Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,76
arrows hit his chest, throwing him off his feet.
XXXI
ALL MEN BLEED
THE CROSSBOW FLEW from Draco’s hands, crashing against the ramparts, and he hit the debris-strewn ground.
Dazed for an instant as he lay sprawled on his back, Draco lowered his chin to see two yew arrows sticking out of the lower left of his ribcage.
Pain barreled into him in a sickening wave, the sensation so intense that he nearly blacked out.
Mithras. All these years and pain still took him by surprise.
All men bleed indeed. All men feel the bite of iron too.
“Draco!” Cassian was at his side, dragging him away from the edge of the wall.
“It’s alright,” Draco tried to shrug him off. “Return to the fight!”
Cassian ignored him. Instead, jaw clenched, he hauled Draco toward the stairs.
“Draco!” A woman’s cry shattered the roar of battle.
A chill swept through Draco, momentarily dousing the fire that ripped up his left side.
Gavina.
“Lady Gavina, get down off the walls!” The Wallace bellowed down the wall. “It’s a shit-storm up here!”
Gavina didn’t answer the outlaw, and a moment later, Draco felt a small, cold hand clasp his. “Lord, no,” came her anguished whisper.
“No need to panic,” Draco rasped. “You know I can’t die.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t suffer, clod-head,” Cassian growled. He’d knelt next to Draco and was inspecting the arrows. “Damn it … these are buried deep.”
“Good Welsh arrows,” Draco wheezed, shutting his eyes as another wave of sickening pain washed over him.
“Shut your mouth, and save your energy.” Maximus was there too, bending over him, his soot-smeared, sweat-streaked face taut. He then glanced over at Cassian. “We need to get him off the wall.”
“Aaron … Fergus!” Cassian bellowed, motioning to two of his men. “Over here!”
Gavina hurried down the steps from the wall, following the two guards who’d hauled Draco up under the armpits and were carrying him out of harm’s way. Heather brought up the rear of the small group, hurrying close behind her.
Heart pounding, Gavina’s gaze rested upon Draco’s back. The tips of the arrows were both protruding—a good sign at least, for they would be easier to remove. The barbed end wasn’t embedded in his flesh and could be snipped off.
He’s immortal, stop yer fretting.
She knew Draco couldn’t die—and she kept telling herself that—but the sight of his injuries made her queasy nonetheless.
She’d emerged from the top of the stairs to encounter a storm of arrows showering the air. Shrinking back into the relative safety of the stairwell, she’d told Heather to stay back. But when she’d turned to the wall once more, she’d seen Cassian raise a shield—and witnessed Draco step forward and sight his crossbow.
In full view of the archers.
Idiot.
Just because he couldn’t die didn’t mean he had to throw himself to the wolves. Once he healed from his wounds, she’d give him a piece of her mind.
Outside in the lower ward bailey, the boom of the ‘Battle Hammer’ hitting the gates was ear-splitting. The sheer force of the siege weapon was starting to buckle the gates—iron groaned with every impact, and the massive barricade behind it shuddered.
Fear stained the air inside the stronghold now; what few servants remained outdoors to help defend the keep had strained faces and wild gazes. The women, children, and elderly had taken refuge in Dunnottar’s hall.
Gavina’s breathing caught, desperation clawing at her throat. How long would it be until the battering ram finally broke through? Not today, surely?
The guards took Draco to the infirmary—the long, crowded chamber next to the guard’s mess, where Aila and Elizabeth, and a handful of other women, tended injured men.
Many of those with relatively minor injuries sat propped up demanding to be let back on the walls, while other men lay groaning upon narrow pallets, their faces ashen with pain. However, one or two lay worryingly still.
Aila, who’d been bandaging a warrior’s burned arm, glanced up. Spying Draco, her face went taut. She then motioned to the bed behind her, where a man lay. “Put him there.”
Gavina frowned. “But there’s—”
“He’s dead, My Lady.” Aila turned to the guards holding Draco upright. “Can ye take the body to the chapel?”
Aila’s practicality both impressed and cowed Gavina. Her maid was a sweet lass, gentle and kind to a fault at times. Yet when times were tough, she showed a will of steel, as she had on their flight from Stirling.
The guards handed Draco over to Heather and Gavina, and went to do Aila’s bidding.
Draco slumped against Gavina, groaning as his gaze fluttered shut.