[Arry]

Brand stifled a groan. Not because his shoulder pained him, but because he was snug and warm beneath the blankets and he could put off no longer the call of nature. He wriggled his torso a bit beneath the covers . . . aahh, good! . . . the pain that had been so sharp and hard last night had diminished with sleep. He drew back the edge of the blanket where he’d pulled it to his forehead and saw that the sun was just about to rise.

With as quiet an effort as he could, he leveraged himself up to a sitting position. A few of the companions were already up. One was crouched on the other side of the fire, feeding the flames with fresh kindling and broken branches. And someone, perhaps the same person, had filled a pot with water and set it over the fire.

There were a number still within their bedrolls. Not too far from him he saw Sythric. The man was pale and Brand hoped his wounds were of the sort he could recover from.

He turned his attention, smiling as he considered her sleeping form, to Meghan. And there, curled snug against her was Athwen, still lost in sleep herself. He had a vague remembrance of some disturbance in the night . . . someone crying out. And Meghan had got up to see to it. He pulled the blanket down slightly from her face and brushed a few wisps of hair back from her face. There was a thin line of scabbed over wound that came up from her neck to spiral onto her cheek. He touched it lightly with his fingertips.

With a little effort he rolled away from the sleeping women and got to his feet. For a moment he felt quite light-headed and he wondered if he might topple over altogether. But a few deep breaths seemed to bring his balance back and he went off toward a clump of trees and bushes a little ways from camp.

--- ooooo --- ooooo ---

He stopped on his way back to camp and dragged in a little more wood for the morning fire. The effort of doing just that surprised him. He was relieved when he’d reached the fire and was able to leave off the burden.

After washing the dirt and pitch from his hands, Brand crouched down near the flames and tried to warm them as best he could. He could see his breath in the chill. Leod was stirring some herbs into the pot of hot water, making tea. Brand allowed himself to be looked over by the healer, who pronounce him fit enough to ride but issued the stern warning that there was to be no abrupt of his left arm lest he tore open his wound. The old man gave him a cup of steaming tea and sat down beside him at Brand’s request.

‘Tell me of the others, grandfa . . . Leod,’ Brand asked after a few sips of the welcome warm brew.

Most of the wounds Leod explained to him were fairly superficial; their bearers would be sore and bruised for a number of days but they would be fine to ride. The worst, Brand was told, were himself, Vaenosa, and Sythric. Brand assured Leod he would be able to ride that day, even if only a half day or so. Leod raised his brows, and said nothing further about that.

Vaenosa, he did say, had been struck deeply in the left thigh with an arrow. He’d taken it out of course, but the muscle would be painful and inflamed for quite a while. And with too much activity it might open up and re-bleed. Also, she’d been wounded in the back by a spear. She was breathing alright, so it hadn’t punctured a lung, still it was a large wound that again might re-open if she did too much activity.

Sythric was the most injured, battered and wounded almost beyond his endurance, Leod told him. He was getting medicines to help him, and he seemed awake now, but it was likely that how he felt would determine how far, or even if, they would travel that day.

Brand nodded his head thoughtfully at all that Leod told him. He assured the healer, too, that he would take his counsel and cut short the ride if Leod felt the others were not up to it.

Talk then fell to grimmer subjects. Rædwald’s body could not be left to the mercy of the birds and beasts. ‘Then let us honor him as we did the fallen of your village, Leod,’ Brand offered. ‘There are plenty of branches,’ he went on. ‘Let’s see to those who are able gathering enough for a pyre. We’ll send him off as best we can.’

--- ooooo --- ooooo ---

After a light breakfast, all of those able to walk gathered the fuel for the funeral blaze. Rædwald was washed, his hair braided, and he was dressed in a clean tunic and breeches. His mail shirt was put on over it, his helm on his head. His body was laid atop the heaping of branches and twigs, then, and his spear laid by his side. Brand cut a length of mane from Rædwald’s horse and laid it in the old warrior’s hand.

A number of the companions stood round the pyre, torches burning. In silence and almost as one, they thrust their brands into the tangle of twigs and wood. The flames leapt up; the fire racing from twig to branch about the pyre.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ Brand murmured low, as he pushed his torch into the piling of wood. ‘I’ll keep watch over her, as I promised. All speed to you now. Rise up in the smoke, Rædwald. Let the flames carry your spirit to a peaceful rest.’