John Flanagan - The siege of Macindaw

"Will!" Horace said, concern making his voice harden. "Are you okay?"

The young warrior was frantically running his hands over Will's chest and stomach, trying to see where he might be wounded. There was a lot of blood soaked into his jerkin front, and it had to be coming from somewhere. Still in slight shock, Will reacted angrily to the question.

"Of course I'm not all right, you idiot!" he snapped. "He damn near killed me! Or didn't you notice?"

He tried to slap Horace's searching hands away but didn't succeed.

"Where did he get you?" Horace asked frantically. He knew he had to find the source of that blood and stanch the flow. Wounds to the stomach and torso were all too often fatal, he knew, and he felt panic rising in him as he continued to search.

"Stop pawing at me!" Will shouted angrily, stepping back from him. "It's MacHaddish's blood, not mine!"

Horace looked at him, uncomprehending for a moment. "Not yours?" he said.

"No. Look at his hand where the arrow hit him. He was pouring blood all over me as we fought. I'm fine."

And illogically, right on the heels of a sudden rush of relief, Horace felt his anger welling up.

"His blood? Why didn't you say so? I was frantic here, thinking you were bleeding like a stuck pig!"

"When did you give me a chance?" Will said. "You were all over me, grabbing at me, turning me this way and that!"

The anger, of course, was nothing more than reaction to the shock and fear they had both felt. But it was no less real for all that.

"I'm sorry," Horace snapped back. "Forgive me for being concerned about you. It won't happen again!"

"Well, if you'd got here a little sooner, there wouldn't have been a problem," Will retorted quickly. "Where the blazes were you, anyway?"

"Where was I? I nearly went crazy trying to find you! Is this the thanks I get for saving your life? Because let me tell you, it didn't look as if you were having the best of it with our friend here."

He nudged the unconscious MacHaddish with the toe of his boot. The Scotti general made no sound. But Will had the grace to look suddenly chastened as he realized his friend was right.

"I'm sorry, Horace. You're right. You saved my life, and I'm grateful."

"Well…" Now it was Horace's turn to shuffle his feet uneasily. He knew the reason for Will's apparent anger. He had seen it in many soldiers who had come close to death and he knew Will hadn't meant to be ungracious."That's okay. Think nothing of it." He looked for a way to change the subject and realized the perfect opportunity was lying unconscious in the snow.

"I suppose we'd better get him back to Grimsdell," he said. He stooped and grabbed the Scotti's arms to heave him up and over his shoulder, then realized the man's right arm was still pulsing blood. "Better bind this up or he'll bleed all over me," he said.

Quickly, he cut a strip off the man's tartan and wrapped the injured wrist in it. Then, with Will's help, he managed to get the dead weight of the general over his shoulder. He wrinkled his nose with distaste.

"He's a bit ripe close to, isn't he?" he said.

Will shrugged. "I was a little too busy to notice."

In addition to the unconscious general, three of the Scotti patrol had survived the vicious fight among the trees. Two were unwounded, although one had a large bruise on his jaw where Horace had hit him. The third was semiconscious from loss of blood, with a massive ax wound to his arm.

Gundar, having recovered from his brief flare of berserker rage, ordered the two unwounded Scotti to make a stretcher for their companion and to carry him back to Malcolm's cottage. As they were doing so, he beckoned Will to one side.

"One of them got away," he said. "I can send a few of my men after him if you want."

Will hesitated. The Skandians were excellent fighters, but he doubted their ability to track one running man in the dark. He would have preferred it if none of MacHaddish's party had escaped, but he knew that was asking too much. In the confusion of the battle, it would have been easy for one man to slip into the trees. It was a pity the man had gotten away, but it was no huge problem. He gestured toward MacHaddish, whom Horace had now lowered to the ground with a small sigh of relief.

"We've got the one we came for," he said. "Let it go. He can't do us any harm." He frowned thoughtfully, hoping he was right.

When the stretcher was ready, Horace heaved the Scotti general onto his shoulder again. Nils Ropehander offered to relieve him, but Horace shook his head.

"Maybe later," Horace replied. "He's all right for the moment."

But it was a long way back to the clearing in Grimsdell, and Horace and the Skandians ended up passing the general from one to another, each taking turns carrying him. Eventually, MacHaddish regained consciousness and was able to walk. But his hands were tied and a rope around his neck was secured to Horace's belt. Horace shrugged several times, turning his neck from side to side to relieve the cramped shoulder muscles.

"What are we going to do with this lot?" he asked Will softly, indicating the prisoners. Will didn't answer immediately.

"I suppose we'll have to build some kind of stockade," he said uncertainly. "We'll certainly have to keep guard over them."

Horace grunted."The boys will love that," he said, indicating the Skandians marching ahead of them, joking and laughing quietly among themselves. "They won't want to spend their time guarding prisoners. They like their food and drink too much."

Will shrugged."That's too bad," he said. "Maybe we can rig some kind of shackles for them – leg irons or something like that. Then we'd only need one man at a time to keep an eye on them."

" That shouldn't be too much of a hardship," Horace agreed.

It was late night before they reached the clearing. The moon had risen and set, unseen by them as they moved beneath the thick blanket of trees. The glowing remains of the Skandians' cooking fire cast a flickering light over the clearing as they emerged from the trees. There were lights in the windows of Malcolm's cottage as well. The front door opened as they walked into the clearing, spilling an elongated rectangle of light across the dark ground. Malcolm stepped out to greet them.

"I heard you were on your way," he said. Will and Horace exchanged tired grins.

"We should have known nothing would get past your network of watchers," Will said.

Malcolm pulled a wry face."Force of habit," he said. As he spoke, he had moved beside the litter and was examini ng the wounded Scotti. "You'd better get him into my house where I can take a look at him," he said.

Gundar regarded the wounded man with disinterest.

"Why bother? He's an enemy," he said. Malcolm's eyes rose to meet his. There was a hard light in them.

" That makes no difference to me. He's injured," he said.

Gundar met his gaze for a few seconds, then shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "But if you ask me, it's a waste of time."

As they moved farther into the light spilling from the house, Malcolm noticed the rough bandages that several of the Skandians wore and understood the reason for Gundar's seeming callousness. The Skandian captain felt a strong sense of responsibility for his men.

"I'll look at your men too," he said, with a note of apology in his voice.

Gundar nodded his acceptance. "I'd appreciate that."

During this exchange, MacHaddish had been peering around, taking in the scene. His eyes were bright and intelligent and his face was fixed in a heavy frown under the blue paint. Malcolm studied him with interest.

"I take it this is MacHaddish?" he said. The general looked sharply at him as he recognized his name.

Will nodded. "That's him," he said. "And a right dance he led us, I can tell you."