by Jules Watson
Rocks fell in a deadly hail. The exchange of missiles grew frantic as they sought to hit more shields, and faster.
Soon, Cúchulainn found he could not be skillful while keeping the Source at bay. He was helpless to stop the flood of silver overflowing, spreading out to the sky and spilling over the ground. Its power coursed down his arm, and at last he let go into that brilliant tide.
Instinctively, he flung a stone along the most direct path, forgetting to avoid Ferdia. The rock just missed Ferdia and shattered on the shield. The shards sprayed Ferdia’s face and his horse shied, nearly throwing him off. The shouts of the other warriors faded away.
Ferdia put a hand to his cheek and then stared at his red fingers. First blood.
Cúchulainn gulped, forcing the light back down, soothing his stallion with one hand. Ferdia gazed at him, drops of scarlet speckling his cheeks and brow.
Cúchulainn had to look away.
The feats went from stones to spears—spears blocked by spinning shields, thrown with feet, flung in threes and fours. At last the overbreath feat was all they had left—the most difficult horse-feat of all. Cúchulainn called it in a heavy voice. A shadow crossed Ferdia’s face, but he nodded.
They must stick a spear into the ground, then gallop past it while standing on the mount’s bare back. At the precise moment, they had to somersault backward off the horse, and as they landed, pluck the spear out and fling it at their enemy.
There was no way to deliberately miss now.
Ferdia and Cúchulainn had drilled this feat into their reflexes, their nerves and muscles, over many years of training. To land in the right place, catch up the spear and move the body into the throw took perfect focus. If a man tried to disrupt the spear-flight, his vault would be off and he could fall and break a limb—or his neck.
Ferdia went first. He flipped off the horse, his lance spinning straight at Cúchulainn. Seeing that ripple in the Source, the Hound was already ducking, knocking it out of the air with his shield.
Ferdia leaped around and flung both arms up. His bellow of relief echoed off the hill, disappearing among the whistles and cheers of the men. This feat was always his greatest weakness; for some reason he often misjudged it.
“I see you stopped being so stubborn,” Cúchulainn called, “and put your feet where I said to.”
Ferdia wiped more trickles of blood from his brow. “Aye, in my own time.” His smile, though, was bitter.
It was Cúchulainn’s turn on the Gray of Macha. He focused the Source in two places: his legs, to balance him on the gray’s back as the stallion galloped in; and the spear in the ground, which became a spire of light. The Source told him when to jump, sweeping him up as if in a wave. He spun, weightless, already picturing his throw so that the moment he landed his arm became a blur, sending the lance at Ferdia.
Ferdia struck it away with his shield rim. Only when Cúchulainn came back to himself did he see how Ferdia panted, as if forced to lunge far aside. Glowering, Ferdia went back to his horse for another run at the feat, and so it went in turns.
Soon the spears were flying back and forth with deadly force, the hooves of the horses thundering. Cúchulainn’s arm ached from knocking them aside. Points splintered the wooden shields, and he kept throwing them away and grabbing another from the pile by his chariot. His back grew sore from the endless jarring as he landed on the ground.
He had always beaten Ferdia at this. Perhaps this was why Ferdia seemed unable to stop, bracing himself for each somersault with a feral snarl.
Shield arms faltered; tired limbs slowed.
Bone-weary, Cúchulainn misjudged one of Ferdia’s throws and it soared under his shield-rim, catching his hip below his mail-shirt. It burned and he cried out, clapping a hand over the wound. Blood trickled from the rent in his tunic.
The cuts had dried on Ferdia’s face, the red mask distorting his expression. For a savage moment Cúchulainn fancied he saw a smirk of satisfaction. Blood for blood.
Anger bloomed in Cúchulainn, as potent as the thrill had once been.
His next spear carved the air with a life of its own, striking Ferdia on the helmet and knocking him down. Enraged, Ferdia leaped up, and as the men on the ridge all screamed, he tossed his shield aside, ducked, and flung one of the discarded lances straight at Cúchulainn.
The Source flared.
Cúchulainn dodged the spear, tumbling over on the ground. By the time he bounced to his feet, another shaft was on its way back to Ferdia.
Spears hissed back and forth. Soon Cúchulainn and Ferdia were bruised on jaws and collarbones, thighs and backs, from the blows of the ashwood shafts. Such was their skill at acrobatics, that though their arms and legs were sliced by glancing points, neither sustained a serious wound. Blinded by wrath, Cúchulainn did not know if in some kernel of their souls they still held back, or if they were so well-matched they saved each other.
The first shadows engulfed them. The sun was lost. The far hill slopes were turning red.
Panting, they both stopped, peering at each other. The gloom darkened the blood on Ferdia’s face. He saluted with his spear again, but there was strain in his arm now, and a sway in his body.
Cúchulainn clasped his lance across his chest. My heart honors you. He staggered to the Gray of Macha and caught his reins, limping toward his campfire. All the way, the Hound blocked out the wave of jubilation that greeted Ferdia’s return to the war-band, the triumphant blare of horns.
Cúchulainn settled his horses with stiff, aching hands and a deliberately blank mind. Stretching his back, he poked up the coals in his fire so there was a glow of something alive beside him.
Then he gathered the folds of his cloak about him and sank down. He knew he should bathe his wounds and bind them with Emer’s beeswax salve. In a moment … The silver wave of Source receded, leaving him limp on the sands of Thisworld. One moment of rest and I will do it …
One—
The war-camp among the hills plunged into dusk.
Ferdia was carried to Ailill’s great tent, tossing in delirium, and laid upon soft furs. Maeve leaned over him while the druids untied his horn armor, a lamp swinging over his head in a draft of evening wind.
Ferdia muttered under his breath, his lashes dark smears across pale cheeks. Grazes webbed his hollowed face, larger spear-cuts slicing his arms and legs. His tunic and trews were so torn they almost fell off him. As the druids bathed him with sponges, Levarcham mashed knit-bone leaves in a mortar nearby.
Her eyes were sad as she sat at Ferdia’s side and began to smear the green paste over his wounds.
Maeve gently wiped the dirt and blood from Ferdia’s brow, then stood at his head and held his temples in her palms. “You fight like the Tuatha dé Danann themselves,” she whispered to him. “You are a god, Daman’s son, and your father looks upon you this night with pride.”
Ferdia’s eyes flickered open.
“You are fighting for us all,” Maeve added. “Protecting so many people.”
Ferdia’s laugh startled her. His eyes rolled, the pupils glassy in the pool of lamplight, as if he watched something on the roof of the tent. “Did you see how high I jumped?” he slurred.
Maeve leaned down, her heart thudding. Why would he speak like that to her?
“My vault was higher than yours.” Ferdia’s smile was delirious. He cocked his head, listening to something she could not hear. “Balls! Skatha said higher was better than faster. Remember how you kept rolling when you landed?” A hoarse laugh. “Yes, you did, you bastard. Come, let’s do it again before supper. I’ll show you. Come …” His fingers uncurled to empty air.
Levarcham was watching him, her hands leaf-stained. The western sky sent a shaft of rose through the tent flap, illuminating a yearning in her grave face that threaded Ferdia’s voice. A flicker of the past, when much was whole that now was in ruin.
Maeve backed away.
“We can give him syrup to make him sleep,” one of the druids said.
She turned to go and the pain in her belly came out of nowhere, a spear thrust deep. Maeve’s breath escaped in a hiss, and with smarting eyes she hobbled out of the tent, away from all those druid eyes.
“Heal them!” Conor strode around the temple mound at Emain Macha, stabbing a finger at the druids. “Do it, or die!”
Dark had fallen, and the world was wreathed in flame as it had been the night of the burning of the Red Branch hall. Great bonfires roared all over the expanse of grass around the temple, the wood breaking with loud cracks like thunder, the streaming flames charring the turf.
All the sick Red Branch and Alban warriors were piled between the pyres now, writhing, retching, as their naked bodies poured with sweat.
Dancing druids whirled among them to drive out the sickness, beseeching the goddess Macha to lift her curse. They were mostly the young ones, the novices, for their elders had been at the feast when the sickness spread.
Prowling, Conor watched a druid collapse in the dance, exhausted. Conor hauled him up by his robe. “Break this curse now, or I will kill you myself!” He needed these fighters alive, strong enough to send to the border lords who were now under attack.
Strong enough to defend Emain Macha.
The druid’s head fell back, eyes glazed in trance. Conor cursed and let him fall. The shrieks of the warriors clawed at Conor’s ears, and he spun away and hastened to the temple steps, where novices were sacrificing any animal Conor could get his hands on. A river of blood spilled down the slope, the carcasses of sheep, goats, and bulls thrown in the ditch.
“More,” Conor growled. “More!” So Macha wanted to punish him, did she? She cursed him, drew this attack upon him from the west. Well, she was a goddess of the battlefield. She must desire blood—he would give her blood! He would offer her anything to destroy this war-band that tried to invade the hallowed land of the Ulaid.
He would damn well buy her favor. No king could abase themselves as he did, give as much as he did, and that must make even a goddess relent.
The young priests looked at their king in terror, their faces blood-spattered.
Conor staggered to the makeshift pens where sheep milled, kicking at the palings. His heart sank as his eye fell on the sheen of horsehide and a tossing mane. He hardened it, gritting his teeth, grabbed the halter of one of his chariot mounts, Lúath, and hauled the horse to the temple steps.
Maddened by the smell of gore, Lúath tried to tear himself away, but he’d been hobbled. Conor threw back his head, howling his despair to the dark sky. Macha! Then he struck out, slicing the vein in the horse’s neck with his dagger. Blood sprayed across his face. Panting, Conor let the beast crumple to the stained earth at his feet.
A chittering interrupted Conor’s rage. The ape was tied to a post by its chain, writhing and trying to break free.
“Is it my pride you want, then?” Conor cried to Macha. He had shredded his once-fine tunics, that silk from the East, and burned his furs. He had poured out his wine, sacrificed all the riches he had boasted from the trade ships of the Middle Sea. Now he grasped the monkey around its neck and held it in the doorway to the great temple. The creature squirmed, clawing at him. “What else can I give?” Conor screamed to the faceless altar, and stuck the monkey with the knife before tossing its limp body down.
Outside the temple, he stood swaying.
The fires lit the underbellies of the sickly clouds. The druids capered like madmen, black against the flames while the sick lifted their hands, begging for water. No water, Conor had ordered. Only flame and sweat would purge them.
Someone spoke, and Conor spun around. A youth stood below the temple, his eyes rolling toward the dying men. “M-My lord.”
Conor squinted, cobbling his scattered thoughts together as the boy stammered.
“… so Ronan and I heard rumors from the herders … and we went to see for ourselves.”
Conor blinked.
“A war-band is approaching from the south. And …” The youth gulped. “Cúchulainn is there—holding the ford by himself!”
Conor stumbled down the steps, groping for the boy. He shrank away, but Conor caught him by both arms, crushing him. “A woman,” he rasped. “Is she there … armored in fury … flame-eyed, red hair? Did you see her with your own sight?”
The scout swallowed. “Aye, I saw that woman, yelling at her men to fight.”
At last.
She was here. All the churning and pain inside Conor came together in one flare that went up his spine to his crown. He snapped upright, thrusting the boy from him and hurrying down the path away from the temple. It led through meadows and houses up to his fort on the next hill.
Halfway there he pulled up. The crafter-men and the Ulaid guards from the ramparts were gathered across the track. Some of the new warriors had joined them, those youths who’d come from the western hills and northeastern farms, barely knowing one end of a sword from another, but able to clutch a spear. They had not been as ill as the Red Branch fighters, and many had now recovered.
Conor flung out a hand. “The Hound holds a ford on his own against the hordes of Connacht. You must defend our land, drive back the she-wolf and her pack.” The men looked slack-jawed from him to the flaming hilltop, the whirling druids. “Do your duty to the Ulaid or we will all die!” Conor yelled.
At first no one moved. Then Conor realized the crafters and gate-guards were backing away, leaving the young warriors wavering. And so it burst upon Conor.
He had to lead them. He would not cower here, waiting for her to come. He would be a war-leader at last, with glory on his brow and fire in his veins, his sword held high. Men would cheer for him, die for him as they did Cúchulainn … as they once did Fergus mac Roy.
Conor mac Nessa would be the god who stood against Maeve—the bards would sing that song and no other once he had triumphed.
Nothing of Deirdre. Nothing of anyone but him and his brave heart.
“I order you to follow your king! Raid the walls of my hall and take up the shields and swords of all the heroes who came before you—you are Red Branch now. When you triumph, the arms will be yours, along with the riches of Connacht. Defend us now!”
The eyes of the youths lit up, for they would never otherwise have the chance to bear such noble weapons, let alone win them. But older, battle-scarred men murmured and shook their heads, disappearing into the darkness.
Conor growled, dragging out his sword and thrusting it into the sky. “All who are worthy, go now and arm yourselves. We will ride out to glory as the dawn lights our way. To the fire of Lugh!”
They cheered, these wild-eyed boys, and streamed back to the fort.
Giddy, Conor turned, his smile dying. At the temple the flames lit up splayed bodies and groaning men. The goddess Macha had not stopped the Connacht bitch from coming for him. She was not going to protect the Ulaid.
Macha had turned her back on him. It was over.
Conor staggered and broke into a run, throwing himself back up the bloody steps to the temple. There, he howled and flung his dagger. It arced, catching the light of the flames, and thudded into the ground before the doorway. He wove his way to the young druids who were still drumming with empty eyes. “Burn the temple,” he ordered. “If She will not champion us, then we will not worship Her.”
The drumming tailed away, the dancers collapsing on the ground among the sick men. One priest spoke, his face coated with soot. “It is … sacrilege,” he rasped.
Conor swayed. “We cleansed this place of living women, now we must do the same for dead maidens and heartless goddesses! I will be cleansed of Her, and then I will kill Her she-wolf with my own hands.”
The panting novices crowded together, murmuring that they must rouse the chief druid and their elders, that the king was mad. Growling, Conor lunged at the nearest one with his sword. They cried out and broke ranks, pulling their brothers
away from the writhing warriors on the ground and fleeing into the dark.
Head back, Conor bellowed to the sky. Fire would heed his call.
He plucked up scattered pieces of wood by the bonfires, sticking the torches into the flames until they were alight. Smiling, he stalked around the temple, every few steps touching them to the thatch. By the time he reached the door again, the roof was flaming. Dodging the cinders, Conor staggered inside and threw the torches at the wooden idol of Macha. “I now defeat you. Burn!”
He hurried back outside and stood on the grass, wheezing.
The flames ate up the thatch and wood until the great temple of Macha bore a crown of fire that streamed into the sky, making the clouds glow a lurid red. At last the roof caved in with a whoosh of sparks, and Conor laughed, tasting the ash on his lips, his face scorched. The conflagration would be seen far across the hills, and everyone would know there was a new power at Emain Macha, the power of man and god.
The power of the king.
CHAPTER 36
A scout was waiting for Maeve when she left Ferdia in the healing tent.
In the shadows of the camp she could not see him clearly. Holding her side, she dimly recognized the splotches of mud up his legs and spatters on his cheeks. He had ridden far, through bog and swamplands.
Dread halted her, her hand falling loose.
Tucking his leather helmet under his arm, the scout went down on one knee before her. “The battle still rages at the Gates of Macha.” He bowed his head. “But I have been sent to tell you that Lord Garvan has been speared in the attack.” He wet his lips. “He is slain.”
Maeve’s body instinctively turned from that truth, one hand clutching air as if it might hold her up.
What are you getting me into, spitfire?
In the dark under the trees, Garvan’s pale face hovered—she could almost touch his cheek. A shudder began at Maeve’s feet and ran up her back. Garvan, heart-brother. It was not the taste of his lips that came to her, but the quirk of his smile. Damn you, Maeve.
