“I’ll try to the west, and you take the east,” Neasán said.
The short, stout wizard nodded his agreement.
However, once again they were unable to pick up any sense of Pádraig or Máiréad.
“What now?” Labhrás asked.
Neasán stood there mute, scanning the ground around the thicket, as the wind lashed his tan cloak from side to side. Although the snow had let up and the dual moons illuminated the forest, any foot or hoof prints had long been obliterated by the blustery weather.
Finally, he said, “They have to be headed toward the Central Federal Region. There are only two good ways to get there from here, either west to the Central Road or east to the Coastal Road.”
“Either way, unless they can get their hands on some horses, it’ll take them weeks to get to Dúnfort Cruachan on foot,” Labhrás replied. Shrugging his shoulders, he continued. “Do we really care, at this point?”
“If they do manage to get hold of some horses, most certainly. We can’t take any chances. And don’t doubt their resourcefulness. We must find them.”
“They have to be headed toward the Central Road, then. The Coastal Road is too well-patrolled.”
Neasán screwed up his face and shook his head, as he remembered his thoughts regarding Máiréad from two days prior:
It won’t be long until she receives her blue mantle, then, who knows? There’ll come a day when we’ll all be working for her. But if that is the will of An Fearglas, so be it. She has been given a remarkable gift.
“That would be the logical option,” he replied to Labhrás. “But these two are not your typical apprentice wizards. They will do the unexpected.” He gestured eastward. “We head east, then you and eight of the guards ride south toward Northeast Head and Ráth Cairbrigh, and see if you can pick up their trail. I’ll take one guard with me and report back to Master Odhran. If he has any further directions, I’ll send them back to you with my guard.”
“And if we find them?” the short, stout wizard asked.
“Don’t engage. Get word back to the cathair and just track them from a distance. And remember, while they may have the titles of only ‘apprentice’ wizards, their powers are much greater than your run-of-the-mill apprentice—especially combined.”
Labhrás nodded solemnly. He still bore the bruises from when Máiréad had cast him into the stone block wall, as if he were merely a child’s straw doll.
Alderday - Bear 60th
Árainn Shire
By mid-afternoon, led by the Venerable Taliesin’s fish hawk, Finbar, Brynmor, Cadwgawn, Liam, and the prince’s two swordsmen had reached the eastern slope of Stob Bàn, and began their assent toward Droim Fiaclach and the Esteemed Sléibhín’s thatched hut.
Although there was no snow and the sky was clear, the icy wind continued to bluster, causing the party to hunker down into the collars of their cloaks, their hoods up.
They had been on the winding trail for only a little over a half hour when they came to a felled fir tree blocking their way.
“Keep a lookout, Your Highness,” Finbar told Liam, “while we clear the path. It may be the work of bandits.”
He and the others dismounted and approached the tree. Grabbing it by the branches, they started to pull the fir to one side.
“Nae, nae, nae, laddies,” a voice from the forest on the upward side of the path scolded. “I wouldn’t be doing that, now, if yuh value your health.”
Elves and swordsmen immediately dropped their handholds on the branches, drew their weapons, and hastily encircled Liam, who had quickly dismounted and unsheathed his own short sword. Finbar retrieved his quarterstaff from his horse and stood shoulder to shoulder with his comrades, ready for a fight.
“We’re not looking for trouble,” Liam called out. “But if it’s trouble you want, I guarantee you’ll get much more than you bargained for. Now, show yourself!”
“Bravely spoken, laddie,” the voice said, “but dinna let your big mouth override your wee brain, now.”
Out of the forest strode a short, stocky, and compact woman brandishing a hand-and-a-half sword. Dressed in buckskin from head to toe, her shirt was open at the top and showed an abundance of cleavage. A white, goatskin cloak was fastened at her neck with a thistle-shaped silver pin. Her round, fair, and somewhat flat face contained a profusion of freckles. Crop-rows of chestnut-colored hair hung midway down her back in long braids.
The woman sniffed the air, then called out over her shoulder to unseen listeners. “Yuh see? I was right. I told yuh I smelled elves.” Looking back at Brynmor and Cadwgawn, their pearlescent visages enigmatically peering out from under their brown hoods, she asked, “Are yuh lost, Palefaces? By my reckoning, yuh’re a long ways from the Coedwig Dryslyd.”
Showing no reaction whatsoever to the dwarf’s use of the elfish name for the Tangled Woods, Brynmor replied, “We are just on our way to visit a friend. If you would kindly let us pass, we would be most obliged.”
“And what friend might that be, hmm? I know just about everyone who dwells in these mountains, and there’s nary a paleface among ’em.”
Finbar stepped forward, wiped the hood back off his head, and casually twirled his quarterstaff, showing no concern at all over facing a hand-and-a-half sword. “If you must know, we’re on our way to visit my son. He’s staying with the Esteemed Sléibhín, just below Droim Fiaclach. So, if you’ll allow us to pass, we’ll just chalk this encounter up to an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
The dwarf sheathed her sword in a scabbard slung across her back. “Yuh must be Finbar, then, laddie. The farrier? Paddy’s da? Well why didn’t yuh say so at the outset.” Again, she called out over her shoulder, “It’s okay. Move the tree. They’re friends.” Glancing sideways at the elves, she continued, suspiciously, “Four of ’em are, anyway.” Focusing once more on Finbar, as some two dozen dwarf warriors, armed to the teeth, emerged from the forest and easily moved the fir aside, she stuck out her right arm. “I’m Isla, and I count Paddy as a friend of mine. Good lad. Smart lad. Quick study. Learned how tuh use that hand-and-a-half sword of his in record time. And a wizard, tuh boot. Yuh must be right proud of him.”
Finbar exchanged forearm grasps with the dwarf and said, “That I am, Isla. But even without all those qualities, I’d be no less proud. Plus, he’s also a first-class farrier.” He then introduced the other members of his party, who had put up their weapons and skimmed back their hoods.
“Well, well, now. A genuine member of royalty,” Isla remarked to Liam, hands on her hips. “I’m duly impressed, laddie. That I am.” Gesturing to the prince’s entire company, she waved them onward, saying, “Come along, now. I’ll guide yuh tuh Sléibhín’s place myself. It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve seen the young wizard. This’ll give me a chance tuh evaluate how his swordsmanship’s holding up since his lessons ended.”
“Isla,” Finbar said. “In truth, we don’t expect to find Paddy at Sléibhín’s. He’s been missing for at least a week now.” Pointing to the circling hawk, he continued. “He failed to make contact on the fifty-third like he was supposed to. We’re here looking for answers.”
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “Suppose yuh tell me the whole story, now, hmm?”
After glancing over at Brynmor and receiving the barest of nods, Finbar proceeded to tell Isla of the suspicious goings-on at North Head, Lairgnen’s death, their concern that the Northern Alliance might be reactivating and that Northmen may be involved, and the scouting trip from which Pádraig had not returned.
When he had finished, Isla asked, “Northmen, yuh say?”
“We believe it’s a possibility.”
She spat on the ground, then pointed at one of the other dwarfs. “Griogair, bring a half dozen of the lads with us.” To Finbar’s party, she said, “Mount up, laddies. Let’s go see what the Esteemed Sléibhín has tuh say about this.”
As the dwarf struck out in the lead, the farrier called after her, “But you don’t have any horse
s.”
“Dinna need ’em, Finn,” she yelled back over her shoulder. “With this winding, uphill trail, we’ll be able tuh keep up with yuh, no problem a’tall.”
* * *
At Sléibhín’s hut, there was no need for a member of the party to knock on the door. The presence of eight dwarfs, two elves, four men, and six horses in the small clearing announced their arrival quite effectively.
The door to the cottage cracked open slowly, and the oblate wizard warily looked out, wide-eyed and somewhat apprehensive.
“M…may I h…help you?” he asked. However, when he spotted Isla among the company, even though he considered her to be somewhat unpleasant, her presence was, nevertheless, a bit reassuring. “Isla!” he said, opening the door wider and stepping outside. “What can I do for you? Is someone ill?”
“Nae, Sléibhín,” she replied. “We’re here to see your houseguest. This here”—she gestured to Finbar, as he and the remainder of the company dismounted—“is Paddy’s da.”
Transferring his quarterstaff to his left hand, the farrier offered a right forearm. “Finbar, Esteemed Sir,” he introduced himself. “Is Paddy about this afternoon?”
After exchanging forearm grasps, Sléibhín shook his head, forlornly. “I sincerely wish I could tell you. But I haven’t seen him since the forty-sixth, when I traveled to Ráth Árainn to deliver a supply of medicinal herbs to the infirmary. I returned on the forty-ninth, and”—he shrugged his shoulders and raised his palms—“no Paddy. He was just…gone. I’m at a complete loss as to where he went or why.”
I know where he went and why, Finbar thought. What concerns me is why he hasn’t returned. What he said to Sléibhín, though, was, “And no word from him whatsoever?”
The oblate wizard shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Then it’s on to North Head?” Liam asked, remounting his pure-white stallion.
“Seemingly so,” Finbar agreed. Grasping forearms once more with Sléibhín, he said, “Thank you, Esteemed Sir. If Paddy should return, though, please tell him that we were here and are on our way to North Head.”
“I most certainly will. And I sincerely hope nothing dreadful has happened to him.”
Finbar and the remainder of the party remounted; and, as they headed out of the clearing, the unmistakable sound of five anxious whinny-brays came from the shed attached to the hut.
Finbar and the elves reined in their mounts immediately.
Cadwgawn sprang from Taran’s saddle and sprinted toward the shed.
Isla drew her hand-and-a-half sword and took one step toward Sléibhín before the oblate wizard, fear in his eyes, ducked back into his cottage and slammed the door.
Turning to the other dwarfs, she growled, “Haul him out of there!”
“Is that Paddy’s mule?” a somewhat baffled Liam asked, as the dwarfs kicked in the door to the hut and went inside, where a yelping Sléibhín was trying to get out through a back window.
In less than a minute, Cadwgawn led Killian from the shed by his mane, and the dwarfs dragged the oblate wizard from his cottage and threw him face down in the snow, still struggling and crying.
“I don’t know what happened! I don’t know anything!” Sléibhín whined, shivering in the cold. “I was just following—” He promptly stopped, moaned, and curled up in a fetal position.
“Dinna even think about telling me that Paddy left without his mule,” Isla said, approaching the wizard.
“It came back by itself almost a week ago,” Sléibhín whimpered, holding up an arm in a futile attempt to ward off a blow that he thought might come from the hand-and-a-half sword.
However, Finbar grabbed Isla’s wrist and shook his head at the dwarf. “Let me handle this,” he said.
Before stepping back, she pointed the sword at Sléibhín and said, “Yuh’ve been given a stay of execution, Wizard. A temporary stay. And just how temporary depends on what comes out of your mouth next.”
Finbar stretched out an arm and helped Sléibhín to his feet. “You were what? Just following orders?” he asked, calmly.
Unable to look at him, Sléibhín gave a small nod.
“Whose orders?”
Sléibhín remained mute.
“A temporary stay!” Isla reminded him.
“Whose orders?” Finbar repeated, giving the oblate wizard’s shoulder a slight shake.
“M…Murchú.”
“Murchú? The senior journeyman wizard in Árainn Shire?”
Two bobs from Sléibhín’s head.
“And, according to the Venerable Taliesin,” Brynmor interjected, “one of Odhran’s most trusted allies.”
“Why don’t you tell us the whole story,” Finbar prodded.
“You…you’ll kill me.” He slumped his shoulders and started to cry.
“No, we won’t, Sléibhín. Just tell us.”
“On my honor, as the son of the High King,” Liam spoke up, “I give you my word that, if you tell us the truth, no harm will come to you.”
Sléibhín glanced up through the tears. “Your word, Your Highness?”
“My word.”
After a few seconds, the oblate wizard wailed, “I was just supposed to keep an eye on Paddy, and let Murchú know if he tried to leave here. I didn’t know anything bad would happen to him.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and continued. “I found a note in the stable that Paddy had received. I don’t know who it was from. Honest, I don’t. But it instructed him to go up to North Head. Something about checking out a beachhead expansion. When I went over to Ráth Árainn, I gave the note to Murchú. I am so sorry. I didn’t know.” He started crying again.
Finbar relaxed his grip on the man, and Sléibhín crumpled to his knees, still sniveling and trembling. “I didn’t know any harm would come to him. Murchú told me that, if I cooperated, he’d see to it that my deprivation posting would end. That I’d be reassigned somewhere in Béarra Shire, close to my home.”
“Deprivation posting?”
The tears streamed down Sléibhín’s cheeks, as he knelt there in the snow, gesturing all around him with both hands. “This forsaken place.”
Finbar glanced briefly at Brynmor. Although nothing was spoken, a message had passed between them. With his lips tightly pressed together, the farrier patted Sléibhín on the shoulder and crossed to his horse, leaving the man kneeling in the snow, sobbing.
Swiftly, Isla stepped forward. In a fluid motion, she drew her hand-and-a-half sword and plunged it into the wizard’s chest and through his heart.
There was no sound except for the air escaping from Sléibhín’s lungs, as he looked up at the dwarf, eyes wide with surprise.
Liam, too late and too far away from Isla to stop her, cried out, “No!” as she made her lunge.
The prince covered the distance between the two of them in a flash, grabbed Isla by the arm, spinning her away from the dead man and yelling, “I gave my word that he wouldn’t be harmed!”
The other dwarfs instantly drew their weapons, but Isla held up a hand toward them, moving her fingers in a ‘stand down’ gesture.
Brynmor crossed to Liam’s side, setting his hand on the prince’s shoulder.
As the dwarf bent down and wiped her blade on Sléibhín’s body, she calmly said, “That yuh did, laddie. And a good little princeling yuh are. Yuh kept your word. Yuh didn’t harm him.”
“My word was meant for all of us!” Liam shouted. “I am the son of Déaglán, High King of Cruachan!”
Rising and looking up directly into Liam’s eyes, Isla sheathed her sword and countered with, “And I am the daughter of Bhàtair, the Mountain King. Look down at your feet, laddie.”
“My feet?!”
“They’re standing on dwarfish land, princeling. This is Beanntan Fiacaill-Sàbhaidh,” she said, using the dwarfish name for the Sawtooth Mountains. Shaking a finger at him, she continued. “I wouldn’t’ve thought that I’d need tuh give the son of the High King a history lesson, but I guess
I would’ve been wrong. In gratitude for fighting alongside yuh men in the War for Independence, Beanntan Fiacaill-Sàbhaidh was declared a semi-autonomous region for the dwarfs—the same as the Coedwig Dryslyd for the palefaces. In other words, princeling, the High King doesn’t make the rules here. As long as we dwarfs pay our taxes tuh the shires, the Kingdom, and the Central Authority, we govern these mountains as we see fit.” She held up a hand to stifle an objection. “And I see fit not tuh leave an admitted traitor at my back.”
Crossing toward Cadwgawn and motioning toward the shed, she asked, “Is the traitor’s horse in there?”
Without any expression, the elf gave a simple nod.
“Good.” To one of the dwarfs, she said, “Saddle it up for me.” Looking at the rest of her band, she pointed to the head dwarf, Griogair. “Go back home and take Paddy’s mule with yuh.” Then gesturing to the dead wizard, she added, “Take that, too, and dispose of it. And get a sizeable force together and come after us up tuh North Head.”
“You’re not going—” Liam started.
But before he could finish his sentence with the words, ‘to North Head,’ Isla said, “Yes, princeling, I most certainly am. ’Tis yourself and your two guards who aren’t going. What yuh’re gonna do is ride back tuh Dúnfort Cruachan and get your da tuh ready his troops. Just in case. We’ll get word tuh yuh, if they’re needed. Now, move!”
Before Liam could protest, Brynmor squeezed his shoulder and whispered, “Do it, Your Highness. It is the logical next step.”
Finbar had crossed over to the twosome and he added, “We’ll make contact with you, once we’ve assessed the situation. And, Your Highness, Isla was right about Sléibhín.”
“What?!” the prince said, a shocked look on his face.
Brynmor voiced his agreement. “Had she not run him through, I would have found a reason to lag behind; and, as soon as you were out of sight, I would have done it myself. You always cover your rear flank.”
The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan Page 26