“Okay, horsey! Home!”
One touch of his heels to the animal’s sides and the horse took off like an arrow, through the glade and into the trees, racing up the bank of the brook toward where Pádraig had hoped to find a waterfall.
As the animal dodged trees, leapt over rocks, Pádraig had to put his head down next to the horse’s neck to escape getting flailed by the passing branches. There, further on in front of him, was indeed a waterfall, emptying into a pool. And the horse was heading directly for it, not slowing at all.
The boy attempted to take his hands from the animal’s mane and place them over its eyes, hoping that the horse, deprived of vision, would come to a halt, but his hands wouldn’t move. They were stuck to the side of the horse’s neck.
At that moment, his father’s words came back to him:
“Magic draws magic. And there are some Daoine Dofheicthe that you would do well not to attract.”
And then Pádraig realized why the animal had water-grass entangled in its mane.
It’s a capall uisce! he told himself, using the term from the language of the ancients for ‘water-horse.’ And it’s heading straight for the pond!
Oakday - Falcon 64th
Tulach Shire
Cathair Tulach
The prince and his military escort had hardly cleared the main gate of Fortress Tulach, when Liam spotted his father in deep conversation with Gearóid, Field Marshal of the Cruachanian Defense Forces, and Eógan, elder cousin of the High King and Earl of the Western Shires. A half-dozen other members of both the defense forces and security forces stood there, silently and respectfully listening.
Leaping from his mount, Liam ran toward the group, shouting, “Your Majesty! What is it?! What’s happened?!”
Déaglán—Chieftain of Tulach Shire, King of the Western Shires, and High King of Cruachan—turned toward Liam and beckoned the boy over toward him. As the prince approached, his father turned back to the group and said, “Excuse us, please. That will be all for now.”
With a chorus of, “Yes, Your Majesty,” the men bowed and left the High King, earl, and field marshal.
“What’s happened?” Liam repeated.
Eógan, with a worried countenance, quickly scanned the yard. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Máiréad?”
“She’ll be along shortly. I rode on ahead.” Once more, he looked at his father and asked, “What’s wrong?”
The High King gave a nod to the field marshal. The grizzled veteran of the War for Independence, in turn, started across the ward toward one of the out-buildings that served as the armory. Both father and son followed.
“I’m going to wait for Máiréad,” Eógan called after them.
Over his shoulder, Déaglán waved an acknowledgement to his cousin.
Two guards, one on either side of the door to the armory, snapped to attention as the trio drew near; then, one of them opened the door.
Inside, among the armaments, a sheet-covered form lay atop one of the wooden boxes.
Taking the cloth by a corner, Gearóid peeled it back, revealing the corpse of a man, bloated from spending a lengthy amount of time in the water.
Liam backed up a step, stifling a gag, thankful that he had not yet eaten his midday meal.
“Washed up on the beach below the cliffs this morning,” the field marshal said.
Although the facial features themselves were of no help, due to the puffiness of the body, Liam examined the man’s hair-style and garments. He wore his blond hair in braids. And the knee-to-foot leg-wrappings restrained the excess material of the bottoms of his baggy, brown breeches.
After a few moments the prince looked up at the other two men and said, “A Northman?…Here?…Why?”
The field marshal gestured to another box beside the body. On top of it, a variety of small knives of Northman design were displayed—some for throwing, others for thrusting, and a few for slashing. “He had these on him when he was found. Apparently he’s…at least he was, an assassin.”
“Meant for you, Your Majesty?” Liam asked.
“Presumably so,” his father replied.
“How could he have known that you’d be here?”
“That’s the question, now, isn’t it?” Gearóid answered. “But neither you, Prince Liam, nor the High King will be here for long.”
“What?”
“We’re returning to the Central Federal Region immediately,” Déaglán told him. “Get your things together. We leave within the hour. If we push the horses, we should make it to Ráth Lorg by nightfall. Within two more days, we’ll be back home at Dúnfort Cruachan.”
“Where you can be properly protected,” the field marshal added.
Liam gestured toward the corpse while addressing the soldier. “How does a Northman get close enough to wash up on our shores without the Cruachanian Defense Forces or the Security Forces of the Western Shires spotting him?”
“The double full moons, Your Highness. They’re aligned together. Due to the fierce waves that this configuration causes, neither the defense forces which patrol the sea nor the security forces which patrol the coastline have been able to launch their boats for a week now. Nor will they for a few more days.”
Pointing to the dead man, Liam said. “That didn’t seem to stop the Northman.”
“Not from launching, no. But certainly from landing.”
“What about his boat?” the prince asked.
“We found a færing smashed on the rocks about two furlongs down the beach.”
Liam thought for a moment, then asked, “Isn’t that a small four-oared boat?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the field marshal replied, a bit uncomfortably.
“So,” the prince gestured to the dead man, “odds-on, he had comrades with him.”
“In all likelihood. And that’s why it’s important for both you and the High King to return to Dúnfort Cruachan without delay, while our forces search the entire coastline. I’ve not only dispatched riders to the ráths south and north, but one to alert Master Taliesin so that he may warn the other members of the Sodality. With their help, by week’s end the entire island will be on high alert.”
Liam stood there, not breaking eye-contact with the old warrior. Although the prince said nothing, Gearóid fully understood the look in the boy’s eye. It said: ‘An entire week that the Northman’s comrades will have to disappear and secrete themselves into the populace.’
Finally, the old man looked away.
Déaglán had read the prince’s look as well. He held back the smile of admiration that he felt creep onto his lips at the manner in which his son had questioned the field marshal. My flesh, my blood, indeed, he thought. To Gearóid, he said, “Go, Marshal. Get things ready for our departure. We’ll be along directly.”
“Sire!” the other man answered with a bow, then turned on his heel and gladly left the armory.
“Well done, Liam,” his father told him, clapping him on the back. “You come of age this new year.” Fingering his son’s bronze, wolf-head torc, Déaglán continued. “Although you’ve held the title of prince since your birth, at the upcoming Roghnú, what say we trade this in for one of silver? I’ll be pleased to name you as deputy king and officially welcome you as my second-in-command and heir to the throne.”
Liam seemed to grow two inches taller as he looked his father in the eye and replied, “It will be my privilege to serve you, Sire.”
As the two men exited the armory, Liam could hardly contain his joy. It’s one thing to be a prince by an accident of birth, he thought. But to be purposely named deputy king by my da? I couldn’t be more honored.
* * *
Eógan, Earl of the Western Shires, his wife the Countess Kyna, his daughter the Lady Máiréad, and all the functionaries of Fortress Tulach stood in the ward, bidding the High King and his retinue good-bye.
Watching the company leave, led by Field Marshal Gearóid, Máiréad couldn’t help but reflect on the awkwardness that had be
en avoided by the discovery of the Northman assassin.
I would have been expected to accompany Liam to tonight’s New Year’s Eve festivities. Now I won’t have to lie in order to be with Paddy. She smiled wryly as she waved, then blew a kiss in the prince’s direction. I’ll probably be betrothed to the donkey-prince soon enough. For now, though, I’ll enjoy what time I have with my anam cara. Máiréad’s eyes moistened slightly as she bit her lip, thinking about her soul friend. Anam cara you may be, Paddy, but I know my future. And, unfortunately, it’s not with someone who isn’t of noble birth.
Oakday - Falcon 64th
Tulach Shire
It’s a capall uisce! Pádraig realized as he tried to pull his hands free from the black mare. And it’s heading straight for the pond! But what kind is it?
From what little he knew of the Hidden Folk, there were two different types of water-horses—one malicious, that would drag its victim into a pond, tear it apart, and eat it; and, the other only mischievous, that would simply give its rider a good dunking.
Like attracts like, he thought, still struggling to break the invisible bonds that held him fast to the animal. And differences repel!
Calming his mind as horse and reluctant rider drew nearer and nearer to the pool, the boy focused on the slipperiness of lamp oil spilled on a tavern table, imagining it covering his entire skin. As the water-horse made a final hurdle from the bank to the pond, its spell was broken and Pádraig leaped from the animal’s back, hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a crouch, one knee on the bank with his arm extended, holding the hoof-pick in front of him as a potential weapon.
He waited, looking intently and apprehensively at the spot where the animal had disappeared into the water.
Nothing. No bubbles. Just the dissipating ripples.
As he got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his clothing, Pádraig grew faint and started to reel. Quickly, he once again put one knee to the ground, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs from it.
What’s wrong, he wondered. Has the capall uisce put another spell on me?
The waters, at the middle of the spot where the animal had gone under, started to roil. Pádraig crawled farther back from the bank, stopping at the side of a large boulder and used it as a support, still light-headed, yet still clutching his hoof-pick.
From the center of the churning water rose the torso of the most alluring maiden Pádraig had ever seen in his fifteen years. And the most scantily clad, as well—if you didn’t include the previous summer when he and Kieran, the miller’s son, had crawled through the reeds in Fotharta Shire to spy on Kieran’s sister and two of her friends as the young girls bathed in the mill pond.
But this maiden was noticeably more developed than the miller’s daughter and her companions, and, by far, much more captivating.
Droplets from her long, jet-black tresses, crowned with a wreath of woven, dark-green water-grass, splashed onto the bare shoulders of this maiden’s ebony skin.
“Well! Aren’t you a surprise, my young farrier,” she said with a mixture of mirth and admiration in her throaty voice as she waded toward the shore. “And I thought it to be your red-haired companion who had the gift.”
“Don’t come any closer,” Pádraig warned, brandishing the hoof-pick. But the young woman continued her approach; and, he could only stare as the curvaceous figure in the black, mid-thigh, skin-tight gown revealed itself in its entirety.
Taking her hair in her hands and ringing the water from it, the dark maiden smiled at the boy as his eyes widened at the sight of her pointed ears.
“Don’t come any closer or what?” she asked as she sat on a large, flat rock some two feet out in the water from the bank. “You’ll clean my hooves again?” With that, she stretched out one of her long, bare, tapered legs toward him and wiggled her toes.
Regaining his composure somewhat, Pádraig started to rise, but once again found himself too weak to stand.
“What have you done to me?” he snapped. “What kind of spell have you cast with your magic?”
“Spell? You broke the spell, my young farrier. I’ve had oblate wizards on my back before, and even they were never able to do what you did. It must have sapped quite a bit of your essence. No wonder you’re a bit wobbly.”
“What?”
The dark maiden cocked her head, gazed at the boy for a moment or two, realized that he truly didn’t understand what had happened to him, then asked, “From whom did you inherit your gift? Dam or sire?”
Hesitating slightly, Pádraig nevertheless answered. “My ma was a gifted one.”
“No wonder,” the dark maiden said, nodding with understanding. “But, yet, she failed to teach you about what happens when you dissipate that much of your essence at once?”
The boy lowered his eyes and grew very quiet. “My ma passed over to An Saol Eile when I was very young.” His voice caught and he had to clear his throat. “I don’t remember all that much about her,” he continued in an almost whisper. “In fact it seems that with each passing year, I’m able to recall less and less. I can barely picture her face anymore.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his tunic.
Listening to him talk about his dam and sensing the love and the loss he felt almost brought tears to the dark maiden’s eyes as well, as she recalled how her own dam had patiently instructed her, as a young filly, to control her abilities.
Standing once more, she crossed to the shore about three feet from the boy and sat back on her haunches in front of him.
“And what about your sire? Has he not helped you develop your gift?”
“Are you going to drown me and tear me apart?” Pádraig asked, ignoring her question and backing away again, putting the boulder between them.
With disdain in her voice, she replied, “Do I look like a kelpie to you?!” She then spat on the ground.
Pádraig gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. “I…I…I don’t know. I…I’ve never seen one?”
“Believe me, you’d know it if you saw one. In fact, it would be the very last thing you’d see before passing over. Nasty, smelly beast.”
“W…what are you, then?”
Somewhat taken aback, as if everyone should know, the dark maiden replied, “A phooka, of course.”
The boy shook his head.
The phooka raised her arms in exasperation. “Hasn’t your sire taught you anything about the Daoine Dofheicthe or your gift?”
“He taught me that my gift isn’t a toy to be used on a whim, and that there are some Daoine Dofheicthe that I’d do well not to attract by using it too often.…Like your kelpies, I’m guessing.”
“They are not my kelpies,” she replied indignantly, then continued with, “That’s it?”
“P…pretty much. Yeah.”
The phooka shook her head. “What is your name, young farrier.”
“Pádraig.”
“Nice name. Your friends call you ‘Paddy’?”
He nodded.
“Well, you took that stone out of my hoof, so I consider you a friend, also. Therefore I will call you ‘Paddy’ as well. My name is Siobhán.”
“If you consider me your friend, Siobhán, why did you try to drown me.”
“I wouldn’t have drowned you, Paddy. I just would have given you a good dunking, that’s all.”
“Some friend. Why?”
Siobhán shrugged her shoulders. “I’m a phooka. What can I say? It’s my nature.”
Pádraig didn’t really notice the shoulders, though. His eyes were focused on the dark maiden’s breasts in the skin-tight halter top of her dress as they raised and lowered with the shrug.
“After I took that stone from your hoof?” he said. “That’s how you thank me?”
“You’re right,” she acknowledged with a sigh, giving him a rather half-hearted, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Continuing, she said, “As to my expression of gratitude, I will demonstrate it to you fivefold.”
“How?”
“Certainly not with what your eyes have been concentrating on so intently, my young farrier.” Pointing to her own yellowish-brown eyes, she continued with, “Up here, Paddy.”
Blushing, Pádraig raised his deep-blue ones to make contact with hers.
“First,” Siobhán said, “you’re faint due to the amount of your essence it took to break my spell. Each time you use your gift, you expend some of the life-force with which An Fearglas has blessed you.”
She waited as Pádraig made the ritual touching of his forehead, chest, and mouth. However, she did not perform the rite herself.
“It takes awhile for that force to replenish itself. My guess is that you’ve never before used enough of it at any one time to notice the loss. When you return home, Paddy, stay seated on the ground for the remainder of the day. The more contact you have with the elemental forces in the earth the quicker the essence will recharge within you.”
“I think I’ll just sit here for a bit longer, if you don’t mind. I can barely stand.”
“That brings me to my second expression of gratitude,” Siobhán said as she rose. “In your condition, it’ll take the better part of the afternoon to make your way home. Here!” She wriggled her nubile body and once again shape-shifted into the black mare. “Steady yourself on my withers as you climb on that rock, then crawl up onto my back. I’ll have you home in no time.”
“Without dunking me?” Pádraig asked warily, standing and using the horse to support himself.
“I promise. Up you go, now, and hold on tightly.”
Pádraig did as he was told and the black mare let out a whinny, then took off westward in the direction of Fortress Tulach.
He had been on horses his entire short life, but the boy could not remember another that ran as fast or with as much agility as Siobhán, the shape-shifting phooka.
As boy and water-horse disappeared among the trees, the fish hawk lifted off from the top of a river birch where it been observing the interchange, letting out a final screech before heading east toward the center of Tulach Shire, its mission accomplished.
A Spark is Struck in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 1) Page 3
