A Spark is Struck in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 1)

by Bill Stackhouse

  “Da, what’s with all this talk about a Northman? His boat had to have been pushed way off course by these high seas. After being driven off the island by the Confederation of the Three Kingdoms, with the assistance of the dwarfs and elves, I’d think that the Northmen certainly would have learned their lesson.”

  “He was armed with the weapons of an assassin,” Finbar said. “This was not some unlucky fisherman, Paddy. This was a man on a mission.”

  “To kill the High King?”

  “Apparently.”

  Then Pádraig saw himself at The Rope and Anchor in the Central Federal Region, sitting at a table with Finbar and fellow-farriers Tadhg and Cearul. Tadhg had just thrown the drunken Colm out of the tavern. As he returned to his seat and began talking, Tadhg’s features slowly morphed into the look of death that Pádraig had seen at Fort Gabhrán when he and Finbar had gone to claim the farrier’s body:

  “I envy you, Finn, having Paddy. If Colm weren’t such a liability, I’d have put him on as a helper. I don’t know what King Cabhan’s doing up there, but I’m taking care of half again as many horses as I did last year.”

  “Both security and defense forces?” Finbar asked.

  “Just the kingdom’s own security forces. And most of them way up north. The number of mounts for the Cruachanian Defense Forces is pretty much the same.”

  As if caught in a whirlwind, Pádraig was deposited above the cliffs in the Central Federal Region, looking down into Saltwater Bay. Máiréad and Liam had come to find him:

  “The other reason we hunted you up,” Máiréad said, “is because Liam has some fantastic news we wanted to share with you.”

  The young prince beamed with delight. “At the Mid-Winter Roghnú? In addition to Master Taliesin sponsoring Meig to the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted, my da is going to name me deputy king and his second-in-command.”

  Dissolving in a flash of light, the scene switched to the kidnappers’ prison. Pádraig, standing atop Liam’s shoulders, listened as a rider who had just brought another twenty horses to the compound that already held about four dozen, listened to one of the grooms gripe:

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do with any more. We barely have enough room for these. Plus, we’re running low on feed.”

  “Not to worry,” the rider said. “They’ll all be moved northward under the cover of darkness tomorrow night. We’ll provide you with fresh feed and supplies with the next batch.”

  “When will that be?” the second groom asked.

  “Not until way after this other matter has been resolved. There are too many patrols out and about, right now.”

  Again, the scene switched to a tavern, this one in Fort Callainn. Shire Reeve Parnell was just finishing his explanation on the hardships that the people of the Northern Shires endured during the occupation, and that it was only when the Western Shires were threatened did Seamus decide that a Confederation of the Three Kingdoms was a good idea:

  Pádraig saw himself nod, then say, “But better late than never.”

  “True, Paddy,” Parnell agreed. “However, this Confederation fought two years to first liberate the Western Shires, then another three to free the Eastern Shires from Ulf’s rule. Only then did our fellow countrymen from the south turn their eyes and armies northward. It took a half year to drive the Northmen out of Dúnfort Cruachan, then two more years to push them up to the final battle at North Head. And with every league that the enemy was repelled, they burned the farms and villages along the way—Northern Shires’ farms and villages. Oh, yes, we were grateful that we were finally rid of the occupiers, but we paid a much higher price than anyone else. And after finally regaining our independence, no one begrudged Seamus the title of High King, nor his son Diarmuid who fought with him and succeeded him as King of the Western Shires.”

  The little stoat-faced man continued. “But Diarmuid not selecting Eógan from the Northern Shires as deputy king and giving the title to Déaglán of the Eastern Shires, instead? It was a slap in the face of every citizen in this kingdom. Eógan was the elder of Diarmuid’s two nephews. By tradition, he should have been chosen deputy king.”

  “Yeah!” and “Without a doubt!” and “For sure!” were voiced by the other men at the table.

  “Had Eógan become King of the Western Shires upon Diarmuid’s death, our own Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires, would now be sitting upon the throne in Dúnfort Cruachan as High King.”

  More choruses of “Yeah!” rang out.

  The setting swirled dizzyingly, and Pádraig was back in the kidnappers’ prison with Liam. They both stood in the middle of the room with leather hoods covering their heads, as the guards cleared away the breakfast dishes on the first morning of their captivity:

  Once both the peep-hole cover and door had been relatched, the voice shouted, “Enjoy your day…Your Highness!” After fading laughter, there was once again silence.

  “They know who I am,” Liam whispered, doffing his hood.

  “It would seem so,” Pádraig whispered back, removing his own hood. “But now we know something that we didn’t know before.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “This was no random kidnapping. You were targeted.”

  “To what end?”

  Once again, Pádraig and Liam were at Fort Callainn. This time it, was Oakday morning and they were getting ready to leave the garrison. Shire Reeve Parnell had come to offer Liam an apology, in case the prince had taken offense at what was said the previous night about the feelings of the people of the Northern Shires regarding the High King:

  “I sincerely hope, Your Highness, that I wasn’t too hard on you last night.”

  “No, you said what needed to be said and what I needed to hear, and I appreciate your frankness,” the prince responded.

  “I know it was touch and go there for a few moments; but, I dare say, your dimwitted-cousin impersonation was a brilliant move that diffused the tense situation. And Paddy played his part extremely well, too.”

  “Yeah. Indeed he did,” Liam replied.

  “I suppose the two of you are going to take your routine up to Ráth Árainn with you?”

  “Too far north for the time allotted to us,” Pádraig answered. “We’re going to head directly northeast across Callainn Shire and Cairbrigh Shire to Ráth Cairbrigh. Should be there sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  In the prison once more, Pádraig again stood on Liam’s shoulders, listening to a conversation that a messenger who had just arrived was having with the boss-man and the Northman:

  “Why are you here?” the man-in-charge asked the horseman. “There’s supposed to be absolutely no contact until this business with the prince is over. You know that.”

  “New orders,” the rider replied. “Apparently everyone now knows that the prince and farrier are missing. I have no idea how that happened.”

  “We’ve heard,” the boss-man said. “A stroke of dumb luck. The Lady Máiréad showed up at Ráth Árainn. Somehow she had the impression that the lads were going there after leaving Ráth Callainn. A scout was sent to Ráth Callainn and got confirmation that the farrier and prince were heading to Ráth Cairbrigh. A member of the defense forces was dispatched there last night and verified that the prince never arrived. Now, people from Ráth Cairbrigh, Ráth Callainn, Ráth Árainn, Ráth Gabhrán, and Dúnfort Cruachan are scouring the forests from here to the Central Federal Region. You said you had new orders. What are they?”

  “Because of all this, the timetable’s been moved up. You’re to kill the farrier and take his wagon to the spot where the tanner and his wife intercepted him and the prince.”

  The boss-man turned to the Northman and translated what the rider had said.

  “And remember,” the rider continued, “this must appear to be nothing more than a simple, straight-forward kidnapping for ransom. Leave the ransom note in the wagon on the farrier’s body where it can be found by one of the search parties.”

  Again, the man-
in-charge translated for the Northman. This time, the Northman asked a question in return.

  “What about the prince?” the man-in-charge relayed the query to the rider. “Do we kill him, too?”

  “Not yet. We’ll let you know once we’ve collected the ransom. I’ve got to get back, now. If anyone fouls this up, they’ll pay with their lives.” Sticking his right arm straight up in the air with a closed fist, he said, “Long live the Northern Alliance!”

  “Long live the Alliance!” the boss-man repeated, giving the same salute.

  Pádraig jolted himself awake, sitting up in the makeshift bed, fever broken, bathed in sweat, the words of the messenger still fresh in his mind:

  “And remember, this must appear to be nothing more than a simple, straight-forward kidnapping for ransom.”

  Must appear? Pádraig wondered. Must appear to be nothing more?…That implies that it is something more.…But what?

  Sitting there for a few moments, attempting to orient himself in the phosphorescent light in the cave, he then closed his eyes and fought to remember all the jumbled scenes of his dreams, replaying them in his mind and trying to sort them into chronological order. After about a quarter of an hour, his eyes snapped wide open and he gasped, muttering out loud, “I’ve got to get out of here, wherever ‘here’ is. This is anything but a simple kidnapping.”

  Flinging the horse blankets off, the young farrier swung his legs over the side of the bed and made a move toward his clothing, hanging on the roots of the hawthorn. After but one step, lightheadedness overtook him and he collapsed in a heap on the dirt floor.

  Just before losing consciousness he heard a high, lilting, almost musical voice call out: “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Oakday - Wolf 48th

  Central Federal Region

  The sun was just peeking over the Sea of the Dawn when the open-bed wagon left the marketplace, pulled northward by two draught horses. Brynmor the elf drove. Lairgnen the elderly troubadour sat beside him on the right side of the seat. In the back of the wagon lay a dozen longbows and twenty sheaves of twenty-four arrows each, the wares of an artillator. Also in the back, a canvas had been thrown over two additional items of cargo, keeping them out of sight from prying eyes. Killian the mule trotted along behind the wagon, his reins tied to the tailgate.

  The elf and man, huddled in their cloaks to stave off the swirling winds of the chilly winter morning, said very little as they rode. Nothing needed to be said. They both knew exactly what the plan entailed and their part in it.

  As the wagon reached the border of the Central Federal Region with Gabhrán Shire, the road it was on T-ed into another. Turning west would take them to the north-south Central Road that bisected the Northern Shires. Going in the opposite direction would take them to Coastal Road and up to Fort Gabhrán.

  Brynmor reined in the horses at the T. Both men took long looks down the west-east road they had come to. No other wagons, horsemen, nor people on foot could be seen in either direction. After an exchange of nods, the elf turned the wagon eastward in the direction of the Coastal Road.

  After a while, the road made a sharp S-curve—first to the left, then back again to the right—in order to skirt a small body of water called Stag Pond. Fog and mist coming off the pond’s surface spilled onto the roadway, hampering visibility slightly.

  After the first curve, Brynmor kept the horses heading left, taking the wagon directly into the forest instead of following the road as it curved to the right.

  In another two minutes, the wagon came through the tree line back again at the first curve in the road, but this time heading westward toward the Central Road.

  Although the bows and sheaves of arrows remained in the wagon bed, the canvas now lay flat.

  Oakday - Wolf 48th

  Central Federal Region

  Dúnfort Cruachan

  Late into the morning watch, Máiréad awoke, upset that she had been allowed to sleep so late.

  “Aednat!” she called out as she hopped out of bed.

  There was no answer.

  “Aednat!” she called out again, throwing a robe around herself and hurrying to the door.

  Still no answer.

  Opening the door and seeing one of the chambermaids in the hallway, Máiréad asked, sharply, “Where is Aednat? Have you seen her?”

  “I’m sorry, My Lady,” the girl replied. “Field Marshal Gearóid came and got her earlier this morning. Apparently the High King wanted to speak with her.”

  “About what?”

  The young chambermaid stood there, shoulders shrugged, a look of trepidation on her face. “I…I…I—”

  “Never mind. It’s all right.” Máiréad told her, shutting the door. Muttering to herself, she crossed to the wardrobe and got out the clothes that Aoife, wife of the Steward of Árainn Shire, had given her when she had ridden out with Shire Reeve Cian’s search party.

  I hope someone has had the presence of mind to saddle Rionach for me, she thought as she pulled on the breeches.

  * * *

  As the eight bells sounded, marking the end of the morning watch and the start of the forenoon watch, Máiréad pushed open the door to the great hall and raced in, looking around as she entered. Only Gearóid and the High King were there—Déaglán seated, with the field marshal standing at his right side.

  “Lady Máiréad?” Déaglán said, eyebrow raised, as he looked up from the parchment that both men had been discussing.

  “Your Majesty,” she replied with a slight curtsey. “I understand you sent for Aednat this morning? She isn’t in any trouble is she? She couldn’t have known—”

  Despite the dark-blue ruana with its black endless-knotwork edging, dressed in deerskin breeches and shirt, the girl’s curtsey seemed somewhat misplaced.

  “No, no, no,” Déaglán interrupted. “We’ve sent her to wander about the streets of the dúnfort in the hopes that she’ll spot the man who left the ransom instructions last evening.” He picked up the piece of parchment and gestured with it.

  “By herself, Your Majesty? Without a military escort? If the man should spot her—”

  “I’m afraid a soldier would be too obvious, My Lady,” Gearóid responded. “She’s with Finbar the farrier. He’s a good deal less conspicuous, but very much able to protect her should they run across the fellow, I assure you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I believe Liam is waiting for you down by the stables, Máiréad,” the High King told her. “The grooms have your horse saddled and ready to go.”

  After another awkward curtsey, the girl said, “Thank you, Your Majesty,” then raced for the door.

  Déaglán and the field marshal exchanged the briefest of smiles.

  Although the High King had promised Finbar that only he himself, Liam, and Finbar, would be privy to the rescue plan, the old warrior Gearóid had served both him and his father well, and the man’s loyalty was beyond reproach. There was no way Déaglán would even consider insulting the field marshal by not sharing Finbar’s plan with him.

  * * *

  When Máiréad arrived at the stables, she found Liam, dressed in Pádraig’s clothes, standing next to Bucky. The only item of a royal nature on him was his ebony-handled dirk with the eight-inch blade. Because he had left its black leather scabbard with the brass fittings back at the kidnappers’ compound with Pádraig, the dagger was concealed in a plain, brown leather sheath.

  The prince held the reins of both Neave’s buckskin-colored gelding and Máiréad’s horse, Rionach. The dapple-gray mare had been outfitted with a standard saddle rather than a sidesaddle. Also, there were a captain and three lancemen from the Cruachanian Defense Forces, dressed in their military livery and already mounted. Although no one could tell by looking at them, the hand-picked escorts included two soldiers from the Western Shires and two from the Eastern Shires, all four vouched for by the High King and field marshal.

  “Which part of ‘first light’ did you not understand?
” Liam asked. “Have a good sleep, did you? Linger over breakfast, perhaps?” He cupped his hands to give the girl a foot up.

  “No one thought to wake me,” she snapped as she mounted her horse. “And I skipped breakfast.” Looking around at the four soldiers, she asked, “Where’s the rest of the rescue party?”

  “There’s been a slight change of plans,” the prince replied, swinging himself up onto Bucky’s saddle. “I’ll fill you in as we ride over to Ráth Gabhrán.”

  With that, he nudged the horse forward. The soldiers assumed their escort positions, two ahead and two behind, as they rode out of the citadel.

  “Ráth Gabhrán!” Máiréad echoed, pulling up the hood of her dark-blue ruana. “Why are we going there?”

  * * *

  In the course of conversation during his meeting with his father and Finbar the day before, Liam had relayed what Máiréad had told him about the search party from Gabhrán Shire finding Colm’s farrier’s wagon and bringing it to Fort Gabhrán.

  Upon hearing that, a sly smile had spread across Finbar’s face, and he had said, “Good. This is very good, Your Highness.”

  The farrier had then modified his original plan on the spot to make use of the new information.

  * * *

  “To pick up the farrier’s wagon that you told me had been taken there,” the prince responded to Máiréad’s question. Patting the brown leather satchel that hung from his saddle, he continued. “My da has had a change of heart. Since Paddy saved my life, he’s decided that the only honorable thing to do is to pay the ransom and save Paddy’s in return; that is, if Paddy hasn’t already escaped.”

  The girl beamed as her heretofore frown blossomed into a huge smile. “That’s wonderful news. So we’re to take the wagon and deliver the ransom?”