THE SUN CLIMBED higher in a clear, pale sky and as the rising tide washed in gentle, insistent murmur around the base of the great coastal fortress, the warriors of Fortriu began to assemble in the open space on Caer Pridne’s topmost level to hear their king. Men had come in from many outposts for this occasion. The place was brimming with fighters and bristling
with weaponry. Some were accommodated in tentlike shelters beyond the walls, and many riders could be seen on the tidal flats between the fortress and the house of the wise women at Banmerren, along the bay. The visit had been planned a long time; there had been no way Bridei could disappoint them.
The king of Fortriu had not slept. After the vigil, he had lain quietly on his bed a while, Ban
curled at his feet, while Breth snatched a brief period of exhausted slumber. Faolan had once commented that the primary qualification for Bridei’s bodyguards was the ability to do without sleep, and Bridei was uncomfortably aware that the three of them did just that; they were loyal friends who went far beyond the call of duty in their care for him. With Faolan away and Garth staying with his wife
and sons at White Hill—he had offered to come to Caer Pridne and Bridei had said no—Breth had only the backup of the Pitnochie men, none of whom were trained bodyguards, and the big man was weary. Bridei wondered how Faolan was managing his own task; whether the Caitt chieftain, Alpin, was prepared to accept the rare gift they had sent him. Faolan; ah, Faolan, his mystery, his reluctant friend
… There was no way he could take Faolan with him down the Glen, no way he could require a man to ride into battle against his own people, whatever his declared loyalties. Faolan knew, of course; he’d seen through it instantly, the man missed nothing. And he’d accepted the mission anyway. Having chosen to set himself up as no more than a hired guard, he could hardly refuse his king’s order. By the
time Faolan and the others got back from Briar Wood, Bridei would be gone. The army would be streaming to the west, and the great endeavor would be under way. By the time the leaves were turning to the russet and crimson and gold of Measure, the blood of the Gaels would stain the land they had stolen. By the time another Gateway came around, the war would be over. He must make this a victory worthy
of all those who had put their trust in him. The gods had given him this mission, and he must carry it out according to their will. He must believe, in his heart, that he could do this; that the Priteni could triumph, at last, over the Gaelic scourge that had lain across their western lands for three generations now. That they could drive out the creeping threat of the new religion. The human cost
would be great. He must pray that it would not be too high.
Bridei sighed, thinking of Ana and the cruel necessity of sending her away. He hoped her new home would be welcoming and her husband delighted with his lovely young wife. His mind shied away from the fact that, once the war was over, he was going to need a new hostage to replace her. It was the only way to keep his vassal king in the
Light Isles compliant.
He lay still while outside the sun came up and the songs of birds turned from solitary piping to busy chirrups to a swelling chorus of greeting. He thought of Derelei: the wondrous morning of his birth, his first small cry, his tiny clutching hands and bright unfocused eyes. The thatch of damp, dark hair. The fragility of the little skull beneath. Tuala’s smile of exhausted
triumph, and his own tears. He could feel the warm weight of his son in his arms; he could smell the sweetness of Derelei’s breath and hear the little snuffling noises he made at night. He remembered Derelei’s astonished yelp when he rolled over for the first time; his wide-eyed wonderment when Bridei carried him outside to watch the full moon sailing across the night sky; his stumbling, valiant
efforts to walk. His face in repose, his small form curled asleep on Tuala’s lap. His body racked by fever, his cheeks flushed hectic red, his voice turned to the harsh cry of a crow. So small on the pallet; so very small.
When it was fully light outside, Bridei arose and washed the signs of weeping from his face. Breth woke quickly from long habit, and fetched the good clothes the king would
need, along with some soft bread, dried fruit, and a herbal drink Broichan had ensured all Bridei’s guards knew how to brew and when to administer. Bridei had no appetite, but ate and drank all the same, knowing Breth would stand there waiting until he did what was required.
“He might pull through it,” Breth remarked quietly. “Garth’s boys did.”
Bridei said nothing. Garth’s boys were big for
their age, strong and robust. Even they had hovered close to death.
“You all right for this morning?” In private, Bridei’s bodyguards did not observe formalities when they spoke to him.
“I must be.” The bread tasted of ashes; the drink was bitter in his mouth.
“If we get away quickly after,” Breth said, “we’ve a chance of being home before nightfall.”
Bridei managed a smile and slipped the
remains of his bread to Ban, who was under the table. “We’ll see,” he said. “Come, then, I expect they’re waiting for me.”
At that moment the tall chieftain, Carnach, was at the door, clad in the formal attire such an event required: a tunic of fine dark wool belted in leather and silver; a shirt underneath of pale linen well pressed; woolen trousers, polished boots. The tunic had a border of
embroidery, black on red, a pattern of tiny warriors on horseback, and the penannular brooch that fastened the chieftain’s short cloak was decorated with a rearing stallion in silver. The cloak was a particular deep blue, his family color. Like Bridei, Carnach was descended of the royal line of Fortriu. Camach’s red hair was neatly plaited down his back; his face now bore an impressive pattern of
tattoos, for he had led Bridei’s men and his own in numerous skirmishes against their enemies, both Gaels and troublesome neighbors from closer at hand, over the time he had been the king’s chief war leader.
“The men are assembled, my lord king,” Carnach said in the formal manner required by such an occasion. “They’ve been somewhat dispirited since the news came that a party of Fokel’s men was
ambushed in the north, with nine warriors lost. Some had friends among the slain. Your visit will give them new heart.”
Bridei nodded as Breth helped him fasten his own cloak with the silver eagle clasp the old king had given him, years ago, in recognition of courage. He wondered how one might give new heart when one’s own heart felt torn and aching. How could he step out and rally men in the
cause of Fortriu when, in truth, he was asking them to march out and die for him? He closed his eyes.
“Come on, then,” Breth said quietly. “The sooner you make a start the sooner we’ll be on the road for home. My lord.”
Ban was sitting on Bridei’s foot. The king bent down; anxious eyes looked up, and a small tongue came out to lick his fingers.
“I’m sorry to hear about your son, Bridei,” Carnach
said in a different tone. “They told me this morning how ill he is. A terrible thing.”
“Yes.” It seemed to be all Bridei could manage right now.
“We’d best be going. They’re waiting for you.”
“Yes.”
“MEN OF FORTRIU!” the king’s voice rang out strong and clear across a courtyard packed with warriors standing shoulder to shoulder. All along the raised walkway that circled this topmost
level of the fortress, more men stood in silence, gazing across at the stone dais where Bridei stood with their leaders by his side, a square-shouldered, handsome figure in his plain, good clothing. He was a warrior among warriors; his young face bore its share of battle-counts, foremost among them the marks of the first great encounter at Galany’s Reach, where his exploits had formed the foundation
for a number of epic poems and stirring songs. He was their king, but he was also one of them, and they liked that. “I stand here among you today to bid you prepare for the greatest endeavor of your lives. I greet you as your leader and as your brother. We are all sons of this fair land of Fortriu, bred of its soil, raised in its clear air, sustained by the sweet water of its many springs, and
inspired by the living fire of the Flamekeeper, whose light burns in the heart of every man of courage. The god looks down on you in love and pride, my brothers. I see his strength in your eyes; I see his steadiness in your bearing; I see his valor in your hearts.
“Very soon now, we set forth on an undertaking that will stretch us to our utmost limits. The creeping parasite of Dalriada has set
its alien presence on our land for too long now.” A small chorus of supportive whistles broke out. “Too many of our best and finest have fallen in conflict with that enemy; too many brave spirits have perished in the struggle.” At Bridei’s feet, Ban stood very still, tail stiff, legs planted, eyes on the crowd. “It is time to make a final stand; to say, no more. It is time to sweep this invader
from the shores of our homeland once and for all. Men, this is the season of our greatest battle and of our greatest victory.”
The courtyard reverberated with shouts; feet stamped, hands clapped, voices were raised in acclaim.
“I have the utmost faith in every one of you,” Bridei went on, “and in your leaders. Carnach will ensure that you are prepared in every respect to take this fight to the
enemy’s door and to overcome; he will stand by you while there is breath in his body. Make no mistake: neither he, nor I, nor any one of the chieftains of Fortriu will suffer the Gaels to darken our lands beyond next Measure. The west will be ours once more, and the banners of our great houses will fly anew above the territories plundered by our enemy. We will see them streaming in the wind: the
colors of Longwater and Raven’s Well, Thorn Bend and Aber-. tornie, the star and serpent of the ancient holding of Galany and the brave white and blue of the kings of Fortriu. Gabhran of Dalriada will kneel before me; he will renounce his claim to the territories he has taken. He will quit this shore forever.”
“That’s too good for him!” someone shouted, and there was a swell of angry agreement.
“Maybe so,” Bridei said. “But I will not let the tale be told that the men of Fortriu lacked magnanimity toward their enemies; that they would slaughter in cold blood a foe already surrendered and helpless. Those who meet us on the field meet their own deaths. Make no doubt of that, warriors of Fortriu. We march to battle with the names of our slaughtered fathers, our lost brothers, our maimed
and ruined comrades on our lips, a song of blood and of victory. We ride with the voices of our ancient gods in our hearts, chanting us into the great tale of the Priteni. And if we die, we die with our spirits full of courage, loyalty, and love, for we are the very embodiment of the Flamekeeper’s will, and each one of us, young and old, grizzled warrior of many scars or bright-eyed lad with battle
skills new-learned, is the god’s own son.”
A roar of acclamation. Some men clapped their friends on the shoulder; more than a few wiped their eyes.
“You’ve worked hard,” Bridei went on more quietly, so the crowd was forced to hush to hear his words. “From your leaders I hear good reports of the conduct of this camp and of our other gathering places. You are a fine band, united in friendship,
in competition, in the will to excel and to succeed in the great mission to come. For that I offer you my heartfelt thanks. And I say to you, for every skilled swordsman, for every valiant spear holder, for every keen archer there is a husband with a young wife left behind, a father with a brood of growing children, a man with a field of barley that needs seeing to or a fishing boat that needs refurbishing.
Those things are real; they are your lives, men, they are more part of you than any heady charge to war can ever be. But you must set them aside for now. Put them away in your hearts; they will be there waiting for you when this is over. I ask of you a season; a season of heroism, of struggle and of blood. Some will die. You will see your comrade struck down beside you, your brother in
arms pierced by a Gaelic spear, your childhood friend choking in your arms and begging for a quick end. Men, we are warriors. We are the Flamekeeper’s loyal army, and our courage will not fail us. We will close the eyes of our fallen and lay them quietly down, and then we will run forward, our weapons in our hands, and on our lips the cry of our forefathers: Fortriu!”
The king raised his fist
high and, as one, a forest of arms came up before him. The cry from a thousand voices was like the shout of the god himself in the clear air of springtime:
Fortriu
!
It became plain that a quick departure from Caer Pridne and a speedy ride back to White Hill would not be possible. Men crowded around the dais, sending Ban into a frenzy of barking and causing Breth to shoulder forward, interposing
his own body between Bridei and those who sought to come too close.
“Let them come,” Bridei said. “They want to talk to me, that’s all.” He moved down into the crowd, shaking a hand here, touching a shoulder there, admiring a fine weapon, recollecting a shared meal, hearing of a marriage or a feat of arms or a lame horse with all the interest and attention each man needed. Breth did his best
to keep space clear around the king; Ban growled at knees and nipped at ankles. By the time the men of Caer Pridne were satisfied and were beginning to disperse from the courtyard, the sun was well past its midpoint There would not be time to reach home before nightfall; not with the fittest horses in all Fortriu.
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Breth muttered as they made their way indoors with
Carnach. “At least you can catch some sleep.”