Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8

by Christy Nicholas

  Cailte furrowed his brow. “She laughed? Did you tell her a joke?”

  “I’d said nothing yet at this point. Her laugh wasn’t the sort you give for a joke. Her laugh scratched at my bones, harsh against my soul. The cackle spoke of death, the hysterical laughter of tortured children, and bloody heads rotting on the battlefield.”

  Fingin drew in his breath. He knew who this woman must have been.

  One of the younger warriors sprang to his feet, anger in his eyes. “You saw the Morrigú? Liar! Why would she appear to you?”

  Normally, an accusation of lying would require a fight to settle the insult. However, Fearghus simply nodded, refusing to rise to the other man’s words.

  “Aye, and I had no doubt. This creature came of the night, of the dark, of the dead.”

  Another warrior spoke in a voice a little too shrill. “Was she beautiful?”

  With a half-smile, Fearghus closed his eyes. “Beautiful and terrible at the same time. She held the type of beauty you hope never to see in your lifetime, the type of beauty you would sell your life for.”

  “What did she do next?”

  Fearghus took another deep breath. “She touched my forehead, and I shut my eyes, knowing I would be dead in a moment. And yet… nothing happened. I felt no touch from the goddess. Instead, when I opened my eyes again, she’d disappeared. Not even a depression upon the sand remained where she had been but a moment ago.”

  A few nervous laughs from the other warriors died quickly in the silence. One of the younger men coughed, and another sneezed.

  Fingin shivered. Having met a goddess himself recently, he could understand how unsettled Fearghus would have been at such an encounter. While Brigit had as much, if not more, power as the Morrigú, a goddess of healing, inspiration, and smithcraft should be much less terrifying than a goddess of magic, battle, and sovereignty. No one craved to meet the Morrigú. No one with any shred of sanity.

  In the somber quiet that followed Fearghus’ tale, several warriors cleaned up after their sparse feast. Fingin walked to a nearby bush to relieve himself, though he received a few glances of surprise since he’d just gone before the story. While he remained out of sight from the rest of the company, he pulled his nettles from his bag and, with quick swipes, rubbed them on his cheeks, his forehead, and his hands. For good measure, he touched a few places on his arms.

  The welts turned red, and the itch burned. No matter. If the price he must pay for his own safety hurt, then so be it.

  He returned to the warriors and bent to help them clean the fire like nothing felt wrong. He bent over, groaning and holding his stomach, as if in great gut pain.

  Fearghus laughed. “Boy? What happened, boy? Is your belly too delicate for man’s food? Would you like us to prepare some buttermilk and soften the bread for you? Maybe I should chew it up and spit it in your mouth like a bird?”

  Fingin fell on his side, moaning and writhing. The warriors now had a full view of the reddened welts on his face and hands. They backed up a step and exchanged nervous glances.

  Bran barked, an assault on his ears. Fingin hadn’t had time to tell Bran the plan, so he would have to reassure him later. Besides, it might work better if the dog thought he had truly fallen ill. He just hoped it drove them far away.

  Cailte peered down at him. “What have you got all over your face, there? Did you find some raspberries? Do you not know how to aim for your mouth?”

  He shook his head and groaned again, pressing his palms into his belly. He curled further into a fetal position, praying to all the gods they would leave him here to die.

  Fearghus poked him with his foot, prodding his shoulder. “This came on sudden. You seemed fine earlier.”

  Cailte crossed his arms and scowled. “Do you think it’s a trick?”

  “I do. We ate the same things he did, and we’re not covered in splotches.”

  One of the other men rushed up to Cailte and handed him something using his glove. Fingin couldn’t see what he held, but he could guess. Some enterprising warrior had searched and found his discarded nettles.

  The leader nodded. “Grab him.”

  Fingin tried to punch back, but one thin young man against nine trained warriors would never be a fair fight. He struggled and wiggled, pulling one arm free, but another man grabbed it a second later. Bran jumped on one man, pushing him down to the ground, and sunk his teeth into his arm. The warrior howled, and another warrior kicked the dog. He kept kicking Bran as the dog tried to rise and defeat his foe.

  “Bran! Sean! Run!”

  Startled, the donkey brayed and reared before galloping off into the woods. Bran hesitated, sending him a guilty look before following Sean.

  Fearghus sent four of the men to round the animals up, thinking they’d only been spooked. They’d have no way of knowing the beasts had understood what Fingin said. He hoped they both escaped. Bran had shown no wounds, but he could have been bruised or broken by the kicks.

  His own punishment came swift and painful. A dozen hard kicks to his ribs made something crack inside. Every part of him ached, sharp kicks into his midriff making light flash into his mind.

  With a moment’s consideration, Cailte took aim at his cheek, kicking him so hard his neck snapped back, and he saw a flashing light. Three more blows, and the darkness enfolded him.

  Chapter Six

  He floated in clouds made of obsidian shards. Every twitch brought intense pain, but he had to move to avoid the spikes which swam around him. Something cold and wet fell on his face. He tried to push it away, but it returned, howling and grunting.

  Time meant nothing. His body had become detached, but it still sent notes of agony to his mind. How would he escape the throbbing? The anguish? Tears wouldn’t come.

  The wet returned. He touched the source. Something hairy? Warm. The warmth moaned and whined.

  “Fingin? Fingin, open your eyes. We’re back. The bad men are gone. They didn’t find us. Wake up.”

  Fingin tried, but they remained shut. He gingerly touched his face, finding nothing but a mass of tender skin. No wonder his eyes wouldn’t open. The blows Cailte had rained upon his face had blackened both eyes. They’d swollen shut.

  “Water. I need water.”

  He didn’t know how either beast would get him water. The warriors probably stole all his belongings. But he felt something bump his hand. He grasped it and discovered his own waterskin. It must have been on Sean’s pannikins.

  Fingin sipped with caution, through cracked and bloody lips. After swishing the water a few times with ginger motions, he spat out the copper-tasting blood. Clenching his jaw, his teeth seemed sound but achy. It would take a long time for his face and ribs to heal.

  Heal. He remembered Brigit’s charm and pulled it out of his shirt. He sent thanks the warriors hadn’t found and stolen it. He clutched it close to his heart, not knowing how it worked. With a vague memory of his parents’ actions at their religious house, he passed it over his eyes and his ribs, grunting with pain when he moved his arm.

  Nothing happened, but the goddess had warned him the healing would be slow. No matter. He would mend. For now, though, they needed to move. The warriors might return to finish their work.

  “Bran, are you hurt?”

  The hound woofed once. “My side hurts, but not too bad. My former friend hurt me worse.”

  With a silent curse for the former “friend,” Fingin asked, “Sean, did they hurt you at all? Do you still have the packs?”

  “I’m too fast for them. The packs aren’t heavy.”

  He chuckled and then groaned because his ribs shifted again. “Oh, please don’t make me laugh. But well done, both of you. Now, I need to get up. I can’t see, and it hurts to move. Bran, can you stand next to me as I get on my feet? Sean, I may need to pull on your bridle.”

  The animals moved within reach. With much grunting and grumbling, he pulled himself to his knees and then to his feet. He almost passed out from the pain, but gritted hi
s teeth and persevered.

  “In the pannikin, I have some cloth. I need to wrap it around my middle. I think it’s on the left side. Can you move so I can get to it?”

  Sean shuffled around as Fingin stood still, almost stumbling when the solid strength of the donkey shifted. He felt the pannikin and snaked his hand into the pack. He found one of the léinte and hoped it would reach all the way around him.

  “I wish I had some rope. But Sean’s bridle will have to do. You don’t need it anyhow, right? You’re not planning on running off?”

  “I’ll stay with you. You feed me.”

  He winced. “I said, stop making me laugh.”

  Bran woofed, and Sean scraped his hoof a few times on the dirt.

  He wrapped the fabric around his ribs, and after several tries, tied the bridle around that. It helped to keep him from bending too much.

  “How late in the day is it? Is the sun setting?”

  Bran answered, “The dark is coming.”

  “We need to walk toward the sunset. Can you lead us, Bran? I have to walk next to Sean with my hand on his flank, so pay attention to where I’m walking. We can rest after a league, I think.”

  Bran yipped a few times. Leaves rustled as he ran here and there. “I can’t see the sun. The clouds are in the way.”

  “Do you remember which direction we came from?”

  Another bark. “I can smell it.”

  “Then we should head in the opposite direction, continuing our journey. Oh, wait! The Fianna might have gone that way. Can you smell where they went?”

  Snuffling the ground for a few moments, Bran barked. “Yes!”

  “We don’t want to go the same way. We can turn back west when we are well away from here. Let’s head south. Bran, stand in front of me the direction we came from.” The dog did so. “Now, which direction did the Fianna go?”

  Bran barked. “This way.” They must have headed in the same line they’d traveled before.

  Fingin turned about a quarter circle from the latter, facing south. “We’ll head this way for a league and sleep for the night. In the morning, we can head west again.”

  He stumbled within the first three steps, falling on his hands and knees. “Curse the crows!” With much muttering about his own clumsiness, he picked himself up with Sean and Bran’s help. The palms of his hands burned with a raw rash from his fall.

  “Bran, you must be my eyes. I can’t see stones, roots, bushes. Choose the smoothest path you can find. Let me know if I need to step taller.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Bran’s long legs and small paws walked almost effortlessly through low brush, but without knowing when to lift his feet higher than normal, Fingin didn’t have this ability. It took some refinement and adjustment, but Bran learned how to lead him.

  By the time a human would have needed to stop because of the darkness, they hadn’t gotten very far. However, Bran saw better than any human, so they continued until the last vestige of the setting sun expired. Fingin didn’t even bother setting up camp. Instead, he curled up next to Sean’s side, with Bran against his back.

  Fingin’s entire body ached and throbbed. All his leg muscles, unused to the unusual method of walking, jumped and twitched. Normally, he didn’t walk so far each day, and this day had the added difficulty of the beating he’d received. His face pulsed in a mass of agony, now that he had nothing else to concentrate on. After a few times, he tried not to touch his swollen eyes or nose. He’d splashed it with cool water, but the burning skin stung worse than ever.

  Sleep eluded him. He needed rest, despite his brief bout with unconsciousness. Yet dreams wouldn’t come. Perhaps no dreams would be a blessing.

  * * *

  As morning dawned, Bran roused, chasing after the birds singing in the bushes. Fingin rose, a glimmer of light filtering through the swollen slits of his eyes. He needed to greet the dawn. He’d missed the chance the last few mornings, but today the sky seemed clear.

  Fingin found east, sat cross-legged, and breathed deep. With each breath, he drew in the land’s power, the rising sun, and the beauty of the dawn, from what he could see. The tonic suffused him with healing energy, and Brigit’s pendant warmed.

  He placed his hand on it, almost burning his already injured palm. It pulsated with tingling energy. The throb in his skin ebbed, though it didn’t flee entirely.

  When Fingin completed the morning ceremony, his muscles ached much less than they had when he first rose. His skin remained tender, but not painful. Brigit’s pendant had already helped some. He threw a thankful prayer to the goddess.

  After a quick meal from his packs, and some oats for Sean, they headed west, away from the rising sun, and reflected on the events of the day before.

  His plan hadn’t worked. While it extracted him from the Fianna, he’d almost died with the process. He wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself if Bran or Sean had been harmed or taken by the rough warriors.

  How would he prevent such an encounter again? While even his luck made running into the same band unlikely, Fianna groups wandered all around the island. Some might be more honorable than that one. Some might be less. He shouldn’t risk another beating; he might not survive the next one.

  The trees opened to a long, flat glade. No longer blind, he traveled faster. However, he still had to watch his step. His eyes weren’t all the way open yet, and the edges of his vision blurred. He stopped to survey the view, noting a low cliff to the right and a gentle slope to the left. The glint of water in the bright sun drew his attention.

  He focused his gaze and traced the glittering ribbon and realized the river grew wide as it curved. The forest line obscured the view from there. It might be easier to follow the water to the ocean. The shore might make for a smoother path.

  The group moved down the slope, picking their way along a rocky field. When they reached the water, they all stared.

  Fingin had grown up along An Ruirthech River. He’d always thought it broad and swift, filled with plenty of fish for his daily cast. This river, however, made the other seem like a trickling brook. He barely saw the other side through the roiling mist. The current flowed rough and strong, pulling debris along with alarming speed.

  He glanced back at the trees, nervous in case anyone saw them in the open, exposed. Then his eyes returned to the river.

  If he fashioned a raft for the three of them, they might travel down the river, free from the danger of Fianna, bandits, or other evil men. They’d reach the western shore much more quickly, besides.

  “Bran, we need to find downed trees. At least… ten.”

  “Ten? Is that more than two?”

  He closed his eyes. He’d forgotten Bran didn’t understand numbers. “Just keep finding more until I say we have enough. Sean, I’ll need your help in dragging them here. I’ll build a raft. We also need twine, but I have plenty of that.”

  Bran ran into the woods and barked when he found a log. Fingin and Sean followed to assess what he’d discovered. The first two were too slim, while the third was so gnarled it seemed like a knotted rope. The fourth, however, had once stood straight and tall.

  Fingin used Sean’s bridle and his own twine to attach the log. He searched in his pack through Brigit’s supplies and shouted in triumph when he found a small hand-axe.

  With much pain and effort, he chopped off the protruding branches. He hacked at the trunk for a long time and only made it halfway through before he had to stop.

  He retrieved his waterskin from Sean and gave some to both the dog and the donkey. A wizened apple and some jerked meat, and his stomach quieted. A sharp snap made him jump up, axe in hand, but rather than Fianna, he only saw a squirrel. Bran chased off the intruder with furious barks.

  After a great deal of work, he won through the thick trunk and trussed it to Sean’s bridle. Several shouted orders later, and a few scary moments when he thought the trunk would slide down the slope, taking poor Sean with it, they made it to a flat space on the sh
ore. The low beach would be an ideal spot to assemble the raft.

  Now they just had to do all that nine more times.

  This might take a few days. Maybe this wouldn’t be faster. Still, it would be safer than walking the forest paths. Presumably.

  They got two more deadfall trees trimmed and down to the beach before he needed to stop for a longer break. The sweat streamed down Fingin’s face and on Sean’s flanks as he pulled out both oats and jerked fish. He gave some to Bran, who played with it before he ate it, flipping it into the air and pouncing on it several times.

  The sun roasted the top of his head now. He wished for an overcast day, but he shouldn’t complain. This task would be more difficult in the rain. He might cool down in the river if he wanted to risk that current.

  After his meal, he brushed down Sean’s coat, getting the worst of the wood chips and dust off, and sluiced some river water over his flanks to cool him down. Bran jumped into the water, luckily finding a shallow pool protected by a rocky outcropping.

  When Bran returned to shore, he shook his coat, covering both Fingin and Sean with a fresh splash of river water.

  With a splutter, Fingin said, through a clenched jaw, “Thank you, Bran. That’s exactly what I needed.”

  Bran’s tongue hung out. “You’re welcome!”

  Fingin gave a grim smile at the dog’s innocent answer and sent him to find a fourth log.

  They only finished six logs the first day. Fingin realized his muscles hadn’t ached nearly as much as they should. He gingerly tested his ribs, but they seemed sound. His face still stung, but the swelling around his eyes had retreated to almost normal. “Bran, what color is my face?”

  “Color?”

  “I mean, is my face bruised, or is it normal?”

  Bran cocked his head as if listening. “What’s bruised?”

  “Purple and black, as it must have been after those men beat me.”

  “Oh! It’s still dark here and there. It’s almost normal. Splotchy.”

  He grinned, the smile pulling on his aching skin. “That’s what I wanted to know.”

  The welts from his misbegotten nettle plan had also faded from his hands. He knew who he should thank for such rapid healing.