He smiles grimly. “They will listen, Deaglán. And when you kill Gallchobhar, they will surrender.”
I nod acceptance, not knowing how else to react. “Lir. Are you … dead?” After my father, I have to entertain the possibility.
“A question with a complicated answer. I knew what Gallchobhar would do; he has always been a brute who believes himself blessed and protected by the gods because he was granted thenasceann. But, yes. My body, at least, is gone.” He sighs regretfully. “Time passes, Deaglán. You must go. Save Rónán’s people, and I will explain all of this. Save them and you have my oath that I will train you, and together we will find the meaning behind your journey here.”
He steps back, and grasps my hand in his.
“My strength to yours, Deaglán,” he says quietly.
Everything sharpens. My wound, less painful. Renewed energy in my limbs.
And then I am back on the shore of Lake Áras, and the battle has all but stopped, and everyone is watching.
A heartbeat, and I recover myself. No time for the luxury of confusion. I find Gallchobhar again, still staring in disbelief.
“Gallchobhar ap Drin, I challenge you.” My voice is sure and strong, seems louder than it should as it rings out across the battlefield. I am clear-headed, and the pain in my stomach is little more than an annoyance. Still. I am running on emotion. On rage and grief and desperation, despite doing all I can to maintain an outward appearance of calm. I raise Lir’s staff high. “The gods have rejected your offering. Dia Domhain has anointed me adraoi nasceannand sent me back to condemn you, and all who follow Fiachra, for dishonouring the Old Ways.” I turn to the watching men and women, and brandish my silver hand. “Warriors! By this sign you will know you have been deceived by your leaders. Throw down your weapons and make recompense, or suffer the gods’ wrath for your defiance of them.”
The last of the fighting has stopped. An eerie hush hangs over everything. I walk toward Gallchobhar. My bravado is having an effect. Fiachra’s warriors do not challenge me. In fact, as I walk past, stripping off my sodden tunic so that I am wearing only breeches like them, they step back. Move from my path.
Gallchobhar, for the first time, looks lost. He is angry but he does not know why, does not understand how this is possible. His lip is curled as he takes me in. Sees the open wound in my stomach. The way my silver arm does not weigh me down, how it moves as smoothly as any part of me.
And he sees the way everything has stopped, everyone is watching us. The way his men shy away from my presence.
He snarls, readies his weapons, and charges.
I am mobile again, alert again, but I am in no state to run. So I wait. He screams as he comes at me. There is desperation in his black eyes. He knows what I mean to this battle now.
He brings his blade down with all his strength.
The shivering note rings clear over the silent battlefield. I am almost as surprised as Gallchobhar as we stand there, both frozen. His blade pressing against my silver arm. The iron should have at least scored it. Instead, despite the wild power behind the strike, it hasn’t left a mark.
And I have not taken a step back. Gallchobhar is bigger and stronger and should be able to crush me, but we stand there and he pushes and I do not move.
He roars and pulls back and swings again, all his might behind the strike. This time I lift my hand and try to catch the blade. It shatters, glimmering splinters flying off in the sunlight. Gallchobhar screams as one embeds itself in his cheek.
I am as shocked as he is, but I make sure not to show it. This is a performance, now. Gallchobhar is thrown, unbalanced, and with this medallion around my neck, with whatever Lir has done to help me, I may even be able to beat him. But it will not matter if his army does not falter as well.
“Flee, Gallchobhar.” I wonder how far I can take this. “Flee, or die with dishonour.”
For a moment, I think it might work. Gallchobhar’s eyes are wide, and I can see him thinking about it. Can see him twitching, desperate to turn and escape the madness that has suddenly been visited upon him by my appearance.
But he doesn’t.
“Fight!” He hefts his spear and bellows the words at the men around him, his snarl echoing up to the gate and rolling over Caer Áras. “Do not stand there! Fight!”
They do not.
The two sides continue to back away from one another, and more and more, Fiachra’s warriors turn to us. Watching. Faces grim. They have not discarded their weapons. I suppose I did not expect them to, not yet. If I cannot defeat Gallchobhar, my words will still be proven lies.
Gallchobhar knows it too.
He comes at me, and we begin again.
I do not know how long the fight lasts. I get only impressions of the mute, gathering crowd which rings us. I am not as good as Tara, but Gallchobhar is not the same man who fought her. His confidence has turned to confused anger, his attacks from calculated to battering. My silver arm is more defensively effective than any blade. And though I am injured, the life my father has given me, the strength that Lir has given me, is enough. It hurts. It all hurts. But I keep going.
After a minute, I can see Gallchobhar’s belief start to wane. His screams of exhortation become increasingly desperate. His swings more wild. Three times he lands hits, blows that leave gaping scars, wounds that would fell normal men. But not me. Not today.
And then he leaves a gap, and I drive through it, and he staggers, knee no longer able to support his weight.
