“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 Gallowglass 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.
Worried, he heard the English commanders shout new orders. Over the battlefield he spied a small volley of arrows taking flight. “Dismount, shields up!” he shouted. The Gallowglass around him jumped from their horses and pulled them into a tight formation, slamming their shields into a wall. The whack, whack of iron arrowheads striking wood washed across them, intermingled with curses as arrows found gaps and struck flesh. Several wounded horses reared, jerking their reins free, and fled.
“Something’s happened to Aisling,” Liam said to Treasa, who had crowded in beside him. “If the archers start up in force, we’re going to be in a very dangerous position.”
“Let’s charge farther into the English,” she said. “They’ll not rain arrows onto us if we’re centered in their men.” A second, much larger volley of arrows fell on the front lines, striking Irish and English alike.
“That’s not going to work,” said Earnan from the other side of Treasa, adjusting his shield to catch an arrow.
There was still no sign of Aisling or Brigid on the hill, but Liam spotted Conor facing off against Kellach. Conor made a move. Kellach parried and circled away, as if waiting for something. Two short notes sounded from an Irish horn, followed by a long note, the signal to withdraw. The Gallowglass started to back up while trying to protect themselves and their horses from the now-steady rain of arrows.
“Follow me and keep those arrows off my back.” Liam set off at a run toward Conor. Treasa and Earnan followed close, swinging their shields to block arrows. Together they wove through retreating Celts, knocking down or cutting through any English who tried to obstruct their path.
On the hilltop an arrow struck down one druid, then another, and the rest ran for cover on the far side of the crest. Liam realized that no more counter-enchantments would be coming from them. He had to make it to Conor in time, fight through the chaos that stood in his way. He wanted to shout at Conor to retreat, but he knew it would be futile over the din of the battlefield.
A smile crawled up Kellach’s face, and his lips moved, and the wood of Conor’s shield rotted away to dust. Conor threw down the limp bindings and raised his sword in a high guard. Kellach lunged toward him. There was blade against blade, back and forth for a frenzied minute. The sword in Kellach’s right hand parried a thrust from Conor, engaging him just long enough for Kellach’s other sword to slip inside Conor’s guard and plunge up under his mail vest. Kellach yanked out his blade and pushed Conor to the ground, where he lay gasping, blood bubbling from his mouth. All Liam could do was continue to fight his way forward. Kellach looked over at Liam, then led his Skeaghshee up the hill.
Upon reaching Conor, Liam went down on one knee. Conor grasped Liam’s arm, tried to speak but only coughed up more blood. Treasa and Earnan hunched over them, shielded them from arrows. A wolf howled in the distance. Liam did not turn to look, holding his friend and keeping his gaze locked with Conor’s as life faded from his eyes.
. . . . .
From the northern edge of the bog, Jordan and Najia saw Aisling gallop away and, a minute later, Brigid burst into her swan form, robes collapsing onto the ground, to fly after her. A group of Skeaghshee arrows sailed toward Brigid. Both Jordan and Najia raised their hands and flung enchantments, knocking down all the arrows except one, which struck the swan in the side. The swan tried to keep aloft but began to flutter toward earth.
“Come on!” shouted Jordan, spurring his horse into a gallop.
They found Brigid, back in her human form, crawling in the snow. Jordan dismounted, covered her with his cloak, and said, “Be still, we’re here to help you.”
“No,” gasped Brigid, “I must catch Aisling.”
“Not until we get this arrow out of you.”
Jordan and Najia eased Brigid down flat on her stomach. Najia gently probed around the arrow shaft with two fingers.
“Well?” asked Jordan.
“Shhh,” hissed Najia. Shutting her eyes, she held her hand next to the wound, then bent down and placed her ear agains
t Brigid’s back. She sat up and stroked Brigid’s cheek.
Brigid asked, “How bad?”
“The arrowhead is lodged in a major vessel. You’re bleeding inside.”
Jordan reached to pull out the arrow, but Najia grabbed his hand. “That will make the bleeding worse, and she’ll be dead in minutes.”
“What then?”
“I’m going to try to bind the vessel to the arrowhead. It won’t save her, but it’ll slow down her departure.”
“Please,” said Brigid. “Do what you can. Then take me to Dunsany Castle. You must hurry.”
Jordan retrieved a clipper from his saddlebag and cut off the arrow shaft at the skin. Najia held her hand over the wound and mumbled an enchantment. There was a whiff of burning flesh as the gash closed, and Brigid grimaced in pain, then lay quiet. Helping her stand, Jordan tightened his cloak around her. Brigid staggered and leaned against him. When she was ready, with much help, she mounted Jordan’s horse, and he swung up behind her.
“Slow and smooth,” said Najia. “That’s her only chance to get there alive.”
At the sound of a howl, Jordan turned toward its source. A giant red she-wolf now stood at the north edge of the bog where he and Najia had first spied the battle.
. . . . .
In the center of the melee, Fearghal was swinging his long, slender blade in graceful, deadly arcs that severed English arms and legs. Without a second hand to hold a shield, he was forced to knock down an arrow with his sword, then sidestep another before he could duck behind the shield wall that three companies of dismounted Celts had formed around their high king. “The day is lost,” he said to Art.
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