Tara is pushed forward, into the wide section of road that, while muddy, still provides enough of a stable surface to suffice as a space for fighting. Her spear clatters to the ground after her, the man doing the throwing ensuring he is far from in range when she picks it up.
Gallchobhar is twenty feet away, already holding his long silver-tipped spear in one meaty hand and a blade in the other. Even now, even having been in his presence for days, I cannot get over how massive he is. Far bigger than any of the other warriors. And I know how quick he can be, too.
As I watch him focus on Tara and start to stalk toward her, his eyes bleed to black.
The shouting starts. Warriors from the surrounding circle screaming their exhortations and hurling insults at Tara, while from the wall there is a more distant inverse, struggle though it does to break through the cacophony of the nearer voices. Many of the onlookers start drumming their weapons against their shields.
By the time the two combatants meet, the din is near overwhelming.
Gallchobhar strikes first, barely breaking stride as his spear licks out and then his blade follows in a vicious downward strike. Tara pivots smoothly and blocks the sword, the imbued wood of her spear absorbing the edge of the metal without a splinter. She steps calmly to the side and feints at Gallchobhar’s leg; the man twitches, almost falls for it. Tara shows her teeth in a slow smile that Gallchobhar does not return.
Tara does not seem fazed by the crashing noise that assails her, I’m relieved to see. Nor does Gallchobhar, though. In fact, the massive man seems to draw energy from it, his black eyes wide with excited fervour as he comes at Tara again, swinging and whirling in a frenzied attack that sees Tara deflecting blade after blade. Each strike is pushed aside with practiced efficiency and she never falters, never loses her footing.
As Gallchobhar finally tires, Tara goes on the offensive. Her spear blurs and Gallchobhar blocks again and again, his brow furrowed in surprised concentration. But he moves as well as Tara. Calmly, smoothly pushes aside every strike.
And unlike her, he doesn’t retreat.
It is not a question of skill; there, at least at first glance, they seem equally matched. Gallchobhar is simply bigger. In his early thirties and a mountain of muscle, taller and stronger. Tara is athletic, lean, toned, and incredibly quick. She might even have more endurance. But she is more than a head smaller. Shegenerates immense power with her blows—I know this only too well—but Gallchobhar generates more. Has a longer reach. Is more easily able to absorb each strike.
Tara breaks off and though nothing changes in her demeanour or face, I think she knows it too. Not that there’s no chance of her getting an opening, of breaking through. But it is no better a chance than of Gallchobhar finding a flaw in her defences.
And if neither make a mistake, eventually she will lose.
The fight draws on for a minute. Two. Unrelenting thunder from the crowd, the noise only seeing ebbs and flows as each fighter makes their moves. There is admiration on the faces of many. Respect. Gallchobhar is a warrior about whom songs have been sung. Tara is proving his equal. This is a fight the likes of which they may never see again.
But eventually, Gallchobhar—patient even in his heavy, relentless attacks—starts to see cracks in Tara’s defences. Not in technique or speed, but simply in ability to withstand his brutal strikes. The way her spear shudders when it blocks, the way she is forced to take a half step back to brace herself now whenever she takes a blow on it, the way the flow of the fight starts to become much more Gallchobhar advancing and Tara calmly retreating. There’s no panic on her face or in her actions, but it’s obvious to anyone who knows the signs. And everyone watching here knows the signs. The crowd immediately around us somehow starts to get louder. More exuberant. Baying like dogs for her blood.
And then, finally, Gallchobhar’s massive swings create an opening.
His blade knocks aside Tara’s spear just wide enough for his own spear to flash out, a jab that she cannot block and cannot avoid. It takes her in the shoulder. Not a killing blow but a bad one; she moans and twists and dances away as the spear comes loose again, still manages to keep her form for a few more strikes, but it’s clear it’s over after that. Some of the black has faded from her eyes, and her movements are jerkier now, more forced.
A slash opens just above her eye. A heavy hit to her left leg. And then another wound, this one worse, in her side. No telling exactly how bad but the scream that accompanies it cuts through the crowd’s jubilation, tears at me as she falls. I find myself struggling forward to help. I am easily held back by my captors.
Her spear is still pointing at Gallchobhar as she is on her back, somehow still focusing through the pain, but Gallchobhar kicks it aside disdainfully andthen bends down and rips it from her grasp. He is bathed in sweat, steaming in the frigid night air. Torches mirror the triumph in his wild eyes.
I watch. Still struggling. It all feels dreamlike, too much a nightmare to be real. I am helpless as Gallchobhar stands over Tara and raises his spear high. The crowd quietens. Stills. Fades to silence faster than I would have believed.
Gallchobhar pauses.
“Rónán!” he roars. Not turning toward the wall, never taking his eyes from the woman on the ground in front of him. “Rónán, are you watching?”
There is no answer, nothing but hush for several seconds. Gallchobhar’s arm tenses and he raises the spear a fraction.
“I am here, Gallchobhar.” Rawness in Rónán’s deep voice as it echoes out over the fires; I have only heard him speak once before, and that was a long time ago now, but I recognise it nonetheless. There is movement at the top of the wall and the king appears, golden cloak drawn about him. He holds himself tall, but there is a haggardness to his appearance that is impossible to disguise.
Gallchobhar just stands there, satisfaction written plain on his face as he sees what I see. His arm twitches.
“A life for a life, Rónán.”
A soft, pained, wheezing laugh from Tara. Not bitter. More mocking.
“You are an oathbreaker, Gallchobhar. How could I possibly trust you to keep your word?”
Tara’s laughter dies.
Gallchobhar’s teeth gleam in the firelight. “I would not ask you to. I will release her to the Caer. Once she is safe, you will surrender yourself.”
“No.” It’s Tara, but her voice is barely a whisper.
