Chapter 45
Chapter forty-five
RORY
Rory stood before the thousands of men and women, spears and swords glinting in the soft light of the dawn, and could think of nothing at all to say.
She should say something, she knew – should say something inspiring to these warriors and farmers, soldiers and shoemakers, who had traveled so far and risked so much to stand before her now, ready to lay down their lives in the hope that she would save the ones whom they had left behind.
They deserved that much, to hear their sacrifice acknowledged, their bravery lauded, and yet she simply stood there, speechless, unable to say a single word.
Too afraid that if she opened her mouth, something guttural and raw would sound forth, and the fog would rise and the frost creep in over her skin, and then she would see them – not as they were now, hale and hearty and battle-ready, but how they might soon be, broken and bloodied on the ground.
And it would be her fault.
Locke seemed to realize it, to know that she could not do this – this first, small act as queen – because he stepped up to her side, a fearsome figure clad in black and steel, a swordsman through and through, just as he had once boasted to her.
“You have come from Connacht,” he said. “From Leinster and Munster, and from Ulaid, from Bréifne and Meath and Osraige – but not today. Today –” He lifted a closed fist in the air, saluting them as he spoke. “Today we are all from éire.”
A low rumbling roar broke out, soldiers thumping their spears against their shields, and Locke nodded.
“You know your duties,” he said. “You know what lies in the balance, both should we fail and should we win. You know that the only option is the latter.” Another roar, louder and hungrier this time, arose, and Locke dropped his arm, gloved hand going to rest on the hilt of his sword.
“And you know your orders,” he said as the din subsided somewhat.
He glanced at Rory, a silent question, and she shook her head, still unable to speak.
He gave a short nod, and turned back to the waiting army.
“Go see them done, and may the gods save us all.”
Rory drew in a shaky breath as they dispersed in relative silence, each towards their respective banners – the sky-blue of Munster and the scarlet of Ulaid, the green of Leinster and the white bronze of the Connachta – and then shivered at the light touch of Locke’s hand against the small of her back.
“Ready?” He asked, and she nodded, her eyes searching one final time for Dil, for Gareth – for Finn.
She found the latter easily enough – his black-and-white stallion easy enough to spot – and the others near him, clustered together as they spoke, expressions shuttered and drawn.
Look at me, she thought with a sudden pang.
Look at me, one last time, for only the gods know if ever I shall see you again.
“My lady.” The pressure of Locke’s hand against her back grew more insistent. “I’m sorry, but we must go. My men await to escort you to the hill.”
“The hill,” she repeated, rather dully, and he moved to stand in front of her, hazel eyes narrowed.
“My lady,” he said again, a faint note of urgency threading its way into his voice. “If you do not wake the Lia Fáil, then this is all for naught.” He stepped back, nodding to where Tadhg and Eamon sat already astride their horses, their swords at the ready. “You must get to the rock before –”
He stopped abruptly, swiveling around on the heel of his boot, head tilted back to scan the skies, for from far above came a strange, high-pitched whistling sound.
Rory barely had time to crane her neck to peer upwards when Locke’s arms were around her, throwing her to the ground, once more shielding her with his body.
“Get down!” He yelled, face twisted with fear as he looked towards Eamon and Tadhg. “Get down, get down –”
A cacophony of booms sounded all around them, clouds of sizzling white power exploding in their wake. “Cover your eyes,” Locke screamed again, yanking his shirt off and then over Rory’s face. “Cover your eyes, your mouth – quicklime –”
He broke off, choking and gagging, and Rory shrieked, struggling to free herself from his arms that pinned her to the ground, keeping the cloth of his shirt firmly wrapped over her head, protecting her. “Locke –”
“Stay down,” he wheezed, then another violent fit of coughing, followed by another succession of thuds and booms and the rising cacophony of panicked, agonized screaming.
She bucked and thrashed underneath him, terror rising. “Locke –”
“I’m fine,” he hissed. “Not my eyes – I’m fine –”
“You’ll suffocate.” Rory writhed and squirmed, desperately trying to free herself, to save him. “Locke, if it’s quicklime, you won’t be able to breathe –”
“I said I’m fine,” he hissed, and then she was yanked to her feet, stumbling blindly as he dragged her through the choked shrieks and screams of agony from the soldiers. “Catapults,” he managed to say hoarsely as they stumbled and sprinted along. “They must be using catapults to launch it at us.”
Rory gave a half-sob, still struggling to loosen his unyielding grip on her arms, fighting to breathe through the fabric of his shirt. “Locke, I need to see, let go of me –”
Then she was tumbling forward, hands catching blindly at the rough canvas folds of a tent as she stumbled to her knees.
She ripped Locke’s shirt over her head and pivoted, panting for breath, to see him clad in only his leather breastplate and bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks from swollen, bloodshot eyes.
“What you need,” he wheezed, “is to get to the rock.”
“Oh gods, Locke, your face, your eyes –”
“Rory,” he said raggedly, pushing aside her hands as she reached for him. “You have to go. Our plan is ruined, we don’t stand a chance unless you wake the Lia Fáil. We need that power – we need it.”
She inhaled sharply, lowering her arms, heart thrumming erratically.
From outside the tent, the screaming intensified, and in the distance, she could hear it – the clash of steel on steel, the drum of hoofbeats and horses’ shrill neighs, the roar of battle and strident shrieking. “How? What do I do?”
Locke staggered over to the basin by the bed they had shared only a few short hours before, submerging his head in the water for several long heartbeats.
“The avenue is out,” he said when he resurfaced, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“It’s on the near side of the hill – they’ll see you.
You’ll have to go round to the far side – it’s much steeper, and there’s no path. ”
“I can make it.”
He reached out with shaky hands for the discarded shirt on the floor, pulling it over his wet hair. “You’ll need a horse,” he said. “And me.”
“Locke, you’re hurt –”
“They will come for you, Rory, in hordes. Aoife won’t rest until she has you.
” He drew his sword and stared at her with bloodshot eyes until she did the same with her brother’s sword that still hung at her waist. “We cannot give her that chance.” He paused for a moment, collecting himself, it seemed, then reached for her e hand.
“Stay close,” he said. “Do not let go of me. Understand?”
“Locke,” she said yet again, trembling from head to toe as the sound of the battle grew louder, drew nearer. “I don’t want to see this.”
He understood. “Don’t use it unless you have to,” he said, and then they were moving, out of the tent and into the mouth of hell itself.
It was a beautiful morning, pure blue skies with the faintest hint of pink-and-purple lingering at the edges of the horizon, the sunlight dancing through the lush full branches of the trees and along the blood-splattered ground.
Rory registered it dimly, the loveliness of the summer morning, even as Locke clashed and fought with two Albion-clad soldiers, his sword slicing through the gullet and the throat. “Stay with me,” he said over his shoulder, and Rory clutched her brother’s sword, tighter, more fiercely than before.
She had killed before, had seen and given death too many times for her to count, had stabbed Locke’s own father in the gullet with the bent blade of a hunting knife a few short months ago.
She should not be so shaken by the sight of dead and dying men strewn upon the ground across the plain that stretched out in endless green waves before the great hill of Tara, the sounds of screaming and stench of gore and sweat and other, fouler things that she refused to let herself name.
This was where Niall had died.
The thought erupted within her, unbidden and unwelcome, stealing her breath and shuddering her heart as she hurried after Locke, her brother’s sword hanging useless from her hand as Locke parried and thrust and slew any in their wake, while she focused all her strength, all her might on not yielding to the overwhelmingly strong siren’s song of her fog and her shadows and the brittle, bright knowings that haunted her every step, nipping at her heels, demanding to be seen.
A horse charged straight for them, the soldier on his back lowering his lance, spurring his steed onward, faster, to impale them both in a single, vicious blow.
Locke shoved her to the side and rolled to his knees, dodging the spear as he swiped at the horse’s knees with his sword.
Rory staggered to her feet, and was immediately accosted by two other soldiers dressed in blue-and-gold, the edges of their swords glinting in the warm light of the summer sun.
“Rory,” she heard Locke scream. “Rory, run –”
As though in a dream, she lifted her hand and the fog rose with her, a dense, impenetrable cloud of midnight gray, seizing them in its merciless grip, lifting them high above the ground as they squealed and kicked, clawing at the invisible hands wrapped tight around their throats, until their boots stilled and their hands hung limp at their sides.