Lady of Conquest (3 page)

Directly in front of him at two hundred paces lay an opening in the cliff, huge and beckoning. An eerie green glow suffused the ground and air. Conn slowed the horse to a walk, every muscle a hard cord of tension.

He called out hoarsely, “Bastard, when you see my torch, the next sight you see will be the fires of the underworld!”

He drew back his arm and tossed the torch into the mouth of the cave. He turned the horse and made his way alongside the cliff. His cloak fell unheeded to the ground. When he could no longer see the green glow over his shoulder, he slid off the horse and blew softly into its nose. Pulling out his massive sword, he continued up the cliff face on foot, placing each step so as not to jar the loose rocks. Pausing only once to glance behind him, he climbed until he was at the top of the drumlin that housed the cavern.

Sheathing his sword, he dropped to his knees and ran his hands over the rocky surface. He heard no sound from below. Near the apex of the hill he found what he sought. His knees, scraped raw through the cloth of his breeches, were abruptly cushioned in soft grass. His fingers dug into it, finding the contours of a makeshift trap door fashioned from a piece of wood covered with soil and grass. He leaned back on his heels, lips twisted in an unpleasant smile. From this vantage point a lone rider could be spotted leaving the plains before he ever entered the hills surrounding the cavern. He became more convinced that he was dealing with an intelligent creature, perhaps a giant.

He loosened his sword in its scabbard. Lifting up the trap door a fraction of an inch, he saw a faint glow from the cavern below. His eyes darkened to midnight blue as he heaved aside the door and dropped a heel-stinging distance, landing as silently as a great cat on unrelenting stone.

He found himself crouching at the rear of a large hollow room. The only sound that cracked the silence was the rhythmic drip of water from the dangling stalactites. At his back was a sheer rock wall. To his right was a barely discernible passageway that led deeper into the bowels of the cavern. Inside the main entrance two rows of torches had been placed along the wall, emitting the ghastly glow he had seen from outside. And between himself and that entrance stood his enemy, still facing the night, ignorant of the intruder in his domain.

The babbling boy who had returned from this place had not lied. A huge, black cloak covered the ghoul from head to toe, a span that nearly doubled Conn’s own height. A faint demarcation at the back of a cowl drew the line between head and body. Conn’s eyes were caught and held by the shining sword wielded in the creature’s hands.

All he need do to end this confrontation was rush forward without warning and ram his sword between the creature’s ribs. But the same code of honor that had refused to send more than one man to defeat a single creature stopped him. He pulled his blade, allowing the red hot center of his rage to return until the golden hilt he clutched seemed to glow with the heat of it.

He stepped forward. “Turn around, evil spawn, and meet the fires of the underworld! I promised you!” His voice rose from a whisper to a roar.

The creature turned so quickly that it swayed, nearly losing some precarious claim on balance. With the torches shining behind it, Conn saw that the cloak was not opaque but was almost sheer. He blinked, convinced there was something amiss beneath it.

But there was no time to dwell on the thought. As the creature regained its balance, it swung on Conn with a two-handed blow from the sword that slammed into his shoulder and almost sent him to his knees. He growled, parrying the next blow easily. His fury culminated in a strength that rushed through his body like pure energy. Thrusting through the midst of the dark cloak, his sword felt no contact with flesh but he struck again, trying to estimate where the giant’s heart would lie.

Still struggling to regain its balance, the creature swung again, aiming for a severing blow to Conn’s neck. He leapt aside as the blade whistled past his throat, and matched the giant’s swing with a lunge of his own. The swords clashed again, the bitter clang of metal against metal echoing through the cavern. Conn fought like a man possessed.

He made a clever feint only to be surprised by the giant’s lightning quick riposte. The enemy blade sliced his left forearm, drawing blood. The pain eluded him but he could feel the blood soaking into the sleeve of his tunic. He retreated against the wall as the creature advanced, each step bringing the shining blade closer to his face. Conn’s swings blurred as he attacked again and again, not allowing the creature to do anything but parry his thrusts. The extra effort it took to aim at the chest so high above his head rendered his arms aching and leaden. The wall at his back became a trap, a tomb.

The giant leaned forward and for the first time Conn saw the glint of green eyes beneath the hood. Wielding the sword like a massive hammer, the creature struck a blow to Conn’s ear that sent his head reeling. He fought to hold on to his sword as bells rang around him. The creature moved in for the death blow.

Conn summoned his last ounce of strength and plunged his blade directly in front of him. Expecting to penetrate the giant’s kneecap or thigh, he started as he felt the solid connection of the sword sinking deep into flesh. The creature swayed and Conn took the opportunity to thrust the sword upward, high above his head where he again felt contact with flesh and bone. The smell of blood like the smell of fear assailed his nostrils.

In a macabre dance the giant reeled, cape tangling around its legs. Conn sank to his knees and watched in amazement as the creature fell in two pieces. A high-pitched scream was drowned out by the clatter of the sword as it crashed to the ground, sending up an echo that reverberated through the cavern and Conn’s aching head.

Too dumbfounded and exhausted to move, Conn watched as the bottom half of the giant crawled out from under the voluminous cloak and fled into the night, leaving only a profuse trail of blood to mark its path.

Eyes wide, Conn crawled toward what was left. The cloak shrouded the inert lump it had become.

He reached the cloak and touched a corner of it. Warm blood drenched it, sticky to his fingertips. He slowly drew it toward him and leaned over to find himself staring into the face of a young boy.

A ghastly pallor descended on the boy’s face. Conn could see the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the cloak. His stunned fingers brushed the translucent skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, desperate to determine the youth’s age but failing. Conn’s thumb traced the shadowed circles beneath his eyes. A low moan escaped his parted lips.

Conn stripped back the thin material and rolled the boy over his knee to examine his wound. His sword had pierced the back of one bony shoulder between spine and arm, missing the heart by a hand’s length. Blood flowed freely from the wound. Conn’s mind, still bearing the brunt of shock, acted separately from his hands as they tore off strips of material from the cloak to staunch the steady stream of blood.

This was no giant of a warrior who lay limp in his arms. The boy was one of two people acting together with a flow of motion so well defined that none of the Fianna had been able to discern their separate parts. If they had, they hadn’t lived to tell the tale. Conn wiped the sweat from his brow; his aching fingers tightened the makeshift bandage. He wanted the lad alive. Sitting back on his heels, he felt the slow trickle of blood oozing from the deep slash in his own arm. He reached out and picked up the sword lying less than a foot away, marveling at its workmanship. A nagging bell of familiarity tolled in his mind. Engraved in the hilt was a word whose large, uneven letters did not match the fine craftsmanship of the rubies encrusted beside it.

“Vengeance,” he whispered.

The boy drew a shuddering breath. It was inconceivable that he had wielded this sword so well. The weight of the hammered silver sent shooting pains down Conn’s exhausted arms. He ran his hand over the boy’s arm. It was a lean arm—smooth, taut, and strangely muscular when compared to the sculpted cheeks and the shoulder blades that jutted out at sharp angles above his wound.

Spurred into action, Conn took the remainder of the cloak and wrapped up the sword before tying it around his belt. There was no predicting if the bottom half of the creature would live long enough to procure help from some unknown source. His first successful sword thrust should have descended deeply into the gut of the person supporting the boy.

He picked the boy up, carrying him like a baby. His head drooped against Conn’s shoulder; his short-cropped hair brushed Conn’s beard and Conn breathed deeply of a scent as fresh as the pure spring waters bubbling deep within the cavern. A searing flash of anger shot through him as his fingers sank into the familiar beaten leather of garments identical to his. Five leather belts hung around the youth’s waist, each marked with the clans name of a man now resting beneath his ancestral cairn. As Conn moved toward the mouth of the cave, his hands cut deeply into the boy’s shoulders and legs. The boy nuzzled his face into Conn’s tunic. A ragged moan escaped his throat. Conn loosened his grip.

He made his way down the narrow path where Silent Thunder waited, untethered. He heaved the boy onto the horse’s back and climbed into place behind him. The top of the boy’s head brushed Conn’s chin as he slumped against his chest, surprising Conn with his height.

The pale moon sank behind the horizon as Conn guided Silent Thunder south to a forest of towering trees. A lush carpet of pine needles muffled their steps. They wended their way through the trees until they passed a gurgling stream, swollen by the summer rains and cradled by thick moss. The boy’s moans grew more frequent at the jolting motion of the horse.

Conn pulled him off the horse and settled him into the mossy bank, his tense fingers checking the bandages for fresh blood. The boy breathed a gentle sigh as Conn lowered his head against a clump of earth. Sooty lashes fluttered against the smattering of freckles on the boy’s cheeks, then lay still. Conn’s thumb traced the Gaelic purity of the boy’s face. The smooth chin held not even the hint of stubble. The lad was young, younger than the boys who came to the Fianna with their hearts full of dreams. Younger than Kevin had been when he had knelt before Conn to swear his fealty. The boy turned his face toward Conn’s hand; his mouth moved against Conn’s callused palm. Conn jerked his hand away. However young the boy was, he was old enough to commit murder.

With leather canteen in hand, Conn moved a few feet along the brook until he found a wide ledge. He leaned out to scoop up some of the cool, tempting water.

A sense beyond hearing or sight jerked his head around. He rolled to the side, hearing the dagger whistle past his shoulder. He reached out a powerful arm but caught only air. The boy sailed past him and went tumbling headfirst into the rushing stream. Conn leapt into the chill water. His hands fumbled beneath the surface, closing on the boy’s jerkin and drawing him upward. Conn’s own dagger glinted wet and lethal in the boy’s clenched fist. Conn caught his wrist and gave it a vicious twist, sending the dagger flying out of his grasp to the muddy bank. Ragged nails raked Conn’s wounded arm, igniting a white hot anger.

Conn clamped his lips together and shoved the boy under the water. He drew him out sputtering and spitting, then shoved him under again as a balled fist caught the underside of his chin. Again he dragged the boy thrashing and cursing from the churning water. It slowly penetrated Conn’s fury that the hands clinging to his neck did so in desperation, their deadly intent forgotten.

He shoved the boy away from him like a rag doll. Too weak to stand, the boy sank to his knees and disappeared under the water. Conn dragged himself out of the stream and staggered across the clearing.

He looked back to find the stream’s surface broken only by white-tipped froth. He hesitated, not wanting to care if the demon’s whelp with the pretty face sank back to the hole he had come from. Water rushed over the pocket where the boy had disappeared.

With a vicious curse Conn plunged into the stream. His hands swept beneath the water and caught in the boy’s hair. He hauled him out of the stream and dragged him across the slimy bank. With a heaving cough the limp body came to life and wrapped itself around Conn’s ankles. The boy’s teeth sank into Conn’s calf as they rolled away from the stream. Conn’s curses blended with his. Pinning the boy beneath him with his knees spread on his shoulders, Conn drew back his hand and slapped him hard.

Conn gasped in a breath. The boy’s jerkin had fallen open. The linen shirt clung to the hills and valleys of the heaving chest between Conn’s thighs like a second skin. He cursed softly, staring at breasts that were small but well-shaped and undeniably feminine. The volatile child subdued beneath him was a girl, not a lad. The Fiannic oath promising gentleness to all women echoed through his mind, eliciting both anger and shame.

His body relaxed as he felt the girl’s muscles yield. Her face dissolved in a paroxysm of grief, and the tears flowed, tracing a grimy path between her eyes and ears. Conn gently wiped her cheek with the back of his hand, wondering how he could have been so blind as to mistake her for a boy. He moved off her and gathered her up in his arms. Her body slumped as he stroked her short-cropped hair.

Her voice was muffled into his shoulder as she spoke three hoarse words. “Where is he?”

Conn spoke softly even as his hands tightened their grip. “If you speak of the one who was with you, he’s dead.”