Page 25 of Queen of the Shadow

“Yah, well, that is my plan.Kill all of you and then kill the Queen of Shadow!” Drest pointed his sword at Scáthach, and with a battle cry his warriors pounded up the hillock.

“May Aife’s tits shrivel and her hair fall out in hunks,” Uathach said as Cuchulainn returned to his place at Scáthach’s side.

“Aife?” Cuchulainn asked. “Your sister?”

Through gritted teeth Scáthach answered, “Halfsister.”

Then Aife’s warriors were upon them again, and there was no time for talk. Blood and gore turned the hillock slick, giving their group some respite from the onslaught of warriors as the rush of them slipped and struggled uphill. Scáthach’s frustration fueled her sword arm. If only the enemy hadn’t brought archers! Her students were holding their own. The ambushers had to climb a steep, slick hillock and traverse a bed of marble and leg-breaking dips and holes, only to reach a circle of deadly swords. Scáthach had the upper ground. She also had the Hero of Ulster. Even though he had not called the red rage, Cuchulainn fought with the might of ten men. She matched him blow for blow, as gracefully as if they danced together. None broke their line. None lived who met their steel.

She heard the deadly sound before the first arrow struck the ground just in front of her, sinking into the back of the warrior facing her. He fell as the front line of the enemy retreated down the hillock and Scáthach shouted, “Arrows! Take cover!”

Scáthach and her group pressed themselves against the marble boulders and she cursed herself for being so arrogantly sure of the safety of her isle that she hadn’t even told them to bring shields.

“Ah!” The cry of pain came from her right and Scáthach peered around her boulder to see that Muirenn had not been able to bend her injured leg beneath her so the marble she crouched behind hadn’t shielded her. An arrow had speared her calf.

There was a brief break in the deadly downpour of arrows, and with remarkable speed Cuchulainn was on his feet, again hurling fist-sized rocks at the enemy. Scáthach joined him, and then all her group pelted the ambushers.

The archers fired again, and again Scáthach and her group pressed against the shielding marble.

Scáthach heard Uathach grunt in pain and her gaze shot to her daughter. The left sleeve of her tunic was ripped and scarlet glistened in the furrow the arrow had plowed across the outside of her arm.

“Little Fry!”

Uathach’s gaze met her mother’s as she tore the bottom of her tunic and wrapped it tightly around her bicep to staunch the flow of blood. “It’s fine. No more than a scratch,” Uathach assured Scáthach.

As more arrows fell from the sky, Scáthach’s gaze went to Cuchulainn. He crouched behind a large blood-spattered boulder to her left. Perhaps he should call the red rage. It could very well be a death sentence for him, as even his berserker could not kill the number of warriors against them. But his death,one death,could save them all.

His death could save her daughter.

Cuchulainn’s gaze found hers. As if he could read her mind, he looked past her at Uathach. He blinked several times, and his brow furrowed and then smoothed. His gaze returned to her. His smile was sad, but it did not waver. He nodded once and spoke loud enough for her to hear. “I understand.”

He did not hesitate. He stood, roaring Lugh’s name as he raised his sword and his fist to the sky. An arrow struck him, embedding to the fletching in his right shoulder. As his face began to flush a purplish red and his eyes distended, Scáthach heard another volley of arrows whistling toward them, but no arrows hit the ground. No arrows wounded more of her people, though cries of shock and agony lifted from the ambushers.

Relief was a wave engulfing Scáthach. “Uathach! Tabiti! The guard is here! Attack!” She didn’t wait a moment longer. As Tabiti and Uathach led the charge down the hillock, she rushed from her crouch and tackled Cuchulainn, knocking him to the ground. He roared again furiously, though when his reddening eyes met hers, she saw she’d reached him in time. The rage had not fully engulfed him. “Stop the berserker.” She spoke calmly to him, as if it was just the two of them and they weren’t in the middle of a bloody battle. “My guard has arrived. Look.” She pointed up, and Cuchulainn’s red gaze lifted to follow her finger to see that the new volley of arrows wasn’t arching down toward them, but showered the enemy with death instead.

He drew several long breaths. The flush of his face faded. His eyes softened and returned to their yellowish amber color.

“Under control?” Scáthach asked.

“Yes.”

She stood and held out a hand to help him to his feet, and then together they charged down the rocky hill in time to see the Shadow Guard, looking like avenging gods in their black uniforms, thunder around the hillock trilling their battle cry. At the sight of them, Drest leaped on his stallion’s back and shouted for his people to retreat. Those who could raced away with him while a smaller group was cut off from their mounts and had to face Scáthach’s grim-faced guard.

It was over quickly. By the time Scáthach and Cuchulainn joined her people, Drest and his much-reduced group had pulled ahead of the Dunscáith guard who had taken chase, easily outdistancing them. The group Drest left behind was quickly cut down.

Scáthach jogged the last of the way down the hillock. “Amage!” she called to Tabiti’s partner and the warrior leading the Shadow Guard. “Do not kill them all! I need information!”

Amage strode to meet her, wading through bodies and blood and gore. “Are you injured, my queen?”

“Not I, but Uathach and Muirenn and Cuchulainn—” Her words broke off as Leannan rushed to her, whining and pressing close to sniff her mistress as if to be sure she was unharmed.

“Uathach and Muirenn are already being taken back to the castle,” said Amage as she joined Scáthach.

“And I am fine.” As Cuchulainn came to her, he snapped the shaft of the arrow protruding from his shoulder and then reached around, grasped the arrowhead that had gone through his body, and with a yank, pulled the remainder of it from his shoulder.

Blood spurted from the wound and Scáthach began to berate him, but even before she could finish the reprimand the blood slowed to a trickle, and she remembered his parentage. Cuchulainn wasn’t immortal, but like her, his divine blood made him difficult to kill, and not just because they were stronger and faster than most mortals. Their ability to heal quickly often saved their lives.

Scáthach nodded to him. “Infection can still set in. Be sure that is cleaned thoroughly.” Then she ruffled the big dog’s ears to soothe her and asked, “What of the enemy? I need one alive.”