Chapter Twenty-Six
C ullan was anxious, worked up, and far too ready to chatter. In the dead of the morning before first light, Ardahl found it immeasurably annoying.
He was used to having Conall at his side at such a moment as this. Conall might have high spirits, aye, or a measure of fear and uncertainty. But he knew when to hold his tongue about it. After fighting together so long, they needed only to exchange a glance.
His heart gave a throb. Conall no longer entered battle at his side. And from where he stood now, up in the chariot, Cullan made a poor substitute.
“I ha’ rarely been so far forward in the line,” Cullan confessed, unhampered by any lack of reply from his companion. “No’ first, no. Nor even second, wi’ the chief after leading us. But up there. Can ye believe the chief is wi’ us?”
“Hush, by all the gods, that we can hear Dornach’s directions.”
“Aye, so. To be sure, we must listen.” Over the rattling of the cart, Cullan raised his voice. “Wha’ d’ye think of the team I got for us? I think they are fine ones. Among the best.”
“’Tis a grand team, aye.”
“I waited at the pony sheds half the night to get the team I wanted. I had no’ first choice, nay. But I was able to claim those upon which I’d set my eye.”
Ardahl nodded, hoping his silence would invite his companion’s. Ahead of them, Dornach shot a displeased look over his shoulder.
“And a fine cart also,” Cullan went on, oblivious. “Was this no’ the one ye always shared wi’ Conall?”
Ardahl was going to strangle Cullan before they ever got to the battle, at this rate.
“Whisht,” he advised. “Master Dornach does no’ like chatter.”
“Right ye be. D’ye think when we get there, Master Dornach will assign us to the flank, like before?”
“I do not know.”
At the head of the column of chariots and the men afoot, Chief Fearghal raised his hand. They broke into a trot. The men behind the chariots took up a jog.
“I think—” Cullan began.
Ardahl lost whatever he said in the rattle of the carts, the passage of the cool air against his cheeks. The beating of his own heart.
He thought of Liadan. How could he do aught but think of her when she’d spent the night in his arms? Something fragile and immeasurably strong had been born between them.
He fought for her, if no one else.
As good a cause as any, said a voice at his side. His right side, away from Cullan.
He turned to find that Conall stood there. At least, it looked like Conall, in a dim, light-rimmed guise. He had his fair hair all braided up and his sword at his side. Ready for battle.
Nay, it was but a glint of his sword. For had not Ardahl himself claimed that?
A glint. A shade.
There should not be room for him in the small wicker cart, yet there he stood, as ever.
He’s a half-decent driver, Conall said, jerking his head at Cullen, but I do no’ doubt he will drive ye mad.
Not knowing how to reply, and so astonished he had to clutch the wooden bar across the front of the vehicle, Ardahl said nothing.
But he thought words at his ghostly companion. Wha’ are yet doing here?
I could no’ let ye go into a battle wi’out me, could I? Especially such a battle as this.
Will it be bad?
Aye, so. Though there will be bright spots o’ courage and valor. There usually are.
Desperate to disbelieve what he was hearing and seeing, Ardahl clutched the crossbar all the harder. In his left ear, Cullan still chattered, unaware of any extra passenger.
Ye must tell someone, Conall.
I just did.
Nay, I mean tell Dornach. Or the chief. Go and tell them this battle will be hard. Treacherous.
Conall—or his shade—shot him a look from the corners of his eyes, a look so typical it made Ardahl ache. Ye think they would believe what they canna see?
Aye— Ardahl paused in his thoughts. Nay .
Only ye can see me. We ha’ a bond. I must tell ye—
“Are ye listening?” Cullan demanded, and poked Ardahl in the arm. Conall disappeared faster than an eye could wink.
“Can ye no’ hush, for the sake o’ the gods?” Ardahl turned on Cullan and drew his sword. “Or must I silence ye?”
Cullan fell silent.
*
They reached their border to find no massed defenders, no warriors, no enemy guards at all, though watchers there must surely be. The stream ran clean under a cloudy sky, the face of the land seemingly innocent of danger.
The whole train stopped and the men in the first two chariots conferred. Cullan began to push their chariot in, but Ardahl halted him with a growl.
“Hang back.”
“But—”
A fierce glare once more silenced Ardahl’s companion. They waited while a breeze shivered over the land. Clouds boiled and towered on the horizon. The hairs stood up all over Ardahl’s body.
“Somewhat is no’ right,” he said.
Cullan stared at him. “But wha—”
A signal came and the chariots spread out. The chief had decided to press on. They rumbled and splashed through the stream and onto the turf beyond.
Ardahl wondered if the others felt as uneasy as he did.
“Be ready,” he said. He spoke to Conall, who was no longer there, rather than to Cullan. To Conall, as he always had at such time.
Strange, how the bond endured.
Would he die here this day? Was that what Conall had wanted to tell him? Had his friend come for him, to escort him to Tír na nóg?
All too possible, if they met with any enemy, rather than open country.
More slowly now, for the ponies as well as the men behind them began to tire, they traveled on. The land spread out, empty to the eye, and the clouds streamed overhead. Ardahl could smell rain on the wind.
At length, Fearghal drew up again. This time when he turned in his chariot, Ardahl heard him say, “Where is Dacha? Or Brihan’s guards, at the very least.”
“My chief.” Dornach scowled. “Should we turn back?”
Fearghal considered it. In the distance, away toward the west, thunder rumbled. A chill chased its way through Ardahl’s bones.
“’Tis a trap!” he called. He did not know why he said it, had no intention of doing so. The words just came.
Everyone in the lead chariots, including Cathair, stared at him
With a look of disdain, Cathair said, “What makes ye say so?”
Ardahl could only shake his head.
Cathair sneered.
“Brihan is no’ guarding his border,” Chief Fearghal called out. “Moreover, neither is Dacha.”
“Mayhap, chief,” said Dornach with a sideways glance at Ardahl, “they are luring us in so they may—”
“Attack!” someone called from the rear.
The enemy warriors appeared as if by magic, half materializing out of the rocks, the turf, the land itself. In truth, they came from the hills and the copses of trees, but they streamed in so swiftly, Fearghal’s men had barely time to react. And they came from all sides.
Fearghal’s warriors, caught in a knot, found the enemy all around them, Ardahl, Cullan and their chariot confined near one end.
“Spread out. Spread out!” Dornach bellowed over the instant crash of metal on metal.
“Go. Go!” Ardahl hollered at Cullan. Conall would already have been moving. “There!” He waved to an empty space past Fearghal’s chariot.
The ponies tangled, wheels hit wheels, and their cart rocked violently before it broke free.
Cullan managed to wheel around to face the enemy. Ardahl found himself in the thick of battle.
No time to think, no time to do aught but react, to rely on instinct and the strength of bone and muscle. Opponent after opponent rushed their chariot. It rocked and swayed beneath Ardahl, but he had the advantage, striking down at men afoot.
Face after face, they fell to his blade. He could hear the clang of battle all round him, and Cullan swearing continually as he tried to maneuver the ponies in the tight space.
No matter how many Ardahl felled, others replaced them. Men died everywhere around him. He did not count them.
Suddenly their ponies reared as the chariot went over. Ardahl heard Cullan cry out even as he leaped clear—again by instinct—and found his feet. A man loomed to the right of him, sword raised. He got his blade up in time to meet the one swooping toward him, stopped that blow, another and another. Got in behind his enemy’s weapon with a slash to the man’s throat.
The man fell.
Before Ardahl could draw a breath, another opponent attacked him from the left. He heard Cullan call something from the overturned cart.
Nay, that was Conall’s voice. His friend was still with him.
Have at him, man!
I am going to die.
Nay, no’ ye!
He paused as his opponent fell, miraculously, at his feet. He could no longer feel his sword arm, though it still obeyed his unconscious command. He could not truly feel his body either, nor the rain that crashed down.
It was raining.
The water rinsed the blood from his blade.
He whirled. The battle had spread out from where he stood, some of the chariots trundled away. Men fought in a seething heap. Overhead, thunder boomed and the day had gone dark as night.
A bolt of lightning split the sky and lit the scene garishly. He saw—
Dornach’s chariot far down the line, crushed by enemy warriors, both the war chief and his driver fighting for their lives. Closer at hand, Chief Fearghal, with his face fixed in an agonized rictus, his blade whirling. Not far off from him, Cathair also battled hard against a tide of enemy warriors.
Instinct moved Ardahl again. He was sworn to his chief, and his chief needed his sword. He ran forward and threw himself into the fray.
The rain fell so hard, it was difficult to see. But Fearghal did see him and seemed to take renewed heart.
Cathair sent them a wild, burning look. He’d taken a slash down one cheek, from which the blood ran freely, chased by the rain. So close did they fight, Ardahl could see the desperation in Cathair’s eyes.
But when the chief faltered, when his boot slipped in the sodden grass and he went down, followed by his enemy’s sword, it was Ardahl’s blade that moved fast enough. Ardahl who leaped and interposed his body to guard his chief’s. His blade that took off the head of the enemy.
He hauled Fearghal to his feet. The chief, badly wounded, gave him a hard nod. Shouted something.
Ardahl needed to get him from the field. Where was Cullan? Cursing, he tried to search for his driver and their chariot, forgetting it had been turned over. No sight of them.
“Turning!” Fearghal screamed at him.
Was the battle turning? On his life, he could not tell. But aye, there seemed to be fewer opponents, though the rain still made it hard to see. If the battle had not yet turned, it could be turned.
“My chief, get ye behind me. I will be your shield!”
After that, he fought. He did not remember the blows or how many opponents went down before his sword. He felt neither weariness nor pain. They went through Dacha’s men and out the other side.
When the rain slackened, the enemy had gone save for a raft of dead lying on the ground. They had vacated the way they had come.
Ardahl looked around for Conall, remembered, and searched for Cullan instead. He spied the chariot still on its side. Bodies lay heaped around it, and the ponies stood with their heads hanging down.
He headed there, only to be stopped by someone who stepped directly in front of him. Chief Fearghal, it was. He seized Ardahl by the shoulders.
“Ardahl MacCormac—ye saved my life.”
“Eh?” After the clamor of the battle and the rain, Ardahl’s ears felt muffled.
“Ye saved my life.”
Dornach stepped up. Like the rest of them, he stood liberally slashed and wounded, but he stood.
“Ye saved your chief, man. I saw it.” He gestured around at the men behind them, which included Cathair. “We all saw.”
Ardahl returned his gaze to Fearghal. He did not know what to say except, “My chief, I swore fealty.”
“Aye, so.” Approval shone in Fearghal’s blue eyes.
“Excuse me, my chief. I must check on my driver.”
When he got to the place, the ponies raised their heads wearily and looked at him. Behind them, half covered by the cart, Cullan lay dead.