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

by Bill Stackhouse

  Urging Brian over to the stables, he dismounted and walked the horse to its stall.

  “How were the folks?” the head groom asked, hauling a bucket of water to one of the horses.

  “They’re doing great. Looking forward to Spring. I’m just going to leave Brian here and check in, if it’s all right. I’ll be back to take care of him in a little while.”

  “That’ll be fine. Just take off his bridle, and I’ll get him some food and water.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it,” the bowman said.

  After removing the horse’s headgear, Siollán gave Brian a pat on the muzzle and left the stables for the barracks, but not to check in with his squad leader. Instead, he went to hunt up the captain of the contingent of defense forces stationed at the garrison.

  * * *

  With the captain, section leader, and two squad leaders from the Cruachanian Defense Forces, Siollán stood at the edge of the bluffs. All five looked off to the north where the Sea of the Dawn met the Sea of the Evening.

  “The Honored Pádraig is sure about all of this?” the captain asked, somewhat skeptically, after Siollán had briefed them on what the apprentice wizard knew, as well as what he suspected.

  “As sure as anyone can be about anything regarding the rebels,” the bowman replied. “But I know for a fact that he was imprisoned simply because he came up here to look around. Besides, sir, it was the Lady Máiréad, a member of royalty and an apprentice wizard herself, who enlisted me in helping him escape.”

  “Eamon was a good friend of mine,” the section leader said. “The same group of rebels that killed him on the Coastal Road by Lamb’s Head Bay are the ones behind this uprising?”

  “Maybe not the ones who actually shot the arrow, but definitely the leaders who gave the order,” Siollán replied. “We don’t have much time, sirs. In less than fifteen minutes, six squads of your comrades are going to come storming through the main gate and attempt to take the garrison from the security forces.”

  “Siollán has no reason to lie,” one of the squad leaders said. “You have to make the call now, sir. Do we ready the two squads we have here, or not?”

  The captain looked at the others for a few moments, then said. “Get them ready, armed, and in position.” Turning to Siollán, he added, “Change out of your uniform and stay close by me.”

  “I’d be honored to fight at your side, sir,” the bowman said, smiling broadly.

  “It’s not an honor. If this turns out to be a fool’s errand, I want you within range of my sword.”

  Siollán swallowed hard and said, “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” Gesturing to the section leader and squad leaders, the captain ordered, “Come on. Without drawing undue attention to ourselves, let’s station the troops at critical points throughout the garrison.”

  * * *

  Within twenty minutes from the time that the four squads of defense forces rode through the main gate, executing a perfectly-timed surprise attack, with the aid of the pre-positioned two squads within the garrison, all the members of the security forces had been captured, disarmed, and locked in the dungeon.

  Four of the defense forces troops had received only minor wounds. The security forces did not fare so well—five dead, eight wounded, with two of those not expected to see the next sunrise.

  * * *

  “What do we do about Ráth Árainn?” Squad Leader Iollan asked at an impromptu staff meeting when everything had settled down.

  The captain of the defense forces shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid, if the Honored Pádraig is correct about the rebellion happening in stages as the sea-currachs pass. We can’t spare any men. We have to protect North Head against the landing and deployment of any more Northmen reinforcements.” He pointed to four of the squad leaders. “You and your men guard the prisoners and man the ramparts. Also, according to Siollán, they tolled the watch bell continuously for about two minutes as the currachs went by Cathair Béarra. Do the same here. The rest of you, position your bowmen where they have the high ground and line-of-sight to both the landing areas and that cave. Use the rest of your troops to move those logs off the beach and block up the cave entrance.”

  “A suggestion,” a section leader said. When the captain acknowledged him, he continued with, “There are a few barrels of lamp oil in the storeroom. I’d like to pre-position them on the bluff directly above the cave. Also, have the men leave the logs sticking out of the opening about a third of their length. If the Northmen attempt to make a mass escape, we can use the oil to set the logs on fire.”

  Nods and grunts of agreement sounded from the squad and section leaders.

  “Make it happen,” the captain told him.

  Hollyday - Bear 63rd

  Béarra Shire - Cathair Béarra

  In the great hall of the keep, Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires, sat at the head of the long table, his eyes as hard and cold as those of any of the dozen or so stuffed animal heads displayed on the walls. Drumming his fingers on the wooden tabletop, he said nothing as Odhran, Kyna, Neasán, and Labhrás entered. The two journeyman wizards led a subdued Pádraig and Máiréad to the table, sitting them down across from each other at the end opposite the king, before retreating to positions on either side of the door—a door which Neasán closed tightly and locked.

  “Well?” Cabhan intoned, irritably, looking over at the master wizard. “What have you learned from them?”

  “We have yet to begin the interrogation process, Your Majesty. We just now found them together.”

  “Very much together,” Kyna spat out, glaring at her daughter.

  Both apprentice wizards kept their composure, feigning a semi-stupor-like state.

  “We need to know who they’ve taken into their confidence,” the king said. “Neither of the defense forces squads from North Head nor Ráth Cairbrigh ever showed up last night. Someone had to have tipped them off. And the scouts that Field Marshal Gormán sent out during the middle watch have failed to report back. I’m not so much concerned with the squad from Ráth Cairbrigh. Ríoghán will deal swiftly with the likes of them should they cross his path; but, the one from North Head troubles me. We can’t afford for anything to go wrong up there.”

  Rising from his stool, Cabhan started toward the other end of the table, a bit hesitantly. “You’re certain their powers have been eliminated?”

  “Not eliminated, Your Majesty,” Odhran corrected him, “but suppressed to the point that our errant wizards are unable to utilize them.”

  “We have to find out who they’ve been in contact with, and what information they’ve disclosed. I understand that the bowman who assisted in the escape hasn’t been located?”

  “Before we get into that, Your Majesty,” Kyna said, approaching him with a rolled-up piece of parchment in her hand, “there’s a matter of administrative importance that we need to dispense with.”

  “And what would that be, Countess?”

  She smiled kindly at the king, gesturing him to a stool midway down the table. “While we all hope and pray to An Fearglas that Prince Ríoghán will be successful when our fight for independence commences on Between-Season Day”—Kyna paused while she, the king, the master wizard, and the two journeyman wizards completed the ritual act of submission—“we also need to assure the right of succession, in the remote possibility that the unthinkable should occur.” She set the parchment down in front of Cabhan and flattened it out.

  From a side table, Odhran brought over a quill and a small bottle of squid ink.

  “What’s this?” the king asked.

  “Simply a safeguard provision, Your Majesty,” the master wizard counselled him. “You’re up there in years and not in the best of health. And, if something should happen to you and your son in these dangerous times, we need a clear line of succession. This document simply names Eógan as Earl of the Northern Shires, and assures that if something untoward should befall both you and the prince, the earl would be able to take control of
the Northern Shires and oversee this endeavor to its completion.”

  “Unhindered by infighting among the other chieftains,” Kyna added, handing Cabhan the pen. “We can’t afford any disruptions to our noble cause—complete and total independence—for which you’ve so yearned these many years.”

  Cabhan set the pen down next to the parchment. “This won’t be necessary. I have complete faith in Ríoghán’s ability, both as a commander and a tactician. Field Marshal Gormán has schooled him well. Perhaps the title will be bestowed upon your husband when this conflict is over; if he, in fact, acquits himself well, sealing off the inlet to Saltwater Bay.” With that, the king stood and, once again, began to cross toward the two apprentice wizards. “Now, let’s see what you can wring out of these two.”

  Odhran blocked his path. “You really need to sign that document, Your Majesty.”

  Cabhan stopped and recalled what his son had said to him during their argument some six weeks earlier:

  “For the love of An Fearglas, Da, you are the king, not Eógan, not Odhran. You!”

  Glaring at the master wizard, he said, “You need to get out of my way. I may be old and infirm, but I am still your king. I will decide what I sign…and when.” He stuck out an arm to move Odhran from his path. “And you will do my bidding, not the other way around. May I remind you that the first tenet of wizardry is Seirbhís a Tír agus Rí? Now, serve me by finding out who these two confided in.”

  The master wizard took hold of Cabhan’s arm. His obsidian eyes bore into the king, and his long, pinched face took on an ominous cast. “Sign…the proclamation.…Now!”

  “I will not!” the king snapped. Fear clouded his face. He tried to pull away from Odhran’s grasp, but with no success.

  The wizard shoved him hard, back toward the table where the parchment and pen still rested. “Oh, you will, Your Majesty. One way or another.”

  Due to the force with which Odhran employed, Cabhan stumbled and fell, striking his head on the edge of the table as he did so and collapsing, unmoving, onto the floor.

  “Now!” Pádraig whispered to Máiréad. “Take Labhrás, but nothing fatal.”

  Both apprentice wizards thrust their arms out, palms toward their two targets. Single invisible energy pulses struck both journeymen wizards squarely in their faces, slamming their heads into the stone block wall behind them. They had not yet fallen to the floor when Pádraig and Máiréad confronted Odhran, letting loose the same type of power pulses on him.

  But the master wizard, who had turned around, simply raised his palms and deflected the energy back from where it came.

  Pádraig was able to partially block the one aimed at him, so that its glancing blow only dazed him momentarily. However, Máiréad had not acted quickly enough, and was knocked from her stool with the full force of the other pulse.

  As her daughter slid along the floor, unconscious, Kyna shouted, “No!” and grabbed Odhran’s black tunic.

  Anger flooded the master wizard’s face and he loosed an energy pulse of his own, so powerful that it flung the countess across the room in the direction of the door.

  Up against the wall, she just stood there, eyes wide and mouth open. No sound issued forth from that mouth, just a trickle of blood. Unlike Neasán and Labhrás, who lay unconscious at her feet, Kyna did not tumble to the floor, but was held upright by the antlers of the elk-head cloak rack mounted next to the doorway, three of its fifteen-points piercing her neck.

  Pádraig shook off the effects of the energy pulse just as Odhran turned to him and released a continuous burst of energy from his palm. Countering it with an electrical surge of his own, the two men matched power for power.

  The entire great hall lit up, as if it were in the middle of a thunderstorm, with sparks from the two bolts of energy flying through the air as they encountered each other.

  Rising from his stool, the young wizard was able to gain more leverage from a firm footing on the stone floor than from sitting.

  Although he had suspected that Pádraig wielded more power than the average apprentice wizard, Odhran was surprised by just how much. Pushing all extraneous thoughts from his mind, he deepened his concentration and tried for an increase of energy. His efforts were rewarded. Ever so slightly, his beam encroached on the other, and Pádraig’s shrunk back by the same amount toward the young wizard.

  Pádraig increased his concentration as well, and the two beams once again evened out.

  It became a test of wills as to whose essence would be the first to falter.

  After about a five-minute stalemate, Odhran perceived that the apprentice’s power was on the wane. The master wizard’s beam began taking over more and more of the combined energy stream. Not content with simply waiting for Pádraig to weaken and then containing him, Odhran desired not only to punish the young wizard, but to kill him like he himself had executed Lorcan, Reeve of Gabhrán Shire, those many years ago, by burning him to a crisp.

  How dare this mere boy challenge my power, he thought, as his anger rose and he slowly moved closer and closer toward the apprentice. How dare he!

  By now, Pádraig had gone down on his right knee, his portion of the beam reduced to less than a foot in length. Still, though, it kept Odhran’s at bay.

  The master wizard now stood less than two feet from the apprentice. One more surge, he thought. One more good surge of power and this will all be finished. I want to look into his eyes as he sees his death coming.

  But Pádraig countered with an increased power surge of his own, and managed to stand.

  The master wizard got his wish. But what he saw, looking into the young man’s eyes, was far from what he had expected. Pádraig’s deep-blue eyes actually twinkled, and the corners of his mouth changed from a grimace into a very slight smile.

  “I have to hand it to you,” Odhran told him, trying to generate additional power. “Not many men would smile as their life-force drained away from them. We’ll see just how long that smile lasts.”

  Pádraig’s smile had now become a smirk. “A friend of mine, who taught me to be a competent swordsman kept drilling into my head the first rule of fighting with a hand-and-a-half sword. ‘Rule number one—and remember this always, laddie,’ she would say. ‘Rule number one: the hand-and-a-half sword is a stand-off weapon, not a close-in weapon.’ The same could be said for magic, Venerable Sir.”

  “What are you blathering about, you fool. You’ve lost. Accept your fate and die!” Again, Odhran attempted one final increase in the strength of his beam.

  But Pádraig countered with another increase of his own. “I’m sorry, sir, but a dead man can’t kill me.”

  “Dead man?”

  The apprentice wizard slowly lowered his eyes from Odhran’s to the master wizard’s chest. “So says my sgian bròg, laddie,” he said, imitating Isla’s dwarfish accent.

  As Odhran took a quick glance downward, Pádraig plunged the boot knife squarely into the other man’s heart, all the way to the hilt. Then, twisting the blade, he gave it an upward shove.

  Odhran’s eyes and mouth opened wide. The eyes, filled with surprise. And from the mouth, a primeval shriek emanated that Pádraig worried would alert the entire keep.

  The apprentice wizard pulled the boot knife from Odhran’s chest, and the older man fell to the floor, writhing. The remainder of his life force—his essence—like shards of lightning bolts, streamed out of every orifice of his body, including the stab wound.

  Hollyday - Bear 63rd

  The Sodality of Master Wizards

  Central Federal Region - Dúnfort Cruachan

  Liam and his two guards had returned that morning from their trip with Finbar, Brynmor, and Cadwgawn to Árainn Shire. Now, in the great hall of the citadel, he had been briefing High King Déaglán, Field Marshal Gearóid, and Arch-Wizard Faolan on Pádraig’s disappearance, Sléibhín’s and Murchú’s culpability in that disappearance—ostensibly on behalf of Odhran—and the fact that Finbar, the elves, and a contingent of dwarfs
were continuing on up to North Head.

  When he got to that last part in his narrative, the High King held up a hand, interrupting his son. “Dwarfs?” he said, disbelievingly.

  “Yes, Sire. A contingent of them.”

  “What’s Finbar paying them with?” Gearóid asked.

  “Well…nothing, sir. They insisted on going with him and the elves.”

  “Dwarfs?” Déaglán said again. The astonishment showed on his face. “Dwarfs don’t do anything without being paid. I remember my uncle telling me how his da, Seamus, grumbled constantly about what he had to do to get the dwarfs to fight alongside of us in the War for Independence.”

  Liam shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently Isla, daughter of the Mountain King, and Paddy are friends. She even taught him how to use the hand-and-a-half sword, so she says.”

  “So, Finbar, with dwarfs and elves together, is heading up to North Head,” Faolan said, trying to get his mind wrapped around the notion. “Please, go on with your report, Your Highness.”

  Liam did; and, also advised the others on what Finbar had divulged to him about his own kidnapping some ten years prior, and the farrier’s suspicions that it had been orchestrated by both Earl Eógan and the Venerable Odhran.

  When he had finished, the elders simply sat there in silence for a few moments, astonished by the revelations.

  Finally, Déaglán asked, “Who else knew about all this?”

  “Obviously, the Venerable Taliesin,” Liam replied. “He had his hawk guide us up Sléibhín’s cottage on the slope of Stob Bàn in the Sawtooth Mountains.”

  The High King looked over at Faolan. “You didn’t know?”

  The Arch-Wizard shook his head. “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Why don’t you know what your people are doing?”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, Your Majesty, but they’re not exactly ‘my people.’”