Child of the Prophecy (76 page)

"We must make sail." The Chief spoke now, his voice constrained, as if he exercised the tightest of controls. "The longships will be waiting. We must not delay the attack, or the element of surprise will be lost."

"But, Chief!" Godric's tone was of complete outrage. "We can't just leave him there!"

Bran regarded him levelly. "He is lost," he said, and despite his best efforts, his voice shook. "Believe me, we searched; we hunted until we had barely time to reach you before dawn. He is drowned, and swept away. There is some work of treachery here; but it seems the only witness is silent." He glanced down at the dead man sprawled at his feet.

"How can we go without Johnny?" one of the men asked blankly. "How can the battle be won without the child of the prophecy?"

There was a silence.

"That's Johnny's knife," said Waerfrith, eyeing the dead man. "I'd know it anywhere. I could hazard a guess at what happened. See, the man's own dagger sheath is empty."

"The truth will be discovered; the guilty punished." The Chief's tone was again controlled; that of a seasoned battle-leader. "For now, we must make a swift decision. Hoist the sail; whatever choice we make, we must be away from here without delay. We cannot wait, hoping for miracles."

I thought for a moment the men would not obey. They stared back across the empty water, faces pale with shock. This was not just the loss of their leader, it was the snatching away of their very purpose. Still, they were professionals. The sail was raised, the oars taken, and the curragh began to move rapidly away from the land.

"Never have got this fellow back aboard, save for Darragh here," said Gareth. "Towed him all the way. Thought he might have had a chance."

"Scarce worth the bother," muttered Waerfrith. "Man's stone dead. The Ui Neill will be answering a question or two before the day's over."

Darragh himself sat silent. Perhaps he was exhausted from the night's swim, perhaps shocked by his first sight of treachery and loss. I stayed behind him, out of his view. Our small craft slid through the waves, swift as a gull's flight, and soon enough there was an order to heave to and wait.

"This is the point," Waerfrith said. "From here we can be seen by the leading longship; the signal must be given. Red to advance; white if we want them to hold, and delay until another day."

There was silence.

"The fleet is sunk. The mission is accomplished. We must raise the red banner," Gareth said. I thought I saw tears glinting on his broad cheeks.

"How can we?" snapped Godric, voice shaking with rage. "Our leader is lost. The child of the prophecy is dead. No wonder the druid didn't want to tell us what the divination showed. We cannot win this battle without Johnny."

"He's right," said Waerfrith heavily. "The prophecy makes that clear. Go in without him, and we'll like as not all be slaughtered. The whole thing depends on Johnny. Without his leadership there can be no victory."

"Seems to me," all turned in surprise as Darragh spoke up quietly, his tone calm, "that we might as well go on with it. We've fine ships, good men, strong allies behind us. We've sunk the Briton's fleet, so he starts at a disadvantage. And there's something even more important. What would Johnny want us to do? Would he want his men to retreat for fear of failure, or show their courage and put up a good fight for the things he cared about?" He paused. "I know I'm no warrior, but that seems to me plain common sense."

Oh, no, I thought. Not common sense but foolish courage. You will die; you will all die. Go home. Save yourselves at least, since it seems there is nothing else to be saved here.

But Gareth looked at Darragh in surprise, and gave a nod; Waerfrith scratched his chin. Godric was still hostile; it was his grief, perhaps, that fueled his anger now.

"We have no leader," he said grimly. "How can we raise this ban-

ner and call forward the forces of the allies when they have lost their rallying point, their very reason for going on? The whole campaign would be a lie."

"I will lead." The Chief spoke very quietly, but there was a core of iron in his voice.

"You, my lord?" Godric raised his brows. "Fine champion you may be, but you are still a Briton. Did you not swear you would remain apart from this confrontation, for the sake of preserving your truce with Northwoods? How can you lead us?"

Bran turned his cool gray eyes on the young warrior. "My son is lost," he said. "I will lead."

Godric fell silent. Gareth drew a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. "Right, men," he said firmly, with the marks of his tears still stark on his amiable features. "We do this for Johnny. If he cannot wield a sword today, we use our own blades to honor him. If he cannot fulfill the prophecy, we can at least ensure the men of Erin do not go down without a good fight. We may yet triumph." He glanced at the Chief.

"Well spoken, lad." Bran gazed ahead toward the third island, the tall, stark pinnacle of rock whose treacherous base concealed the secret channel, the place of the Worm's Mouth.

"Hoist the red banner," he commanded. "This is the dawn of our great endeavor. Tonight we sleep the sweet sleep of victory; or the long, dark sleep of death."

Chapter Fifteen

It was a sight to stir the blood; the stuff of the old tales. They raised the scrap of scarlet cloth to the masthead and, as the first rays of the sun spread out across the water, lighting the high, rocky tower of the Needle to a bright glowing gold, Sevenwaters' fleet emerged from the impossible channel: three great longships balanced with immense skill against the fierce tug of the maelstrom, their prows high and proud in the dawn light; and after them the smaller craft, curragh of wattle and tarred skin, squat fishing boat blunt and practical, each with its complement of fighting men. Once they were clear of the whirlpool's perilous currents, the ships parted. One of the Viking vessels made for the smaller island with two lesser craft in its wake, while the main part of the fleet made direct for the larger mass of land, where the ships of the Britons now lay beneath the sea; where my cousin's body now drifted, somewhere, in the arms of Manannan mac Lir. Our own curragh turned and followed. From a place of concealment in the bows, Godric and Waerfrith now took out weapons, sword and dagger, axe and knife, and leather helms; every man must go prepared to play his part, even those who had spent the night in the water. For them, there was dry clothing; a man could not fight if he was numb with cold. I watched Darragh fitting a helm over his dark hair and buckling on a sword belt, and then I spread my wings and flew, for the heart of a battle is no place for a woman, and no place at all for a bird no bigger than a man's clenched fist.

I summoned the strength of my true self, and flew to Greater

Island, heedless now of sea-eagle, goshawk or human predator, for it seemed to me this was beyond fear, beyond grief, that the great battle should go ahead, the brave banner of Sevenwaters be raised, when the venture was doomed before ever it began. If the child of the prophecy was slain, the long goal of the Fair Folk could never be achieved. The Islands would be lost; the old ways would be forgotten. A prophecy was a prophecy. The men would go in and die, and all the time the lady Oonagh would be laughing, laughing with scorn that the blood of these strong young warriors was spilled to no purpose at all. I could not believe, still, that she had won so easily. And yet I must believe it. With my own incautious telling of a secret, I had ensured that she would win. It was wrong. It must be wrong. Surely it had not all been for nothing?

The old tales tell of great battles: the exploits of heroes such as Cu Chulainn; the warlike deeds of Fionn mac Cumhaill and his outlaw band. They tell of strength and courage, of triumph and reward. They speak of the routing of enemies. But they do not tell of the sights I saw that day, as I moved across the low grassy hills of Greater Island. I saw the bright light of commitment in a young warrior's eyes change to stark terror the instant before his opponent's axe struck the head from his shoulders. I saw Snake, a hardened fighter if ever there was one, weeping as he stood over the form of young Mikka lying on a red-stained ground with the blood pulsing from his severed arm; I heard the maimed youth calling for his mother in the voice of a small child suddenly gripped by a nightmare. Snake's face was pinched and old as he muttered, "Rest now, son; you fought bravely," and used his knife to grant Mikka the gift of a dreamless sleep. The suddenness of it stopped my heart. No story can describe the look in such a man's eyes as he rises and turns straight back into the fray, bloodied blade in hand. As for Johnny's men, they wielded their weapons even as Bran of Harrowfield did: as if they did not care if they lived or died. Such a force is fearsome indeed, and the Britons fell back before the unearthly light in these warriors' eyes.

I lost sight of Darragh. He was somewhere out there in the midst of it, but the tunics of the opposing armies were stained with earth and blood, and all was confusion. The forces of Sevenwaters had secured the anchorage and the western cove; here Gull could be seen moving about giving sharp orders; here the limp forms of the dead and the tormented ones of the injured were laid out in what little shelter could be found. Not all could be brought back here. There were many slain; by afternoon it seemed each fold of the land was studded with the broken bodies of Briton and Irishman alike, and the waters around the island ran red with the mingled blood of these old foes. Among the injured moved the archdruid and his brother, the man with the swan's wing. Perhaps they could do little but murmur a quiet word or two; perhaps they could only hold a man's hand as he screamed and writhed there on the ground, beyond help of surgeon or healer, waiting only for the goddess to be merciful and grant him his final release. I had been shocked to see what Snake did, earlier. Now I understood it had been an act of great compassion.

The day wore on, and it was close to dusk. There had been talk of victory before nightfall. But it was clear there was no victory, not yet. The Britons were well armed, and for all the element of surprise it seemed they had soon rallied and put up an orderly and disciplined defense. And they had the advantage of possession. On the highest point of Greater Island there was a fort, and it was to this place of safety they withdrew their forces as the day drew to a close. Behind it, sheer cliffs fell to the sea; on the landward side it was protected by a deep ditch, within which a high earthen rampart shielded their dwellings, their armory and storage huts. In the center was a sturdy stone tower, built round and tall. From such a place a strong defense could be maintained. Still, they could not last there forever. The Ui Neill would by now have vanquished the establishment on Little Island, for they far outnumbered the British forces there. Perhaps all Sean of Sevenwaters had to do was wait.

As dusk fell each army retreated to its rallying point. A strange sort of quiet spread over the land as the light faded; a kind of understanding, as if each side recognized the losses of the other. Indeed, in pockets of the land, where the dead lay limp and broken like discarded playthings, small groups of men with lanterns could be seen stooping to gather up their slain, and if a grizzled warrior from Northwoods happened to glance across, and see a pale-faced Ulster-man not so far off, about the same grim task, he simply averted his gaze and got on with what had to be done. For all the deceptive peace of the evening, it was acknowledged that at dawn both sides would pick up their weapons, and venture forth, and start the killing again.

That night I flew over two camps, and learned that a Briton and an Irishman shed the same blood, and feel the same grief. The day had shown me that such challenges, such impossible choices bring out what is finest and bravest in a man. They let his courage shine forth. At times of conflict a plain man can become a hero. But in every battle there is a loser, and the loser, too, may be a man of bravery and endurance, of steadfast valor and greatness of heart. The tales do not tell of the blood and sacrifice; of the heartache and waste.

Down by the shore were little fires, and around each, silent men gathered, seeking in this reflection of the hearth's warmth some reminder of home and loved ones, now far away. They had had the best of it today, but their losses were terrible, and none worse than the loss of him who had symbolized their certain triumph: the child of the prophecy. Nobody said it, but I thought all knew it in their hearts; without Johnny, there could be no true victory. Still they would go on: for Sean, for Sevenwaters, for their own battle-leader, whether it be Bran of Harrowfield, strangely present in their midst and bearing arms against his own people, or the high-born chieftains of the Ui Neill. They sat quiet around their fires, and gazed into the flames. Not far off, in the shelter of quickly improvised tents, men lay wounded and dying. Some were already shrouded for burial; if the battle was over soon, they might be conveyed home and laid to rest with a mother's tears, a sweetheart's lament. Amongst the fallen were three of Johnny's brave young warriors. Mikka lay there, helped to a quick end by Snake's merciful knife. Beside him lay the two friends, Waerfrith and Godric. The men told a tale that made my heart sore: how Waerfrith was wounded, an arrow taking him in the belly, and how Godric bore his comrade on his back, all the way down from the northern ridge, through the thick of the battle. When they were nearly at the cove, and safety, a British warrior stepped out in challenge. Holding his friend's unconscious weight, Godric was too slow to dodge, too burdened to flee; and he would not drop the injured man to save himself. The Briton's sword took him in the chest; and as he lay bleeding, he lived long enough to see the enemy draw the blade with casual efficiency across the neck of the man he had carried. So the two of them died together; forever they would be young and laughing, bright-eyed and fearless. Today these two had fallen, and many another besides. Tomorrow it might be Gareth or Corentin. It