Setanta lifted his head over the fallen tree enough to see without being visible to those making the noise that had attracted him. There was a wooden pole driven into the middle of the glade. A young woman was making the screams he had heard on his approach. She was tied naked to a stake. Five men, dirty, clothed in hides, and armed with staves and spears, were circling the girl, prodding her with their spear points. There was as much hair on their arms and faces as sported by the skins they wore. Their ill-kempt swords were resting against a tree on the far side of the glade. The men were dancing in circles, in step with each other, following a ritual.
He realized it was a sacrifice.
Setanta considered the odds. The men were poorly armed, and he could probably incapacitate two with his bow before he would need to go into the glade and fight the others. Would he be able to handle three men? As he thought about it, he realized it was a moot point because he would not be able to leave a defenseless woman alone to be sacrificed to whatever Gods these pagans worshipped. He would take his chances.
With that decision made, it did not take long for him to act. He strung his first arrow to his bow before standing and loosing it at the largest of the five men, who the others seemed to defer to. The arrow struck the man in the side of his neck and knocked him from his feet. He was not dead, but Setanta knew he would not rise again. It took the other four a few moments to realize that something was wrong, by which time he had loosed his second arrow.
The target of the second iron point had turned, searching for where the arrows were coming from, so instead of piercing his back and on into his heart, the arrow tore into his shoulder, knocking him slightly backwards and down on one knee.
The others had spotted where Setanta was standing on the glade’s edge and began to run at him, screaming as they came. With no time to string enough arrows to take them all, he dropped his bow and pulled his sword. As the first pagan arrived, he swung his stave at Setanta’s head, but he ducked under it and slashed his sword across the pagan’s midriff. With nothing but dirty hides for protection, the wound could only be fatal. Setanta switched to the man’s side as he dropped, mewling to his knees. In the same fluid motion, he parried a thrust from the spear of the second pagan to reach him and grabbed the shaft as it passed, pulling the man into a head butt that broke his nose and knocked him senseless.
That left one.
Setanta turned on the spot, trying to locate the final pagan, but there was no sign of him. He must have run. A groan warned him that the man he had butted was coming to his senses. Setanta walked over and thrust his sword into the man’s throat where he lay, leaning on the hilt, ensuring there was enough pressure to sever the spinal cord completely. He then looked around for the one who had taken an arrow to the shoulder, but he, too, had gone.
Kneeling, he cleaned his sword on the hides of his nearest victim, before turning his attention to the woman tied to the stake. He had expected her to be crying, head down, shaken by her near sacrifice, but she was standing with her back to the stake, staring at him with an intensity that made him turn away.
“Have done with it, then.”
“Have done with what, woman?”
“You are a warrior, and by your dress, from the Five Kingdoms, you are here in the land of the Jutes for plunder. Is a woman not just plunder to you Irish?”
“How long have you been tied to the stake?”
“What difference does that make?”
“When I cut your bonds, will you be able to stand?”
“You want to rape me standing?”
“I am not here to rape you, woman. I am here to save you.”
“You cannot save me, warrior. I will be dead within the hour.”
“How so? Your wounds are superficial.”
“They were wildlings. Their spear points are poisoned. I will die from the poison, as sure as your mother was the daughter of a heathen.”
Setanta said nothing. He walked over and cut the woman’s bonds. As he had suspected, she did not have the strength to stand. As the blood rushed back into her veins, she slumped, and the warrior caught her in his arms.
“Be gentle with me, Irish,” she hissed as she swooned because of the rush of blood.
Setanta laid her down in the clearing and studied her wounds. They were superficial, as he had surmised. They looked clean, but he knew to take the woman at her word. After retrieving his mare from where he had tethered her, he sucked blood from each of the wounds, spitting it into the mud. He then bound them with clean worsted he took from his bags. He rolled up a clean tunic as a pillow and covered her with his cloak. For some reason, he thought that keeping her warm was important. With that thought, he built and banked a fire, ready to keep the night chill at bay. Finally satisfied that the fire would remain alight, he looked at the woman to see her regarding him with interest.
“Did you do it then?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Ravage me in my swoon; what else?”
“No, I did not. I sucked the blood from your wounds, covered you with my cloak, and lit a fire to keep you warm,” Setanta said, despite seeing that the woman was teasing him. She had a smile in her eyes and a mischievous tilt to her head.
“You think I will live, Irish?”
“I have no idea; I am not a master of herb lore. I know nothing of poison. I sucked your blood because it seemed the right thing to do.”
“You sucked my blood because you wanted to put your lips on my flesh, you mean.”
Setanta bit back a retort because he could see the woman was teasing again. He opened his mouth, intent on teasing her back, when her eyes took on a horrified stare, and a groan escaped her lips. He watched as the little color she had leached from her face and beads of sweat broke from her forehead. Despite the warmth of the fire, she began to shake uncontrollably.
“What is it? What can I do?” he asked, kneeling beside her.
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“It is the poison, Irish. You can do nothing. If you drew enough with your sucking, the fever will break, and I shall live. If you did not, the fever will break me, and I shall die.”
“There must be something I can do?”
“Delirium will be upon me soon, Irish; you can hold my hand and help protect me from my inner demons.”
The night was long. The Jutish woman thrashed and screamed, cried and laughed, sweated and shivered. Setanta thought it would never end, but as a purple tinge to the night sky showed that dawn was approaching, the woman stopped her raving and seemed to fall into a fitful sleep. He was exhausted, and despite his fear that the wildlings might return with reinforcements, he fell into a fitful sleep.
He hated it when he was dreaming but could do nothing to stop the dream. Those dreams always had a certainty about them, like death. He was floating above their camp, detached from his body, which he could see asleep beside the fire. The woman was awake and looking across at him. She was smiling, happy with some secret thoughts. The forest was alive with wildlings. He could see them clearly despite the forest trees. They were bent on revenge, creeping slowly towards the camp. He tried to force himself awake so that he could cry out and warn the Jute of her danger, but sleep would not allow him to. A wildling rose from the ground behind him. He could feel the warm breath of the man on his chin; he was so close. The man lifted an evil-looking twisted dagger with the shape of a naked woman for a hilt and began to scream as he…
The warmth of an early summer dawn sun splashing his chin and birds singing their gladness to be alive woke Setanta. He started and looked around the clearing for signs of danger. There were none, but he felt there should be something to be wary of. Something was warning him. He tried to hold onto the vision of his dreams for a few moments, sure that they had some message, but they were too fleeting for him and vanished with the last of the night shadows.
“You are awake, finally,” the woman said from the other side of the still-glowing embers.
Setanta smiled. Although she looked drawn and tired from the night’s delirium, some color had returned to her cheeks. He could see that her teasing mood had returned, even though somewhat diminished through tiredness.
“You survived then,” he said because his mind would not provide him with anything less obvious to say.
“Yes, thanks to you.”
“Why me? I did nothing.”
“You sucked the poison from my wounds. Had you not done so, I fear I would have died during the night.”
“There were moments when I thought you would die. I must admit to being scared most of the night.”
“Scared for me, warrior? You do not know me.”
“I know you as a woman who needed to be rescued. For me, that is all I need to know about you.”
“Do you not want to know my name?”
Setanta shrugged and gazed into the embers because he did not know where else to look. He heard her snort and looked over from under his brows to see her staring up into the sky with a faraway expression as though she had dismissed all thoughts of him.
“What is it then?” he asked, not wanting the conversation to stop.
“What?”
“Your name. What is your name?”
“I am Dervla, a princess of Denmark. What is yours?”
“I am Setanta, sometimes called The Hound, son of Lugh of the Tuatha Dé Danann and the mortal Deichtine.”
“Why is it you Irish must always be demigods?” the woman scoffed.
“I am sure I do not know what you mean.”
“You cannot just be Setanta. No, you must be The Hound, born of a god who coupled with a fair maiden with skin like snow and tits like a milk cow.”
Setanta again looked down at the grass of the glade. He did not take offense at the woman’s disbelief. He would not believe either if someone claimed the blood of the gods. She had also been through a lot so that he would ignore it.
“Can you ride?” he asked.
“Of course, I can ride, Irish. I am a princess. I was born on a horse.”
“What I meant was, are you fit enough to ride?”
“Why? Where will you take me? To your longship, I wager.”
“No. I would take you back to your people. There is a chance the wildlings will return with reinforcements.”
“My people are two days’ ride from here, Irish. You would really do that for someone you do not know?”
“Yes. I would help a person in need.”
“Mm,” Dervla mused.
“I have no clothes, Irish. The wildlings tore them into ruin in their haste to get me naked.” She shuddered. Setanta saw a distant look in her eyes as if she was trying to force some evil memory out of her mind.
“Did they defile you, Dervla? Is that why you treated me badly when I saved you?”
“No, they did not. They do not believe in inter-breeding. They consider us below them. I was supposed to have my throat slit, nothing more.”
“I have spare triús and a tunic in my saddlebags. They will be too big for you, but you can cinch them with rope.”
“And a pretty sight I will be, riding into my father’s settlement in triús and a tunic.”
“Would you prefer nudity?”
“No, Setanta, I was teasing you again.”
A short time later, Setanta lifted the princess and placed her before him. He had his arms around her waist, loosely holding the reins. He felt her relax as she rested her head on his shoulder and said, “Due north, warrior. Always due north.”
***
He nodded and set off at an easy walk. It was not long before tiredness and the rhythm of the mare’s walk lulled Dervla into a dreamless sleep. It was the first time in many days that her inner demons did not visit. She had no idea how long she had been sleeping when she awoke to find herself once more on the ground in a clearing under Setanta’s cloak with a tunic for a pillow. She looked at the warrior with his back to her. He had a hare cooking, and the smells, although basic, were mouth-watering. She could not remember the last time she had eaten, only that it was before the wildlings had taken her from the settlement. They had not fed her, knowing she would soon be dead and food would be wasted.
“That smells good,” she said.
“Ah, you are awake. Good. It is nearly ready. Not much, but nearly ready.”
“For one who has not eaten for days, I am sure it will be the most succulent thing that ever passed my lips.”
The warrior smiled at an inner thought before he spoke. “It is hot, so mind your fingers.”
He tore the hare in two and handed the larger piece to Dervla. They sat in companionable silence while they ate, grease dripping down their chins.
“Do you have mead?” Dervla asked as she threw the carcass on the fire.
“No, only water.”
“Water would be good.”
He walked around the fire and handed her his water skin before returning to his place beyond the fire. She took a long draught before lifting his cloak and patting the ground beside her. “Come join me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, warrior. The nights are cold, and body warmth is the best way to stave off a chill.”
He looked at her. She could read his unsurety in his look, his timidity. She wondered if he had any experience of love. She doubted it.
“Come. I will not bite you.”
The warrior looked at Dervla over the campfire. Sighing, he stood up and walked around the fire. Standing above her, he asked, “Are you sure you want to do this, Dervla?”
She smiled. Who is it who is not sure, boy, you or me, she thought, as she undid the rope cinching the tunic and trouse about her waist, “Yes, I am very sure.”