Seonaid sprawling along Tarvos’s neck.
Snip bucked, reared, an arrow in his haunch. Deian was whipped, fore and aft, over and over, as he clung to the beast’s neck, and then the two were gone, racing out of sight.
Seonaid turned in her seat. “You’ve been shot.” Padraig looked down at the arrow protruding from his shoulder.
Pain would hit—he knew that—but not yet, not while his muscles bunched with strength. He drew breath like fire into his lungs, his nostrils flaring with the effort.
He strained to move forward with greater speed, even though it was Tarvos doing the moving. Arrows whistled in the night, whizzing past, no more hitting targets. He heard them hitting earth. They were out of range now, needed to be beyond the area a man could search by foot.
Against his will, he weakened, his head lighter, his body too heavy to control. If not for Seonaid, he’d topple off the beast.
Tarvos covered the distance, following a bird’s call. His call. Could the nasty maggots chasing them know how to call his horse? Lochlan could have taught them, if he was giving secrets away. But that wasn’t Lochlan’s style. Secrets held power. Lochlan did not give power away.
Except Lochlan didn’t know Padraig’s whistle. Did he?
Seonaid gave Tarvos his lead, even though the poor beast was lathered and heaving. She headed toward the sound. At least he thought they did. Mostly, he heard the swoosh of blood pounding in his veins. Nothing else felt real.
He fought to stay astride, nearly crumpled when Tarvos pulled to a halt. Eyes heavy but open, he saw young Deian just below him, looking up.
“It was you.” The lad had called to Tarvos. “Good lad.”
His praise slurred as he slid, unconscious, from the horse.
vvvvvv
A line of torches wended their way along the coastline. The Reah’s men, come to deal with the slavers and to save Padraig.
Seonaid looked down at him. Deian helped lay him on his side, a blanket behind him. Sweat dripping with effort, she broke the point off, pulled the arrow out, pushed him to his back, pressing, with a strength feeding on fear, to stop the bleeding.
He didn’t offer so much as a moan. Out cold. Or dead. She was no healer.
“Do you know where they went?” she asked her son. “The two women and the priest?”
“I told them to go to Eriboll, but you couldn’t see it—the lights—from where we were, so I don’t know where they went. There was so little time.”
“You did the best you could.”
“The one kept shaking her head. She wanted to ride away from anywhere there were people.”
If they had listened to Deian, they could be with The Reah’s men already.
“How was the other lass? The one who wasn’t frightened?”
“She kept tryin’ to calm the frightened one, told her to close her eyes and rest. They were on Peregrine, and the priest had the other mount.”
“Good.” Seonaid nodded. Eyes closed, the lass wouldn’t see where they went. At least something was going right. They’d saved the healers, the priest.
A lift of the tunic pressed to Padraig’s shoulder proved it still bled.
“Here, Ma, I’ll hold it.”
“It needs pressure, weight.”
“You’re tired.” He pushed her hands away. They were shaking, weak. The whole of her shook with the weight of the night.
“I don’ want him to die.”
“He’s breathing, Ma. He’s alive now.”
She cupped Deian’s cheeks. “You saved us, lad.” She kissed his forehead. “We’d not have made it through the fight without your aid.”
He pulled away, uncomfortable with affection. Her legacy to him. Not fair. He’d earned his honor, deserved it. She’d see that he got it. A fresh start, without scandal or shame.
“Do ya’ see that train of torches?” she asked Deian.
“Aye, that would be men from Eriboll.”
“Can you ride to them? Tell them Padraig is up here and wounded? If the healers are with them, have them come to his aid.”
“Will you be all right, Ma?” he
Snip bucked, reared, an arrow in his haunch. Deian was whipped, fore and aft, over and over, as he clung to the beast’s neck, and then the two were gone, racing out of sight.
Seonaid turned in her seat. “You’ve been shot.” Padraig looked down at the arrow protruding from his shoulder.
Pain would hit—he knew that—but not yet, not while his muscles bunched with strength. He drew breath like fire into his lungs, his nostrils flaring with the effort.
He strained to move forward with greater speed, even though it was Tarvos doing the moving. Arrows whistled in the night, whizzing past, no more hitting targets. He heard them hitting earth. They were out of range now, needed to be beyond the area a man could search by foot.
Against his will, he weakened, his head lighter, his body too heavy to control. If not for Seonaid, he’d topple off the beast.
Tarvos covered the distance, following a bird’s call. His call. Could the nasty maggots chasing them know how to call his horse? Lochlan could have taught them, if he was giving secrets away. But that wasn’t Lochlan’s style. Secrets held power. Lochlan did not give power away.
Except Lochlan didn’t know Padraig’s whistle. Did he?
Seonaid gave Tarvos his lead, even though the poor beast was lathered and heaving. She headed toward the sound. At least he thought they did. Mostly, he heard the swoosh of blood pounding in his veins. Nothing else felt real.
He fought to stay astride, nearly crumpled when Tarvos pulled to a halt. Eyes heavy but open, he saw young Deian just below him, looking up.
“It was you.” The lad had called to Tarvos. “Good lad.”
His praise slurred as he slid, unconscious, from the horse.
vvvvvv
A line of torches wended their way along the coastline. The Reah’s men, come to deal with the slavers and to save Padraig.
Seonaid looked down at him. Deian helped lay him on his side, a blanket behind him. Sweat dripping with effort, she broke the point off, pulled the arrow out, pushed him to his back, pressing, with a strength feeding on fear, to stop the bleeding.
He didn’t offer so much as a moan. Out cold. Or dead. She was no healer.
“Do you know where they went?” she asked her son. “The two women and the priest?”
“I told them to go to Eriboll, but you couldn’t see it—the lights—from where we were, so I don’t know where they went. There was so little time.”
“You did the best you could.”
“The one kept shaking her head. She wanted to ride away from anywhere there were people.”
If they had listened to Deian, they could be with The Reah’s men already.
“How was the other lass? The one who wasn’t frightened?”
“She kept tryin’ to calm the frightened one, told her to close her eyes and rest. They were on Peregrine, and the priest had the other mount.”
“Good.” Seonaid nodded. Eyes closed, the lass wouldn’t see where they went. At least something was going right. They’d saved the healers, the priest.
A lift of the tunic pressed to Padraig’s shoulder proved it still bled.
“Here, Ma, I’ll hold it.”
“It needs pressure, weight.”
“You’re tired.” He pushed her hands away. They were shaking, weak. The whole of her shook with the weight of the night.
“I don’ want him to die.”
“He’s breathing, Ma. He’s alive now.”
She cupped Deian’s cheeks. “You saved us, lad.” She kissed his forehead. “We’d not have made it through the fight without your aid.”
He pulled away, uncomfortable with affection. Her legacy to him. Not fair. He’d earned his honor, deserved it. She’d see that he got it. A fresh start, without scandal or shame.
“Do ya’ see that train of torches?” she asked Deian.
“Aye, that would be men from Eriboll.”
“Can you ride to them? Tell them Padraig is up here and wounded? If the healers are with them, have them come to his aid.”
“Will you be all right, Ma?” he
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