A trust he never wanted. An honour he would have given anything to throw from his shoulders.
“I’ll find that out as soon as I walk through the pass, Tarbhal.”
The guard grunted.
“I’ll miss your company on the road back.”
A prickle of surprise in his scent was the guard’s only answer. Breag cringed from the knowledge, and what the awareness meant for him. Abomination.
“And I’ll thank you to keep Cú. A gadharr was the guard'given anything to throw from his sho cub wouldn’t do well in a settlement of Daoine.”
“Sionna will miss him.”
“She’ll forget in time. Her own people will make her happier than a cub could.”
A trill of splash-and-giggle from the stream contradicted his words with impeccable timing.
“I’m glad you’re so solid set on this, lad. It’ll help, I’m hoping, on the long road back.” The guard leaned forward, catching and holding Breag’s eyes. “It’ll be a hard one this time of year, for the girl especially.”
Breag’s response died at a whisper from the sparse-wooded hillside behind him. The sound teased his ear, too faint to identify.
Sionna and Cú splashed in the stream the opposite direction. The Ullish boy?
“Will you--“
He shushed Tarbhal with a gesture. The noise resolved itself into footsteps, rhythmic through the squelch of sodden harvest leaves. No careless speech; no wrong step.
Breag rose to his feet, left hand on the handle of his knife. Tarbhal attempted the same. He swayed, teeth gritted against anything but a hiss of pain.
A trio of soldiers broke from the treeline. They moved north and west--towards Macha--but when they saw the camp they immediately changed direction downslope towards it.
Each had a black pommelled broadsword belted at the waist of his blue tunic. Some sort of special unit; regular soldiers carried bata, on the mainland, at least. It had been years since Breag last visited Ullach.
No leather headbands here; each had the tight braid of a seasoned soldier.
The splashing from the stream fell silent, and Breag thanked the Lady that Sionna had the sense to hide herself and, especially, Cú. If the soldiers saw the cub they’d lose any chance of talking their way out of this.
“Your names, please.” Not a request.
“Breag, late Merchantsman and Tarbhal, Cattleherd.” Breag spoke for both of them. No need for now to mention Sionna.
“You travel from Macha?” The seam-faced soldier wasted no time on pleasantries. He positioned himself between Breag and Tarbhal. The other moved past them into the camp.
“We are.”
Macha was the only port on the Tir of Ullach that allowed access from the mainland. Noplace else they could have started out. Here on Ullach that as good as named them Northmen.
“And where are you headed?”
“Home. To Faughan.” Tarbhal spoke before Breag could.
“You’re a native of the sea-coast?”
“Born, bred and buttered, sir. My people farmed sea-apples under the cliffs of Temair.”
A good thing the old man had left his guard’s greys behind when they quit Dealgan.
“What brings you back?” The grizzled soldier’s hand moved from the sword’s pommel to rest on his belt a hairsbreadth away.
The two other soldiers poked around the camp, poking through their part-unpacked belongings and flinching from the spit of the now-bubbling stew pot.
“I have a hankering for home, sir. When a man comes to my time of life he wants familiar faces around him.”
“And you?” Pale eyes studied Breag. “Do you hanker for the beauty of Faughan?”
“Not me.” Breag shrugged. “My friend tells a lot of stories about his home place, but I can’t say he’s mentioned great beauty in any of them.”
The soldier’s lips twitched. Faughan was known as much for the ugliness of its women as for the delicacy of its sea-apples.
“I’ll see him to his home then start back to mine.”
“Have you seen anybody else on the road?”
Hunting somebody.
Unlikely to be Breag’s group, but his skin prickled nonetheless.
“None since Macha. We’re in a hurry to get where we’re going.” The quaver in Tarbhal’s voice, the tremor of his hand, were genuine.
“We’ll be on our way, then.” The soldier gave a sharp nod and turned to summon his subordinates, his grey braid swinging.
“Sir!” The blond soldier straightened, holding a tunic. One of Sionna’s, its hem chewed ragged by playful puppy teeth.
They were looking for us.
“Where’s the girl?” Three swords slid fluidly from tooled leather scabbards.
Gone, if she had sense.
Breag’s knife was drawn too, though it offered little protection against even a single sword. Tarbhal’s bow fumbled between thick fingers and he muttered a curse.
“Don’t make this difficult.” The rounded tip of Grey-braid’s sword hovered a span from Breag’s breastbone. “We’re ordered to take you back unharmed.”
The taller soldier, Blondie, circled behind Tarbhal. The shorter added his blade to the commander’s, forcing Breag backwards until he stood spine-to-spine with the guard. His hand ached from its grip on the knife, but he refused to release it.
So close!
Breag heard the sound first. A rustle from the riverbank so slight that only another Daoine--another Fallen Daoine--could have detected it.
Sionna peeped from the scrub-cover that adjoined the narrow path to the stream. The frozen look on her face said that she had no idea what to do. The soldiers hadn’t seen her yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Stupid girl. She should have run when she had the chance.
“Lower the knife.” Grey-braid’s voice took on an exasperated tang. “There’s no way out of this and you know it.”
Breag knew it.
Sionna lurched into the open. She fell to her knees on the uneven grass. She released her right hand--clamped around a struggling Cú’s muzzle--and her left--wrapped around his chest, and she shoved the gadhar towards the camp.
The cub needed no prompting. He bounded towards the soldiers, tail high and twitching. He carried his lips stripped from his sharp puppy teeth, his ears pointed outwards. A squeaky growl rattled in his throat.
A fine gesture. Given another few months of growth it might have made a difference.
Sionna followed, screeching like a Bean Sidhe. Her voice broke mid-shriek, but she hitched a quick breath and screamed again.
The short soldier turned instinctively, his sword lowering. Blondie was more disciplined. He risked only a quick glance before returning his attention to Tarbhal, but the moment of distraction was enough. Tarbhal’s wrist flicked and a hemp-bound knife bloomed from Blondie’s throat.
Cú headed straight for Grey-braid. He pushed past the short soldier, dodging a quick-swung blade. Grey-braid’s sword didn’t waver from its position at Breag’s chest, but his face tightened when the cub’s teeth sank into his ankle.
“Uilioc! Ignore the animal, get the girl.” Grey-braid crab-stepped left, holding the blade between Breag and Tarbhal. Cú savaged his ankle in a single-minded attack, squeaking growl after growl.
Breag tried to dive right, but Grey-braid’s sword was there in front of him. Helplessness tasted copper through clenched teeth.
Sionna reached the fire, the short soldier scarce three steps behind and closing. She grabbed the stew pot, screaming in pain as her hands closed around it. The water boiled aggressively, sloshing over the pot’s rim to splash her arms and leg. She screamed again but held on, tears salting her cheeks. She took a single step towards the short soldier, staggering under its weight and the pain, and half-dropped, half-threw it his direction.
The soldier stretched his hands towards her instinctively, but they gave no protection against the scald of water that splashed his belly, groin and legs. The cast-iron pot
hit his midsection, driving him backwards.
The pot was a big one, filled almost to the top. Plenty of water to splash past the short soldier and onto Grey-braid, who stood behind and with his back to Sionna.
Breag moved even as the older man’s back arched away from the scalding water. He shouldered past the two-edged sword, ignoring the bright flash of pain as it bit into his upper arm. The blade of his Fiacal Knife sank in deep under the soldier’s ear without resistance.
It was over.
Breag propped the writhing soldier against a rock the shape of a squirrel’s skull, ignoring the man’s deep-throated moans. Tarbhal collected his knife and headed for the girl.
Sionna hunkered by the fire, arms wrapped around her knees. She rocked gently, her eyes unfocused. Tarbhal crooned nonsense in her ear as he eased her from her soaked clothing. Breag turned from the sight of the flesh of her hands, apple-red and already blistering.
“You did well, lassie. Let’s get you settled now.” Tarbhal pulled a blanket from the tangle of their camp and arranged it around her shoulders, careful that no roughness should touch her scalded skin.
The girl didn’t want to plunge her damaged hands into the bowl of cold water that Breag brought to her, but the guard praised and cajoled her until she did what she was told.
Cú limped towards the girl, settling by her undamaged left hip. The bulk of Grey-Braid’s body had shielded him from the worst, but his left hock was dark with wet.
No more rucksack for Cú. He had earned the right to walk.
“Is he dead?” Sionna’s teeth chattered. “Did I kill him?”
“No, Sionna lass. You didn’t kill anybody.” Tarbhal hovered by the girl’s side, his look reminding Breag that there was work still to be done.
“Nothing on them except swords.” Breag spoke in a hush, careful that Sionna wouldn’t hear. “Unusual, don’t you think?”
“What about him?” Tarbhal jerked a thumb towards the still-moaning soldier. “Is he conscious?”
“Not fit to tell us anything. Questions would only waste our time.” Breag’s face was set in implacable lines. “And there is no time.”
Tarbhal nodded slowly, his face still white with strain. “Want me to see to him?”
“I can do it.” A hard thing to cut a helpless man’s throat, but Breag had stomached worse.
“They’ll have to be moved.” Breag cleaned his knife on the dead man’s tunic and returned it to its sheath. “I’ll take them into the trees.” No time to bury them deep, but with luck no need to.
“The boy’s expected back soon.” The guard’s tone was carefully noncommittal.
“This shouldn’t take long. We’ll tell him something about bandits to explain the blood. If he comes before I’m done then we’ll deal with that.” Breag grabbed hold of Grey-Braid’s shoulders, grunting with effort. “Let’s hope dry wood’s hard to find.”
Tarbhal distracted the girl while Breag dragged the remains up the hill and into loose-clustered trees. The ground was soft, and it didn’t take long for a borrowed sword to cut vines and branches enough to conceal three bodies. The Lady’s wild ones would do the rest.
By the time Breag lowered himself to the fire his shoulders burned with itch. Grey-Braid’s sword had bit deep, but it hadn’t met bone. The worst was already healed, and the mark would be gone by morning.
Breag glanced at Sionna’s hands, clawed still in a blistered ruin. Only one Fallen here.
“That’s twice you saved us today, Sionna.” Tarbhal spoke to the girl but his eyes were fixed on Breag. “We have a lot to do to make that up to you.”
Sionna lay with her head on her pack, the cub a warm ball at her middle. Her eyes were fixed on the grass, on shallow furrows made by dragging heels. She didn’t answer.
“Have you ever actually been to Faughan?” Breag asked.
Tarbhal chuckled. “Passed through it once. A terrible place--even the milk was sour.”
“You’re pretty good with that knife.”
“Each of us did our part, the girl most of all.”
Breag said nothing.
“Seems like Caislean isn’t so far out of the way to repay a debt as huge as that one. Especially with the promise you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”
Breag had come to distrust promises.
“You’ll still get to go back to Tearmann with your Lost.”
“Enough.” Breag had no anger left. “You win. We’ll go to Caislean, but not for long. I decide when to leave for Tearmann and who goes with me. Understand?”
Tarbhal didn’t answer. He watched the red-headed boy saunter from the tree-line, a brace of rabbits over each shoulder. The boy’s enthusiastic wave spooked the raven from the tree and it flew south, quorking loudly.
“Found a line of snares all ripe for the plucking.” Laoighre spoke as soon as he was close enough to be heard. “Did I miss anything here?”
* * *
“Uncle!” Gerud was first to the door, his sharp ears picking up the visitor’s trace before the man was close enough to knock.
“Gerud.” His uncle swung him into the air, tossing him so high that he squealed.
“Come in, Ardal.” Ma opened the door wider. “Any news?”
Ardal stepped through the doorway and into the family’s tiny home. Gerud clung to his right shoulder, his uncle’s strong hands holding him safe. On the other shoulder a bata handle evened the balance.
“I’ll not stay long, Rilla. I shouldn’t even be here.” Ardal made no move to sit. “I’m watched still.”
“Time for bed, Gerud.” Da’s voice came from his chair by the hearth.
When Da spoke, Gerud hopped. He gave his uncle a last hug, then scampered for the ladder to the roofspace.
At the ladder’s head he almost tripped over Dara, stretched silent along the bare boards. She pulled him to the floor, hushing his cry of surprise with a finger across his lips. Together they peeped through the ladder’s bars and into the room below.
“I hope you’re being careful.” Ma handed Ardal a mug of spiced apple. “This is no time to take chances. There’s too much going on.”
If we’d been less careful we might have taken Proinsis before he brought any of this down on us.” Ardal’s mouth twisted. “I’m as cautious as I can be, but there’s none of us safe. It isn’t just our people this time.”
“But they’re gone now.”
“For how long?” Ardal held the mug between his palms, undrinking. “There’s more going on here than we know. I need you to spread the word. Tell the people to be careful, no relaxing just because the Glór-hunters rode out. Watch the little ones, don’t let them get careless.”
“What’s he talking about?” Gerud whispered to his sister.
“Children!” Da’s voice floated up the ladder.
Gerud and Dara scampered off to bed.ulders.is peohmic splash from the burned bI’mI’
9
Carad’s rage burned incandescent. He forced his tongue against the roof of his mouth in an effort to bite back words he would later need to unsay. His clenched fists gouged straight-clipped nails into his palms.
“How many days have we lost?” He ground the words between clenched teeth, not trusting himself to turn from the hearth’s cold emptiness.
“Five days since the last tracks. Ten more from the last we know were genuine.” Nuada spoke low and sober, a tone he saved for new-made widows and reports like this one.
Fifteen of the seventeen days since they left Dealgan. “All of it useless?”
“Yes.”
“Whose decision?” Deep, slow breaths. If he gutted Nuada for this, the training of a replacement would eat even more time.
“Draioch, so it seems.” Nuada named the scout tonelessly. Every word measured, nothing volunteered.
“What does he say?”
“That the trail was left careful. That he didn’t think to suspect until the sign went cold. That’s when he went back to check what came before.”
“And why,” Carad enunciated each word carefully, “didn’t I hear about this five days ago?”
“Draioch was stupid. He thought he’d make his name by bringing you a problem already solved.”
Or he was Fodhla’s man and worked harder on the problem than on the solution. The politics of the Citadel were brutal, and choosing not to concern himself with intrigue had done nothing but make Carad a target.
For involving him in this, Draioch would lose more than his name.
Carad spread his hands wide, rubbing a thumb over the sting of his gouged palms. The presence of Dun so close distracted him. Think before acting, Brother Ultan had counselled again and again. With no success, it seemed.
“Inform Draioch that I’ll have words for him later.” Carad shrugged his shoulders to a semblance of looseness and turned, finally, to face Nuada. “See what you can do about supplies and fresh horses, we’ll be riding hard back to Dealgan. This time we burn them all.”
And the Lone Man help anybody who crossed his path.
“And what about the other matter?” Nuada took great care not to meet Carad’s eyes.
Fodhla. The redfruit balanced on top of a steaming pile of dung. “He knows that we’re camped within half a day’s ride of the capital. That can’t be helped.” Carad’s hands clenched again. He would not go back to Dun. “Have a man ready. I’ll send a pretty apology and let Fodhla draw his own conclusions.” Which would be considerably less pretty.
Bad enough to risk entanglement in old memories without also placing himself within the bony-fingered grasp of the Citadel. He had already received a ribbon-tied vomit of good wishes from Donnchadh and a rather more subtly phrased offer of goodwill from Mannanán. How much worse would it be if they knew he passed so close to the seat of power?
A careful tap snapped Carad from his ugly thoughts. The heavy door swung open without pause for permission. More bad news.
Connlech poked a head through the narrow gap, lips tight and eyes anxious. Carad’s heart sank further, though he would scarce have thought that possible.
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