Chapter 6 #3
Soon another cheer went up and Unnr, a tall Norsewoman, raised a fist and shouted after she, too, successfully completed her first leap.
Uathach rejoined Scáthach as she had just chosen another flat rock to sit on halfway between the beach and the road so she could continue to observe the progress of her students.
Instead of sitting, she caught the horse’s bridle.
While he pranced in place and blew through his nose, she stroked his sweaty neck. “Better?” she asked.
Her daughter shrugged. “He’s settled some. I’m going to take him across the beach a few more times. He’s still not listening as he should. His energy is nervous, though he’s definitely fast.”
“A nervous horse makes for a bad choice to take into battle, or even for students to use to practice feats,” said Scáthach.
Uathach nodded. “I agree, but I haven’t quite given up on him. I do like his speed.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Sechan said as he climbed shakily from the cart. “But I would like to begin composing my ballad about the chariot feat.”
Scáthach and Uathach shared a knowing look as the bard walked stiffly to the warm, flat rock Scáthach had just chosen.
Then it all went very wrong.
“Viper! Viper! Viper!” The bard shrieked the word over and over, pointing at the rock as he scrambled backward, running into the side of Uathach’s nervously prancing stallion.
Scáthach saw the adder curled up on the rock sunning itself.
She opened her mouth to tell the foolish bard that the snake wouldn’t bother him if he didn’t bother it, but her words never came.
Uathach’s horse squealed, reared, and in a blind panic, raced away.
Uathach was knocked off balance and lost the reins.
As the chariot raced along the beach, Uathach grasped the lip of the cart, reaching for the flapping reins.
But no driver guided the cart around the rocks that peppered the beach. In horror, Scáthach watched a chariot wheel hit a large rock. The cart went airborne, and when it came back to earth, Uathach was thrown off her feet. Her head hit the lip of the cart, and she crumpled, unmoving.
“No!” Scáthach shouted as she ran into the sea, sprinting to the closest chariot. The two students jumped out of the cart, and she took up the reins, wheeling the chariot around and urging the horse out of the water.
Uathach still did not stir as the panicked stallion raced along the beach, heading directly toward the easterly rock wall.
“Ha! Ha! Go!” Scáthach shouted and lashed the reins against the horse’s back as they left the sea and rushed after Uathach.
But she knew she would be too late. Uathach’s horse had not slowed.
Had not calmed. He raced toward the wall.
He would reach it before Scáthach could get to him, could force him to turn.
The horse may stop in time to save his own life, but Scáthach knew there would be no stopping the cart. There would be no saving her daughter.
The sound of thundering hooves made Scáthach glance to her right and her stomach roiled.
Tabiti drove her chariot at a full run from the road to the beach.
Beside her in the cart, Cuchulainn held on to the lip, right foot already in the leather loop.
Tabiti angled her chariot so they would intercept Uathach before she reached the rock wall.
If Cuchulainn could make the leap from his chariot to hers, there would be time for him to turn the panicked horse.
There would be time for him to save Uathach.
“Sentanta! You can do it!” Scáthach cried.
She had no idea if he could, but he was Uathach’s only chance. Scáthach urged her horse on faster and faster as she watched Tabiti meet Uathach’s chariot, pull alongside it, and then match its speed.
Cuchulainn did not hesitate. He straightened his right leg.
His left foot found the lip of the cart.
Immediately he leaped, his strength uncoiling so powerfully that it was as if time suspended as he flew from his chariot.
The sun glinted off his hair like it was aflame.
The sweat that dewed his body caught the light.
He was movement and magick, power and perfection.
He landed on the panicked horse’s back as if he had been successfully completing the chariot feat for years.
Cuchulainn leaned forward, took the reins in his fists, and with the strength of the child of a god, he pulled so hard the horse’s neck bowed.
Blood flowed down the stallion’s neck and chest as the bit cut into his mouth, forcing the horse to slow.
Then Cuchulainn pulled on only one rein, turning the stallion directly into the sea, where he finally staggered to a trembling halt less than an arm’s length from the deadly wall of rock.
Scáthach leaped from her cart before it stopped and sprinted to meet Cuchulainn, who had already slid from the lathered horse’s back and pulled Uathach from the cart. He surged through the water, carrying her as her head lolled, her body limp and unmoving.
Scáthach took her from him. Holding Uathach close against her breast, as if she were once more an infant, the Queen of Shadow carried her to the beach, where she placed her gently on the sand.
“Uathach! Little Fry!” Scáthach used the sleeve of her tunic to wipe the blood slicking down her daughter’s face from the gash on her forehead. “Open your eyes. You must come back to me.”
Her daughter did not stir. She barely breathed. Her face was colorless. Her lips were cast in blue.
Scáthach had seen this kind of injury many times.
They all ended the same. If the warrior woke, and more often than not they didn’t, they were never the same.
Some opened their eyes, but only to stare at nothing until they wasted away.
Some never spoke again. And some were like infants when they woke, able to babble a few words, but unable to walk or even control their bodily functions.
No. That would not be Uathach’s fate.
Scáthach cupped her daughter’s face in her hands.
She drew several deep, grounding breaths as she centered herself.
“Béfionn, Mother, Goddess of the Underworld. I call on the immortal blood I share with you. I call on the gifts of magick and sight you have given me. As is my right, I gift my daughter, your granddaughter, Uathach, with that spark of magick within me that opens the veil and allows me to see. No longer is it mine. The gift, the sight, the spark now belongs to our Little Fry and will sing within her blood.” Scáthach bent and breathed into her daughter’s slack mouth, feeling the wrench of the Sight leaving her as if it had been ripped away.