CHAPTER EIGHT
Conor sat at the table and watched the boys as they moved around the small, mud hut at Padraigan’s direction. They had brought him a cup of strong, tart wine, some kind of rustic soda bread, and big hunks of white cheese. The two older boys were obedient and intelligent from what he could see but the youngest didn’t want to work. He remained by Destry as the woman lay passed out on a small bed in the next room. The little one hadn’t moved from her side.
Conor had carried Destry into the room when she had fainted. Laying her upon the misshapen bed made from branches covered over with a rough blanket, he could only feel great confusion and great remorse as he gazed at her. Her pulse was strong and her breathing regular, so he could only assume that the stress of the situation must have somehow pushed her beyond her endurance. Coupled with everything else she’d gone through over the past two weeks, unconsciousness was her body’s way of coping with the stress.
So he kissed her forehead and returned to the bigger room when Padraigan insisted there was nothing they could do for the lady that rest would not more ably accomplish. He sat where he could watch Destry and the youngest boy as he sat by her side, holding her hand and speaking to her in his soft Celtic lilt. The more he observed, the stronger the sense of déjà vu he felt. Every time he looked at the three boys, it was as if something deep inside was struggling to burst forth with recollections. He couldn’t quite put his finger on how he knew these children, only that for some reason, he knew he did. And the fact that they looked like him and Destry only fed his sense of confusion and frustration. Something was happening here that he had yet to fully figure out. But, given time, he knew he would. It would come to him.
Padraigan seemed to steer clear of him since her initial tales of his true identity. She sent the boys to gather wood as she went outside and killed a chicken herself. Conor sat in relative silence, watching Destry in one room while inevitably finding interest in Padraigan and her very archaic ways. Her hut was incredibly primitive with no running water, no bathroom that he could see, and its dirt floor and crude furniture. More and more, he was coming to realize that perhaps there was something to what she had told him. Perhaps a door really had opened into the past and he and Destry had really stepped through. He was starting to feel as if there was no other possible explanation for what had happened.
Still, there was a part of his brain, the logical part, that resisted. As the sun began to set and darkness settled over the land, he was starting to feel a new sense of disorientation. To see this primitive land in the daylight was one thing, but when night settled, it was if someone had thrown a black curtain. He’d never seen such darkness. But taking a few steps outside to gaze up at the stars, he couldn’t ever remember seeing such a clear dusting of stars. In all his years in Dublin, he’d never seen such a crystal night sky. It was quite beautiful.
Standing just outside the door, he could smell something cooking. Padraigan was making something with the chicken she had killed and he could see the boys off in the crude barn tending to the animals for the night. He was coming to suspect that Padraigan must have said something to the boys about him and Destry, because after their initial display of affection, they had kept a distance. All except for the littlest one; he was still inside seated on the floor next to Destry.
Conor turned to catch a glimpse of her as she lay inside on the small bed. She was still on her side, still passed out. The little boy with the light brown hair was also sleeping now, his head on the bed next to Destry while his body remained on the floor. It was rather touching and Conor smiled faintly at the sight. The little one was a cute kid, no doubt. He couldn’t help but warm to the boy.
As he gazed into the warm, fragrant hut, he suddenly realized he had company. He turned to see the two older boys standing next to him, one with a pony on a lead. The boys gazed up at him, timidly.
“Dada,” the oldest boy said. “Would you like to see my horse?”
Conor gazed at the boy. “You’re Mattock, right?” he asked, watching the boy nod. Then he looked to the middle boy. “What’s your name, lad?”
The boy cocked his head as if hurt by the question. “Devlin,” he said. “I’m your Devlin.”
Conor nodded faintly, realizing that the boy looked a great deal like Destry. He had her bright blue eyes and the shape of her mouth. It was such an odd realization but not an unpleasant one. He had seen the transformation this afternoon just as Destry did, when the dwarves had somehow turned into these young boys. That event, more than anything else, was breaking down his resistance. Something like that just couldn’t be explained, even to a man as logical as he was. The longer he looked at the boys, the more he realized that they looked vaguely familiar to him. He felt something for them, kindness and warmth and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. He realized that the ideas of these boys as his sons didn’t distress him in the least.
He crouched down in front of the boys so he could be more at their level. The two little faces gazed back at him eagerly. Conor looked between them, his gaze both friendly and suspicious.
“You say that you’re my Devlin?” he asked the lad with the beautiful auburn hair. “How old are you?”
“I have seen eight years,” the boy replied. “I was only seven years when last you saw me. I have grown a whole year.”
He said it proudly and Conor fought off a smile. “Then maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize you,” he watched the boy beam from ear to ear. He turned to Mattock. “And you; how old are you?”
Mattock would not be outdone by his brother. “I am eleven years, Dada,” he said. “I was only ten years when last you saw me. Have I grown much as well?”
Conor’s smile broke through. “You’re the biggest boy I’ve ever seen,” he said, watching the boy grin. “I would never have known you. And… and your little brother in there. What’s his name?”
Mattock and Devlin looked into the open doorway of the hut. “That is Slane,” Mattock replied. “He is just a baby. He was only three when you last saw him. He has cried for Mother every day.”
Conor’s smile faded as he, too, looked inside to see the little boy sleeping next to Destry. It was touching and sad, and the sight tugged at his heart. With a faint sigh, Conor rose to his full height, towering over the boys, looking between them and feeling his sense of déjà vu grow stronger. He swore he knew these kids. More and more, he could feel it. Moving towards Mattock, he clapped the lad on the shoulder as he pretended to inspect the pony.
“So this is your horse, is it?” he asked. “He’s good-looking. What’s his name?”
“Deneb,” Mattock said proudly. “I can ride him like a warrior.”
“How is that?”
Before Mattock could reply, Devlin shoved him. “He still falls off,” he announced.
Mattock came back with a balled fist but Conor stopped the slugging before it could start. “Tell me about home, Mattock,” he diverted their attention. “When did you last see me?”
As he hoped, the boys were sidetracked. “At Cian,” Mattock said. “You were off to fight Geric and Mother begged you not to go. But you did and… well, we did not see you again. Padraigan came for us and brought us here. She made magic upon us and we became daoine.”
Conor cocked his head. “Little people? Dwarfs?”
Mattock nodded solemnly. “So Geric could not find us.”
Conor shook his head in puzzlement. “Who’s Geric?”
“Your brother,” Padraigan approached; she had been listening just inside the doorway and thought perhaps that now was the time to continue their conversation from earlier in the day. Conor seemed more receptive to it than Destry did and it was imperative for their own safety that they know the entire story. “Geric is your younger brother, my lord. He is the one who ordered Olc of the Eye to banish you and your wife to the Netherworld.”
Conor focused on the woman, realizing he wanted to know all of it. Too much about this situation was bizarre; bizarre enough that he was just coming to believe it. It was time he heard everything.
“All right,” he rested his fists on his hips, a gesture of resignation. “So I have a brother who had me banished into some magical other-region. If that’s true, why did he do it?”
Padraigan’s pale eyes were intense. “Your brother is wicked, my lord,” she told him. “He has always coveted your kingdom and your abilities as a powerful warrior and a good king. He is an immoral and bitter man and managed to raise a small army to challenge you. You were able to quash him quite easily but he continued to make trouble for you. Then, one day, he asked you to attend a private peace conference and you agreed. When you arrived, without your warrior trappings or your guards, he set Olc upon you and banished you through the doras amas. Then he came to your wife to claim her as his own but she escaped him and came to me, begging me to protect your children. As I escaped with the young ones and your court fled for their lives, your brother found your wife again and gave her a choice; either marry him and retain her life as a trusted queen or be banished to the nether region with you. She chose to go with you.”
By this time, Conor was feeling a good deal of apprehension and sorrow. He couldn’t explain the feelings, only that they were very real. It was as everything she was telling him was saturating his heart, his mind, and he was feeling the story as well as hearing it. It sounded familiar. It felt real.
“So she made the choice to come with me rather than stay with him?” he reiterated. “If that’s true and that woman in there is my wife, then why don’t I know her?”
Padraigan emphasized her words with her tiny hands. “It was part of the curse that Olc of the Eye cast upon you,” she reminded him. “Your curse was to walk the nether world with no knowledge of who you are or who she is. I was able to at least coax you back to the doras amas and bring you back where you belong. Now you must remember your place, my lord, and assume your destiny as a mighty king for the sake of your family and your kingdom. We have waited a long time for your return, my lord. You must try hard to remember who you are.”
Conor stared at the woman, thinking on her words. He did as she asked; he was trying hard to remember. As crazy as her story sounded, he was aware that he could easily believe it. Something deep inside of him very much wanted to.
“Tell me about my kingdom,” he asked. “Maybe that will help.”
Padraigan complied. “You are Conor, High King of Ciannachta, and your fortress is Castle Cian along the River Boyne,” she said quietly. “You have a mighty army that is loyal to you; they hate your brother because he has formed an unholy alliance with the Northmen who raid this coast. They give him power and money, and in return he allows them access to a great part of Ireland through the river and harbor. The Northmen have killed and plundered many towns because of your brother’s alliance with them. For many years, the Northmen would not dare attack Ciannachta because they feared you. You kept our land safe. But your brother has turned all of Ciannachta into a whore for the Northmen, to appease their lust for our riches.”
Conor stared at her, digesting what he had been told. Ciannachta. He knew that name, that kingdom. It was the ancient name for Drogheda. Torn between shock, disbelief and something that felt like excitement, his focus turned to the gist of her distress, something that had plagued Ireland, England and Scotland for hundreds of years.
“Northmen?” he repeated. “Viking raiders?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What year is this?”
He didn’t really expect that she would know but he asked anyway. Whatever year it was, it had to be well before the Norman conquest of England and the subsequent conquest of Ireland. The Viking raids on Ireland had gone on for hundreds of years so he wasn’t sure he could pinpoint when, exactly, this was. But he was determined to try.
Padraigan replied without hesitation. “The Year of the Brown Rabbit.”
Conor thought hard on that, knowing that the ancient Irish would measure their time by events, animals or even kings. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t seem to remember anything about the year of the brown rabbit that seemed to be significant. So he tried again.
“Who is the king of Dublin?” he asked.
“Gofraid, my lord.”
He stared at her. It was name he knew and a history he knew all too well. As he struggled to wrap his mind around the possibility, Padraigan interrupted his turbulent thoughts.
“Please,” her tone was reduced to begging. “We need you, my lord. The army hates Geric but they have no choice to serve him because he is king. But let them see their true king and you shall once again have their support and rule of Ciannachta. The army will follow you to the depths of hell if you wished it, my lord. We need you to make us whole and strong again.”
Conor’s gaze was riveted to the woman, feeling overwhelmed by her tale. But, oddly enough, he didn’t resist it. Even as she told him, he felt as if he already knew the details. It was the strangest thing he had ever experienced but even as he rolled the tale over in his mind, the details seemed to make him feel whole, completed. He began to feel strong again.
Behind him, he suddenly heard a noise and turned to see Destry standing in the open doorway. The light from the hut backlit her as she stood there, creating an ethereal vision as the darkness of the night enfolded everything it touched. Destry had little Slane with her, holding the child’s hand as her bright blue gaze lingered on Conor.
She looked weary and pale, but in spite of that, Conor had never seen such a beautiful woman. Every time he looked at her, he felt more strongly about her. His heart softened and he began to walk towards her.
“So you’re awake,” he said gently. “How do you feel?”
She watched him approach. “Better,” she said softly. “What was she telling you?”
He stopped when he came upon her, standing just a few inches from her. His dark blue gaze was soft and gentle as he gazed down into her lovely face.
“About my brother and my kingdom,” he said quietly. “Or at least what she believes is my brother and my kingdom.”
Destry’s gaze drifted to Padraigan and then to Slane, still holding her hand. She sighed, still looking at the sweet little boy. “This is just a wild stab in the dark, but I’m guessing that we aren’t going back to the hotel.”
He wasn’t sure how to answer her except with what he believed to be the truth. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t think there is a hotel.”
“Then you really think we passed through some kind of time portal?”
He sighed and put a big hand on her head, pulling her forehead to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Something happened,” he muttered. “Until we can figure out what it is, then all we can do is go on the assumption that somehow, some way, we moved back in time.”
She looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his handsome face. “So you’re supposed to be some sort of king?”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m told. And you’re my queen.”
She wriggled her eyebrows. “We have three boys.”
His dark blue eyes twinkled. “That means that we’ve….”
She fought off a grin. “I still don’t remember that part of it, but I did have weird dreams about giving birth.” She looked down at Slane, who was gazing up at her adoringly. She smiled at him as she looked up again, her gaze finding Padraigan. “I had a dream about giving birth to a girl.”
Padraigan didn’t understand her words so Conor relayed the statement. Padraigan’s features gentled. “You did,” the sorceress said softly. “Between Devlin and Slane you gave birth to a daughter who was born dead. You named her Angel because you said she was an angel on earth.”
Conor whispered the translation and Destry’s heart started to beat faster as tears sprang to her eyes. Powerful emotions she didn’t recognize, yet somehow remembered, flooded her. She blinked rapidly, chasing away the tears.
“I have a sister named Angel,” she whispered.
With Conor translating, Padraigan smiled. “Your Angel found you in the nether region and was reborn as your sister,” she assured her. “It is the way of the Life Cycle; our souls find one another in both life and death. Dying never truly separates us from those we love; we all find one another again, eventually.”
Conor repeated her answer verbatim and Destry struggled not to burst into tears at the thought. Her dreams were very vivid about giving birth to her children, including her dead daughter. She had visions of Conor weeping over the dead child, so very distraught by the passing.
More than anything, her visions and dreams had conveyed to her the compassion and caring of Conor, a man she had only just met but a man she apparently knew very, very well. Every moment that passed saw her come to know him even better. She was starting to understand just how deeply he was engrained within her. Gazing down at Slane, she squeezed the child’s hand before looking back at Conor.
“These children are ours, Conor,” she whispered. “I don’t have any recollection of being a queen, or of this life we had together, but I can tell you for a fact that these children are ours. I know my children.”
He could see that she was deadly serious. He moved closer to her so their bodies were touching, a hand coming up to gently rest on her back, perhaps pulling her a little closer.
“You don’t remember me?” he whispered. “I’m told you gave up everything to follow me when I was exiled. I’m told you loved me very much.”
The heat from his body was making it difficult for her to breathe. Her head hurt and her stomach was uneasy, but Conor’s touch and his closeness seemed to make her forget everything. Her free hand came up and she snaked it around his slender waist, her hand on his back, feeling his warmth and power against the palm. Her heart began to race again, now for an entirely different reason.
“That’s possible,” she murmured, laying her cheek against his warm, broad chest. He felt incredibly good. “I’m sure you’re going to do your best to remind me.”
He grinned, both arms going around her to pull her closer. “Absolutely.”
She couldn’t help but grin at the enthusiastic way in which he said it. She lifted her head to look at him, flicking her eyes leadingly in the direction of the four-year-old at her side. “Everything? Even…?”
He laughed softly. “Especially that.”
She joined in his laughter. “I’m not quite sure what to say.”
“Say you’ll at least give me the chance.”
Her laughter faded as she gazed steadily at him. The man’s power, his handsome face and his decent character had her spellbound. She could no longer resist him.
“I’ll give you the chance,” she whispered.
His smile faded, the dark blue eyes roaring with interest and adoration and passion. He didn’t miss the fact that she had just given him the green light to pursue her and he was thrilled beyond words. Just as he lost himself in her eyes, preparing to swoop in for a deep and luscious kiss, Mattock’s pony suddenly let out a chilling scream.
Everyone jumped at the sound, turning to see the pony being dragged off in the darkness by one leg. Conor watched in shock for a split second before rushing forward to grab Mattock and Devlin, who were rooted to the spot, yelling in fright at the top of their lungs. He thrust the boys in the direction of the mud hut, moving to shove Destry as well but realizing she already had Slane in-hand and was running towards the door. Padraigan scattered but Conor couldn’t worry about the woman; he was more concerned with getting Destry and the boys to safety.
Destry couldn’t see what had the pony in its grip but she could hear growling and snorting, which scared her to death. Instinct had her practically tossing Slane into the mud hut then pausing at the door as Mattock, Devlin and Conor brought up the rear. She grabbed hold of Mattock and Devlin as they rushed into the hut, shoving them back into the room and away from the door because she truly had no idea what was happening. All she knew was that the horse was being dragged off into the darkness, the kids were screaming, and she was terrified.
Conor, however, hadn’t come into the hut; he was standing in the doorway, watching the pony as it struggled against whatever had it. It was so dark that he couldn’t see whatever had the horse in its grip. Mattock was crying hysterically because his pony was being attacked and Destry found herself comforting the boy, watching Conor with a terrified expression as he watched the pony struggling in the darkness.
“What is it?” Destry asked him, her voice shaking. “Can you see anything?”
Conor’s dark blue eyes were riveted to the movement in the darkness; they were over by the make-shift barn now and he could see that the pony’s struggles were lessening. The animal was losing the fight. He, too, could hear the growling and snorting, as something horrific and terrible was lingering viciously in the shadows. As he opened his mouth, Padraigan suddenly appeared, rushing at him from the direction of the crude corral. She had a flaming torch in her hand, dragging something with her. She rushed at Conor, struggling with both the weight of the torch and the weight of whatever she was dragging.
“My lord,” she said breathlessly. “Your weapon.”
Conor looked surprised. “Weapon?” he repeated. “What…?”
Padraigan tried to lift it but she wasn’t strong enough, not with one arm. Conor saw her struggles and instinctively took it from her. The little sorceress held the torch high in the direction of the struggling pony.
“I will blind it with the light,” she hissed at him. “You must kill it.”
“Kill what?” he demanded, frustrated and scared. “I can’t even see it.”
“You must, my lord,” Padraigan was issuing a command. “Kill it now!”
Conor’s gaze lingered on the woman before taking a look at the weapon he now held in his hand; it was heavy and as he lifted it up, into the light, he could see that it was a gloriously crafted broadsword. The magnificent piece was massive, at least four feet long, with a thick, sharp blade etched with Celtic crosses and other Celtic designs. The hilt was forged from a solid piece of steel and as he put his hand around the leather pommel, he realized that it fit his grip perfectly. He was quickly becoming enamored with the beauty and craftsmanship of the blade until Padraigan hissed at him again.
“My lord!” she beckoned him, motioning for him to follow her. “We must kill it because it will come for us when it finishes with the pony. Hurry!”
Conor didn’t like the sound of that at all but he still couldn’t see what had the horse. “What is it?”
Padraigan’s features were filled with anxiety. “Uafásach.”
His brow furrowed. “Terror? What terror?”
“Please,” Padraigan urged. “You are a great warrior, my lord. You have killed many fiacla nathair. Hurry!”
Snake teeth, Conor translated to himself. It sounded too weird, too bizarre to adequately comprehend. But he was urged on simply by the woman’s words and the pony’s screaming. He could no longer stand by idle. He glanced at Destry before he charged on, seeing fear and trust in her eyes, and it fed him like nothing else he had ever known. As Padraigan ran towards the barn with the torch held high, he charged after her.
He could see the pony in the darkness, lying on its side as something chomped on its leg. Conor was a man trained the art of Medieval warfare; he’d trained seven years’ worth of students in the same thing and considered himself an expert. He knew tactics, weapons and psychology. But nothing prepared him for the sight of the night creature when his gaze finally beheld it; Padraigan rushed forward with the torch and the thing screamed, releasing the pony and recoiling back in fear of the fire. Conor could see that it was some kind of enormous lizard with great jagged teeth – he couldn’t have described it any other way. But it was horrifying, like something out of a bad horror movie, and for a moment he was actually stunned into inaction. As Padraigan thrust the torch at it, Conor just stood there with his jaw slack, drinking in something he could have never imagined in his wildest dreams.
But he was spurred into action by Padraigan’s howl when the beast suddenly reared back and spit at her. Something horrible smelling and steamy hit the ground, scorching all it touched.
“I will distract it, my lord!” Padraigan called to him, her voice tense. “Kill it!”
Conor could feel his heart pounding in his chest, both terrified and strangely excited. This was something new, horrifying and weirdly brilliant. He was in the middle of something he couldn’t quite comprehend, like a dream, but in spite of that he knew what he had to do. He needed to call upon his classical weapons training and carve into a beast he’d never even heard of much less seen. He had no idea what it was but he knew he had to kill it. He couldn’t chance that the thing would go after Destry or the children; he was the only defense they had and he was going to kill it before it killed them.
He took a deep breath and cleared his mind, thinking logically on how to approach the hissing creature as Padraigan bravely thrust the torch at it, using the fire to distract it. But as Conor got a good grip on the enormous broadsword and circled off to the left of the animal, moving out of its line of sight, he could hear Padraigan uttering faint, mysterious words.
“A gheobhaidh tú ar ais leis an dorchadas,” she hissed. “Chréatúr de, fiacla olc dubh an bháis, ar ais chuig an dorchadais ó áit a tháinig tú.”
She’s casting a spell, Conor thought as he moved with stealth to the left, translating Padraigan’s words as he went, to the darkness you will return, creature of evil, black teeth of death, return to the darkness from where you came. It all seemed surreal as he got a good look at the animal, something scaly and prehistoric-looking. He couldn’t even be clinical as he studied it; this thing went beyond what his scientific mind was capable of analyzing. He tightened his grip on the sword, watching the thing spit some kind of secretion that sizzled and burned at the foliage beneath its feet. It was horrible and terrifying. And he could waste no more time.
He charged forward, holding the blade aloft in both hands as he aimed for the torso were the front legs joined with the chest. He fell upon the cold and scaly beast, ramming the sword into its body as hard as he could.
The creature screamed, sounding very much like a human cry, and fell over onto its left side. Conor withdrew the sword and plunged it in again and again. As the beast went through its death throes, a claw caught Conor on the right shoulder blade and he fell back, rolling away from the creature that was thrashing about violently. Somehow, he ended up about twenty feet away, watching the beast die. He didn’t even remember how he got there. He just stood there and watched the animal as its thrashing grew less and less until finally, the beast gave one huge shudder and suddenly lay still.
The air was abruptly quiet, the only sounds those of distant night birds or an occasional forest creature. It was so oddly and instantly still that Conor felt as if he couldn’t breathe. It was as if the silence had sucked the air right out of his lungs. When he finally resumed breathing, it sounded as if he was gasping. He just couldn’t believe what had happened, what he had done, but the proof was dead and bleeding in front of him.
Padraigan leaned over the beast, jabbing it with her torch to make sure it was dead. As Conor stood there, stunned, she turned to the pony, who was still on the ground with a mauled rear leg. The pony nickered softly in pain and Padraigan called to Conor.
“My lord,” she said, her voice quivering from the stress and fear she had so recently endured. “The pony is injured. You must ease him into the next world.”
Conor was still staring at the dead beast but he managed to get his legs moving and made his way over to the little white pony. By this time, Destry and the boys had spilled out from the cottage, timidly making their way towards Conor and the dead creature. Destry had Slane by the hand but Mattock broke loose and ran to his pony. When he saw the state of the animal’s leg, the tears began to flow.
“Deneb,” he fell to his knees, stroking the soft white fur. “’Twill be all right, boy.”
Conor stood over the pony, seeing the mangled leg and knowing that it was unsalvageable. His heart went out to the boy as Destry walked up beside him. Her soft, warm hand touched his wrist.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
He nodded, still staring at the boy. “I’m fine.”
“What in the hell was that?”
Conor tore his focus away from the pony and looked down at her. He suddenly very much wanted to feel her in his arms, her reassuring warmth and softness, so he put his big arms around her and held her tightly. Suddenly, he felt shaken and frightened, now that it was all over, looking to Destry as his source of strength. He really needed to hold her, just for a moment. He’d never been so scared in his entire life.
Destry could feel him shaking and she let go of Slane’s hand, putting her arms around Conor and hugging him tightly. He really seemed shook up and she found herself in the role of giving comfort.
“It’s all right,” she murmured to him, her hands caressing his broad back. “It’s all over now. Everything is all right.”
He just stood there and trembled. Destry unwound her arms from his waist and pulled back to look him in the face, her hands going to his cheeks. She looked him in the eye.
“Do you hear me?” she whispered, smiling encouragingly. “It’s all over and you did fine. We’re all fine.”
He just looked at her, his pale face even paler. He couldn’t even speak. Clucking with sympathy, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheeks, whispering words of comfort. As Conor wrapped her up in his enormous arms again, they heard soft sobs off to the left and turned to see Mattock weeping quietly over his pony. The boy was broken up and Conor wasn’t so shaken that he didn’t know what needed to be done. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and scrambled to bring his wits about him.
“Take the boys inside,” he told Destry. “I need to… take care of the pony.”
Destry looked up at him with her bright blue eyes. “What are you going to do?”
He just looked at her and she got the hint. “Just… take them inside,” he said softly.
Destry let go of Conor and went to Mattock, timidly putting her hands on the boy’s shoulders. The lad began to weep harder when he realized that they were trying to separate him from his beloved pony.
“Conor,” Destry looked up at him, desperate. “I don’t speak his language. Tell him to come with me.”
Conor leaned over, putting his enormous hand on the boy’s auburn head. “Mattock,” he said in Gaelic. “Go with… with your mother. Go inside now.”
Mattock shook his head, weeping pitifully. Destry felt so sorry for the boy; she hugged him gently, trying to pull him away from the pony.
“How can I tell him that everything will be okay?” she asked Conor.
Conor helped her pull the boy up. “Beidh gach rud ceart go leor.”
Destry put her arms around the child, her head against his. “Beidh gach rud ceart go leor,” she repeated softly. “Everything will be all right, Mattock. Come inside.”
She managed to pull him away from the bleeding animal. Conor took hold of Devlin and Slane, directing them to follow. He stood there and watched as Destry escorted the boys back inside the mud hut, his gaze lingering on the gently glowing open door even after they had disappeared through it. It had been an extremely eventful night in a day that had been full of such monumental events and he still wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. But he was glad for one thing; Destry was with him. All of the craziness and bizarre happenings aside, he could handle anything that was thrown at him as long as she was with him.
He sighed faintly, turning back to the dead creature several feet away with the sword still stuck in its belly. Conor went to retrieve the sword, feeling a little squeamish about what he needed to do with the pony. He went to the little horse, gazing down into its big brown eyes as Padraigan began to throw wood all around the dead beast. As Conor reluctantly took care of the horse, Padraigan made a neat bonfire around the lizardy beast and lit it with the torch in her hand.
With the inky darkness surrounding them, Conor went to stand next to Padraigan as she murmuring spells into the night that would cast the creature’s soul deep into the underworld. As an anthropologist, he found it extremely interesting and curious, but as a man who had just killed some kind of mythical beast, he was willing to believe that that science wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Maybe a little magic was something to put some faith in.