by Jeff Altabef
Have the edges of his eyes turned red? If I stare closely enough, will I see crimson?
He shook his head to clear away such nonsense.
“That’s the final item for us tonight.” Dermot lifted his face and gazed at the stars. “May the herd forever be strong and the heavens guide us in all matters!”
The council repeated the short prayer and the meeting ended. The members dispersed, except for Eamon and his two brothers, who remained by the fire.
Fintan and Dermot were shorter and wider than Eamon. Both had long brown hair pulled back in a thick ponytail, unlike Eamon whose hair fell to the top of his shoulders in a curly mop. Eamon shared the same oval face and angular features with his brothers, but the lines of his face had a certain softness that his two brothers lacked, which had earned him the nickname Eamon the Handsome among the Stronghold’s women. His eyes also burned a deep blue, while both Fintan and Dermot had their mother’s chestnut-colored orbs. Eamon could at least remember that his father’s eyes had been blue. He couldn’t recall much about his mother, just a warm feeling, really, but Dermot had told him of her brown eyes, and that was good enough for him.
When the three were alone, Fintan pleaded his case, as Eamon knew he would. “We should attack the Painted Ones now, Derry. Let’s teach them a lesson and take the fields to our north!” Fintan swung his head back and forth from one brother to the other, looking for support and finding none. Undaunted, he pressed on. “They have good fields, fertile land. We could grow corn and wheat for our herds. We’d become more prosperous and our power would grow!”
Eamon knew what Fintan desired—power for the tribe and glory for himself. Not necessarily in that order.
Some things never change, eh, Brother?
Dermot listened quietly to his brother’s fervent plea, and when Fintan finished, Dermot glanced to the heavens. After a long moment, he turned back to Fintan, his expression hard as steel.
The older brother Eamon loved had vanished, replaced by the king of the Butcher Tribe, and as such, he ruled with certainty. “I will not be the one to break the peace, Fin. We have enough lands, and our time in this world is short enough as it is.”
Fintan turned away from his brothers.
Dermot continued in a conciliatory tone. “Still, I will not ignore threats to our security. Send two more guard units to patrol the northern boundaries. To patrol, Fin. We will not break the peace. Understood?”
“Yes, my king.” Fintan’s voice simmered. “If you would excuse me, I grow weary from this long night of council.”
Dermot nodded, and Fintan stalked off.
Eamon watched him leave. When they were children, Dermot urged his brothers to balance their studies between warcraft and learning, but they separated at an early age. Fintan excelled at swordplay and at other weapons, while Eamon read the more advanced books and did the more difficult calculations with the same natural ease Fintan showed with a sword or a bow. Eventually, they stopped competing against each other and focused on what each did best. Still, some wounds never truly healed, and both brothers held their grudges.
“You know Fin will start a war. It’s just a matter of time.” Eamon frowned at Dermot. “It’s all he thinks about.”
“Maybe, but the weight of this sword is heavy. He will not defy me.” Dermot tilted the sword’s blade upward and smiled wryly. “Was I any different when I was his age?”
“How can you say such a thing? You’ve led us in peace for four years now!”
Dermot placed a hand on his shoulder. “You were young when I first started ruling, and don’t remember those early days well. We fought wars for the first two years of my reign, with the Horsepeople to the south and the Painted Ones to the north, before I finally made the peace.”
“But those wars were necessary!”
“Were they? I thought so at the time, but as I think about them now, they could have been avoided. War can be intoxicating, the high indescribable, but it doesn’t take long before you realize the cost—the lives ruined. Not just the deaths, but also the injuries—those who lose an arm or a leg, or maybe the death of a brother, a father, a friend. That can hurt as much as any wound.”
Dermot shook his head and lifted his hand from Eamon’s shoulder. “Some images haunt my dreams, but you can’t go back, only forward and learn from your mistakes. There’s nothing I can do about them now. I’m old, Eamon. I’ve already lived twenty-three winters—more than most.”
Eamon spit repeatedly. “We don’t say the number out loud! You know it only invites the Red Death.” After another dose of spitting because he had mentioned the curse, his mouth had gone dry.
“Numbers cannot hurt me, brother. What lives inside me and grows by the day is the problem.” Dermot prodded the fire with the blade from his great sword. Sparks flew in the air and the flames recovered some of their lost vigor. “I need you to promise me something.”
Eamon sensed a trap—all this talk of death and age, and now a promise—so he spoke carefully. “What would you have me do, my Brother?”
Dermot bore his eyes into him, carving past skin, bone and blood, and into his soul.
Eamon had seen him use his gaze as a weapon many times, but never aimed at him. He had to admit, it was effective. He felt some of his resolve wither.
“When I pass, I don’t want you to challenge Fintan in the Circle of Destiny. He will be our next king.”
Eamon’s face turned as hot as the embers of the fire. “I’ve been training! I’m getting much better! I might best him.” He had spent much time practicing of late. His arms had grown stronger, and his skills had greatly improved, not that Dermot had noticed.
Dermot nodded. “Your sword is quick, and of your courage there can be no doubt, but Fintan’s sword is faster and his shield stronger. He’s been preparing for this moment his entire life. You have spent much of your time in studies. You are not to oppose him in the Circle of Destiny.”
Has he no faith in me?
Eamon felt the sting of Dermot’s words. “If not me, there’s no one else. The cousins are still too young. He will be king and lead us into war.”
“Your life is too important to be wasted. Your work with the Books of Wisdom is essential to the tribe’s future. We must collect our knowledge to guide future generations, or they’ll be destined only to repeat what we have done, and never advance. No one but you can finish them. Promise me, Eamon.”
Eamon looked away and tears welled up in his eyes, not because of the promise his brother sought, but because of the truth of his words. The Red Death would take him soon, as it did everyone but the witches. Dermot had always been there for Eamon. He could not imagine a world without Dermot.
There must be some way to break the cycle. If anyone deserves to cheat the Red Death, it’s Dermot. Surely the heavens will recognize this.
“Promise me,” Dermot persisted.
How can I refuse him when his end is so near?
Eamon managed to put a stoic expression on his face as he tossed a rock on the fire. “If it’s your wish, then I so promise.”
“Good. Now, tell me how the books are coming. Do we have enough paper?”
Eamon stared at the campfire. “They’re all underway. We’re mostly finished with the book on livestock. That was my first priority, but all the others have been started. If we’re careful, we should have enough paper. Jillian’s letters are small but legible.” He shrugged. “Of course, it depends on Renny the Round. You know how much our Master Builder likes to talk. His words are more numerous than the stones he uses for the walls.”
Dermot laughed at the small joke, and Eamon joined him, the tension broken between them.
“Shall we go inside?” asked Eamon. “The hour is late.”
“No, I’d like to watch the sun come up.” Dermot sounded distant.
“Shall I call for Bree or Shannon to keep you company? I can’t keep up with you. I don’t know which one you favor.”
“No, they sleep peacefully
in their beds. I don’t want to disturb them. You stay with me. We can watch the sunrise like we did when you were small. Besides, they don’t call me Eamon the Handsome.”
Eamon glared at his brother, sending invisible barbs at him that, if real, would have skewered him. “I can’t help what they say. I’m a warrior, just like you and Fintan.”
Dermot chuckled, his face soft and warm. “I know you are. I only tease you. You are as ugly a brute as we are.”
“I’m happy we settled that.” Eamon leaned back on his elbows and stared up at the starry sky. The full moon seemed to smile down on them, and lifted his spirits. “Derry, do you really think the gods watch us from the heavens?”
“Haven’t we decided this already?”
Eamon laughed. They had repeated this conversation so many times it felt as comfortable as his favorite shirt. He hoped this would not be the last time.
Dermot flexed his right hand with a pained expression on his face.
Eamon knew the Red Death had no symptoms beyond the red eyes, yet he wondered if his brother could feel it burning in his blood.
***
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Chapter 6 – Fintan
Fintan trudged to his sleeping quarters, kicking stones as he went. The sweet smell of burning firewood followed him like a long shadow. He had wanted to ask Dermot one last time to attack the Painted Ones, but he knew his stubborn brother would rule against him.
Soon I’ll get my chance, Brother—even if I have to wrestle that sword away from you.
The Stronghold’s three large stone residence halls loomed only a short walk from the campfire. The largest housed the female members of the tribe and the Nursery where all the children younger than ten slept. The second largest hall contained the remaining males, and the smallest but most elaborate was reserved for the royal family, council members, and other significant leaders. Wisps of smoke spiraled from the main chimney of each.
A crow’s call sounded from behind the Women’s Hall.
Fintan grimaced and wearily headed in that direction, feeling heavier and more tired than he had only moments earlier. As he neared the edge of the stone building, a strongly built man stepped from the shadows and hurled a dagger at him. The moonlight reflected off its spinning steel blade, and he snatched the knife inches from his chest by clasping both palms against cold steel.
He tossed the dagger back to his friend. “If you kill me, Eamon will rule next. You’ll be turned into a scribe and be forced to battle ink bottles all day.” He chuckled. “I remember when they tried to teach you to read and write. You were lost like a sheep that had wandered away from the flock.”
Cormac grinned. “I practically tossed the dagger underhand.” Fintan’s best friend since childhood, he had a wide stonemason’s chest, a long pointy nose, an unkempt black beard, and small onyx eyes that glittered in the moonlight. A copper pin in the shape of a sword affixed to his leather cloak identified him as the Captain of the King’s Guard.
At least Dermot let me name my own Captain.
At the time, Fintan thought Dermot would listen to his plans to attack the Painted Barbarians. He thought his brother would let him prove himself before he died, and even fight beside him on the same battlefield. Foolish ideas. His brother would never change and allow Fintan to seek the glory he deserved. Dermot wanted to keep all the glory for himself.
Cormac said, “So what of our plans? Did you discuss them with your brother after the council meeting?”
“The King would rather not attack our friends to the north. How ironic that the Blade of the Butcher Tribe refuses to break the peace.” Fintan leaned against the wall, its rough edges pressing against his back. “I managed to convince him our northern neighbors are a threat to our security, so he’s willing to send additional patrols to protect us, but he does not want the patrols to break the peace. That would make him very angry.” He pursed his lips into an exaggerated frown.
“Patrols are not enough! The Painted Ones are weak. We should take those fields with our steel.” Cormac pounded the wall. “Dermot is old and scared. This is our time! We should take what we desire. When was the last time he led us in battle?”
“Four long years have passed since he led us against the northern barbarians. Four years since he made the peace he now holds so dear. It appears he’s more interested in his Books of Wisdom than the good of the tribe.”
“What good are those stupid books on animals and plants? Your brother favors scribes and weaklings. How much silver have we wasted on paper and ink? Why? We should burn those books and write a new one full of our conquests!” Cormac’s voice grew louder. “A book written in the blood of our enemies!”
Fintan grinned as he imagined the cover. “We’ll call it The Book of Conquests, with our names scrawled across the cover in blood. I like it. That will be the first thing we’ll do when I become king. In the meantime, while my brother lives....” He paused, stared meaningfully at Cormac, and shrugged. “We are subject to his pronouncements and sworn to follow his commands. Still, the border territory is dangerous. Cattle could be stolen. A patrol might be attacked. These things have been known to happen.”
Cormac flipped his dagger in the air, caught the blade with the tip of his finger, and spun it back in the air again. “But what if they don’t attack us?” A sharp gust of wind brought an icy chill into the air, and Cormac pulled his leather cloak tightly around him. “Time grows short. Winter approaches. We can’t attack once the first snow falls.”
Fintan shrugged. “Dermot’s old. If he doesn’t want to protect the tribe, then it’s our responsibility to take his place. You remember the lessons we learned together as children? The tribe must come first. We must always protect the herd so it remains forever strong.”
“Yes, but everyone loves Dermot—Dermot the Kind, Dermot the Just, Dermot the Blade of the Butchers. Few would stand with us against him.”
Fintan narrowed his eyes. He didn’t need to be reminded about Dermot’s popularity among the people. It wasn’t easy being the younger brother of a hero. Four years ago he had wanted to fight against the Painted Ones, but Dermot had refused him, saying he was too young, and kept all the glory for himself. Fintan could only prove himself with a new war, but Dermot kept the peace, so the tribe would have only one Blade and one hero, and no chance for him to best his older brother.
He hitched up an eyebrow. “What if our beloved King died suddenly? Such a thing would be very tragic.”
Cormac’s grin threatened to take over his whole face as he flipped the dagger back into the air. “Yes, with Dermot gone, only Eamon could oppose you.”
Fintan looped his arm over Cormac’s shoulder. “I have no worries about Eamon the Pretty Boy. He spends all his time with the scribes and weaklings. He’s nothing, but Derry is another story. We’ll need to be clever. I understand the poisonous red berries grow this time of year in the Witch’s Woods to the North. We can trust Scotty the Snake. Tell him to retrieve some for us. Have no fear, my friend. One way or another, we’ll be heroes.”
“I want to be called Cormac the Conqueror in our book.”
“That doesn’t seem very likely. They usually remember just the kings.”
“They sing songs of Poland the Punisher.”
Fintan chuckled and playfully shoved his friend toward home. “True, but there’s only one Poland the Punisher. Maybe you can have a small mention. Nothing too....”
***
Cattie hid among the shadows and held her breath. The straps of the leather satchel cut into her hands, but she dared not move or drop her load of firewood. From the safety of her hiding spot, she watched Fintan and Cormac stalk off into the distance, and a small smile spread wickedly across her face.
***
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Chapter 7 – P’mina
P’mina wiggled against her sister’s iron grip. She’d rather scale the steep cliff north of the village, to reach the
teal- and gold-colored flowers that only grew in the mouth of those caves, than be stuck with her sister this night. And that was usually her least favorite thing to do; she only climbed that cliff when someone had a fever high enough that it might kill them, and only after she had tried all the other plants she knew that reduced fevers.
“Why can’t you ever sit still?” Kalhona asked. “You’re going to make me mess up.”
P’mina knew there was little chance her sister would slip up as she expertly worked the needles and dyes. As the best Artist in the Painted Ones Tribe, even people from other tribes recognized her talent.
Kalhona plunged a needle a little deeper than necessary.
“Ouch!” P’mina glared at her sister with the angriest look she could muster.
“That wouldn’t have happened if you’d sit still. It’s been a long night. Don’t make it any longer.” A crooked smile creased Kalhona’s face.
P’mina helped her sister work through the long line of customers this night, which had stretched on longer than any other she could remember. She had hoped that Kalhona would be too tired to work on her, but she wasn’t that lucky, and it would not have mattered. Whether she got the tattoo or not, she was still doomed.
On every full moon, tradition required the female members of the Painted Ones Tribe to receive a new tattoo memorializing the tribe’s history. Together these markings created a mosaic depicting tribal history going back hundreds of harvests. They reserved only their right arms for personal, not tribal, stories, and tonight her sister painted P’mina’s right arm.
Usually she looked forward to getting a new tattoo, but not this one.
On a girl’s tenth birthday, she received a tattoo of a ghost tree on her right arm. Small differences in the tree, such as color, branches, size, and placement of leaves, indicated a particular family, and flowers represented children. Only members of the tribe could accurately read the details. Kalhona once tried to explain all the subtle variances to her, but P’mina could never keep track of them all. In truth, only the Artists understood them with certainty, and even they disagreed from time to time.