Shiovra stood still watching Gráinne’s every move warily.
Gráinne suddenly stopped before the priestess, her face slipping into an unreadable mask. “Tell me…” she drawled, her voice hinting malevolence, “do you know what great power Ailill would give me for your capture?”
The woman’s words, spoken so smoothly, sent a chill through Shiovra’s body. She hastily took a step back, only to have Gráinne take one forward.
“Tell me…” Gráinne repeated, tone sickeningly sweet. “Can you grasp the wealth he can offer me from bringing you to him?”
Shiovra took another step back.
“Tell me, Shiovra,” Gráinne demanded in a firm voice.
“His promises are as false as Méav’s!” Shiovra scoffed. “Do you think he will truly grant you power when Méav took all that he had?”
“Lies!” shrieked Gráinne.
Shiovra hardly had time to bring her arms up in defense as Gráinne suddenly pulled a dagger from her belt. The priestess fell back, but not quickly enough. The woman had struck at her, the blade glancing across Shiovra’s right hand, drawing blood.
“You speak lies!” hissed Gráinne. “Ailill can offer me all the power I need to be stronger than Réalta! And then I can bring a glory to Tara that it has never seen!”
Shiovra could see anger and complete madness swimming wildly in the woman’s eyes. “Ailill seeks to destroy Tara!”
“Perhaps, but if I bring you to him, he will no long seek such destruction,” Gráinne insisted. “He seeks retribution for the wrongs mother brought upon him. And you…you not only carry her blood, but also her title. Your life will appease him and Tara shall be left in my hands.” She held the bloodied dagger before her, looking at it in wonder.
The priestess staggered back, holding her wounded hand. “I pity you…” Shiovra breathed, shaking her head.
“Pity me?!” Gráinne spat. She advanced a step, smirking. “We shall see who the one is that should be pitied!” Gráinne raised the dagger again, charging at Shiovra.
Spinning away, Shiovra barely dodged the attack as the blade caught the back of her garments, cutting through the material and missing her flesh by a breath. Stumbling over her own feet, Shiovra fell back against the cottage door, only to have it open behind. Crying out in surprise, the priestess nearly fell to the ground.
Looking around hastily, she found Cúmhéa rising to his feet from the bench he sat upon, his hand reaching for his sword. His hand was stayed, though, as Gráinne walked slowly from the cottage.
Glancing between to the two, Shiovra made a rash decision and began running. She knew there was no escape from the ringfort with Méav’s huntsmen about. What she needed was a place to hide from Gráinne. Running around the main cottage, she barely dodged the notice of two men standing guard.
Shoving open the door of a small cottage near the one she had been imprisoned in, she rushed in and slammed it shut. Shiovra looked around hastily for anything that could be used as a weapon or to bar the door with.
The cottage was nearly empty and horribly dark. In the dim light drifting through cracks in the wicker door, the priestess could only see a feeble table standing off to the left. With a grunt, Shiovra pushed against the door. It would not hold out long, but it was all she could do.
Moving to the far end of the cottage, she leaned against a wall in the dark. Her entire body trembled with fear and exhaustion and she found herself sagging to the ground. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she buried her face in her hands. With all the power under her control, she had not been strong enough to defend herself.
For a while, Shiovra sat in silence with no hint that Gráinne had continued to pursue her. Yet she would not let her guard down so easily. Forcing her breathing to calm, she began to gather the energies surround her.
Her focus was a suddenly interrupted by a loud thud on the door.
The priestess flinched.
“Shiovra!” called Gráinne’s voice from the other side of the door. “Open the door, sweetling! I know you hide in there!”
Shiovra rose unsteadily to her feet but did not move from her place as Gráinne assaulted the door. Clenching her hand, she winced in pain from her wound. Blood streamed down her hand from the injury, leaving a crimson trail down her arm and staining her garments. Closing her eyes, Shiovra tried to gather her focus once more. With what energy she could muster, she began to create a protective circle around her should her barricade fail.
51
5. RESISTANCE
Daire and Odhrán came to the far side of the forest, looking at Méav’s domain. For days they had carefully considered the ringfort’s strengths and weaknesses, how many lackeys followed Méav and when huntsmen at the gates changed posts. All that remained was to wait for the coming of sunset.
As nightfall approached, an eerie fog had settled over Caher Dearg. Thunder rumbled deeply through the air and a dour, tense quietness settled around them. The ground hummed beneath their feet as an abrupt flash of violet lightning clawed mercilessly across the sky above the village.
The time to act was drawing near.
Daire turned away, face stolid as he pulled his cloak tighter about himself. Cursing, he kicked a rock in his anger. Something felt off and he did not like it one bit. Glancing at Odhrán as he sat crouching behind some brush, he realized the man felt it as well.
Odhrán turned away from the village, looking at him. “This is going to be dangerous,” he said in a low voice. “The need for haste is essential.”
“Are you certain we will be able to find her quickly enough?” asked Daire. Apprehension gripped him tightly and he couldn’t shake the feeling that their rescue plan would only lead to their capture. They were sorely outnumbered and the odds of success were slim, but he agreed with the Milidh man that it was a necessary risk.
“There is no certainty, only the need to,” replied Odhrán quietly.
Over the warm breeze came voices from behind.
Both men became suddenly still.
Daire turned towards the direction of the voices, searching the growing darkness. For a moment he saw nothing, and then the shadowed form of figures approached.
Daire’s hand flew to his bow. “Were we spotted?” he breathed to Odhrán, wrapping his hands around the smooth wood of his bow. Bringing it up slowly, he knocked and an arrow ready.
The voices stopped, but the sound of footsteps approaching did not.
Daire waited, ready to attack at a moment’s notice.
As they approached close enough for the light of the setting sun to fall upon them, they came to a sudden halt.
“Daire?” came Meara’s voice softly.
Relief washed over Daire and he released his breath roughly. Rising to his feet, he walked towards the small group. Never before had he been so overjoyed to see the Neimidh woman.
Meara, on the other hand, did not appear quite as pleased as he. Behind her stood the small band of warriors she held command over. “What a fine mess you have gotten yourself in,” she chided harshly, arms crossed. “You declined my offer to escort you to Dún Fiáin and now look what has happened! The Lady Shiovra has been taken! You should be lucky that I chose to follow you. Next time, do not be so callous to brush off my offer!”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Méav found Gráinne attacking a cottage door in frenzy with a blood covered dagger. The woman’s hands were also stained with the very same blood. Méav’s eyes narrowed on Gráinne as she realized just who had incited the woman’s anger. Hastening to her daughter’s side, the seized her by the wrists and restrained her.
“What are you doing, Gráinne?!” hissed Méav, pulling her daughter away. “What have you done? We need her alive, you foolish child!” She wrenched the dagger from Gráinne’s hands and cast it aside violently.
Gráinne spun to face Méav, face livid. “No, her death is the only way! Ailill promised…”
“Foolish wench of a daughter!” Méav reprimanded, striking Gráinne h
ard across the face. “Have you cast your lot with that sniveling man? His promises are nothing! What did he offer you? Power? Wealth? It matters not what he promises, if you hand Shiovra to him or kill her, it will only be another blow to us! He allies with the Milidh!”
Gráinne took a staggering step back, brining a hand up to her cheek. She opened her mouth to speak, but was stayed by the low note of a battle horn.
Méav gestured to the main cottage. “You, get inside and stay put,” she ordered.
Gráinne did not protest, obeying.
Méav spun to face a huntsman who approached “Guard the priestess so she does not try and flee,” she told the man. Bending, Méav grabbed the dagger, clenching it tightly in her hand. “I have other matters to attend to…”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Odhrán made his way swiftly through the chaos that unfolded within Caher Dearg. With the help of Meara and her men, Odhrán and Daire had infiltrated the ringfort with little difficulties. While Méav’s huntsmen were busy attending to the threat brought on by Meara, the two men began their search.
As he ran past a small cottage, Odhrán came to a pause. A trail of blood dotted the ground, leading to a wicker-work door that had been severely damaged. Pushing the door open cautiously, he found Shiovra crumpled on the floor at the far end of the cottage. The trail of blood led straight to her, adorning her right hand and clothing.
Odhrán’s eyes shifted to the huntsman who had yet to notice his presence. Moving quietly, he reached inside his tunic and pulled out a light dagger. Taking aim, he hurled it at the man, striking him from behind.
The huntsman let out a guttural cry before falling lifeless to the ground.
Odhrán turned swiftly to Shiovra, crouching down beside her and touching her hand. “Shiovra,” he breathed, worry in his voice. “Shiovra!”
The priestess stirred slightly, moaning. She opened her eyes and blinked, then frowned as she took notice of him. “Odhrán…?” she asked uncertainly, and then sat up hastily. “Gráinne!” Shiovra looked around in panic before her eyes fell on the unmoving body of the huntsman.
“We need to get you out of here,” urged Odhrán, pulling off his outer tunic and handing it to her.
Shiovra nodded, slipping it over her tattered garments.
Odhrán grabbed her hand helped her to her feet. Giving a quick look at her wounded hand, he cursed the lack of time to properly clean and bind it. Escape from Caher Dearg was of the utmost importance, wounds could be tended to later once they were safely away.
“Where is Daire?” she asked through breaths as he led her towards the front of the village.
Odhrán made no reply.
“Where is my cousin?” Shiovra asked more frantically.
“He is about.”
The priestess did not question him further.
Guiding her towards the main gates, Odhrán easily slipped through the fray that shifted around them. Glancing at the priestess, he found her searching faces as they ran past them. The main gates were in sight, but they were not free yet.
Cúmhéa stood waiting with his blade drawn and a wicked grin upon his lips.
Odhrán slowed his pace, releasing Shiovra’s hand. Placing himself between the priestess and Cúmhéa, he said calmly, “Let me deal with this hound. You have been through enough.”
Shiovra nodded silently, clutching her wounded hand to her chest.
The Milidh man walked slowly towards Cúmhéa. He did not draw his weapons; he would not need them.
Cúmhéa paid Odhrán little heed, his eyes focused solely on the priestess. “You…” he drawled, pointing his blade directly at Shiovra. He stalked slowly towards her. “Where do you think you are going, wench?” he growled. “You are mine, wench. You will be mine!”
“Never,” Shiovra told him bitterly.
Odhrán advanced upon the man. “I will not allow you to lay your filthy hands on the priestess. Stand down!”
Cúmhéa only laughed cruelly. “It seems you need to be taught that the Hound of Mide is not to be trifled with!” he shouted, charging at Odhrán.
A smirk crossed Odhrán’s lips. He had expected such a response. Waiting a moment he then slipped to the side, dodging the attack with ease. In a swift movement, he swung his foot up, striking Cúmhéa in the chest and sending the man stumbling back a few paces.
“Damn you, Milidh cur!” swore Cúmhéa, regaining his footing. His breathing had become labored with the force of the assault. Raising his blade once more, he carelessly rushed in.
“Tch.” Odhrán made to dodge once more but, Cúmhéa had caught onto his ruse and adjusted his attack quickly. The blade sliced across Odhrán’s side, cutting through his tunic and breaking the skin. Odhrán did not let the wound stop him. Moving quickly, he spun and brought his fist up, striking Cúmhéa hard in the face. Without pause, he shifted into a defensive position and prepared for another attack.
Cúmhéa staggered for a moment, disoriented. With a groan, he toppled to the ground.
The Milidh man stood waiting, partially expecting the huntsman to shake off the blow and rise for the attack once more. Odhrán knew he should finish the man off, but the priestess had been through enough already without him killing the man before her eyes.
“Odhrán…”
Shiovra’s voice drew his attention. Odhrán turned to her, catching her hand within his own again. “Come. We need to leave,” he told her calmly. Glancing down at the man one last time, he pulled Shiovra from the ring-fort and through a throng of huntsmen preoccupied with battle. Over the din he heard Meara call for her men to retreat.
Nightfall was quickly taking over as the sun sank deeper beneath the horizon. The din of battle gradually faded away as they made their flight from Caher Dearg, a heavy quite settling around them. The darkness of the woods gave off a threatening feeling that even began to make Odhrán feel unease.
Pain laced through his side persistently, reminding the Milidh man he still had a gaping wound that needed tending to. Releasing Shiovra’s hand, Odhrán clutched his side tightly. Blood had long stained his tunic, making it cling to his wound. He would bear the pain, needed to bear it, until they were a safe distance away.
“Your wounds need tending to.”
Odhrán turned to look at the priestess and found that she had come to a pause. “Not until we are a safe distance away,” he said firmly. “Caher Dearg is still a threat.”
“Then we will remove that threat,” Shiovra snapped. She turned and began to walk back towards the village.
“What are you doing?!” he demanded angrily, grabbing her arm.
Frowning, the priestess tugged her arm free. “Teaching Méav a lesson!” she answered shortly.
Odhrán seized her arm once more.
She cast him a sidelong glance, her words spoken through gritted teeth, “Either help me or release me.”
He cursed under his breath and released her arm. They would both be risking much in their weakened states, the threat of danger still lingering. Exhaling, Odhrán dropped down to a knee and brought his hands to the ground. It began to throb and shudder beneath his palms.
All around them the wind picked up, moaning as it wove through the trees. A deep thunder sounded, like a growl that was ripped from the very center of the earth.
“Now,” said Shiovra.
Pushing his hands forward a bit, the ground suddenly heaved like a restless sea towards Caher Dearg. And immense groaning resounded from deep beneath the ring-fort. Blue flames sprung to life, consuming the village.
Beside him, the priestess brought a hand up. “You will submit, Méav!”
Lightning crackled in the sky, clawing viciously at Caher Dearg while the outer wall trembled, the thick logs threatening to topple over. The earth heaved, sending cottages crumbling down into broken heaps. Thunder clapped in a deafening roar. The wind gathered strength, shrieking as it slammed into Caher Dearg.
And, as suddenly as the onslaught had begun, it quickly ended when the rin
g-fort finally broke, falling in defeat. An utter and complete silence followed.
Shiovra sagged to her knees beside him, breathing heavily.
Odhrán straightened, wincing as pain rippled through his side in protest of the movement. “Are you all right?” he asked, looking the woman over. He could see she had exhausted a great deal of her strength, as had he. The paleness in her face concerned him.
“Aye…” she replied.
With a grunt, Odhrán clambered to his feet and pulled the woman to her own. “We need to get moving,” he told her. “We cannot be sure that huntsmen did not escape Caher Dearg’s downfall.”
Shiovra nodded quietly, grabbing his arm and swinging it over her shoulders for support. She then wrapped her arm about his waist to help. “Let us make haste then.”
With a painful exhale, Odhrán began to walk deeper into the black woods. Their pace was terribly slow, burdened by his wound and the lack of moonlight to illuminate their path. The forest was far too quiet; there were no shouts on the wind, no call of animals, only utter quiet.
Odhrán took a moment to pause, closing his eyes against a wave of pain.
“We should stop,” Shiovra suggested anxiously.
Opening his eyes, he shook his head. “Not until we are safe…” he breathed roughly, taking a step forward. “We need to get out of here.”
“No,” the priestess said firmly, tightening her hold on his waist and keeping him from moving, “not until I bind your wound. You have lost too much blood as is.”
Exhaling painfully, he nodded. Pulling his arm from her shoulders, Odhrán moved to lean against a tree. He knew they should not stop, but the priestess was right. He had lost too much blood and if it was not tended to, he would not survive. “Aye…give me just a moment…” Grabbing the hem of his tunic, he began to pull it up.
Shiovra reached a hand towards him. “Let me help…” she began.
“No.” The harshness to his tone made Shiovra pull back. Odhrán tugged his tunic off and looked down to inspect his injury. The wound Cúmhéa had given him looked angry, a piece of his tunic embedded within it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Shiovra approach carefully.
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 12
