understand why we were attacked. We’ve lived in peace among the Lochlannach for so long. Some of our women married among the Norse.’
Trahern walked through the tall grasses, holding Morren close. She couldn’t seem to relax, though he’d done nothing to threaten her.
‘Tell me the rest of the story,’ she asked quietly. ‘About Dagda and Eithne.’
It was natural to slip into the tale, spinning a distraction that both of them needed. Trahern continued where he’d left off, and in the midst of his storytelling, the strained tension in her body seemed to relax.
‘The god Dagda wanted to grant his son a piece of land, when Oengus grew to manhood. But the land that Dagda wished to offer was held by a man named Elcmar. Oengus did not want to kill Elcmar, and so it was that he and his men attacked during the celebration of Samhain.
‘When Oengus conquered Elcmar, he asked to rule the land, for one day and a single night. Afterwards, both would go to Dagda and ask who should rightfully possess the land.’
Though Morren remained silent, he saw her face softening as he wove the story. Her lips tilted upwards, when he spoke of Oengus’s trickery.
‘When both men came to Dagda, the god proclaimed that it now rightfully belonged to Oengus. For Samhain is a feast where time holds no meaning. And ruling it for a day and a night during that time of celebration is to rule it for eternity.’
When he’d finished the story, the stone walls of St Michael’s emerged over the horizon, less than a mile away. Trahern set Morren down, asking, ‘Do you want to walk the rest of the distance, or shall I carry you?’ He doubted she’d want to appear like an invalid in front of the monks, but if she lacked the strength, it was no hardship to continue the rest of the way.
‘I’ll walk,’ she answered.
Made of stone, the abbey stretched high above the landscape, flanked by a round tower. Arched windows, as tall as an ordinary man, encircled the structure, but he could not see any of the brethren at first. At the bottom of the hill, a silver strand of water wove through the countryside.
Morren held the edges of her cloak around her body, to guard against the cold. ‘You’re planning on leaving me here at the monastery, aren’t you?’
‘You’re not strong enough to reach the cashel.’ It was best to grant her the protection of the Church. In this way, he could ensure her safety. ‘I’ll find your sister and bring her back to you.’
‘I want to believe you. But I don’t.’
‘You think I’m the sort of man who would leave her there alone?’ His temper flared that she would think such a thing. ‘I’m the one who sent her for help. It’s my obligation to bring her back to you.’
‘Jilleen is just a girl, a stranger to you.’ She exhaled a breath, still not trusting him. ‘What if the Lochlannach found her?’
‘Stop thinking like that. We don’t know why she didn’t return. But I promise you, I’ll find her.’
‘You’re a bard, not a warrior.’
Trahern took a step forward, using his height in an unspoken warning. Morren met his gaze, and he rested his hand upon his sword. ‘Be assured, Morren, I know how to fight. And defend.’ He’d spent years of his life practising with his brothers. Though he might be older than many, he hadn’t lost any of his abilities. If anything, his instincts were sharper.
Morren’s blue eyes faltered, and she looked away. Good. He wasn’t used to women doubting him.
‘If I had been there that night,’ he vowed, ‘each and every one of the Lochlannach fighters would be dead. They’d not have laid a hand upon you or Ciara.’
Morren’s shoulders lowered. ‘Would that it were so.’ She didn’t look at him, and he saw that words would not convince her. She picked up the long hem of his cloak and continued walking.
They travelled on in silence until they reached the stone chapel. Trahern was about to enter when he sniffed the air. The acrid scent of smoke suddenly permeated the landscape.
Morren moved to the crest of the hill, and Trahern spied billowing smoke clouds rising in the distance. From his vantage point, he saw flames rising from the fallen cashel in the distance.
‘They’re back.’ Morren’s hands moved to cover her mouth, and her face went white.
Trahern half-pushed Morren towards the chapel. From within, he heard the plain chant of the monks echoing. ‘Stay here with the brethren. I’m going after them.’
‘You have no horse,’ she protested. ‘They’ll cut you down.’
‘They won’t touch me.’ Trahern checked his weapons and cast her one final look. ‘I’m going to find out why they’ve returned. And what it is they want.’
‘Be careful,’ she urged.
He caught her hand in his. ‘Wait for me, Morren. I’ll be back by sunset.’
Chapter Three
The remains of Glen Omrigh were ghostly, with charred grasses surrounding the cashel. The wooden palisade wall was blackened and ruined in sections, the air heavy with smoke.
Trahern crouched low in the tall grasses, watching the silhouettes of two horsemen. It had taken him nearly an hour to reach the fortress, due to the hilly terrain, and the afternoon sun had already begun to drift downwards.
The invaders wore the clothing of the Lochlannach, Viking raiders by the look of it. Their long cloaks were fastened with large bronze brooches, and although the taller man wore no armour, Trahern sensed he would make a formidable opponent. His companion was shorter, with darker blond hair. Trahern grasped the hilt of his sword, while he pondered whether or not he could defeat them alone. It would be dangerous.
One of the huts was still burning, the thatch bright orange with flames. Smoke rose high into the air, the acrid scent smothering the cashel.
Trahern watched the two men as they patrolled the remaining huts, inspecting the contents. Not a single other person did he see. Any Ó Reilly survivors had abandoned the cashel.
Trahern kept one hand on his sword hilt when the men rode closer. Their faces showed displeasure, and he overheard them arguing in the Norse tongue.
They weren’t here to attack, it was clear, nor to steal the tribe’s valuables or supplies. Instead, the men’s expressions were grim, as though dissatisfied by what they saw.
Trahern moved in closer, keeping his body pressed to the ground. Dry grass tickled his face, the cold earth damp with frost. When he reached the outer palisade wall, he crept nearer to a burned section to get a better look.
One of the riders was on a familiar mount. It was Barra, the destrier that he’d paid a damned fortune for. The black horse was nervous from the smoke, prancing his feet. If the Lochlannach thief didn’t control Barra, he’d find himself on his backside.
Though Trahern wanted to attack the two men and
