Page 47 of Queen of the Shadow

Cuchulainn sucked in a breath as she washed the back of the wound and said, “Saw true?”

“She had her first vision just before we left the castle today,” Scáthach explained. “In it she saw me beheaded and a leg wound from a spearhead rolled in shit.”

“Ah, that’s why she didn’t want you to travel alone,” he said, breathing shakily.

Scáthach raised a brow. “You overheard?”

“Part of it.”

“Which is why you asked for your boon today,” she said.

He shrugged. “Yes and no. I wanted the boon and thought it was the right time to ask it of you.”

“I’m glad you did. Uathach said she thought either wound was fated to happen, but not both. She was correct. Had you not been with me, it would have been my head. You saved my life. Thank you.”

“I’m glad I was there.”

“As am I.” She cleared her throat and then continued. “I’m going to pull the spear from your thigh now.”

He nodded tightly.

Scáthach tore another strip of wool from the blanket. She had Cuchulainn roll onto his left side so she could wrap the cloth around the spearhead. He faced Leannan, who licked his face. “Do you need something to bite on?”

“No.” One of his big hands stroked Leannan. “Your pup will help me.”

“OnthreeI’ll pull. One... two.” She pulled ontwo.

He gasped and his body spasmed. His hand curled in the deerhound’s wiry fur as Leannan whined and leaned into him.

Scáthach quickly wrapped the strip of mead-soddened blanket tightly around the bleeding wound. She took the spear to the hearth, washing it in mead before she shoved the broken wooden end into the fire. Then she went back to crouch beside Cuchulainn and studied the wound. “Good. It’s bleeding, but not so badly that it’ll cost you your life.”

“If it’s helpful for you to know, I’ve lost more blood than this and lived,” Cuchulainn spoke through teeth clenched against pain. He sent a glance toward the hearthfire and the broken spear. “Why are you heating the shaft and not the stone knife?”

“It’s something I learned from our healer. When fire turns the shaft red and then black, the blackened part will leave its residue in the wound. It’s good for healing, especially if the wound is dirty.” She returned to the fire and turned the shaft by holding the wool wrapped spearhead until the wood glowed red and then began to blacken. Scáthach moved quickly then. She took it from the fire, unbandaged Cuchulainn’s wound, and pressed the glowing tip of the shaft into the entrance and then the exit it had left in his thigh.

Cuchulainn didn’t move except to bury his face in Leannan’s neck and groan. The scent of scorched flesh filled the small shelter. It made Scáthach’s stomach roil, and she swallowed bile as she poured more mead on the already soaked second length of clean wool and then carefully bandaged Cuchulainn’s wound. When she was done, she helped him to his back, rolled a blanket under his wounded leg to elevate it, and folded a second blanket behind him so that he could sit, propped against the side of the shelter. Then Scáthach took a long drink from the waterskin before handing it to him. Leannan shifted so that she was snuggled close to his side. “Drink as much as you can. I can easily fill it again.”

His hand shook but he nodded and took the mead. His throat moved as he gulped the golden liquid.

Scáthach secured the blanket around Cuchulainn again and then went outside and collected the buckets, taking two to the horses and bringing the third inside. She washed her face and arms in the bucket and then took it to Cuchulainn and helped him do the same. She unpacked the cheese and bread, tearing hunks of both and splitting them with Cuchulainn and Leannan. Scáthach sat beside him and, when he didn’t eat, said, “All that mead will make you sick if you don’t eat something.”

He nodded. His face was devoid of color and sweat beaded his brow. Slowly he chewed, washing each bite down with plenty of mead.

“I have wanted to thank you for some time,” Cuchulainn began as they ate. His voice was raspy but his hands had stopped trembling. “Remember the first day I came to Dunscáith?” He handed her the waterskin.

She took a drink and then said, “You broke my door.”

“And fixed it,” he added.

“True.”

“The berserker,” he began hesitantly, staring into the hearthfire. “When he comes, it is as if I’m smothered under layers and layers of mud. I can’t hear anything except the animalistic noises he makes. Can’t see anything but death. Can’t feel anything—anything at all.” His gaze met hers. “But since that first day at Dunscáith, I can hear you, can see you through the berserker’s red rage. It’s difficult. You’re far away, but the harder I listen and look, the clearer you become. The closer you become. And then I’m back and he’s gone. Thank you for getting through to the berserker. None before you have ever been able to. I appreciate it more than I have words to say.”

Trapped in his amber gaze, Scáthach flushed with heat. It wasn’t a girlish blush. What she felt was a full-body response to his words, his eyes, his lips, his body... his badly wounded body.

Scáthach cleared her throat before saying, “You need not thank me. I’m a teacher. I wish only to bring out the best in my warriors, and it is difficult for me to bring out your best when you’re not in control of yourself.” Their gazes unlocked and Scáthach took a long drink of mead before returning the skin to Cuchulainn.

He drank and then asked, “Did you say our attackers weren’t Aife’s warriors?”