The Collector 3: Cauldron Page 19

  “He said he’d give us a generous finder’s fee.” She managed a smile. “He also told us if we believed in the power of the cauldron, he’d let us make a wish on it!”

  “Well, I know he’ll keep his promises. It only remains for you to get back to the barrow.”

  Matt gave a sudden violent twitch just then, making her jump. He opened his eyes and looked up at her and gave her the most wonderful, sleepy smile. She howled and buried her face in his chest.

  Matt felt as if his head were so light and fluffy it would float away on the merest breeze. He stroked Kate’s warm body, feeling the sense of calm delight in something long lost having been restored to him. He stared up at the hulking form of the giant, which was looking back at him with a rueful smile. Matt tried to say something, and blinked. His face twisted in confusion.

  Kate raised her head and looked at him with eyes full of love and an expression of profound regret. “Darling, I’m afraid there’s a bit of bad news ...”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Maeve paced the hall, her nervous energy transmitting itself to all her chieftains, who watched her warily. Mór sat on the side of the dais, not looking at anybody, just staring into space with an expression of profound distaste.

  “The scouts report that Cuchulainn has vanished,” Maeve said. “He was heading north, but now it seems he’s covered his tracks well; we’ve no idea where he is or what he’s doing.”

  She turned and looked at them. “Mór tells me the adventurers have reached the tower, but that bard Mac Nessa has turned treacherous!” The chieftains glanced as one at the dark figure of the Druidess, but she ignored them. “This means we’re in peril of losing the cauldron!”

  “But Maeve,” a chieftain said, “such a powerful thing is a two-edged weapon. We couldn’t use it without paying a dear price. Even you hesitated to use it to escape Cuchulainn that once.”

  “Would you rather see it in the hands of our enemies?” she retorted.

  “I’d rather see it out of this land altogether!” the man said, lifting his chin and looking at her with defiance.

  Maeve dug her thumb into her chest and glared at him. “The Cauldron of Fire is mine, Conner! It’s my possession, given me by my father of blessed memory. I gave it to Mór, who placed it in the tower of Moygara with suitable wards so it would be safe. If any chose to take on the task of beating those wards and succeeded, then they’d be counted a sure champion of Connacht.”

  “Then why did you allow the strangers to quest for it?” Connor asked. “They have no loyalty to us!”

  “Who’d have thought they’d succeed?” She shrugged. “The O’Brien is a handsome fellow, so he is, and the dark sorceress isn’t without power. It pleased me to set them a challenge, but did any here expect them to get so far without help?”

  “No, Maeve, perhaps not,” the chieftain muttered, backing down in the face of her scorn. But Maeve had grown thoughtful, and she cast a suspicious glance at Mór.

  The Druidess pursed her lips but didn’t look round.

  * * * * *

  “I’m glad you’re back, kid,” Thomas said with a rueful grin. “I’m only sorry you’ve lost your power of speech.”

  Matt looked at him, still wary of his hulking presence, but shrugged and returned his concentration to packing the cauldron ready for travel. He was dressed once more in a mixture of clothing from his own and Fergus’s packs.

  Kate watched him, sadness mingling with relief in her breast. “What do we do now?” she asked. “Any suggestions?”

  “I think it’d be better if you left this land and time altogether,” Thomas said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Neither of you fit in here; you’re like a burr under the saddle to the leaders of this land. Take the cauldron with you back to the barrow and go home.”

  “One way or another, I’ll be only too happy to go, but it’ll mean your death,” she said in a low voice. “You vanished thirty years ago, back in our world.”

  “Thirty years?” He shook his head in wonder. “How the world must’ve changed!”

  “Yeah. But, Granddad, I don’t think I can handle it if we just walk away, leaving you here.”

  He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Then don’t think about it. You went so many years without knowing me as anything more than a name and a few scribbled notes. Be thankful we had this short time together.”

  Matt stood up. He tried to speak but was frustrated when the words wouldn’t come. Kate fetched a scoop of water from the cauldron and splashed it on the hard ground, softening it enough so Matt could inscribe words on it using the point of Fergus’s dagger. “What about the geas?” he wrote.

  “As soon as you head for the barrow, Maeve will know you’ve broken it,” Thomas said. “You’d better travel as quickly as you can, because if she gets to you first, your life won’t be worth living.”

  “I think we can handle that,” Kate said, cheering up as she thought of her travel magic. Matt nodded and looked relieved. She turned to her grandfather. “We’d better go now, before it gets dark.” A lump formed in her throat, and she hugged him. “Granddad, I’ll miss you!”

  “And I’ll miss you, wherever I finish up.” He hugged her back, taking care not to crush her. “I’ll tell you a secret I discovered here. Reincarnation’s a fact.” He tipped her chin up and gave her a warm smile. “Who knows, we may meet again?”

  “I’d like that.”

  He stepped back and made a shooing motion. “G’wan now; get going. I never did like long goodbyes.”

  She and Matt mounted their ponies, using Fergus’s mount to carry the cauldron, and they rode off together, side by side. Kate looked back and waved, keeping her grandfather in sight, unwilling to just leave.

  The hulking shape of the former scholar held up a hand in farewell, and a broad smile came to his face. As they rode out of the bounds of the tower, he began to fade. Like the Cheshire Cat of fable, his smile was the last thing to disappear.

  * * * * *

  Maeve was overseeing the preparations for a new foray to hunt Cuchulainn when the feeling came upon her. She jerked upright and stared into space then swore violently. “The O’Brien is alive!” She rounded on Mór. “And he has broken his geas!”

  “The gods will punish him for his temerity!” the crone snapped.

  “The gods will have to get in line, for I want him first!” She gripped the smaller woman by her shoulders. “Think, Mór! These strangers had to come from somewhere.”

  “A caravan came in from Gaillimh this morning with tales of flying horses that left a trail of sparks as they galloped across the land,” Mór said and sniffed. “I put it down to a wild imagination, but it’s possible it could have been the O’Brien and the Susadi.”

  “That means they came from Dairmuid’s holdings.” Maeve turned and surveyed the host gathering in the town square. She saw her man, and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Dairmuid! Come hither, man!”

  Dairmuid climbed down from his chariot and strode across the square to where she stood. He gave her a short bow; they were cousins, and there was little formality between them. “My lady?”

  “Do you know anything of a Matt O’Brien and a dark sorcerer called Katherine of the Susadi?”

  “I do. They stayed in my hall a few nights back, and traded these for ponies and tack.”

  He produced a handful of coins. She inspected them and marveled at the workmanship and design. “This is a small wonder,” she said, handing it back. “It seems they do come from another land. Do you know how they reached Gaillimh? Was it by ship?”

  “I ... don’t think so, Maeve,” he said after a pause for thought. He rubbed his chin. “I do have an idea.”

  “Spit it out, Dairmuid! Time’s of the essence.”

  He sighed and nodded. “Very well. My men found an injured bandit, one of a small band that was pestering my western holdings. He said he was the sole survivor of a skirmish against a tall man and a dark woman.”

  “The strange
rs!” Maeve said, and leaned closer. “Dairmuid, where did this skirmish take place?”

  “Near the barrow of Iuchar. They said the strangers we know as Matt O’Brien and Katherine of the Susadi came from inside it ‑‑ how, they knew not, for it was sealed with a great stone.”

  “Ah!” Maeve nodded. “That explains much. There was ever something strange about that place.”

  “Indeed!” Mór interjected and began to pace up and down like a small ragged jackdaw. “If the O’Brien has broken his geas, then they will head for the barrow. It must lead to another place, perhaps the land they came from.”

  “Then you don’t believe they came from over the sea?” Maeve asked.

  “What lies out there, amidst the broken waters?” Mór demanded, spreading her hands. “Ask Mannanan Mac Lir!”

  “Mór, I’m asking you,” Maeve said in a quiet, dangerous voice.

  The crone drew herself up and took a deep breath. “My apologies, Queen,” she said, with poor grace. “No, I don’t think they came from oversea. That barrow has to be their gateway to their world.”

  “That settles the matter,” Maeve said. She smacked her fist into her open palm. “We’re going to head for the barrow of Iuchar and with the grace of the gods we’ll reach it and prevent these thieves from escaping!” She clapped Dairmuid on the shoulder. “Ride with us, Lord. ‘Tis your land we’ll be riding over, and we’ll value your knowledge.”

  “My knowledge is yours, O Queen!” he said, standing tall.

  “Good, Dairmuid!” she said, and patted his cheek. “Would that I had a hundred like you in my realm.” She turned to the host. “Mount up! We’re going hunting!”

  “It will take days to reach it,” Dairmuid said. “If the strangers have the power to travel so swiftly, they will escape us.”

  “Then Mór will have to give us the same power!”

  Mór nodded and mounted Maeve’s chariot with a heavy heart. She thought she’d concealed her grief even from the strapping queen who knew her best of all, but it was hard, so hard. Her eyes filled with tears as they rode out of the ráth into the gray afternoon. Now there was the prospect of losing the cauldron, the one thing which could bring Mac Nessa back to life, his death was unbearable. She began her incantation. From now on, she would use all her powers to find the strangers, and they would pay for what they’d done.

  * * * * *

  The urgency of their situation drove Kate and Matt on. Unhampered by the presence of the bard, she was able to apply her magic, and the ponies flew over the land.

  Matt rode hunched over his mount’s neck, his face grim, his thoughts seemingly turned inward. Kate glanced at him from time to time, checking that he was alright, that he wasn’t growing too fatigued. She still marveled at his miraculous restoration to life and resisted the urge to keep touching him, to make sure he was real.

  As nearly as she could figure, it was forty or so miles to the barrow. They’d covered much the same distance between Gaillimh and Roscommon within a space of a few hours. She wanted to hurry, but that wish fought with the desire not to overdo things for Matt’s sake.

  It seemed a matter of moments before they were racing up steep hills, and then the shining waters of Lough Corrib appeared ahead. Without flinching, without hesitating, the ponies dashed on and out across the water, their speed raising a fine spray in their wake.

  The Lough was a sign. Only a few more minutes and they would reach the barrow! Somehow she would force that portal to open for them and they’d be safe, away from this weird land and its murderous people! Her spirits lifted and Kate laughed and shouted with the joy of it all. The sun hung low over the hills ahead and just over one of those hills lay the barrow and safety, she hoped. Casting a glance at Matt, she saw her joy was matched in his features, all misery of his dumb state forgotten in the speed of their journey. He flashed a smile at her, and she shouted again.

  They crossed the lough and rode up the slope. A level plain passed under their hooves, then the ground rose again, and suddenly she knew they were back on the track that ran by the barrow vale.

  At the top of the hill, she reined in and looked down at the sea. The setting sun cast a swathe of red-gold light on the blue waters as if it were laying a path back home for them. She tossed her head back and sighed with relief. When she looked down again, she saw Matt looked far from happy.

  He was gazing back the way they’d come, and she followed the line of his gaze ‑‑ and her heart leapt into her mouth.

  A host of light chariots rode hard toward them from the southern shore of the lough. She guessed there to be at least a hundred, all bearing down on them under a wave of bright banners. Above the lead chariot floated a huge crimson banner, and in the chariot itself, Kate caught a glimpse of wild red-gold hair streaming in the wind.

  Matt reached over and touched her arm. “Maeve!” he mouthed.

  As one, they turned their ponies and galloped down the slope to the barrow, a hunched green mound on the springy turf. “Oh, God, let the thing be open!” Kate prayed, as she hunched over her pony’s neck. “If it isn’t, we’re fucked!”

  They reined in before the mound with a clatter of hooves and jumped down before the ponies had stopped moving. Together they untied the cauldron from the third pony and dashed to the entrance to the barrow. The rudimentary stone door presented a bland face to the world, and Kate screamed and kicked at it in fury, hardly noticing the pain in her toes. “Why doesn’t the fucking thing open?” she yelled.

  Matt shook his head and looked up at the slope. His expression turned grim and he drew the bronze sword from his belt. Kate looked up and saw the hosts of Connacht gathering on the crest, and she sobbed with fear.

  He touched her arm again. “It’s over, Kate,” he mouthed, offering further explication with his spare hand. “But I’ll fight to the last! Stay near this entrance; it may open yet. If it does, go through.”

  “I’m not leaving you!” she cried and clung to him.

  He kissed her then pushed her away gently. “We’ll be together somehow.”

  The host began to move, Maeve to the fore, hostile intent plain in every line. They descended the slope until they could spread out on the level ground above the little bay. Matt faced them, his sword ready by his side.

  Kate looked at the entrance again, but it was unchanged. A sniffing sound caught her attention, and she looked up to see the crow was watching her from a perch atop the stone lintel. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “A friend,” the creature replied.

  Given the craziness she’d experienced in the land, a talking crow didn’t seem that weird. She kicked at the mound. “Can’t you open this thing?”

  “No, but I can offer some advice. Get the bard’s head from the pack pony and throw it at the Druidess.”

  “What good will that do? It’ll only get her pissed!”

  “Do it and see.” The crow winked and flapped up into the air where it began to circle overhead.

  She ran and fetched the bloody bundle that held the head of Fergus Mac Nessa. Matt had argued against her bringing it along, and she saw his point; she really did. But there was that nagging thought at the back of her mind. In Celtic folklore, the taking of an enemy’s head in combat confers upon the victor all the best attributes of the defeated man. She’d had the feeling they’d need all the help they could get, and now it seemed she was right.

  Maeve descended from her chariot with lithe grace and sashayed toward them, spear and shield in hand. “Oath-breaker!” she called, her face grim, and leveled her spear-point at Matt. “You are mine, O’Brien!”

  Matt readied his sword but Kate stepped in front of him. “Where is your witch?” she demanded. “The one called Mór?”

  “What do you want with me?” the crone asked, stepping down from the chariot. Suspicion lined her ugly face as she walked toward Kate. “Are you challenging me in magical combat, girl?” she sneered.

  Kate drew the bloody bundle from behind her back and
tossed it toward the woman. “I was told to give you this!”

  The cloth came away, and the head rolled free. Mór stared at it, and the transformation on her face was remarkable. She let out a wail that froze everyone in their tracks and then fell to her knees to scoop up the gory object and hold it to her withered breast. “My son, my son!” she wailed.

  “Your son?” Maeve said, perplexed at the woman. “Fergus Mac Nessa came from your loins?”

  “Years ago, when I was a slip of a girl,” Mór sobbed.

  “Some slip!” Kate muttered in an aside to Matt. “Y’ know, I thought he looked familiar.” He blinked at her and looked back at the scene.

  “You treated him like a stranger. Did you engineer his traveling with these people?” the queen demanded.

  “Yes,” Mór said, and Kate heard the anger building in her. “I wanted him to take the Cauldron of Fire for himself, so he could regain his rightful place!”

  “He was a renegade!” Maeve’s spear swung until the point came level with Mór’s throat. “Yet you were going to let him take my cauldron and give to my enemies?” Mór said nothing, and gazed at Kate with hate-filled eyes. “That is treason, old woman,” Maeve said in a quiet voice and thrust the spear through Mór’s throat.

  The old woman died, and fell to the ground.

  “This really would be a good time to go,” Kate said, as Maeve stood looking down at the ragged corpse, a complex interplay of emotions crossing her beautiful face. “She’s really pissed now!”

  Matt moved to shield her from the queen, and together they moved backwards toward the barrow. “Oh, fuck!” Kate muttered. A single chariot was moving around the assembled host at speed as if to cut them off from any possible escape.

  It stopped over a hundred yards away on the left flank of Maeve’s army, and she had time to see it was being drawn by one white and one black pony before a passenger leapt out of the car. He sailed through the air with consummate grace, red-gold hair flowing in the breeze, and landed with a light bounce right beside her. Kate gaped at him. He’d covered a hundred yards with a single leap!