In The Trees

Ciaran tasted blood. Then he opened his eyes. Brenna was on her feet, sword drawn, one man dead at her feet while another circled, sword and shield at the ready. Enemy soldiers had surrounded their little camp, and Ciaran could hear screams in the trees. He heard the zip of arrows and knew Niamh was live and kicking.

He pushed himself up to his knees, reached for his sword, but another man swung at him, and he dove out of the way, rolled to his feet.

He curled his fist, ready to cast fire - but they were in the trees.

Like a Torch Going Out

Ciaran might have been insulted at Brenna’s casual dismissal of his battle prowess, but before he could summon the energy to properly protest, she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then nuzzled under his chin, sighed deeply and fell asleep.

Just like a torch going out - awake one moment, unconscious the next.

Ciaran wondered if that was a soldier’s skill, the ability to sleep anywhere any time, or if it was peculiar to Brenna.

He was comfortable, though, and warm, so he wrapped his arms around her, held her closer, and fell into easy, peaceful sleep.

Comfortable

“Get comfortable,” Brenna said, and she offered up the edge of her blanket so Ciaran could burrow in beside her and they could share blankets and furs.

He paused in the puzzle of sliding their limbs together so he could curl against her, let her tuck her head under his chin so he could feel her against his heartbeat.

“I’d have thought you’d want me to be anything but comfortable so I can wake quickly,” he said.

“I’m faster and stronger,” Brenna said easily. “You get comfortable. If trouble comes, I’ll be awake first. I know you’ll have my back.”

In the Grand Scheme of Things

Brenna laughed softly. “You don’t want to marry me. Whether or not you hate me makes no difference in the grand scheme of things, because you need to sleep.”

This time, Ciaran turned his head and kissed her. This kiss was slower, sweeter than all the kisses that had come before, but Ciaran felt fire sparking beneath his skin faster than ever before, and he turned, wound his arms around her waist.

Brenna pulled back first. “Sleep,” she said. “Who knows when you’ll get the chance again.”

“Is my bedroll next to yours?”

“If you mean within sword’s reach, yes.”

Hate You, Marry You

After the cooking fires had burned low and no one needed lamps or torches lit, Ciaran was finally allowed to stumble toward the trees to find a soft patch of grass to rest his head.

He paused at the tree line, scanning his surroundings for the safest spot possible, and then Brenna breathed in his ear, pressed warm against his back,

“Your bedroll is this way.”

Ciaran jumped, hand going for his sword, but he knew it was futile. Had she been an enemy, he’d already be dead.

“I can’t decide if I hate you or want to marry you.”

From You

Hours, days, weeks ago, Ciaran would have been gratified to see the hesitation that crossed his father’s face, but knowing now that Eoghan was persisting with his hatred with all this energy even though he wasn’t sure Ciaran was a monster was infuriating.

“You were born half monster, but I kept the monster at bay,” Eoghan said.

Ciaran’s hands curled into fists to smother fireballs before they could blossom. “If I’m half monster, then the monstrous half I inherited was from you!”

And then Deagan said, gently and low, “Ciaran, we need fire if we’re going to eat. Come on.”

I Was Yours

“Dolan,” Ciaran began, and a hand came down on his shoulder.

Ciaran spun, drawing his sword in one motion, and found himself face-to-face with Eoghan.

“Da,” he said. Eoghan’s face darkened.

“Don’t speak to them. Stay with your own kind,” Eoghan said and shoved him.

Ciaran caught himself, sheathed his sword. “I was going to offer help –”

“Stay away!”

Ciaran felt anger twist in his chest, sensed fire tingling in his fingertips, and he had to force it back. “If I’m not one of your kind, why did you lie all those years and say I was yours?”

Wary But Grateful, Inscrutable

“What now?” Ciaran followed her.

“Light the cooking fire and then sleep when you can. Who knows when you’ll get the chance to sleep next.” Brenna cast an inscrutable look over her shoulder, and then she headed into the trees.

Someone hollered Ciaran’s name again, and he hurried to answer it, because he was hungry, and cooking fires meant food.

He spotted Dolan and some of the farmers hunkered down on the edge of the camp, their wounds bandaged. They looked wary but grateful when a child offered them water. Ciaran started toward them, but they all looked at him.

Selling and Asking

Whatever the man said in farewell made Brenna sigh heavily, but she nodded. The man turned, and his gaze met Ciaran’s. When he spoke, it was heavily accented, but Ciaran knew the words.

“It will get worse before it gets better, but history must run its course.”

Ciaran wasn’t sure what that meant, but then Brenna splashed the surface of the water, and the man’s face disappeared.

“Selling him our secrets?” Ciaran’s voice was low, vicious.

“Asking him to sell his. He has none, other than what he told you.” Brenna handed the bowl to a medic and rose up.

Grim, Dangerous

She was speaking in a strange, fluttering language unlike one Ciaran had ever - no, he knew that language; he usually heard it being shouted across battle lines. She spoke the language of the enemy. Ciaran prowled closer to the cover of the trees. Before he was within arm’s reach, Brenna reacted, twisted and drew her sword, ready to finish him. Then she saw him, and her expression settled into something grim, dangerous. She sheathed her sword, turned back to the bowl and resumed speaking.

The man whose face shimmered on the surface of the water looked equally grim and dangerous.

Brenna Kneeling

Odran dispatched a couple of medics to tend to the farmers. Ciaran would have lingered, but then he was summoned to help set up the campfires with his magic. Some of the other Gifted returned to the beach to fetch the dead and prepare them for burial. They would bury the bodies of the enemies as a courtesy, but without the rites of the goddesses.

Ciaran lit some lamps for the children scampering about tending their parents, and he heard someone calling his name to help with a cooking fire, and then he saw Brenna kneeling over her silver bowl.

Whose Side

Ciaran could only stare at Brenna, perplexed and hurt, as she turned away to assist another.

Dolan glanced at Eoghan, then shouldered past him. “If he doesn’t want help, then he’s alone. Will you help us?”

Ciaran spread his hands. “I can’t. But I can ask the others.”

Dolan nodded, and Ciaran turned away to find Odran, see who could heal. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the rest of the farmers were watching him warily, but none had turned away - only Eoghan.

Ciaran watched Brenna tend to a child and wondered whose side she was really on.

But the War is Not

“Eoghan,” Dolan said, “we need the help. Some of the men won’t make it back to their families without –”

“Not from them,” Eoghan said. “Any help from them will turn to poison.”

Ciaran flinched at his father’s words. “I’m sure the healers will –”

“No,” Brenna said, coming to stand beside Ciaran. “We won’t help you if you don’t want it.”

“But Brenna,” Ciaran began.

She shook her head. “Their disbelief and anger will make healing difficult. It’s not worth the trouble when our own people are more effective fighters.”

“The battle is done,” Ciaran said.

“But the war is not.”

Ask Them For Nothing

Most of them were tired, bleeding, a few burnt in places. They huddled close, wary of the people with blue dancing on their skin. Ciaran knew he was an oddity among Deagan’s troops, for his skin remained as clear as the day he’d joined them.

“They’re not my healers,” he said. “They’ll do what they will. If you want their help, ask them.”

Dolan nodded and scanned the crowd.

“You’ll want to ask Deagan or Odran,” Ciaran said, and then his father pushed to the front of the group.

“Are you mad? We’ll ask them for nothing. They’re blue-skinned.”

Here to Find You

“Is that why you’re here?” Ciaran asked. “To save us from his mistake?”

“I came here to find you,” Brenna said. Abruptly, she turned away from the beach and headed back toward the medic camps. She knelt beside Niamh and drew the knife from her belt, sliced open her palm.

“It’s bizarre whenever you do that,” Niamh said, but then Brenna pressed a hand to her shoulder and Niamh’s eyes fluttered closed. “I take it back. It’s fantastic when you do that.”

Dolan’s voice broke Ciaran’s musing.

“Will your healers lend us aid?”

Ciaran turned, saw the injured village men.

Theirs and Mine

“No,” Brenna said, and she sighed, tired. “My magic is not like theirs. Their magic...is like mine.”

“You taught them your magic?” Betrayal curled in Ciaran’s chest.

“No. Not them.” Brenna swept a hand over her face, smeared more blood accidentally. “But...yes, our magic came from the same...source.”

“Your friend in the silver bowl. The one who tells you when they’re coming.”

“He doesn’t tell me when they’re coming - I know.”

“Is he their commander? Did he train them?” Like you trained me. Ciaran couldn’t say it.

“He lost control of them,” Brenna said, and her eyes darkened.

That Simple

“Power,” Ciaran echoed. That’s what he was - a half-human monster filled with killing firepower. He let his sword slip from his grasp, and he turned away from the shore littered with bodies, from the men huddled around their boats seeing to their dead.

“It can’t have been that simple,” Brenna said. She stepped up beside him and gazed out at the flames. “One battle wouldn’t deter them.”

“How would you know that?” Ciaran asked. “Were you one of them?”


“No. I’m all wrong - wrong color, size. Wrong language. Name.”

“But their magic - I saw it. It’s just like yours.”

The Most Power

“Is it true?” Niamh asked. She was injured, lying on a pallet while someone pressed a poultice to her shoulder, and she tried to sit up, but the medic hissed and shoved her back down.

Odran turned his sightless eyes toward the flames; in their golden glow, his irises were almost black.

“They are fading. Their magic wasn’t strong enough, because they only had their blood signs and not the power of the gods,” he said. “They will not return until they have more power.”

“For now, we have the most power,” Deagan said. He turned and grinned at Ciaran.

Retreating

At Odran’s order, Ciaran turned and spread a final line of fire, and then everyone helped haul the injured people up the slopes to the safety of the medics who’d remained behind.

Ciaran remained on the edge of the grass, watching the fires burn. He saw some of the enemy standing behind the wall of fire, trying to put it out, small spurts of water hitting the flames, but it wasn’t enough, not when Ciaran made the flames leap higher.

And then cheers broke out from the far side of the medic camp.

“They’re retreating!”

Ciaran knew his father’s voice.

Burned Alive

“There will always be a later,” Brenna said, “if we don’t give up fighting. Come on.”

Then she turned and brought her sword up, caught a man across the chest in a blow that tore him apart. Ciaran gripped his sword and followed her, readied himself for the rest of the fight.

What followed was - a dance. Memorization. Repetition. Motions and reactions learned and drilled a hundred times.

Reality was nothing like practice, because practice didn’t have blood and screams, desperation and magic, hatred and terror.

When Deagan finally called a retreat, most of the enemy was dead - burned alive.

Later

“Get away from me!” Eoghan shouted, and stumbled back, swinging his sword wildly.

In the background, Deagan was shouting orders. People crowded and parted like waves crashing onto shore; Ciaran struggled to reach his father.

Then someone shouted his name.

“Not now!” Brenna appeared at his side. She had a shallow gash along her cheekbone, blood in her hair.


Ciaran continued after his father, but Brenna caught his wrist, brought him up short. She was too strong for a real girl –

She pressed his bloody sword into his hand.

“Fight now,” she said. “Reunite later.”

“Will there be a later?”

Fathers and Monsters

Ciaran lunged, caught a man in the belly, twisted his wrist the way Brenna taught him. The man went down with a gurgle, and then Ciaran was at his father’s side.

A third man lunged, and Ciaran stepped in, brought up his shield. His sword flew from his hand, and he reacted the only way he knew how - by throwing fire. Then he spun to face Eoghan.

“Da!”

Eoghan turned to him, face twisted in horror.

“Run - while you still can,” Ciaran said.

“Monster,” Eoghan snarled.

Ciaran smelled burning flesh, but that didn’t matter.


“Da, please - it’s not too late.”

Fighting and Losing

Deagan shouted for his troops to fall back into line, and Ciaran scrambled to obey. The battle was shaking out; both sides were struggling into proper formations, and Ciaran was no longer terrified that he would strike friend instead of foe.

More cries filled the air, and at first Ciaran thought it was Niamh spurring her archers into close combat, but then he recognized the men’s voices – Dolan and the other farmers and Eoghan.

“Father!”


Ciaran cut a man down, brought his shield up to guard as he headed toward the cluster of farmers. His father was fighting - and losing.


Enemy Magic

Brenna shouted for him to put it out, and Ciaran reached out with his magic the way he’d done it thousands of times before, lighting candles and lamps in the camp. The flames curled up and died.

And then the boats hit the shore.

The first few seconds of a battle were pure luck. Training had nothing to do with success in the press of bodies, the clash of swords, because a man was as likely to hit a comrade as an enemy.

Ciaran had to survive, because he had to ask Brenna if she knew about the enemy magic.

Ciaran's Fire

Niamh’s archers picked off the first wave of warriors before their boats reached the shore. Ciaran watched the survivors tumble the bodies overboard and the boats kept on coming. One woman sheathed her sword, raised her hands, summoned lightning. One boat was lost, but more were coming.


These men remembered the losses from before, and they wanted victory.

Ciaran wasn’t going to let them have it.

And then fire exploded along the shoreline.

Screams rent the air as soldiers flung themselves to safety, but Ciaran knew the stench of burning flesh. Eoghan hollered his name, but it wasn’t Ciaran’s fire.

The Ones Who Could

Ciaran clutched his sword tightly and watched the boats come rolling in on the tide, bounce on the waves, prows gleaming with fangs and skulls, bristling with the weapons of the hordes waiting to spill onto the shore and draw red blood from the green earth.

And then Odran said, “Gifted warriors, to me!”

Several men and women detached themselves from the ranks and rallied around the old blind man, and Ciaran recognized them, the ones who could move things with a glance, stir the weather and breathe fire into thin air. He knew Odran was calling him as well.

Battle, Defend

Eoghan, Dolan, and the other men from Ciaran’s village formed a ragged band along the shoreline, armed with farming implements and torches, flimsy shields. Some of them called out greetings, but when Deagan’s troops came closer, their camaraderie faded.

“This isn’t your battle,” Eoghan said, didn’t look at Ciaran.

“This land is our home,” Deagan said, “and we will defend it.”

“We don’t need your help.” Eoghan hefted his peat cutter.

“We’re not here to help you,” Deagan said. “Fan out!”

Ciaran lifted his voice in the answering cry of, “Yes sir!” and marched to join his brothers-in-arms.

Down on the Shore

One moment Deagan was berating his troops as they bungled their morning drill, the next a scout came careening into camp shouting about boats on the horizon.

What was a drill became battle. Ciaran’s mind spun as he tried to remember all he had been taught, procedures and formations and lines that would give way to stabs and parries, thrusts and blocks, ringing metal and then death.

Niamh led her archers down to the shore, and Deagan divided his troops, sending half with Brenna. Ciaran wasn’t one of them, but that didn’t matter.

Down on the shore, he saw Eoghan.

The Day After

Ciaran watched Brenna whenever he could. He noticed she rarely used her magic. He also noticed that no one else shed their blood to use their magic. The others kept their distance from Brenna, but Deagan’s troops respected her, and Ciaran would readily admit she was better with a sword than any man save perhaps Deagan himself, and even then sometimes Ciaran thought she let Deagan win.

Ciaran did his best not to think about his father, tried to concentrate on his training instead.

He needed it sooner than he thought. The day after the winter solstice, the dragonboats returned.

See Everything

Brenna arched an eyebrow. “What about it? You want it in marriage? I know war makes desperate men, but –”

Ciaran caught her wrist and tugged her close. “You have no scar.”

“You state the obvious.”

“I’ve seen you cut your hand open before. To use your magic.” Ciaran stared at the unblemished palm of her hand and felt something hitch in his chest.

“I can use my magic to heal, remember?” Brenna looked amused.

“I’ve never seen you use it.” Ciaran searched her face, remembered how she once told him that she wasn’t really a person.

“You can’t see everything.”

Your Hand

“I trained you to last through a battle,” Brenna said. “What you’re learning now will get you through a war.”

“The Hammer of Thor will bring war to the Green Lands? But it’s winter.”

“Precisely when they’ll come. They’re done being farmers for the year. The cold is setting in, and they need a way to feed their families,” Brenna said.

“By killing and starving ours.” Ciaran stared into the flames.

“It’s what they’re good at.”

“And you’re teaching me to be better.”

“I’m teaching you to be you.” Brenna went to stand up, but Ciaran stopped her.

“Your hand.”