The Soldier's Clansman

"I think he might be dead."

"What?" Caldan Sinclair turned to stare at his second-in-command, Evan, who stared in turn down into the dell where they'd chased the stag they hoped to make the next week's worth of food. "We haven't shot him yet."

"Well, I know that, Cal. I was talking about the Brit."

"What?"

"Are you deaf this morning, man? There's an Englishman down there. A Sassenach. I think he's bled out, though."

Nudging his mount alongside Evan's, Caldan peered through the dense growth that made his land so unsuitable for sheep. Thank the Lord.

There was, indeed, a man in the dell, lying curled on one side, the exposed and opposite side covered with blood.

Damn. That was always inconvenient, if not downright dangerous to Caldan's clan's health.

"Well, why in hell did he climb all the way up here to die?" Caldan grumbled.

"No idea." Evan sounded disgustingly cheerful. He loved a dead Englishman. Caldan was a little more prosaic about such things.

Sighing, Caldan dug his heels in, urging his gelding down the steep game trail into the small depression. What in name of all that was holy was an Englishman, and a soldier, from the look of him, doing here? On his land. Inconvenient, inconsiderate bastard.

"Seems to me you've done more than enough for the Sassenachs, Cal. Let him molder."

"Then there would be the smell. It would scare the game away." Daft man.

"Oh, sure. Well, I'll help, then."

Evan moved down behind him, making Caldan's mount snort and kick back. "Don't help so much that you get me thrown, damn it."

"The great laird falling from his horse? Nonsense."

"Shut it, will you?"

The body lay near the tiny trickle of spring that came from under a mossy rock, and Caldan could see what the fellow had been after. Too bad he hadn't made it in time. Poor bastard...

Poor bastard who was still breathing, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow inhalations.

"Damn it, Evan, he's alive."

"Well, damn." Evan chuckled. "Do you need a big stick?"

Subscribe