Brothers in Arms; the re-awakening
Chapter 18

“There it is,” cried Kitti in satisfaction, the relief bright in her voice as they rode out of the shelter of the stunted alders and hazels that had lined both banks of the river. Now they saw the sea glimmering ahead, stretching before them to the horizon. Away to their right climbed a rocky headland, a thin line of foam signalling the breakers which crashed against the rocks at it’s feet. At once Jac could sense a tang of salt in the air, and he could see flocks of seagulls drifting like snow in the air, tiny white specks against the pale blue of the sky; still many miles away, yet after all the trials and hardships they had suffered the sea now seemed at last close enough to reach out and touch. Their escape from the Inquisitor’s fortress had left them far to the south of where Kitti had originally planned to leave the Devil’s Splinter, so despite her brave words at that time she had been apprehensive that replaceing their way back to the cove and their rendezvous with the Keeper might prove very difficult.

But fortunately the weather, perhaps at this time beyond even the Inquisitor’s malice, had been kind to them, so she had been able to gauge her direction by the sun with reasonable accuracy and eventually locate a few identifiable landmarks. The river had been the last serious obstacle on their route; this close to the sea it was wide and very deep in places, fringed and dotted with reed-beds and treacherous swamps, and ringing with the croaking of frogs and the cries and calls and booms of thousands of unseen and elusive marsh-birds. But their luck was still

with them and they had soon found a suitable ford, shallow enough for their horses to cross without even getting their rider’s boots wet.

It had been a subdued group that had ridden in fine sunny weather across the coastal plain; so far they had seen no hint nor sign of pursuit, which both surprised and concerned Donal.

“That they are not pursuing us is unexpected; it is not in their nature to be so forgiving. The leopard does not so readily change it’s spots, and yon Richard had impressed me as one who would not easily forget such an insult as we have laid upon him, and who would strive mightily to remedy the fault. I do not like it at all; it worries me greatly, and I am certain there is yet more trouble ahead for us,” he commented to Ethan.

“Yeah, but even a mug like me could have told you that; so let’s not lead a gift horse to water and then look up it’s ass. They aren’t here now, are they? Maybe, just maybe those guys think we’re more trouble than we’re worth and they’ve gotten tired of chasing us,” replied Ethan.

“I share Donal’s fears,” said Targon, “The Inquisitors would not wish to let word of their secret fortress reach the Brotherhood and the Free Nations, and not so lightly therefore would they let us go. If they are not pursuing us relentlessly, they must be indeed confident that we can still be easily captured; they will surely have some other fell device ready and carefully prepared up ahead to waylay us.”

Apart from this brief exchange, the conversation had lagged.

Ethan was uncharacteristically withdrawn and quiet, his thoughts as yet back at the lonely grave beside the thorn tree that they had left behind under yesterday’s morning sun. What exactly had passed between himself and that little lady, he wondered, reflexly rubbing his forehead where she had marked him; some new sense or skill or knowledge perhaps, something that might be useful in the hard times to come. Or maybe it had been just a simple gesture of affection and

gratitude, which was plenty enough for him, he knew.

Targon was also very quiet, as if his elation at his sudden and unforeseen cure had quickly evaporated, and he was now having trouble coming to terms with the previously unconsidered and unhoped-for chance of a normal and healthy life, and the responsibilities and duties and uncertainties that this might bring. There was also the loss of his mind-melding gifts and what that would mean for their future to be contemplated; without his gifts the profits from their performances might be greatly reduced and they might need to replace another way to make their living. He reckoned that their employment with the Brotherhood was likely to be neither permanent nor sufficiently well-paid.

Donal was in a strangely fey mood, not only due to his worries that the Inquisitors might have laid more traps ahead of them, but also as if reaching the sea was a doubtful prospect that both attracted and repelled him, although why this should be so he did not fully comprehend. At Jac’s home he had listened to Kitti describe how she and Targon had met with the Silkies, and her words had re-awakened long forgotten memories in him, memories that had long been lost, irredeemably buried and hidden in the heat and dust and arid deserts of Palestine.

As a young man he had loved the sea, and he had sailed it many times in his uncle’s sturdy little currach, catching lobsters and crabs in little baskets, and hunting the shoals of mackerel and silver herring which swam in their shoals of millions and millions off Ireland’s coasts, braving all kinds of wild and stormy weather. The foamy white-caps like wild horses racing, the taste of the salt spray on his lips, the song of the wind in his little sail, all these he had loved; and always he had heard the sea calling to him, each time urging him to sail on further and further out into the ocean, each time urging him, yearning for him, begging him to remain on it’s swell longer and longer.

And now, after all these years, he was hearing that call again, although this time stronger and deeper than ever before, so strong and deep that it made him, him, Donal O’Connell, the warrior, the slayer, the soldier, the veteran of a hundred bloody battles, it made him very afraid.

Only Jac and Kitti were in unabashedly buoyant form, and after a few

unsuccessful attempts to cheer the others up and raise their spirits, they had decided to leave them to their own brooding thoughts and ride on ahead. They chatted away happily to each other all through the day.

“You can taste the salt on the breeze already, can’t you, Jac?” Kitti was prattling on, “An old sailor once told me there was nothing so merry as a sea wind; and just look at those sea-gulls, there must be thousands and thousands of them. But that’s nothing; wait till you get to the Island; the birds there are magnificent, spectacular; petrels, guillemots, kittiwakes, gannets diving for fish like ivory arrows into the

water, puffins like little gaily-coloured puppets, full of fun and joy and laughter; they’re my favourites.

“The cliffs are steep and sheer and thousands, no, not thousands, hundreds of thousands of seabirds nest there; close up the noise of their screams and cries can be deafening. The Keeper’s House is set well back from the cliffs, so that he can hear himself think, he says, and get away from the smell, which he says can be rank and some days would nearly knock you down. But the further back you get, the more the bird-cries seem to soften into music, he says, though it didn’t sound like any music I’d ever heard. You’ll like it, I’m sure, though it’s not nearly as comfortable as your parent’s home. It’s the westernmost island of all the world, and his house faces west, so in the evening we can sit on the porch and watch the sun set into the ocean; the colours, the patterns of the sky, the sea, the clouds, like a symphony; and there are two peaks, one a little plateau where we could picnic and lie in the sun and another like a thin spire, the Eye of the Needle, the Keeper called it, it looks almost like -.”

“I can see something lying in the grass over there,” said Jac suddenly,

interrupting Kitti’s chatter, which he been idly listening to. He loved to hear the sound of her voice, even if he often found the thread of her conversation hard to follow.

He pointed towards a sandy knoll lined sparsely with crab grass which lay to the left of their path. A small stand of slender silver birches grew like guards around the knoll. Kitti rode over to look more closely and she started in visible surprise as she came up beside the object.

“It’s the Jewel,” she cried excitedly back to Jac, “The Jewel! Can you believe it; what a piece of luck! We’ve found it again!”

“Wait, Kitti,” shouted Jac warningly, “Don’t do anything foolish.”

His instincts were all at once screaming at him, boding of great danger and peril all around them. His suspicions almost choked him, pushing at him from all around like an angry crowd; there had been no sign of the expected hot pursuit, and now the Jewel had turned up out of the blue, impossibly, unbelievably, incredibly, miles and miles away from where they had last seen it, lying right there in their path. The

coincidence was too great, too bizarre; it simply had to be a cruel trap or a sly trick of some form. He had often heard rumours in the College of Healers about the fell powers of the Scrying Stones, about the great and destructive forces they could summon and compel. His teachers had always been dismissive of such stories, reckoning them as only old and discredited fairy tales and therefore foolish and quite unreliable, and he had almost forgotten them, although now he feared he and Kitti were soon to experience some of these fairy tales uncomfortably and at first hand.

But his warning was either too late or was not heard or was ignored in any case, such was Kitti’s extreme eagerness to reclaim the Jewel she had lost, and the loss of which she had felt to be her fault alone. She had already slipped lightly from the saddle, and was running over the whispering grass to where the Jewel lay on the bare dry sandy soil, glistening and sparkling in the sun. She bent to pick it up, giving a little cry of pleasure. Then her tone became puzzled, more circumspect.

“Jac, this is a weird turn of events. I can’t lift it up; I can’t even move it,” she shouted, now trying with both hands, “It seems to have become so very heavy; maybe it’s stuck to the ground. Make yourself useful and come and help me!”

“Leave it be, Kitti,” said Jac urgently, running to her side, “We need to be very careful; there is something very suspicious about all this. It could be a trap - we should get away from here at once; or at least wait until the others catch up with us.”

“Don’t be sill- Jac, I can’t let it go,” said Kitti, her voice suddenly becoming shrill and frightened, “My hands seemed to be stuck to it.”

As she spoke the earth around the Jewel began to shift and heave, the soil rolling and broiling and turning over as if it was becoming alive. At the same instant a wind sprang up, hissing through the crab-grass, whipping up the sand, thrashing at the branches of the birch trees, dragging and tugging at them, plucking at their clothes. Kitti screamed and Jac stepped back in alarm, his suspicions confirmed. He looked round wildly to see if the others were far behind, and saw them just coming out of the grove of alders. He waved frantically and saw them spur their mounts, racing toward them, Targon at their head.

He turned back to Kitti and tried to help her pull her hands away from the Jewel, though he was careful not to touch it himself. It seemed to have grown in size since the last time he had seen it shining in his father’s house. It’s light, which he had formerly considered radiant and beautiful, now seemed glaring and pulsing, threatening and malign. Then the earth around the Jewel began to rise and swell upwards and outwards and Kitti was pulled upwards with it. Suddenly, with a snap,

her hands were released from the Jewel, and she tumbled backwards, but before she could scramble away and escape a coil of earth snaked out and twisted tightly round her left upper arm, pinning her against the newly formed mound. In a second another coil was around her waist.

Jack drew a knife and hacked with all his strength at the restraining coils, but the transformed soil had become as hard as diamond and his knife glanced off it harmlessly, without doing the slightest damage; he cried out inadvertently at the jarring pain which shot up his arm and into his shoulder. He fell back, then gasped in fear at what he now saw standing, towering in front of him. The swelling soil had been transformed into an almost human figure, though almost twelve feet tall and with six, now seven, now eight, now too many flailing hammer-like arms for him to count.

The Jewel was set in the middle of the thing’s chest, where the human heart might have been, and it’s light pulsed as if it was pumping life into the creature; then in turn, the creature itself seemed to pulse and throb in time with the Jewel. As he watched, a face began to form at the end of a long sinuous neck, an exultant, malevolent face with glowing red eyes. He recognized it at once, of course, from the grimmer, darker fairy stories he had been told as a child, and his hopes sank; a creature of laughing, ecstatic devastation, a creature that could be summoned from the bones of the world, that could be summoned only by a great magic, but that once summoned was an invulnerable, elemental, immortal creature of unimaginable strength and destructive power.

“An earth demon,” he whispered in horror and awe, realizing the hopelessness of their fight. Even as he stared he had to dodge sideways as one of the arms lashed out, snatching at him viciously. His fear for Kitti made him panic, blinded him, disoriented him. He could not think what to do, how to help her.

Donal and Targon pushed past him, their swords brandished high, ignoring the arms which clubbed at them and buffeted them like a storm, and they slashed again at the coils which held Kitti fast. But they proved no more successful than Jac had been, and quickly became trapped themselves, bands and coils of rigid earth pinning them helplessly even as they cut wildly about them with their swords, which continued to have no effect. Even Donal’s great broadsword seemed useless against the demon, his mighty strokes not even chipping the smallest fragment of earth away from the huge creature. By now Kitti was half-covered with layers of heaving, pulsing earth and she was screaming, hysterical with fear.

“It’s crushing me; I can’t breathe,” she shrieked, though to Jac her words were almost lost in the still howling wind; in response, though himself caught tightly within the coils of the demon, Targon battled even more fiercely to reach her.

Jac turned around, desperately looking for something, anything he could use against this apparently invincible creature. He saw Ethan, and remembered something else, something important, but just as he shouted he felt a heavy blow to the back of his head and he slumped to the ground, stunned, wondering if the ground beneath him was also going to come alive and swallow him whole.

“The spear, Ethan,” he whispered, with the last of his strength, “Cast the spear.”

At Jac’s words Ethan shook himself into action; the sight of his friends struggling in the grip of that monster had momentarily paralyzed him. What the heck kind of a creature was it, anyway? Hell, it was twice the size of a grizzly bear and looked twice as tough and mean as well. Of course, his spear; it had worked before, it might work again, although this thing was a much taller order than the shrike, bad enough as that had seemed at the time. He fumbled with his saddle bag and pulled out the ornate weapon; it felt warm, almost alive, as if eager and ready, thirsty for the battle and glad that it had at last found an adversary worthy of it’s powers.

“I sure hope you’re as mad and bad as you seem to be,” Ethan murmured.

He took careful aim at the creature’s head, though the wind made it difficult to hold such a light weapon steady, and threw it as accurately and quickly as he could.

The demon seemed to sense it coming; the serpentine neck elongated and it’s head swayed out of the way. He had not been accurate enough, and the spear only grazed the demon’s neck as it flew past. They heard a rumble then, and a small mouth opened in the face, as though the demon had needed it to scream in pain.

“Try again,” shouted Donal, still battling hopelessly, thrashing wildly in the monster’s grip, “You have hurt it! I felt it shudder; I felt it’s fear! The spear is our only chance!”

Ethan ran around behind the creature and picked up the spear, small traces of soil and grit now pitted on the blade, which was sharp and keen as ever. He circled to the front again; the demon seemed to pause briefly in it’s efforts to subdue the other three, and it’s fiery mad eyes watched him warily, as if it had learned to fear the spear, as if it knew it could be hurt by this weapon and this man. Kitti was already unconscious, sprawled limply backwards, and had almost disappeared

completely within the thing; Jac lay still on the ground a few feet away and the soil was shifting and boiling up underneath him as if it was preparing an early grave. Ethan chanced a quick glance behind; there was no way he could even escape himself now as the earth had bubbled and heaved into a high trench to surround them on all sides.

There was very little time left for any of them.

“Aim for the Jewel, Ethan,” shouted Targon, “the Jewel is it’s heart”.

Ethan threw again, steadying himself, trying for the Jewel. This time he compensated for the wind and his aim was true. But just as he thought he would strike his target the demon moved with an alien quickness, the Jewel shifting to the left in the blink of an eye, and the spear buried itself harmlessly in the demon’s flank. Though perhaps not completely harmlessly; again Ethan heard the rumble which might be a sign of pain and injury, and the small demonic mouth opened and

closed, and the spear was expelled back to Ethan’s feet as if it was inimical to the demon’s very existence and it’s touch could not be tolerated for even an instant. Ethan grabbed the spear again just as he heard Donal give a final shout of defiance and sink under the surface of the demon. He was on his own now, except for Targon.

“Ethan, try again for the Jewel,” Targon shouted, “I’ll try to hold it in place.”

With a superhuman effort Targon broke through two of the pulsing coils holding him, and like a swimmer in a heavy sea lunged toward the Jewel. His left hand reached out and grasped it, and he pulled it close to him with the strength of despair, curled his body round it and braced his feet on the ground. The demon, sensing it’s danger, reached down great arms and tore at him, but he stood fast against the storm of earth and stones.

“Now, Ethan, throw now; I cannot hold for very long,” he shouted.

“I can’t,” Ethan shouted back helplessly, “You’re plumb in my way; I might hit you.”

“Throw, Ethan,” Targon shouted back, “else we are all doomed.”

Ethan threw again, as hard as he could. Again he was accurate and the spear flew truly; again the demon twisted with irresistible strength, the jewel moving and pulling Targon helplessly along with it; again the spear struck the creature’s flank, and was expelled close to Ethan’s feet.

Ethan picked it up, and heard a crack. Targon cried out, a cry of the deepest agony, and Ethan could see that his right shoulder had been pulled from it’s socket and now dangled uselessly at his side. But somehow Targon managed to brace his feet on the ground again, and maintain his grip on the Jewel, even as his skin and face were being lacerated to tatters and strips. The blood was now streaming across his face down his body, over his hands, across the jewel itself, which continued to pulse and throb, though now even more redly and insanely than ever.

“Throw again, Ethan,” Targon’s words were now coming out in tortured gasps, the words of a man who had died once and who was ready to die again; “One last effort, for Kitti, for all of us.”

Ethan heard another sharp crack, some other bone snapped or wrenched loose, and then Targon’s final shuddering agonized gasps, each word won from the demon at a frightening cost of courage and pain.

“Throw now.... Ethan; I.. will....endure.”

And Ethan Edwards, far away from his home, in a strange and unforgiving world, amid the rack and the ruin of all their lives and with the thin wiry branches of the birch trees whipping in a frenzy round them and the wind howling in his ears like a wolf pack baying at the moon and the evil eyes of the earth demon trying to daunt and intimidate and scorch him with it’s naked wickedness and malevolence, without hesitating, but taking certain and careful aim, cast the spear, cast it hard and fiercely with all of his vigour and passion and love of life and his fear for the lives of his friends behind it, and his grief and despair for the tragedy which he knew would come of his cast, as if it was the legendary Gae Bolg with which Cuchulain had slain both his son and his most beloved friend.

The demon tried to dodge again, but this time the tall man anchoring the jewel could not be moved, and his will, hard as adamant, could not be broken; but even Targon’s stubborn resistance could not totally defy the demon’s strength and he was wrenched and turned around, forced between Ethan and the Jewel and directly in the path of the spear’s deadly flight.

Ethan watched as the spear flew straight and true, singing sweetly in the air, and sliced through Targon’s chest with a sound like a sigh of farewell. Then without stopping, it’s momentum unchecked, it buried itself in the centre of the Jewel; there was a crackling, shattering, noise and then the Jewel exploded in a cascade of burning, sizzling sparks. A moment later, there was a deafening howl, and the demon had collapsed, wasted, reduced to a pile of lifeless, harmless grainy soil, and Donal and Kitti, released from it’s suffocating grip, were struggling to rise up from the dust and dirt, retching and gasping for breath. The wind died to a whisper, and the branches of the birch trees and the grasses were limp and still.

Ethan ran to Targon, who lay in the middle of the earth demon’s wreckage and ruin; of the Jewel there was no more sign, not even a few shattered crystals, though the spear lay undamaged a few yards away. Targon was still breathing, but his face was pale and strained and his eyes were closed. Blood was still flowing from the cuts and lacerations inflicted by the demon’s blows. But there was no bleeding from his chest, as if the spear had cauterized his wounds even as it had pierced and cloven his body.

Ethan heard Kitti come up behind him, and heard her catch her breath in shock and distress, and he wondered if she understood what had happened, and that Targon’s fatal wound had not been given by the demon but by his spear. Kitti leaned forward, unable to speak; she took Targon’s hand gently, and, as if recognizing her touch, he opened his eyes.

“Ah, my little one, I have caused you so much grief, haven’t I,” he said weakly, “But it has not been all grief. We have also had much joy between us, you and I; and at the last, for a little while anyway, you saw me as I should have been.”

He looked past her to Ethan, and smiled tiredly.

“You have saved us all, friend Ethan,” he said, “It was a brave cast, every bit as good as the Irish hero Donal told us about. I could not have held the Jewel still for a moment longer.”

“You big galoot, why did you have to get in the way?” Ethan swore at him.

“Targon, Targon,” whispered Kitti, squeezing his hand in anguish, “Surely you are not going to be taken away from me again; first in the arena, and now this. To see you die twice, it is too much sadness to bear.”

Ethan went to fetch Jac, but Donal had already roused him and now the young healer was pushing forward and kneeling down, examining Targon quickly and efficiently, as Kitti looked on, a brief hope fluttering in her eyes. Then they heard a sharp intake of breath from Jac as he realized the extent and the depth of the wound, and he stood back, shaking his head sadly. He spoke directly to Targon, his tone deep with regret.

“I’m sorry, Targon, but the spear has damaged your heart too severely; the bleeding is too great and I cannot stop it. You are already far beyond my skill - beyond anyone’s skill, I would guess.”

Targon nodded; “I knew that, my young friend; I can feel my life ebbing away as we speak. But I am content. I am far along on my journey; it would not be fitting nor fair to call me back now.”

He attempted to sit up, but the effort was beyond him and he began to cough, bloody saliva seeping from the side of his mouth and trickling down his neck. Kitti, without letting go his hand, wiped it away with her sleeve. Under Jac’s direction, Ethan and Donal took his arms on either side and propped him up more comfortably.

“At least you’ve a better view of the sea now,” said Ethan, “A little house here would be just dandy, wouldn’t it? White pickett fence, nice verandah, a few mint juleps in the evening, sitting looking out over the tide, you couldn’t beat it, I tell ya.”

Targon tried to laugh, though the effort made him wince further with pain; “I don’t understand you, Ethan,” he said, “and now I suppose I never will.

“Well, my friends,” he continued, beginning to breathe a little easier, “I come to the end of my journey, though yours, I would guess, is far from over. We have shared some interesting times together, haven’t we?

“Warrior,” he said, “I feel you are the prime mover in all that will happen; I know that your arm will prove as true as your courage. And Ethan, you have taught us all so much; to show compassion for the needs of others, and to be able to weep honest tears, does not mean weakness nor lack of purpose.”

He turned to Jac.

“And you, my young friend, it has been a hard apprenticeship for you. Look well on how Donal and Ethan have fought and strived, and yet retained their gentleness and courtesy.

“I would ask one final favour of all three of you. All my life I have loved and looked after Kitti; her life more important to me than my own life, her blood more precious to me than my own blood. I want you all to take my place, to be her protectors, to be her friends.”

He coughed again, and this time fresh blood bubbled up from his lips and nose and his voice grew suddenly more frail.

“Goodbye, my friends; if you would grant it, I would speak with Kitti alone now,” he whispered.

“So long, big fella,” said Ethan, “I’ll miss your singing.”

Donal and Jac did not speak, but gripped Targon’s hand firmly in a silent farewell. Then they withdrew to a respectful distance, gazing out to sea.

“I think my heart is breaking again, Targon,” sobbed Kitti, her head on his chest, his lifeblood crimson on her hair, and her tears like dew on his hand, “How will I ever manage without you?”

“Not all tears are an evil, little one,” he said, “But do not grieve for me overmuch, for I die well satisfied. I had your friendship and trust and love for many years and I leave you in the company of three gallant and faithful friends, one of whom in particular,” he smiled again, “loves you deeply and dearly, I would guess. Do not be afraid to open your heart to him, if that is your wish. At the end of all, all we have is love. I have had the joy of the mind-meld, and at the last the joy of knowing what it was to be hale and healthy, to be able to stand up straightly and breathe deeply and freely, and without pain. But most of all,” his whisper faded, “I had you, and I had your love. So remember me only with a smile and with joy in your heart, that my memory will ever bring you strength and hope. Goodbye, my Kitti, may your life always be sweet and full of happiness.”

His voice died, his head slumped forward and his eyes closed forever.