“They killed Tayanita,” MacKim muttered, as the dual emotional and physical pain threatened to overcome him.
“I know,” Chisholm said, his ravaged face set in sympathy. “Come on, Hugh, let’s get you to a surgeon.”
“They killed Tayanita.”
After those words, MacKim’s entire world dissolved in pain. He was unaware of Chisholm and Private Ranald MacDonald carrying him in a blanket to the ruins of Quebec. He was unaware of the fingers pointing to the raw wound across his head, or his blood that dripped onto the ground. He was only vaguely aware of the deep-eyed surgeon who examined him, and barely aware of the brandy an assistant forced down his throat. However, despite the spirit’s supposedly numbing effect, MacKim groaned as the surgeon stitched the long gash across his chest.
“Lie still,
