Destroyer Pursued
Prologue
The Mother Goddess of Erin once again sat beside the white pillar on which the Stone of Destiny rested, with Lugh on her right and Badb Catha on her left. Dagda sat before her. Danu shook her head to clear her mind of Ćroí Dàn’s strident demand to be delivered to Breanna and said to her fellow Gods, “The Heart of Destiny is concerned about her Hero, our Hero.”
Badb Catha muttered, “Erin’s Hero is reckless.”
Lugh countered, “Breanna is the youngest one ever chosen by Ćroí Dàn. We need to find ways to support her. She is only seventeen.”
Dagda interjected, “She must be trained, but we have no time. We need our Gaels to support her and ensure she accepts Ćroí Dàn.”
Danu agreed, “Our Heart needs to be sent to her soon. We must watch for a moment when they can best meld in action when Breanna requires courage and bravery. That will make their bond stronger.”
The Dark Goddess sighed, closed her eyes, and reached for the ring on Breanna’s finger with her mind. As its creator, they were linked, and she passed a command to the distant piece of fickle magic. When she finished, she nodded, saying, “Maorgairme will wait for such a moment and reach out to Ćroí Dàn to let her know it’s time.”
“Thank you, sister-mine,” Danu said with a relieved smile.
Badb shrugged as if it were nothing and added, “There is another problem. The Dreadlord’s völva, that baobh called Runa, actively uses her magic to support him. So, we must also counteract her influence on events to come. For example, she helped Hakon summon the Formorian God, Tethra. Runa is leading the Dreadlord to Erin’s Hero. We need to create divergences to lead them astray.”
“Like what?” Lugh questioned.
Badb Catha gave him a wicked smile and answered darkly, “I’ll use my precious crows, the ones she sacrifices each time she uses her magic, to read her Asgardian runes to see the future. Use them to misdirect the baobh.”
The Dark Goddess closed her eyes and commanded her legion of crows across the land to report any contact with the baobh, the witch völva named Runa. Controlling her use of the sight would be a more significant challenge, yet there might be a way to confuse it.
----
Runa, Hakon Skadi’s Norvegr völva, stumbled back to her hut after the Celt girl had bashed her head. She needed to understand the meaning of the appearance of the Destroyer in Dun Garm and what it meant for their future in this strange land. The white-haired young lady was not the male warrior Runa had expected, and not seeing her arrival or her attack was something Runa had also missed.
Turning to her bird cage, she thrust a hand inside it, snatching the crow inside. Once in her hand, she raised her ceremonial yet sharp sword, sliced a leg off, and then stuffed flour into its stump. Finally, she thrust the squawking crow in her hand back into its cage and let the blood drip onto her round casting stone. Her Runes tumbled onto the stone table, some in blood and others not.
Gazing at the Runes, she reached for the sight and saw nothing but a massive murder of crows in her mind, all squawking, flapping, diving, and pecking at her mind. She withdrew herself from the sight and just gazed at her Runes. Erin’s Dark Goddess had just thrown down a challenge, as she knew crows were her familiar. It was a battle! A simple völva from a distant Norvegr pitted against the Tuatha Goddess of War!
Destroyer Pursued
Toal Mac Kyras listened intently to the Norvegr warriors on the wall above him, and from their panicked tone, it seemed they appeared convinced that the High King in Tara had sent an entire dun full of warriors to attack their walls. The fire high in the main hall’s roof seemed to fuel the Dun Garm warriors’ confusion. That made Toal smile. Then he looked up through the fog, trying to see anything on top of the rampart, and noted the torchlights were barely visible. Not even enough to show them the ground at their feet. He asked with more than some concern, “Fergal, between the dark and the fog, how are we going to find Eoin and Bre once they escape?”
The old warrior looked around, surprised as much by the question as he was at not having thought of it himself. How could he hope to find his cousin if he could hardly see Kyras’s son a few feet away? He cursed, “Droch ollach mullach!”
“We all have wool for brains sometimes,” Toal chided.
“And those who do, more often than not, end up dead when facing the likes of the Dreadlord,” Fergal growled. Then, he paused momentarily and added, “If I were Eoin or Breanna and heard those on the wall yelling about the fire, I’d not head here, and I’d not head for the gates.”
“Too many warriors about?”
“Correct,” Fergal answered. “That leaves us with the south and east sides. Let’s circle the dun and see what we find. And stick close. I don’t want to lose track of you in this murky soup.”
“Aye,” Toal agreed, shuddering at the thought. His imagination started to run, with fairies and demons lurking in the mist as Fergal turned and headed into the darkness. Toal kept close to the older warrior. If the sun were out to cast a shadow, he would not see his own.
Careful not to make any noise, the pair moved slowly southward along the ramparts. As they passed around the south end of the fort, Fergal paused to see if he could hear anything. It was quiet, save for the now muffled yelling from the Dreadlord’s warriors about a fire in the main hall. Eoin’s cousin led Toal on, circling to the southern side and then the east.
Torches burned atop the wall, as they had all along the rampart, but they still could see little else. When Fergal could hear nothing above him, vise-like indecision gripped him. Should he retreat and slip back into the trees or wait it out? If sunrise came and the fog lifted, Hakon’s warriors could see them, and all would be lost. What good would it do if Hakon’s men captured them as well? But if Breanna did manage to free Eoin, he’d be leaving them when they needed him most. Given that, he headed south again along the eastern side.
Toal broke into his thoughts, whispering, “Let’s keep to this side. My arrows came from the west side, so more warriors should search there first. That means Bre and Eoin should likely come over somewhere on the eastern rampart.”
Fergal Mac Conall was thankful for the boy’s sound reasoning. He took him by the arm and again led him back to the southeast corner of the massive fort. This time, they went even slower as they headed north along the rampart’s base, hoping to discover something they had missed on their last pass.
When Toal heard voices ahead, he was sure from the accent it had to be Breanna and Eoin, and then the sound of timbers breaking made him all the more convinced. Fergal also seemed to sense the same thing and picked up the pace. Suddenly, Eoin came stumbling down the steeply pitched dirt wall of Dun Garm, nearly skewering his cousin a moment later. The pair went down amid curses and grunts.
Breanna was more graceful as she came to a skittering stop at their feet, the faint light of Lann Dàn and Maorgairme showing a grim expression. A white-haired lad followed her as she hissed at Fergal in a quiet but tight voice, “I put you in charge of the Red Branch to keep them safe, not to drag them into the Dreadlord’s stronghold to get hacked apart!”
“I didn’t drag anyone to Dun Garm except for Toal, who came of his own volition.”
Finally realizing her cousin was at her side, Breanna turned to him, saying, “And what do you think you’re doing here?”
“Trying to help free our Chief,” Toal spat as his back stiffened; he was glad his voice didn’t crack as it was wont to do of late. “That fire Hakon’s warriors are preoccupied with right now just happens to be what I was doing a few moments ago.”
Eoin and Fergal were finally on their feet again, and the former said, “Now is not the time to argue about who should and shouldn’t have done what. Fergal and Toal, meet Braoin – he’s with us. Let’s be away from this place. Fergal, do you have your chariot?”
“Aye,” his cousin said tartly; he was not pleased to let Breanna’s rebuke pass. But Eoin was right, and he added less tightly, “We left it in the trees northeast of here. The horses should be rested by now and could carry us all.”
“Good, then let’s be away from here,” Eoin commanded and started limping.
“Wait,” Breanna demanded in a tight low voice. “The Dreadlord will surely catch us if we return to Dun Arrogh, and that chariot won’t carry us swiftly enough with four in it to go anywhere else. And with how you two are still limping, it’d take us an hour or more to get to that creaking old bucket. Once Hakon’s hounds have our scent, we’d be done for if we didn’t have at least a half day’s lead on them.”
“Then what do you propose?” Fergal demanded acidly.
“You and Toal take the chariot,” Breanna offered. “It will carry you two faster than the four of us. My sister lives deep enough into Mide that her husband’s clan will protect you. I doubt the Dreadlord would risk an attack with the Ard-Rì so close at hand in Dun Tara.”
“It’s a three-day ride to Orla’s,” Eoin commented. “Fergal would have to move swiftly.”
“Or the Dreadlord would catch us,” Fergal added, his tone almost accusatorial, as if suggesting that was what she wanted. “I say let Toal take the chariot. He handled it most of the way here anyway and would make better time without me.”
“Then which way would you four go?” Toal asked.
“We certainly need to throw the Dreadlord off our trail,” Eoin interjected as he looked over his shoulder at Dun Garm’s rampart. “East and south, I’d say, toward Dun Uisneach. Then, once we’ve outwitted their pursuit, we’ll keep going that way. If I remember correctly, my Champion has a goddess to visit.”
“I don’t like sending Toal off on his own,” Breanna countered, hoping she didn’t sound like she wanted to be rid of her Chief’s cousin too obviously. “You dragged him here, Fergal. You should see that he gets back safely. He’s just a boy, after all.”
If Breanna had thought to goad Fergal into looking after Toal, she certainly miscalculated her blood cousin’s anger at being called a boy. Toal said sourly, “I’m old enough to look after myself. Fergal’s right—he’d slow me down. So instead, I’ll lead Hakon’s dogs away from your trail, get to Orla’s, and find someone to get word to Dun Arrogh that you are all safe.”
“Safe, but on the run,” Eoin corrected. “Now, we’ve wasted too much time. Run, Toal. Get to the chariot and yourself to safety.”
Breanna was about to protest further but said, “Aye, go safely and quickly then.”
Toal quickly hugged his blood cousin and bolted into the misty darkness.
“Come on,” Eoin said, turning in the other direction, following the rampart south and then away from Dun Garm.
Lang climbed from the rafters of the main hall with a bucket and two arrows clenched in his hand. With a face covered in soot and the wound inflicted by Hakon’s bastard causing his arm to throb, he sighed. At least they had saved nearly all the thatch, and the fire was out. He looked up to assure himself that they had found every flaming arrow. Thinking of the attackers made him seethe with anger. They could have lost the entire hall had it not just rained.
The Dreadrider handed the fire arrows to a nearby warrior, commanding, “Make sure the hounds pick up the scent from these. That should ensure we catch those who did this in the morning.”
“Aye,” the man said and stuffed them into his belt.
Another warrior charged into the hall, crying, “Lang, the Dreadlord wants you!”
“Why?” Lang countered as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
“It’s about your brother,” came the reply. “He’s been—”
But Lang was already out the door and charging toward Hakon’s tower, and he didn’t hear anything else they said. He didn’t need to because he knew Lunt was dead. He knew that the Dreadlord’s bastard had sent him to Valhalla. While climbing through the main hall’s upper parts and working to extinguish the fire, Lang had no idea what was happening in the yard.
As he tried to reach for his brother’s presence, that part of himself that always knew what the other was thinking was gone. His brother was simply not there. The Dreadrider wasn’t sure how he knew, only that he did. Then, splashing across the muddy yard at a run, he spat, “By Thor’s hammer, I’ll kill that Valkyrie before this is said and done!”
Lunt’s body lay atop the table in Hakon’s tower when Lang stormed through the door, his face distorted with pain and rage. The Dreadlord was as surprised as everyone else by the warrior’s sudden appearance. He shook his head, commanding, “Lang, I’ve—”
“I know, my brother is dead,” the burly warrior gruffly interrupted as he strode to Lunt’s side and jerked to a halt. Lang could have sworn his twin was sleeping had he not known it. But the red stain on his stomach and the slash across his throat made his death irrefutable. Lang wrapped his arms around his brother’s limp form as grief enfolded him, clinging to his body for a long moment. How was he going to live without his brother? They had always protected each other’s back, the pair of them against all odds. Then, finally, as he turned and sat on the table’s edge with Lunt still cradled in his arms, he lifted his head enough to ask, “She did it, didn’t she? Your bastard killed him.”
“Ja, I expect so,” Hakon said sadly, not knowing what else to offer in consolation.
“As Odin is my witness, I shall send her to Valhalla after him!”
The Dreadlord could only groan, for this affair had not turned out as he had hoped. And now was certainly not the time to tell Lang that he could not kill the Destroyer, nor could he say that he wanted his daughter to fight at their side. How he would convince them to do what he wanted was not a question he could answer just then—something to leave until the morning. Tired and sore, he turned away, leaving Lang to his grief.
Hurriedly groping his way through the dark, misty night, Toal mac Kyras finally reached the stand of trees where they had left Fergal’s chariot. He only knew the grassy plain had ended because his face met up with the gnarled bark of an old black oak. At least he was no longer out in the open where the Dreadlord’s men could easily see him once the sun came up. Cold and tired, he sank to his knees and closed his eyes.
Having Breanna command that he take the chariot to Orla’s had grated on him as he ran through the night, for she noticeably still thought of him as little more than a boy. What did he have to do to prove himself? Had he not helped her find Lann Dàn and face Tethra’s demons? Weren’t his arrows the ones that had helped divert the Dreadlord’s warriors so she could free Eoin? Despite this, Toal could not fault her logic that they would all have a better chance to escape if he led away any pursuit. With their wounds still healing, Eoin and Fergal could not press themselves, and the chariot would be overloaded if they stayed together.
“But I don’t have to like it,” he muttered sourly as his weary body cried for rest. Unable to resist it, he slumped against the oak tree and let sleep sweep over him. Toal’s dreams came to him, filled with scenes of Dreadriders riding down his friends, their blades hacking off their arms and heads. They were gruesome images, images from which he could not wake. Then Tethra’s demons surrounded him, the black, misshapen forms pulling him apart limb from limb. Screaming, Toal bolted awake. He wasn’t sure how long he had slept; all he knew was that the sun had risen, and the fog from the night before was gone.
Sighing in relief that the dreams weren’t real, he got his feet beneath him and rubbed his eyes. It took a moment for the events of the night before to churn through his mind. First, he and Fergal had helped Breanna free Eoin. Then, the three of them, with the strange lad, Braoin, had sent him off to take the chariot to Orla’s. And with just him at the reins, the horses were supposed to carry him safely away from Hakon’s Dreadriders.
Toal rubbed his eyes again, and then he looked through the trees to find the sun, hoping it would tell him how long he had slept. With the clouds and fog gone, sunlight filtered brightly through the branches.
“Danu, save me,” he whispered when he saw how late it was. Then, panicked, he picked up his bow and turned north, dodging his way through the tree line as he ran. His body was sore, especially his legs, but there was no time to be concerned about minor aches.
Hakon’s warriors were probably out searching for them already, and Toal knew he had wasted several hours of the slim lead he was supposed to have. Breanna’s cousin found the chariot as he and Fergal had left it, with the hill ponies still tethered to his makeshift picket. Toal quickly hitched them to the cart, and, in a few minutes, he was heading north.
The narrow path through the forest was bumpy and dangerous, but he dared not take to the more accessible plains. Not yet, anyway, not until he was well out of sight of Dun Garm. Not ten minutes after he had the chariot rolling, he heard hounds baying in the distance behind him. Knowing they must be from the Dreadlord’s stronghold, Toal picked up his pace, urging the horses to go faster.
The chariot bucked and rocked like a boat in a storm, and the young lad could do little more than hang on. Fergal had driven the cart through this part of the forest, and the older warrior was more skilled at handling it than he was. Toal heard the hounds again, and he was sure they were closer this time. If they had picked up his scent, he needed speed and not the cover of the woods. Seeing an opening to his left, he pulled the reins over, and the chariot burst through the light brush and onto the open plains.
Lashing the horses into a full gallop, the boy found the going easy enough to hold on with only one hand as a cold wind pulled tears from his eyes. The ground flashed by as he chanced a glance back toward Dun Garm. While he could hardly see the massive fort, the dozen or so warriors charging along the forest’s edge were unmistakable. The wind drew their white hair back as they urged their mounts after him. Around the riders, a half dozen giant wolfhounds bounded along, each easily keeping pace with their masters.
Toal muttered a curse he heard his father use when he hit his hand with a hammer, then lashed Fergal’s hill ponies again. They surged forward, but gaining ground on his pursuers was not enough, especially with them mounted on faster warhorses. He needed something to divert them, but what? Then he spied his bow and an extra quiver of arrows tied to the railing and lunged for it. As the chariot lurched over a rock, Toal had nearly been flung out the back, where only the reins kept him from hitting the ground.
Grabbing at the rail, he clawed his way toward the front and his bow. Another look at Hakon’s warriors told him they were gaining, and he lashed his team of horses again. They flew on, dragging the cart wildly behind them. Toal managed to get his bow restrung and nocked an arrow. Aiming was another matter. The rocking motion made the riders behind him seem like buzzing flies.
The first arrow flew wide of its mark, and the second took down one of the hounds. He knew killing their dogs would not save him, so he aimed again at the riders behind him. This time, he put his arrow into the shoulder of one of his pursuers. The man spun off his mount and crashed to the ground. It brought the others to a halt for a moment. Then the Dreadrider leading them had all except one of their band hurling forward again, each digging their heels into their horse’s flanks.
The white-haired warriors pulled their small, round shields off their saddles to protect themselves as Toal let another arrow fly. His aim was good, but the warrior he had chosen got his leather buckler up in time for the tip to sink into it instead of him. Toal tried several more shots, each with the same result. With his quiver half-empty, he groaned at the thought of aiming at the horses but knew there was no other way to slow them down. Lashing his beasts to keep them moving as fast as possible, he turned and fired again. His arrow buried itself in the lead mount’s chest, and the rider was pitched over its head as it went down.
The same Dreadrider quickly changed tactics and veered into the woods where his nemesis would be more challenged to hit them. His warriors followed suit, soon weaving their way through the trees. Toal muttered another curse and drove his horses on. Hoping to draw them out, he pulled the reins to the right and headed east and farther out onto the plain. The grass-covered ground continued to flash by as Toal glanced around to see if there were any other options. With the woods occupied by his pursuers, he had no choice except to keep going in the same direction.
As the chariot drew away from the tree line, the white-haired warriors swerved to the outer limits of the forest. Toal didn’t bother wasting his arrows, for his short bow did not have enough range to hit them. Turning to concentrate on getting the most out of his slighter horses, movement to his right caught his eye. A second band of the Dreadlord’s riders was closing on him from the far side of the plain, eating up the ground between them. Their warhorses were fresher than his homegrown hill ponies, who were starting to flag.
Deciding to unseat as many warriors as possible, Toal readied his bow again. Within minutes, the big horses were within range, and he began notching and releasing again, unseating two more of the Dreadlord’s men from their mounts before they got their bucklers unstrapped. Onward they came, as did the other band of riders behind him. The latter had pulled away from the woods, and now both were nearly on top of him.
Then, with his quiver down to two arrows, he drew back on the reins and pulled his chariot to a stop. Hakon’s warriors swarmed around him with their blades drawn and murder in their eyes, but the two Dreadriders barked orders to their respective charges to stand down.
With the younger of the two taking control of Toal’s horses, the other dismounted and stepped onto the chariot, towering over a stiff-lipped Toal. It took all the will Breanna’s cousin could muster not to flinch; then his resolve grew firmer. If he could face Tethra’s demons and survive, staring down a Dreadrider was certainly inside him. Still, he couldn’t suppress a groan as the gnarly warrior snatched up his bow and snapped it over his knee.
The Dreadrider growled darkly, “If the Dreadlord didn’t want you alive, I’d skewer you right here, boy or no. Those were good men you took down! Kvasir, ride back and tell Runa she’s needed. We’ve wounded to tend to. And Jotun, you ride with this whelp back to Dun Garm. And be careful that our bastard’s friend has no more tricks for us.”
Hakon watched Alrik and Brede lead the last of his warriors out through the gates of Dun Garm. He sent his wolfhounds, Hati and Skoll, along with the rest of their pack, to follow his most senior Dreadriders. Few remained to man the walls, with most out hunting for his daughter and her friends. Lang would also be after them if it were not for Runa’s potion. His witch had somehow managed to get the grieving Dreadrider to drink her concoction, and he now slept in his hut.
Lunt’s body would be given to the Gods in the evening once his servants finished preparing the pyre. But, for Hakon, the day held a sour taste. He had lost one of his best warriors, a warrior he had grown more fond of than any man who followed him to this land. Yet he had also found a daughter who was every bit as skilled as Lunt, maybe more so.
But dealing with a woman as an equal was not something he had ever had to do. Convincing her that he was not the monster his offspring believed he was would be the challenge of his life. And if he could not win her over to his side, she would have to die.
Hakon had not told Runa about his plan to subvert his daughter to his cause, for she had been busy tending to Lang. Knowing his bastard had also rendered her unconscious the night before made him want to dance lightly around the subject. He understood his völva had been none too pleased with being thumped on the head.
As he made his way toward her hut, he tried to frame the right words to convince her that getting his daughter to join him was a good idea. Runa responded to his knock on her door, though the scowl on her face made it plain she was not happy to see him.
She grated, “My Jarl, what can I do for you?”
“A little talk, if you will,” Hakon said as he stepped into her hut.
Runa did not look up as she turned toward her table and took a seat, saying, “About your daughter. I’m surprised you took so long. That I was wrong about your bastard’s sex is obvious, something I regret nearly as much as you. Maybe the other two, Braoin and Bradaigh, are just Tuatha decoys to trick my magic.”
“Possibly,” Hakon shrugged. “We lost the former last night, as he appears to have escaped in the night’s mayhem.”
Runa rubbed her head, continuing, “I’ll need to cast my Runes again to see if those two remain important in our dance with the Tuatha Gods. Yet, with fairie magic in her hands, your daughter is undoubtedly the Destroyer. What my black beauties previously foretold has not changed by our discovery that he is, in reality, a she.”
“Aye, and Lunt’s death is proof of her skill as a warrior,” Hakon said, deciding to take an indirect tact in telling his witch about his plan. “And I nearly met the same fate. We were both surprised to see each other, which probably saved my life. Runa, what drives her to seek my death?”
“Even she does not know,” the witch replied, eyeing her lord critically as she poured them a cup of tea each. “It is the nature of her geas to seek your end. Few of us truly know what drives us, and in your daughter’s case, she was manipulated for years by forces beyond the cycle’s normal turnings.”
“So diverting her from this geas would be a challenge?”
“Diverting her?” Runa questioned, pausing briefly before taking a sip of tea, her eyes never leaving his, her expression doubtful.
“After seeing her in battle, I would like to try to win her support,” Hakon finally confirmed as he looked down into his cup, unwilling to hold her gaze. “A warrior with such skills could be a great asset.”
“And a great danger.”
Hakon did not appear to hear those words as he sipped absently at his tea. Then he asked abruptly, “Can this geas cast upon her be broken? Is your magic strong enough to destroy its hold on her?”
The Dreadlord’s völva frowned, saying, “It may be possible, but I’d need her to be here to try and break the spell. And in case you have forgotten, your daughter is being hunted by more than your warriors. You enlisted the Fomorian God, Tethra, to kill her, and the Tuatha Gods provided magical weapons and came to her aid in the demon battle. So between those two factors, getting her back to Dun Garm alive may be more challenging than breaking her geas.”
“I’ll leave that part to you if you leave the former to me,” her Jarl advised. Runa frowned again but managed a slight nod. Hakon could see the doubtful look in her eyes, and he sensed she had more words of caution. The Dreadlord knew he would have to prod her, so he demanded, “Is there something else?”
“You made a pact with Tethra,” Runa said quietly. “A pact to kill the Destroyer.”
“That I did, but since he didn’t live up to his end of the bargain, there’s no reason I should hold up my end,” the Dreadlord responded as he rose. “I’ve lost one of my best Dreadriders because of his failure.”
“I doubt the Fomorian God will see it that way, especially given the price he has paid thus far for the privilege of helping you. He wants to see your bastard dead now more than before. It’s no longer simply because the Tuatha Gods are helping her. She’s killed scores of his demons, and stopping him from carrying out your original pact will be harder than you think.”
“Leave Tethra to me.”
“You play with powers far greater than you realize,” Runa advised. Before she could say more, a warrior was pounding on her door, demanding help. They could hardly make out what he was shouting due to the panic in his voice. Hakon strode to the door and wrenched it open in annoyance. Nearly out of breath, the young warrior pulled up and regained some composure at seeing his master towering before him.
He exclaimed, “My Jarl! Alrik and Brede caught one of the Celt raiders! The boy unhorsed a number of our riders with his bow. Such skill makes him a suspect for the one who tried to set fire to the main hall last night.”
“Well done, Kvasir, well done,” Hakon said, pleased he had at least a lead to track down his daughter. “Get a chariot ready, and Runa will ride out to treat those wounded immediately. And have Brede bring the boy to me. We’ve much to discuss, he and I do.”
“Aye, my lord,” Kvasir said and ran to do his Jarl’s bidding.
Hakon turned to his völva, adding, “See me once you’ve tended to the men.”
As Runa gathered her medicines and stitches, the Dreadlord of Garm stepped from her hut. He could nearly taste his anticipation of finding out more about his daughter. The boy they had caught would know something about her even if it wasn’t directly from her mouth, like her name. And if fortune was smiling on him, the young Celt might be able to say where she was heading
---
Eoin Mac Cairbre silently led the way into the dark, leaving Dun Garm behind as fast as he and his wounded cousin could manage. He thought about asking his Champion if the magic weapons she was carrying could light the way, but concern over whether Hakon Skadi might have his warriors hunting them kept his mouth shut. Making a point to ask about her quest for Lann Dàn in the morning, her Chief noted an uneasy silence between Fergal and Breanna as they trudged in what they hoped was a southeasterly direction across the open plain, but he had no time for their ongoing rivalry.
A cloud-covered sky meant no moon or starlight could guide their direction. The Dreadlord would be on their trail as soon as the sun rose, and they needed to be as far from Dun Garm as possible. Once they had safely traveled a decent distance from the fort, Breanna commanded Maorgairme to give them some light. The ring glowed slowly, as did Lann Dàn. It was not enough to provide any actual direction.
With Braoin bringing up the rear of their small band, Eoin dropped back to walk beside him and commented, “I hope we are heading in the right direction. While Loch Síleann is southeast, it makes up the beginning of River Inny. I’m wondering how well you might know this area. Have you explored the river down to Loch Ree?”
“Aye, our settlement trades with another one on the south end of the loch, where it meets the River Shannon,” Braoin answered. “We normally follow the river and go south at the shoreline to get there.”
“That’s good news,” Eoin said. “I’m hoping we can reach Dun Uisneach by tomorrow afternoon, but we’ll need to keep under cover come sunrise so the Dreadriders do not discover us out in the open. That could slow us down.”
“Understood,” Braoin said.
After another hour, the ground began to slope and turn soft. Then, the band heard the sound of water lapping on a shore. Beyond doubt, it was not the sound of a running river. Eoin knew this meant they were close to Loch Ree, not the River Inny. They had gone southwest and not southeast! And they were more west than anything.
The Red Branch Chief thought traveling farther in the dark could prove hazardous, saying, “We’ve seemingly headed the wrong way. Let’s get some rest.”
Grabbing Eoin’s arm, Breanna protested, “Absolutely not! We are too close to the water here! We must get at least a good march away from the loch. We should head east and find firmer ground.”
“What are you talking about?” her Chief demanded.
Breanna turned to face him, saying, “Hakon’s völva summoned the Fomorian God, Tethra, and the Dreadlord made a pact with him to set his water demons after me. My first encounter with them was after I found Lann Dàn. Once we descended Cuilcagh Mountain, Lugh and I fought them at Loch Aillionn!”
Eoin, Fergal, and Braoin looked at her in amazement, the former saying, “Lugh? As in the Sun God?”
“Aye, the Sun God,” Breanna answered defiantly. “I am deep in this mess, Eoin. One of those demons almost pulled me into Loch Gowna while traveling to Dun Garm. Trust me, this is real. We need to be wary of water, especially at night. They don’t like sunlight.”
“Okay, okay, we will head east for a bit,” Eoin said. Without a doubt, he needed to catch up with his Champion on what had happened since she left on her quest for the magical long knives. Water demons! How much more of a mess could they be in?
With the matter settled, they tramped on. As they had groped their way through the dark, the uneven ground had made it challenging for Fergal to keep his feet beneath him. Now, he was cold, wet, and miserable after falling more times than he could count. With Breanna’s freezing breath brushing the back of his neck each time he stumbled, he was surprised not to find ice in his hair. Her exasperated sighs as she helped him to his feet multiple times were just insult added to injury.
At first, he growled that he didn’t need her assistance, but her hands kept finding their way under his arms as she pulled him to his feet. Nonetheless, Fergal was sure she was only helping him to ensure the Dreadlord didn’t catch up with her and Eoin, and his cousin wouldn’t let her leave him behind. Fergal stumbled again, but he caught himself before hitting the ground. Breanna sighed as she stepped around him, and he shot her a look to kill.
Unfortunately, the glow from her blades wasn’t enough to show more than her face, so she missed his glare in the dark. When the former Red Branch Champion realized it, he muttered a curse. Since Breanna’s return from Cuilcagh Mountain, the uncomfortable distance between them that had once been like a lake was now a sea. The pair had not even spoken to each other since leaving Dun Garm behind.
Fergal hardly minded, but he couldn’t help but wonder why he distrusted her so. Wishing he had an answer and that his mind wasn’t so foggy, he let Eoin help him rise a slight rise. The pair sank to the damp ground beneath a small stand of birch trees a few steps later.
Breanna followed suit, dropping her pack as her knees hit the ground beside her friends. She was not ready to admit she was exhausted, but letting sleep take her would mean Eoin couldn’t ask about her father. Discussing Hakon Skadi’s demise as they once had would no longer be possible. Telling him that the Dreadlord wanted her to join him in Dun Garm was definitely out of the question. Whatever seeds of doubt he had about her would surely sprout with that knowledge. Looking at the faint glow of her ring, she wondered if Maorgairme would help her again, pondering if it would make Eoin forget what he knew as it had with Fergal.
Eoin startled her out of her thoughts, saying, “We move on at sunrise.”
With guilt etched on her face like a stone carving, Breanna was happy her Chief couldn’t see her in the dark: guilt over who she was, over not trusting him. Not trusting her voice, she managed to nod in agreement. It wasn’t long before Eoin, Fergal, and Braoin were asleep.
Despite being dead tired, Breanna found the bliss of even a nightmare elusive, and she couldn’t keep her attention from wandering to Maorgairme. Maybe it would help her stave off her Chief’s questions in the morning, but when she asked the strange ring to tamper with Eoin’s memory, Maorgairme gave no response.
Frustrated, she turned over and tried to sleep again, though dreams eluded her. As the night wore on and Breanna lay staring into the darkness, her father’s words echoed through her mind from earlier in the evening.
He had said, We could try to draw the poison out together. Knowing what drives you can help you understand why it drives you. It made Breanna want to spit, but try as she might, there was no shutting out his voice. Nor the lingering thought that he may be right.
Dawn was breaking over the horizon when Breanna started, waking at Fergal’s grumbling as he rose. The fog had lifted, and a light, cold breeze washed over them from the north. Unfortunately, the day would be mostly clear, which did not bode well for them on open ground. Loch Ree lay to their west, the shore dotted with longboats brought here by her father many years before. She couldn’t suppress her groan as her stiff muscles protested the slightest movement.
Eoin was already up and digging through her supplies for breakfast, and Breanna said to him, “The Dreadlord will be on our trail soon. Without horses, we’ll be hard-pressed to keep ahead of him. Any ideas on how to avoid his pursuit?”
Eoin pulled out oatcakes and strips of dried venison, handing some to Fergal, Braoin, and Breanna. Then, he mentioned casually, “I thought we’d borrow one of his boats and take it south to the mouth of the River Shannon. We’ll only have to push east on the High King’s Road for a day to be out of the Dreadlord’s grasp.
“Once we reach Dun Uisneach, I doubt he’ll risk tangling with the High King’s men. I may even ask for Guestright to see what it’s like inside one of Mide’s biggest forts. Aside from Dun Tara, of course. Then we can go at our own pace to the Boyne River to meet your Goddess and find out how Lann Dàn is supposed to help you.”
“She’s not my Goddess. She is the Dark Goddess,” Breanna corrected more tartly than intended as she took a bite of jerked meat. A moment later, after chewing up her venison, she added, “And if it were not for Danu and Lugh claiming I must visit her to discover how these things will help me rid the land of my—of the Dreadlord—I’d be heading north toward Dun Arrogh. But, either way, I’ll not get in a boat with Tethra’s demons seeking me.”
While Fergal didn’t notice her slip, Eoin had. Since Breanna seemed unwilling to talk about her father, he let it pass—there was time for talk later when the Dreadriders and their men were not harrying them—and said, “Did you not say the demons shied away from sunlight?”
Breanna nodded. Then Eoin added, “Best not to get caught on the open water. We’ll get off the loch before it gets dark.”
Eoin’s cousin grunted as he bent to pick up his pack. When he stood, he added sourly, “I don’t know why you both think we need to be concerned about magic and Gods.”
“Because they can help rid us of the Dreadlord,” Eoin snapped in irritation. “If you can’t defeat one of his Dreadriders, how do you expect to take on a whole dun full of them? Hakon Skadi is said to be the best warrior in Dun Garm, so how would you propose killing him even if more than a hundred warriors didn’t guard him? Most of whom are at least your match with a blade!”
Fergal’s face reddened, and his jaw clenched, but no retort came.
As Breanna settled her pack on her back, she rejoined flatly, “I could kill him if it were just the two of us, his sword against my long knives—and I wouldn’t need magic or Gods to do it. You can count on that. Still, Eoin’s right. We don’t stand a chance against his numbers.”
Fergal glanced from one to the other, then stomped off towards the boats on the shore of the distant Loch Ree. Braoin, after a long look at the pair, as if wondering what he had gotten himself into, followed Fergal. Eoin watched them go before turning to his Champion. He whispered as caringly as he knew how, “Bre, if you want to talk about last night, about coming face to face with your—with Hakon Skadi, I’m here for you. Just like you, in his Dreadriders attack and after at Dun Garm, were there for me.”
With that, he turned after his cousin and Breanna’s apparent half-brother. Breanna sank to the ground, stunned that he knew about her father. Or, more correctly, to have it confirmed, for she had been sure that he had indeed puzzled it out.
To have it said to her face, though, was not something she had been expecting. And what did Eoin think of her now that he knew her father was Hakon Skadi, the Dreadlord of Garm? Breanna watched Eoin’s back for a moment, wondering about the man she loved, wondering if he had honestly thought about what her lineage meant to their future. Whether he wanted to admit it, she was not only a dìolain but a tainted one.
Fergal, Braoin, and Eoin had reached the boats and managed to get one of the smaller ones into the water as Breanna joined them. It was not in the best shape, seemingly used for little more than short fishing runs, but its style was distinctly Norvegr, with a strange carved animal head on a rising prow and a narrow stern. The vessel had a light sail and two pairs of stubby oars, and even with a fair wind, they would need the latter to help carry them south at a swifter pace.
Eoin asked, “Braoin, any experience with boats on Loch Síleann?”
The young warrior responded with, “Nothing of this size.”
While Fergal took the tiller and Eoin worked on hoisting the ragged sail, he suggested, “Then take up the first set of oars.”
The current took them slowly out into the loch, tacking south, with Braoin pulling on the first set of oars. Seeing such a significant body of water made Breanna shiver. It had to hold more than enough of Tethra’s demons to sink their little vessel. However, she consoled herself with the notion that the misshapen things would not face the shining sun. At least they were not going to try to cross the loch. Yet, seeing Fergal and Eoin trying to steady the fishing boat didn’t give her much confidence that sticking close to shore would help.
As Breanna sat in the prow, she asked, “You two know what you’re doing?”
“I hope we do,” her Chief answered. “Fergal and I rafted on Loch Gowna, you know.”
Eoin stumbled over a rope and fell into the port gunwale. The boat pitched violently as Fergal and Braoin threw themselves starboard to keep it from flipping. Breanna could only roll her eyes and say, “Loch Ree is considerably larger than Loch Gowna. And if I remember correctly, your raft didn’t have a sail.”
“Aye.” Eoin shrugged as he got to his feet and tied off the mainsail sheet.
Fergal said, “Would you rather wait for the Dreadlord to ride us down?”
Breanna growled, “Nay, but I’d also rather not drown!”
“We’re not going to drown,” Eoin scoffed, but he couldn’t say more because the boat shifted as a gust of wind caught the sail, and he had to duck under the swinging boom. He would have ended up in the water if he had shifted a second later.
Breanna did her best to keep a straight face, but seeing Eoin’s sprawled form at her feet made that a challenge. Finally, righting himself, her Chief muttered a curse. After that, they slowly sailed south silently as the two cousins and Braoin learned to work their craft with the wind and the oars.
Seeing them struggle, Breanna sat with her long knives and planted herself in the bow. Then, as the three finally grew accustomed to the boat and a few minutes passed without further mishap, she offered, “Well, maybe we won’t drown after all.”
“I’m glad your confidence in us has not fully deserted you,” Eoin chided as he sat near the mast and readied the second set of oars. His leg was aching, so he rubbed it instead of rowing. He added, “Well, we’re away from Dun Garm and on our way to meet the Dark Goddess to find out how Lann Dàn is supposed to help us. Do you think you might be able to tell me about your quest for those magical blades you hold? Last I saw, you and Toal headed off to Cuilcagh Mountain.”
Breanna grimaced at the memories, looking past the glowing diamond blades before her as if they didn’t exist. She thought about how her muscles had ached following the battle with Tethra’s demons. Finally, she relented, saying, “As I said in the Dreadlord’s tower, it wasn’t easy keeping these things that first night after I found them.”
The Red Branch’s Champion spun her tale about finding Lann Dàn and what had happened in her battle with Tethra’s demons. Despite the bright sun, her words brought Lann Dàn and Maorgairme to life enough to see them basking in her praise of the Tuatha magic. Eoin whistled in surprise when she got to the part when Lugh appeared, thinking how glorious it would have been to take part in such a fight. Braoin was equally awed.
She finished with her rescue by Toal, Fergal, and Ulicia. Seeing her Chief’s cousin at the tiller with as sour a face as he could manage to put on, she offered a token of peace to the former Champion. “Your cousin has already heard the tale from Toal, but I didn’t have the opportunity to thank him for riding out to save me. So thank you, Fergal.”
Fergal’s face was dark as he said acidly, “Nor have I thanked you for running off to Dun Garm without me. Your confidence in my abilities to assist you was, frankly, underwhelming. Or was it that you wanted the glory all for yourself?”
Breanna’s eyes burned with fury at the slap he had returned. Eoin cut in before she could say anything, demanding in a tone that brooked no room for argument, “Fergal, I know you don’t care for Breanna as I do, but this quest is important to our Red Branch and our clans. Given that the Gods have surely involved themselves, even our entire island, either join us willingly or go back to Dun Arrogh. I don’t care which. If it’s the former, then do so gracefully. You do no honor to our clan’s name or that Celtic Knot arm ring you wear with spiteful words and the oath you gave me.”
Fergal reddened as he sputtered, “But—but she could have—”
Eoin barked, “My Champion did what she thought best. She left someone in charge of the Red Branch. Did you think of doing the same? I thought not. Now, if you can’t put aside your disdain, I’ll not give you a choice and, as your Chief, order you back to Dun Arrogh.”
Fergal’s face remained twisted in anger, but he held his tongue. His cousin was a Prince of the Blood. While he rarely used such authority, his word was final this time. Eoin Mac Cairbre turned away from his cousin, shaking his head as he took up his oars again, and he and Braoin helped them travel southward.
All Breanna could do was stare at her Chief in surprise. She had not thought he would take her side so readily once he knew whose daughter she, in reality, was. But, dìolain or no, he believed his new Champion would fulfill the destiny laid upon her by the Gods and kill the Dreadlord. She wished she had as much confidence.
Silence fell over the boat, save for the sail catching what little breeze there was, with Eoin and Braoin dipping their oars in rhythm and water lapping against the hull. Then, as the wind coming out of the north died, the sail no longer helped them; the pair had to keep rowing for the rest of the morning.
A short while later, Breanna pulled her still-ripped otterskin cloak off, reached in her pack for a needle and some thread, and began stitching it back together. Then Braoin suggested they set out their nets to see if they could catch some fish for dinner, and Fergal cast his weighted net that lay on the keel in their vessel as they made their way south.
---
“So, you’re the young bowman who tried to set my hall on fire,” Hakon stated as he towered over Toal. The boy did his best to hold the Dreadlord’s gaze, but it was more of a challenge than he had thought it would be. His will to be strong with the Dreadrider and his warriors surrounding him in Hakon’s oppressive stone tower wavered as he looked down. The master of Dun Garm continued, “And this morning, you wounded some of my best warriors. Do you think I should take your head as a trophy for these acts?”
Toal said nothing, his eyes locked on his booted feet.
The Dreadlord continued, “Well, maybe not just yet. So, I offer a chance to redeem yourself and keep your head. Tell me where my daughter went?”
Toal looked up in surprise, “Your daughter?”
“Yes, the white-haired girl who lives in your dun,” Hakon snapped.
A look of stunned disbelief settled over Toal’s face, and he stuttered doubtfully, “You think my cousin is your daughter? I know Breanna Ban Morna certainly would disagree. She’s of the Clan Dálaigh, like myself.”
“Ah, so you didn’t know, and I suspect she didn’t either, until recently,” Hakon said as he realized his daughter’s clan had hidden her true lineage. No wonder she was so full of hate toward him. “Well, that explains many things. And Breanna Ban Morna is her name, you say. It is certainly a Gaelic name, which I believe means exalted one. Interesting choice. But enough of this. Tell me, boy, where your cousin has headed. And how many of your Red Branch warriors were with her.”
“Since you won’t catch her, I suppose I can tell you,” Toal offered, trying to set up a lie to help Breanna. “North, around the tip of Loch Ree, then west. She figured you wouldn’t follow her into Connachta, and Eoin has cousins at the Doon of Drumsna. There was only Breanna and our Ceann-cinnidh.”
The Dreadlord eyed his captive to assess how much of his statement might be true. Before he could probe on, a warrior rushed into the room, declaring, “My lord, one of the fishing boats is gone. Jarlson insists his scullions beached them all. One of them couldn’t have floated away. The raiders must have taken it this morning.”
Hakon turned back to Toal, his expression narrowing. “North and west, you said, but with a north wind blowing, having to cross Loch Ree in such a scullion would push them south. Not even our cook would attempt something in one of his fishing boats. But by hanging the sail out, they could ride the shoreline south and then circle east. If I were in their place, I’d abandon the vessel at the High King’s Road ford and head east to Dun Uisneach before swinging southeast.”
“Because they know we can’t risk a fight with those in Mide or Laigin,” Brede said.
“Exactly,” the Dreadlord confirmed. “Clan Mórdha’s origins are in Ulaida. He could head there for protection. Connachta is certainly the last place they’d go. How to stop them is the question.”
“But why not just let them go?” Brede asked. “If they seek areas outside our control, they’ll no longer be a threat. The High King only tolerates those clans because of his marriage to his Ulaidan wife.”
Hakon answered, “Because my daughter is a very skilled warrior.”
Brede had no response, unsure of the tact his Jarl was taking. Hakon thought back to their brief battle and his awe over how her martial abilities had shown through. He walked around Toal, trying to see any of his daughter’s features in the boy, as they were cousins, after all. But no, nothing spoke of Toal’s Gaelic blood in his memory of her face.
The Dreadlord continued, “She has some way of anticipating her opponent’s moves, which could be a great asset as we expand in this land. And she knows the ways of her fellow Celts better than we do. Besides, I’d rather have her fighting at my side than someday find she’s returned to put a knife in my back.”
Brede shook his head in disbelief, saying, “Can she truly be that good?”
“You didn’t have to face her last night,” Hakon sighed. “I did. I’m certain.”
Toal stood with his eyes downcast, hardly believing what he was hearing. It was like trying to piece together half a puzzle. If Breanna was the Dreadlord’s daughter, what did he mean by saying he’d rather have her fighting at his side? He couldn’t believe Breanna would ever join the Dreadlord’s cause. She was the Champion of their Red Branch, and her vow to kill the Dreadlord had remained solid over the years.
Still, seeing Hakon up close, with his strange eyes and white hair, convinced him that his cousin was indeed the seed of Hakon Skadi’s loins. The how and why of it, he couldn’t say, but there was little room for question about her lineage. Could this discovery be used to sway her to his side? By the Gods, he hoped not, for she was their last chance to end the Dreadlord’s reign.
“My Jarl,” said the warrior who had brought the news of the missing boat. “Runa asked me to tell you that all of the warriors this boy wounded will recover. She’ll be along shortly.”
“Thank you, Gjall,” the Dreadlord said, dismissing the young man with an absent wave. After hesitating, he turned to Brede and stated, “I think Breanna’s cousin is just the bait we need to lure her back to Dun Garm. You and Alrik take a few warriors and see if you can pick up their trail along the shores of Loch Ree. Five of you should be a match for the two of them. And if you find my wayward daughter, remember, I want her alive. I’ll bring Runa and the boy once she’s sent Lunt off to Valhalla. I owe Lang a Feast of Einherjar to honor his brother.”
Brede did not like hearing that he would miss the Feast of Fallen Warriors, for Lunt was also one of his favorites. He would have to instead pay homage to Odin and Freyja, Queen of the Valkyries, personally while on his mount. The two older warriors would soon be on the bastard’s trail. Knowing Runa would join them, he protested, “Why do we need the völva? She’ll slow us down.”
“My daughter, cursed by her mother at birth with something Celts call a geas, will be hard to sever,” Hakon informed his most senior Dreadrider. “It’s what drives her to want to kill me. Runa needs to break this spell.”
The Dreadrider was not pleased but knew better than to press the point with this god or his lord. Then, changing the subject, he asked, “Where do we meet? And when?”
“There’s a ford on the River Inny southeast of here,” Hakon answered. “If I remember correctly, a small settlement of a few hovels is gathered around it. We’ll meet there at midday tomorrow. And shortly after that, my daughter will either be standing at my side or be dead.”
Toal could only groan at his failure to escape. Now, he was going to be Breanna’s downfall.
When Eoin, Breanna, Braoin, and Fergal entered the bay on Loch Ree that led to the River Inny, it was just before sunset, but not by much. The light winds that had appeared earlier in the day had not helped to keep them moving south since then. As a result, the band had to rely on rowing throughout the day. Unfortunately, as they crossed the bay created by the inlet of the River Inny, Eoin and Braoin were forced to keep at the oars as they slowly followed the northern shore of the loch. Worry was etched on Breanna’s face as she turned to her Chief with a note of dread, saying, “We need to get off the water now.”
“I’d prefer to be on the south side of the River Inny, just in case the Dreadlord has second-guessed our plans,” Eoin commented in between strokes. “We could row for the south side from here.”
Breanna looked toward the far end of the bay and shook her head, saying, “It’s too far. The sun will be down before we get there.”
From his post at the tiller, Fergal sneered, “Afraid of a few demons?”
“Aye, you idiot, and you should be, too!” she spat with rage in her eyes.
Looking at Breanna’s expression and remembering her tale about her first battle with demons on Loch Aillionn, Eoin said, “Steer north for the near shore, Fergal. Braoin and I will keep us moving. I’d rather not tempt fate, especially with what happened when Breanna was near Loch Aillionn after she first found Lann Dàn. This time, there may be no Gods to answer her call.”
Fergal groused something about the pair jumping at shadows but heaved the tiller over and set the boat on a course for the closest piece of land. Breanna let her eyes scan the water behind them, looking for any sign of demons as the sun slipped lower and lower. She kept Lann Dàn ready, the diamond blades glowing in response to possible demons and her palms sweating in anticipation of something being out there as Eoin and Braoin rowed. Even the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. The feeling lessened when the keel scraped bottom, and the bay’s surface remained calm as Braoin and Eoin jumped out to pull the boat ashore moments later.
As Fergal bent over to get his pack, the water behind the vessel erupted, and a dark shape suddenly loomed over him. It held the same black sword Breanna had faced in her last battle. Seeing the thing was about to take Fergal’s head off, she lunged over him and drove her raging white blades in. Balefire surged into the demon, with each diamond flaring even brighter when they struck, and Tethra’s spawn exploded in a shower of dark water.
“By the Gods, what was that!” Fergal exclaimed.
“A demon who would have sliced your head off and sunk our boat if we had not made for the shore when we did,” Breanna said grimly and then wiped the black mud from her face left behind by the now-dead otherworld demon. Then, seeing the bay’s surface churn, she added, “And if we don’t hurry away from here, more will follow him.”
Eoin, Braoin, and Fergal looked toward where Breanna pointed, their eyes wide with alarm. They all grabbed their packs and bolted away from the small boat, making for higher ground. Even in the fading light, they could see the water was alive with Tethra’s demons as they glanced behind them. That made them run faster. It wasn’t long before Fergal and Eoin were limping, but they had held out long enough to be clear of the loch and river. Exhausted, they made camp for the night in a small ring of birch trees a short time later.
After cooking their small catch of fish from their day on Loch Ree, they ate in silence. Eoin looked to Breanna, hoping to have words with her about her father, but she was already hunkered down in her blanket and trying to get some sleep. Seeing Fergal still staring blankly at the fire convinced him this was not the right time. It was not a discussion to have with other ears nearby.
Maybe it did not matter, for his cousin could have puzzled out the story of her lineage. However, it seemed unlikely as that was something Fergal would have used against Breanna. He probably had suspicions, but no more than that. Shaking his head, Eoin turned over to get some sleep.
The following day came cold and gray for Dun Arrogh’s exiles, so they wasted no time getting their sore bodies on the move once more. They followed the River Inny eastward as it was too deep to cross, and the current was still running swiftly; the rainy season had started early in the fall. Eoin didn’t like it, and he complained their efforts had not taken them much farther away from the Dreadlord than at the start of the previous day.
Breanna couldn’t argue the point, save that they had no choice except to press on. The air turned chilly, and there was a definite threat of rain. Finally, around midday, they came to a small hovel of a settlement that lay near a ford on the river. There was not much to the place, with whatever defenses they once had having rotted away. There were mostly older folk who stood in the doorways of the few huts still livable, their faces holding wary expressions.
With their rations running low, the three from Dun Arrogh and Breanna’s newfound half-brother traded a few hours of work for a meal. Their gold and silver Celtic Knot arm rings identified them as holding the highest level of the warrior class, and Eoin’s cloak proclaimed he was a Prince of the Blood, which meant they could have claimed Guestright and not worked at all.
Yet Eoin, Fergal, and Braoin didn’t mind as they chopped firewood and stacked peat. While the former two’s bodies protested the work, the three could not take from people who were so poor without giving something in return.
Breanna went down to the river to try her hand at fishing. She quickly filled her bucket. The older man who had helped her had a big smile. There were indeed not enough strong backs to support the small village. By the time they were ready to set out, Breanna had bartered her catch for supplies that would travel. Oatcakes, jerky, nuts, and fruit would serve them better than fish and smell better the next day. And while the small dun didn’t have any ale worth drinking, they got some mead and a little tea included in their trade. Then, pleased with themselves, they headed for the crossing of the River Inny.
As they approached the water, four men dressed in simple brown robes crossed toward them. From their looks, they had the mark of outlanders. The leader emerged from the river, saying, “Greetings in the name of Jesu. I am called Phátric, and these are my Christian brothers. We hale from the Isle of Man and travel to spread the word about the One God and how you can find salvation through his one and only son. I ask that you take the time to hear us out.”
Breanna looked at Eoin, finding the foreigner’s words challenging to follow. Their accent was not something she had ever heard before. Finally, her Chief stepped forward, saying in the little Latin he knew from this father, “Nay, I cannot grant that boon. We have no time for words, as we must be on our way quickly. But you might find receptive ears in a large dun to the northwest.”
Phátric smiled, “I thank you, my son. Would it be called Dun Garm?”
“Aye,” Eoin confirmed, his grin a wicked one. “That it would. It’s another day’s travel.”
As the outlanders turned toward the small settlement to see if anyone would listen, Fergal whispered, “That’s like directing a lamb into a wolf’s den.”
Eoin smiled and said, “Let’s go. I want to be away from here, away from their kind.”
Before they could take a step, though, five mounted warriors were thundering into the settlement. The old folk of the village ran for cover, leaving Dun Arrogh’s best to stand on their own with the four defenseless Christians.
Riding three in front and two behind, it was clear from their dress they were the Dreadlord’s men. Before she could think about it, Breanna had Lann Dàn in her hands and was charging them. She knocked down Phátric and his brothers as they got in her way, even while Eoin, Fergal, and Braoin were still drawing their swords. The former cried, “Bre, no!”
It was too late—Breanna had committed herself, but to what? She wasn’t entirely sure. Then her ring, Maorgairme, flashed, and courage seemed to fill her like never before as she felt a weight appear on her chest. Then a voice cried in her mind, Breanna Ban Morna, I claim you, my Hero of Erin! Erin’s Hero! Rise and fight as you have never fought before! Destroy our enemies!
Breanna knew it was Ćroí Dàn and could feel its heat on her chest beneath her tunic, but she had no time to think about the implications of its appearance. Yet, knowing she had the Heart of Destiny supporting her, she quickly took in the first set of warriors riding three abreast and surged forward, adjusting her path to the one on the left.
Breanna caught a glimpse of the pair riding behind them, her mind instantly noting they were the same Dreadriders she had seen in Dun Garm when she slipped out of the cart the night she had freed her Chief. And they seemed to know her as well, each trying to pull their mounts to a quick stop.
Unfortunately, the other warriors were not as skilled with their warhorses and were caught off-guard by the strange woman’s aggressive tactics, her glowing blades making the beasts rear up before her. Forced to leap aside at the last minute to avoid being trampled under their mounts, Breanna seized the void as she rolled to her feet and caught one rider in the thigh with a raking blade swipe. He instinctively tried to jerk out of her reach, but his fellow warriors were in his way.
When they all collided, Eoin, Fergal, and Braoin pressed their attack in the mayhem of the moment while Breanna pulled the warrior she had wounded from his saddle. Then, as he fell, she slit his throat and flung herself onto his mount just as the two older Norvegrmen rode through the Christians who were now in their way and cut them down as if they were nothing more than wheat stalks.
Riding was not one of Breanna’s more proficient skills, for they had few horses in Dun Arrogh with which to practice and none of this size. Still, she knew enough to heel her mount out of the fray. The Dreadriders urged their mounts after her as the other two warriors lifted their blades to fend off Eoin, Braoin, and Fergal. Their battle-trained horses flailed away with their hooves to help protect the riders as the trio of Celts tried to get at them.
Breanna wheeled about at the river’s edge, charging back at the oncoming Dreadriders. When the older one swung at her with the flat of his blade, she intuited her father had ordered that she be taken alive. Ducking away from his sword, Breanna lashed out at the other Dreadrider and nearly unseated him as one of her Lann Dàn caught him firmly in the chest. He would have been dead without his hard-boiled cuirass, as the blade only punched a small hole in the leather. Still, Breanna heard him grunt at the impact as she kept her horse charging forward, riding down one of the other young warriors and spearing him in the back as he turned to evade Fergal’s sword.
As the Norvegrman tumbled from his saddle, his companion countered with a desperate roundhouse sword stroke. Luckily, Breanna only took a glancing blow on one of her leather vambraces and quickly was out of range. However, the awkward swing left the warrior off balance, and Eoin jerked him from his mount, skewering him on the way to the ground.
Braoin, Fergal, or Eoin used the young warrior’s horse for cover as the Dreadriders had their horses on the offensive trying to get at them. Seeing this, Breanna turned to intercept the senior warriors, cutting in behind the one she had nearly unhorsed in her last charge.
The older Dreadrider yelled, “Alrik, behind you!”
Yet it was too late, and Breanna drove a Lann Dàn blade deep into his upper hip, and the force of blade on bone knocked the one called Alrik from his saddle. To provide him with cover, Brede turned his horse on Breanna, raising his sword to strike her down. But she was too quick, the void showing her the action he planned before he even thought it, raising one blade to fend off his sword stroke while slashing in with the other.
Her left-hand blade tip caught him in the face, drawing a line from his cheekbone to his chin, and he reeled backward to avoid her right-hand weapon now sweeping in across his chest. The sharp blade slit open his leather cuirass, leaving a shallow cut from armpit to armpit as Breanna charged away.
The Dreadrider called Alrik flung himself back onto his mount and kicked its sides toward a clear space. He turned his gaze to the Celtic warriors, confirming their three younger companions lying on the ground, unmoving, were dead. Now outnumbered, Alrik noted Hakon’s bastard had pulled her mount around to face him, ready to charge once again, and so he kicked his horse into action and bolted back the way he had come with his Dreadrider companion hot on his heels.
“Cowards!” Breanna bellowed after them.
Fergal gathered his pack from the river’s edge where he had dropped it, saying to Eoin as he passed, “That woman’s crazier than I thought. Charging five mounted warriors—with two being Dreadriders—she could have gotten herself killed. And us with her!”
Braoin countered, “Unbelievable. Damn, she’s more than good. Hearing all this talk about Tuatha magic, you all keep tossing about, by the Gods, they’ve claimed her!”
“At least she got us horses to ride,” Eoin countered, privately thinking the same about his Champion. Sometimes, her courage was indeed a terrifying thing to behold.
With adrenaline still pumping through her veins, Breanna ignored Fergal, sheathed her blades in the harness on her back, and then dismounted the warhorse. To her surprise, Ćroí Dàn exclaimed mind-to-mind, My hero, Erin’s Hero! You fought brilliantly!
Breanna’s hand flashed to her chest to grasp the Heart of Destiny through her tunic. She pulled the heart-shaped ruby gem from beneath the deerskin, asking, “Where in the world did you come from?”
Ćroí Dàn answered in her mind, You are mine! Danu sent me to support your quest to remove the Dreadlord from our land. Maorgairme declared it was time I joined you!
Braoin and Eoin came to her side, her Chief demanding, “What is that?”
In amazement, Breanna shook her head and said, “It’s called Ćroí Dàn, the Heart of Destiny, its magic imparting courage and heroism in Gaels when around her chosen Hero. When I sought out Danu in Beatha’s grove, the Mother Goddess wore this gem when she told me the Heart had proclaimed I was Erin’s Hero. So it looks like I am hers, apparently sent by Danu to help us.”
“Hers?” Braoin asked.
“Aye, she is undoubtedly female and a demanding one to boot!”
I am Ćroí Dàn, the ruby-shaped gem said, And I am not an it. Danu created me as a conscious female being. You can refer to me as Ćroí Dàn, but I’d prefer you use my Heart.
Breanna added, “Hmmm, let me correct myself, as she just told me to address her as my Heart. I think the better description of her nature would be that she is very assertive.”
Ćroí Dàn grumbled a huff at her Hero.
Eoin looked around, seeing three dead Norvegrmen and the four Christians, and stated, “Well, she certainly inspired your courage, given the results.”
Having gathered the packs and supplies carried by the outlander warriors, Fergal returned to hand one over to each and said, “What I want to know is how they found us.”
“Maybe it was his völva,” Breanna suggested. “Runa is said to have the sight. Either way, it’s a debate that can wait. Hakon will send more warriors when those two reach his camp, as he must be tracking us down.”
Fergal asked Breanna, “Do you want your trophies? Two of these kills are yours, and you certainly helped Eoin with the third.”
Breanna answered, “We barely have the time to claim their belongings as is our custom after a battle, so let’s search the warriors and get going. And leave the Christians be.”
“You’re right,” Eoin confirmed.
The four of them went about the grisly work of stripping the dead of their weapons, as their swords and hunting knives would make for a good trade ahead. While the warriors had few coins, Breanna secured a cloak for a spare. Braoin and Fergal did the same after seeing this. After cleaning the weapons and themselves of spilled blood in the river, they mounted their seized war horses.
Eoin commanded, “We ride for Dun Uisneach!”
A nearby crow cawed what sounded like “ride” and took flight over them, heading southeast, with a murder of her fellow crows flying with the lead bird.
Her Chief gave Breanna a hand, swinging her up to ride behind him, to which she added, “It looks like the Mórrígan agrees with you, Eoin.”
They left the village, Hakon’s dead warriors, and the dead Christians behind, fording the River Inny and then turning east to follow its course.
