‘As to that,’ said Conor, reaching for the halter of his mount, ‘we must first make good our escape. I do not think the Scálda will rest until they have found us.’
Rhiannon shivered and glanced over her shoulder as if she feared that even now the foe was creeping up on them. ‘I will die before I allow those animals to take me again.’
‘They have not found us yet,’ said Conor. ‘Come, we are losing the light. Let us see if we can find Donal and Fergal—they will not be far away.’ With that, he remounted and, putting out his hand to pull the lady up behind him, they set off once more.
Twilight came quickly to the forest, and it was hastening on toward night when they finally reached the coast and paused to see if—against all odds—they had been followed. Seeing and hearing nothing but the wash of the sea and the wind scouring the rocks of the headland, they dismounted and Conor led the way down the winding coast path to the strand, which was now falling into darkness. They came to the cave and were relieved to find Grían, Drenn, and Íogmar tethered outside. So as not to startle anyone within, Conor gave a low quavering whistle and waited. He repeated the signal and was answered; an instant later, Fergal emerged from the cave and jumped down onto the beach.
‘Conor!’ he called. ‘Right glad I am to see you. Mádoc is here. There is food and drink.’ Glancing past Conor, he said, ‘Where is Donal?’
‘He has not returned?’
‘He was with you.’
‘Nay, brother.’ Conor frowned and looked back along the beach as if expecting to see Donal arriving from that way. ‘I told him to follow you. He was wounded—and the lady with him.’
Fergal looked up to the cliffs above. ‘I’ll retrace my steps and—’
‘I’ll go.’ Conor was already running to Mádoc’s horse; he loosed the tether line. ‘You stay here.’
‘But—’
‘If there is a fight, they will need a fresh blade. You are rested. You stay here.’
‘What if they have been captured again?’
‘If they have, I will find out soon enough.’
Mádoc appeared at the mouth of the cave, gesturing wildly. Fergal ran to him. ‘Here, give this to him—’ The druid held out a small flask and pressed it into Fergal’s hand. ‘If Donal is wounded, give him that to drink. It will revive and awaken strength.’
Fergal hurried back to Conor’s side and handed over Mádoc’s little jar. Rhiannon, who stood looking on, stepped forward as Conor swung himself up onto the brown mare’s back. ‘I will go with you. They are wounded and you will need help.’
‘I will go more quickly alone,’ Conor told her, tucking Mádoc’s potion into the sparán at his belt. ‘It is better that you stay here—lest I am forced to rescue you again.’
The lady accepted this, but said, ‘At least, allow me to send you with a charm to help you see in the night.’
Conor nodded his assent.
‘Close your eyes,’ Rhiannon told him. She moved close and, raising her two hands before her face, she spoke softly into the palms of her hands, and then breathed on them and placed them over Conor’s eyes. Her touch tickled Conor’s skin like the brush of snow on a winter’s day. She held him for a long moment, and when she removed her hands it seemed to Conor that the night had vanished, replaced by a strange luminescence—not night, but not day either—a curious half-light that banished shadows and bathed everything in a pale silvery glow as if washed in liquid moonlight.
‘It will last until sunrise,’ she told him.
‘Can you see yet, Conor?’ asked Fergal.
‘I can, brother,’ he said. He pulled on the reins and the mare jigged sideways. ‘If Donal and Tanwen can be found, I will find them.’ He paused, and added, ‘But if I have not returned by sunrise, flee this place and ride north for the borderlands.’
‘See, now, if you—’ began Fergal.
‘Do it,’ Conor told him, starting away. ‘If I am still alive, I will make my own way back.’
Fergal raised his hand to wave him away. ‘Fare you well, brother. We will watch for you until sunrise—and then we are gone.’
Satisfied, Conor nodded, then urged the druid’s mare into motion, quickly fading into the darkness of the narrow coastal path.
20
Upon gaining the cliff top once more, Conor headed for the line of trees to the west that marked the forest edge. He thought he knew the way Fergal had taken, and planned to retrace his steps in the hope of finding Donal along the way. The night sight granted by the charm made it possible to see the track clearly—and many other things as well: a small herd of deer darting across the trail, and a family of wild pigs led by an old boar rooting through the undergrowth; he saw ferrets and even a wildcat—creatures who, like himself, cherished the cover of night to escape their foes.
Every now and then he stopped to allow one or another of the nocturnal creatures to scurry past; he also stopped to listen. It might have been his imagination, but seeing so well in the dark—it seemed like daylight to him—he also thought he could hear much better, too. He listened for sounds of pursuit, but also for any sounds a wounded man and faéry might make as they lay injured in the wood.
Hearing nothing but the scuttlings, gruntings, and rustlings of animals disappearing into the brush, he hurried on. He rode until the moon stood overhead, bright as the midday sun but casting no shadows. His path had taken him almost to the first Scálda settlement—the ráth of the craftsmen—and a thought occurred to him that Donal might have been captured and taken into that evil place.
No, he decided, Donal would never allow that to happen. Wounded or not, he would fight to the last breath rather than permit himself or Tanwen to be taken. A Darini warrior would sooner cut his own throat to protect his friends, or safeguard their whereabouts, than fall into the hands of an enemy in pursuit. Thus, Conor’s thoughts bent inevitably toward finding a pair of dead bodies.
As he came in sight of the Scálda forge settlement, he reined up. Uncertain whether to continue on, or turn back and try another path, he paused to consider the best course. Perhaps he should have let Fergal come along. Two could cover more ground than one, surely, and Fergal knew the way he had come. In the end, he decided that he would ride on a little farther before turning back and trying another path.
He found the track he had used earlier to bypass the fortress and came to the hollow where they had hidden the horses while they advanced on foot to observe the forge works. And there, standing calmly, asleep, stood Donal’s dun-coloured mare, Ossin. So unexpected was the sight, that Conor jerked back on the reins, causing his own mount to balk, nearly throwing him into the bramble hedge. He slid to the ground and ran to the waiting animal. Taking the bridle, he quickly examined the animal for injuries, and found none. ‘Where is your master?’ he said gently, stroking Ossin’s black muzzle. ‘Where did he go, eh?’
Tying the reins to a branch, he began walking around the animal in a wide circle and at once almost tripped over a body on the ground.
Donal lay on his side, curled around his wound. In the strange faéry night sight, it seemed to Conor that his friend’s flesh was pale as chalk. He crept forward, knelt, and reached a tentative hand to the expected corpse—only to find that the flesh, though ghostly, was warm and somewhat damp.
‘Donal,’ he said softly. ‘Can you hear me, brother?’
He gave Donal’s shoulder a gentle shake, speaking low and close to the fallen man’s ear, and succeeded in rousing him a little. Donal gave a moan and his eyelids fluttered open. ‘Conor? Is it you?’
‘I am here, brother. All will be well.’
Donal coughed, and said, ‘I am cold, Conor … cold and … so tired.’
‘Can you sit up?’
‘Let me … let me rest … a little … rest.…’
‘You rest while I look at your wounds.’
Conor rolled the injured warrior onto his back and then levered him upright. The movement brought a groan of pain and coughing. ‘Ahh…,’ gro
aned Donal. ‘Ahh … it hurts, Conor. It hurts.’ He coughed again. ‘Go on … without me … go.’
‘Shh.’ Conor hushed him. ‘Do not talk so. I came to find you. Now we must get you safe away.’ Reaching into his sparán, he produced the potion Mádoc had given him. ‘Here,’ he said, pulling the stopper from the mouth of the flask. ‘Drink some of this. It will restore your strength.’
Donal nodded and reached for the little jar. His hand trembled so much that Conor tipped the vessel to his friend’s mouth; Donal swallowed, gasped, and coughed—then took another drink.
‘Easy there,’ Conor told him, pulling away the container. ‘Save some for the lady.’ He looked around, but did not see her anywhere nearby. ‘Where is she?’ When Donal did not respond, he gave his friend a little shake to keep his attention. ‘Donal?’ he asked again. ‘Where is Tanwen?’
Donal raised his head and looked around as if seeing Conor for the first time. ‘Conor … you’re here.’
‘Yes, I’m here. Come, we must get you back to the cave. The faéry woman—Tanwen—what happened to her? Where is she?’
Donal turned a confused, wondering gaze to the woods. ‘Where am I?’
‘Donal,’ said Conor, ‘look at me. Tanwen was with you. Where is she?’
Donal shook his head as if to clear it. He seemed to come more to himself as the druid’s elixir began to exert some effect. ‘Tanwen?’
‘Yes. She was with you. What happened to her?
‘Over there, I think.…’ He gestured vaguely back along the trail, and then winced and doubled over with pain. ‘She—she fell…,’ he choked. ‘I could not hold her anymore.’
‘Sit there a moment.’ Conor hurried to where Donal had pointed and, a few dozen paces along the trail, found the crumpled form of Tanwen lying on the trail. Strangely, she was not as she had last appeared. Instead of the alluring young beauty, he beheld a shrunken, shrivelled carcass of desiccated flesh and bones held together with brittle skin like parchment—like someone long entombed in a burial mound of the ancients.
The once-fair Tanwen was dead; nothing could be more obvious. Still, to reassure the living if nothing else, Conor placed a hand on the bare spindle of her arm—only to have the solid-seeming flesh melt away beneath his touch. Skin, bone, hair, and cloth—all that made up the corpse—simply collapsed into ashes. And then, like snowflakes scattered on the wind, the pale residue swirled up into the air and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the faint outline of her body in the grass.
Conor stared at the spot for a moment, contemplating what he had just witnessed, then shook himself and returned to Donal. ‘I found her,’ he said. ‘Tanwen is dead.’
‘Ach, no,’ Donal sighed, half in pain, half in regret. ‘I should have been quicker. She would be alive if not for me.’
‘Not so,’ Conor told him. ‘She would be alive if not for a Scálda spear. We can do nothing for her now.’ He stooped to lift his wounded comrade, gathering Donal under his arms. ‘But come, if we do not care to share her fate, we must be away.’ He offered the flask to Donal once more. ‘Drink the rest of it and let’s get you on your horse.’
With the help of Mádoc’s potion and Conor’s muscle, Donal was able to get to his feet and stagger the few paces to his waiting horse. Donal allowed himself to be manhandled onto Ossin’s back and they started off, Donal slumped over the neck of his mount; Conor, riding beside him, held him in place with a firm hand on his shoulder to make certain he did not slide off again. Dawn had etched a rose-coloured line on the grey sea horizon when they finally reached the coast. With the coming of the day, Conor’s enchanted night sight quickly faded, but enough remained to see the path leading down to the shore, now a black expanse in the dim predawn light. ‘We made it, brother. Wait here and I will fetch Mádoc and Fergal.’
Donal made a sound deep in his throat, which Conor took to mean he would ride the rest of the way, but the wounded warrior was nearly unconscious by the time they reached the dark shingle. The tide was coming in and restless waves splashed the horses’ fetlocks as they came up the beach. Conor called out as he approached the cave, and Fergal, who had been watching all night, hurried to meet them. Mádoc followed hard on his heels and, while Fergal and the druid lifted the unresisting Donal down from his mount, Huw came running to secure the horses. Conor, all but swooning with exhaustion, breathed a heavy sigh, and then followed them into the cave where Mádoc and Rhiannon were already hovering over Donal’s wound.
Rhiannon glanced up quickly as Conor entered the cave. ‘Tanwen?’ she said.
Conor merely shook his head, and said, ‘I am sorry.’
She stifled a cry and bit the back of her hand. Then, with a visible effort, she straightened and turned back to the task at hand. Fergal laid a hand on Conor’s shoulder and said, ‘You should eat. We have some gruel, and Huw has caught some fish.’
Conor turned dull eyes on him. ‘We cannot stay here. It will be light soon and the Scálda are sure to find our trail.’
Fergal nodded. ‘Eat something, brother. Restore your strength and we will decide what to do.’
Conor heeded this advice. Settling himself at the fire, he filled a bowl from the pot and slurped the salty gruel, then picked at a bit of roast fish. ‘That is better,’ he said, pulling off flecks of white meat from the feathery bone.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Fergal, ‘we could maybe evade the Scálda if we kept to the shore near the cliffs out of sight from above.’
‘Maybe,’ allowed Conor, licking his fingers, ‘until we came to rocks or a headland we could not get around.’ He pulled off another bit of fish, and said, ‘I say we take one of the Scálda boats.’
Fergal regarded him doubtfully. ‘Leave the horses behind? Even so, we would never all fit in one of those. They are too far too small.’
‘I’m not talking about a little fishing boat,’ Conor said. ‘We’ll take one of the big ones.’
‘A Scálda ship?’ Fergal’s eyebrows rose. ‘Do you know how to sail a ship now, brother?’
Conor sucked the fishbone clean and tossed it aside.
‘How do we get it into the water?’
‘We have horses,’ Conor said. ‘We’ll use them.’
Fergal’s lips twisted into a dubious frown.
‘Think you now, it makes sense. Donal is in a bad way. Even if he could ride, horses would be too slow.’ He watched Fergal weighing the idea in his mind. They were still discussing whether this plan might possess even a remote possibility of success, when Mádoc rose and came to them. ‘I have done what I can for Donal,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘The bleeding is stopped, but he is very weak. I have given him a draught for the pain and he will sleep now.’
‘We cannot stay here,’ Conor told him. ‘The Scálda will be on our trail soon.’
‘Donal should not ride,’ Mádoc said. ‘If he is to survive, he must rest.’
‘Let him rest on the ship.’
Mádoc glanced at Fergal, who said, ‘Our man here is saying we should take a Scálda ship.’
Mádoc did not object outright. He asked how they would get it in the water and Conor told him; the druid frowned as he considered the idea. ‘You should get started,’ he concluded. ‘It may take longer than you imagine. Huw will pack our gear and I will prepare Donal to travel.’
Leaving the cave, Conor and Fergal hurried to the horses, unhitched Drenn, Grían, Ossin, and Búrach, and, leaving little Íogmar for Huw to load, rode up the shore to the fishing camp they had seen two days before. There was no one there, so they went to work. ‘We’ll take that one,’ he said, pointing to the first of the ships in line and closest to the tide mark. ‘If we roll it over, we can drag it into the water.’
That is what they did. From the coils of rope stashed beneath the half-deck that covered the front half of the vessel, Conor tied four goodly lengths to the mast and threw them to Fergal, who fashioned loose halters. Then, each taking a pair of horses, they coaxed the animals to pull. But the
se were not workhorses, they were creatures bred to speed and battle. None were accustomed to working together with others under harness. Búrach kept trying to lead, and Ossin would not follow, but insisted on going her own way. Fergal’s stallion refused the halter; Mádoc’s bay mare was the only of the four to adjust herself to the task. By shouts and threats and sweet entreaties, they at last succeeded in rolling the vessel onto its keel. Conor climbed over the side and, with his damaged blade, cut the lines and hurriedly retied them to the high prow. Meanwhile, Fergal led the four unruly horses around to the front of the ship and tried to keep them in line. Returning to the strand, Conor unstrapped his sword and laid it on the beach so that it would not get drenched in salt water, then waded into the surf to help Fergal entice the horses into the waves.
Fergal, holding on to Grían’s halter, shouted, ‘Hie-up!’ and urged the horses forward. Step by step, the skittish animals entered the cold, swirling water. Conor, standing between Búrach and Ossin, had all he could do to keep them from bolting and retreating to the beach. The stallion did not like the water and bucked, which made the mare shy and dig in her hooves, refusing to move. Again, the air rang with threats and supplications and promises of future pleasures. The ropes sighed and complained, and the belly of the ship grated against the pebbles. One hard-won step at a time, they dragged the vessel forward. Fergal was all but chest high in the waves before the keel had even touched the water. ‘Shorten the ropes,’ he called, ‘or we’ll be drowning ourselves!’
‘Wait there!’ Conor shouted, and sloshed his way back to the beach and onto the deck once more. Fergal backed the horses to slacken the lines and Conor drew in the extra length and quickly retied them. He dropped over the side and into the water; he took up the halter again and gave Búrach a slap. ‘Hie!’ he cried, and the grey heaved forward.
‘Hie!’ echoed Fergal, pulling on Grían’s halter. ‘Hie-up!’