A Rising Moon Read online

  She smiled again, this time with a softness that Orla could feel. “Let Sorcha comfort you for now,” Magaidh continued. “I told the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd that you were exhausted and that you’d come and talk to them after you’d slept. They’ll expect you at dawn.”

  Orla felt the bile rising again and forced it back down. “Thank you,” she managed to say against the burning in her throat. “I’ll be there.”

  Magaidh nodded once and opened the flaps of the tent.

  “Magaidh,” Orla said, and the woman turned. “I’ll think about what you’ve said. I appreciate your honesty.”

  Magaidh gave another nod and smile and left.

  14

  A Battle Won and Lost

  ALTAN HAD SEEN THE FIRES: a glowing orange smudge on the horizon as the army approached Muras and set up camp for the night. An officer from the Muras garrison riding a lathered and exhausted horse came down the road from the north just before dawn, leaping from the saddle as his mount collapsed.

  “Sir,” he said, clasping his fist to his chest in salute and breathing hard as he was ushered into Savas’ tent, “our ships at Muras . . . they’re gone. Destroyed. Every one of them. It was the draoi and their spells.” The man took a slow breath, swallowing hard. His eyes were wide, as if anticipating a violent reaction from Savas.

  “You’re certain this was draoi handiwork? Not some careless cooking fire that got out of control?”

  “Yes, Commander.” The man took another breath, and Altan gestured for Tolga to bring the rider a cup of wine. He gulped it down gratefully in several quick swallows, then handed the goblet back to Tolga. “I’ve talked to those who saw it happen. They said fireballs exploded against most of the ships all at once while at the same time a huge wave rose from the river and sent the rest crashing into the rocks of the island. I saw the ships afterward, sir, and there was nothing natural about what happened to them. The fires burned even while water was being thrown on them, and the ships were destroyed down to the very keels. While they were still burning, the draoi killed the guards at the northern bridge with another spell and fled back across the river. Burned the poor soldiers to death where they stood. Two people in the nearest houses told me they saw a hand and one of people crossing the bridge and running toward the foothills and the forests. I sent out two hands of scouts from the Muras garrison to chase after them. Only a single soldier came back; he was badly wounded, with a Cateni arrow in his back. He said there’s an entire Cateni army in the foothills with more campfires than he could count, waiting. Everyone in the town is terrified, and the Voice of Muras asks that you come right away. He believes that the Cateni will attack the town today.”

  “He does, does he?” Altan sighed. “So these draoi didn’t take down the bridge to the island? It’s still standing?”

  “Yes, sir. They left it up.”

  “That’s an invitation,” Altan told him. “Not a prelude to invasion.”

  “Commander?”

  “Never mind,” Altan said. “I thank you for the report. Go and get something to eat and rest while you can. I’ll send word to Sub-Commander Ilkur to have the men start to break camp immediately. We’ll have a long and fast march as soon as it’s light.”

  The officer saluted again and left them. Tolga secured the tent flaps behind the man as Altan stretched and yawned. “An invitation?” Tolga asked as he turned back to Altan.

  “If our ships are destroyed, then the only way to cross the Meadham is over the bridges from the south. Had they taken down the second Muras bridge, we’d have been trapped on the south side of the river. We’d have had to march days east to the fords near the River Yarrow in order to cross, or take the army south and west to Gediz and wait several moons until the shipyards there could build enough ships for us to attack Onglse. No, they left the bridges up as a challenge for us to use them.”

  It’s also not what I was told to expect. This is an aggressive move for the Red-Hand, which is not like him. Something must have happened with the Cateni. What is going on there? Altan was glad now that he’d sent messages west as well as north. It seemed that those contingencies might have been necessary.

  “Tolga,” he said, “I should have Cateni messengers from the north returning soon. Make certain they’re brought to me as soon as they arrive and that the seals remain unbroken until they’re in my hands. I’ll let Musa and Ilkur know as well.”

  “So we won’t cross at Muras?”

  Altan gave Tolga a tight smile. He wanted to protect Tolga in case the plans failed, though he had little hope that Great-Voice Utka would leave any of his inner circle alive if that happened. Still, it was better that Tolga had only a glimpse of the truth. “Have you ever known me to back down from a challenge, Tolga?” he answered. “No, we’ll reach Muras on tomorrow’s march, and we’ll see just how good an army the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd have managed to raise. Maybe we can end this war there.”

  He’d once thought that was actually possible. Now he wasn’t so certain.

  * * *

  Under a failing sun, Greum called together the clan àrds and draoi.

  “Our scouts tell us that the Mundoan army is marching quickly toward Muras. They’ll likely be encamped there tomorrow. We should be in battle with them the day after.” Standing on a boulder in the middle of their encampment, the troops and draoi gathered around him, Ceanndraoi Greum smiled as he made the last statement. There were cheers of agreement, though not from Orla or Magaidh, nor from Eideard Iosa or his warriors. Orla glimpsed Ceiteag standing just to the right of Greum, staring up at him raptly with her gap-toothed mouth open in acclamation. “They’ll be unable to get their forces over the bridge quickly, and we’ll be waiting for them with warriors and draoi. We will descend on them as a storm. They will be met by our war draoi’s spells, by our archers, by our pikes and swords and chariots. It will be slaughter. The greatest Cateni victory ever awaits us. The fields along the Meadham will be nourished by the blood of the Mundoan dead and their rotting corpses.”

  Greum Red-Hand thrust his walking stick hard against the boulder on which he was standing, the brass ferrule ringing and sparking with the blow. More cheers arose.

  “And what does Ceannàrd Mac Tsagairt believe?” Eideard shouted into the chorus of affirmation. “He’s met Commander Savas on the field before. Does he think that Savas will be blind to the trap set for him? Does he think Savas is foolish enough to step into it?”

  The ceannàrd took a step toward Greum’s boulder. Hùisdean—his eldest son and Magaidh’s stepson, and also the driver of Mac Tsagairt’s chariot—helped him up to stand alongside Greum. “Commander Savas is no fool at all,” Magaidh’s husband said, glaring in Eideard’s direction, “and anyone who acts on the field of battle as if he is will end up feeding the crows.”

  “Then why would he come here at all?” Eideard persisted. “Surely he knows by now that his ships have been destroyed and that the only way to the north is via Muras Bridge, which will hinder his troop movements. If he’s not a fool, then we need to ask ourselves what we’ve missed.” Eideard glanced over to Orla; at the same time, she felt her anamacha slide close to her side, so close that she could hear the whispers of the voices inside. “After all,” Eideard continued, “only a few years ago, Savas would have taken Onglse if Ceanndraoi Voada and my uncle hadn’t left to attack the south, and yet he managed to defeat the Moonshadow and her army. I can’t believe he’s going to enter the trap you’ve set for him, Ceanndraoi, Ceannàrd.”

  Orla heard in her head: her mam’s voice, the Moonshadow’s voice, the voices of them all as a chorus. But she had no chance to answer them.

  “Pah!” Greum scoffed at Eideard’s statement, rapping his stick against the stone again. Alongside, Ceiteag also glared at the àrd. “Had the Mad Draoi stayed as she’d been told, had your uncl
e not listened to her honeyed lies about glorious battle in the south, we would have defeated Savas on the island. We would have sent his head back to the emperor, and we wouldn’t be facing him again now.” Greum’s gaze, like Eideard’s, was on Orla. Orla felt Magaidh grip her shoulder, her fingers pressing hard.

  the anamacha screamed in Orla’s mind, but Magaidh’s voice whispered close to her ear, and it was to her that Orla listened. “The ceanndraoi has his own view of that time, and it’s not the true one,” she said. “Comhnall realizes that as much as I do, and I suspect the Red-Hand knows it as well. Remember that.”

  Even as Magaidh spoke, Orla saw the ceannàrd shake his head, a scowl deepening the lines of his face.

  “This bickering between us is useless,” Comhnall said, his voice loud with anger. His white hair gleamed in the last light of the day. “Ceannàrd, with respect, Onglse would have been lost without Voada and Maol Iosa raising the northern clans around them, and nothing you say changes that fact. Everyone here should realize that Savas would have overwhelmed the island with sheer numbers and razed Bàn Cill. You simply didn’t have enough draoi or warriors to resist him. Remember that I was at Siran, where the Moonshadow had far more draoi and warriors than you’d gathered on Onglse, and even those weren’t enough.”

  Mac Tsagairt glared at Greum as if daring him to contradict what he’d said, then the ceannàrd turned to Eideard. “And you, Àrd Eideard—whether you think the ceanndraoi’s plan foolish or not, it’s still our best defense against Savas and the Mundoa. With Draoi Orla, Magaidh, Caoimhe, and Niall’s efforts, we’ve already destroyed the ships Savas was depending on for his invasion. We’ll learn what Savas intends when he gets here, and we’ll respond as best we can. What’s foolish is fighting amongst ourselves beforehand. I’ve heard enough arguments. We’ll know what Savas might or might not do when he arrives, not before. For now we should rest and prepare for the battle to come, which is what I intend to do. I suggest everyone else do the same.”

  The ceannàrd gestured to Hùisdean, who stepped forward to help his father down from the boulder. Ceanndraoi Greum remained standing there, saying nothing, his face grim and unreadable. Eideard shrugged and gestured to his warriors, all of them walking away from the gathering and back toward the tents.

  The Moonshadow’s voices were still yammering in Orla’s head. “No,” Orla said aloud. She stepped away from the anamacha so she could no longer hear them. Many àrds were beginning to leave even though Greum was still standing on the boulder, but none of the Onglse-based draoi had left.

  Orla turned to Magaidh. “I’m going back to my tent,” she said. Magaidh simply nodded. Together they left as the sun touched the horizon, leaving the forest in shadow and gloom.

  * * *

  Word came to the Cateni encampment the evening of the next day that the vanguard of the Mundoan army had arrived. Commander Savas and his entourage entered Muras while the army set up camp in the fields outside the southern gate of the city wall. If Greum Red-Hand expected Commander Savas to move immediately, he was disappointed.

  Two full days passed, two days in which Greum Red-Hand moved the Cateni army from the shield of the forest, down the foothills, and onto the Meadham’s northern floodplain: a plainly visible challenge to Savas. The ceanndraoi had the draoi send storms down upon Muras and the encampment. Lightning crawled across the river on legs of fire, and rain turned the earth to mud under ever-present, unmoving clouds. Orla was among the draoi set the task of keeping the army miserable, uncomfortable, and in fear of being struck down by the lightning, though Greum Red-Hand pulled her from the task late that night, telling her to rest.

  There was activity, though, in the Mundoan encampment. From the heights, the faicinn fada—those gifted with long sight among the Cateni—could see soldiers working, though at what they couldn’t discern. The bridge end on the northern side of the Meadham was barricaded and blocked, with Mundoan troops stationed there, allowing no one to cross over onto the island or the town, nor allowing anyone from the town to cross the river, which meant that any Cateni sympathizers within the town couldn’t get word to the army.

  Eideard came to Orla’s tent not long after she returned from her spell-work. Sorcha let him in grudgingly and stood glaring at him as he spoke to Orla, who was eating a cold dinner. “The battle will be coming soon,” he said. “As I told you, I would be pleased if you’d ride with me in my chariot, as your mam did with my uncle: the Àrd of Clan Iosa and the Moonshadow’s draoi together as they once were.”

  He lifted his bearded chin as he spoke as if imagining himself as the avatar of his uncle. Orla glanced at Sorcha; she returned the look impassively, her face unreadable, and Orla turned back to Eideard. The major war draoi typically rode into battle in warriors’ chariots; that was the long-standing custom, after all. Magaidh would be riding with her husband, Ceannàrd Mac Tsagairt, and Greum Red-Hand would be with his clan’s àrd. Eideard might be arrogant, might be temperamental, but there was little doubt about his ability as a warrior, at least according to the whispers Orla had heard. The memory of the sickness she’d felt in Muras after hearing the dying screams of the sailors remained with her, but she also knew that what Magaidh had told her was true: there was no way for her to escape this war or this battle if she wanted to be a draoi. And Orla had already practiced casting spells from Eideard’s chariot.

  This was the fate she’d chosen when she first embraced the Moonshadow’s and her mother’s anamacha. The anamacha glowed nearby in the gloom of the tent, but she didn’t have to call them to her to know what they would tell her.

  “Tha,” she told Eideard. “I’ll ride with you.”

  He nodded as if that were the answer he’d anticipated. A faint smile lifted the corner of his lips. “Then I’ll see you soon enough,” he said. “Rest, and be ready.” With that he clasped a fisted hand to his chest, bowed his head, and left the tent.

  Orla could feel Sorcha’s gaze on her. “You find the àrd . . . attractive?” Sorcha’s words hovered between question and statement, uncertain. Orla could hear the fear laced with jealousy in Sorcha’s comment, and she understood that. Even though they’d become intimate, even though Orla understood that Sorcha had accepted lovers who were women before, such attraction was new and strange to Orla—it made sense that Sorcha would be uncertain of Orla’s feelings. The woman’s shoulders were hunched, her head down. She seemed to be staring at the table and their half-eaten meal, her finger trailing along the edge of a wooden platter.

  “Sorcha . . .” Orla said, and that lifted the woman’s head. Her lips were pressed together. Orla took two quick steps to her and gathered her in her arms, embracing her tightly as she kissed her neck. Her lips at Sorcha’s ear, she whispered, “Don’t worry. I ride with him because I trust him to bring me back to you. That’s the only reason. You’ve nothing to fear.”

  Sorcha’s arms tightened around her, and Orla smiled, inhaling the scent of Sorcha’s hair and hoping that what she had just said would be true.

  * * *

  The battle, when it came, opened before dawn with a cry from the pickets the ceannàrd had set out. “They’re already across the river! The Mundoans have crossed!”

  The riverbank was alight with flashes of lightning from the spell-storms of the draoi and with the yellow light of Mundoan torches. There were far too many soldiers to have crossed the single bridge that was to have been a funnel and a trap for the Mundoa. Their torches crawled over the floodplain like some impossible glowing creature, spreading out as the Cateni watched. In the predawn glow, the task Commander Savas had given his engineers became apparent. Four temporary bridges had been placed well to the sides of the existing stone bridge, two upriver and two more downstream: wide, wooden structures set on anchored barges that served as supports, and over which several cohorts of the Mundoan
had already passed quietly before dawn. Now, Commander Savas opened the barricade to the stone bridge as the sun peered over the eastern horizon.

  It seemed that the plan to slow the Mundoan assault through the funnel of the bridge had already failed. Miserably.

  Orla awoke to the trumpets sounding alarm. The Cateni encampment was a hornet’s nest stirred by a foolish child’s stick; angry, wild shouting seemed to come from every side as Orla and Sorcha hurriedly dressed. “Draoi Orla!” she heard Eideard call, and she saw him at the tent flaps dressed in armor and helm. Beyond him she glimpsed his chariot and his driver, Tadgh, the horses tearing at the grass in their impatience as Tadgh pulled at the traces. “Come! We must hurry!”

  He grasped Orla’s arm and pulled; she shrugged him away and quickly hugged Sorcha. “Don’t worry,” she said to her. “I promise I’ll be back.” With that, she strode past Eideard with a glare. Tadgh reached down as she approached the chariot and pulled her up onto the platform; Eideard leaped into it a moment later.

  “Go!” he told Tadgh. “Let’s see if we can find Commander Savas. Orla, tie yourself to the rail and ready your spells.” Eideard plucked a spear from the holder along the rail and hefted it. He grinned.

  Their chariot was among the flood rushing down the slope toward the river. Orla could see the various clans’ banners flapping madly on the lead chariots in the wind of their charge. Just to her right was the ceannàrd’s chariot with Magaidh lashed to the rails, her hands already weaving a spell. Mounted warriors followed by Cateni warriors on foot flowed behind them in a wild, shouting wave.

  And ahead of them, waiting, were the phalanxes of the Mundoan army, their own banners—all emblazoned with the Mundoan hawk—fluttering. Two of the new bridges were aflame, but the spell-storm of the draoi had ended with the start of the engagement so as not to strike their own forces. A red dawn sent shafts of light through shredded and broken clouds to shimmer from the pikes and swords of the Mundoan troops. Orla tightened the lashings that held her to the rails of the chariot as it bounced and jolted over a plowed field. She opened her arms in invitation, and the Moonshadow’s anamacha entered her, overlaying her world with the dark realm of Magh da Chèo.