Page 48 of The Guardian

Chapter Seventeen

Pain ruled over Liam.

It throbbed through every inch of his body, a merciless, grinding ache that stole his breath and tore raw cries from his throat. His lips were cracked from fever, his mouth dry as sunbaked earth. When another surge of agony twisted through him, his body tensed, a strangled moan escaping before he could stop it. He tried to open his eyes, to drag himself from the thick, muddled haze the herbs kept him in, but the weight of exhaustion anchored him in darkness.

“I’m going to lift yer head now,” came a voice, soft, feminine, and impossibly gentle.

Cool fingers slipped beneath his head, and he flinched at the touch, not from pain, but from the shock of something so kind in a world that had become unbearable.

A cup was pressed to his lips, and water trickled into his mouth. The first drop burned down his throat before it soothed, and then he drank greedily, as if that water alone tethered him to the living.

“More,” he rasped, the word barely more than a croak.

She lowered his head with careful grace before lifting another cup. He drank until it was gone, then slumped back, eyes fluttering as her voice came again, quieter this time.

“The healer is here. He must inspect yer wounds.”

A tremor rolled through him.

“No.” The word formed without thought, his body tensing, every muscle screaming in protest. Tears, unbidden and hot, slipped from the corners of his eyes, sliding silently past his temples to soak the linens beneath him.

“I ken,” she whispered, sorrow threaded through every syllable. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, the pressure soothing. “But it must be done.”

He didn’t want to look, but the healer’s familiar voice forced his eyes open, just a sliver. He saw the man’s weathered face and the deep lines of exhaustion etched around his mouth.

“I will be as gentle as I can,” the healer promised. “Yer leg is crushed and I cannae set it. Had the bones not torn through, I could have bound it days ago and allowed it to set. But it must be cleaned, Liam. If not, rot will take it.”

Understanding didn’t ease the dread. Knowledge had never dulled pain.

His gaze dropped to the length of his leg, bound tightly in layers of linen from hip to toe. The memory returned with awful clarity, the arrow’s sharp sting just before he fell, the thunder of hooves, the horse’s wild eyes as it trampled past, already dying, its chest pierced with arrows.

He’d twisted in the last heartbeat of consciousness, rolling just far enough to spare his chest. But the leg… and his arm… hadn’t been spared. Bones had shattered like glass.

The sudden exposure of cold air drew him back as the blanket was peeled away.

He shivered violently.

“Cut from here to here,” the healer instructed the woman. “Leave the bandage around his midsection undisturbed. Those wounds are healing well. I’ll tend to them tomorrow.”

He saw a feminine hand holding a knife.

Liam shut his eyes. Silently praying that darkness would come.

It didn’t. He remained lucid. So that when the bandages were cut away and the healer began to work, his hoarse screams filled the chamber, echoing off the stone walls like the wails of a soul being torn from its flesh.

“Liam.”

The voice floated through the fog, low and steady, pulling him from the depths of fevered slumber. A warm hand pressed to his forehead, anchoring him further. “Do ye hear me, brother?”

Liam’s eyelids felt like stone, but he forced them open. The world was hazy, blurred at the edges, but Hendry’s face sharpened into view, drawn tight with concern and something far heavier.

“Ye look worse than I feel,” Liam rasped, his voice husky. “Water.”

Hendry helped him drink, steady hands cradling his head. The coolness slid down his throat easing the dryness. When the cup was empty, Liam sagged against the pillow, a long breath slipping past his cracked lips.

“Is it midday?” he asked, glancing toward the narrow sliver of light beyond the window.

A faint smile tugged at Hendry’s lips. “Late in the day. Ye’ve been lost to fever for several days.”