Oath of the Brotherhood

by Carla Laureano

  “I admire your dedication to your warriors,” she replied softly. “Be assured I do not take this responsibility lightly.”

  “We’ll want to see the Threewaters battlefield as soon as possible,” Ruarc said. “How many casualties?”

  “Nearly two hundred. We outnumbered them four to one, and I’m not talking farmers and blacksmiths. These were our best men. The Siomaigh lost half in the first ten minutes. We had slightly better luck. I received sixty back, and only half of them wounded. But every man told the same story: not only did the enemy seem to know what each of its men would do, they anticipated our moves as well. Some of my warriors fought the Ciraen army, and they said even the Empire didn’t have such well-directed soldiers.”

  “Tigh has always been known for its warriors,” Aine said.

  Abban looked at her over the rim of his goblet. “These were Sliebhanaigh fighters led by a Timhaigh captain.”

  “Seareanns fight by clan like Aronans,” Ruarc explained. “Even the best leaders can barely get men from their own region to work together, let alone former enemies.”

  “Another indication there’s sorcery involved,” Aine said. “What happened then?”

  “Our side retreated, but the enemy cut off our route, and we were pushed back to the Threewaters. It looked as though we were finished, but then they just stopped, as if they hit an invisible wall. The Timhaigh captain cut down his own men as an example, but they wouldn’t budge. Those that made it to the bank collapsed dead. Semias’s archers picked off the rest, one by one.”

  Aine shuddered at the image. The retelling was vivid enough. She didn’t want to see it herself. Still, she had a job to do. “Can you provide directions to our mappers?”

  “Of course. In the meantime, take my tent. As the only woman here, you should stay out of sight as much as you can. I’ll tell the men you’re here to treat the wounded. I assume you don’t want the truth known.”

  Aine rose, sensing dismissal, and gave him a slight curtsy. “Thank you, Lord Abban. We’ll leave at first light.”

  She stepped out of the tent and let out her breath in a rush. Her entire body sagged with relief.

  “You did well,” Ruarc said.

  Aine nodded her thanks, but her insides twisted into knots when she recalled Abban’s story. It was one thing to avow her capabilities back in Lisdara. It was another to face the reality of blood and death firsthand. What would they find when they reached the battlefield?

  Ruarc placed a firm hand on her elbow and steered her to Abban’s tent. The appraising stares of the warriors around them prompted Aine to lift her hood again. She had been uncomfortable at Dún Eavan surrounded by twenty-five of the clan’s warriors, but somehow she didn’t expect the vulnerability she felt at being among hundreds of strangers.

  The following day dawned chilly and damp, and thunderclouds mounded on the horizon. Aine dressed quickly, wishing for a change of clothing that didn’t smell of sweat or horse, but she abandoned that hope as futile. Ruarc appeared minutes later to help her with her armor, and then she found herself riding in the center of her seven companions again. Either she’d get used to the days on horseback, or she’d never walk again. Right now, it felt like the latter.

  They skirted the Siomaigh encampment before turning south toward where the river emerged from the old forest. By the time the sun rose, glowing faintly behind the cover of clouds and mist, Cúan and Aran agreed they were less than an hour’s ride from their destination.

  Circling carrion birds were the first indication of their proximity to the battlefield. She steeled herself for the sight when they crested the rise, but she couldn’t adequately prepare for the carnage. Bodies lay strewn across blood-soaked earth on the opposite side of the river. Those that had died on the water’s edge still lay there, caught on the rocks or half-submerged in pools of blood-stained water. Hundreds of birds picked at the rotting flesh.

  “Abban’s men collected their dead,” Sualtam said. “Apparently Fergus didn’t bother.”

  Aine’s gorge rose, but she pushed it down and locked away her revulsion. She took the lead down the hill into the shallow river valley, clapping a gloved hand over her nose and mouth at the stench. How could they have left so many men here like discarded rubbish?

  She extended her awareness beyond the ever-present background hum of power, but she felt nothing. What if she couldn’t do what she had so vehemently assured Calhoun and Abban she could?

  No. She couldn’t accept that.

  “We need to cross,” she said, looking up and down the river for a spot not choked with corpses.

  “There.” Ruarc pointed downstream to a shallow, slow-moving spot, protected by a small outcropping of rocks.

  As soon as Aine’s horse set its front hooves in the water, a thrill of power coursed through her. She clutched her horse’s mane and rode the wave of dizziness while the mare scrambled up the opposite bank. Aine barely managed to rein her in as Ruarc splashed across behind her.

  “What is it? Do you feel something?”

  She nodded, her throat tight. It was undeniably Balian in origin, similar to the ones in the old forest, but this one was a hundredfold stronger than those fine, old threads of magic. It left her gasping for air, her heart hammering in her chest. The charm burned against her skin. This was not the faded remnant of a centuries-old ward.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Aine murmured, “I would say it was new.”

  “How is that possible?” Ruarc asked.

  “I have no idea.” She slid from the mare’s back and handed the reins to Ruarc. Carefully, she edged down the riverbank and knelt in the mud beside the water. Power vibrated into her bones, and she swayed in place. She closed her eyes, concentrating, and this time she sensed a faint resonance beneath the overwhelming pulse of power. As she walked upstream, the ward shuddered and vibrated, undulating with the splash and tumble of the water, then fading to barely a whisper.

  When she returned to the group, they all stared, wide-eyed. “There’s a new ward laid over the old one, as you’d mend a fence or darn a sock.”

  “Who could be doing that?” Lorcan asked.

  “I don’t know. But it runs the length of the river, like a natural border. I want to see how it feels where the fighting took place.”

  They looked at her doubtfully, but she moved upstream anyway. As she neared the battlefield, her heart started to pound. The oily stench of sorcery lay beneath the smell of rotting flesh. The ward trembled in contact with the dark magic, like liquid sizzling in a hot pan, steaming away everything but its scent.

  It took supreme force of will to walk among the bodies, enveloped in the sickening smell. Ravens flapped away, squawking at her presence. She gritted her teeth and stripped off her glove, but it took several attempts before she could bring herself to kneel beside a corpse and touch its putrefied flesh.

  Death and corruption spiked through her, followed by the dim echo of pain. Aine sucked in a lungful of putrid air as magic crawled across her skin, clawing its way in, desperate to find a new host. Her vision went dark.

  Bright, pulsating heat flared from the charm, burning away the sorcery. She leapt to her feet and fled the scene like a startled animal. Then she collapsed on the riverbank and retched up the meager contents of her stomach.

  “Aine.” Ruarc’s hands gripped her shaking shoulders.

  “I’m all right now,” she whispered, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She let Ruarc lift her to her feet, then stumbled down to the water and scrubbed her skin raw. When she finally lurched up the bank toward the others, their expressions ranged from amazed to horrified.

  Aine dried her hands on her skirt, pulled on her gloves, and took a steadying breath. “The druid’s using blood magic to control the warriors. It’s as if they were possessed.” She shuddered, recalling the sorcery’s grasping touch. “That’s why they couldn’t breach the ward. Their very beings would have resisted it. The magic preserves itself.”

  “You can
sense all that?” Aran said doubtfully.

  “I felt it in the corpse. The man may be dead, but the magic is still alive. It’s . . .” She hesitated. “It’s looking for a new host.”

  The men exchanged glances. The idea chilled them as much as it did her.

  “This is a danger,” she said. “We should burn the bodies.”

  Ruarc shook his head. “Abban can send men back. It’s not something you need to see done.”

  Aine let out a slow sigh and nodded, relieved. She didn’t want to spend any more time in this forsaken place than necessary. Her first mission on the battlefield had been a success, but now that she understood the evil they faced, she couldn’t help but wonder if her efforts would be enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Eoghan demanded total commitment to every undertaking, and Conor soon understood how structured and unrelenting his mentor’s early training with Liam had been. The young man possessed as great an aptitude for teaching as he did for fighting, or perhaps he had just known Conor long enough to convey information in a way he would immediately grasp. Either way, Conor’s astonishing progress set Ard Dhaimhin buzzing about Eoghan’s talents and those of his chosen apprentice.

  Reports of war came infrequently and were sketchy at best. After Fergus’s shocking conquest of Sliebhan, his newly swelled forces stalled midway into Siomar. Both sides suffered casualties without much ground gained or lost. Occasionally, Conor wondered if Eoghan censored the incoming news to keep him focused, but his mentor seemed to respect, even if he didn’t understand, the ever-increasing pull Conor felt toward the kingdoms.

  Fall hurtled into midwinter, a time when the Fíréin focused less on their agrarian pursuits and more on fighting. In the gap between the harvest of the winter grains and the sowing of spring crops, even the craftsmen came out to hone their skills.

  “I think it’s time you fight someone other than me,” Eoghan said with a grin. “Let’s see if you’ve learned anything or if you’ve just gotten good at reading my mind.”

  Conor followed Eoghan toward the practice yards, alternately excited and terrified. He had made tremendous strides in his sword work, but he hadn’t yet had the chance to try himself against any other opponent.

  All the younger apprentices were at their lessons at Carraigmór, so only oath-bound brothers and older apprentices practiced in the yards. Conor glimpsed Riordan sparring with a man half his age with a spear. The younger brother panted and sweated under the barrage of lightning-fast movements. The passing of years had evidently diminished none of Riordan’s skills.

  “You should see him and Master Liam go at it,” Eoghan said. “It’s practically a holiday. Half the city turns out to watch.”

  “I bet. Who exactly am I fighting?”

  “Right this way.” Eoghan led Conor to a knot of oath-bound brothers standing beside a practice yard. He stopped behind one man and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Piran. I have a favor to ask.”

  Piran stepped away from the group, his expression curious. He was a lanky man in his early thirties, a few inches taller than Conor. “What is it?”

  Eoghan jerked his head back toward Conor. “I need to test my apprentice’s skills. You up for it?”

  Piran grinned. “Absolutely. I hope you’ve trained him well.”

  Conor flushed. If he performed poorly, it would be all over Ard Dhaimhin in hours. When Eoghan returned to his side, he murmured, “Are you sure about this?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ve only been training for eight months. Hold onto your sword, and they’ll be calling me a miracle worker.”

  Eoghan grinned, and Conor’s anxiety eased a degree. Less than two years ago, he could barely lift a hoe, let alone a weapon. If Eoghan didn’t care if he lost, why should he?

  Conor thought he’d be able to watch a few more matches and gather his courage, but as if of one mind, the others cleared the way for him and Piran. One man tossed him a wooden sword, and he caught it as he stepped into the yard. Piran offered a friendly grin before he assumed his guard.

  Five seconds into the match, Conor could see Piran was a natural swordsman. He had Eoghan’s fluid quality, and he handled the blade effortlessly. Before long, Conor was breathing hard, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Piran fought best on the attack, but his defense was not nearly as effective. Conor countered a thrust, and before Piran could react, launched his own offense. Several times, he saw his opportunity for the killing blow that would end the match, but he was not quick enough: Piran’s blade knocked his aim wide each time.

  Focusing too narrowly on the missed opportunity, Conor didn’t anticipate Piran’s block, an effective circular parry that opened his guard wide and twisted the sword from his hand. Piran smiled and delivered what should have been the decisive thrust.

  Instinctively, Conor dove into a shoulder roll and grasped the sword as he popped back up into a crouch. Momentarily stunned by the unexpected move, Piran could not defend against the sweep of Conor’s blade against the back of his knees. The brother stumbled, and Conor’s sword came to rest just beneath his lowest rib.

  Piran lowered his weapon. “I yield.”

  Conor stared at his opponent for several seconds before he withdrew his sword. Had he really won?

  Piran clasped Conor’s arm. “Well done. Quite impressive, indeed.”

  A smattering of applause from the others on the sidelines drew Conor’s attention back to his teacher, who watched thoughtfully. Piran glanced at Eoghan with a smile. “Be careful with this one. Given enough time, he just might best you.”

  Eoghan’s expression didn’t change. “Indeed.”

  Conor handed the sword to the next brother and made his way to Eoghan amidst murmurs of approval. Now that the shock was wearing off, he just wanted to be as far away from those considering stares as possible. “Can we go now?”

  Eoghan nodded. He looked to the others and said, “Thank you for letting us interrupt.”

  As they turned away, Conor glimpsed a silent watcher on the edge of the group: Brother Odran, the iron-hard tracker who had escorted Conor to Ard Dhaimhin nearly two years before. Conor’s heart dropped to his knees.

  Odran gave no sign of recognizing him as he acknowledged Eoghan with a nod.

  “Does he pass your test?” Eoghan asked.

  Odran’s eyes flicked to Conor. He nodded once more.

  “Test?” Conor said. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s time to expand your training. Odran will be teaching you tracking and wildcraft. He wanted to be sure you could look after yourself.”

  “How long will we be gone?” Conor tried to keep the alarm from his voice but failed miserably.

  “A few weeks,” Odran said.

  “Don’t worry, we’ve reached a point where you can stand to be away from drills for a while. Odran will keep you sharp.”

  “I’m due back out in three days,” the tracker said. “Eoghan will help you put together your supplies.” He gave Eoghan a nod just short of a bow and shot one last appraising look at Conor before he left.

  “Of all the brothers, it has to be Odran?” Conor asked.

  “You don’t like him?”

  “It’s not that.” He stopped. How could he explain his rush of self-consciousness at the sight of the man who had first revealed the depth of his weaknesses?

  Eoghan seemed to understand. “I know he’s difficult, but when it comes to survival skills, there could be no better teacher. Trust me.”

  Conor nodded and fell into step with Eoghan. The older boy’s mind was clearly elsewhere, but they walked halfway back to the village before Conor finally broke the silence.

  “You didn’t expect me to win, did you?”

  Eoghan snapped his head back toward Conor, the pensive expression dissolving into a grin. “No. But don’t let it go to your head. Your high block’s still sloppy. If you go up against a big man like Riordan, he’ll crush you.”

  Conor let out his breath in a rush of r
elief. Wherever Eoghan’s mind had gone, he couldn’t help but think it related to him . . . and not in a good way. But he was back, as if that dark look had never come over him. Conor returned the grin. “You still have a few days to drill the bad habit from me.”

  Conor’s departure date arrived much too quickly, and he trudged toward the switchbacks where he was to meet Odran with uneasiness in his gut. It was the first step on a path that would take him further from Ard Dhaimhin and closer to the swiftly changing world beyond its forested borders.

  “I hope you packed well,” Odran said. “We’re expected at the first sentry post in two days, so we’ll be traveling fast.”

  Conor nodded. Eoghan had provided supplies from the storehouse and armory: a water skin, jerked meat, some scrap linen for bandages and straps, a sword, and a staff sling he could also use as a walking stick. He had filled his belt pouch with smooth stones the previous evening and retrieved the wool cloak he had brought from Lisdara.

  Odran started up the switchbacks, and Conor followed, matching him stride for stride. He might still struggle to keep up with the skilled tracker, but at least his unceasing training had given him more stamina than he had possessed the last time.

  Unlike Eoghan, Odran explained little. Instead, he expected Conor to observe him closely, only pointing out sights he would otherwise miss: a fox’s den hidden by ferns, an osprey’s nest high in the trees, an indentation in the forest floor that indicated a seasonal tributary. Mostly, Conor absorbed how Odran chose his footing, stepping soundlessly on a patch of moss or staying on the balls of his feet to avoid disturbing a fall of loose rocks, all while setting a pace untenable for all but the most experienced woodsman. He controlled his breathing, not allowing himself to pant, careful not to fall so far behind that Odran had to wait.

  When Odran called a stop, Conor collapsed gratefully on a large rock. “Are we eating from the traps?”