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

by Bill Stackhouse

  “The stable for the horse, your spare room for the Lady Máiréad, and the floor here in front of the fire for the prince and me, and perhaps a hot breakfast to get us underway in the morning will suffice,” Finbar told her. “Now, His Highness and I have to go out for a little while. We’ll be back shortly.”

  As the two rose and crossed to the pegs by the door to get their cloaks, Neave said to Máiréad, “Come, My Lady, let’s get you settled in.”

  * * *

  “I sure hope you didn’t come out here empty-handed,” a voice whispered from somewhere in the trees.

  As the farrier and the prince crossed through the tree line in the direction of the voice, Finbar held up the stew pot by the handle with one hand and three spoons with the other. Liam produced a half loaf of bread from under his cloak.

  There they found not only Lairgnen, but Brynmor and Cadwgawn as well.

  While the old troubadour and the elves devoured the leftovers, they filled Finbar and Liam in on the results of their reconnaissance.

  “We make it to be a baker’s dozen,” Brynmor said. “A commander, eight bowmen, and four swordsmen. They are arranged in a classic ambush position, with two lookouts who will alert the others to your progress.”

  “Their first signal, will be their last,” Cadwgawn added. “Then we will send in the diversion.”

  Lairgnen raised his hand, still holding a spoon. “That would be me and Killian. You know the ditty, Digging Peat in the Bog?” he asked.

  Finbar nodded. Liam shook his head.

  “How about A Man from Muraisc?”

  Again a nod from the farrier and a head shake from the prince.

  “Good. You’ll hear me piping Digging Peat in the Bog as Killian and I come toward the glade from the east. When you hear me switch to A Man from Muraisc, that’s your cue to proceed from the west and enter the glade.”

  “What happens then?” Liam asked.

  “This isn’t like a set-dance, lad,” Lairgnen told him, curtly, “where all the moves are pre-arranged. What happens is…what happens. We kill them before they kill us.”

  “We can’t kill them all,” Finbar cautioned. “Even though the ransom directions said that we would find out at the clearing where the exchange is to take place, we all know that that’s not going to happen. We need at least one of them alive to tell us where Paddy is, if my son hasn’t already escaped.”

  Brynmor handed the empty stew pot containing the three spoons to Finbar. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said. “You will not see us again until the arrows start to fly. Oh, and speaking of arrows, Your Highness, please wear this under your cloak.”

  Cadwgawn produced a shell-like vest made of boiled leather. The hardened hide had been fashioned to protect both chest and back. “It is a bit on the uncomfortable side, Your Highness,” he told Liam as he handed him the vest, “but not nearly as unpleasant as having an arrow sticking into you.”

  The prince looked skeptically at the vest as he took it.

  “Fortunately our adversaries are not armed with elfin arrows,” Cadwgawn continued. “This will do the trick, I assure you.”

  Finbar handed the stew pot to Liam. “Head on back, Your Highness. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Once the prince, vest in one hand, stew pot in the other, was out of earshot, the farrier asked, “Okay, how bad?”

  “Not very,” Lairgnen said, lightly. “Sure, we’re outnumbered two to one, but it’s clearly advantage, us, if you’re talking about skill level. They have a mixture of veterans and youngsters. My guess is that the young ones, although enthusiastic as can be, have never been in a real fight before.”

  “Their commander arrived late today,” Brynmor said. “From his appearance and bearing, my guess is that he fought in the War for Independence. He has that seasoned look about him. He and the veterans will be our prime targets, regardless of how near or far they are from us. We will see, then, how well the youngsters function without their leaders.”

  “Once the fighting starts, it will be mostly up to you and me, Finn, to protect both the prince and the Lady Máiréad,” Lairgnen cautioned. “Our elfin archers’ll be primarily on the offensive.”

  The farrier grinned at Brynmor. “Then it’s a good thing I had the presence of mind to put iron tips on that elfin quarterstaff, isn’t it?”

  The old troubadour laughed, while both elves came very close to cracking a smile.

  “Cosaint!” Lairgnen said.

  “Agus Seirbhís!” Brynmor, Cadwgawn, and even Finbar answered immediately.

  Oakday - Wolf 48th

  Central Federal Region

  Dúnfort Cruachan

  The bell in the seaward tower sounded twice, followed by a pause, then another two strikes of the bell, signaling the mid-point of the first watch. Kyna stood, kissed her husband, Eógan, on the cheek, said goodnight to High King Déaglán, his wife Queen Ginebra, Arch-Wizard Faolan, and Field Marshall Gearóid, then started for the door of the great hall.

  “Wait, Kyna, I’ll come with you,” Ginebra called out, rising from her stool. “Then the menfolk can feel free to lie about their exploits without the discomfort of me being here to set the record straight.”

  Laughter followed the two women as they took their leave.

  “I know that the High King very much appreciates the earl and you coming down to Dúnfort Cruachan upon hearing of our son’s kidnapping, Kyna,” a smiling Ginebra said as they walked down the corridor. “In fact, we both do. It was so good of you.”

  The smile belied the queen’s true feelings. The relationship between the two women had never been warm. Both realized that had the late High King Diarmuid chosen Eógan over Déaglán to be his deputy king, it might very well be Kyna now living in the Citadel of Cruachan as queen and not Ginebra. Even the queen’s choice of words, although spoken as an expression of gratitude, had been deliberately calculated to remind the countess of the pecking order—using their husbands’ titles of High King and earl.

  Kyna, no stranger to the game, realized this, of course. Resentment had always headed the list of her own feelings toward Ginebra.

  Masking her bitterness, though, the countess returned the counterfeit smile with one of her own, and replied, sweetly, “We’re family, Your Highness. That’s what families do. Support each other in times of need. Thanks be to An Fearglas that Prince Liam was able to escape his captors.”

  After both women had performed the ritual act of submission, Kyna continued. “And we pray that he will be able to rescue his friend without any complications.”

  “Yes,” Ginebra said, halfheartedly, complete with eye-roll. “But why the High King authorized this mission to save a commoner is beyond my comprehension.”

  “It demonstrates the goodness of his heart, Your Highness,” the countess replied.

  They had reached the second floor of the keep and Kyna, with a small bow, said, “Sleep well, Your Highness. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You as well, Kyna. And, again, thank you so much for your kindness.”

  With the insincerities out of the way, the queen’s lady’s maid, who had been standing outside her mistress’ second-floor bedroom, curtsied and opened the door. As Ginebra entered her room, Kyna continued on up the stairs to the third floor.

  Again the gamesmanship of the titles had not been lost on Kyna. While she always referred to the queen as ‘Your Highness’ during their conversations, Ginebra never used Kyna’s title of ‘Countess,’ but continually called her by her given name.

  Having to walk by Máiréad’s room in order to get to her own, Kyna stopped for a moment. Earlier, Aednat, her daughter’s lady’s maid, had reported that Máiréad had felt a bit under the weather when she had returned from seeing Liam off in Gabhrán Shire, and had decided to rest, requesting that she not be disturbed for the remainder of the day.

  Although the countess knew that Aednat had brought up a dinner tray for Máiréad, she decided to check up on her daughter to make sure her condition
hadn’t worsened. Not wanting to wake the young girl if she were asleep, Kyna simply opened the door, rather than knocking.

  She was greeted by a gasp from inside.

  Sitting at a small table, Aednat had fallen asleep with her head in her arms. Jolted awake by the sound of the door opening, she rose quickly and curtsied, saying, “My Lady!”

  The countess glanced around the room. Even by the light of the solitary candle on the table, she could readily see that Máiréad’s bed had not been slept in.

  “Aednat!” she said, sharply. “Where is my daughter?”

  The girl’s eyes never left the floor. “I…I d…don’t know, exactly, My Lady,” came the answer.

  “Well, when did she leave?”

  “Ear…early this m…morning, My Lady.”

  Kyna was growing more impatient by the moment. “Yes, yes, I know. To accompany Prince Liam to Gabhrán Shire. I mean after she returned. When did she leave again, and where is she now?”

  Still unable to meet the countess’ eyes, the lady’s maid said, very quietly, “She…she didn’t return from Gabhrán Shire, My Lady.”

  “Of course she did,” Kyna replied. “I saw her myself through one of the windows of the keep as she rode to the stables and dismounted. And, besides, you yourself told me she wished not to be disturbed.”

  “I…I lied, My Lady.”

  “You what?!”

  “I…I lied. It…it was I, wearing the Lady Máiréad’s ruana, who returned to the stables with Rionach. She…she accompanied the prince on his mission to rescue the farrier’s son.”

  By now, Kyna was almost beside herself. “And you didn’t see fit to tell me this?! You stupid, stupid, girl. Get out of this room! Now! You’ll spend the rest of your life as a chambermaid to the horses in the stables, mucking out their stalls! Now get out!”

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, Aednat ran past the countess, whining, “But the Lady Máiréad and Finbar swore me to secrecy.”

  “Finbar the farrier?” Kyna asked.

  Aednat stopped, turned to the woman, and bobbed her head up and down as she wiped her eyes and nose. “The Lady Máiréad said she’d explain everything to you when she got back, and that I wouldn’t get in any trouble.” Again the tears started up. “I’m sorry I deceived you, My Lady, but I only did what my mistress asked.” Now, with the tears, came heart-wrenching sobs.

  The countess crossed to the girl, took her roughly by the shoulder, and guided her down the stairs toward the great hall. The unforgiving cast to her green eyes spoke volumes.

  * * *

  “I don’t dispute your authority to make the decision, Your Majesty,” Eógan said as he paced the great hall like a caged animal, attempting to curb his anger. “But I’m her da! I should have at least been informed of the decision!”

  After having let Kyna’s histrionics play out, High King Déaglán had dismissed a weeping Aednat with an assurance that the lady’s maid would not be punished. He then had confessed to Máiréad’s parents that he, himself, had approved the plan to have their daughter covertly accompany Liam on his mission.

  Both the earl and countess had been dumbfounded. After more dramatics from both of them, Kyna sat while Eógan paced.

  “With all due respect, you put her life in jeopardy,” the earl continued.

  “With all due respect,” Déaglán replied, evenly, “by maintaining the secrecy of Máiréad’s presence as a member of the rescue party, I assured that her life would not be put in jeopardy. If no one knows that she’s there providing assistance, then no one will deliberately target her. She is there simply to use her gift to locate any potential danger along the way, not to engage in any fighting. You and Kyna have my personal assurance that the other members of the party will protect her with their lives.”

  After a few moments, Eógan asked, “Who else knows?”

  The High King gestured to Arch-Wizard Faolan and Field Marshall Gearóid, both still sitting at the table, having wisely maintained their silence throughout the row. “And, of course, the other members of Liam’s party,” he added.

  “Who are they?” the earl demanded.

  “That’s need-to-know,” Déaglán answered, getting a bit weary of the argument. “And you don’t.” As he said it, he suddenly realized that he didn’t know, either. Aside from Liam, Finbar, and Máiréad, the farrier hadn’t told him who the others were, and that irked him.

  “But I’m her da!”

  “And I’m your king!” the High King shot back, slamming a hand on the table. “And you’ll keep a civil tongue in your mouth when you speak to me, cousin. You have no need to know the make-up of the rescue party, just that my son and the rest of them will protect your daughter.…You’re upset.” He motioned to Kyna as well. “You’re both upset. I get that. But for this mission to succeed, it requires absolute secrecy. Now go to bed. We’ll discuss this matter again in the morning when we’re all rested and not apt to say anything that anyone will later regret.”

  Yewday - Wolf 49th

  Cairbrigh Shire

  If this is what Cadwgawn thinks is only a bit uncomfortable, Liam thought as he once more stuck his hand under his cloak and tried, again unsuccessfully, to adjust the hard leather vest beneath his shirt, I wonder what he thinks might be really unpleasant. Wait! That’s right! He told me what—an arrow sticking into me. Although, I’m not so sure how the arrow could be any less painful. In hindsight, I should have put the wretched thing on over my shirt.

  The clouds and snow from the night before had moved on out over the Sea of the Dawn and, although a stiff breeze coming in from the west blew bitterly cold, the sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky. From the forest, a couple of jays quarreled with each other, and occasionally a crow’s call could be heard.

  At first light that morning, Liam, Máiréad, and Finbar had thanked Neave for her hospitality, hitched up the farrier’s wagon, and left Tadhg’s forge.

  It was now late morning, a little while since Stumbles and Clover, back together in harness again, had hauled the farrier’s wagon off the Central Road that bisected the Northern Shires, leaving Gabhrán Shire and entering Cairbrigh Shire. The now-too-familiar landmarks told Liam that they were nearing the spot where Donnan the tanner and his wife Ranait had initiated the kidnapping.

  The prince reined the two draught horses to a halt under the pretense of needing a drink. As he reached down and brought up a goat-skin water bag from under the seat, unstoppered it, and put it to his lips, he whispered, “Are you sensing anything at all, Meig?”

  While he took a swig of water, the girl whispered back, “Not a thing. If they’re out there, they’re being really quiet about it.”

  Liam returned the water bag to its place beneath his feet and flicked the reins. Stumbles and Clover started back up again, trudging off toward their destination.

  Finbar, in the back of the wagon with Máiréad, had been honing the edge of his short-sword. He looked over at the girl and said, “When the fracas starts, just lie down flat in the wagon bed, My Lady. And remember, everything will be okay. They’re expecting bowmen and swordsmen from the Cruachanian Defense Forces, not us.”

  “But you said that there are only two elves, and only one swordsman, Finbar. Plus you and Liam. I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but you’re a farrier, not a soldier. And, although I know that Liam has trained under Field Marshal Gearóid, I don’t think he’s ever been in a real fight.”

  “Neither have half the men we’ll be facing, My Lady.”

  “Still, we should have brought more soldiers.”

  “If we had,” Finbar replied, “we’d have given up the element of surprise. Rest assured, our one swordsman is worth four soldiers, and the two elves can outshoot a squad of human bowmen.” He shrugged his shoulders and continued. “And I’m not too shabby, myself, when it comes to a fight. Also, don’t sell the prince short, My Lady. He may be somewhat of a raw recruit, but he’ll be fighting to protect you and to locate his best friend. For him, it’
s not just a job. That counts for a lot.”

  The sound of a crow calling caught the farrier’s ear. Finbar recognized an imitation crow when he heard one. Farther off came another fake caw in response.

  “I think now would be a good time to lie down, My Lady,” he said, slipping his sword into the sheath on his belt, grasping his quarterstaff, and taking a peek out the edge of the front curtain.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Finbar,” Máiréad told him. “You’ll find that I’m not too shabby, either, when it comes to a fight.”

  The farrier glanced back at the little red-haired girl, as she held up the palm of her left hand. Six-inch lightning bolts emanated from all five of her fingers. With her right hand, she was fashioning them into a ball about a span in diameter. Her green eyes flashed a determination that the farrier found almost scary.

  “Just tell me where to aim and when to throw,” she said. “I have an effective range of about six rods.”

  Yewday - Wolf 49th

  Cairbrigh Shire

  All morning long, Yseult had stayed out of sight up in the hawthorn. Siobhán, in her shape-shifted black-mare form, had run around evading two guards with a rope who had tried to capture her. Both Hidden Folk had watched as the two dozen bowmen again took target practice. To the phooka’s trained eye, they hadn’t improved over what they had demonstrated the day before. They still could manage a shot-rate of only six arrows per minute with any degree of accuracy.

  Along about late morning, the archers broke for lunch, all of them retreating to the compound’s longhouse. Only the boss-man, Porky, Slim, the dogs, and the two guards with the rope remained near the corral and the ford.

  It had been nearly twelve hours since Siobhán had snuck over to the corral and had helped herself to some of the hay. Now, as her stomach rumbled, she gazed longingly at the remainder of the half sheaf.

  I suppose I could turn myself back into my human form and try some of Yseult’s broth, she thought, then quickly shook herself from withers to tail as the mere idea disgusted her. Or maybe not.