Orle shoved the old woman. Given, it did not take much to knock the wizened creature down. She went squawking and screeching in a manner that might almost have been humorous if it were not so terrifying.
“Come, come!” Darlei snatched Orle’s hand, and they dashed out, Darlei still clutching the spit. Out of the hall, through the arched stone opening, and into the rain.
Bless the rain.
It came down so hard she could scarcely see across the bailey, which was not wide. Beyond stood the gate and freedom. She did not know how they would get past the guard stationed there. First they needed ponies—or at least one.
What had the old woman said about the stables?
Darlei drew Orle up against the wall of the house so they could not be seen from above. Plenty of litter here—piles of stone left from repairs, barrels, and the like. Instantly wet to the skin, she tried to keep hold of Orle’s hand, which slid in hers.
There would be ponies in the stables. But as soon as she rounded the end of the house, she could hear that—yes,something was happening there across the yard. Many raised voices. Shouts that could be heard even above the rain.
Notthere, by the gods. They would have to go on foot. How far would they get?
“There!” Orle said, and pointed.
Darlei raised her head and narrowed her eyes. In a field just past the stable were several ponies that, to their misfortune, had been left to graze. And forgotten?
MacNabh’s habitual carelessness just might cost him now.
“Come,” she bade Orle again. “While they are occupied within.”
They ran.
Chapter Fifty-Four
“Somebody gi’ mea sword. A good one.” MacNabh growled the words, never taking his eyes from Deathan. “I shall, aye, teach this upstart a lesson. And when I am done wi’ him, ye will tak’ his bloody carcass and leave it on the border o’ my land.”
His men did not look so certain. But he was their chief, after all, and there were loyal hearts among them.
Ardroch stepped up. “Here, chief, use mine.”
MacNabh weighed the sword in his hand with unconscious canniness, never taking his gaze from Deathan. Aye, the man had been a warrior once—likely a good one, given what Tighe had inherited from him.
And still, it did not matter. The old knowledge, that which Deathan had determined lived deep in his bones, or perhaps in his soul, now simmered inside him, ready to flare.
He grimaced at MacNabh. “And when I kill ye? Wha’ then? Shall your son”—he jerked his head at Tighe, who stood by, eyes wide—“inherit your lands?”
MacNabh’s pale eyes flicked to Tighe also, and an odd look came to them. “Aye so, why not? But ye will no’ kill me yet.”
They would see about that.
Deathan raised his sword just in time to meet MacNabh’s blade, which came crashing in upon him. The man had strength, aye, and he also had some skill, but if he swung his sword like a woodsman felling trees, he would soon tire himself. Whereas theknowledge flooding up through Deathan felt patient and near bottomless.
He did not know what warrior dwelt within him, but it was a gifted, clever one.
He danced, stepping light on the strawy floor. MacNabh remained rooted where he stood, heavy as the rain outside the door. An elemental sort of battle it became, a meeting of opposites with death as the prize.
Deathan’s vision narrowed, as did his thoughts. Even Darlei was thrust to the back of his mind as, two-handed, he caught MacNabh’s tremendous blows. He saw only MacNabh’s face with its pale-blue eyes and the sweat starting to flow.
I must end it. I must take him now.
He got in a blow, a kiss of his blade at MacNabh’s right shoulder. The chief reacted like a bull stung by a wasp, reared back, shook his head, and then ignored the wound. But now he moved, turned, and swiveled. Even as the onlookers gasped, his feet tapped the stones in a desperate answer to Deathan’s dance.
Did he know he was beaten?
Another sting, this time to MacNabh’s left cheek, and the blood began to flow. The onlookers murmured. Would they respect the outcome of this battle when Deathan felled their chief?
