His men stood in a half-circle around them, linked by sorrow, shivering with cold and hunger. At last Brian turned to face them, Nessa’s ghastly head cradled against his heart, and said in a voice like a sword blade, “I swear, before God, I will do whatever it takes to make this land a safe place for decent men!”
“Odi-i-i-n-n-n!” The scream rang from the rocks as the Northmen burst from their hiding places and fell upon them.
As the viking rage erupted around him, Brian felt something happen inside himself. A knot slipped open, a chain was burst, and a being long restrained was freed. Even before the other men had realized what was happening he knew they were ambushed, outnumbered and helpless, and it did not matter.
It did not matter at all. Nothing mattered, only action. Only the release of the insane thing raging within him. As if there were all the time in the world, he laid Nessa’s ruined head back upon the ground, very gently, the last tender gesture of his sanity, and then he rose to meet the Northmen.
They were everywhere. They had left Nessa’s body for bait and hidden themselves among the tumble of rocks which had formerly sheltered the Irish, moving in stealth until they effected a complete encirclement. For every one of Brian’s men there were three Northmen, armed and armored, emotionally prepared for battle as the Irish were not.
Save for Brian. Never in his life had he been so ready to fight.
For the second time in his memory he heard a howl break from his chest and rip upward through his throat, a hideous sound that was neither human nor animal. He leaped forward as if propelled by that wild roar and seized the nearest Northman with his bare hands, making no effort to use his knife or sword. Indeed, he was not aware of them.
The Northman, a Danish mercenary with a conical helmet and an outthrust sword, saw the wildman coming at him, blood-smeared, foam-lipped, and stepped forward to skewer the Irishman like a pig.
Brian read his eyes and slipped past the sword, not feeling its cold kiss on his arm. With his gaze still on the Dane’s face he clutched at his enemy’s features, grasping the cheek piece of the helmet and twisting it away as easily as if it were cloth, instead of bronze. The Dane had opened his mouth to answer Brian’s cry with an ululation of his own, but it died in his throat. The Dalcassian prince seized the man’s lower jaw in an incredible grip, grunted, wrenched the entire jaw sideways, and tore it free of the skull with a ghastly crunching of bone and gouting of blood.
He flung the dying Northman from him and launched himself at the next one.
An ax, clumsily swung, hit his shoulder with a glancing blow, but he did not feel it. Somehow his sword was in his hand now, and he began slashing it through the air, reaching like a hungry claw for victims.
Accustomed to savagery, themselves past masters of it, even the Northmen were not prepared for the cyclonic rage of the tall Irishman. The squad that had located Brian’s band were not berserkers, though most of them had gone into battle at various times behind a vanguard of the berserks, and watched in awe as everything gave way before the insane invincibility of the fanatics. Now for the first time they saw that same frenzy in an Irishman, and their experience made them fall back with fearful respect. Even the Dalcassians, used to fighting with Brian, were shocked by his response.
But months of hardship, during which they had been hunted like wild animals, had sharpened their reflexes to a thin edge. Their recovery was faster than the Northmen’s and they hurried to make themselves part of Brian’s attack, pressing the advantage.
Incredibly, the Northmen continued to fall back before them. A howling, maniacal Brian, making every effort to wrench the limbs from living men, seemed impervious to weapons. The Dalcassians swarmed forward in his wake, yelling incoherently and brandishing their swords and javelins in a way nearly as hysterical as his own. It should not have succeeded, but it did. Appalled by the unexpected, oppressed by the almost supernatural quality of the Irish counterattack, the Northmen retreated to the nearest tumble of boulders and then broke and ran for their lives.
Afterward—long afterward—the exhausted little band of Irish sat or sprawled about their campfire, reliving the skirmish. Brian sat apart, wrapped in his ragged bratt, hunched over and brooding. From time to time they cast nervous glances at him and then looked away again.
Liam mac Aengus, who was helping Leti bind up a wound in his arm, said in a low voice, “I’ve never seen anything like that. Was he clear out of his head, do you suppose?”
Leti tried not to flinch from his friend’s none-too-gentle touch. The blows unfelt in battle hurt mightily after. “I couldn’t say,” he replied through gritted teeth, “and I’m not about to ask him. I wouldn’t think any man could act that way deliberately, though.”
“The berserkers are like that.”
“Oh, well—berserkers. They’re like religious fanatics, you know; they work themselves up with drink and potions and crazy rituals, but I’ve heard that they’re never completely sane anyway. That’s why their sect is so dreaded, even among the other Northmen. But Prince Brian is certainly not mad; at least, not now.”
“Nevertheless, it’s right thankful I am that he’s on our side and not theirs!” Liam said with heartfelt emotion. “And I do wonder what sort of story the foreigners will be telling when they report back to whoever sent them.”
Brian stirred, raised his head, let his gaze wander slowly over the firelit faces until he found Ardan. Then he got up with great weariness and beckoned to his former instructor. “Ardan, come and sit with me awhile. This is not a good night to be alone.”
“Aye, surely my lord. Are you all right? That blood …”
“It isn’t all mine. And what is, is not important. You need not bother about it.”
The two men sat in silence for a time, each absorbed with his own thoughts. At last Ardan began, “That was a dreadful thing, today.”
“Was it?” Brian asked, his voice remote.
“What you did to that Northman …”
“What did I do?” The deep, tired voice was incurious.
“Don’t you remember?”
“Not really. No. I recall finding Nessa, and then everything became … I can’t explain it. Red and roaring. Was it bad?”
“Sweet Saint Patrick, was it bad! I think that’s one of the few times I’ve seen Northmen genuinely frightened. And they weren’t the only ones, Brian; your own men were afraid of you today.”
Brian sat silent. “The Northmen were frightened?” he asked at last, with surprise. “Of me?”
“They were that, I can tell you!”
“So they can be made fearful, like other men.” Brian’s voice trailed off into a musing. “They can feel terror. Isn’t … that … interesting!”
Sitting beside him, forgotten, Ardan shivered in the winter night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Spring came, grass greening over the low mounded graves and around the unfound bones of winter’s warriors. Hearing exciting tales of the mountain army, young men left their herds and made their way into the hills to join, bringing new weapons with them and clothing that could be shared. The streams and loughs tumbled with fish, the grass rustled with game, and every tree and bush seemed heavy with ripening fruit.
In such a season, hope is born.
Brian seemed tireless, in terms both of energy and of imagination. He found a cave of limestone honeycombing the underside of a hill near a welltraveled road, and stationed men inside it. When a sentry alerted them to passers-by they set up such a din of shouting and war cries that the alarmed witnesses fled the area to spread awed tales of the mighty force assembled in the mountains. The echoes turned Brian’s little band into hundreds and the Northmen made themselves scarce in the area.
Finding a muddy flat beyond a pass in the Slieve Aughty mountains, Brian had his men spend days trampling it, until there was clear evidence on the earth of a great army marching westward. At a “campsite,” many small fires were built and then extinguished, and around them were left the ru
ins of a month’s meals, as if all had been eaten in a night.
The Northmen made no more excursions into the Slieve Aughty mountains.
Ardan, devoted to worry, asked Brian, “How long can we fool them with this pretense? Surely the Northmen have scouts; they must realize that there are but a few of us.”
Brian grinned. At such rare moments his eyes twinkled with the delicious mischief of a small boy. “The Northmen thought we were only a handful, but now they can’t be sure. It’s not their way to send many solitary scouts; they prefer to go everywhere in a mass. If they receive reports that a small band of Irish has been spotted, they also receive reports that a sizable force exists. It doesn’t matter if we outnumber them or not—as long as they suspect we might, they will leave the countryside in peace and loose their horror on places where the odds are more in their favor.”
Brian was sitting on a fallen tree trunk at the mouth of the small cave that was his current command post. His thick hair, uncombed, tumbled in ruddy locks to his shoulders; his sinewy body was clad in the same sort of brief linen tunic most of his men wore. But when he spoke, it was as an educated man. “You see, Ardan, I’ve come to a conclusion about reality. In dealing with other people, it’s not your own perception of reality that is the determining factor, but theirs. As they perceive the situation to be, so will they act.
“If we can convince the Northmen that we outnumber them and they cannot stand against us, they will not stand against us. That’s how small armies win battles over large ones. It isn’t the muscle that must be defeated, but the mind.”
Ardan’s dark face was leaner than ever, with a few teeth missing now from the smile that had been radiant. A permanent furrow was plowed between his brows; it deepened as he considered Brian’s strategy. “We’ll be found out, eventually,” he said again.
“Undoubtedly. But by that time, perhaps we can have the scales weighted in our favor in truth. More men are joining us every day. Before I’m twenty-five, we can have this land free of foreigners from Lough Derg to the Fergus.”
In Dublin, the city of the Black Pool, Olaf Cuaran the Norse king listened to stories of the growing Dalcassian force with some concern. At night, in the bed of the lovely Irish child who was his new bride, he remarked, “I heard more today about that outlaw band in Thomond. I have a bad feeling about them, for some reason.”
Gormlaith snuggled against him. Her little breasts were scarcely more than buttons on her chest, but her eyes were already older than many a grown woman’s; a deep green, those eyes, and intensely alive. The sensuality she radiated was not childish.
“Forget about them,” she advised her husband. “You have proved in battle that you are the equal of any Irishman.” She flung a lock of her dark red hair across his naked body and dragged it slowly back, watching him. “Play with me a little,” she purred. “I promised my father I would give you pleasure.”
Drowning in her, Olaf Cuaran forgot the Dalcassians.
In Limerick, Ivar heard the latest tales and slammed his drinking horn on the table in disgust. “We have beaten these people into a pulp again and again!” he cried. “How dare they continue to defy us! Send me my jarls and we will draw up new battle plans; we cannot continue to swallow such insults.”
The Norse jarls, who had heard the same stories, came into Ivar’s hall full of their own ideas. Ivar’s son Harold led them. “There is nothing of any value left in Thomond,” they told their king. “We have already taken everything. Why waste more time up there? An expedition is being planned to Alba and the Saxon land, and an attack on the region of York that will surely be more profitable than spending the summer skirmishing in the mountains.
“Our ships are ready and hungry for the sea wind; if we come back in the autumn and find this Dalcassian is still a problem, then we can go up and exterminate him before the first snow.”
Ivar looked from face to face. He did not see any great enthusiasm reflected there for his own proposals. “Very well,” he agreed at last, “plan your voyages, and we will wait until the turning of the leaves to consider the problem in Thomond.”
After they left he summoned his brother Ilacquin. The younger man’s face was still fair and smooth-cheeked, but his eyes were smoke reddened and old. He had developed the habit of thrusting his head forward on his neck like a weasel, and the women did not find him as irresistible as once they had. Ilacquin was souring, and unhappy.
“I have a job for you, brother,” Ivar told him. “I think it would be to our advantage to learn the truth of this matter across the Shannon. I want you to take a small squad of men, not as warriors, but to be my eyes and report back to me alone. You have raided in that country before; you know the ground.”
Ilacquin nodded. “There’s one duty I must perform first. Word has just come that old Callachan is finally dead, and Donogh is to succeed him as king of all Munster. I assume, with Harold about to put to sea and you occupied here, you will want me to attend the ceremony as your representative? To reassert the bonds between us, see what more we can get?”
Ivar did not smile; Ivar never smiled, but the light in his eyes changed. “That is your true battlefield, isn’t it, brother? The war of words: negotiations, treaties, arrangements, deceptions. I think this land has corrupted you.”
“I know what my best weapon is, and it is neither ax nor sword.”
“A pity,” Ivar commented. “Go, then, and peacock it around the halls of Cashel. But afterward I expect to hear that you are going to Thomond.”
At Cashel, no one was thinking about Mahon’s renegade brother. Almost no one. Callachan had been given a lavish funeral rite and entombed beneath a carved stone cross as befitted a Christian king, and Donogh sat in his place on the High Seat.
A rumor was afloat that one of the other tribal princes might dispute Donogh’s succession, and additional guards were posted on the access road to the Rock and at the gates and doors of the principal buildings. Some whispered behind their hands that they knew for a fact Mahon of the Dal Cais would come riding south to press his claim for the kingship once more. Owenachts sharpened their swords, and warriors grinned at one another and sang lusty battle songs.
But Mahon remained content at Boruma, his ambitions limited to increasing his herds. He sent a suitable homage gift to the new king of all Munster, delivered by a deputation of Dalcassian nobles.
Landowners of the highest stratum of tribal society, these men had chosen their costumes for the occasion with care, knowing that if Donogh thought them to be wealthy he might decide to impose a new and heavier tribute on them. But though their cloaks were plain and their brooches unjeweled, the bolts of many-hued silk they brought in honor of the new king were magnificent.
Seeing them as they lay piled on a table with other gifts of homage, Deirdre paused to caress the fabric with her palm. “Is this how Prince Brian dresses in Thomond?” she wondered aloud.
“How would I know?” Fithir answered her. “You spend too much time spinning cobwebs about him in your thoughts, sister; my lord husband is right about that. It would be better to show interest in a real person, someone like King Ivar’s younger brother over there. I have noticed how his eyes follow you, and my lord’s father thought highly of him as an ally. It could be a good match—Olaf of Dublin has taken an Irish bride, I understand.”
Deirdre glanced across the stone and timber hall at the Norseman, richly clad in otter fur and silver, and pursed her lips in distaste. “He makes me uncomfortable. He looks at me as if I were naked, and when he sat next to me yestereven he kept trying to get his hand between my legs.”
Fithir lifted her brows. “Ah. The Northmen have no respect for women. Neither Donogh nor I would want you to consider a suitor you despise. We, bless Christ’s name, have different morals than the foreigners!”
Ilacquin had seen Deirdre’s remarkable violet eyes look in his direction and smiled back at her, trying to get her to leave her glance locked with his. But her eyes darted away and he could no
t mistake the expression on her face. She loathed him; him, Ilacquin Amlavson! Ivar was right, these degenerate Irish were becoming annoying. It would do them good to be brought to their knees once more. He deliberately caught Deirdre’s eye again, smiled in a very suggestive way, and then managed to look away first.
The girl was outraged. “Why doesn’t he go back to Limerick?” she demanded to know. “He’s not needed here!”
“Just manage to be civil to him until he leaves,” Donogh implored of her. “Nothing more, I promise you. We can’t afford trouble with the Norsemen right now when I’m just getting established.”
She wrinkled her small nose. “Be civil. Phah! I wouldn’t give that man some air if he were stoppered in a jug.”
The rituals completed, the homage from the tribal under-kings to the provincial ruler accepted, and most of the guests seen safely upon their various homeward roads, life at Cashel began returning to its usual style. Donogh, enjoying for the first time the station he had never thought to hold, turned over its smallest details in his mental fingers, examining them as a miser would his hoard.
“We are pledged a good army, Fithir,” he boasted to his wife in their marriage bed. “Every king of every tuath is promised to give me seven hundred men in time of battle, and those kings who control many tuaths have to send more.”
Fithir lay quietly on her back, eyes closed, toying with the ends of her braided hair as she listened to her husband. She was not really paying attention, but then Deirdre’s wistful face flitted across her mind, and she recalled the name so often on her sister’s lips. “My lord, what of the Dal Cais?” she asked. “I know King Mahon sent you a homage gift, but how many warriors did he pledge?”
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