Halt woke him after half an hour. Horace’s muscles were stiff and aching, so at Halt’s bidding, he rolled over onto his stomach and let Halt work on them. The Ranger’s strong fingers dug and probed expertly into the muscle and tissue, loosening knots and easing the tension, stimulating blood flow back to the bruised, strained parts of his body. It was painful, but strangely enjoyable, he thought.

The short nap had left him feeling drowsy and sluggish. He shrugged to himself. That often happened if you slept during the day. Once he started moving and got some fresh air in his lungs, he’d be fine.

He swung his legs off the lounge and sat, head down for a few seconds. Then he shook himself. Will looked at him curiously.

“Are you all right?” he asked. He’d watched over Horace while he slept, his saxe knife drawn and lying ready across his knees.

Horace looked at the weapon and grinned sleepily. “Planning on chopping vegetables?” he asked, then answering his friend’s question, “I’m just a bit foggy, that’s all.”

Halt looked at him, a small light of concern in his eyes. “You’re sure?” he said, and Horace smiled, shaking off the torpor that seemed to have claimed him.

“I’ll be fine. Shouldn’t sleep during the day, really. Pass me that mail shirt, will you?”

The chamois lining had dried in the breeze, and he pulled it on over his head as he sat on the edge of the lounge. Then he stood to let it fall to its full length, just above his knees. As he did so, he swayed and had to grasp the back of the lounge to steady himself.

The Kings of Clonmel, Chapter 42