The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 2)

by Bill Stackhouse

  From their positions, the threesome could hear the bell from the watchtower across the inlet to the bay when it began to peal.

  As the second flaming arrow arched over the Sea of the Evening on the sixth toll, and the Between-Season Day sea-currach race got underway, Prince Ríoghán said to his companions, “I trust you’ve placed your wagers wisely.”

  “Absolutely, Your Highness,” the captain replied. “On all three currachs from the Northern Shires.”

  Garbhán said, “Same here, Your Highness.”

  “Well, here’s hoping for a big payoff seventeen days hence,” the prince said with a forced smile. “Now, I must be getting back to Cathair Béarra. Good day, to you both.” With that, he wheeled his stallion around and headed north toward Fort Callainn.

  “Have a safe trip, Your Highness,” Garbhán called after him.

  Ríoghán raised an arm and waved in acknowledgement. Once clear of the two men, though, his smile dissolved, and he thought, And may An Fearglas help us, should this ill-conceived rebellion fail.

  The captain and chieftain held their position until the prince was out of sight, then the captain’s smile widened and he whispered, “Long live the Northern Alliance.”

  Garbhán enthusiastically echoed the phrase.

  Yewday - Bear 49th

  Béarra Shire - The Uplands

  On Ashday, the forty-sixth day of Bear month, when Pádraig had left Sléibhín’s hut, he had taken the precaution of removing his red mantle, identifying him as an apprentice wizard, as well as the necklace he wore, marking him as a Watchman, and shoving the items down into one of Killian’s saddlebags.

  * * *

  The necklace had belonged to his late mother, Aislin. Its single stone bore a crude carving of a double-headed war-hammer and an open hand in the center of a tríbhís—the war hammer and hand, the dwarf runes for ‘Protection’ and ‘Service,’ and the three conjoined spirals, the symbol for the Confederation of the Three Kingdoms. Some of the Watchmen, like Aislin, had chosen necklaces for identification. Others, like Finbar, preferred a tattoo, usually on the right forearm. Elfin Watchmen opted for neither. They would rather eat worms than wear a dwarf rune of any kind, no matter what it meant.

  * * *

  Wrapped in his gray, wool cloak, with Lairgnen’s lute slung over his back and the elbow pipes hanging from the mule’s saddle, he looked like any other itinerant troubadour plying his trade.

  Although by far the quicker way, the young wizard had avoided traveling through Árainn Shire and Fort Árainn to get to North Head, opting, instead, to journey into Cairbrigh Shire, skirting the Sawtooth Mountains on the east and the north before turning northwest toward Béarra Shire. When possible, he had stayed to the west of the north-south Central Road that bisected the Northern Shires from Saltwater Bay to Fortress Béarra. With this route, he had succeeded in bypassing all but a very few fellow travelers.

  With so much free time in the saddle for thinking, Pádraig realized that he had been spending so much time practicing with the hand-and-a-half sword of late, he had neglected his magic. Making up for this lapse, he had amused himself—as he had on his trip from Fort Callainn to Fort Árainn—by casting various spells along the roadside. Also, during rest periods, he had exercised his shape-shifting ability, turning himself into trees and boulders; and, at one point, covered himself with a personal concealment spell that rendered him essentially invisible. The concealment spell proved to have been the biggest challenge to the young wizard, and he had been able to maintain the illusion for less than five minutes. Also, the attempt had almost completely depleted him of his essence, and he had to spend an additional half-hour at rest in contact with the elemental forces in the earth to recharge it before moving on.

  Now, on this, the morning of his fourth day out, Pádraig hoped to reach North Head by mid-afternoon. For the past hour, the snow-covered path through the forest—a mixture of deciduous trees and conifers—had risen, finally leveling out on an upland area.

  “Won’t be long, now,” he told Killian. “We should reach the bluffs above the beachhead in plenty of time for me to scout around this afternoon. Tomorrow morning, we’ll head on home, picking up some plant and herb samples to back up our story to Sléibhín about where we’ve been.”

  The mule let out a whinny-bray.

  “Well, if you want to put it in a negative context, I suppose you could call it a lie, but I prefer the word ‘story.’”

  Killian snorted a retort.

  As they continued on, Pádraig’s enhanced aural ability picked up the sound of horses somewhere off to the west of the path—many horses, in fact. He reined Killian to the left and picked his way through the trees. Within a quarter of an hour, they came to a substantial clearcut area, in the center of which stood a large corral and four stables. About one-hundred horses and a dozen or so mules milled around in the corral.

  Stopping Killian just inside the tree line, the young wizard sat there in the saddle, watching. Four thoughts entered his mind. The first three had to do with the horses.

  Ten years before, when Pádraig had helped thwart a rebellion, Tadhg, who had held the farrier’s contract in the Northern Shires, had been murdered after making a casual remark in The Rope and Anchor Tavern about horses:

  “I don’t know what King Cabhan’s doing up there, but I’m taking care of half again as many horses as I did last year.”

  “Both security and defense forces?” Finbar asked.

  “Just the kingdom’s own security forces. And most of them way up north. The number of mounts for the Cruachanian Defense Forces is pretty much the same.”

  And, when Pádraig and Prince Liam had been kidnapped, they had been held in Cairbrigh Shire at a way station where horses were being temporarily kept. He remembered hearing his captors talking about where the animals were to be shipped next:

  Standing on Liam’s shoulders in order to look out a high window of their prison, Pádraig spotted two buckskin-clothed riders leading a group of about twenty horses through the tree line, across the ford, and into the clearing. They were greeted by the ever-present wolfhounds. As the trailing rider entered the clearing, the concealment spell was re-established.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do with any more,” he heard the groom they had nicknamed ‘Porky’ tell the first rider, as he herded the last of the horses into the corral. “We barely have enough room for these. Plus, we’re running low on feed.”

  “Not to worry,” the man said. “They’ll all be moved northward under the cover of darkness tomorrow night. We’ll bring you fresh feed and supplies with the next batch.”

  Then, before he had left Yseult, he had asked her:

  “In the years that have gone by, none of the rebels have ever returned here to check things out?”

  “Never,” she replied. “They may have been inept at kidnapping, but they wouldn’t have been that stupid to risk ever using this compound again. On an irregular basis, I’ve seen defense forces ride through. Besides, they have other encampments farther up north.”

  “Are you sure, Yseult? Where?”

  “I’m positive, Paddy. But I’m not sure exactly where. Just somewhere north.”

  “If you don’t know where, how can you be positive?”

  “Because I’ve felt it. So have many of my sister keepers of the trees. We’ve sensed the cries of so many trees, as they’ve been chopped down. Many more than were felled to make this compound. The camps in the north are probably five times this large.”

  The final thought that had crossed the young wizard’s mind was the ambush that had killed Section Leader Eamon less than six weeks before. We figured it to be rebels, he reflected, but assumed that it was just a harassment raid. But, now, seeing all these horses, could the rebels be getting ready for a full-blown insurrection again? And, if so, what part does the beachhead expansion at North Head play? I’ve really got to get up there and see what’s happening.

  Again looking at the horses, P�
�draig remembered his conversation with the farrier Colm, back at the Fort Callainn forge the day before he had departed for Fort Árainn:

  “Colm?” Pádraig called out. “So you have the farrier’s contract for the Kingdom of the Northern Shires. Good for you. I was hoping that maybe you could put me up for the night.”

  “Come on down off of there, Paddy. For you, I’ll put you up for as long as you want. If it weren’t for you, that rascal Lorcan would have hanged me for sure. Besides, you can have the place to yourself. I just finished up here for the day, and I’m riding home to spend the night in my own bed.”

  As Pádraig dismounted and tied Killian’s reins to the hitching post outside the forge, Colm continued. “And as far as having the farrier’s contract for the kingdom, I’ve got only part of it.”

  “How so?”

  “Don’t rightly know. They’ve got it divided three ways. I’ve got Callainn and Gabhrán Shires. Another farrier has Árainn and Cairbrigh Shires. And they’ve contracted with a third farrier to cover just Béarra Shire by itself. Go figure. But, I’m not really complaining. Two-fifths of a loaf is a lot better than none.”

  Go figure, indeed, the apprentice wizard thought. The rebels learned from their mistake with Tadhg. Now, with three farriers, no one person knows just how many horses the Northern Shires has.

  Although Pádraig detected only two stable hands moving about in the building closest to the corral, mucking out the stalls, he observed that there were four saddled horses tethered to a hitching post outside that stable. He also noticed not only piles and piles of felled trees, but trunks, stripped of their boughs, stacked up in five flatbed wagons.

  Once again he thought about what Yseult had said:

  “We’ve sensed the cries of so many trees as they’ve been chopped down. Many more than were felled to make this compound. The camps in the north are probably five times this large.”

  Don’t worry, Yseult, the young wizard thought, lips drawn tight and eyes narrowed, retribution starts today.

  Retreating with Killian into the forest, he stopped at a large fir tree, its lower branches bending down onto the ground under the weight of the snow.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, as he began to unsaddle the mule and remove its harness. “I don’t know what lies in store for me at the bluffs or when I’ll be back. If all goes well, I’ll return for you by nightfall. But, just in case I’m not able to get back as soon as think I can, I’m going to leave you here in this corral.”

  Killian’s ears went back, and Pádraig put his hands around the animal’s muzzle to stifle a whinny-bray he could sense was coming. “There’s food and water in there, Killian. Until I come back for you, just blend in with the other mules. No one will notice one more. I doubt that anyone counts the animals. Now come on. See that gate at this end of the corral? As soon as we know all the stable hands are inside and occupied, we’re going to hurry over there. I’ll open the gate, and you get inside. Don’t worry. I’m not going to abandon you.”

  Stowing the saddle, tack, lute, and elbow pipes at the foot of the fir tree’s trunk, hidden by its boughs, Pádraig used the hand-and-a-half sword to chop off a limb before secreting the weapon with the other items. Wizard and mule then crossed back to the tree line. As soon as Pádraig was sure that the stable hands were out of sight, he quickly trotted Killian to the gate at the south end of the corral and lifted the rope latch which secured it. Opening the gate, he gave the mule a pat on the rump, closed and relatched the gate, then hurried back to the cover of the trees, using the fir bough to sweep away any foot and hoof prints from the snow.

  After standing there for about ten minutes to assure himself that he hadn’t been seen, he made his way back to the forest path, again using the bough to obliterate any tracks. Discarding the limb, the young wizard proceeded on foot in the direction of North Head.

  Yewday - Bear 49th

  Béarra Shire - Cathair Béarra

  “Harder! Harder!” the Venerable Odhran shouted. “Concentrate! Concentrate!”

  The Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires stood there in the center of the keep’s great hall at Fortress Béarra, right arm extended and hand open, palm facing outward. Two rods away, Máiréad stood facing him, her left arm extended, her hand also open with the palm facing outward. The air between the master wizard and his apprentice visually rippled. It also crackled audibly, as miniature lightning bolts appeared and vanished in the horizontal power vortex between them.

  The girl had abandoned the finery of the nobility, opting, instead, for deerskin breeches, shirt, and boots to go along with her red mantle for these training sessions. Her flame-red tresses had been gathered behind her and captured with a diamond-shaped, unending-knotwork silver barrette, the only item attesting to her station. Perspiration beaded up on the forehead of her alabaster skin, as she attempted to move closer to her mentor, countering his power with her own.

  “Focus! Focus!” Odhran commanded, his long, pinched face frowning at her.

  Struggling to take a step forward, Máiréad’s concentration started to falter, as her essence began to dissipate.

  The master wizard gave a disappointed shake of his head; and, with one quick gesture of the outstretched hand, knocked her back toward the long table where she landed on her backside, exhausted.

  “Get up off the floor and try again,” he ordered.

  “I can’t!” she shouted at him. “I can’t! I need to rest.”

  “Oh, I see,” Odhran said, sarcastically. “A time out? Is that what you want? Well, when the enemy comes knocking at our door, you just ask him nicely about that.” Raising the pitch of his voice to mimic that of a little girl’s, he said, “Oh, please, sir, could we just take a few minutes to rest. Can I fix you some tea, perhaps?”

  “What enemy?!” Máiréad asked, exasperated, as she clambered up off the floor and sat on one of the stools beside the table. “You’re forever talking about an enemy. Enemy this. Enemy that. Since my graduation from the Academy, all my training has been directed at defeating some sort of enemy. Is that all magic is good for? What about using it to help people? When do we start that phase of the training?”

  The master wizard almost sneered at her. “And what is the first tenet of wizardry, Lady Máiréad?” he asked. “Hmm?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Seirbhís a Tír agus Rí,” she answered, wearily. In the language of the ancients, the phrase meant, ‘Service to Country and King.’

  “And would you not, perhaps, agree that protecting the country and the king from all enemies, foreign and domestic, is covered by that tenet?”

  After a perceptible sigh, she replied with, “Yes, Venerable Sir.”

  “Well, when you’ve mastered how to effectively accomplish those prime responsibilities, we’ll move on to other less important tasks. Now get up and let’s run this exercise again.” Once more he slipped into the little-girl voice. “That is, if you’ve rested enough.”

  Máiréad’s green eyes flashed, as she rose from the stool.

  Before she could resume her position in front of the master wizard, two men entered the room: one, tall and thin; the other, short and stout. Although they made an odd pair, their blue mantles marked them as journeymen wizards.

  “Please excuse the interruption, Venerable Sir,” the tall one said, “but we felt this news to be of the utmost importance.”

  “Go ahead,” Odhran told him.

  “Um…perhaps in private, Venerable Sir?” He head-gestured toward the door.

  The master wizard turned to the second journeyman and said, “Labhrás, force to force exercise. Take over for me.”

  “Yes, Venerable Sir. What force level?”

  Odhran glanced over at Máiréad, saw the fire and defiance in her eyes, and replied to the short journeyman, “Give her all you’ve got.”

  “A…all, Venerable Sir?”

  “Are you hard of hearing?” His obsidian eyes bore into the other man.
/>   “N…no, sir.”

  “Get on with it, then.” He turned, plucked his black, wool cloak from the antlers of a fifteen-point elk head mounted next to the doorway, and stalked from the room with the first journeyman wizard at his heels.

  Once the door had closed on the two men, Labhrás asked, politely, “Are you ready, My Lady?”

  In answer, Máiréad flung her left arm out in front of her, hand open with the palm facing outward, and hurled him backward into the stone wall, knocking him senseless. Had the young apprentice wizard’s aim been off by a mere width of a hand to the right, the sharp points on the elk-head cloak rack would have impaled the short, stout journeyman.

  “Yes, Revered Sir,” she answered to his prone body, as she sat back down on the stool. Adopting the little-girl voice that Odhran had mockingly used, she continued with, “And now I, too, am going to rest for a while, if you don’t mind.”

  * * *

  “You’re certain of this, Neasán?” Odhran asked.

  The tall, thin journeyman wizard took a crumpled up note from his pocket and handed it to his mentor. “Murchú sent this along with the messenger.”