by Kildare
He wasn’t the only one. The breaks to water the horses got longer. Two people held the horse’s reins while the other three stretched their legs. It would have been a comical sight if Cillian wasn’t hobbling around so much himself.
Their ride seemed to have had no end when the early glow in the eastern sky lit up a mountain in the west that Kjartan recognized. Beneath its flanks lay a pass to cross back over the mountains and out of the lands of the Tuath Dé. If Kjartan’s reckoning was correct, they could be safe in an hour. But first, one last mountainside lay before them.
The ascent was brutal for the horses. They struggled the entire way, the slope steep, rocky, and strewn with deadfall. Kjartan refused to relent. The horses could rest once they reached the pass, and not a moment before. Too much danger to tarry. But would the horses even make the top? The lame horse hung farther and farther back and then she was gone, gobbled up by the green forest.
At the top of the long climb the trees opened onto a broad meadow sprinkled with purple flowers. Three citadels of icy rock guarded three passes—their own, one leading deeper into the mountains, and a third trailing down to a rippling of successively smaller mountains ridges and far beyond the faint smear of a green plain merging hazy with an indigo sky. Somewhere along the feet of the last mountains they would find the nearest outpost. The end of their long nightmare was in sight at last. A second ring of menhir stones dotted the meadow, wider around than the first. A football field and its bleachers could fit inside.
They had attained the center of the pass before they realized they were no longer alone. They saw nothing, heard nothing, and yet they knew they were being watched. The horses sensed it, too. Kept pausing to look toward the tree lines.
The Tuath Dé appeared as quickly and silently as phantoms, as if they had materialized out of thin air. One second there was no sign along the trees, the next the riders stood in the early morning shadows beneath the boughs. Though Cillian had never seen them before, he needed no introduction. They looked every part the demi-gods of Irish lore. All robed in green, mounted on horses, and armed with scimitars and long wooden bows. With the features of a human, but eyes and skin far brighter, almost aglow, as if they were sheets clothed in white-hot flame. Long, blond or black hair, both sexes in their ranks, an appearance of agelessness. More beautiful figures Cillian had never seen, more beautiful even than the archangels, who were a little off to his liking.
Just as impressive were the horses, stronger and sleeker than any breed he had ever seen. Unfathomable wealth was displayed in the gear; it made their own equipment look homely. The inlay of precious metals in the saddles and bridles glinted in the slanted light. Even the saddle blankets were woven of an exquisite fabric not found anywhere on Earth. With such wealth and knowledge, it was surprising they weren’t armed with guns. The horses stepped out from under the eaves in unison and halted in the gaps of the menhir ring, a noose poised to snap tight.
The Tuath Dé spoke in hushed tones Cillian couldn’t quite make out, though he thought they might be speaking in Gaelic. Would be fitting. He didn’t need to understand the words to catch the hostility. This wasn’t a welcome party. As of yet, no one on either side had drawn their weapons. All seemed to be waiting for someone to make the first move, the possibilities still open, a quick turn for the worse not yet assured.
Maybe it was brashness caused by an excessive faith in the sword, maybe it was fatigue and a desire to get off this horse, but Cillian drew forth Anbhás and rode forward alone toward the pass and the plains beyond. At the sight of the blazing sword, something changed in the Tuath Dés’ demeanor, their gazes not so stern, the hostility subdued. An order was barked and the ranks opened to allow passage.
Cillian barked his own order, the others having fallen into a stupor. They regarded the Tuath Dé as if they were ghosts and might vanish at any blink. Though the lines had parted, he approached with caution, afraid they might be setting a trap. They had changed their behavior too quickly for his liking, and all for a sword. Unlikely. What good was one man wielding a sword surrounded by hostile archers? Something was missing, some clue to explain their reaction. Passing through the line, he understood. None watched the other four, showed no interest in Anbhás, either. It wasn’t fear that defined their faces, but looks of confusion and awe directed toward Cillian. Why were they displaying such feelings toward him?
He eased the horse to a halt where the ground fell away, and gazed out over the edge of the mountains, the land funneling into a tight gorge cutting through several mountain ranges before spilling out onto the plains. Sunlight dazzled upon the white mountain fangs to either side, a splash of purple flowers all around, the sweet scent of pine. If one were going to go through all the trouble of erecting massive stones, he couldn’t think of any better places than the two he had just visited.
Once the others were through the line, the ring of the Tuath Dé formed into neat rows. Why didn’t they follow? Why didn’t they speak? He had a notion to wave goodbye and shout something jeering, but thought better of it. A lot of damn bows could reply.
“I told you we had nothing to fear,” Niamh said.
Kjartan grunted and eyed Cillian skeptically. “If we follow the ravine down, we’ll reach the outpost by sun-peak. We can give the horses a rest at first sight of water.”
“You still don’t trust the Tuath Dé? If they wanted to attack us they would’ve.”
Kjartan grunted again and spurred his horse down the slope.
“He’s the most stubborn man I’ve ever met,” Niamh noted.
“I know his kind well,” Cillian said.
They dismounted at the first stream they came to and, after watering the horses, took a short break. Cillian’s legs were so sore and stiff he was incapable of squatting or standing straight. He felt like an old man again. He hobbled over to a tree, tied up his horse, and stretched out on a flat boulder the size of a snug bed. He entertained the thought that once the stiffness set, he might have even more trouble moving.
The sight of the others’ bowed, crablike gaits was too much, and he started laughing. A rebuking glance from Kjartan only encouraged his laughter. For the first time the man’s features softened, might have even masked the edges of a smile somewhere beneath all that brooding seriousness.
The others found spots to sit in the grass. Cillian watched, too tired even to move his eyes to a different subject. His eyelids weighed heavier and heavier, each blink a little longer. The others sank into the grass, losing their own battles with exhaustion. They needed to keep moving. No time for rest just yet. He started to rise, remembered the stiffness, and sagged back into the comfort of his rock bed. A couple more minutes of rest couldn’t hurt. Then they would go. The danger was over. They had time. Somewhere birds were singing quick, bubbly lullabies. Everything got foggy, hard to concentrate on. Songs stretched and warped, muffled as if heard through water, everything fading away. Falling, falling, falling.
III
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9
Cillian jerked upright, his senses engaged on high alert. How long had he been asleep? The others lay sprawled out in the grass, still sleeping. The horses were still tied to the trees, nibbling at what grass they could reach. He relaxed, his fight-or-flight response disengaging. The track of the shadows had shifted about an hour. He stretched and enjoyed the pleasant sensation of stretching muscle fibers. His legs and back felt so much better. The soreness persisted, but no longer ached.
One of the horses had gotten free and grazed away from the others. As he walked out to catch her, he noticed she walked with a limp. He counted the other horses and chuckled. The injured mare had caught up to them. He hadn’t expected to ever see her again. He left her alone and explored the stream. It was shallow and swift. He saw no trout in the white waters, though it was difficult to see much depth in the little pools.
He looked back. Still no motion from the others. They could sleep a little longer while he had a look upstream. He wouldn’t go
far. Just around the bend. He lost sight of them around a mountain spur. Told himself just a little farther. One more bend. Then the next. Then the next, each time knowing he should return, but his curiosity driving him onward.
He discovered a stand of pines so close together they formed one canopy above, in what had once been an old stream bed. Short shrubs and willows encircled their trunks. He found a space in an opening barely bigger than himself among the pines where little light reached. The ground was littered with dead pine needles, the surrounding shrubs and willows so thick he could see nothing beyond their branches. The spot was like a fort. He would have loved to have found such a place along the Little Missouri River when he was a child.
The splashing of water alerted him of danger. Something crossed the stream in an area he couldn’t see. Voices now, too muffled to hear their words. Had the others come looking for him? He started to slip back through the thicket and froze. Whoever was out there was upstream of him. Couldn’t be the others. No way they had gotten around him. He crouched down into the shadows and waited.
Three individuals walked past, only the knees and below visible, all dressed in dark green and speaking a language like nothing he had ever heard before. As soon as he no longer heard them, he slipped free of the thicket and sneaked after them. He studied the ground for signs of their passage and found nothing. Were they a war party of the Tuath Dé? He needed to warn the others.
He sprinted through the woods, moving away from the stream, hoping to cut off the twists and reach the others sooner. The scenery was strange, different from before. He hoped his sense of direction was right and his navigation wasn’t off as he hadn’t realized how far he had gone. A good chance he was wrong now, too. Might miss the camp completely if he wasn’t careful. He glimpsed the mountain spur above the pines, altered course, and soon saw the horses grazing contentedly, the camp still sleeping. He slowed down, chiding himself for his overreaction. Probably just some local woodsmen. Then he saw the creatures rushing into the clearing.
“Trolls! Trolls!”
Kjartan popped up first, saw Cillian, realized something was wrong, leapt to his feet, and drew his battle axe as a troll fell upon him. Kjartan’s fierce counterattack slowed the trolls long enough for Niamh, Egil, and Glámr to arm themselves and join the fray. Two trolls fell quickly. The third raised a horn and blew two sharp blasts before Niamh brought it down with two well-thrown knives.
“Cillian, what were you doing over there?” Niamh asked as she retrieved the knives and slid them back into a bandolier slung across her chest.
“I was scouting.”
“We must leave now,” Kjartan ordered. “That was a call for help. There must be other trolls nearby. They’ll be here soon.”
They mounted in haste and set off at a blistering pace down the valley. They had been riding for no more than a minute when the first horn responded. Then a second, and a third, and a fourth, all from different areas to their left. Kjartan was right. The trolls hadn’t been alone. Cillian hoped none had a shadow terror. Already too few, they couldn’t withstand another attack from those dreadful beasts.
The valley narrowed, rocky heights peering down. Kjartan found something of a trail on the south side of the stream. The stream had gathered other waters and was picking up speed as the valley’s descent steepened. Soon the current was too swift and deep to cross. The walls of the gorge hemmed in, the narrow trail clinging to the cliff face. The horses slowed to a walk. The slightest misstep would plunge it and the rider into the white waters thundering below. Cillian apprehensively eyed the opposing cliff face. With their slow pace and lack of cover, they would make plump targets for any archer standing atop the rocks on the other side. He saw no movement there.
The horns fell silent for a long time. They readied their bows anyway. Though Cillian’s previous shooting at the Broken Bear Pass had shown the loss of his archery skills, he could at least shoot close enough to unnerve anyone shooting back.
The canyon floor leveled out beyond the narrowest section of the gorge. The waters, now a river, had slowed and broadened, and the trail slipped back into the cover of trees. Hours passed without sight or sound of the trolls. The sun passed its zenith. If not for the nap, they would have already been at the outpost by now. The longer they saw or heard no sign of any trolls, the more Kjartan worried they might stumble into trolls ahead. The riders had quite a disadvantage with the horses. Though speedy, the frequent sneezing and constant rattle of gear loudly announced their coming. Kjartan slowed the pace, abandoned the trail, and clung to the canyon wall.
The first attack came without warning. A low whistle streaked by and then the reins went limp in Cillian’s hand. A second of confusion as he held up the left rein, severed inches from where he held it. The horse’s reaction was also delayed. She leapt sideways, nearly tipping him out of the saddle, the sign of another skill in decline. In his prime, a horse could get startled without effecting his balance, but he wasn’t used to it any more. Now a jarring movement nearly unhorsed him every time.
A dull thump from somewhere behind. The mare spun a circle and bolted forward. With only the one rein, Cillian struggled to control her. Everything all around was a jerking, spinning blur. He yanked the horse to a halt, jerked its head to the right, and managed to fire off a quick arrow that missed its mark. The mare lunged forward and spun and he fought to restrain her as got off another arrow wide of its mark. He mumbled a string of profanity as he dropped to the ground, his blood boiling. He slammed his boot down onto the end of the good rein, drew back an arrow and took time to aim. The arrow found its mark, the troll screaming as it fell to the ground. He rapidly fired off two more arrows, the first wide, the second a glancing pass.
“Mount up, Cillian,” Niamh shouted. “We can’t hold them back.”
He slung the bow over his back, grasped the saddle horn, and with a single bound was up and mounted. It was nice to have the speed and flexibility of a young man again. No sooner had he settled into the saddle than a heavy blow to his chest nearly knocked him back out. A stabbing shot of pain seared through his left shoulder where an arrow had plunged just below the collar bone. The metal arrowhead poked out the back. Cillian leaned down, clamped his teeth on the end of the good rein, grasped the shaft with both hands, and snapped the end off, leaving a few inches protruding from both sides. An instant explosion of fire wracked his left side.
Two more arrows ended in a loud thwack and Cillian thought he had been hit again. One arrow was lodged in the back of the saddle, two more were buried in the mare’s rump. Now he understood why she had spooked to begin with.
The others were ahead, the trolls rushing to block their escape. The five riders formed a wedge shape and charged through the trolls who were too few and scattered to put up enough resistance. Cillian’s horse bowled one over, he slashed another, and then they were through the net, arrows now flying in from behind. He tried to steer a zigzagging pattern with his good arm so they’d be harder to hit, but the mare had other ideas and he couldn’t control her well with one good arm and one good rein and both on the same side.
The archers fell out of range. Horns blew all around, reverberating up and down the canyon walls. They were surrounded on three sides and blocked on the fourth by high cliffs they couldn’t climb. With each step of the horse, the arrow jiggled, a fire raging wide of the two holes. Took a mighty effort not to cry out in anguish. He sliced off a six-inch tip of rein and bit down on the leather. If he pulled out the arrow the pain would lessen, but it acted as a plug, and he could bleed to death if he removed it. Suffering the shaft was his only option.
The ride seemed to have no end, a blur of trees and shrubs and rock wall and glimpses of the river, and always the unbearable pain he thought would drive him out of his mind. Blood had streamed down to his jeans, was smeared all over himself and the horse. Together they had collected three arrows. How badly was the mare injured? Would she make the outpost? Would he make it? Slipping into unconsciousness
was a looming threat.
Voices yelled from what seemed to be far away, speaking words he couldn’t comprehend. A hand grabbed the reins near the bridle. Kjartan. He looked down and saw water. They were fording a river. He thought he heard something streak by above. Light and shadows blurred together into shapeless forms. He wished someone would shut off all those damn car horns. Mumbled something to that effect. They understood him.
His senses drifted back, vision clarified, and sounds took distinct notes again. Kjartan and Egil were arguing about his horse. Something about limping and not keeping up. Niamh remarked about all the blood the mare had lost. He looked down. Blood was soaked and smeared on everything. Was it all his or the horse’s, too? How was he still alive? No wonder he was so dizzy.
Something was different. The horse was no longer moving. Had he passed out? A sensation of falling. The horse was dropping to her knees. Cillian pushed himself off as the mare fell to the ground. He piled into the ground and stumbled back to his feet. The position of the sword affected his balance and tripped him down to his knees. Cries of alarm and surprise sounded all around. Kjarten fought one troll as a second brandishing a battle-axe rushed him from behind.
The sight ignited a fury deep within Cillian, a flame that spread like wildfire. A growl rose from his throat, an unnatural sound. He pushed himself back up, drew Anbhás from its sheath, and swung with as much force as he could muster. The blade cut clean through the handle of the axe and chopped the troll’s arm off at the shoulder. It stumbled into Cillian, knocking him down as it fell, warm blood gushing over his face. He rolled away, wiped the blood from his eyes, and delivered the killing stroke.
They were no longer surrounded by trees and mountains. A fortification stood in the distance. Men wielding swords ran toward them. Others fired arrows overhead. Kjartan, Egil, Glámr, and Niamh were all engaged in fierce combat. Men from the fort ran past as Cillian toppled to the ground. Clear blue sky shone above, clash of metal on metal and the whiz of arrows all around. He listened, too exhausted even to try to roll onto his side and watch. The furor died away and everything faded to black.