by Kildare
Cillian had been considering his reply since the moment they had captured him and he still lacked an answer that was both believable and would grant his freedom. Worse, he had no idea who these men were. Bandits, yes, but were they loyal to the Imperator? Rebels? Indifferent parties?
“I stole it.”
Reb’s grin flashed again as he turned to the others. “And here I thought I was interrogating the man. Instead, he auditions for a position among our company.”
A ripple of laugher swept through the gathered.
“From whom did you steal the sword?”
“A dwarf name Sindri.”
“I’m aware of this dwarf. A master bladesmith, it’s said. Though I hadn’t heard he possessed this level of skill. Why did you steal it?”
“You’ve seen the sword. Isn’t it obvious?”
“You’re daring, I’ll give you that. And what will happen when Sindri learns of this theft?”
“Sindri is dead. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
“So now that you have this remarkable sword whose owner is recently, and conveniently, deceased, what’s your plan?”
“I’m still working on that. My original plans have fallen through. Any suggestions?”
Reb turned to the others. “He has a certain brashness that I find endearing. Though I can’t discern if it’s genuine, or if he’s trying to make a weak position look stronger than it is.” He turned to Fáelán. “Opinions?”
“I think we should relieve him of the sword and send him on his way.”
Reb considered this advice. “We could use the sword.” He stepped forward, shoved two fingers through the hole in Cillian’s shirt where the arrow had passed through and pressed on the wound. Cillian winced enough to be noticeable. The man felt along his shoulder blade and found the exit wound.
“This man has been recently shot with an arrow. What tale lies behind this?”
“Trolls,” Cillian answered.
Fáelán spit on the ground in disgust. “Every last troll needs to be exterminated.”
“Fáelán’s family was massacred by trolls when he was but a lad,” Reb explained.
“Did you kill any of them?” Fáelán asked.
“We killed a few.”
“We?” Reb asked. “So there were others?” He turned to Fáelán.
“He was alone. We watched him for an hour before we seized him. Found him near the village of An Sceach Gheal. A band of trolls had swept through. Massacred everyone. A shame we hadn’t been there. Would’ve been a good day to slay trolls.”
The name of the village was Hawthorn. Cillian suspected he wouldn’t forget that name or what he had witnessed there.
“What happened to your companions?” Rebel Sly asked.
“I don’t know. I passed out while my wounds were being treated. When I awoke, everyone was gone.”
“Disloyal friends.” Reb’s intense gaze returned. “A problem with your story arises. Why would they abandon you, yet leave you with the sword?”
“Because they knew I’d take it back. It’s not a matter of strength, of numbers, or even of wits. The sword will come back to me.”
“It’s preordained, I suppose.”
Cillian detected the mockery in his tone. “Something like that.”
“So if we seize this sword and send you on your way, the sword will find its way back to you.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that seems like an excellent justification for killing you. The sword we have need of. You, not so much. Surely you now see my dilemma.”
Cillian leaned forward and spoke into Reb’s ear loud enough for all to hear. “I’m afraid I don’t. I think you’ll find me easy enough to kill, but much harder to keep dead. The sword and I seem to have become bound to each other. Where the sword goes, I go. And where I go, goes the sword.”
“He’s bluffing,” Fáelán said.
“Is he?”
“Surely, Reb, you can’t believe him.”
“Whether I believe him is less the question than do we wish to kill him. I for one do not. But if others agree with my counsel, what do we do with him? A sense of foreboding warns me that we shouldn’t underestimate how dangerous this man could prove to be.”
“All the more reason to kill him,” a voice in the crowd suggested.
“I think we need to consider our options,” Reb said. “Wise decisions are rarely made on empty stomachs. Let us at least eat first.”
The others agreed to this and disbanded, going off in separate directions, leaving only Cillian, Reb, and Fáelán.
“When do you expect her to arrive?” Fáelán asked.
“I hope she arrives by morning,” Reb said. “Either way, I think her opinion should be counted in our decision.”
“And him?”
“For now we’ll take him over to the main fire. Give him something to eat. I believe the meal is wild boar.”
They led him over to the main campfire, around which all the other fires were ringed. The boars had been taken down from the spit and set on a table constructed of a thin board set on logs scavenged from the forest. Men sat on stumps around the fire, eating the greasy pork with their fingers and drinking from wooden cups. Cillian hoped the drink had a little kick to it. Reb commanded him to sit at the base of a tree outside the ring of men, then brought a plate of pork, a chalice, and four armed men. The men bound his legs and freed his wrists. He reached for the cup, tasted the red wine, tipped back the entire drink, and handed the empty cup back to Reb.
“More wine, please. You may not know this, but I’ve had a terrible day. I’d hate to bore you with the all details.”
Reb exchanged the cup for the plate of pork and walked back to the fire. The wine had aroused Cillian’s appetite and he tore into the meat with his fingers. Having never eaten wild boar, he was surprised how good it tasted. A little gamy, but not much different from raised pork. Reb returned with a second cup, and this time Cillian took his time draining the wine. After he had finished his meal, he sucked the grease off each finger in turn, sprawled back against the tree, and sighed contentedly.
“My compliments to the chef. That was a fine meal.”
His wrists were tied again, and additional rope was wrapped across his torso, binding him to the tree.
“Is this really necessary?”
The men ignored his protest. Once he was bound, they left him alone at the edge of the shadows. The effects of the wine were audible, the boasting and teasing around the scattered fires growing louder. He listened for anything that might prove useful, but the many voices cancelled each other out, and he could only hear snippets of useless talk.
Reb and Fáelán were quietly arguing on the far side of the fire, their gazes often turning toward Cillian. Were they coming any closer to a decision? And who was the woman they spoke of? A rare thing for one woman to be associated with what he guessed were around two hundred men. Did none of the them have families, children, wives?
A commotion arose to his right. A rider halted near the edge of the ring of men surrounding the middle fire, dismounted, and approached Reb. The figure was dressed entirely in black, his face hidden behind a hood. The crowd hushed, not only at this campfire, but throughout the entire camp. For the first time since they had tied him up, Cillian could hear the crackling and spitting of the fire. Men approached from the other fires, orange shapes emerging from the darkness. Reb rose to greet the black rider and greetings were exchanged. The rider lifted back his hood and Cillian realized he might have been wrong. The rider might be an unusually tall woman.
“Did you take care of it?” Reb asked.
“For now,” a voice answered that Cillian thought might be a woman’s. He wished he were closer so he could hear more clearly.
“And if Siderea falls?”
“It’ll stay hidden.” Definitely a woman’s voice.
“How does the fighting go?” Reb asked.
“Scorpio is holed up in the capitol. Aduro has laid si
ege. Reinforcements for Scorpio tried to break through the siege but were brutally routed. What of the North?”
“Mixed news. One legion annihilated a battalion of trolls less than a day’s ride east of here. Two more legions were ambushed near the Grim Mountain. Casualties were high. The southern fighting has drained away too many soldiers. This troll incursion should’ve been crushed weeks ago.”
“I suspect Scorpio played a role in the invasion to remove Raighne’s son as a potential rival,” the rider said. “But he has underestimated how much damage they’d inflict to the empire. I doubt that was part of the plan.”
“That’s the danger of releasing rabid dogs,” Reb said. “After such a long ride, you must be famished.” He pointed at the cook in charge of portioning out the pork. “Cionaodh, would you please grab her something to eat?” Reb turned back to the woman. “When you finish, we have other matters to deal with.”
Cillian got his first look at the woman’s face as she sat down next to Reb, and realized he recognized her. What was Niamh, Commander of the Imperator’s Guard, doing among these bandits?
VI
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16
Was Niamh a traitor, too? Cillian wondered. He considered yelling at her, thought against the idea, then decided either way she would soon know he had been taken prisoner.
“Niamh!”
Some of the nearest men turned toward his voice. Niamh and those nearest her didn’t notice so he yelled her name louder. She heard and looked around for the source of her name. The third time she looked right at him, but showed no recognition. Had he been mistaken? Was the woman not Niamh? No. She had to be. She probably couldn’t see him sitting beyond the reach of the firelight. He yelled again and this time a giant of a man strolled over.
“Shut your mouth.” A heavy kick to the ribs would have knocked him over if not for the ropes holding him up. Cillian grimaced, shot the man a scowl, and mustered his energy for another try. The man saw the look and came at him again.
“Niamh, it’s Cillian! It’s Cillian, Niamh!”
The second blow struck higher, knocked the wind out, and slumped him against the ropes. The man’s shadow loomed over, blocking the light of the fire. A row erupted near the fire, an agitation of many voices. Had Niamh heard him? He hoped so. After that last kick it might be a while before he could raise another shout.
“Máel!” shouted a voice that might have been Reb’s. The big man stepped aside. Reb and Niamh approached. The entire camp had turned its attention toward Cillian.
Niamh recognized him and rushed forward. “Cillian!” She turned to Reb. “Why is he tied up? Release him.”
“You know him?”
“Of course I know him. This is Cillian Rysgaard.”
A murmur rippled through the camp at the announcement of Cillian’s name.
“We didn’t know,” Reb said. “He wouldn’t tell us his name. We thought he was just some stranger passing through.”
Niamh dropped to his side. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Cillian groaned. “The big guy got a couple of good kicks in.”
She stepped behind the tree. The ropes loosened and fell away. Without their support, he keeled over, wheezing. His wrists were unbound and he was lifted to his feet. Reb held him up. Unable to speak, Cillian placed one hand over his chest and held the other in the air to show he needed to catch his breath. Everyone in the camp stared at him.
“Thank you, Niamh. Your timing is impeccable. Your friends here were just debating whether to kill me. Reb, I’d appreciate my sword and hat back.”
Reb handed the scabbard back to Cillian. He fastened the sword belt around his waist and turned his ire toward the giant man. “You sir, are an ass.”
A stranger gave him his hat. “That’s better. Now, would someone like to tell me what’s going on around here? I was under the impression you were nothing more than bandits, yet Niamh here was the commander of the Imperator’s guard. It seems someone hasn’t been completely honest with me. But first some introductions are in order. Niamh?”
Niamh pointed to Reb. “This man is Rebel Sly. We often call him Reb for short.”
Cillian remembered that name. In the story about Anbhás, the Imperator had said his men learned of the sword’s existence from the woodsman while in pursuit of a bandit named Rebel Sly. If he was a traitor, and Niamh was working with him, she had to be a traitor, too.
“He’s the leader of these men?”
“We have no leader,” Rebel Sly said. “Every man is here of his own volition, and none can command another to do anything he doesn’t want to.”
“This is Fáelán,” Niamh resumed. “He’s also called An Bogha Dubh.”
The Black Bow. Cillian assumed the name referred to his skill with the weapon.
Niamh started to introduce others, but Cillian stopped her, telling her he couldn’t possibly remember the name of every member of the camp. The first two would suffice as they had done most of the talking.
“Had we known you were a Tuath Dé, we never would’ve taken you prisoner,” Fáelán said. “Please forgive us.”
“Tuath Dé?” Cillian asked. “Why does everyone keep saying that I’m one of the Tuath Dé?”
Niamh turned to the giant man. “Did you kick him in the head, Máel?”
He vehemently protested that he had not.
“Because you are,” Niamh said to Cillian. She sounded as if this fact was as evident as the sun being yellow.
“I’m not. I’m human like the rest of you.”
“I’ve seen you do things no human can do. You can vanish at will, move faster, jump higher. You defeated an entire army. Only one of the Tuath Dé could do that.”
Defeated an entire army? What was she talking? The more he learned, the more confused he was. He noticed the chill of early night and walked to the campfire. “How long have you known me?” he asked her.
Niamh cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. She thought the question odd. “A little over a year.”
Cillian shook his head. “The first time I came to this world was a couple months ago. At the triumph. Before that I’d never seen this world or any of you people.”
Niamh turned in anger toward Máel. “Liar! You did kick him in the head. It’d be better to admit it now.”
“I swear to you, Niamh, I didn’t kick him in the head.”
Niamh started toward Máel. Cillian couldn’t believe she would attack someone near twice her own size. And without fear.
“Niamh!” Cillian shouted. “He didn’t hit, kick, or even touch my head. The first time I met you was in the tunnel before the triumph. I don’t know who this person was that you thought was me, but he wasn’t me.”
“Is he an imposter?” Rebel Sly asked Niamh.
Niamh studied Cillian’s face. “I don’t know. He looks identical, but he has acted strange since the triumph.”
“The other man was the imposter,” Cillian said. “Probably part of one of Loki’s elaborate schemes.” He said the last part to himself.
“Loki has been imprisoned for millennia,” Rebel Sly said. “The only thing he’s plotting is how to escape from his prison.”
“You know who Loki is?”
“Of course. What a foolish question.”
“Then you’ll probably be disturbed to know that Loki is free. I know because I freed him.”
“I told you we should’ve killed him,” said the man who had offered the same advice earlier.
“I was tricked. I would’ve never freed him if I’d known who he was.”
“We’re not the only ones who have some explaining to do,” Rebel Sly said.
For the first time, Cillian detected a note of menace in his voice.
Cillian started his story from finding himself in the tunnel with Niamh, telling them everything he could remember of the chain of events since that moment, including his conversation with the angels. He only skipped his meeting with the leprechaun and Evelyn. As he sp
oke, he paid close attention to his audience’s reaction to gauge their mood. It wasn’t encouraging. Too many frowns, creased brows, and squinted eyes. But how could they not react in such a manner? The story seemed implausible, the ramblings of a lunatic, or the deceptions of a fraudster. He certainly would never have believed it.
When he finished, no one spoke. Confused glances were exchanged as the men tried to work out the story in their heads. Only Niamh seemed unmoved; the only poker face among the assembled. His anxiety grew with the tension; it felt like a heavy weight pressed from all sides.
“You expect us to believe that?” Rebel Sly finally asked.
“No. Though it’s the truth.”
“It does explain how an arrow nearly killed him,” Niamh said. “We assumed it was poisoned. No ordinary arrow could kill one of the Tuath Dé.”
“The Tuath Dé become mortal when they are around humans,” Rebel Sly countered.
“True,” Niamh said, “but they’re still much harder to kill than a human.”
“We should kill him,” the unknown man said a third time.
“You, sir, are a parrot,” Cillian said. “Learn some new words.”
“We should at least take his sword,” the man suggested.
“It’d be of no use,” Niamh countered. “The sword goes with him. When he vanishes, the sword vanishes.”
“He did tell us such a thing,” Fáelán said. “We thought he lied.”
“If that was true,” Rebel Sly asked, “what else was true?”
“When I first met him,” Niamh said, “he said that at some point in the future he wouldn’t know who I was because he was moving through time differently from us. I’ve seen this man disappear. If he’s not who he says he is, nor a Tuath Dé, then what? A warlock? Some servant of the Dread Queen?”
He moved through time differently? Cillian wondered. Things kept getting stranger and stranger. He wanted to ask her what that meant, but saving his neck seemed the more pressing issue. “If I was a warlock, would I still be here? I can vanish, though I have no control over it.”
“He’s no warlock,” Rebel Sly said. “That I’m sure of. If he speaks the truth, and Loki has been released, we have far greater problems than a troll invasion and a civil war. The question is—do we dare ignore him?”