by Headlee, Kim
But of the woman she had no doubt. Tall and lithe as a maple sapling, crowned with autumn braids, the bronze dragon blazing across her trunk; Niniane had Seen her, and not just through other eyes. The arm wielding the sapphire-headed sword against the enemy woman with such savage strength had been painted with woad doves. Every aspect of the lady warrior was startlingly familiar, except the sword. No gem adorned the pommel of the weapon riding her hip.
So the Sight had left another mystery. With a soft sigh, she rose and stepped forward to greet her guests.
“Your pardon for the intrusion, Prioress,” began the woman. “I am Chieftainess Gyanhumara, and this is my companion, Angusel. We seek only a bite to eat and shelter from the storm. Rain or no, we shall leave at first light.”
So these were the Caledonians studying with the brethren at St. Padraic’s. Niniane had guessed as much. Though neither looked much like a scholar, she knew looks could deceive. “It’s no intrusion, Chieftainess. The priory is honored by your visit.” She flashed a smile. “Our fare and lodgings are humble, but you may have anything within my power to give you. Here we welcome all who are loyal to the Pendragon. Now, if you will please follow me—”
“If you please, Prioress,” Angusel said, “I’d like to hear about the Pendragon’s sword.”
The chieftainess turned a sharp look upon him. They exchanged words in what Niniane assumed was their native tongue. A reprimand, judging by the woman’s tone and the lad’s contrite response.
Switching back to Brytonic, Gyanhumara said, “Please forgive him, Prioress. He is young and sometimes forgets his manners. I’m sure you’re as anxious to retire for the evening as we are.”
“Well, I did promise you anything within my power.” Niniane extended an open-palmed hand. “Come. Let us make ourselves comfortable by the fire.”
It was the first image she had ever Seen, the forging of the sword that was said to slice through stone like cheese. She had been a little girl then, terrified by the white-hot fire and incessant ringing in her dreams, and the screaming ache of arm and back upon waking, curls matted to her forehead by rivers of sweat. Even a quarter century later, she could feel the intense heat and hear the hammer’s rhythmic clang. And the furious hissing, like a mighty serpent, as glowing steel violated icy water to beget billowing mist.
The vision had stayed with her as she grew older, but she had shared it with no one for fear of being branded a lunatic—or worse. At last, she was driven to seek counsel secretly from Henna, the village wise-woman. Henna recognized Niniane’s gift for what it was, and not the beginnings of madness as Niniane had feared. She taught Niniane how to focus the Sight and interpret the visions.
With Henna’s help, Niniane discovered that she must obtain this weapon for the man destined to unite all peoples of Brydein: Arturus Aurelius Vetarus, called Arthur map Uther.
She did not tell her guests how she had come to learn of the sword. Only a trusted few knew of her gift. In truth, it was the primary reason behind her entry into the Church. She had desperately needed reassurance that the power was a gift of the Lord of Light, not the Lord of Lies.
Instead, she spoke of how she had “heard” of the sword, of how she had found it upon the forge of Wyllan, the most famous smith of Brydein, whose smithy lay in the bosom of Mount Snaefell. Of how Wyllan had been instructed in a dream to entrust his finest creation to a holy woman and had given the sword to Prioress Niniane.
Angusel listened with rapt attention. Even Gyanhumara’s attitude reflected more than polite interest. Perched on the edge of the low wooden bench, she did not look down as she slowly traced a long, pale scar on the underside of her right forearm.
Then Niniane spoke of the Council of Chieftains, the rulers of the northern Brytoni clans that had assembled shortly after Uther’s death to elect a new Dux Britanniarum.
As in the days of the legions, the holder of this office commanded all forces stationed between the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus. This army had disbanded upon the withdrawal of the legions to the Continent. Most of the forts were abandoned when the native Brytoni auxiliaries, such as Niniane’s great-grandfather, had gladly returned home to hang up their weapons and turn helmets into cooking pots.
Those pots would have been better left as helmets. Into the vacuum created by the legions’ departure rushed enemy peoples from all sides, eager to claim the verdant Isle of Brydein for themselves. Angles, Frisians, Jutes, Saxons, and others from the Continent attacked the south and east. Scots from Hibernia raided the villages along the west coast. And, of course, there was the blue-painted menace from the north, the very reason the emperors Antoninus Pius and Hadrian had ordered construction of the walls bearing their names.
At the mention of the Caledonian threat, her guests exchanged a glance. Niniane suspected they knew more about the history of that conflict than she and elected to keep her biased knowledge of it to herself.
She described instead the scheme of the power-drunk tyrant Vortigern, who attempted to keep the Scots and Caledonians at bay using Saxon mercenaries. This plan worked only as long as Vortigern’s wealth held more sway over the Saxons than their desire to snatch land for themselves. One night, his Saxon wife stabbed him in his sleep in an attempt to aid her people’s cause. Vortigern’s death went unlamented by his countrymen.
Shortly thereafter, two Brydein-born Roman brothers, having grown to manhood in Armorica, just across the Narrow Sea on the Continent, returned to Brydein with an army at their backs to assert their claim over the Island of the Mighty.
The brothers, Ambrosius, called Emrys, and Vetarus, called Uther, plunged into the chaos and attempted to restore order using disciplined Roman ways. This was effective enough against their foreign-tongued enemies, but it only served to alienate the chieftains of the southern and western Brytons. These men had no desire to bear again the yoke of Rome, however remote the possibility. Once the immediate threat to their lands was removed, they summarily withdrew their allegiance.
Emrys and Uther relocated their force in the north, between the walls, where the fighting was long from finished. The chieftains of the northern Brytoni clans were more appreciative of the brothers’ efforts, if not overly thrilled at having Roman neighbors again. Emrys revived the position of Dux Britanniarum to ease relations with his allies by underscoring the fact that his authority was more military than political. But he did not bear the title of Pendragon for long. Illness claimed his life, leaving Uther to finish the work.
This work had yet to be completed when, a score of years later, Uther’s last earthly sight was that of an Angli spear sprouting from his chest, with his men falling in panic-stricken confusion around him. If he watched his son transform the rout into an orderly retreat to save as many lives as possible, it was not with the eyes of this world.
Uther’s death served as a brutal reminder to the chieftains that their lands were by no means safe. They could not hope to stand against their enemies fragmented and unassisted. After interring Uther beside his brother with due honor, the Council convened.
What a wild week that had been! In three days, the initial field of candidates dwindled to two. The Council became deadlocked. The Dalriadans stood unswervingly behind their choice, Urien. Most Lowland clans backed Arthur. But with several chieftains unwilling to commit, neither candidate owned a majority. Bribes flowed as freely as ale, producing similar, and sometimes disastrous, effects.
Niniane with her Sight-aided knowledge sought out Arthur. The army, what was left of it, was desperate for a sign of new hope after Uther’s devastating defeat and did not care how the Council would vote. With one thunderous voice, they acclaimed Arthur as their Pendragon at first sight of the peerless Caleberyllus in his fist. The army’s support swayed the undecided chieftains to Arthur’s side.
As she finished her tale, Niniane watched a smile grow upon Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s lips, mirrored in the summer-green eyes.
Chapter 20
CUCHULLAIN OG CONCHOBAR, La
ird of the Scáthaichean, stood in his war-chariot at the Doann Dealghan waterfront. His matched pair of jet-black mares fretted in their silver traces, pawing the ground and tossing their heads and causing his charioteer, Lagan, a great deal of trouble. At last, they quieted under the man’s patient touch, and the silver-and-green-enameled chariot ceased its boatlike rocking.
Around them eddied the clamor of commands and the clattering of equipment as warriors piled by the score into the wolf-prowed warships. Cuchullain’s smile, as he rested one hand on his sword’s hilt, hid his disappointment. He sympathized with his fiery beauties. More than life itself, he wanted to go with the men, to wreak havoc on Bhratan flesh. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as far as his beloved Dierda was concerned—the renewed Aítachasan threat bound him to these shores.
It was a risk for him to be even this far, a full day’s ride from his Seat at Tarabrogh. At the height of the war-season, anything could happen on his way home. Yet the operation his warriors were embarking upon was far too important for their laird to miss giving them the sendoff they deserved.
His pride swelled yet again as another ship was shoved into the water to join its kin bobbing in the harbor. The ruby sails remained furled to their masts. No overcurious trader or fisherman was going to betray this secret. Even the Silver Wolf banner at each mast’s tip was lashed down. If this endeavor was to open the door to Maun, surprise was the key.
Across the droning waves lay the prize. A white veil of mist hid its emerald-crowned cliffs and diamond-bright beaches, but Cuchullain didn’t have to see it to know it was there. Nor did he have to see the island’s defenders, a pox on their black hearts!
Having to spare half his fleet to transport more than a thousand of his best warriors was a bitter tonic. Yet those fatherless Bratan, who only this season had doubled the number of troops there, had left him with no choice. He would have preferred to wait until another year, long after the Bratan deemed themselves safe enough to recall most of their men back to the larger island. But it was either strike at the lands toward the rising sun now, or else perpetuate the war against the blood-lusting Aítachasan until no living creature remained upon this fair Isle of Eireann except the wolves and the ravens.
Perhaps he could yet hold back a boatload or two, depending upon the latest report, if the courier arrived in time. For, confirmation or no, the fleet would sail tonight. And as the sun sent Cuchullain’s shadow creeping toward the shoreline, his hopes of seeing a final message from his contact on Maun sank with it.
As though sensing his thoughts, the short, stocky warrior at his elbow bellowed, “Where be that blasted merchant? He should have been here days ago.”
Cuchullain turned full attention upon his battle-leader. “Calm yourself, Niall.” He tried to make his grin display naught but confidence. “Your yelling will not be putting wind in his sails.”
The two longtime friends shared the laugh and scanned the dimming horizon.
Niall pointed. “There!”
Cuchullain squinted into the distance. All he could make out was a flash of white: a sail, perhaps, or a gull’s wing. “Can ye be sure?”
“Nay,” said Niall. “But there be time yet.”
General Niall strode toward the beached warships, his thin auburn braids bouncing against the bright red, green, and gold cloak. While he talked with his men, the white patch with the dark blot beneath resolved itself into a trading ship, bearing for Doann Dealghan Harbor.
Cuchullain gave Lagan a word of thanks and stepped down from the chariot, pausing to stroke each velvety muzzle before joining Niall. He hoped the news would be encouraging.
It was not. The fat foreign merchant waited in respectful yet expectant silence as Cuchullain studied the figures on the curled cowhide scrap. Scratched with a hunk of charred wood and smudged in places, the crude message disclosed the precise layout of foot and horse on the island. The unwritten message was just as clear: every man committed to this invasion would be essential.
In numbers, his warriors would have a slight advantage, though the enemy’s cavalry would remove that edge in a pitched battle. But the Bratan were dispersed among four coastal stations. Such a pity.
The plan just might work. Would work. Had to.
Flushed with the anticipation of success, Cuchullain tugged off an emerald-studded silver ring and pressed it into the merchant’s palm. The man grinned his thanks and slipped it into a pouch hanging by a thong at his neck. Touching fingers to forehead, he bent in an elaborate bow. He stepped into the small craft that would take him back to the tall vessel anchored in the harbor’s deeper water. With a nod to the oarsman, he departed.
Cuchullain thrust the message into Niall’s hand. They gripped forearms in farewell, and Cuchullain gave the broad shoulder a hearty thump. Whistling the tune of a favorite drinking song, Niall headed for his ship.
As the last warships filled, Cuchullain bounded to his chariot. Lagan snapped the reins across the twin ebony backs to send the chariot lurching toward higher ground.
Lagan halted the team at the top of the rise. The mares snorted and quivered with fierce excitement. Cuchullain’s pale gray and green cloak fell away from his shoulders as he raised his arms to address the men.
A shrill, throbbing squeal pierced the dusky air. He whipped his head around to see a thick column of smoke erupting from the hills. Nay, not smoke. Night hunters.
Below, the men were pointing and shouting. A portent, they were calling it. Many warriors folded fingers into the sign against evil.
The eerie shrieks lingered among the hills long after the bats had vanished into the twilight.
“My brothers!” Cuchullain called to the men on the beach. He knew his speech would travel to the others quickly once they reassembled on the opposite shore. “My brave Scáthaichean brothers, listen!” And most did. “This be a portent, aye, a portent of victory! For those cries”—every eye was upon him—“they be the cries of the Bhratan warriors fated to die by your mighty swords as ye make their island ours!”
The drumming of spearshafts on timber hulls, the bleating of war-horns, the hoarse shouting: sweet music all. It made Cuchullain wish he had learned the harp, so he could make this hour be remembered in heroic song forever.
IN THE ashen light of dawn, Angusel slipped into the Tanroc stables. Stonn whickered softly at his approach and nosed the saddle pack looped over his sword arm. In the other hand, he carried his bow. A full quiver bounced against his back.
Beaming with affection, he produced the expected treat. As Stonn greedily destroyed the carrot, Angusel set down his burdens to retrieve saddle and bridle from the tack room.
The guardsmen at the palisade gate tower gave him no trouble after he explained that the chief cook had asked him to go bird hunting for the evening meal. It wasn’t exactly a lie; he was going to hunt birds and planned to give the game over when he returned. But the idea was entirely his own.
Within moments, Angusel and Stonn became the first ones of the day to pass through the palisade and hedge gates.
After the fort had disappeared behind the first line of hills, he nudged Stonn into a canter. Soon they were flying along the coastal path toward Maun’s northwestern cliffs, which boasted the best rookeries on the island.
It felt delightfully wicked to miss arms practice. If hunting were good, perhaps he would even escape his mathematics lesson. He was skillful at plain figuring. What use had a warrior for geometry and trigonometry? Those topics were best left to the men who designed buildings and catapults and boats and the like. Their ranks he had no desire to join.
He closed upon his chosen destination. Nearby lay the deep, pine-sheltered hollow that was his favorite blind. But something was wrong this morning. A feathered cloud of screaming, diving bodies was fighting over food on the beach. Or, he realized with quickening pulse, sounding an alarm.
Upon topping the rise, he saw the cause of the birds’ excitement. A fleet! He swallowed thickly. From each mast bulged the crimson S
cáthinach war sail.
He urged Stonn into the hollow, dismounted, and cast the reins over the nearest limb. Bow in hand, he crawled to the lip of the sandy depression. He parted clumps of grass and spine-collared, dusty-blue sea holly for a clearer view.
At least thirty vessels swarmed the cove south of his position. As he watched in shocked disbelief, some were scraping onto the beach in groups of three and four. Others were disgorging their heavily armed occupants. Several men remained with each ship. With much swearing and sweating, the rest pushed the boats back into the water to rejoin the swiftly growing number anchored offshore, safely out of bowshot range from the land.
Angusel was sundered by indecision: fight or fetch help? His first instinct was to rush back to warn Tanroc, but the enemy troops’ movements as they hit the beach convinced him that Tanroc would be their first target.
As strong as it was, Tanroc could not hope to stand long against a force that outnumbered the defenders by four to one.
He added up distances and times, and hated the answer. Divine intervention was the only way Urien’s relief force could arrive fast enough to save Tanroc—or Gyan.
Tears stung his eyes as he pounded his fist into the sand. He had to get back to the fort, to fight at her side and kill as many Scáthinaich as he could before they killed him.
As he rose to mount, he heard footsteps nearby. He ducked and flattened himself against the side of the hollow. Heart thudding like the surf on the beach below, he prayed to all the Old Ones that the person would not discover him. He gripped Stonn’s bridle with whitening knuckles to prevent the stallion from tossing his head.
Someone must have heard his prayer. The man passed a few paces from the hollow but looked only toward the beach seething with Scáthinaich. It was the Dailriatanach herdsman of the black eyepatch, without his cattle. To Angusel’s growing astonishment, the man strode boldly down to meet the enemy troops.
