Not him.
Magnus pushed aside his anger, knowing he needed to focus on doing for MacGregor what he’d been unable to do for Gordon: saving his life.
By necessity if not inclination, Magnus had become the de facto physician of the Highland Guard. A rudimentary knowledge of healing coupled with “gentle” hands (laughable, given their size and strength) had earned him the position. But it was one thing to press some moss in a wound and wrap it, boil a few herbs for a tincture, or even press a hot iron on a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding; it was another to remove an arrow from the neck of a man who’d taken it to save your life.
When Magnus had emerged from the collapsed tower, it was to find that the English had overtaken the bailey. Only MacRuairi, MacSorley, Campbell, and MacGregor remained. Waiting, it seemed, for Gordon and him.
Leave no man behind
. Part of the Highland Guard creed. At least it had been—until Gordon.
Magnus tried to fight his way toward his friends, but the injury to his arm hampered him. Unable to hold a targe or a second weapon, he couldn’t adequately defend himself, and his left side was left vulnerable to multiple attackers. When the English surrounded him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold them back for long.
Recognizing that he was in trouble, MacGregor and Campbell had come to his aid. They’d almost made their way back to the safety of the gate when MacGregor hadgone down, ironically felled by an arrow from a longbow. Magnus had seen the arrow protruding from his neck and thought he was dead. He’d let out a roar of pure rage, attacking the English around him with the half-crazed vengeance of a berserker.
He heard the murmurs of “Phantom Guard” rolling through the enemy soldiers, saw the fear in their eyes beneath their helms, and eventually he also saw their backsides as they turned and ran. “Tail” was a slur often directed at the English—and it was well earned.
The English, realizing their prey had already been lost (Edward Bruce had escaped), had decided that taking the slighted castle wasn’t worth dying.
From the moment Campbell realized MacGregor was still alive, Magnus’s only thought was getting him to safety. Riding was out of the question. MacGregor needed to be kept as still as possible. Somehow a small boat had been procured, and with MacSorley at the helm they’d raced back to their own ship, and then on to Dunstaffnage.
Edward Bruce was safe, but at what cost?
Gordon, and now MacGregor? Magnus would be damned if he’d lose another friend this day. It seemed inconceivable that the team could survive intact through two and a half years of war, major battles where hundreds had lost their lives, and even exile, only to lose two of the greatest warriors in Christendom—hell, in Barbariandom as well—in a skirmish.
Every warrior knew that death was part of war. To their Norse forebearers it was the ultimate glory, a philosophy that had lived on in the successive generations. But in his years fighting alongside the other members of the Guard, seeing what they could do, and then hearing the stories of their feats, which had taken on almost mythical proportions, Magnus had started to believe their own legend. Gordon’s death was a brutal reminder that they weren’t invincible.
As soon as they arrived at Dunstaffnage, Campbell sent some men to fetch the healer from a nearby village. But Magnus knew what they needed was a skilled surgeon—something they’d be hard pressed to find even in a major burgh like Berwick, where the guilds would be found. Most surgeons were barbers—as crude at cutting off a limb as they were at trimming a beard. Their training was one of exigency, by trial and error.
The placement of this arrow left no room for error. It had pierced through the mail coif and entered the front left side of MacGregor’s throat at an angle, coming to a stop at the back of his neck. The arrowhead was lodged inside.
Magnus had managed to
Magnus pushed aside his anger, knowing he needed to focus on doing for MacGregor what he’d been unable to do for Gordon: saving his life.
By necessity if not inclination, Magnus had become the de facto physician of the Highland Guard. A rudimentary knowledge of healing coupled with “gentle” hands (laughable, given their size and strength) had earned him the position. But it was one thing to press some moss in a wound and wrap it, boil a few herbs for a tincture, or even press a hot iron on a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding; it was another to remove an arrow from the neck of a man who’d taken it to save your life.
When Magnus had emerged from the collapsed tower, it was to find that the English had overtaken the bailey. Only MacRuairi, MacSorley, Campbell, and MacGregor remained. Waiting, it seemed, for Gordon and him.
Leave no man behind
. Part of the Highland Guard creed. At least it had been—until Gordon.
Magnus tried to fight his way toward his friends, but the injury to his arm hampered him. Unable to hold a targe or a second weapon, he couldn’t adequately defend himself, and his left side was left vulnerable to multiple attackers. When the English surrounded him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold them back for long.
Recognizing that he was in trouble, MacGregor and Campbell had come to his aid. They’d almost made their way back to the safety of the gate when MacGregor hadgone down, ironically felled by an arrow from a longbow. Magnus had seen the arrow protruding from his neck and thought he was dead. He’d let out a roar of pure rage, attacking the English around him with the half-crazed vengeance of a berserker.
He heard the murmurs of “Phantom Guard” rolling through the enemy soldiers, saw the fear in their eyes beneath their helms, and eventually he also saw their backsides as they turned and ran. “Tail” was a slur often directed at the English—and it was well earned.
The English, realizing their prey had already been lost (Edward Bruce had escaped), had decided that taking the slighted castle wasn’t worth dying.
From the moment Campbell realized MacGregor was still alive, Magnus’s only thought was getting him to safety. Riding was out of the question. MacGregor needed to be kept as still as possible. Somehow a small boat had been procured, and with MacSorley at the helm they’d raced back to their own ship, and then on to Dunstaffnage.
Edward Bruce was safe, but at what cost?
Gordon, and now MacGregor? Magnus would be damned if he’d lose another friend this day. It seemed inconceivable that the team could survive intact through two and a half years of war, major battles where hundreds had lost their lives, and even exile, only to lose two of the greatest warriors in Christendom—hell, in Barbariandom as well—in a skirmish.
Every warrior knew that death was part of war. To their Norse forebearers it was the ultimate glory, a philosophy that had lived on in the successive generations. But in his years fighting alongside the other members of the Guard, seeing what they could do, and then hearing the stories of their feats, which had taken on almost mythical proportions, Magnus had started to believe their own legend. Gordon’s death was a brutal reminder that they weren’t invincible.
As soon as they arrived at Dunstaffnage, Campbell sent some men to fetch the healer from a nearby village. But Magnus knew what they needed was a skilled surgeon—something they’d be hard pressed to find even in a major burgh like Berwick, where the guilds would be found. Most surgeons were barbers—as crude at cutting off a limb as they were at trimming a beard. Their training was one of exigency, by trial and error.
The placement of this arrow left no room for error. It had pierced through the mail coif and entered the front left side of MacGregor’s throat at an angle, coming to a stop at the back of his neck. The arrowhead was lodged inside.
Magnus had managed to
Similar Books
