Breandán warily pulled Mara from his arms and led her away. “Dægan,” he began, but was stopped short by the chieftain’s cold, hard gaze.
“What now?” Dægan snarled.
Breandán squared his shoulders. “I cannot stop what my heart feels for her, no more than you can. But she loves you, and you, her. My love could never equal that. Nor should you think me a challenge when this is all done. I will see her home. Trust me on both accounts.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Dægan sat upon his great black horse, the only thing Domaldr had not killed, stolen, or burned to ashes before he left the isle. Dægan wasn’t sure why he had spared the horses over the sheep and cattle. An ignorant oversight, he thought, for Domaldr made many in his life, including leaving another man to slit his throat for him.
He patted the horse’s neck as it fidgeted to burst from the woods. “Easy, boy,” he crooned. Not much longer. His mind drifted with idle thoughts of Breandán and Mara, wondering if they had made it to the keep by now, wondering if Breandán was truly trustworthy, if he dared stray from the plan given him. But even if the answers to his many questions were all to the ‘nay’, what good would regret do now, for his hands were tied with more pressing matters.
He tried to keep his mind on the battle that was soon to come, and the surprise he aimed to give his brother in the end. He devised that he would be helmeted, as would Tait, Hansen, and Ottarr, and any other man Domaldr would know from childhood. This would keep their identity hidden until the final splendid moment when all was burned to the ground and only Domaldr was left standing.
Dægan smiled in imagining Domaldr’s astonishment the moment he would discover his adversaries. The thought brought him great pleasure, as did the thought of the sure silence to follow, for he knew Domaldr would be beside himself.
Speechless and dumbstruck.
He looked down at the helmet in his lap, the dark, empty eyeholes staring back at him. He thought he heard Nevan’s voice echoing from within the riveted metal. Let not your brother determine the man you are.
Dægan looked away, hoping to reinstall a cold, dull pulse into his warm-blooded heart. It proved difficult as he sat quietly on his steed, looking out upon the oblivious, latent camp of sleeping men. It seemed underhanded to be readying themselves in the night’s shadows for an all-out attack. This was no way for any man to die, unprepared and unaware. But in remembering his brother’s lack of compassion, the way he killed Steinar and Vegard like dogs, the way he murdered all these men and countless others so savagely, he quickly set upon an eye for an eye!
Tait rode up behind him with an intense look upon his face, and only then did Dægan feel his blood coursing through his veins.
“Mara’s chest is buried as you ordered and the men are ready,” Tait said to Dægan, before placing his helmet on his head. “Are you?”
Dægan took a deep breath and rehashed his friend’s poignant words. Was he ready? Was he prepared to see his own brother at the end of his sword and not think twice at running him through? Would he cower at killing his own flesh and blood, or would that close lineage be the very motivation he needed to come at Domaldr full-throated and savage?
Tait asked again, “Are you ready, Dægan?”
Dægan blinked his reeling thoughts away and placed his helmet upon his head, nodding as he took a burning arrow from one of his foot soldiers and laid it across his bow. He seemed to pause and stare at the dancing flame, the smoldering color of sunset orange contained in a fiery ball at the tip. He watched it writhe and flicker against the blackness of night as if it were joyous for the flight ahead—that it, too, had rage and vengeance in its being.
Dægan looked over his shoulder at the many hirdmen behind him, sword and shield, spear and ax, all in hand. Their eyes eager for the fight, their hearts pounding for the thrill, their blood racing for the cause, all for righting a tremendous wrong.
He returned their hard, blistering stares and stretched his bow to its limits, taking aim on the distant north. “Remember men, no mercy, no prisoners. Take what you want, and let the rest burn.”
“And what of Domaldr?” Tait asked, clenching his legs tightly around his horse that stamped impatiently.
“Leave him for me.”
Suddenly a whisper of chanting filled Dægan’s ears just as he let the arrow fly. It echoed low in the night, as if it actually trailed from the hissing arrow across the camp.
Dægan looked at Tait, seeing that his friend’s helmet was doing nothing to conceal the satisfaction on his face, or the chanting of his name in unison by those who had started it. Ræliksen…Ræliksen… Ræliksen…was on every man’s lips.
****
“Sire!” a servant yelled from the empty inner bailey of Dún na hAbhann. He ran up the steps to his master’s solar. “Riders, Sire! Riders!”
Callan, the king of Connacht, looked up from his lonely chalice of wine and stood stoically before the servant entered his room, wrapping his great cloak around his arm.
“Your grace, there are riders approaching! Two…and one looks to be your daughter!”
“Mara? Alive?”
The servant panted wildly, trying to regain a stately composure. “Aye, your grace. She lives!”
Callan rushed past the servant, almost knocking him over, running down the stairs to the great room of the keep and out into the bailey. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, meeting Fergus, his advisor, at the gatehouse. “Is it true? Is it true my daughter lives? She lives?”
Fergus kept a stale poise about him. “We cannot be certain. I have sent men to ride out and meet them.”
“It has to be her!” Callan exclaimed.
“Sire,” Fergus said firmly. “It could be a trick. Everyone, slave or freeman, within a hundred leagues of Dún na hAbhann has heard of your daughter’s disappearance and the reward for her return. Raising hope at this point would be quite hasty and reckless.”
Callan sighed and hung his head, feeling his heart sink heavily into his stomach. It was the first time he’d heard any news—any good news—and for it all to be slighted, by the prospect of someone hoping to benefit from his loss by pretending to be his daughter, was more than he could bear. He tasted the foulness of treachery once again, swallowing back the bitter lump that swelled in his throat. Bleakly, he turned to walk away, his cloak dragging behind him.
“Sire!” a guard shouted from the top of the arsenal tower. “They ride with the flag high, your grace! The flag is high! ‘Tis Mara!”
Callan spun around with bursting emotion. “Open the gates! Open the gates! Quickly!” He dropped on his knees, thanking God for his daughter’s return, crying in his hands like a child, his tears spilling in happiness.
The sound of hooves clopping merrily on the old dirt pathway sent the king to his feet, running from the narrowly opened portcullis to his daughter.
“Mara!” he called, arms outstretched. “Oh my sweet Mara! You are home!”
Mara slid from the horse and dove into her father’s arms, her exasperating joy matching his. “I cannot believe I am here! I am home! Oh father, I am home!”
Callan held her tight, his arms almost crushing her. “Are you all right, my sweet?” he asked, pulling her face from his chest and looking her over. “Where have you been? My God, your wrist are bleeding, your face is bruised. What happened to you?”
Immediately, Fergus and the guards within the gatehouse unsheathed their swords, and those above them marked their arrows assuredly for Breandán’s head through the murder holes in the ceiling.
“Father!” Mara cried. “Breandán is not the enemy here! He is my rescuer! He is unarmed!”
Callan spun his daughter around and shielded her with his back. “Christ Fergus, lower your weapons! This man deserves our gratitude, not death!”
As every man lowered his aim, Breandán looked as if he finally breathed.
“My apologies. Come, Breandán,” the king declared, his hands spread in welcoming him i
nto his ringfort. “Please. My home is your home. Becka!”
“Coming, Sire!” Becka yelled as she sprinted from her quarters across the bailey, throwing a cloak around her shoulders and tucking a few loosely bouncing tresses back into her bun.
Callan barely noticed Becka’s bed clothes or the fact that every servant—awakened by his shouts—shared the same nightly garments, as they filtered about the chaotic courtyard. He took his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around his daughter. “Becka, draw two hot baths. And food. Get them hot soup and bread, cheese, whatever they want! Make them a feast for all I care! Let us all eat!”
“Father, I need to talk to you,” Mara said, pulling him aside. “So much has happened and I know not where to begin.”
“Let us start with rewarding the brave, Breandán!” Callan declared. “Yours is of seven cumals. Have you enough land to support that sum of cattle, son?”
“I believe so.”
“And who is your father?”
Breandán stumbled to keep up with all the excitement. “Um, Liam, Sire.”
“Ah, one of my own clansman. Then Liam shall have seven cumals as well!” Callan jerked the reverently quiet Breandán into his arms and patted his back in joyous thunder. “From this day forth, everyone shall know of your great name. You will be amongst the noblest of kinsman with a fine display of cattle in your holding and—hell! Take the silver as well! ‘Tis yours!
“But Sire—”
“Enough,” Callan said, raising his hand. “Go, fetch your bath and fill your stomachs. Both of you.” He hugged his daughter one more time and kissed her forehead. “This is a great day! Praise be to God!”
The entire keep cheered as their king had, filling the bailey, halls, and rooms with laughter and smiles, chatter and hasty feet, each one prompted by duty first and then excitement.
“Father,” Mara tried again. “Please, you must listen to me. There is a war going on just beyond your gates near the Loch Rí. And I am a married woman!”
Chapter Thirty
Dægan stretched his neck from side to side and pressed a hand to his broken ribs one last time. He had never fussed so much over an injury before, and he could only hope in the heat of battle his body would be overtaken with a surging high, desensitizing everything from his pains to his reluctance in this fight.
Normally, by now he’d be praying, hoping to foster the spirit of his war god in body and mind, in the strokes of his sword, and the drive of his steps. Tonight, he simply asked for victory.
Dægan slipped his dagger from his belt and placed it between his teeth. His bow, he brought to his shoulder and with his feet secured in their stirrups, he leaned forward in preparation for when his horse would erupt from its shadowy hiding place. In a squatting stature, he and his hirdmen watched the last shower of lighted arrows from the west land on their targets, setting ablaze each and every tent situated before them.
“Hold,” Dægan said to the men behind him. “Let them all come out.”
Tait naturally objected to giving Domaldr’s men that advantage, but held his position as he was ordered, his eyes fixed on the spreading fires. It seemed that the time it took for the men to awaken and dash from their burning beds was far too long, but eventually, they assembled out into the open, confused and distraught.
Dægan waited not a moment more and raised his sword high in the air, bellowing a cry for all to hear, which commenced the great charge at the south end of the camp. Twenty horses tore from the forest, their hooves digging into the dirt for traction with clumps of grass and soil spattering behind them. In seconds, they were sprinting at top speed, a thunderous herd of beasts and blades. They rode in a fervent cluster toward the first group of disoriented men in their way and, without so much as slowing their pace, Dægan and his men cut them down like saplings.
At that frightful moment, those men who still stood shouted their warnings to the others, terrified of the sight of hell-bent iron and armor, knuckles and knees coming at them.
A trap! they yelled. We’ve been had by Sigtrygg’s men! Arm yourselves!
But their heightened warnings did not come soon enough! Dægan and his men had already begun to split up, taking on the stragglers who were too late in gathering their weapons from the blazing tents and fleeing for their lives. In no time, Dægan’s cavalry-like pursuit made for an easy slaughter with the southern part of the camp soon laden with bodies and blood. No mercy…no prisoners.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, two men dropped abreast, only meters away, their bows stretched in aim for Dægan. Unable to stop his horse’s sprint, he committed to steering directly toward them, and took the dagger from his mouth, aiming at one, while setting to leap upon the other. Before he could release the blade, two well-marked arrows cut across his path from the east, one sinking into the archer’s open chest and the other finding home in a tender throat.
Dægan wrenched his horse about-face, anticipating rampant enemy fire, but fell relieved to see Havelock and his men charging wildly toward him. He smiled, lifting his sword in gratitude for the timely assistance, and continued on his virulent crusade.
Finally from the west, Dægan saw the flurry of Ottarr and Ingvarr’s hirdmen running at full speed, sifting between the flame-consumed tents like seeping water, and sniping the distant men with arrows and spears. They quickly laid waste to the narrow pathways, herding the rest of the fleeing men like aimless cattle toward Dægan’s cavalry.
By this time, those of Domaldr’s men from the north had ample time to arm themselves and made like a swarm of angry bees toward the core of the camp, unaware of the tragedy in store for them. Like any battle, the casualties reigned on both sides, death being an unbiased reaper, but to Dægan’s dismay, his brother had not yet reared in any form of retaliation. He should have by now, for it was obvious his plan of triumphantly overtaking Connacht was quickly going awry. Without a tent to hide in or a solid place to protect himself, Dægan feared his craven snake-of-a-brother had already slithered away.
Coward! Dægan thought as he hacked his way through the last determined men who clung at his stirrups like meddlesome flies. He spun his horse, searching amid the turmoil of clanging iron for his gutless brother, only to lock eyes with Tait across the field. “Where is he!” Dægan shouted, wielding another hard blow to his right.
Tait twisted around. He, too, searched through the shadows of the firelight and disorder. “I know not!”
“Find him!” Dægan snarled. “Find him now!”
Suddenly, a sturdy brute scaled Tait’s horse from behind and wrapped his arm around Tait’s throat, pulling him to the ground. Both fell in a heap, scrambling to stand up before the other, but to Tait’s surprise, the diligent soldier was the quicker. He rammed his shoulder into Tait’s gut and with the momentum of his charge, wrapped his arms around the back of Tait’s thighs and stood up, flipping him over.
Tait slammed awkwardly upon the ground, rolling quickly to his knees to gasp for the air that was knocked from his lungs. His eyes widened as he sucked rigorously for air, arching his back and beating the ground with his fist as if it would help. The large man turned on his heels and saw that Tait was still on all fours, wheezing for all he was worth.
Dægan watched helplessly as his friend became an easy kill. He was too far away to stop it with only a sword, and a dagger was too light a weapon to throw and make that distance.
He charged forward on his horse, seeing one of Domaldr’s men aiming to throw a spear in the same direction. Like a perfect gift, Dægan snatched it from the man’s hands, took a quick aim, and launched it into Tait’s adversary who had double-fisted his sword above his head for the final blow. It sunk deep into the man’s chest and he dropped his iron, clutching the wooden pole that jutted from his body as he fell to his death.
Dægan rode up fast, circling Tait with his horse as a shield, his sword high in fury until Tait was able to draw an effortless breath and mount the back of his horse. “Are you all right?”
Dægan turned his horse back around and made quick to alert the others. “Havelock! Your flank!”
Havelock shouted to his men and instantaneously they reigned in their horses to hold off the oncoming fleet. The chieftain’s mounted men outnumbered the riotous group, but unfortunately, their horses were no match for the assailing arrows hungry to settle bitter scores. Many steeds reared and dropped like stones, casting their riders to a dreadful fall upon the hard ground, some meeting a crushing death underneath.
“Havelock needs our help!” Dægan roared, leading his horse back into the thick of the rampage. “Tait, ride around and take out the men in the rear with your bow!”
“What are you going to do?” Tait asked as he watched Dægan lift his right leg over the horse’s neck.
“Take the reins!”
And before Tait could say anything more, his chieftain dove onto one of the enemies, tackling him to the ground and slitting his throat.
There was no time for Dægan to breathe or rest, for the next foe was already making haste to swing a wide sword at him. He rose clumsily back to his feet and charged the man head on, stopping short of his reach. The man lost his balance in the momentum, and fell straight into Dægan’s slashing dagger, getting a second dose of punishment in his face from Dægan’s knee.
As the man fell, Dægan continued to press on through the tight huddle of combating men, striking at vulnerable heads and legs in his path. Another persevering foe trained his sights on Dægan and lunged with a powerful sweep of his iron.
Dægan blocked the blow with a downward slash and brought his left elbow up to catch an unmasked nose bridge, but not without feeling a slight pull from his ribs. He groaned and shoved the man aside, rounding a hard swing at the man’s head.
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 29