The Summer King (33 page)

It all happened in slow motion. Laurel saw the horrible creature rushing at her, saw the deadly point of his spear. Then she watched, with a strange detachment, as another point protruded from his chest. He was skewered on a javelin. And even as the goblin was tossed into the air, she faced the one who had saved her. There stood the Master Riddler in shining mail, laughing out loud. Before she could react, he grabbed her roughly and flung her aside.

Laurel hit the ground with a cry of pain. But when she scrambled to her feet, she saw that he had thrown her out of harm’s way.

Like a great wave rushing to shore, his troop surged against the O’Malley lines. Tall, splendid, and lethal, they were masters of
Bruíon Amhra,
the Wonderful Strife, the deadly game of Faerie war. And in voices beautiful and terrible, they sang like the sea as they swept all before them.

The battle had taken a turn for the worse. Everywhere Laurel looked, the sea fairies were wreaking havoc on their foe. Grace’s army was being driven back to the sea.

Then the Fir-Fia-Caw dropped out of the sky.

Wings battering, beaks slashing, they drove a wedge between the armies where they could land. Swiftly, silently, each changed into warrior shape to form a phalanx. With two scimitars apiece, they spun their blades like propellors. Now they marched forward, grim-faced and deadly, cutting a great swathe through the enemy ranks. Their captain was the only one to wield a lone weapon, his shattered arm bound to his side; but his aim was unerring and he struck more blows than all of his kin.

Even in the fog of war, Laurel saw how the
boctogaí
reacted to the Fir-Fia-Caw. The joyous charge of the sea fairies wavered and broke. There were looks of shame and guilt. Some fell back, unwilling to engage. Those who had stayed to fight did so without enthusiasm. The clash itself was disorienting to witness. Terrifying creatures fought against bright beings, but it was the dark ones who stood for what was right, while those who looked like angels were defending evil.

Grace’s men were heartened by the Fir-Fia-Caw assault. With a clamor of horns and trumpets, their soldiers regrouped. It was time to gain ground, to advance on Purple Mountain. Swelling forward, they fell upon the enemy, broke, reformed, then charged again. Each onslaught cost them dearly; but every time they stopped, they were farther ahead, moving in increments like the incoming tide.

The battle plan was back on course.

From the skies above, the larger raptors swooped down to skirmish with beak and talon. Under cover of these flying columns, the smaller birds set out in twos and threes to accomplish their task. To Purple Mountain they flew, carrying in their beaks the wood that would make the Midsummer Fire. All the trees of Ireland had offered twigs and branches: rowan for protection; birch, which promises a new beginning; alder for prophecy and hawthorn to cleanse; apple for beauty and ivy for self; beech for old knowledge; oak for strength; ash, which stands in both worlds at once; and long-living yew, the tree of rebirth. As each piece fell upon the summit, the sacred pyre grew.

Laurel saw the first birds reach the mountain. So far, so good. She took a deep breath to steel herself. It was her turn to act. Gripping the feather in her shield hand to protect it, she joined her guard. They were warriors sent by Grace, all brandishing broadaxes. Though they looked fearsome, she was disappointed that Ruarc wasn’t with them. Strategy had changed to suit the situation. Since the Fir-Fia-Caw were leading the army, it was these men who must help her capture the king.

She had seen him arrive on the battlefield in his dark-blue chariot with fiery wings on the side. As glorious as an archangel, he wore golden armor and a crown of gems. Fluttering above him was the oriflamme, his crimson banner. Whenever Laurel caught sight of him, her heart tightened. He looked so like Ian. But though he fought with kingly strength and courage, his features were cold, his eyes cruel, and he smiled as he slew.

Laurel’s sortie had just set out when the king spied the birds over Purple Mountain. He signaled to his bowmen. The archers ran forward, took up position, and let fly their arrows.

A flock of birds fell from the sky.

The Summer King ordered another volley.

More birds fell in a hail of blood and feathers. But even as they died, others flew to take their place, defying the arrows—robins, sparrows, swifts, swallows, linnets, thrushes. Small beings with great courage.

Wild with rage and sorrow, Laurel broke from her guard and ran for the king. Dodging in and out of the press of fighters, she advanced on his chariot. The battle-car was open at the back, with a running board. Hunkering low, she crept up from behind and leaped into the car. Before he could react she had touched him with the feather and uttered Laheen’s words.
By that which you kill are you bound.

The effect was instant. Both she and the king were suddenly elsewhere. A milky void. The silence was more shocking than the change of place. Neither of them was armed, for they had no corporeal form. They were two columns of energy, locked in conflict. And they were not alone. The White Lady rode toward them, accompanied overhead by a beautiful she-eagle. Only then did Laurel realize that the feather wasn’t Laheen’s, but belonged to his wife and queen. She could feel Ular strengthening her, as did the Lady, while she fought the king’s will.

The struggle was horrific. It was like gripping a serpent. He shrank and expanded, twisted and contorted, resisting with venomous rage. He was fiery and explosive like a volcano erupting, but also searingly cold like the depths of the sea. Her grasp began to slip. He was too wily. Too strong. Now she sensed another presence straining to emerge in the void.
Ian!

But Laurel lost her hold on the king.

They were back in the chariot. The din of battle broke over them like the roar of a wave. The king was too quick. He blocked her arm, knocked the feather from her hand. With a panicked cry she tried to catch it in midair, but it fluttered beyond the battle-car. Before she could see where it landed, he seized her brutally.

His laugh was exultant.

“Your male kin was stronger.”

Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he yanked back her head.

“Never send a girl to do a man’s job.”

Her mind was already shutting down as he swung the sword to cut her throat. She had forgotten to call her guard. Forgotten the dagger in her belt. Forgotten how to fight. His violence overwhelmed her. She had never faced such a savage force, all the worse for being embodied in someone so dear to her.

The sword didn’t land. Before it could strike, a great raven smashed into the king and sent him sprawling out of the battle-car. By the time the king was back on his feet, Ruarc had transformed to face his ancient foe.

They did not stop to circle or assess, but charged at each other with murderous roars. Neither bore shields. The king had kept hold of his sword as he fell and also drew his dagger. He moved with a swift, fluid grace, striking with mastery. Ruarc evaded his blows, and wielded his lone scimitar as if it were two. Sparks flew from his blade as he parried the king’s thrusts, retaliating with lightning speed and ferocity.

The combat was so vicious, all around them gave way, granting them their own arena.

Crouched in the chariot, Laurel watched with horror. It looked like a duel to the death. Had Ruarc forgotten his pledge to capture the king? To try to save Ian? Then she began to see that he was fighting defensively, and striving to disarm his opponent. A rush of gratitude came over her, followed by a wave of fear. That meant the Fir-Fia-Caw captain had two weak points: the limb that couldn’t defend itself, and the intention not to kill. It wouldn’t be long before the king took advantage of both.

Laurel was frantic. She had to help Ruarc. Her only hope was to find the feather and bind the king again. Her guards were now surrounding the battle-car, and she scrambled out to search the area. The ground was churned up with sand, blood, and gruesome things she didn’t want to see. But no feather. Was it under the chariot? Accustomed to war, the king’s horses held their positions despite the press of the throng. She had grabbed the reins to nudge the car forward when a terrible cry pierced the air.

Ruarc reeled backward, clutching his heart. Blood poured from wounds in his shoulder and chest. He had taken a mortal blow. As his death cry rose to the heavens, it was answered by shrieks across the battlefield. The six brothers of his own troop raced toward him. His raven sisters bore down from above. The third troop transformed and took to the air.

Ruarc fell to his knees; but the king had no time to deal a final stroke, nor was he able to enjoy his victory. The seven sisters swooped, screeching vengeance like harpies. Had the king’s own captain not died to save him, he would have been slain. As it was, both king and guard were now beleaguered and fighting for their lives.

Laurel ran to Ruarc where he lay amidst the slain. Cradling him in her arms, she tried to stop the bleeding; but it flowed from his heart and there was nothing she could do.

His eyes fluttered open. They were dazed with pain, yet she saw that he knew her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, weeping. “I lost the feather.”

With a low moan, he tried to pull his arm forward, the one bound to his side. It was drenched with blood.

Though she had no idea what he wanted, she loosened the bindings. It was then she saw the golden feather tucked inside his arm, and she knew this too belonged to Ular. The queen’s champion had worn it into battle as his lady’s token.

Gently Laurel laid the feather on Ruarc’s chest. It shone against his black battle-dress like a blade of light. As his eyes rested upon it, his face changed. Despite the pain, all grief and madness left.

“I go now …
aaarrcckk
… to seek her … forgiveness.”

Then he was gone, and Laurel wept over him.

She had forgotten about the battle. Though the fighting swirled around her, she seemed to be in a still quiet place, the eye of the storm. Wiping away her tears, she saw that Ruarc’s own troop had replaced her guard, forming a cicrle around her and their fallen chief.

Now Laurel rose up, heartbroken and raging, with the golden feather in her hand. She moved with steady purpose, and as she went, so too went the brothers, clearing a path around her. She came to the place where the Summer King was beseiged by the rest of the Fir-Fia-Caw. All his guard had been slain. Livid and screaming, he still brandished his weapons. The brothers and sisters were taking turns fighting him, slowly wearing him down. Deaf to his curses, grim and unyeilding, they kept him in the circle and all others out.

The moment Laurel arrived, Aróc, captain of the female troop, let out a screech. Falling upon the king with a flurry of blows, she disarmed him in minutes and struck him down. Then she pressed her foot against his throat.

“Do it!” she cawed at Laurel, eyes dark and terrible.

The torment she suffered from not slaying him outright was evident to Laurel; but evident, too, was the discipline of the Fir-Fia-Caw, unbroken through time and all their trials.

Laurel approached the king where he writhed on the ground like a worm caught by a bird. Though he screamed with dismay, she laid the feather across his heart and bound him instantly. There was no contest this time. Not only did she have her own strength and fury bolstered by Ular and the White Lady, but the feather was stained with Ruarc’s blood. The spirit of the queen’s champion came to her, renewed, and together they defeated their enemy.

“Oh God, Laurel! Are you all right?”

There was no doubt it was Ian. He looked anguished.

Aróc removed her foot from his neck, but it was Laurel who helped him up.

“Quick!” he urged her. “Get me to the bonfire! Before it’s too late!”

The sun was sinking into the horizon. Fiery colors seeped through the sky, drenching the clouds red. There was little time left.

They ran for the chariot. Ian flung the king’s weapons out on the ground. With his jeweled dagger, he cut a strap from the reins and thrust it at Laurel.

“Tie my hands behind my back!”

She hesitated.

“Do it!” he ordered. “You know how strong he is!”

“How does he keep returning?” she cried with frustration.

Ian grimaced. “He draws life from
me
.”

White-faced, Laurel bound his hands. Taking up the reins, she goaded the horses toward Purple Mountain. Though she didn’t know how to drive a chariot, the horses knew what to do. Slowly but surely they pushed their way through the press of bodies.

Then someone spotted the bound king. A hue and cry went up. Fairy troops assailed the chariot. The Fir-Fia-Caw beat them back, but more charged forward. The battle-car was like a small boat in a storm, pitched and tossed by waves of violence. It was obvious to Laurel they would soon be overcome.

At the heart of the battlefield, Grace saw their peril. Rallying her own company of cutthroat pirates, she swept toward them.

“O’Malley
abú
!” she cried.

Together the pirates and the Fir-Fia-Caw cleared a path to the foot of the mountain. There was a frenzied edge to the fighting now. Time was running out. The mission hung in the balance. Laurel urged the horses onto the road that led to the peak. Behind her, Grace and the Fir-Fia-Caw closed ranks to block the way. Shields up and weapons poised, they would hold their posts to the death.

Laurel drove the chariot onward, but couldn’t stop from looking back. It seemed as if the whole battlefield was rolling in a great wave against the last line of defense. How few in number were Grace and her men, and the tall dark forms of the last of the Fir-Fia-Caw! How slight the barricade!

She saw Grace buckle under a flurry of blows. Then rise up again. But the sea queen was lurching around with her shield lowered. Laurel slackened the reins. She had to go back. To help her.

As the horses slowed down, Ian began to object but then stopped.

It was the pirate queen herself who let out a roar when she saw the chariot halt.