Chapter 74
LXXIV
THE STRETCHED ANIMAL SKIN OF MY PRISON TENT IS AN angry, flickering red, broken only by the silhouettes of guards and passing soldiers as the night progresses.
I work unsuccessfully at my bindings, blood slicking my wrist from where my constant straining has rubbed it raw.
I could not sleep even if I was inclined to, the stone pin in the back of my neck unceasing in its sending of waves of pulsing agony.
For a while the howls and screams and clash of wood and metal outside seem as though they will never end.
Then they do. Some unheard signal, and hostilities pause.
The camp becomes, if not quiet, then less unpleasantly raucous than before.
My eyes are closed, trying to divine what’s going on outside, when I hear soft grunting from the tent’s entrance; a few seconds later there’s a flash of light and a dragging sound. A body being hauled inside.
“Deaglán.” It’s Tara. Impossibly here. On her knees beside me, spear blade slicing through my bonds, blue eyes narrowed as she scans me for other signs of injury.
As soon as my hand is free, I rip the brooch from the back of my neck, gritting my teeth against the pain as it slides free.
The agony in my head lessens to a thumping ache.
Still present—still affecting me, given that I cannot yet sense the pulse of Tara’s spear—but less.
Infinitely more manageable. I breathe out in pure relief.
“How are you here?” Gallchobhar left the silver arm in here with me, but I leave it on the ground; any small value it has is gone, now.
I’m still dizzy and every muscle is stiff and painful, especially in my legs, as I try to rise.
Gallchobhar’s hospitality has taken its toll. “Where are the others?”
“The Caer. They wanted to come but you know how they are at sneaking around.” She speaks in a brusque whisper, snatching a waterskin from her belt and forcing a few drops down my throat. She doesn’t want to speak, but she can see I’m not ready to move yet.
“How many warriors do we have?”
“Not enough.” Analytical rather than desperate. “Fiachra attacked many of the outer villages in preparation for this siege. Wiped out several warbands we would have called upon. And food stores in the Caer won’t last a week.”
Bad news. Catastrophic, actually, despite the way she says it so matter-offactly. “What’s the plan?”
“We attack. Probably not long after dawn.” She meets my gaze. Unsmiling. “Thought you might like to join us.”
I push myself to my feet. Sway. Pull my cloak so that, as far as is possible, it conceals the space where my arm should be. “I would be delighted.”
We step over the guards’ corpses and leave the tent.
The camp is still well-lit, fires everywhere, but they are dimmer, many of the men resting in these early hours.
Most warriors still awake are arrayed closer to the Caer, watchful of its walls.
There seem few barriers to our exit, but it will have to be in the wrong direction if we aim to rejoin our friends.
We walk at a steady pace, hoods up and faces shadowed, not uncommon given the icy night air. I do all I can to conceal my limp, the stiffness with which I move. We stride confidently until we can see the edge of the camp.
“Leathfhear?”
My heart drops at Gallchobhar’s amused voice from behind us. We don’t stop, pretend not to have heard, but after a second, armed men appear in our way. I glance at Tara, who grips her spear and slows. I do the same.
“Leathf hear! It is you. It seems I have underestimated your importance yet again.” Gallchobhar’s chiding is something dark as I draw down my hood. “And who is your saviour?” He motions at Tara to reveal herself.
She shakes her head, spins her spear. “I challenge you, Gallchobhar ap Drin. Let the winner take him.”
“Tara ap Rónán?” Gallchobhar is gleeful as he recognises the voice, realises who it is. He laughs, a boisterous roar. “Why would I accept—”
It happens as fast as blinking. Tara is moving. Her spear licking out. The warrior nearest to us drops, clutching his throat, gurgling as his life blood spills onto the dirt.
Gallchobhar’s laughter dies, and he bares his teeth into something more sinister as he waves back the other men stepping forward to attack.
“Show me your face, Tara. It has been so long.”
Tara shrugs and pulls back her hood. Her blue eyes are fierce. The scar on her face looks angry in the torchlight.
He inspects her. “Ugly as the day you left, I see.”
She smiles back at him. “And you, as stupid. Though I could have guessed that much.”
Gallchobhar’s sneer increases, evidently annoyed that Tara doesn’t appear to be intimidated by him. “Not stupid enough to fight you, when you are already my prisoner.”
“Spoken like a man with no honour. Spoken like a man who is afraid he will lose.”
Gallchobhar continues to study her. He is annoyed, but I don’t think she’s actually goaded him; he may be vile but he is not, despite Tara’s assertion, a fool.
That doesn’t mean he’s not considering it, though.
He is clearly confident in his superiority.
And he knows that even with Ruarc and Fiachra’s apparent disdain of the Old Ways, he will look weak if he refuses.
“Very well,” he eventually says simply. “But we will fight with an audience.” He smiles slowly. “I would hate for your father to miss out on this proud moment.”
Tara and I both realise what he means as we’re marched toward the Caer’s wall. I grimace, and can see a similar expression on my friend’s face. I lean over, lowering my voice to a murmur. “If you would prefer me to embarrass him in front of everyone, I am more than happy to take your place.”
She grins, even as the warriors forcing us along jerk us apart, afraid we’re conspiring. Continues to smile as she meets my gaze and shakes her head.
Gallchobhar, striding slightly ahead of us, raises his arms as he reaches the well-lit point leading to the main gate where he will easily be heard by those defending, but remain out of range of their projectiles.
“King Rónán!” he bellows to the walls. No way of knowing whether the king is actually present—likely not, given the hour—but no doubt someone will soon be fetching him.
“It seems that as you are not capable of fighting yourself, you have sent your offspring to do it!” He laughs, a sneering, mocking sound that echoes over the silent battlefield, then turns to Tara. “Before we begin. Tell them!”
He says the last loud enough for those on the walls to hear too. Tara steps forward. Expression betraying no sign of fear.
“I have challenged Gallchobhar ap Drin. If I am victorious, Deaglán and I will leave unharmed.” She does not have to say what will happen if she loses.
“So the terms will be honoured!” shouts Gallchobhar gleefully.
Somehow managing to mock the traditional form, even as he commits to the deal.
I breathe out, the faintest hope sparking.
There’s no way Gallchobhar could know just how good Tara is.
And though I would not trust Gallchobhar himself to let us go, I do think Fiachra’s men will honour the deal if she wins. I think.
Tara is pushed forward, into the wide section of road that, while muddy, still provides enough of a stable surface to suffice as a space for fighting. Her spear clatters to the ground after her, the man doing the throwing ensuring he is far from in range when she picks it up.
Gallchobhar is twenty feet away, already holding his long silver-tipped spear in one meaty hand and a blade in the other. Even now, even having been in his presence for days, I cannot get over how massive he is. Far bigger than any of the other warriors. And I know how quick he can be, too.
As I watch him focus on Tara and start to stalk toward her, his eyes bleed to black.
The shouting starts. Warriors from the surrounding circle screaming their exhortations and hurling insults at Tara, while from the wall there is a more distant inverse, struggle though it does to break through the cacophony of the nearer voices.
Many of the onlookers start drumming their weapons against their shields.
By the time the two combatants meet, the din is near overwhelming.
Gallchobhar strikes first, barely breaking stride as his spear licks out and then his blade follows in a vicious downward strike.
Tara pivots smoothly and blocks the sword, the imbued wood of her spear absorbing the edge of the metal without a splinter.
She steps calmly to the side and feints at Gallchobhar’s leg; the man twitches, almost falls for it.
Tara shows her teeth in a slow smile that Gallchobhar does not return.
Tara does not seem fazed by the crashing noise that assails her, I’m relieved to see.
Nor does Gallchobhar, though. In fact, the massive man seems to draw energy from it, his black eyes wide with excited fervour as he comes at Tara again, swinging and whirling in a frenzied attack that sees Tara deflecting blade after blade.
Each strike is pushed aside with practiced efficiency and she never falters, never loses her footing.
As Gallchobhar finally tires, Tara goes on the offensive. Her spear blurs and Gallchobhar blocks again and again, his brow furrowed in surprised concentration. But he moves as well as Tara. Calmly, smoothly pushes aside every strike.
And unlike her, he doesn’t retreat.
It is not a question of skill; there, at least at first glance, they seem equally matched.
Gallchobhar is simply bigger. In his early thirties and a mountain of muscle, taller and stronger.
Tara is athletic, lean, toned, and incredibly quick.
She might even have more endurance. But she is more than a head smaller.
She generates immense power with her blows—I know this only too well—but Gallchobhar generates more.
Has a longer reach. Is more easily able to absorb each strike.