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Brand wakened briefly to see Leod bandaging someone’s hand. Osmod! Had there been another skirmish? No . . . some other mishap had happened. His gaze traveled round the little camp. All seemed peaceful enough. A number of the group were settled in around the fire, talking quietly; some were getting their own bedrolls put out for the night.
Meghan it appeared had finished checking on Vaenosa and was just now adjusting the blankets on Sythric. He saw her glance toward Osmod and then away. Brand raised himself on one elbow watching as she retrieved her blankets and looked about for somewhere to lay them out. She looked tired.
A twinge of guilt poked him. She had had little sleep the previous night from her watch on him. And she would be just as watchful tonight if he gave her reason to. He settled down again beneath his blankets and closed his eyes, smoothing out his face and breathing slowly as if resting peacefully.
He saw her settling in, less than an arm’s reach from where he lay. Brand smiled as she turned on her side and pulled the covers about her. He intended she sleep well this night, at least on his account. He would give her no trouble.
His fever still coursed through him, he could feel the heat of it filling the small spaces between his body and his own blanket. And the small movement he had made just to look about made his shoulder feel as if red hot pokers were being plunged though the flesh and bone. He clenched his jaw stifling a gasp as he tried to settle into a position of comfort. And such a position seemed very hard to find.
’Twill be a long night, boyo . . . he rasped to himself, pressing his right hand against the bandage on his left shoulder. Put your thoughts elsewhere than this infernal pain . . . remember one of the old tales great-granda used to tell you . . . the one about the Elves . . . and how they looked, so tall and shining upon their silver dappled horses . . . grey eyes glinting from their fair faces in the moonlight . . .
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