I've tended all kinds of injuries during the many years my healer's tent has been open for festivals. I've also tended to the hurt and dying after quite a few battles. This man's has been in a battle! I'm quite sure he did not receive this wound at Tara or surely I would have his opponent in my tent as well. At least I would have heard someone tell of the fight, which must have been horrific. His arm has been sliced open with a vicious blow from a great sword, a blow that was obviously meant to threaten his life. The sinews have been severed and the larger veins that carry blood to his hand are badly damaged. He is exhausted from the loss of his vital fluids. I am amazed he still lives - but how much longer? If he does live, his arm will never have the strength to hold a sword again.

When I have finished stitching down almost the entire length of his once powerful limb, he suddenly opens his eyes and tries to raise his head. I know that empty stare. He is in another world, the world between this one and TirNanOg. I look at his fine clothing, stained with red, and wonder who he is and what he will do if he survives. If he is a warrior, he may be better off dead. He will not have much of a life with a useless sword arm.

He mutters and babbles. I can not make any sense of it. He talks of briars and slaves. Before he falls back on the cot again, he says one thing that I do understand. Magh Croimor!

Could this well-dressed man be one of the notorious outlaw band? Or is he one of their victims? Some say that this gang of thieves is led by a dwarf with a hump on his back. The man who brought him here was small but stout. He wore a flowing cloak with a large hood thrown back over his shoulders, even though the weather is very warm.

I wrap the man's ruined arm in clean cloth. The bleeding has finally stopped. I whisper a prayer to Brighid for his healing. He is in Her hands now.