“Lord Gainor will be joining them with what’s left of his men.”
Conor did not need to ask what had happened. Even if Gainor had seen the Siomaigh coming, he would not have known Semias was no longer an ally.
He swallowed, struggling to maintain his impassive tone when he felt anything but. “What about Calhoun’s sister?”
“The healer? Alive. In fact, most of Abban’s camp is alive because of her. She sensed the wards break and called the retreat.”
The specificity of the information gave Conor pause. Those were details one could have only if there were a Fíréin informant in Abban’s camp. But that was not his current concern. Aine was alive. He sagged with relief.
“Thank you,” he said. “Enjoy your fruit.”
“I will.” Innis once again examined the gift closely, his visitor forgotten. Conor shook his head and slipped out the door into the forest.
He got his bearings and struck out due north. If his calculations were correct, he could arrive in Abban’s camp in fewer than two days. The mere thought of seeing Aine sent his heart beating double-time and his thoughts skittering off in unproductive directions, but he forced his mind back to his surroundings. He could not forget he would soon be leaving Fíréin-protected territory and entering an area where wards were failing and enemy forces sought a foothold.
He camped beneath a stand of alder, eating Eoghan’s provisions cold so he wouldn’t have to light a fire. Even though he was still on Fíréin lands, he dared not draw attention to himself. He slept sitting upright against the trunk of one of the great trees, his sword beside him, his ears attuned to any unusual sounds, even in sleep. Nothing larger than an owl ventured near all night, though, and Conor departed before first light.
He knew the instant he left Seanrós, even without the wards. Younger trees mingled with the old, and the interlaced canopy of branches overhead let in more light. In places, he could see patches of blue sky above him. Here, he took even more care to move soundlessly. The Fíréin were not the only skilled trackers in these woods.
Still, he saw no sign of any other human. Throughout the morning, he smelled smoke, probably from the trappers who lived in the border woods, eking out a paltry living from small animal pelts, but he kept his distance. The forest thinned further, and midafternoon sunlight slanted into his eyes through the gaps in the canopy overhead. He would reach open land long before nightfall.
Then he noticed the silence. The songbirds should have been trilling their chorus. Conor stopped, ears trained on the forest sounds, and faded into the foliage around him.
The nearby call of a red-throated warbler raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Warblers should not be this far from their roosts in the western mountains. In fact, Conor hadn’t seen or heard one since leaving Tigh. Silently, he fished several hand stones from his pouch and loosened the dagger at his belt.
He crouched among the ferns for several moments, watching and waiting. He hadn’t imagined the sound, had he? No, the birds were still silent. There was someone out there.
A flash of white caught his eye, and Conor whipped his head around in time to see a man melt into the trees. A skilled woodsman, but not Fíréin. They knew better than to wear such conspicuous colors. Conor waited a moment and then plunged silently from his hiding place.
He followed the man by ear and let distance stretch between them. Ahead, he saw another flash, perhaps sunlight catching steel. The signal’s recipient?
When they came within a hundred yards of where forest thinned into open land, the two men stopped. Conor faded into a stand of saplings, measuring his breathing, every muscle controlled. What were they waiting for?
Leaves rustled around him, but the day was still. He scanned the trees and saw three more men. His ears told him there were more behind him. If they had glimpsed him before, they couldn’t find him now, or they assumed he was one of their party. After all, what were the chances a stranger would wander into their midst?
Perhaps it was not merely coincidence that brought him here. Conor scanned the trees again.
Five more men. Nine total. The glint of metal indicated weapons. An ambush? And for whom?
Conor lost track of the time he spent in concealment, but the shadows had lengthened when he at last heard the soft thud of hooves beyond the tree line. The men must have cut across the forest’s edge to intercept a party of riders.
The warbler called again, and the man in the lead moved forward. Conor moved with him, counting on his fading ability to hide the fact he wasn’t one of them. The sound of horses drifted closer, this time with the low drone of voices. An errant breeze threw a few clear, Faolanaigh-accented words his way.
Conor closed on the man to his right, aware of the others nearby. He would have to do something quickly, or it would not just be the Faolanaigh riders in trouble. He readied a stone in his hand and waited for an opportunity.
There. The man had stopped behind a screen of foliage. Conor launched the stone, and it connected with the back of the stranger’s head with a crack. He went down with a soft thud.
Conor did not allow himself to dwell on the thought he may have killed him. Instead, he pressed toward the edge of the forest, trying to get a glimpse of the riders.
Six men atop fine, mud-splattered horses followed the tree line closely. A red-haired man slumped atop a large bay, swathed in bloody linen. When he turned to speak to the black-haired warrior beside him, Conor drew in his breath sharply. Was that Gainor Mac Cuillinn?
He studied him a moment longer. It was unmistakably Calhoun’s younger brother. Was this small party all that remained of Gainor’s forces?
The urgency of the situation struck him. There did not seem to be a whole man among them. They would be no match for a fight they saw coming, let alone a surprise attack. He had to do something.
He shifted forward, seeking the leader of the ambush. Whether he made a mistake or it was pure bad luck, the man chose that exact moment to look in his direction. His expression changed when he realized Conor was not one of his band.
Conor calculated his options in a split second. He couldn’t silence the man before he sounded the alarm. Instead, he rushed for the tree line. “Gainor, go!”
For a single moment, all six men turned, too startled to even draw their weapons. Then the first arrow flew, and the ambushers burst from cover.
Gainor hesitated only a moment before digging in his heels and kicking the horse into a gallop. Arrows flew thick around him, but the powerful charger carried him quickly out of range. Conor was vaguely aware the others had followed, but he had no time to check if he was alone. He fitted a stone to his staff’s sling and aimed at the nearest archer. It caught the man solidly in the chest, and he dropped like a sack of grain. The second stone flew just as true, taking down another bowman.
That left the swordsmen, and there were far more of them than Conor had estimated. He left his sword sheathed and gripped his staff with both hands. The first man rushed him, a second close behind. Conor sidestepped an attack and countered with a well-aimed strike to the midsection, then drew his staff free in time to deflect the arc of the second man’s blade. Surprise registered on his opponent’s face, giving Conor the opportunity to brush aside the sword and swing the staff into his head.
As he turned, he glimpsed the dark-haired rider, now engaged in a pitched battle with a skilled swordsman.
Four men closed around Conor, two in front and two behind. He parried one thrust in time to whirl and block another attack from behind. He needed to get out of this deadly circle. Gouges already weakened the staff, and he could not continue to meet their blades as if it were steel. He defended himself furiously from two, sometimes three attackers at once, desperately looking for an opening. Finally, he saw a flaw in the rightmost attacker’s guard and drove the end of the staff into the center of his chest. The man went down, unable to breathe through his paralyzed diaphragm.
Conor circled into the gap left by the felled man so
he could face the others one at a time. A second man feinted skillfully, but Conor waited until he overcommitted himself and delivered a vicious strike to the head.
The remaining two pressed forward, working like a pair of hunting wolves. One harried him while the other looked for an opportunity to take him down. Conor resisted the urge to draw his sword. In the seconds it took him to trade weapons, they would descend on him.
He shifted to the offense and pressed the first man back. A sharp blow to the wrist broke the bones and sent his weapon flying. Another strike to the head dropped him, unconscious, to the turf. Before the second man could comprehend what had happened, Conor swung the staff full force into his midsection. His opponent’s ribs gave a sickening crunch, and he pitched to the ground.
Conor whirled, looking for the next attack, but he and the dark-haired man stood alone. The other warrior’s four opponents lay dead, but Conor’s still lived, some unconscious, others writhing in pain.
Relief flooded into the space left by adrenaline, and Conor bent forward, bracing his palms on his knees. Somehow, he had survived his first test unscathed.
“Are you wounded?” the other man asked.
“No.” Conor straightened and shook off a wave of dizziness. “I’m fine. You?”
“No worse than before.” The warrior took in the scene matter-of-factly, unperturbed by the men he had slain. “That was some display. Why didn’t you kill them?”
Why didn’t he? Conor cast about for a reasonable explanation. “I figured they’d need to be questioned.”
“I know who sent them.” The man walked to one of Conor’s disabled opponents and wordlessly thrust the sword into his chest.
Conor clenched his jaw and pushed down nausea as the warrior executed the men he had so painstakingly kept alive. When he thought he could speak neutrally, he asked, “Did Lord Gainor get away?”
“Aye, and four of his bravest guards as well.” The man walked to Conor and offered his hand. “Keondric Mac Eirhinin.”
So that’s why he recognized him: he was the young lord Gainor had pointed out during his first feast at Lisdara. Conor clasped his forearm. “Conor.”
“Brother Conor?”
“Just Conor will do.”
Mac Eirhinin nodded and pushed no further. “We’re indebted to you. As you can tell, we were in no shape to meet an ambush.”
“You’ve seen battle already.” Conor nodded towards the man’s bandaged thigh.
“If you can call it that. It was a massacre.” Mac Eirhinin wove through the bodies, collecting weapons and tossing them into a pile. “How did you come to intervene?”
“Just passing through. I tracked the men here. I didn’t expect to see Gainor.”
“How do you know Lord Gainor?” The warrior’s bland tone didn’t quite cover his intense interest.
“We met some years ago.”
Mac Eirhinin only nodded and gestured to the weapons. “Take what you like. Ó Sedna will send men back to collect the rest.”
Conor didn’t need anything beside his sword and staff, but the nobleman watched him, assessing, so he took his time looking through the pile of weapons. Finally, he chose a serviceable knife with a sharp, thin blade.
“How far is the camp?” Conor asked, anxious to leave the bloody scene behind.
“Three miles or so. With any luck, my man’s on his way back with horses already.”
Mac Eirhinin’s limp became more pronounced as they walked toward camp, but he kept a quick pace.
“What happened before I got here?” Conor asked. “Lord Gainor looked badly hurt, and those men did not happen onto you by accident.”
“I could say the same about you.”
Conor chose his words with care. “I was headed to Lord Abban to offer my assistance. Just in the right place at the right time, I suppose.”
“From what I saw, he’d be happy to have you. Comdiu knows we can use all the skilled fighters we can get.” Mac Eirhinin broke off, perhaps realizing he trailed into topics best not discussed with a stranger. “To answer your question, the battle nearly cost us our entire company. Some of us stayed behind with Lord Gainor to cover the retreat. We’re all that’s left. Seems they weren’t content to let us go after all.”
“Looks to me they were seeking hostages. So far, Fergus hasn’t fought unless he needed to. Probably thought he could force the Mac Cuillinn’s hand.”
“You’re well-informed,” Mac Eirhinin said slowly. “Your accent sounds Timhaigh.”
Now they were getting to the heart of the matter. Conor wondered if the chieftain was beginning to put together the pieces. He had, after all, seen him briefly at Lisdara three years before. “I was born there, but I wouldn’t call it home. Does it matter? There’s us, and there’s them. You said yourself, you can use all the help you can get.”
Mac Eirhinin did not answer. Conor followed his gaze to the small party of horsemen approaching in the distance.
“Bless Balus,” Mac Eirhinin murmured. “I’ve had enough walking for one day.”
Conor glanced at the man’s leg, where a trail of blood seeped from the bandage into his boot. His estimation of the chieftain rose another notch.
The riders closed the distance rapidly: a different trio of men, led by a bulky, disreputable-looking warrior. Mac Eirhinin grinned as they approached. “Are those horses for us to ride, or did you just mean to bring back the bodies?”
“Bloody cowards,” the leader grumbled. “You’d think one man could have seen to Lord Gainor and the rest stayed to fight. Under orders, they said. Who’s this?”
“Conor,” Mac Eirhinin answered immediately.
“Brother Conor?”
Conor almost laughed. “No.”
Mac Eirhinin gestured toward the leader. “This is Dearg. Behind him, Taicligh and Uvan.”
Conor nodded to them and introduced himself to one of the two riderless geldings. The warriors’ eyes followed him as he vaulted onto the horse’s back and rested his staff against his shoulder. He made sure he stayed close to Mac Eirhinin and Dearg as they turned back toward camp, aware their gratitude did not automatically translate to trust.
“How is Lord Gainor?” Conor asked.
“Alive,” Dearg said. “Barely.”
He would be dead, had Conor not happened along. The others as well. This was no coincidence, even if he still felt conflicted about the first real test of his skills.
The camp appeared over the next rise, much larger than Conor had expected. Banners of varying colors, Faolanaigh and Siomaigh, flew above the sprawling site. “Not all the Siomaigh sided with Fergus?”
“They were safe behind the wards when it happened, so they weren’t infected,” Mac Eirhinin said. Apparently, much more had happened than the broad strokes of the Fíréin reports had let on.
Shouts broke out across the camp, announcing their arrival. Conor took a deep breath and prepared himself for the inevitable barrage of questions. Still, that nervousness could not compare with the realization he might soon come face to face with Aine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Aine was kneeling beside one of her patients in the infirmary tent, checking his stitches for signs of infection, when she heard a commotion of hooves and shouts outside.
Lorcan poked his head inside. “It’s Gainor. He’s hurt. Badly.”
Aine jumped to her feet and followed Lorcan to where four guards lifted her unconscious brother from his horse. Fear pierced her midsection. Wounded badly was an understatement.
“Put him in his tent,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
She paused long enough in the infirmary to collect two large sacks filled with supplies and followed the men to her brother’s tent. Dozens more had already gathered, and she had to push a path to his bedside.
“Everyone but Lorcan, out now.”
All but the guard immediately beat a hasty retreat. Aine knelt beside her brother’s pallet to survey his condition. Bruises and filth mottled his pasty ski
n, and blood-soaked bandages bound him from head to toe. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and placed a hand on his chest.
Gainor’s pain assailed her, and it took a moment to distinguish the injuries from one another. She sorted through the sensations, cataloging each injury with as much detachment as she could manage. Broken bones everywhere: hand, leg, ribs, collarbone, nose. Wounds from spear and sword in his shoulder, beneath his collarbone, in his side, in his leg. Part of his right ear was missing, and his left eye was swollen shut, hiding damage that could mean permanent blindness. Yet none of the wounds had been mortal.
Aine swallowed her horror. She could not think of him as her brother now. He was simply another patient. “Lorcan, I’ll need your help.”
With Lorcan’s assistance and some creative use of wood and linen, Aine managed to set the broken bones and tend the worst of the flesh wounds. Still, it would be a miracle if Gainor walked again, and the anesthetics at her disposal would do only so much to dull the pain.
“A physician could have done a better job,” she said, pushing her damp hair from her face. “He can’t make the journey back to Lisdara, though. If he survives the next day and night, we’ll write Calhoun and have him send someone.”
“You underestimate your abilities, my lady,” Lorcan said. “I’ll go fetch a servant to sit with him so you can rest.”
Aine pushed herself to her feet, despair stealing the strength from her limbs as she wandered outside into the rapidly fading light. The wind had picked up, and the air smelled of rain. Were there others like Gainor, left for dead on the battlefield, without guardsmen to carry them to safety? She pressed her fists to her eyes and willed back tears. She couldn’t break now. Of the thousand warriors in camp, nearly a third of them were injured, half of those seriously. Without her attention, they would likely die. No, she had far too much responsibility to let herself fall apart.
Ruarc appeared beside her. “You look exhausted.”
Oath of the Brotherhood Page 29
