A Spark is Struck in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  “When will you have Master Faolan test the hammers for blood residue?”

  “I’ll have an opportunity to ask him about it later tonight. King Cabhan will be returning to Cathair Béarra tomorrow and there’s going to be another feast in his honor. If we push the horses, I should just be able to make it in time.”

  “I’ll bet Meig’s looking forward to that.”

  Liam grimaced. “Not so much. Cabhan’s wife Radha, his son Ríoghán, and his two daughters, Teagan and Fionnuala, made the trip with him. I’m to escort Princess Teagan, the older daughter.”

  “How old?”

  “A year younger than us.”

  “Good looking?”

  “Not too bad.”

  Pádraig shook his head slowly. “Oooo. Not good.”

  “I’ve already put Meig on notice,” the prince said. “Gifted one or not. If I see even a hint of a trick directed at Princess Teagan, I’ll toss her gifted butt off the cliff and into the sea myself.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Poke the bear, why don’t you. That always works out so well, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m serious, Paddy.”

  “Me, too. Maybe you should escort the younger one, instead…Fionnuala?”

  “She’s only four.”

  “It would be a lot safer for you.”

  Birchday - Wolf 34th

  Central Federal Region

  Over a late supper at The Rope and Anchor, Pádraig gave his father a report on the day’s activities from when they had parted at Tadhg’s forge up until the time that Lorcan had put Colm in the lock-up at Fort Gabhrán.

  When the boy had finished, Finbar said, “So the prince acquitted himself well, today.”

  “That he did. When the time comes, I really think he’s going to make a great king.”

  “If the power doesn’t corrupt him first,” Finbar replied, wryly. “Did he give any indication when he’d have the Arch-Wizard test the hammers?”

  “There’s a going-away party for King Cabhan tonight up at the dúnfort. Liam was going to approach Master Faolan sometime during the festivities.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll hear something in the next few days. The longer Colm is the prime suspect, the less likely it is that the reeve will bother looking elsewhere for any others. As to obtaining a sample of Colm’s blood, I congratulate you on your foresight, Paddy. You play the buffoon very well.”

  Finbar signaled to the alewife that they were finished, then continued. “And speaking of buffoons, I promised that we’d talk about the conversation you overheard between me and Lairgnen back at Ráth Ceatharlach, didn’t I?”

  “I had hoped you’d remember,” Pádraig responded. “Why is it—”

  But his father stopped him. “Not here, Paddy. Let’s go for a walk where we can be assured of privacy.”

  * * *

  With their gray cloaks held tightly around them, warding off the winter-night breezes, Finbar and Pádraig stood at the top of the interior cliffs, looking out over Saltwater Bay. Even though darkness had set in many hours before, the harbor below still bustled under the orange glow of torchlight.

  “Remember that night back at Cathair Tulach, Paddy, when I told you about zealot republicans and former collaborators with the Northmen who weren’t all that happy with the way the war turned out?” Finbar asked.

  “You said you weren’t sure which group you’d blame for the attempted assassination of the High King.”

  “‘Full-mooners,’ we used to call them.”

  “‘Full-mooners’?” Pádraig repeated, not understanding the term.

  “The lunatic fringe on either side of the issue. When the moons are full, they come out and bay at them. After the War for Independence, many of us were war-weary. Like I told you, the conflict resulted in a lot of destruction with many, many lives lost and devastated. We didn’t want to go through that again, even those of us who had hoped for change. And we surely didn’t want another conflict foisted upon us because of the full-mooners. So we banded together and decided to keep an eye out for any sign of potential treason from extremists on either side.”

  “Ahh,” Pádraig said. “The Watchmen? That’s what Lairgnen was talking about when he said, ‘A Watchman is forever’?”

  “The Watchmen,” Finbar confirmed. After a moment, he said, “But I don’t recall Lairgnen mentioning the Watchmen when we talked at the Ráth Ceatharlach well-head.”

  “You didn’t,” Pádraig told him. “It was back at the pond after you captured the bandits. Lairgnen said it to you then: ‘A Watchman is forever. Cosaint agus Seirbhís.’”

  “Those ears of yours,” his father said with a shake of his head. “‘Cosaint agus Seirbhís.’ That was our motto. When we discovered a traitor, we dealt with him or her in an appropriate manner, never revealing ourselves to the general public whom we swore to protect and serve in secret.”

  “And the tríbhís with a double-headed war-hammer and open hand in its center? Lairgnen said the war-hammer was the dwarf rune for ‘Protection.’”

  “It is. But not personal protection for ourselves, Paddy, like we led you to believe. Protection of the Confederation of the Three Kingdoms. And the open hand is the dwarf rune for ‘Service.’ The tríbhís with those two runes is the symbol by which a Watchman can identify him or herself to another Watchman if it becomes necessary.”

  “So Ma was a Watchman, too.”

  “Some of us chose the tattoo. Others preferred necklaces. Elfin Watchmen, of course, opted for neither. They would rather eat worms than wear a dwarf rune of any kind, no matter what it meant.”

  After a few moments of silence, Pádraig asked, “How did she really die, Da? It wasn’t bandits, was it?”

  “You have to understand how we were organized. There were, what were called, Chief Watchmen. I’m not sure how many, but clearly more than one. Each chief had a number of Controller Watchmen who reported to him. None of these controllers knew each other. Each controller supervised a group of Monitor Watchmen, and these monitors also didn’t know each other. That way, if captured, a monitor couldn’t give up the entire organization. Of course, your ma and I knew each other. That was the beauty of our cover. We’d travel around the kingdom and keep our eyes and ears open. You’ve seen for yourself how the stables are rife with gossip. While I worked as a farrier, your ma would develop contacts among the servant girls in each garrison. They, also, were privy to a treasure trove of information; and, with your ma’s gift, she was able to discern whom to cultivate.”

  “But how did she die, Da?” Pádraig asked, impatiently. “And why?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “Get there faster, please?”

  “It was while Diarmuid was still King of the Western Shires and High King. He had just named his nephew Déaglán as deputy king. One of your ma’s contacts passed her a note saying that a servant girl within the royal family’s household had information about an assassination plot on Déaglán’s life that would be blamed on one of the other kingdoms. The girl would talk only to your ma, and only in person. We notified our controller and he—”

  “Lairgnen?” Pádraig interrupted.

  “Yes, lad, Lairgnen was our controller. He, in turn, took the information to his Chief Watchman. The decision was made that stopping an attempt on Déaglán’s life was worth the risk. Through her contact, your ma agreed to meet with this servant girl at a prearranged time and place. Even though she was to go alone, I insisted on going with her. But your ma was a strong-willed woman. She reminded me that we had vowed to each other early on that we would never go on an operation together. Instead—”

  “Because of me,” Pádraig said, softly, not as a question, but as a statement.

  “But we agreed that Lairgnen would serve as her backup,” Finbar said. “He would take a different route to the meeting and get there just after the appointed time so that the servant girl would think that your ma had come alone.”

  “But, Da?!” Pádraig protested. “Lairgnen and
his mule as a backup?!”

  “Don’t ever sell Lairgnen short, lad. The traveling troubadour you saw in Ceatharlach Shire is the public image that he projects—that of a harmless buffoon whom people won’t think twice about talking in front of. But, let me assure you, under that disguise you’ll find an intelligent mind and a skill with a hand-and-a-half sword that is second to none.”

  Pádraig thought about it for a moment, then said, “You mean like a simple farrier who, within five seconds, is able to dispatch two armed bandits using only a quarterstaff?”

  Finbar let the remark pass without comment. “At any rate, somehow our plan was leaked. We don’t know how. We don’t know by whom. Lairgnen was ambushed by three men on his way to the meeting place. Remember what I said about his skill with a sword? Although he received severe wounds in the encounter, he managed to kill all three of the men who attacked him. Unfortunately, the meeting place was also ambushed by a second group of traitors. Lairgnen, even with his wounds, managed to eventually get there, but too late. Both your ma and the servant girl had been killed.”

  “What about the contact who passed Ma the note in the first place?”

  “An apparent accident that very night. Slipped and fell off the ramparts at Ráth Iorras into the ward below.”

  Both men remained silent for over five minutes.

  Finally Pádraig said, “You and Lairgnen talked about Master Taliesin. Is he one of the Chief Watchmen? The one whom Lairgnen reports to?”

  “I believe so, though I can’t be sure and, of course, Lairgnen won’t say. The Venerable Taliesin officiated at your ma’s funeral, though, and through my own tears, I saw the ones he shed. They were genuine.”

  Pádraig looked at his father. “You blame Lairgnen and Master Taliesin for ma’s death don’t you?”

  Finbar put a hand on his son’s shoulder and looked away. “And myself, Paddy.…Especially myself.”

  “If Déaglán had been killed and the assassination tied to one of the other kingdoms, would it have meant war?” Pádraig asked.

  “Most certainly.”

  “But that never happened.”

  “No, lad, it didn’t. Even though we had no knowledge of who or when or how, the fact that we knew about the plan was enough to make the traitors call it off.”

  Although his eyes were moist, the boy managed a slight smile. “Then Ma didn’t die in vain. She and you and Lairgnen and Master Taliesin…you prevented a war.”

  Finbar said nothing in reply, but simply gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze.

  Willowday - Wolf 35th

  Central Federal Region

  Dúnfort Cruachan

  Pádraig and his father were hard at work outside the Citadel of Cruachan’s forge, each shoeing a separate horse, when a group of riders approached them about mid-morning.

  Finbar glanced up first and, upon seeing Prince Liam, stopped what he was doing and said, “Your Highness.”

  His view blocked by the horse he was working on, Pádraig took a quick look under the animal’s neck at the three men accompanying the prince. The older of the trio was dressed in the finery of the nobility. The two soldiers in the company wore dark-red tabards that bore a tríbhís with no image in the center, with its left and right legs in black and its top leg in gold—the emblem of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires.

  “Finbar and Paddy,” the prince said, “this is Ultan, Chancellor to King Cabhan, and he has a favor he’d like to ask of you.”

  “Lord Chancellor,” Finbar replied with a slight bow as he stepped away from the horse and wiped his hands on a cloth, “how may we be of assistance?”

  A big, fleshy man weighing in at about eighteen stone, Ultan struggled down from his mount and said, “As you know, with Tadhg’s death, we need to find us another farrier.”

  “Yes, My Lord, and sooner rather than later. Your horses need to be reshod every six to eight weeks.”

  “Precisely so. That’s why I was wondering if you would consider filling in, while we go through the bidding and selection process again and let a new contract. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks. Four at the most.”

  Finbar shook his head. “I’m sorry, My Lord, but with my current commitments to the High King here in the Central Federal Region and to the Earl of the Western Shires, there is no way I can take on any additional work.” Holding up a hand to stifle an objection from the chancellor, he continued. “And with all due respect, My Lord, you already have bids for the present contract. It’s just a matter of going through them again and making another selection. If you start the process without delay, you can have another farrier in place within two weeks.”

  “Maybe not that quickly. More like three. But I take your point. Can you spare us three weeks of your time until we make our new selection?”

  From behind the chancellor, Prince Liam had screwed up his face and was nodding his head—clearly an appeal for Finbar to agree.

  “I won’t put the High King’s horses nor the horses of the Western Shires in jeopardy, My Lord, but here’s what I am prepared to do in order to assist you.” He motioned for Pádraig to come forward. When the lad had complied, Finbar resumed. “You can have my son Paddy, here, while you make your reselection”—he held up two fingers—but for only two weeks.”

  “An apprentice!” Ultan blustered. “And a mere lad, at that! That is not acceptable.” He turned to Liam. “Your Highness, the High King said that we could have Finbar. This is not what he promised.”

  While the prince had been willing to act as intermediary for the sake of politics, he clearly saw the chancellor’s antics as completely out of line.

  “What the High King actually said, Ultan,” Liam replied, dismounting, crossing over to the threesome, but deliberately not using the man’s title, “was that you were more than welcome to approach Finbar; and that, if he felt he had any spare time, the High King was sure Finbar would try to accommodate you. But it was not a promise. You’ve approached Finbar. He’s told you that he has no spare time. But he has generously offered the services of his son, who is neither just a mere lad nor an apprentice, but a craftsman in his own right. If you don’t want to take him up on his kind offer, that’s fine. Do without a farrier until you make your reselection.” Looking over at Finbar and Pádraig, he said, “Please forgive the Lord Chancellor’s rudeness. We’ll be taking our leave, now.”

  “W…w…wait just a…a minute,” Ultan said, all the bluster gone from him, as Liam turned toward his white stallion. “The lad is a good farrier?”

  “If he were not, My Lord,” Finbar replied, “I never would have offered him to you in the first place. Being without him for even two weeks will be a severe hardship for me.”

  “I fully understand the importance of your decision, My Lord,” Pádraig spoke up, “considering what the horses mean to the security of the kingdom. Perhaps I could offer you a demonstration of my skills? Just to put your mind at ease?”

  “Well…if…if that wouldn’t be too much of an imposition,” a much more humble Ultan replied.

  “Not at all, My Lord. Now if you’d be so kind as to have one of the soldiers unsaddle your horse?”

  Ultan motioned to one of the soldiers, who quickly dismounted and proceeded to undo the cinches.

  “What’s his name?” Pádraig asked.

  “I…I’m not sure,” Ultan replied. “He’s a lanceman.”

  “No, My Lord. Not the soldier. Your horse.”

  A bewildered expression came over the chancellor’s face. “The name of the horse? It…it’s a horse.”

  The soldier had finished removing the saddle and blanket.

  Pádraig approached the animal; and, stroking the side of its face, said, “You look like a ‘Brian’ to me. Do you mind if I call you ‘Brian’?”

  The animal snorted.

  “Okay. ‘Brian’ it is, then.” Glancing over at the soldier, he asked, “Lanceman, would you please, take Brian, here, by the reins and lead him over there by that first
stall, then turn around and lead him back toward me again?”

  The soldier did as he was asked.

  When he returned, Pádraig said, “Once again, please? This time at a trot.”

  Again the soldier did as he was bidden.

  “I don’t understand,” Ultan remarked to Finbar. “I thought your son said he was going to reshoe the animal.”

  “No, My Lord,” Finbar replied. “He said he was going to demonstrate his skill. Paddy’s never seen this horse before. And you’re away from home, so we can’t talk to your head groom about the animal’s history. By observing him walk and trot, my son is trying to get an idea of how comfortable Brian is on his hooves, and if he can spot any major foot-health concerns.”

  “Oh.”

  Detecting an eye-roll accompanying the ‘Oh,’ Finbar continued, “There’s an old farrier’s saying, My Lord. ‘No hoof; no horse.’ It’s a long ride from here back to Cathair Béarra. Paddy’s going to ensure that both you and your steed make it without incident.”

  Feeling properly chastised, Ultan said, “I…I appreciate it. It’s just that I’ve never seen another farrier go through this type of exercise before.”

  “Then, My Lord, with all due respect, you’ve never seen another farrier do his job properly. And if Paddy hadn’t gone through this exercise, son or not, I would have fired him on the spot.”

  Liam, Ultan, and Finbar watched as Pádraig circled the horse, feeling the muscles in the animal’s legs and shoulders.

  “What’s he doing now?” the chancellor asked.

  “Checking the muscular structure, My Lord. If the animal favors one of his hooves, it can show up in the muscular development.”

  While Pádraig went from hoof to hoof, using his hawk hoof-pick and a brush to clean the debris from each one, Ultan remained silent. When the boy had finished with the final hoof, he gently set it down, crossed to the left foreleg, and looked over at Ultan. “My Lord Chancellor, if you would please step over here for a moment?”

  As the chancellor, along with Finbar and the prince, approached, Pádraig raised the horse’s hoof, and said, “Do you see this, My Lord? Each of Brian’s hooves shows this same wear mark.” He pointed to the inside of the horseshoe which revealed a distinct worn area on the shoe. Gently setting the hoof down, the boy demonstrated with his hand. “Brian’s hooves are coming down with more pressure on the inside, meaning that the outside is a bit higher and is causing a slight, but definite, out-of-balance condition. It’s nothing severe right now, but unless corrected, it could become a problem. When I trim his hooves, I’ll take a bit more hoof material from the outside than the inside in the hopes of resolving the condition so that he comes down with the pressure evenly distributed over the entire hoof. The reason I’m telling you this is that it’s a feel situation. I’d like you to relay this information to your groom so that, when you get a new farrier, he can have him check to see if I’ve corrected the imbalance or if I’ve under- or over-corrected it.”