by Sarah Rayne
“Will there not be?”
“I do not think so,” said Joanna. “I think we will not be permitted to remain here.” And a wistfulness filled her voice, so that Portan said shyly, “Shall you mind very much?”
“I think it will break my heart,” said Joanna simply, and then smiled again. “But I do not think this is my place. After the battle …” For a moment her eyes were sad, and then she seemed to give herself a small shake, for she smiled again, and said, “No matter. Let me see if we can drive out the usurper and his jackals,” and Portan thought, but did not say, that Joanna and Flynn were both talking in the distinctive, slightly formal way of Cormac’s people.
“Yes, they are taking up the mantle of their alter egos,” said Amairgen thoughtfully, for he, also, had been feeling and sensing and hearing the change. “They are no longer Flynn O’Connor and Joanna Grady.”
“Finn of the Fiana and the High Queen Dierdriu?” said Portan hesitantly.
Amairgen said, “Oh yes. They are no longer aware of it happening, but it has happened.”
Behind Flynn and Joanna, the others were sorting themselves out. “Staking out our bits of territory,” was how Sean put it. Sean had found himself a spot three quarters of the way down the hillside. He could see very nearly everything from there he said, surveying the landscape carefully. He would not be able to see whoever it was who stole in quietly through the eastern gate, but you could not have everything.
“Cait Fian and a few of the Panthers are to do that,” said Flynn, and Sean had said, oh well, in that case, there was no difficulty at all because Cait Fian would certainly tell him about it all afterwards. “And if you make sure to keep well to the left when you gallop down the hill,” he said to CuChulainn seriously, “I shall be able to see all the battle charge.”
CuChulainn wanted to ban Sean from the field altogether at that, but Conaire said, rather impatiently, that CuChulainn would be as pleased as any of them to have a proper account of the battle when it was all over, and that Sean ought to be given every facility. At which CuChulainn took himself off to marshall his Chariot Horses, who were getting restless, and grumbled to Oscar, who was deploying the Deer, that he did not know what fighting was coming to.
Dubhgall had been put in charge of sounding the battle cry, and had been given the golden bugle with which to do so. He had been extremely pleased about this, because it was a very great honour, and he had practised assiduously all the way to the Plain.
“It upsets the Swans,” said Gormgall to Domnall and Cait Fian’s Ullgall, “but nobody liked to stop him. And a battle cry has to be right, of course. You can’t ride into battle on an off-key battle call.”
Muldooney, who admitted to not having a note of music in his head had remarked that it came to something when a man could not get his proper rest, because Dubhgall got up a half-hour early each morning to practise. In fact, Muldooney had been so pleased to be given a tiny detachment of his own to lead, that he would not really have dreamed of complaining in earnest. Muldooney was not the man to make war, of course, but it had been explained to him how usurpers sat inside Cormac’s Palace, and how it was absolutely necessary to rout them. Justice, there was the thing. Ah, the Muldooneys were strong on justice, well, they were strong on everything that was right, of course. And so Muldooney had drilled his small platoon very carefully, and had beamed when Flynn, inspecting them, said crisply, “Excellent, Muldooney. We shall look to you to play a decisive part in what is ahead.”
Which was no more than was right, because the Muldooneys were the ones when it came to victory.
“And actually,” said Flynn later, “it has to be said that he managed very nicely.”
As everyone had foreseen, the Wolves and the Panthers fought — “Several times,” said Oscar, who had been called in to part the combatants — and one Wolf had its tail bitten and had to be bandaged by Portan, and two Panthers suffered chewed ears.
But when they all assembled on the Plain of the Fál, overlooking Tara, a great hush fell on them, and a sense of friendship and of oneness seemed to bind them together.
Flynn, at Cormac’s side, felt it as if it was a huge surge of warmth, and a strength so tremendous enveloped him that for a moment he thought he would be overpowered by it. He thought that Cormac felt it as well, for just for a brief instant, Cormac seemed to hesitate, and Flynn turned to look, because it was not to be believed that Cormac should ever be at a loss. And then he saw that Cormac was looking at the assembled armies with an expression of infinite love, and that his eyes held the look of a man who has been wandering in the dark for many years and has suddenly come into Paradise. Flynn felt the pity of Cormac’s exiled years slam into the base of his throat, and in that moment he forgave Cormac everything that Cormac had ever done with Joanna, and although he knew he would never quite forget the nights that Joanna and Cormac had spent together, he knew at the same time that he might understand. He reined in his horse, and stayed where he was, motionless, waiting for Cormac to give the signal to charge.
Joanna had seen Cormac’s hesitation as well, and like Flynn, had understood. She thought: this is almost more than he can bear. It is this that kept him alive and kept him hopeful through the terrible years inside Scáthach. It was the knowledge that one day, one day he might be able to lead his armies against the creatures who drove him out. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she dashed them away, and thought: after all, I think this is how I shall remember him. Like this. Proud and reckless and with such a belief in what he is about to do. With such a burning fervour for his people and such an unshakeable courage. The Wolfking returning …
Cormac had not been fully aware of Flynn and Joanna’s thoughts, but he had been aware of a sharing and an understanding, and it had heartened him.
But he had stood alone and apart for a brief moment, so that he could savour to the full the pure happiness of it all. For him, it was the culmination of every hope and of every lonely dream of Scáthach. He wanted to take hold of the moment and cup it between his hands and keep it safe. He wanted to taste it and enjoy it, and he wanted to remember it, so that in years to come, he could return to it, and think: oh yes. That was the moment when I knew pure happiness.
Pure happiness. Now, on the Plain of the Fál, with Joanna close by, with Flynn heading the army, with the Cruithin and the creatures of the Bloodline. With faithful friends who have stayed with me, he thought, and with new friends who have trusted me. With people who have endured danger and hardship for my sake. This is the moment. Take hold of it and capture it and never ever let go of it, for there will never be another to equal it.
He turned to the waiting Flynn, and Flynn met his eyes steadily. Cormac thought: by every rule, Flynn of them all ought to hate me. For what I did to Joanna, for the enchantment I spun about her that drove him from her mind, he ought to hate me. And then Flynn smiled, and Cormac saw that Flynn did not hate him in the least, that Flynn understood.
And understanding, is surely the greatest and the most generous of all the gifts …
After all, thought Cormac, this is Flynn’s battle as much as it is mine. And quite deliberately, he drew his own horse back a little and made a gesture to Flynn, as if to say, over to you.
Delight flared in Flynn’s eyes, and he bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. As he turned to lift a hand to bring the armies to attention, Cormac saw that it was no longer the young man who had forced through the Time Curtain in search of his lost love, but the mighty warrior who had once been known and revered and honoured throughout Ireland.
Finn of the Fiana … And he will fight for me to the death, thought Cormac.
Flynn brought down his hand and a great shiver of excitement went through the waiting ranks.
*
From where she was, Joanna, could see the stealthy descent of Cait Fian and the Panthers to the East Gate. For a moment she lost them, for the sun was in her eyes, and spears of brightness were glinting on the helmets and the armour. And then she pick
ed them out again, sleek and graceful, the Panthers’ bodies flowing gracefully down the hillside, Cait Fian at their head.
“Wait,” said Flynn, “Let him reach the Gate. Etain?”
“Almost there.”
“Conaire?”
“Approaching hard.”
Flynn turned to Oscar and CuChulainn. “Are we ready for the charge?”
“Ready!”
“And eager!”
Flynn turned back, and then Etain gave the signal which meant that Cait Fian had reached the East Gate of Tara. Flynn looked to where Dubhgall was poised and nodded, and Dubhgall lifted the golden bugle to his lips, and the stirring notes of the call to arms rang over the Plain, filling the air and echoing through the forest down to the Bright Palace.
“To arms!” cried Flynn, and at once, the Chariot Horses and the Wild Deer with CuChulainn and Oscar at their head streamed down the hillside. The bugle was still sounding, clear and rousing, and the armies were cheering from the Plain, and Flynn felt as if he was being filled up with excitement and energy. The turf was flying beneath the horses’ hooves now, and the whole Plain was shuddering with the force of the first battle charge.
Flynn turned to watch, narrowing his eyes against the light, and thought that it was a good clean charge. “As good as ever I saw or led,” he thought, and then grinned.
But it was a good charge. It was swift and sure, and Oscar and CuChulainn were at the West Gate within minutes. Through the smoke and the noise of the thudding hooves, and the cheering of Cormac’s armies from above them, they could hear now the alarm being raised inside the Palace.
“Tara is under attack!”
“Close the West Gate!”
Just what we want! thought Flynn, jubilant. The West Gate! And while their energies are directed on to that, Cait Fian will be stealing in through the East Gate. Let them deploy every single creature in the place to the West Gate, and we shall win! he thought.
They could all hear the shouts from Tara now, and they could sense the panic and the chaos that seethed within.
“The Palace is being besieged! Haul up the drawbridge!”
“To your posts everyone! Under attack!”
“To the West Gate!”
And then, quite clearly, through the heat and the thundering hooves, “Repel the invaders!”
“And kill their leaders!”
Flynn glanced involuntarily to where Cormac stood, and thought that a hardness had come into Cormac’s eyes. But Cormac did not flinch; he stayed where he was, and he looked to Flynn, waiting for Flynn’s command. Flynn saw for the first time, the greatness and the incredible strength of Cormac. Cormac would put himself under Flynn’s command for the duration of the battle, and anything that Flynn demanded, he would do. I cannot possibly fail him, thought Flynn, I cannot. And without warning there came into his mind an old Lethe saying — what was it? Something about loving those with whom you are sharing a great danger. He thought he loved Cormac in that moment, and he thought that whatever happened to them in the future, he would never quite forget how Cormac trusted him.
CuChulainn and Oscar seemed to have reached the West Gate now, and Oscar was flinging burning torches at the barred Gates. As they spurred their horses on again and again, Eochaid Bres’s guards appeared on the battlements. The sun glinted, and then there was a sizzling of arrows flying through the air; Oscar half fell, a hand clapped to his shoulder, a burning pain where the arrow had sliced into his flesh. Flynn half started forward, and then checked, for Oscar had risen and was struggling to get into the lee of the castle wall. Flynn saw CuChulainn go running to help him, and heard CuChulainn cry, “Forward! Beneath the castle walls!” and begin to drag the injured and dazed Oscar across the ground.
Flynn, watching, had just begun to frame the thought that CuChulainn was providing a sitting target for the archers on the battlements, when he saw CuChulainn cry and then stagger. As he stood, helpless on the Plain, CuChulainn fell back, and Flynn saw a trickle of dark blood come from his mouth, and then gush from his chest.
Oscar stood for a moment, as if unable to take in what had happened, and then he half ran, half dragged himself into the lee of the castle, and fell against the wall.
Close to Flynn, Joanna gasped and made as if to start forward, but Flynn held up a hand to halt her, for they could not, even to aid the wounded Oscar, depart from the plan they had so carefully mapped out. Cait Fian would be inside the Palace now, he would be making his cautious way through the great halls to the Sun Chamber. Would they have discovered him yet? Surely they would not, for surely they were all at the West Gate, fighting off the attack?
CuChulainn lay where he had fallen, and Flynn knew from the angle of his head that he was certainly dead. He felt a leaden pain at the thought, and dared not remember how CuChulainn had sung the marching song with them when they marched to Gallan, and how he had forgotten the words of the last verse, and had to be reminded. He dared not think, either, of how CuChulainn had related stories of Ireland’s greatest battles, and of how CuChulainn had always been brave and amiable and entirely loyal.
“Don’t think it,” said Cormac softly, at Flynn’s side. “Think it after the battle — we will all think it then, and we will all mourn. But for now look ahead, Flynn.”
And Flynn, knowing that Cormac was right, turned to where Oscar was still slumped against the wall, but saw, with immense relief that he was managing to rally the Chariot Horses.
Cormac said, “The Horses will not respond to Oscar so well, but they will obey. Oscar will manage.”
Oscar would manage, even though he must be within yards of CuChulainn’s dead body. He would manage because the battle could not be lost, and it certainly could not be lost for the sake of CuChulainn who had loved war, and who had died fighting for his beloved King …
Flynn turned to the hillside and lifted his hand to the twins and Conaire, and at once there was an answering signal, and almost immediately the air was filled with sweeping Eagles and Swans, and there was a great beating of wings on the air as the huge birds swooped down on to Tara’s battlements, flying into the faces of Eochaid Bres’s guards, darting for their victims’ eyes and bringing their massive wings down on their victims’ shoulders.
From his position by the Palace wall, Oscar, dizzy with loss of blood and the heat of the charge, sick at the death of CuChulainn, leaned against the old stone walls, and felt the warmth of the ancient bricks.
“Spiked, by the gods!” he whispered thankfully. “Now then Cormac!” And heard once again the bugle call sound the advance.
Flynn nodded to Cormac, and turned to face the waiting armies. The Wolf pennants fluttered in the breeze, and the horses pawed the ground. Anticipation raced through the ranks, like a wind ruffling the surface of a cornfield.
“TO ARMS!” cried Flynn again, and the last battle charge began.
*
Joanna was aware of nothing other than the wind in her face as they went down the hillside in a single concerted sweep, of her hair streaming wildly out behind her, of the heat and the smoke from the bombarded West Gate, and the furious excitement and the exhilaration of the moment. A fierce joy filled her, and she glanced back over her shoulder as they galloped down and down towards the Bright Palace. She was very nearly at the head of the charge, with Cormac to her left, and Flynn to her right.
Flynn …
There was nothing in his face but the purest concentration; there was certainly very little of the Flynn that Joanna had known in Tugaim. And yet, the man ahead of her was recognisable, and infinitely dear, and Joanna was able to think: Finn! and to remember other battles, exactly like this one, and to remember as well that of course this was how it felt to be swept along by the mighty warrior head of the Fiana, with whole armies thudding down the hillside after you. This was how it felt to ride in a great glorious victory charge, crying death and destruction to Tara’s enemies. This is what I remember! cried Joanna silently. This is what I understand!
Di
erdriu and Finn, together again … fighting for Ireland once more …
And we are going to do it! thought Joanna exultantly. We shall win. Down the hillside, across the last stretch. A single clean sweep to victory. And the Wolfking will be restored.
But even as her mind was shaping the thought, she felt the ground begin to heave and shift beneath them, and the horses began to rear and whinny with fear.
Through the smoke and the heat, coming towards them, appeared Macha and Scald-Crow with the Erl-King’s ugly hunchback at their side. From where she had halted, reining in her horse, Joanna heard Macha’s bubbling throaty laugh, and saw Scald-Crow spin and blur and assume several different but equally gruesome forms. Joanna gasped and turned to Cormac, and for a moment, memory shimmered between them: Morrigan’s house, where we were so nearly slaughtered by the Giant Miller, and where we were saved by Pan and his strange beckoning music, and his ability to move in and out and through Time … And then Joanna, like Flynn had, remembered the old adage that you always love those with whom you share a danger, and she knew that she had in truth loved Cormac, and that a part of her would always love him.
Because of what we shared? Or something else? I do not think I shall ever really know, thought Joanna.
But her eyes had gone automatically to Flynn, and as they waited, they saw him galloping hard across the remaining ground, finally bringing his horse up within feet of the three creatures who stood grinning and gesturing.
Flynn was genuinely appalled at the sight of Morrigan’s two sisters. He thought he had never seen them, and then he thought that after all, he knew them very well.
Yes, my dears, we have faced one another before, very like this. And I was the victor that time, and shall be so again!