Brennain snorted and rolled his eyes. “You do not say?”
“If not for this cursed cough, I would be fine to continue on. But the cold wind is only making it worse and I fear I will draw unwanted attention.”
“I understand why you want to stay together,” Brennain said, much to Flynn’s surprise. “I think we should travel back toward the hut and allow you to rest for a day. Mayhap tomorrow you will be recovered.”
Flynn grimaced. His weakened state was destroying their mission. Mayhap he should allow Brennain to go on alone, but he did not relish having his brother within Mal’s camp without his aid, even if he was quite capable. “Aye, as much as I detest it, Tuathal would not want me at half my strength before stepping foot into Mal�
�s camp.”
They turned their horses south to travel back toward the cottage when the sound of an object whizzing through the air caught Flynn’s attention. Before he could warn Brennain to duck, he felt a searing pain in the side of his chest and he knew before he even looked down, that he had been struck by an arrow.
Had he been in full health, he may have had the strength to grab an arrow from his own quiver, locate his attacker, and fire back. But the pain in his side felt like fire running through his veins. He roared with pain and slumped over on his horse, cursing himself for being too weak to fight and cursing his cough for alerting their enemy. He cursed his pride for not listening to his brother from the beginning. This would never have happened had he been silent and alert.
“Flynn!” Brennain roared as his horse anxiously shifted beneath him.
A large man in tattered linen garments dropped from a tree several yards ahead. The man was too far away to fully make out through Flynn’s sudden dizziness, but he was likely one of Mal’s scouts. Flynn felt blood trickling rather quickly from his wound and all his remaining strength went with it.
He watched in horror as the man ran the distance toward Brennain. Had Flynn not been injured or ill, he would have easily taken the man down with an arrow of his own, but with the blood flowing from his wound and the weakness overtaking his body, he was of little use to his brother. As the man came within viewing distance, Flynn saw a dagger held tightly in his grip. He reached Brennain’s horse and spat on the ground. “Ye are the men who have been trailing Mal, are ye nay? If ye work for Tuathal, ye are a traitor!” the man roared.
“Watch… out…” Flynn forced the words through his weak lips as the man stepped forward again, holding the dagger, ready to strike.
Faster than Flynn had ever seen, his brother dismounted his horse and pulled his sword from its sheath at his hip. “If you are one of Mal’s men, then you are the traitor!” Brennain barked.
“Tuathal killed the true High King, Elim!” the man spat. “Mal seeks his revenge for the death of his king and companion.”
Brennain stepped forward and held his sword high in a defensive stance, ready for an attack. They had been taught from the youngest age to stay calm and observe their enemy. “Elim killed Tuathal’s father, Fiachu, who was the true High King. That makes Elim a traitor. Tuathal has rightfully regained his throne.”
With a snarl, the man flicked his wrist and flung his dagger straight toward Brennain, but with the reflexes of a feral cat, he dodged the flying weapon. Flynn watched as the weapon spun in mid-air, eventually sticking into the forest floor, surrounded by colorful fall leaves.
Effortlessly, Brennain stepped forward and ran the man through. With a gurgle, the man dropped to the ground and breathed his last breath.
Brennain wasted no time getting back to Flynn, who now felt cold and numb. “Brother, are you all right?” Brennain groaned, seeing the red soaking through Flynn’s white tunic. It took much too much effort to respond when all Flynn wanted to do was sleep. His eyes grew heavy and he groaned as another coughing fit jolted the arrow still protruding from his side.
“Cursed bastard!” Brennain growled through clenched teeth, and he examined the wound. “I must leave the arrow, Flynn. I cannot risk the tip becoming lodged in your ribs or you bleeding out before I can get help.”
Flynn wanted to inform his brother than he was already bleeding out, but had not the strength to argue. He would let his brother do aught to save him, but it seemed most likely he would die this day.
Soft blue eyes flashed in his mind, along with plump red lips and shiny blonde hair the color of wheat. He would never see Maggie again, never get the chance to tell her how bonny she was or to earn her trust so she would not flinch at his slightest touch. But he could close his eyes and dream of the lass during his final moments. Nobody could stop him from indulging in at least that much.
He felt his brother climb up on the back of Arawn and gently wrap an arm around his upper chest, avoiding the arrow on his lower left side. He groaned from the pain, not certain if the body aches or the arrow wound hurt him more.
“Come, Danu,” Flynn heard Brennain call to his horse. If he had more strength, he would chuckle, once again, at his brother’s choice to name his horse after the goddess who their mother was supposedly descended from, but the peaceful darkness was closing in on him. Flynn felt Arawn start to move with Danu’s hooves pounding beside him. Brennain must have held the reins for both horses in his hands as he rode toward the hut. He was mighty skilled about that sort of thing.
“Hold on Flynn! I will get you back to the hut and then I will seek out help.”
Throat burning, head pounding, and side aching from his wound, Flynn could not bring himself to care. He would prefer to be left to die, but he knew his brother would never allow it. Instead, he put his fate in the hands of Brennain and the gods, finally finding his escape in the blissful nothingness.
Chapter Four
“Very well done, Elwynna! ‘Tis only been a few moons of training, but you have caught on quite well. Your healing skills come to you naturally.”
Crinkling her nose, Elwynna looked down at the boar carcass she had been using to practice her stitching skills. The last row was about as clean and straight a stitch job as possible, still it was not as good as Maggie’s work. “Are you certain? ‘Tis not as well-done as your stitching,” she said to Maggie as she pushed the sharp bone needle through the thick boar hide once more.
Maggie waved off her modest words and smiled. “Nonsense. Any warrior in the village would be pleased with that stitching job. And your knowledge of herbs has improved daily. The last salve you made was perfect. You must give yourself more credit, sister. Ráth Mór is a big tuath and having two healers will be a blessing.”
The door to their home opened suddenly and Àdhamh sauntered in with his tunic slung casually over his bare shoulder, and even though it was cursed cold outside, his chest was covered with sweat from practicing with the other warriors. His bright hazel eyes flashed at his wife as he held a piece of dry meat in his hand, tearing off a piece of the savory pork with his teeth. When his eyes locked on his wife’s stitching work, a grin spread across his face and he came closer. “Those are some fine stitches, Elwynna. You are learning quickly,” he said, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead.
“See? I told you. You are truly improving, Elwynna.” Maggie gripped her sister’s hand in reassurance before turning to collect her healing items, packing them into a satchel. She had a few visits to make and found the satchel much easier to carry than the awkward basket she sometimes preferred.
“Well, my thanks,” Elwynna responded with a sigh. “I suppose ‘tis good enough. I am only glad to finally feel of use in more… appropriate ways,” her voice faded off sadly.
Maggie frowned. Elwynna had not learned to do aught in the war camp with her father, aside from pleasuring the warriors against her will. Maggie knew it was still a great source of pain for her sister by marriage. She had low confidence at times and felt desperate to learn a trade, being much harder on herself than necessary.
Before Maggie could think what to say to make Elwynna feel better, Àdhamh silently strode up to his wife and wrapped her wee body in his strong arms, showing her just how valuable she was to him. Her brother was a wonderful husband, just as Maggie always knew he would be. For a large, powerful man, he was tender and kind; just what Elwynna needed.
Suddenly feeling like an interloper in her own home again, Maggie silently swept up her satchel and crept out the front door. She knew they would never mean to make her feel out of place, but Maggie had been feeling like she truly did not belong anywhere lately. She wanted to be a brave lass like Aislin, or an outspoken lass like Elwynna, who could walk into any room and make companions. Maggie cursed herself a coward. She needed adventure and she wanted love. Neither seemed within reach with her lack of survival skills and her inability to speak to men.
It was already evening and t
he sun was beginning its decent across the sky, streaking the earth with beautiful hues of coral, purple and pink. ‘Twas such a beautiful sight that it took her breath away. She sighed, longing to see the world and do something more with her life.
A light wind grazed her ear while she walked, causing gooseflesh to rise across her skin. She was wearing a long, dark blue wool gown and a plaid cloak lined with fur, but still, she felt chilled to the bone. With little of her day left, she still had a few sick or injured villagers to check on before she had to return home for the evening meal.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she heard a commotion from behind her. Men were shouting and, fearing a fight was about to break out, Maggie looked over her shoulder, wondering if she should stay to break it up or run like the coward she was. When men fought, injuries would follow. As the healer, she would prefer to prevent anyone from becoming hurt. But as a small lass, she knew if large men intended to brawl, she could do naught to stop it.
Her eyes widened when she saw the men who shouted. They were not arguing, but they did seem in a panic. Brennain was standing with his father and their king, Tuathal. Why was Brennain back so soon? He and Flynn had left only the morning before for another of their journeys, and yet, as much as she strained her neck to see better, she saw no evidence of Flynn.
Brennain was waving his arms frantically as he discussed something with the other men. A few of his words drifted to her on the wind and her heart began to beat in overtime when she heard her name jumbled within his words.
“Flynn and I… one of Mal’s men… an arrow… he is hurt… alone in a hut… need Maggie!”
