“Well spoken, lad.” Bran gazed ahead toward the third island, the tall, stark pinnacle of rock whose treacherous base concealed the secret channel, the place of the Worm’s Mouth.
“Hoist the red banner,” he commanded. “This is the dawn of our great endeavor. Tonight we sleep the sweet sleep of victory; or the long, dark sleep of death.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was a sight to stir the blood; the stuff of the old tales. They raised the scrap of scarlet cloth to the masthead and, as the first rays of the sun spread out across the water, lighting the high, rocky tower of the Needle to a bright glowing gold, Sevenwaters’ fleet emerged from the impossible channel: three great longships balanced with immense skill against the fierce tug of the maelstrom, their prows high and proud in the dawn light; and after them the smaller craft, curragh of wattle and tarred skin, squat fishing boat blunt and practical, each with its complement of fighting men. Once they were clear of the whirlpool’s perilous currents, the ships parted. One of the Viking vessels made for the smaller island with two lesser craft in its wake, while the main part of the fleet made direct for the larger mass of land, where the ships of the Britons now lay beneath the sea; where my cousin’s body now drifted, somewhere, in the arms of Manannán mac Lir. Our own curragh turned and followed. From a place of concealment in the bows, Godric and Waerfrith now took out weapons, sword and dagger, axe and knife, and leather helms; every man must go prepared to play his part, even those who had spent the night in the water. For them, there was dry clothing; a man could not fight if he was numb with cold. I watched Darragh fitting a helm over his dark hair and buckling on a sword belt, and then I spread my wings and flew, for the heart of a battle is no place for a woman, and no place at all for a bird no bigger than a man’s clenched fist.
I summoned the strength of my true self, and flew to Greater Island, heedless now of sea-eagle, goshawk or human predator, for it seemed to me this was beyond fear, beyond grief, that the great battle should go ahead, the brave banner of Sevenwaters be raised, when the venture was doomed before ever it began. If the child of the prophecy was slain, the long goal of the Fair Folk could never be achieved. The Islands would be lost; the old ways would be forgotten. A prophecy was a prophecy. The men would go in and die, and all the time the lady Oonagh would be laughing, laughing with scorn that the blood of these strong young warriors was spilled to no purpose at all. I could not believe, still, that she had won so easily. And yet I must believe it. With my own incautious telling of a secret, I had ensured that she would win. It was wrong. It must be wrong. Surely it had not all been for nothing?
The old tales tell of great battles: the exploits of heroes such as Cú Chulainn; the warlike deeds of Fionn mac Cumhaill and his outlaw band. They tell of strength and courage, of triumph and reward. They speak of the routing of enemies. But they do not tell of the sights I saw that day, as I moved across the low grassy hills of Greater Island. I saw the bright light of commitment in a young warrior’s eyes change to stark terror the instant before his opponent’s axe struck the head from his shoulders. I saw Snake, a hardened fighter if ever there was one, weeping as he stood over the form of young Mikka lying on a red-stained ground with the blood pulsing from his severed arm; I heard the maimed youth calling for his mother in the voice of a small child suddenly gripped by a nightmare. Snake’s face was pinched and old as he muttered, “Rest now, son; you fought bravely,” and used his knife to grant Mikka the gift of a dreamless sleep. The suddenness of it stopped my heart. No story can describe the look in such a man’s eyes as he rises and turns straight back into the fray, bloodied blade in hand. As for Johnny’s men, they wielded their weapons even as Bran of Harrowfield did: as if they did not care if they lived or died. Such a force is fearsome indeed, and the Britons fell back before the unearthly light in these warriors’ eyes.
I lost sight of Darragh. He was somewhere out there in the midst of it, but the tunics of the opposing armies were stained with earth and blood, and all was confusion. The forces of Sevenwaters had secured the anchorage and the western cove; here Gull could be seen moving about giving sharp orders; here the limp forms of the dead and the tormented ones of the injured were laid out in what little shelter could be found. Not all could be brought back here. There were many slain; by afternoon it seemed each fold of the land was studded with the broken bodies of Briton and Irishman alike, and the waters around the island ran red with the mingled blood of these old foes. Among the injured moved the archdruid and his brother, the man with the swan’s wing. Perhaps they could do little but murmur a quiet word or two; perhaps they could only hold a man’s hand as he screamed and writhed there on the ground, beyond help of surgeon or healer, waiting only for the goddess to be merciful and grant him his final release. I had been shocked to see what Snake did, earlier. Now I understood it had been an act of great compassion.
The day wore on, and it was close to dusk. There had been talk of victory before nightfall. But it was clear there was no victory, not yet. The Britons were well armed, and for all the element of surprise it seemed they had soon rallied and put up an orderly and disciplined defense. And they had the advantage of possession. On the highest point of Greater Island there was a fort, and it was to this place of safety they withdrew their forces as the day drew to a close. Behind it, sheer cliffs fell to the sea; on the landward side it was protected by a deep ditch, within which a high earthen rampart shielded their dwellings, their armory and storage huts. In the center was a sturdy stone tower, built round and tall. From such a place a strong defense could be maintained. Still, they could not last there forever. The Uí Néill would by now have vanquished the establishment on Little Island, for they far outnumbered the British forces there. Perhaps all Sean of Sevenwaters had to do was wait.
As dusk fell each army retreated to its rallying point. A strange sort of quiet spread over the land as the light faded; a kind of understanding, as if each side recognized the losses of the other. Indeed, in pockets of the land, where the dead lay limp and broken like discarded playthings, small groups of men with lanterns could be seen stooping to gather up their slain, and if a grizzled warrior from Northwoods happened to glance across, and see a pale-faced Ulsterman not so far off, about the same grim task, he simply averted his gaze and got on with what had to be done. For all the deceptive peace of the evening, it was acknowledged that at dawn both sides would pick up their weapons, and venture forth, and start the killing again.
That night I flew over two camps, and learned that a Briton and an Irishman shed the same blood, and feel the same grief. The day had shown me that such challenges, such impossible choices bring out what is finest and bravest in a man. They let his courage shine forth. At times of conflict a plain man can become a hero. But in every battle there is a loser, and the loser, too, may be a man of bravery and endurance, of steadfast valor and greatness of heart. The tales do not tell of the blood and sacrifice; of the heartache and waste.
Down by the shore were little fires, and around each, silent men gathered, seeking in this reflection of the hearth’s warmth some reminder of home and loved ones, now far away. They had had the best of it today, but their losses were terrible, and none worse than the loss of him who had symbolized their certain triumph: the child of the prophecy. Nobody said it, but I thought all knew it in their hearts; without Johnny, there could be no true victory. Still they would go on: for Sean, for Sevenwaters, for their own battle-leader, whether it be Bran of Harrowfield, strangely present in their midst and bearing arms against his own people, or the high-born chieftains of the Uí Néill. They sat quiet around their fires, and gazed into the flames. Not far off, in the shelter of quickly improvised tents, men lay wounded and dying. Some were already shrouded for burial; if the battle was over soon, they might be conveyed home and laid to rest with a mother’s tears, a sweetheart’s lament. Amongst the fallen were three of Johnny’s brave young warriors. Mikka lay there, helped to a quick end by Snake’s merciful knife. Beside him lay
the two friends, Waerfrith and Godric. The men told a tale that made my heart sore: how Waerfrith was wounded, an arrow taking him in the belly, and how Godric bore his comrade on his back, all the way down from the northern ridge, through the thick of the battle. When they were nearly at the cove, and safety, a British warrior stepped out in challenge. Holding his friend’s unconscious weight, Godric was too slow to dodge, too burdened to flee; and he would not drop the injured man to save himself. The Briton’s sword took him in the chest; and as he lay bleeding, he lived long enough to see the enemy draw the blade with casual efficiency across the neck of the man he had carried. So the two of them died together; forever they would be young and laughing, bright-eyed and fearless. Today these two had fallen, and many another besides. Tomorrow it might be Gareth or Corentin. It D might be Darragh. Generations of men had been slain for these islands; the brothers of Finbar and Conor, the brothers of their father, who, strangely, had been my own grandfather. These were my people; but so were the others, for my lineage was that of Harrowfield as well as Sevenwaters, and Harrowfield was kin to Northwoods. I flew through the night, heedless of danger, and alighted on the wall of the British fortress. And there, not far away, perched a great dark bird, its eyes fixed on me, fierce and bright.
I discovered I was no longer afraid of Fiacha. Fear seemed suddenly a waste of effort. My grandmother had won; I was powerless now. Surely there was no more to do but watch, and grieve, and wonder only that the lady Oonagh had not come to gloat, now that the final victory was hers. So I sat quietly by the raven on the wall, looking down into Northwoods’s encampment. I heard them talking; I saw them grieving. There were many dead, and even more wounded. And they had another problem. In this outpost, long thought safe, several men had wives and children with them, a whole small settlement. Now their leaders, gray-faced, stood around their fire debating a terrible choice. If the savages of Erin should triumph, and breach their fortress walls, what of the women? There would come a point, maybe tomorrow, when they must decide whether to put their own wives to the sword, or leave them to the mercy of the invader. Best, perhaps, to let the women go armed themselves, and trust each had the will to plunge a dagger in her own breast, or her child’s, before they could fall victim to the horror of rape, or the brutality of torture and slavery. They spoke of my uncle’s men as of monsters. I thought of those bright young warriors, of Johnny and his companions. I thought of kindly, capable Sean of Sevenwaters, of courteous, smiling Gull, and of the Chief, a hard man maybe, but in every choice a fair one. This was all wrong; this long feud had bred a terror based on ignorance and misunderstanding. Did not these grim-faced Britons comprehend that all Sevenwaters wanted was for the Islands to be left alone? Did none of them understand what it had been all about?
I would have flown away, thinking to find some place of shelter and keep sleepless vigil until a blood-red dawn, but Fiacha’s gaze was intense. Something in his manner held me where I was, looking down on Edwin of Northwoods, and a broad-shouldered young man who seemed to be his son, and the four or five others with them. One was a Christian priest, tonsured and robed, a cross about his neck. One was old, gray-bearded, stooped; too ancient for such a place of danger. It seemed they had made their decision. The women would remain in the tower with Brother Jerome. They would be given knives. When the time came they would make their own choice.
“Now, to what rest we can find,” Edwin of Northwoods said gravely. “Tomorrow we fight on. We fight until the last man falls. I will not see my name set down as the coward who let the islands go. Pray, friends, that the Lord will be with us. Pray for a miracle.”
At that moment there was a sudden flare of light at the far side of the enclosure, close by the around tower which was their last bastion of defense, and a small group of men came into view. One bore a flaming torch; two held between them a young warrior clad all in black, a man whose skin showed chalk-white in the torchlight, whose face was bruised and swollen, whose eyes glowed with defiance as they brought him forward to stand before Edwin of Northwoods. The British leader stared at the captive; stared into the fierce gray eyes, whose youthful intensity was heightened by the delicate pattern marked on the skin of brow and cheek, on the left side; the sign of the raven.
“Look what the tide washed up, my lord,” someone said.
“Perhaps,” Edwin said softly, “our miracle is here. With such a prisoner, who knows what bargain may be struck?” He turned to his captains. “You know who he is?”
There was a murmur of acknowledgment. They might not have seen the man before, but it seemed he was well enough known by description.
Johnny spoke. His voice was very soft; I could barely make out the words. His clothing was dripping wet, his flesh starkly pale. I wondered how long he had been in the water, before the sea cast him up into the hands of his enemies.
“They will not deal,” he said. “My uncle will not compromise the mission for my life, or my safety. This is not our way.”
“You think not,” said Edwin quietly. “Perhaps Sean of Sevenwaters will not do so; but what about your father?”
Johnny was silent; he could not quite conceal the shock in his eyes.
“Oh, yes,” said Edwin. “He fights there among the others; he wields the sword against his own countrymen. Will he see his son perish before his eyes for the sake of a principle, do you think?”
“He will not make bargains with you; not for me, not for anyone.”
Edwin folded his arms. “We’ll put that to the test in due course. I think you may be surprised.” He turned to the men who held Johnny. “Lock him up for the night. Set a strong guard. Give the fellow a blanket, he’s wet through.”
“He’s hurt, my lord,” said someone hesitantly. “Bleeding from a flesh wound; broken a rib or two as well. And he’s half-drowned. A wonder he survived so long; cast up on the rocks, from the looks of it, and somehow crawled to safety. Found him by accident.”
“Will he die before morning?”
“No, my lord.”
“Very well then. As I said, give him a blanket, and lock him up. Tomorrow is a new day.”
I watched them drag the captive away; and I watched as Edwin and his men departed to rest, their faces alight with a fresh hope. I looked at Fiacha, and he looked at me. Then he spread his wings and flew away from the island, swift and straight, making a path southwestward in the darkness. I had never liked his way of doing things.
I came very close to mindless panic that night. Johnny was alive; against all odds, the child of the prophecy had survived. That made my heart thump with joy; it awoke new hope in me. And with that hope came the terror. After all, it was not yet finished. I had a chance to win, to make it all right again. But before it was ended, I knew she would come, and I must face her and hope I would be strong enough. The final battle, the only one that counted, was still before me. Fiacha was gone; my Otherworld friends seemed to have deserted me. I would not seek out Finbar. I would not reveal myself to Conor, or to my uncle Sean. There would be no more victims scattered by the wayside. I would bring my grandmother’s wrath down on nobody but myself. I must wait until it was light, and change my form, and hope to regain my strength again quickly. For there was no doubt in me that I would not defeat the lady Oonagh without using every scrap of craft, every morsel of will, every single element of control my father had taught me.
Fire child I might be, but my upbringing had ensured I was a creature of cliffs and rocks, of caves and secret places, and it was to such a wild corner of the land that I retreated to seek a place for changing. I had not forgotten last time, and the crippling weakness which had followed the transformation. I must be out of sight, out of the path of battle, and pray that I regained my strength before my grandmother realized the end was almost upon us, and hastened to witness her final victory. Then I would—I would—I was not sure exactly what I would do, but I knew I must do my utmost to turn the tide of things before she noticed and came rushing to force me to her will. When she c
ame, I must stand against her and hope some aid would be forthcoming, whether from human world or Otherworld. Increasingly, as neither Fair Folk nor Fomhóire showed themselves, it seemed I might have to do this all by myself. I must trust that when the time came, my path would be clear to me. Focus. That was what my father would have said. Make your mind empty, your spirit receptive. Then you will find the answers.
There was a place on the south coast of Greater Island, not far from the British fortress, where the land rose in sheer cliffs from the sea, stark and treacherous. Earlier in the day I had seen a refuge here as I flew overhead. A little way down from the top, just for a short length of the cliff, there was a narrow ledge, and this held indented hollows like shallow caves, where clinging creepers softened the rock walls and the pebbly ground allowed a space just wide enough for a man or woman to sit in relative safety, looking out over the wide expanse of water below and beyond. There were few places of concealment on this featureless island, but this was one, and I chose it as my place of transformation because of that. Here I could wait out the time of weakness if I must; here I could make some decision about what to do, and when, and how. One thing was certain: nobody must see me in my true form until the moment when I stepped forth and played my part in the end of things. Act too early, and all that would happen was my uncle Sean sending me back to the boats with orders to keep out of harm’s way. Once I was a girl again I could not move about freely. There was indeed but a single chance to make things right.
It all hinged on Johnny. He was a captive; he was crucial to the outcome. Northwoods would use him to try for a bargain, and probably as soon as possible, before more men were lost. Soon after dawn, I thought. What would the deal be? Johnny’s life in return for an Irish retreat? If that were so, my uncle’s forces had quite a dilemma before them. They knew they could not win the battle without the child of the prophecy. To sacrifice him was to admit defeat, and fight on with only death ahead. The prophecy was quite clear about it. But I did not think they would be prepared to give up the struggle in order to save him. As Johnny had said, that was not their way. I had seen the light in their eyes as they charged into battle; the look on their grim faces as they followed the banner of Sevenwaters into the fray, screaming their leader’s name. Somehow, retreat did not seem an option.
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