The Strength of the Few by James Islington - 75

EVERYTHING MOVES SLOWLY. DISTANTLY. IT is a killing blow. Even if I didn’t know it from the searing of my stomach or from the helpless groan that wheezes past my lips, I can hear it in the raging protests from the walls. I manage to look up through the haze. Tara is there, I think. Supported by Fearghus. Her expression is murderous rage.

Her father, on the other hand, is watching impassively. I don’t know whether he feels nothing for what he is seeing, or whether it’s simply not to show weakness to Gallchobhar or his people, but it is the right choice.

“You see, Rónán.” Gallchobhar is breathing heavily. Steel still buried, his hand on the hilt. “Such is the fate of all you favour.” He pulls me close, hand behind my head, smiling in my face, his breath a hot stench in my nostrils.

Then he yanks the sword out and whips it around. A silver arc flicking crimson in the clean dawn light.

Rónán’s head rolls to the side as his corpse slumps to the wood underfoot, neck spouting bubbling blood.

Silence for a second. Two. Then an outraged scream goes up from the walls, fury and insults hailing down, and even the soldiers around us blanch, shocked eyes darting from Rónán’s headless corpse to each other and then back again. There is still much I don’t know about this culture, but Rónán surrendered himself to Fiachra and I know that a king—Old Ways or not, enemy combatant or not—would expect to have been shown far more respect in death. Even from Gallchobhar.

There is shouting from within the walls; I can’t make it out through the pain, but it sounds as though the warriors within are clamouring to fight. What Gallchobhar wants, I assume. To draw them out before Fiachra comes back. Claim the victory for himself. Everything is vague, remote. The weight of the silver arm drags at my shoulder, pulls at muscle, leaning me to the side. I think in the background I hear the Caer’s gate open. War cries and the clashing of steel.

As dawn’s first rays touch the lake, Gallchobhar kicks me over the edge and into the water.

It is icy. I am so tired, so hurt, that the shock barely registers. My silver arm is an anvil and I weakly thrash to free my real arm from its bonds, but Gallchobhar did his work far too well. I sink. The clean sunlight seems to follow me, always just above me. Just light enough to see, though the surface soon fades from view. The water is fresh and clear but there are only reeds and muck down here. Down, down. Too deep. I land, metal arm first, in the sludge. Still holding my breath, though I don’t know why at this point. Instinct, I suppose.

And then my father is there.

It takes me a second to understand as he crouches beside me, movements exaggeratedly slow thanks to the water. Barely recognisable in the murk, hair floating around him. I see an echo of Cari, and I almost let out my remaining breath in a sob.

But it is him. No pulse of Will from him, but he is here anyway, at the end. Blood drifts like smoke from my stomach. I am barely hanging on. He is tugging at the bonds that hold my good arm behind my back. Freeing it. But he sees that I am fading, and fading fast. There is urgency to his actions. I still trust him to save me.

He rips the rope loose. Crouches by me as I remain on my knees, silver arm still anchoring me to the soft lake floor.

He unloops the medallion from his arm, and secures it around my neck.

A pulse in the water, a jolt as it settles against my chest. Energy. Life. The agony in my stomach eases. My lungs no longer feel as though they are about to burst. It takes me a moment to understand, and when I do, I shake my head madly. No . I do not want him to do this. Not for me. Not again. I scrabble to take it off, to give it back.

He smiles at me, and restrains my hand firmly. Dark bruises beginning to blush around his neck. Impossibly, barely visible in the murky water, smiling. Comforting me. Him comforting me .

I am a child again, and all I want is for my father to be here. All I want is for him to stay.

His embrace is long and gentle. Cupping the back of my head, forehead against mine. I look at him pleadingly. Still weighed by my arm. I want to tell him what I should have, three nights ago. He told me that all he wanted was for me to be my own man.

But all I ever wanted, all I still want, is to be like him.

I want to tell him that I love him. I want to tell him just how much I love him. One last time. I mouth the words.

His eyes soften and he mouths it back. His arms slacken. He grits his teeth and makes one final effort, gripping my shoulder.

Courage , he adds. Still smiling.

Then he lets go, the light gone from his eyes.

I howl my pain into the water as he drifts into the darkness, taken by the current toward the river’s mouth. I clench my fists against the wash of grief, against the pain, against the nightmarish hopelessness of everything that is happening.

The air is gone from my lungs but still I am aware, still conscious. The blood pumping from my stomach has eased, I think. It aches, hasn’t magically healed. But my father’s medallion is flooding me with Will, keeping me alive. Preserving me, just as he said it would. Refusing to let me die as I sit, forlorn, on the bottom of the lake.

After a few seconds, I sense the faintest of pulses. Unnoticeable if it were not so close. Right behind my eyes.

And I realise that I am holding my head in my hands.

Dawn’s light is burning its way down to me as I hold my left arm up in front of my face. Turn it back and forth wonderingly. Slowly, disbelievingly, flex the fingers as they glint silver in the scything rays.

I can feel my hand.

The weight of it is gone. It’s not just the water. I can feel it, in the same way I could feel my spear when I used the nasceann . And yet, this is even deeper. Something more. I reach across and loosen the painful leather straps that bound the arm to my shoulder. It does not fall away.

I’ve imbued it. I know it’s true, can feel its certainty even as the impossibility of it staggers me. Just like in Fornax. Some distant instinct rather than knowledge, a reflex that I shouldn’t have and yet somehow do. The image of the arm locked in my mind.

Finally, through all the confusion and disbelief and continued pain, I stand. Push aside my grief and understand that whatever is going on, now is not the time to question it. For a wild moment I consider chasing the current, trying to find my father’s body and returning the amulet that gave him life. But I know that if I did, I would not survive. I know that he would not want me to.

And I know from what I heard before Gallchobhar tried to drown me, that the battle for Caer Áras is beginning up above.

I start to walk back in the direction of the shore; I may not feel the weight of the arm, but I have no idea how it will go if I try to swim with it. My surrounds become lighter. The water clearer as I climb. The green and murk is behind me. Flashing steel ripples up ahead through the lake’s undulating shallows.

I press forward at a steady, determined pace. My head breaks the surface. As soon as my mouth reaches air, I breathe in. Not that I need to, not with the medallion on. But it is an unsettling thing to not, and my body feels immediately stronger for the act.

Nobody notices me at first. Most of the warriors are facing toward the gate, where the fighting is heaviest; the gate itself is open and I cannot see what is happening due to the crush of people, but I imagine the conflict is significant and bloody. Gallchobhar has retreated to the shore but is still standing there with his men, watching. Sword in one massive hand and spear in the other. A pleased expression on his face.

“Gallchobhar!” I roar it, the name ripping from my throat as I wade higher. Chest emerging from the lake. The sounds of battle are loud, but we’re still far enough from the worst of it that my voice echoes over the water.

He turns. So do most of the men on the shore. They take a few breaths to spot me. Gallchobhar’s reaction is the one I am focused on, though. His eyes meet mine and he just stares for a second, blank. Not understanding.

I take another step. Another. Uneasy murmurs ripple through the ranks of his men and more and more turn away from the gate, toward me. I take another step. Another. My long hair drips as it hangs about my face. The tip of my glistening silver arm emerges from the water and there is an audible exhalation from the crowd.

I keep walking. Gaze fixed on Gallchobhar. I know how this will look to these people—me emerging from the lake at dawn, miraculously still alive—and part of me doesn’t want to take advantage of that, but I know I have to. Battles for these men are less about strategy and more about courage. About conviction. Once their fury at Gallchobhar’s treachery ran its course, those in Caer Áras would remember they were fighting for a dead man.

But now? Now it will seem as though the gods themselves have chosen them for victory.

The water reaches my waist, and I raise my silver hand high. Clench it deliberately into a fist, so that all can see.

A moan goes through the onlookers. Everything seems quieter. There is still the sound of metal on metal, but it feels more sporadic now, calls coming from both sides to the combatants. They are slowly breaking apart. Retreating.

Before anyone overcomes their surprise, I need a weapon. There is a pulse on the shore at the edge of the causeway, mere steps away. I move to it; if I’m rejected as unworthy again, I’ll simply do what I did in Fornax and take the Will from it.

I spot what’s causing the pulse. Next to Lir’s bloodied, vacantly staring head, lies his staff.

I hesitate, then stoop and pick it up.

The battle is gone.

An immense rotunda of white columns and white stone and beyond, white mountaintops. A chill wind cuts at my face, slices across the seeping wound in my stomach. I stumble, almost drop the staff in shock at the instantaneous transition. In front of me, the white-cloaked man chuckles.

“You continue to surprise, Deaglán,” says Lir.

“Lir?” I stare around, disoriented even as I recognise the place; there are other people behind him, men and women also cloaked in white. They hang back silently among the columns, watching. My gaze returns to the druid. I saw him die .

“Be calm. I have brought you to the tempeall albios . We do not have long and I…” He trails off as he examines me. Expression turning from determined, to puzzled, to sad.

“Oh, lad. The sorrows you bear, Deaglán,” he says softly. “I am so very sorry.”

I take a staggering step. Allow him to step forward and steady me. His arm is solid as it supports me. “I don’t understand. How did I get here?” Bewilderment muting everything else that roils within me, at least for now.

“You are still at Caer Áras. This is a place of the mind. And though this conversation will take moments at the Caer, those moments matter.” He grips me by the shoulders. Calm as he considers. “Keep on as you were intending. Challenge Gallchobhar. But first, you must announce that his offering has been rejected. Tell everyone who can hear that instead, you have been anointed a draoi nasceann by Dia Domhain himself, and that they are not to fight. Tell them that those on the side of Fiachra have dishonoured the Old Ways, and will be anathema to the gods if they continue on their current path.”

I lean on him, trying to take it in. I have no idea how he knows what’s happening, but he’s right: I was about to challenge Gallchobhar. “And if Fiachra’s men do not listen?”

He smiles grimly. “They will listen, Deaglán. And when you kill Gallchobhar, they will surrender.”

I nod acceptance, not knowing how else to react. “Lir. Are you… dead?” After my father, I have to entertain the possibility.

“A question with a complicated answer. I knew what Gallchobhar would do; he has always been a brute who believes himself blessed and protected by the gods because he was granted the nasceann . But, yes. My body, at least, is gone.” He sighs regretfully. “Time passes, Deaglán. You must go. Save Rónán’s people, and I will explain all of this. Save them and you have my oath that I will train you, and together we will find the meaning behind your journey here.”

He steps back, and grasps my hand in his.

“My strength to yours, Deaglán,” he says quietly.

Everything sharpens. My wound, less painful. Renewed energy in my limbs.

And then I am back on the shore of Lake Áras, and the battle has all but stopped, and everyone is watching.

A heartbeat, and I recover myself. No time for the luxury of confusion. I find Gallchobhar again, still staring in disbelief.

“Gallchobhar ap Drin, I challenge you.” My voice is sure and strong, seems louder than it should as it rings out across the battlefield. I am clear-headed, and the pain in my stomach is little more than an annoyance. Still. I am running on emotion. On rage and grief and desperation, despite doing all I can to maintain an outward appearance of calm. I raise Lir’s staff high. “The gods have rejected your offering. Dia Domhain has anointed me a draoi nasceann and sent me back to condemn you, and all who follow Fiachra, for dishonouring the Old Ways.” I turn to the watching men and women, and brandish my silver hand. “Warriors! By this sign you will know you have been deceived by your leaders. Throw down your weapons and make recompense, or suffer the gods’ wrath for your defiance of them.”

The last of the fighting has stopped. An eerie hush hangs over everything. I walk toward Gallchobhar. My bravado is having an effect. Fiachra’s warriors do not challenge me. In fact, as I walk past, stripping off my sodden tunic so that I am wearing only breeches like them, they step back. Move from my path.

Gallchobhar, for the first time, looks lost. He is angry but he does not know why, does not understand how this is possible. His lip is curled as he takes me in. Sees the open wound in my stomach. The way my silver arm does not weigh me down, how it moves as smoothly as any part of me.

And he sees the way everything has stopped, everyone is watching us. The way his men shy away from my presence.

He snarls, readies his weapons, and charges.

I am mobile again, alert again, but I am in no state to run. So I wait. He screams as he comes at me. There is desperation in his black eyes. He knows what I mean to this battle now.

He brings his blade down with all his strength.

The shivering note rings clear over the silent battlefield. I am almost as surprised as Gallchobhar as we stand there, both frozen. His blade pressing against my silver arm. The iron should have at least scored it. Instead, despite the wild power behind the strike, it hasn’t left a mark.

And I have not taken a step back. Gallchobhar is bigger and stronger and should be able to crush me, but we stand there and he pushes and I do not move.

He roars and pulls back and swings again, all his might behind the strike. This time I lift my hand and try to catch the blade. It shatters, glimmering splinters flying off in the sunlight. Gallchobhar screams as one embeds itself in his cheek.

I am as shocked as he is, but I make sure not to show it. This is a performance, now. Gallchobhar is thrown, unbalanced, and with this medallion around my neck, with whatever Lir has done to help me, I may even be able to beat him. But it will not matter if his army does not falter as well.

“Flee, Gallchobhar.” I wonder how far I can take this. “Flee, or die with dishonour.”

For a moment, I think it might work. Gallchobhar’s eyes are wide, and I can see him thinking about it. Can see him twitching, desperate to turn and escape the madness that has suddenly been visited upon him by my appearance.

But he doesn’t.

“Fight!” He hefts his spear and bellows the words at the men around him, his snarl echoing up to the gate and rolling over Caer Áras. “Do not stand there! Fight!”

They do not.

The two sides continue to back away from one another, and more and more, Fiachra’s warriors turn to us. Watching. Faces grim. They have not discarded their weapons. I suppose I did not expect them to, not yet. If I cannot defeat Gallchobhar, my words will still be proven lies.

Gallchobhar knows it too.

He comes at me, and we begin again.

I do not know how long the fight lasts. I get only impressions of the mute, gathering crowd which rings us. I am not as good as Tara, but Gallchobhar is not the same man who fought her. His confidence has turned to confused anger, his attacks from calculated to battering. My silver arm is more defensively effective than any blade. And though I am injured, the life my father has given me, the strength that Lir has given me, is enough. It hurts. It all hurts. But I keep going.

After a minute, I can see Gallchobhar’s belief start to wane. His screams of exhortation become increasingly desperate. His swings more wild. Three times he lands hits, blows that leave gaping scars, wounds that would fell normal men. But not me. Not today.

And then he leaves a gap, and I drive through it, and he staggers, knee no longer able to support his weight.

He stares at the buckled limb. Disbelieving. A crippling blow. Even for him.

My staff blurs again and takes him on the wrist; he drops his weapon and stumbles and falls backward, and suddenly the darkness is bleeding from his eyes. Leaving only confusion and fury.

“You are not nasceann . You were never one of the worthy,” he snarls.

I lean down. Pick up his spear in my silver hand. “Neither were you,” I tell him softly.

I drive it through his heart.

He stares up at me. Gives a little wheeze of surprise. Almost a sad sound.

He lies still.

I leave the spear in him. His empty eyes gazing up at the brightening sky. It is important that his warriors see him this way.

I start toward the gate, walking rather than running, and Fiachra’s men part like water before me. Many have started to flee, a scattering of men and women sprinting away across the fields and into the surrounding forests, the madness of the battle frenzy changed to panic.

It is a trickle. Then a stream. Then a flood. Those too far away to realise that Gallchobhar had fallen see me now, look back from their wary watching of the enemy and see his massive form on the ground, spear jutting plainly from his chest. He was not their king, not beloved, but he was still the greatest warrior among them.

Fiachra may not be here, but I do not think he will survive the consequences of this day.

I am so badly injured that it is hard to move, the extra wounds Gallchobhar gave me slowing me. Even with my father’s medallion, even with whatever extra strength Lir has lent me, I don’t know how much longer I can stay conscious. It is all I can do to stride, to look confident, to not show how close I am to collapse. Even now, I think if the charade is revealed, things may turn.

But I make it to the gates. The last of Fiachra’s warriors either surrendering or retreating, chased by exuberant, whooping defenders. And I am escorted quickly inside. Men I do not know but who treat me with reverence. I am too tired to tell them to do otherwise.

I find my way into a corner, out of sight from others. I sit against a wall.

I close my eyes, and know no more.