Women of War (12 page)

“Convenient,” Cullen had muttered sulkily. He'd been given the designation of “fastest” and told to walk beside Isien, so if anything went wrong, he could run back and get help.

“I don't like running away,” he snarled.

Tierney made to bite him, but Brae moved swiftly between them. Nuzzling her youngest brother's shoulder, she pushed his chin with her head. “You're not running away,” she whispered. “You're saving us if we need saving. We're all counting on you, pup.”

“So why does he have to act like I'm useless?” he muttered back, casting a dark look in Tierney's direction.

“Cause he doesn't like running away either.”

“Oh.” Mollified, Cullen carried on, giving his older brother a mingled look of resentment and smugness that made Brae just shake her head.

The smell of dripping grew stronger, the walls became wet and the sound of actual running water grew loud in their ears. Tierney and Isien caught up each other's hands and Cullen began to press against Brae's side as it grew darker and darker. She squeezed his arm comfortingly as they began to descend.

“We must be under the sea,” she whispered, as the four hounds began to whine quietly.

He nodded tightly. “I'm
so
happy to hear that,” he answered. “Because I always wanted to die by drowning.”

“No, you didn't, you wanted to die in battle.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

They continued on in silence, then some time later began to ascend again. It grew brighter and brighter; finally they came out into a wide, smooth-cut cavern with water dripping through holes and cracks above and dim sunlight filtering in through a narrow cleft in the rocks to one side. With a sigh of relief, they squeezed through.

The portal grave they exited was far older than the one they'd entered, its crumbling stones covered in lichen. Rain pattered against its capstone. Brae blinked as she looked out at the vast, reedy marshlands stretching out before them. Far to the north, she could see the two legendary raised lake villages the Logres druids had built for their La Tene learning center, and to the east, a great tor surrounded by a circle of small hills standing like a collection of islands in a gray and misty sea.

“Ynys-Witrin,” she said.

Tierney joined her at the entrance. “Is this as close as we can get?”

“Seems like.”

“We may have to swim for it.”

Peering past his shoulder, Cullen grimaced. “In the now time, right?” he groused.

“Right.” Brae glanced up with a sigh. “In the now time ... in the rain.”

Behind them, Isien began to pull food and water from her pack. “Then we'd better eat first,” she said, handing her a piece of wrapped honeycomb. “Then change.”

A short while later, eight hounds splashed through the Somerset marshlands, raising crowds of midges and indignant waterfowl in their wake. Brae and Cullen quickly forgot the rain and the time and began to dance about playfully, enjoying the feel of the water streaming off their pelts, while Isien and Tierney kept an watchful eye on the tor to the east, nudging the younger two—more or less gently—back in the right direction when they strayed. When they finally climbed onto dry land at the base of Ynys-Witrin, they were covered in weeds and soggy seed casings.

They spent a few moments shaking the water from their coats, then began to climb, following the rising, twisting labyrinth that stretched out before them. Isien took the lead first, nose to ground, ignoring the false turns and jumping over the broken or washed-out areas without breaking stride. When she grew tired of picking out the faint, rocky path, Tierney took over, then Brae, then Cullen. He quickly outdistanced the older three, leaving them growling and snarling in irritation, only to find he and his hound, Chekres, resting on a shelf before a narrow, Y-shaped split in the turn. Resisting the urge to snap at him, they rested a moment, then carried on with Isien in the lead again.

When they finally made the standing stone at the top of the tor, the sun, glowing faintly behind a thick bank of clouds, told them it was nearing noon. The three oldest immediately began to search about for the entrance to the Lord of Annwn's kingdom while Cullen trotted to the edge, peering down at the landscape far below. He changed in one fluid moment to glance back at them.

“Hey Brae, did you know that sheep look like little white rocks from up here?” he asked, scratching at Chekres' flank.

With a shake, she and her own hound, Balo, joined them at the edge. Far away she could just make out a few patches of dry pasture land covered in hundreds of tiny white dots. “How do you know they
aren't
rocks?” she asked, pushing a lock of sopping wet hair from her face.

“Some of them are moving.”

“Oh.” Her stomach growled and she growled absently back at it. “I could really go for some mutton right about now,” she announced.

“Me too.” He turned. “So, when is this Lord of Annwn supposed to show up, anyway?” he asked over his shoulder. “I'm getting hungry.”

“He doesn't show up,” Isien answered. “We have to find him.”

“How?”

“By finding the entrance. And if you'd get off your rump and come help us look for it, we might find it some time today.”

“So that we don't miss the battle you keep whining about,” Tierney added.

“Oh, right.” With one, last, wistful glance at the sheep, Cullen returned to the standing stone.

They snuffled about, each one taking an area around the stone until Brae found a crevasse that smelled faintly of subterranean stone. She gave a yip and the others gathered around her excitedly, scratching at the rocks until they'd opened up a space big enough to squirm through.

They found themselves inside a narrow cavern, a dozen shadowy pathways snaking off into the darkness.

Tierney changed and glanced around. “Now what?” he asked.

With a grin, Isien trotted to the entrance of the widest tunnel and began to bark.

In no time, they heard the faint sound of answering baying echoing off the walls and a heartbeat later, the cavern was filled with otherworldly hounds. A huge, white male, sporting a collar of gold, strutted, stiff-legged and suspicious, toward them, and all eight crouched to the ground. Ignoring the mortal hounds, he sniffed at Tierney very hard, then Cullen. The older brother remained absolutely still, suffering the inspection with a stony expression, but the younger rolled over on his back and smacked the alpha male impudently across the muzzle. The alpha male snapped gently back at him, then turned to sniff, then nuzzle, both Isien and Brae. Raising his head he gave a single bark and Gwyn ap Nudd suddenly stood before them.

The Lord of Annwn seemed as tall and slender as a birch tree, with long limbs covered in fine silver cloth. His thick, white hair, cascading across his shoulders, was plaited with red ribbons and ruby beads that sparkled in the shrouded sunlight. He carried a tall hunting bow that shone like gold and he smelled of the hunt. Resisting the urge to paw at his legs, the four siblings changed and Isien quickly spelled out their mission.

The Lord of Annwn pursed his lips when she was finished.

“Long have I been the ally of Fionn mac Cumhail,” he said formally, “but longer still since I took up arms against the Fomair. However, my bond with the Sidhe hounds is older still,” he said, smiling down at the alpha male, who reared up to lay his huge white paws on his master's chest. “So I will grant the Captain of the Fianna the use of my weaponry once more. For a price.”

The four siblings glanced at each other.

“What price?” Tierney asked.

“A new hound for my Cwn Annwn.”

When they hesitated, he gave an elegant shrug. “Of course, if you don't really need my weapons to turn the tide of battle to your advantage ...”

“I'll do it,” Cullen answered promptly.

Tierney rounded on him, but the Lord smiled. “Done.” He clapped his hands and suddenly Gwyn ap Nudd, hound pack, and Cullen vanished.

The three remaining siblings stood in shocked silence. Tierney stared down at the weapons lying ignobly at his feet as if they were a pair of serpents, then turned to his sisters as Chekres began to whine. “We lost a member of the Fianna,” he breathed. “Cunnaun's going to kill us.”

Brae shook her head. “Forget about Cunnaun,” she countered. “We lost a brother. Mam's going to kill us first.”

“I gave him into your keeping, whelp!”

Tierney let out a loud yip as their mother suddenly became a great, white she-hound and nipped his ear sharply, then turned on the others. Isien backed up a step, Brae shoved instinctively behind her, but all the hound did was growl low in her throat before shifting to become a tall, copper-haired woman, with blazingly angry eyes once again.

The three remaining siblings had found the pathway to their mother's home in Anglesey all too easily. Standing at the entrance to the Bodowyr burial chamber in Llanidan, they'd looked across the field at her stone cottage seated at the edge of the forest, then at each other, but finally, had begun to run.

Now, storming into her cottage, Diardin threw open the lid of a large, brass-bound trunk before giving her three children a furious glance. “I specifically gave him into your care when I allowed him to join the Fianna, did I not? Did I not say, Tierney, Isien, look after your little brother, he's a featherhead? Did I say trade him to Gwyn ap Nudd's Cwn Annwn hound pack for a handful of magic beans? No, I did not! Tukre, don't you dare growl at me!”

Tierney gripped the Spear of Nuada's hide-bound haft, but said nothing as his hound cowered behind him. Brae looked relieved that she hadn't mentioned her or Balo.

“We didn't trade him,” Isien protested, placing her hand over Tukre's muzzle as their mother began to pull on various pieces of old, worn armor and leather traveling clothes. “He jumped.”

“You should have caught him!”

“We tried; he just vanished.”

“He wanted to be a hero,” Brae said almost apologetically. “He wanted to be the one to give the advantage to the Fianna and that was the lord's price.”

“Oh, it was, was it? We'll see about that,” Diardin snapped. Throwing a cloak about her shoulders, she fastened it with a silver pin in the shape of a dog, then caught up a bronze sword in a faded leather scabbard and attached it to her belt, before stalking from the cabin. “Jesse, stay,” she said over her shoulder to the old hound lying by the hearth. “You lot, come with me.”

When they reached the entrance to the Bodowyr burial chamber, she turned. “Take the weapons to the Fianna; I dare say they'll be in dire need of them by now. Follow that passageway,” she pointed, “and stay on it. It will lead you directly to a court grave west of Glencolumbkille.
Do not
stray from it for
any
reason, not if the King of the Hill's Shining Beast itself were to cross your path. Understand?”

“Mother ...” Isien began, but Diardin cut her off with a gesture.

“Later. Right now I have a few things to explain to your brother and,” she added with a dangerous growl, “to a certain
Lord of the Otherworld.
” Turning on her heel, she headed down a southward bending passageway, the scent of dripping water flowing all around her.

The three remaining siblings watched until she disappeared around a bend, then, after sharing a single worried glance, began the long journey back to Ireland.

 

On the west coast of Donegal, battle had been joined for two days. Fionn mac Cumhail had led a dozen hastily gathered battalions of Fianna against the Fomair, commanded by the Sea King's eldest son, Dolar Durba, who stood in the ancient one-eyed, one-armed, and one-legged pose of cursing in a small coracle far out to sea, gesturing and screaming out magical invectives over the crash of the surf. Hundreds of giants and goblins had already reached the shore; hundreds more fought their way through the waves to reach shore. Despite their traditional preference of single combat, the Fianna had resorted to a three-on-one attack method just to even the odds. When the children of Diardin appeared as battle was joined on the second day—muddy, exhausted, and worried about Cullen—to almost throw the sword and spear at their legendary Captain, the Formair had already pushed the beleaguered Irish troops off the beach. With a martial cry, Fionn had caught up the sword, tossed the spear to his nephew Caoilte, and plunged into the fray to rally his people. Without pausing for breath, the children of Diardin followed.

Now, as the sun began to set beyond the sea, Isien, Tierney, and Brae fought together with their hounds, hacking at the knees of a giant the size of a yew tree. Because of their otherworldly blood, every second blow struck true, but even so, it had taken all their combined skill even to tire the creature out. But finally one of Isien's slashing attacks cut a hamstring and the giant went down. The three siblings leaped for its jugular. Tierney took a blow to the skull that sent him flying, but that distracted the giant long enough for Brae to leap onto its chest and drive her sword into its throat. The blood that welled up was a deep, dark, greenish black. She leaned on the blade, throwing all her weight behind it as the wound twisted and fought to expel the weapon and close up again. The giant thrashed madly, trying to throw her off, but suddenly Tierney and Isien were up and latched onto his arms, the hounds on its legs. The giant jerked them about like a maddened stag, blood spurting and spewing into Brae's face as she fought to keep her grip on her sword hilt. There was blood in her eyes and blood in her ears, but she hung on the blade and finally the giant grew still. With a tired snarl, she wrenched her sword free and tumbled off the creature's chest.