Chapter Forty-Eight
W hen morning came and Ardahl did not return from guard duty, Liadan had to begin making excuses. She had several ready—that Ardahl must have gone to another meeting with Fearghal. That he’d been waylaid by Dornach.
Her own worry, though, made it impossible to dissemble. She found it even harder to lie to Maeve. Yet she was not supposed to know what she knew. And she would never betray Ardahl’s trust.
So when Maeve eyed her and asked, “Where is he?” she merely shook her head. “Why, lass, have ye no’ prepared his water for washing as ye always do?”
Aye, she should have done that.
She said only, “I believe Ardahl will be delayed this morning.” I believe. I believe .
“Why?”
“That I cannot say. Pray, do not ask me.”
Maeve went silent. Too silent. They shared the space but did not speak.
Waiting was a torment. The day crept to life around them, and Liadan’s hands trembled at their work.
What was happening with Ardahl now? And now? Had he left the world, been driven from it on a shower of blood? Surely she would know. She would feel the loss, bone deep. Her heart would falter; the sun would dim.
Instead, all remained the same. Birds sang. Morning fires lifted smoke lazily into the air.
Did that mean he still lived?
Nay, but she had not felt it when Conall died. Nor her da.
Nor mam, for all that.
“Lass, why do ye no’ go and fetch some water?”
She went out with her ewer. Early as it was, folk hurried around, and a line of women had formed at the spring. Liadan sent her gaze everywhere.
And when it was her turn at the spring, she prayed.
Glorious Brigid, guard him. Guard him for me. Send him what help ye can .
*
At the edge of the wood, there in the dark, Ardahl set his back against the trunk of a tree. It felt like stone at his back. Strong, as he would have to be strong.
Behind him he could hear Cathair and Dornach guiding the lad away. Dacha’s guard came at him. It had not taken them long to hack Granan to pieces.
Ardahl’s heart pounded up in his chest and his breath came quick. Here would he die. If only he could give the others time enough before he did.
The first of the guard reached him howling. The man had a good sword, which he whirled around his head before crashing it into Ardahl’s—Conall’s—blade. Not good enough. The force of his charge overbalanced him, and Ardahl slit his throat in a single blow.
The other men came with greater caution. Three of them together. More would be on their way, likely an unending stream of them. Ardahl could hear the voices, the shouts. The alarm given.
If he could take these three before the others arrived, he just might slip away.
He gutted the man on the left without delay, but the other two came at him as a team. A blade laid open his right arm. He felt no pain, but the loss of blood would weaken him.
Two snarling faces. The intent to kill showing in four eyes. His blade was quick, his arm still strong. Mayhap not the best warrior his clan had ever known, but good enough.
The man on the right went down, taken by a slash above the heart. He was holding them, giving the escaping party time.
All that mattered.
He now had a little bulwark of dead at his feet, inhibiting the approach of any enemy. But more men were rushing in even as he fought this last. He could see them, hear them.
He would die here after all.
He stabbed his last remaining opponent in the eye and received a shower of blood. Even as the man fell, he made to step around the tree. No time. The next of Dacha’s men came whooping like madmen, all too soon upon him.
So far, no one had got past him into the forest.
Aye, he would die here.
Liadan.
Upon the thought of her, the sounding of her name in Ardahl’s mind, something moved beside him. A figure it was, a familiar one glowing all in white.
Conall?
Did ye think I would let ye fight alone?
The shade of Conall held a sword. It must be Ardahl’s sword, since he had Conall’s in his hand. But he had left his sword with Liadan, along with his heart.
No matter, for the ghostly blade connected with those of their enemies. Struck against their blades. Slashed and wounded flesh.
More will be coming, Conall said even as the last man facing them fell. Come .
They ran, ducked between and through the trees, dodging the trunks in the dark. Ardahl could see nothing of the escaping party ahead. Had they got away? Been caught?
He realized suddenly he ran alone, the spirit of Conall so swiftly gone. Dacha’s men came after him, a great crowd of them, as it sounded. The breath surged in his lungs. Blood dripped steadily from his arm. From other places also, where he did not remember taking wounds.
He ran on but could feel himself weakening. If the pack behind reached him, they would fall upon him like hounds on a fox.
His steps began to lag. The breath seared his lungs. He caught a toe and nearly stumbled.
Up ahead, through the trees, he saw a light. Heard a rattle. A chariot appeared and rumbled up next to him.
But it was not a real chariot. They had not brought their chariots, and anyway, this one glowed with unearthly light, just like the shade of Conall. To be sure, he could see that Conall was aboard, driving the pair of white ponies. He leaned down and called to Ardahl, Come up!
A cry familiar from the battlefield, when a charioteer wanted to get his partner out of danger.
Ardahl leaped for the cart, felt Conall’s hand close on the back of his cloak and haul him aboard.
They took off, Conall driving through the trees in a reckless fashion. He had pushed Ardahl to the bottom of the cart, and there he stayed for the moment.
I am dead, he thought quite clearly. I must have died back there with my back against the tree. This is the afterlife.
But I thought I’d be flying away to Tír na nóg . Not riding in a chariot with Conall.
I have somewhat to tell ye, Conall said. Quick, before my time wi’ ye is done .
Ardahl struggled up, clutched the crossbar with both hands. “Am I dead?”
No’ yet. But I am . Conall gave his familiar, crooked grin. Almost ran the chariot into a tree.
“How is it ye are here?”
My sister asked for help. But listen. That day in the practice field, when I died, ’twas no’ supposed to happen that way.
Ardahl went still. “How did it happen? Why did ye turn on me in anger?”
For weeks, Brasha had been feeding me lies. Tumbling me senseless. Making me believe what she said. She told me ye were jealous o’ me.
“Surely ye never believed that. We were close as brothers. Closer!”
Aye, and were ye no’ a better warrior than me? Nay, she said ye were jealous o’ my having her. That ye’d pressed yourself upon her. Vowed to have her awa’ from me. She kept at it and kept at it till I was half mad .
Conall slowed the chariot. Ahead, Ardahl could see the clearing where the ponies waited.
She was in league wi’ Cathair. I see now, she was always his woman. They wanted me angry enough to kill ye. Get ye out o’ the way so Cathair could be first among the warriors.
“But—”
It did no’ turn out that way, nay . Conall seized Ardahl’s wrist. It felt like the kiss of lightning. At the end, I could no’ harm ye. I plunged the dagger instead into my own heart.
“By all that is holy, Conall—”
But his friend and the chariot were gone. Ardahl found himself standing on his own two feet among the trees. With a whoop that sounded like a sob, he stumbled forward into the clearing.