As their screams faded, the vines and trees returned to normal. The remaining soldiers stood still in their tracks, dumbfounded by what had just happened.
Dughall was beyond angry.
“Okay Macha, we will do it your way. What magick do you suggest we use to get through these evil branches?” asked Dughall.
“We need a spell to break the spell,” she said.
“And so say it. Say the spell,” Dughall hissed.
“I do not know the spell,” Macha replied.
Dughall’s hand moved to his sword, and he was just about to slice the little faerie in half when the Dark Wizard stepped forward. “I can recite the spell,” he said. “But it will take time to gather the information needed to determine the right spell.”
“You have five minutes,” snarled Dughall.
Cian walked the perimeter of the thicket. He picked up leaves that had fallen and rubbed them between his fingers and tasted them. He held them to his ears. He stood quietly along the perimeter with his eyes closed for several minutes.
Dughall’s patience was at its end. “Your time is up old man. Say a spell now or so help me, I will run you through.”
“If you live a thousand lifetimes, it will not be long enough for you to learn patience, Dughall,” Cian replied. The old man closed his eyes, circled his arms wide and held them above him as he cited the incantation.
“Holy Hawthorne, oak and ash,
twisted and gnarled, wound tight.
Pray let these servants of Brighid pass,
through this gate to the Sacred Grove,
there to do her bidding.
In honor always to the Goddess,
blessed be the keepers of her Flame.”
At first there was no change. The air remained still. There was no sound of bird or bee, just the occasional snort of the horses.
Then a subtle change. The vines thinned. The trees moved farther apart. The thicket weakened.
There. Just a peek at first. Stones. Large stone walls came into view. Finally, a large wooden gate. The Sacred Grove of the Order of Brighid, visible for the first time to outsiders.
Dughall’s face curled into a sneer, the closest his face ever got to happiness. Even Dughall was impressed with the magick that had protected the Grove for over a thousand years. The so-called magick of these women is no match for my superior intelligence and desire to have what lay inside these walls.
Dughall gave the order. “Tear down that gate!” he bellowed.
The men at once took their axes and hatchets and hacked away at the gate. In a matter of minutes, they had torn down the gate and funneled into the Grove on foot and horseback.
Dughall mounted his horse and sauntered into the Grove. Even he had to stop for a moment and admire its beauty. The light was softer inside, especially as compared to the dark and harsh light of the thicket outside the walls. Inside the Grove, it was peaceful. There was only the sound of the wind through the trees, a distant babbling brook and the occasional cricket or birdsong.
But most lovely was the smell. The wind wafted the most delicious odor of fruit blossoms through the air. For Dughall, it called to mind happy memories from the homeland of his childhood. He was momentarily lost in his thoughts when Cormac interrupted.
“Sire, we are inside the gate.”
“I know that you idiot,” Dughall growled back.
“What is your next order, Sire?” Cormac asked.
Dughall gathered himself. “Tell your soldiers to round up every person in this place, but ensure that they do not kill anyone. I need them all alive. For now. Go!”
The soldiers spread out and ransacked every building they found as they searched for the inhabitants of the lovely Grove. They searched the entire front half of the Grove and found not a single person. Dughall was frustrated and considered ordering them to torch the place when he heard a call.
“Sire, over here!”
The call came from the large building at the back and center of the Grove. As he entered he saw the priestesses in a tight circle in the center of the building. They were dressed in ordinary linen tunics tied around the waist with a thin cord.
“Do not kill any of them,” Dughall ordered. “Find the one with the gold torc around her upper arm. Bring that one to me. After you find her, kill the rest.”
At that moment, the women untied their sashes and ripped off their tunics. Underneath all were dressed in their battle clothes. Leather breeches with a dagger strapped to each thigh. A strong leather harness slung around their shoulders armed with hatches, maces, swords and Chinese blades. The priestesses quickly put on the helmets that they had hidden behind their backs. They armed themselves and readied for battle so quickly the soldiers were frozen in fear.
Dughall was incensed at the sight. Each woman wore the same item around her right arm. All of them wore a torc. How would he tell which one was the magickal torc? He was ready to order the soldiers to kill them all, but Macha flew close to his ear and interrupted his thoughts.
“It is a ruse, Sire,” she whispered.
“Ruse? What do you mean?”
“She is not here. The true Torc of Brighid is with her somewhere else.”
It took a few seconds for Macha’s words to sink in. Look for her somewhere else.
“Yes. Macha, Cormac, and the old man. You three are with me.” Dughall turned to leave the Great Hall with Macha flitting lightly on the air beside him.
“Sire,” a soldier called. “What do we do here?”
“Kill them all,” he replied.
As soon as Dughall left the Great Hall, the women warriors spread out and Madame Wong flew from the center. She was a jumping, bouncing, flying ball of sword and dagger. She slashed and thrust her sword so quickly that any soldier in her path fell to his death before he could be sure of what had hit him.
The most trained and skilled women warriors flanked the outside of their circle, wielding their arms with grace and power. Intermixed with the Priestesses were many faeries, armed with bow and arrow and slingshots. And in the center of the circle were the younglings, well protected by their older sisters, the Fair Sídhe and Madame Wong. The younglings did their part by chanting their most powerful protective spells.
As soldiers began to fall in heaps, the remaining men got over their initial shock at the sight of the women warriors appearing out of what looked like a throng of devout priestesses. They had to contend not only with four foot tall Madame Wong slicing and dicing, but also the keen aim of the faeries’ bow and arrows.
They squared off, each soldier battling a woman warrior. More soldiers fell than women warriors but still, as the battle waged on, the Order of Brighid too shed much blood.
In the midst of the fighting, the sound of their groans and shouts of pain came a loud and horrible screeching. For a moment, the battle stopped as all heard what sounded like metal scraping on metal while an injured cat howls.
Those fighting for the Order of Brighid knew instantly what made the awful noise. Bian Sídhe. And in an instant they also knew the reason for the Bian Sídhe’s cry. One of the ancient blood of Ireland had fallen.
12. SAORLA AT THE WELL
After Saorla had given her last blessing in the Great Hall, she met with the Fair Sídhe to confer on battle strategy. She reinforced the incantations and spells that protected the Grove. After she had strengthened all protection spells, she went to the Sacred Well and spent the rest of the morning in silent prayer and meditation.
At the appointed time, Cathaír silently appeared at the Well. They looked into each other’s eyes and without words spoke to each other all of the love they felt for each other.
As they heard the soldiers breaking down the gate of the Sacred Grove, they knew the time had come. They could wait no longer.
Saorla pulled her small, jeweled dagger from her cloak and without a single word, plunged it deep into her belly. Crimson liquid bloomed on the front of her white linen tunic as blood poured from the self-inflicted
wound. Within a few minutes, all color had drained from her face. Cathaír caught her in his arms as her body began to fall. He gently lowered her to the ground and rested her head on his thigh.
They said not a word. Cathaír simply stroked her lovely red locks and forced a wan smile to his lips as he looked into the emerald pools of her eyes. He pulled Saorla to him, bent his head, and touched his warm lips to her cool ones.
As the life drained from Saorla’s body, the spells and enchantments that protected the Grove faded too. Even the light began to change. It lost its soft quality and matched the harshness of the woods that surrounded the Sacred Grove. The air became cooler and the sun faded behind the gathering clouds.
The silence of the moment was broken as Saorla whispered her last word. “Sorcha.”
As the last breath passed from her lips, the golden torc loosened its grip around her arm and fell gently to the ground. Cathaír wanted to stay, to hold her and continue to stroke her hair. He wanted to plunge her dagger into his own chest to stop the ache that weighed heavy in his heart.
But he had made a sacred vow to his beloved. He knew what he must do.
He picked up the torc, still warm from her body, wrapped it in a linen cloth and hid it deep in the pocket inside his cloak. Cathaír gently lowered Saorla’s head to the ground, kissed her cold lips one last time then ran.
He ran as fast as he could run. He ran to the edge of the Grove, away from the Great Hall and the soldiers and Dughall. He ran and ran until he reached the edge of the Grove. He stopped to recite the spell required to lift the enchantment so he could get out of the tangle of vines and branches. But before he could recite the spell, he realized he didn’t need it anymore. After Saorla had departed, enchantments no longer protected the Grove.
Cathaír stepped out of the Grove and into a new world. It was a frightening world to Cathaír where there was no longer a link between his human world and the world of magick. The light was harsher, the air more acidic. Maybe it was, or maybe it was just his sorrow and anger that made the air he breathed taste like a bitter poison. He pulled his cloak over his head and tread out of that grove, never to return.
He slipped easily through the tangle of vines. He found his horse where he had left it. Cathaír rode as fast as his steed could take him. The wind whipped his hair and vines and branches cut his hands and face as he rode through the tangle.
As Cathaír rode, he heard the mournful cry of the Bian Sídhe. Her hideous screech cut through the air surrounding the Grove. Her cries only made him ride faster, away from the dead body of his love. Away from the woman that was the embodiment of the goddess on Earth. Away from the fallen Sacred Grove of Brighid.
He rode with a single-minded purpose. He must go to Sorcha.
13. THE END OF THE ORDER OF BRIGHID
“Saorla killed herself?” I asked.
“Yes,” Hindergog said.
“But she should have fought,” said Fanny. “She gave up. If she and Cathaír had fought too, they could have whipped Dughall’s butt.”
“My mistress was a formidable warrior, and she might have ‘whipped his butt’ as you say, lass, but she could not take the chance. If there was any possibility that Dughall could lay his hands on the torc in the Sacred Grove … well, it was just too dangerous to risk.”
“Why?” asked Jake. “What would happen if Dughall had been successful?”
“Mysteries are revealed in the Netherworld. Some things are best kept a mystery.”
“But you want me to go there. If some things are best left to mystery, why send me there?”
“You must go, my young mistress, so that you can prevent Dughall from learning the secrets of the Netherworld. ”
“Are you saying Dughall would use the information for evil, not good?” Fanny asked.
“Evil is all that Dughall knows,” replied Hindergog. “Now young ones, my story is almost complete. Stay quiet while I finish the tale of Saorla and the Order of Brighid.”
* * *
As Bian Sídhe wailed, Dughall, Cormac, Macha and Cian ran through the Grove on the old, hidden path to the Well. The wood was thick and cut into their ankles and wrists as they ran.
In time, the copse began to clear, and it opened to reveal a circle of stones around a well. Dughall burst into the clearing and there, lying beside the stones was Saorla, her body lifeless, her skin pale alabaster. Saorla’s fingers were still curled around her dagger, wet with her own blood.
Dughall barked orders to Macha. “Remove her cloak so I may take my prize,” he hollered.
“It is not here, you fool,” Macha replied.
“What do you mean?” he yelled back.
“Do you not remember a thing that I speak to you? She killed herself so the torc would release. She probably had someone take it. If she did, they are long gone by now.” As she spoke, Macha pulled Saorla’s cloak aside to reveal her right arm, bare now that the torc was gone.
Dughall was silent for a moment then began a low, guttural scream that soon rose higher and higher until it vied with Bian Sídhe’s own wailing. Dughall’s fury encompassed him. He pulled his sword and in one quick movement, swung his sharply honed blade at Cormac and cut his head clean off his body. Cormac’s body fell with a thud, blood gushing from the gaping wound where his head used to be.
“Feel better now?” Macha taunted.
“Watch your tone, pixie, or you will be next. I grow weary of the sight of you,” he replied.
“You will not kill me,” she said.
“Give me one good reason why I should not lay waste to you, the old man there, and everyone in my path?”
“Because this old man and I are the only ones that can help you achieve your greatest desire.”
“I have listened to you and tolerated this insipid old fool. Look what it has brought me. This young girl has outwitted us all.” Dughall punctuated his statement with a kick to Saorla’s limp body.
The ground began to rumble and shake. The sky blackened further and thunder bellowed. All around Saorla’s body the ground began to crack. Up through the cracks came grass and vines that wound around Saorla’s corpse. Within a matter of seconds, the ground swallowed her and her jeweled dagger whole.
As quickly as the rumbling and shaking had begun it stopped. The cracks disappeared. The sky returned to its overcast grey. The thunder ceased. There was no trace of Saorla. Even the bloodstains on the ground were gone. It was as if she had never existed.
Even after seeing the pixie and Dark Wizard magick; even after his run-in with the Lianhan Sídhe; after seeing the vines and trees come to life to protect the Grove; even after all the magick he had seen, Dughall still had a hard time believing what he had just seen. For a moment, he questioned whether any of it was real.
“Ah, ashes to ashes,” broke in Cian. With that statement, he turned to leave.
“Where do you think you are going?” asked Dughall.
“It is done here,” he replied. “You have failed, oh angry one. Time for you to go on to your next conquest.”
“I do not accept failure,” Dughall hissed. “Someone took that torc, and whoever has it cannot be far away from here,” he said.
With that, he turned on his heal and ordered Macha and the Dark Wizard to come with him. I will find that torc if it is the last thing that I do.
14. SEARCH FOR THE TORC
Dughall tromped through the thicket and back to the Great Hall. When he got there, he expected to see his men finishing off the last of the women he had ordered them to kill. Instead, he saw his soldiers fleeing. Grown men ran from the hall and screamed like little girls.
“What is the meaning of this insubordination?” Dughall charged up the steps of the Great Hall and opened its doors. Inside, he saw piles of bodies, mostly his own soldiers, lying in heaps. And there, at the center of it all was Bian Sídhe. Like her sister Lianhan Sídhe in her fearsome aspect, Bian Sídhe had large red wings covered in scales like a dragon. Her long, dark hair whipped wildly about h
er head and shoulders. Full of anger and fury, her red eyes shot flames at all that stood in her path.
The women warriors and faeries stood behind her, guarding the younglings, their weapons still drawn. And fighting at Bian Sídhe’s side was Madame Wong. The ancient spirit warrior hurled her little body about and wielded a sword in each hand. Any ill-fated man who happened to get close would either be incinerated by Bian Sídhe or sliced and diced by Madame Wong.
Upon seeing the scene, Dughall understood why the men fled. There was no point in fighting. As he left the Great Hall, Dughall barked out the order for his soldiers to torch the place. “Burn it all down,” he yelled.
“I would not do that if I were you,” Macha curtly said.
“Again you tell me what I must not do, Macha. You excel in speaking of do nots yet you seem fresh out of dos,” said Dughall. “I may well regret asking this question but I shall ask it all the same. Why should I spare this pathetic group of shacks?”
“Because there may be clues here. Clues about the torc and where it has gone. Clues about the portal and how to get in,” she coolly replied.
In his anger, Dughall had not thought of the possibility that he could still find anything of use inside the grove. Yes, search for clues and find the torc. Its power would be mine.
Dughall, Macha, and Cian split up and searched the sleeping huts and other buildings for clues. Macha happened upon Saorla’s own small thatch-roofed cottage. As she rifled through her belongings, at the very back of a high shelf Macha came upon a small leather-bound book with vellum pages. As she opened the book, she knew she had found exactly what they looked for.
The Akasha Chronicles Trilogy Boxed Set: The Complete Emily Adams Series Page 6