Braedan forced himself to swallow over the lump in his throat. “Tell me, even if it doesn’t sound possible.”
She closed her eyes. “She seemed to feed off it. Not the people dying. That didn’t bother her. She seemed more interested in what the assassins did—how they hurt people, the things they did to the women.”
Braedan’s stomach twisted. He hated that he had to ask the next question. “How can I know you are telling the truth? How can I know you weren’t sent here by her?”
She lifted the book in her lap. “I found this when Mac Rian started to rebuild the manor house. There was an old stone vault that wasn’t destroyed in the fire. I found Duke Mac Niall’s journal in it, and I hid it from my mistress. He wrote about Mac Rian’s treachery, about his attempts to encroach on Mac Niall holdings. He saw the lady Olwyn performing dark magic once. He recorded how your father wanted to take tribal lands.” She started to hand it to him, but paused and bit her lip. “He wrote about his private life as well, majesty—about his son and his son’s mother. I would not wish to damage his family name further.”
Braedan closed her hands around the book. “I need the words in this book, but I swear to you, I will not use this against the Mac Niall family.”
She nodded and let go of it. “Sire, I knew his son. Connor. He was kind to me once. Please, don’t believe the rumors.”
“I don’t.” He took the book and turned to Malcolm. “Find some men to take her back to her family. Help them gather what they can, and then take them somewhere that Olwyn can’t find them—east, perhaps. Tell the men they can return to Torlach when they have settled her family.” Malcolm bowed and left the tent. Braedan turned back to the woman. “Thank you, lady. You have done a great service to a good man today.”
Braedan found a guard to escort him to the small town prison. He found Esma sitting in a pile of fresh rushes on the floor of a tiny stone cell. She stood when the Taurin guard unlocked the door. “What have you chosen?” she asked.
“I’ve seen your traitha. We’ve reached an agreement.”
She nodded. “Then what do you want with me?”
He hesitated. “I want to know what Olwyn did here six years ago. I want to know what she is.”
Esma bit her lip. “I don’t know it all. I was not here six years ago. But I can tell you that there are two kinds of power—supernatural and natural. Within natural magic are all of those things created by the One—by Alshada. The Brae Sidh practice elemental magic and some spirit magic. Long ago, the tribes practiced totem magic, and now we practice earth magic, which means we give the earth our sacrifices and she gives us life. And some practice blood magic. Olwyn is one of those.”
“What does that mean?”
“Blood is powerful, but it is neither good nor bad. It gives life, and when spilled in sacrifice, it can create powerful wards and connections. But Olwyn is one of those who knows how to use blood to weaken wards, destroy bonds, bind victims to herself, create glamours, even conjure Namha from his prison.” She shuddered and rubbed the brand on her palm. “She must die. She poisons the earth.”
Braedan found his hand on the hilt of the sacred dagger, and he shifted his posture. “Where were you six years ago?”
She blinked and looked away. “I have not always been a guardian. I have only just returned to the tribe.”
He nodded. “You are Taurin.”
She didn’t move. “I am many things, sire. For now, I am Esma.”
He waited, but she didn’t say anything more. “I will do what I can to defeat Olwyn.”
She gestured to the blade in his belt. “Keep that close. There is power in the sacred blades.”
He nodded. “I’ll return you to your tribe after the battle.” He returned to the Taurin encampment and fell into a restless, anxious sleep.
When the men around him stirred in the morning, Braedan stood and started to dress for battle. Groans and complaints about the hour rippled through the tent, but the men all stood, shook off sleep, and dressed for battle. One of the cooks brought food, and the men ate and drank.
They all emerged from the tent to an unnatural darkness. Malcolm shivered. “There’s magic here.”
Braedan’s skin tingled. “Look—fog.”
Malcolm frowned. “That’s not fog—that’s oremist.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Fog is natural. This is magic. The Brae Sidh are creating it. It’s water bound with the elements of the earth.”
For the first time, Braedan believed the Sidh were real. The fingers of oremist drifted low along the ground, weaving around their feet. Braedan hoped he had not misplaced his trust in Edgar. His hand drifted to the dagger. The bone hilt reassured him. “Let’s go.”
Braedan walked through the lines of his own forces. They were putting on greaves and bracers, belting themselves with blades, and stringing bows. His captains called orders and formed up lines.
Braedan and his guards approached Mac Rian. “Majesty. Have you decided to join us?” Mac Rian asked.
“We are only here to defend the town,” Braedan said. “If the tribesmen come across the road, we’ll engage them, but the fight in the trees is yours.”
Mac Rian’s mouth tightened. He stepped closer to Braedan. “You are my liege. You owe—”
“I owe you nothing,” Braedan said.
“I supported your bid for the throne. I supported your father. You would abandon your duties now?”
“You stole this seat. I never agreed with my father when he gave you these holdings. You violated Taura’s most ancient treaty.” He paused. “The throne will not be yours. Olwyn will not be my queen. There is nothing to gain from this. Leave it now, and I’ll help you restore the Mac Rian estates.”
Mac Rian gripped his sword and took a step toward Braedan, but Malcolm stepped between the two men. He put his hand on Mac Rian’s chest. “This is your king, my lord,” he said in a lethal tone. “Reconsider your posture.”
Mac Rian’s straightened his shoulders, his mouth twisted in an angry grimace. He tugged on his gauntlets. “The sun is rising. Let’s go.”
Mac Rian walked to the front of his line and signaled his captain. A drumroll started. Mac Rian’s men advanced into the forest with swords held high, shouting the house motto: For glory and victory! The oremist swallowed Mac Rian’s men as it rose in a thick curtain high into the trees, obscuring everything in the forest.
The world held its breath in a long pause broken only by the drumroll. A shout, a thud, steel on steel, and the battle was begun, the sounds magnified by the mists.
Far to the north of the line, something caught Braedan’s eye. Several figures pulled a struggling person into the fog. Lagging behind was a tall, lithe figure wearing a dark cloak and gliding with unmistakable grace. Olwyn. I said I wouldn’t enter the forest, but if she’s taking someone in there for one of her spells, I can’t sit by and let it happen. He nudged Malcolm. “Let’s go.”
“You would break your word to Edgar?”
“To destroy Olwyn? Yes.”
Braedan led Malcolm, Ewan, and two other black-clad guards into the forest behind Olwyn. As they drew nearer, they could hear the muffled cries of a woman and hushed orders as the figures disappeared into the mists. A faint, unnatural light illuminated the group’s path. The mists clung to the dark underbrush like a silken veil. Braedan pushed leaves and branches aside as he crept forward. He brushed the mist out of his eyes. It’s like spidersilk, he thought, flinging it aside and brushing his hands on his breeches.
The group had stopped, and the voices grew louder as Braedan and his guards approached with silent steps. “—can’t see a thing—this mist—can’t you do something?” a man’s voice complained.
“This is Brae Sidh magic.” Olwyn’s voice held a tone of disgust. “I have no skill against elemental talents.” A woman grunted in pain. “Bind her tighter,” Olwyn said.
Braedan inched closer, the mists parting a fraction at a time as he moved. He
pushed aside the branches of a scrubby bush and suppressed a gasp of horror.
The light Olwyn conjured illuminated the small clearing with a sick yellow hue. Olwyn had Esma stripped naked and tied to a tree, her hands bound behind her.
Olwyn nodded to the four men who had tied Esma, and they moved away. She removed her cloak and stepped closer to Esma, toying with a curved blade in her hand. Esma’s eyes were wide with undisguised terror. Olwyn glanced over Esma’s body and fixed her eyes on the guardian’s foot. “An animstone. For what, I wonder?” She knelt and sliced the stone from Esma’s ankle. She held up the stone in the light. “Are you Sidh?”
Esma blinked furiously, and tears rolled down her cheeks as her breathing became more panicked.
Olwyn touched Esma’s throat, and Esma started to choke and gasp under the gag. Olwyn took her hand away. “You are Sidh, but just barely.” She tapped her lips with the curved blade. “If we cannot reveal the Sidh village with your earth magic, then perhaps we will find a way to reveal the village through your blood. I’m sure you’ll tell us where to go once you and I have become better acquainted.” She stepped closer, the blade shimmering in the unnatural light, and held up the blade near a tattoo on Esma’s chest. A thin, red line trickled down Esma’s breast. “Your tattoos are repulsive. I think I’ll remove them one at a time until you reveal the Sidh village.”
Braedan’s throat constricted. How did she get Esma? And then, as his heart started to race, I’ve never done more than brawl in a tavern or spar in the armory. How will I take on a sorceress? He gripped the hilt of his sword and prodded Malcolm with an elbow. “Ideas?” he whispered.
“Just leap out and take them,” Malcolm murmured.
Braedan swallowed fear and nodded. He drew the tribal blade from his belt, nodded once to his men, and charged.
Olwyn whirled around. A sneer curled her mouth. She clutched Esma’s neck again, and the guardian choked and wheezed. Olwyn put her knife above Esma’s heart. “Do you want her to die?”
Braedan stopped, blades drawn, stomach churning, heart racing. “Let her go. Take me. I’ll help you find the Sidh, I swear, but this woman—”
Olwyn laughed, a low, silken sound that tickled Braedan’s ears, even through the fear. “If you could have found the Sidh, love, you’d have given them to the one who bound you.” She pressed the blade, and Esma whimpered. She struggled for breath under Olwyn’s hand, her chest heaving, blood trickling down to her belly. “This one will lead me to them. Lower your weapons, and I’ll spare her. Attack me, and I will kill you both and find another.” She gestured toward the distant sounds of battle. “Once the tribe is subdued, the earth guardians will be easy to find.”
Braedan’s hands shook. “Your father won’t win this.”
She gave him a languid smile. “He will, sire.” The title dripped with venom. “Did you think I would let him go into battle with only the soldiers from his estates?”
A chill passed through Braedan. Assassins—like before, when she attacked Kiern. We have to help the tribes. But first, this one. He set his jaw. “No,” he said, and he swung the sword toward Olwyn.
She let go of Esma and reached up to snatch his sword arm in one hand. It felt like punching a stone wall. Braedan gasped and stumbled at the sudden stop. She stepped closer to him, her black eyes hungry. “Just one last kiss,” she whispered.
If she touches my skin, he thought. He flinched back from her mouth, but her opposite hand took his head in hers. His breath left his body in a rush, and once again, his transgressions swirled around his vision. Gods—the pain—
Her lips were next to his ear. “You should read up on your country’s history, love. Some myths are real.”
No breath! He couldn’t cry out. His sword toppled from his hand, and his knees turned to water. I’m sorry, Igraine. I wanted to return to you.
His left hand twitched. The tribal blade. A rush of warmth passed through the hilt, into his palm, up his arm. I can move. Some reason returned, and before Olwyn’s lips could touch his neck, he drove the blade into her side. As flesh and muscle gave way, she drew back, her mouth gaping. He withdrew the blade. She clutched her side and stumbled backward, fell to her knees, and toppled over, still. A black cloud and a terrible keening howl rose from her body and disappeared into the mists above the forest.
Malcolm stepped toward Braedan, his sword dripping blood. Ewan lay on the forest floor. “One of them got him from behind,” Malcolm said. He had a large welt on his forehead, and blood soaked one sleeve.
The murky stone on the hilt of the sacred blade glowed in Braedan’s hand. He looked down at Olwyn’s body. “What was she?”
“Alshada save us,” he muttered, kneeling to draw a spiral in the dirt. “I don’t know.”
Braedan freed Esma and removed the gag from her mouth. He picked up Olwyn’s cloak and covered her. “I’m sorry. You must believe, I did not order this. I did not—”
“I believe you.”
He pulled the cloak tight around her and tied it closed. “We need to help the tribe. She’s sent her own forces against Edgar, and he thinks there are only five hundred men to fight.”
Esma nodded. “Go. Bring your men. I’ll find Edgar.”
“But you’re wounded.”
She gave him a strangely resigned smile. “I’ll be well. I’m tribal.” She waved him away. “Go!”
Braedan and his three remaining guards ran back the way they came, slashing through the thick brush with swords. The sounds of battle raged in the forest, screams and grunts mingling with the clash of steel on armor. When they reached the trees, Braedan snatched the reins of a riderless horse. He spurred the horse into a gallop and thundered along the length of the Taurin line, sword raised high over his head. “To arms!” he shouted. “To arms, all who call Taura home! Into the trees! Fight anyone who isn’t tribal. Defend the tribes! Your king orders you to defend the tribes!”
Momentary confusion turned to obedience in a heartbeat, and Braedan led his men into the trees with his sword and dagger aloft as Malcolm shouted more orders to divide the men and fan out in the forest. The mists obscured Braedan’s vision, but he saw enough to know he leapt over limbs and muddied his boots in blood and waste.
At last, the Taurin men burst through the trees into a tangle of men, swords, arrows, axes, clubs. Braedan roared and started slashing at anyone not dressed in Taurin livery or animal skins and furs. “For the tribes!” he shouted. “For Taura!”
The driving need for victory spurred him forward, and fear disappeared as battle lust rushed in. He hacked and slashed, stabbed and ducked. A hooded man in black jumped in front of him. Braedan leaned back just in time to hear the whoosh of a blade cut the air where his neck had been. The sacred blade warmed his hand, encouraging him, and he blocked the man’s hand with one arm and stabbed with the other. The man howled and fell, and Braedan cut off his cries with a sword through the throat.
A body bumped him from behind, and he spun, ready to fight. “Edgar!”
The chieftain growled and gripped Braedan’s undertunic at his throat. “Betrayer!” he shouted. “Liar! You swore—”
“We’ve come to help, I swear,” Braedan shouted over the din. An arrow flew at Edgar’s head, and Braedan pressed him down. The arrow landed in soft earth just beyond them. Braedan pointed. “I swear it! We’re here to help you.”
Edgar hesitated only a moment. He let go of Braedan. “Prove yourself, whelp.”
Braedan nodded once, and then battle filled his senses again. Swing, thrust, parry, stab—he fought back-to-back with Edgar, slashing and stabbing. His feet sank into the waste and blood on the forest floor. He tried to gain purchase, but another assassin leapt from a tree and kicked him across the face. An explosion of lights blurred his vision. A blade shimmered, and he lifted his arm in instinct. The steel sliced into his skin. “Damn it!” He lowered his arm, and the steel shimmered again—
The man fell in a crumpled heap on top of Braedan, and Braedan grunte
d. He pushed the man off and took an offered arm. “My thanks.”
Edgar grinned. “Now we’re even,” he said, turning to the next Mac Rian man.
The earth rumbled, and Braedan steadied himself with a hand on a tree. What is this? A dozen or more of Mac Rian’s men held a small patch of earth ahead of him, and they lowered swords and daggers as the ground beneath them churned and swelled into a hill. Trees tilted and toppled and bushes tumbled. Panicked shouts echoed through the forest, and the men fell cursing and praying and begging as they ran from the rising hill.
Braedan looked at Edgar, expecting awe or panic, but the traitha only grinned. He gestured to the hill. “The Sidh,” he said. “Do you still refuse to believe?”
By the gods. “No.”
Edgar laughed. He climbed up the hill, hacking through the panicked soldiers to get to the top. “Wolves! This way!” He disappeared over the other side of the hill.
Braedan shook his head. He’s leading them deeper into the forest. I thought he wanted them out. He followed Edgar.
But Edgar had stopped on the other side of the hill. He stood pointing at Sean Mac Rian. “That one is mine,” he said.
His voice sent a shudder through Braedan. “Edgar—”
“Second thoughts, whelp? Turn away if you can’t watch.” He took several steps down the hill. “Mac Rian! Today, I avenge a good man with your blood!”
Braedan followed, slicing and stabbing and defending the traitha as he raced through the men to Sean Mac Rian’s side.
Mac Rian gasped. “I know you. I’ve seen you—I’ve seen you watch my estate from the road.” He parried Edgar’s blow.
Edgar snarled. He drew his blade back, spun, swung again. Mac Rian’s blade deflected his, but Edgar pushed forward, his short tribal sword brushing Mac Rian’s shoulder. Mac Rian screamed. Edgar kicked him, and Mac Rian collapsed, clutching his belly and gasping for air.
Edgar stabbed again and again—an arm, a leg, a brush past the ribs—until Mac Rian bled from a dozen little cuts. A cat toying with a mouse. “Edgar, finish it!”
Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles) Page 44