Irish Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

gaze to Ashlon’s
midsection.
    He followed the gaze and saw the clumps of
leaf and mossy root about to fall from his middle. He put one hand
over the poultices and held his sword steady with the other. The
heathen guised man had fast explaining to do or he’d feel the thick
end of Ashlon’s blade. Pointing his sword at the man, he motioned
him in. It was then that he realized the stranger carried a
steaming bowl. His gut ached with the hunger.
    “I demand to know who you are and where I am.
I require the return of my belongings immediately.”
    The man entered the small room slowly, set
the bowl down, all the while nodding gently. “Calm yourself, lad.
You’re in my home. Tir Conaill, Ireland home of the clan O’Donnell
and all who are welcomed here along their travels.”
    Ashlon’s arm lowered a fragment. He was
losing his strength by the second. “Who are you?” He needed to lie
down.
    “My Christian name is Shamus Heremon Dermot
O’Brian, descendant of The O’Brian, descended of Niall of the Nine
Hostages.” The man smiled, showing aged folds in his cheeks. “You
may call me Heremon, as do all others.”
    Ashlon’s arm wobbled inside. His sword felt
like a hundred pounds trying to drag it down. He had the man’s
name, but it told him nothing concrete. He needed more. “How did I
come to be here with you, Lord Heremon? Where have you put the
chest I traveled with?” he asked, biting for a minute more of
strength.
    “Why, I saved you, lad. And I know of no
chest.”
    In a loud clang, Ashlon’s sword fell from his
grip to the stone floor. He used the free hand to support his body
before it collapsed on the spot. A wet pile of leafy mush landed
next to his blade.
    “Enough of that now,” Heremon said. Raising
his voice made it sound more tinny than brittle, but kind
nonetheless. “Lie on your back. There. Go easy on yourself there.
It’s no feather sack you’re putting onto.”
    Ashlon eased as carefully as he could onto
the wood table. His body shook from exhaustion and his vision swam.
How could such little effort drain him so rapidly? “My belongings,”
he muttered between gasps for air. “A square wooden, well worn…
oak, I need to….” It was too much.
    Heremon lifted his head and placed a rolled
bundle beneath it. Before Ashlon could try the words again, a
mouthful of bitter tasting broth filled up his mouth from a small
wooden bowl. Heremon’s movements were sure for a man his apparent
age. The broth didn’t spill or slosh as he brought it repeatedly to
Ashlon’s lips.
    Despite the bitter taste, Ashlon drank
hungrily. A small suspicion that the soup held poison gave way to
deep gratitude. The man had saved him from the cave, the storm. If
only he could recall a moment past the cave. Logic explained that
he must have succumbed to fever as he slept. But, something in that
conclusion unsettled him. If the man had saved him from the cave,
how in the world did he come upon him in it?
    “Your belly wants more, but will put it right
out if we don’t rest a spell,” Heremon said.
    Ashlon closed his eyes. He felt groggy.
Numbed. He opened his mouth to speak but only a snore escaped.
    Heremon smiled at the
rumpling sound and patted the young knight’s arm. Near dead yet
swift as a lion to stand brave and order answers. The vigor of
youth and ambition hadn’t yet given way to wisdom for Ashlon
Sinclair , but
soon enough it would. Soon enough.
    Heremon set about straightening the small
space before blowing out the single candle and leaving his charge.
The difficult part was over. In a week’s time, Ashlon would be
standing and able to fight again, so long as he allowed his body to
heal.
    In the outer room, Heremon put ink to paper
and began the hours of assiduous preparation for Breanne’s arrival.
The girl, a woman now, he had to remind himself, was on the
precipice of her destiny. She despaired, he knew. But he also knew
that soon she would be living her dreams, her long years of