by Jo Walton
Finca’s lips pressed into a hard line. Conary’s eyes bulged. “Conal?” he asked, incredulously.
“We went there for the feast,” Meithin said.
“He was here at sunset,” Finca objected.
“We went out there after sunset,” Meithin said, putting a hand to her head. “But this is all wasting time. He’s there right now, fighting Atha for all I know. We need to arm and hurry to help him.”
“Did you bring the chariot back and leave him there?” Finca asked. She looked so angry that Elenn took an involuntary step backward and trod on someone’s foot.
“There wasn’t any point in me staying, without a champion to fight or someone else to drive so I could fight,” Meithin said.
This made sense to Elenn, but apparently not to Finca, who rushed at Meithin, her voice rising to a screech. “Was Conal not champion enough for you that you left him there on his feet?”
“We had two chariots!” Meithin said, sidestepping just in time. Ap Carbad caught Finca before she ran into someone and straightened her as if she was a child just learning to walk.
“So Emer ap Allel drives him? Babes to the slaughter,” Finca said.
Elenn suddenly felt worried herself. She had thought Conal and Emer were pretty good. But Finca had taught them to fight from a chariot, she ought to know. She bit her lip. There was nothing she could do now. She’d worry about how to tell Maga that Emer had managed to get herself killed if it happened.
King Conary shook himself. “To arms!” he said. “To arms, my champions! Let us ride out and defend Edar and come to the aid of my valiant nephew. Finca, have the chariots harnessed. Ap Carbad, open the Speckled Hall. Time is short. We ride as soon as we are armed.”
Everyone began to bustle about. Ferdia and Darag embraced, then rushed off towards the Speckled Hall together, looking much less as if they were suffering the aftereffects of drinking strong ale. Meithin went off after them. Nid almost knocked Elenn over as she ran past, dressing as she went. She did not even look back to see if Elenn was all right.
Orlam stayed where she was, with Elenn, an island of stillness in the midst of the bustle. She looked torn. “I was a champion before I went away,” she said to Elenn. “Now I am bound to watch with the old and the weak and the children and be defended while others put themselves in harm’s way. My little brother and my mother and father are all going, and I am staying.”
“Have you sworn an oath not to fight?” Elenn asked.
“No, one not to be killed needlessly,” Orlam said, putting her hand to her hair, cut in a lawspeaker’s crop. “And one not to fight when there are other good choices. If it were a case of defending the hall and everyone needed, I should take up my arms again, it not being so long since I laid them down that I would have forgotten the use of them. But for a raid on a summer morning? A hundred and four of Atha’s people against all the champions of Oriel and the spearmen of Edar? They don’t need me, and there is no honor to me to fight those who would find themselves cursed for killing me.”
“Amagien fights,” Elenn said.
“That rests on his soul,” Orlam said. “But if someone’s parents were to ask me to judge recompense when a poet had killed their child who was piously avoiding hurting them in such a battle, the laws would not find the poet guiltless. I do not wish to go to this fight.” All the same, her eyes followed Meithin until she was right out of the hall. Then she sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just as bad for you, because your sister is in the battle. But next year you will be able to go out and fight, and I never will again.”
“I don’t know why I’m not more worried about my sister than I am,” Elenn said. “I wasn’t worried at all until I saw how worried Finca was.”
“Finca fusses over Conal, though never where it would do him any good,” Orlam said. “He was shaping up well when I last saw him, better than Leary. Unless he’s stopped practicing since then, I doubt he’d get your sister killed. Not and survive himself, in any case, which may not be much comfort if he’s fighting one to one against Atha ap Gren, but it’s something.”
“We should go and cheer them off,” Elenn said, hoping it might brighten Orlam’s thoughts.
Orlam hissed like a cat. Elenn looked at her in surprise. Orlam laughed. “It isn’t so much even that I want to fight,” she said. “It’s how much I hate not being able to do anything.”
“Oh!” Elenn said. “I understand that. I hate that too. Sometimes, even if I don’t want to go, I still hate being left behind.”
“Cheering them off seems like the very essence of being left behind,” Orlam said. “But I do see how it is our duty to do it.”
They walked together down the hill, avoiding running champions and charioteers as best they could. Outside the stables, Conary was trying to organize the people, the horses, and the chariots. There was a tremendous din as everyone shouted at once. Darag came up to Elenn and kissed her hand for luck before getting into his chariot. “Go with glory,” Elenn said, as she had heard her mother say.
“Remember your healing charms,” Orlam advised him.
He shook his head at her and laughed. “You’ve come back very wise, cousin, but I think it is my fighting I shall need to remember.”
“Sometimes it’s the charms, if you want to fight another day,” Orlam said and embraced him.
Then Amagien came up and kissed Elenn’s hand, and after him Leary and his parents, and a host of other champions. Ferdia was almost the last of them. She wished she could embrace him at parting, to show her friendship, but he made no move towards it.
There was some squabbling as Conary insisted that some of the older champions stay behind as gate guards. He had to raise his voice, which would have surprised Elenn when she first came but seemed almost normal now. Then everyone mounted up. When Conary gave the signal, they all surged forward and followed him up the road around Ardmachan. Only one chariot tangled the traces and had to stop; the rest swept off as creditably as the champions of Connat could have managed.
Elenn held up her hand until they were out of sight. Then she walked back up the hill to the dun, deep in conversation with her new friend.
11
(EMER)
After she stopped being afraid and before her sword broke, it was even better than Emer had imagined it would be.
It wasn’t at all like the songs. The songs never said how noisy battle was. They sometimes mentioned the clash of arms, but the clash of arms was the least part of it, after the howling of battle cries, the dissonant music of the war trumpets, and the bellowing of the cattle. Even Conal yelled out the battle cry at the top of his voice. It was deafening, like a very loud game of hurley played for some mad reason in a byre. It tested her skill to the limit, but with Conal beside her, she found herself enjoying it all enormously.
To begin with, she had been nervous. It was clear that their reputations as champions would stand or fall on what they did today. She harnessed the chariot ponies with the same hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach with which she always anticipated a quarrel with her mother. She wiped her palms nervously on her shirt before fastening her gloves. Then Conal came to wait with her, looking calm and beautiful, like a young god in the morning of the world. She ran through all the advice she had ever been given about chariot fighting. She knew that in a fight like this, where nobody else was mounted, the most important thing was to keep moving; if they were brought to a standstill, they could be pulled down. Yet she had no other horses so she could not risk exhausting the pair she had. She worried that the horses would not fight properly, would not obey her. She had heard of chariot teams running away from battles when the charioteer wasn’t firm with them. She thought of the things Finca always said at practice. Mistakes now would not mean embarrassment and bruises, but wounding and death.
Then ap Anla painted the battle-crow across Conal’s face, changing him at a stroke into a wild and fierce stranger. Hardly knowing why, Emer refused the transformation. So it was as herself that she
took up the traces and drove out of the gates and down the steep slope. She felt very young and inexperienced. When the horses pulled hard and tried to turn away from the raiders, she remembered that they at least had seen battle before. It was much harder than practice getting them back under control, but after a moment, they responded to her hand on the traces. She brought the chariot up beside Meithin’s. The steward who had questioned Conal’s right to lead earlier was riding in it, clutching the rails and keeping his balance uneasily. Meithin grinned at her and rolled her eyes. Emer found herself laughing, all the fear burnt off like mist in the sun now that there was something to do.
They caught the raiders entirely unaware, scattered among the herds, trying to bring them toward the ships. Meithin wheeled and set down the steward, then brought her mares around and set their heads for Ardmachan. Emer turned her horses only to give Conal clear room to strike to the right. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the farmers of Edar charging down the hill. They were painted to make a fearsome sight, and they held their shields above their heads. Those who had them waved their spears, the rest waved axes or mattocks or billhooks. All of them screamed out battle cries as they ran.
Conal took down three of the invaders with his throwing spears while they were still standing openmouthed. Anyone would have imagined he had been doing it for years. Emer gave a shout of encouragement and brought the horses around again, closer this time, forcing Crabfoot to turn in just the way he hated most. The invaders were starting to get organized, and some of them were forming a line, but most were still among the cows. Emer looked for Atha ap Gren but couldn’t tell her from any of the rest of them. Several of them had limed hair. None of them had chariots, so they couldn’t challenge Atha to a single combat, and there would be no fighting chariot to chariot.
The fight seemed to last forever. The farmers and the raiders fought each other. Conal and Emer and the chariot moved among them like one creature, scattering the raiders where they could, avoiding places where the raiders tried to trap and slow them, trying to stop them finding time to close up. A spear from behind narrowly missed Whitenose, and another stuck in the chariot beside Emer. Conal pulled it out and returned it to its owner or one of his friends.
Emer’s arms began to ache badly as they turned again. A moment later, Conal put back his head, threw up his arms, gave a great shout, and the black bull came running down the hill, head lowered. The bellowing of the cows redoubled as the whole herd began to move, trampling enemies and the occasional badly placed friend alike. Then Conal had her drive along the edge of the stampeding herd as he leaned over, calling all the time to the bull, forcing the cattle to go where he wanted them, out along the shore, away from the ships and the raiders.
By the time they came back the raiders were scattered, some of them making for the ships with blue-painted farmers running after them. There seemed to be only one knot of organization. “Atha,” Conal said, then gave a rallying battle cry again. Emer drove her tiring horses straight toward the knot of raiders.
She went right at them. They had been leaping out of her way all morning, though she could not tell whether they had been fighting for minutes or hours. Behind them, in the distance, on the road to Ardmachan, she could see a cloud of dust that might have been Meithin going for help, or help coming back already. Then Whitenose stumbled and before she could right him Crabfoot fell, leg broken, tangling the traces. Conal drew his sword as he vaulted neatly over the wheel on his side. Slingshots, Emer thought, ducking as she hacked at the traces; she had given them time for slings and the horses at least would die for it. Whitenose was still dragging the chariot and his fallen companion forward in lurches. If she survived she swore she would practice cutting traces. The leather was tough and the knife was not sharp enough. Her fingers were clumsy in her gloves. Everyone said how important it was, and made sure charioteers had a knife for it, but nobody practiced doing it. She was half sobbing for breath as she hacked at the leather.
“Jump!” Conal shouted from somewhere off behind her. She jumped and rolled without thought. Almost as soon as she was free of it the chariot and horses went down together with a crunch and squeals. Whitenose must have been hit again.
As she started to straighten to her feet she saw a huge grinning raider right in front of her.
His spear was coming down toward her. There was no time to draw her sword. She leaped at him, inside the arc of his spear, and thrust the little knife upwards into his belly as hard as she could. He looked completely dumbfounded. Then she leaped away as fast as she could, leaving the knife buried to the hilt. The raider toppled slowly sideways. Stupid knife might be useless for its purpose, but it could kill, she thought, and giggled. She reached for her sword, and Conal was there protecting her back.
For a moment, it was even more like hurley, the two of them against everyone, except that the enemy wanted to kill them. They could only move together, and the enemy could move as much as they wanted. Then some more of their side came up, the steward and a handful of others, and it was more even. Emer wondered if they might make a song of it if she and Conal died together in their first battle.
There was a woman with limed hair, fighting with a long knife in each hand. Emer couldn’t get near her, but she managed to keep her away for a little while, because her sword had more reach. Then she parried one of the knives hard and her sword shattered. One of the fragments bit into her leg and another struck the raider on the shoulder. Emer stared at the useless hilt for a moment, then looked around for another weapon. As she did, the woman slashed at her face and cut it open.
For the first moment, she did not feel pain, only the wetness of blood, and then she felt the cut and clapped her hand to it. Her cheek was hanging by a flap of skin. If the knife had been a breath farther to the left, it would have taken her in the throat and she would be dead already. She had been wounded and could have been killed, could still be killed, she, Emer ap Allel of Connat, now, today.
She lay on the ground, not quite sure how she had got there, struggling to get up. Conal stood over her, and as he fought he gave a great battle cry again.
“Who are you to come marked for victory?” the woman with the knives asked.
“Don’t you know me, Atha?” Conal replied.
Emer pulled herself to her knees, one hand still holding her face together. She looked around for a weapon. Conary said that everything could be a weapon to someone who truly knew how to fight. Could that really be Atha? She looked just like anyone else.
“I thought I knew all the champions of Oriel,” Atha said. “But I don’t know you.”
There was a thundering sound. “Run!” Emer heard the steward shout, sounding far away. Somehow she couldn’t get any further up, however much she tried. Everyone seemed to be running, except Atha and Conal, who were still engaged.
“I am Conal ap Amagien of Edar,” Conal said. “You have hurt what I love best in the world, but give me your knife and I will spare your life.”
Atha laughed and attacked again. “You were a child when I was here. I am famous among champions. You have done very well, but it is I who am going to kill you.”
“Listen,” Conal said, blocking her. “Drop your knife, or you will die.”
“Never,” Atha said, her eyes on his.
“Look, then,” Conal said. “If you do not drop your knife, we will all die together, but I can stop them.”
Atha laughed again, spun around, weapons ready, not dropping her guard for a moment, and then, amazingly, as she spun back, instead of attacking again, she dropped one of her knives onto Emer’s lap.
“Get down,” Conal said, and he called out and raised his arms.
In one smooth movement, Atha crouched beside Emer, and then the herd was there all around them, parting around Conal’s spread hands.
There was a long, hot moment as the herd ran past. Even half-dazed, Emer was aware how large and fierce and close the cattle were and how strong their smell was. Then they were past, and C
onal was on one knee beside her, holding the knife to her cheek and singing a healing charm, weaving her name into it.
“Don’t forget the charm against weapon rot,” Atha said.
Emer could not move her head but she moved her eyes. Atha was standing watching, holding her other knife. Conal sang on, the charms against weapon rot and blood loss. When it came to the charm for strength, Emer felt well enough to join in. She ran her fingers over her cheek. There was a ridged seam of scar that felt years old already. She pulled herself to her feet, feeling as if she had just woken from a dream. Conal put his arm around her and she leaned on him gratefully. It hardly seemed strange that Conary and Finca should be there in the king’s chariot.
“So, Atha?”
“So, Conary?”
“So you are defeated by the cows you came to steal?”
“So the battle was won by the courage and leadership of Conal ap Amagien of Edar. Conal the Victor I call him now, for he painted for victory and victory on the field is his. Nobody has defeated me in personal combat.”
Finca smiled a little at her son.
“Even the youngest of my champions can win a battle against the best the Isles can send,” Conary said and glanced approvingly at Conal and Emer. “Is this an invasion from the Isles?”
“No,” Atha said quickly. “This is a cattle raid only. My mother knows nothing of it. There is no feud between your people and mine.”
“There is no feud, only a cattle raid,” Conary agreed. “It seems we have much to discuss. Will you accept my hospitality at Ardmachan?”
Atha turned her head. Emer followed her gaze. The ships of the Isles were rowing away. There were a straggle of raiders left on the shore. Between them and Atha was the herd of cows, now placidly grazing, and the assembled might of the champions of Oriel. Darag and Laig were in the front row.