A short while later in Conor's chamber, "Shame to cut that boot, just had it broken in..."
sighs Conor, watching as Fergus's blade slices through the leather freeing his
swollen foot. "Better to lose a boot than a foot!" snaps Catlin. She's sitting
behind Conor's head and back on the bed, supporting his shoulders with herself,
he was nearly too weak to sit up alone. The wound had bled all the way back, despite
the tourniquet and even more so after removing it, the bolt still embedded.
"All right now lad, I'm going to try to push it through, slow and steady, you
just think on...." he swiftly punches Conor in the jaw, just hard enough to send
him unconscious. Cat catches him and holds on tightly, "He'll be angry you did that..."
she warns. Just then Molly enters and sees Conor sprawled on the bed, out cold,
and a bloody mess.
"Oh no! Oh Da -- what's happened?" as she rushes to his side.
Fergus stands to hold her,
"He's taken a bolt in the leg and I just put him to sleep.
Now I'll need you to help Cat hold him still while I get that bolt out of him."
Swallowing hard, fighting back her tears, Molly nods and bites her lip,
obediently taking hold of Conor's legs. Fergus proceeds with his task,
hoping the lad doesn't wake before he's done. It moves some, but he must resort
to striking the back end with a stone, pounding it twice to force enough of it
through the leg to grab on the far end. Had Conor been awake for this, he would
have been in agony. Finally, after much grunting, Fergus wins out - the bolt is freed!
The wound bleeds some more from both openings. Molly takes over to pack the wound
with special healing herbs and wraps it securely, finishing the ordeal.
"If it doesn't stop bleed'in, we'll have to hold a hot iron to it. Watch him closely."
Molly gathers some cloths and warm water, "I have to wash him Cat, I can't
stand seeing all that blood." Nodding, Cat slides out from behind his head
and begins to leave. "Catlin, will 'ya help me?" asks Molly, knowing that the
other woman held strong affection for him as well. Smiling, she nods yes and
they both bend to the task. Fergus makes a hasty pallet near the fire pit and
lays down to rest, his own arm paining him. Each of them wondering how Conor will fare...
he had lost a deal of blood and fever was always a threat.
**********************************
The next morning Conor awakens to find Molly cradling him, but asleep herself.
He surveys the room from his bed; the fire has burned down to coals, leaving
little warmth to the chamber. Fergus lay snoring near it wrapped in a travel
blanket. The pain from his leg was immediate and intense. He couldn't prevent
a moan from escaping. Molly hears him and stirs,
"Lay still, the more you move, the more it will hurt." She whispers into his ear,
still holding him under the arms and across his chest. She nuzzles him warmly and
softly kisses his cheek, stroking his hair, hoping the comfort will ease his pain.
"Can I -- water?" he asks huskily, throat dry. "Fergus!" calls Molly, bringing the
older warrior awake and alert.
"Come look to his bandage. I'll stir the fire, he needs some warm broth in him."
She carefully removes herself from behind him, placing a pillow there instead.
"How does the leg feel this morn'in?" Fergus begins to unwrap the leg, looking
for any signs of infection. Molly holds a cup of water to his lips, and he sips
it gratefully. She feels his head and throat for signs of fever and thankfully,
there is none. Now able to talk, "It throbs some...um-m-m" he shifts his weight
himself, gritting his teeth in effort,
"I won't be running the woods any time soon" lying back weakly with a sigh.
Fergus examines the wound, "There's no more bleeding and the wound is clear.
Just stay off of it for a few days and you'll be up in no time." cuffing the younger
on the head. "Oh, and Fergus... thanks for the sore jaw" rubbing his face for effect.
"I did 'ya a favor lad, taking that bolt out of 'ya was hard work" raising his
eyebrows for emphasis.
The rest of that day and that night were spent tending to both wounded warriors.
****************************************
The following day a Sanctuary lookout reports to Conor, still abed,
"The banner is Morgan's, I'm sure of it...I stopped at his hold once on
my way to the northern sea. They're camped about two miles north."
The young leader considers the news.
"He'll have outriders about looking to find me and probably looking for Kellen as well."
The bodies of the slain men from the clearing had already been dealt with.
"Fergus, send out patrols, try to keep his scouts in sight. Warn the men to
go carefully, don't lead them back here." Then aside to Molly,
"I should leave here, as long as Morgan is looking for me, I put all of you in danger."
He starts to get up from the bed. Molly stops him,
"You said Kellen told you his father had forgotten the blood oath.
Maybe he's just looking for his son." Fergus steps over,
"She's right lad. Stay put until we know more."
At this Conor looks up into Fergus's eyes,
"They're too close to the Sanctuary, they could easily stumble upon us."
The leader in him was asserting itself.
"I should try to talk to Morgan about this, and tell him about his son.
Try to know his mind on the oath matter. We can't just sit hear waiting to be found."
He starts to rise again, this time Molly doesn't stop him, but offers her shoulder to
lean on. He's still weak, but manages to stand with support. Admiration showing
in his eyes, the older warrior relents,
"Well, if you're determined about this, I'll get a few men together to escort us."
*******************************
The Conor party approaches Morgan's camp from the west, swinging a wide arc
between themselves and the Sanctuary. Outriders challenge them as they ride
near. Conor calls out to the riders with authority, adrenaline pumping,
"I'm Conor, son of King Derek, here to talk to Chieftain Morgan, let us by!"
The leader in charge motions them forward, keeping a steady eye on all six.
The camp was a temporary hodge-podge, by the far side of the river. A curious
crowd gathers behind the mounted strangers following them to the tent of their chieftain.
One of Morgan's men ducks inside the tent briefly. A moment later, Morgan himself
steps forth. He's a grizzled bear of a man, taller than average and stocky with age,
yet imposing and menacing regardless. He stands staring at the group, sizing up each
rider, and choosing himself, the one who would be Conor. He steps forward towards
Conor's mount. The young leader, seeing he's recognized, lowers himself gingerly
from the saddle. He stands straight-backed near his horse and unsupported, looking
Morgan in the eye unblinkingly. His leg silently screaming in pain under him.
Swallowing first he states formally,
"I am Conor, son of King Derek." A complete hush surrounds the two,
not even the horses make a sound. Morgan conspicuously looks him over
head to toe, even stepping around him to get a full view of the young man.
Conor stands facing straight ahead, willing himself not to fall over.
His bandaged leg evident through the split in leather of his pants leg stuffed
into the boot top. Coming back around to face the younger, Morgan finally speaks,
"I see you're wounded." He states simply, with a voice deep and resonant.
Almost at the end of endurance, Conor blurts out,
"I have news of your son Kellen." And with that the leg buckles under him.
Morgan catches a groaning Conor in his arms as Fergus jumps down from his
horse and hurries to help. Motioning to Fergus to wait, he hikes his muscled
arm under Conor's, holding his waist saying,
"I've got him, we'll go inside my tent and talk." And with that, half carries
an embarrassed young leader inside. Everyone remaining outside the tent, stand
where they are, suspiciously eyeing each other. Fergus takes hold of Conor's
horse and stands waiting, wishing he could be inside with him.
"Here," says the older man sitting his charge down on a bench. Conor grunts, taking
the bench and sticks the betraying leg out in front. The wound was bleeding slightly.
Morgan moves to a small table and pours a mug of ale, handing it to the younger.
Gratefully, Conor accepts and downs half of it in one swallow.
"How did 'ya come by that wound?" the chief asks, sitting himself down.
Face coloring, Conor answers truthfully,
"Your son caught me with a crossbow bolt." Morgan watches him closely, trying
to gauge the younger man. He saw his father Derek in him.
"No doubt, he ambushed 'ya." Surprised, Conor's head jerks up.
"He did. He said he would satisfy the blood oath and take my head."
Now Conor watched the elder closely, ready to judge the reply.
"The blood oath? I gave way to that oath after the last battle between your
father and me. We agreed privately. No one else knew." Then standing and taking
a few steps, "For honor's sake, neither of us could admit to standing down from
the oath. So we just let it die of old age." Blinking in amazement, Conor,
"Kellen said that with my head he would have all the power he ever wanted,
I assumed he meant you'd reward him." Shaking his head no,
"That boy was never satisfied with being my youngest son. He always knew what I
had would go to my eldest son, Trellor. He was killed by the Roman Longinus."
Conor sat up straighter, realization dawning,
"Then he meant to kill me for the Romans and they would give him the power he wanted."
Nodding in agreement, "Probably meaning to kill me as well." A slight pause, adding
"Kellen is dead." Again, Conor is surprised by the astuteness of this man.
"Yes, and all those with him. They're buried in the wood nearby." Shrugging, Morgan sits
down, "Let them be." Both sit quietly a moment, digesting what has been said.
"You should know that I had planned to join with the Romans, maybe even against
you and your confederation." The young leader's eyebrows raised,
"HAD planned?"
"Once aware of the treachery of this Longinus, that evil sorcerer and his lying
bitch Diana, I've changed my mind. They came to my Hold a few days ago, simpering
and demanding that I give them men to use against you. Trying to invoke the blood
oath for their own ends." Conor listened attentively. "I threw them out on their arses."
His booming laughter shook the tent poles. Conor joined in shyly, finishing his ale.
Those waiting outside relaxed upon hearing the laughter. Fergus thought,
'Well, he isn't killing him if they're laugh'in together.'
