Chapter Twenty-Nine
W hen the messengers intercepted Fearghal’s returning forces, Ardahl could scarce believe it. He himself drove his chariot, which had survived being overturned, the traces feeling familiar in his hands. His da had taught him to drive not long after he could walk, hoping Ardahl would follow him and become a charioteer.
Ardahl, though, had wanted to be among the clan’s best warriors.
Cullen’s body lay on the floor at his feet. They had brought whatever of the dead they could transport away from that terrible place at the border and home with them.
Ardahl’s chariot rode third in line behind the chief’s and Dornach’s. Cathair rode behind him in a fellow warrior’s chariot. His own had been wrecked.
If Ardahl had energy to spare for it, he might have felt the ire Cathair no doubt directed at him. He had not. The battle ended, he now felt every wound, and weariness weighed upon him.
The whole train shuddered to a halt when their tribesman appeared out of the damp and foggy air. Men carrying burdens—corpses on shields—put them down.
“Chief Fearghal! The settlement has fallen under attack! They came yesterday afternoon. Many dead and injured. The settlement—”
“What—?” Fearghal faltered. Rarely had Ardahl seen him do that, and his men stared.
“The settlement! Attacked!” Winded from hurrying, the messenger could say no more.
“But we had Dacha’s men engaged!” Fearghal seemed dazed. “We bested them.”
“No’ Dacha’s men.” The messenger, an old man well wearied, shook his head. “These carried Brihan’s colors.”
Ardahl, not in a position to see Fearghal’s face, watched him stiffen. “Betrayed! Brihan has allied with Dacha to destroy us!”
Aye, so, Ardahl thought. Had they waited for Fearghal’s men to roll out and engage Dacha’s? No wonder they’d met no resistance while crossing Brihan’s land. They’d been lured on, leaving their own lands exposed to an unsuspected enemy.
By all the merciful gods, was this what Conall had wanted to tell him?
Unbidden, he called out to the man, “How many o’ our people survive?”
Chief Fearghal did not object to the question.
“We can no’ tell. Some fled. They were still coming down from the hills when I left.”
His mam? Liadan.
Chief Fearghal swore bitterly and exchanged a look with Dornach before turning in his chariot and calling back to his men.
“Let those o’ us driving go forward with all due haste. The rest o’ ye afoot, come as quick as ye can.”
The weary ponies quickened their pace. A half-score or so chariots—all that remained—leaped forward and into the morning.
If ever anything could quicken the steps of the rest of them, Ardahl thought grimly, it was the desire to discover whether or not their loved ones lived still.
They saw—and smelled—the smoke long before they entered the settlement. It hung like a dark pall, refusing to dissipate. They were met by members of their own guard, which seemed to consist of old men. Fearghal halted repeatedly as they imparted information.
“Chief, your wife and family have been found safe. They are back in the settlement.”
“Thanks be to Lugh,” Fearghal replied.
“The dead are being gathered to the east o’ the settlement.”
The dead.
Ardahl began to feel ill, and his hands trembled on the traces. The ponies grew uneasy, pulling up in alarm.
If ye keep calm, your team will also . How many times had his da told him that? But Da was—
Dead.
The next thing to reach Ardahl was the sound. Weeping. Grieving. Like the heavy clouds of smoke, it seemed to rise from the very stones of the place. Distress most profound.
They rumbled in, and the chief dismounted. He gave no orders. What were there to give? Each man would go searching through the horror that lay before him.
Ardahl was no different. He spared pats for the ponies as he passed them by, but abandoned Cullan’s corpse, hoping someone would look after the charioteer, and the ponies, and started through the rubble that had been the settlement.
Each man who returned had someone for whom he cared. That was the reason they’d been fighting.
If Tír na nóg be a paradise, this must be its opposite. His step faltered as he went. His nostrils quivered at the scents of burning and blood. Death overlay all.
Many of the living, aye, were on their feet. They appeared dazed and stared at him with empty eyes like those of Liadan’s mother.
Liadan .
Ahead lay her hut, the door open as a gaping wound. It had once more escaped burning, and his heart leaped with hope. Inside, though, all lay in disorder as if an ill wind had scoured every item from its place. Empty.
He went on and heard someone call his name.
“Ardahl!”
“Mam?”
She ran at him as a girl might, and was suddenly in his arms. She did not weep—it came to him that his mam was too strong for that, and pride twisted his heart. She had endured so much.
She squeezed him impossibly tight before seizing his face between her hands. “Be ye hurt?”
“Some.” No one returning did not carry wounds. “My…charioteer is dead.”
Dark horror invaded her eyes. “Many are dead. They are saying it was Chief Brihan’s men.”
“We heard. Liadan…?”
“Here.” Mam looked over her shoulder. “Here!”
This time Ardahl’s heart near convulsed.
“But her mam—”
“Och, nay.”
Mam moved out of his arms. Liadan stood behind her, though Ardahl would scarce have recognized her as the same lass he’d left behind. Clothing in rags and stained with blood. Damp hair hanging down. Eyes overly large in a pricked white face.
But alive. Alive .
He did not remember moving, nor did he see her move. Suddenly she was in his arms, smashed against him as if she would become one with him, flesh for flesh. He felt her trembling. Felt her shock and fear. Her need.
She hid her face in the crook of his neck, arms clenching at him fiercely.
“She is dead. My mam. My mam. It is my fault.”
“Hush—nay, lass, it is not. Hush now. How could it be?”
He could smell blood on her and smoke and sweat. She was the best thing he’d ever touched.
“Lass, be ye hurt?”
“She is.” Mam stepped forward, since Liadan did not reply. Over Liadan’s shoulder, her eyes met her son’s. “We had to fight our way free.”
“Flanna blames me.” Liadan spoke from his neck. Mam’s eyes filled with tears that she still did not shed.
“Liadan.” He tried to disengage her from him, without success. “We will make it right. We will.”
“Ye came back. Ye came back alive. Had ye no’, I could not have gone on.”
A sharp thrill went through Ardahl, despite his weariness, his immense distress, the grief and the pain. He tangled a hand in her hair and pressed her closer.
“Had ye no’ been here, I do not think I could have gone on either.”
Mam gave a muffled sniff and covered her face with her hands. Aye, so, mayhap she did weep after all, but only out of love.
“Liadan, have your hurts all been tended?”
“Aye,” Mam answered, “but there was only the one healer, and him in much demand. She needs to be seen again. And ye?”
“The same.” Ardahl let his gaze drift over the terrible scene before him. “We will worry about that later.”
“Aye. Come to the spring. It is where—where most are meeting.”
“Conall’s hut—” he began.
Liadan stirred in his arms. “I canna go there. I canna go there again.”
*
Nausea took Ardahl in a hard grip as they moved through the settlement. The sickness came backed by anger—that such a thing could have happened while they were away fighting to prevent it. That Brihan, long a neutral neighbor between them and Dacha, could have turned against them this way.
He felt worry and concern for his mam, who appeared ready to fall down. Liadan refused to leave go of him, and they moved in a bonded pair, not speaking but for one exchange when she picked up a weapon from the ground.
“Is that my sword?”
“Aye.”
An odd thought circulated in his head thereafter, more or less independent and disconnected from the horror. If a woman possessed a man’s sword, did that mean she also owned his heart? He did not know, but figured he’d better leave it in her hands.
At the spring, where the chief did find and reunite with his family, Fearghal made a speech. Or tried to. The chief, clearly broken, stumbled over his words and struggled with his emotions.
He promised revenge. Rebuilding. Reparation. Ardahl barely listened, busy numbering heads in the crowd. Those here. Those missing.
How many dead?
The chief’s voice caught his ear when he heard his own name.
“At the border, we were victorious. And this man, Ardahl MacCormac, saved the life of his chief. I declare him now first among our valiant warriors.”