The Strength of the Few by James Islington - 74

THE STRETCHED ANIMAL SKIN OF my prison tent is an angry, flickering red, broken only by the silhouettes of guards and passing soldiers as the night progresses. I work unsuccessfully at my bindings, blood slicking my wrist from where my constant straining has rubbed it raw. I could not sleep even if I was inclined to, the stone pin in the back of my neck unceasing in its sending of waves of pulsing agony. For a while the howls and screams and clash of wood and metal outside seem as though they will never end. Then they do. Some unheard signal, and hostilities pause. The camp becomes, if not quiet, then less unpleasantly raucous than before.

My eyes are closed, trying to divine what’s going on outside, when I hear soft grunting from the tent’s entrance; a few seconds later there’s a flash of light and a dragging sound. A body being hauled inside.

“Deaglán.” It’s Tara. Impossibly here. On her knees beside me, spear blade slicing through my bonds, blue eyes narrowed as she scans me for other signs of injury. As soon as my hand is free, I rip the brooch from the back of my neck, gritting my teeth against the pain as it slides free. The agony in my head lessens to a thumping ache. Still present—still affecting me, given that I cannot yet sense the pulse of Tara’s spear—but less. Infinitely more manageable. I breathe out in pure relief.

“How are you here?” Gallchobhar left the silver arm in here with me, but I leave it on the ground; any small value it has is gone, now. I’m still dizzy and every muscle is stiff and painful, especially in my legs, as I try to rise. Gallchobhar’s hospitality has taken its toll. “Where are the others?”

“The Caer. They wanted to come but you know how they are at sneaking around.” She speaks in a brusque whisper, snatching a waterskin from her belt and forcing a few drops down my throat. She doesn’t want to speak, but she can see I’m not ready to move yet.

“How many warriors do we have?”

“Not enough.” Analytical rather than desperate. “Fiachra attacked many of the outer villages in preparation for this siege. Wiped out several warbands we would have called upon. And food stores in the Caer won’t last a week.”

Bad news. Catastrophic, actually, despite the way she says it so matter-of-factly. “What’s the plan?”

“We attack. Probably not long after dawn.” She meets my gaze. Unsmiling. “Thought you might like to join us.”

I push myself to my feet. Sway. Pull my cloak so that, as far as is possible, it conceals the space where my arm should be. “I would be delighted.”

We step over the guards’ corpses and leave the tent. The camp is still well-lit, fires everywhere, but they are dimmer, many of the men resting in these early hours. Most warriors still awake are arrayed closer to the Caer, watchful of its walls. There seem few barriers to our exit, but it will have to be in the wrong direction if we aim to rejoin our friends.

We walk at a steady pace, hoods up and faces shadowed, not uncommon given the icy night air. I do all I can to conceal my limp, the stiffness with which I move. We stride confidently until we can see the edge of the camp.

“Leathfhear?”

My heart drops at Gallchobhar’s amused voice from behind us. We don’t stop, pretend not to have heard, but after a second, armed men appear in our way. I glance at Tara, who grips her spear and slows. I do the same.

“Leathfhear! It is you. It seems I have underestimated your importance yet again.” Gallchobhar’s chiding is something dark as I draw down my hood. “And who is your saviour?” He motions at Tara to reveal herself.

She shakes her head, spins her spear. “I challenge you, Gallchobhar ap Drin. Let the winner take him.”

“Tara ap Rónán?” Gallchobhar is gleeful as he recognises the voice, realises who it is. He laughs, a boisterous roar. “Why would I accept—”

It happens as fast as blinking. Tara is moving. Her spear licking out. The warrior nearest to us drops, clutching his throat, gurgling as his life blood spills onto the dirt.

Gallchobhar’s laughter dies, and he bares his teeth into something more sinister as he waves back the other men stepping forward to attack.

“Show me your face, Tara. It has been so long .”

Tara shrugs and pulls back her hood. Her blue eyes are fierce. The scar on her face looks angry in the torchlight.

He inspects her. “Ugly as the day you left, I see.”

She smiles back at him. “And you, as stupid. Though I could have guessed that much.”

Gallchobhar’s sneer increases, evidently annoyed that Tara doesn’t appear to be intimidated by him. “Not stupid enough to fight you, when you are already my prisoner.”

“Spoken like a man with no honour. Spoken like a man who is afraid he will lose.”

Gallchobhar continues to study her. He is annoyed, but I don’t think she’s actually goaded him; he may be vile but he is not, despite Tara’s assertion, a fool. That doesn’t mean he’s not considering it, though. He is clearly confident in his superiority. And he knows that even with Ruarc and Fiachra’s apparent disdain of the Old Ways, he will look weak if he refuses.

“Very well,” he eventually says simply. “But we will fight with an audience.” He smiles slowly. “I would hate for your father to miss out on this proud moment.”

Tara and I both realise what he means as we’re marched toward the Caer’s wall. I grimace, and can see a similar expression on my friend’s face. I lean over, lowering my voice to a murmur. “If you would prefer me to embarrass him in front of everyone, I am more than happy to take your place.”

She grins, even as the warriors forcing us along jerk us apart, afraid we’re conspiring. Continues to smile as she meets my gaze and shakes her head.

Gallchobhar, striding slightly ahead of us, raises his arms as he reaches the well-lit point leading to the main gate where he will easily be heard by those defending, but remain out of range of their projectiles. “King Rónán!” he bellows to the walls. No way of knowing whether the king is actually present—likely not, given the hour—but no doubt someone will soon be fetching him. “It seems that as you are not capable of fighting yourself, you have sent your offspring to do it!” He laughs, a sneering, mocking sound that echoes over the silent battlefield, then turns to Tara. “Before we begin. Tell them!”

He says the last loud enough for those on the walls to hear too. Tara steps forward. Expression betraying no sign of fear.

“I have challenged Gallchobhar ap Drin. If I am victorious, Deaglán and I will leave unharmed.” She does not have to say what will happen if she loses.

“So the terms will be honoured!” shouts Gallchobhar gleefully. Somehow managing to mock the traditional form, even as he commits to the deal. I breathe out, the faintest hope sparking. There’s no way Gallchobhar could know just how good Tara is. And though I would not trust Gallchobhar himself to let us go, I do think Fiachra’s men will honour the deal if she wins. I think.

Tara is pushed forward, into the wide section of road that, while muddy, still provides enough of a stable surface to suffice as a space for fighting. Her spear clatters to the ground after her, the man doing the throwing ensuring he is far from in range when she picks it up.

Gallchobhar is twenty feet away, already holding his long silver-tipped spear in one meaty hand and a blade in the other. Even now, even having been in his presence for days, I cannot get over how massive he is. Far bigger than any of the other warriors. And I know how quick he can be, too.

As I watch him focus on Tara and start to stalk toward her, his eyes bleed to black.

The shouting starts. Warriors from the surrounding circle screaming their exhortations and hurling insults at Tara, while from the wall there is a more distant inverse, struggle though it does to break through the cacophony of the nearer voices. Many of the onlookers start drumming their weapons against their shields.

By the time the two combatants meet, the din is near overwhelming.

Gallchobhar strikes first, barely breaking stride as his spear licks out and then his blade follows in a vicious downward strike. Tara pivots smoothly and blocks the sword, the imbued wood of her spear absorbing the edge of the metal without a splinter. She steps calmly to the side and feints at Gallchobhar’s leg; the man twitches, almost falls for it. Tara shows her teeth in a slow smile that Gallchobhar does not return.

Tara does not seem fazed by the crashing noise that assails her, I’m relieved to see. Nor does Gallchobhar, though. In fact, the massive man seems to draw energy from it, his black eyes wide with excited fervour as he comes at Tara again, swinging and whirling in a frenzied attack that sees Tara deflecting blade after blade. Each strike is pushed aside with practiced efficiency and she never falters, never loses her footing.

As Gallchobhar finally tires, Tara goes on the offensive. Her spear blurs and Gallchobhar blocks again and again, his brow furrowed in surprised concentration. But he moves as well as Tara. Calmly, smoothly pushes aside every strike.

And unlike her, he doesn’t retreat.

It is not a question of skill; there, at least at first glance, they seem equally matched. Gallchobhar is simply bigger. In his early thirties and a mountain of muscle, taller and stronger. Tara is athletic, lean, toned, and incredibly quick. She might even have more endurance. But she is more than a head smaller. She generates immense power with her blows—I know this only too well—but Gallchobhar generates more. Has a longer reach. Is more easily able to absorb each strike.

Tara breaks off and though nothing changes in her demeanour or face, I think she knows it too. Not that there’s no chance of her getting an opening, of breaking through. But it is no better a chance than of Gallchobhar finding a flaw in her defences.

And if neither make a mistake, eventually she will lose.

The fight draws on for a minute. Two. Unrelenting thunder from the crowd, the noise only seeing ebbs and flows as each fighter makes their moves. There is admiration on the faces of many. Respect. Gallchobhar is a warrior about whom songs have been sung. Tara is proving his equal. This is a fight the likes of which they may never see again.

But eventually, Gallchobhar—patient even in his heavy, relentless attacks—starts to see cracks in Tara’s defences. Not in technique or speed, but simply in ability to withstand his brutal strikes. The way her spear shudders when it blocks, the way she is forced to take a half step back to brace herself now whenever she takes a blow on it, the way the flow of the fight starts to become much more Gallchobhar advancing and Tara calmly retreating. There’s no panic on her face or in her actions, but it’s obvious to anyone who knows the signs. And everyone watching here knows the signs. The crowd immediately around us somehow starts to get louder. More exuberant. Baying like dogs for her blood.

And then, finally, Gallchobhar’s massive swings create an opening.

His blade knocks aside Tara’s spear just wide enough for his own spear to flash out, a jab that she cannot block and cannot avoid. It takes her in the shoulder. Not a killing blow but a bad one; she moans and twists and dances away as the spear comes loose again, still manages to keep her form for a few more strikes, but it’s clear it’s over after that. Some of the black has faded from her eyes, and her movements are jerkier now, more forced.

A slash opens just above her eye. A heavy hit to her left leg. And then another wound, this one worse, in her side. No telling exactly how bad but the scream that accompanies it cuts through the crowd’s jubilation, tears at me as she falls. I find myself struggling forward to help. I am easily held back by my captors.

Her spear is still pointing at Gallchobhar as she is on her back, somehow still focusing through the pain, but Gallchobhar kicks it aside disdainfully and then bends down and rips it from her grasp. He is bathed in sweat, steaming in the frigid night air. Torches mirror the triumph in his wild eyes.

I watch. Still struggling. It all feels dreamlike, too much a nightmare to be real. I am helpless as Gallchobhar stands over Tara and raises his spear high. The crowd quietens. Stills. Fades to silence faster than I would have believed.

Gallchobhar pauses.

“Rónán!” he roars. Not turning toward the wall, never taking his eyes from the woman on the ground in front of him. “Rónán, are you watching?”

There is no answer, nothing but hush for several seconds. Gallchobhar’s arm tenses and he raises the spear a fraction.

“I am here, Gallchobhar.” Rawness in Rónán’s deep voice as it echoes out over the fires; I have only heard him speak once before, and that was a long time ago now, but I recognise it nonetheless. There is movement at the top of the wall and the king appears, golden cloak drawn about him. He holds himself tall, but there is a haggardness to his appearance that is impossible to disguise.

Gallchobhar just stands there, satisfaction written plain on his face as he sees what I see. His arm twitches.

“A life for a life, Rónán.”

A soft, pained, wheezing laugh from Tara. Not bitter. More mocking.

“You are an oathbreaker, Gallchobhar. How could I possibly trust you to keep your word?”

Tara’s laughter dies.

Gallchobhar’s teeth gleam in the firelight. “I would not ask you to. I will release her to the Caer. Once she is safe, you will surrender yourself.”

“No.” It’s Tara, but her voice is barely a whisper.

“You should hurry, if you wish to accept,” adds Gallchobhar, with a disdainful glance at my friend bleeding on the ground. “She does not have long, if she does not get a healer.”

It’s a bad deal, and everyone here knows it. A king for his daughter—one who has been disinherited, who he sent away and didn’t see for years. Who may die anyway, and even if she does not, will be trapped behind the lines of a siege that does not look like being broken.

And yet I knew Rónán’s answer as soon as he didn’t immediately refuse. I can see it in his eyes, even at this distance. Can see Tara’s pain reflected in them.

“You will let Deaglán ap Cristoval go as well.”

I look up. Surprised to hear my name on Rónán’s lips. Heartbeat quickening with impossible hope.

Gallchobhar just shakes his head. “Your daughter is running out of time.”

Rónán half faces away and I can see him speaking to someone in the shadows, though I cannot hear what is being said. Eventually he turns back. “Get her to us in time, and I accept.”

There’s a groan from around the walls, and despite what it means for Tara, I’m not sure I can blame them. Tara tries to say more but her injuries are taking a toll. Gallchobhar wasn’t exaggerating. In a few minutes, she’ll be beyond saving.

I watch in dazed horror as soldiers lift Tara—carefully and respectfully, I am glad to see, at least—and carry her to the gate. After they have left her there and retreated, the gate opens briefly, just enough for warriors to hurry through and steal her from sight. There is low murmuring from the camp, but otherwise silence. Time passes. I am bound again; after that, nobody pays me much attention.

And then the gate is opening again, and King Rónán is walking through.

My heart sinks. Part of me knew he wouldn’t betray the deal he made with Gallchobhar; from everything Tara and the others have said of him, his honour simply wouldn’t allow it. And I had not hoped that he would betray it. Just like Tara, he stands for something I had long thought lost.

But I do not wish to see him die.

Everyone stops. Watches. He is truly regal as he strides down the torchlit road. Cloaked as a king. The bearing of a warrior. No fear in any part of him.

I cannot say the same for me as I realise dawn is colouring the sky behind him.

He comes to stand before Gallchobhar. Not as tall as the other man, but no doubting who is the superior between them. “I surrender myself to King Fiachra.”

“You surrender to me .” Gallchobhar, smug up until this point, is suddenly angry. “That is the deal.”

“A lion cannot surrender to a dog, Gallchobhar. I place myself under your king’s protection.”

Gallchobhar’s eyes glitter, just briefly, in the torchlight. Then he turns his face to the oncoming dawn.

“Bind him,” is all he says.

Rónán’s hands are soon secured behind his back, though the men treat him with a care that they most certainly did not show me. A good sign. Then I’m being hauled unceremoniously to my feet and we are being led—shoved in my case, guided in Rónán’s—toward Lake Áras.

My dread increases. I have faced the prospect of dying many times, over the past few years. But always, I have had some level of agency. I have never been led, bound, toward my execution.

“Head up, Deaglán.”

Rónán’s murmured exhortation echoes my father so strongly that for a second, I feel as though he is here with me. I still cannot sense Will, but I wonder again if he is near, if he knows what is about to happen. Some small part of me, the part that is still a child, continues to believe he will save me. Somehow sweep in and defeat this army. But I know, deep down, that he has already tried. He begged me not to make this decision. He told me exactly how it would end.

We’re pushed out along the causeway, onto the wide wooden platform I know is made for offerings to the depths. Still within sight of the walls. We pass Lir’s severed head and staff lying on the wood near the shore, presumably in preparation for another showy sacrifice after we are done. The lake stretches out before us. Barely a ripple in the windless ethereal light, a mirror for the trees and rolling hills of the countryside amidst the portend of dawn. Stillness and beauty. Hard to believe what I would see if I turned around.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the crowd gathering along the shoreline. I can see them on the walls beyond, too. Watching anxiously. They were planning to attack at dawn—a desperate move anyway—but with their king here, in Gallchobhar’s grasp, I cannot imagine they will keep to that plan.

“Tell me, Rónán,” says Gallchobhar as another man jogs up and hands him something. The silver arm from Fornax. Gallchobhar clearly expecting it. “Do you regret letting the half man take my honour?”

“There was never any to take, Gallchobhar. And the gods have proclaimed him whole, no matter what you say. Certainly more whole than you will ever be.” He says it loud, so that all may hear in the deathly hush. The surrounding warriors. Those up on the wall, morning’s first light now illuminating their faces.

Gallchobhar’s face is dark. Something wrong in his eyes.

“Well,” he grinds eventually, holding back whatever just threatened to break free in him. “We should not dishonour Dia Domhain with only half an offering, then, should we?” He gestures to one of the men behind me. I am suddenly being kicked to my knees, and as I thrash futilely, hands hold me in place. Begin fitting me with a rough harness.

Then the cold of the silver is being forced over my stump. Cinched painfully tight, its weight almost causing me to topple, Gallchobhar now smiling as if at some grand joke. It doesn’t take me long to realise why.

This is my stone. The sign I supposedly received from the gods will weigh me down and drown me. A final, mocking surety against any who may complain that I was dealt with unjustly.

Nothing left now but to take a breath, and calm, and raise my head and meet his gaze without flinching as the silver tears at my shoulder. I won’t give him the satisfaction of anything less.

Gallchobhar sees my defiance. Nods to himself. Smiles.

And slides his blade into my stomach.