The Last Days of Magic (44 page)

“Something’s happened to Aisling,” Liam said to Treasa, who had crowded in beside him. “If the archers start up in force, we’re going to be in a very dangerous position.”

“Let’s charge farther into the English,” she said. “They’ll not rain arrows onto us if we’re centered in their men.” A second, much larger volley of arrows fell on the front lines, striking Irish and English alike.

“That’s not going to work,” said Earnan from the other side of Treasa, adjusting his shield to catch an arrow.

There was still no sign of Aisling or Brigid on the hill, but Liam spotted Conor facing off against Kellach. Conor made a move. Kellach parried and circled away, as if waiting for something. Two short notes sounded from an Irish horn, followed by a long note, the signal to withdraw. The Gallowglass started to back up while trying to protect themselves and their horses from the now-steady rain of arrows.

“Follow me and keep those arrows off my back.” Liam set off at a run toward Conor. Treasa and Earnan followed close, swinging their shields to block arrows. Together they wove through retreating Celts, knocking down or cutting through any English who tried to obstruct their path.

On the hilltop an arrow struck down one druid, then another, and the rest ran for cover on the far side of the crest. Liam realized that no more counter-enchantments would be coming from them. He had to make it to Conor in time, fight through the chaos that stood in his way. He wanted to shout at Conor to retreat, but he knew it would be futile over the din of the battlefield.

A smile crawled up Kellach’s face, and his lips moved, and the wood of Conor’s shield rotted away to dust. Conor threw down the limp
bindings and raised his sword in a high guard. Kellach lunged toward him. There was blade against blade, back and forth for a frenzied minute. The sword in Kellach’s right hand parried a thrust from Conor, engaging him just long enough for Kellach’s other sword to slip inside Conor’s guard and plunge up under his mail vest. Kellach yanked out his blade and pushed Conor to the ground, where he lay gasping, blood bubbling from his mouth. All Liam could do was continue to fight his way forward. Kellach looked over at Liam, then led his Skeaghshee up the hill.

Upon reaching Conor, Liam went down on one knee. Conor grasped Liam’s arm, tried to speak but only coughed up more blood. Treasa and Earnan hunched over them, shielded them from arrows. A wolf howled in the distance. Liam did not turn to look, holding his friend and keeping his gaze locked with Conor’s as life faded from his eyes.

. . . . .

From the northern edge of the bog, Jordan and Najia saw Aisling gallop away and, a minute later, Brigid burst into her swan form, robes collapsing onto the ground, to fly after her. A group of Skeaghshee arrows sailed toward Brigid. Both Jordan and Najia raised their hands and flung enchantments, knocking down all the arrows except one, which struck the swan in the side. The swan tried to keep aloft but began to flutter toward earth.

“Come on!” shouted Jordan, spurring his horse into a gallop.

They found Brigid, back in her human form, crawling in the snow. Jordan dismounted, covered her with his cloak, and said, “Be still, we’re here to help you.”

“No,” gasped Brigid, “I must catch Aisling.”

“Not until we get this arrow out of you.”

Jordan and Najia eased Brigid down flat on her stomach. Najia gently probed around the arrow shaft with two fingers.

“Well?” asked Jordan.

“Shhh,” hissed Najia. Shutting her eyes, she held her hand next to the wound, then bent down and placed her ear against Brigid’s back. She sat up and stroked Brigid’s cheek.

Brigid asked, “How bad?”

“The arrowhead is lodged in a major vessel. You’re bleeding inside.”

Jordan reached to pull out the arrow, but Najia grabbed his hand. “That will make the bleeding worse, and she’ll be dead in minutes.”

“What then?”

“I’m going to try to bind the vessel to the arrowhead. It won’t save her, but it’ll slow down her departure.”

“Please,” said Brigid. “Do what you can. Then take me to Dunsany Castle. You must hurry.”

Jordan retrieved a clipper from his saddlebag and cut off the arrow shaft at the skin. Najia held her hand over the wound and mumbled an enchantment. There was a whiff of burning flesh as the gash closed, and Brigid grimaced in pain, then lay quiet. Helping her stand, Jordan tightened his cloak around her. Brigid staggered and leaned against him. When she was ready, with much help, she mounted Jordan’s horse, and he swung up behind her.

“Slow and smooth,” said Najia. “That’s her only chance to get there alive.”

At the sound of a howl, Jordan turned toward its source. A giant red she-wolf now stood at the north edge of the bog where he and Najia had first spied the battle.

. . . . .

In the center of the melee, Fearghal was swinging his long, slender blade in graceful, deadly arcs that severed English arms and legs. Without a second hand to hold a shield, he was forced to knock down an arrow with his sword, then sidestep another before he could duck behind the shield wall that three companies of dismounted Celts had formed around their high king. “The day is lost,” he said to Art.

“No, we cannot retreat now. We’re too close to victory.”

“Aisling is gone. There will be no victory today. Save as many of your warriors as you can.”

Art peered between the shields. The air was thickening black with arrows. “Sound withdraw!” he shouted to his horn bearer. The call of
two short notes followed by one long one was taken up by other Irish horns. “Have your Sidhe fall back to Tara,” Art said to Fearghal.

Fearghal shook his head. “My time in this world has come to an end, as has the time of all loyal Sidhe. I have passed the word, all who now wish to seek a new world, withdraw to the Middle Kingdom. Those ready to travel to the After Lands, stand with me and fight to the death.”

“My king,” said Rhoswen, who had just slid behind the shield wall to join them, “I will not abandon this land. I believe the Morrígna will return, and I know there are others who believe the same.”

“My daughter, I do not see that, but my sight has grown dim. Choose that path if you wish, but do not die on this field today.”

“We may all have no choice but to die here,” said Art, surveying the English movements. Their captains had restored order among the mounted archers, and a troop was already moving around to cut off the Irish vanguard’s retreat.

A howl pierced his thoughts. He spotted the giant red she-wolf as it raised its head and let out a louder howl, compelling English and Irish alike to take heed. A vast pack of gray and black wolves took up the cry, carrying it forward as they swarmed past the red wolf toward the battle. Horses reared in blind terror as the pack closed in. Others spun as their riders tried to regain control. Men fell to the ground. Just before reaching the first of the English, the wolves rose up and finished the charge on their back legs, with human faces howling.

“Wolfcoats! Berserkers!” shouted Art.

“The last of the Woodwose,” said Rhoswen. “I sense their lust for revenge.”

The Woodwose, dressed in wolfskins with razor-sharp claws strapped to their hands, bounded into the English, tearing the bellies out of horses, the throats out of men. A desperate sword stroke cut the skin-draped arm off a lead Woodwose. The crazed look in his eyes intensified as he raked the face of his attacker, blinding him before lunging for another.

“This is your chance,” said Fearghal. “Be quick and get your warriors out. It will not be long before the English regroup.”

Art clasped Fearghal on the shoulder. “Kill all you can.”

“Go. When it is your time, I will meet you in the After Lands, and we will feast as if we had won the day.”

A
ISLING
STUMBLED
up the stairs of Dunsany Castle and flung open the door of her bedchamber. She stepped inside and paused, trembling. King Turlough rose from the chair where he awaited her. His bloodstained sword fell from his hand and clattered on the stone floor next to the decapitated body of Mamos. Mamos’s head sat on a table in the center of the room.

One daughter was wailing from her crib. Only one. It took Aisling a moment to force her eyes to focus on the other one, Uaine, lying dead on the table next to Mamos’s head. A dagger was beside the infant—a few drops of blood had fallen from the blade onto the wood. Aisling gasped for air. “Why?” was all she could get out.

Turlough handed her the dried-up piece of heart. “I am sorry. We thought . . . I thought . . . It was the Test. To save Ireland. My life is yours to . . .”

Aisling screamed at him, bending over with the effort. Turlough’s skin turned the black of absence, his chest caved in, his shoulders folded together, his body crumbled and disintegrated into a patch of dark mist, which was sucked into the fireplace and up the flue. Silence fell. Deirdre had stilled. Aisling gripped the piece of heart in her hand, rough and leathered with age. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Never again,” she whispered, flinging it into the fire, which erupted in blue flame and then went out.

. . . . .

Dark had settled in when a procession of riders led by Art approached Dunsany Castle by torchlight. Treasa rode with one hand on Conor’s back, his body draped in front of her over her horse, Earnan riding
beside her. Liam was cradling Brigid tight against him, breathing warm air into the cloak wrapped around her. Even with all his efforts, he had felt her body cooling as they traveled. When Liam had overtaken Jordan and Najia, he’d been prepared to kill them both until Art vouched for Jordan, convincing him to spare their lives. “Now we’re even,” Art told Jordan.

When they reached the castle, the steward and the servants, who had been squatting by a fire outside, rose.

“We’re here,” Liam whispered to Brigid, who opened her eyes but said nothing.

Earnan dismounted and tried the door. It was bolted. He pounded on it. Aisling appeared at an upper window, her gray eyes ringed with red, lips tight. She clutched Deirdre against herself with both hands.

“Aisling,” called up Liam. “We bear Conor’s body to you.”

“You think I didn’t feel his passing? I’ll have no more death, no more pain in my home. Take it away.”

The steward approached Art’s horse and silently handed a cloth-wrapped bundle up to him. Art, the day’s events hanging on his face, took the parcel, the size of a loaf of bread, and began to unwrap it. The others watched in silence. Art froze when a dead Uaine was exposed. “The Morrígna has abandoned us,” he said softly, rewrapping the bundle.

“Aisling,” called Liam. “Let me help you, let us in.”

Aisling stared down, silent.

“At least help Brigid, I beg you. She’s badly wounded.”

“I can do nothing more,” said Aisling, withdrawing from the window.

“We have failed.” Brigid’s words slipped out on a wisp of breath. “Aisling is lost to this land.” She turned her eyes to Liam. “I’m sorry, I tried to help her.”

He hushed her. “You did all anyone could do. Save your strength.”

“I wish I could stay. How I long to be with you.” Brigid closed her eyes, and Liam felt the last of her life drain away.

. . . . .

On the order of Art, the steward retrieved axes from an outbuilding, and trees were cut and a simple pyre built. Moonlight glowed faintly through the overcast as Earnan placed Conor’s body on top. Treasa climbed up and carefully positioned his daughter in his arms. She paused there for a moment, then climbed down and took Earnan’s hand. Liam laid Brigid’s body next to Conor, kissed her on the lips, and said, “Until I join you.” The wood was green and damp, but with an enchantment from Najia flame roared to life, lighting up the front of the castle. They all watched it for a while; dense smoke billowed up in the firelight, disappearing into the night sky.

“What are you going to do now?” Art asked Jordan.

“I’ve come to believe there’s a place for me somewhere in this land.”

“You’d be welcome to join me in Tara. I could use your knowledge of the English.”

“I’ve had enough of kings for a while,” Jordan responded without malice. Then he and Najia mounted their horses. “Which way?” he asked her.

“The Sidhe believe that magic comes from the west,” she replied, and they rode out of the firelight.

A horse was brought from the stable for the steward, and a team was hitched to a wagon for the servants. Art led the ensemble north toward Tara—all except Liam, who insisted on standing a solitary vigil for the dead.

. . . . .

Sun broke through the clouds as noon approached. Wisps of smoke still drifted from the smoldering ash of the pyre when Aisling came out the door wearing her finest gown. She was carrying Deirdre and a large leather satchel.

Liam emerged from behind the stable. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going where I need to go to protect Deirdre, to the English camp. She’s all that’s left in my life now.”

“You think it’ll be better there, that she’ll be safe with them?”

“Safer there than with the Celts or the Sidhe. They murdered my daughter and took everything from me—my husband, my sister, my friends, my followers, my very purpose. Everything I ever valued! The English know nothing of the Morrígna. They won’t sacrifice an infant in a futile attempt to bring a Goddess forth for their own greedy desires. They have no need for Goddesses. They have no enchantments to hide their evil intentions. I can handle their dull mortal senses.”