The Last Days of Magic: A Novel

by Mark Tompkins

“You don’t know that,” replied Art.

  “Otherwise why would they be sailing to Waterford? It is the last harbor they would attack. For five hundred years, the Vikings have fortified it as their sanctuary. Now it’s by far the most secure port in Ireland.”

  Conor placed a finger on the map at Waterford. “Here the bay is pinched into a narrows by two low hills at the mouth of the river Suir, and only one ship can enter at a time.” He traced his finger along the line of the river. “Past the hills the river swells again here, where a small fleet of defensive ships can wait and pick off invaders easily. Ten Viking ships could hold that narrows from the inside, fewer with archers on the hills spanning it. Even if invading ships make it past the narrows, they’d have to launch tenders to tow them around this sharp turn before getting to the port fortifications, all the while under attack.”

  “The shore is gentle. They could land and assault the city from the south,” said Art, indicating coastline on the map.

  “You’ve never been to Waterford, have you?”

  “No reason to.”

  “To the south is all bog. As I said, it’s the easiest port in all of Ireland to defend. The only reason the English would sail there is that they are sure of taking it and then that they will be able to defend Waterford against us.”

  “Are you saying the Vikings have betrayed us as well?”

  “I don’t know, but clearly the English have made arrangements to take Waterford.”

  Art nodded in agreement.

  “That can’t be right. King Myndill would never side with the Christians. He would die first!” exclaimed Turlough.

  “But what about Geir?” asked Liam. “He did let Colmcille build a monastery in Waterford, the first in any Viking city.”

  “Where are Colmcille and Patrick?” interrupted Murchada. “Patrick should be here with the Bell.”

  “Colmcille has decided this is not the Christians’ fight, and he sent word that Patrick has not yet returned from Rome,” replied Art.

  “Patrick is dead,” came a voice from behind them, “and the Blood Bell is captured.”

  Fearghal had entered the room with several of his Sidhe captains, his right arm bandaged at the wrist where his hand used to be.

  “My friend,” said Art. “An assassination attempt?”

  “They did not try to kill me. It is better for the Skeaghshee if I am less than whole and no longer fit to be high king, to stir discord when there is no time for a new election.”

  “Does the Sidhe army still follow you?”

  Holding up his empty wrist, Fearghal said, “This is the latest, but the least, of the Skeaghshee treachery. They have been fomenting rebellion for over a year, though most Sidhe do not want to fight on either side, not without the Morrígna to bind them to their oaths. Many decided that it is time to explore paths through the Middle Kingdom to other worlds, time to abandon this world that is being consumed by Christianity.”

  “Are you saying the Sidhe will not fight with us?” asked Art.

  Fearghal sighed. “Those who have passion enough left to fight mainly want to win Ireland back for the Sidhe only. Few are willing to fight to maintain things as they are.”

  “How many?” asked Art.

  “I have pledges from only two thousand and but one thousand with me tonight.”

  The group stood in stunned silence.

  “Tell me you at least have Fire Sprites,” said Liam.

  Fearghal shook his head. “I have not seen a Fire Sprite in the Middle Kingdom in two months. The Sidhe setting out on paths to new worlds enlisted them, the Skeaghshee made sure of that. Those with me are mainly Devas and Adhene—it is hard to abandon a kingdom you rule. We will see if they still know how to fight. And a few Brownies.”

  “A thousand Sidhe,” repeated Conor. “There were almost that many in just the one column of renegades from the north that we detected. How many Celt and Gallowglass warriors have we mustered?”

  “My company plus the forces that have arrived with Turlough and Murchada total around twenty-five hundred,” replied Art. “Forces from Connacht and Ulster will not arrive for two days. Last time I received word, Queen Gormflaith is leading a force from Munster of around one thousand that should make it to Waterford before sunrise, though there have been no messages for many hours.”

  “Few messages will get through tonight, not this close to Waterford, not with the Skeaghshee stopping them,” said Fearghal.

  “So in total we have thirty-five hundred mustered here, plus Gormflaith’s thousand or so coming from the west,” said Conor, “facing some unknown thousands of Sidhe, probably a Fomorian force, perhaps all of them, and the English.”

  “And we don’t yet know what to expect from the Vikings,” added Liam.

  “What do you advise?” the high king asked Liam.

  “Our advantage is that the English will be most vulnerable when they try to land,” said Liam. “Our disadvantage is that they seem to have allies both in the sea and on shore. But we don’t know their plan, and even if it’s a good one, something could go wrong. I say we ride as fast as possible to Waterford and try to beat the opposing Sidhe forces there. Then, if the Vikings are preparing to hold the port against the armada, we join them, and if we’re very lucky, we take the high ground above the narrows. Then we can hold Waterford until the rest of the Irish forces can be mustered.”

  “That’s a lot of luck to count on.”

  “What other option is there? If Waterford is captured, the English will have their toehold in Ireland, and we’ll be forced to withdraw and regroup.”

  Art stood looking at the map, anger filling his face. “We can’t wait any longer, then. Rally all that are here and ride for Waterford,” he commanded. “Fearghal, how will your Sidhe travel? You could be in Waterford before any of us.”

  “Unfortunately, it is best for us to move overland with you. If we try to traverse the Middle Kingdom tonight, much will happen to delay us.”

  Conor became aware of a presence. Glancing to his left, he was surprised to see Rhoswen standing close to him.

  “Thirty minutes ago Aisling gave birth to twin girls,” she announced.

  “Are you sure?” demanded Conor, his heart pounding.

  “I have just come from her side. Brigid asked me to tell you all are healthy and safe. She said it would help you to know.”

  “It does.” Conor let out a long sigh. He felt light and strong again. “Thank you for bringing word.”

  The group gathered around Conor, congratulating him.

  “Enough!” announced Art. “There’s no time for celebration. We must make haste to Waterford.”

  Fearghal asked Rhoswen, “Daughter, you made fast time. Did you travel through the Middle Kingdom? What is happening there?”

  Rhoswen shook her head. “I took a witch path.”

  . . . . .

  The sunrise was blotted out by an overcast sky as a Viking longship rowed through the river Suir narrows toward Waterford Bay. Flat and gray, the sea ahead would have been indistinguishable from the clouds if not for the mass of English cogs creating a dark artificial horizon, their sails billowing.

  The Viking king Myndill glanced up at the empty hills spanning the narrows. Damn the Celts, he thought, where are they? Damn Kellach, who stilled the sea and slacked the tide that should have been running out, should have been giving speed to my ships and taking it from the English. “Odin, damn the Fomorians to Hel’s realm,” he cursed aloud as his brother joined him on the bow, “for letting the English through.”

  Myndill’s longship entered the bay and glided to a stop followed by five others, three of which were commanded by his son Geir, the new marshal of Waterford. Shouts, too distant to decipher, drifted across the water from the English armada and Myndill knew they were alarms, warning of the dragon ships. He smiled. His dragon figurehead was fitted to the prow, signaling to all that his ship came for battle, not trade.

  Ninety-eight feet long and twelve feet wide,
Myndill’s longship, a skei design built two years earlier in Dublin, held eighty warriors. Sixty of the warriors sat poised with their oars raised, each oar a custom length to match its position on the ship. The mast and the square sail were unneeded and left on shore. A colorful line of round shields, painted with the red, yellow, and black family emblems of the rowers, ran down slots in the gunwale rail. Graceful, elegant, highly maneuverable, and very fast, his ship was deadly, at least when not faced with five hundred lumbering English cogs. Even the fiercest dragon can be crushed by a stampede of cows, Myndill thought.

  “Best to meet them one at a time back on the other side of the narrows,” his brother said. His brother’s long mail shirt, falling almost to his knees, and iron helmet were a contrast to Myndill’s lack of armor. Myndill believed that the Gods would decide when he was to die.

  Myndill studied the English armada. Ten ships had sailed out ahead of the fleet and were gaining speed toward the Vikings, the lead ship of the vanguard flying Richard’s standard. “No,” Myndill growled. “We’ll sink that arrogant king’s flagship and block the approach to the narrows.” He called out his order: “Fire arrows!”

  A dozen bows were pulled from a sea chest and passed out. Irish Vikings’ poor bowmanship was the source of many Celtic jokes, such as, “You are more likely to be hit by lightning than by a Viking arrow.” To kill a man face-to-face with a sword or an ax brought honor and the favor of the Viking Gods, to kill a man from a distance with a bow did not. Consequently, the Irish Vikings rarely practiced. However, it did not take much skill to hit a target as large as a ship at short range. Fire arrows were unwrapped from thick oilskin coverings. Each iron arrowhead bulged out at the base, forming a basket of metal fingers. Into this basket was stuffed wool soaked with a mixture of pitch, sulfur, and lime, so that the flame would not be extinguished by water.

  “Full stroke!” Myndill cried out. Sixty oars moved as one, and the longship sprang forward, followed by Myndill’s two other ships.

  “You son doesn’t follow,” his brother said.

  “That boy wants to die in front of his hearth,” Myndill grumbled. “Halt!” he ordered his rowers, and he turned to see Geir’s three ships just floating, their limp oars resting in the water.

  A large Fomorian scaled the bow of his son’s ship and stood beside him, a dilapidated sable cloak hanging off the creature’s shoulders, patches of white fur showing through the caked mildew. Geir pulled on a chain around his neck, and a large crucifix emerged from under his tunic, which he let fall to sway in front of his chest.

  “Traitor!” Myndill roared at his son. “You’ll never join me in Valhalla.”

  “I’ll look down from heaven and see you burning in hell!” Geir retorted.

  Fomorians surfaced and seized the oars of Myndill’s longships. Others scaled the sides and swarmed inside. Myndill swung his ax, killing a charging Fomorian. A Viking drew his bow only to be knocked down, the fire arrow striking the stern of the longship, setting it ablaze.

  Myndill cut off the head of another Fomorian. Pulling a spear from its place of honor in a holder attached to the rail, its oak shaft inlaid with woven gold-and-silver cord, he looked out across his ship. His men were cutting down the Fomorians, but not as fast as they were leaping over the gunwale. He cried out, “Odin, are you watching? I dedicate my last battle to you!” and threw the spear over the embattled deck.

  Drawing a short sword with his left hand, his right holding the ax, he began slaughtering the green creatures climbing onto the prow. One managed to duck under the ax, swinging his clawed hand. Myndill’s belly erupted in fire. He stabbed the Fomorian, dropped his sword and pushed the loop of intestine back into the wound, held it there and hacked at more advancing creatures with his ax. Three of them jumped him from the left, knocking him to the deck. Pain swept a fog across his vision as his gut split further open. He felt the deck sliding beneath him.

  “Odin,” he whispered, “I’m the last of the Viking kings to come to you.” He felt himself falling, the frigid water of the bay engulfing him, then the pain fading.

  . . . . .

  Conor, Liam, and a Brownie watched from up in a willow tree on the bay shore. Richard’s flagship glided by Myndill’s now-empty ships and dropped its sail. A rope was thrown to one of Geir’s ships, which took it in tow toward the narrows and the port beyond. Conor and his companions scrambled down from the tree.

  “Return to High King Art,” Liam directed the Brownie. “Tell him Waterford is lost. We’ll wait for Rhoswen and join them soon.” The Brownie slipped off.

  All the previous night, the Skeaghshee forces had harried the Irish column with hit-and-run tactics. Casualties had been light, but progress toward Waterford had been slowed. When it became apparent that the army was not going to reach Waterford before sunrise, Conor and Liam led a scouting party ahead. The Irish forces would proceed to Slievecoiltia Hill, just north of Waterford, and wait for word.

  Conor and Liam crept along the shoreline, surveying the arriving English ships. Grogoch and Wichtlein climbed out of the bog across the bay and mounted the hill west of the narrows. Skeaghshee broke from their hiding places in the woods to the east of the narrows, rushing up the other hill, calling out welcomes to their king, Kellach, who stood in victory on the prow of Richard’s ship. Richard, de Vere, and Mortimer could be seen in the aftcastle.

  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.