‘Blood raid,’ he whispered.
‘Do not speak,’ said Arbon. The blood flow from the three wounds in his upper chest was easing. But the fourth, low on the left side, was still streaming. Arbon’s grey eyes narrowed as he watched the flow. It was even, which was a relief, for if an artery had been pierced the blood would be pumping rhythmically. Even so the situation
was critical. They were some five miles from Three Streams and Arbon knew that even if Ruathain could ride, which was doubtful, he would be dead before they reached the settlement. Swinging to the other riders he ordered one of them to race back to Three Streams and fetch Vorna. Removing his cloak Arbon cut a long strip from it with his dagger. Laying Ruathain on his back Arbon folded the strip, then placed it over the wound. Crossing his hands over the padding he applied firm pressure. Ruathain had passed out again, and his breathing was shallow.
For some minutes Arbon applied pressure – resisting the urge to lift the pad and see if the bleeding had stopped. He cursed himself silently for not carrying needle and thread. When Ruathain’s pony had galloped into the settlement Arbon had guessed his lord was in trouble, and in his haste to reach him had forgotten his medicine sack. Arbon’s son, Casta, knelt on the other side of the wounded man. ‘What can I do, Father?’ he asked.
‘Make a pillow of your cloak and lift his head.’ Casta did so. ‘Now look for his heartbeat. Count it aloud for me.’ Casta gently pressed his fingers under Ruathain’s jaw.
‘One . . . two . . . threefourfive . . . six . . . seven. It is very erratic, Father.’
‘As long as it’s bloody beating,’ muttered Arbon. ‘Gods, I am an idiot. I’ve had that medicine sack for twenty-six years. And when I need it it’s five miles away.’
‘You couldn’t have known he’d been attacked.’ Casta glanced at the four bodies. ‘All of them had swords. The lord had only his dagger.’
‘Aye, he’s a hard and deadly man. And he’ll need to be to survive this. Take the pressure for me. My arms are weakening.’ Casta placed his big hands over the pad and pressed down as Arbon pulled away. The older man stood and stretched his aching back, then cast an expert eye over the area. ‘They came at him in a rush. Got in each other’s way, thank Taranis!’ He wandered to the bodies. They were all young men, not one of them past twenty.
‘Why would they try to kill him?’ asked Casta.
‘Blood feud. Some time ago Ruathain killed two Pannone cattle raiders. These were probably relatives.’
‘He’s starting to shiver,’ said Casta.
Arbon covered Ruathain’s chest with his ruined cloak, then moved off to gather dry wood for a fire. He had it blazing well when he heard riders thundering up the slope. Twisting he saw Vorna riding a paint pony. The former witch slid from the saddle, lifted clear a saddlebag and ran to Ruathain’s side. Other riders came up, Meria among them.
Vorna lifted the padding clear of the wound. A little blood was still seeping, but the flow had stopped. ‘You did well,’ she told Casta. Then she set to with needle and thread.
Ruathain’s eyes opened. Meria took his hand and kissed it. He gave a weak smile, then lapsed into unconsciousness once more.
‘Will he live?’ asked Meria.
Vorna felt his pulse. ‘I believe that he will,’ she said. ‘Now let me finish these stitches.’ Turning to Arbon she called out: ‘Cut two long poles and make a stretcher. He’ll not be able to ride.’
It took almost four hours to bring Ruathain down from the mountain. Meria ordered that he be laid in her bed, then sent the men on their way. She and Vorna sat silently at the bedside. Ten-year-old Bendegit Bran waited with them. ‘Should I fetch Wing?’ he asked.
‘Where is he?’ said Meria.
‘Swimming at the Riguan falls with Gwydia.’
‘No, don’t worry. Your father will be fine.’ Meria’s hand reached out, pushing a lock of hair back from Ruathain’s brow. As she touched the skin his eyes opened.