Dawn of the Golden Promise (36 page)

Almost from the instant she had set eyes on him, Annie had known the identity of the man with the knife.

This was the beast who had attacked Finola, had very nearly murdered her.

Just for a fraction of a second it occurred to her that he was also Gabriel's father. She glanced down at the wee wane clinging to her hand, and immediately denied the thought. The
Seanchai
was Gabriel's father, himself alone! This monster could not possibly be sire to anything but evil!

Poor Gabriel was crying ever so hard now, tears streaming down his cheeks like rivers, his breath coming in loud, strangling gasps. She squeezed his hand, then put a trembling finger to her own lips to try to silence him. When he merely stared up at her and went on sobbing, she bent to gather him up in her arms.

She turned to watch the man with Finola. He was big, not so big as Sandemon or the
Seanchai
, but a hulk of a man all the same. And he was scary looking entirely, with his crazed eyes and misshapen mouth.

The thought of the
Seanchai
and Sandemon made her heart leap. Surely they would be arriving at any moment now, the two of them, with Tierney Burke and Jan Martova!

Sister and Lucy Hoy ought to be coming back soon as well. But they would be of little help against the beast with the knife.

She had to do something
now.
The man with the knife was obviously a lunatic. There was no telling what he might do unless he were stopped.

She wanted desperately to fly at him, claw his face, strike him with murderous blows. She wanted to hurt him in the worst way, make him pay for what he had done to Finola.

But he had turned Finola about to face them, and she was signaling Annie with her eyes to do nothing rash.

A riot of conflicting emotions raged through Annie. It seemed to her that if she and Finola rushed him at the same time, they could bring him down. It would be the two of them—and they were not weaklings, after all—against him alone.

But there was the knife…and Gabriel.

Again her gaze met Finola's. The message was the same.
Do nothing. At least for now.

So she would wait, if reluctantly. She would watch him and wait for her chance. Perhaps she could find a weapon of some sort, or figure a way to outwit him.

Sister said his sort of man had a terrible anger inside, a need to punish others, to assert power by inflicting pain and degradation. That was why they often picked on women to hurt. They considered them weaker, less likely to fight back.

Perhaps for now she must let him think just that. She would pretend to be weak, give him no sign she meant to fight. But she
would
fight, given even half a chance, one timely moment. She would…

A muffled sob against her neck and a renewed fit of wailing brought her back to the dread reality of their situation. She whispered a reassurance to wee Gabriel, who had turned in her arms and was looking at his mother with a pitiful expression that nearly broke Annie's heart.

I won't let him hurt you, Little Brother
, she promised silently.
I will die before I let him hurt you.

Behind the children, in the back of the stables, Morgan's stallion, Pilgrim, snorted, then whinnied and began to bump at the door of his stall. Gradually, Finola heard the other horses throughout the building join in, squealing and snorting, pounding at the ground with their hooves and thrashing against the stalls, setting up a terrible din in the stables.

Pilgrim reared in the stall and let go a furious protest. The noise seemed to set the man off like a torch to tinder. For a moment he appeared to forget Finola, releasing her hands as he whirled about to bellow in rage at the horses.

In the split second as he released her, Finola sprang away, bolting toward Aine and Gabriel, intent on making a run for the back door of the stables. Aine saw, and pivoted toward her, pressing Gabriel tightly against her shoulder.

But the man was too quick. He was upon Finola in an instant, grabbing her and yanking her against him.

He was a big man, much heavier than Finola, but she was nearly as tall. Trying not to think about the knife, she twisted, kicking behind her, catching him on his shin bones.

The blows stopped him, at least long enough for her to pull free.

“WITCH!” He began to chant the word at the top of his lungs, like some sort of macabre incantation. He came at her again, both hands raised above his head, one balled to a fist, the other gripping the knife.
“Witch, witch, witch!”

He was on her again, one thick arm wedged under her throat, dragging her backward with such force her feet left the ground.

Finola saw Aine move to help.
“No, Aine!”
she screamed at her.
“Stay back!”

Still carrying Gabriel, the girl backed off. But after a moment she set her brother to his feet, then stood poised, as if waiting for an opportunity to strike.

The heavy arm around Finola's neck unexpectedly dropped away, then circled her waist so tightly she lost her breath. With his other hand he brought the knife around to her throat.

Facing Aine and Gabriel, Finola could not escape the horror in their eyes. Her son was clinging to Aine's hand, but seeing his mother entrapped, he now strained to press forward, to run to Finola.

“No, Gabriel!”

Immediately she realized that the fear in her voice had communicated to the child. He stopped, then began to cry—terrible, heart-wrenching wails that pierced Finola's heart and threatened to sever her last remaining cord of sanity.

She knew her life, and probably the lives of both children, depended on her not losing control. Somehow she managed to lower her voice, to inject a note of calm into her tone. For the sake of her son and Aine, she swallowed her own terror, strangling on a knot of panic even as she tried to soothe him.

“Gabriel…my precious, stay with Aine,” she choked out. “Mama is all right. All is well.” Her eyes went to Aine's, silently pleading for her to restrain him.

But as she watched, Aine's stricken face turned hard. White-lipped, rage blazing in her eyes, she looked at Finola as if searching for a sign, a signal of some sort.

Terrified, Finola raised a hand as if to hold her back. “Aine…no,” she warned, her voice low and unsteady. “You must not.”

Slowly the girl's thin shoulders sagged, then slumped in defeat. But her dark eyes still burned with helpless rage as she stood, unmoving, holding her brother's hand.

Finola swayed on her feet, then squeezed her eyes shut. She could not bear Aine's look of utter desolation or the bewildered terror in her son's small face.

27

The bravest heart
No more is brave.

F
ROM AN ARTICLE IN
I
LLUSTRATED
L
ONDON
N
EWS
, 1848
A
UTHOR
U
NKNOWN

S
andemon was more familiar with the road than Jan Martova; he knew about the wicked turn just ahead. But for the past several minutes he had deliberately shut out his surroundings in an effort to pray.

Only moments before, the dread that had been growing within him all evening had risen to the surface in one chilling instant of awareness, driving him to seek the Presence. His spirit was far too agitated, his concentration too fragmented, to gain any measure of peace for himself. But he had at least managed to loose the binding chains of fear and seek divine protection—and intervention—for those he loved.

Because of his inattention, they were almost into the sharp bend before he realized it. He shouted a warning as they approached, but it was too late.

The road was spongy from the recent rains, rutted from neglect and covered with debris. Although Jan Martova instantly tried to pull back on the mare, they were already too deep into the turn to recover.

The horse and the front wheels made it around, but when Sandemon felt the back wheels begin to skid, he knew what was about to happen. He whipped around, fumbling at the door that opened into the wagon.

“Brace yourselves!”
It was all he had time to cry out before the wagon went into a sickening skid.

He thought they would surely capsize, but at the last instant the wagon careened, shuddered, then lurched to a dead stop.

Tierney had already felt the wagon begin to skid out of control. The instant he heard Sandemon's warning, he dived for the wheelchair.

Throwing himself between the chair and the brass railing at the side of the wagon, he barely managed to break the impact of Morgan's crash against the wall.

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of raised voices outside, coupled with the nervous whinnying of the mare.

He pried himself free, watching Morgan. “Are you hurt?”

Morgan seemed stunned, but otherwise all right. He waved off Tierney's concern. “No damage, thanks to you. Go and see what's wrong.”

Outside, Tierney found Jan Martova and Sandemon bending over the wagon's right front wheel, which looked to be firmly lodged in the roadside ditch.

“What happened?”

Jan Martova glanced back over his shoulder. “I took a bend in the road too quickly. But we're fine, I think. The axle held, and the wheel looks secure.”

Tierney eyed the listing wagon. “Can we put her back up?”

Jan nodded. “Nothing seems broken.”

Straightening, Sandemon looked around for a moment, then turned his gaze in the direction of the house, which was still not in view.

“We must hurry,” he said, his voice strained.

Both Tierney and Jan Martova looked at him, then at each other.

Sandemon reached out to clasp Jan Martova's shoulder. “I have seen you with the wolfhound, running in the meadow. You are as fleet of foot as the red deer. Run now,” he urged, his eyes burning in their intensity. “Run to the house, as fast as you can. Tierney Burke and I are strong enough to raise the wagon without you. But neither of us can run as you do. Go now!”

Jan Martova's black eyes searched Sandemon's face for another moment. Then he murmured a sound of assent and turned toward the road.

Sandemon stopped him with a restraining hand. “Your knife—do you have it with you?”