Before Ardahl could answer, Dornach turned and addressed them from his chariot.
“That boundary protects our lands! Aye, there are twice as many o’ them. We must be twice as fierce! Ye will no’ let them set a toe out o’ that water.”
For an instant he touched them all with his gaze. Man by man. “Fight ye well. And any o’ ye who meets wi’ death, this day, fly well and truly toTír na nÓg.”
Perhaps that is what the gods intend for me,Ardahl thought.The meaning of it all. I will follow Conall so swiftly to the land of the ever-young where we will again sit together. He will tell to me then what happened, and how the knife ended in his breast.
His life counted for naught. He would not go home from this, and ’twas how it should be.
Chapter Fifteen
Upon entering battle,a man’s mind switched to a single line of thought and a narrow vision. At least, so Ardahl’s mind tended to do. He saw only what was before him—opponent by opponent, obstacle by obstacle—and all his being flowed to it. No thought for aught else, save his partner aboard the chariot.
Conall was not with him now. But aye, mayhap he would see him soon.
Before that, he could not let a man of Dacha’s clan set foot on their land.
Dornach gave the signal—a mighty cry and a wave of his sword—and they went in down the slope to the stream, the cart crashing into the water. Ardahl could feel in his bones that Cullan was not the driver Conall had been. The cart nearly overturned at the outset, spilling them both.
“There. There!” he shouted, gesturing wildly with Conall’s sword. Conall usually knew by some instinct where he wanted to go.
Cullan turned the cart and they headed for the thick of their opponents. A chariot, driven correctly, could be a weapon. A chariot carrying a man flashing a sword could do twice the damage.
So it did now, despite Cullan’s clumsy handling. The ponies, fearless, splashed through the water, and Ardahl, focusing on one face at a time, laid to. On their left, he heard men holleringand screaming, the crash of arms. Strangled cries that denoted death.
He heard Cullan cursing in a steady stream. He saw intent in the eyes of an opponent. Blue eyes they were, with death in them.
Conall’s sword took the man’s head.
A good sword, was Conall’s, though not as good as Ardahl’s own. He ached then for his own blade, as he might for a part of his arm. As he ached to have Conall there with him.
No time for lamenting, any more than thought. Their chariot, surrounded, rocked as they were swarmed by enemy warriors. Cullan dropped the reins and drew his own sword to defend the ponies.
Their opponents fell to Conall’s sword. One, two, three. Swiftly were they replaced, but they had to tread upon their fellows to get close.
Without thought for himself, Ardahl leaped down.
He heard Cullan call to him, what sounded like protest or warning. The din of battle grew so loud then, he could hear naught else. He saw only faces, one after the other coming at him. Felt nothing of wounds. Disregarded the protest of his muscles and swung again and again until—
No new faces appeared before him.
Someone was screaming nearby, as the pace of the battle fell away. Cullan it was, calling to him.
“By the goddess, get aboard!”
Moving by instinct, Ardahl obeyed. The cart, no longer marooned amid corpses—Cullan must have leaped down and dragged them away—turned. Rattled to the left. Toward a knot of their warriors, still fighting.
A part of Ardahl’s mind—that narrow part—accepted the new challenge. They waded in, and the new fight surrounded themuntil it penetrated to his mind that they had turned the flank, there in the water. A good thing.
When they were once more surrounded by dead bodies, when the ponies trod upon flesh instead of stone, Cullan stopped and hollered into Ardahl’s face.
“Be ye hurt?”
“Eh?”
“Hurt? Be ye—”
Disregarding the question, Ardahl leaped down and ran to rejoin the fray further along the stream.
