becoming a warrior and fighting a battle, but in reality I’m dying, aren’t I?” His
amber eyes sought hers for the truth. “The fight you speak of is the fight for my
life. Isn’t that right?”
She wouldn’t lie to him, but it didn’t make it easier to tell him the truth with
the ache that settled behind her heart. He would survive or he would not. She
screamed silently at the injustice of it all. Trey had a good soul, a man who would
make a difference in the world and there was a little boy who still needed him.
Death could not have him. She pierced her lips together, forging a plan in her
mind. She would do it. She would teach him how to use the deadly barbed spear
she had given to Cú Chulainn. Trey would not dishonor the weapon and would
use it well. “Your nephew prayed to me,” she told him.
“Joey? He prayed to you?” Bewilderment clouded his features and she could
see the wheels working as he tried to wrap some sense around what she told him.
She nodded. “The boy loves you and feared you had given up.”
He closed his eyes with a sigh. “I heard the doctors talking. They said there
wasn’t any more they could do for me.”
Words could cut like a knife as easily as a sword could cut through flesh. The
doctors had given up on him. No wonder he had considered welcoming death.
She sat up, too and reached for his hand, surprised at how tiny her own hand felt
in his. “You can fight this. You can win.” She spoke with determination, trying to
evoke hope in him.
He shook his head, his eyes looking achingly vulnerable.
“Listen to me,” she demanded and he met her gaze. “You can win. I am
Scáthach, the Warrior Goddess and I do not train men without worth.”
Chapter Six
She didn’t train men without worth. Her clear melodic voice demanded him
to hear her words and obey them. The thing was: He didn’t know if any of this
was real. Scáthach insisted there were many realms of existence and the Isle of
the Mist was one such place. He’d love to believe her, but there could be another
explanation. One, he wasn’t particularly fond of. Maybe his fever-racked brain
had retreated to a safe part in his subconscious and planned on waiting it out in
this fantasy of warrior meets goddess. This couldn’t last forever though. His
body would finally give up. He never thought of himself as having such a vivid
imagination, but who knew what kinds of drugs were being pumped through his
veins. This could be a side effect.
Some side effect, too. Taking a trip to the magical Dú Scáith of Alba and
making love to a demanding goddess who insisted he had the heart of a warrior—
yep, it was one hell of a fantasy.
He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration then stopped. “What the
hell?” His nose was broken yesterday and hurt like the devil. He gingerly felt his
nose, expecting to feel pain but there was none. “The spring.” She told him the
waters would heal him. He hadn’t thought literally. He lifted his shirt and stared
at his torso, feeling his ribs where a nasty blue and purple bruise had been, but
only smooth unmarred skin met his eyes. He hadn’t noticed last night, but then
again he had been preoccupied. He pierced his lips together. “Of course you’re
healed, dimwit. This is a dream.” He said the words, but he didn’t believe them.
Somehow this was all too real. “I will have to fight for my life.” The realization of
what was happening finally dawned on him. A quick assessment of what he
would fight told him he might not come out the victor.
He took a deep breath against the panic that threatened to take over. “Do you
want to live, Brennan?” he asked himself. The answer was simple. “Yes. Hope
was in his reach and he’d be damned if he didn’t take it.”
He grabbed his sword and went out to find Scáthach.
She stood waiting for him in the courtyard dressed to kill figuratively and
literally. Her long legs slightly apart and her hands were on her hips. She lifted
her chin and gave him a blue-eyed stare of approval. Then she leaned down and
picked up a weapon. It appeared to be a long barbed spear. One direct hit with a
weapon like that would prove deadly. “This is my creation, the Gáe Bulg,” she
told him with pride.
He knew his Irish legends. Scáthach had only taught Cú Chulainn the
Some believed the Gáe Bulg was made from the bone of a sea monster. Seeing the
weapon for himself, he could well believe it had been. The barbs, ivory in color
were long and jagged, a weapon that would tear its way into the flesh, slicing
muscle and severing arteries on its way. His gaze sought hers. “Why are you
showing me this?”
“Why you ask?” She shook her head with a smile. “I plan on teaching you its
secret, Trey Brennan.”
She didn’t just hand over the infamous weapon. He would first have to prove
he could handle it properly without spearing himself by accident. She was
ruthless in her teaching, taking him down again and again, but he would force
himself to his feet each and every time.
Today, they worked with rods, four feet in length. He was trying to deflect
the blows but she was too quick. His forearms would be black and blue by the
time they were ready to call it a day.
“You aren’t trying,” she accused. “Concentrate.”
“I am concentrating.” His response was curt and delivered with a bitter tone
of resentment.
She shook her head and came at him as a stalker goes after its prey.
“This is bullshit!” he screamed at her, frustrated that he couldn’t defeat her.
“Stop thinking of me as a woman, Trey. You must believe I am the enemy. I
will destroy you. Do you hear me? I want your head on a stake, your entrails
pulled from your gut and your heart bleeding in my hands. See the enemy’s vile
face, not mine standing before you. Take the bastard down.”
His eyes narrowed with determination and this time he was ready. The rods
slammed into each other with a whacking noise that vibrated throughout his
entire body. He turned the battle around. He was no longer the prey but the one
stalking, giving her what she’d been giving him all day long. Pounding away,
making her retreat. Damn, it felt good. He brought the rod down and up,
relieving her of her weapon. He pointed the rod at her throat. If it had been a real
sword and this a genuine fight, she would have been dead.
Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she smiled. “Well done, warrior.”
He lowered the rod and relaxed his stance. “Why is it that I’m out of breath
and you haven’t even broken a sweat?”
“I’m a goddess,” she said with indignation.
He chuckled and gave her an elaborate bow. “So you are.”
She joined him in laughter, but then fell serious again. “I will show you how
to use the Gáe Bulg. You will do me proud, Trey Brennan.”
Her gaze held him in high esteem and he said a silent prayer that he would
not disappoint her.
Chapter Seven
Brutal practice, long soothing baths in the spring and making love
to a
goddess every night—a man could get used to this. However, all good things must
come to an end.
“It’s time,” Scáthach announced as she gazed out the window. The thin wrap
draped around her fell low on her back, exposing the vibrant tattoo she bore of
the mythical creature the phoenix. The wings spread across her shoulder blades
in shades of orange, red and yellow, the tail feathering down her back and
disappearing below the garment. The legend of the mythical creature
mesmerized him. From the phoenix’s own ashes, it rises from the flames to live
again.
After they made love last night, Scáthach rested on her stomach, giving him
full view of her backside. His fingers caressed the lines of the design with
reverence. She told him his destiny paralleled the mythical bird’s fate. She bore
the symbol in hopes of healing him. You will rise out of the flames and live
again, too. Her words still echoed in his mind with renewed hope.
“How do you know it’s time?” His curiosity won out. Was it in the clouds
billowing across the blue of the sky? Had a bird whispered the news to her?
She turned her gaze to him. “The wind has changed directions.”
Aah of course. He hadn’t thought of that one. “Come back to bed.” He lifted
the covers in invitation. He didn’t want to fight. He’d much rather make love to
her, kissing her where he knew she liked.
She smiled almost sadly. “No. Our time has come to an end. You will have to
make your stand today.
He gave her a brief smile with a shrug of his shoulders. “A man has to try
doesn’t he?”
“Oh aye. I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”
***
The smell of heather and the sea air hit his nostrils as he strolled to meet his
destiny. The mist that usually shrouded the island stood back, low to the ground
and circling them as if it were making room for the battle. The sun had risen high
in the sky, but the clouds had thickened, threatening rain and the wind whipped
around him like a tease of what the storm would entail.
On the crest above them, the enemy stood dressed in black, large and
threatening as a storm preparing to let loose.
Sweat poured down Trey’s back and he felt the blood drain from his face.
This was it, the final battle that would determine if he lived or died. There was
one good thing about all this. It would be over. No more struggling to draw in
each breath. No more worrying about Joey and his welfare. The fight would
finally come to an end.
Scáthach strode over to him with her hair tied back away from her face,
giving her features a-don’t-mess-with-me-look. She stood tall and regal like the
goddess that she was. She was so beautiful it took his breath away. “Are you
ready?” she asked.
He supposed he was as ready as he would ever be. “Yes.”
She gave him a curt nod. “You will win this.”
He was glad someone thought he could. He glanced at the foreboding figure
on the hill; waiting to cut his head off by the way he gripped his broad sword with
glee. He gulped back the fear that threatened to break loose and pulled back his
shoulders, standing tall. Then he went out to meet the enemy, his weapon in his
hand.
As he drew closer, he saw the enemy wore a tattoo on his scalp in place of
hair. If he remembered his Celtic symbols, the twin spirals at the crown signified
something similar to the yin and yang in the Chinese culture. At the base there
was the awen aka, the three rays representing the light seen at the point of death.
The right ray would symbolize the masculine and the left the feminine. The
central was the mediator, the balance—again the ying and yang. There always
had to be balance—good and evil as well as life and death. If he survived this
battle, he’d live and if he lost—death. Was the enemy the disease that threatened
to take over his body? A part of him believed it to be true.
Standing in front of the enemy now, the hideous face spread into a wide
smile as if reading his mind. Darkened stubs of what were once teeth filled the
foul mouth. His garments were dark and fur laden as seemed to be the trend in
this world. One scar was evident down the length of his face, starting at his eye
and ending at the point of his chin. His eyes were dark, an endless pool of inky
blackness.
Trey touched the hilt of his sword and felt comfort in having the cold steel at
his side.
The enemy took his stance with his sword held out in front of him and the
point aimed at Trey’s eyes.
Trey responded in kind. He gripped the sword with one hand above the cross
like T of the sword and with his other hand he gripped near the pommel so to be
able to grasp the blade if he needed to defend himself from heavy blows. He lifted
the sword high, with the point aimed at the enemy’s eyes. Fair was fair, if the
enemy planned on impaling his brain, he had no problem returning the favor.
They circled one another, their gaze locked on the other’s moves. Trey knew
he had to find a weakness to win. He would then call upon the Gáe Bulg, the
barbed spear and drive it into the enemy’s heart.
Trey couldn’t stand the suspense. He made the first move, going for the
enemy’s left leg right above the knee, swinging the sword around and down with
the intent of immobilizing him. The enemy side stepped to the right, blocking the
blow with his sword. His guttural chuckle of amusement rang through the air as
he took his sword and swung it clockwise, making a cut on Trey’s leg right above
the knee before he had a chance to side step. The slice stung like the devil but it
wasn’t a deep enough cut to cause any permanent damage.
They backed off and circled again. Sweat glistened on Trey’s brow and he felt
the droplets trickle down his face. “Focus, Brennan,” he coaxed under his breath.
He could ill afford making another rash mistake if he wanted to succeed in taking
the bastard down.
“I thought you’d be a challenge,” the enemy said, his voice gravelly and deep
but spoken with a precise manner of politeness, which seemed a contradiction to
the severity of their swordplay.
Trey didn’t acknowledge his comment but attacked again, swinging the
sword toward the enemy’s head, passing to his left and around as he did so. The
cold steel sliced through the air, but before making contact, the enemy sensed his
move and side stepped to the right, making a sloping parry by angling his sword
across and downwards protecting his head. The enemy swung his sword to the
left, forcing Trey to bring his blade up to defend the blow.
Trey backed up. He lowered the sword, saving his energy while he waited for
the enemy to make his move. His breath was labored and his leg hurt, throbbing
in time with the beat of his heart.
“You will not survive,” the enemy predicted. “You should bow down now and
let me end your misery. I shall make it fast. One slice to the neck.” He slid his
forefinger across his neck in imitation of his intent.
“Never.” Screw waiting for the enemy to make a move. At this rate he would
talk him to
death. Trey lifted his sword and went after him with a vengeance, but
the enemy blocked him at every turn as if he mirrored his moves. Metal against
metal sparked like lightning as the swords connected. Trey began to weaken. The
enemy’s blows vibrated down his arm until he thought he’d lose the sword all
together. The weapon felt like lead in his hands and his limbs moved as if
trudging through mud.
The evil smile seemed frozen on the enemy’s face. “You are no threat to me,
Trey Brennan. You cannot win this fight. Give up.”
“No.” Trey had lowered his sword and barely missed being sliced in two as
the blade whipped across his stomach, leaving a nice thin cut like a brand. It was
only a flesh wound, but deep enough to remind him of his mortality. Clutching
his side he wavered on his feet before tumbling to the ground. He wiped the
sweat away from his eyes and tried to rise, but his feet wouldn’t obey.
“It’s over.” The enemy raised his sword.
Trey managed to get to his knees. He wouldn’t die lying down. He’d meet
death on his feet. His vision caught a movement behind the enemy and fear
gripped him. “Scáthach, no!” he shouted his warning as the enemy whirled
around to fight her, already sensing her presence.
“You will not take my warrior.” Her voice commanded with authority, fully
expecting the enemy to comply.
“Your warrior,” he mocked. “He is not yours. You cannot keep him like a pet,
Scáthach.” He swung his sword, but Scáthach parried with ease.
Trey looked down at his feet where the Gáe Bulg appeared the moment
Scáthach did, but this wasn’t the way it was suppose to be. Scáthach wasn’t
supposed to put herself in danger. This was his fight.
The enemy swung his sword up and around, hooking Scáthach’s sword and
flinging it from her grip. He had to move or the enemy would kill her.
As the enemy raised his sword to take his beloved Scáthach’s head, he also
raised the Gáe Bulg, bringing it down and using it like a javelin, spearing the
enemy just below the ribs before shoving it deeper with an upward thrust. The
enemy bellowed as the barbs opened inside of him, cutting away and severing as
it forged its way into his heart. The dark eyes of his enemy focused on him with