I do not know how much Will Gallchobhar is imbuing, but as the secondspass, I’m increasingly sure that it’s not much: the level of a Septimus at most, and I doubt even that. His strikes are fast and smooth and clever, but feel no more intimidating than they should for a man of his size. No more powerful or threatening than anything I saw regularly at the Letens Theatre.
Still, he is easily outmatching me.
The spear blurs again and I sidestep, only to realise at the last second that he is, somehow, altering his swing. Spinning and straightening. With my other arm I might have been able to deflect the strike but I’m essentially defenceless from my left; I dive, but it’s still a glancing blow, pain ricocheting through my stub of a shoulder. The room swims.
The spear jabbing forward again. Tip forward. I dodge once, stumbling back. Off-balance. Gallchobhar sees it.
Steps in again, and pierces the back of my leg to the laughs and cheers of the onlookers.
I howl. Stagger, drop to one knee. Barely keep my weapon in hand.
“Dúnmharfóir,” I mutter.
“What was that?” Gallchobhar snarls.
I look up. “Fealltóiríanddúnmharfóir.” My mind is suddenly sharp. Clear. I have the impression I should stand, so I do. Blood pours from my wound but it feels numb, now. Barely noticeable. “You have noonóir. You aremí-oiriúnachto becuradh. You are king of thecladhaireand yourcáilwill becaillte. Forgotten.” I utter the words so that all can hear, this time; there is a venom to my voice that is conjured from somewhere else, a disdain far too deep to be my own. It all comes to me in a strange clarity. Impressions, sensations of what I should say. I don’t understand the words, simply that they need to be said. I could resist, I think. Refuse. But it isimportantto say them.
Gallchobhar’s eyes have widened beneath the verbal onslaught, and he freezes. For a moment, I would almost say panics. The laughter in the room has died to shocked silence.
He attacks. Furious. Harder and faster this time, but I see it coming, am moving even as he begins. My footwork suddenly comfortable, his strikes predictable. I deflect and dodge and deflect again, his strength accounted for by positioning and technique.
“Fealltóirí.” I block a strike. “Dúnmharfóir.” I slide smoothly away from a jab that would have pierced my side. “Coward. Here before witnesses, Imíniúyou. You are the one whomaraitheme.”
I see no opening in his defence and yet suddenly I find myself flicking forward, the spear in my right hand uncurling from its defensive position braced against my body, whirling. It finds a gap that simply wasn’t there a heartbeat ago. Raps Gallchobhar across an unprotected forearm, eliciting a snarl of surprised pain.
I can feel rivulets of blood streaking down my left leg. Slicking my foot in its boot. Gallchobhar’s swagger has vanished, unsmiling as he circles. An air of truly hostile intent to him that wasn’t there before.
My vision wavers and suddenly my unnatural confidence vanishes; the pain in my leg roars back into focus, immense and impossible to ignore. I stumble. Light-headed. Gallchobhar moves forward cautiously, maybe concerned I’m feigning my abrupt weakness, but when I swipe weakly at his probing thrust, something hard and excited glints in his eyes.
“Enough!” It is King Rónán’s rich, deep voice cutting through the shouts and haze of battle. I step back, spear tip dipping of its own accord as I exhale my utter, exhausted relief.
Gallchobhar hesitates, a fraction of a second. I know he hears.
He twitches forward and puts everything behind a final, vicious slash at my throat.
I’m not ready, not expecting it. In pain, weak and nauseous from blood loss. Some desperate instinct jerks me to the side, but it’s not enough; there’s fire across my chest, and blood, and suddenly I’m on the ground rolling and groaning and pressing hands against a wound as too much crimson spills between my fingers.
“I saidenough!” Rónán’s furious tone muzzles everything from triumph to outraged jeers, leaving only my moans.
My vision clears enough to see Gallchobhar standing over me, and for a second I think he’s going to ignore his king again.
Then he snorts and spits to the side. “Lies,” he scoffs, to the uneasy muttering of those surrounding us, before stalking away.
Then Lir is crouching beside me.
“Rest, Deaglán.” He busies himself with my wound. I can feel everything slipping away. The smoky hall, the confused crowd. I hear further anger from King Rónán, commands, outraged protest from Gallchobhar and more from the crowd. But it’s all a fading buzz. More tone than words.
“Rest,” the druid repeats gently, and I do.
THE NEXT DAYS AND NIGHTS PASS IN A BLUR OF VAGUEimpressions; I am being plied with some sort of draught to dull my injuries, I think, but it means I can only dredge even the most basic of thoughts with frustrating torpidity. I’m being bundled onto a horse, secured behind another rider. A small group of us are cantering through green dales and splashing across clear, shallow streams, chasing the setting sun. There’s rain against my cheek. Stars glimmering between wisps of clouds, at one point.
And then there is the ocean. Just a glimpse, sparkling beyond a stony beach as we crest a rise. I’m being helped off the horse. A dock underfoot. Creaking wood, the snap of sails, the swaying motion and rhythmic hiss of a prow slicing through water.
By the time whatever was given to me wears off enough to be certain it was not all some fever-dream, we are at sea.
“Gods.” I groan it to myself as I pry my eyes open, taking in the low wooden beams above, the rocking of my body and the muffled rhythm of splashing oars outside. Finally feeling myself come fully back to consciousness. “Again?” Too reminiscent of my waking after the Labyrinth, and only slightly less disorienting. My head, clearer though it is, still pounds. My leg and my chest burn. But I am not bound, at least. That’s a good sign.
Dúnmharfóir.
