Chapter 22
Before Sentanta met Scáthach, he would not have forgiven Drest or his army of dead warriors. He wouldn’t have even considered that they might be given another chance—a chance at not spending eternity in gloom, lost, far from their home.
But now? Now he did know her, and she’d changed everything.
* * *
Cuchulainn reacted instantly. “Hup, Chance, hup!” He gave the stallion his head and the big horse shot forward, not hesitating to plow his way through the army of dead. Warriors lunged aside as the chariot raced through and kept going.
“After them!” Drest’s command sounded behind them.
Cuchulainn let Chance run, only pulling him to a halt when they were out of sight of the pursuing army. The horse snorted and pranced in place, eager to keep running. “Settle,” Cuchulainn told him. “Be calm. Control yourself.”
The stallion stilled immediately.
Scáthach turned to face Cuchulainn. “You stop?”
“I need to ask you about Drest and the army. They’re Norse, correct?”
She tilted her head to the side, studying him. “They are.”
“Then what are they doing here? Should they not have been escorted to Valhalla by Odin’s Valkyries?”
“Valkyries only come to the battlefield to escort warriors to Valhalla when they die honorably,” she explained.
Cuchulainn’s brow furrowed. “But Drest and his army died in battle.”
“They did. In a dishonorable battle following a woman who commanded they attack a fort without provocation. Their ultimate purpose in following Aife was to usurp a crown not meant for her.”
His brow smoothed. “And that is lacking in honor. So even though they died in battle, they died dishonorably.”
“Yes, though I’m surprised to see them here. They should be in the domain of their Underworld goddess, Hel, where she will exact judgment,” said Scáthach. “I wonder if they are lost because they died so close to Dunscáith, a castle created by the Goddess of our Underworld?”
“That seems possible,” he said. “I have an idea about what should be done with them, but I need the help of the Autumnal Realm and your trust.” Behind them, Drest and his army came into view, jogging after them with the relentless endurance of the dead.
“You have my trust. What is it you need from the realm?”
Cuchulainn glanced around them at the softly rolling hills and the chilly gloom. “I need something to guard our backs so the army can’t surround us—so we can face them together.”
“You remember that we cannot kill them, don’t you?”
He nodded quickly. “Of course. But they don’t belong here—two hundred spirits don’t belong here. I think if we get Drest to see reason, we can help them.”
“That would be a very good thing,” she said.
“I believe the realm will help us.” Scáthach glanced past him to the side of the road and smiled.
“Is that what you need?” She pointed to an enormous cliff that had materialized ahead of them and to the right.
The sheer rock wall was so massive it reminded her of the cliffs on the western coast of éire.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I need. Hup, Chance!” Cuchulainn guided the chariot off the road to the base of the cliff. Hastily they armed themselves with shields and swords and then, with the cliff to their backs, they faced the oncoming army of the dead.
“What is your plan?” Scáthach asked. She held her shield and sword in a relaxed manner as she watched the army get closer and closer.
“I’d like you to dance with me again.” Her gaze went to him, and she quirked one brow up. He smiled. “This time let us make it a defensive dance instead of a lethal one. Dance with me while I try to reason with Drest.”
Scáthach snorted, sounding even to herself a lot like Tabiti.
Sword raised, Drest led the charge, followed by the half dozen or so Wolfskins who had left Lethra with him, and behind them the rest of the two hundred spirits.
As he and the army got within striking distance, Drest slowed.
He didn’t lower his sword, but his pale, furrowed brow and narrowed eyes betrayed his confusion.
He stopped several yards away. “Do you wish to attempt to challenge me again, great Hero of Ulster?” Drest sneered.
“That would be foolish,” Cuchulainn said. “A dead man is already defeated.”
Drest’s lip curled. “And yet this dead man can kill you.” When Cuchulainn didn’t respond, Drest’s gaze went to Scáthach. “Do you have nothing to say, Queen of Shadow?”
Scáthach shrugged. “Only that you can try, but I’ve learned Cuchulainn is rather difficult to kill.”
Drest attacked and his Wolfskins joined him. Cuchulainn and Scáthach danced together. Their swords sang in the autumn gloom as they gracefully blocked and parried, lunged and ducked—always on the defensive. They danced and struck and pushed the Wolfskins back but served no mortal wound.
“What is this game you play?” Drest demanded as he pressed Cuchulainn with a flurry of sword strikes.
“No game,” Cuchulainn said while he blocked each of Drest’s blows. “Tell me, why do you attack us?”
“Because that bitch sent us here!” Spittle rained from Drest’s mouth as he shouted. “We belong in Valhalla!”
“And by that bitch do you mean Aife or me?” asked Scáthach as she shoved three Wolfskins away from her and into range of Chance’s teeth and hooves. He squealed and struck out. The men hastily retreated.
“You of course!” said Drest.
“I had nothing to do with you and your men ending up here,” said Scáthach. “In truth, I was shocked to see you.”
“Lies!” Drest grunted as Cuchulainn blocked him again hard enough that he stumbled back.
“Lies are forbidden in the Underworld,” Cuchulainn told Drest in a voice pitched to carry to the restless army behind him. “They should not be spoken at all, and if they are, they cause the speaker pain.”
“I don’t believe you!” Drest snarled.
Scáthach blocked a sword blow and, with her shield, knocked the warrior off his feet. She glanced at Drest as the next dead man stalked toward her. “Then test what he says. Try to tell a lie. For instance, say that Aife is Lethra’s choice to be queen.”
Drest narrowed his eyes at her and opened his mouth. “Aife is—” His words cut off as his face twisted in pain.
“You see, Drest? Lies should not be spoken here,” Cuchulainn said. “Scáthach had nothing to do with you and your army being unable to find Valhalla.”
The Wolfskins who had been pressing Scáthach halted their attack, lowered their swords, and exchanged glances with one another. Behind them the rest of the army paused.
Drest scoffed. “Are you saying that the Shadow Guard didn’t kill us?”
“No, that would be a lie,” said Scáthach. “What he’s saying is that I do not know why you are here and not in Valhalla, though I do have a guess. Drest, you and your warriors know that we only attacked and killed you in response to your actions, correct?”
“That’s right,” said Cuchulainn. “The Shadow Guard didn’t harass you, even after you trespassed on Skye and caused the death of two of Scáthach’s students.”
“And injured my daughter,” added Scáthach.
The army had stopped pressing forward. Many of the warriors followed the example of the Wolfskins and lowered their swords, listening instead of attacking.
“Tell us, Drest, why did you come to Skye, ambush Scáthach, put a price on her head, and wrongfully take Dùn Dòbhrain?” asked Cuchulainn.
“To make Aife queen!” he shouted as he lunged at Cuchulainn, who easily stepped aside.
“But why when you knew Lethra would not accept her as queen?” asked Cuchulainn.
Drest’s blows slowed. “She should have been queen.” The dead warrior’s face contorted in pain as he spoke the words and he stumbled back, pressing a hand to his forehead.
“You don’t believe that lie,” said Cuchulainn.
“Though you used to, which is why you could speak it at all,” added Scáthach. “Drest, you and the Wolfskins swore an oath to follow my father, did you not?”
Silence hung over the army; their focus was entirely on the conversation taking place between their leader, the Queen of Shadow, and the Hero of Ulster.
Breathing hard, Drest lowered his sword. “Yes. I gave your father my oath and then I gave it to Aife.”
“Did you trust my father’s judgment?” Scáthach asked.
Drest blinked his pale-colored eyes several times. “Yes. Of course I trusted the Jarl. I served him for many years.”
“No pain and you were able to speak the words. You’re telling the truth,” said Cuchulainn.
Drest scowled at Cuchulainn, who shrugged and grinned.
“Then why did you go against his express wishes and support Aife for the crown?” Scáthach’s voice was kind and conversational. She’d lowered her sword and was leaning against her shield, which she propped on the ground at her side.
“Aife should have—” Pain cut off his words and he bowed his head in misery as his gaze went to the ground.
“The truth, Drest,” said Scáthach.
When he lifted his face to Scáthach, tears tracked down his pale cheeks.
“I loved her. I thought she would grow to be a good leader, would listen to me if I helped her get the crown.” Drest shook his head.
“It was her mother. She caused Aife to be—argh!” He exclaimed as pain sliced through him, severing his words.
“Aife is a monster.” Cuchulainn spoke the words in a tight, low voice that did not carry to the army. “Becoming a monster was her choice and no one’s fault but her own.”
Drest turned his tear-stained face to Cuchulainn. “You don’t know her.”
Cuchulainn’s laughter was mocking. “Oh, no? She had her men ambush me. She drugged me. She raped me. All to sire a son with divine blood because of her never-ending envy of Scáthach. Did you love her while she was molesting me? Is that why you guarded the door and made sure she wouldn’t be interrupted? ”