Overcomer - The Battle by Judy Colella (best management books of all time txt) 📖

They decided Cian was to wait behind a large stand of bushes; he could sit and relax until nightfall, then would have to be on his guard, especially since no one had been able to figure out by what means these brothers had crept into the enclosure. Amergin explained that they had chosen this particular night because the moon would be full, making it much easier to see the miscreants.

“But won’t that be all the more reason for them not to come?”

“Hasn’t stopped them before,” replied the Druid dryly. “I’ll have some food and drink brought out for you in a little while, and then you’re on your own. By the way, that’s quite an impressive sword.”

Cian had gone to pick it up at the House of the Learned, the name (he was told) of the building in which he’d been staying, and Amergin had been compliant about helping him strap it on. The Irish sword was generally half the size of the one Michael had given him, something Amergin had pointed out once the boy was lucid enough to understand. Cian, however, had not recognized the name etched in the hilt, so felt no sense of awe in its presence.

After watching Cian execute some practice swings with it to get used to its feel once more, Amergin was surprised that the boy had not only the strength to wield it, but the ability to do so with such ease.

As the sun began to set that evening, Cian watched the shadows, making sure the one from the bushes would be large and dark enough to hide him when he stood up. In the meantime, he peered through gaps between the leaves; this limited his field of vision somewhat, but he could still see a good number of the cattle. They had stopped grazing for the most part, and some were lying down.

As the sky darkened further, Cian drew his sword and got to his feet. He stood very still, watching all sides of the enclosure which he estimated to be at least ten acres, based on his recollection of the size of his father’s property in Tír Conaill. The moon began its ascent, huge on the horizon and cream-colored. He looked down at the crossed braided straps on his chest to find the rubies embedded in them were catching only some of the light – the last thing he needed was a fancy scabbard-holder giving him away. At least the weapon looked less out of place now. He’d been given a tunic, and leggings which were laced onto his legs by the long leather straps holding the sandals on his feet, an outfit that definitely worked better with the whole sword thing than his twenty-first century jeans and sweatshirt. And one, he had to admit, that he found far more comfortable than its modern counterpart.

A movement caught the corner of his right eye, and he turned in time to see what looked like a large dog scamper behind one of the cattle. But dogs rarely wore swords, and the glint of metal had been unmistakable.

With great care to remain silent, he crept out from behind the bushes. The only way these men were going to get the beasts out was through the main gate; Amergin and the others had checked the entire length of fencing to be sure no part of it had been cut to provide an invisible exit. So he waited as four more men entered, and sure enough, within a relatively short time, a small number of the cattle began moving noiselessly in his general direction. A few minutes later he could see why they were making no sound – the thieves had covered their eyes with cloth and had shut the animals’ mouths with soft rope made of some white material.

Cian could see that he was taller than all of the men, but wasn’t sure whether or not that even mattered. What did matter were the swords at their belts and how well they could use them.

Time to find out.

“Good evening, sirs,” he said, stepping out and blocking them, the broad swath of moonlight behind him, casting his face in shadow as it washed over the enclosure.

They stopped, startled. Between his greater height, indistinct features, and silent if sudden appearance, Cian was giving them serious cause for alarm.

They stared at him for a moment, but then one of them began to laugh. “Is this a joke?” he said. “Don’t tell me the great Amergin sent you out here by yourself to stop us!”

“He did.”

Now the others joined in the laughter, albeit quietly. And then they grew deadly serious, all of them drawing their swords and starting to surround the boy.

Great. Nice odds. . . .well, here we go.

Cian raised his sword, holding it easily in one hand, the other out slightly to one side for balance.

The men charged, and Cian began to fight. With strokes too fast to be seen as more than a silvery blur, he met every blade with his, the clanging of metal on metal making an almost musical sound. He grinned, and fought on, turning aside one sword after another, smacking one man hard on the side of the head with the flat of his blade so the man dropped, unconscious, to the grass.

“Four,” he muttered, pivoting about to keep one of them from getting behind him. As he came back around, he caught one of the men’s wrists with the sharp side of his blade. The man screamed and dropped his sword, clutching the wound.

“Three.”

“You bastard!” one of them yelled, seeing what had happened to his brother, and no longer caring if anyone nearby could hear.

“My parents were married, thank you,” said the boy pleasantly, barely winded by his exertions. “How about yours?”

One of his sword-masters in another century and place had told him that if you could get your enemy angry enough, he would probably start making stupid mistakes. His sword-master had been right. The man bellowed and charged, sword up over his head, leaving his chest completely unprotected. Cian pulled the side of his sword across the man’s torso and leaped out of the way – he wasn’t trying to kill, only wound.

The man doubled over, yelling in pain.

“Two.”

“He’s actually counting!” one of the remaining two brothers shouted at the other, outraged.

They both charged.

A second later, they were both on the ground, one with a deep slice in his upper arm, the other – having been struck in the jaw with the pommel of the sword – on his back with Cian’s sword tip at his Adam’s apple.

“None.”

“Now what’ll you do, boy? Have the animals tie us up with their tails?”

Tilting his head to one side like he was considering this, Cian said, “That might work.” He smiled, raised his head and called loudly, “AMERGIN! NOW!”

At first they could hear nothing, but as the one who had been cut on the arm was about to conclude aloud that the boy was obviously alone, six men topped the rise near the gate and entered the enclosure, swords drawn.

Amergin looked around at the moonlit carnage and patted the boy on the back. “I knew you could do it!” he whispered fiercely.

The five other Druids were getting the brothers to their feet amid loud complaints about their wounds and demands to know who this spawn of hell was who’d defeated them so easily.

Cian shook his head and walked over to the brother who had said this, and whose hands were now tied securely behind his back.

“Spawn of hell?” he said.

The would-be thief looked up at him sullenly, but the clear light of the moon caught the boy full in the face, and the man’s expression changed to one of wonder.

“I’ve met a true spawn of hell,” said Cian quietly, ignoring the man’s reaction, “and believe me, I’m not one of them.”

Speechless, the man let himself be led away quietly, and Cian walked back to Amergin.

“Thank you, lad,” said the Druid. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“I appreciate you saying that, sir, but I do. At one time I may have stayed, and been delighted to do so, but, I, uh, I really don’t belong here. And besides,” he smiled now as he continued, “there are some people I would miss far too much.”

“One in particular, I think, eh?”

Cian blushed and looked down. “Yeah. One in particular.”

Amergin clapped him on the shoulder. “Get some sleep. At sunrise, I’ll wake you and we’ll go to Dún Fhearghusa. We’ll stop for a while to visit with our old friend, the Keeper, then I’ll take you home.”

The next day, his modern clothes bundled up under his arm, sword strapped to his back, Cian walked with Amergin across part of Ireland, reveling in its beauty, already melancholy at the idea of leaving it again, but joyful with anticipation. Celeste. God, how he missed her! He wondered how long he would have been gone according to her time. He was now about a month older, which really wasn’t much, but it may have changed him enough for her to notice. He only hoped that any such change would be a positive one as far as she was concerned.

Newgrange, the modern name for Dún Fhearghusa, rose much higher then, erosion having had only a partial affect, but since Cian had never seen it in modern times, he didn’t notice. What he did notice was how impressive the structure was. It had been built so well that it looked brand new to his eyes. He decided that one day he’d return but in the twenty-first century to see how, if at all, it had changed.

Once inside, after being given entrance by a Druid who was standing guard at its door, they traveled down the amazing passage with its runic carvings until they reached the back. Amergin caused this barrier to dissolve into its golden mist, and they went through into the Hub.

The Keeper, eyes closed, mouth in a smile, was playing softly when they climbed the hill. The two waited until he opened his eyes and looked up. “Cian! You certainly look better than you did the last time I saw you! Amergin, thank you. You did a wonderful job.”

“He heals very quickly, Keeper,” said the Bard, kneeling.

“How are Celeste and Katie?” It was impossible for Cian to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

“I don’t know. The last time I saw them, they were standing next to you on one of the pathways – Amergin led them to their portal, not I. But I would imagine they’re fine. I’m well, too, thanks for asking.”

Cian gave him a wry smile. “Sorry. I should have asked. Are you well?”

“Yes, my boy. Quite. Now listen.” Without putting down the harp, the Keeper leaned forward. “That sword you have – it will be needed again, and since Michael has given it exclusively to you as a gift, you are now the only one who may use it.”

Cian frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean. . .it has a name, Cian.”

“What – the sword?”

“Yes, the sword. It is called Excalibur, and when you get back to Connecticut I want you to go to the library and look it up, or have the girls help you find information about it online. Meanwhile,” he put one hand behind him, the other still stroking the strings, “give this to Celeste. It’s not as, well, it’s an ordinary harp.” He handed the instrument to the boy, who gave it a cursory glance.

“What happened to the other one?”

“Celeste left it on the Golden Tree, but Celesta retrieved it, and it shall remain in her keeping until such time as it might be needed again.”

Cian bit his lower lip, wondering about that and looking anxious.

“Yes, boy, when it is needed again, Celeste will be the one to use it. And you’ll be the one to use Excalibur when the time comes.”

Startled at the man’s use of tenses, he said, “When?! Keeper, what are you talking about?”

The man sighed. “The creature you defeated, who incidentally