Chapter 75 #2
I spot what’s causing the pulse. Next to Lir’s bloodied, vacantly staring head, lies his staff.
I hesitate, then stoop and pick it up.
The battle is gone.
An immense rotunda of white columns and white stone and beyond, white mountaintops. A chill wind cuts at my face, slices across the seeping wound in my stomach. I stumble, almost drop the staff in shock at the instantaneous transition. In front of me, the white-cloaked man chuckles.
“You continue to surprise, Deaglán,” says Lir.
“Lir?” I stare around, disoriented even as I recognise the place; there are other people behind him, men and women also cloaked in white. They hang back silently among the columns, watching. My gaze returns to the druid. I saw him die.
“Be calm. I have brought you to the tempeall albios. We do not have long and I …” He trails off as he examines me. Expression turning from determined, to puzzled, to sad.
“Oh, lad. The sorrows you bear, Deaglán,” he says softly. “I am so very sorry.”
I take a staggering step. Allow him to step forward and steady me. His arm is solid as it supports me. “I don’t understand. How did I get here?” Bewilderment muting everything else that roils within me, at least for now.
“You are still at Caer áras. This is a place of the mind. And though this conversation will take moments at the Caer, those moments matter.” He grips me by the shoulders.
Calm as he considers. “Keep on as you were intending. Challenge Gallchobhar. But first, you must announce that his offering has been rejected. Tell everyone who can hear that instead, you have been anointed a draoi nasceann by Dia Domhain himself, and that they are not to fight. Tell them that those on the side of Fiachra have dishonoured the Old Ways, and will be anathema to the gods if they continue on their current path.”
I lean on him, trying to take it in. I have no idea how he knows what’s happening, but he’s right: I was about to challenge Gallchobhar. “And if Fiachra’s men do not listen?”
He smiles grimly. “They will listen, Deaglán. And when you kill Gallchobhar, they will surrender.”
I nod acceptance, not knowing how else to react. “Lir. Are you … dead?” After my father, I have to entertain the possibility.
“A question with a complicated answer. I knew what Gallchobhar would do; he has always been a brute who believes himself blessed and protected by the gods because he was granted the nasceann. But, yes. My body, at least, is gone.” He sighs regretfully.
“Time passes, Deaglán. You must go. Save Rónán’s people, and I will explain all of this.
Save them and you have my oath that I will train you, and together we will find the meaning behind your journey here. ”
He steps back, and grasps my hand in his.
“My strength to yours, Deaglán,” he says quietly.
Everything sharpens. My wound, less painful. Renewed energy in my limbs.
And then I am back on the shore of Lake áras, and the battle has all but stopped, and everyone is watching.
A heartbeat, and I recover myself. No time for the luxury of confusion. I find Gallchobhar again, still staring in disbelief.
“Gallchobhar ap Drin, I challenge you.” My voice is sure and strong, seems louder than it should as it rings out across the battlefield.
I am clear-headed, and the pain in my stomach is little more than an annoyance.
Still. I am running on emotion. On rage and grief and desperation, despite doing all I can to maintain an outward appearance of calm.
I raise Lir’s staff high. “The gods have rejected your offering. Dia Domhain has anointed me a draoi nasceann and sent me back to condemn you, and all who follow Fiachra, for dishonouring the Old Ways.” I turn to the watching men and women, and brandish my silver hand.
“Warriors! By this sign you will know you have been deceived by your leaders. Throw down your weapons and make recompense, or suffer the gods’ wrath for your defiance of them. ”
The last of the fighting has stopped. An eerie hush hangs over everything.
I walk toward Gallchobhar. My bravado is having an effect.
Fiachra’s warriors do not challenge me. In fact, as I walk past, stripping off my sodden tunic so that I am wearing only breeches like them, they step back. Move from my path.
Gallchobhar, for the first time, looks lost. He is angry but he does not know why, does not understand how this is possible. His lip is curled as he takes me in. Sees the open wound in my stomach. The way my silver arm does not weigh me down, how it moves as smoothly as any part of me.
And he sees the way everything has stopped, everyone is watching us. The way his men shy away from my presence.
He snarls, readies his weapons, and charges.
I am mobile again, alert again, but I am in no state to run. So I wait. He screams as he comes at me. There is desperation in his black eyes. He knows what I mean to this battle now.
He brings his blade down with all his strength.
The shivering note rings clear over the silent battlefield. I am almost as surprised as Gallchobhar as we stand there, both frozen. His blade pressing against my silver arm. The iron should have at least scored it. Instead, despite the wild power behind the strike, it hasn’t left a mark.
And I have not taken a step back. Gallchobhar is bigger and stronger and should be able to crush me, but we stand there and he pushes and I do not move.
He roars and pulls back and swings again, all his might behind the strike. This time I lift my hand and try to catch the blade. It shatters, glimmering splinters flying off in the sunlight. Gallchobhar screams as one embeds itself in his cheek.
I am as shocked as he is, but I make sure not to show it. This is a performance, now. Gallchobhar is thrown, unbalanced, and with this medallion around my neck, with whatever Lir has done to help me, I may even be able to beat him. But it will not matter if his army does not falter as well.
“Flee, Gallchobhar.” I wonder how far I can take this. “Flee, or die with dishonour.”
For a moment, I think it might work. Gallchobhar’s eyes are wide, and I can see him thinking about it. Can see him twitching, desperate to turn and escape the madness that has suddenly been visited upon him by my appearance.
But he doesn’t.
“Fight!” He hefts his spear and bellows the words at the men around him, his snarl echoing up to the gate and rolling over Caer áras. “Do not stand there! Fight!”
They do not.
The two sides continue to back away from one another, and more and more, Fiachra’s warriors turn to us. Watching. Faces grim. They have not discarded their weapons. I suppose I did not expect them to, not yet. If I cannot defeat Gallchobhar, my words will still be proven lies.
Gallchobhar knows it too.
He comes at me, and we begin again.
I do not know how long the fight lasts. I get only impressions of the mute, gathering crowd which rings us.
I am not as good as Tara, but Gallchobhar is not the same man who fought her.
His confidence has turned to confused anger, his attacks from calculated to battering.
My silver arm is more defensively effective than any blade.
And though I am injured, the life my father has given me, the strength that Lir has given me, is enough.
It hurts. It all hurts. But I keep going.
After a minute, I can see Gallchobhar’s belief start to wane. His screams of exhortation become increasingly desperate. His swings more wild. Three times he lands hits, blows that leave gaping scars, wounds that would fell normal men. But not me. Not today.
And then he leaves a gap, and I drive through it, and he staggers, knee no longer able to support his weight.
He stares at the buckled limb. Disbelieving. A crippling blow. Even for him.
My staff blurs again and takes him on the wrist; he drops his weapon and stumbles and falls backward, and suddenly the darkness is bleeding from his eyes. Leaving only confusion and fury.
“You are not nasceann. You were never one of the worthy,” he snarls.
I lean down. Pick up his spear in my silver hand. “Neither were you,” I tell him softly.
I drive it through his heart.
He stares up at me. Gives a little wheeze of surprise. Almost a sad sound.
He lies still.
I leave the spear in him. His empty eyes gazing up at the brightening sky. It is important that his warriors see him this way.
I start toward the gate, walking rather than running, and Fiachra’s men part like water before me. Many have started to flee, a scattering of men and women sprinting away across the fields and into the surrounding forests, the madness of the battle frenzy changed to panic.
It is a trickle. Then a stream. Then a flood.
Those too far away to realise that Gallchobhar had fallen see me now, look back from their wary watching of the enemy and see his massive form on the ground, spear jutting plainly from his chest. He was not their king, not beloved, but he was still the greatest warrior among them.
Fiachra may not be here, but I do not think he will survive the consequences of this day.
I am so badly injured that it is hard to move, the extra wounds Gallchobhar gave me slowing me.
Even with my father’s medallion, even with whatever extra strength Lir has lent me, I don’t know how much longer I can stay conscious.
It is all I can do to stride, to look confident, to not show how close I am to collapse.
Even now, I think if the charade is revealed, things may turn.
But I make it to the gates. The last of Fiachra’s warriors either surrendering or retreating, chased by exuberant, whooping defenders. And I am escorted quickly inside. Men I do not know but who treat me with reverence. I am too tired to tell them to do otherwise.
I find my way into a corner, out of sight from others. I sit against a wall.
I close my eyes, and know no more.