Amergin’s youthful face reddened. “Men everywhere probably understand that kind of song.”
Aislinn felt the flush creep up her own neck, but Iago bristled. “Everybody is familiar with the song. What of it? Why are they singing in the heat of battle?”
“Moqorr’s Tuathans will see their fellow countrymen are free of his yoke,” Ebric replied. “Then they won’t fight for him.”
Iago’s frown became a smile. “This I must witness.”
Aislinn should have protested. Sibrán had ordered them to remain near the cave, but Ebric was already trailing Iago up the slope and Amergin was eyeing her expectedly. She admitted inwardly the complete disintegration of Moqorr’s power was a sight she too thirsted to see. There was no choice but to follow.
Prophecy Fulfilled
Moqorr lay motionless, but his soldiers gaped in astonishment at their singing countrymen. Suddenly, a man Sibrán recognized as Aislinn’s captain stepped forward, pulled his gambeson open to reveal his neck and shouted to the enemy.
Sibrán wished Aislinn were present to explain the foreign words, but it was evident the man was exhorting the giants to tear off their torcs.
Time seemed to stand still while they considered the proposal, but gradually a murmur rose from the ranks. There was a collective intake of breath when one brave soldier threw down his lance and tore off his torc. He didn’t fall dead at their feet and the rest followed his example quickly, tossing their shattered slave collars to the four winds.
Shouts of jubilation filled the air and soon the mountain echoed with the deep voices of hundreds of men, not all singing the same song, and not in the same language. Distant unseen creatures echoed Lop’s howling. Sibrán hoped Aislinn was within earshot of the cacophony.
Without preamble, a handful of the newly-freed Tuathans broke away from the rejoicing crowd, strode towards Moqorr, picked him up as if he weighed nothing and hefted him off the cliff.
A hush fell over the host when the High King cried out feebly as he tumbled head over heels down the slope, careening off one rocky outcropping after another. Like Sibrán, they had apparently assumed disease had already finished off the monster. The wailing ceased even before the detested oppressor came to rest in a clump of bushes far below.
Loud cheering echoed in the peaks and valleys.
The men were probably right in their assumption no one could survive such a brutal fall. However, mindful of the prophecy, Sibrán was determined not to leave anything to chance and decided to climb down to the grove on his way to collect Aislinn.
Aislinn and her three escorts were just arriving on the side of the mountain facing Tara when a man tumbled down the side of the cliff and came to rest in a nearby copse. She held her breath, fearing the worst, but the loud cheering from up above confirmed it was Moqorr who had been thrown to his death.
“Stay behind me,” Iago insisted. “The lads will go first.”
The twins had indeed already set off running in the direction of the bushes, daggers drawn.
Gravel and small rocks cascading from above indicated someone was descending the slope. Whoever it was shouted a warning. “Take care. Remember the prophecy.”
Sibrán!
A cold certainty crept into Aislinn’s heart. “Beware,” she called to the boys, “he isn’t dead.”
Iago turned to her. “No one could survive such a fall.”
“He lives,” she insisted.
No sooner had the twins reached the bushes when Moqorr staggered forth, fury contorting his bruised and bloodied face.
“Fantasma,” Iago exclaimed, hunkering down after drawing his sword. “He hasn’t seen us yet. You and I must retreat to the cave.”
Aislinn’s frantic heart calmed as the truth dawned. There was a reason she and Iago were here in this place at this moment. She shook her head. “It is no ghost. The gods have decided you will deliver the final blow. Your vengeance is at hand.”
He paused and met her gaze. The gnawing anxiety that often haunted his eyes fled. He too had seen his destiny. He nodded, unclenched his jaw and moved stealthily towards the bushes.
To their credit, the twins didn’t flinch in the face of the macabre specter. They advanced, but the oppressor came to an abrupt halt, as if he too had seen a ghost. He stared at Ebric, then at Amergin. A pitiful wail arose from his throat. He tore at his hair as he turned away from them and fled, stumbling frantically downhill.
She understood. The unexpected sight of forbidden twins had maddened him further. When he finally espied her standing defiantly nearby, anger burned brightly in his eyes. He grasped at her, his twisted hands raised like giant claws, but his fury blinded him to Iago crouched with sword raised.
One powerful thrust of the sharp Gaelician blade into his belly skewered the tyrant clean through. Blood spurted from his mouth. His eyes rolled up in his head as he slumped onto Iago. The old warrior staggered and she feared he might fall beneath the weight, but with a triumphant bellow he pulled out his bloodied sword and brandished it in the air. Moqorr crumpled to the ground.
“I’ll wager he’s dead now,” Iago panted with a wry smile.
Aislinn shuddered, grateful to collapse into Sibrán’s strong arms when he appeared on the rocky path with Lop.
“It’s over,” he assured her as the hound nuzzled her leg. “This is the third death. The prophecy has been fulfilled.”
One Last Obstacle
The sweet taste of freedom Aislinn savored after Sibrán shattered her bronze torc paled in comparison to the elation tingling across her skin as she gazed at Moqorr’s body. It gave her no pleasure to rejoice in his destruction, only that it meant her people were free.
But his death was bittersweet. They’d lived in fear of a wretched mortal tyrant for too long.
Sibrán, Aislinn and the Tuathan captain were of one mind. The body was to be interred where it lay, but she didn’t want to bear witness to the event and was relieved Sibrán offered to escort her back to the summit.
Part way up the slope, they paused to watch ox-bones being lowered by ropes to the diggers. It would be slow going with the ancient shovels, normally used for scooping out hollows for campfires, but the animal’s shoulder blades were the only tools not left behind in the valley.
No sooner had the bones been untied from the ropes than the sky darkened. Aislinn shivered, remembering that same shadow only too well. “Crows,” she murmured.
She welcomed the reassurance of Sibrán’s arms as hundreds of cawing birds swooped down into the glade where the mangled body lay. Lop barked frantically, and the diggers made futile attempts to shoo away the scavengers, eventually giving up to retreat into the bushes.
The ground turned black as the winged creatures covered Moqorr’s body. Aislinn buried her face against Sibrán’s chest, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. There’d be nought but a skeleton left when the horde flew away.
Her prince put his arm around her waist and drew her close. “For some reason the crows want retribution too,” he said. “Come. Let’s leave this place.”
As they resumed their ascent, a fleeting image of Moqorr’s captive raptors came to mind. It was difficult to tell with birds, but it seemed they looked content.
Sibrán was relieved when they reached the main army and Aislinn rallied. “We must make our way to Tara quickly,” she said. “All the kings of Inisfail have been installed there.”
Sibrán nodded, filled with a sense of his destiny. With his arm still around his queen’s waist, he addressed his men. “Strike the camp. We march to Tara.”
The loud cheering was almost drowned out by the din of cawing crows as the black host flew off in the direction of a neighboring mountain. He resisted the temptation to look down at what might remain of Moqorr. The gods had exacted their punishment and he was confident the monster would never rise again.
Iago arrived, assisted up the last part of the slope by Ebric and Amergin. Exhaustion and elation warred on the old navigator’s face. Sibr
án took his hand and drew him into his embrace. “You have your vengeance, old friend.”
Iago accepted his support, then pulled away and took a deep breath. “Indeed. Now to get on with the task at hand. The rebuilding of the kingdom.”
Sibrán arched a brow. “I expected you would want to return to Gaelicia once Nith’s death was avenged.”
Iago shrugged. “Nothing there for me.” He winked. “You’ll make a better ruler than your brother in any event.”
Sibrán slapped him on the back. “Moqorr’s fate is a sober reminder for any would-be king of what might befall an oppressive ruler.”
Aislinn smiled. “Iago is right. You will be a fair and just monarch. You are Sibrán of Coruña, soon to be High King of Inisfail.” She hesitated and averted her gaze. “If the Lia Fàil gives its blessing.”
He frowned. “The Lia Fàil?”
“The Stone of Destiny,” she replied.
Sibrán clenched his jaw, watching his men begin the descent. He’d believed the kingdom within his grasp but now it appeared another obstacle stood in the way.
Though she was anxious for Sibrán to reach Tara, Aislinn would forever remember Cualu as the place where her life had truly begun. An unbreakable alliance had been formed in the sacred cave that would change Inisfail forever. The woman who descended the mountain slopes wasn’t the same girl who’d climbed Cualu. Nor was the man who helped her down the slippery pathways the same Sibrán who’d kept a wary eye on her during the ascent.
Now they were one in heart and body and mind.
In the valley, they mounted donkeys and rode side by side through surprisingly dry meadows which had been underwater scant days before. Lop trotted with them for most of the time, bounding off occasionally to investigate something of interest. Sibrán brooded and she suspected the news of the Stone of Destiny had perturbed him. “You won’t fail the test,” she assured him.
He shrugged. “I don’t even know what the test is,” he replied.
“The same was true in the cavern when you couldn’t enter the gateway.”
He chuckled. “Who would have believed I had to be naked?” Then he frowned. “I won’t have to disrobe at the coronation, will I?”
She laughed. “No, my love, I am the only one privileged to see you naked from henceforth.”
He smiled, but uncertainty still haunted his beautiful eyes. “Tell me about the stone.”
She was proud to impart something of her people’s long history. “Before they came to Inisfail, the Tuathans traveled far and wide. For generations, they dwelt in the four cities of the Northern Isles where they learned many skills and magical arts.”
He glanced at her, but she continued when he made no reply. “When they came to Inisfail thousands of years ago, they brought a treasure from each of the cities. From Falias they brought the Lia Fàil. It was decreed that when the rightful king of Inisfail put his foot on the stone, it would shout out its joy.”
He looked at her wide-eyed. “What if I set my foot on it and…”
She shook her head. “It will cry out.”
“How can you be sure?”
She smiled. “I am Aislinn, so named because I am prophetess to High Kings. I have foreseen it.”
Conflicting emotions warred within Sibrán. He was happy for Aislinn if she had retained the ability to foretell events after their joining, but did that also mean she could still shift shape?
He hoped not and the realization caused guilt to churn in his gut. He wouldn’t love her any less, but the idea of his queen transforming into an animal filled him with dismay. He selfishly wanted all of her for himself.
He hesitated to ask, fearful she might think his love depended on her answer, but she evidently sensed his hesitation. “What is it?” she asked.
When he didn’t answer, she persisted, “You’re wondering if I can still shift into animal form?”
He reached over and reined her donkey to a halt. He made sure she was looking into his eyes before he spoke. “I swear it will make no difference to my love for you, Aislinn.”
“I believe you,” she replied, “and I promise I will never again transform into an animal.”
It wasn’t exactly the reassurance he wanted, but he accepted it and they continued their journey to Tara.
Stone of Destiny
Sibrán called a halt in the fields outside Tara. “They’re expecting us,” he declared with a wry smile.
Aislinn surveyed the hundreds of heavily armed Tuathans standing shoulder to shoulder atop the outer rampart. “They must sense something momentous has happened, but they are obviously uncertain. Perhaps it would be better if I approach first with my guards.”
His frown made her nervous. A proud man like Sibrán might resent a woman taking his place at the head of the vanguard, but he dismounted and came to stand beside her donkey. “It is your right to enter Tara before me,” he said, placing his big hands over hers. “I’m not happy with the prospect of you facing the danger alone, but the gods are with you, Queen of Inisfail.”
His concern had been for her, not for himself. He cupped her face in his hands when she bent to brush a kiss on his lips, savoring the sweet taste of the berries they’d eaten on the way. “It will be a great honor and pleasure to announce the advent of a new king,” she whispered.
He smiled and stepped back.
She silently commanded her escort to move forward with her. Lop trotted at her side.
As they neared the rampart, the defenders raised their lances, sending a pang of fear up her spine. However, she had foreseen what was going to happen and was confident of Sibrán’s acceptance by her fellow countrymen. Reining to a halt, she told herself it was only human to be fearful in the face of such armed might.
Her captain strode forward and bade the sentinels hear what she was about to tell them.
As she scanned the cautiously curious faces of the defenders, she gave thanks to the gods she had been chosen as the one to impart the glorious news. “Moqorr is dead,” she proclaimed.
An eerie silence greeted her words, but the rightness of what she would tell them next gave her courage. “The gods have granted us a new High King, a man of honor and integrity. Prepare to greet him, my fellow Tuathans. He has come to set you free from Moqorr’s tyranny.” She raised a hand to her neck and her captain and his men instantly did the same. “Remove your torcs. Moqorr cannot harm you now.”
There was hesitation in the ranks for a few moments, but soon cheering broke out when a few removed their torcs. Then hundreds followed their lead. They tossed aside their weapons and swarmed down the rampart like children given leave to play, forming an honor guard for her to ride into Tara.
She rode into the settlement where she had lived most of her life, amazed that the newly liberated men had immediately burst into song. It seemed to be the first reaction to the realization they were free. She apparently wasn’t the only person who’d felt the lack of music in their lives.
Her heart swelled with the knowledge Sibrán could no doubt hear the jubilation.
She dismounted outside the Royal Enclosure and waited, impatient, but calm.
Not surprisingly, the excited Lop ran off.
Soon her beloved entered Tara with his men. The stone walls of the Fort of Kings echoed with the sound of deep, male voices. Women gathered nearby commented on the new king’s dignified bearing and handsome countenance, but she felt no jealousy, only pride that he belonged to her, and her alone.
Ram’s horn trumpets, reserved for when Moqorr made one of his frequent grand pronouncements, blared from every corner.
Lop reappeared, leading six or seven playful dogs she’d never seen before. They chased each other in circles and rolled in the grass. Evidently, her hound had a secret life of his own.
Children, rarely seen in the streets, ran hither and thither, some stopping abruptly to gawk at Ebric and Amergin, others reaching out to touch Sibrán’s leg and receive his blessing.
Aislinn’s only regre
t as she proudly watched him enter Tara was that he rode a donkey and not a magnificent stallion. His feet almost touched the ground, but he didn’t seem to care as he waved to the welcoming crowd and patted smiling toddlers on the head.
Her heart filled with joy. He would be a patient and loving father to their children. She touched a hand to her belly. Mayhap his seed had already taken root.
Sibrán dismounted and let his eyes rove over Tara. The settlement was different from Coruña. Its walls of dark stone stood in sharp contrast to the sandstone of his homeland. The air in the green valley lacked the tang of the sea. Yet he had come home.
The Tuathans dwarfed the Gaelicians, and his people had no history of magic and sorcery, but a calm certainty filled him. He was destined to rule both races, to make them one in heart and spirit. The Tuathans’ warm welcome augured well. Judging by the emotional greetings Iago was receiving, word had spread quickly he had been the one to deliver Moqorr’s death blow.
He caught sight of Aislinn standing in front of the largest building, which he assumed was the Royal Enclosure. He acknowledged inwardly she was the key to the kingdom, a remarkable woman who loved him.
The men, women and children of Tara flocked around him. An expectant hush fell over the gathering. For the first time, he felt uncertain. He was standing in a place sacred to these people for generations and didn’t want to make a wrong move.
Aislinn came towards him and took his hand. “The Lia Fàil awaits.”
He had envisaged a formal coronation in fine robes. “But we are travel-worn and not suitably dressed.”
“The Stone of Destiny pays no heed to a man’s raiment. Until it cries out beneath your foot, you cannot be High King of Inisfail. Only then can you enter the Royal Enclosure. Servants are already cleansing it of any trace of Moqorr.”
It seemed he had no choice, but then the same had held true for his admittance to the cave of light. “Lead the way,” he said.
Hundreds followed as they climbed the incline to Lia Fàil. “One thing concerns me,” he confided. “Did the stone cry out for Moqorr?”
Lords of Ireland II Page 72