Son of the Sword

by J. Ardian Lee

  “However, during the battle he took a wound, which he ignored, though it gave him great pain, until the fight was over. Then, standing among the bodies of his vanquished enemy, he dinnae wish to fall among them. So he carried himself, all bleeding and broken, to this tower where he crumpled to the earth and died, and his life-blood soaked the very ground upon which you kneel. When the Sidhe saw this—”

  “That would be you.”

  She frowned at him, but said, “Aye. That would be me. And some others. The Sidhe saw this and lamented, ‘Oh, what a terrible thing this is, for so great a warrior to be cut down.’ And so when the body was taken away by his mourning clan, all wailing and keening, the blood remained. And does so to this very day.”

  Dylan stood in a hurry. “Huh?” He peered into the grass where his knees had been. “Blood?” He poked his toe at the impression of his knees in the grass.

  “Have a look.”

  He knelt again and parted the grass. Though the tips of the blades were the bright green of spring growth, at the middle began dark streaks of maroon that thickened and brightened to solid red at the roots. He pulled apart the dense growth, and found the earth beneath was also red. He poked his finger into it and pulled up a small clod that crumbled in his fingers, but was as red as blood spilled a moment ago. He’d seen red clay many times in his life, all over Tennessee and Georgia, and this wasn’t it. This was blood-colored dirt.

  Sinann continued with her story. “Since that day, no invader has entered the tower.”

  “The English have never been here?”

  “I said no invader, did I not?” Dylan conceded she had. “For centuries this was a sacred place, until the priests came and carried the people away to their churches. But it is still a place of power, where a man who knows how can draw from that power and take it with him. This beneath your feet is the blood of your ancestor, a Dhilein, and the earth of your origin. It’s your heritage, no matter where you were born.”

  He let the earth crumble in his fingers and fall to the ground. His voice was soft with awe. “Okay, where do we start?”

  “Get your silver dirk, lad. We start with the consecration of it. Hold it before you, resting the blade and the hilt on your hands outstretched.” Dylan obeyed. “Now hold it in the smoke of the fire. Imagine, as you do so, all the impurities going upward with the smoke. All the bad energy of those who used it before you, gone.” Dylan closed his eyes and focused. From his eastern studies he knew enough about bad energy to imagine the evil leaving his knife. There seemed an awful lot of it, too.

  Sinann then said, “Now hold it high in your right hand. You’re right-handed, are you not?” Dylan nodded and held up the dirk. Sinann went on, “Let the sun shine on it. Feel the rays fill your body. Feel the strength the sun gives. This, you see, is why it’s just as well you’re skyclad.” Dylan took a deep breath, and could feel the glorious sun inside him as well as on him. The dirk glinted in the daylight.

  “Now,” she said, “hold it in your hands in front of you, between yourself and the sun. Without staring, see the shape of the dirk against the sunlight, and feel the strength flow from the sun, through it, into you, then back out to the sun again.” Dylan was breathing hard now. His skin tingled and he quivered with the energy. He felt like laughing, but only gasped for air.

  “Now point the dirk to the ground and with a deep breath blow into the hilt. Three breaths of life you give it, then hold it high again and say, “A null e; a nall e; Slàinte!” Dylan repeated each phrase after her. “This is my dirk; my soul and my strength. May it serve me well. Let it be powerful as the sun. I name this dirk . . .”

  “I name this dirk . . .” He looked up at her. “Huh? I have to name it?”

  “Aye.”

  He thought fast and hard. He’d never named an inanimate object before. And for some weird reason the only name he could think of at that moment was of a Christian saint who had been borrowed from Celtic paganism. “Brigid. I name this dirk Brigid.”

  Sinann smiled. “Good choice, laddie.” She gestured to the dirk. “Now you must sleep for seven nights with it under your pillow.”

  “I sleep with it every night under my pillow.”

  “Good lad. Carry it with you always. Never let it be taken from you.”

  Dylan held the knife, Brigid, and let the sun glint from . . . her.

  CHAPTER 10

  The weather had its ups and downs during April, and a cold snap dumping a little late snow was in progress when Dylan, as he took some air at the kitchen door that led to the animal pens, saw a number of strange men enter the bailey through the castle gate. They were escorted by Robin Innis. It was apparent they weren’t Mathesons, at least not ones closely related to the local clan. They were haggard and dirty, as if they’d come a long way, and moved across the snowy bailey with a lanky, casual air.

  Dylan leaned against a pole supporting the thatching over the pens and crossed his arms. To him, these men wouldn’t have been out of place wearing straw cowboy hats, faded Levis, wrinkled leather boots, and belt buckles the size of Montana. One of them had a willow stick clenched between his front teeth that dangled like a long piece of hay, still with a couple of leaves on the end that danced as he walked. Robin led them through the large doors to the Great Hall. Dylan was about to return to the kitchen, where Cait directed preparations for supper, when he heard a whistle from across the bailey. He looked, and Malcolm gestured to him to come.

  Dylan hesitated, and glanced toward the kitchen. Though her mother had returned from Killilan and was once again in charge of the household, Cait was well occupied with supervising supper preparations, elbow-deep in bowls filled with flour. The sharp smells of hot grease and boiling greens filled the air. He looked out at Malcolm, who waved again for him to come. Dylan went. He shoved the kitchen door closed, vaulted the low rails of the pens, trotted across the bailey, and followed Malcolm into the Great Hall, where the visitors had been seated and given some ale. He shook snow out of his hair.

  Iain entered the hall from the towers, and greeted the men heartily with handshakes and nods. They all seemed to know each other, and Malcolm named Dylan to the visitors. At Iain’s frown, Malcolm said, “He’ll be accompanying us.”

  “And what of my daughter?”

  “She’ll be safe enough. Our prodigal will grow lazy if we let him remain on his backside much longer.” There was a general chuckle, and even Dylan had to smile. His job paid well, and being with Cait was a joy, but sitting and standing around all day when she was busy was boring as hell.

  Iain grunted, then returned his attention to the visitors, who turned out to be MacLeods from south of Glen Ciorram. There were ten of them, led by a quiet man named Donnchadh an Sealgair. Duncan the Hunter. They were all pale men, but with a tendency toward green and brown eyes, and brown hair. Their plaids were varied in color, but predominantly green. Having been in the century for several months now, Dylan knew the colors of a man’s tartan had less to do with his clan identity than his wife’s preference in weaving, so a similarity in setts meant little more than similar taste in women.

  Malcolm and Dylan settled into the group, on benches, or leaning against a table. For a while it seemed to Dylan he’d been hauled in there just to hear gossip, but he knew there had to be a reason for his presence. So he listened patiently to news of MacLeods who had married Matheson girls, and MacLeod women who now lived in Ciorram. Food was brought for the visitors, and there was political discussion of the Queen and her policies. Also there was news of arrests by the English soldiers, of cattle reivers who were successful or unsuccessful, and talk of how the Sassunaich were not amused by the goings-on of anyone Scottish, it seemed.

  Long after the MacLeods had arrived and supper was eaten by all, the talk finally turned to the business at hand. Dylan learned the MacLeods and the Mathesons were planning a creach the next morning. He perked, honored now he’d been let in on this. In the fine, old tradition of the Highlands, they were going to steal some
cattle. Dylan knew the trip was necessary because of the many head the Mathesons had lost that winter. Said Iain, “Artair and Coll report the MacDonells’ pastures being somewhat crowded, and could most likely do without so many animals eating their grass.”

  “But,” Dylan said, “what are we going to do with a bunch of winter-skinny cows?”

  Malcolm grinned, apparently amused at the Mathesons’ colonial cousin. “Pasture them in a small glen back beyond the peat bog until they’re fat enough to sell. Then we take them south a ways, to Glenfinnan,” he nodded at Donnchadh MacLeod, “and trade them out for MacGregor spréidhe brought up from the Trossachs. That way we dinnae have the MacDonells coming around identifying their wee pets.”

  Dylan grinned. “Sort of like cow laundering, eh?”

  Malcolm and the others let out a loud guffaw. “You have an Irish way with words, lad!” He slapped Dylan on the back, and for the rest of the evening and well into the night, Dylan listened carefully to the plans for the raid.

  The next day they spent sleeping, then the following night the selected reivers set out on foot in a northeasterly direction, armed with swords and dirks. Dylan, Malcolm, Artair, Coll, Robin Innis, Marc Hewitt, and four other Mathesons walked in silence with the ten MacLeods, accompanied by Dylan’s Sigurd and Iain’s white collie, Dìleas. They crossed rocky slopes and skirted peat bogs on a route Malcolm seemed to make up as he went along. By the moonlight, Dylan kept a close eye on the landscape as they traversed it, for he was the only man present who had not spent his life traveling these mountains and his survival might one day hinge on being able to find his way around.

  Cooking fires would give them away, so they ate cold oatmeal from their hands. The closer they came to MacDonell territory, the more careful they were of not announcing their arrival. It rained off and on, and Dylan fought the chill of wet wool in the night. By day they rolled themselves in their plaids and slept on heather that barely mitigated the damp of the ground. After the second day, Dylan discovered if one was tired enough and determined enough to rest, one could sleep anywhere and under any conditions.

  On the third evening they lay low among some trees and waited for sunset before moving in on the hundred head of MacDonell cattle, which a MacLeod scout had reported ahead in a secluded pasture. There had been little talk on the trip, and now Dylan dozed in the silence, his back to a sun-warmed rock and Siggy’s head in his lap.

  Robin, sitting nearby, commented in a low voice, “That Sigurd seems to have attached himself to ye.”

  Dylan opened his eyes and looked down at the drowsy dog. Though Siggy had slept in the Great Hall with Iain’s dogs since Alasdair Matheson’s death last fall, during the day he could almost always be found somewhere near Dylan.

  Artair said, “Alasdair’s dog and his wife, both. I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned up with his land before the year was out.”

  The MacLeods stirred, interested in the exchange and the ominous tone in Artair’s voice.

  Dylan let his hand slip to Brigid’s hilt and informed Artair, “You’ll be taking that back, now—”

  Malcolm said, “Set it aside, the two o’ ye! Quiet down or ye’ll have the entire MacDonell clan down our necks.”

  Dylan and Artair both sat back, but Dylan would have been just as happy for an excuse to cut the snotty kid.

  They all slept, and the full moon was high when they set out to rustle the MacDonell herd. This was the tricky part, separating the cattle from those charged with their care, especially while the cattle were not yet driven to the remote shielings. According to intelligence brought back from the scouting foray, three teenage boys occupied a tiny hut tucked between two rocky knolls near the pasture. Donnchadh, two of his MacLeods, and Marc were dispatched to overpower and bind the cowherds.

  Silence was essential now, which meant keeping the cattle from panicking. If yet another blood feud was to be avoided, the boys would have to stay unhurt, though the MacDonells would certainly try to kill the reivers if the creach were discovered or tracked. If the village were alerted, there would certainly be blood and no matter what happened then, some of that blood would eventually be Matheson. Slowly, easily, the Mathesons and MacLeods, and their well-trained dogs, urged the cattle to a walk and guided them northward from the pasture.

  The false trail was taken for several hours, their route chosen carefully to avoid MacDonell households and to suggest a retreat toward Fraser lands. Then Malcolm guided them to higher, rockier ground. An hour later they began a wide circle that led them southward again. It wasn’t enough to simply make it home with the cattle, they had to shake the MacDonell trackers before crossing into Iain Mór’s lands. If the cattle could be tracked into Matheson territory but not out of it, Iain would be responsible for restitution regardless of whether the spréidhe were found and identified. Furthermore, during the following days they had to pass through enough grazing to keep the cattle on their feet. Speed was essential, to make it out of MacDonell territory.

  The group pressed on, more slowly than on the approach, but covering more distance before stopping to rest. The route was different, over rocks that wouldn’t show tracks and through treacherous bogs that would close over behind them if crossed properly.

  At a narrow pass, Donnchadh slapped some of his men on the shoulder and five of the MacLeods dropped out of the group. They climbed to a rocky outcrop above, and settled in as shadows under the moon. Dylan asked, “What are they doing?”

  Malcolm replied, “Just assuring we’re not followed.”

  Dylan nodded, and continued with the herd. But before long, the hair rose on the back of his neck. He didn’t like the feeling, and muttered to Sinann who rode the back of the animal next to him, “Hey, Tink. What’s going on back there?”

  Her voice was close and quiet. “I’m sure I have nae idea.”

  “Should I fall back and see?”

  “Dear lad, always attend to what your gut tells ye. Go.”

  Dylan tapped Robin’s shoulder and pointed with his chin back along the trail, and with Sinann flying behind they retraced their route to the MacLeod ambush detail. The Mathesons heard the clang of swords before they were close enough to see anything, and rushed toward the fray with theirs drawn. When they arrived, the MacDonells had been subdued and all but one run off. That one lay across a boulder, at the mercy of a MacLeod who had his dirk hauled back to kill the struggling boy.

  “No!” Dylan ran to stay his hand, and hauled hard against the man’s swing. The young MacDonell scrambled from under the loosened grip, and scurried into the darkness toward home.

  The MacLeod spun on Dylan and shoved him off, his eyes wide and dark and his face screwed up with rage. His eyes shifted down, and Dylan on reflex parried the dirk thrust at his gut.

  “Hey!” In the same motion he stepped in and with his elbow knocked the man back a few steps, then held him at the point of his sword. The other four MacLeods drew swords, but Robin stood back to back with Dylan. Dylan said, “What in bloody hell is going on here? That was just a boy!”

  “A boy to grow up a MacDonell. And it’s nae concern of yours,” the senior MacLeod said.

  “You want them to come after us?”

  “Again, ye mean?”

  Sinann threw in her two cents. “Last year the MacDonells made a raid on the MacLeods and killed three men. I daresay it’s already a blood feud.”

  Dylan said, “You’re right, it’s no concern of mine. But Iain Mór said no killing. If you want to carry on a feud, do it on your own time. Leave us out of it. I’ll not have the MacDonells coming after Tigh a’ Mhadhaigh Bha`in for your killing.”

  The MacLeod gave him a withering look. “I wouldnae expect an outlander such as yourself to ken.”

  “You’re right, you can’t. What you can expect me to understand is that I was told by my Laird there would be no blood. Hear this, MacLeod, I will not let you kill anyone on this trip. Come back later if you have to chase down skinny boys for vengeance.”

&
nbsp; The man glared at him for a moment, then sheathed his dirk. Dylan scabbarded his sword, then the rest of the weapons were put away. Slowly, keeping eyes on each other, they began the walk back to the herd.

  Near dawn the reivers came to a river that had risen in the rains since their passing days before. Malcolm, Dylan, and Donnchadh went to the front of the herd to assess the situation, and debated the pros and cons of resting before crossing.

  “The men and beasts are near exhaustion,” said Malcolm.

  Donnchadh replied, “But to stay invites attack by the MacDonells, a likely thing since this fellow from the colonies let the young one go earlier.” He narrowed his eyes at Dylan, who ignored the remarks.

  Malcolm peered at the brown, rushing water. An increased depth of only a foot made the difference between wading across safely and having to fight for footing. The men were tired, and so were the cattle. Dylan looked across the herd and saw them sluggish, with heads down. They all needed sleep. But he knew putting this river between themselves and the MacDonells would possibly shake the pursuit. They needed to push onward. He was not surprised when Malcolm gave the nod to cross.

  The cattle were reluctant, and went into the water panicky. The dogs were carried across, draped around the necks of two Mathesons. The icy water pressed heavily, and the rocky bottom made poor purchase. One of the kine broke loose and floated away, bellowing in terror. Another followed, and Robin foolishly reached out for it. Outweighed, he was pulled from his footing.

  Faster than thought, Dylan grabbed Innis’s collar with one hand and dug into the riverbed with all his strength. He pulled and held on with both hands against the heavy drag of rushing water. His fingers, numb from the cold, clenched in Robin’s sark but began to slip. Robin’s struggle to find footing yanked against Dylan’s hold. He leaned back against the current until the water rushed over his head, held his breath, and dug into the bottom with his toes and hauled hard. Robin came within reach of one of the cattle, and grabbed a fistful of shaggy coat. Dylan surfaced and saw Robin would be all right, but kept hold of the exhausted man’s sark as they continued across.