The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy (42 page)

Borne up by rage, Rhiann stumbled to her feet. Her legs shook violently as Maelchon writhed on his back, hands over his eyes, his trousers around his ankles. Yet when he wrenched himself to his knees, his face was awash with so much blood Rhiann could not see how she’d injured him. She leapt back from his clawing fingers.
I should kill him. I must kill him
! Yet Maelchon’s sword was trapped under his knees, and she could not risk going within range of those bloody, grasping hands.

Slowly, Rhiann backed towards the stairs, her feet slipping on the mossy timbers, the shreds of her dress falling and tangling around her knees. Maelchon scrabbled forwards on all fours, screaming curses at her, and she kicked the scraps of linen free of her ankles and threw his stinking, discarded cloak around her bare shoulders. Then she stumbled down the staircase, nearly tripping over Didius’s body before plunging down the slope to the mire, insensible of where she was going.

The upright movement brought a renewed surge of agony and, with the shock fuelling it, Rhiann had no room left for sense. Her dizzy steps wove brokenly one way and then the other. She was aware only of the choking smoke and the eerie silence. Vague shapes loomed out of the murk, forcing her to avoid them: the corner of a wall; an abandoned cart; an empty, discarded keg. Terrible shudders overcame her, and she wrapped the reeking folds of Maelchon’s cloak closer around her clammy, bare skin, warding away the waves of grief that reached through her shock.

Not now. Now, she must keep moving. Anywhere but back. Anywhere.

More smouldering houses surrounded her, the roofs falling in with great gushes of cinders and smoke. But no sounds came, no moans for help, nothing human at all, which was why the sudden hoarse shout behind her was so brutal to her ears. She glanced back over her shoulder, and through the rents in the smoke glimpsed the dark figures of men, running along the shore of the mire towards her from the direction of the burning broch.

Rhiann’s dizziness and pain were pierced by a shaft of sheer terror then, and she found the strength to run, darting away like a maddened hare. Her feet bounded down sandy paths and over firm turf, dodging the crumbling huts, until finally the ground fell away to the dark rocks that lined the loch shore. Only one incoherent thought came to her – to fling herself beneath the waters and there escape it all.

Blinded by smoke and tears, at first she didn’t understand what was falling all around her. Then she cried out and froze, her fist crushed to her mouth, as an arrow shrieked over her head. She braced herself for the impact, unable to take in what her eyes and ears were showing her – more whizzing arrows, yet none striking her.

It was only then that Rhiann realized the arrows were not being shot at her, but over her shoulder at Maelchon’s men. Then a familiar face swam in her blurred vision, scampering over the patches of slippery weed to reach her, as the rest of his men raced past.

‘Lady!’ Nectan cried. ‘I am here; I am coming!’

But Rhiann’s legs went out from under her, and she sank on to her back on the hard rocks, her hands clinging to the streamers of cold, wet weed. And the sun was still shining, shining down on her.

CHAPTER 40

I
t was still too early in the season to venture into the central spine of Alba’s mountains, but Eremon’s lingering glow of triumph did much to ward away the icy chill of the snow-crust caught in the high passes.

He and Calgacus, Lorn and Conaire were this night sharing an unguarded fire with the other tribal commanders, crowded close beneath a rock overhang on the sheltered side of a ridge. A dead rowan at the edge of the path had been pulled over and set alight, and the line of flaming branches at the mouth of the shallow cave made it almost cosy, with the damp ground piled high with saddle hides and furs.

After weeks of enforced silence near the Roman frontier, guarding every noise, the relief of feeling safe in this high eyrie more than made up for the freezing winds. That relief, along with a newly struck keg of ale, accounted for the volume of the jests, growing louder and bolder by the moment. Only Calgacus was silent, sharpening his meat-dagger with a stone, his long back against the sloping wall of the cave. Glancing over at him, Eremon poured another ale and stretched himself on the hides at the Caledonii king’s feet, one hand behind his head. After a while he ventured, ‘A problem shared is a lighter burden, my lord,’ and held out the cup.

Calgacus smiled and took it, resting his dagger on his knee. ‘I am turning over the idea, prince, that I should move my people up into the hills until this is resolved one way or another.’

‘Abandon your dun?’ Slowly, Eremon wiped his chin dry of spilled ale.

Calgacus sipped and shrugged unhappily. ‘We know Agricola has a war fleet, and he is well established on the Tay – I just saw that for myself. There are too many of them too close to me.’ Eremon was silent with sympathy, yet Calgacus seemed to read it as disapproval. ‘Not that we have not struck a great blow, prince,’ he hastened to add, handing over the cup. ‘But my heart beats with a great foreboding, and I haven’t forgotten King Maelchon, either.’

At mention of that name, Eremon’s fingers slid lower over the smooth bronze cup, tight with anger. ‘Make no mistake, I too am uneasy that your dun is caught between the Orcadian king and the Romans. Do you think we should launch an attack on him ourselves?’ Eremon held his breath for the answer, for his warrior self yearned desperately to confront Maelchon, even as his leader self knew it was presently out of the question.

Calgacus shook his head. ‘The men required for such an attack would drain our resources here, and we will need all the warriors we have marshalled when the Romans seek their revenge.’

‘As they will.’

‘So we hope.’

A burst of good-natured arguing rang out from behind them. Lorn was making some loud, fiery point, stabbing the air with one finger, as Garnat, the Taexali king, protested with equal vigour. Conaire hid a smile as he poked at the stew boiling in a skin strung between sticks over the fire.

‘We are hoping’, Calgacus murmured to Eremon, with a glance at them, ‘that Agricola will be drawn into the hills, even though that was his mistake last year, and he will know it. I confess I fret at wondering if he will take the bait again.’

‘He’ll have to,’ Eremon replied grimly, balancing the cup on his chest. ‘If we keep attacking, he cannot just sit there. He will have to come after us, and if we don’t meet him in battle he can only follow where we lead: into the mountains. Or better yet, see that this total conquest of his is unattainable, and leave Alba alone.’ Even as he said it, Eremon’s sinking heart told him he did not believe this would ever happen.

‘But prince,’ Calgacus pursed his lips, staring over Eremon’s shoulder into the burning branches, ‘this leads me back to my original thought. If Agricola has no army to attack, he will look further afield for targets to destroy. Targets like duns.’

Eremon raised his face. ‘I am truly grieved that supporting me in this makes your tribe a target when it was perhaps not before.’

Calgacus merely smiled, turning his dagger in his hands. The flames flickered on the pockmarked wall behind him, glistening with moisture. ‘We were already known to the Romans. And now I would rather ride out to meet a threat than cower in my Hall, as I’m sure you will feel when you reach my age.’ His eyes glinted. ‘Save your guilt, my noble prince. You have better things on which to spend your energy.’

Suddenly they were interrupted by the hail of an Epidii scout, hastening up the path that led from the valley below.

‘My lord, a messenger has come for you, from the Caereni people.’

Eremon remained at length on the ground. ‘The Caereni?’ he repeated, puzzled.

‘Yes, my lord. A man of Nectan, son of Gede. He has tracked us hard over many leagues, and his message is therefore two weeks old.’ The man paused, pressing his lips together, his hand going unconsciously to his sword hilt. ‘He … has news of your wife, the Lady Rhiann. Ill news.’

Eremon was on his feet in one abrupt movement, the cup spilling to the ground. ‘Where is he?’ he barked, the hoarse sound slicing through the men’s laughter. They all fell silent, and Conaire slowly rose to stand by Eremon’s side, where the frozen path fell away into darkness.

The Caereni messenger took shape from the night around him, a short man in the forest garb of Nectan’s people, his black eyes showing nothing but the reflection of the flames. ‘Lord.’ He went down on one knee before Eremon, the fletching of his arrows in their quiver a pale ruff against his dark nape. ‘At Beltaine, Maelchon of the Orcades and two Roman ships attacked the Sacred Isle.’

Eremon’s breath hissed out through his teeth. In the utter silence, it was as if water had doused the fire.

‘Your lady lives,’ the man added hastily, after a quick glance up at Eremon’s face. ‘But the elder Sisters were slaughtered in the Stones, the Goddess keep them. My own lord has taken your wife and the others to Dunadd.’

Eremon’s wide eyes met Calgacus’s sorrowing gaze, yet Eremon saw nothing but Rhiann’s face, her fine bones distorted with terror.

‘I must go home,’ he muttered, his voice faint, and he stumbled for the path, seeking his horse.

Conaire caught him before he had gone but five paces out into the darkness. ‘I will come with you, brother.’

A shudder ran over Eremon’s shoulders, and he hid it by wrapping his cloak around his neck. ‘No. I do not know how long I will be.’

‘You need me by your side.’ Conaire grasped his elbows, his voice urgent.

‘I need you here. You must act as me, in my stead, if there are any more attacks.’ Eremon peeled Conaire’s fingers from his arm. ‘Only you fully know my mind.
Please
.’ His control was beginning to break, as images of Rhiann’s face thrust their way again and again into his mind. Yet he didn’t want to order Conaire; he couldn’t bear it right now.

At last Conaire sensed this and dropped his hand. ‘Then may Hawen speed your way, brother, and … take pity on your lady’s heart.’

For Conaire had always loved Rhiann well.

It was Linnet who met Eremon at Dunadd’s stables, seven days of maddened riding later. Here on the sea plain the warm season had come, and sweat was running down Eremon’s sunburned face, sticking his hair to his skull. Yet he hadn’t noticed the green grass or the spreading trees or the birds, for he rode as one possessed, carrying the cold of the mountains in his heart.

‘Let me go to her!’ he demanded, as Rhiann’s aunt stopped before him in the doorway of the stall.

‘First you must hear what I have to tell you,’ Linnet returned, implacability hardening her wavering voice. ‘Please, for Rhiann’s sake.’

Eremon stared at Linnet as if he did not know her, his chest rising and falling. Then, for the first time, he noticed the scores of grief on Linnet’s face, the tightness of eyes that would not weep, and he remembered that Linnet, too, had grown up on the Sacred Isle.

‘Forgive me,’ he croaked, all his breath rushing out. ‘Tell me what happened.’

So Linnet told him. And with every word, so the clear sky above Eremon seemed to darken, and the weight that had lifted from his shoulders with the successful raid settled around him again, like a collar of cold, biting iron.

‘Maelchon …
abducted
her?’ He forced a swallow past his dry tongue. ‘What did he do to her?’ His voice sounded foreign to his ears.

Unconsciously, Linnet’s hand splayed out as if to ward away the idea. ‘I don’t know … she won’t say. She demanded to burn the dead on the island, and since their return a week ago she has not woken again from the shock. Caitlin and I,’ she drew a shaky breath, ‘we cannot reach her. She only wants Fola near, and the other girls – all that remain of the Sisterhood.’ The pain in her eyes hit Eremon in the belly.

‘Where is she?’

‘In her house. She has as many of the girls staying there as she can; the rest are living with the women of the village.’ His eyes strayed up the path towards the crag, and he made as if to go.

‘Eremon.’ Linnet’s hand found his arm. She had never called him by his own name. ‘You will find her changed. She may not wish to see you.’

Eremon stared at her, uncomprehending. ‘Why wouldn’t she? She needs me more than anyone else.’ He said it defiantly, for a great fear had begun to hammer on his heart.

Linnet’s eyes were swimming with tears. ‘I know you love her. But … you are a man. She saw the Sisters murdered by men. Didius was killed defending her, by Maelchon’s men. And Maelchon himself … she will not speak of him. But it has brought it all back, the first raid … what she suffered.’

Eremon’s chest constricted with the memory of what had been in Rhiann’s eyes the day she revealed her pain to him. And what it would mean, if it was there when she looked at him now. ‘Still, I must see her.’

Linnet wrapped her arms around her chest, just as Rhiann often did. The familiar gesture pierced him. As you will, prince,’ she said, stepping back, and though Eremon would not run before the people, his feet had never carried him through Dunadd so swiftly.

At the door of Rhiann’s house, the chanting stopped him cold and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The door-hide was tied back, and there were girls lined up on the bench outside Rhiann’s door, and more young women kneeling in a circle around her hearth-fire. They were the chanters, and though they glanced up at him with surprise, they did not falter in their singing.

Eremon caught a glimpse of Rhiann’s goddess figurines all laid out on the hearth-stones, as well as flowers, shells and other talismans that he did not recognize.

Then a soft cry of surprise claimed his attention, and he saw Caitlin in Rhiann’s rush-backed chair, Gabran nursing at her breast, her face blanched with strain. Behind her, Eithne paused from grinding something pungent in a bronze bowl at Rhiann’s workbench, the pestle hovering in her hand. Eremon paused to clasp Caitlin’s outstretched fingers, but his gaze had already swept to the bedscreen, partly folded back to the room. Someone was sitting by the bed, though it wasn’t Rhiann, and he approached slowly, mindful of Linnet’s warning.