Lairgnen pointed to the scar on the inside of Finbar’s right forearm. “An accident at the forge, I presume? I would think a blacksmith with your experience would be more careful.”
“No matter how careful one is, sometimes accidents just happen,” the farrier shot back.
“True. Very true, my old friend,” Lairgnen answered, quietly. “No matter how careful one is, though, sometimes…sometimes…” His voice trailed off and his eyes acquired a faraway look to them. Shaking himself back to the present, he continued, still in a soft tone. “But, nevertheless, Finn, a Watchman is forever. Cosaint agus Seirbhís.”
“They’re coming around, Da,” Pádraig called out, nodding to the two bandits, as he finished harnessing the wagon’s horses.
“Tie their mounts to the back of the wagon,” Finbar replied. Crossing over to the two highwaymen, he attached a rope to the tethered hands of both of them, and said, “On your feet, scoundrels, unless you want to be dragged the rest of the way to Ráth Ceatharlach.”
When the two men had struggled to a standing position, he took them to the rear of the wagon. Pádraig had secured the reins of the bandits’ horses to the wagon’s tailgate. Finbar now tied the rope to the tailgate as well. Its length left the outlaws about six feet in back of their animals.
After double-checking all the knots, then filling the goat-skin water bags from the pond, father and son climbed up onto the wagon’s seat, and Finbar flicked the reins.
“Anything in particular you’d like for traveling music?” the elderly troubadour asked the bandits. “Something not too up-tempo, I’m guessing.” Laughing at his own joke, Lairgnen then stuck the bagpipe’s bellows beneath his right elbow and filled the bag with air.
Oakday - Wolf 16th
Ceatharlach Shire
Ráth Ceatharlach
As one of his deputies led the pair of bandits away, Bradan, Reeve of Ceatharlach Shire, said to Finbar. “We’ve had an eye out for these two for some time, now. How did you manage to find them?”
“I’m afraid they found us,” Finbar replied.
“And, from the looks of them, they probably wish they hadn’t. My thanks to you. We’ll lock them up for the night, then convene a Reeve’s Court in the morning. The next time you see them will be on a work detail, filling potholes in the Boundary Road.”
Leaving the shire reeve to his job, Finbar crossed over to the fort’s forge. His son had already stabled Bowie and Breasal, and had begun to carry their tools and belongings from the wagon into the building.
“I talked to the head groom,” Pádraig said. “He figures we have about five days’ worth of routine work, not counting any issues that might come up while we’re here. Also, there are two sick horses, one of which he thinks may have to be put down.”
“We’ll be the judge of that, lad,” his father replied. “What’s the schedule?”
“I told the groom to start bringing the routine work over here for me at the beginning of the forenoon watch tomorrow, and that you’d see the sick ones in their stalls.”
“Good lad.”
“Also, I told your friend Lairgnen to bring Killian around and I’d have a look at his hooves, as well.”
“Did you agree on payment?”
“I thought he was your friend, Da.”
“We’re running a business, son.”
“Well, we did agree on sort of a payment.”
“Sort of a payment?”
“He’s promised to teach me how to play the elbow pipes.”
“Swell.” With that, Finbar began helping the boy unload their belongings, thinking, That’s all I need is him sitting next to me in the wagon all day, squealing on that awful contraption. Thanks, Lairgnen.
* * *
That night in the tavern, the elderly troubadour entertained the customers with tunes on the elbow pipes, tin whistle, and lute. When playing the lute, he sang of daring deeds during the War for Independence. Since most of the men in the room had fought in that war, Lairgnen’s short-tailed dagged hood, which sat open at his feet, received quite a few coins in appreciation for his efforts.
Taking a break from his musical performance, hat in hand, he joined Pádraig and Finbar at their table and ordered a round of drinks.
Counting out his money, the old man chuckled. “Looks like Killian’ll have oats to go along with his hay. He’ll be right happy to hear that.”
“Are you staying at the inn?” Pádraig asked.
“Don’t want to waste any of this on a room, lad,” the old man replied, scooping the coins into his purse. “Killian’s stall is large enough for us both, and he doesn’t mind my snoring.”
Just then the alewife arrived and set tankards in front of them.
“Ahh, mighty parched I am from all that singing,” Lairgnen said, grabbing his mug. Shouting out a hearty, “Sláinte!” he took a deep pull from it.
“There’s a spare cot in the forge,” Pádraig started. And since his father’s under-the-table kick to the leg didn’t come until half the words were already out of his mouth, the boy felt compelled to continue. “You’re…you’re more than…welcome to…bunk with us.”
“That’s right kind of you to offer, Paddy. I can see that your da, here, raised you proper. It’ll be an honor to accept your hospitality.” He looked over at Finbar. “As long as your da doesn’t mind?”
Finbar gave a wry smile, then replied, “As you said, I raised him proper. But,” he held up a cautioning finger, “lights out means pipes out, as well.”
Downing half the remaining contents of his tankard, Lairgnen rose, saying, “Understood, Finn. Understood. I’ll go and break the bad news to Killian, grab my gear, and head over to the forge. See you when you get there.” Finishing the ale, he pulled the hood over his head and strolled out into the night.
“I’m sort of getting mixed signals, here, Da,” Pádraig said. “Is Lairgnen your friend or not.”
“Not.”
“But you’ve known him for a long time, right?”
“Yep.”
“Did he do something to you?”
“Nope.”
“Then…then what do you have against him? He seems like such an amiable guy.”
“He is that, lad. Don’t let it bother you. It was a long time ago. C’mon, let’s call it a night, too.”
As they rose to leave, the alewife came over to the table. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.
“I paid you for the food and drinks, lass,” Finbar replied. “And, if memory serves, gave you a very nice tip.”
“That you did, blacksmith, and don’t think for a minute that I don’t appreciate it, but that didn’t include the round of drinks that your friend ordered.”
Only then did Finbar realize that Lairgnen had stiffed him with the tab.
* * *
Sure could have used a dip in that pond, earlier, Pádraig thought in the lantern-lit forge as he wiped himself down with a bucket of water and a rag. I’m going to permanently smell like horse. I just know it.
His father had already washed up and was arranging the tools in the forge. Pádraig put on a fresh shirt, went outside, poured the water out onto the ward, then filled the bucket again from the well. Returning inside, he set the bucket on the anvil and said to Lairgnen, “Fresh water, if you care for a wash-up.”
The old man sat on his cot, having already taken off his cloak and tunic. Now, stripping off his shirt, he echoed Pádraig’s feelings. “If it weren’t for those bandits, we could have had a proper bath in that pond. But a bucket of water is better than no water at all. Right lad?”
Pádraig said, “Help yourself.” He then went about rearranging some of the tools to suit the order in which he liked to work.
Glancing over at the old troubadour, a chill suddenly overcame the boy. There on the inside of Lairgnen’s right forearm was a tattoo—a tattoo of a tríbhís with a double-headed war-hammer and an open hand in its center—the identical image as on the stone of his mother’s n
ecklace.
“That…that tattoo you have on your arm, Lairgnen,” he said. “What does the symbol mean?”
The old man glanced at the mark, then quickly over at Finbar, who stood on the other side of the room, frowning.
“The three conjoined spirals, of course, lad, is the symbol for the Confederation of the Three Kingdoms.” Hesitating for a moment, he again glanced at Finbar before continuing. “The double-headed war-hammer is a dwarf rune. Their symbol for ‘Protection.’”
That minimal explanation seemed to satisfy Finbar, and he returned to his work.
In order to stifle any more questions about the tattoo, Lairgnen quickly asked Pádraig, “You know much about dwarfs, lad?”
“Not much. I’ve seen them in the marketplace in the Central Federal Region. A bit on the ill-tempered side, but they’re great metalsmiths. Some of their gold and silver pieces are amazing. Also, Da’s told me how they fought alongside us in the War for Independence. And that because of it, the Sawtooth Mountains of the Northern Shires were declared a semi-autonomous region. I guess that means they more or less do as they please in their mountains.”
“As long as they pay their taxes to the Central Federal Region, the Kingdom, and the shires where their mountains are located, they pretty much have a separate country within a country,” Lairgnen said. “Same goes for the elves in the Tangled Woods.”
Not to be led into a tangential conversation about dwarfs and elves, as Lairgnen had intended, Pádraig returned to the tattoo on the elderly troubadour’s arm. “This protection symbol?” he asked. “Do you really believe that wearing it will protect you?”
Once more Lairgnen glanced at Finbar, who had again stopped working and stood there, still with a frown on his face. Shrugging his shoulders, the old man said, “Who’s to know?”
“I hope it works better for you than it did for my ma. She had a necklace with those same symbols on it when she was killed by bandits.”
Lairgnen had to hold on to the anvil to steady himself and keep from losing his balance.
“Enough of your questions for tonight, Paddy,” Finbar called to him. “We’ve got a full day ahead of us tomorrow. Lights out in five.”
“Yes, Da,” the boy replied, sitting on his bunk and removing his boots.
* * *
“So just when were you planning on telling him the truth?” Lairgnen asked, softly, coming up behind Finbar.
With thoughts of his late wife Aislin flooding his memory, the farrier hadn’t been able to sleep. Some ten minutes before, he had quietly gotten up from his cot, thrown a cloak around his shoulders, and gone outside. There he sat on the well-head in the cool of the crisp night air, looking up at the stars and the two moons—a waning crescent Silver Nightingale in the east and a third-quarter Golden Owl in the west.
“When the time’s right,” he answered without turning around.
Sitting down beside him, the old man said, “He’ll come of age this year, old friend. A young man. No longer a boy.”
When Finbar didn’t respond, Lairgnen continued. “He has his ma’s gift, Finn. I understand it’s even stronger in him than it was in her.”
“You understand that from whom? Who sent you?” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t bother. It doesn’t matter. I knew this was no chance meeting. The answer is no! I am not going to let my son get himself killed because of this gift, so you can stop right now.”
The elderly troubadour packed some smoke-weed into the bowl of his clay pipe, crossed to a now-dying campfire, and lit the weed with a burning stick. “The Venerable Taliesin sent me,” he replied, after blowing a small smoke-ring that dissipated quickly in the slight breeze.
Finbar shook his head in disgust. “Of course. And just how would His Venerableness know the strength of Paddy’s gift?”
“Because he’s seen him use it on two separate occasions, and he realizes just how strong the boy’s essence is.”
“When?”
Lairgnen crossed back to Finbar and proceeded to tell him about Pádraig breaking the phooka’s spell and about his lighting the bone-fire from high upon the ramparts of Fortress Tulach. By the time he had concluded, Finbar’s knuckles were white from having his fists clenched so tightly.
“Paddy’s power is raw now, Finn. For the lad’s own good, he needs to learn how to control it. To properly direct it.”
Glaring at the old man, Finbar said, “The answer was ‘no’ a few minutes ago. It’s still ‘no’ now. And it will be ‘no’ forever. Am I clear on this?”
Rising, Lairgnen put a hand on Finbar’s shoulder while he tapped the pipe on the sole of his boot to knock out the smoke-weed. “We all want what’s best for him, Finn. Please believe me when I say this. But I’ll respect your wishes and relay your message to the Venerable Taliesin.”
Finbar said nothing.
The elderly troubadour patted the other man’s shoulder, then turned and headed back to the forge, getting in the last word as he went. “But, Finn, as painful as it may be, the boy does have a right to know the truth about his ma.”
* * *
Pádraig hastily pulled the shutter closed on the window, hurried back to his cot, and pretended to be asleep.
Pretend was all he could do. Even after his father and Lairgnen were both long back inside and snoring, the questions kept recycling through his confused brain.
Being a master wizard, Taliesin must have sensed that I helped Meig light the bone-fire on New Year’s Eve. But, even so, he let Meig think that she had done it by herself. Why?
And master wizard or not, how could he possibly know about Siobhán the phooka? No one else was there.
For Lairgnen to say that Master Taliesin thinks my gift is stronger than Ma’s, the wizard must have known her pretty well. But, as long as I can remember, Da has rarely spoken of him; and, even then, never in a familiar way.
Why do Lairgnen and Master Taliesin think that my gift needs to be controlled? Do they think I’m dangerous? Are they talking about sending me to the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted? And, if so, why is Da so dead-set against it?
That symbol on Ma’s necklace is identical to Lairgnen’s tattoo—a tattoo that’s in the exact same location as Da’s scar from the forge accident. Was it really an accident or did Da have a tattoo like Lairgnen’s and deliberately remove it?
Ma and Da and Lairgnen—all three with the same symbol—the dwarf rune for ‘Protection.’ It can’t be a coincidence. Does it have anything to do with the problem between Lairgnen and Da? And, if so, why did Master Taliesin send Lairgnen to talk to Da? He could have done it himself on New Year’s Eve.
Finally, the boy slipped into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning as images of Meig, Lairgnen, his mother, his father, Master Taliesin, Siobhán, and stones with double-headed war-hammers and open hands all became jumbled together.
Yewday - Wolf 33rd
Central Federal Region
As he stood there admiring a pair of boots at a cobbler’s booth, Pádraig popped the last segment of a piece of fruit into his mouth that he had gotten from one of the other stalls in the marketplace. The variety of goods was amazing—cloth, spices, and fruit that had been shipped in from the East, across the Sea of the Dawn; gold and silver pieces from the dwarfs in the Northern Shires; wooden items from the elves in the Eastern Shires; and items from every sort of craftsman throughout all Cruachan and from abroad.
He and his father had arrived at the Central Federal Region from Fort Lorg earlier that afternoon and had gotten settled in at the Citadel of Cruachan’s forge. Since work would not begin until the next day, they had left the stronghold and headed over to the marketplace.
Moving along to an artillator’s booth, Finbar picked up a bow and tested its pull. Admiringly, he pulled it again. As he set the weapon back in the rack, he said to his son, “There’s nothing like an elfin bow, lad. They’re pricy, but you won’t find a master archer who doesn’t own one, as well as a quiver of elfin arrows.”
“And elfin quarterstaffs aren’t too bad, either, or so I’m told, Finn,” a lilting voice from inside the stall spoke up.
An elfin artillator, his long, blond hair in a horsetail, had just attached a flight to one of the arrows he had made. Setting the arrow on his workbench, he twisted around on his stool, facing the twosome. The enigmatic countenance on his pearlescent face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
Finbar turned to Pádraig, and said, “They’re not too bad, lad. However, tipping them with iron makes them quite a bit better. It’s a shame the elves don’t know how to do proper ironwork.”
The elf stood, crossed to the front of the booth, and addressed Pádraig, looking down at him. “Of course, iron tips on a stick that breaks at first contact is not worth a tinker’s dam. It is the wood and the skill of the woodworker that makes the difference.”
“Bryn, you old weasel,” Finbar said. “How long’s it been? Ten years, at least.”
The elf grasped Finbar’s proffered forearm and replied, “About that. Yes, I believe so.” As he released the arm-clasp, he caught sight of the other man’s burn scar. Although he raised an eyebrow, he said nothing about it.
“Bryn, this is my son, Pádraig. Paddy, Brynmor and I fought together in the War for Independence.”
The boy quickly did the math and thought, I know it’s hard to tell an elf’s age, so they very well may have fought together in the war. But that war’s been over for a long time. And if Da last saw his elf-friend about ten years ago, it must have been right around the time of Ma’s death. “So, you made Da’s quarterstaff, I take it?” he asked.
“Indeed. And I understand it served him well a few weeks back.”
Finbar snickered, then said, “That it did, thanks to the iron tips. But how did you find out about it?”
“I ran into Bradan, Reeve of Ceatharlach Shire, on the Boundary Road just outside of the Coedwig Dryslyd as we were coming up here with our wares,” Brynmor replied, using the elvish name for the Tangled Woods.
A Spark is Struck in Cruachan Page 7