Forging the Runes Read Free

they know?"
    No, of course not. They had no idea, they could have no idea, how frail a thing was love. . . .
    Cadwal realized suddenly how he was clenching his fists and very deliberately forced his hands to relax. He would not be ruled by memories. Or . . . dreams. (Gwen, his Gwen, calling, help me, Cadwal, help me—)
    No. Ridiculous. Gwen was long dead, and dreams were . . . only dreams.
    Even if they hurt so fiercely.
    " Damnio, "Cadwal muttered and started blindly forward. He knew why Prince Ardagh burned for battle, even if Sorcha did not; he'd felt the same madness. It was all too easy for an exile to fall into a frenzy of despair, to act with a wildness that said, clear as words, what does my life matter?
    It mattered to Sorcha. The prince should remember that. But then, cu glas as Prince Ardagh was, what hope was there on that point? Pw, his own people had their codes of honor, of course they did, but these folk of Eriu had more such codes than any sane man needed!
    "I must be at the king's side," Cadwal said to the absent prince. "I can't watch over you, too."
    Still, Prince Ardagh was a more than decent swordsman, and he'd been training now and again with Cadwal; for a prince, someone who hadn't needed to fight for his life—at least not with a sword—he wasn't a bad warrior. Besides, there was that uncanny grace and speed of his, a definite asset.
    Uncanny.
    Cadwal stopped short, uneasily considering the word. Uncanny, yet. And what, specifically, had he overheard amid the quarrel? Something odd, something of magic . . .
    Nonsense. He'd once drunk with Prince Ardagh when the weight of their respective exiles had burdened them both beyond solitary endurance. Yes, and they'd gotten a little drunk, too, talking like old comrades fully half the night. Nothing uncanny about that!
    "Nonsense," Cadwal repeated aloud, and turned his mind grimly to the forthcoming battle.

    It was a fine, bright day. A good day for a combat. Aedh had chosen the site well, forcing King Finsneachta's men to fight uphill, the sun in their eyes.
    For all and all, Ardagh thought, trying not to pant, it wasn't shortening the fight. Sorcha was right. This is not my battle. The prince fiercely parried a sword cut meant to take off his head, feeling the shock of blade against blade shudder all the way up to his shoulders. This is not my land. He twisted aside to let a second blow whistle past, very well aware that his armor was of leather while everyone else—including this cursedly enthusiastic foe—was clad in iron; no way around that liability, not for one of the Sidhe. This is not even my Realm, curse it!
    All around him, the clash of sword on sword and the roar of men's battle-mad voices tore at the air. Powers, how long was this battle going to last? Finsneachta of Leinster must surely know by now it was hopeless; Aedh had mustered far too many allies against him. And yet, Leinster fought on.
    Oh yes, and I went into this stupid human fray with equally stupid enthusiasm. Though why I ever wanted to—
    Ae, time enough to scold himself when he was safely out of this tangle.
    If ever he was. By now, Ardagh's swordarm was brutally weary, his head pounded, and his side ached from someone's direct hit on that barely adequate leather armor. Only Sidhe reactions, swifter than anything human, had kept him unhurt so long. And now, somehow in the crush of bodies, he'd gotten himself separated from King Aedh.
    Ardagh spared a second's glance to hunt and (with a little surge of relief) find Aedh mac Neill, there on a slight rise, fighting with the zeal and strength of a much younger man, iron helm hiding his silver-streaked red hair, and apparently totally unharmed. Yes, he'd brought this battle to the rebellious Finsneachta to teach that underking some humility. But no such serious motive could have been read from Aedh's face; he was very clearly enjoying the fight.
    Hastily refocusing on his foe, Ardagh parried a new slash, then cut at the