The Sword of Light, page 3
He wanted to be kind, merciful, a good man. The first time he’d been forced to take a life in battle had weighed heavily on him. But he’d seen as well what the invaders could do, to women, even little children, though most often they’d be taken as slaves.
He gave himself a mental shake. He was in the woods, his great horse, Darragh, happily nibbling on the long grasses, and he was looking for a cauldron. Because of a dream. He was, perhaps insanely, looking for a cauldron! He shook his head, deciding to give it just a bit longer.
He left Darragh in the clearing filled with long grass and made his way on foot, through a slim trail that wound through the trees, thinking there was only so much time to be given to this endeavor. He was afraid that the attack yesterday might have just been a forerunner to something far worse to come.
There were rumors that one of the rís of the midlands north and east of Tara had been secretly meeting with “traders” who’d slipped through the coast and down along the river freely because, if they had been noticed, they were just traders. Something easily accepted.
The Romans had invaded England and climbed their way to parts of Scotia, or Scotland, a land named for the Gaelic people who had crossed the sea and inhabited her. The Gaels had also been a predominant people in much of Éire, named for Eiru, an ancient matron goddess who had once ruled a people who came to honor druids here. But while the Romans had tried a few times, they’d never conquered the emerald isle.
But they had traded in areas off the western coast often enough. So now much could be done that was evil in the guise of trading.
What was it about man that he should be so eternally plagued by war? Would it ever change? Even the legends about the Tuatha Dé Danann—filled with the wonder of magic, great intelligence, love of nature and all good things—also came with the legends of their wars against the Fomorians, great monsters who threatened to overwhelm them, causing the very earth to tremble when they battled.
Again, he reminded himself that he was seeking a cauldron. In the middle of the forest. Perhaps it was insanity. Even magical insanity.
Except that he had seen Deidre’s sword . . .
Darragh suddenly let out a snort, one so loud that the sound traveled through the trees.
Kylin carefully hurried through the woods, using the trees as cover to avoid prying eyes. After yesterday’s attack, he couldn’t know what was out there.
Tuatha Dé Danaan. Legends . . . stories!
His father’s people still had all their “old” gods and the magic of Odin, Thor and Freya! Christianity was coming to most of the known world, but before heading out on a raid, the invaders still cast their runes. Many followed the magic of seidr. There were many out there in the world who believed that sorceresses and sorcerers could reach out to Odin, the god above the others, known for his wisdom, healing, poetry, knowledge and so much more. And, of course, Thor, the god of thunder, the one who helped them win their battles with the energy of the heavens.
Is magic real? Nice to believe that it might be, especially good magic, the kind that protected the vulnerable and the innocent.
And Darragh was as good as the best of hounds when he sensed that someone was there, someone who hadn’t been there before.
He found a great oak and slipped behind it, watching the clearing where Darragh had now given up the pleasure of munching on the grass and stood still, as if sensing something in the very air, seeing something, perhaps even smelling a presence.
Kylin waited, watching. He was armed with his sword, knife and axe—he never left home unprepared. There had been years when they had lived in peace, when life had been beautiful, but now the very air seemed to whisper that brutal times were to come.
And someone was approaching. He could hear the faint sound of underbrush crackling, not in the careless way they did when animals were moving through the forest, but rather in the manner one might hear when human feet tiptoed over fallen bracken and leaves.
He held his position and watched and waited.
He leaned against the tree, relieved and even slightly amused as he saw a head peeping out from behind a birch that rose high and broad with drooping branches across the clearing.
Deidre.
Did she also dream about a cauldron?
He waited for a long moment, watching her. But she had been well trained by her father and brother.
She was careful.
And she was armed. She carried what seemed to be the magical sword from last night. Even without magical properties, it was a remarkable sword that any warrior would appreciate. It was long and silver gray with an elegantly etched handle, again, a damned good sword even if there was nothing special about it.
But sometimes it glowed with a magical light. Not his imagination; he had seen it.
She had been trained to battle. He had heard about that from his father long before he had seen it. Yes, she was certainly a force, one not to be taken lightly.
He also noticed that a long knife was sheathed in a scabbard at her hip.
No, she was not the customary lass a man met every day. Of course, they had seen one another before, but only in crowds, only on feast days, those times when their fathers and the noble families greeted all who came to celebrate a holiday, or to gather in relief when a danger had passed. They’d not spent time together.
She didn’t like him. Because of his father. And he saw that as wrong, terribly wrong, since his father had offered nothing but help and peace.
She was watching his horse, Darragh, and she most likely had no idea that he was Kylin’s steed, but seeing him there informed her that she was not alone.
He thought about letting her watch nervously and wonder, and then determined that while she might dislike him for what she would see as the accident of his birth, he was not going to be in the wrong.
He stepped out from behind the tree.
“Deidre,” he said quietly.
And still, he knew that he had startled her for she drew back, ready to fight. But seeing him, she closed her eyes for a moment and let out a breath of relief.
“Kylin. So, it’s true.”
“I’m sorry. What is true?” he asked.
“You dreamed of a cauldron,” she told him.
He frowned. What was going on?
“And you dreamed of this cauldron, too?” he asked her. “And somehow knew that I did?”
She smiled at that, leaving her place behind the tree to walk toward his horse rather than him. She extended a hand for Darragh to sniff, the appropriate thing with such an animal. Then she stroked his neck.
“Beautiful creature,” she murmured.
“Thank you. I think so. But I may be prejudiced since he’s mine, raised from a colt.”
She smiled again and then looked at him, possibly as puzzled as he was regarding the cauldron dream.
And the sword.
“There was more than a dream,” she told him. “When I woke this morning . . . there was a piece of torn parchment on the floor of my room. And it said, ‘Seek. Crimson days lie ahead. Seek the cauldron on the Hill of Tara.’”
“There was someone in your room?” he asked.
“No.”
“Can you be certain? Perhaps someone—”
“Trust me, no. My father is a kind and generous man, known among his people for being a great rí. But every soul knows that they risk life and limb to venture near his daughter’s door.”
And that was most probably true.
But a dream was a dream, ethereal, perhaps even magical.
A parchment was physical, a piece of material meant for writing.
Again, she let out a breath. “I’m not any happier about any of this than you. No, that’s a lie. If I hadn’t been all but knocked dead, if I hadn’t seen the shimmering creature, I would not have found the sword and without it, I’d not be alive.” She winced. “And, of course, if not for the help of you and your warriors.”
“We were both in the right place at the right time. And, of course, I understand legends—across the sea, people have their old legends, too, thinking that they can cast the runes and know whether or not their journey will be safe. But I have trouble combining ancient legends with what we’ve come to believe—”
“Ah, well, you should know my father. I mean, think about it! I’ve studied your father’s people, too. They have Odin and Loki and Njord and others. My father believes that a great being exists and that we all see them in different ways, but those who learn to practice simple virtues—kindness, peace and generosity—are taking different paths to the same place. So perhaps the legendary creatures who have remained are a form of the angels we learned about from our great Patrick. I don’t know how to question any of this. I just know that the sword saved my life and that I’ve been asked—we’ve been asked, perhaps chosen—to do this bidding on earth.”
“Your father is a wise man. And truth, I dreamed that I must come here and search for a cauldron. Your dream didn’t tell you what we were to do with it, did it?”
She smiled. When she did so, she was truly beautiful. Her eyes were as emerald as the island and they lit up brilliantly against the deep, dark red of her hair. She was slim, yet all muscle from training, and her features were both strong and elegant.
She was not the enemy, he told himself.
Just a young woman with a sharp dislike for him because of his background. She never saw what her father had known, that his father was also one of the most honorable men to be found anywhere in the world in which they lived.
“Kylin?”
“Sorry! No, in the dream, I was just to find the cauldron. And . . . ah, it seems to make little sense! A sword, aye, something to be used when attacked. But a cauldron?”
“Trust me. I needed the sword. We will learn what to do with the cauldron,” she assured him. “It’s just that . . .”
“I know. I sense it. Something very bad is coming.”
“An attack. Something major and coordinated.”
“Someone may well be out to usurp the ard-rí, combining men of Éire and forces from the northern isles to do it,” he said. “Yesterday . . .”
“I know,” she admitted. “I hate it,” she added, wincing and pausing. “I don’t understand how people can go against one another!”
“Different areas, and different rulers,” he said. “Different beliefs—and I’m not talking about gods and goddesses of any place, people or nation. I’m talking about those who desire more power, who feel that most of the populace are lesser human beings, set upon the earth to serve, to die when expedient.”
She nodded. “I am sorry,” she said softly.
“You’re sorry? Um, for what, exactly?”
She looked away and grimaced. “My, um, thoughts, maybe? Both my parents are descended from people who have been here for hundreds of years—”
“And you know this how?” he asked her.
She frowned, turning to look at him. “Well, because . . . they have!”
“I think I understand, and you’ve seen how people who come may cause horrible death and destruction. But while a man’s birth may influence his thinking, it does not make the man. I know my father didn’t want to spend his life sailing the seas to attack others. I know that he offered himself and his men to your father for acceptance and that he has kept that promise all his life and taught me that I must do the same. My mother has a family like yours, and you know, because she came from a noble family to the northeast, one that your father knows well—he arranged the marriage. So, I beg you, quit doubting me!”
“We do need to find that cauldron,” she told him.
He was certain that she was intentionally ignoring any point he made. Maybe she just didn’t want to acknowledge him in any way at all.
“You believe that it exists.”
“So do you, or you wouldn’t be here,” she reminded him.
“How can two people have the same dream?” he asked, shaking his head.
She smiled at that. “Magic. They say that when the Tuatha Dé Danann came, they knew that they wouldn’t rule the island forever. In their great wisdom, they knew that man would come, and thus they took up a life in the cairns and the caves, the air and the earth. It’s said that they even respect Father Patrick, too. Perhaps they rely upon him to allow their magic when it’s needed.”
He grinned. “As you say, then. Let’s look for a cauldron!”
“Should we split up?” she asked.
Kylin hesitated. She was well armed. She knew how to fight, how to take care of herself. Yet he was afraid. Perhaps—
“I will be fine,” she promised. She smiled at him again. “I believe we can dare to do so in this immediate vicinity. Your horse will warn us when someone is here. He saw me.”
“All right.” Kylin nodded slowly. It was true. Darragh was a great guard; he had already proven himself.
There was no one close then, he knew, because Darragh was happily munching on the grass again.
He turned to head off toward the east, leaving Deidre to head in a northeasterly direction.
Areas of the land had often been all but stripped to allow for animals and settlements, but here the land was incredibly rich with greenery, bushes and tall grasses growing high between trees. Occasionally, there were natural clearings where the grass was low—such as the area where Darragh awaited them.
He’d had the dream; Deidre had had the dream. She had been “given” the sword—or she had simply found it and imagined that there had been a shimmering body to direct her to the weapon.
No. He knew the truth. He’d seen the sword in action. And there had been something beyond the usual scope of man in its power that forced him to consider that maybe, sometimes, there was magic in the world.
Maybe when it was needed?
If there was a cauldron, she would find it. Certainly. She was the one who had been touched by the ancient legends. Except that—
He stopped dead, amazed.
Because he had come upon something of a clearing, an area barren of trees but scattered with bushes and high grass. And somehow in the middle of the incredible greenery there was something . . . metallic. And black.
He walked toward it, still disbelieving that any of it could be happening. But he came upon it. And there, in the grass, sat a cauldron. It didn’t appear to have been left rotting by any ancient civilization.
Rather, other than the leaves and grass that waved around it, the object was pristine. As if had been cast at a forge just that day.
And perhaps it had.
Except for the dream.
He needed to tell Deidre that he had found it.
But first he had to touch it. It was metal; yes, indeed, it was a cauldron. He could lift it and carry it. While it appeared heavy, as if it could contain a soup or porridge for dozens of people, it was light in his hand.
Just as Deidre’s sword is so incredibly light when she lifts it, wields it!
At least that made his next move easy enough. He hefted the cauldron into his arms and turned around, ready to head back, to find Deidre.
They had a cauldron. What were they to do with it?
He wound his way through thickets and trees back toward the clearing where Darragh waited.
When he neared the clearing, he saw that the horse was once again standing with his head high, as if he were listening, perhaps smelling the air. Someone was about. He didn’t believe that it was Deidre this time.
Carefully, he moved back around, watching the clearing. And as he did so, a sword-wielding man broke through the underbrush, calling to someone behind him.
“Find her! Find the bloody girl and get the sword from her first!”
How many are there? How do they know that Deidre came here? Perhaps she was followed, but then . . .
He didn’t need to step out when the first man reached the clearing. Darragh rose high like the greatest warrior and trampled the man to the ground, leaving the other who had come behind him to fly at Kylin.
First, he had to drop the cauldron. No way to fight and hold the thing at the same time.
But as he started to drop it, he lifted it instead, hurling it at the man who raced toward him with his sword extended.
The man fell as if the cauldron had weighed as much as a millstone. He lay knocked out.
Kylin approached him, ever wary, but the cauldron lay at his side and when he knelt to seek a pulse, however light, he found that the man was dead.
The other, trampled by Darragh, lay groaning, bloody.
Kylin walked toward him as Deidre came out of the woods from the north, stunned, but her strange sword at the ready.
He looked her way and shook his head, walking toward the injured man on the ground. Deidre hurried to him, tense, worried.
But there seemed to be no others with the two.
And when he knelt by the man who had been trampled, he saw that there would be no help for him; Darragh’s one hoof had caught him hard in the head, crushing his skull and eye, and his second hoof had caught him in the chest, leaving a gaping hole by his heart.
The man was dying. But he looked at Kylin with his remaining eye and whispered, “Die, traitor, son of a traitor, die!”
His eye closed.
He was dead.
Kylin rose, looking at Deidre.
“They were coming for you. Did you tell anyone what you were doing today?” he asked her.
“No, not even my father!” She shook her head. “Or my brother. I just told one of the women of the court that I’d be gone a bit and that she and the others should spend the day tending to the wounded!”
“They followed you.”
“Why?” she whispered. “I heard him. He called you a traitor, and the son of a traitor. Perhaps . . .”
“No. Before Darragh reared up to attack, the fellow there that just passed shouted to the other that he was to find you—and take your sword.”
“They are both dead,” she whispered, wincing. “Why are men so eager to fight and die?” She looked at him. “But you found the cauldron. And . . . you killed that man with it?” she asked incredulously.
