Salty Dog Page 6

  Cathal. The name sprung into my mind in a flash of insight, and I felt my memories tugging at me, trying to remind me who I was. What I was. But then, just as I was about to recall everything, I felt it: pain lancing across my back, pain like I’d never felt before. I felt my right side go numb almost instantly. Suddenly, I was on my knees, with no idea how I’d gotten there. A few feet ahead, another horseman rode past, his sword dripping blood.

  My blood.

  I collapsed to the ground. Grass. I could see tufts of grass. Looked like the sun had gone down almost completely, the horizon a pale shade of blue-grey. Distantly, I heard a howl piercing the air, though it seemed as if the sound were coming at me from down a long tunnel. Sadly, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to find the source. What poor creature had made that awful, broken noise? If only I could get up, maybe I could help, somehow. But no, I couldn’t even move. Was I dreaming? Is that what this was, a dream? I felt so sleepy, all the sudden. So tired.

  And so I shut my eyes.

  And died.

  11

  I woke, screaming, to find someone’s hand pressed against the small of my back, brushing up against the wound there—a line of pure, unadulterated pain radiating from my shoulder to my hip. I thrashed, trying to get away from the prison of my own body, willing to do anything to make it go away. The hand fell away and instantly three men were clustered in front of me, kneeling. I focused on their clean-shaven faces, anything to distract myself from the nerve-searing pain. As I studied their concerned expressions, a cool, rational part of me noted they were too alike not to be related; their noses were long and straight, their foreheads broad, their hair black and slightly curled despite differences in length. Brothers, if I had to guess. Feathered markings dominated the exposed skin of their arms and throats, markings I faintly recognized from…before.

  “She isn’t recovering,” one said, though I wasn’t sure how I understood him considering he was speaking a language I didn’t know. I tried to concentrate on that mystery, but then a fresh wave of agony forced another scream from my lips, and I realized it didn’t matter. I was dying; if the blood loss didn’t get me, I knew the shock would, so why get myself worked up over something trivial? Why get myself worked up over anything, really?

  The instant that thought crossed my mind, I stopped flailing. A deep, pervasive chill set in as I lay there on my stomach, though the longer I laid there, the more weightless I felt—as if I’d float away in only a few moments. The pain faded, shoved out of my mind with the knowledge that soon it would all be over. Interestingly enough, now that I felt myself slipping away, I realized I was oddly fine with it. I had no last words. No final farewells.

  Granted, I was fairly certain I had friends out there who’d mourn me—people whose faces I couldn’t quite remember, but who I’d have liked to see one more time—but I also sensed I wouldn’t be leaving behind anyone who wouldn’t eventually recover. That I’d kept them all at arm’s length, for one reason or another. Honestly, now that it was finally happening, it seemed as though I’d been waiting for this for a while now, as if I’d been going through the motions all this time, living just to live.

  “Here, give her some water,” another said.

  The first nodded and took an offered skin, angling it so water spilled into my mouth from above, some dribbling down my chin to puddle against my cheek. At first, I considered turning my face away—why wouldn’t they simply let me die in peace? But the instant the first drop touched my lips, I dismissed that idea entirely. In fact, I stopped thinking altogether.

  The water tasted incredible. No, not tasted. Felt. It felt incredible. Part of that was the pain, which went from a distant, hellish ache my brain refused to acknowledge to nothing at all—as if it had never been there to begin with. But there was more to it than that; it felt as though all of me was mending, reknitting. Not just my body, but my soul. Like someone had given the whole puzzle that was me a shake and subsequently put all the pieces where they belonged. In the back of my mind, a warning—something about sips—registered vaguely, but I couldn’t hear it over the sound of my blood pumping in my ears.

  In seconds, I snatched the water skin out of the man’s hand and rolled over, tilting it up, letting its contents spill into my mouth until I nearly choked, easing a thirst I hadn’t realized was there until now. Once I’d drained its contents, I tongued the lip of the waterskin, savoring every last drop before tossing it aside. I lay there for a moment, just breathing, relishing the sensation of being alive. Eventually, I sat up of my own accord, shaking my head, trying to clear those alien thoughts from only a few minutes ago. Me, die? The thought alone made me want to laugh.

  No one died in Tír na nÓg, the Land of Youth.

  Everyone knew that.

  “Not that I’m complainin’, but what are ye boys doin’ here, watchin’ over me?” I asked. “And who are ye?” I looked at the three men in turn. A quick glance at their weapons and clothes told me they were well-armed and fresh from a battle. Dangerous, perhaps, though I suppose if they’d wanted to hurt me, they’d had their chance.

  “We were going to ask you the same thing,” the man who’d offered me the waterskin said, bidding his brothers to rise. Judging from the way the other two deferred to him, I was willing to bet he was their leader. Probably the eldest, as well, given the faint crow’s feet around his eyes and the grey starting at his temples.

  “We saw you taking out warriors from both sides,” the second brother added, his face a little leaner, but definitely younger. “Anyone who got close. We couldn’t let you keep doing that.”

  I frowned, considering. I’d been fighting, then. That didn’t surprise me, though it seemed odd I hadn’t been more selective in my targets; fighting all comers wasn’t exactly a good survival strategy. I turned to say something to that effect when I noticed the third brother, barely out of his teens, shifting nervously from one foot to another. His blade had fresh blood on it. The faintest memory stirred—a memory of his sword slashing across my back, of watching him ride past as I fell, of thinking I’d died.

  “Ye did it then? Cut me from behind?” I asked, meeting the youth’s troubled eyes.

  “I gave the order,” the leader said, deflecting my attention.

  “It’s alright,” I replied, as I rose to my feet. I stretched, enjoying the languorous sensation of being alive, the sensation of being young and strong and capable. “It was a smart move,” I admitted, grinning.

  The youth brightened a little. “We didn’t have much choice,” he explained, guiltily. “Once we got closer, Bran said you were too dangerous to leave on the battlefield. Besides, after that hound appeared, we had to get to Finann.”

  Finann, who I took to be the middle brother, grimaced. Now that I knew what to look for, I could see evidence of a hound’s attack; Finann’s tunic had been torn to shreds and dried blood caked his upper body. The wounds—before they’d healed—must have been grisly. “Never seen anything like it,” Finann said, shuddering.

  “They’re rare,” Bran, the eldest, said. “The Cù-Sìth. I thought the last of their kind had died long ago.” He drifted off, gazing out onto the plains—reflecting the light of the full moon above our heads—as if the hound were out there, somewhere, lurking.

  Waiting for its moment to strike.

  “Bran, what are we going to do with her?” Finann asked, filling the sudden silence.

  I turned to find the middle brother studying me as though I were somehow more dangerous than the hound who’d attacked him. In a way, it was flattering, though I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve it. What exactly had I done to those I’d defeated?

  Bran answered before I could dwell too long on that question. “We’ll take her to the King,” he replied. “Tuathal will know what to do with her.”

  I grunted, not liking the sound of that one bit. “Oh? And I don’t get a say in any of this, is that it?”

  The youngest brother looked away, clearly still upset t
hat he’d taken the coward’s path by striking at me while my back was turned, no matter the circumstances. But Bran seemed unmoved. “If you tell me who you are and what you were doing attacking us,” he said, “I’ll consider it.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Who I was…what I was doing here…I should know those things, right? “I…don’t know. I don’t know who I am,” I said, at last, staring down at my hands. “I don’t know. Why don’t I know?” A wave of panic washed over me, and, for a moment, the world spun. I felt dizzy, my knees weak. Fortunately, the youngest rushed forward, keeping me upright with a hand on my arm.

  “Easy, I’ve got you,” he said.

  “Llew, be careful! It could be a trick,” Finann cautioned. Ironically, in that moment—while the middle brother’s cynicism made me think well of him—I really wished it were a trick, because the truth was so much worse by comparison.

  “I don’t think she’s faking, Finann,” Bran said, searching my stricken face. The elder brother moved to my side, supporting my other arm. “Come on. The King will know what to do.”

  For just an instant, a brief image of me standing over the three brothers, their bodies limp, flashed before my eyes. We could do it. Then they’d no longer be a threat to us. But I shook that off, repressing that urge completely; I wasn’t about to assault men who’d helped me, no matter the cause. And so, instead, I let Llew and Bran guide me towards their gathered horses, praying all the while that Bran was right.

  After all, that would at least mean someone knew what to do.

  12

  I quickly learned that—whoever I was—I knew jack shit about riding a horse. Bran had offered me his own mare, only to watch in genuine amusement as I tried to climb onto the thing’s back. By the third attempt, all three brothers were watching me struggle, their heads all cocked, and arms folded, wearing nearly identical expressions.

  “She looks like a child,” Finann said.

  “Even little ones know how to mount a horse,” Bran replied.

  “If ye two don’t shut it,” I said, gritting my teeth as I finally managed to swing one leg over the saddle, squeezing so tight with my thighs I thought they’d bruise, “I will come over there and make ye.”

  The two brothers exchanged glances.

  “She’s bluffing,” Finann said.

  “I’d say so.”

  “Doubt she’d even know how to get down.” Finann headed for his own horse, his younger brother—clearly the nicest and least likely of the three to get punched in the face in the immediate future—trailing.

  “Do you think we’ll have a feast tonight?” Llew asked, changing the subject entirely.

  I sighed and ignored them, doing my best to get situated. The saddle felt awkward, but once I had reins to hold onto, I felt at least secure enough to relax. Of course, the moment I did I felt the mare shift beneath me, shuffling nervously from side-to-side. Bran noticed and hurried over, running his hands along the mare’s flanks, soothing her, whispering beneath his breath. The mare instantly calmed, though her tail still twitched. I breathed a sigh of relief as Bran stopped to study me, his raptorial gaze sweeping up and down my body.

  “What?” I snapped, self-consciously.

  “Your clothes,” Bran replied, gesturing. I glanced down and realized I was wearing strange garments, the material both unfamiliar and somehow, well, wrong. Now that he’d brought them to my attention, I could only marvel at how restrictive they were, the pants and top unnaturally tight, not to mention the article covering my breasts—whatever it was bit uncomfortably into the skin of my rib cage.

  “What about ‘em?” I asked, turning away and covering myself defensively.

  “It’s nothing,” Bran said, patting his horse’s hindquarters. “Alright, let’s go! The tribe will be on the move. Back to Caer Capall, before the Curaitl return.” Bran walked to the spare mount Finann brought him, leaping onto his horse’s back so gracefully I ended up gawking. He took the reins and used a rod with a sharp metal point to spur the horse into motion. My own mount, meanwhile, began following without so much as a jab from me. I may or may not have fallen forward, hanging onto the mare’s neck for dear life, her ambling gait sending small shockwaves through my entire body.

  “Who are the Curaitl?” I asked a few minutes later, recovered enough to sit upright despite the constant jerking. The others moved expertly in their saddles, finding the motion natural; Llew had insisted it’d get easier once we started moving faster—as if I’d survive that.

  “The spear-wielders,” Bran explained. “And we are the Tógálaí Capall. We’re horse breeders, the finest in the Land of Youth. The Curaitl come from the north, mostly raiders who like to steal our cattle, especially before winter sets in.”

  “They weren’t here to steal cattle,” I guessed.

  “No, this was a battle between our chieftain and their warmaiden.”

  “Warmaiden?”

  “Aife the Fair,” Finann called, clearly unashamed to be eavesdropping. “Exceptionally beautiful, from what I’ve heard.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And why were ye all fightin’?”

  “Our chieftain, Donall, wanted to propose,” Bran replied, wryly.

  “Come again?”

  “He thought if he routed her army, she’d consider marrying him,” Finann explained, shaking his head. “Lovesick fool promised her a hundred sows if she took the field.”

  “That sounds…” I drifted off.

  “Ridiculous?” Bran nodded. “It was, but the King sanctioned it, all the same. Donall is his nephew, and Tuathal dotes on him. But, despite that, this was a good chance to test his mettle. Donall has always been more of a lover than a fighter. I think Tuathal saw this as an opportunity to see if that might change under different circumstances.”

  Finann scoffed. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have Aife training our men instead of theirs, would it, Bran?”

  “Tuathal rarely does anything without having multiple reasons, Finann. You should know that better than anyone.” Bran glanced back at his brother, but Finann had fallen silent, expression closed off.

  “So ye won, then?” I asked, hoping to break the sudden tension.

  “Yes, though it cost us. We took the field, as well as several hostages, including the warmaiden’s second-in-command. But from what I can tell, they made off with quite a few of our horses, which doesn’t often happen. We’ll have an exchange, eventually.”

  “People for horses?”

  “And goods. For the more valuable hostages, they’ll offer us supplies. Mostly furs from the large creatures that dwell in the north. For the safe return of our mounts, we’ll give them cattle. It’s how things are done.” Bran shrugged, though I could see him watching me sidelong, perhaps wondering how I’d made it this far without knowing such obvious things. I wished I had an answer for him. Instead, I nodded, perceiving the sustainability of that way of life; the land provided Bran and his people with some resources, and the Curaitl with others. Rather than share, they warred with one another, turning it into a game, a competition that gave them purpose. It sounded, well…fun.

  “So, does that make me a hostage, then?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure what you are,” Bran admitted. “A spy? But why would you have taken out so many of your own? And why would you be dressed so strangely?” The eldest brother shook his head. “The mystery you present is beyond me. I’ll leave your fate to King Tuathal.”

  I really didn’t like the sound of that but couldn’t argue with Bran’s logic. For all I knew, I could be a spy. Or worse, an assassin. In the end, no matter what I was, and no matter how frustrating I found it to leave my destiny in the hands of someone else—even a king—I refused to blame Bran and his brothers for my fate. Although—as Bran urged the horses faster, my hips already aching—I realized I would gladly blame them for putting me on this damn horse.

  I may not have known who I was, but at least I knew where I drew my lines.

  Caer Capall—
a fort made up of tiered, man-made hills, each of the three levels as tall as a man—was hosting one hell of a party. The festivities spilled out along the grassy knolls, with some revelers huddled together in pockets, singing and laughing and drinking. Others had already passed out where they lay. Guards stood watch on each of the levels, their backs to the torches which ringed the fort, overlooking the drunken shenanigans with the scowls of disapproving parents. Or maybe they were just pissed to be on guard duty. I considered asking the two who stopped us as we approached the sloped entrance that led to the top tier, but neither seemed interested in chatting with me; Bran was the focus of their attention.

  “Donall was worried when you didn’t immediately report back,” the first guard said.

  “The King said you must have gotten distracted,” the other added, glancing past Bran to me, eyes speculative. I glowered at him until he looked away, coughing.

  “Any sign of the Curaitl?” Bran asked.

  “None. Why?”

  Bran looked briefly troubled but shook his head. “It’s nothing. Tell the guards not to join in tonight.”

  “Now Bran, you know—” the second guard began.

  “Yes, I know. I know that once everyone is passed out, you all like to gather up what’s left of the ale and split it between you for the night.” He held up a hand. “Night watches are long, and a little ale never hurt anyone. But not tonight, understand?”

  The two guards exchanged looks. “Alright, Bran. We’ll pass the word along.”

  “Good. This one’s with me.” Bran jerked a thumb my way.

  “Hostage?”

  Bran glanced back at me, eyes narrowed. “Guest. For now, anyway.”

  “Best not let Donall see her, then,” the second guard joked, craning his neck to stare up at me, pointing idly at my hair. “You know how he gets around the fiery ones. Even if she is a giant.”

  I leaned forward onto the pommel of my saddle, smiling sweetly at the man, though I kept my voice very low when I whispered to Bran out of the side of my mouth, “If anyone here tries anythin’, this giant is goin’ to fee-fi-fo fuck ‘em up.”