Salty Dog

by Shayne Silvers

  “It’s that thing that’s out there,” Tristan had replied.

  “What t’ing?”

  But of course that’s when Imogen had showed up, and I hadn’t thought to follow up with him regarding what “thing” he’d been referring to. I had asked a few of the others precisely how Lady Aife had managed to tame the aurochs, though—curious to know how she’d gone about it. Sadly, everyone I spoke to had proven far less knowledgeable on that subject.

  Big surprise.

  “How long is this supposed to take?” I asked, doing my best not to sound as petulant as I felt.

  Tristan and Blair exchanged considering glances, as if neither had thought to ask. Tristan shrugged. “I assume we’ll get there when we get there,” he said.

  I groaned but didn’t bother pressing; with Lady Aife and her two guards up front driving the would-be carriage, the best I could hope to do was wait until we stopped to ask. “Alright, run me through it, again,” I said, giving Tristan a come-at-me gesture.

  “Why? We’ve been over this a dozen times.”

  “Humor me,” I replied. The truth was, ever since my fight with Rhys, I’d had trouble remembering certain things. Nothing major, but little things, like which side of the bed I liked to sleep on, or whether I liked eggs for breakfast more than porridge. Indeed, it felt almost as though I’d taken a handful of such memories and thrown them to the wind.

  “Alright,” Tristan replied, though this time when he and Blair exchanged looks, I could tell there was more to it. “Tournament rules. Single elimination bouts. Six people maximum per nation competing, excluding the nation who hosts.”

  “That’s new. Why aren’t they allowed to compete?” Blair asked.

  “Something about home-field advantage, I expect,” I chimed in.

  Tristan gave me an odd look but nodded. “The home nation has to be the judge in case any final decisions have to be made. This way they’re less partial. At least in theory.”

  “In theory?” I asked.

  “Some nations find it hard to be objective,” Tristan replied, smirking. “When the Tógálaí Capall hosted, for example, we found ourselves eliminated as a nation by the end of the first round.”

  “Even Lady Aife?” I asked, surprised.

  “A technicality,” Tristan explained. “They said she refused to bow to the judge and accept his authority, which meant she had to forfeit.”

  “Well, did she refuse?”

  “Of course, but since when does Lady Aife bow for anyone, much less a filthy horse wrangler?”

  Blair and Tristan laughed, the joke clearly lost on me. But then I hadn’t been raised with the Tógálaí Capall as my neighbors, constantly picking on each other for millennia—maybe it was one of those “you had to be there” things.

  “So, the rules?” I asked, when they were done.

  “Fight until someone surrenders or until the other person is declared beaten by the judge. You may bring any weapons you wish, except a bow. Oh, and no animals—even if you trained it.” Tristan shuddered, though he kept whatever memory that had provoked to himself.

  “Why not a bow?” I asked, frowning. Now that he’d mentioned it, I realized I’d have loved to have a long-range weapon available for fights like these. I mean, sure, the spear was great, but once you threw it, the weapon lost most of its value. Arrows, on the other hand, were much more appealing—quantity over quality for the win.

  “The bow is a coward’s weapon,” Blair said, distastefully.

  No, it’s a hunter’s weapon.

  “It complicates things,” Tristan said, bringing me back to the moment before I could wonder where that thought had come from—or why it had sounded so vehement. “Especially depending on the arena. Too large, and the warrior with the bow will have a definite advantage. Too small, and the melee fighter will likely cut them down before they can draw. Besides, there were too many accidents. Injured spectators and what not.”

  “And which sorts of arenas will we have?” I asked.

  “We’re headed to the Southern Isles. Their lands aren’t particularly spacious,” Tristan noted, “but the Southerners are very good builders. I imagine they’ll have come up with something.”

  Turned out Tristan was right; the Southerners had built a series of artificial islands connected to the shore by a series of bridges, the entire archipelago visible from the city itself. And city it was—nothing like the fort I’d first seen after the battle on the plains, or even the village tucked away between the mountains we’d left behind. No, Oileán Baile—as it was called—was a sprawling thing, practically bursting with life, its people dressed in flowing, multi-colored robes and light breeches, their skin darkly tanned. The air smelled alternatively of cooked fish, spices, and brine. In fact, it was so large we had to park our wagons outside the city limits and proceed on foot.

  Together, the six of us worked our way through the milling populace, passing structures carved from sandstone and quartz that shimmered in the sunlight. I found myself admiring the easy, almost lackadaisical attitudes of the Islanders; compared to the industrious Curaitl, the Southerners seemed downright slovenly. But then, they weren’t fighting to keep warm in the winter, to feed themselves despite a scarce supply of available meat and vegetation. Here, where trade was prevalent, the Islanders had a surplus of food, their diets rich and varied, their homes built to withstand even the wildest storms. Indeed, even their clothes reflected opulence and splendor: every garment we saw was immaculately tailored, each armband and torc carved, not forged—multi-faceted stone as opposed to precious metals.

  “Stop dawdling,” Lady Aife insisted, picking up her pace. “And you, quit drooling,” she chastised me.

  I gave her a wry smile. “I’d have to close me eyes, first.”

  “Then shut them, and let Blair guide you around. At least that way I’ll know you won’t wander off.”

  Blair snatched up my hand. “Don’t worry, she isn’t going anywhere.”

  I rolled my eyes but found myself grinning all the same. “It is beautiful here, though, aye? Surely I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

  Tristan grunted as a young couple bumped into him, the girl squealing in delight, the boy spouting Islander gibberish that might have been poetry. “Oh no, we’ve just all been here before, that’s all.”

  Lady Aife nodded. “The Southern Isles are like pure gold. Lovely to look at, but soft enough to sink your teeth into.” She eyed that same couple with a degree of hostility that spoke volumes about her thoughts on how romance should be conducted. “The only reason no one invades is because they have established themselves as a neutral nation.

  “That,” Tristan said, “and because everyone wants to marry their Queen.”

  “Oh right, I’ve heard this story,” I interjected, only just now recalling the tale of Oisín and Niamh that I’d heard the night of the Curaitl’s raid. I shook my head at the memory. “It was awful. Those two bein’ parted like that, I mean.”

  Blair squeezed my hand, reassuringly.

  “That story is not a tragedy,” Lady Aife said. “It’s a lesson. A bedtime story with teeth.”

  “How so?” I asked, frowning.

  The warmaiden shot a glance back at me. “It warns us not to make promises we cannot keep. Now come on, the nations are meeting above.” She pointed at a flight of stairs carved into the mountain upon which so much of the city was built, a flight that went so high the steps actually faded from view before I could see the end of them.

  “We’re walkin’ up those?” I asked, mouth ajar. “What’s the plan, to exhaust us before the tournament even starts?”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Lady Aife replied, thoughtfully. “I’d never given it much thought before, but it’s true that by the time all the nations gather up top, we’re often too tired to squabble.” She barked a laugh. “Trust Niamh to think of such things.”

  Then, without another word, the warmaiden took off, bustling up the stairs as if a pack of
hounds were on her heels, her fur cloak fluttering out behind her like a cape. Liam and Anna quickly joined her. I shared a glance with Blair and Tristan, both of whom seemed unsurprised.

  “She doesn’t expect us to keep up with her, does she?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Last time we were here on a diplomatic mission,” Tristan said, “The one who finished last had to shop for souvenirs.”

  I frowned. “What kind of punishment is that?”

  “Lady Aife likes to see that everyone in the village gets a little something,” Blair added for clarification. I simply stared at them for a moment, processing. Then, without warning, I took off at a full sprint, ignoring their startled yells and laughter.

  The three of us arrived mere minutes behind Lady Aife, each of us dripping with sweat, our furs tucked over one arm, though only Tristan had opted to go about shirtless. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t seriously considered it. But for all I knew, that would have started a riot in the streets, and—since I wasn’t interested in adding Ceara Bare-Breasts to my growing list of titles—I’d decided to hold off.

  We found Lady Aife waiting for us at the top, her breathing smooth and even, grinning as if she’d just won a fight, the sheen of sweat coating her face making her look lovelier, somehow. “I’m surprised you three ran the stairs,” she admitted. “You know I would’ve been happy to wait.”

  I shot Tristan and Blair very, very dirty looks.

  Tristan was the first to wave away her comment. “We just wanted to show you how well-prepared we are,” he replied, though it took him three tries to get it all out between his heavy breathing.

  “If those stairs exhausted them,” a man’s voice interrupted, “I can’t wait to see how they fare against our warriors.”

  As one, the six of us turned to see a giant of a man approaching, the small crowd gathered in the courtyard parting quickly before him. Impossibly tall, though lean-muscled, his thick black hair had been shaved to the skin on either side of his scalp, leaving one long braid to fall down past his shoulders. Like us, he carried no weapons, though with men his size the threat of physical violence is rarely relegated to whether or not they’re armed.

  Fortunately, the man didn’t seem inclined to toss any of us down the stairs.

  “Boru!” Lady Aife cried, throwing her arms wide. “How are the Hill Tribes?”

  The giant belted out a laugh, teeth flashing bright from within his bushy beard. “You know they don’t like being called that,” he replied, lifting the warmaiden in a crushing hug that would have left me gasping for air.

  Lady Aife grunted and slid smoothly out of his hold. “Not my fault they all choose to live on hills,” she replied, planting her hands on her hips.

  “Sassy as ever, I see.” The giant flicked his eyes over to us, then widened upon seeing me. “Oh, you’ve found yourself another fiery one! And of a proper height, as well!”

  “Ceara Light-Eater,” Lady Aife acknowledged, gesturing for me to step forward.

  “Light-Eater, eh?” The title seemed to surprise the big man. “Best keep her out of sight,” Boru said, conspiratorially, one hand perched on the side of his mouth. “Wouldn’t want Gormflaith getting jealous.”

  “Is that right?” a woman asked, striding up alongside the man, standing perhaps an inch or two shorter than me, though it was hard to tell. She, too, had red hair, though it was a scarlet shade just shy of brown. Like so many of the Blessed People, she was beautiful, though it was a stately, natural beauty—the kind you find with women who age so gracefully they hardly seem to age at all.

  Boru winced as she reached out and tugged on his braid, though his ensuing wink suggested he knew she’d been able to hear him. “I’m Gormflaith, this oaf’s wife,” the woman said, dipping her head towards me. “A bit of friendly advice? If he so much as utters a compliment in your direction, I suggest you run away.”

  “Oh?” I replied, eyebrows raised. “Is he so bad as all that, then?”

  Gormflaith tugged on the braid again. “The man has had three wives besides me, so yes, I’d say so.”

  “But none were as passionate as you, my dear!” Boru cried. “Nor so violent,” he added, with another wink.

  Blair slid her arm through mine. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said.

  Gormflaith nodded, seemingly mollified. “There, husband,” she said, “yet another woman who would rather the company of her own gender than bother with yours.”

  Boru barked a laugh. “Far be it for me to complain! Dagda knows I prefer them, myself!”

  Another tug, not so gentle this time.

  A bell chimed overhead, drowning out Boru’s ensuing curse. He rubbed absent-mindedly at his scalp, then scooped his wife up in his arms, carrying her easily despite her height and complaints. “We’ll see you inside, Aife!” he called.

  The warmaiden waved, then gestured for us to follow. “It’s time. Remember, be silent, but watchful. There will be new warriors since the last tournament. Observe them.”

  The others nodded and fell into step behind her, though I trailed for a moment, marveling at the view below now that I had the chance. Breathtaking, I decided, a delighted laugh bubbling up from my throat before I could help it.

  “Ceara, you coming?” Blair asked.

  I nodded. “Aye, right behind ye.”

  23

  The venue for our little get-together was a round amphitheater already bustling with representatives from the twelve nations, at least nine of which I knew almost nothing about aside from what I’d heard in passing. As Lady Aife insisted, I began scrutinizing the various tribes—noting the diverse wardrobes and styles, most appearing to be climate-derived—only to land eyes upon someone I recognized. Several someones, in fact.

  “It’s you!” Llew said, pointing from across the room. His brothers turned, spotting me at the same time, and gaped. Bran, naturally, recovered first. He studied me, eyeing my furs, scowling, then whispered something to his brothers. Finann jerked a nod and faced the other direction, though it took Llew a few seconds longer, his expression akin to a kicked dog’s.

  I frowned, confused by their reaction. But then it hit me: they must be under the impression that I actually was a spy all along. That perhaps I’d even been in cahoots with the Curaitl, plotting to raid Caer Capall all along. Looking at it objectively, I could see how Bran had come to that conclusion; I was dressed in their furs, fighting as one of the Curaitl in the tournament. Still, for some reason, it stung. But, before I could head over and explain myself, the bells chimed once more, though the reverberations lasted much longer now that we were indoors.

  A moment later, a woman glided through the double doors. Dressed in the same fashion as her own people, though perhaps more prudently, Queen Niamh was a vision in silver, her body lithe and darkly tanned, contrasting fiercely with her chestnut-colored hair. She wore a crown of iridescent scales which glimmered and changed colors in the light, flashing pink, then blue. The room fell silent almost immediately, and those few who’d been sitting rose swiftly to their feet.

  “Welcome, Blessed People,” she said, her voice oddly striking—the sort of voice that makes you look up from whatever you’re doing when you hear it.

  Everyone bowed in response, and I rushed to do the same. She laughed, brightly, and curtsied. “It is good to see you all,” she said, then proceeded to name all twelve tribes, one after the other. As each nation was mentioned, the tribe’s representative—their leader in most cases—took a step forward. Of course, I recognized three of them from my time in the Land of Youth: Boru, Tuathal, and Lady Aife. The others varied in size and gender, though only a few made an impression, and none so much as Queen Niamh, herself.

  “You will all find lodgings throughout the city,” the Queen continued, “though not too close to invite neighborly visits, I should think.”

  Laughter rose up from among the assembly.

  “As tradition dictates, the rules shall be posted for all to see before tomorrow’s bouts,”
she went on, smirking. “The winner shall, as always, receive guest rite and be given leave to roam the tribes freely. And, of course, be given one boon of their choice if it is within the power of those gathered here.”

  Excited murmurs went up at that, though they quieted swiftly as Niamh made to speak again. “I expect this need not be said, but I will tolerate no misconduct during the duration of the tournament. If someone wrongs you, please do not take matters into your own hands. Report it to us and know that justice shall be swift and severe.” Queen Niamh ran her eyes over us all, and I saw in them an intensity that made me shiver. “Remember, you are my guests. Please, be welcome here.” She smiled wide and dipped her head, arms akimbo.

  Those of us gathered bowed again, though conversations were already bubbling up around us as Queen Niamh left the chamber. Lady Aife grunted. “Glad that’s over with,” she muttered, then turned to us. “Well?” she asked.

  “Tuathal’s brought the brothers,” Liam replied, thoughtfully. “We’ll have our hands full if Bran decides to go all out with that claymore of his.”

  “Boru’s only got two of his people with him, but both are as big as he is,” Anna noted. “They were awful quick to get to their feet when the Queen arrived, though. Faster than they look.”

  Lady Aife turned to me expectantly. I cleared my throat. “Um, well, I can see why Queen Niamh keeps gettin’ marriage proposals?” I offered.

  Blair socked me in the arm.

  “Not from me!” I insisted. “Just in general, sheesh.”

  Lady Aife frowned, her disappointment clear, then turned to the others, listening to their reports. I sighed. At last, she gestured for me to lean in, though it was clear she expected to be overheard. “Ceara, do you see that warrior over there? The one in the black cloak?”

  I eyed the man, though there wasn’t much to see; the warrior’s hood was raised, a two-toned cloak obscuring the majority of his body even when he moved. “Aye, I see him.”