The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Eleven, Scene Twenty-Nine

Eowain's company slogged backwards uphill in the rain through another whole day and night. The bandits continued to pick at them with archers, but the stream in its gully on their left and Eowain's work with his cavalry on the right prevented any breakthroughs. The steed of smoke and shadow had not been seen again, and neither Cael nor Tnúthgal had appeared on the field.

Dawn could barely be perceived beneath the overcast skies. Rain continued its light, steady thrum on the canvas of his tent. A servant brought in three wooden cups of hot birch tea. Eowain took one for himself, and waved for Lorcán and Medyr to sit by the fire with theirs. He ushered out the servant, taking a look at the dreary landscape before pulling the flap closed. "Unless I'm wrong, Eithne's company should be safe in the Vale by now, or will be before the day is out."

Lorcán nodded agreement.

Medyr seemed unfocused. Pale and haggard, he slouched and stared into the fire. A tight linen bandage showed a rust-red splotch of blood on his upper arm. He'd been praying and fighting in the front rank with the men again, and taken a gash from a blade for his trouble. "What's that?" He looked up from the flames, then nodded agreement. "Oh, aye," he murmured. "Even if the rain slowed them down yesterday, they'll surely make the Vale today." His gaze drifted back to the flames and he slouched once more into silence.

Eowain gestured to the flap of the tent. "It looks like we'll have another day of rain. Cael and Tnúthgal must know by now that they're only hope for scuttling the marriage is to break through and face whatever defense the Vale can muster to get at Eithne, or to kill me. And I'm certainly near-to-hand."

Lorcán's face was grim. He took a sip from his tea. "You should go on to the Vale. Let Medyr and I hold the line here."

Eowain gestured with his cup. "No. If anyone's going on to the Vale, it's Medyr."

Medyr looked up from the fire. "Me? But why, Your Grace?"

"You're worn out, Medyr. We can all see it. If you stay here, you certainly can't be fighting on the line anymore. A weary mind makes mistakes, and a mistake will get you killed." Eowain pointed to the bandage.

"But, Your Grace—."

"I'm not really asking you, Medyr. What kind of king would I be if I let my drymyn get himself killed?"

"But the sorcery, Your Grace?"

Lorcán shrugged. "We saw no sign of sorcery all yesterday, nor any day before that. Perhaps they have no more?"

Eowain chewed at his lip. He didn't relish the thought of facing black magick without Medyr. But neither was he willing to see what further price the Gods would demand of his drymyn. If he could send Medyr to safety, he'd feel better about what must surely come. "No matter. We'll face whatever they bring against us and continue our withdrawal, holding them back from the Vale as long as we can. If there's more you can do, Medyr, then use it to prepare the Vale's defense to receive us. We'll likely arrive with wolves on our heels."

Medyr tried to rise in protest. He put a hand to his back, winced, and sat back down heavily. "Fine." He accepted Eowain's decision all unwillingly. "I'll take my acolyte with me?"

Eowain agreed. "And that merchant's apprentice. He's a brave lad, but this isn't his fight. We need no trouble with his father back home. Take his pet Foreigner too. And the scout, Corvac. Just to be safe." He paused a long moment. "And tell Eithne..." Tell her what? A welter of confusion arose in him. They'd come so far, through so much already. What was left for him to say? "Tell her I wish I had loved her better."