Fire Arrow (6 page)

"Who's there?" Brie said nervously.

The arrow. It has tine draoicht. Fire music.

Brie looked carefully around her. Then she looked at Ciaran. When their eyes met, Brie knew; the Ellyl horse had spoken the words inside her head. She gaped at Ciaran.

Brie remembered Collun telling her that he and his Ellyl horse, Fiain, had been able to communicate wordlessly. But up until now, Ciaran had given no sign of talking or making contact with her in any way other than the usual ways one communicates with a highly intelligent horse.

Brie felt a little shy. What was she supposed to do now? she wondered. Could Ciaran read her mind, or did she need to speak out loud, or...?

Salve. On your fingers.
Ciaran lowered her head to tear up a mouthful of grass, then casually walked away. The conversation was over.

With several backward glances at the Ellyl horse, Brie slid the arrow back into her quiver. Then she turned her gaze on the blackened tree. Clearly this arrow isn't for felling a guinea hen for dinner, Brie thought wryly, unless one prefers it cooked to a crisp.

After Brie rubbed bayberry salve on her fingers and bandaged them, she restrung her bow. She had carved the bow herself in Tir a Ceol, the land of the Ellyl. It was fashioned in the image of a flame-bird, or a tine ean as the Ellylon called it. A fire arrow for a flame-bird, she thought with a smile. And, in fact, her own name, Breo-Saight, meant fire arrow. Why so much of fire? she mused. Perhaps Talisen had been right when he dubbed her Flame-girl, she thought, grinning at the memory.

Breigit was her birth name, so where had the name Breo-Saight come from? She could not remember. She distantly recalled someone promising that one day her arrows would fly so high and so fast they would set the clouds on fire. Perhaps her father, though he was not one given to fanciful images. It sounded more like her mother, Aideen, what little she knew of her; but Aideen had died at Brie's birth.

***

At first Brie would startle whenever Ciaran's words came into her head, but gradually she got used to it, until it began to feel as if it had always been so. She found it felt most natural to speak out loud to Ciaran, though she sensed the Ellyl horse often knew her thoughts without her saying them. Ciaran rarely spoke more than a few words at a time and seemed to have an innate sense of politeness. She never barged into Brie's mind at an inopportune moment, except occasionally to let Brie know that it was time for a grooming session, or that Brie's own face needed washing or hair required tidying.

***

As Brie rode north, Dungal was ever in her thoughts. She felt she was being drawn there, for good or ill. First the wyll, and now Bricriu, for surely Dungal was his destination. And when she found Bricriu, she felt certain he would somehow lead her to her father's killers.

Even her great-grandmother's arrow seemed to have something to do with it; ever since leaving Dun Slieve, Brie had had the sense that the arrow wished to return to Dungal.

***

Late in the afternoon on the eighth day of the journey, as they navigated the foothills of the Blue Stack Mountains, Brie realized that she had not felt Ciaran in her thoughts since early that morning. The Ellyl horse was moving at a normal pace, but Brie thought she was holding her head just a fraction lower than usual.

"Ciaran?" she said out loud.

There was no response. The Ellyl horse kept moving ahead. Brie reached her hand up along the animal's neck. Ciaran's skin felt hot.

"Hold, Ciaran," Brie called, and the horse obediently stopped. Brie dismounted and moved to Ciaran's head, stroking her muzzle gently. The Ellyl horse's eyes looked dull to Brie.

"Are you ill?" she asked softly. She thought she heard a faint
No
at the edge of her mind.

"You do not look well," said Brie.

Ciaran raised her head and flicked her long tail.
Impossible,
Brie thought she heard, though again it was faint.

"Just the same, I think it's time for a rest." She led Ciaran to a shady spot beside some trees, gave her water to drink from Brie's depleted skin bag, and proceeded to rub down and groom the Ellyl horse thoroughly. Usually Ciaran loved grooming sessions, but she continued to be listless. "We need to find water soon," Brie said as she teased the last burr from Ciaran's tail. There was no response. Ciaran lowered herself onto the grass and shut her eyes.

Brie watched the horse, her worry mounting. How did one take care of a sick Ellyl animal? she wondered. She remembered that Silien, the Ellyl prince who had taken her to Tir a Ceol, was sensitive to certain herbs; some could make him very ill at even the sparest dose. What if in trying to help the horse she were to give Ciaran the wrong thing?

Shortly before twilight, the Ellyl horse woke. She gracefully got to her feet and began cropping the green grass at the base of the trees, her long tail slowly twitching from side to side. The horse seemed refreshed by sleep.
Thirsty,
Brie heard in her thoughts. Brie hurried to supply the skin bag.

Almost empty,
came Ciaran's voice.

"I know. We need to find a stream. On Crann's map it looks like there's one not far ahead."

I am ready.

"Are you sure you're feeling—"

There was a high-pitched whinny of impatience that made Brie's ears ring. She swung herself onto Ciaran's back without another word.

It was dark now, with clouds muffling the brightness of the almost-full moon. They had been traveling for less than an hour when Ciaran suddenly halted.

"What is it?" Brie asked softly.

Ahead.

"What?"

Morgs.

Brie stiffened.

Something else. Evil.

Brie sensed the puzzle in the horse's thoughts. She dismounted and began walking cautiously forward. Ciaran followed, her Ellyl hooves silent on the ground.

In the wake of Medb's failed invasion of Eirren, Scathians and morgs, even scald-crows, had almost completely disappeared from the land. King Gwynn and Queen Aine still sent out scouting parties and occasionally sightings were reported, but they were rare.

Brie could hear voices and then she saw the flickering light of a campfire. Keeping well hidden behind a bank of gorse bushes, she peered out at the figures clustered around the fire. There were two hooded morgs listening to the guttural sounds coming from a third figure, which stood with its back to Brie. At first she couldn't make out if it was man or beast, but then it shifted slightly and she saw it had the legs of a man, though they were unclothed and shaggy with whitish gray hair. The head was shaggy, too, and narrow, with a beard wisping down from a long chin.

There were two horses tethered a short distance from the other side of the campfire, and draped across the back of one of them was what looked to be a body—a small body, like that of a child. It was either unconscious or dead.

Brie sat back on her heels, her mind working fast. If the child was alive it must be set free. The beastlike figure was large, as was one of the morgs, but the other looked small, smaller than Brie. Ciaran nosed her arm.

Suddenly the one who was not a morg brayed, gesturing with his arm toward the north, then strode across to the tethered horses. Brie tensed, but the creature mounted the one not carrying the body and rode away, heading north. The morgs began breaking camp.

Brie spotted a thick branch on the ground nearby and lifted it silently, testing its heft for a makeshift club.
Shall we?
she mouthed to Ciaran, who replied,
Yes.

Brie began circling around toward the remaining horse. The bushes shielded the girl and the Ellyl horse for a short way, but as they drew closer, the morgs' horse began to move restlessly, as if sensing their presence. They had just emerged from behind the gorse bushes when the horse suddenly lifted its chin and let out a loud, harsh sound.

The morgs whirled, instantly spotting Brie and Ciaran. Hissing, they rushed forward. Ciaran reared in front of the larger morg while Brie met the attack of the smaller one. As it reached for her with its clutching poisonous fingers, Brie abruptly swung out with the branch she carried, landing a lucky blow directly on the side of the morg's head. It reeled away with a hiss of pain, dropping to its knees.

Brie turned and saw the large morg moving in on Ciaran, brandishing a long curved knife. Brie quickly reached back for her bow and felt in her quiver for an arrow. It flew from her bowstring, and the large morg fell, an arrow in its shoulder.

But before she could reach for another, damp gray fingers closed over her wrist. She looked into the smaller morg's slitted yellow eyes. A poisonous cold torpor began traveling up her arm; she had felt the sensation before, when morgs had ambushed her and Collun. The touch of morg skin was poisonous, paralyzing one with an icy numbness that spread throughout the body. Brie struggled, fear rising in her throat, but she could not muster the strength to break free.

The morg began dragging her toward the campfire. When they reached the fire, the creature paused to kick a pile of kindling and dried gorse branches onto the embers. The fire flared up, hot and blue. The yellow eyes flicked back to her, and themorg's mouth curved into a cruel smile. Brie realized the morg meant to burn her alive.

Suddenly Ciaran's hooves shot out of the darkness and, catching the morg under the chin, lifted it off the ground. The damp fingers were wrenched off Brie's wrist as the morg staggered back into the center of the fire.

Brie collapsed. She lay for a moment, winded and half-paralyzed, until the heat of the flames warmed her body. With a great effort, she rolled away from the campfire. The morg's cloak had ignited. Feeble and half-conscious, it tried to scrabble out of the fire, but the flames were consuming the creature too quickly. It let out a high-pitched hiss. Willing herself to move, Brie struggled to her feet and grasped the morg by the bottom of its cloak. Even as she pulled it out of the fire, she knew it was dead, but she halfheartedly tried to extinguish the flames. Finally she sat back, scorched and exhausted. The rank smell of burnt morg filled the air. Ciaran nuzzled her blackened forehead.

"Thank you, Ciaran," Brie said out loud, lifting a hand to the horse's forehead. "Where's the other morg?"

Dead.

"How are you?"

Tired,
came the word faintly. And indeed the Ellyl horse's head was drooping and her eyes were bloodshot.

"Rest a moment. I'll be back," said Brie, rising stiffly. Slowly she crossed to the horse that was still tethered by the trees. Close up she was startled to see that it was not a horse, or at least not like any horse she had ever seen. It had the head and face of a goat, yet had the broad back and musculature of a horse or large donkey. Brie approached the animal, and it kicked at her savagely with its hooves. She jumped back.

Brie tried offering it a bit of honey cake, but it bared its jutting teeth at her and kicked out again. Cursing, Brie lunged for the ropes tying the unconscious child to the goat-horse's saddle. The beast tried to reach back and bite her with its jagged yellow teeth, but Brie dodged the thrusting head. She cut the ropes with her dagger, nearly slicing her hand in the process, then caught the small figure as it slid off the animal's back and into her arms. The goat-horse reared, incensed, and let out a grating bray.

Brie carried the body a safe distance away and set it down carefully. There was a large hood covering the child's face, and when Brie pulled it away, she gasped. It wasn't a child at all. It was Aelwyn, the wyll.

The wyll was very pale, but when Brie put her ear to the girl's chest, she could hear a heartbeat. Cuts and bruises covered Aelwyn's broad, ash-pale face.

Ciaran approached with a morg skin bag dangling from her mouth.
Water,
Brie heard, as if from a distance.

"The morg's? Is it safe to drink?" Brie asked.

The horse wearily jerked her head to indicate assent.

Brie bathed Aelwyn's face. As she did, the wyll began to revive, her heavy eyelids flickering. They abruptly opened wide, revealing the wyll's startling amber eyes. She did not appear surprised to see Brie, but smiled a welcome with her catlike mouth.

Soon she was sitting up and drinking the water.

"Lovely smell," Aelwyn commented, with a gesture toward the crumpled figure of the morg by the campfire.

"It clears the head, anyway," Brie responded. Aelwyn stared at her for a moment, then she laughed out loud. Brie smiled back.

"Thank you for rescuing me," said Aelwyn.

Brie shrugged. "It is Ciaran who deserves your gratitude. It would have been my roasted hide you'd be smelling now if it weren't for her."

Aelwyn gazed at Ciaran. "Then thank you, Ciaran." The wyll paused. "She understands me, doesn't she?"

"I shouldn't be surprised, though she is tired."

"I haven't seen many Ellyl horses. She's a beauty."

"Now I'm sure she understood that. She's a vain one. Aren't you, Ciaran?" Brie said affectionately, ruffling the Ellyl horse's forelock. Ciaran whickered faintly in protest.

"We have that in common—or so I've been told," said Aelwyn, unconsciously fiddling with a glimmering necklace of opaline and amber at her neck.

"How did you come to be prisoner of morgs?" asked Brie. "And what was that creature with them?"

Aelwyn raised a small hand to her bruised face. "When they first came upon me, I thought I was seeing a phantom. In Dungal the goat-men are creatures more of legend than of fact, evil beasts that mothers use to scare children into minding, especially in the hill country, because the goat-men are said to dwell in the mountains. I grew up in a village in the hill country."

"It is called goat-man?"

"Or gabha. He stood on two legs like a man, with a face roughly in the shape of a man, though the mouth was large and the eyes bulged out at the sides of its head. And he was covered with hair, even his face, forehead and all, and it was the long, coarse hair of a goat."

"With a wispy goat beard," interjected Brie.