by Caiseal Mor
“We’d best be going,” Lom suggested.
“My head hurts,” Iobhar moaned as he began to regain his wits.
“Then we’d better get you home,” Mahon laughed. He hauled Iobhar to his feet and threw him over his shoulder. Then he patted the Gaedhal on the backside, swung his feet over the wall and was off down the hill.
On that same warm summer morning upon another hill top just two days journey away, a man stood with his arms raised to the heavens in praise. His clothes were of a simple dark brown cloth with a checked pattern in a lighter color highlighting the weft and weave. His sun-bleached breeches were tightly bound with leather about the calf, and on his feet were short boots of soft doeskin.
His saffron-colored tunic was clean and fresh. And his breacan, a long cloak that could be worn in a variety of styles depending on the weather, looked as if it had leaped off the loom onto his shoulders. The brown of the dye was fresh and bright and of the same reddish hue as a chestnut.
About his waist the dark-haired man wore a wide belt holding in place a large leather pouch under his breacan. He bore no sword nor weapon of any kind, though he had the strong body and broad shoulders of a warrior.
But this fellow had an unearthly air about him. His swiftly darting eyes were just a little too intense, his long fingernails too strong and well maintained to belong to any mortal man. Perhaps if you had met him on a midnight stroll his presence might have raised your hair on end.
When his meditations were done he cast a critical eye over the treetops of the forest that surrounded the hill. He leaned against the ruined wall of the once mighty fortress, his fingers lovingly caressing the stones.
Suddenly the wind picked up, tossing his hair about his face and lifting the edge of his breacan cloak so that it tangled against his body. In an effort to straighten it out he turned around to face the breeze, but the wind grabbed his cloak again and whipped it up over his forehead.
In frustration the man snatched the breacan away from his eyes and at that moment the breeze dropped. A cloud passed briefly away from the sun, momentarily blinding him. He held a hand up to shade his eyes.
And then he saw her. At first she was just a dark outline in the glare. But in a few breaths the sunlight was swallowed up by a cloud again and he could make out the features of her face. The man lowered his hand and bowed politely.
“You’ve late,” he informed her.
“I had business to attend to,” she replied curtly.
“King Eber of the Gaedhals is his name, I’ve heard. And it’s said he’s quite taken with you.”
“Charming as ever, my dear Lochie,” the woman replied in a sarcastic tone. Then, to show she was thoroughly displeased by his remark, she abruptly changed the subject. “Those are fine clothes you’re wearing. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you dressed so well. Is this an attempt to impress me?”
“Isleen, my darling, I’m wearing the latest fashion. These colors are much admired among the young warriors of the Gaedhal. Surely you must have recognized the style.” A mischievous smile played across his face, then he added, “Or perhaps you only have eyes for the king.”
“I’m not tempted to take the bait from your hook,” she shrugged. “Now, let me have a look at you.”
Lochie held his arms out as if he were about to embrace her. Then he slowly turned around on the spot.
“Very nice,” she conceded. “But how vain of you to take the appearance of a young warrior.”
“A younger man’s body has many advantages, not the least of which is the attention it draws from lovely young women. But you know what I’m talking about. After all, you’ve taken a rather exquisite form yourself.” His bright green eyes sparkled with admiration.
“This is the guise of my Seer,” she reminded him. “You know her well enough.”
“But I haven’t looked on her lovely red hair and her milk-white skin since just after the Battle of Sliabh Mis …. That was nearly three winters ago. Have you spent all your time since then with Eber of the Southern Gaedhals?”
“I am his trusted adviser,” Isleen answered proudly. “The king makes no move or decision without consulting me.”
“There’s no better place from which to rule a kingdom than the bedchamber,” Lochie laughed, “or so IVe heard tell.”
Isleen frowned deeply but she could never remain upset with Lochie for long. Her mouth curled into a little smile and her face relaxed as she echoed her old companion’s laughter. Her eyes twinkled with merriment as she admitted, “I’ve missed you.”
“You didn’t miss me enough to seek me out and speak with me.”
“I’ve told you I was distracted.”
“He must be quite a man, this king of yours.”
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your voice?” Isleen smiled.
“No.” He turned away and gazed out over the treetops again.
“What have you been doing these last three winters?” she inquired. “You could have sought me out. Has Lochie found himself a distracting woman?”
“I’ve spent all my time wandering this land from one end to the other,” he replied sharply. “I’ve been waiting patiently for the right moment to bring the next part of our strategy into play. I’m a watcher of the patterns of life and do not engage in empty pursuits.” His expression was suddenly quite serious.
“What troubles you so?”
Lachie put a hand to the stubble at his chin and rubbed it with his thumb. “The days are passing swiftly by. Time is no longer our friend as it once was. With every sunrise we squander another opportunity to regain our freedom.”
“You spend too much time out here alone,” she advised. “There’s no sense in trying to conjure up the past. The old days are gone.”
“Don’t you realize what is happening to us? Aren’t you concerned for the fate of your soul?”
“Of course I am,” Isleen countered.
“Have you forgotten that we made a pact together? Are you so enamored of Eber Finn that you could cast away our only hope of salvation?”
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing all this while?” she seethed, insulted again. “Do you imagine I’ve spent three hard winters in mortal form because I’m in love with the King of the Gaedhals?”
“What have you been doing all this time then?” he shot back.
“I’ve been working away slowly to win Eber’s confidence. I’ve been leading him along the path to war. Don’t you know that another conflict is building? That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve convinced King Eber that I’m in love with him. And I know he’s smitten with me. The first part of your strategy is in place.”
“How long before the fighting begins?” Lochie inquired.
“It’s now midsummer,” Isleen replied. “Before this moon turns a half cycle there will be blood spilled on the earth. And we’ll be able to survey at least one battlefield where the dead outnumber the living.”
“You’ve done well,” her companion nodded, acknowledging her efforts. “I’m sorry I rebuked you. It was unjust.”
Isleen took a step closer and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “If you and I indulge ourselves in petty quarrels, we will be defeated,” she reminded him firmly. “Whatever challenges arise, we must always stand together.”
Lochie reached up to touch the hand that rested on his shoulder. “And there will be plenty of challenges ahead,” he nodded. “Since the road to war is well paved, it’s time for us to seek out our learned Druid and let him know the troubles we are brewing for his people. He’s knowledgable in the ways of enchantment and wise enough to put his fears and prejudices aside to help us. Among the Draoi kind Dalan is the only one I would put my faith in.”
“I seem to remember he held some animosity for you when last you met at Sliabh Mis,” Isleen quipped sarcastically. “Will this prodigy of yours aid us willingly?”
“I’m certain he will,” Lochie enthused. “H
e has a compassionate heart. And he has a rare talent. He’s able to listen to both sides of any argument and see the merit in each. Besides, I’ve convinced him of the urgency of our quest. I know he is doing his best to find an answer to our problem, though I must say he is taking longer than I’d hoped.”
“Then I think we should stir this fellow up a little,” Isleen decided. “It’s time we lit a hot hearth-fire under him. If you want to get a man moving, roast his backside, as they say.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to help him acquire a burning inspiration to act on our behalf,” Lochie agreed.
“If this war goes the way I’ve planned there’ll be plenty of good reasons for him to want us out of the way,” Isleen agreed. “If he’s as wise as you say, he’ll soon realize we’re behind the coming conflict. If that doesn’t move him to action, nothing will.”
Lochie exhaled in satisfaction, savoring the sensation of the breath passing out through his mouth. “We’ll stir up some intrigue, a little implied threat, and add an enchantment or two where necessary. But I’ll have to rid the land of a few folk who might stand in our way.”
“Do as you see fit. These people mean nothing to us.” Isleen let her hand drop away from Lochie’s shoulder and stared dreamily at the far-off forest.
Lochie watched her solemnly. “I visited our brothers and sisters a short while ago.”
“Why do you torture yourself with what might have been?” Isleen chided, her eyes never leaving the distant trees.
“Because I feel I owe it to the seven others of our kind to ease the distress of their fate,” he shot back.
“How can you be so sure they are distressed to be resting within the standing stones?”
“Would you be at peace?”
Isleen shook her head without hesitation.
“Balor turned a terrible treachery on us by his enchantment,” she confirmed. “If he had been victorious over the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg we would have outlived our usefulness. Perhaps if he had prevailed we would have been destroyed by some other means. I can’t say. All I know for certain is that the patterns of the Earth must move on.”
Lochie did not answer. He simply gazed into the distance considering her words.
“Even we who are eternal must change,” she reasoned. “We were created through Draoi craft. Death has been taken away from us. The only alternative is sleep. Our brothers and sisters are asleep.”
“I wish I could awaken them,” he whispered.
“There’s nothing we can do for the others now. They’re entombed in the heart of the stones and beyond our help. If we are to save ourselves from sharing their terrible fate, we must concentrate all our energies on the next turning of the seasons. Before this coming Samhain our future will be reckoned.”
Lochie went to the edge of the hilltop and closed his eyes, reassured by her words. He stood there for a long while before he spoke again. “I remember there was a time when I had to struggle to convince you we had any chance of steering our own fate. You seem very confident now that liberty from this bond of immortality is within our grasp.”
“I took your advice. I’ve kept myself busy. After all, it was world-weariness and boredom that made our brothers and sisters lose heart. And in my idle hours I’ve been working away on that wager we made in the days before the coming of the Gaedhals.”
“You still believe you can win that bet?” Lochie chortled, shaking his head in mockery at her confidence.
“Aoife will never marry Mahon, the son of Cecht,” she stated definitely. “And I have so woven her fate into the means of our freedom that you will gasp at the intricacy of my plan. I will win the wager and break our bonds in one stroke.”
“Why does Aoife interest you so much? She’s no more than the daughter of a king whose people are in decline. In three or four generations they will call themselves Gaedhals and have forgotten all about their heritage.”
“It amuses me to dabble in the lives of these folk,” Isleen answered with a shrug. “I’ve learned that maintaining an active mind keeps me alert. It staves off the sleep of stone. And I find I enjoy exerting influence over the affairs of others.”
With a mischievous smile Isleen sauntered up to Lochie and with each pace her long cloak slipped away inch by inch from her shoulders. Beneath this garment she wore a pair of black traveling breeches and a leather tunic that accentuated the contours of her body.
“I have you to thank for inspiring me again,” she said as she laid a gentle hand upon Lochie’s chest.
She searched his eyes and he returned her smile. “I’m feeling much more like my old self. It’s as if I’ve woken from a long, dismal dream. I’ve rediscovered the pleasure and the pain of mortalkind. I’ve nurtured the spark of passion in my soul and it has warmed my spirit. I’m sure that’s what has saved me from the terrible fate of our seven companions.”
“May their souls find peace,” Lochie added solemnly.
“They are beyond our help,” she rebuked him gently. “There is nothing we can do for them. Our duty is to ourselves. Are you willing to keep working with me toward our goal?”
“I am.”
Isleen put a hand under Lochie’s chin, lifted his head and, with their eyes still locked, leaned forward to kiss him gently on the lips.
“I’ve grown accustomed to my mortal form,” she admitted as she stroked her fingers through his hair. “I will be sad indeed when the time comes to abandon it forever.”
“One day our souls will soar free from the prison of our enchantment,” Lochie assured her. “When our spirits quit this Earth and go to rest among our kindred in the Halls of Waiting, we’ll have a reason to rejoice for the first time in many generations.”
Isleen closed her eyes and nodded slowly in agreement. “I will share the quest for death with you, my friend. But for now let’s enjoy these forms of flesh, the world of texture, of flavor and aroma. If we should fail and our dreams come to nothing, we’ll find ourselves trapped within the cold stones alongside our companions. And if that should come to pass I will need some sweet memories to dull the edge of eternal imprisonment.”
Lochie touched her face with his fingers, stroking the soft skin of her cheek. His eyes were full of wonder as if the experience were completely new to him.
“We will not fail,” he assured her in a deep, confident tone.
Then Isleen and Lochie, the last two Watchers of the nine, locked in an embrace. And for a while put away all their cares.
Chapter 3
AFINELY WROUGHT TWO-WHEELED CHARIOT ROLLED smoothly along behind the proud black mare. The warhorse neighed as she shook her head nervously. She hadn’t worn a harness for nearly four cycles of the seasons. She constantly turned her noble head, striving to catch a glimpse of King Eber Finn at the reins. He had raised her from a foal and his presence reassured her greatly.
The black mare was the king’s favorite warhorse. A special ship had been sent back to the homeland to fetch her once the warriors had been landed. She was a powerful animal and more than up to the task of pulling this flimsy vehicle.
By the time they had nearly reached the line of trees at the far edge of the field, the mare was much more relaxed. The king decided to let her have her head to test the strength and maneuverability of his new vehicle.
With all the caution of a seasoned charioteer, Eber slowly let out some slack upon the right rein while pulling back gently on the left. His warhorse understood immediately the meaning of this almost imperceptible change in pressure on the bit. And she knew that if she ignored the request it could suddenly turn to cruel command.
Eber hummed with satisfaction as his chariot wheeled to the left in a great arc. In the first joyous throes of a new acquisition he laughed out loud and then began whistling through his teeth with an earpiercing intensity. With both reins securely held in his left hand, he lifted the whip in his right. The handle of this instrument was adorned with bright red feathers taken from a bird native to the homeland of his people. In triump
h he waved the whip high in the air.
Far away on the brow of a hill, three figures waited for his return. The lame blacksmith sat securely in a leather harness strapped to the back of his old friend and constant companion, the blind wheelwright and chariot maker. Beside them stood an old man with gray hair and a long beard. He was dressed in the dark blue robes of a Druid coxmselor and he held a finely carved staff of honey-gold hazelwood in his thin bony hands.
None of them had the slightest notion what was on the mind of their king. To them he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. But in truth, Eber Finn was also taking this opportunity to give expression to his frustration.
That morning he’d received a messenger from his brother Eremon, King of the North. The warrior had addressed him as Eber of the Leth Moga, the province of the servant. This was the name the northerners gave to the southern kingdom of the Gaedhals. The messenger had referred to his own king as ruler of Leth Cuinn, the province of the chieftain. The inference was clear. Eremon considered himself of a higher status than his brother. If this were not bad enough, the northern king had also demanded taxes from the people over whom Eber ruled. The king raised his whip again and the red feathers fluttered above his head.
“The king is signaling to us,” Méaraigh the black-smith whispered into his friend Tuargain’s ear. “He’s turning the chariot around with remarkable skill. Surely he’s a sight to behold dressed in his scarlet tunic and his dark green cloak. There never was a king like him. Not even in the legends of the ancient days.”
“He’s already surpassed his father,” the wheelwright declared. “And Mil was certainly the greatest warrior who ever lived. Do you think the king is happy with our work?”
But Eber was too far off for the blacksmith to observe whether the king was calling out in ecstasy or bellowing in anger. Méaraigh squinted to see better but didn’t answer.
“How are the wheels holding up?” Tuargain demanded to know. “Is the king taking it easy? I warned him not to drive too fast until he has a feel for the balance of it.”