The Strength of the Few by James Islington - 8

MY WEARINESS IS BONE-DEEP. TIME passes in a blur of damp discomfort and unease and fitful drowsing as I cling to Cian. His claims of safety grapple with the relentlessness of his pushing on.

Dawn is brightening the sky at our backs when the white-cloaked man spots smoke colouring the skyline. “We can rest here.”

I give a half moan of relief in response, watching eagerly as the village comes into view. It’s not much. A dozen or so huts tightly grouped together along the muddy road, the same rounded design and thatched roofs as in Dun Bhailcnoc. No defensive walls. Open fields to the horizon in every direction. A dog loudly announces our arrival.

By the time we’re drawing level with the first of the structures, two men have emerged. One holds a scythe. They regard us warily as we approach.

“ Síocháin leat .” Cian calls the words in a genial tone.

“ Agus tú féin ,” replies the unarmed one warily, shielding his eyes against the sun behind us. He’s tall and lean, older. Perhaps in his fifties. Grey streaks his black hair and beard.

A conversation ensues, which once again I can frustratingly only follow through tone. Things at first seem destined to go poorly, both strangers clearly wanting us to move on without stopping. Then we draw close enough for them to spot Cian’s staff and cloak. The entire atmosphere changes. There are smiles, apologies and cordial greetings; the men call out and others emerge from the surrounding houses. Women wave at us, children peer up at Cian with undisguised mixtures of curiosity and awe. One man hurries off and returns with a staff of ash carved with symbols, though not divided into sections like Cian’s; he offers it to the druid, who takes it in what looks like a formal acceptance of something. Before long we’ve dismounted and are being ushered inside one of the houses, a simple but hearty breakfast placed in front of us.

“They are happy you are here,” I observe with weary cheerfulness between mouthfuls. The couple whose hospitality we’re enjoying—a weathered man of about forty, and a lean blonde-haired woman—stop beaming at us only to scold their children, who alternate between running around excitedly, staring at my missing arm, and smiling shyly at us.

“They have likely never seen one of the draoi before.” Cian looks more relaxed than he’s been since we met. “I will perform some rites this morning, perhaps resolve some disputes before we move on. Our presence will be a tale they tell their grandchildren.”

I eye the two staffs leaning against the bench. Cian’s is certainly more intricate, but they’re not so different from each other. “How can they be… sure you are who you say?”

Cian almost chokes. “No one would dare pretend to be a draoi .” He’s almost as offended as when I worried about him being harmed by our pursuers.

I find it hard to believe, but I’ll have to take his word for it. My body aches, yet the flight already seems a distant memory. Safety and warmth and a full stomach are combining to make my eyelids impossibly heavy.

“You should sleep,” observes Cian. When I nod wearily, he says something to our host, who leads me to a pile of furs in the corner. Beds don’t exist in this country, apparently, I note mournfully. Nor bedrooms.

It’s a soft, lumpy mattress. The chatter between Cian and the others continues only a few feet away. I barely notice once I lie down. I’m asleep within moments.

SHOUTS WAKE ME.

I scramble awkwardly to my feet, muscles groaning in protest. I can hear tension in the voices outside. The two young children are still in the hut, looking frightened, but there’s no sign of their parents or Cian. Early morning sun streams through the clearing clouds and in the east-facing window. I’ve been asleep for a couple of hours at most.

“What’s happening?” I ask the boy in a low voice, despite knowing he won’t understand. Before he can answer, the door bangs open, making both children cry out and me flinch.

Cian strides in, a staff in either hand. His eyes are clearing from black to their bright blue. “They are coming.”

“King Fiachra’s men?”

“And Ruarc’s. Too close to run,” the redheaded man adds soberly when I glance toward the door. “But help is on its way.”

“What can I do?”

He studies me. “ Tá súil agam leis na déithe go bhfuil Ostius ceart . If you are truly the strongest of the three, perhaps…” It’s an absent, thoughtful mutter, mostly to himself, even as he remembers halfway through to speak Vetusian for my benefit. Then he comes to some sort of frustrated decision. “No. Stay in here, and keep this for me. Run if you must. I will delay them.”

I fumble the rowan staff he tosses me, force back my confusion at his musing and acquiesce; with my arm, and not knowing the language, there’s nothing much I could do anyway. Cian whirls and exits, looking determined. I creep to the window.

What must be most of the village has gathered behind Cian, who has taken up position on the road and is facing eastward, the staff of ash in hand. It’s mostly women and older men with him. None are armed with more than clubs or scythes. If they’re a farming community, it’s possible the men who greeted us earlier have already left for the day.

Beyond in the distance, a dozen warriors on horseback approach, the rising sun behind them. No spiked hair or blue paint, but the deliberate intensity of their movement, the way their eyes scan the way ahead, leaves no doubt that they’re hunting.

It’s not them that causes me to freeze, though.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I make out the three large wolfhounds prowling in front of the entourage. The same ones as from Dun Bhailcnoc, I think. They’re not being led, nor do they appear to be following a scent. Yet they form a perfectly spaced line along the road in front of the warriors. Loping toward the village in silent unison as they lead the group.

I shiver, sliding down out of sight again, Cian’s staff across my lap. Thinking furiously.

“ Naimhde ,” murmurs the curly-haired boy who has been peeking out beside me. There’s more fascination in his serious green eyes than fear. When I glance at him questioningly, he points in the direction of the oncoming warriors insistently. “ Naimhde ag teacht .”

I smile reassuringly at him and pat him on the shoulder, as if I understand completely. Dogs. Enemies. Danger. He could be remarking on the fact the rain has stopped, for all I know.

How does Cian intend to delay them? The people out there only marginally outnumber the warriors, and certainly will be no match for them. It will take minutes, if that, to search these simple abodes. Perhaps he’s going to face them directly and use Will. Perhaps he’s going to try and make some sort of deal, or invoke some of this druidic privilege he seems so confident in.

I just have to hope he knows what he’s doing, because even if I had two arms, his staff would be no weapon against the spears and blades coming toward us.

I hurry to the next window for a better vantage, careful not to attract attention. Cian is watching calmly as the men and their dogs draw closer. I recognise none of them. Foremost is a massive, dark-haired man. His silver torc gleams as it encircles an impossibly muscular neck. He looks almost comical atop a roan horse which, while larger than any of his companions’, still appears pony-like beneath him.

“ Níor chóir duit a bheith anseo, Mel ap Mor ,” calls Cian sternly as the party reaches the first of the houses. “ Tá tú ag briseadh an chonartha .” If I had to guess, telling them to turn around.

The dogs stop. All three of the animals watch Cian with motionless, unsettling intensity. Behind them the men pull to a halt as well, and their leader dismounts. “ Cá bhfuil sé? ” Flat and insistent. He has a long blade strapped to his waist. Almost a broadsword.

“ Cas timpeall, Mel ap Mor .”

“ Cá bhfuil sé? ” The warrior walks calmly forward. The pointedly repeated question indicating he’s ignoring whatever cautioning Cian is giving him. His men are still mounted, but splitting off. Spreading out.

Cian sees it but stands his ground, unafraid. “ Ní ghortóidh sé seo ach Fiachra .” Gently chiding.

“ Cá bhfuil sé? ” The dark-haired warrior stands in front of Cian now. Dwarfs him.

The druid is forced to peer up to meet his gaze, yet there’s no questioning the confident authority in his posture. “ Ní féidir leat —”

A flash of steel. The ash staff is cleaved in two and clattering to the ground, Cian’s severed head rolling next to it as red blood sprays. There’s a breath where no one moves.

Screaming. Chaos. Dogs snarling, attacking, though at what signal I cannot tell. The villagers scatter as the warband urge their horses forward, weapons in hand. I’m biting my tongue to stop from crying out. The boy next to me is still staring out the window. Disbelieving. His whole body shakes. His sister is crying. They both saw.

“Follow me.” My voice surprises me by how steady it is as I use Cian’s staff to push myself to my feet, beckoning for the children to cross to the far window. We’re at the edge of the village, and a verdant forest lies only fifty feet away. The druid overestimated the respect these men would have for his position, but I don’t think it was arrogance; druids are clearly revered here. And if King Fiachra’s men were willing to kill him so casually, I doubt they are intending to leave witnesses.

This house won’t be the first they search, but we can’t stay here.

When neither child moves, I tap the boy with the staff. “ Tar .” I surprise myself with the hissed word. “Come,” I’m fairly certain, though I immediately second-guess myself. Cian must have used it enough for it to seep into my subconscious.

Thankfully whatever it means is close enough that it draws both children’s focus, and they rush over. I point out the window to the forest, but even as I do, a rider canters into view. Spear drawn. Eyes searching.

“Rotting gods.” I sink from sight and yank the children down as well, putting my fingers to my lips insistently. The boy, who’s perhaps five or six, nods a brave understanding. After a moment the girl, maybe a year older, does the same.

The door opens behind us and I whirl, only breathing again when I recognise the man slipping inside as the children’s father. They rush to him, and he murmurs something comforting to them, still holding his scythe like a weapon.

He spots me. His gaze goes to Cian’s staff. Some mixture of confusion and anger crosses his face, though both almost instantly clear. Whatever he sees, it’s not as exigent as events outside.

He says something to the children and points out the window closest to the forest. I wave to get his attention. Shake my head urgently and beckon him over, showing him the warrior waiting not twenty feet away. Screams continue in the background. Fewer now. More desperate. The first traces of smoke hit my nostrils.

Vek . They’re not searching all the buildings. They’re just burning everything, and letting the people inside come to them.

The father looks at me in desperation. Then at his children. He knows what is coming.

I get his attention. No time to second-guess myself. “They’re after me.” I know he won’t understand, but I do what I can to convey my intent through gestures. “I’ll let him see me. You wait behind the door.” I point to him, then the corner. “He comes through…”

I make a stabbing motion.

He looks at me. Fear well hidden for his children’s sake, but I see it. He’s no warrior.

He nods.

I don’t wait to ensure he’s understood; the men torching the village can’t be far. I lean out the window, as if I haven’t seen the guard. Far enough that my missing arm is obvious.

A shout; I let my eyes go wide in panic as I appear to notice him and vanish back inside. The thudding of rapid footsteps. A smarter man would have alerted his comrades. Would have set fire to the hut and forced me to come out. But he can see me through the window, against the wall far from the door, and believes me trapped. Probably wants the credit for my death.

He bursts through the door. All muscle and confidence. The children shriek. He pays them no heed, eyes fixed on me. From the shadowed corner, the farmer steps forward and swings his scythe. A solid strike, weight and speed behind it.

But it’s not accurate.

The warrior snarls as he catches some glimmer of iron from the corner of his eye and twists at the last moment; the curved blade catches him on the left arm, scoring a long, deep cut, but not enough to stop him.

The invader twists. Angry, but in control. His spear licks out and swats aside the farmer’s tool as he tries another swing. I charge forward at the same time, even as I know it is too late.

With a casual thrust, the warrior pierces the farmer’s heart.

A scream from the boy as the scythe clatters to the floor, and he skirts the fighter as he runs to his father’s side. The girl is just silent. Staring. Not understanding. The life drains from the man’s eyes as he watches his children. His gaze flickers to me. Pleading.

I take the attacker in his injured shoulder, but I have one arm and only Cian’s staff. He’s skilled enough. He brushes off the attack and slams me around. The butt of his spear cracks me along the side of the head. There are spots across my vision. Then there’s pain. Sharp and bright and enough to elicit a scream from me.

His spear in my side. Deep, slicing through muscle.

I stumble back. Just enough awareness to place myself between him and the children. Smoke is drifting into the house now. I think the roof is on fire. “Run!” I shout it at them, knowing they won’t understand, gesturing frantically to the window behind me even as I ready myself to defend. Perhaps I can keep him at bay long enough for them to reach the forest. Perhaps, at least, my death can be not in vain.

“ Cróga, ach gan phointe .” Deep and low. Wry, almost sorrowful. As if he’s asking for forgiveness, though it’s more of an amused apology than a heartfelt one. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it too. I should be running. This isn’t a fight I can win. This isn’t even a fight.

He’s so focused on me, though, that he hasn’t seen the children’s mother slip through the open door. Her green eyes wild. There’s a gash on her bicep. Her entire arm glistens red. She sees her husband and aching pain races across her face.

She picks up the scythe. I circle to the side, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the attacker’s. Drawing his gaze so that his back is to her, and not giving him any hint of her presence.

One of the children—the girl, I think—gives a cry of hope, but the warning comes too late for the warrior.

The iron flashes with the gathering flames above. There is a sick, wet sound. The scythe detaches with a spray of blood; the man slumps to the floor, the light chased from his eyes as his head lolls at a ghastly, unnatural angle.

The blonde woman drops the bloodied implement next to him. Trembling, but glaring briefly at the body as if daring it to rise again before rushing over to her children, whispering a stream of quick, comforting words to them. She does not look at her husband’s body. The girl clings to her.

“The way is clear.” I get her attention and point urgently to the forest. She understands, quickly issuing instructions to her children as we work together to boost them out the window. The boy coughs as he follows his sister, the smoke thickening. There is a crackling above our heads now. Heat. The thatched roof is catching all too easily.

The two children are out, running low for the forest. They make the tree line. Vanish. The woman motions to me. She wants to help me out the window.

I shake my head, looking back at the two dead bodies.

“They’re not going to stop,” I say, knowing it’s pointless but voicing it anyway. Cian was so sure he was inviolable. “Not until I’m dead.”

The licking flames are visible now. I move a step toward the half-decapitated warrior. Stop. The fire will hide a lot of things, but not enough. The warband out there will want to identify him, will probably recognise his height, maybe other features that cannot be burned away.

The woman is watching me. She hesitates. Kneels by her dead husband. Kisses him on the lips.

Then she picks up the dripping scythe and hands it to me. Nods, tears in her eyes. And vanishes out the window after her children.

The heat is intense, now. Smoke almost too thick. The screams have been replaced outside by the shouts of men. Calm. Communicating. I hold the cloth of my shirt to my face. No time for second-guessing or squeamishness.

I shrug off my cloak and bend, arranging it carefully around the farmer’s shoulders. Mouth a silent apology.

Then I raise the scythe high, and aim for the corpse’s left shoulder.