Ríoghán stood to a chorus of, “Yes, Your Highness,” and “Long live the Northern Alliance.”
* * *
The Security Forces of the Northern Shires cantered across the east-west road, Prince Ríoghán in the lead, flanked by his sister Fionnuala, with the princess’ designated guards/babysitters right behind. Although some of the younger members of the party had to make a concerted effort not to do so, no one turned a head to look at the Cruachanian Defense Forces, Security Forces of the Eastern Shires, or elfin bowmen deployed south of the border.
As the prince and half of his troops kept right on going, the captain from Gabhrán Shire halted his half of the soldiers just to the west of Stag Pond and deployed them to the north side of the road. This positioning took about a half hour; and, after riding the length of the placement, the captain set up his headquarters tent in the center of the line.
A few minutes later, five soldiers from the Cruachanian Defense Forces came forward from their ranks—one carried a lance, one a small table, two more brought stools, and the fifth member, a pitcher and two tankards. The lanceman stuck his weapon into the ground exactly at the border between the Central Federal Region and the Kingdom of the Northern Shires. The soldier with the table set it, so that it straddled the border line. The men with stools set them in place, one north and one south of the table. And the one with the pitcher and tankards set them on the tabletop. Once finished with their tasks, they returned to their ranks.
About two minutes later, a captain with the Cruachanian Defense Forces came forward, looked across the line at the captain of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires, removed his scabbard with its short sword, held it out at arm’s length from his side, and dropped it to the ground. He then crossed to the table, stood there, and gestured to the stool on the northern side of the border.
The captain of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires, glanced at a section leader and said, “Might as well see what he has to say.” He, too, unbuckled the scabbard with his short sword, let it drop to the ground, and approached the table.
Although there was a chill in the winter air, the morning breeze was light, and very few clouds hung in the blue sky.
When the captain from the North arrived at the table, his counterpart from the South gestured around and said, “Beautiful day for a battle, Captain. But even a better one for just watching each other from across the border. What say you?”
“Watching is always preferable, I’ve found.”
The two of them stood there sizing each other up, and realized, from their ages, that they had probably fought together in the War for Independence.
The captain from the South motioned to the stool, as he pulled out his own and sat. “Hot mulled cider on a chilly morning?” he asked.
The captain from the North sat and said, “Just what the herbalist ordered.” As the other man poured, he asked, “I assume there is a purpose to this meeting?”
“Indeed. I have some raw recruits within the ranks who have never even seen a battle. For some strange reason, these whippersnappers are looking forward to one. They think it will be glorious.”
The other man chuckled. “‘Whippersnapper.’ Now that’s a word I haven’t heard in quite a while. My da used to call me that.” He took a swig of the cider. “And war is always glorious until you look down at one of your comrades with an arm hacked off and blood spurting from the stump. I have quite a few of those whippersnappers within my own ranks.”
“You’ll notice,” the captain of the South said, head-gesturing toward his line of troops, “that I’ve positioned my lads back about six rods from the border. I was wondering if I might impose on you to do likewise. Just in case one of our whippersnappers gets an itchy bowstring finger, if you get my drift.”
“I can do that, Captain.”
“I was hoping you could, Captain. Also, I thought perhaps we’d leave the table and stools here on the border. You and I are soldiers, not politicians. Given the order to fight, we both will. But, if there’s anything you think we need to talk about, just come on forward at any time and I’ll join you.”
Both men stood and exchanged forearm grasps.
“I agree,” the captain from the North said. “An open line of communication is always better than miscommunication. Good cider, by the way.” With that, the two captains returned to their lines, the one from the South carrying the pitcher and two tankards with him.
In another ten minutes, the Security Forces of the Northern Shires had backed up the same distance from the border as the troops in the Central Federal Region.
* * *
Prince Ríoghán and his half of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires cantered past the Dúnfort Road and reached the intersection of the east-west road in Gabhrán Shire with the Central Road that bisected the Northern Shires from Saltwater Bay to Fortress Béarra. As was the case back near Stag Pond, the combined troops of the Cruachanian Defense Forces, the Security Forces of the Eastern Shires, and elfin bowmen had been positioned about six rods south of the border.
Without having to have a conversation with anyone from the opposing force, the prince stationed his troops the same distance from the border, and stretched them out back toward the Dúnfort Road. Riding up and down his line on his red-chestnut stallion, he was satisfied that he could not be outflanked, and that Earl Eógan, Master Odhran, and their Northmen allies were safe from being attacked from behind. As he reached the center of his troops’ deployment, where he had set up his headquarters, Ríoghán scanned the area across the twelve-rod no-man’s land, and saw Prince Liam sitting astride his pure-white stallion, Máedóc—looking directly at him.
Liam touched his right eyebrow with the first two fingers of his right hand.
Ríoghán returned the salute, dismounted, and entered his tent, where a few officers and the senior journeyman wizard from Cairbrigh Shire had a map spread out on a table.
“Your Highness!” a chorus greeted him.
Waving an acknowledgement, the prince said, “Since we don’t yet have a good feel for how long this watching and waiting is going to last, we need to split the forces in thirds. Figure out the watch times and have one-third of the men go behind the lines and get some sleep.”
“That’s going to be tough,” a section leader replied.
“I know,” Ríoghán said, “but if, or when, we have to fight, I want everyone’s mind sharp. Make it happen!”
The section leader gave a slight bow and said, “Yes, Your Highness,” and left the tent. On his way out, he held the flap open for the Princess Fionnuala, who was just coming in.
“Did you see the smoke rising above the trees in the distance?” she asked.
“Smoke?” her brother questioned.
“It looks like it’s coming from north of the watergate.”
Everyone exited the tent and looked to the west. There were, indeed, wafts of smoke, rising above the trees from far off.
“Caoilainn?” Ríoghán asked, glancing down at the wizard.
A petite woman in her forties, with brown eyes, and long, light-brown hair done up in a bun, stepped forward. “I don’t have line-of-sight to where the smoke is coming from, Your Highness, but I may be able to see the point and the watergate from here.”
“What do you require?”
“Some quiet.”
The others stepped back, giving her quiet and a bit of space.
Caoilainn emptied her mind and cast a far-seeing spell across the bay. Although anything north of the point on the Callainn Shire side of the inlet was out of her line-of-site, the watchtower on the Iorras Shire side of the harbor entrance slowly zoomed into her field of vision, as if she were sitting out in the bay in a currach, rather than standing leagues away on the far side of the harbor.
After about fifteen minutes, she broke the spell, staggered backward, and put a hand on the shoulder of one of the section leaders to steady herself, her essence almost spent. “I can’t see our forces in Callainn Shire,
Your Highness, but apparently Master Odhran and our wizards are engaged in a battle of energy balls and energy spears with wizards near the watchtower in Iorras Shire. From the size and rapidity of the fire from Iorras Shire, there are at least two Master Wizards and quite a few journeyman involved.”
“What would possess Odhran to do such a thing?” the prince wondered aloud. “Is the watergate open or closed.”
“It’s closed tightly, Your Highness,” Caoilainn replied, as the section leader helped her to sit on the ground where she could use the elemental forces in the earth to recharge her essence.
Ríoghán turned to another section leader. “As soon as it’s dark, send a rider to Eógan at Ráth Callainn and find out what’s going on over there. His Majesty may want an independent Northern Shires, but not one that’s burned to a crisp.”
Between-Season Day (Beginning of Spring)
Callainn Shire - Ráth Callainn
“That was way beyond stupid!” Earl Eógan berated the two journeyman wizards who stood before him. “What in the world were you two thinking?!”
Both Murchú, the senior journeyman wizard in Árainn Shire, and Oisín, who held the same position in Callainn Shire, stared down at the stone block floor in the great hall of the keep. They recognized a rhetorical question when they heard one and weren’t about to answer it.
The earl had been leading the battle for the watergate far from harm’s way, safely back at the fort. Sitting at the table with him, Garbhán, Chieftain of Callainn Shire, also hadn’t been on the front lines.
It was now early in the afternoon and the confrontation had abated, at least temporarily.
Standing with the two wizards were the captains of the security forces from Árainn and Callainn Shires. They had lost many soldiers when the master wizards, Coinneach and Taliesin, along with their journeymen, had unleashed a half-hour barrage of energy balls that had burned the Callainn Shire port buildings to the ground.
The earl continued his tirade. “To engage in a firefight with master wizards and over a dozen journeymen? Do you think I—” He caught himself, and amended the sentence to, “Do you think King Cabhan wants to rule over an independent Kingdom of the Northern Shires, if it’s going to be nothing but cinders?” Eógan slammed his hand down on the tabletop. “And where is Odhran? Where are the Northmen? They were supposed to be here in plenty of time for this battle.”
Again, he received no answer from the two wizards.
“Well?!” he shouted. “Feel free to answer that one. Where are they?!”
Raising his eyes from the floor, Murchú said, “I…I don’t know, My Lord. I honestly don’t. The last I heard, the Venerable Odhran and our allies had planned on joining us at Ráth Árainn.”
“I know what the plan was,” the earl spat out, sarcastically. “I conceived the plan. It was up to Odhran to carry it out. But neither he nor his Northmen were there when we left, were they?”
Murchú said nothing. His eyes were again, as were his comrade’s, directed downward.
Addressing the two captains, Eógan moderated his tone. “How many men did we lose?”
The captain from Árainn Shire said, “Nine killed and fourteen wounded, My Lord.”
“Plus, of course, numerous civilian dock workers,” the captain from Callainn Shire added. “We don’t have an accurate count of those, I’m afraid. Many of them perished in the buildings.”
“Swell,” the earl replied, his voice almost dripping with disdain. “Nothing like civilian deaths to inspire the populace to our cause.” Turning to Garbhán, he said, “When we’re done here, you and I need to ride down to the docks and express our condolences to the civilian survivors and to the loved ones of those who were injured or killed because of the callous actions of the Confederation forces. We need the good will of the people if this rebellion is to succeed.”
The chieftain replied, “Yes, My Lord. I’ll get an escort ready and have someone saddle our horses.”
They were interrupted by a section leader, who entered the hall unannounced. “Beg pardon, My Lord, but one of our scouts has arrived with information that soldiers from the Eastern Shires have been spotted coming down the docks at Ráth Luíne and moving this way around the bay.”
“To what end?” Eógan replied. “They surely wouldn’t be dumb enough to launch an attack from down there.”
“It would be suicide,” the captain from Árainn Shire agreed. “We completely control the high ground.”
“But,” the captain from Callainn Shire said, “if the master wizards and their journeymen loose another bombardment of energy balls like they did today, it might just provide the cover the enemy needs to attack with minimal casualties.”
The earl addressed both captains. “We need to find out what’s delaying Odhran, the remainder of his journeymen, and the Northmen. As soon as it’s dark, each of you send out a rider—one up to Ráth Árainn, the other over to Prince Ríoghán in Gabhrán Shire. We need information. And we need it fast.”
Between-Season Day (Beginning of Spring)
Callainn Shire
The dwarf forces had neared Fort Callainn just before dark, but had not approached the fort itself. Instead, they lurked in the woods just beyond, splitting their troops in two. One half, with Isla and Brynmor, stayed to the north. The other half, including Finbar, Cadwgawn, and Labhrás, had circled around to the east.
“There is a rider approaching,” Brynmor whispered to Isla. “And he is coming at an all-out gallop.”
“Take cover!” the dwarf told her men. To the elf, she asked, “Can yuh stop him, Elf?” In answer to Brynmor’s condescending look, she said, “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
* * *
With the rider dead and his horse captured, Isla told her troops, “I dinna want them tuh know that their messenger didn’t get through. They’d just send out another that we may not be lucky enough tuh intercept. Hang on tuh the horse until early morning. We’ll send it back to the ráth, then, and give ’em something tuh think about.”
* * *
“Must have been one enormous firefight,” Finbar said. Under the light from a full Golden Owl and a waning gibbous Silver Nightingale, he watched the smoke rise over the forest canopy from the burned out port buildings.
“What do you plan on doing?” Labhrás asked.
“There’s a farrier and blacksmith who has his home and forge down near the point. Later tonight, you and I are going to sneak down there and see if he’s home, and if so, find out what he knows.”
From up in a pine tree, Cadwgawn whispered, “Be quiet and take cover. There is a rider from the ráth coming our way.”
Finbar, Labhrás, and their half of the dwarf army blended into the vegetation on the side of the road going across Callainn Shire to Gabhrán Shire, where they waited and watched.
As the rider, dressed in the livery of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires passed Cadwgawn’s tree, he was knocked from his horse, an arrow through his throat.
“Get the horse! Get the horse!” Finbar commanded.
Three dwarfs, farther on down the road, grabbed the animal’s reins and bridle, holding it fast.
“What duh yuh want done with it?” Isla’s head dwarf, Griogair, asked.
Finbar and Isla turned out to be of the same mind. “Hold on to it until just before daybreak,” he replied. “Then send it back toward ráth. For now, I want them to think their messenger got through, then give them something to worry about just before we make our move tomorrow. How is he, by the way?”
Cadwgawn, who was retrieving his arrow, raised up and said, matter-of-factly, “If you believe in an afterlife, Finn, then he is doing splendidly. If you do not, then he is not doing very well at all, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.”
* * *
Some two hours later, Finbar, Cadwgawn, Labhrás, and the dwarfs could hear the bell on top of the keep mark the end of the evening watch and the beginning of the first watch.
“I am coming with
you,” Cadwgawn said.
“As am I,” Griogair echoed.
Finbar shook his head. “You both blend in so well, don’t you?”
The elf and dwarf looked at each other.
“Well, I am coming to the edge of the forest,” Cadwgawn amended his statement. “My da would not have it otherwise.”
“And I have tuh answer tuh Isla,” Griogair said. “Tuh the edge of the forest i’tis.”
Finbar let out his breath slowly through his nose. “Looks like we’ll be having an escort, Labhrás. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Finn. But you are not.” The wizard reached out and touched the farrier’s gray cloak, changing its color to tan.
“Very becoming,” Finbar said, grasping his quarterstaff. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Using buildings for cover, once they left the elf and the dwarf at the edge of the woods, Finbar and Labhrás moved up toward the point that stuck out into Saltwater Bay on the Callainn Shire side of the inlet. Just before reaching Colm’s forge, the moonlight allowed them to get a better idea of the devastation at the port offices, as well as confirm the fact that the watergate was, indeed, closed.
Finbar signaled to Labhrás, pointing to lantern light behind the curtains of Colm’s cottage.
The wizard nodded and the two men scurried from their cover, quickly crossing the road and entering the yard of the forge. They both could see that the south end of the forge building itself had been badly scorched.
“Wait here,” Finbar whispered. “Colm doesn’t know you. And with all that’s been going on around here, I don’t want to alarm him.”
The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 2) Page 35