Warriors Of Legend (12 page)

As Conor struggled through intense visions, Destry was quickly succumbing to something even more intense. The feel and smell of the boys in her arms was doing something to her; somehow, she knew these children. She could feel them deep down in her heart and as she hugged the littlest one, she, too, began to have flashbacks of something fluid and dream–like. She saw Conor in a way she’d never seen him before; dressed in leather, with primitive weapons, and she began to feel such love and affection for the man that she audibly gasped. Then she saw him making love to her and she could feel her limbs grow warm and weak, tasting his kisses and feeling the emotion that he stirred within her.

Flashes of a rounded belly came to her mind, startling her, then finally the last few moments of childbirth as pain surged and she pushed out a male child, who was immediately handed over to a weeping Conor. Tears came to her eyes as she saw these things and felt the powerful emotions they created. But another vision came along, more powerful than the rest, and she was lying on a bed struggling to give birth to another child, pain as she had never experienced surging through her body. It was enough to cause her to release the four year old, setting him down with shaky arms as she stood up, hand to her head as if to forcibly wipe away the visions that were now slamming into her with painful force.

She stood up, hand to her belly, hearing Conor’s voice ringing in her head, calling to her, but unable to discern if he was really speaking to her or if it was the odd hallucinations calling out. The vision of childbirth had not gone away; it was more intense now as she envisioned herself pushing out a dead child, hearing someone say that the daughter was not meant to be.

Grief, the depths of which she could have never imagined, swept her and she began crying aloud. She felt pain such as she had never known and her head began to swim. She tried to turn around, to say something to Conor, but she couldn’t seem to manage it.

Blackness closed in over her before she realized it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Conor sat at the table and watched the boys as they moved around the small, mud hut at Padraigan’s direction. They had brought him a cup of strong, tart wine, some kind of rustic soda bread, and big hunks of white cheese. The two older boys were obedient and intelligent from what he could see but the youngest didn’t want to work. He remained by Destry as the woman lay passed out on a small bed in the next room. The little one hadn’t moved from her side.

Conor had carried Destry into the room when she had fainted. Laying her upon the misshapen bed made from branches covered over with a rough blanket, he could only feel great confusion and great remorse as he gazed at her. Her pulse was strong and her breathing regular, so he could only assume that the stress of the situation must have somehow pushed her beyond her endurance. Coupled with everything else she’d gone through over the past two weeks, unconsciousness was her body’s way of coping with the stress.

So he kissed her forehead and returned to the bigger room when Padraigan insisted there was nothing they could do for the lady that rest would not more ably accomplish. He sat where he could watch Destry and the youngest boy as he sat by her side, holding her hand and speaking to her in his soft Celtic lilt. The more he observed, the stronger the sense of déjà vu he felt. Every time he looked at the three boys, it was as if something deep inside was struggling to burst forth with recollections. He couldn’t quite put his finger on how he knew these children, only that for some reason, he knew he did. And the fact that they looked like him and Destry only fed his sense of confusion and frustration. Something was happening here that he had yet to fully figure out. But, given time, he knew he would. It would come to him.

Padraigan seemed to steer clear of him since her initial tales of his true identity. She sent the boys to gather wood as she went outside and killed a chicken herself. Conor sat in relative silence, watching Destry in one room while inevitably finding interest in Padraigan and her very archaic ways. Her hut was incredibly primitive with no running water, no bathroom that he could see, and its dirt floor and crude furniture. More and more, he was coming to realize that perhaps there was something to what she had told him. Perhaps a door really had opened into the past and he and Destry had really stepped through. He was starting to feel as if there was no other possible explanation for what had happened.

Still, there was a part of his brain, the logical part, that resisted. As the sun began to set and darkness settled over the land, he was starting to feel a new sense of disorientation. To see this primitive land in the daylight was one thing, but when night settled, it was if someone had thrown a black curtain. He’d never seen such darkness. But taking a few steps outside to gaze up at the stars, he couldn’t ever remember seeing such a clear dusting of stars. In all his years in Dublin, he’d never seen such a crystal night sky. It was quite beautiful.

Standing just outside the door, he could smell something cooking. Padraigan was making something with the chicken she had killed and he could see the boys off in the crude barn tending to the animals for the night. He was coming to suspect that Padraigan must have said something to the boys about him and Destry, because after their initial display of affection, they had kept a distance. All except for the littlest one; he was still inside seated on the floor next to Destry.

Conor turned to catch a glimpse of her as she lay inside on the small bed. She was still on her side, still passed out. The little boy with the light brown hair was also sleeping now, his head on the bed next to Destry while his body remained on the floor. It was rather touching and Conor smiled faintly at the sight. The little one was a cute kid, no doubt. He couldn’t help but warm to the boy.

As he gazed into the warm, fragrant hut, he suddenly realized he had company. He turned to see the two older boys standing next to him, one with a pony on a lead. The boys gazed up at him, timidly.

“Dada,” the oldest boy said. “Would you like to see my horse?”

Conor gazed at the boy. “You’re Mattock, right?” he asked, watching the boy nod. Then he looked to the middle boy. “What’s your name, lad?”

The boy cocked his head as if hurt by the question. “Devlin,” he said. “I’m your Devlin.”

Conor nodded faintly, realizing that the boy looked a great deal like Destry. He had her bright blue eyes and the shape of her mouth. It was such an odd realization but not an unpleasant one. He had seen the transformation this afternoon just as Destry did, when the dwarves had somehow turned into these young boys. That event, more than anything else, was breaking down his resistance. Something like that just couldn’t be explained, even to a man as logical as he was. The longer he looked at the boys, the more he realized that they looked vaguely familiar to him. He felt something for them, kindness and warmth and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. He realized that the ideas of these boys as his sons didn’t distress him in the least.

He crouched down in front of the boys so he could be more at their level. The two little faces gazed back at him eagerly. Conor looked between them, his gaze both friendly and suspicious.

“You say that you’re my Devlin?” he asked the lad with the beautiful auburn hair. “How old are you?”

“I have seen eight years,” the boy replied. “I was only seven years when last you saw me. I have grown a whole year.”

He said it proudly and Conor fought off a smile. “Then maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize you,” he watched the boy beam from ear to ear. He turned to Mattock. “And you; how old are you?”

Mattock would not be outdone by his brother. “I am eleven years, Dada,” he said. “I was only ten years when last you saw me. Have I grown much as well?”

Conor’s smile broke through. “You’re the biggest boy I’ve ever seen,” he said, watching the boy grin. “I would never have known you. And… and your little brother in there. What’s his name?”

Mattock and Devlin looked into the open doorway of the hut. “That is Slane,” Mattock replied. “He is just a baby. He was only three when you last saw him. He has cried for Mother every day.”

Conor’s smile faded as he, too, looked inside to see the little boy sleeping next to Destry. It was touching and sad, and the sight tugged at his heart. With a faint sigh, Conor rose to his full height, towering over the boys, looking between them and feeling his sense of déjà vu grow stronger. He swore he knew these kids. More and more, he could feel it. Moving towards Mattock, he clapped the lad on the shoulder as he pretended to inspect the pony.

“So this is your horse, is it?” he asked. “He’s good–looking. What’s his name?”

“Deneb,” Mattock said proudly. “I can ride him like a warrior.”

“How is that?”

Before Mattock could reply, Devlin shoved him. “He still falls off,” he announced.

Mattock came back with a balled fist but Conor stopped the slugging before it could start. “Tell me about home, Mattock,” he diverted their attention. “When did you last see me?”

As he hoped, the boys were sidetracked. “At Cian,” Mattock said. “You were off to fight Geric and Mother begged you not to go. But you did and… well, we did not see you again. Padraigan came for us and brought us here. She made magic upon us and we became
daoine
.”

Conor cocked his head. “Little people? Dwarfs?”

Mattock nodded solemnly. “So Geric could not find us.”

Conor shook his head in puzzlement. “Who’s Geric?”

“Your brother,” Padraigan approached; she had been listening just inside the doorway and thought perhaps that now was the time to continue their conversation from earlier in the day. Conor seemed more receptive to it than Destry did and it was imperative for their own safety that they know the entire story. “Geric is your younger brother, my lord. He is the one who ordered Olc of the Eye to banish you and your wife to the Netherworld.”

Conor focused on the woman, realizing he wanted to know all of it. Too much about this situation was bizarre; bizarre enough that he was just coming to believe it. It was time he heard everything.

“All right,” he rested his fists on his hips, a gesture of resignation. “So I have a brother who had me banished into some magical other–region. If that’s true, why did he do it?”

Padraigan’s pale eyes were intense. “Your brother is wicked, my lord,” she told him. “He has always coveted your kingdom and your abilities as a powerful warrior and a good king. He is an immoral and bitter man and managed to raise a small army to challenge you. You were able to quash him quite easily but he continued to make trouble for you. Then, one day, he asked you to attend a private peace conference and you agreed. When you arrived, without your warrior trappings or your guards, he set Olc upon you and banished you through the
doras amas
. Then he came to your wife to claim her as his own but she escaped him and came to me, begging me to protect your children. As I escaped with the young ones and your court fled for their lives, your brother found your wife again and gave her a choice; either marry him and retain her life as a trusted queen or be banished to the nether region with you. She chose to go with you.”

By this time, Conor was feeling a good deal of apprehension and sorrow. He couldn’t explain the feelings, only that they were very real. It was as everything she was telling him was saturating his heart, his mind, and he was feeling the story as well as hearing it. It sounded familiar. It felt real.

“So she made the choice to come with me rather than stay with him?” he reiterated. “If that’s true and that woman in there is my wife, then why don’t I know her?”

Padraigan emphasized her words with her tiny hands. “It was part of the curse that Olc of the Eye cast upon you,” she reminded him. “Your curse was to walk the nether world with no knowledge of who you are or who she is. I was able to at least coax you back to the
doras amas
and bring you back where you belong. Now you must remember your place, my lord, and assume your destiny as a mighty king for the sake of your family and your kingdom. We have waited a long time for your return, my lord. You must try hard to remember who you are.”

Conor stared at the woman, thinking on her words. He did as she asked; he was trying hard to remember. As crazy as her story sounded, he was aware that he could easily believe it. Something deep inside of him very much wanted to.

“Tell me about my kingdom,” he asked. “Maybe that will help.”

Padraigan complied. “You are Conor, High King of Ciannachta, and your fortress is Castle Cian along the River Boyne,” she said quietly. “You have a mighty army that is loyal to you; they hate your brother because he has formed an unholy alliance with the Northmen who raid this coast. They give him power and money, and in return he allows them access to a great part of Ireland through the river and harbor. The Northmen have killed and plundered many towns because of your brother’s alliance with them. For many years, the Northmen would not dare attack Ciannachta because they feared you. You kept our land safe. But your brother has turned all of Ciannachta into a whore for the Northmen, to appease their lust for our riches.”

Conor stared at her, digesting what he had been told. Ciannachta. He knew that name, that kingdom. It was the ancient name for Drogheda. Torn between shock, disbelief and something that felt like excitement, his focus turned to the gist of her distress, something that had plagued Ireland, England and Scotland for hundreds of years.

“Northmen?” he repeated. “Viking raiders?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“What year is this?”

He didn’t really expect that she would know but he asked anyway. Whatever year it was, it had to be well before the Norman conquest of England and the subsequent conquest of Ireland. The Viking raids on Ireland had gone on for hundreds of years so he wasn’t sure he could pinpoint when, exactly, this was. But he was determined to try.

Padraigan replied without hesitation. “The Year of the Brown Rabbit.”

Conor thought hard on that, knowing that the ancient Irish would measure their time by events, animals or even kings. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t seem to remember anything about the year of the brown rabbit that seemed to be significant. So he tried again.