“You need not understand,” Ceallach interrupted. “Gráinne lured him away while allowing your warriors to believe they watched him. Such tricks are within her limited power. She may have failed as a priestess, but she did learn a few tricks. What is important is that we find him before his life is lost.”
“I fear we may already be too late,” Shiovra said quietly.
Ceallach turned to her. “Use you sight. Can you see which path he has taken?” he questioned in an even tone, eyes meeting hers firmly. “The sooner we know where he was led, the sooner was can unleash our counter attack.”
“I shall do what I can.” Shiovra walked to her bed and dug through a bag, pulling out a small pouch and dumping a piece of quartz into her palm. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and focused on Ainmire, picturing his face in her mind, his voice, his mannerisms. Whispers filled her mind and colors danced across her eye lids. She heard voices, several voices speaking, calling, and shouting. Then she found his. She could hear Ainmire’s voice. She could hear his rough breath and heartbeat. “Where are you?” she whispered out loud. “Tell me, Ainmire. Where are you?”
It is already too late for me.
“Show me where you are!” she insisted.
The quartz became warm on her palm, her power coursing through it. Shiovra could see it, the village where he stood. A village that would soon be consumed with flames. Opening her eyes, she grabbed Odhrán’s dagger from his belt and crouched down, etching the layout of Tara into the packed dirt floor. Then leaning over, she marked a spot southwest of the village. “There,” she said, looking up. “Ainmire is there.”
Odhrán nodded and pulled the priestess to her feet, taking his dagger from her hands. “Meara, you and your men are to remain here and keep guard over the villagers. The gates are to be shut tight and every able man armed. We are taking no chances,” he ordered, slipping the dagger back into his belt before grabbing a bow and quiver of arrows. “Ceallach, I want you, Earnán, and Daire to come with me. The less attention we draw, the easier we can slip in and the quicker we can get out.”
“What about me?” Eiladyr asked, frowning as he rubbed the beard he was growing in.
“Stay here and guard the priestess,” Odhrán replied firmly. “Shiovra has a tendency to be reckless when it comes to the lives of her people.”
The man nodded in agreement.
Shiovra knew protesting would be futile and so she remained silent.
“Then it is decided,” Earnán said, grabbing his cloak and securing it around his shoulders. “We must make haste.”
“May the Morrigú be with you,” Mahon said from where he sat in the shadowed corner.
Shiovra watched as Daire took up his bow and belted his sword about his waist while Meara grabbed her spear. Everything seemed to move very quickly around the priestess and before she realized it, they were walking from the cottage. Reaching a hand out, Shiovra grabbed Odhrán’s arm, brining pause to his step.
The Milidh man looked at her questioningly.
Shiovra’s hold on his arm tightened and she met his eyes without waver. “Keep a wary eye out,” she told him firmly. “The Fomorii are known for their tricks. Do not let them take you by surprise before reaching Ainmire.”
“Fret not,” he told her, leaning close to place a gentle kiss on her temple. “Nothing could keep me from returning to your side.”
“Be safe,” she whispered before releasing him.
Odhrán nodded and turned, leaving the cottage.
Shiovra stood in the doorway, watching as the forms of the three men slowly vanished within the fog. She could not shake the feeling of dread clenching tightly at her heart.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
It was late into the night when they reached the outskirts of the village where Ainmire was being held. Crouched amongst the brush and trees, they carefully took in the layout of the small village. There were only the beginnings of an outer wall to protect the cottages, leaving them highly defenseless in the event of an attack. Odhrán went ahead to scout the area. Bodies of some villagers lay lifeless on the ground, but from the number, he was sure more hid within their cottages. He counted at least ten enemy warriors positioned throughout the village. Judging from their placement and number, he deemed which cottage Ainmire was being held in.
Returning to the others, he informed them of his finding, “There is poor vigil on the cottage where Ainmire is held,” he said. “Both guards sleep. To have such poor watch means either they are foolish, or they are expecting us to come. I believe it would be the latter. Let us make haste and show them where their fault lay in assuming they will best us.”
They pressed silently through the village, slipping through the shadows till the cottage where Ainmire was held came into sight. As Odhrán had told, the two men guarding it slept soundly. Muffled sounds of laughter and drunken shouting drifted from the cottage door.
“How should we do this?” queried Daire, voice low.
Ceallach looked around the cottage they hid behind and studied the two sleeping men. “They have been drinking greatly. There are empty jugs of mead all around them,” replied the Fomorii man in a low voice. “We need to ensure they will not be woken by any…sounds…which may come from within.”
They nodded in agreement.
“Well then, shall we give them a lesson?” whispered Earnán?
Daire grinned broadly.
“Stop wasting time,” Odhrán said softly, face calm and unreadable. “Get moving.”
Swiftly and quietly Daire and Earnán set upon the two men. In unison, the men struck the two guards over the head with the very mead jugs they had been drinking from. With hardly a sound, the guards crumpled to the ground with muted thuds.
Daire inspected the men and smirked. “They will be feeling that in the morning. Serves them right for slacking in their duties,” he murmured under his breath. “From both the mead and their heads.”
Odhrán pressed against the door and pushed it open slightly, enough to peer in. He could see a man and woman huddled along one side with a small child, their expressions wrought with fear as they watched some armed men sitting at a table with full cups. “There are villagers alive in here,” he said under his breath. “Let the family live, they do not appear to have welcomed them into their home. They have naught to do with this.”
The Milidh man received a nod in response.
“Draw your bows,” Odhrán continued. “Use them before blade, understand? We’ll take out those in front, then draw and enter.” Odhrán pulled out his bow and knocked an arrow ready. A small smile touched his lips. “Ready?” With quick movements, he kicked open the door, brought his bow up followed by Daire and Ceallach. “Lay on!” he shouted, releasing the arrow before the warriors inside could even comprehend what was happening.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Shiovra paced the hearth fire, anxiously running her fingers over her braided her. Eiladyr sat against a support post, watching her with his arms crossed. “You are going to worry yourself sick,” the man told her after a long while. “Why not sit and rest for a bit?”
Shaking her head, the priestess continued with her pacing. She was driven by the need to go after them, driven by the feeling that she could do something, anything, to prevent Ainmire’s death. “We should not be sitting here idle,” she muttered under her breath in before walking impatiently to the door and opening it.
Eiladyr rose quickly to his feet and placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. “No, we should,” he told her firmly. “It is too dangerous. Ainmire is not the only one being hunted.”
“That matters not,” she said, taking a step forward.
Eiladyr’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Aye, it does,” he told her sternly. “Very much so.” Pulling her back against his body, he wrapped his arms around her waist. Resting his chin on her shoulder, Eiladyr held onto her tightly. “You are hunted by both Ailill and the Milidh. Why would you risk walking straight into their hands?”
“I will not go without a fight, and I will not just sit here while Ainmire’s life hangs in the balance!” she countered, trying to push his hands away. “Either come with me or let me go.”
He was silent a moment before he spoke again, voice low, “The risk is too great.”
The priestess struggled against his firm hold. “Release me,” she insisted in a hiss.
“Enough,” he chided, coercing her back into the cottage.
Shiovra released a frustrated groan as he pushed her onto her bed.
He stood looking at her with crossed arms. “You are not leaving,” Eiladyr told her. “If I must tie you down to keep you here, then I will. Yet I would hope that it does not come to that.”
She sat on the foot of her bed, slightly surprised by the man’s roughness.
Pulling a bench up, Eiladyr sat down across from her and leaned forward, resting his arms on his elbows.
After a long silence, Shiovra asked, “Do you intend to watch me all night?”
“If I must,” he replied honestly.
Sighing, Shiovra fell back on the bed and looked up at the shadows dancing across the roof. Her thoughts lingered on the mad laughter of the man called Deasún. The fear that had filled her, chilling her bones, remained as a reminder of what Ainmire was to face. Hearing a rustle, she sat up.
Eiladyr walked over to the pile of wood stacked neatly against the wall, grabbing a few pieces before continuing to the hearth. Adding them to the fire, he bent to stir it up a bit.
Standing slowly, Shiovra took a few cautious steps, watching his back the entire time. As she neared the door, she quickened her pace until she was outside the cottage.
Eiladyr noticed her flight a moment too late. “Shiovra!”
Pulling the door closed behind her, Shiovra turned swiftly and gathered the power of the element of earth. Vines sprouted from the ground and climbed the cottage door, twisting and weaving together, reaching and stretching.
Eiladyr pounded on the other side of the door. “Have you lost your mind?!” he bellowed in rage. The door trembled as he slammed his body into it, but the vines held strong.
Resting her forehead against the door, she whispered, “Forgive me, Eiladyr.”
His muffled voice continued to shout after her as she ran down the path and through the fog. Shiovra made her way through the dimly lit village and found a horse. Not bothering to saddle it, she leapt astride and, taking hold of the reins, urged the horse into a gallop and headed for the southwest.
12. TARA’S LOSS
The men had felled three of the warriors in the first initial strike with the bows. Shouts of outrage filled the cottage as the warriors drew their weapons, the family forgotten. Bows were cast aside as blades were drawn without hesitation. Odhrán gestured to the family and they ran gratefully from the cottage, escaping the ensuing fight.
Odhrán drew his blade and kicked a table over, knocking down the first man who came at him as he turned his blade upon the next. Dodging a drunken warrior’s first, the Milidh man brought up his sword pommel to crack into the man’s jaw. He spared only a glance at his fellow companions to see how they fared. Daire fought alongside his own despised father, the two working well together while Earnán picked off warriors that lingered to watch.
The Milidh man was caught off guard as he was grabbed from behind by his tunic. Twisting his body, Odhrán pulled a dagger from his belt and jabbed the man in the arm.
Crying out in pain the man released him.
Spinning quickly, Odhrán brought his sword up and struck the man once more through the heart. Without waiting for the huntsman to fall, Odhrán turned to the two men guarding a small door at the rear of the cottage. He stalked toward the one on the right and made to attack the warrior’s left.
As Odhrán attacked, the other guard took the opportunity to launch an attack of his own only to have the Odhrán twist and block it with ease.
Bringing a foot up, Odhrán kicked the man away as he returned focus to his first target. Bringing his sword up, he met that of his prey. And, as he pushed the man’s sword aside with his own, he jerked his other hand forward, thrusting his dagger into the man’s gut. Having felled the warrior, Odhrán turned his attention to the man he had knocked aside only moments before.
Yet just as he found the man, an arrow whistled through the air and struck the huntsman down.
Turning, he found Daire lowering his bow and rushing towards him, Ceallach close behind as Earnán fought off the remaining two warriors.
Flinging the door open, Odhrán rushed into the small room only to find a gruesome sight.
Ainmire lay slumped over a small table, blood pooled around him. Standing behind Ainmire, bloodied sword in hand, was a huntsman with lime washed hair. His eyes danced madly and his face shone eerily in the flickering torch light as he laughed without restraint.
Odhrán’s hand tightened on his sword.
“Deasún,” Ceallach spat coldly.
“We are too late…” breathed Daire.
Deasún continued to laugh. “Aye, you are too late,” he muttered. “Ainmire’s life is lost, and yours shall be next!” Bringing his fingers to his lips he whistled loudly.
A loud crackling filled the air in a deafening roar.
“The village is on fire!” shouted Earnán from the doorway.
Ceallach swore and turned back to Deasún who continued to laugh as he sheathed his blade. “Farewell.”
“I think not,” growled Odhrán. With a quick snap of the wrist, he flung the dagger at Deasún.
Dodging the dagger, Deasún laughed and gestured to the roof. “If I were you, I would run,” he said, sheathing his blade.
Above them that thatch roof was being quickly consumed by flames.
“Everyone out! We have lost this battle!” Ceallach ordered, making for the door. “Quickly, before the cottage collapses in on itself!”
Daire and Earnán quickly followed, but Odhrán paused to look back at the laughing man. “You may have won this battle, but do not be so sure of yourself the next time we meet.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Shiovra brought her horse to a halt as the burning village came into sight. Her heart fell at the terrible sight. They were too late, she could feel it. Ainmire was dead. Her pain at his death was laced heavily with worry for her companions. Taking a deep breath, Shiovra urged her horse forward, onward towards the burning village. With each step the mare took, her grip on the reigns became tighter.
Upon entering the village, she brought the horse to a slower pace and glanced about frantically, searching for a familiar face, any familiar face. The smoke from the fire and brightness of the flames was overwhelming and her eyes stung. The surviving villagers fought desperately to quell the fires which were quickly consuming their homes, paying her no mind as she passed. “Please, Dana,” she breathed, pleading. “Please, by the Dagda, let them be alive!”
She searched desperately, straining her ears with the hopes of hearing one of their voices. Rounding a cottage, she spotted a small group of villagers struggling to put out the flames on a very large cottage, most likely the chieftain’s cottage. It took her a moment to notice that one of the men was Ceallach Neáll.
Upon closer inspection, she found Daire tending to the wounded while Earnán was beating out fire with a blanket that had reached the dry grass. Frantically, she searched for Odhrán, finally finding him off to the side of a cottage, dousing a final flame with a bucket of ashes.
Bringing her mare to a halt, Shiovra leapt to the ground and ran towards Odhrán, catching him off guard and sending him toppling down. “You are alive!” she whispered gratefully into his shoulder.
Odhrán looked at her and, after a fleeting moment of surprise, demanded harshly, “what are you doing here?!”
“Trying to help,” she retorted, “but it would appear that I was too late.”
His eyes only darkened as he propped himself up and asked dangerously, “Where is Eiladyr?”
> Shiovra quickly moved off the man and rose to her feet. “At the village,” she replied.
“This village?” pressed Odhrán, standing.
“Tara.”
He crossed his arms. “And he just left you leave?”
“Not willingly, no,” she said, placing her hand son her hips.
The Milidh man’s frown deepened, but before he could speak again, Daire livid shout interrupted.
“Shiovra?!”
Shiovra turned to face her cousin just before he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.
“What are you doing here? Where is Eiladyr? Did the enemy see you? How could you do something so foolish?!” Daire demanded, shaking her.
Odhrán stepped forward and knocked Daire’s hands away from the woman. “Forget that for now. We need to put the fires out and tend to the wounded!”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
By dawn, all of the fires had finally been quenched but heavy black smoke continued to linger in the sky, given an eerie glow with the rising sun. The villagers had already begun clearing out the charred remains of their homes and tending to the wounded. Some of the village women had gathered food and prepared meals for everyone to help fuel their strength. It wasn’t much, but it was all they had to offer in such terrible times.
All traces of the enemy were gone and Ceallach assured the villagers there would be no further attack, though it did little to ease their loss. Flowers were strewn over the rubble which had come to serve as Ainmire’s resting place. And, as the wind picked up, a faint feminine keening could be heard. It was as frighteningly beautiful as it was deep with sorrow.
“The lament of the bean sidhe,” Shiovra whispered as their anguish filled cries raked through her body. She could not take her eyes from the charred remains of the main cottage, knowing she had failed to protect the man who lay within. “Together we grieve the loss of Tara’s chieftain, cousin to our great chieftains.”
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 26