Rhoswen emerged from the shadows beside Liam, a sheen of red blood covering the green and brown body paint on her left arm.
Liam saw that Rhoswen had already plugged the wound with clay, and he asked, “Did you locate Queen Gormflaith?”
“She lies dead in Rathgormuck Forest, along with half her force. The rest have retreated to Tipperary.”
“A great loss,” said Liam, looking back out over the bay. The longship of Geir, now the Viking king, turned to follow Richard’s flagship.
Conor took the bow from his back, drew an arrow from its quiver, and held it out to Rhoswen. “For Kellach,” he said.
“It will never be allowed to reach Kellach,” she said. Taking the arrow, she dragged its shaft across her neck, leaving a trail of pale skin showing through her body paint, then held it close to her ear. “It desires to find the Viking who betrayed its land.” Handing it back to Conor, its iron tip glowing faintly, she added, “The traitor Geir will have no Sidhe protection.”
Conor drew his bow and, aiming high, released the arrow. It seemed as if it were going to rise forever until, suddenly turning, it plummeted at unnatural speed, piercing Geir’s neck. He fell in a spray of blood to the laughter of the Fomorian high king still standing beside him.
“That may slow them down,” said Conor as he sprinted through the woods toward where they’d left their horses.
“At least he’ll carry the stigma of having the shortest reign in Viking history,” added Liam, running beside him.
21
Outside Waterford, Ireland
The Next Morning
Alone, Jordan rode his horse through the forest north of Waterford as the rising sun promised a clear, crisp day for killing. All the drudgery and anticipation of preparation, followed by the tedious journey to Ireland with the English, had finally given way to the first morning of war.
Times of feasting and fucking have never brought such fierce ecstasy as days of carnage, Jordan thought. The feel of bloodlust rising hot with the cry of battle horns. The ring of sharpened iron against iron as each man desperately seeks to be the first to find that weak spot in the other’s defense. The cries of “Help me!” from nobleman and peasant alike as they attempt to drag themselves from the field without their severed limbs. The quick prayer snatched from the slit throat of the pious. The thunder of riderless horses, crazed from their wounds. The distinctively sweet smell of blood mixed with sweat on the victors, the stench of guts spilling from the losers as the cry of havoc goes up. This is what I have craved.
Facing another man, knowing that only one of us will survive the next few heartbeats, feeling his life flee as I push my blade into his body—that’s when I’ve felt most alive. Like an opium addict constantly drawn back to the poppy, he had been drawn to killing.
Until today. Until I arrived here.
A gust of wind sent yellow leaves cascading down about him. Jordan dropped the reins and held out his hands, each leaf tingling as it brushed across his skin. He closed his eyes, spurred his horse into a trot, then a canter, then a gallop. He did not retake the reins. The feeling had started with his first step from the ship and had built ever since. The energy at the heart of the world—Ardor—flowed through this land as he had never felt before, eclipsing even the rush of a life ended at his hand. It was as if he’d been searching for this feeling each time he’d killed. Now he swam in Ardor.
He kept his eyes closed and arms extended as trees and boulders flashed by. He knew where they were without having to see them. His horse followed instructions without his giving them.
Jordan finally, truly understood why the Roman Church had tried to keep people out of Ireland, why they were determined to destroy its Ardor now. How could they be the exclusive voice with and for God when God was so clearly everywhere here? How could kings claim divine selection when so much divinity was in everyone and everything?
Jordan halted his horse, opened his eyes, and gathered up the loose, swaying reins. He found himself sitting just inside a large clearing, facing a ring of standing stones around a low mound with a stone-rimmed opening. He sensed rather than saw hostile intent. He pulled on the reins, causing his horse to back into the tree line. Turning, he urged his horse into a respectful trot toward Waterford again. He felt nothing follow.
When he left Waterford that morning, the day after the English landed, most of the ships had been unloaded. By this time Jordan was sure that a second flotilla would be hovering off the bay, waiting for its opportunity to dock. These smaller vessels, chartered by merchants, blacksmiths, and tailors, would have products and services to sell, at a premium price, to the English soldiers and, if they slipped in and out quietly enough, to the Irish. The merchants’ empty ships would be refilled with plunder purchased from those same soldiers for meager sums.
Today the decks of these trade ships would also be packed with paying passengers eager to rush ashore, an assortment of wives, lovers, and, primarily, whores. There was much profit to be made from war. Jordan suspected—hoped even, he admitted to himself—that Najia would be among the passengers, though he had ordered her to wait in Milford Haven.
The English camp was rapidly sprawling outside the walls of Waterford as Jordan rode up. Local cattle had been commandeered and butchered, chunks of the meat boiling in bags made of their own hide, hung over campfires on tripods of freshly cut poles. The smell reminded Jordan that he had not yet had breakfast. Outside the city gates, Nottingham was conferring with Kellach and a group of young knights, second sons of English high nobles, first sons of low nobles, all seeking the king’s favor and perhaps estates of their own in the soon-to-be-conquered country. Meanwhile their fathers rested inside the city walls, the earls of Rutland, Huntingdon, and Gloucester; the knights Despenser, Percy, Scrope, and Beaumont.
“There you are, Marshal,” called Nottingham. “Come join us.”
Jordan dismounted, handed his reins to a squire, and joined the group.
“King Kellach’s allies say the Irish high king, along with the Morrígna’s consort, has withdrawn to muster their army. The king of Leinster remains behind with a small army of Celts and some number of Sidhe, apparently in an attempt to hold us here as long as possible. He’s moving his forces to the north.”
“And not far to the north,” said Jordan.
“You have been scouting as well,” said Kellach. “That is brave, or perhaps foolhardy. Until all of the Sidhe have been brought under my control, perhaps you should leave that to my followers.”
“I prefer to see for myself,” Jordan snapped back.
“Do we know where the Sidhe high king is?” asked Nottingham.
All eyes looked at Kellach. He hesitated and then said, “My allies are not certain, but he does not seem to have withdrawn.”
“Well, we had better go stir them up before they’ve a chance to establish defensive positions,” Nottingham said. “The pikemen will remain behind to fortify and protect the camp. We’ll take six companies of mounted archers. Rutland and Huntingdon, you each take a company shallow east and deep east for a quarter of a mile, then loop north. Gloucester and Scrope, the same move to the west. I’ll take two companies of Cheshire archers straight north. When you hear my horn, converge on the sound. Soon we’ll find out how well Richard’s strategy works in battle.
“Kellach, your . . . what do I call them, your men?” asked Nottingham.
“I will deploy my followers. Do not concern yourself with them. They will be where they need to be.”
“Well, yes, I’ll leave that to you, then. We move out in half an hour.”
“I’ll ride with you,” said Jordan to Nottingham.
“Most welcome,” he replied. “Though I wish you had brought some of the VRS League with you.”
“Our agreement with Kellach forbids it.”
“Still,” whispered Nottingham. He looked around, but Kellach had al
ready disappeared. “He makes me nervous.”
Cries flowed around the camp as men were organized. Archers led horses from the holding pens into their section of camp. The horses pranced, hopped, and pawed the ground nervously, as if testing its soundness after the unpredictable decks of the ships. Jordan watched as an archer sought to calm the horse he had selected, stroking its face and whispering in its ear. The horse’s wide eyes began to soften, its hooves steady. The man strapped on the saddle. His wool tunic, green on the right side and white on the left, distinguished his status as a Cheshire archer. As with all the army, on his left chest was sewn the badge of King Richard II, featuring a white stag reclining on grass. This archer’s badge was fringed with blue, indicating his rank as captain. The tunic hung almost to his knees over his brown hose and leather boots. A simple wool cap, fastened under his chin, kept his hair bound and his ears warm.
He wore no armor, only a linen gambeson, a jacket densely padded with cotton and wool weft, under his tunic. On his hip hung a buckler, a round shield merely eight inches across, and a short eighteen-inch sword. His entire livery, as with all the mounted archers, had been set in close consultation with Richard himself to facilitate rapid mounting and dismounting, a key element in Richard’s strategy.
Dressed lightly, Richard’s longbowmen relied on mobility for their defense. They could slip off their horses, fire several times with great accuracy at an enemy over two hundred yards away, remount, and be on the move before the Irish bows came within range. At least that is how it worked in their drills. For enemies at a shorter range, or to volley into a group, they could fire from a stationary horse, or even while galloping if required.
Finished securing his saddle, the archer strapped a bracer onto his left forearm to protect it from the snap of the bowstring and to keep his sleeve from interfering with the arrow. He secured a quiver of twenty-four arrows behind his saddle. Another quiver was attached to his back with a double cross-wrapped leather belt about his upper waist. The quiver was a band of sheepskin, wool nap facing in, covering a third of the shaft between point and feather. In battle he would grasp the point and pull the arrow down and out, let it slip through his hand to the feathers, then notch it to the bowstring and fire. After half the arrows were gone, he would tighten the leather belt to keep the quiver secure.
Expecting the Irish to be close at hand, he took the precaution of unwrapping the covering of his bow and handing the linen to his squire. Placing one end against the inside of his foot, he leaned on the other end, grasped the loop on the hemp string that hung about the bow’s midsection, and slid it up to the horn notch. Holding the ready bow in his left hand, he mounted his horse, took the reins in his right hand, and swung around to muster his men.
Jordan mounted his horse. Knights began to ride out with companies of archers followed by squires. Jordan could tell the financial standing of each knight by the amount of newly developed plate armor he wore. Nottingham rode up covered head to toe in plate, his visor up. His large warhorse was itself draped in mail. Noticing Jordan in his simple mail vest, he said, “Is that all you’re going to wear?”
Jordan thought about the set of new plates waiting in his tent. “I believe it will be most important to remain nimble today,” he replied. In this land he did not want to cover himself with metal and would have discarded even the mail, but he could not afford to be thought completely mad. He directed his horse into a walk north.
“Your choice, of course, Marshal,” said Nottingham, riding beside him as two companies of archers fell in behind.
Nottingham urged his horse into a trot, and Jordan followed suit as they headed deep into the woods he had explored earlier that morning. This time the beat of all those English hooves seemed to be trampling down the Ardor.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jordan caught a glimpse of giant birds to his right; however, when he turned to look, it was Kellach and his new Skeaghshee entourage flitting from tree to tree. On the ground beneath them, lumbering Grogoch gave Jordan a strong impression of boulders rolling along. They carried large hammers, and Dryads rode on the backs of several. He was surprised they could keep up. He spotted a group of Wichtlein loping along like small trolls but with long, skinny legs, their weapon of choice appearing to be the javelin.
He was checking to see if other Sidhe were joining the procession when a vibration swept through the air. Leaves were torn off the trees and flew sideways into Jordan’s face. Grogoch sat heavily on the ground while the Dryads scurried down to squat behind them, jabbering to one another in nervous, crackling voices. Wichtlein formed into a knot, javelins pointing forward.
The forest in front of them seemed to compress and flatten as if it had become a painting with no perspective. For a moment Jordan thought he saw an edge begin to curl and believed he could see bright light begin to slip around; he held his breath as his pulse quickened. The flat world was rent down the center, trees thrust to each side.
Kellach screamed as if it were his own skin tearing. Regaining his composure, he whispered an enchantment into his hand, then hurled it into the widening gap.
The tearing sound stilled. The trees no longer moved, having stacked themselves around a large grassy meadow, about three hundred yards square, the land rising gently to the back in full perspective. In the center waited the Irish.
About a thousand mounted Celts, Jordan estimated, brandishing their swords, bows, and spears. Standing in front of them were half as many Gallowglass in a two-deep line, their long-handled axes relaxed on shoulders, large oval shields not yet formed into a wall, their horses gathered behind the Irish forces. There were also Sidhe moving about, maybe two hundred or more. It was hard to tell with them.
Nottingham began shouting orders. One company of archers dismounted and hurried into a line three deep; the other company remained mounted and split to each side of the line. The clatter of arrows being pulled from quivers and fitted to bows was overwhelmed by Nottingham’s lieutenant sounding a horn, calling for reinforcements.
Murchada, king of Leinster, and Fearghal, Sidhe high king, strode forward through the Gallowglass line. Murchada stopped while Fearghal continued toward the English.
“Kill him,” Nottingham ordered the captain of the dismounted company of archers. The captain leaned into his longbow, swept it up, took careful aim, and let the arrow loose. All eyes watched as its shallow arc turned down toward the walking Fearghal. The arrow continued down, getting smaller with the distance, long after, Jordan realized, it should have struck Fearghal, or at least the ground. Soon it was lost to sight.
Nottingham wheeled his horse to directly address the line of archers. Pointing at Fearghal, he shouted, “Kill him!” A volley of arrows, too thick to count, sailed forth and met the same fate.
Stopping fifty yards from the English line, Fearghal spoke, and his voice sounded as if he were standing next to them. “Welcome home, Kellach, though you seem to have forgotten that you were banished from the mainland, forgotten that the Adhene rule the Middle Kingdom and that I am their high king.”
“You are no high king,” spat back Kellach. “Not anymore.”
Fearghal held up his stump of a wrist. “Yes, there may now have to be a new election. However, the Middle Kingdom clans have gifted me with the opportunity to first take a replacement hand. From you.”
Kellach walked a few steps in front of the English line, made a point of looking over the Irish and Sidhe forces, and laughed. “I have many times your number. I will take your other hand, then your life, and then all Sidhe will follow me. The Skeaghshee will rule the Middle Kingdom, and I will be their high king.”
The trees that encompassed the meadow leaned in, appearing to Jordan to be about to rush into the center, then leaned back, swayed, and stilled in a swarm of falling leaves.
Kellach reached toward the ground. A thick tree root wriggled up to the surface. He pulled it free, deftly molded it into a ja
velin as if he were working with clay, and hurled it at Fearghal. Just before reaching its mark, the javelin flashed into a cloud of ash that drifted to the ground around Fearghal.
From his belt Fearghal pulled a small ax that grew into a battle-ax as he raised it above his head and threw it at Kellach. Kellach spoke the name of the ax, “Dilgendfir,” reached toward it, and drew a symbol in the air, his fingers leaving a short trail of green light. The ax flew straight at Kellach, rotating head over tail, once, twice, then seemed to rotate into itself and vanish.
An unnatural stillness settled on the meadow. Fearghal and Kellach stared at each other. Horses got nervous legs. Men pulled on their collars, suddenly warm as the air between the two Sidhe radiated heat. Fearghal strained under some unseen load. Sweat dripped off Kellach’s face. Jordan closed his eyes, and a vision sprang into his consciousness of two beings spitting lightning at each other, the space between them full of thunder, flash, and smoke, but without effect.
Nottingham leaned forward in his saddle and asked Jordan, “What’s going on?”
Jordan pulled his gaze back into the physical world. “It’s a faerie standoff,” he replied as he swung out of his saddle to the ground. He walked toward Kellach.
Nottingham, weighed down by his armor, eased from his horse with help from his squire and hurried to catch up.
Kellach broke first and turned to face them. Jordan saw Fearghal stumble out in the meadow, then catch himself.
“What now?” Nottingham asked.
“I haven’t eaten today, so I propose lunch,” offered Jordan.
“Now you and your men go kill the Celts,” Kellach snarled. “I cannot do all the work for you.”
The Last Days of Magic Page 27