Haunting Warrior (47 page)

Her sigh was the only answer he got. She leaned against him, her back snug to his chest, her head lolling from side to side with the horse’s gait. He felt her exhaustion, felt the grief that she tried to hide. Memories had been coming back to him all morning. Dark, buried recollections of his father. How he’d changed from a loving man who cared for his wife and children to someone hard and cold. Someone filled with anger and prone to fits of rage and violence. He’d abused Rory’s mother and probably would have done the same to his children if she hadn’t protected them. None of them had understood why he’d changed. What had made him go from a gentle man to a violent one. But now Rory could see it clearly.

He’d been using the Book, and it had turned his eyes flat and cold, his heart hard and mean. Where Cathán had found it or why he’d used it, Rory couldn’t guess. One thing was clear, though. While Cathán was using the Book of Fennore, it was using him. At last Rory understood what Leary had meant when he said it took a piece of humanity from anyone who used it. It had done that to his father. Turned him into the monster he was now. It didn’t bother Cathán to kill innocent people because he had no feelings but rage. How many times had he touched the Book before it changed him?

How much had it taken from Saraid in just one try? Would she continue to morph into something darker, more heartless? Or would she remain as she was now? Distant but still Saraid?

He thought of that night, when he was a child and had tried to stop his father. He closed his eyes, remembering the feeling of being trapped in a world black and twisted. He’d felt his father in that swirling void, felt his thoughts, his fears, but he hadn’t understood them. And then Danni punched through and for a moment—for one instant, the three of them—the Book, his sister, and Rory had become one. When they were torn apart, they’d all been . . . different. He couldn’t say just what made him so certain that the experience had somehow altered the Book and his sister as it had him, but he was.

Had they all come away with a piece of themselves missing? Or had they all come away with something new, something more? The idea sent a shudder through him.

If it was true and Rory had gained something from that experience, then he needed to find it, to tap into it. To
use
it. Because of all the uncertainties inside Rory, one thing he was very sure about. He’d had his ass kicked for the last time. The next fight, he was coming out the winner.

The horse tossed its head and snorted, and Rory glanced about, suddenly alert. He sat up straighter, honing his senses as he scanned the terrain. The forest flanked them on the right, bordering the wide open land that was vibrantly green and scented with wildflowers. Nothing moved out there. In fact, he hadn’t seen another soul since the battle and didn’t know if that was unusual or not. What was the population of Ireland in this time? Hell, he wasn’t even really sure what year it was. The date seemed an insignificant detail when people were trying to kill you.

In the distance Rory could hear the sound of the ocean rolling in to shore. Now he could smell the sea, rich with salt and brine, cold and unending. He was surprised at how the scent moved him, how time did not change it at all.

The horse snorted again, and Rory tried to discern what it was that had agitated the animal. He closed his eyes, focusing his attention, feeling what the horse felt beneath its hooves, against its coat, in the air. And there it was, a whiff that blew across the waving grasses. It smelled some of its own. There were other horses coming this way—and he’d bet the bank it was Cathán and his mounted warriors.

He tightened his perceptions, looking to hitch a ride to a better venue. Overhead a lone gannet soared and Rory sent out a line, felt it snag then carry on the wind. He looked out, seeing the world from above. Over the span of shiny feathers and spread wings he saw himself, riding steadily along with Saraid, and beyond them, an army. Hundreds of foot soldiers followed the dozens of mounted leaders. He didn’t need to see the flag to know that these were Cathán’s men. Apparently his father wasn’t taking any chances that they would escape this time. An army that size was coming for a kill.

He’d hoped for more time. Hoped that once they reached the rocky shore, there would be time to think. Time to figure out how they would cross the churning, sucking currents to the Isle of Fennore. More than destroying the ancient Book, the seas between the mainland and the island filled him with dread. They were not calm waters to be traversed by the faint of heart. And they didn’t even have a boat.

“Where are we?” Saraid asked, waking from her light doze.

“Not sure. Close to the sea. Cathán’s men are coming. Hold on, we need to ride hard to get to the beach before they do.”

“Rory, we’ll be trapped down there.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s our only way.”

He didn’t know what made him so sure, but instinct was guiding him now and he had to trust it. Prayed that he was right to do so.

He clicked his tongue and held tight to Saraid as they flew over the open terrain. He coaxed the animal with his thoughts, pushing it to go faster still. By the time they came to the edge of the plateau, they were out of breath and the horse was sweaty and foam soaked.

But there, dead ahead, was the sea. It crashed with great white waves, spewing spray and froth onto the rocky shore like a rabid dog. The way down was steep and harrowing. Nothing a horse could navigate. That gave him hope, but whether or not a human could manage the treacherous descent was still an unknown. They had to try, though.

Rory dismounted, sending warm thoughts to the horse, thanking him for giving his all. The lightning-bolt muzzle nudged his shoulder in response.

“Come on, princess,” Ruairi said, reaching up.

She didn’t argue. Instead she let him help her down. Rory quickly unsaddled the horse, pulled off its bridle, and removed the leather satchel that held the Book of Fennore. Slinging the satchel over his shoulder, he gave the horse a slap on the rump. With a soulful look, the animal trotted away, gaining speed at Rory’s urging. He guided it inland, where it stood a chance of being found and taken care of.

They scrambled down the sheer drop to the sea, swapping one perilous foothold for another, slipping against the moss and slime, but somehow defying the pull of gravity that wanted to smash them like the waves against the shore. Overhead a flock of gulls swooped and swerved, catching the edgy currents and riding them into the spewing waves. Rory wished there was some way he could do the same and harness those blustering gusts and sail with them to the Isle of Fennore.

They were almost to the bottom when Saraid said, “Ruairi, look.”

He jerked his head around, following her pointed finger to the beach where a lone man stood watching them. An instant later another stepped from behind the jutting boulders and joined him.

“Tiarnan,” Saraid breathed. “It’s Tiarnan and Liam.”

Rory jumped the last few feet to the beach and reached up for Saraid, lifting her off the rock she clung to and setting her on the ground beside him. As soon as she touched down, she was moving, running to her brothers, who had now been joined by others. Stunned, Rory realized there were at least two hundred of them.

Tiarnan lifted Saraid into the air and spun her while Michael and Liam threw their arms around both in a group hug that knocked Rory’s heart off beat with an unexpected longing for the familial closeness he saw in their reunion. For a moment, he could almost believe it was the old Saraid holding her brothers. But when she stepped back, he saw the flatness in her eyes that contradicted the smile on her face.

She turned to find him without pause, and took his arm, pulled him into the warm circle. Michael wrapped his big hands around Rory’s neck, but only to draw him into an embrace.

“Thank y’,” he said, his voice thick. “Thank y’ for keeping her safe.”

Rory swallowed hard. If Michael only knew the truth, he would bury his knife deep in Rory’s heart and he’d be right to do it.

Liam stepped up next, shook his hand in a manly way, and gave him a curt nod. But the kid had tears in his eyes that he couldn’t hold back. Rory ruffled the boy’s hair and faced Tiarnan, braced for the berating that was sure to come.

But Tiarnan only stared at him through hollow eyes that seemed almost as devoid as Saraid’s and said nothing.

“Did y’ see Eamonn on yer way?” Liam asked Saraid.

She shook her head. Tiarnan winced and turned away.

Behind the brothers stood Leary and enough soldiers to give Rory hope. If they had to face Cathán’s men, at least the odds would be a little more even. Then the group parted and up the center came five men carrying a boat.
A fucking boat!

Not just one, he realized; behind them there were more, over a dozen more. They were oddly shaped crafts that didn’t look strong enough to float on a lake, but Christ if the sight of them didn’t make his heart skip with joy.

“How did y’ find us?” Saraid asked her brother.

Tiarnan hooked a thumb at Leary and said, “He knew.”

A little bit of the Tiarnan Rory had come to know sparked in his eyes for a moment, but then it dimmed again.

“Will those things float?” Rory asked, looking at the boats lined on the shore.

“Float, aye,” Leary said, with a meaningful nod. “More than that is up to you, isn’t it now?”

Rory scowled at him. He should be used to the bull-like man’s cryptic comments by now, but still he wished Leary would talk straight for once. Leary was tuned to his own satellite, though, and Rory had to hope that he wouldn’t have hauled those boats from wherever they’d been to here if he didn’t have faith that they were seaworthy.

Rory moved to the shoreline, looking through the gray mist out to the island, which was little more than a black spec in the distance. But it was there, as he’d known it would be. His own personal homing beacon.

“Who lives on that island?” he asked, pointing at it.

“No one does,” Michael told him with a look of shock as he tucked his satchel into one of the boats. Rory had a glimpse of fur and realized the pup he’d rescued slept safely inside. “The sea is like a wild animal here. It gobbles up anyone who tries to cross.”

“It’s true,” Leary said with a bit of merriment that struck Rory as odd, even for him. “The island is known far and wide for the sea creatures that guard it. No ship, large or small, has ever made it to shore in one piece, no matter the direction of approach.”

Saraid came to stand beside Rory and on the other side, Tiarnan.

“I see what yer thinking,” Tiarnan said, shaking his head. “Yer thinking y’ can do what no one before y’ has been able, is that it? Well look closely. You’ll see the ruins of those who’ve tried and they had boats made for the seas.”

Up and down the shoreline in either direction the flotsam of destruction littered the ground. Broken bows and oars, splintered masts and shredded sails, pieces of metal, bits of rope. All of it washed to and fro, caught in the tide pools, clinging to the stones.

Rory knew better than anyone in the bedraggled group that getting to the island would be difficult. Even his stepfather, Niall, had avoided the channel between the mainland and the Isle of Fennore and that was in a troller that had a strong engine and solid build.

“The water is freezing in case y’ didn’t know it,” Tiarnan went on, “and none of us can swim.”

Rory gave him a narrowed glance before turning back to the island. Everything Tiarnan said was true. The water was like ice, the current vicious, and the distance too far to swim even if they’d all been young, healthy, and Olympic trained. But there had to be a way.

“Will y’ part the waters now?” It was Saraid speaking, a sad smile on her face.

The cold wind blowing across the ocean brought color to her cheeks and made her eyes gleam like jet. Her hair fought the braid she’d confined it to and wisps escaped to swirl around her face. She was beautiful in a way no other woman he’d ever met was. Earthy and fine and resigned to the fate he’d led her to.

She went on. “Isn’t that what y’ said before—y’ asked me if I expected y’ to part the seas and usher us all to the Promised Land?”

Silent, he shook his head.
Part the seas.
Christ, if only he could.

“Watch it,” one of the men shouted, and Rory turned to see a giant stone careen down from the top of the cliff, clattering as it bounced, gathering other rocks in its wake until a landslide rained down on the beach. The gathered people scattered back, into the surf, around the bend. Then another shout rose, this one filled with alarm.

Rory craned his neck to see to the top of the cliff and discovered something worse than falling rocks. Cathán’s men lined the jagged edge as far as the eye could see. Even as the realization hit him, Cathán gave the signal and arrows began to fly, slicing through the air with a haunting song that heralded death.

T
HE first volley came like a swarm of angry wasps, black and winged and deadly.

“Forward,” Rory shouted, pointing to the cliff wall, trying to hurry them under the speeding arc. “Get behind them.”

He grabbed Saraid’s hand, jerked Liam nearly off his feet by the front of his tunic, and launched them back against the wall. The others moved swiftly, racing to get on the other side of the arching attack, but it all happened in a blink, and the steady hiss and burr followed by a sickening
thunk
of arrowheads meeting flesh filled the beach. Tiarnan took one in the shoulder and another in the leg. Rory watched helpless as he hit the ground with a cry.

When the last arrow clattered to the stones, twenty men lay sprawled on the rocky shore, some moaning, some gaining their feet, trying to make a break before the next round was loosed. Without thought, Rory darted out of the cove and raced to Tiarnan, grabbing the man beneath his arms and hauling him up. Michael was there in an instant, taking the other side as they pulled him to safety. Leary and others did the same with the other injured men, but an instant later, the second volley plummeted and pierced anyone still in the open.