Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  “Do you trust her?” Danann asked Mac.

  Mac snuffed at the idea. “I don’t trust any woman. If she can’t fight, a woman’s no good but to bed.”

  “And to cook,” Brodie added.

  “I don’t need a woman to cook,” growled Mac. “I know how to hold a stick of meat over a fire.” Mac eyed Danann’s troubled features and softened his brow. “If you’re worried about Talah, don’t be. She can take care of herself.”

  “I don’t know,” Danann murmured. “There’s just something about that woman.”

  “Aye,” Brodie replied with a dreamy sigh. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Aw, now don’t you start acting smitten over the lass,” Mac said. “We’ve got enough trouble to keep our hands full as it is.”

  Danann interjected after a pause. “Mac, you were just as curious as I at that table. Don’t you think it was a bit odd she cut herself?”

  “She just didn’t know how to handle a blade,” Mac argued.

  “Then why didn’t it cut Brodie?”

  “I know how to handle a blade,” Brodie replied defensively. “But, that thing of Talah’s does indeed give me the willies. Seems to breathe a soul of its own. I wasn’t going to handle it any more than I had to. If it’s Ban Talah’s it has to be magical. No doubt about it.”

  “I think you’re all given to lunacy over too much drink,” Mac said. “Now, go to sleep.”

  Another pause before Brodie asked, “What if Danann’s right and there is something else afoot?”

  “If there was, do you think Talah would be over there sleeping like a baby? I trust her. She better than any of us put together would conceive the scent of misdoings. She carries the strength and honor of the Tuatha. Talah cannot be misled. She’s not like the rest of us.”

  “Aye. She’s certainly a different breed,” Brodie agreed finally. “So much so, I wonder at times if the gods know she’s even human at all.”

  “Oh, she’s human alright,” protested Mac. “By heaven, the very armor she wears cannot swear off beauty any more than protect her heart, nor any of ours. Pricked by such a sweet lull of companionship, I for one would turn green with envy. Who would not want to dream of sweet whispers in the night?”

  “Ooh, yeah,” cooed Brodie.

  “Now, go to sleep.”

  Talah waited for everyone to settle in before opening an eye. Lugh opened an eye and stirred. Talah patted his neck and smiled. She was comforted knowing their bond was beyond words. Heavy her thoughts were, however, toward the words of her companions.

  WITH DAYBREAK, GRAY pillows covered the sky and the cold seemed to seep into the planks a mournful groaning and creaking. The tides nipped at the crisp air and the caps were high and choppy. Talah sat near the stern and meditated on the ship’s wake, recalling her vision and what it was like to be the element of water. A bubble in the rolling wake, a surge and break of the ebb. And the flow. The Old Woman mentioned the flow of water, she recalled.

  “The waters that flow between the worlds are contained within the cauldron.”

  Talah also recalled Ceridwen’s teachings that spoke of her cauldrons of water. “Water and fire dedicated this child to mortal life, yet blood sucked when an infant from the pricked finger to Tlachtga—she became sacred. It is to this life you search the waters for soul lost, child named Isadora. Tell me, what spirit do you seek?”

  Her reply echoed in her mind. “Ban Talah...Ban Talah...”

  “Ban Talah,” a gruff voice hollered, sending her back to the present. “Eh, Scot! You are the one they call Ban Talah, aren’t you?”

  Glancing over her shoulder, Talah noticed about half the ship’s crew had all gathered about her, with First Mate Jean-Luc standing forthright before them. Talah eyed the group suspiciously sensing mischief was in the air.

  Jean-Luc squinted at her with distasteful scrutiny. “So, this is the Scottish whore who wears men’s trousers, oui?”

  Talah pulled herself to stand squarely before them. Inhaling a breath of restraint, she stepped up before the rogue and cocked an eye to his rouse. “Is there a point to your distasteful indignity?”

  The Frenchman stood several inches shorter, yet turned up a smug lip. “I thought we could make a little wager with one another.”

  Talah turned on heel. “I don’t make wagers.”

  “Perhaps losing your sword to the deep waters might change your mind.”

  Talah twisted about as he gestured politely to a man sitting on a mast dangling Lisula over the high wakes. Brodie was supposed to be keeping an eye on everything. What happened to him? Talah quickly glanced around to spy Brodie stumbling up the top deck stairs and holding his aching head, painfully aware of the predicament. His sorrowful eyes met hers as he shrugged a shoulder. Talah released an embittered exhale.

  “What’s your game, Jean-Luc?”

  Jean-Luc sneered and whipped out a dagger from his waist. “How about a little blade play, witch? With none of your magic.”

  Talah adjusted her weight and felt a loose deck board move under her foot. “Alright,” she answered. “And if you win?”

  “If I win, I get a healthy pocket-full of coins back in France.”

  Talah’s cocked her head in curiosity. “Better make this worth your while then, hadn’t I?” She pulled out her dagger nonchalantly.

  Jean-Luc’s eyes fell to tiny slits before he made the first thrust.

  Talah dodged and swiped, lunged and clashed blades. Quickly, they attacked and counter-attacked until blades clashed again. Jean-Luc threw a slight nod of the head to the men behind her. After another swipe and a swift kick to her chest, Talah stumbled back into the tip of a blade. Staggering forward, she winced and quickly brought her hand around to notice profuse bleeding from a deep wound near her torso.

  He cackled and raised a smug brow. “I said no magic. I didn’t say anything about cheating.”

  Passing the dagger to her bloodied hand Talah sneered and waited until his crouched stance was directly over the loosened plank. “Fine, we’ll play it your way.”

  Talah stomped heavily on the plank, flipping it up and driving it hard into his groin. He fell to his knees in searing pain. She then turned the blade around and thrust it into the belly of her attacker who stood behind her. Before another two could reach for their swords she had back-swiped one man in the face and the other fell to a slash across his chest. By the time Jean-Luc had barely staggered to his feet, Talah had kicked a boot to his jaw, sending him again against the hard deck. Now behind him, with blade to his throat she grabbed hold of his tasseled gray hair and sat him up.

  “Tell your man to come down and bring me my sword,” she scowled.

  Jean-Luc grimaced and spat in her general direction.

  Talah pulled the Old Woman’s dagger from her boot and jabbed the tip into his penis. Jean-Luc howled in anguish. “I don’t think you get the point.”

  Tears streaked down his face as he quickly nodded. “Oui...oui.”

  “Now!”

  Jean-Luc raised his eyes to the men standing before him and shouted for the man to climb down from the mast. The crowd parted to allow the crewman’s approach with her sword. Talah released her hold on Jean-Luc’s neck and pulled the tip of the other blade from him, letting him crawl away. She stood and pulled her shoulders back, glowering at the man while he stood seething at the sprawled bodies in her wake.

  “Sorciere!” the mast man cried. He was hairy and large; a figure not expected to climb a mast. Yet, his descent and gate was agile and fluent. Gripping Talah’s sword with white knuckles he snarled, “Witch! I cut you down where you stand. Come and take your blade!”

  Talah sighed and looked askance. She gripped hold of her two daggers and recoiled from his powerful swats and swipes. Just at the moment he drew Lisula over his head and swung she rolled and knelt inches from his feet, catching his wrist in between her crossed blades. Sensing his panic she paused with indifference and swiftly drew the blades apart, severing the wrist comple
tely.

  Talah stood dispassionately, ignoring the man’s pitiful screams, sheathing her daggers back in her belt and boot. Reaching down for Lisula she round-armed the tip of the blade to lie beneath the man’s jaw.

  “Next time you so much as breathe on my sword you’ll lose more than your hand,” she spat in vexation.

  Danann and Mac approached her.

  Mac slid up beside Talah’s embittered defenses and spoke low. “I think you’ve done enough for today, lass.”

  “Did you know there was a price on my head, Mac?” Talah asked.

  “Aye,” he grumbled. “Just caught wind of it.”

  Talah flushed with fierce resentment and followed after Jean-Luc’s whimpering plea of escape. Her fingers wrapped around his throat and pulled him to his feet. “How much?” she growled. “Combien?”

  “Twenty thousand pounds in gold,” Captain Deconus injected. “Not a bad price for a woman of your caliber, oui?”

  Talah tossed the man aside and walked over to the captain, stunned at such a fortune. “Where did you hear this?”

  Deconus stood, composed and quite placid, with his hands clasped behind him. “Why, the Roman Church, of course.”

  “The Church?”

  “Oui. So, you can obviously understand my crew’s overzealousness. Forgive them. They seem to forget their places. And please, do not injure any more. I beg of you, mademoiselle,” he added, raising a brow to his first mate being assisted off the deck. “They are foolish and insolent. However, very needed to keep the Fleur de Lyon on course and to your destination.”

  Talah was callous to his diplomatic mannerism and disgusted at his separateness. His attempt to conceal his involvement was defeated by the cool hatred in his eyes. “Just stay away from me and do what I paid you to do.” She departed with a bad taste in her mouth, bumping his shoulder deliberately as she walked by.

  Talah turned around to witness how Deconus was going to handle the mast man.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Deconus barked to the two men who carried the man, his stump wrapped now in a bloodied rag.

  “We have to get him below, Captain,” replied a crewman.

  “Look at him. He’s no good to me now.”

  “It will heal soon enough. I can fix him with a wooden plug.”

  “We don’t have time for that. Get rid of him. And clean up this deck.”

  Screams and shouts were heard on deck as the mast man was tossed overboard and left to the fates of the sea. Another body followed, dead already from Talah’s stab wound to his belly. Talah could only wonder if the captain was sincerely indifferent. She certainly would lose no sleep over it. She staggered down the steps and fell hard against the passage wall. Withdrawing her hand from the wound she winced. The sting of betrayal angered her more than what blood was drawn.

  Ban Talah burst into Juetta’s quarters with outrage, stumbling in her weakened state. The heavy wooden door slammed hard against the wall, causing Juetta to twirl about, alarmed at Talah’s entrance.

  “My God, you’re hurt,” she gasped.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Talah snarled.

  Juetta’s flesh paled. She back-stepped away from Talah’s approach. Talah was upon her quickly and snatched hold of her throat.

  “You lied to me,” Talah spat. “You knew I was alive. You knew there was a price on my head. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Gasping and in tears, Juetta shook her head. “Talah...please...you’re hurting me.”

  Talah’s eyes fell to slits before a wave of weakness again overtook her. She released her hold and rolled over to lean against a nearby table. Juetta coughed and scrambled to her feet.

  Breathing in a fresh lungful of air, Juetta retorted, “I didn’t know you were alive.” When she received a glare of disbelief, she added, “They were rumors. Rumors. Nothing more. If I were to believe every rumor I heard, I would have gone insane. Don’t you understand?”

  Juetta knelt before Talah. “Please, I beseech your trust. My words are true. I had to come to England to find you. To see for myself if the rumors were true. I couldn’t go on knowing you might still have been alive all these years. Had I known of a warrant on your person I would have taken better care than to hire those marécage rats.”

  Talah attempted to push herself away from the table. “If we weren’t still a few hours away from the island, I would have ripped open every one of your swamp rat’s guts!”

  Juetta reached for Talah’s arm. “Come. You must sit down and let me take a look at you.”

  Danann entered. Her other companions followed just as Talah collapsed to the hard, pine floor with a thump. Her colleagues ran over next to Juetta as she pulled a hand away from Talah’s face.

  “She’s lost much blood,” said Mac.

  “I will be fine,” Talah murmured.

  “Mac,” Danann said. “Get her to the bed.” She followed closely behind pulling on Moya’s sleeve. “Moya, you’ve got to stop the bleeding.”

  Moya grimaced. “What do you mean I’ve got to stop it?”

  Talah, fighting consciousness, struggled to rise under Mac’s heavy hand. “Stay put, lass,” he warned. “Or I’ll have to put you out.”

  Danann replaced the sanguine-soaked napkin with a fresh cloth. Eyeing Moya, she continued. “Talah’s too weak to heal herself. You’re going to have to do it.”

  Talah summoned all her strength and moaned. “No. No, don’t do it.”

  Juetta sat upon the bed and held Talah’s hand. “Talah, listen to her.”

  “Too dangerous,” Talah insisted. “I need you Moya. Can’t risk you falling ill.”

  “It’s got to be closed up, lass,” Mac said. “There’s no other way to do it.”

  “We’ll have to turn back. You can’t go on like this,” Moya added.

  “No,” Talah spat. “We’re not turning back!” Snatching hold of Mac’s sleeve she pulled him near. “Mac. We’ll have to do it your way.”

  Mac pulled himself up to stand overtop Talah with grim features.

  Juetta raised her eyes to Mac. “What way is that?”

  Mac slowly drew back to Talah. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  Talah motioned to the door. “Go. Do it now. Before I lose nerve.”

  Mac growled and stomped out of the cabin.

  “Where’s is he going?” Juetta asked.

  Moya kept her eyes on the dressings and murmured, “To do it the hard way.”

  Talah pulled a small medicine pouch from her belt and handed it to Moya. “Put this on the wound.”

  Juetta looked on curiously. “And that?”

  “It’ll help to heal the scar quickly,” Moya answered.

  “Scar?”

  Moya obliged and heavily moistened the herbs, packing them onto Talah’s bloodied, gaping wound. Mac stepped through the doorway with an iron poker, its tip orange hot from the freshly stoked coals of the ship’s blacksmith. He carefully approached the bed as all moved aside. Moya walked around and gently urged Juetta aside as Danann readied herself at Talah’s side. Mac looked into Talah’s pained eyes awaiting her signal. She unsheathed her dagger and clenched down on the blade with her teeth, nodding. She joined an arm with Danann and grabbed hold of Mac’s arm as he again pinned her shoulder down. He paused, and then struck the hot iron to the wound, sending Talah into a torturing rage that was heard throughout the ship before falling limp and unconscious.

  Moments later, she awoke to Mac’s snarl. He staggered back a step and with obvious grief exclaimed, “Damn your hide, Ban Talah! I take no pleasure in harming you.”

  Danann reached out and closely eyed the wound. “You’ve done well, Mac. It’s sealed.”

  “She should come out of it by the time we reach shore.”

  Juetta watched Mac and Danann’s departure. “She doesn’t care for me much, that one named Danann, does she?”

  Talah laughed under her breath. “I wouldn’t worry about Danann.”

  Moya picked u
p Talah’s dagger from the bed and shoved it under her own belt as Juetta turned to her shrug. “I wouldn’t take it personally, my Lady. She doesn’t trust anyone but Talah.”

  THE COAST OF Wales was bathed in sallow hues of the dawn’s rays. Quiet and unassuming, Wales was now the guardian to Talah’s expedition. Shallow waters had forced the Fleur de Lyon to drop anchor farther south of the beaches. This, Talah was quick to notice, with perfect view from the stern windows. The island of Anglesey was visible to the north. She knew by this, at least, the ship’s captain had stayed true to his agreement.

  She had managed, painfully, to slip on her leather trousers and boots. She had just propped a booted foot on a chair to tie up the leggings when Juetta walked in. Talah’s beautiful raven-black hair fell lightly over bare breasts.

  Juetta stuttered. “Oh, you’re awake.” Stepping over to her, Juetta handed Talah her white tunic and vest, while the other hand insistently pulled Talah up straight. “Allow me. Here, you finish dressing.”

  Talah winced and pulled her shoulders back, watching Juetta’s nimble fingers lay the hide around her boot and tie it off. The vest, she noticed was a bit damp, like her trousers. “Was it you who left me bare in the night?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Juetta retorted lightly. “Let you lie with blood everywhere? Clothes, sheets, everything had to be washed.” She stood with arms akimbo, eyeing Talah’s poor attempt to pull the tunic over her shoulders. “Here, I’ll do it.” She walked behind her and pulled the shirt carefully over Talah’s head. “I’m sorry if it is still a bit damp. Fires on wooden ships don’t fancy well together.”

  Juetta brought herself before Talah’s warm gaze and tried to be nonchalant about brushing her soft, firm breasts. Juetta’s hand slid down the nippled peaks and paused a moment. Talah touched Juetta’s hair, igniting a flush of fervor between them. Talah touched her neck then lightly fingered her cheek and velvety lips. She felt Juetta’s heart skip a beat. Talah cupped both hands over her features. Softly, at first, Talah tasted her sweetness, recalling the fields of France where the breeze would carry Juetta’s essence. Then, Talah became engulfed by a voracious desire to have her. Talah stepped back from the chair and pulled Juetta toward the bed until Juetta stopped her.