Chapter 10
Sometimes the berserker came without Sentanta calling him. It always made him feel helpless, even after the creature vanquished his enemies and brought more glory to Cuchulainn’s name.
Still, he hated him—mostly because the berserker was created from the worst of Sentanta.
The only feelings he had were base. He could not be defeated, but he also could not be reasoned with—or he couldn’t be reasoned with until he’d met Scáthach.
That she could reach the berserker, reason with him, calm him .
. . it would never cease to be a wonderment.
* * *
“Now!” Scáthach told Cuchulainn as they drew closer to the pine grove and farther from the path that would return them to the road and the ambush.
“Hup!” Cuchulainn lashed the reins against the horses’ backs.
They shot forward, galloping toward the grove of pine trees as the barrels of mead rattled together and strained against the ropes binding them to the wagon.
When they reached the brambles, the horses hesitated, stomping and snorting in front of the hedge of needles.
Scáthach jumped from the cart and ran to their heads.
She stood just in front of the horses, between them and the tightly woven brambles, and reached out again with her goddess-gifted power to meld with the shadows under the trees.
Ignoring the piercing needles, Scáthach stepped forward until the brambles pressed against her legs.
Then she thrust her arms into the darkness and gathered the shadows to her.
When she turned to face the horses, she flung her arms out and spoke gently, reverently to the darkness that always watched, waited, and eagerly obeyed her.
“Through my birthright as daughter of the Goddess of the Underworld, I call for you to cloak them, protect them, quiet them.”
Starting at their heads, shadows painted the horses.
They moved down their bodies, wrapping gently around them like a familiar blanket, until both horses had calmed and stood quietly.
Then Scáthach took their bridles and led them through the brambles and into the heart of the pine grove.
With the shadows covering them, the brambles could not touch the horses, though they scratched and pierced through her leather breeches.
She petted their necks before she waded through the needle-covered plants to the cart.
“They broke from the yew grove as you led us in here.” Cuchulainn jumped from the cart and then grimaced at the brambles. His eyes widened as he studied the shadow-cloaked horses that were already drowsing quietly. “You shielded them from the brambles?”
“Yes,” she answered and then commanded, “Leannan, stay!” before she reached into the back of the wagon where, between barrels, their shields and swords lay.
Only a fool traveled unarmed. Scáthach retrieved the weapons, passing Cuchulainn his shield and sword.
“I could have hidden us from the ambushers had they not seen us first.” She took her shield and lifted her sword. “But, as you said, I like the odds.”
Cuchulainn flashed his teeth. “It’ll be good practice. You did give us a seven-day break. Wouldn’t want to get soft.”
Together they trudged through the brambles, hacking at them with their swords until they could see the group of warriors running toward them.
There, with several feet of needle-covered plants between them and the clearing outside the pine grove, they stood side by side, raised their shields and swords, and waited.
“Do not call the berserker,” Scáthach said.
Cuchulainn’s brows lifted. “I hadn’t even thought of it.”
She smiled. “Good.”
The first of the warriors reached them. Four of them charged into the brambles. They took only two strides before the sticky needles wrapped around their legs, pricking into their skin, slowing them, turning their reflexes sluggish as they struggled to get free.
Scáthach and Cuchulainn moved as one in the deadly dance they’d first practiced when Aife’s men had ambushed them, easily cutting down the four warriors.
The others slowed and were more precise in their attacks, but they tended to use their shields to push against the brambles, which left them far too open to the two swords that sang lethally through the air at them. Almost half of the warriors were felled within minutes.
The remaining warriors regrouped and then teamed up. One used his shield to press back the brambles and the other used his shield to cover himself and his partner while they struck at Scáthach and Cuchulainn with long, lethal spears added to their arsenal of swords and axes.
The attackers were more difficult to defeat paired that way, which only meant that it took longer to get past their shields, though now they fell in pairs.
Scáthach and Cuchulainn found their rhythm.
They moved together as if they’d fought side by side for decades.
Scáthach did not enjoy killing, but she found herself enjoying the dance with Cuchulainn, so much so that she made a mistake.
She took her gaze from their attackers to look at Cuchulainn—to smile at him—to share in the fierce glory she found in their synchronicity.
As she turned to look at him, her shield dropped for just an instant.
“We dance well together, Sentanta,” she said.
Before Cuchulainn could say anything in response, the pair attacking them lunged forward.
Because her gaze had flicked to the warrior at her side and not the ones attacking them, Scáthach did not see the ax.
She did not raise her shield. She only saw the panic that flashed across Cuchulainn’s face.
He surged forward, lifting his shield so that it covered Scáthach, blocking the ax meant to sever her head from her neck.
The parry left Cuchulainn exposed. Quick as a heartbeat, a spear sliced through the air, striking Cuchulainn’s thigh with such force the sharp point of it went all the way through his leg.
Cuchulainn roared in pain.
Scáthach responded instantly, stepping forward to shield Cuchulainn as her sword moved with blinding speed, striking, thrusting, eviscerating.
Cuchulainn roared again and again and again, his voice no longer recognizable as human.
Scáthach did not look back at him. She could hear what was happening to Cuchulainn.
She knew she would have to time her actions precisely or in minutes she could end up just as dead as their attackers.
She kept fighting but only made defensive moves as she studied the warriors facing them, waiting for the right moment.
She saw it clearly in the sudden hesitation of her attackers and the fear that widened their eyes as they stared at the thing behind her.
Scáthach lunged to the side. Tucking her head, she threw herself into the brambles as the berserker, howling with rage, burst from the thicket and descended on the shocked warriors.
He had a sword but no shield. He didn’t need one.
His movements were inhumanly fast. His strikes and thrusts blurred.
Blood sprayed, accompanying the terrified screams of warriors who attempted to retreat.
The berserker knew as little of retreat as he knew of mercy.
He gave chase and caught each man. Some he disemboweled.
Some he decapitated. And some he tore apart with his hands and teeth.
Scáthach watched from within the pine grove until the berserker was out of sight, stalking after the two surviving men who raced for the sea. She knew they would not survive long.
And then what? Would he calm himself, or was he in so much pain from his leg wound that the calm Cuchulainn needed to be free of the berserker was unreachable? Would he return here and disembowel her next?
He could try. The Queen of Shadow was not so easily killed. What she was most worried about was whether she could reach him through his red haze. If not, this time would she have to kill him? The thought of killing Sentanta sickened her.
Scáthach extracted herself from the piercing brambles, grimacing as they left trails of scratches and blood down her arms. “Stay, Leannan,” she commanded the deerhound, who whined but obeyed.
And then she strode from the grove, following the berserker’s trail of death. Clouds had darkened the evening, cloaking the last of the setting sun and bruising the sky. The wind whipped her hair across her face as she trudged after Cuchulainn. The air smelled of the coming rain.
“Help me.”
Scáthach’s heartbeat hammered as the warrior she was walking past and had thought was dead spoke in a wet voice, barely audible above the wind.
She moved closer to the crumpled man. He lay on his side, curled into a fetal position with his back to her.
She moved around him. The fallen warrior had unsuccessfully tried to push his bulging intestines into his body.
His hands pressed against his abdomen while red snakes of flesh slithered through his fingers.
“Help me.” Blood frothed from his mouth. His eyes were black with pain in a face gray with impending death.
“I will help you.” Scáthach knelt beside him and used the hem of her tunic to wipe the blood from his nose and mouth. “Who are you?”
“Tribe Catuvellauni. From the mainland. Far south.” He spoke in quick bursts of words.
“But why come here to my island? Why attack me?”
“Y-our sister. Bring her your head. For your castle.”
“What? Aife is offering Dunscáith for my head?” Anger began to simmer within the Queen of Shadow.
“Y-yes. Dunscáith.” He coughed and more blood spewed from his lips. “H-help me,” he wheezed.
Scáthach placed her hand gently on his forehead.
“Be at peace.” She used her sword to slit his throat.
After he released his last breath, she bowed her head.
“If your biggest mistake in life was to have been fooled by Aife, then I hold no ill will for you and hope you are greeted in the Summerlands by your loving ancestors.”