The Last Days of Magic (37 page)

“Best to meet them one at a time back on the other side of the narrows,” his brother said. His brother’s long mail shirt, falling almost to his knees, and iron helmet were a contrast to Myndill’s lack of armor. Myndill believed that the Gods would decide when he was to die.

Myndill studied the English armada. Ten ships had sailed out ahead of the fleet and were gaining speed toward the Vikings, the lead ship of the vanguard flying Richard’s standard. “No,” Myndill growled. “We’ll sink that arrogant king’s flagship and block the approach to the narrows.” He called out his order: “Fire arrows!”

A dozen bows were pulled from a sea chest and passed out. Irish Vikings’ poor bowmanship was the source of many Celtic jokes, such as, “You are more likely to be hit by lightning than by a Viking arrow.” To kill a man face-to-face with a sword or an ax brought honor and the favor of the Viking Gods, to kill a man from a distance with a bow did not. Consequently, the Irish Vikings rarely practiced. However, it did not take much skill to hit a target as large as a ship at short range. Fire arrows were unwrapped from thick oilskin coverings. Each iron arrowhead bulged out at the base, forming a basket of metal fingers. Into this basket was stuffed wool soaked with a mixture of pitch, sulfur, and lime, so that the flame would not be extinguished by water.

“Full stroke!” Myndill cried out. Sixty oars moved as one, and the longship sprang forward, followed by Myndill’s two other ships.

“You son doesn’t follow,” his brother said.

“That boy wants to die in front of his hearth,” Myndill grumbled. “Halt!” he ordered his rowers, and he turned to see Geir’s three ships just floating, their limp oars resting in the water.

A large Fomorian scaled the bow of his son’s ship and stood beside him, a dilapidated sable cloak hanging off the creature’s shoulders, patches of white fur showing through the caked mildew. Geir pulled on a chain around his neck, and a large crucifix emerged from under his tunic, which he let fall to sway in front of his chest.

“Traitor!” Myndill roared at his son. “You’ll never join me in Valhalla.”

“I’ll look down from heaven and see you burning in hell!” Geir retorted.

Fomorians surfaced and seized the oars of Myndill’s longships. Others scaled the sides and swarmed inside. Myndill swung his ax, killing a charging Fomorian. A Viking drew his bow only to be knocked down, the fire arrow striking the stern of the longship, setting it ablaze.

Myndill cut off the head of another Fomorian. Pulling a spear from its place of honor in a holder attached to the rail, its oak shaft inlaid with woven gold-and-silver cord, he looked out across his ship. His men were cutting down the Fomorians, but not as fast as they were leaping over the gunwale. He cried out, “Odin, are you watching? I dedicate my last battle to you!” and threw the spear over the embattled deck.

Drawing a short sword with his left hand, his right holding the ax, he began slaughtering the green creatures climbing onto the prow. One managed to duck under the ax, swinging his clawed hand. Myndill’s belly erupted in fire. He stabbed the Fomorian, dropped his sword and pushed the loop of intestine back into the wound, held it there and hacked at more advancing creatures with his ax. Three of them jumped him from the left, knocking him to the deck. Pain swept a fog across his vision as his gut split further open. He felt the deck sliding beneath him.

“Odin,” he whispered, “I’m the last of the Viking kings to come to you.” He felt himself falling, the frigid water of the bay engulfing him, then the pain fading.

. . . . .

Conor, Liam, and a Brownie watched from up in a willow tree on the bay shore. Richard’s flagship glided by Myndill’s now-empty ships and dropped its sail. A rope was thrown to one of Geir’s ships, which took it in tow toward the narrows and the port beyond. Conor and his companions scrambled down from the tree.

“Return to High King Art,” Liam directed the Brownie. “Tell him Waterford is lost. We’ll wait for Rhoswen and join them soon.” The Brownie slipped off.

All the previous night, the Skeaghshee forces had harried the Irish column with hit-and-run tactics. Casualties had been light, but progress toward Waterford had been slowed. When it became apparent that the army was not going to reach Waterford before sunrise, Conor and Liam led a scouting party ahead. The Irish forces would proceed to Slievecoiltia Hill, just north of Waterford, and wait for word.

Conor and Liam crept along the shoreline, surveying the arriving English ships. Grogoch and Wichtlein climbed out of the bog across the bay and mounted the hill west of the narrows. Skeaghshee broke from their hiding places in the woods to the east of the narrows, rushing up the other hill, calling out welcomes to their king, Kellach, who stood in victory on the prow of Richard’s ship. Richard, de Vere, and Mortimer could be seen in the aftcastle.

Rhoswen emerged from the shadows beside Liam, a sheen of red blood covering the green and brown body paint on her left arm.

Liam saw that Rhoswen had already plugged the wound with clay, and he asked, “Did you locate Queen Gormflaith?”

“She lies dead in Rathgormuck Forest, along with half her force. The rest have retreated to Tipperary.”

“A great loss,” said Liam, looking back out over the bay. The longship of Geir, now the Viking king, turned to follow Richard’s flagship.

Conor took the bow from his back, drew an arrow from its quiver, and held it out to Rhoswen. “For Kellach,” he said.

“It will never be allowed to reach Kellach,” she said. Taking the arrow, she dragged its shaft across her neck, leaving a trail of pale skin showing through her body paint, then held it close to her ear. “It desires to find the Viking who betrayed its land.” Handing it back to Conor, its iron tip glowing faintly, she added, “The traitor Geir will have no Sidhe protection.”

Conor drew his bow and, aiming high, released the arrow. It seemed
as if it were going to rise forever until, suddenly turning, it plummeted at unnatural speed, piercing Geir’s neck. He fell in a spray of blood to the laughter of the Fomorian high king still standing beside him.

“That may slow them down,” said Conor as he sprinted through the woods toward where they’d left their horses.

“At least he’ll carry the stigma of having the shortest reign in Viking history,” added Liam, running beside him.

21

Outside Waterford, Ireland

The Next Morning

A
lone, Jordan rode his horse through the forest north of Waterford as the rising sun promised a clear, crisp day for killing. All the drudgery and anticipation of preparation, followed by the tedious journey to Ireland with the English, had finally given way to the first morning of war.

Times of feasting and fucking have never brought such fierce ecstasy as days of carnage
, Jordan thought. The feel of bloodlust rising hot with the cry of battle horns. The ring of sharpened iron against iron as each man desperately seeks to be the first to find that weak spot in the other’s defense. The cries of “Help me!” from nobleman and peasant alike as they attempt to drag themselves from the field without their severed limbs. The quick prayer snatched from the slit throat of the pious. The thunder of riderless horses, crazed from their wounds. The distinctively sweet smell of blood mixed with sweat on the victors, the stench of guts spilling from the losers as the cry of havoc goes up.
This is what I have craved.

Facing another man, knowing that only one of us will survive the next few heartbeats, feeling his life flee as I push my blade into his body—that’s when I’ve felt most alive.
Like an opium addict constantly drawn back to the poppy, he had been drawn to killing.

Until today. Until I arrived here.

A gust of wind sent yellow leaves cascading down about him. Jordan dropped the reins and held out his hands, each leaf tingling as it brushed across his skin. He closed his eyes, spurred his horse into a trot, then a canter, then a gallop. He did not retake the reins. The feeling had started with his first step from the ship and had built
ever since. The energy at the heart of the world—Ardor—flowed through this land as he had never felt before, eclipsing even the rush of a life ended at his hand. It was as if he’d been searching for this feeling each time he’d killed. Now he swam in Ardor.

He kept his eyes closed and arms extended as trees and boulders flashed by. He knew where they were without having to see them. His horse followed instructions without his giving them.

Jordan finally, truly understood why the Roman Church had tried to keep people out of Ireland, why they were determined to destroy its Ardor now. How could they be the exclusive voice with and for God when God was so clearly everywhere here? How could kings claim divine selection when so much divinity was in everyone and everything?

Jordan halted his horse, opened his eyes, and gathered up the loose, swaying reins. He found himself sitting just inside a large clearing, facing a ring of standing stones around a low mound with a stone-rimmed opening. He sensed rather than saw hostile intent. He pulled on the reins, causing his horse to back into the tree line. Turning, he urged his horse into a respectful trot toward Waterford again. He felt nothing follow.

When he left Waterford that morning, the day after the English landed, most of the ships had been unloaded. By this time Jordan was sure that a second flotilla would be hovering off the bay, waiting for its opportunity to dock. These smaller vessels, chartered by merchants, blacksmiths, and tailors, would have products and services to sell, at a premium price, to the English soldiers and, if they slipped in and out quietly enough, to the Irish. The merchants’ empty ships would be refilled with plunder purchased from those same soldiers for meager sums.

Today the decks of these trade ships would also be packed with paying passengers eager to rush ashore, an assortment of wives, lovers, and, primarily, whores. There was much profit to be made from war. Jordan suspected—hoped even, he admitted to himself—that
Najia would be among the passengers, though he had ordered her to wait in Milford Haven.

The English camp was rapidly sprawling outside the walls of Waterford as Jordan rode up. Local cattle had been commandeered and butchered, chunks of the meat boiling in bags made of their own hide, hung over campfires on tripods of freshly cut poles. The smell reminded Jordan that he had not yet had breakfast. Outside the city gates, Nottingham was conferring with Kellach and a group of young knights, second sons of English high nobles, first sons of low nobles, all seeking the king’s favor and perhaps estates of their own in the soon-to-be-conquered country. Meanwhile their fathers rested inside the city walls, the earls of Rutland, Huntingdon, and Gloucester; the knights Despenser, Percy, Scrope, and Beaumont.

“There you are, Marshal,” called Nottingham. “Come join us.”

Jordan dismounted, handed his reins to a squire, and joined the group.

“King Kellach’s allies say the Irish high king, along with the Morrígna’s consort, has withdrawn to muster their army. The king of Leinster remains behind with a small army of Celts and some number of Sidhe, apparently in an attempt to hold us here as long as possible. He’s moving his forces to the north.”

“And not far to the north,” said Jordan.

“You have been scouting as well,” said Kellach. “That is brave, or perhaps foolhardy. Until all of the Sidhe have been brought under my control, perhaps you should leave that to my followers.”

“I prefer to see for myself,” Jordan snapped back.

“Do we know where the Sidhe high king is?” asked Nottingham.

All eyes looked at Kellach. He hesitated and then said, “My allies are not certain, but he does not seem to have withdrawn.”

“Well, we had better go stir them up before they’ve a chance to establish defensive positions,” Nottingham said. “The pikemen will remain behind to fortify and protect the camp. We’ll take six companies of mounted archers. Rutland and Huntingdon, you each take a
company shallow east and deep east for a quarter of a mile, then loop north. Gloucester and Scrope, the same move to the west. I’ll take two companies of Cheshire archers straight north. When you hear my horn, converge on the sound. Soon we’ll find out how well Richard’s strategy works in battle.

“Kellach, your . . . what do I call them, your men?” asked Nottingham.

“I will deploy my followers. Do not concern yourself with them. They will be where they need to be.”

“Well, yes, I’ll leave that to you, then. We move out in half an hour.”

“I’ll ride with you,” said Jordan to Nottingham.

“Most welcome,” he replied. “Though I wish you had brought some of the VRS League with you.”

“Our agreement with Kellach forbids it.”

“Still,” whispered Nottingham. He looked around, but Kellach had already disappeared. “He makes me nervous.”

Cries flowed around the camp as men were organized. Archers led horses from the holding pens into their section of camp. The horses pranced, hopped, and pawed the ground nervously, as if testing its soundness after the unpredictable decks of the ships. Jordan watched as an archer sought to calm the horse he had selected, stroking its face and whispering in its ear. The horse’s wide eyes began to soften, its hooves steady. The man strapped on the saddle. His wool tunic, green on the right side and white on the left, distinguished his status as a Cheshire archer. As with all the army, on his left chest was sewn the badge of King Richard II, featuring a white stag reclining on grass. This archer’s badge was fringed with blue, indicating his rank as captain. The tunic hung almost to his knees over his brown hose and leather boots. A simple wool cap, fastened under his chin, kept his hair bound and his ears warm.