“What if”—my mouth was dry and I had to stop and lick my lips—“what if we can’t do it?” Murtagh’s expression was the same as always: grim-mouthed and dour, narrow chin receding into the grimy neck of his shirt. It didn’t alter as he turned to me. “Then Dougal will bury us wi’ him, one on either side,” he answered. “Come on, there’s work to be done.”
