Shiovra followed the movement of his hand, curious, before realizing that he was wiping away her tears. Reaching quivering hands up, she clutched his tunic tightly in her fists, unable to shake the fear racking through her body. “I saw Ainmire…dead…”
Odhrán arms wrapped around her tightly and her murmured, “It was but a dream, only that.”
She felt a hand come to rest on her head as Daire’s voice said, “I am sure Ainmire is alive and well. But, if it will ease your mind, we can depart for Tara come morning.”
Shiovra nodded mutely against Odhrán’s chest.
“Daire, wake Artis and Eiladyr, inform them that the priestess will be departing,” Odhrán said.
“Aye,” replied Daire.
“I will fetch some water for Lady Shiovra,” stated Meara.
Darkness fell over Shiovra and Odhrán as the curtain fell shut.
The priestess remained quiet, struggling to calm her heart. She knew it had been a warning. Everything thing she had seen, everything she had felt, was a warning; a warning she would not ignore. Ainmire’s life was in danger, of that she was certain. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper when she broke the silence. “I am afraid…”
Odhrán pulled her tighter against his body and buried his face into her hair. “Shhh…” he murmured softly. “It will be all right. Ainmire will be all right.”
89
9. JOURNEY HOME
Dour silence had settled once again upon Ráth Faolchú in wake of the companions impending departure. Little sleep came after the priestess spoke with Artis about her dream. The Neimidh man, wishing to aid in their speedy return to Tara, found horses and prepared provisions for their journey. It was decided that Meara’s men would remain in the village and, once all preparations were complete, they would accompany what warriors Artis could spare to Tara.
Shiovra stood beside her horse, double checking that her pack was secure. Her gaze shifted over to Odhrán as he stood talking with Eiladyr and Artis. Though she could not hear what was spoken, she had a feeling they were planning tactics should battle indeed come to them.
After a while, the men approached her as she waited by the main gates with Meara.
Artis offered a sad smile. “I gave you a good supply of provisions within the packs,” he told them. “There should be enough to get you Tara.”
Shiovra nodded, replying, “You have our gratitude.”
“Be wary of watchers, Ailill’s sight stretches far,” he warned. “I shall have my men to you with great haste. Please, be careful on your journey home, Lady Shiovra.”
“I thank you, Artis,” said Shiovra. “Tara is in your debt.”
The man shook his head. “No, it is our honor to aid in protecting Tara,” Artis told her.
Odhrán placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We should be on our way,” he urged. “We want to cover as much ground as we can before nightfall.”
The priestess nodded. “Merry Part,” she told Artis.
He smiled and replied, “Until we meet again.”
Grabbing the reins, Shiovra Climbed astride her horse and waited for her companions to follow suit. Glancing at Eiladyr, she found the man had stopped short of mounting his steed and stared at her with a raised brow. “Is something the matter?”
“I have never seen a lady ride astride a horse before,” he admitted.
“Shiovra has ridden like that since she fell of a horse as a child,” informed Daire as he climbed astride his own steed. “She has refused to ride like a lady ever since.”
Shiovra ignored her cousin and turned to the people of Ráth Faolchú, who had gathered for her departure. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home. You kindness shall not be forgotten. I do hope to be able to return here soon.”
“We look forward to your return,” Artis said with a smile. “Safe journey, companions.”
Bidding their farewell to the villagers, Odhrán took the lead with Daire and Shiovra following while Eiladyr and Meara took the rear. The gates of Ráth Faolchú closed silently behind them.
Shiovra pulled her mare to a slow, glancing at the village she knew lay concealed behind bramble and vine. With a smile and nod to the men she knew watched their departure, the priestess gave her horse a light kick and continued on.
Odhrán silently guided them through the woods, slowing pace on occasion, but never stopping. They rode quietly for a long while, their silence matching the woods surrounding them. Flitting sunlight drifted down through leaves that rustled and swayed in the gentle breeze. Birds chirped softly, singing their sweet songs cheerily to one another as the companions passed below.
Despite the tranquility surrounding her, Shiovra’s thoughts continued to linger on the death and destruction she had foreseen. She would do all in her power to prevent such a future from befalling anyone. If she could not protect the life of one man, how would she be able to keep an entire village from harm?
When the trees began to thin and a meadow lay in the distance, Odhrán finally broke the silence. “We should rest here before journeying out in the open,” said the Milidh man. Pulling his steed to a halt, he climbed down and tethering it to a tree. “Eat quickly; I want to clear that field as quickly as possible. We do not know what eyes may be watching.”
Shiovra slipped down from her horse and stretched. They had not been riding long, but with the lack of sleep, soreness had already begun to creep into her body.
Eiladyr came to a halt beside her, clambering down from his horse and nearly getting his foot caught in the horse’s reins. Stumbling, he flashed the priestess a grin. “Heh…it has been a while since I have ridden a horse…”
Offering the man a soft smile, Shiovra tended to her horse, making sure the reins were secure and offering the mare some food.
Silence slowly crept back over the companions as Odhrán distributed provisions to everyone. For a long while, they ate without a word spoken.
“How long till we reach Tara?” Eiladyr asked abruptly.
“A week’s travel at a steady pace,” Daire replied. “Once we cross that field, though, we will be dangerously close to the ruins of Caher Dearg. Avoiding it will add a few more days on our journey, but would probably be for the best.”
Shiovra glanced up. “Yet it might also be the safest place for us to be at the moment,” she added softly, catching the attention of her companions. “Caher Dearg has fallen. Méav and Gráinne have fled. Many huntsmen lie beneath the ruins and those who have survived no longer linger,” Shiovra explained. “Caher Dearg is abandoned. Neither the enemy, nor ally would tarry there.”
Odhrán nodded his agreement. “Shiovra is right,” he stated bluntly. “It is the best place to keep from the eyes of the enemy. Caher Dearg is where we should make camp for the night.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Eiladyr came to a pause as they left the open field to once more set foot in the woods. His memories of the forest were quite far from fond. And though he knew that Caher Dearg was no longer a threat and that the huntsmen he had tracked no longer present, he was not eager to tread the woods quite so soon. His concerns did not lie entirely with Caher Dearg, though.
Glancing at the priestess, he took in how pale she looked. He knew she had gotten little sleep and it was clearly taking a toll on the woman. As he made to continue after the others, Eiladyr felt a deathly icy chill race up his spine. Turning sharply, his eyes drifted over the open field behind them.
Not far behind them a misshapen creature suddenly ducked down in the grass, but not before Eiladyr had taken notice of its unusual appearance. It’s pale eyes were borderline white with slit pupils. Bony webbed hands with sharp nails much like claws clutched a long spear. The creatures flesh bore a sickly undertone and was flecked with scales while it’s hair was thin and scraggly.
It was not the lone creature lurking dangerously close to the small group of companions that sent fear through Eiladyr’s body, but what lurked beyond it. Coming over the hill off in the distance were sever
al more creatures, some bearing fins and only one eye; all well armed and heading straight for them.
“Eh…uh…” stammered Eiladyr.
“First you forget how to dismount a horse and now you have forgotten how to speak?” snickered Daire, turning slowly.
Unable to speak anymore, he gestured wildly towards the misshapen creatures making their way towards the small group of companions.
Sudden fear washed over the group. Those who had once been walking had hastily mounted their steeds and quickened their pace.
“How long have they been behind us?” whispered Meara anxiously.
Eiladyr shrugged, trying in vain to appear calm, but failing horribly. “What are they?”
“The cursed ones…” muttered Meara “Cruelty risen from the sea.”
“They are Fomorii,” Daire replied quietly, his voice hard.
He recognized Fomorii as one of the other clans, but Eiladyr knew little of them aside from that. The misshapen creatures sent fear through his body that even Méav and her huntsmen could not achieve.
“Fomorii…” Daire continued darkly. “They are an ancient, vicious clan who once laid claim to Éire. The seas are under their control and their power dark. During the Great Invasions, they were led by Balor.”
“Balor?” inquired Eiladyr.
“The one-eyed lord of death,” Shiovra answered abruptly. “He was the most formidable of the Fomorii, their chieftain. His single eye was so dreadful that he could destroy whatever he looked upon. He was slain by his own grandson, Lugh, Ethlinn’s son and champion of the Túatha Dé Danann. Lugh, like Daire, was half Fomorii and half Túath.”
“They follow,” Odhrán told them. “We need to quicken our pace and try to lose them.” Giving his horse a swift kick he urged it into a steady gallop.
Eiladyr could only hope that Caher Dearg’s reputation is enough to keep the Fomorii at bay.
Keeping a steady pace, they pressed the horses until the sun began to sink lower in the sky and nightfall crept into the woods. Entering a clearing, Caher Dearg stood dark and broken, illuminated briefly by moonlight through shifting clouds. Though desolate and ruined, the dangerous air continued to linger.
Eiladyr could not bring himself to look away from Shiovra. Concern worked a knot in his stomach. The priestess’ face had become even paler and she had slumped forward, her cheek resting against the horse’s mane. Shifting his steed closer, Eiladyr reached a hand out to touch the woman’s check. Her skin was burning beneath his touch. Catching the mare’s reins in his hand, he announced, “Shiovra is not well.”
“We rest here for the night,” Odhrán stated, pulling his steed to a halt and dismounting. Handing his reins to Meara, he approached Eiladyr. “Help me get the priestess down.”
Nodding, Eiladyr climbed from his horse and helped the Milidh man slip the priestess from hers. Laying the woman on the ground away from the horses, Eiladyr removed his cloak and laid it lightly over Shiovra. He watched as Odhrán crouched down beside the priestess and placed the back of his hand against Shiovra’s forehead and his own for comparison.
Straightening, Odhrán swore under his breath. “We need to bring her around and break her fever Daire, have you learned enough about herbs to find what is needed from Shiovra’s pack?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. When Daire nodded, he turned to Eiladyr. “Gather some kindling and build a fire.”
Eiladyr hastened back into the woods, gathering as many dry branches and tufts of grass and leaves that he could find. When he returned, Daire knelt beside Shiovra and mixed a bowl of milky liquid. Finding a patch of ground already scorched from Caher Dearg’s fall, Eiladyr began building a campfire. Reaching a hand out, he snapped his fingers and a decently sized flame sprung to life. Grinning, Eiladyr turned back to Odhrán and Daire.
Odhrán lifted Shiovra up while Daire brought the bowl to her lips, tilting it so the mixture slipped into her mouth. The woman coughed in turn, but then quieted and drank the rest.
“That should be enough,” Daire said, pulling the bowl away. “With some rest, she should be fine.”
The Milidh man nodded and gentle lay Shiovra back down on the ground. “Daire, Meara, keep watch over the priestess,” ordered Odhrán, standing. “Eiladyr, come with me.”
Without question, Eiladyr followed Odhrán into the trees. He watched curiously as Odhrán searched over the ground, taking careful steps and scrutinizing everything. Eiladyr did not know what Odhrán searched for, but it did not take long before he realized that their path took them slowly back the way they had just come.
They had not gotten too far from the others when Odhrán suddenly held his hand out, pausing. Bringing a finger to his lips, he gestured ahead of them and ducked behind a tree.
Nodding, Eiladyr followed suit. Pressing back against a tree, he brought a hand to his sword and waited. At first he heard nothing, but the more closely he focused, the more he heard subtle movement: the snap of a branch followed by a slight, nearly unnoticed dragging. Out of the corner of his eye, Eiladyr saw Odhrán shift on his left. Turning his head, he saw the man tug his dagger up from his belt and catch the pommel in his hand. Eiladyr slowly drew his blade at Odhrán’s signal.
The movement drew closer.
Eiladyr slowed his breathing and waited. From the sounds, he expected only one target approached. Quietly shifting his stance, Eiladyr prepared to attack.
Odhrán held and finger up, signaling for him to hold.
Slowly, a shadowed figure began to pass between them, it’s gate unbalanced. In the dim moonlight, scales could be seen covering a bony body that was neither male nor female in appearance. Tattered fins stretched off it’s legs and arms. The dragging came from one leg that bore an old, deep battle scar while webbed hands clutched a spear tightly. It passed the two men without noticing their presence.
They waited until the Fomorii creature was well past them.
Odhrán brought his hand up and, in a swift movement, the dagger left his hand.
The blade hit its mark, landing deeply embedded in the creatures back and piercing the heart. With a quiet guttural cry, it slumped forward and landed roughly on the ground.
Stepping forward, Odhrán tugged his dagger free and wiped the blade clean on his cloak. After circling the creature, he approached Eiladyr. “A lone scout and a lame one at that,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes scanned the woods around them, narrowing. “There are more, but they do not draw closer,” he continued in a low voice.
“Do we find them an attack?” asked Eiladyr quietly, his hand tightening on his sword.
Odhrán shook his head. “No,” he replied. “They do not approach because they fear these woods. They fear Caher Dearg even in ruin. It hangs heavily in the air.”
“What about this one then?” questioned Eiladyr, gesturing to the Fomorii corpse on the ground.
“Addled in the mind, most likely.” Odhrán returned his dagger to his belt and began to walk away. “Come, we need to return to camp. We shall each take watch throughout the night as a precaution, though I doubt our rest will be disturbed.”
Eiladyr hesitated, looking down at the lifeless creature for a moment before sheathing his sword. He had never seen anything like it where he had come from. Such creatures could only be found in stories told to naughty children. Regardless of Odhrán’s reassurance, he knew it would be a restless night for all of them.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The warm colors of morning spread wide across the sky when Shiovra woke. She found that she lay curled up against Daire’s back with a cloak and blanket draped across her for warmth. Sitting up, Shiovra looked around their makeshift camp. Nearby Eiladyr snored loudly against a log, his face looking weary even in sleep. Meara stood off near the line of trees, tending to the horses, while Odhrán cooked some food over the fire.
Shiovra shifted away from Daire and rose to her feet, stretching. Stepping over Eiladyr, she made her way closer to the campfire. Approaching Odhrán’s back, she looked ov
er his shoulder to see what he was cooking; small game, more likely stoat, was roasting over the fire while a bowl with thick oats simmered at the edge. She took note, though, that dried blood slotted a corner of his cloak.
“Did you rest well?” asked the Milidh man without turning.
“Aye,” she replied, moving to sit beside him. After a long moment of silence, Shiovra said, “Forgive me if I troubled everyone.”
“All that mattered was your well being,” replied Odhrán, stirring the creamy oats.
Shiovra pulled her knees to her chest. “There is blood on your cloak.”
His hand paused. “Fomorii,” said Odhrán bluntly. Pulling a bowl from a pack to his left, he spooned some oatmeal into it and handed it to the woman.
“How many?” she asked, taking the bowl and blowing on the steaming food.
“Only one; a lame and addled scout at that.” Odhrán turned to her and reached a hand up, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear before pressing the back of his hand against her forehead.
“Even though, we should not linger long,” Shiovra told him, keeping her attention on her the bowl in her hands. “Caher Dearg will not keep them at bay for long.” When his hand slipped away, she brought the bowl to her lips and took a drink of the oatmeal.
“Mmmm…food…” came the sleepy voice of Eiladyr. He came to sit beside the fire, his hair a disheveled mess and his clothes rumpled from sleep. Offering her a groggy smile, he plopped himself roughly down on the ground. “Good to see you awake.”
Smiling softly, Shiovra nodded.
Odhrán filled another bowl and handed it to the man before turning to Meara. “Wake Daire,” he said. “We will need to depart soon.”
The Neimidh woman nodded and walked over to Daire; first she shook his shoulder and called his name, then she began lightly kicking his back. When she continued to garner the lack of a response, Meara resorted to ripping his blanket off and, twisting it up a bit, snapped him with it. A quick jump and yelp announced Daire had finally roused from his slumber.
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 20
