Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles) (47 page)

A chill passed through Braedan.
Assassins—like before, when she attacked Kiern. We have to help the tribes. But first, this one.
He set his jaw. “No,” he said, and he swung the sword toward Olwyn.

She let go of Esma and reached up to snatch his sword arm in one hand. It felt like punching a stone wall. Braedan gasped and stumbled at the sudden stop. She stepped closer to him, her black eyes hungry. “Just one last kiss,” she whispered.

If she touches my skin,
he thought. He flinched back from her mouth, but her opposite hand took his head in hers. His breath left his body in a rush, and once again, his transgressions swirled around his vision.
Gods—the pain—

Her lips were next to his ear. “You should read up on your country’s history, love. Some myths are real.”

No breath!
He couldn’t cry out. His sword toppled from his hand, and his knees turned to water.
I’m sorry, Igraine. I wanted to return to you.

His left hand twitched.
The tribal blade.
A rush of warmth passed through the hilt, into his palm, up his arm.
I can move.
Some reason returned, and before Olwyn’s lips could touch his neck, he drove the blade into her side. As flesh and muscle gave way, she drew back, her mouth gaping. He withdrew the blade. She clutched her side and stumbled backward, fell to her knees, and toppled over, still. A black cloud and a terrible keening howl rose from her body and disappeared into the mists above the forest.

Malcolm stepped toward Braedan, his sword dripping blood. Ewan lay on the forest floor. “One of them got him from behind,” Malcolm said. He had a large welt on his forehead, and blood soaked one sleeve.

The murky stone on the hilt of the sacred blade glowed in Braedan’s hand. He looked down at Olwyn’s body. “What was she?”

“Alshada save us,” he muttered, kneeling to draw a spiral in the dirt. “I don’t know.”

Braedan freed Esma and removed the gag from her mouth. He picked up Olwyn’s cloak and covered her. “I’m sorry. You must believe, I did not order this. I did not—”

“I believe you.”

He pulled the cloak tight around her and tied it closed. “We need to help the tribe. She’s sent her own forces against Edgar, and he thinks there are only five hundred men to fight.”

Esma nodded. “Go. Bring your men. I’ll find Edgar.”

“But you’re wounded.”

She gave him a strangely resigned smile. “I’ll be well. I’m tribal.” She waved him away. “Go!”

Braedan and his three remaining guards ran back the way they came, slashing through the thick brush with swords. The sounds of battle raged in the forest, screams and grunts mingling with the clash of steel on armor. When they reached the trees, Braedan snatched the reins of a riderless horse. He spurred the horse into a gallop and thundered along the length of the Taurin line, sword raised high over his head. “To arms!” he shouted. “To arms, all who call Taura home! Into the trees! Fight anyone who isn’t tribal. Defend the tribes! Your king orders you to defend the tribes!”

Momentary confusion turned to obedience in a heartbeat, and Braedan led his men into the trees with his sword and dagger aloft as Malcolm shouted more orders to divide the men and fan out in the forest. The mists obscured Braedan’s vision, but he saw enough to know he leapt over limbs and muddied his boots in blood and waste.

At last, the Taurin men burst through the trees into a tangle of men, swords, arrows, axes, clubs. Braedan roared and started slashing at anyone not dressed in Taurin livery or animal skins and furs. “For the tribes!” he shouted. “For Taura!”

The driving need for victory spurred him forward, and fear disappeared as battle lust rushed in. He hacked and slashed, stabbed and ducked. A hooded man in black jumped in front of him. Braedan leaned back just in time to hear the
whoosh
of a blade cut the air where his neck had been. The sacred blade warmed his hand, encouraging him, and he blocked the man’s hand with one arm and stabbed with the other. The man howled and fell, and Braedan cut off his cries with a sword through the throat.

A body bumped him from behind, and he spun, ready to fight. “Edgar!”

The chieftain growled and gripped Braedan’s undertunic at his throat. “Betrayer!” he shouted. “Liar! You swore—”

“We’ve come to help, I swear,” Braedan shouted over the din. An arrow flew at Edgar’s head, and Braedan pressed him down. The arrow landed in soft earth just beyond them. Braedan pointed. “I swear it! We’re here to help you.”

Edgar hesitated only a moment. He let go of Braedan. “Prove yourself, whelp.”

Braedan nodded once, and then battle filled his senses again. Swing, thrust, parry, stab—he fought back-to-back with Edgar, slashing and stabbing. His feet sank into the waste and blood on the forest floor. He tried to gain purchase, but another assassin leapt from a tree and kicked him across the face. An explosion of lights blurred his vision. A blade shimmered, and he lifted his arm in instinct. The steel sliced into his skin. “Damn it!” He lowered his arm, and the steel shimmered again—

The man fell in a crumpled heap on top of Braedan, and Braedan grunted. He pushed the man off and took an offered arm. “My thanks.”

Edgar grinned. “Now we’re even,” he said, turning to the next Mac Rian man.

The earth rumbled, and Braedan steadied himself with a hand on a tree.
What is this?
A dozen or more of Mac Rian’s men held a small patch of earth ahead of him, and they lowered swords and daggers as the ground beneath them churned and swelled into a hill. Trees tilted and toppled and bushes tumbled. Panicked shouts echoed through the forest, and the men fell cursing and praying and begging as they ran from the rising hill.

Braedan looked at Edgar, expecting awe or panic, but the traitha only grinned. He gestured to the hill. “The Sidh,” he said. “Do you still refuse to believe?”

By the gods.
“No.”

Edgar laughed. He climbed up the hill, hacking through the panicked soldiers to get to the top. “Wolves! This way!” He disappeared over the other side of the hill.

Braedan shook his head.
He’s leading them deeper into the forest. I thought he wanted them out.
He followed Edgar.

But Edgar had stopped on the other side of the hill. He stood pointing at Sean Mac Rian. “That one is mine,” he said.

His voice sent a shudder through Braedan. “Edgar—”

“Second thoughts, whelp? Turn away if you can’t watch.” He took several steps down the hill. “Mac Rian! Today, I avenge a good man with your blood!”

Braedan followed, slicing and stabbing and defending the traitha as he raced through the men to Sean Mac Rian’s side.

Mac Rian gasped. “I know you. I’ve seen you—I’ve seen you watch my estate from the road.” He parried Edgar’s blow.

Edgar snarled. He drew his blade back, spun, swung again. Mac Rian’s blade deflected his, but Edgar pushed forward, his short tribal sword brushing Mac Rian’s shoulder. Mac Rian screamed. Edgar kicked him, and Mac Rian collapsed, clutching his belly and gasping for air.

Edgar stabbed again and again—an arm, a leg, a brush past the ribs—until Mac Rian bled from a dozen little cuts.
A cat toying with a mouse.
“Edgar, finish it!”

“He pays for what he did to Culain,” Edgar shouted. He sliced Mac Rian’s cheek, cut off an ear, pierced a shoulder.

Mac Rian lay on the ground weeping. “No—please spare . . . please . . . . Sire, help.” His breath slowed, and his eyes turned glassy.

No, I won’t let this continue.
Braedan rushed to Edgar’s side and pulled his arm back. “Finish it, now, or I will.”

Edgar’s chest heaved with rage, but when he met Braedan’s eyes, he finally nodded. He knelt and leaned close to Mac Rian’s face. “This is what you reap for killing my friend, you bastard.” He drew his dagger slowly across Mac Rian’s throat.

Braedan’s stomach roiled as Mac Rian’s screams echoed into the trees and faded.

Edgar straightened. “You’re a bit green, boy.” He trotted to meet the next opponent, Mac Rian’s blood still draining out onto the soil.

Braedan swallowed bile and knelt next to the dead duke.
I can’t be sorry that he’s gone.
He closed Mac Rian’s eyes, straightened, and followed Edgar into the melee.

***

The battle continued until late in the afternoon. Braedan fought at Edgar’s side until his arms ached and his legs moved only by sheer force of will. Though his leathers were drenched with blood, mud, and sweat, Edgar still swung his blades with the same strength he had when Braedan first saw him, and his reflexes hadn’t slowed.
The man is nearly twice my age,
Braedan thought, wiping sweat from his eyes once more as Edgar engaged one of the last Mac Rian men in the forest.
All I can think about is a very long sleep, and he’s still looking for men to fight.

The traitha ran his sword into the man’s belly all the way to the hilt, kicked him off the blade, and turned to Braedan. “Any word from your other men?”

“Malcolm brought a contingent up from the south. Mac Rian’s men are subdued, and the assassins seem to have fled.” He paused. “What about Esma? Have you seen her? Did she make it back through the battle?”

Edgar sheathed his blade and put a hand on Braedan’s shoulder. “Come into the village. We’ll find her and toast our victory.”

The village wasn’t far from the site of the battle, but it took some time to step over all of the bodies and limbs and speak with the various leaders they met. Tribal losses were few, and from what Braedan could see, the Taurins hadn’t lost many men, either.

They found Esma in the large community building in the center of the village, once more dressed in breeches and tunic. She straightened from the wounded tribesman she tended and wiped bloody hands on a rag. “It’s over?”

Edgar nodded. “Mac Rian is dead.”

She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes for a moment. “The sorceress is gone, too. For now.”

“For now?” Braedan hated the faint squeak of fear in his voice. “What do you mean?”

“She was one of the Forbidden, sire. A being part human, part Syrafi,” she explained when he shook his head in confusion. “Or she used to be.”

“Used to be?”

Esma nodded. “They were born of human and Syrafi parents in the earliest days of the world. They called themselves the Blessed Ones and followed Namha, but the spells and magic they learned bound their souls to this world unless they are destroyed by the ravenmarked. You heard the keening when Olwyn died?”

Braedan nodded. “Some kind of cloud rose from her body, too.”

“Her soul. A tainted soul.” She shuddered. “I didn’t realize what she was until she tried to kill me. Only one of the Forbidden could reveal a person’s transgressions that way. She’s not dead. She will take possession of another body, the way she did Olwyn’s body, and she will not give you quarter if she sees you again.”

“How did she get to you?”

“Her underlings killed your men.” She rubbed her arms. “The Forbidden have much power, but many limits on it. They must often use humans to do their bidding. I believe the enchantments must have prevented her from coming into the great forest on her own. She could only do it once she had me.”

Braedan suppressed a shudder of his own.
The dark man—that’s what he’s done with me. He used me because he was prevented from doing what he wished on his own. Gods, what a fool I’ve been.
He turned to Edgar. “I am sorry, traitha. I am sorry for my father’s foolishness, and I’m sorry you had to endure Mac Rian and his daughter. I promise you, from this day on, Taurin forces will only enter the great forest at the discretion of the tribes.”

Edgar crossed his arms. “And the estate? What will you do to make amends to Culain Mac Niall’s family?”

“I will restore the Mac Niall name and estates and return them to Connor Mac Niall. As soon as I return to Torlach, I’ll draw up papers legitimizing his name and giving him a seat on the Table.”

Edgar nodded slowly. “You are not what I expected, princeling. You may yet make a good king.” He held out an arm.

Braedan clasped it. “Is it all real? The Brae Sidh, the reliquary?”

“Yes.”

“And are they safe now? With Mac Rian gone?”

“For the moment,” Edgar said. He drew a dagger and offered it to Braedan, hilt first. “The wolf tribe will recognize your reign, your majesty.”

Braedan drew the sacred blade and held it out, hilt first. “I thank you, traitha.”

Edgar frowned down at the blade. “How long has that stone been glowing?”

“Since I killed Olwyn Mac Rian.” Braedan stared down at it. “I don’t know how, but this blade saved my life. She had me under control and would have killed me, but this blade just . . .”
It sounds impossible. But then, I saw a hill appear out of nowhere. How can I say what’s impossible anymore?
“It came to life, and it guided my hand to stab her.”

Edgar lowered the blade in his hand. “That is not mine to take. You shed blood with it. It’s bonded to you now.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you belong to that blade,” Esma said. She frowned. “It means you must go where the blade leads you.”