The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  “Would it be possible for your messenger to take a note to Prince Liam from me? I promised His Highness that I’d let him know where I’d be assigned for my continued training. I just found out from the Revered Murchú, a little while ago.”

  “By all means. Come to my office now and you can write it out. I’ll put an official seal on it and my soldier will deliver it into the prince’s hands by Alderday evening.”

  * * *

  That night, lying on his bunk in the forge, Pádraig considered the day’s events. However, the one thought that kept crowding out all others was actually a non-event. As he rolled over on his side, mixed feelings about Máiréad filled his mind. On the one hand, Pádraig was somewhat relieved that she had left Fort Árainn before he arrived. On the other hand, he really would have liked to have seen her again.

  As sleep engulfed him, his thoughts returned to that New Year’s Eve at Fortress Tulach some ten years before:

  They sat on the edge of the overlook wall. Silver Nightingale, the smaller and closer of the two moons, and Golden Owl, the one larger and farther away, lit up the night so that, even with no clouds, very few stars could be seen. In the brightness of the two full moons, the teenagers watched the seas crash onto the beach below the cliff.

  “I think Master Taliesin was impressed,” Máiréad continued, still believing that she had used her magic to ignite the bone-fire, when, actually, she had faltered, and Pádraig had lit it for her with his own magic, a fraction of a second later. “I’m almost certain he’ll sponsor me for an appointment to the Academy. Isn’t that wonderful?” With that, she threw her arms around Pádraig and kissed him full on the lips.

  “Wow!” the boy responded when they finally broke away.

  “‘Wow’ for the fire; ‘wow’ for me getting an appointment to the Academy; or ‘wow’…” she hesitated briefly, then smiled coyly, “for the kiss?”

  “‘Wow’ for all three,” he replied. “But especially for the kiss.”

  Máiréad rewarded him with another kiss. This one longer and more passionate than the first.

  Hazelday - Bear 13th

  Árainn Shire

  Pádraig and Killian had left Fort Árainn at first light. However, since the Revered Murchú had told him that the Esteemed Sléibhín knew only that the apprentice wizard had been assigned to him, but not exactly when he would be arriving, Pádraig decided that a day one way or another wouldn’t make any difference. Besides, it had been between his assignments to the Kingdoms of the Western and Eastern Shires eight months prior since he had visited his friend, Yseult, up in Cairbrigh Shire; and, with her being so close to where Sléibhín lived, this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

  * * *

  By the time they had rounded the southern foothills of the Sawtooth Mountains, some seven hours later, the young wizard had exhausted his repertoire of tunes on the elbow pipes and tin whistle and had mastered a variety of rudimentary chords on Lairgnen’s lute.

  “Okay,” he told the mule. “How about this?” Strumming an opening chord, Pádraig began singing a song he had just made up.

  “A mule I know loved to bray.

  He’d bray to himself night and day.

  Only one way he’d quit,

  Then just for a bit,

  Was if someone would feed him some hay.”

  After a final strum on the lute, he said, “Well, what do you think?”

  Killian raised his head and let out a whinny-bray.

  “I’ll take that as a sign of approval,” Pádraig told him.

  The mule snorted.

  “Uh-uh! No changing your mind. I definitely heard you say that you liked it.”

  * * *

  A combined passing-over ceremony for Section Leader Eamon and the two bowmen who were killed with him had been held the previous day. The sacred oak grove in Árainn Shire had been awash in a sea of red, interspersed with blue. The two squads of Cruachanian Defense Forces—not out on patrol—that were stationed at Fort Árainn, including the two wounded bowmen, in their dark-blue tabards and capes, had been joined by Árainn Shire’s entire company of Security Forces of the Northern Shires, attired in their dark-red tabards and capes, aside from a few soldiers left behind to provide security for the fort.

  The Revered Murchú, being the senior journeyman wizard in the shire, had presided over the service, employing the same prescribed format that the Venerable Taliesin had used for Lairgnen’s passing-over ceremony less than a week before.

  Whereas with Lairgnen’s service, the two elves, Brynmor and Cadwgawn, had fired flaming arrows to ignite the funeral pyre, the pyres for Eamon and his two bowmen were lit with flaming arrows shot from every bowman in both the defense forces and security forces.

  At the end of the ceremony, Pádraig had lagged behind in order to offer his condolences to Eamon’s sister, her husband, and their two daughters.

  Both daughters, now grown with husbands and children of their own, fondly remembered Eamon’s warhorse, Phelim, to whom the young wizard had given a new lease on life, and how they had dutifully ridden the blue roan stallion around the pasture for the prescribed half-hour twice each day as part of the animal’s therapy.

  Although he made no promises to Eamon’s relatives, Pádraig had left the sacred grove making a sacred vow to himself that he would do whatever he could to obtain justice for the section leader.

  * * *

  Instead of heading northeast toward Stob Bàn, below Droim Fiaclach, Pádraig reined Killian in a slightly-southeasterly direction toward Cairbrigh Shire, near the four corners where Cairbrigh, Árainn, Callainn, and Gabhrán Shires met.

  He looked forward to seeing the wood-nymph who had saved his life and had hidden him from the kidnappers, those many years ago.

  Hazelday - Bear 13th

  Iorras Shire - Ráth Iorras

  With the sun about to disappear over the horizon of the Sea of the Evening, Finbar hammered in the last nail on the shoe for the horse on which he was working.

  “There you go, big fella,” he said, giving the animal a pat on the neck. “That should hold you until I get back this way again.” He gestured to the groom, who then led the animal back to the stable.

  “Got time for one more, Farrier?” a voice called out from behind him.

  “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait until morn…” He turned and left the sentence unfinished, once he saw who sat, smiling, atop the pure-white stallion. “Your Highness!” he continued with a bow. “What brings you to Ráth Iorras? And I sincerely hope Máedóc hasn’t thrown a shoe, because then I’d have to fire myself. I just took care of him not more than two weeks ago.”

  The prince dismounted and reached beneath his gray, wool cloak, pulling out the note from Pádraig. Except for his silver wolf-head torc, the symbol of a crown prince and deputy king, he had forgone his finery for the simple leather and cotton garments that he used while hunting.

  “I received this from Paddy last evening,” he said, handing the note to Finbar. “I thought I’d get it to you as soon as I could.”

  Looking at him, somewhat aghast, Finbar said, “Your Highness, please tell me that you didn’t run that poor animal all the way here from Dúnfort Cruachan today? Máedóc’s getting up there in years.”

  Liam snickered. “And have you cuff me on the ears? No way! We rode down to Ráth Luíne last night, then here today.”

  Finbar heaved a small sigh of relief, muttering, “And prince or no prince, don’t think for a minute that I wouldn’t have cuffed you on the ears.” They both shared a laugh, then Finbar continued, gesturing with the note. “While I do appreciate receiving this, you didn’t have to come all this way yourself, Your Highness. You could have sent a messenger.”

  “Naw. With Paddy away and Meig up at Cathair Béarra, I was getting stir-crazy. It felt good to be out and about.”

  Finbar opened the piece of parchment and began reading what his son had written:

  Your Highness

  Please get word to
my da

  Assigned to Esteemed Sléibhín

  Árainn Shire

  Thatched hut on eastern slope

  of Stob Bàn below Droim Fiaclach

  Tell him about ambush

  Paddy

  “Ambush?” Finbar asked, eyebrow raised.

  “A squad of defense forces was waylaid a few days ago on the Coastal Road at Lamb’s Head Bay. The squad leader and two of his bowman were killed.”

  “Bandits? Attacking a well-armed military squad?”

  Liam shook his head. “The captain wrote in his dispatch to Field Marshall Gearóid that the shire reeve up there believes strongly that the attackers were rebels.”

  “Interesting. If true, that’s pretty bold of them.” Gesturing with the note before sticking it in his pocket, he said, “Thank you for bringing me this, Your Highness. What are your plans for the evening? Where will you be staying?”

  “Here at the keep,” the prince replied. “Although he doesn’t know it, yet, Chieftain Ruadhán is going to have a royal guest tonight. Tomorrow morning, I’ll head down to the docks and take the long way home. It’ll cost me an extra day, at least, but time I have plenty of. And, now that I know where Paddy is, I might just use some of it and ride up there one of these days to pay him a visit.”

  “With rebels running around Árainn Shire, be sure to take a contingent of defense forces with you, if you do decide to go visiting,” Finbar cautioned.

  “Count on it, Finbar.” He began leading his horse toward the stable, saying, “If Ruadhán doesn’t wine me and dine me until the wee hours of the first watch, I might be over at the tavern later. Drinks are on me.”

  “Have a good evening, Your Highness.”

  Once the prince had left, Finbar entered the forge and re-read Pádraig’s note.

  Two things he wanted me to know, the farrier thought. First, where he is; second, that there’s rebel activity in Árainn Shire. If Liam does decide to go up there, I sincerely hope he heeds my advice.

  Hazelday - Bear 13th

  Cairbrigh Shire

  The sun hung on the western horizon as Pádraig and Killian rode through the tree line and into the clearing where the apprentice wizard and Prince Liam had been held captive some ten years before. Instead of using the ford to cross the small brook that bubbled just inside the compound, Pádraig urged the mule around to the west, circling a spring-fed pond that formed the headwaters for the steam—a pond where he most certainly would have frozen to death had not Yseult, one of the Hidden Folk, pulled him from the icy water and nursed him back to health.

  At the base of a large hawthorn tree west of the pond, the young wizard reined Killian to a halt, and the twosome just sat there for a few moments. The mule shook its head, impatiently.

  “Just be still,” Pádraig whispered, patting Killian’s neck. “Listen for a minute.”

  From up in the hawthorn, they could hear someone singing softly.

  Taking the lute from the back of his saddle, the apprentice wizard joined in, chording with the melody coming from the snowy branches.

  Once the tune had stopped, a high, lilting, almost musical voice called down. “What must Siobhán think, hmm, my pinky? A phooka being replaced by a mule?” The branches rustled ever so slightly as the owner of the voice scampered down to the ground, her laughter like the tinkling of bells.

  Pádraig dismounted, but kept a tight hold on Killian’s harness.

  From around the back of the hawthorn, a strange-looking figure ran to the wizard, threw her arms around his waist, and hugged him tightly.

  Killian’s eyes widened with fear, his ears went back flat against his head, and he tried to rear up, letting out a whinny-bray as he did so. However, Pádraig’s strong grip prevented him from bolting. Never before had the mule seen a wood-nymph.

  At about four-feet tall, Yseult’s body was the brown-and-green mottled color of bark. With an almost total lack of clothing, the vine she wore wrapped around her barely covered the private parts of a very curvaceous, miniature adult woman. Long, brown, twig-like hair concealed her olive-brown eyes and her pointed, brown ears.

  With his free hand, Pádraig parted the wood-nymph’s twiggy hair, and he bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

  After giving him a final squeeze, Yseult stepped back a foot or so and asked, “How long can you stay?”

  “Not long at all, this time. In fact, just for tonight.” Noticing the pout, Pádraig quickly continued. “I know it’s been awhile, but I’ve just finished up my eight-months’ training stint in the Kingdom of the Eastern Shires. Now, I’ve been assigned up here for the next five months, so I’ll be able to stop by more often.”

  The pout quickly transformed itself into a smile, and the wood-nymph said, “I’ll hold you to that, my pinky. Now, where did you get the mule? As I recall, your troubadour friend had one when he and your da came to rescue you. Did you borrow it from him? Along with his lute?”

  “You’re right, Yseult. Killian, here, was, in fact, Lairgnen’s mule, but a different one than the one you remember. And I do have his lute. But I didn’t borrow them, I sort of inherited them.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Paddy. He passed over, then?”

  “Killed, I’m sad to say. Up at North Head. We still don’t know all the details. We had heard there were some strange going’s on up there. Lairgnen had gone to check things out.” Tugging at the mule’s harness, he made the introductions. “Killian, this is Yseult. She’s a keeper of the trees, a member of the Daoine Dofheicthe. Yseult, meet Killian, one of the finest mules you’ll ever come across in the entire three kingdoms.”

  The wood-nymph stretched out a mottled brown-and-green arm and stroked the animal’s muzzle. “It’s okay, Killian. I know I appear strange-looking to you, but you have nothing to fear from me. Any friend of Paddy’s is a friend of mine.”

  The mule replied with a snort.

  Turning to Pádraig, Yseult asked, “How far have you ridden today?”

  “All the way from Ráth Árainn.”

  “Come,” she said, “Let’s get Killian taken care of, then I’ll fix you some delicious root-and-herb broth.”

  Remembering how disgusting the soup tasted, the young wizard had taken precautions. “That’s very kind of you, but not necessary, Yseult,” he replied, patting one of the saddlebags. “I’ve brought some dried meat and cheese with me.”

  The wood-nymph frowned at him. “You don’t like my root-and-herb broth?”

  “It’s…it’s…it’s—”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Humph. Very well, then. Eat your yucky meat and cheese. See if I care.”

  In the fading light, Pádraig glanced around the compound. “The forest has almost completely reclaimed the kidnappers’ structures. “Is my former prison still in good enough shape to house Killian for the night?”

  “It’s probably the only one,” Yseult answered, as she led him to the ford across the stream. “The last remains of the longhouse crumbled about four months ago, and the roofs of the billets fell in during the last heavy storm. They’ll be gone, too, by year’s end. The walls and half the roof of the prison are still standing, though. In another three years or so, there’ll be nothing left of the rebels’ compound.”

  * * *

  Once they had forded the stream, Pádraig used his hand-and-a-half sword to cut a large sheaf of dead water-reeds that proliferated the shoreline of the pond and secured them to Killian’s saddle. It was the first time the young wizard had drawn the weapon from its scabbard since appropriating it, along with the mule and Lairgnen’s instruments.

  “I know it’s not straw,” he told Killian, “but better this than sleeping on the dirt floor.”

  The animal snorted his agreement.

  The threesome entered what was left of the former prison, and Pádraig conjured up an orb of light, tossing it up near the remains of the building’s roof. There it hung like a miniature moon, illuminating the interior of the structure.

  O
n their way to the covered-most portion of the dilapidated building, Pádraig couldn’t help but look down on the dirt floor where he had scratched a calendar during his incarceration. Time and weather had erased all traces of its existence.

  Spreading out the water-grass in a corner, the young wizard then proceeded to remove Killian’s saddle, tack, saddlebags, and the musical instruments. Taking a body brush and towel, he began to rub the mule down, as Yseult sat on the saddle and watched.

  But when he removed his hawk-beak’s hoof-pick from the pocket of his breeches, the little wood-nymph got up quickly and said, “While you’re doing that, Paddy, I’ll just go straighten up my cave a bit. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a bucket over there, would you?” he asked.

  “Silly boy,” she replied on her way out of the building. “I’ll get it, fill it with water, and bring it back over here to you.”

  During the time that the rebels had occupied the compound, Yseult had pilfered quite a few of their belongings, including buckets, blankets, and saddles, to name a few. But the real reason she wanted to get back to her underground cavern was to hide her most prized possession—Pádraig’s first hawk’s-beak hoof-pick that she had filched from him as a memento just before he had left.

  Opening one of the saddlebags that contained oats, the young wizard set it in front of the mule, cautioning him, “Now don’t eat it all. This is your breakfast, as well.”

  While Killian ate, Pádraig cleaned and brushed his hooves and cleaned the tack.

  Yseult had brought back a wooden bucket filled with water and Pádraig had closed up the saddle bag containing the oats.

  “I’m going to put a containment spell on the building for tonight,” he told Killian. “I don’t want you to go wandering about and have to hunt you up in the morning. There’s your bed, in the corner and out of the wind. And you’ve got water there in the pail. Okay?”