Overcomer - The Battle - Judy Colella (best love novels of all time .TXT) 📗

to Tara to continue overseeing the boy’s care. His weariness is far beyond normal and it will take a very long time for him to recover. I’m not sure why…well, never mind. When he does, he’ll be returned to you.”

Celeste thanked him, but before she could translate all that for Katie, a familiar shower of liquid light brightened the pathway, crystallizing a few seconds later to reveal Michael.

“Cover your eyes,” he said, then went to Cian, raised the boy to a sitting position and removed the Sword of Light from the scabbard, switching it with the other sword at his own back. Then he gently lowered the boy to the ground again. “He may keep that one,” he said. “He certainly has earned it.”

The Archangel smiled at the astonished group and disappeared once more in his droplets of light.

“Let’s go,” said Amergin.

“Wait.” Celeste went to kneel beside Cian, bent down and kissed his mouth. A sob caught in her throat as she got back up.

Amergin raised an eyebrow at Katie, and she nodded, went over to Cian, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. As she did, she saw writing on the hilt of the sword protruding from behind his right shoulder. Her jaw dropped. She looked up at Amergin, the shock in her expression unmistakable.

“She’s heard of that sword?” asked Amergin, surprised.

“What do you mean?” Celeste said as Katie, still open-mouthed, joined them.

“The sword he’s been given – I did not realize that people of your Time would even know of it.”

“What are you talking about? What sword is it?” She turned to her friend. “Katie,” she said in English, “what does he mean by us having heard of the sword? What sword?”

Katie shook her head in wonder. “You know it, too, Celeste. I saw its name on the hilt.”

“What name?”

Katie took a deep breath, released it slowly and said, “Excalibur.”

EPILOGUE

 

For a full two weeks the boy lay, unmoving, on the healer’s couch. His breathing had gradually improved, but only in the last two days had it become something close to normal. The healer had never seen anyone so completely drained yet still alive, and was nearly at a loss as to how to help this young man. Amergin had charged him sternly with the task of reviving him, of making him well and strong again, and the healer, a slightly built, highly intelligent man named Eogan (who was also the chief Ollamh), had not dared argue. No one argued with Amergin, except his closest associates, and even they knew their limits.

Moving away from the window where he’d been standing, a bowl in one hand, glass stirring rod in the other, Eogan approached the couch, giving the dark liquid a last swirl. He sat on the small stool next to the slumbering boy and looked at him for a few minutes, marveling yet again at his strong, beautiful features. He didn’t want to think what would happen when he was awake and in view of the women.

With a sigh, Eogan slid a hand behind the boy’s shoulders and neck, lifting his head from the pillow and putting the edge of the bowl to his lips. “Come, now,” he whispered, “drink up, lad. I really don’t feel like cleaning this mess up if it all goes down your shirt.”

“Sorry,” the boy whispered back, startling Eogan so badly he almost dropped the bowl. Cian opened his eyes and stared blankly at the robed man holding the bowl up to his mouth.

“I can’t believe it!” Eogan breathed. “I really wasn’t sure you’d ever awaken, much less this soon!” He lowered the boy back onto the pillow and sat straighter, pleased.

Cian continued to stare, but then his gaze began to move around the room as he took in the strange surroundings. What happened? Where am I? And why do I have the strength a half-starved infant? His eyes stopped once more at the man beside him. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice hoarse and a little faint.

Eogan put his head to one side, frowning. The boy was speaking Gaelic, but the accent was somehow off. Well, no matter…“I am Eogan, Chief Ollamh of Tara, here to help you recover on the orders of the Bard Amergin. Who are you?”

“Cian M- uh, Cian, son of Dara from Tír Conaill. How, exactly, did I get...did you say Tara?”

“I did. Home of the Kings of Eire. You’ve heard of it, have you?”

“Who hasn’t?” Cian tried to raise himself to his elbows, but it was beyond his ability, and he sank back down into the cushions. “This – ” He almost said “sucks,” but remembered that he’d have to say it in English since the Celtic equivalent would have made no sense. “. . .is awful,” he ended instead.

“Well, if you’ll be kind enough to drink what’s in this bowl, I think you’ll find you feel a bit stronger.”

Cian let the man help him, and made himself swallow the unbelievably foul-tasting liquid, willing himself not to gag. And, to his complete surprise, felt energy surge through him within seconds of getting it down.

Eogan had been watching carefully; he could see the elixir take effect, and stood up, pleased. “I know it tastes like rabbit piss,” he said over his shoulder, taking the bowl to a nearby table, “but it contains a number of herbs that in combination can cure almost anything.”

After that, Cian’s strength began to return in earnest. He got up three days later and hobbled around the room, leaning on Eogan’s shoulder, and by the end of five could walk completely on his own. Amergin had come by once or twice to check on his charge, and was extremely pleased with his progress. By the middle of the following week, the bard had Cian outside practicing with one of his own swords, telling him it was probably the best way to regain all of his energy and abilities.

Because he had grown accustomed to practicing with a certain amount of pain and weakness when he was younger, Cian was able to build himself up to the same level of swordplay he had exhibited before the battle with Moloch. He had blissfully forgotten all about that encounter until three days into sword practice. When the memory hit him, he had stopped mid-stroke, turned, and left the practice ring. It took a while, but he eventually came to grips with everything, and his memories were fully intact by the end of the same week.

“I can see in your eyes that you not only recall what happened to you, but who else was involved, and it’s my guess that you’ll be wanting to go back soon,” Amergin told him after watching him practice one afternoon. He smiled and patted the boy’s shoulder. “Am I right?”

“You are, Amergin.”

“Thought so. But I was wondering if you’d perhaps do me a small favor before we return to the Hub.”

“Of course I will! Not only do I owe you much, I also admire you a great deal, and feel it would be an honor to help you in some way.”

Amergin considered the boy for a moment, astounded by his humility and thinking it a pity he had to go back at all, but then shut out the thought as being traitorous and told Cian about a band of brothers who had been raiding their herds. “They’re frightfully proficient swordsmen, lad, but I think you could put them straight.”

Cian thought about that for a moment or two. “Would I have to kill them?” He knew how he’d answer if the man told him “yes.”

“Only if you really wanted to, or had no choice,” Amergin replied. “What I’d like, of course, is to get them in front of the Brehons and have things settled that way. Think you could just, er, injure them a bit, maybe disarm them or something so we can take them to judgment?”

“I honestly don’t know. How many are there?”

“Five.”

“Five. What makes you believe I’m capable of handling that many at once?”

Amergin gave him a crooked smile, crossing his arms. “You mean aside from the fact that you took on – and defeated – one of the biggest demons in history?”

“I had a lot of help,” Cian pointed out.

“To get you prepared, yes. But aside from the music that kept back interference, the rest was all you. Besides, lad,” he added with a wink, “I’ve never in my whole life seen anyone move so damn fast with a sword.”

Cian was surprised. Wasn’t the way he fought the same as that of every other swordsman? “I don’t understand.”

Now it was Amergin’s turn to be surprised. “You think the way you handle that thing is normal?”

The boy shrugged. “I guess. Many different people taught me sword strokes and such, but I’ve never actually had to use it against anyone – human, anyway – and well, I don’t know how other people do this. I did a lot of practicing on my own when no one was around and assumed you had to be quick. Was I wrong?”

Amergin laughed aloud at that. “Tell you what, boy, we’ll use weapons of wood and do some sparring, you and I. And I’m no mean swordsman.”

Remembering his session at the karate school, he wondered if perhaps Asian swordplay was different from this. He soon found out. Amergin got two thick wooden swords and handed one to Cian, who immediately recognized the wood as ash, like the one he’d carved from the old baseball bat. It gave him a very odd feeling.

“Balance good?” asked the older man, swishing his own through the air in front of him.

Cian made a few experimental swings, feeling its weight – the balance was perfect. “Good,” he confirmed.

And before he could say anything else, the warrior-bard attacked, bellowing. Cian blocked him easily, and within seconds the man was lying on the ground, the edge of the boy’s wooden blade at his throat.

Around them in the small courtyard, men who had been busy going about their various tasks had stopped to watch, fully expecting the battle-seasoned Amergin to make short work of this boy. Now they stood, open-mouthed in shock and complete disbelief at the sight of this powerful man lying on his back at the mercy of the attractive young stranger.

Amergin looked from the blade resting on his windpipe to Cian and back, and burst out laughing. “I knew it, boy! You’ll do fine!”

Cian withdrew the blade and put out a hand to help the man to his feet. “If you say so,” he replied, part of him thinking that perhaps the Druid had made it easy for him. “So when am I to do this?”

“Tonight wouldn’t be too soon. Come. I’ll show you where the cattle are kept and we’ll figure out where you can lie in wait for them.”

The place turned out to be a vast, lush green sweep of land enclosed by wooden fencing with a wide gate for the cattle to pass through. From what Cian could see, there were about a hundred head or so grazing in the peaceful, patchy sunlight.

“We had twice as many a month ago,” Amergin told him, leaning his arms along the top of the fence. “The King is getting a little irritated.”

“The King?”

“Well, my brother – Eber Finn. They’re his cattle, which he