Waves in the Wind (42 page)

The warriors shuffled in their rank and exchanged glances. A burly man in bronze armor, their leader I supposed, stepped forward. “You will—”

Torcán’s sword slashed downward, a blur of flashing steel. The leader fell to his knees, a fountain of blood spurting from his neck.

Holding my sword low, I kicked my horse’s ribs and guided him on a direct path towards the warrior standing at the far left of their line. He saw me coming and attempted to dodge to my left, but my horse’s shoulder struck the man, spilling him to the ground.

Spinning about, I dashed towards the next man in line. At almost the last moment I realized he held a pike, directed at my chest. Reining hard right, I slapped the pike aside with my sword. Whirling my horse in a tight circle beside the warrior, I delivered a backhand slash. He shrieked as his severed hand fell to the ground.

The pikeman was finished, but my first foe was struggling to his feet, so I rode him down again. Reining my horse, I loomed over him.

He lay upon his back, fear gleaming in his eyes, palms outstretched towards me. “I yield.”

Leaning down, my sword at his throat, I snarled, “Were you at Rath Raithleann?”

The man’s eyes grew wider, and he shook his head.

“You’re lying.” I spat in his face. “I ask again, were you at Rath Raithleann?”

Eyes closed, he nodded, covering his face with his hands.

Rage took me as a memory returned: Ceara sprawled upon the ground beside her slain sons. I thrust the sword point deep.

Furious yelling drew my attention, and I glanced up to see Goban pursuing an enemy who darted into the heavy brush and disappeared. Of the six Corcu, only the pikeman and fleeing man remained alive. Torcán knelt beside a fallen warrior, inspecting the contents of the dead man’s purse.

Bloodlust still pounded in my ears in the presence of my enemies, and I turned back to the wounded pikeman. Thinking to finish him, I leaped down from my horse. The man was kneeling, head down and sobbing as he attempted to staunch the blood flowing from his wrist. I raised my sword, but hesitated when he looked up. He was no man, but a mere boy, at best fourteen, too young to have taken an active role in the attack upon my village.

Tears streamed down the lad’s face and he sniffed. But, he had courage too. “Go ahead,” he said. “Strike if you will.”

Boy or not, fury still held me. He was Corcu spawn, so I might have accommodated him, but by pausing, a measure of reason returned. These men knew we would pass this way and waited for us. How could they know such a thing?

“That man,” Goban snorted, pointing towards the woods as he strode towards me, “fled like a frightened hare.” He stopped beside me, staring at the wounded boy. “What of this one?”

“We shall see. Build a fire, will you?” Turning to my horse, I removed my bundle, and from it, rolled bandages and bags of medicinal herbs.

The boy’s face was deathly white, his body trembling from agony and blood loss. I ripped a strip of bandage lengthwise and bound it tight above the stub of his arm. Blood still oozed from the wound, but the flow stopped.

“What’s your name, son?”

“What matter it now?” he responded, face downcast, his voice weak and trembling. “I-I’m a dead man.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Now lie down.” He did as I directed and I wrapped my blanket about him. “I shall do what I can for you. What’s your name?”

His eyes searched mine. “Ross. I am called Ross.”

“So Ross, tell me. The lot of you have been following, and waited here to attack us. Why?”

“Y-you know why.” The lad’s teeth were chattering. “We—we thought there was only the two of you. Had we known about him,” he nodded towards Torcán, who was busy scavenging the contents of the Corcu’s packs, “we w-would have brought more men.”

Goban had the fire blazing, and I motioned for him to retrieve a fallen Corcu sword. I would use it to cauterize the ghastly wound. My attention returned to the boy.

“Yes, well that was your mistake, wasn’t it? But how did you know to wait for us along this trail?”

The boy bit his lip, and shook his head.

“Ah, I see. You won’t tell me.” He seemed a simple lad, unschooled in the wiles of men. “So, it must have been magic. You learned of it from a great magician who—”

“No.” The boy’s eyes closed. “M-magic is Satan’s tool and we have no use for such. A message c-came to us from,” he gasped, “a monk who told us to w-watch this trail and wait. He said you would come.”

I glanced at Goban, who nodded when I muttered, “Erc.”

Turning to the boy for confirmation, I asked, “This monk, his name is Erc?”

The lad didn’t respond, so I leaned forward, looked into his eyes…and sighed. He was beyond answering.

Chapter 33

The Odor of Wolfsbane

We passed through
Trá Lí in the murky silence of early morning. Only a spotted dog standing near a cottage noted and yipped at our presence. Holding to the rock-strewn trail, we pressed on, following close upon the bay’s shoreline, mountains clad in autumn foliage towering above our left shoulders. I grew ever more anxious as we neared our destination. Had Brendan waited?

We rounded a bend in the shoreline and a fisherman surrounded by his nets came into view. His boat drifting within the quiet waters near the shore, he lifted his face as we drew near.

“So friend,” I called to him. “You’ve a fine morning to be upon the bay. You’ve found the fish?”

Gray locks strayed beyond his tattered woolen cap, and cool eyes peered at me from a weathered face. “Only a few small ones,” came the typical reply of a wary fisherman who would protect his favored fishing spot. He scratched his grizzled chin, and then nodded. “I know you. I’m thinkin’ ye be that Druid the father’s been waiting for.”

Relief flooded through me and I smiled. “Yes, I am that Druid. Brendan hasn’t sailed, then?”

“No. He’s not sailed, nor will he.” The elderly man shook his head. “I fear father Brendan be dead.”

I recoiled in my saddle as if struck by a physical blow. “But how…?”

“They say he grew suddenly ill just last night. Only yesterday I sees him walkin’ the shore. As healthy as you and me, he was.” The fisherman offered a knowing wink and tapped his temple with a forefinger. “An odd thing that, if ye asks me. This morning, monks gather before the good father’s doorstep and even now the poor man may’ve breathed his last.”

It was as if the fisherman’s voice came from far away as his words and my thoughts cluttered my head. What was that last he said? Perhaps Brendan yet lived?

“You say there is a chance he is not dead?”

“Maybe.” The fisherman shrugged. “I only know—”

I swung my horse to the trail and heard nothing more he said. Only a short ride would bring us to the village, and though the trail was too stony to gallop, we hurried as best we could.

We topped a rise and the clustered cottages came into view. As we drew near, I could see that at least some of the fisherman’s words were true. Monks gathered before Brendan’s doorstep.

The faces of kneeling monks turned to us as we reined-in and dismounted. One, a tall, skinny man, intercepted me as I strode towards Brendan’s door.

He recognized me, as did most of Brendan’s monks. “No, Ossian.” He shook his head. “You may not enter.”

If the priest was dead, I would see it for myself. I brushed him aside.

The cottage’s interior was dark, its shutters closed, a single candle offering but a dim glow. A black-robed monk kneeling at Brendan’s bedside rose like a shadow.

His solemn voice broke the stillness. “You are not welcome here. Father Brendan lies within the Hands of God.”

Master Tóla taught the dangers of standing between a man and his god, especially for those of a differing faith. In that moment, it was not danger to myself that concerned me.

“He is dead?”

A long moment passed before the monk replied. “Soon. His soul slips from this life to the glorious next where he shall stand beside his Maker. Now go. Leave him in peace.”

Stepping to Brendan’s side, I lay my hand on his damp forehead. It felt hot to my touch and I bent down, placing my ear against his chest. He began mumbling, his words incomprehensible, yet still I could hear the slow, rhythmic pounding of his heart. His breath was in my face. I gasped and stood erect, taking a quick step back.

Much more had I learned from the Master. From his alchemy lessons, I knew the odor of wolfsbane. The priest should already be dead and it was unlikely I could save him.

The agitated monk began, “I asked you to go. Now, if you will—”

“Quiet, man,” I rasped. “Brendan was poisoned. Quickly now—when did he last eat?”

“Poisoned?” His eyes grew wide as my words filled his mind. “But that’s…no, that’s not—”

“When did he last eat?”

“Last night. He ate dinner here alone.” He gulped. “Are you certain?”

“His breath reeks of wolfsbane.” I walked to a window and threw back the shutters. Light flooded the room, revealing Brendan’s flushed face.

“Goban,” I called through the open window. “Go among the village and bring peat charcoal. Be sure it’s peat, now. When you return, pound it into fine powder. Do it quickly.”

The monks were on their feet, some staring, others glaring at me. Ignoring them, I looked to Torcán. “Bring my bundle. Then I will need a flagon of wine.” I thought a moment. “No. Two flagons.”

The monk was regaining his senses. “Here now. What manner of pagan ritual do you plan? Father Brendan is in God’s capable hands, and—”

My mind was filled with the urgency of the moment, but I needed the monk’s aid. “Brother, I do not wish to offend you or your god. Father Brendan is the victim of foul murder.” I sighed. “Too much time has passed since he was poisoned, so little I believe I can save him. Still, would you not have me at least try?”

The man frowned. “If you plan to invoke the aid of the old gods, then no.”

Of course I planned to call upon the Lordly Ones, but I would respect both his faith and decision. “If that be your will, I shall not. However, there are treatments that might still help him.”

“You think me a fool who does not understand the value of herbs? Brendan despises your gods as you do his. However, if there is a chance…” His face softened and he nodded. “Yes, of course. How can I help?”

Pails of water were brought that Brendan be cooled with wet cloths. I prepared potions using herbs hoarded in my bundle; foxglove to strengthen his heart, willow to lower his fever and finally the charcoal powder mixed with elder and wine to absorb the poison and cause the priest to expel it.

The monk, who I learned was called Brother Tobias, remained at my side throughout the day. He was quick to help when called upon, but many times I saw him standing, staring through the window.

He was standing thus late in the day when I asked, “You wonder who poisoned Brendan?”

Tobias turned, shoulders sagging, scrubbing his face with his hands. “No. I have no doubt who is answerable for it.”

“And…?”

“Broth…the man Erc no doubt ordered it. Two of his friends remained among us.” Stiff-faced, eyes glaring, he continued. “Brothers Mark and Jonas. It was Brother Jonas who delivered father Brendan’s dinner last night. Neither man arrived for morning prayers or has been seen all day.”

He closed his eyes. “May God forgive them all.”

Erc. Yes, it had been in my thoughts that he was behind it as well. He wore hatred like a cloak. That he sought vengeance against Brendan came as no surprise. As for the two monks, I knew nothing of them.

Oil lamps burned and the night grew late before Brendan showed signs of improvement. His fever waned while his heart beat stronger. For the first time I began to hope we might save him. Tobias retired for the night, leaving me alone by Brendan’s bedside.

* * *

“Allow him to die, Ossian.”

Her soft voice whispering in my ear surprised and warmed me, though not her words. She arrived as a formless spirit, but I pictured her face in my mind and smiled.

I gazed down on the priest’s flushed face. “I’m very sorry, My Queen. I cannot abandon Brendan when I might save him. Though I detest his religion, he is too good a man to die by foul murder.”

“What do I care about murder? This man threatens Tír na nÓg.” Her voice grew seductive. “You killed priests and monks in the past, or at least had them killed. He is your enemy. You owe him nothing. Let him die.”

Though I might owe Brendan nothing, I owed much to the honorable Druidic customs instilled in me by my father and Master Tóla. “Allowing Brendan to die is the same as killing him by my own hand. I’m sorry, Morrigan, that I cannot do. You are Goddess of Death. You have the power to take him this instant.”

“Yes. I have that power, but killing priests of opposing beliefs dwells within the provenance of men, not gods. The Christian god has killed no Druids, and I am not so foolish as to kill his priests.”

My thoughts turned to the Lough Derg battlefield, and I chuckled. “No? Perhaps not, though you shit on them.”

“Oh yes, that.” Her low, friendly laughter surprised me, for it was a woman’s laughter; not at all a thing I expected. “It served my purpose that day to spread disquiet among the Christian ranks. You think goddesses have no sense of humor?”