The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  “No bandits?”

  “Saw a couple of foxes, a few stoats, lots of birds, and plenty of snow. But, nope, no bandits.”

  “Too bad. You going to the mess hall, the tavern, or both?”

  Siollán held up the cleaning rag. “As soon as I’m done here, the mess hall and bed. That’s one tiring ride down to Cairbrigh Shire and back.”

  “Okay. See you at breakfast, then.”

  Before the other bowman could get away, Siollán asked, “How was your day off? Any excitement around here?”

  “Naw. Just watched it snow. The only movement in or out of the garrison, aside from your squad, were the defense forces going out on and coming back from patrol on the Coastal Road. Plus, the Revered Neasán, with a contingent of security forces to escort his coach, left just after you this morning for Cathair Béarra.”

  “Maybe, one of these days, we’ll actually see some action,” Siollán said, hopefully.

  “Yeah. I’m getting awfully bored just shooting at targets.”

  * * *

  Instead of going directly to the mess hall once he got back to the garrison, Siollán wandered down the stone steps to the dungeon. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he stood there. The area was in complete darkness. None of the lanterns were lighted, because no guards monitored the half-dozen empty cells.

  The young bowman retreated to the dormitory, picked up an iron chamberstick, and lit the candle with a fire from one of the torches in the corridor.

  Once back down in the cellar, he saw that there was no need for light or guards. All six cells were empty.

  What did they do with the Honored Pádraig? he wondered. And as he stood there, the words of his fellow bowman came back to him:

  “Plus, the Revered Neasán, with a contingent of security forces to escort his coach, left just after you this morning for Cathair Béarra.”

  Could it be? Siollán asked himself. Was Pádraig in that coach along with a journeyman wizard to keep him in line? And why would they have arrested him in the first place?

  Back up in the garrison, Siollán checked the duty roster for the next day. He wasn’t scheduled for anything except archery practice, mid-morning and mid-afternoon.

  * * *

  In the mess hall, Siollán spotted both his squad and section leaders at a table for four, finishing up their supper.

  He crossed over to the table and bowed, respectfully, saying, “Excuse me, sirs, I’m sorry for interrupting your meal; but, since the two of you are here together, I was wondering if I might ask you a question?”

  “Ask away,” the section leader replied, gesturing the young bowman onto one of the stools. “Is there some kind of problem?”

  “Oh, no, sir. With my errand for Earl Eógan to the chieftains of the five shires, then my transfer up here, it’s been awhile since I’ve had any leave. I was just wondering if I might have some time off to go visit my folks.”

  The section leader looked at the squad leader, raising his palm in a ‘What do you think?’ gesture.

  “I don’t see why not, Siollán,” the squad leader said. “It’s a bit slow around here at the moment. Go ahead. Take a week or so. We’ll see you back up here on Between-Season Day. And give our best to your folks.”

  The young bowman rose from the stool. “Thank you, sirs, I really appreciate it.”

  As he headed for the chow line, the squad leader called after him. “But take a few quivers of arrows with you, lad, and see that you get in two practice sessions each day.”

  “I will, sir,” Siollán responded. “You can check me out on my first day back. I’ll be just as sharp as ever.”

  Once the bowman was out of earshot, the squad leader whispered to his section leader, “Won’t have to worry about him not minding his own business for a while.”

  The section leader snickered, and whispered back, “And you won’t have to take your entire squad out on snipe hunts, just to make sure he doesn’t see or hear anything he’s not supposed to.”

  Willowday - Bear 51st

  Béarra Shire - Cathair Béarra

  Máiréad stood there in the woods surrounding the fortress and extended her mental power outward, as far as she was able. Concealed out there somewhere were journeyman and other apprentice wizards, lying in wait for her. And they weren’t just going to jump out and shout, ‘Boo!’ This was a live-fire training activity.

  The mental location and force-to-force exercises that she had practiced over and over again, indoors and separately, had now been taken outside and combined into a single drill. Not only did she have to locate the hidden wizards, but then defeat their power with her own. And, although, the miniature lightning bolts and energy balls which the wizards hurled were not at full strength, they still stung quite a bit upon contact.

  Astride a black stallion a quarter league away, her mentor, Odhran, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires, observed the training session through a far-seeing spell.

  As she stood there, dressed in deerskin breeches, shirt, and boots, and huddled into a gray wool, hooded cloak, Máiréad thought, At least I’m outside and in constant contact with the elemental forces in the earth where I can continually recharge my essence.

  One of the wizards had been employing a personal concealment spell. Máiréad sensed it drop and was able to scatter the energy bolt fired at her, then return fire with one of her own, catching the overconfident journeyman in the chest. The man fell to the ground, twitching and moaning.

  Odhran’s voice entered everyone’s minds: Number fourteen, stay down. You’re out of the game.

  Máiréad quickly took cover at the base of a hawthorn tree, again sending her mind-probe outward. There, up a tall pine about three rods away, she detected another target. She fired an energy bolt at it, striking the man in his right shoulder, causing him to lose his footing and fall to the ground, where he scrambled for cover.

  Odhran’s voice ruled: Number eight, wounded and unable to attack for five minutes.

  The young apprentice wizard attempted to track the wounded man in order to complete the ‘kill.’ As he scuttled through the underbrush, trying to stay out of her sight and aim for the next five minutes, a second wizard, who had been up in the pine directly behind him, screened from Máiréad’s mental probe by his now-fallen comrade, hurled an energy spike of his own at her, striking her in the left elbow.

  Although the shock numbed her arm from the elbow down through the hand, Máiréad resisted giving her attacker the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. Instead, she returned fire with her right hand, catching him full in the chest.

  The attacker fell and did let out a cry, before lying there twitching.

  Máiréad, left arm immobilized for five minutes, Odhran’s voice decreed. Number five, out of the game.

  Shaking out her left arm, she protested, yelling, “Five minutes? It wasn’t that bad of a hit. It should be only a two-minute penalty.”

  Still crouching at the base of the hawthorn, she was answered by energy spikes coming from five different directions, as well as by Odhran’s mental rebuke: Five penalty minutes!

  Swell, she thought. No use of the left arm, and now I’ve given away my position. Control your emotions, she told herself.

  Casting a personal concealment spell of her own, Máiréad moved rapidly to the base of the pine tree near where the out-of-the-game wizard lie.

  Seeing a ripple in the air where the concealed young lady knelt, the ‘killed’ wizard whispered, “That wasn’t very bright, now, was it Meig?”

  “Shut up! You’re dead!” she whispered back. “I’m still in the game.” Smiling to herself, she inched over and lay right next to him, hoping that his presence would mask hers from any mind-probes being sent out by her attackers.

  Four penalty minutes left, she thought. If I can hide here undetected for four more minutes, I’ll be back to full strength.

  “Ooo, I like this,” the ‘killed’ wizard whispered.

  “Unless you’d like to be
killed for real,” she replied, also in a whisper, “I’d suggest you purge your mind of those thoughts and just lie there quietly.”

  Knowing when enough was enough, the other wizard did as he was told.

  Willowday - Bear 51st

  Béarra Shire - The Uplands

  South of North Head, four stable hands scrambled to recover the one-hundred-some horses and a dozen or so mules that had escaped from the corral. Apparently one of the animals had chewed through the rope latch that held the southernmost gate in place, resulting in horses and mules roaming all over the woods.

  Two of the stable hands had recently ceased their scrambling. They were now lying near the north-south path through the forest, both injured. The more seriously hurt of the twosome had a hoof print on his forehead and a slight concussion. His comrade cradled his left arm with his right, moaning from the dislocated shoulder where he, too, had been struck by a hoof.

  Killian, with his muzzle pointed forward in determination, his ears laid back, and the taste of rope still in his mouth, trotted southward down the trail at his top speed of moderately-slow. His internal navigation system recalled the route he had taken to get from Sléibhín’s hut in Árainn Shire to The Uplands of Béarra Shire.

  Willowday - Bear 51st

  Béarra Shire - Cathair Béarra

  Although his eyes wouldn’t focus properly, and he felt light-headed and a bit nauseated, Pádraig still managed to ascertain that the cot upon which he lay and the cell that contained it were in a different dungeon from the one in which he had passed out.

  Turning his head toward the light source, through the bars he spotted a guard dressed in the livery of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires. The guard sat at a table outside the young wizard’s cell, facing away from him and conversing with someone Pádraig couldn’t see.

  Propping himself up on one elbow and, through still-swirling vision, he checked out his surroundings. The cell itself measured a good two-rods square and probably could, and perhaps at one time did, house twenty-some prisoners. However, some conversions had been made to it; and now, the room contained only one prisoner—himself.

  Although the pit latrine still emitted a bit of a stench, it had been cleaned out and washed out. Next to its wall sat a single cast-iron chamber pot, not a piece of original equipment for a dungeon cell. Also, a cot had been brought in, complete with a straw-filled mattress and a wool blanket. Two other pieces of furniture that would not have been in use for prisoners in the general population were a small wooden table and a stool. On the table sat an oak piggin with the handle of a wooden ladle protruding from it; and, draped across one corner of the table, Pádraig’s gray wool, hooded cloak. Next to it lay his tin whistle.

  Pádraig sat up and pulled back the neck of his tunic to look at his shoulder. Someone had changed the dressing on his wound while he had been unconscious. The burning, searing feeling was still there, as was the tightness of the stitches.

  Through the fuzziness of his still-drugged brain, he attempted to conjure up an energy bolt to ascertain if his powers were returning; however, just a tiny spark fizzled from his fingertips and fell harmlessly onto the stone floor. Looking down at his fingers, he realized that the strike of flint on firesteel from a tinder box had far greater power than the small flicker he was able to generate with his magic.

  “I thought you might try something like that,” Neasán said, crossing to the bars. “That’s why I stuck around until you woke.” The tall, thin, journeyman wizard shook his head and waggled a forefinger at Pádraig. “You don’t want to be doing that, lad. The Venerable Odhran has cast a spell on this entire dungeon area, blocking your magic. Also, the guards are prohibited from entering your cell; so, if you set the straw in your mattress on fire, no one’s coming to your rescue.”

  “You drugged me,” Pádraig said, slurring his words.

  “Yes, that, too.”

  “Where am I? And how long are you going to hold me prisoner?”

  Neasán clucked his tongue. “Don’t think of yourself as a prisoner, Pádraig. Consider yourself a guest here at Cathair Béarra. And, as I said, there is now a spell on your…guest quarters. You’ll still be drugged as an insurance measure, but not anywhere near as heavily as you have been. Believe me when I tell you that no one wishes you any harm. Cooperate, don’t cause problems; and, at the culmination of our little act of patriotic civil disobedience, you’ll be free to return to the Kingdom of the Western Shires and resume your life and your training.”

  “Patriotic civil disobedience? What’s civil about rebellion and murder? You’re all traitors.”

  With weariness in his eyes, the journeyman said, “One man’s traitor is another man’s patriot, Pádraig. It just depends on which side of the line you’re on. Now, rest and recover.” He stuck an arm through the bars and pointed. “A chamber pot is in the corner over there. It’s not in the line-of-sight from the guard’s station, so you’ll have a bit of privacy. There’s fresh water in the bucket on your table—not drugged, by the way. I’ll look in on you when they bring your supper.”

  “I suppose that will be drugged?”

  “Only lightly so. We’ll talk more, later.”

  * * *

  “So, what do you think?” Odhran, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires, asked. “Will he cooperate?”

  Neasán shook his head slightly. “I believe he will appear to, Venerable Sir, but if an opportunity to escape should present itself, my guess is that he’ll seize it.”

  “That’s my take on the situation, as well. Between-Season Day is less than two weeks away. Until then, we must make sure that an opportunity does not present itself. From now to Fox First, Pádraig’s entire world will consist of that cell. No one goes in except for one of us. After that, it won’t much matter. He won’t be able to hurt our cause.” Raising his right arm straight up in the air with a clenched fist, Odhran said, “Long live the Northern Alliance!”

  Although Neasán repeated the gesture, his reply of, “Long live the Alliance!” was a little more than halfhearted, at best.

  * * *

  Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle.

  Skippety, skippety, skippety.

  “Whoa!”

  “You’re killing me!”

  “Aw. Too bad.”

  Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle.

  Skippety, skippety, skippety.

  “Yes!”

  “Come on, now!”

  “Hee, hee, ho, ho.”

  Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle.

  Skippety, skippety, skippety.

  Pádraig turned over, opening his eyes as he tried to figure out what had awoken him.

  “Okay!” the first guard said, gleefully, slapping the wooden cup down on the table.

  “When’s this lucky streak of yours going to end?” the second guard asked, scooping up the pair of dice carved out of pig bone and tossing them at his comrade.

  The first guard placed the dice back into the cup. “When I’ve cleaned you out,” he replied, grinning.

  Ahh, Hazard, the young wizard realized.

  It was a game of chance played in every tavern and military garrison on the island.

  Something else that Pádraig recognized with this awakening was that the drug had begun to wear off. His eyes focused better and his thinking seemed a bit clearer.

  He checked his pockets.

  Empty. His captors had taken his wrought iron hawk-billed hoof-pick.

  Slowly reaching the fingers of his left hand down between the outside of his left boot and his leg, he touched the top of the stag-horn-hilted boot knife.

  The apprentice wizard let a small smile play across his lips. A good thing they didn’t remove my boots, he thought.

  He rolled over, sat up on the edge of the cot, and waited for the room to stop spinning. When he had regained his equilibrium, Pádraig rose and crossed to the corner where the iron chamber pot sat. Neasán had been right. There was no direct line-of-sight from the guards’ t
able.

  With his back toward the guards, the apprentice wizard again attempted to conjure up an energy ball. Neasán had been correct about the magic-blocking spell, as well. Again, only a tiny spark dribbled from Pádraig’s hand and fizzled out on the stone floor.

  Okay, he decided. I still have the sgian bròg, but no hoof-pick and no magic. And, I’m still partially drugged and will be for the duration. What to do? What to do?

  “Honored Sir,” one of the guards called out, “are you all right?”

  Pádraig glanced over his shoulder and saw that the man had come up to the bars. From that position, he did have line-of-sight to the entire cell.

  “Just a bit woozy,” the young wizard replied, turning and crossing to the table in his cell and taking a ladle of water from the piggin. “Thanks for asking, though.”

  “Why don’t you sit down until you get your bearings.”

  “Good advice,” Pádraig responded, returning the ladle to the bucket and sitting on the stool. “Game of Hazard?” he asked, gesturing to the guards’ table.

  The guardsman at the table let out a “Humph,” continuing with, “A game of take-all-my-money is what it is.”

  “Listen to him whine,” the first guard said. “This is only the second time I’ve beaten him in more than a week.”

  “Mind if I play?” the young wizard asked. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  “Nice try, Honored Sir, but there’s no way you’re getting out of that cell. And there’s no way we’re coming in there.” He retook his seat and picked up the wooden cup with the dice.

  “How about if I just play from here, then. You can cast the dice for me and let me know what comes up. I trust you.”

  “But, you don’t have any money,” the second guard reminded him. “We’re playing for a farthing per round.”

  “Not now, I don’t. But you heard the Revered Neasán, earlier. I’ll be getting out of here, eventually. Maintain a tally of my wagers, and if I should lose, we’ll settle up when I’m released.”