Warriors Of Legend

by Kathryn Le Veque, Kathryn Loch, Dana D'Angelo

  He crouched down in front of the boys so he could be more at their level. The two little faces gazed back at him eagerly. Conor looked between them, his gaze both friendly and suspicious.

  “You say that you’re my Devlin?” he asked the lad with the beautiful auburn hair. “How old are you?”

  “I have seen eight years,” the boy replied. “I was only seven years when last you saw me. I have grown a whole year.”

  He said it proudly and Conor fought off a smile. “Then maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize you,” he watched the boy beam from ear to ear. He turned to Mattock. “And you; how old are you?”

  Mattock would not be outdone by his brother. “I am eleven years, Dada,” he said. “I was only ten years when last you saw me. Have I grown much as well?”

  Conor’s smile broke through. “You’re the biggest boy I’ve ever seen,” he said, watching the boy grin. “I would never have known you. And… and your little brother in there. What’s his name?”

  Mattock and Devlin looked into the open doorway of the hut. “That is Slane,” Mattock replied. “He is just a baby. He was only three when you last saw him. He has cried for Mother every day.”

  Conor’s smile faded as he, too, looked inside to see the little boy sleeping next to Destry. It was touching and sad, and the sight tugged at his heart. With a faint sigh, Conor rose to his full height, towering over the boys, looking between them and feeling his sense of déjà vu grow stronger. He swore he knew these kids. More and more, he could feel it. Moving towards Mattock, he clapped the lad on the shoulder as he pretended to inspect the pony.

  “So this is your horse, is it?” he asked. “He’s good–looking. What’s his name?”

  “Deneb,” Mattock said proudly. “I can ride him like a warrior.”

  “How is that?”

  Before Mattock could reply, Devlin shoved him. “He still falls off,” he announced.

  Mattock came back with a balled fist but Conor stopped the slugging before it could start. “Tell me about home, Mattock,” he diverted their attention. “When did you last see me?”

  As he hoped, the boys were sidetracked. “At Cian,” Mattock said. “You were off to fight Geric and Mother begged you not to go. But you did and… well, we did not see you again. Padraigan came for us and brought us here. She made magic upon us and we became daoine.”

  Conor cocked his head. “Little people? Dwarfs?”

  Mattock nodded solemnly. “So Geric could not find us.”

  Conor shook his head in puzzlement. “Who’s Geric?”

  “Your brother,” Padraigan approached; she had been listening just inside the doorway and thought perhaps that now was the time to continue their conversation from earlier in the day. Conor seemed more receptive to it than Destry did and it was imperative for their own safety that they know the entire story. “Geric is your younger brother, my lord. He is the one who ordered Olc of the Eye to banish you and your wife to the Netherworld.”

  Conor focused on the woman, realizing he wanted to know all of it. Too much about this situation was bizarre; bizarre enough that he was just coming to believe it. It was time he heard everything.

  “All right,” he rested his fists on his hips, a gesture of resignation. “So I have a brother who had me banished into some magical other–region. If that’s true, why did he do it?”

  Padraigan’s pale eyes were intense. “Your brother is wicked, my lord,” she told him. “He has always coveted your kingdom and your abilities as a powerful warrior and a good king. He is an immoral and bitter man and managed to raise a small army to challenge you. You were able to quash him quite easily but he continued to make trouble for you. Then, one day, he asked you to attend a private peace conference and you agreed. When you arrived, without your warrior trappings or your guards, he set Olc upon you and banished you through the doras amas. Then he came to your wife to claim her as his own but she escaped him and came to me, begging me to protect your children. As I escaped with the young ones and your court fled for their lives, your brother found your wife again and gave her a choice; either marry him and retain her life as a trusted queen or be banished to the nether region with you. She chose to go with you.”

  By this time, Conor was feeling a good deal of apprehension and sorrow. He couldn’t explain the feelings, only that they were very real. It was as everything she was telling him was saturating his heart, his mind, and he was feeling the story as well as hearing it. It sounded familiar. It felt real.

  “So she made the choice to come with me rather than stay with him?” he reiterated. “If that’s true and that woman in there is my wife, then why don’t I know her?”

  Padraigan emphasized her words with her tiny hands. “It was part of the curse that Olc of the Eye cast upon you,” she reminded him. “Your curse was to walk the nether world with no knowledge of who you are or who she is. I was able to at least coax you back to the doras amas and bring you back where you belong. Now you must remember your place, my lord, and assume your destiny as a mighty king for the sake of your family and your kingdom. We have waited a long time for your return, my lord. You must try hard to remember who you are.”

  Conor stared at the woman, thinking on her words. He did as she asked; he was trying hard to remember. As crazy as her story sounded, he was aware that he could easily believe it. Something deep inside of him very much wanted to.

  “Tell me about my kingdom,” he asked. “Maybe that will help.”

  Padraigan complied. “You are Conor, High King of Ciannachta, and your fortress is Castle Cian along the River Boyne,” she said quietly. “You have a mighty army that is loyal to you; they hate your brother because he has formed an unholy alliance with the Northmen who raid this coast. They give him power and money, and in return he allows them access to a great part of Ireland through the river and harbor. The Northmen have killed and plundered many towns because of your brother’s alliance with them. For many years, the Northmen would not dare attack Ciannachta because they feared you. You kept our land safe. But your brother has turned all of Ciannachta into a whore for the Northmen, to appease their lust for our riches.”

  Conor stared at her, digesting what he had been told. Ciannachta. He knew that name, that kingdom. It was the ancient name for Drogheda. Torn between shock, disbelief and something that felt like excitement, his focus turned to the gist of her distress, something that had plagued Ireland, England and Scotland for hundreds of years.

  “Northmen?” he repeated. “Viking raiders?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “What year is this?”

  He didn’t really expect that she would know but he asked anyway. Whatever year it was, it had to be well before the Norman conquest of England and the subsequent conquest of Ireland. The Viking raids on Ireland had gone on for hundreds of years so he wasn’t sure he could pinpoint when, exactly, this was. But he was determined to try.

  Padraigan replied without hesitation. “The Year of the Brown Rabbit.”

  Conor thought hard on that, knowing that the ancient Irish would measure their time by events, animals or even kings. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t seem to remember anything about the year of the brown rabbit that seemed to be significant. So he tried again.

  “Who is the king of Dublin?” he asked.

  “Gofraid, my lord.”

  He stared at her. It was name he knew and a history he knew all too well. As he struggled to wrap his mind around the possibility, Padraigan interrupted his turbulent thoughts.

  “Please,” her tone was reduced to begging. “We need you, my lord. The army hates Geric but they have no choice to serve him because he is king . But let them see their true king and you shall once again have their support and rule of Ciannachta. The army will follow you to the depths of hell if you wished it, my lord. We need you to make us whole and strong again.”

  Conor’s gaze was riveted to the woman, feeling overwhelmed by her tale. But, oddly enough, he didn’t resist it. Even as s
he told him, he felt as if he already knew the details. It was the strangest thing he had ever experienced but even as he rolled the tale over in his mind, the details seemed to make him feel whole, completed. He began to feel strong again.

  Behind him, he suddenly heard a noise and turned to see Destry standing in the open doorway. The light from the hut backlit her as she stood there, creating an ethereal vision as the darkness of the night enfolded everything it touched. Destry had little Slane with her, holding the child’s hand as her bright blue gaze lingered on Conor.

  She looked weary and pale, but in spite of that, Conor had never seen such a beautiful woman. Every time he looked at her, he felt more strongly about her. His heart softened and he began to walk towards her.

  “So you’re awake,” he said gently. “How do you feel?”

  She watched him approach. “Better,” she said softly. “What was she telling you?”

  He stopped when he came upon her, standing just a few inches from her. His dark blue gaze was soft and gentle as he gazed down into her lovely face.

  “About my brother and my kingdom,” he said quietly. “Or at least what she believes is my brother and my kingdom.”

  Destry’s gaze drifted to Padraigan and then to Slane, still holding her hand. She sighed, still looking at the sweet little boy. “This is just a wild stab in the dark, but I’m guessing that we aren’t going back to the hotel.”

  He wasn’t sure how to answer her except with what he believed to be the truth. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t think there is a hotel.”

  “Then you really think we passed through some kind of time portal?”

  He sighed and put a big hand on her head, pulling her forehead to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Something happened,” he muttered. “Until we can figure out what it is, then all we can do is go on the assumption that somehow, some way, we moved back in time.”

  She looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his handsome face. “So you’re supposed to be some sort of king?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what I’m told. And you’re my queen.”

  She wriggled her eyebrows. “We have three boys.”

  His dark blue eyes twinkled. “That means that we’ve…”

  She fought off a grin. “I still don’t remember that part of it, but I did have weird dreams about giving birth.” She looked down at Slane, who was gazing up at her adoringly. She smiled at him as she looked up again, her gaze finding Padraigan. “I had a dream about giving birth to a girl.”

  Padraigan didn’t understand her words so Conor relayed the statement. Padraigan’s features gentled. “You did,” the sorceress said softly. “Between Devlin and Slane you gave birth to a daughter who was born dead. You named her Angel because you said she was an angel on earth.”

  Conor whispered the translation and Destry’s heart started to beat faster as tears sprang to her eyes. Powerful emotions she didn’t recognize, yet somehow remembered, flooded her. She blinked rapidly, chasing away the tears.

  “I have a sister named Angel,” she whispered.

  With Conor translating, Padraigan smiled. “Your Angel found you in the nether region and was reborn as your sister,” she assured her. “It is the way of the Life Cycle; our souls find one another in both life and death. Dying never truly separates us from those we love; we all find one another again, eventually.”

  Conor repeated her answer verbatim and Destry struggled not to burst into tears at the thought. Her dreams were very vivid about giving birth to her children, including her dead daughter. She had visions of Conor weeping over the dead child, so very distraught by the passing.

  More than anything, her visions and dreams had conveyed to her the compassion and caring of Conor, a man she had only just met but a man she apparently knew very, very well. Every moment that passed saw her come to know him even better. She was starting to understand just how deeply he was engrained within her. Gazing down at Slane, she squeezed the child’s hand before looking back at Conor.

  “These children are ours, Conor,” she whispered. “I don’t have any recollection of being a queen, or of this life we had together, but I can tell you for a fact that these children are ours. I know my children.”

  He could see that she was deadly serious. He moved closer to her so their bodies were touching, a hand coming up to gently rest on her back, perhaps pulling her a little closer.

  “You don’t remember me?” he whispered. “I’m told you gave up everything to follow me when I was exiled. I’m told you loved me very much.”

  The heat from his body was making it difficult for her to breathe. Her head hurt and her stomach was uneasy, but Conor’s touch and his closeness seemed to make her forget everything. Her free hand came up and she snaked it around his slender waist, her hand on his back, feeling his warmth and power against the palm. Her heart began to race again, now for an entirely different reason.

  “That’s possible,” she murmured, laying her cheek against his warm, broad chest. He felt incredibly good. “I’m sure you’re going to do your best to remind me.”

  He grinned, both arms going around her to pull her closer. “Absolutely.”

  She couldn’t help but grin at the enthusiastic way in which he said it. She lifted her head to look at him, flicking her eyes leadingly in the direction of the four–year–old at her side. “Everything? Even…?”

  He laughed softly. “Especially that.”

  She joined in his laughter. “I’m not quite sure what to say.”

  “Say you’ll at least give me the chance.”

  Her laughter faded as she gazed steadily at him. The man’s power, his handsome face and his decent character had her spellbound. She could no longer resist him.

  “I’ll give you the chance,” she whispered.

  His smile faded, the dark blue eyes roaring with interest and adoration and passion. He didn’t miss the fact that she had just given him the green light to pursue her and he was thrilled beyond words. Just as he lost himself in her eyes, preparing to swoop in for a deep and luscious kiss, Mattock’s pony suddenly let out a chilling scream.

  Everyone jumped at the sound, turning to see the pony being dragged off in the darkness by one leg. Conor watched in shock for a split second before rushing forward to grab Mattock and Devlin, who were rooted to the spot, yelling in fright at the top of their lungs. He thrust the boys in the direction of the mud hut, moving to shove Destry as well but realizing she already had Slane in–hand and was running towards the door. Padraigan scattered but Conor couldn’t worry about the woman; he was more concerned with getting Destry and the boys to safety.

  Destry couldn’t see what had the pony in its grip but she could hear growling and snorting, which scared her to death. Instinct had her practically tossing Slane into the mud hut then pausing at the door as Mattock, Devlin and Conor brought up the rear. She grabbed hold of Mattock and Devlin as they rushed into the hut, shoving them back into the room and away from the door because she truly had no idea what was happening. All she knew was that the horse was being dragged off into the darkness, the kids were screaming, and she was terrified.

  Conor, however, hadn’t come into the hut; he was standing in the doorway, watching the pony as it struggled against whatever had it. It was so dark that he couldn’t see whatever had the horse in its grip. Mattock was crying hysterically because his pony was being attacked and Destry found herself comforting the boy, watching Conor with a terrified expression as he watched the pony struggling in the darkness.

  “What is it?” Destry asked him, her voice shaking. “Can you see anything?”

  Conor’s dark blue eyes were riveted to the movement in the darkness; they were over by the make–shift barn now and he could see that the pony’s struggles were lessening. The animal was losing the fight. He, too, could hear the growling and snorting, as something horrific and terrible was lingering viciously in the shadows. As he opened his mouth, Padraigan suddenly appeared, rushing at him from the direction of the cru
de corral. She had a flaming torch in her hand, dragging something with her. She rushed at Conor, struggling with both the weight of the torch and the weight of whatever she was dragging.

  “My lord,” she said breathlessly. “Your weapon.”

  Conor looked surprised. “Weapon?” he repeated. “What…?”

  Padraigan tried to lift it but she wasn’t strong enough, not with one arm. Conor saw her struggles and instinctively took it from her. The little sorceress held the torch high in the direction of the struggling pony.

  “I will blind it with the light,” she hissed at him. “You must kill it.”

  “Kill what?” he demanded, frustrated and scared. “I can’t even see it.”

  “You must, my lord,” Padraigan was issuing a command. “Kill it now!”

  Conor’s gaze lingered on the woman before taking a look at the weapon he now held in his hand; it was heavy and as he lifted it up, into the light, he could see that it was a gloriously crafted broadsword. The magnificent piece was massive, at least four feet long, with a thick, sharp blade etched with Celtic crosses and other Celtic designs. The hilt was forged from a solid piece of steel and as he put his hand around the leather pommel, he realized that it fit his grip perfectly. He was quickly becoming enamored with the beauty and craftsmanship of the blade until Padraigan hissed at him again.

  “My lord!” she beckoned him, motioning for him to follow her. “We must kill it because it will come for us when it finishes with the pony. Hurry!”