C. E. Murphy - No Dominion - A Garrison Report

“No, nor anywhere in this place. On your feet, Master Muldoon. Walk into the forest. You will not lose yourself there, but you may find a steed.”

Feeling a lot like Jo, I muttered, “Steed. Who says things like that?” But I dismounted, gave the mare a pat on her nose, and let my feet do the walkin’ up a quiet beach into a voiceless forest.

Forests sang, back home. They twittered and chirped and whistled, an’ they buzzed and whispered and cracked. Here all I heard was the sound of my own feet pressing against moss that sprang back again as soon as my weight left it, and my own breath sighing in and out of my chest. Cernunnos’s country was empty, lifeless, an’ felt like it’d been that way a long time. I said, “C’mon, sweetheart,” to the space between trees. “You out there waiting for me to ask nicely? I’m askin’. How ‘bout you and me go for a ride with Horns, and kick a bad guy in the teeth?”

A nicker that coulda been a laugh bounced through grey-greenery, light enough I kinda thought it wasn’t a horse at all. I couldn’t say if I was disappointed when one made its way through the trees, rather than a critter with a spiral horn on its forehead. It wasn’t like Cernunnos’s horse, power pared down to bare lines. This one felt more human, more normal, if a grey mare coming through a misty alien forest could be normal. She walked right up to me and lowered her head, so I put my forehead against hers. She whuffed a green-smelling breath, an’ I rubbed my hand under her forelock. She liked that, pressing against me, an’ I had to brace to keep my feet. “You real, sweetheart, or are you like one of Jo’s spirit quest animals?”

She snorted another breath, this time leavin’ me wet with grass drool. I chuckled and rubbed her forehead again. “All right, then. If you’re real I’ll have to give you a name. How’s Imelda?”

Imelda lifted her head to look at me with one big brown eye, then the other. I guessed that meant the name would do. Me and her walked outta the forest together, her pickin’ her feet up high and placing them down delicate again, and carryin’ her neck in a show horse’s arch. She was a pretty girl, and I never knew a pretty girl who didn’t like to be praised for it, so I kept my hand under her mane, rubbing and patting.

Cernunnos’s riders were spread up and down the beach when we got back, most of ‘em hardly more than shadows in the mist. Horns himself was waitin’ on us, as was the kid, sittin’ on a hunk of deadwood that shoulda been bleached of color, but was rich red like a living sycamore. He held Jo’s rapier across his knees. Cernunnos glared at it, then at me. “There you are. That was—”

The kid gave him a look, and the god’s mouth puckered up like he was suckin’ lemons. “That was more quickly done than I might have imagined,” he admitted grudgingly. “The land senses the magic you are touched with. She will serve you well. So will this.”

He tossed me a tangle of leather. For a couple seconds it didn’t mean anything, but then it resolved into pieces I recognized: a double-looped belt, one loop with a long slim sheath and the other with a smaller one. Cernunnos’s expression tightened up even more when I looked at him. “The shaman took my sword,” he said prissily. “She failed to take its sheath and belt.”

“Or the main gauche.” I waggled the smaller sheathe, which was as empty as the long one. “Where’d it go?”

“The sword has never had one to match. I wore it in hopes.”

“And then you lost the rapier, so no way would Nuada ever make you the knife to go with.” I wanted to grin but I wasn’t sure the boy’s stern looks would keep Cernunnos in line if I did. Instead I said, “Thanks.”

Cernunnos nodded, still scowling. “You would do well to wear armor as well.”

“You don’t. They don’t.” I nodded at the others.

“I am a god, and they have stepped beyond such mortal considerations. Dead men cannot die a second time. You, however, are vulnerable.”

“Only armor I know anything about is Army helmets and flak jackets, Horns. Nobody ever meant Kevlar to stop a sword, and anything else is just gonna weigh me down.”

“Find him suitable armor,” Cernunnos said to the boy. “I will not explain his loss to Joanne over a matter so simply arranged. You will hardly know you wear it,” he said to me, “and you will return it when this battle is done. I do not mean to make a gift of it to you as I have made a gift of that sword to Joanne Walker.”

I still had a tingle at the back of my mind, one that kept sayin’ this soft green land was home. Feelin’ that, I muttered, “No problem, buddy. I don’t need any more gifts from you right now.”

Cernunnos’s eyes narrowed. “Clever,” he said. “Clever, that you choose not to refuse all gifts, but only those offered now.”

“I’m an old dog, Horns. Most old dogs got a few tricks.” I untangled the sword belt and put it on. It was made for Cernunnos, who was a fair bit narrower in the hip and waist than an old ex-linebacker, but the belt fit anyway. I chalked it up to magic, sheathed the sword, and took a few steps, getting used to the feel of it. Not bad, for a guy who’d never really worn a sword.

Cernunnos cottoned on to that, and sounded accusing: “You told Joanne you could use that weapon.”

I shrugged. “I said I’d make do. I will. I learned how ta fight a long time ago, Horns. S’the difference if you’re doin’ it with a stick or a sword?”

“One has edges.”

So did his voice. I said, “Don’t worry, Horns. I can take care of myself. I ain’t gonna give you anything to apologize to Jo about.”

“You had best not.” He whistled sharply and the dogs came to him at a run, bouncing and slobbering when they reached his side. The riders and the rooks came more slowly, apparating outta the mist already on horseback. One of ‘em carried a saddle that the boy put on my mare, and she took a bridle without complaint. No bit, though. None of the Hunt’s horses wore bits. I didn’t figure a piece of metal in their mouths was what made ‘em ride the skies anyway, so I couldn’t see that it mattered. Another of the riders had the armor Cernunnos had been talkin’ about. Chain mail, though it didn’t seem right that a god who was around before chain mail was invented oughta have any. ‘course, by that logic he shouldn’t had a rapier, either. Guess even a god followed trends.

“It’s cunningly made, but you will not want to wear it against your skin,” he said to me, so I shrugged off my plaid shirt and tugged the mail on over my white undershirt. It weighed less than I thought it would, and didn’t pinch as bad as I expected.

“What is it, mithrail?”

Cernunnos’s eyes darkened like I’d offended him. “It is the very silver that sword is made of,” he said sharply, “and there is no word to encompass that. It will protect you from a great deal, but I still would not advise taking a direct strike.”

“Buddy, I got no plans to take a direct hit.” I buttoned my shirt over the armor and clambered up on the mare. Cernunnos looked pained and Imelda blew an exasperated breath, like she thought I was making a mess of things on purpose. I grinned and patted her neck. One of the dogs howled, and half a second later we were running for the moon.

Somehow I expected to come out on the battle already met. Expected we’d arrive in the thick of it all, like heroes riding to the rescue, an army of wild men comin’ over the ridge to save the weary soldiers. I guessed I’d been watching too many old Westerns, though, ‘cause when we rode outta the sky, there was no fight going on below.

There was a big ol’ mostly-flat hilltop, though. Mountaintop, I guessed, by local standards. At my end of time, it was called Knocknaree, and its claim to fame was a stone age pile of rocks called Maeve’s Tomb that stood a good thirty feet tall. It wasn’t here yet. Lots of others were—they were gravemarkers of some kind, called cairns, and they were all over Ireland, but Maeve’s Tomb hadn’t been built yet. We’d gone a long damned way back in time if a Neolithic building wasn’t there yet, but that was about the last of my worries, ‘cause there was somebody waiting for us, and I had a job to do for her.