To Ride A Púca (38 page)

Neala replied by plunging her sword at a gap along the side of the man’s armor. The blade slid into flesh just below his ribs. It didn’t go in nearly as deep as she had expected and it was so far to the left of his stomach it had probably missed anything vital. Her lack of power was making her slow and weak. Still, it was a successful hit and had drawn first blood. Surprise and pain wiped the lustful look from the man’s face.

“And warriors shouldn’t drop their guard. Ye should worry about yerself getting’ hurt, not me,” she said, doing her best to sound confident and cocky.

Their banter allowed Ciara to move behind the man unnoticed. A quick look showed yet another Dane moving up on Ciara’s left. Neala tried to tell her with a flick of her head and a meaningful look. Ciara nodded and turned to engage the other Dane.

“You’re really gonna wish you hadn’t done that,” the man said through gritted teeth.

Taking a step back, he adjusted his armor with one hand, shifting it so that the straps held the wound closed. Without warning he exploded at her, sword swinging faster than any man that big should have been able to move. It was all she could do to block the strikes that rained down on her. The shock of his powerful blows left her arms shaking and her wrists hurting. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get a strike in. The strange part was, neither did he. Then she realized that was because he wasn’t trying to.

Their swords met again, the impact reverberating down her arms and into her shoulders. Instead of pulling back for another strike, he whipped the blade of his sword around hers and as the tip came close to her hand guard, he flipped his blade out. Neala’s sword went flying, leaving her feeling like she’d lost a limb. Surprise rooted her to the spot as he drew back his sword again. She prepared to dodge his blade but it never came.

The pommel of his sword slammed into the side of her head. The sweet, moldy scent of old hay filled her nose as she hit the floor. A mixture of pressure and pain throbbed through her head. Something warm trickled down through her hair and tickled her ear. All this registered as she scurried across the floor and put her back to the wall of a horse stall. The red-headed man sheathed his sword as he approached her. The awful, hungry look in his eyes made a mixture of panic and disgust churn in Neala’s stomach.

This was not going to happen. She wasn’t going to let it. Holding still while he closed the distance between them wasn’t easy, but she forced herself to do it. Surprise was the only thing she had on her side now. Laughter thick with a horrible anticipation slid from the man’s lips as he reached down for her.

When he was almost upon her, Neala drew from a reserve of power deep within her. It crackled up through her arms and exploded into the man’s chest when her hands touched him. The force of her power threw him across the barn and slammed him into the wall on the other side with a loud crack. The entire barn shook with the force of the impact. As he convulsed, Ciara dashed in and ran him through with her sword.

Neala let out a long breath that ended in a whimper. The sounds of a fight still raged not far from her. Turning her head hurt—bad—but she did it anyway. She had to know how Donal was faring.

It wasn’t good. Fraener was wearing him down, smiling and laughing as he swung his massive sword at Donal again and again. Donal’s muscular arms shook with each impact and sweat dripped from his brow. Desperation gave Neala the strength to stand, but it couldn’t sustain her. Her knees buckled and she had to lean heavily against the stall to support herself.

Any thrust of Fraener’s sword could be the last. He was just playing with Donal, drawing it out. Anger welled up inside Neala, filling her until she was practically choking on it. Watching them fight brought back the crippling pain of losing her brother. In some ways losing Donal would be worse. That thought caused a pang of guilt to punch her in the heart. Worse than the guilt though was the fear that it might happen. And just like before she had met her Order, she was too weak to stop it.

No. That was not acceptable.

Using her extra sense, she searched for the pressure of something she could draw upon. She found it in the stall behind her; the pair of black and white geldings. Though she had never done it before, pulling energy to her was instinctive. It was as easy as sucking in two lungs-full of air. But the horses’ energy was foreign and incredibly hard to hold onto. Fraener’s back was the only target she had, so she took it, unleashing all that power straight at him. It hit him with enough force to slam him into Donal and send them both tumbling.

The two men ended up several feet apart. Fraener lay face down on the straw-covered floor, not moving. To Neala’s relief Donal was moving, though he winced in pain and clutched at his leg. Unable to stand, Neala crawled to him. A long slice laid open both his leather pants and the dark flesh of his thigh. It looked deep and gruesome. Red started to well up deep within the gash and before Neala could get her hands on his leg, it started pouring out.

Donal’s leg became slick beneath her hands but she held tight, trying to squeeze the wound closed. Bright red blood oozed between her fingers. She knew the color was a good sign, it meant an artery hadn’t been hit. Artery blood was dark and thick. Knowing that brought only a minor amount of comfort to her, though. Seeing Donal hurt was worse than being hurt.

“Don’t worry. It’s only a flesh wound,” he said, voice filled with pain.

“Well that’s some flesh wound,” she said.

He laughed and leaned his head back against the stall. Through the tangle of his black hair Neala sought out the comfort of his eyes. After all they’d been through, seeing him alive and breathing made her breath catch in her throat. Fighting and dying for something as trivial as land seemed crazy now. Donal was worth so much more to her than that. The gentle look he gave her made her think maybe he felt the same way. His gaze shifted above and behind her and his face contorted with rage.

“Behind ye!” he screamed as he tried to push her aside.

Neala turned to look and knew it would be too late.

34

Fraener stood over her, his sword raised above his head, ready to strike. All Neala could feel was a sad acceptance. She had nothing left in her to fight with. Hinges creaked, drawing her eye to the small door at the opposite end of the barn. Tyr filled the doorway. He threw something in her direction that tumbled end over end, its shining edge catching in the sun.

Neala felt like her movements were slowed, like a fly in molasses. A grunt of pain near her drew her gaze back to Fraener who now had a small battle axe jutting from his chest.

A loud clang echoed as Fraener’s sword crashed to the ground behind him. The big man fell to his knees before Neala, his hands clutching at the axe. He tugged at it but it was buried so deep there was no way he was going to get it out. Fraener started to topple over, his shocked eyes fixed upon her as if she had done it. Strong arms pulled Neala back out of the way. Unable to watch Fraener die, she turned and buried her face against Donal’s chest.

Heavy footsteps approached and Donal’s arms tightened around her. By the feel of the energy behind her she knew it was Tyr. Guilt forced her to bite down on her lip to hold back a cry. He had killed his own da to save her life. How could she ever face him again?

“Thank ye,” Donal said, his chest vibrating beneath Neala’s ear.

Tyr only grunted in response. An awkward moment of silence fell like a wall between them. Neala wanted to thank Tyr, comfort him, apologize, anything. But she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.

“What happened? Why am I in the barn?” Neala’s da’s voice broke the silence.

“Easy there O’Carroll, don’t try to get up,” Ciara said.

Hearing him yanked Neala out of her state of guilt. She wanted to run to his side and make sure he was all right, but it was all she could do to raise her head and turn. He had propped himself up on one elbow and was looking around with a dazed expression on his face. Ciara held him down easily with one hand on his chest. Beside them knelt Cecily, giving Ciara an almost worshipful look.

“Rest. I couldn’t heal ye completely,” Cecily told him.

Obedient as ever to her, Ardal laid back down. Cecily’s gaze shifted in their direction and the surprise on her face made it clear she hadn’t even known they were there. She launched to her feet but then hesitated as her fear-filled gaze darted from Neala to Tyr.

“Tis all right. He saved our lives,” Neala said.

Cecily dashed to Neala, falling to her knees. Her fingers lifted Neala’s hair and probed around the sore spot on her head. Before she could pour power into her Neala grabbed her hands.

“No ma. I don’t need it. Please, use your power to heal Donal,” she said.

Stubborn as always, Cecily tried to push her hands back to Neala’s head but Neala wouldn’t let her. It wasn’t hard to hold her. Even weak as Neala was, she was still stronger than her fragile ma. After a pathetic attempt at a struggle, Cecily turned her attention to Donal.

“And who might ye be?” Cecily asked.

“A friend of Lorcan’s. I came to help yer family,” he said.

Tears sprung to Cecily’s eyes. “Thank ye for protectin’ me daughter.”  

The moment she saw his leg wound her reluctance disappeared and she reached for him. Her hands started to glow before she even touched him. When she drew them back the wound was gone as if she had wiped it away. In its place was new, pink flesh surrounded by dried blood. The pain that had been contorting Donal’s features let go and he breathed out a long sigh.

“Thank ye Cecily,” he said.

A slow nod was the only response she gave him before turning to Neala. Her hands reached for Neala’s head and this time she didn’t fight her. The dull pain faded and a pressure Neala hadn’t realized had been building eased. The worst of her exhaustion was driven back, lending strength to Neala’s muscles just in time to catch Cecily as she slumped.

“Oh ma,” she whispered.

Donal lifted Cecily easily in his arms and carried her back over to Ardal. He laid her down beside him, taking great care to ease her head onto the floor.

“Thank ye lad. She’ll be all right. She just used all her energy,” Ardal said, though it sounded like he was reassuring himself more than Donal.

Her da’s voice seemed so far away. The sight of Fraener’s body only a few feet from her drove Neala to stand and back against the far wall. Finally, she forced herself to look at Tyr. Fire flickered in the distance behind him, throwing eerie shadows all over his haunted face. There were no tears in his eyes and that worried Neala.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time to save your home,” Tyr said in a hollow tone.

“Ye got here in time to help save the people I love, that’s what matters,” Neala said.

Upon closer inspection she realized it wasn’t shadows on his face, but bruises. He looked more beat up than she felt. She couldn’t imagine what he had gone through to get here.

“You have to get out of here. There are more coming. The warriors that my father led were only part of the force. It isn’t safe to stay,” Tyr said.

Shaking her head, Neala looked down. “We defeated the other force,” she said. It wasn’t easy telling him that. They were his people after all.

A shadow fell across her as Tyr stepped closer and gripped her arms in his big hands. She looked up to find the desperation in his eyes had intensified instead of eased.

“Not them. There are more ships coming, a lot more. They plan to take over the island. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know before,” he said.

Dread pulled at her soul, leaving it feeling heavy and cold. Defeating five hundred had been hard enough. Neala wasn’t sure they could do it again. Worse than that though, getting all the druids to come together again wasn’t going to happen. They were already scattering to the four directions. Centuries of battle was stifling the will to fight out of her people. Now she understood why. The invaders just kept coming.

Neala wanted to argue, but she couldn’t. Today one of her friends had died, and her parents, or even Donal could have died. Many of them nearly had. It just wasn’t worth it, no matter how much she wanted it to be. She hoped her brother wouldn’t think her weak for that if he was watching somewhere from the afterlife.

Tyr stepped back as Donal came up beside them.

Putting his dark shoulders back, Donal straightened and fixed her with a sad gaze. “Then we have to leave. I’m sorry Neala, but me people are all dead and yers will be soon if we don’t go. I can’t stand the thought of somethin’ happenin’ to ye,” he said.

He stood so close that Neala could feel his breath upon her neck. Having him there and feeling him breathe strengthened her belief. He was alive and she wanted to keep him that way.

“Ye’re right, but where will we go?” she asked.

A long, relieved sigh from Donal rustled her hair and raised bumps along her exposed neck. He had expected her to argue. It shouldn’t have surprised her considering that he knew her better than anyone. No doubt he had overheard her beg to be taught how to fight. She had been foolish and naïve, she knew that now.

“To Tir na nóg,” Ardal called from across the room.

Neala was pretty sure he needed another round of healing before his head was quite right. Tirn na nóg was the place where the old gods of Ireland, the Tuatha Dé Dannon, were said to have gone. It was a myth.

With a shake of his head, Tyr glanced skyward and muttered something in his strange language.

“If such a place exists we certainly need to find it. We’ll go west to Limerick. We can book passage on a ship there,” Donal said.

A crushing weight settled onto Neala’s chest and tears filled her eyes. She hated the moisture, it made her feel weak, but she couldn’t blink it away. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she turned to Donal. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were filled with anguish and pain. It appeared to have cost him a lot to say that.

“Ye mean leave Ireland?” Neala asked, hating how high and breathy her voice sounded.