Dawnflight (36 page)

It was a risk for him to be even this far, a full day’s ride from his Seat at Tarabrogh. At the height of the war-season, anything could happen on his way home. Yet the operation his warriors were embarking upon was far too important for their laird to miss giving them the sendoff they deserved.

His pride swelled yet again as another ship was shoved into the water to join its kin bobbing in the harbor. The ruby sails remained furled to their masts. No overcurious trader or fisherman was going to betray this secret. Even the Silver Wolf banner at each mast’s tip was lashed down. If this endeavor was to open the door to Maun, surprise was the key.

Across the droning waves lay the prize. A white veil of mist hid its emerald-crowned cliffs and diamond-bright beaches, but Cuchullain didn’t have to see it to know it was there. Nor did he have to see the island’s defenders, a pox on their black hearts!

Having to spare half his fleet to transport more than a thousand of his best warriors was a bitter tonic. Yet those fatherless Bratan, who only this season had doubled the number of troops there, had left him with no choice. He would have preferred to wait until another year, long after the Bratan deemed themselves safe enough to recall most of their men back to the larger island. But it was either strike at the lands toward the rising sun now, or else perpetuate the war against the blood-lusting Aítachasan until no living creature remained upon this fair Isle of Eireann except the wolves and the ravens.

Perhaps he could yet hold back a boatload or two, depending upon the latest report, if the courier arrived in time. For, confirmation or no, the fleet would sail tonight. And as the sun sent Cuchullain’s shadow creeping toward the shoreline, his hopes of seeing a final message from his contact on Maun sank with it.

As though sensing his thoughts, the short, stocky warrior at his elbow bellowed, “Where be that blasted merchant? He should have been here days ago.”

Cuchullain turned full attention upon his battle-leader. “Calm yourself, Niall.” He tried to make his grin display naught but confidence. “Your yelling will not be putting wind in his sails.”

The two longtime friends shared the laugh and scanned the dimming horizon.

Niall pointed. “There!”

Cuchullain squinted into the distance. All he could make out was a flash of white: a sail, perhaps, or a gull’s wing. “Can ye be sure?”

“Nay,” said Niall. “But there be time yet.”

General Niall strode toward the beached warships, his thin auburn braids bouncing against the bright red, green, and gold cloak. While he talked with his men, the white patch with the dark blot beneath resolved itself into a trading ship, bearing for Doann Dealghan Harbor.

Cuchullain gave Lagan a word of thanks and stepped down from the chariot, pausing to stroke each velvety muzzle before joining Niall. He hoped the news would be encouraging.

It was not. The fat foreign merchant waited in respectful yet expectant silence as Cuchullain studied the figures on the curled cowhide scrap. Scratched with a hunk of charred wood and smudged in places, the crude message disclosed the precise layout of foot and horse on the island. The unwritten message was just as clear: every man committed to this invasion would be essential.

In numbers, his warriors would have a slight advantage, though the enemy’s cavalry would remove that edge in a pitched battle. But the Bratan were dispersed among four coastal stations. Such a pity.

The plan just might work. Would work. Had to.

Flushed with the anticipation of success, Cuchullain tugged off an emerald-studded silver ring and pressed it into the merchant’s palm. The man grinned his thanks and slipped it into a pouch hanging by a thong at his neck. Touching fingers to forehead, he bent in an elaborate bow. He stepped into the small craft that would take him back to the tall vessel anchored in the harbor’s deeper water. With a nod to the oarsman, he departed.

Cuchullain thrust the message into Niall’s hand. They gripped forearms in farewell, and Cuchullain gave the broad shoulder a hearty thump. Whistling the tune of a favorite drinking song, Niall headed for his ship.

As the last warships filled, Cuchullain bounded to his chariot. Lagan snapped the reins across the twin ebony backs to send the chariot lurching toward higher ground.

Lagan halted the team at the top of the rise. The mares snorted and quivered with fierce excitement. Cuchullain’s pale gray and green cloak fell away from his shoulders as he raised his arms to address the men.

A shrill, throbbing squeal pierced the dusky air. He whipped his head around to see a thick column of smoke erupting from the hills. Nay, not smoke. Night hunters.

Below, the men were pointing and shouting. A portent, they were calling it. Many warriors folded fingers into the sign against evil.

The eerie shrieks lingered among the hills long after the bats had vanished into the twilight.

“My brothers!” Cuchullain called to the men on the beach. He knew his speech would travel to the others quickly once they reassembled on the opposite shore. “My brave Scáthaichean brothers, listen!” And most did. “This be a portent, aye, a portent of victory! For those cries”—every eye was upon him—“they be the cries of the Bhratan warriors fated to die by your mighty swords as ye make their island ours!”

The drumming of spearshafts on timber hulls, the bleating of war-horns, the hoarse shouting: sweet music all. It made Cuchullain wish he had learned the harp, so he could make this hour be remembered in heroic song forever.

IN THE ashen light of dawn, Angusel slipped into the Tanroc stables. Stonn whickered softly at his approach and nosed the saddle pack looped over his sword arm. In the other hand, he carried his bow. A full quiver bounced against his back.

Beaming with affection, he produced the expected treat. As Stonn greedily destroyed the carrot, Angusel set down his burdens to retrieve saddle and bridle from the tack room.

The guardsmen at the palisade gate tower gave him no trouble after he explained that the chief cook had asked him to go bird hunting for the evening meal. It wasn’t exactly a lie; he was going to hunt birds and planned to give the game over when he returned. But the idea was entirely his own.

Within moments, Angusel and Stonn became the first ones of the day to pass through the palisade and hedge gates.

After the fort had disappeared behind the first line of hills, he nudged Stonn into a canter. Soon they were flying along the coastal path toward Maun’s northwestern cliffs, which boasted the best rookeries on the island.

It felt delightfully wicked to miss arms practice. If hunting were good, perhaps he would even escape his mathematics lesson. He was skillful at plain figuring. What use had a warrior for geometry and trigonometry? Those topics were best left to the men who designed buildings and catapults and boats and the like. Their ranks he had no desire to join.

He closed upon his chosen destination. Nearby lay the deep, pine-sheltered hollow that was his favorite blind. But something was wrong this morning. A feathered cloud of screaming, diving bodies was fighting over food on the beach. Or, he realized with quickening pulse, sounding an alarm.

Upon topping the rise, he saw the cause of the birds’ excitement. A fleet! He swallowed thickly. From each mast bulged the crimson Scáthinach war sail.

He urged Stonn into the hollow, dismounted, and cast the reins over the nearest limb. Bow in hand, he crawled to the lip of the sandy depression. He parted clumps of grass and spine-collared, dusty-blue sea holly for a clearer view.

At least thirty vessels swarmed the cove south of his position. As he watched in shocked disbelief, some were scraping onto the beach in groups of three and four. Others were disgorging their heavily armed occupants. Several men remained with each ship. With much swearing and sweating, the rest pushed the boats back into the water to rejoin the swiftly growing number anchored offshore, safely out of bowshot range from the land.

Angusel was sundered by indecision: fight or fetch help? His first instinct was to rush back to warn Tanroc, but the enemy troops’ movements as they hit the beach convinced him that Tanroc would be their first target.

As strong as it was, Tanroc could not hope to stand long against a force that outnumbered the defenders by four to one.

He added up distances and times, and hated the answer. Divine intervention was the only way Urien’s relief force could arrive fast enough to save Tanroc—or Gyan.

Tears stung his eyes as he pounded his fist into the sand. He had to get back to the fort, to fight at her side and kill as many Scáthinaich as he could before they killed him.

As he rose to mount, he heard footsteps nearby. He ducked and flattened himself against the side of the hollow. Heart thudding like the surf on the beach below, he prayed to all the Old Ones that the person would not discover him. He gripped Stonn’s bridle with whitening knuckles to prevent the stallion from tossing his head.

Someone must have heard his prayer. The man passed a few paces from the hollow but looked only toward the beach seething with Scáthinaich. It was the Dailriatanach herdsman of the black eyepatch, without his cattle. To Angusel’s growing astonishment, the man strode boldly down to meet the enemy troops.

Angusel drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. He had no doubt that the herdsman had sold the island to the Scáthinach invaders. Some detached portion of his brain wondered what the man was saying to the small conclave of Scáthinaich who were the apparent leaders of the force. He ruthlessly shoved curiosity aside. Smiling grimly, he aimed the bow and waited for the traitor to move back into range.

The commanders’ meeting ended when the last of the troops landed on the beach. Something flashed golden-bright in the morning sun as it arced through the air from the hand of one of the leaders. The herdsman snatched it with greedy dexterity and stashed it in a pouch hidden beneath his hide-patched tunic. The Scáth clapped him on the back. The whiplike auburn braids flanking the war-chieftain’s face swung to the rhythm of his laughter. He moved off to join his men, a unit of the most elitely armed warriors Angusel had yet seen.

The one-eyed man bowed and turned back toward the path leading from the beach.

An arrow in the throat seemed too good a death for the traitor. And he saw a way to avenge the blow the herdsman had dealt to his pride a few days earlier.

He released the tension on the bowstring and laid the bow and arrow in the sand. The quiver followed. As he unsheathed his long hunting knife, he was overwhelmed by the desire to carve out the man’s guts, deprive him of his manhood, and then slit his throat.

Tracking the cattle herder’s slow progress up the sandy bluff, he considered letting his prey go. A glance at the departing Scáthinach troops reminded him that time was not his ally. Yet the man’s betrayal had earned death, if only for Gyan’s sake. It was the least Angusel could do for her…and the last.

He tightened his fingers around the knife handle, gathered himself into a crouch, and waited.

Stonn’s impatient snort betrayed Angusel’s position. The man jerked his head toward the hollow. Propelled by burning anger, Angusel sprang.

The herdsman’s lone eye rounded in surprise and narrowed as recognition set in.

As Angusel watched the broken-nailed fingers claw toward his face, he realized this would not be the kind of fight for which he had been trained. Against each other, warriors followed certain rules of engagement. Not many, granted, but they were religiously observed. Commoners, as Gyan had remarked, knew none.

Still, this was not unlike the scrapes he had gotten into with the other lads back home at Senaudon. But in those fights, the only things at stake were pride and honor, the only risks scratches and bruises.

To survive this game, he threw away the rules.

Angusel ducked the blow, whirled, and connected a booted foot with the man’s groin to send him sprawling, groaning, to the ground. Knife poised, Angusel pounced. But the herder had recovered enough to heave Angusel away like a bundle of cattle fodder. Angusel rolled to his feet in time to see his foe bearing down upon him, bellowing rage. A rust-flecked iron dagger sprouted like a talon from one hairy fist. The good eye gleamed with malice.

The combatants locked arms in a deadly dance, each writhing to free his weapon hand from the other’s grip. Angusel dug his fingers into the spy’s tendons with brutal ferocity. Reluctantly, the hand opened. The dagger slipped to the ground.

Before Angusel could press the advantage, the herdsman landed a savage kick to his knee. Searing pain tore up and down the leg. He stumbled backward. His knife was jarred from his grasp as he fell.

He rolled clear as the heavier man tried to leap on top of him, but he couldn’t get to his feet in time. A hard blow to the jaw drove his head into the sand. Reflexively, Angusel brought up his hands to grip his foe’s arms as the thick fingers tightened around his throat.

Like a beacon, Gyan’s image flashed into the spreading blackness. With a surge of strength, Angusel broke the stranglehold, punched at the glaring eye, and twisted free. As he lay gasping on his back, his outflung hand landed on cold metal.