“But your friend has fallen and you want to avenge him,” Bridei said. “I understand. Cinioch, we need every seasoned man in action here, yourself included. You’re the last able-bodied Pitnochie man left; you must represent Breth and Elpin and Enfret in this last battle. Uven, I know you, too, will make a valuable contribution, one-armed though you are right now. Do us proud, men. Think of it as a reward for all those years Broichan kept you cooling your heels at Pitnochie, guarding a small boy who liked to wander about in the forest. Under the circumstances, I’ll make do with my one guard. It’s Gabhran who’ll be a sitting target; I can see his banner from here.”
“All the same—”
“Don’t argue, Cinioch, move. When you hear Carnach’s order, be prepared for the Gaels to surge toward us; they’ll believe we’re in full retreat. Make sure our own spear-holders don’t damage you as they draw back. Go now. Uven, do your best to protect these wounded men. May the gods be with us all.”
Bridei had explained his own role to Hargest, on a morning when the first rays of the sun had awoken a jittery restlessness that was part excitement, part fear in the younger and less experienced warriors. All were now battle-hardened; the north of Dalriada had not been won without heavy fighting, and all had seen their share of blood and death. This, however, would be the decisive battle. Each army set its king in play today. For Hargest, who had already proven himself in feats of arms, it was a new challenge. Without Bridei, Fortriu would be leaderless, cut adrift, no longer held safe in the Flamekeeper’s hand. It mattered little that others could step up and take the king’s place as battle leader. Bridei was more than merely monarch of Fortriu. In his plain leather breastpiece and unadorned helm, his tunic and trousers of gray wool and his serviceable boots, he might have looked to a stranger much the same as any warrior of six and twenty summers, a young man in his prime, determined and strong. The only mark of his identity, other than the kin signs graven on his face, which a Gael could not interpret, was his square wooden shield bearing the symbol of the eagle in blue on white. His eyes echoed that blue; they were the eyes of leader and scholar, fighter and peacemaker, for Bridei strove to be all these things. Blade of Fortriu. He wondered, often, what he had done to deserve such a title. He was flesh and blood. In the midst of a battlefield he was as vulnerable as any of them, and as anonymous.
His desire to appear a man among men set his bodyguards a difficult job. Both Breth and Garth had remarked, at different times, how much easier it would be if this king wore a gold helm or silver torc on the field; if he bore his banner beside him or went protected by a shield wall of hand-picked warriors. It would at least make losing sight of him less likely. Faolan had commented dryly that, as this king went under the protection of the Flamekeeper, their own presence was superfluous anyway. He, however, was the most skilled of all of them at sticking to Bridei’s side in the midst of battle.
Hargest did his best, but in the milling whirl of action Bridei felt the youth’s slicing weapon several times come perilously close to his own head. Once, only Snowfire’s evasive dance to the side prevented the lad from cleaving his master’s skull in two. A moment later the sword went sideways, chopping, and a mounted Gael who had been readying an axe for flight toppled to the ground instead, clutching his side. Hargest grinned; Bridei saw it and looked away. Then there was another Gael, and another, and it became clear that Carnach had called the retreat, for a flood of men surged back from the Dalriadan lines, making for the river, Priteni and Gaels together locked in a hundred small, desperate combats. Men fell; booted feet tramped over them, hooves struck heads and the ground turned to a hideous stew of mud, blood, and body parts. Hargest sat steady on his stolid pony, his bulk protecting Bridei and Snowfire from the worst of the human tide. From time to time he reached down and jabbed with his dagger or slashed with his sword; the action seemed to Bridei almost arbitrary, like swatting flies or slapping off midges. He wondered what went through Hargest’s mind when he killed.
The Gaels were gaining ground. They sliced and clubbed and chopped their way down toward the river. Drive the Priteni back to the far side of this watercourse, Gabhran’s chieftains would be thinking, and hold them at that line, and the day was won. Carnach’s forces were in as orderly a retreat as could be managed. Here and there a rank of six shields or seven still held fast as men maintained their formation even while the spears of the enemy jabbed and flew into their ranks.
The mounted warriors were on the flanks; an elite few, they used their advantage of height and mobility to edge in, deliver a crushing blow and wheel away. The hill ponies of Fortriu, trained over long seasons in such maneuvers, were sweating and wild-eyed now, for no amount of rigorous drilling can teach a horse, or a man, to be ready for the sounds and sights of a scene such as this. The screams, the groans, the straining of metal on metal and the hideous crunch and smash of bodies breaking under the onslaught: it took a strange kind of creature not to be affected by it, not to dream of it over and over, night after night in the time of peace. Hargest, Bridei thought, was that kind of man. The lad almost seemed to be enjoying himself. Perhaps the reality of it would hit him later. For himself, Bridei counted every Gael he slew; he looked in each man’s eyes and struggled to see the enemy who had stolen his homeland and set the creeping threat of the new faith in the hearts of his people. He saw only another man doing a job as best he could. All the same, Bridei used his weapons effectively, as his old tutor Donal had trained him to do. He could hardly expect his men to fight if he were not prepared to do the same. All the time he watched for that banner. Gabhran. He wanted the king of Dalriada alive.
They were at the river. The Priteni forces were bunched together in a mass, some in the water, some on the bank, holding fast as the Dalriadan troops pressed closer. On the flanks, Ged’s riders and Morleo’s fought fiercely with the mounted Gaels. Dalriada had far greater numbers of horsemen and was using them to devastating advantage. Ged’s men were under pressure; Bridei watched as their rainbow-clad forms toppled and fell, one by one; he watched the riderless horses bolt back across the shallow river and make their foam-flecked, staring-eyed escape. He scanned the melee for Ged himself and saw him on his stocky, dark horse, grim-jawed and white-faced, hacking a steady path forward. Talorgen he could not see, but the forces of Raven’s Well were holding their ground between center and flank, preventing the enemy from coming around to circle the Priteni foot soldiers and trap them at the river crossing. Carnach yelled another order; his captains relayed it in voices like braying trumpets, and the main mass of warriors stepped up the pace of their retreat across the water, relaxing the pressure against the pursuer. “Back!” Carnach shouted. “In the name of the Flamekeeper, back!”
The Gaels gave voice, scenting the kill. Horns shrilled; men screamed: “Dalriada! Dalriada!” and like an angry tide they surged forward, driving the Priteni before them.
“Pray that this works,” muttered Bridei, halting Snowfire a moment to look behind him. “Pray that Fokel and Umbrig are as good as their word, or we’ve lost the advantage.” As he spoke, two mounted Gaels approached at a gallop, one with thrusting spear at the ready, the other wielding a club. There was no time to think. Donal’s training asserted itself and Bridei guided Snowfire in a deceptive movement one way, the other way, evading the man with the club while, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hargest block the spear with his sword, then execute a deft, powerful action that levered the opponent from saddle to muddy ground in a ripple of movement. The clubwielder was circling Bridei, coming in again. Snowfire snorted and tossed his head; Bridei rolled from the saddle, hanging low to the side, and passed close to the enemy unscathed, then rose with dagger in hand as Snowfire executed a tight turn. Before the Gael had time to realize what had happened, Bridei’s knife was in his neck and the lifeblood was pumping scarlet across his tunic. He fell; his horse halted to stand trembling amid the maelstrom that surrounded them, perhaps shocked into stillness, perhaps simply waiting for instructions tha
t would never come.
Bridei dismounted and bent to retrieve his weapon. Not far off, Hargest, too, had got down from his horse. As Bridei watched, the youth plunged his sword into the chest of the man he had unseated, not once, but over and over until his opponent was a crushed mass of bloodied flesh. When Hargest looked up, his face was linen-white, his eyes glittering like moonlight on deep ice, a strange, unsettling blue. A frisson of unease passed through Bridei. It was too much. He must call a halt to this for a while at least; get the boy out of it before he lost control completely.
“Hargest,” he said firmly, “that man is dead. Get back on your horse and follow me.”
To find a space within this confusion of struggling men and scything weaponry was difficult. Bridei led his bodyguard a short way along the riverbank and up a slight rise to a patch of level ground among rocks. A group of stunted willows grew there, and the body of a Dalriadan warrior, his head lolling at an unlikely angle, lay sprawled on a darkened patch of grass, but otherwise the place was empty. The battle raged on below; between the trees it was possible to see something of the flow of it, and this provided Bridei with justification for leading Hargest off the field.
“Your eyes are younger than mine,” he said to the young Caitt warrior, not mentioning that his own eyes were druidtrained. “Look down and tell me if you see Fokel’s men or Umbrig’s. This is finely balanced; a turning point. If they don’t appear soon Gabhran will drive our forces right back across the water.”
“Why are you looking at me like that? Why don’t we stay down there and fight?” Hargest’s voice was very young and strident with arrogance. There was something else about it that set Bridei’s nerves on edge: an odd tone, the tone of a man frustrated beyond endurance. The boy sounded ready to take desperate action, to jump off a cliff or smash a precious treasure.
“Because you were enjoying it too much,” Bridei said flatly. “You’re only fifteen. I am responsible for you. I asked more of you than I should have done. You’ve already accounted for your share of Gaels today.” He was gazing down the hill, seeking the banner of Dalriada and finding it by the water’s edge where the press of men was thickest. So many had fallen now, their still forms bridged and dammed the water, which ran red around them. “Where’s—” Bridei began. The words were lost in a wheezing exhalation as a powerful arm seized him around the chest. A moment later he was flat on his back with his assailant kneeling astride him and a dagger pointed at his heart. Instinctively he grabbed the attacker’s wrists, slicing his own palm open on the blade, and held on grimly, pressing away so hard he felt the strain of it in his back, his thighs, his clenched jaw, his head. There was no point in calling for his bodyguard. Staring, incredulous, up into those avid, pale eyes, Bridei wondered how long Hargest had been planning to kill him.
“What—” he started, but the knife pressed down harder, and he knew he could not waste his breath in speech. Hargest was big, he was fit, he was young. Even if Bridei yelled at the top of his voice, who would hear him above the din of battle? In the space of a few labored breaths he was going to die; in each inhalation, in each instant of resistance a small farewell … Tuala … Derelei … Broichan … Save me, he prayed with every scrap of his will. Save me for them, and save me for Fortriu …
“It’s time to pay your dues,” said Hargest in a small, cold voice, and Bridei felt the youth’s grip shift on the knife, easing the pressure momentarily. “You’ve evaded my blade too many times, you weak excuse for a king. Now it’s time to die. You’re a fool if you can’t see the inevitable: it’s the Gaels who will triumph here. They’ll be all over the Glen by the time I bear this news back to my father. Your reign is over, King Bridei.”
Then, as Bridei arched his back and made to twist out from beneath him, Hargest pushed down again and the tip of the blade entered flesh. Even as it came to Bridei that there was a technique Faolan had once shown him, a trick he could have used if he had been ready in that moment’s respite, he felt a piercing pain in his chest and, no longer husbanding his breath, he sucked air into his lungs and yelled, “Help me! In the gods’ name, help!”
Hargest smiled; the knife bit deeper as Bridei’s arms, the muscles straining in painful, trembling spasm, began to lose their strength. Bridei sensed the wings of the dark goddess beating above him. Her chill breath touched his sweating brow, her eldritch lullaby whispered in his ear … Then a flash of movement, something brushing his face, feathers, claws, beak, a wild eye and a scream to match his own, the cry of a great bird of prey. Hargest, too, shouted, the pressure of his hands suddenly slackening as the hawk’s talons raked across his face, drawing a pattern of bloody lines. Bridei, a man druid-raised, did not waste time in pondering the strangeness of this intervention. He seized the moment’s advantage, rolling, sliding, making himself like a snake, an eel, a salamander as the bird flew upward, still calling its harsh warning, then dived once more to send Hargest reeling back, arms up to protect his lacerated face. Bridei scrambled to his feet, intent on the knife still clutched in Hargest’s fist. The youth was standing; blood was trickling into his eyes. He was breathing hard, but he held the weapon steady and his feet were planted square.
“Come on, then!” he challenged, glaring at Bridei. “Take it, come on, take it off me!” Then, “Cursed creature!” slashing wildly as the hawk made another sweeping pass, threatening to topple him.
Save me for Fortriu … Bridei dived forward, seizing Hargest’s wrists, and as the hawk swept by once more, making the young man stumble and curse, he shoved with all his remaining strength.
Hargest fell. The sound of it was something Bridei dreamed about later; something he would have given much to be able to erase from his memory. There was a hideous, crunching finality about it. Nonetheless, after a moment’s horrified stillness, Bridei bent to check as the hawk settled on the rocks nearby. He managed to contain himself, though his gorge rose as he looked. He reminded himself of Broichan’s old dictum that there was learning to be had in everything. Yes, even in the sight of a boy who was full of promise lying with his head smashed in like an overripe fruit that has fallen from the tree. Hargest had been unlucky. Perhaps the gods had placed that stone there, intending the young man to die when his head struck it. Perhaps this was their all-too-simple answer to Bridei’s prayer.
He knelt to cross Hargest’s arms on his chest; to place the knife by the boy’s side. The open eyes gazed up at the sky, wide, blue, blank. Bridei searched for a prayer. For the moment, he could not think of one. All he could think was, Why? All he could hear was the thud of his own heart, a drumbeat of anger and grief, shock and hurt.
“My lord! Bridei! What—?”
A small company of men, then, suddenly there beside him, Cinioch and three others, all on foot with swords drawn and white faces. A moment later there was a rustling movement behind him, and as he turned he caught a glimpse of something wondrous and unsettling, the wild-eyed, tawny-feathered hawk changing before his gaze to a tall, broad-shouldered man with eyes bright as stars and a mane of hair that same vivid gold-red.
Cinioch shouted again and the men surged forward, weapons lifted to strike. One stumbled over the body of the dead Gael, still lying on the sward. The red-haired man put up his hands; he bore neither sword, knife, nor bow. “I am a friend,” he said with admirable calm, then staggered as if weary to exhaustion and put out a hand to steady himself against the rocks.
“Hold back, lads,” said Bridei. “I’m safe. This man came to my rescue. But Hargest is dead.” He could not find it in him to explain further; indeed, he could not begin to understand what had happened.
“Bridei, you’re bleeding.”
Cinioch came forward, and as Bridei looked down he saw a spreading bloodstain on his own shirt, through the slit Hargest’s dagger had made in the leather breastpiece. His hand was dripping blood where the same weapon had sliced it; his mind showed him a small image of Hargest seated by the fire at night, sharpening the blade with a concentration that set a f
rown on his young brow and a narrowed intensity in his eyes.
“It’s nothing,” Bridei said, but submitted as Cinioch checked the damage and applied makeshift bandages, saying Bridei had indeed been blessed by the gods, for a little deeper and he’d have been off in Bone Mother’s arms before he had a chance to know it. One of the other men was rolling the dead Gael over, removing the man’s weapons, giving him a token kick. Save for the presence of the red-haired man, there would have been no need to speak of what Hargest had done. But this stranger had witnessed it. He had intervened as if in response to Bridei’s prayer. As a bird. A messenger from the Flamekeeper? This man was kneeling beside Hargest now, handsome features somber. He reached out long fingers to close the boy’s eyes. His hand was not quite steady, and he looked weary to exhaustion.
“Who are you?” Bridei asked him.
“A messenger. Sent by the queen, your wife.”
“By Tuala? But—”
“There was a vision; your friends at White Hill knew you to be in deadly danger, with none able to reach you in time. I was there. I offered to come.”
Now the other men were staring, distrust mingling with wonder on their faces.
“You are a druid? A mage?” Bridei asked, hearing from down the hill a change in the sounds of battle and knowing they had little time for explanations now.
“I am Drustan of Dreaming Glen and Briar Wood; I am neither mage nor druid. I see my brother’s hand in this: Alpin, who was to have wed your royal hostage. I have to tell you that my brother is dead, and that he never planned to honor your treaty.”
Bridei was silent a moment, glancing from the stranger to the fallen youth and back again.
“This is his son, isn’t it?” Drustan said, eyes bleak. “Hargest. I haven’t seen him since he was a child, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. The queen described the assailant to me. Even then, I knew.”