by Wade McMahan
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.”
The man led us to a large cot
tage where he stuck his head inside the door and muttered something. Then he turned to us. “Please dismount and enter. Brógán O' Tolairg wishes to speak with you.”
The Staff of Nuada was never far from my hand, and I had it now as I stepped from my horse and walked toward the cottage. Laoidheach and Goban followed as I strode through the door and stopped in surprise. The man at the far end of the room seated on a large wooden box was not what I had expected.
“Come in. Come in all of you!” the man laughed. Huge and grotesque, he was, without doubt, the most corpulent being I had ever seen. His head and face meticulously shaved, he beamed with good humor. “Please, come in and be seated! Would you care for ale? I do not wish to brag, but I have perhaps the finest ale in all Eire!”
I shook my head. “No, though we thank you. We are…”
“Oh, don’t bother with names. No one uses his true name during these times; while I,” he chuckled, “well you already know who I am. Please do sit down.”
Two benches were aligned before him so we seated ourselves, and I continued, “We are sorry to disturb you, Brógán O' Tolairg, and request only a brief moment of your time.”
O' Tolairg again chuckled, his eyes squinting through rolls of fat alight with humor. “Yes, so I’ve heard. You want information.”
Then he pointed to Goban, and laughed. “You are the one who mentioned the sheep, I think. You have a sharp wit about you, one I appreciate, but,” he placed a finger before his lips and whispered, “shh. The men here wouldn’t want their little secret to become known.” His head rolled back on his thick neck as he roared at his own joke.
I began to grin as well, but then froze, seeing the wooden cross hanging on the wall behind him.
O' Tolairg followed my gaze and turned back to me. “You find the thing distasteful, I think? Yes,” he nodded, “it is an offense in your sight.”
“No, I—”
“Do not deny it. You think I don’t know the meaning of your serpent ring? Take the damned cross off the wall and throw it through the door if it suits you. It serves no purpose here, although a few of my rare guests find it comforting.”
He was a strange one. “You are not a Christian, then?”
Again he laughed. “A Christian? Hah! No, I’m no Christian, and far from it, though sometimes it’s wise to appear otherwise. Now, you wanted information?”
I nodded. “Yes, and I will gladly pay for it if it pleases you.”
His fat jowls jostled as he chortled. “Let’s discuss the value of my information after I’ve provided it, shall we? You mentioned slavers to my man. Now, tell me. What do you wish to know?”
“There were slavers here a few weeks ago. They held captive a young girl, a beautiful girl with long, auburn hair by the name of Aine. Do you remember?”
“How could I not?” the fat man beamed. “Such a girl is to be remembered. It is she you are interested in?”
“Yes, she is… That is, what became of her? Do you know?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “She was here, held by a mangy dog named Scannlon and his flea-ridden friends. Now she and they are gone.”
“I see. Yes, but did they say where they were going?”
For the first time, O' Tolairg frowned. “Yes. Scannlon is a great fool, and planned to travel east to Saithne.”
“Saithne, you say? I do not know it.”
“Humph, no doubt. It is a small village north of here, near the coast. Ships from distant lands have brought poisonous plague to some coastal villages and certain death for all who encounter it. The plague is in Saithne, and it is a place to be avoided.”
Laoidheach gasped beside me, and, concerned for Aine, my heart sank at the mention of the word…plague, the Black Death. I looked to O' Tolairg. “Why would a man deliberately travel to a village poisoned by the plague?”
“I’ve already told you. Scannlon is a fool. He thinks to capture youngsters there for slaves after their parents die of it. It is a stupid plan, one that will no doubt kill him.”
“And one that will kill Aine too, no doubt,” I mumbled.
“What is the girl to you? Your wife perhaps?” He shook his head in answer to his own question. “No, not your wife. I have it! She is of your blood. Your hair is red while hers is auburn. She is your sister! Am I right?”
I nodded. “Yes, she is my sister.”
O' Tolairg beamed. “I knew it from the very first. I’m very clever, don’t you see, and I always know how things will be in the end. So tell me, was my information useful?”
I tired of the fat man. “Yes, you were very helpful. Now tell me how I can repay you.”
He pointed to Goban. “I want him.”
“What? But that is ridiculous. Oh, I see. It is another of your jokes.”
“Oh, I love my jokes, yes I certainly do, but regrettably this is not one of them. You see, he is an escaped slave, but of course you knew that already. I well remember he came through here at about the same time as your sister, only he was a captive of Corcu Duibne warriors. I think they will pay a fat reward to have him returned to them. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The dilemma we now faced was my fault. I should have realized that Goban might be recognized in Quirene. The gaze O' Tolairg fixed upon me was no longer that of a jolly fat man.
I rose and faced him. “This discussion is meaningless. I would not give you the man, even if he were mine to give. I have two pieces of silver. They are ample payment for your information.”
O' Tolairg snickered. “You have silver? That is good, for I will have it and the man. To be sure, I will take all you have, and, if you are very fortunate, you and this other one beside you,” he pointed to Laoidheach,” can walk away from my village to find your sister.”
“You are a pig.”
He leaned back and yawned. “So I have been told before, but you begin to bore me. You and your friend have two choices. You can walk through that door and continue walking, or I will hold you and sell you as non-Christian slaves to the Corcu alongside the little man here.”
I drew my sword. “You forget. We are armed and we have you. You will follow us outside to our horses.”
“No, I think not.” He called, “Oh, Osgar!”
The man who led us to the cottage appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Master O' Tolairg?”
“You heard what was said here?”
“Yes master.”
“Be a good man, then, and go tell the others to gather before my cottage, won’t you?”
The man disappeared from the doorway, and O' Tolairg sneered. “You see? You have no way out. Oh, I understand you might kill me, yes indeed, but I have more than fifty men out there who would then kill you. There’s no profit in that, now is there? No. I suggest you all lay down your weapons, and accept my offer. Leave the small man with me, and you can simply walk away.”
“I have no need to kill you. Goban will.”
“Of course. But then my men will kill you just the same, don’t you see, and your deaths will be on his head. What say you, Goban? Do you want to be the cause of your friends’ deaths?”
Goban looked to me with sad eyes. “The bastard has us trapped for fair, Ossian, and that’s a fact. Go with Laoidheach while ye can. I will deal with this fat pig afterwards.”
O' Tolairg was already gloating over his victory, but my mind was on fire, seeking a way out.
“Let us just cut this swine’s throat,” Laoidheach urged. “His men might cut us down afterwards, but we cannot give up Goban.”
“You are a man of honor, eh, pretty man?” the fat man grinned. “Be very cautious, for I think my men would enjoy capturing you to use at their pleasure in the place of their women,” he winked, “or sheep. Where is the honor in that?”
“It is not a thing you would understand, you filthy pile of shit,” Laoidheach snapped.
Laugher filled the room as O' Tolairg leaned back his head and roared.
The Staff of Nuada trembled in my hand, at first so slightly I scarce notic
ed it. It began quivering again, more urgently. An unknown energy raced up my arm from the Staff, a vision of unimagined power filled my mind, and suddenly I knew precisely how to confront this evil man and his henchmen.
I pointed my Staff at O' Tolairg. “Stand to your feet.”
O' Tolairg grinned. “I think not.”
Goban rose, strode over to him and slapped his face hard with the flat of his calloused hand. “My friend said stand to your feet, ye stinkin’ offal!”
The fat man cringed under Goban’s blow, but his shifty eyes found mine. “I offered you a way out of here, but now I take it back! You will die here, or be sold as a slave!”
It was now my turn to smile. “Will you stand, Brógán O' Tolairg, or must Goban encourage you once again?”
He sat motionless for a moment, and then sighed. Two wooden canes rested on the floor beside him. He took them in his hands and heaved his enormous bulk upright. The man stood there, leaning upon the canes, glaring. “And now?”
“Now you will lead us through the door.”
“You are foolish men.” His eyes captured Laoidheach and Goban. “And very soon you will be dead men.”
I gestured toward the door. “Proceed.”
Laoidheach whispered in my ear. “What are you planning? Are you certain this is a good idea?”
“Stay behind me and watch our backs, my friend.” I then handed my sword to Goban, and pointed to O' Tolairg. “Prod him and keep him moving through the door.”
Goban walked behind the man and slapped him across his broad ass with the flat of the sword. “Ossian told ye to proceed. Start movin’!”
The huge man took a hesitant, shuffling step forward, his massive weight much supported by his arms and the canes. Another step was taken, and, slowly, a third.
“You are an inconsequential scoundrel,” I said to him. “You think yourself important because the scum in this filthy village cower before you. Know me for who I am, Brógán O' Tolairg, for I am Ossian, son of Ciann Mehigan, and a Druid among the Eoghanachts. You will release us unharmed, or, by the gods themselves, I shall unleash a power against you such as you cannot even imagine.”