“We need to go,” said Brigid, putting her arm around Aisling’s shoulders. “Richard has started up the kings road and will be here in two days, at Tara in three, if we don’t stop him.”
Aisling hugged her daughters tighter. “I keep having this feeling that it’s wrong to leave them, that I should be doing something different to protect them.”
Brigid rested a hand on each tiny head and closed her eyes. “I have no foresight of any danger to them. They’ll be safe here.”
Reassured by Brigid’s words, Aisling felt her anxiety ebb. She kissed each of her daughters and handed them to the wet nurse just as Conor entered carrying her sword. “The horses are ready.”
“Remember, no unnecessary risks,” Aisling commanded her husband. “We both must survive this.” She accepted her sword and cast a final longing look back at her twins.
. . . . .
Night had fallen when Turlough forced down the foul-smelling drink that Mamos held to his lips. Half an hour later, he was standing, shaky but able to dress. “Did you have to make my illness that bad?” he said, more an accusation than a question.
“It had to be convincing to Art and any druids he brought,” replied Mamos.
“He did not bring any druids.”
Mamos shrugged.
“Get me some ale and bread.” Turlough’s order was stern enough that Mamos bowed and hurriedly left for the kitchen.
By four in the morning, Turlough and Mamos were once again slogging toward the earthen ring, this time in sleet rather than rain. A glow rose from within it, illuminating the ice forming on the trees surrounding the field. Hesitating at the entrance and eyeing the small group of Grogoch and Dryads waiting inside, Turlough asked Mamos, “Are you sure this is the only way? You are staking our lives on it.”
“We are staking more than our lives on it,” replied the old druid. “The time is upon us. We must act.”
“What do you think Kellach will do when he feels you break his enchantment protecting the heart segment?”
. . . . .
Dawn was more a rumor than true light when Jordan pushed open his tent flap and stepped out. The wind had died, and sleet had given way to heavy snow. His squire was working to get a fire going. His small camp was set off by itself north of Clonee, a village on the kings road that had been so overwhelmed by the English encampment that it was no longer possible to tell village from camp. Citing the role of the Vatican as an observer, Jordan had taken to keeping his distance from the English army. Najia emerged from his tent and bent to help with the fire. Miraculously, it roared to life. The real reason Jordan kept his camp well away from the others: there was growing talk among the English that Najia was a witch.
Feeling restless, Jordan pulled his cloak tighter and headed north. His boots crunched upon the frosted grass. The fate of Ireland was about to be decided, and, to his surprise, he was no longer conflicted. It was not just his distaste for Orsini’s blackmail, trying to force him to join the VRS League when he returned to Europe, nullifying the legate’s promise of land and title. No, it was Ireland itself. Every day he sensed Ardor evaporating, like a river in a drought, but there was still more here than anywhere else. It made Ireland feel like home. And there was Najia to consider. Europe was becoming an increasingly dangerous place for women like her. He was not sure she could ever return safely. The light in the eastern sky grew, along with his certainty: he wanted the Irish to win. Now, what to do about it?
He passed through a gate in a low, gray stone wall and started across a large field with a hawthorn tree in the center. Spying a figure standing under the barren tree, he diverted toward it. Kellach, staring uneasily to the northwest, did not acknowledge Jordan’s approach. It was the first time Jordan had seen him concerned.
“Worried about the battle today?” asked Jordan.
“Which side are you hoping will win, in truth?” asked Kellach.
The man and the Sidhe stood under the tree in silence as snow fell down around them. Jordan slowly edged his hand toward his dagger. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kellach’s hand move to rest on the hilt of his sword. That was unfortunate. Jordan wished he had thought to bring his sword on his morning walk. He considered making a move anyway, but knew it would be foolhardy, he had seen how deadly a fighter Kellach was. Jordan, then Kellach, allowed their hands to drift back down to their sides.
Kellach broke the silence. “The Celts have found the hidden heart segment and will try to recall the Morrígna.” He turned toward Jordan and smiled. “There was a time when that might have helped them, but it is too late. The seeds of my victory are sown, even if the Morrígna returns.” Kellach walked back toward the English camp.
“Seeds may sprout, but they can still be torn from the earth,” Jordan called after him. Kellach did not respond.
When Jordan returned to his camp, he found Najia packing their horses for travel, not battle. His squire, cook, and two pages were standing off to the side, watching. Trust Najia to take decisive action, he thought.
Najia kissed him and said, “No matter who wins today, the English will no longer tolerate a reputed witch in their presence. I’ve learned that a trial is being planned, and you know what the verdict will be. It’s time for me to go.” She placed her hand on his chest. “Besides, neither you nor I belong with the English anymore. Come with me. Somewhere in this land there’s a place for us.”
Jordan covered her hand with his. “I was thinking the same,” he said. He stepped away from her, opened his horse’s saddlebag, and retrieved a leather pouch, one of the few things he was carrying with a Vatican seal on it. From inside he selected six gold nobles and two dozen silver pennies, which he dropped back into the saddlebag. He handed his squire the pouch, still round and heavy with coins. “Divide the rest among the four of you as promised,” he said. “My gratitude for your loyalty—and your discretion.”
“Thank you, my lord. Good luck to you.” There were handshakes all around, though none of them offered to join him.
. . . . .
Later that morning the snow had slacked to drifting flakes. South of Ratoath Village, Conor, Aisling, and Brigid rode up the low, broad hill, passing a group of Sidhe Devas carrying down the bodies of fallen comrades. At the summit was a small Sidhe rath with half its earthen walls destroyed and a pile of bodies—the Wichtlein who had tried to defend it. On the other side of the rath, Liam, Fearghal, and Rhoswen sat on their horses studying the landscape below. Swirls within swirls of blue paint engulfed half of Liam’s face, flowed down his neck, and disappeared under his cloak. Aisling recognized the motif; it belonged to his Sidhe mother’s clan.
To the south, Aisling could not see the kings road, only—at the very edge of sight—a line of movement: the English army. To the right was a dense wood; to the left a wandering bog; down the middle, all the way to the English, stretched wide fields crisscrossed with low stone walls.
“Perfect,” said Conor. “Richard’s dream battlefield. Open ground for his archers, trees for his Skeaghshee.”
“Which is drawing him north off the road,” replied Liam. “Aisling and our druids benefit from the open as well, and we have the high ground.”
“Kellach will have told Richard that,” said Conor.
“Perhaps,” said Fearghal. “But Kellach does not care how many English die as long they defeat us. Richard believes momentum is on his side, and he’s overconfident that he will win this war. Besides, they both know, as we all do, that this battle is inevitable.”
“So we fight today,” acknowledged Aisling. “Now that I can see the terrain, show me where our forces will be deployed.”
“You, Brigid, and the rest of the druids will work from here,” replied Liam. “Conor, your Gallowglass and two companies of Celts will protect this hill while Aisling holds the enchantment. Art will lead the main force of Celts down the left center, and I’ll lead the Gallowg
lass down the right center, straight at the English front line.” Liam swept his arm along the line of fields. “We’ll break the English formations and destroy the bulk of their forces.”
“You’re going to have to work fast. I don’t know how long I can hold an enchantment of this power,” said Aisling.
“We mount one massive charge. There’ll be no standing formations,” said Liam.
“My Sidhe forces are already concealed in the bog,” added Fearghal. “When the English pass that old Christian church”—he pointed to an abandoned stone building three-quarters of a mile south—“half of my Sidhe will sweep behind the English to the trees, engaging the Skeaghshee and whatever other Sidhe are hiding there while blocking any English retreat. The other half will attack the main body of the English from the left.”
Aisling’s eyes turned to Liam, who for her entire life had been by her side. “Just come back alive.”
“Just keep those arrows off me,” replied Liam.
“May the Morrígna protect us all,” said Fearghal solemnly. With a nod to his comrades, he urged his horse into a trot and started down the hill, with Rhoswen following.
Brigid slid her horse alongside Liam’s and leaned into him. “I’ve decided that after this is over I’ll pass on the mantle of Brigid to one of my priestesses. I’ve accepted the position of druid of Connacht, which doesn’t require celibacy.”
Liam kissed her forehead, eased away from her, and galloped after Fearghal.
From the foot of the hill came the sounds of the Celtic forces moving into position under the command of Art. To one side the Gallowglass companies, distinctive from the cloaked Celts, were not outfitted in their normal heavy mail and iron helmets. Today was not a day to stand and fight; today was a day to charge and win—or die. All of the Gallowglass, men and women, had stripped to their waists, with their torsos, arms, and faces painted in the complex blue patterns of their own clans and Gods. Steam rose from the mass of bodies. One hand held their shield and their horse’s reins, most choosing to fill their other with a sparth, a six-foot-long battle-ax with a foot-wide blade. Aisling watched as Liam galloped to the front and threw his cloak to the frozen ground, revealing the rest of his blue motif. Treasa and Earnan moved in behind him.
Conor took Aisling’s hand. “We’re both going home when this is over, home in a land that’s safe for our daughters. I’ll not let any harm come to you.”
Aisling nodded, desperately wanting to believe him. Her brow furrowed, she stared out across the coming battlefield, pristine white in snow.
. . . . .
Turlough rode toward Dunsany Castle. Mamos, riding beside him, was mumbling words to further strengthen the enchantment that had been hiding their intent from the foresight of others, particularly Brigid and Rhoswen. Turlough rode in silence, sure that neither would be casting her inner sight in this direction today. And if the Test of the twins was successful, no enchantment could block the sudden knowledge among all Sidhe and druids that the Morrígna was returning.
As they approached, the gate opened and Dunsany’s steward walked out to greet them. “King Turlough,” the steward said with a bow. “I am sorry, but Aisling and Lord Conor left to join High King Art yesterday.”
“We’re aware of that,” replied Mamos. “Art sent us to ensure the safety of the twins.”
The steward looked from one to the other. “Of course,” he replied, and motioned them inside.
. . . . .
A procession of two packhorses loaded with wood and nine white-robed druids reached the top of the hill. There should have been ten.
“Where’s Mamos?” Brigid called out.
“He hasn’t arrived yet,” replied a young druid from Meath.
“No great loss,” whispered Brigid as she and Aisling dismounted. “The old relic’s powers are fading anyway.” They joined the others in the construction of a large bonfire. Once it was ablaze, Brigid called everyone into a circle and began a chant.
A series of loud rumbles drew Aisling’s attention back toward the English, where Grogoch lumbered along in front of advancing lines of horse archers and a scattering of armored knights. Each swing of a Grogoch hammer demolished fifty feet of wall, sending stones flying.
Suddenly Fearghal’s forces—Devas, Adhenes, Brownies, and a few Leprechauns—rose from the bog and streamed on foot behind the English. Before they could reach the tree line, Skeaghshee and Wichtlein charged out, crashing into them. The day’s first ring of blade on blade rose up to Aisling, and fear caught in her throat, fear for those she loved around her, fear for her daughters, fear she would fail them all.
As the last wall fell, English archers reined in their horses and let fly a volley of arrows. Aisling gasped in surprise that the arrows were able to reach all the way to the Irish lines. Even though the Irish threw up their shields into a wall, men and horses fell.
“Aisling!” shouted Brigid.
“Yes, I know,” Aisling snapped back. “You suppress any Skeaghshee enchantments, I’ll take care of the arrows.” Aisling scooped up a handful of firelight and held it out toward the battlefield. She began reciting an enchantment in the original language of angels while slowly closing her fingers around the ball of light. It infused her hand.
“Azâzêl,” Aisling called out, “master of iron, patron of the Celts before your corruption, I know your true name.” Aisling spoke a sound like metal cleaving bone. She felt the most delicate of touches from Anann in the Otherworld, and a fringe of green circled her gray irises. Around the top of the hill, the gently falling snow began to seethe. With her glowing hand, Aisling traced a complex symbol in light that continued to hang steady in the turbulent air. “Azâzêl, I bind you to this place and time, to preventing any iron from flying.” A disturbance radiated through the snowfall, out from the hill and across the fields.
Below, companies of English archers drew arrows in their longbows and released. The arrows dropped to the ground at their horses’ feet. They quickly tried again, with the same result. No iron flew.
From the Irish, horns sounded only to be immediately drowned out by the roar of warriors as they charged forward, smashing into the English lines. Fearghal led the rest of his Sidhe forces out of the bog and into the English’s right flank. Skeaghshee enchantments soared from the trees toward the hill, only to be repelled by Brigid and her druids.
. . . . .
Jordan and Najia galloped around the north end of the bog and reined their horses into a skidding stop on the frozen ground. Spread out to the south, the battle had become a melee. Waves of enchantments rolled through the snowy air, dashing into one another in sudden, fierce swirls, each canceling out the other. Gallowglass and Celt were cutting through the English archers, overpowering their light swords and small shields. Fifty English knights, with armor and broadswords, bravely mounted a charge to protect their men.
It was the light—a warm glow radiating from a low hill not far away—that alerted Jordan to what was suppressing all flying iron, arrows or javelins. It must be Aisling, he thought, astonished by the strength of the enchantment she was maintaining. His heart pounded against his ribs, hope surging through him for the first time since landing in Ireland.
Movement in the trees at the base of the hill caught his eye. Kellach came into view. Jordan could not hear what Kellach was calling, but a company of Skeaghshee broke from the forest and rushed the hill on foot. Conor led a mounted charge of Celts down to intercept them.
. . . . .
Aisling, her face illuminated by the glow of Azâzêl’s symbol floating before her, saw Conor lead the charge down hill. She began an enchantment of protection for him, and as she did so, the luminosity of Azâzêl’s symbol dimmed.
“Aisling!” Brigid called out to her in alarm. “Maintain your connection to Azâzêl! Don’t let him become unbound!”
“I have to protect Conor,” Aisling called back
, not taking her eyes off her husband.
“You are protecting Conor from the English archers—that’s critical.”
Aisling abandoned the new enchantment. She refocused, reached out, and retraced Azâzêl’s symbol. It returned to full brightness, but it took everything she had to maintain it, and her face dampened with cold sweat. She thought she heard an infant start to cry and glanced around for the source of the sound. She realized it was in her mind; it was one of her daughters. The cry abruptly stopped, and a searing pain struck her heart. She screamed and fell to her knees, clutching her chest. She tried to see Conor through the fog of pain, tried to call out to him, but her throat would no longer respond.
. . . . .
Conor turned toward the scream that had pierced the cacophony of battle and saw Aisling rise unsteadily. She stumbled back toward her horse, out of sight over the crest of the hill. Brigid called for her to return. He felt the whisper of a sword through air and brought his shield up to take the blow. His horse plunged to the ground as its legs were cut down by an ax. He rolled free and came up, thrusting his sword under a Skeaghshee’s shield into his groin. Another lunged at Conor, who parried, cut across the Skeaghshee’s sword arm, then slashed his throat. Conor risked a look back up, but Aisling was gone and light was dripping off Azâzêl’s symbol. Brigid was struggling in vain to renew the enchantment as it melted away.
Conor could hear Kellach close at hand calling for archers. One arrow flew, then another. “Brigid!” Conor shouted. “Get her back!” He turned and struck down another Skeaghshee to reveal Kellach advancing toward him across the red snow, a sword in each hand.
. . . . .
Liam was killing his way into the English lines. Progressing steadily, he used his half-Sidhe ability to anticipate the moves of each successive foe and had established a rhythm of delivering the lethal strike on the third blow alternating with the second. He felt a compulsion to look back toward the hill. There was no sign of Aisling, only Brigid bursting into her swan form, her robes collapsing onto the ground.
The Last Days of Magic Page 31