Chapter Thirty-Seven
T hey went in two chariots, Ardahl himself driving the chief’s fine cart and Cathair piloting the other with Tiernan aboard. Since there had been no announcement, not many saw them go, but folk who realized what was happening were quick to spread the word.
Some of them ran alongside, asking questions till Dornach came out and called them back.
Save for the rattle of the carts, silence ensued. No one spoke. It was a beautiful morning, and the new sun rising behind them lit the world to gray and green and gold, a pale-washed blue lighter than the color of Liadan’s eyes.
A reminder of everything for which they fought. As if he needed it.
They headed for the stream where the last battles had been fought and they would no doubt encounter Brihan’s guard, who would either challenge them or let them pass. From there, the gods alone knew what would befall them.
Ardahl needed to be prepared at any moment to lay down his life. Until then, he need only drive, a skill his da had taught to him at knee height. Da had wanted so for him to follow him as a charioteer. If he had, would he be where he stood now?
All warriors should be able to drive, so Da had insisted. A man’s driver could well fall in battle and he would need to step in, get himself and perhaps an injured companion safe away.
Da had himself fallen in battle. As had Cullan.
In this world, it seemed there was no safe place to be. But surely Ardahl did not dwell on the question of death as they went, glaring as the possibility was. He thought instead of Liadan. Of seeing her again. Her fair face like a flower, the color coming and going in it like light. Her wide eyes and trembling lips.
In his mind he swore a vow. I will return to ye. I will always return to ye.
Should he have repeated that to her before he left? His heart argued so. Yet as a promise, it seemed near impossible to keep. Feeling for her even as he did, what promise could hope to hold across distance and death?
Fearghal murmured something beside him, and Ardahl glanced at the chief. Anchored with both hands clutching the crossbar, he looked tense.
“The border,” he said in response to Ardahl’s glance.
So it was—the broad swath of earth at the foot of the rise with the stream cutting along it, the water glinting silver. The area, churned and scarred and torn, still showed signs of their battle.
No dead remained. All those had been collected.
Instinctively, Ardahl slowed the ponies. Cathair’s cart rattled behind them.
“Where’s the guard?”
“I do not know.” Fearghal’s eyes narrowed. He scanned as far as the eye could see. Brihan’s dun was farther on, out of sight.
“Somewhat is amiss.” Ardahl’s whole body told him so, the very blood beating through his veins. No matter how long the border, Brihan should keep a presence.
“Aye,” Fearghal agreed.
Cathair called, “My chief? Do we go on?”
“Aye.”
They splashed through the stream, broad and shallow enough here to serve as a ford. A rough track led across the turf beyond, and on up a slope covered with rowan and hazel trees.
An army could wait beyond that rise. Was Ardahl about to die?
But nay, why would Brihan or even Dacha root an army here? Neither knew their party was on the way.
Not until they’d scaled the hill did Ardahl breathe again. Beyond the rise, they saw—
“Here they come,” Fearghal called over his shoulder. “Hands off weapons.”
A difficult order to follow, even though the men advancing on them did not at once appear aggressive. They too were aboard a chariot—a patrol, as Ardahl realized. Far more mobile than men afoot.
He drew up again. This time Cathair pulled up beside him, their two chariots abreast. They watched the others come. Brihan’s or Dacha’s men?
They were Brihan’s. Two young warriors wearing his colors. One was fair, one red-haired. Neither looked friendly.
“Halt!” called the fair-headed man, though they had already done so. “Ye be on Chief Brihan’s land.”
“I am Fearghal MacErst,” Fearghal called boldly, “Chief o’ the Marren. And I come to speak with Brihan.”
The two men exchanged startled glances. The one on the left, who had half drawn his sword, thrust it back into the loop at his belt.
“Did Chief Brihan call for ye?” the other asked.
“Nay. I come to speak o’ the alliance between us.”
That alliance, informal as it may have been, surely lay shattered now, broken by Brihan’s attack upon the settlement. Yet neither of these young men was versed in such matters.
“Will ye give us safe passage to his dun?” Fearghal requested.
They conferred with one another, low, fierce tones before the first said, “Aye. Follow us.”
“Hands off weapons,” Fearghal said again to Cathair, and they rolled out.
In all his life, Ardahl had never been to the heart of Brihan’s holdings. He’d fought in many a battle on the perimeter—he and Conall had—but that had been against Dacha’s rather than Brihan’s own men.
He’d imagined one holding must be much like another and that the folk here lived as he did, more or less. But as they rattled their way in past dwellings, enclosures, and other structures beneath the warm sun, he saw signs of lack and want that surprised him.
The people turned and stared as they passed. Some looked ragged. The children had hungry looks in their eyes.
Why? The land gave much in game. There should be no reason for such want.
A further presence of a guard showed here—warriors came running. Their train halted as the escort consulted with them. A man ran ahead. Informing Brihan of their arrival, no doubt.
They drew up at length before a hall, a good, stout one. By the time they reached it, a crowd followed, and Brihan himself stood out front, surrounded by his men.
Ah, and would the battle take place here, then? The one in which Ardahl spent his life? If so, it would be fight and die. No getting away out of here safely.
Brihan did not appear pleased to see them. A man of early middle years, he had reddish hair already beginning to gray and a broad build, not much above ordinary height. He had come out in his house clothes—no armor—though he did wear a sword.
“Chief Fearghal!” he called without any welcome. “Did I send for ye?” A hint of irony hung in the words.
Fearghal grimaced in answer. “Chief Brihan.” If Fearghal felt great anger over this man’s treachery, he did not show it. “We need to speak together. I request safe conduct that we may do so.”
Brihan exchanged a look with the man at his shoulder, an advisor, no doubt. Much hung on what he would next say. If he rejected Fearghal’s request and called up his warriors, a battle would ensure. A short, sharp battle.
He did not reply with words. Instead he swept his arm out in a gesture inviting them in.