There had been a time when he would have charged boldly after the whole lot of them, with a few trusted men at his back and boundless courage in his heart, to take back all that rightfully belonged to Dun Bochna. And though he found that his courage had not left him, he knew it was required of him now to do anything but face his enemy directly.
Muriel had told him that he could best help his people now by being their servant—not their king. And now he saw that she had been right.
He stood up, as did Darragh and Killian, and then moved toward the King’s Hall. Reaching its doorway, he and his men peered in with lowered heads like frightened servants, their swords carefully hidden beneath their ragged cloaks.
“You, there!” someone called.
A man wearing thick leather armor with a wide plaid cloak pinned over it stood inside, and he beckoned to them. Brendan tried to keep the anger from his eyes as he recognized Aed, and knew him for one of Odhran’s men.
“Help us with this. Move, now!” the warrior shouted. “Your home is burning. Or haven’t you noticed?” He laughed then, and spit on the floor, before turning to rejoin several other of Odhran’s men at the far wall. Brendan saw him step over the body of King Colum as he went.
Brendan’s eyes scanned the hall. There, at the very back, watching as his horde of men took all they could grab of Dun Bochna’s wealth and crammed it into leather bags and wooden boxes, was a tall, thin, aging man with gray hair and sharp eyes and a grim, humorless face.
Odhran.
The invaders were alone in the King’s Hall, Brendan realized. There was no one left to defend it. With their king dead and their fortress in flames, the people of Dun Bochna had retained no thought for gold plates or fidchell boards. Even the warriors were trying to save their families, their houses, their food supplies. There was no one left to confront Odhran except Brendan and his men.
He and Darragh and Killian stepped inside just as the plundering mob of Odhran’s warriors crowded past with their sacks of stolen treasure. They were fleeing the hall like field mice escaping a burning home. “Get over here!” shouted Aed, waving his arm at Brendan again. “Burn if you want, but not before you finish carrying out our property!”
Aed stayed close to Odhran’s side, and Brendan knew nothing would move him from that place for Aed was the king’s champion, Odhran’s guardian and personal defender, the one who would fight to the death for him. He was the one Brendan would have to overcome if he hoped to get face-to-face with Odhran and defeat him once and for all.
“Hurry!” shouted Aed, and Brendan realized that he was looking up at the opening directly above the firepit. “The roof is catching!” And Brendan, too, saw the smoldering straw and ominous glowing spots at the edges of the enormous thatched roof.
“You two hold Odhran,” Brendan murmured to his companions. “Leave the champion to me.” Darragh gave him a small nod and the three of them crept across the rushes, stepping carefully around the motionless body of King Colum. Darragh and Killian went with lowered heads toward Odhran. Brendan walked silently toward Aed.
He took no pride in what he was about to do. He had never drawn a weapon on any man except in fair combat, had never struck anyone down without the battle being a lawful one. But Aed, and his king, had done nothing according to any rule of fair play or honorable combat. For the second time, they had attacked a fortress unannounced and burned it in the night—and destroyed its king. And they would keep right on doing those terrible things until someone did what was necessary to stop them.
Two kings had been unable to stop Odhran—but those kings had been expecting lawful combat.
Now Odhran and his men did not yet realize that they were no longer facing a king. They were facing a man they had dismissed as the lowest of slaves, a man who was willing to face them as a servant.
Two king’s tactics had not withstood Odhran’s deceptions. Perhaps a slave’s tactics would succeed where royal ones had failed.
He tarried, shuffling through the rushes even as bits of burning straw began to drop near his feet. He waited until he saw Darragh and Killian lift up two of Odhran’s sacks, until he saw Darragh glance over at him…
“Now!” Brendan threw back his cloak, swung his sword high, and ran straight for Aed, just as Darragh and Killian threw their heavy sacks at Odhran and knocked him hard to the floor.
“What is this?” For an instant Aed froze, stunned by the sight of his king felled by two he had taken for ordinary servants—and that slight hesitation was all Brendan needed.
“It is justice!” he shouted, and with a single stroke half severed the head of the king’s champion from his body.
With a look of shock in his glittering eyes, the man slowly toppled to the floor, one hand clawing at his gaping neck and the other grasping for his sword still in its scabbard. “Justice for murderers and thieves,” Brendan whispered. “If you had not poisoned Colum and burned the dun, you would have earned a fair fight. But there has been nothing fair about you or your king.”
He turned his attention to Odhran. The man lay flat on his back, gasping, trapped beneath a heavy wineskin and a sack filled with grain—with Darragh and Killian each standing on the sacks, swords in hand and pointed at Odhran’s throat.
“Let him up,” Brendan called, aiming his own sword at his captured enemy. “Take the supplies. Get outside; help save what you can. Most of all, save yourselves! And get back to Muriel as soon as you can. Go. Go!”
The two warriors grabbed up the sacks, pausing only long enough to grip Brendan’s arm for an instant. Together they raced for the door.
“Now, Odhran,” Brendan said. “Get to your feet.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
With a sudden move Odhran rolled and jumped up, then stood with his back against the wall. Glaring, he drew his sword. “I thought you were dead, Brendan. But no matter. Now I will have the pleasure of killing you myself.”
“I think not,” Brendan said.
Odhran smirked. “Your new attire suits you well,” he said, his cold eyes flicking over the rough and ragged brown wool that Brendan wore. “I always knew you were no king. You are a thief, a criminal, a lowborn slave…one who is not fit to rule over dogs.”
“Then we are truly alike, for I have always heard the very same words about you.”
Smoldering bits of debris continued to rain down on them from the roof. From the corner of his eye, Brendan caught sight of actual flames bursting to life and eating into the tightly bundled straw there, filling the dimly lit hall with a garish light.
Odhran glanced up. “As Aed tried to tell you, your home is burning. Will you do nothing to save it?”
When Brendan did not answer, but only took a step closer and leveled his sword, Odhran laughed. “I suppose you do not care if the King’s Hall burns. You would have no reason to be in it except to carry out the filth.” He shrugged. “Stay here if you like. Burn along with it. I will rebuild the place and make it fine enough for its new owner. King Odhran!”
With that, he crouched low and made a fast dash for the open rear door. Brendan stopped him, slamming him viciously up against the wall.
“If you want this hall, you will have to fight me for it,” he said in a snarl. Pressing his sword up against Odhran’s throat, he added, “I would rather have it burn down around me than see it belong to you.”
“Burn with it, then!” The evil king shoved him back and ran for the door again. With a determined leap, Brendan grabbed him and knocked him back to the floor—just as half of the burning roof crashed down in a huge shower of flame.
Twisting free, Odhran crawled for the open door, trying to shield his face from the heavy smoke and blowing sparks. Brendan caught hold of him and threw him outside, thinking to pin the king on the ground and disarm him and force a surrender—but his own stinging eyes and smoke-filled lungs forced him to pause for breath.
Again Odhran broke away. Brendan lunged for him, but his opponent had gained his feet. The invader ran awa
y into the darkness, toward the cliff’s edge. Brendan struggled to give chase.
For a moment, Brendan feared that the evil, old king had escaped him. Odhran had not been living on the edge of starvation for two fortnights, had not just struggled to survive a desperate sea voyage, had not gotten the full force of the smoke when the roof of the hall collapsed.
But neither was he a man fighting for that which he truly loved—his people, and his home, and his wife.
Not even the greatest king with the strongest army could be more determined than he was, for he had broken through the mists of doubt and saw clearly what he was battling so hard to save: not his kingship, but his people. Brendan tightened his grip on his sword and ran harder than he ever had in his life.
Suddenly he was out of the smoke and away from the burning buildings. Leaping over a row of rocks, he came to a stop as he realized where he was—the wide empty space at the edge of the cliff. The last gap between Dun Bochna’s buildings and the sea. Pacing back and forth not far from the edge, sword in hand, alone without champion or guard for perhaps the first time in his life, was Odhran.
Brendan turned and glanced back over his shoulder. Torrents of fire leaped and billowed out from the houses and the hall there, and from the outbuildings along the inner stone wall, leaving a barrier of flame and heat and suffocating smoke between him and the front gates. There was no way out.
And there would be no escape by climbing these surrounding walls of the dun. What had once worked with the cliff to keep invaders out now effectively trapped Brendan inside. And the thick smoke that had spread out in the still, heavy air now lay in a thick barrier over the double walls, settling down into the space between the two. Anyone who tried to vault over them would be suffocated before he could climb back out again.
The orange-lit smoke, born of the wildly feeding fires, continued to swell out and over the precipice above the sea. It flowed past Brendan and filled the air much like the white mist had done out on the Island of the Rocks.
But this was far different. Brendan was forced to drop to the ground and try to breathe as the smoke enveloped him. The space of clear air between him and the edge of the cliff, between him and Odhran, grew smaller and smaller. This was no mist. This would be deadly, both to him and to his enemy.
The only escape was the sheer drop behind them.
It was not working. She would have to do something else…something else that might bring the rain.
Muriel let her thoughts go back to the cliff far above, where Brendan risked his life to save a kingdom that was no longer his. If he had the power to save the dun and its people, he had it only because he had offered up everything he had.
His own life.
It was the hallmark of a king, this willingness to sacrifice himself if it meant he could save his people. Brendan had clearly shown it when he had climbed that path and gone to the burning fortress, there to confront the invading Odhran and his well-armed, well-fed men.
Brendan was willing to act as a king even though the title had been stripped from him. And if she believed that he was a king after all—by his deeds, if not his birth—then she could do no less. She would be his queen.
She knew what she must do. Brendan had walked into the fire; she would have to walk into the sea.
Long ago, her nameless ancestor had also walked into the water. Now it was her turn. But Muriel knew in her heart that if a sacrifice was necessary, it would not be in vain. It would be like Grania’s. She had come here to help her loved and trusted husband, as well as the people she had so briefly served as queen. She would help save their home if she could…and if the sea required her life in return, it suddenly seemed a small thing to ask.
Muriel fixed her gaze on the horizon and raised her arms once more. This time she walked farther into the water, until the gentle waves washed up over her knees.
Mist and cloud, water and storm.
Far out to sea, lit by the brilliant white moon, clouds began to gather. She waded farther out, waist-deep now, hands trailing in the water.
Mist and cloud…
The wind struck them first.
It brought a draft of fresh sea air and pushed back a little of the intolerable heat and smoke. Brendan gasped and raised his head from the ground, his eyes stinging, and breathed deep of the cool, wet wind.
He realized that it smelled like rain.
He sat up and looked out to sea. No longer could he see the moon, for it was hidden behind a black wall of cloud. As he watched, the stars above his head vanished one after another as a huge thunderhead moved slowly toward the land.
“She has done it,” he whispered, getting to his feet. “She has done it!”
The wind sent her hair whipping into her eyes and drove the waves so hard that their spray burned her face. Still Muriel walked forward, shaking her head to throw back her hair, walked until the sea rose up to her shoulders.
Water and storm…
A rippling flash of lightning danced purple-white in the sky. It raced through the heavy, rolling clouds that now obscured the moon. Again and again the jagged streaks flashed and tore at the heavens. Thunder rumbled and the wind howled. And as the storm-lashed waves lifted Muriel off her feet and dragged her down beneath them, the last thing she was conscious of was the water all around her. It had begun to rain.
Brendan stood tall in the downpour, sword raised, watching as the clouds released their contents. A hissing, spitting sound arose. Even as he watched, the fires in the dun seemed to diminish, though they were angry and flaring and continued to rage, determined to consume as much of the fortress as they could before they would be destroyed.
Then a motion behind him caught his attention. Lightning flashed. Odhran waited at the edge of the cliff, his sword still in hand. “Come to me, Brendan!” the king shouted against the thunder. “I will send you to the fish far below. One last step over this cliff, and you will be gone from us forever!”
Brendan shook his head. His enemy had a mad glint in his eye. “Come away from there. If you want a battle, then bring it to me! You know that I am not fool enough to fight at the edge of a cliff.”
Odhran laughed. “I am not surprised to see that you are frightened. I do not fear the height any more than I fear your sword! I know exactly how far I can go. You are nothing but a slave, and this proves it! I am a king! I am afraid of nothing!”
“A dog is more a king than you. You are a fool,” Brendan called. “And a coward. You think to wait there until the rain kills the fires and your men can come and rescue you.”
Odhran paced back and forth, just a few steps from the drop. “If you want me, slave, you will have to come here and get me. Here where only a king dares to walk, where a slave fears to step! Here—”
His boot slipped on the wet rocks. He caught his balance and then took another step, safe and secure once more. But Brendan saw the muddy edge behind him begin to crumble even as the king stepped away from it.
A few pebbles rolled past his feet and disappeared over the side.
In the drenching rain and pounding thunder, Odhran did not notice. He was far more concerned with glaring at Brendan from the strange safety of the cliff’s edge, knowing there would be no attack so long as he stayed in such a dangerous spot. His wet boots slipped again and the king almost fell to the ground, but he managed to keep his balance by bracing one foot against a rock. “There, you see! I am safe, even here—for I am a king. I can walk in places where no slave could ever step!”
Dark lines appeared in the rain-soaked earth beneath Odhran’s feet. Instinctively Brendan moved toward him. “Come away from there! Come away—”
But Odhran flinched at Brendan’s sudden move. He took only a single step back, but it was enough. The fragile, storm-damaged edge of the cliff crumbled beneath him. He scrambled for purchase, but the rain-slicked rocks gave him nothing. He dropped out of sight, screaming in terror and rage all the way down to the rocks far below.
“You were right, Odhran,
” Brendan said from where he stood. “There was no need for you to fear my sword. But you should have feared Muriel’s rain.”
Brendan turned from the crumbling cliff, facing away from the howling wind. Wiping the water from his eyes, he stood for a moment and watched as the rain drove down on the burning buildings of the dun. It was not long before he saw the flames begin to die out.
Seeing that, he began to make his way across the grounds, heading toward the gates. The flames still leaped and snapped, but then grew smaller and lower, and at last they subsided almost completely.
He found the King’s Hall largely intact. Half the roof had fallen in, but it now lay steaming and smoldering in the wet, charred rushes on the floor. There were no more glowing spots of fire to be seen anywhere in the dun.
The damage had been halted. The fortress was now swathed in darkness as the fires were doused and the storm clouds blocked the moon.
Moving as quickly as he could, avoiding smoldering chunks of debris and trying not to slip on the muddy ground, Brendan used the flashes of lightning to look at what remained of Dun Bochna.
The houses nearest the rear of the fort, nearest the hall, had mostly just lost their thatched roofs, but the closer he got to the front, the worse the damage became. Some houses were burned halfway to the ground, and others were little more than heaps of blackened, smoldering clay. Half-burned wickerwork stuck out of fallen walls like bones.
Most chilling of all, Brendan saw no people anywhere—not dead, not injured, not alive. There was no sign of anyone. He was at once both greatly relieved and filled with dread. Either they had all gotten out, or they had been trapped inside the burning, collapsing buildings…or between the two outer walls of the dun, to die in the suffocating heat and smoke.
The ground shook with thunder as he continued to walk.
Another flash of lightning showed him the charred remains of the once-massive front gates, now nothing but smoldering timber hanging at strange angles from iron hinges. He walked out between the ruined gates, splashing through the rivulets of water pouring down from the walls overhead.
Spirit of the Mist Page 26