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

by Bill Stackhouse

  In answer to her question, Pádraig made a slight motion with his right hand and vanished from the phooka’s sight.

  “Impressive,” she told him. “Can you hold it long enough?”

  The young wizard reappeared. “No problem. It’s been awhile since I’ve had to use my magic, so my essence is fully charged.” After an awkward pause, he continued. “Once again, you’ve come to my rescue, Siobhán. I have no idea how to repay you.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Paddy,” she replied, suggestively. “I think you do.” She moved in close to him until their bodies were touching.

  This time, not waiting for Siobhán to make the first move, he put one hand on the small of her back, the other on the back of her neck, pulled her tightly against him, and kissed her full on the lips.

  The phooka’s arms went around his body and the two of them held the embrace for almost a full minute.

  Breaking the clinch, Siobhán stepped back and said, “See? You did know.” With another wriggle, she shape-shifted into the black mare and nuzzled his pocket.

  “I don’t have any with me,” the wizard said with a chuckle. “But, when all this is over and done with, I’ll bring a whole bag of sugar lumps to your poulaphouca.” After planting a kiss on her muzzle, he stepped back.

  With a parting snort and a head-bob, the phooka turned and trotted off, back to the Central Road and toward the no-man’s land between the two armies.

  Pádraig, still with warm feelings from the kiss, shouldered the packsack and set out on foot, casting his personal concealment spell just before exiting the forest.

  Mindful of his experience in The Uplands, where a journeyman wizard had created a miniature snowstorm to reveal the young wizard’s position, Pádraig checked his person repeatedly, as he trudged along the edge of the Central Road, thankful that the moisture coming from the sky was more rain than snow.

  * * *

  Crossing through the encampment, where part of Prince Ríoghán’s forces were trying to get some rest, Pádraig finally reached the enemy lines. He stopped and surveyed the area, paying close attention to how both armies on either side of the no-man’s land were deployed. There appeared to be no urgency to their activities. Everyone seemed perfectly content to huddle into their cloaks and capes while they watched and waited.

  “Don’t go too far, Your Highness,” a soldier with three winged stripes on his shoulder cautioned.

  The young wizard stopped and glanced to his right to see whom the soldier had addressed.

  There, clothed in black deerskin and a black ruana, Princess Fionnuala had wedged her way to the front of the ranks to get a better look at the opposition forces.

  “Where is it you think I’d go, Sergeant?” she replied, turning to him, a pout on her face.

  Beneath the cape’s black, bear-fur-trimmed hood that covered the girl’s raven hair, Pádraig glimpsed the polished black moonstone in the center of a roundlet of fine silver filigree.

  “Just the same, Your Highness,” the sergeant said, patiently, “take your look and come back here to the rear of the line, out of harm’s way.”

  As the princess turned, and the ranks parted for her, the young wizard saw his opportunity and stepped into the opening, passing the girl, as she started to return to her babysitter.

  At that moment, a wagon with supplies, drawn by two draught horses, came by at a hasty clip. The wheels, running through a puddle, splashed water and mud onto the soldiers, Fionnuala, and Pádraig.

  While the troops turned around and hurled epithets at the waggoneer, Fionnuala snuck one last look at the opposing lines across the no-man’s land. What she saw were three dollops of mud, about a foot-and-a-half off the ground crossing into the unoccupied area. Drawing one of her daggers, the young would-be warrior ran after the apparition, shouting, “Sergeant! Sergeant! Come quickly!”

  The guard forgot about the wagon and turned his head toward the princess’ cry. However, his reaction turned out to be two seconds too late to have seen Fionnuala lurch to her left and disappear.

  “Your Highness?!” he called out, muscling his way to the front of the line, searching all around him. “Princess Fionnuala?! Where are you?!”

  Pádraig stood stone-still, holding the unconscious princess in his arms inside his now-expanded concealment spell. He chanced a slow look around and spotted the mud on himself, now included within the spell, as well.

  Taking in the pandemonium behind him, everything bathed in a yellowish-green light side effect of the concealment spell, the young wizard readjusted the straps of the scabbard of his hand-and-a-half sword and his packsack. Stooping down, he hoisted Fionnuala up and over his neck.

  Man-oh-man, am I glad you’re just a young girl and not a milkmaid, he thought, as he slogged off toward his own lines.

  Yewday - Fox 1st

  Central Federal Region - Dúnfort Cruachan

  Once across the no-man’s land, Pádraig found a large enough opening in the ranks of the Cruachanian Defense Forces and spotted a captain whom he recognized from the citadel. Lumbering under the weight of the tan canvas packsack and Princess Fionnuala to within a half-rod of the man, he canceled the concealment spell and fell to his knees with exhaustion, wheezing, “Get me to the Arch-Wizard, Captain. I have important information on the enemy’s situation.”

  “Honored Pádraig?!” the captain exclaimed, having jumped back a pace or two and drawn his short sword in surprise. “Where have you been? And what have you got there?”

  “I’ve come from Béarra Shire, and I have to see the Most Venerable Faolan. Right away.”

  As he sheathed his weapon, the captain shouted over his shoulder, “Get me a horse!…Make it two!…No, make it four! And hurry up about it!” To Pádraig, he said, as he lifted the unconscious girl from around the young wizard’s neck, “Who is this you’ve got with you? Is she badly injured?”

  “This is the Princess Fionnuala, Ríoghán’s sister. She’s all right, just temporarily unconscious. Confine her to a bedroom in the keep, but treat her with the utmost respect. She may turn out to be a valuable trading chip.”

  “As you wish, Honored Sir; but, I think I’ll relieve her of those knives first, if that’s all right with you?” The front of Fionnuala’s black ruana had flopped open, revealing her black leather belt which held five double-edged throwing knives. There was an empty space on the belt for a sixth.

  “By all means, Captain,” Pádraig replied, struggling to his feet, as two swordsmen brought the horses up. Staggering toward one of the mounts, he called out, “And a leg up, if you please?”

  * * *

  The two soldiers who had fetched the horses galloped alongside Pádraig, providing him with an escort into the citadel. After thanking the men, the wizard dismounted in the ward and rushed into the Arch-Wizard’s round tower opposite the keep.

  The captain, carrying Fionnuala, followed at a distance, not allowing his mount to exceed a trot. As he transferred the princess to the two swordsmen, while giving orders to a section leader about the conditions of her house-arrest, she began to revive. The section leader conducted the three men and girl to a vacant bedroom in the keep, where they gently laid her on the bed, so that she could recover completely in comfort.

  “Find a girl whom you trust,” the captain directed the section leader, “to serve as the princess’ lady’s maid while she’s a guest here at the dúnfort. And you two,” he turned to the two swordsmen, “work out half-day shifts between you. One of you is to be out here in the hallway at all times.”

  * * *

  Pádraig had begun the meeting with the Most Venerable Faolan by handing over Odhran’s spell book and seeing-stone. He then related to the Arch-Wizard all that had occurred over the past month.

  Faolan sat there in his reception hall, asking very few questions during Pádraig’s narrative. Although he heard and absorbed everything the young wizard said, he spent the entire time looking at Odhran’s blood-red stone on the table in front of him, marveling to hi
mself that an apprentice wizard had been able to harness the power to use it.

  When Pádraig had finished, Faolan excused himself, picked up the stone and book, and climbed up the ladders to his fifth-floor chambers.

  Returning, minus the two items, he said, “All right, lad, let’s have you run through it all again for His Majesty.”

  “Most Venerable Sir,” Pádraig replied, as he stood. “It would be well if Prince Liam were not there with the High King.”

  Faolan raised an eyebrow. “And why is that? I heard nothing in what you said that should be kept from His Highness.”

  The apprentice wizard gazed down at the stone block floor, and said, quietly, “That’s because I omitted one piece of information that I must discuss with His Majesty, and with His Majesty alone.”

  “Is that so?”

  “No disrespect to you, but, yes, Most Venerable Sir.”

  After a few beats of silence, the Arch-Wizard said, “Well, come along, then. I believe Prince Liam is still somewhere at the front lines.”

  * * *

  When Pádraig had gone through his story again, Déaglán, High King of Cruachan, sitting at the head of the table in the great hall of the keep, simply shook his head, as the ramifications began to sink in. “You’re to be commended, Pádraig. The Confederation owes you a substantial debt of gratitude.”

  “I was only doing my duty, Sire,” the young wizard replied. Pointing to his red mantle, he continued with, “Seirbhís a Tír agus Rí, Your Majesty.”

  “Indeed. But, commended you are, and amply rewarded you shall be when this is all over. Now, how soon do you estimate it before my cousin Eógan is captured?”

  “Um…More than likely, never, Your Majesty.”

  “Never?! Never?! Where’s he going to go?”

  “An Saol Eile, Sire.”

  The High King came off his stool. “He must stand trial for treason, be publicly executed, along with all the other perpetrators of this insurrection, so that they might serve as an example for any others who may contemplate rebellion against the Confederation.”

  During Déaglán’s tirade, Pádraig’s deep-blue eyes had been fixed on the tabletop. He now raised them to meet the High King’s brown ones and shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Sire,” he said, softly and as non-confrontationally as he could manage.

  “And why not?!”

  “Dwarfs, Your Majesty.”

  “Dwarfs?”

  “Dwarfs. They don’t much like taking prisoners. And it’s probably already happened by now.”

  The High King sat back down. After a few moments, he said, “Then we’ll have to settle for executing the rest of the rebels. Any thoughts on why that can’t be done?”

  Ignoring the sarcasm as well as the rhetorical nature of the question, the young wizard replied, “As a matter of fact, Your Majesty, I do.” He glanced across the table at Faolan.

  The Arch-Wizard stood and said, “Your Majesty, I’ll take my leave, now. The Honored Pádraig has one more piece of information that apparently is for your ears only.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll do no such thing,” Déaglán snapped, still upset. “Sit back down.” As Faolan retook his seat to the High King’s right, Déaglán looked to his left at Pádraig. “I have no secrets from my primary advisor; and, having him hear it first-hand from you will spare me from having to repeat it to him later. So, out with it. What is this important piece of information?”

  Where to begin? Where to begin? Pádraig pondered. He finally decided to go back in time, as a prologue to his real reason in asking for this meeting.

  “Sire, do you remember back some ten years ago when Tadhg, the farrier for the Kingdom of the Northern Shires, was killed, and my da hired me out on a temporary basis to Chancellor Ultan to serve as their interim farrier?”

  “It’s a time I’ll never forget. Both you and my son were kidnapped, and had it not been for your bravery and quick thinking, Liam would have been killed.”

  Smiling, slightly, but otherwise ignoring the compliment, the young wizard continued. “One of the reasons why Prince Liam wanted to accompany me, and do so anonymously, was so that he could find out how the nobility was viewed by the populace in the North, honestly and without any distortion by people knowing who he was.”

  “He never told me that,” the High King replied.

  “It’s not surprising, Your Majesty. In preamble to the information and suggestion I have for you on how to end this war, please allow me to relate one specific incident that occurred in a tavern up North.”

  Déaglán gave a small ‘go ahead’ gesture with his hand.

  Pádraig took in a deep breath, as he pulled from the recesses of his mind the memory of the night when Parnell, Reeve of Callainn Shire, had told him and the prince about why the people in the North had no love for the High King:

  After the locals had gotten their snoots full of ale, the toasts had begun; and, as always, they had praised their ‘good’ King Cabhan and their ‘good’ Chieftain Tierney. Someone else bellowed out the inevitable toast, “To good Chieftain Eógan! Robbed of his rightful title as King of the Western Shires by Déaglán, the usurper!”

  At which point, the entire company in the tavern had added their agreement, raucously.

  Pádraig had asked Parnell to enlighten Prince Liam as to why the good people of the Northern Shires felt as they did.

  Tentatively and uncomfortably, since he was one of the few who knew the prince’s true identity, the reeve began to explain to Liam what the people of the Northern Shires believed in their hearts.

  “The invasion of Ulf and his Northmen began up at North Head in Béarra Shire. Our forces fought bravely, but we were unable to stem the enemy’s advance. Our king at the time, Conlaoch, sent emissaries to both Seamus, King of the Western Shires, and Hugh, King of the Eastern Shires, imploring them to send troops to help us repel the invasion. They both refused, saying that their first duties were the protection of their own kingdoms. It wasn’t until the Northmen were firmly entrenched here in the Northern Shires and in control of the harbor, having constructed Dúnfort Cruachan, that the other two kingdoms became concerned. Of course, by then it was too late. First the Kingdom of the Eastern Shires fell, allowing the Northmen to then concentrate their efforts on the Kingdom of the Western Shires.

  “Ultimately, the Northmen pushed Seamus and what was left of his army down to the fens of Cairbre and Dealbhna Shires. Because of the large number of wetlands in the Western Shires, Ulf’s forces had only a tenuous foothold there. But, by then, Seamus’ troops had developed a hit-and-run strategy, taking out a patrol here and there, then retreating to the marshes, swamps, and bogs to plan their next attack. It was at that late date when Seamus decided that a Confederation of the Three Kingdoms was a good idea.

  “However, this Confederation fought two years to first liberate the Western Shires, then another three to free the Eastern Shires from Ulf’s rule. Only then, did our fellow countrymen from the south turn their eyes and armies northward. It took a half year to drive the Northmen out of Dúnfort Cruachan, then two more years to push them up to the final battle at North Head. And with every league that the enemy was repelled, they burned the farms and villages along the way—Northern Shires’ farms and villages. Oh, yes, we were grateful that we were finally rid of the occupiers; but, we paid a much higher price than anyone else. And after finally regaining our independence, no one begrudged Seamus the title of High King, nor his son Diarmuid who fought with him and succeeded him as King of the Western Shires.

  “But Diarmuid not selecting Eógan from the Northern Shires as deputy king and giving the title to Déaglán of the Eastern Shires, instead? It was a slap in the face of every citizen in this kingdom. Eógan was the elder of Diarmuid’s two nephews. By tradition, he should have been chosen deputy king.

  “And had Eógan become King of the Western Shires, upon Diarmuid’s death, our own Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires, would now be sitting upon the t
hrone in Dúnfort Cruachan as High King. When the members of the Dáil cast their ballots, Cabhan received the votes of all five chieftains from the Northern Shires. Déaglán received the combined seventeen votes of the Western and Eastern Shires. Had Eógan been King of the Western Shires, he would have brought along the votes of all nine Western Shires’ chieftains. And Cabhan would then have been elected High King by a fourteen-to-eight-vote margin, with the votes from the Eastern Shires probably going to their King Glendon.…We suffered the most and for the longest under the occupation. And the majority of us here in the North feel that we were robbed of our due.”

  As tentatively and uncomfortably as Parnell had been ten years’ earlier, Pádraig proceeded to convey the story to the High King and Arch-Wizard.

  During the recitation, neither Déaglán nor Faolan interrupted. After the young wizard had finished, all three just continued to sit there in silence. Gone from the High King’s countenance was the anger and bitterness from before, replaced, now, by a look of intense sadness.

  Finally, with moist eyes, he glanced first at the Arch-Wizard, then directed his attention to Pádraig. “Never did I consider history from the Northern perspective, Pádraig. Never. All that pent-up resentment and frustration, culminating in insurrection?” He shook his head and sighed. “You said you had a suggestion on how to end this conflict?”

  “Yes, Sire, I do.”

  Yewday - Fox 1st

  Gabhrán Shire

  In Prince Ríoghán’s command tent, near the border with the Central Federal Region, a quartet of soldiers, having three winged stripes on their shoulders, stood in front of the small table. All four had their eyes cast down at the dirt floor. On the tabletop lay one of Princess Fionnuala’s double-edged throwing knives, caked in mud.

  From the stool behind the table, the prince asked in a controlled voice, “Your primary function, here, was to what?”