Waves in the Wind (29 page)

I rode alone, the Staff of Nuada across my thighs, while Laoidheach and Goban mounted double. Midday found us riding into a village and soon we had a crowd around us.

Village children ran beside us, whooping and yelling. “Strangers! Strangers!”

A man emerged from a stacked-stone cottage, a Christian priest clad in a black robe. Three warriors idling nearby joined him and the group approached us.

“We must be careful,” I whispered to my friends, “lest they know of us. We must not use our own names.”

The priest came near, and made the Christian’s sign of the cross. “May the Lord smile upon you.” His eyes passed over us. “So, strangers, there are few who pass here during these troubled times.”

“Right you are, father,” I replied, “and we would not be traveling except that we have been called to Tara by the High King.”

“You call me father. You are Christians, then?”

“Aye, we are but poor servants of the Heavenly Father, and His son Christ Jesus.”

The priest clasped his palms together beneath his chin. “‘For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.’” Again he made the sign of the cross in the air before him. “May He watch over each of you during your journey. Few come here, though we must guard against the vile Druids and their pagan following who have once again brought God’s wrath against this land.”

“Once again, father? I’m sorry. I know of the darkness, of course, but has God wrought yet more vengeance upon us?”

“You have not heard? Yes, you must not travel to the villages nearby the coastline for there is a deadly plague there. Many hundreds, perhaps thousands of people have already died of it.”

A grizzled warrior stepped forward, a grim-faced, stocky man sporting a close-cropped beard. “One moment, Father. Many brigands roam the land, and I would know more of these strangers.” He glared at me. “Who are you? Where are you from? State your business here.”

I matched the man’s stare. “I am called Ó Scannláin, and,” pointing to Laoidheach, “this is my friend Bran, and behind him sits Fintair, a smith from our village. We are of the Corcu Duibne.”

Another warrior spoke up. “I know the Corcu Duibne warrior Ó Scannláin, and you are not him.”

I kneed my horse close beside the man. “The warrior Ó Scannláin of whom you speak, he is a massive man?”

The warrior nodded. “That he is.”

“And does he not have red hair, the same as mine?”

The warrior nodded again. “That he does.”

“Then you speak of my cousin, for the red hair is common in our family. Now, know all of you, we travel to Tara at the High King’s bidding.”

The first warrior spoke again. “Something smells amiss here. Three tattered men, and but two horses? Of what use would King Máelgarb have for the likes of you?”

Goban leaped from the rear of his horse, eyes blazing, chest out. He strode forward, and faced the warrior; burly arms stretched wide, hands bunched into iron-hard fists. “Ye dare question Master Ó Scannláin? He and Master Bran have more cattle between them than ye can count. Though I doubt ye can count beyond ye’re own fingers, toes and the insignificant piece of meat hangin’ between ye’re legs that ye fondle into the night.”

He turned to me. “Master, perhaps ye and Master Bran would care to rest in the shade of the grove over there while I treat with these minions.”

I almost laughed aloud at Goban’s audacity, but remained where I was lest he stirred trouble.

Goban looked again to the warrior. “It is no god-cursed business of yours, pokin’ your impudent nose into these gentlemen’s affairs, but I will tell ye we lost two horses and most of our possessions while crossin’ a swollen river only four days past. A regrettable thing it was, but now we are here to replace what we can.” He glanced about. “Though, I doubt this pigsty of a village has much of any account.”

Hand dropping to his sword hilt, the warrior’s face glowed red. Goban grasped the hammer at his belt.

The priest stepped forward, arms outstretched. “Let us have no trouble here.”

To Goban he continued, “I’m certain there was no intention to insult your masters. Tell me man. What is it you need that you might travel on?”

“We require horses, clothin’, blankets and food.” Arms folding over his chest, eyebrow cocked, he added, “And we have gold to pay for it all.”

“Gold you say?” The priest turned to the warriors. “You have done your duty, and may leave us now. The Church will attend to these Christian gentlemen’s needs.”

* * *

We traveled through an area of rolling green meadows separated by low stone walls. Now, we rode our individual horses. A fourth horse carried our supplies, packages of food, drink, spare clothing and blankets, everything needed for our journey. The packhorse would later serve as a mount for Aine when we came upon her.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, storm clouds gathered and a stiff wind swirled the high grass around us. We rode through an area I knew, for we were nearing Dún Ailinne, though it was a place I would avoid.

Watching the troubling skies, I said, “We must find shelter soon. There is a place I know, an isolated Druid chapel, a shrine dedicated to Accasbel. If we hurry, perhaps we can arrive there before this storm arrives.”

We changed course, turning onto the main trail to Dún Ailinne. A bit further on, a narrow lane turned east between stone walls toward the chapel. Soon the place came in view, but I was dismayed at what I saw—the shrine was in ruins.

Again thunder rolled across the sky and large raindrops pelted us as we rode up to the burnt-out stone structure. Walking our horses through the small courtyard, we dodged debris while the evidence of what happened there grew clear. Christians had been at work to erase the memories of our gods and beliefs.

“There!” Goban gestured. “A bit of roof still covers a corner of the chapel. It will offer ample shelter for us.”

We tied the horses to a burnt timber, and piled our supplies under the small covering of unburned roof. A campfire was soon burning and we satisfied our hunger with dried venison and berries.

Afterwards, Goban reclined back on his elbows, but sat up and pointed. “May I see your sword, Ossian?”

I handed it to him and he tapped the blade with his fingertip as he held it close to his ear. “It’s poorly made, Ossian, poorly made,” he grumbled. “I will make ye a new one, not a butter spreader like this, but a proper sword sanctified by the gods, a sword that sings in the hand of the man who wields it. Within only three months, I can—”

“Three months?” Laoidheach scoffed. “You haven’t three days. We leave again in the morning to find Aine.”

I agreed with Laoidheach. “He’s right, Goban, I will make do with this sword.”

Goban grinned and pointed to the Staff of Nuada. “Ye should fight with your Druid’s stick, then. It will serve ye as well when the fightin’ begins.”

“Speak no more of the Staff, for it is…” I hesitated. The Staff was a personal gift from the gods, a magical object of unimaginable power, not a thing for discussion or speculation. “But why do you say I should favor it?”

“I watched ye use the sword against that Corcu warrior holding his battle club when ye saved us, and ye showed no skill with it. Ye were fortunate to catch the man unawares. He was still half-asleep or otherwise he would have quickly killed ye.”

He was right, though I would not readily admit it. “You think I can be killed so easily?”

“I think ye would fight hard, or try, but ye’re clumsy with a sword.” He waved a casual hand. “So yes, even a novice warrior with little trainin’ could kill ye quick enough.”

No man wants to be thought an easy victim. “Clumsy am I? Hah. You are a tradesman, a smith, what would you be knowing about fighting?”

“I told ye before, I am no mere smith. I am a master smith, a maker of swords. To understand the qualities of a fine sword, one must also be skilled in its use.”

Laoidheach smirked. “First, you are a master smith, and now, a master swordsman. Is there no end to your talents, Fintair?”

“Fintair? Fintair is it!” Goban turned to me and growled, “Why did ye tell those men back there in the village me name is Fintair? It is a dog’s name and a silly name for a man.”

I hid a grin. “I’m sorry my friend, but I had to think of a name quickly, and Fintair came to my mind.”

“Well think of another name, for I will have no more of it.”

“What would you have me call you, then? You choose.”

Goban thought for a moment. “Ye can call me Aonghus before others, if ye must. It is a fittin’ name for a man.”

Laoidheach laughed. “So I say again, is there no end to your talents, Aonghus?”

“Bah, ye laugh at nothin’, for I have never been to a school and cannot read or write me name. I cannot sing the songs of our people or tell their stories. I do not know the stars or the meanin’ of them. I do not know the many gods, and I cannot divine the future.”

He stiffened, his expressive hands working to make each thing as he described it. “But, I can create a golden bracelet to grace the fairest arm, mold an iron kettle to hang above a common hearth, shoe twenty horses in a single day and, yes, stand confidently before men with a sword in me hand.”

A thought came to me. “You would stand before me with a blade?”

His jaw dropped. “Ye wish to fight me?”

“No. You are right; I have no talent with a sword. I want you to teach me to use it.”

“Very well, I will try to teach ye. There,” he pointed toward the ruined courtyard, “an iron fence stile will serve as my sword.”

He then glanced at Laoidheach. “What of ye? Ye wish to learn the use of a blade as well?”

“I know the use of a blade.” My friend’s hand flashed to his kirtle and, as if by magic, a dagger appeared in his hand.

Goban cocked an eyebrow. “So. Ye’re a knife man, eh?” He gestured toward the dagger. “Where did ye get it?”

“You two weren’t alone in rifling through the trappings of the two dead Corcu warriors.” He remained seated, took the dagger by the blade and threw it the length of five paces, where it stuck, quivering, in a charred wooden beam. “If you wish to practice fighting,” he yawned and reclined on his back, “please do it quietly, and let a man rest.”

Three days it rained while a gale blew in from the sea. Hidden we remained under our bit of cover while Goban taught me the use of a sword.

Chapter 24

Brógán O' Tolairg

Fields lay fallow about us as we neared the edge of the village of Quirene. I shook my head as I gazed about. The idleness of such good land when so many went hungry represented a vile waste of the Earth Mother’s bounty.

A roughly dressed, bearded man stepped from behind dense shrubbery and held up his hand. “Stop! What do you here?”

“We are merely passing by your village,” I said, “but require information, and hope to replenish our supplies.”

The man gave us a haughty glare. “Information you say? And why would we likely give it? You are not welcome here. Stay the night here on the trail if you must and water your horses in the stream, but remain together and do not wander into the village. We have little, with nothing to offer strangers, and the men here are jealous of their women.”

Goban chuckled. “If ye’re any example of the men of Quirene, I should think the women safe enough, though I don’t doubt the farmers closely guard their sheep into the night.”

Pointing a finger toward Goban, the man replied, “Watch your tongue, little man! Do you not know that Quirene is the home of Brógán O' Tolairg? He does not abide strangers, and would cut your tongue from your impertinent mouth.”

“Little man, is it?” Goban began to dismount. “Perhaps ye should recall the sayin’; an open mouth often catches a closed fist!”

“Wait!” I held up my hand. “Remain on your horse, Aonghus.” I looked to the man on the ground. “So, why are you here? Are you a village sentry?”

“I saw you coming, and did no more than any man of our village would do were he to see strangers approaching.”

“So your village would deny us entry while you entertain vile slavers?”

His eyes flitted about like those of a caged rat, but he muttered, “I know nothing of slavers.”

“No? Oh, but I think you do. In fact, I think you know quite a bit about them. Tell your master we will pay well for information if it proves useful.”

He straightened, pointing to the ground. “Do you wait here. Perhaps someone will come for you, perhaps not. If no one comes soon, I would advise you to leave quickly.”

The man disappeared into the shrubbery, and I motioned to my friends to remain silent. They nodded their understanding while their eyes swept the area. Perhaps the man had been alone, but others could be lurking nearby.

We had a short wait, for the same man returned. “Brógán O' Tolairg bids you welcome to Quirene. Follow me, if you please.”

We walked our horses into the village. It was arranged in a familiar manner, thatched-roof huts surrounded a common area of hard-packed earth. Four men stood beside a pit, a fulacht fia filled with water. Into the pit they were dropping hot stones from a blazing fire, boiling meat. All around, armed, roughly dressed men sat in quiet groups, trying hard to ignore us. Under my breath, I whispered to my friends, “See to your weapons. Something is amiss here.”