The Sword and the Song (11 page)

In the meantime, she gathered the loose threads of thoughts, the scattered images that flitted through his mind: having to share a single slice of bread with his brothers and sisters because food had become so scarce; cold nights huddled together when
the firewood ran out; hushed, worried voices in the hall, the words indistinguishable but the meaning understood all the same. This was no great fortress that had fallen to the druid; this was a village full of poor crofters with no food, no weapons, little defense against the might of Niall’s army. There was no reason for him to have attacked if the location held no strategic purpose. So why had he?

Finally, Roark drained his cup and turned a much friendlier face in Aine’s direction. “What do you wish to know, my lady?”

“What happened when Lord Keondric laid siege to the fortress?”

“It was no siege, my lady. No terms for surrender sent in. They just came to the gates and battered them down with a ram. He gathered all the people together in the courtyard and said who he was. Said he was there to take our fortress, and if we wished to live, we would denounce our Balian ways. Everyone refused.” Roark swallowed hard, his chin quivering, but he continued bravely. “I don’t know if they didn’t think he would really do it or if they were truly that devoted. But when they refused, he killed them all in a rush of blue fire. One moment they were standing there, and the next, they were a pile of ash on the stones.”

Aine nodded calmly, though inwardly she was sickened by the description. Niall had used sorcery to kill them, rather than using some horrifying, bloody display to force their conversion. That meant the people were irrelevant to his plan. He wanted the fortress
 
—or something inside the fortress.

“And how did you escape?”

“My uncle and I had been spreading rushes in the hall. We climbed into the cart and pulled them over top of us. I thought for sure they knew we were there, but they walked right by us.”

“This is very important, Roark. Did N
 
—Lord Keondric say
anything when he entered? Did he give any clue as to why he was there?”

Roark shook his head. “I was too scared. I couldn’t make much out. I would swear he said something about standing on stone. Only the hall of Bánduran is stone. The upstairs corridors are all wood.”

Aine reached out and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “You did well, Roark. Thank you. I’ll have one of the brothers take you back to your uncle.”

“Did that help?”

“Very much so.”

“I’m glad. Are there any more oatcakes?”

Aine chuckled. Even tragedy didn’t take a growing boy’s focus off food, especially after the scarcity he had experienced. What she told him was only partially true. He had helped, but she was still no closer to understanding what Niall was doing at Bánduran. When she related her findings to Eoghan and Riordan, they looked as perplexed as she felt.

“So they didn’t even try to conscript them?” Eoghan asked. “Simply killed them? I’m surprised.”

“Clearly he didn’t want anyone knowing what he was doing there. He eliminated the witnesses. Perhaps the conversion would have given him a foothold to be able to spell them into compliance.”

“Perhaps,” Eoghan said, but he sounded unconvinced.

That night, she contacted Conor at the designated hour and related the day’s events to him. He sounded as puzzled as she felt.

He killed everyone and took a fortress with no apparent strategic advantage? That’s unlike Niall. He has no conscience, but he doesn’t seem to kill for fun, either.

I’m going to interview the uncle tomorrow. Perhaps he can shed more light on what actually happened.

But the next morning, Aine waited at the table in the hall as the minutes slipped by. Finally, Riordan entered the room, his expression hinting at the bad news that was coming.

“He refused, didn’t he.” She’d feared as much. If the boy had gone back and told his uncle her line of questioning, the man might have decided it was something better left unspoken. Adults had the tendency to push painful memories down and try to move on as if they hadn’t happened.

“Worse, I’m afraid. They’re gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“No one knows. They must have left in the night, because the other men in the barracks don’t recall having seen them today at all. Their few belongings are gone.”

Aine just sat, stunned, trying to think through the implications. Had they gone because they were afraid of what she would find out? Or afraid they knew something that put them in danger?

No. I’m not going to let them go without a fight.
She had connected with the boy’s mind. They couldn’t be far away. If she could find him, maybe they could learn why they had fled in the first place.

But when she cast her awareness through Ard Dhaimhin and beyond its borders, she could find nothing. Roark was gone as thoroughly as if he had never existed.

Conor sensed the exact moment
he stepped across the borders of Ard Dhaimhin’s wards. He had spent so much time in that protective enclosure of magic that its absence momentarily felt as though the air had been sucked out of a room. Was it because it was somehow tied to him, because it had come from the music of his harp? Or had he just become so attuned to the feeling of the runic magic that it had become a part of him?

“Remember what I said,” he reminded the men, and they nodded soberly. They were not to discuss the arrangements outside of the protective magical enclosure; they couldn’t take the chance that the sidhe would use that knowledge to their advantage. Still, he felt they were plunging blindly into the unknown, relying on the most rudimentary of protections against the greatest of threats.

They had barely begun their second day into the pass when the first fight broke out. It started as an argument between two men at the rear of the group, following the pack ponies. Blair and Larkin didn’t particularly like one another, but they’d never shown an inclination to drop discipline to explore that dislike.

When shouts went up, Conor pushed back through the
column to find the two men wrestling on the rocky ground. Blood already seeped from one’s nose, and the other had a cut over his eyebrow. Thankfully, they’d relied on their fists and not their weapons. Two other men were already intervening, Ferus hauling the aggressor off while Tomey lifted the supine brother to his feet.

“What’s this about?” Conor asked. The two men just glared at each other. He sighed and looked to the witnesses. “What started it?”

“I have no idea,” Ferus said. “They weren’t even speaking to each other when Larkin just attacked Blair. No warning, no argument.”

Conor furrowed his brow while he considered the two men, then rubbed his arms against a sudden chill. It was autumn in the mountains, but this felt more like winter on the highest peaks. There could be no doubt that this was the doing of the sidhe. He couldn’t even exact discipline for this breach, because he knew well that it was out of their control.

“Larkin, up front with me. Blair, remain at the back with Ferus. Men, now would be a good time for a recitation.”

Uncertainty rippled through the group, though they were no strangers to liturgy, given the way the brotherhood structured their worship. Even Conor felt a little odd doing it while trudging through a pass to a fortress they planned to infiltrate, but once he began, the other men slowly joined with him.

Slowly, the pressure of the sidhe’s presence eased and the unnatural chill faded. The Holy Canon stated that Comdiu was present when they prayed and that no evil could stand before His presence. This seemed to bear out the truth of that statement. Just because they’d been prepared for this eventuality didn’t make it any less disturbing, though. It had scarcely taken a day for them to be targeted and, Conor assumed, to be marked as a threat.

Even more disturbing was if the spirits had identified them, did that mean the druid knew they were coming?

They continued their slow progress through the pass, Conor mentally marking off the map’s landmarks as they crept by. The terrain here was similar to that surrounding Ard Dhaimhin: craggy mountains covered in a combination of evergreens and deciduous trees interspersed with outcroppings of granite so rugged that only the tenacious scrub clung to their sides. In some places, the trail ran through the mountains so deep that the sun never touched them. At other times, they found themselves at the highest point for miles. The sidhe didn’t try to attack again, but Conor had no doubt they were merely biding their time.

That night, the Fíréin camped beneath an outcropping of rock tucked back from the main pass, a small fire crackling beneath the overhang. The men had been even more restrained since their short encounter with the sidhe, so very little conversation circulated while they ate provisions from their packs. Once more, Conor was grateful for the Fíréin’s unrelenting training. Knowing that their will could be compromised by the dark spirits would send less-disciplined men running for home. Instead, the experience stoked their determination to reach their destination quickly.

An autumn breeze rustled the trees outside and sent the turning leaves skittering across the hills. Chills rose on Conor’s skin, for which he quickly chided himself. The temperature drop simply indicated the changing season, nothing unnerving or otherworldly. Still, when the horses shuffled uneasily outside, he found himself on his feet, his sword drawn.

“Sir
 
—uh, Conor?” Larkin asked quietly, crouching by the fire, his hand on his own weapon.

“With me,” he murmured and then nodded toward the opening of the indentation.

With Larkin at his back, Conor crept into the pass. The waxing moon shed a little light from behind the thin layers of clouds overhead, but it only served to cast ordinary objects
 
—trees, rocks, their horses
 
—in hair-raising shadows. Still, his instincts told him there was something out there waiting, watching.

From the corner of his eye, he sensed movement. Every nerve ending sprang to alertness, but he worked to keep his stance easy and unconcerned. “Nothing out here,” he said, turning back as if to return to the fire. Instead, as soon as he reached another pool of darkness, he faded into the background. Larkin quickly discerned his intentions and did the same.

Slowly, the shadows around them morphed from pools of darkness into the figures of men. Conor clenched his jaw and held down his apprehension. For all their mysterious appearance, the glint of moon and firelight on weapons told them they were dealing with men, not spirits. He replaced his Gwynn sword in its sheath, grateful for the sheepskin lining that dampened the sound of the blade, and eased his dagger out instead. Soundlessly, he crept up behind the nearest man.

The man sensed Conor’s presence and spun, his sword at the ready, but not fast enough. Conor swept his legs out from beneath him and twisted the man’s sword arm back until the weapon clattered to the ground. He then pressed his knife to the artery in his opponent’s neck. Instantly, the scene erupted into activity as the Fíréin realized the threat and jumped to meet it, swords ready.

“Tell them to stand down or you die,” Conor said in a low voice.

His prisoner stared up at him, unafraid. “Why should I? We have you outnumbered.”

“That’s what you think.” Conor took in the men facing off against his warriors: tattered clothing draped in furs, long hair and beards. Clanless, the very group they were attempting to
impersonate. Now that he saw them up close, Conor realized that their own disguise would never stand up to close scrutiny. These men looked far more like Sofarende than Seareanns, with their furs and beads and numerous baubles. Plus, every one of the men was simultaneously brawny and covered with a prodigious layer of fat, about as opposite from the whip-lean Fíréin as one could get.

“What do you want from us?” Conor demanded.

“I would ask you the same question. You pass through our lands, armed and pretending to be one of us.” The more he talked, the more clearly Conor picked up a peculiar cadence and pronunciation that didn’t quite fit into any of the Seareann accents to which he had become accustomed.

“You’re Clanless. By definition, that means you have no land.”

“And you’re Fíréin. By definition, that means you should not be here at all.”

Conor couldn’t catch the surprised laugh that burst out of him. “Perhaps we’re both right, then. Will you agree to a truce until we sort this matter out?”

“Aye, you have it. Men, stand down.”

Conor signaled his men, and they lowered weapons. He rocked back on his heels and withdrew the blade, though he didn’t sheath it. He offered his other hand to the Clanless warrior and hauled him to his feet.

“You’re the leader,” the man said, looking Conor over curiously. “You’re young. Was the battle so fierce that it took all your experienced men from you?”

“Not so fierce. Are all Clanless so fat? Looking at you now, I think perhaps the stories of scarcity in the mountain have just been tales.”

The man let out a booming laugh and clapped his hands to the paunch of his belly. “No, the tales are true. We simply eat what we kill, and there’s no better hunter than Old Oenghus.”

“Then come. I can’t offer you much food, but there is still tea.”

“Ah. That we have not had in some time. I’d thank you for it.”

They ordered themselves around the fire, Oenghus taking a seat beside Conor, two of their men joining them. The rest of the warriors stood uneasily around them, hands on weapons, ready for any sign of aggression. Conor poured tea into a tin cup and handed it to his guest. Oenghus said nothing, just sat and sipped the hot liquid.

Finally, when he had drained the cup, he turned to Conor and asked, “Why did you leave Ard Dhaimhin? And what do you want in Sliebhan?”

Conor refilled Oenghus’s cup, suddenly wishing that Aine had come with them. It would be helpful to know what Oenghus was thinking and how far they could trust him before he answered that question. “I suppose my answer depends on why you want to know.”

“We’re not spies for Keondric or any of his ilk, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re simply attempting to decide if you’re any threat to us and if we will let you live.”

“I respect that. Unfortunately, regardless of the answer, I’m afraid we won’t let you kill us today.”

“That confident in your skills, are you? Want to put the Fíréin’s reputation to the test?”

“Not particularly. I’d rather be on our way as quickly as possible, and bodies left behind raise questions.”

Oenghus stared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows for a long moment. Conor held his gaze, unmoving. Then the big man started to laugh again. “I believe you. The fact is, there’s only one reason you’d be coming through
this
pass, and that’s because of the fortress at the end of it.”

“That’s a pretty big assumption.”

“Not when I consider the young woman who passed this way
not two months ago, headed
from
the fortress to Ard Dhaimhin. Seemed to be in a right hurry, too. Makes one think she might have had information of importance to pass along.”

Morrigan had come into contact with these men? Why hadn’t she said anything? “If it’s the same woman, that was my sister.”

“Sister, eh? You look nothing alike.”

“We don’t share blood, if that’s what you are asking.”

“I’m not asking anything, merely observing.” Oenghus stroked his beard for a moment. “Looked pretty beat-up, she did. I’ve seen enough of the men at Ard Bealach to know that they’re cowardly enough to abuse women and steal food from the mouths of babes. A fair number of new arrivals we’ve had since they took command there.”

“You mean there are more of you?” Conor rethought the question the moment it left his mouth. Of course there were more of them. It was preposterous to think otherwise. “I mean, you have some sort of organization?”

Oenghus said nothing for another long stretch, savoring his tea this time. “I imagine if you were headed to the fortress
 
—not that you are, mind
 
—you would probably already know that the gates are unbreachable.”

“Aye, I imagine I would know that.”

“So I would assume that you have another way in.”

“Aye, that would be reasonable.”

“Then I imagine you would want to know that there are sentries posted in the mountains above and around for miles. A rather impressive perimeter, as a matter of fact.”

Conor felt a slight smile start to form. “For someone who planned on heading to Ard Bealach, aye, that would be helpful information. As would current counts of the men inside. If one was to be heading that way, that is.”

“Hmmm.” Oenghus stroked his beard again. “That would
require the help of other parties who would be keeping an eye on such things.”

Now they got to the heart of the matter. “How would an interested party acquire the help of such individuals?”

“Such individuals are fond of hard-to-come-by items like tea.” Oenghus’s eyes glittered avariciously. “And gold.”

“Tea is easy. Gold is more difficult.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Let’s speak plainly, then. Aye, I have some gold. I have more tea. Both can be yours. But you will guide us through the passes. You will send men back to our other party to help them as well. And you will find out the numbers of men in the fortress and the positions of the sentries.”

Oenghus took so long to consider the proposal that Conor began to fear the answer. “Aye,” he said finally. “We have an agreement. On one condition: when you have taken the region, you will find a permanent place for us. Ours by right, without claim by any clan.”

Conor certainly couldn’t blame the man for seizing every advantage he could. He would do the same. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I do not take the fortress under my name or under my own authority.”

“Then in whose name do you take it? We will petition him directly.”

“In the name of the rightful High King of Seare.”

Oenghus’s eyes widened, and his voice lowered to a whisper. “He has returned? Truly?”