The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [19]
On the edge of the scene, men with pikes stabbed horses and riders—most of them killed instantly by the long pikes and pistols Oliver’s cavalry wielded. At least fifty Roundheads on horses were galloping toward the church at full speed. Emer tried to focus harder, past the dead bodies strewn across the road, to find her parents, but the crowd was moving too fast. There was too much to see.
She ran to each corner of the tower. To the west, there was no one. The farms and houses seemed empty. The smoke coming from the nearest eastern town, Callan, seemed the worst and the blackest. She turned back toward the blown bridge and watched the battle draw nearer—until a huge ball of fear worked up her spine, and she ran.
On her way down the stone staircase, she heard a noise downstairs and froze. She stayed quiet for a minute, and then heard the crackling of fire and the sound of horses. Then Emer continued down the steps, arriving at a massive fire flaming in the thatch roof of their cottage. The smoke was thick, but Emer managed to push through it. A bunch of burning thatch dropped from above and nearly hit her arm as it fell.
She squatted down under the smoke and surveyed the scene. The horsemen that had broken free at the bridge were riding from building to building, setting them alight and blocking the doors with whatever they could find. New horsemen raced up the road to the church, lashing at any villager willing to step in their way. Emer watched as one impaled an old farmer who tried to delay him. She pinched her eyes closed as he fell, but she’d seen the worst of it and fought hard not to cry.
She ran to their secret hiding place, where she and Padraig had agreed to meet in case of any emergencies. It was the same secret tunnel, under a hedgerow, where they’d first heard about the dragon. The old well had dried up before Emer was born and behind it, beneath the stones, was a den that she and Padraig had cleared out.
As she entered the tunnel, she checked to see that no one was coming for her. By this time, the soot and smoke had settled on her face and she looked like a coal-mine child, dirty but adorable in some sad way. Looking back, she watched the cottage spit flames from its windows and finally cried, leaving trails that showed the white of her skin. She saw the foot soldiers arrive on the knoll and saw the church begin to spit fire as well, each door shut firmly and guarded by soldiers. The screaming of her neighbors and friends turned into white noise crackling in her tiny ears. She watched a brown hen run through the scene, squawking and flapping its singed wings.
I hope Padraig has landed safely away from here, she thought to herself. Mrs. Morris, a distant relation to her father, ran from the church, on fire and screaming. One of the soldiers hit her on the head with the butt of his musket and then stabbed her with a bayonet. Jamie Mullaly, the Mullalys’ young son, was knocked down by a horseman and trampled to death. Emer watched these and other things from her hiding place, each time pinching her eyes closed with her fingers before the moment of death, each time letting out a little yelp.
When Mairead appeared on the knoll with her long hair stuffed into a cap, wearing a pair of Paudie’s trousers, Emer braced herself. A horseman approached and swung his pike. Mairead lashed out at him with hers. This went on for a few swings until Mairead ducked once, pulled a short knife from her boot, and stabbed the man’s leg as he turned his horse around. Taking advantage of his confusion, she lanced her pike through his chest and pulled him from the horse.
“Mammy!” Emer whispered.
She wanted to run to her, but couldn’t move. When she saw the next horseman approaching from behind Mairead’s back, she closed her eyes again. She scarcely expected her mother to be alive when she opened them. But by this time, her mother had mounted the horse and armed herself with the dead soldier’s pike. She