Warriors Of Legend (13 page)

“Who is the king of Dublin?” he asked.

“Gofraid, my lord.”

He stared at her. It was name he knew and a history he knew all too well. As he struggled to wrap his mind around the possibility, Padraigan interrupted his turbulent thoughts.

“Please,” her tone was reduced to begging. “We need you, my lord. The army hates Geric but they have no choice to serve him because he is king . But let them see their true king and you shall once again have their support and rule of Ciannachta. The army will follow you to the depths of hell if you wished it, my lord. We need you to make us whole and strong again.”

Conor’s gaze was riveted to the woman, feeling overwhelmed by her tale. But, oddly enough, he didn’t resist it. Even as she told him, he felt as if he already knew the details. It was the strangest thing he had ever experienced but even as he rolled the tale over in his mind, the details seemed to make him feel whole, completed. He began to feel strong again.

Behind him, he suddenly heard a noise and turned to see Destry standing in the open doorway. The light from the hut backlit her as she stood there, creating an ethereal vision as the darkness of the night enfolded everything it touched. Destry had little Slane with her, holding the child’s hand as her bright blue gaze lingered on Conor.

She looked weary and pale, but in spite of that, Conor had never seen such a beautiful woman. Every time he looked at her, he felt more strongly about her. His heart softened and he began to walk towards her.

“So you’re awake,” he said gently. “How do you feel?”

She watched him approach. “Better,” she said softly. “What was she telling you?”

He stopped when he came upon her, standing just a few inches from her. His dark blue gaze was soft and gentle as he gazed down into her lovely face.

“About my brother and my kingdom,” he said quietly. “Or at least what she believes is my brother and my kingdom.”

Destry’s gaze drifted to Padraigan and then to Slane, still holding her hand. She sighed, still looking at the sweet little boy. “This is just a wild stab in the dark, but I’m guessing that we aren’t going back to the hotel.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer her except with what he believed to be the truth. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t think there is a hotel.”

“Then you really think we passed through some kind of time portal?”

He sighed and put a big hand on her head, pulling her forehead to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Something happened,” he muttered. “Until we can figure out what it is, then all we can do is go on the assumption that somehow, some way, we moved back in time.”

She looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his handsome face. “So you’re supposed to be some sort of king?”

He shrugged. “That’s what I’m told. And you’re my queen.”

She wriggled her eyebrows. “We have three boys.”

His dark blue eyes twinkled. “That means that we’ve…”

She fought off a grin. “I still don’t remember that part of it, but I did have weird dreams about giving birth.” She looked down at Slane, who was gazing up at her adoringly. She smiled at him as she looked up again, her gaze finding Padraigan. “I had a dream about giving birth to a girl.”

Padraigan didn’t understand her words so Conor relayed the statement. Padraigan’s features gentled. “You did,” the sorceress said softly. “Between Devlin and Slane you gave birth to a daughter who was born dead. You named her Angel because you said she was an angel on earth.”

Conor whispered the translation and Destry’s heart started to beat faster as tears sprang to her eyes. Powerful emotions she didn’t recognize, yet somehow remembered, flooded her. She blinked rapidly, chasing away the tears.

“I have a sister named Angel,” she whispered.

With Conor translating, Padraigan smiled. “Your Angel found you in the nether region and was reborn as your sister,” she assured her. “It is the way of the Life Cycle; our souls find one another in both life and death. Dying never truly separates us from those we love; we all find one another again, eventually.”

Conor repeated her answer verbatim and Destry struggled not to burst into tears at the thought. Her dreams were very vivid about giving birth to her children, including her dead daughter. She had visions of Conor weeping over the dead child, so very distraught by the passing.

More than anything, her visions and dreams had conveyed to her the compassion and caring of Conor, a man she had only just met but a man she apparently knew very, very well. Every moment that passed saw her come to know him even better. She was starting to understand just how deeply he was engrained within her. Gazing down at Slane, she squeezed the child’s hand before looking back at Conor.

“These children are ours, Conor,” she whispered. “I don’t have any recollection of being a queen, or of this life we had together, but I can tell you for a fact that these children are ours. I know my children.”

He could see that she was deadly serious. He moved closer to her so their bodies were touching, a hand coming up to gently rest on her back, perhaps pulling her a little closer.

“You don’t remember me?” he whispered. “I’m told you gave up everything to follow me when I was exiled. I’m told you loved me very much.”

The heat from his body was making it difficult for her to breathe. Her head hurt and her stomach was uneasy, but Conor’s touch and his closeness seemed to make her forget everything. Her free hand came up and she snaked it around his slender waist, her hand on his back, feeling his warmth and power against the palm. Her heart began to race again, now for an entirely different reason.

“That’s possible,” she murmured, laying her cheek against his warm, broad chest. He felt incredibly good. “I’m sure you’re going to do your best to remind me.”

He grinned, both arms going around her to pull her closer. “Absolutely.”

She couldn’t help but grin at the enthusiastic way in which he said it. She lifted her head to look at him, flicking her eyes leadingly in the direction of the four–year–old at her side. “Everything? Even…?”

He laughed softly. “Especially that.”

She joined in his laughter. “I’m not quite sure what to say.”

“Say you’ll at least give me the chance.”

Her laughter faded as she gazed steadily at him. The man’s power, his handsome face and his decent character had her spellbound. She could no longer resist him.

“I’ll give you the chance,” she whispered.

His smile faded, the dark blue eyes roaring with interest and adoration and passion. He didn’t miss the fact that she had just given him the green light to pursue her and he was thrilled beyond words. Just as he lost himself in her eyes, preparing to swoop in for a deep and luscious kiss, Mattock’s pony suddenly let out a chilling scream.

Everyone jumped at the sound, turning to see the pony being dragged off in the darkness by one leg. Conor watched in shock for a split second before rushing forward to grab Mattock and Devlin, who were rooted to the spot, yelling in fright at the top of their lungs. He thrust the boys in the direction of the mud hut, moving to shove Destry as well but realizing she already had Slane in–hand and was running towards the door. Padraigan scattered but Conor couldn’t worry about the woman; he was more concerned with getting Destry and the boys to safety.

Destry couldn’t see what had the pony in its grip but she could hear growling and snorting, which scared her to death. Instinct had her practically tossing Slane into the mud hut then pausing at the door as Mattock, Devlin and Conor brought up the rear. She grabbed hold of Mattock and Devlin as they rushed into the hut, shoving them back into the room and away from the door because she truly had no idea what was happening. All she knew was that the horse was being dragged off into the darkness, the kids were screaming, and she was terrified.

Conor, however, hadn’t come into the hut; he was standing in the doorway, watching the pony as it struggled against whatever had it. It was so dark that he couldn’t see whatever had the horse in its grip. Mattock was crying hysterically because his pony was being attacked and Destry found herself comforting the boy, watching Conor with a terrified expression as he watched the pony struggling in the darkness.

“What is it?” Destry asked him, her voice shaking. “Can you see anything?”

Conor’s dark blue eyes were riveted to the movement in the darkness; they were over by the make–shift barn now and he could see that the pony’s struggles were lessening. The animal was losing the fight. He, too, could hear the growling and snorting, as something horrific and terrible was lingering viciously in the shadows. As he opened his mouth, Padraigan suddenly appeared, rushing at him from the direction of the crude corral. She had a flaming torch in her hand, dragging something with her. She rushed at Conor, struggling with both the weight of the torch and the weight of whatever she was dragging.

“My lord,” she said breathlessly. “Your weapon.”

Conor looked surprised. “Weapon?” he repeated. “What…?”

Padraigan tried to lift it but she wasn’t strong enough, not with one arm. Conor saw her struggles and instinctively took it from her. The little sorceress held the torch high in the direction of the struggling pony.

“I will blind it with the light,” she hissed at him. “You must kill it.”

“Kill what?” he demanded, frustrated and scared. “I can’t even see it.”

“You must, my lord,” Padraigan was issuing a command. “Kill it now!”

Conor’s gaze lingered on the woman before taking a look at the weapon he now held in his hand; it was heavy and as he lifted it up, into the light, he could see that it was a gloriously crafted broadsword. The magnificent piece was massive, at least four feet long, with a thick, sharp blade etched with Celtic crosses and other Celtic designs. The hilt was forged from a solid piece of steel and as he put his hand around the leather pommel, he realized that it fit his grip perfectly. He was quickly becoming enamored with the beauty and craftsmanship of the blade until Padraigan hissed at him again.

“My lord!” she beckoned him, motioning for him to follow her. “We must kill it because it will come for us when it finishes with the pony. Hurry!”

Conor didn’t like the sound of that at all but he still couldn’t see what had the horse. “What is it?”

Padraigan’s features were filled with anxiety. “Uafásach.”

His brow furrowed. “Terror? What terror?”

“Please,” Padraigan urged. “You are a great warrior, my lord. You have killed many
fiacla
nathair
. Hurry!”

Snake teeth
, Conor translated to himself. It sounded too weird, too bizarre to adequately comprehend. But he was urged on simply by the woman’s words and the pony’s screaming. He could no longer stand by idle. He glanced at Destry before he charged on, seeing fear and trust in her eyes, and it fed him like nothing else he had ever known. As Padraigan ran towards the barn with the torch held high, he charged after her.

He could see the pony in the darkness, lying on its side as something chomped on its leg. Conor was a man trained the art of Medieval warfare; he’d trained seven years’ worth of students in the same thing and considered himself an expert. He knew tactics, weapons and psychology. But nothing prepared him for the sight of the night creature when his gaze finally beheld it; Padraigan rushed forward with the torch and the thing screamed, releasing the pony and recoiling back in fear of the fire. Conor could see that it was some kind of enormous lizard with great jagged teeth – he couldn’t have described it any other way. But it was horrifying, like something out of a bad horror movie, and for a moment he was actually stunned into inaction. As Padraigan thrust the torch at it, Conor just stood there with his jaw slack, drinking in something he could have never imagined in his wildest dreams.

But he was spurred into action by Padraigan’s howl when the beast suddenly reared back and spit at her. Something horrible smelling and steamy hit the ground, scorching all it touched.

“I will distract it, my lord!” Padraigan called to him, her voice tense. “Kill it!”

Conor could feel his heart pounding in his chest, both terrified and strangely excited. This was something new, horrifying and weirdly brilliant. He was in the middle of something he couldn’t quite comprehend, like a dream, but in spite of that he knew what he had to do. He needed to call upon his classical weapons training and carve into a beast he’d never even heard of much less seen. He had no idea what it was but he knew he had to kill it. He couldn’t chance that the thing would go after Destry or the children; he was the only defense they had and he was going to kill it before it killed them.

He took a deep breath and cleared his mind, thinking logically on how to approach the hissing creature as Padraigan bravely thrust the torch at it, using the fire to distract it. But as Conor got a good grip on the enormous broadsword and circled off to the left of the animal, moving out of its line of sight, he could hear Padraigan uttering faint, mysterious words.

“
A gheobhaidh tú ar ais leis an dorchadas
,” she hissed.
“Chréatúr de, fiacla olc dubh an bháis, ar ais chuig an dorchadais ó$$$it a tháinig tú.”

She’s casting a spell, Conor thought as he moved with stealth to the left, translating Padraigan’s words as he went, to the darkness you will return, creature of evil, black teeth of death, return to the darkness from where you came. It all seemed surreal as he got a good look at the animal, something scaly and prehistoric–looking. He couldn’t even be clinical as he studied it; this thing went beyond what his scientific mind was capable of analyzing. He tightened his grip on the sword, watching the thing spit some kind of secretion that sizzled and burned at the foliage beneath its feet. It was horrible and terrifying. And he could waste no more time.

He charged forward, holding the blade aloft in both hands as he aimed for the torso were the front legs joined with the chest. He fell upon the cold and scaly beast, ramming the sword into its body as hard as he could.

The creature screamed, sounding very much like a human cry, and fell over onto its left side. Conor withdrew the sword and plunged it in again and again. As the beast went through its death throes, a claw caught Conor on the right shoulder blade and he fell back, rolling away from the creature that was thrashing about violently. Somehow, he ended up about twenty feet away, watching the beast die. He didn’t even remember how he got there. He just stood there and watched the animal as its thrashing grew less and less until finally, the beast gave one huge shudder and suddenly lay still.