Haunting Warrior (33 page)

“Aye and it would,” Michael said with a smile. “Right to the grave.”

Mortified, she’d at last admitted that she would never be the healer they all needed her to be. But if not that, then what purpose did she have? Each of her brothers possessed an innate ability that made him invaluable to the tribe. Tiarnan, a hunter and a warrior who was rarely matched . . . Eamonn, the thinker who could, in moments, size up any situation and estimate the outcome . . . Michael, who cared for their sick and mended their wounded . . . and Liam, who could track a mouse through a stone quarry, who could sit still enough to coax a fawn from the glen.

But what of Saraid? What special gift did she possess? The occasional visit of the dead? What good did that do them? What use was she to her people?

She didn’t even have skill enough to stitch a wound. Something about the swollen flesh, the stench of blood and muscle torn and mutilated . . . It was all she could do not to heave the meager contents of her stomach just cleaning a wound.

Ruairi watched her with those sky blue eyes as she cut his tunic open to better see the damage. Blood had poured down his chest and embedded itself in the seared spiral there. He caught her hand as it hovered over the scar, forcing her to look at him, to meet that direct and penetrating stare. It seemed he felt her fear, her insecurity, her worry over doing him harm in her attempts to help.

He held completely still, unflinching as she wrapped his wounds, using the cleanest strips to be made from the tunics of the dead. He’d lost a lot of blood, and her makeshift bandages seemed little help in staunching the flow, but she did the best she could—all that she could.

When she’d finished, she brushed back his soft hair, pressed her cold hands against his hot face, and his eyes closed for a moment. Like Cathán, Ruairi wore his hair shorter than most men. He had the same nose as his father as well, straight and proud. He was so tall, strong, powerful—even in his weakened state, golden under the ashen pallor, baked brown by the sun. Muscular, as were her brothers, but more defined. Sculpted like a statue. His lashes lay long and silky against his cheeks, the tips nearly golden, an apt setting for the jewels of his blue eyes.

Still, Ruairi looked ashen by the time he mounted, and Saraid and Liam exchanged worried looks. He was fading by the time they found the first trickling dampness of the brook and they turned, following it as it widened, becoming a creek, then a stream, then a river. Still he gave her a smile and a wink when he caught her staring. Grateful he was still aware enough for humor, she rode on, praying Michael would be waiting and would know what to do for him. . . .

She knew these waters like she knew her brothers. She knew the tributaries led to a falls that graced the countryside like an angel rising from mist and lore. In times of peace, before Cathán Half-Beard, the vast clearing to the west of the cool pool had been a meeting place where marriages had been arranged, grievances resolved, and business conducted. Her father, Bain the Good, had built his keep not far from there, but Cathán had burned most of it to the ground years ago and driven their tribe away. All that remained was the charred husk of the
clochán
that her father’s spirit had shown her just hours before.

At last they reached the place where the waterfall poured into the river. Liam stopped and dismounted, moving cautiously from the concealing woods into the clearing at the rocky banks. He would go to meet Tiarnan on foot and report back while she waited. With a silent look, he became a part of the night that moved without whisper or shadow, leaving Saraid alone with her fear and the man she’d wed just the morning before.

Relief flooded her when she saw a branch move and a moment later, Liam appeared with Tiarnan, Eamonn, and Michael following, pulling three more horses behind them. They were all splattered with blood and gore, filthy and battle scarred, but they were alive and the fates had seen them reunited. It was more than Saraid had hoped. Ruairi revived enough to sit up and take note, but his jaw was clenched with pain.

None of her brothers greeted her. No one spoke a word, and Saraid sensed the tension in the air, the anger that seemed to simmer between them. Before she could ask what had happened, she noticed that Tiarnan carried something in his arms, a body draped over his lap. She gasped when she realized it was Mauri.

“What is this?” she whispered. “What has happened to Mauri?”

Eamonn made a sound of disgust. “She was sacrificed by our fearless leader,” he said, giving Tiarnan a cold glance.

Saraid glanced from Eamonn to Tiarnan and back; Tiarnan did not respond. Confused, she met Michael’s eyes, but he only shook his head and, shamefaced, looked away. As baffled as she, Liam climbed on his horse again.

As Tiarnan moved to his own mount, he saw Ruairi on the horse beside hers and stopped.

“Is he dead?” Tiarnan demanded.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Ruairi answered.

Tiarnan stomped forward and made as if to jerk Ruairi from the horse and throw him to the ground. Ruairi stiffened, bracing himself for another fight.

“No, Tiarnan,” Saraid said. “He saved my life. Twice. I won’t go without him.”

“Y’ won’t go without him?” Tiarnan repeated, his tone low with shock. “This man? This killer?”

“Who is now my husband,” she said, lifting her chin. “In word and deed. I will not leave him behind.”

It was clear that Tiarnan would have liked to argue, but the weight of defeat seemed too heavy on his shoulders, and he merely shook his head and said nothing else. Ruairi watched her as she rode beside him, but she didn’t look back. She was afraid to reveal what she knew must show in her eyes.

They turned sharply west, away from where their people had settled when they’d been driven out of their homes and into the wild terrain of No Man’s Land. Time wore on in a blur of aches and fears and bone-rattling weariness, leaving Saraid too much time with her own thoughts. In the space of a day, opinions she’d spent her lifetime forming had been changed so drastically she hardly understood her own feelings anymore. She had accepted the impossible—that the man who wore her husband’s face had changed into someone else entirely. Her feelings for him had become something she was afraid to examine.

At last they came to a cave hidden by trees and shrubs. Ruairi had been in and out of consciousness, but he managed to walk into the cave without help. There, Michael gave him a draught that well and truly put him under.

While Michael tended to Ruairi’s wounds, the others gathered wood for the small fire. The cave tunneled in the back, and the smoke escaped through a series of natural flues that snaked through the hill and came out on the other side. If the smoke was seen, it would lead whoever tracked them on a merry chase and not here, where they hid.

Mauri was laid gently on Tiarnan’s cloak, near the fire that was soon crackling. Now Saraid could see the blood on Mauri’s gown and the bloody bandage pressed low over her breast. How had she been wounded? At last Saraid could hold her tongue no more. “Tell us what has happened,” she demanded of Tiarnan.

But it was Eamonn who spoke, who told of the ride away from Cathán’s hold. His eyes were cold and full of rage when he glared at his oldest brother. “There were twelve of them and only three of us. We could have taken them, though. Like men. But Tiarnan did not think us capable. Instead he used Mauri like a shield. He hid behind a defenseless woman.”

“It wasn’t like that, Eamonn,” Michael said, his voice sharp. “Y’ know he wasn’t hiding. He never meant for her to get hurt.”

“Y’ believe that if y’ want, Michael. But I know what I saw. He used Mauri just as he used Saraid. He’s not a man. He’s a coward, and I will follow him no more.”

Tiarnan stormed across the small distance that separated them, grabbing Eamonn by the arms and shaking him.

“I did it for
you
. For the both of y’. We didn’t stand a chance against Cathán’s men.”

“We did,” Eamonn shouted back, breaking free of Tiarnan’s hold. “But y’ have lost yer edge, brother. No warrior uses a woman, no matter the price.”

Saraid watched with shock and dismay as Tiarnan’s face crumbled. He turned his back, trying to shield his pain, his shame, his rage, but his shoulders shook with the effort. The tension was sickeningly thick, the anger a flame burning within each of them.

“
I
was not used,” Saraid said, her voice strong and clear, filled with enough conviction to dim the raging fire of emotions sparking from brother to brother. “I went with my head high and my duty clear. Do not point fingers in my direction or claim that it was anything but my own will. I have wed Ruairi and I believe even now that it was the right thing to do.”

Eamonn cursed under his breath. “Then y’ are as big a fool as he is, sister.”

“And y’ have never learned to control yerself, Eamonn. Quit acting like a child. This is not the time to divide and blame. We must stand together. All of us. Or we will die.”

“I would rather die than live with the disgrace he has brought on us,” Eamonn said. He turned and stormed to the mouth of the cave.

Saraid was torn between the need to follow and guide, the desire to mend and console, the certainty that she must stand straight and move on.

“Is Mauri’s wound serious?” she asked Michael.

“No. She will live. I gave her a draught to make her sleep while we traveled.”

“And his?” she said, nodding at Ruairi.

“He’ll make it.” He didn’t sound happy about that, but relief flooded Saraid.

“Thank y’, Michael,” she said, blushing at the emotion in her voice, at the surprise on her brother’s face. “Tiarnan,” she said, her voice gaining strength as she saw clearly what needed to be done. “Go and find us food. When Mauri awakes, she will need to eat to regain her strength.”

He hesitated a moment before nodding. But he did not face her, did not let her see the agony she knew was in his eyes. Her heart was breaking as she watched him gather the bow and quiver that must have belonged to one of the men they’d battled. His shoulders were stiff, his movements awkward, as if he no longer trusted his body to perform the most simple of tasks.

Alone with Michael and Liam, she made sure that Mauri slept comfortably before kneeling beside Ruairi while Michael cleaned the deep wound on his shoulder.

“What really happened to all of y’, Michael?” she asked.

“Tiarnan didn’t mean for her to be hurt,” Michael said as he worked. “There were no other choices, and he gambled that the men would not attack if we had Mauri as hostage. It was a smart move—no one else would have thought of it. Tiarnan couldn’t have known that they would attack anyway. Y’ should have seen him, Saraid, after Mauri was hurt. He was like a
riastradh—
a berserker, a score of berserkers. I killed three men, Eamonn two. But Tiarnan, he cut down seven before I had pulled my blade from the second.”

Saraid swallowed, picturing the bloody scene Michael described.

“Not a man was left breathing. No one to tell Cathán what happened.”

His haunted eyes turned back to Ruairi, and she knew there was nothing more to tell. Silently she helped her brother as best she could. They were lucky that his horse had made it through the battle and his saddlebags were never without herbs and the fine bone needles he used to mend. He handed her a twist of an herb she should know, but of course could not remember, and told her to steep it in water that Liam had put to boil over the fire. Next Michael ground something else in the small stone pestle he was never without until the mixture was pulpy.

When he cut the remains of Ruairi’s tunic free, she saw him pause as he stared at the spiral seared into his chest. He reached out and traced the pattern and then looked deeply into Saraid’s eyes. There were too many questions to ask, to answer, though. With a shake of his head, he went back to work.

She kept her rioting stomach from heaving as he pulled open the grisly gash, unmindful of the agonized cry Ruairi gave. Then he sewed the inside with ten small stitches that would dissolve over time, he said, and cause no harm. Next he added the steeped herb to his pestle and ground it into the pulp before gently smearing it over the stitches. Finally he closed the wound, sewing it carefully before adding the last of his mixture on top. When he was done, Ruairi’s shoulder looked like gruesome patchwork.

There was a nasty gash on Ruairi’s forehead, and Michael cleaned the blood and placed a bladder of cold river water against the lump.

“Hold that,” he said.

“Will it help?”

“It won’t hurt. A prayer probably wouldn’t do any harm, either,” he said.

Saraid held the cold bag with one hand and finished bathing the blood, sweat, and grime from Ruairi’s face and neck with the other. His knuckles were raw and abraded, his body bruised from head to toe, but he was breathing and he was alive. He’d come back for her. She let that knowledge flow over her with a secret joy.

Later, Tiarnan returned with two ducks and had them plucked and spitted soon after. She felt hollow and weak by the time the scent of roasting meat filled the cave. They took a risk cooking, she knew, but they were counting on the cave’s ventilation again to diffuse the scent.

Even as she thought it, Michael, who was keeping watch, let loose a low warning whistle. Inside the cave, Tiarnan, Eamonn, and Saraid lifted their heads like animals scenting the wind. Liam looked up from the fire with exhausted eyes, unprepared for anything more.

Someone was coming, though, whether they were ready or not.

Tiarnan pulled his sword free and Eamonn did the same, at arms together though neither had forgotten the bad words that had flowed between them. Saraid waited, wishing there was something she could do besides hover between Ruairi and Mauri.

The men were not gone for long. When they returned it was with three others, strangers Saraid had never before seen. One was short and built like a bull, all mass and muscle packed onto every inch. Beside him was a pale man with blue tattoos covering his face, neck, and arms. Saraid stared at his features, distorted by the overlaid image of a fanged snake that turned his visage into something that was neither human nor animal. The last man was very tall and lean. His skin was as black as the night and his eyes looked like bottomless wells. Red frizz covered his head like dyed wool, treated badly. They all wore ragged tunics and patched trews, but their weapons shone with the gleam of care and they were heavy with them. Each man wore a long sword in a sheath that settled at the spine, hilt rising over the shoulder, battle axes hung at the hip and daggers kept ready in strategic places. Still, it was clear these were not Cathán’s warriors. But who were they?