The Mists of Doom cma-1

by Andrew J Offutt

  They walked for a time in silence, and then Sualtim’s age forced them to skirt to the edge of the declivity down and up which Cormac had yesterday run, so that they added to their journey. Even so, when they were on level ground once again, Sualtim had need of rest.

  “I’d fain hold further converse in the matter of myself, Druid.”

  “Sualtim,” the old man corrected; they were awalk again, entering the wood.

  “That comes not easy on me, Sualtim. Is no easy matter, this being a respectful boy one day and a man the next.”

  “I know, lad. Many things have happed, one tumbling over the other.”

  “Too many. Too swiftly.”

  “I’ll not be denying it, Cormac.”

  “Aengus,” Cormac said, with a sad and uncomprehending shake of his head.

  “If such was indeed his name. Surely he was only a minor peg of others in a game of Brandub, Cormac. A follower of Iosa Chriost-in disguise! Peradventure he wore his real name, too, under a hooded cloak?”

  “Then who?”

  “That,” Sualtim said, “is to be learned.”

  Cormac said nothing. He walked, trying to make his chaotic mind concentrate only on keeping his strides short.

  “Cormac-”

  “I’ve none to seek blood-feud with. And naught for me here but despair, and bitterness and… death, as ye’ve seen for me.”

  “I can deny none of that, Cormac. Your life has been changed. Like skeins taken up by a new blind weaver, the threads of your life are different, all at once. Nor can the same pattern be taken up again.”

  “Why? Why am I singled out, Druid?”

  “Perhaps for something else. Perhaps the gods put geas on you to do that which ye’ve yet to learn. And perhaps not, but only that you may weave your own life, become truly a man.”

  “Alone.”

  It was an ugly word in any language; Cormac’s tone made it the uglier. The druid had no ready reply, and they trudged in silence through the forest.

  “In truth,” Sualtim said after a time, “methinks Behl has no personal interest in any individual. There are too many of us to be overseen.”

  “The-the followers of the Dead God say that His father has personal interest in each person, and animal, and each happening on all the ridge of the world.”

  “So they do.”

  “Methinks Behl is the wiser,” Cormac said, after a time of mulling. “A god must have better things to do and think on than to be interested in Cormac mac Art.”

  “Or should, indeed.”

  “It’s more alone I am than any of those who believe in the Dead God, with His personal interest in them. It’s little praying I’ll be doing in this life, Druid.”

  Sualtim made no reply. They walked, enveloped in woods budding into spring and each man deep in his own thoughts. Though in truth each of them thought on but one of them.

  For a long while they moved thus in silence through the forest, until at last Cormac forced himself to say that which had come to the fore of his mind, again and again, to be thrust back in something approaching horror.

  “I leave, Sualtim.”

  “Cormac-”

  Cormac had said the words; was easier now to say the rest. The decision was made; remained but to make it true, first with words and then with the deed: “I leave at once.”

  “Cormac-” Sualtim trailed off. Then, “I understand. Aye. It is a man’s decision, Cormac.”

  “Sualtim,” the youth said with what was nigh onto sternness, “I do not need that.”

  The druid’s robe-sleeved arm moved, reached out to the tall youth. It dropped without touching his mailed arm. Great sympathy was on Sualtim, and nervousness, too. Yet there was pride; for was he and Art mac Comail-aye, and poor Midhir-who had trained and created this youth who was so strong both in mind and body-and now was forced to prove it.

  “The best horse in Rath Glondarth, Cormac. Art’s horse. You will fly for safety to the northern kingdoms?”

  “It is best, surely.”

  “Methinks it is. And with a sumpter horse behind, and gold in your pack. Cormac. Attend me. I vow to yourself and to Behl that I shall give myself over to discovering the murderers, the identity of the plotters. And when I have information, I’ll be sending for you. Cormac-here. Tarry a moment.”

  They paused amid the trees while Sualtim removed the plain lunula he wore on other than ceremonial occasions. Borrowing the much younger man’s dagger, he scratched a simple rune on its back. The druid returned the knife and bade Cormac note the mark, and commit it to memory.

  “Should one bring this lunula to you, know that Sualtim has learned somewhat and has information and has sent for you. Even so, Cormac-come with care.”

  Cormac nodded wordlessly; in truth just now he trusted not his throat to speak. They walked on through the wood, and Sualtim talked, and talked; his words held advice for a man now, and him alone, without family or land amid strangers. Cormac essayed to be attentive though his mind strove to wander off along the murky and fearfraught paths of might-be.

  When they reached Glondrath, the two had agreed to tell none others of the decision and plan. Cormac took that which was his: his father’s sword and its’ sheath though he left behind the well-known buckler. Art’s great bearhide mantle he took as well, and a few trifles. None would question Sualtim; he it was who loaded himself with salable treasures and supplies sufficient for several days’ travel without hunting. With those packs Sualtim entered the wood until he was out of sight of the rath. Cormac, on his father’s fine black horse, rode along another trail and turned to wend through the trees only when he too was invisible to the people that had been his father’s.

  The two came together in a little glade nigh in the little-used trail that led northeastward through the trees to the northern kingdoms of Eirrin: Ailech where lay Tir Connail, and Airgialla, and Dal Ariadi wherin lay both Dalriada and Ulahd that was Ulster, site of the New God’s main bishopric in Armagh.

  Supplies and wherewithal they transferred to the broad back of Dubheitte: Blackwing, with Sualtim muttering that it was past time the sons of Eirrin emulated even the Romans in some things, and struck coins to simplify trading. The two gazed upon each other, and then Cormac remounted the big black horse that was ever anxious to gallop. Again the two men gazed one upon the other with misty eyes, until the younger suddenly set his jaw very tightly and rode away along the trail that would take him around the mountain that was Glondrath’s northern border. Nor did he look back.

  After him Sualtim called words Cormac had heard from afore: “Cum do ghreim, Cormac, ’s than eagal duit.” And Sualtim Fodla repeated the injunction: “Keep your calm, Cormac, and there is no fear on you.”

  Cormac heard, and rode, and did not look back.

  Perhaps an hour later he drew restless Dubheitte to a halt. He sat, staring at naught, easing the rein so, the horse could worry the short new grass and taste its sweetness. Frowning, Cormac reflected.

  Gods, what thoughts! Behl protect and Crom defend-that it’s to this I’ve come!

  The ugly thoughts, persisted. He had trusted Sualtim all his life. Aye. And so had his father, and Midhir. As all three had trusted Aengus.

  Now, his life shattered at the bloom of manhood and all three men torn from him by treachery and murder, he was no longer certain of anything… or anyone. Dared he trust even his lifelong mentor, a druid of the gods themselves?

  Sualtim would learn nothing, Cormac mused. Sualtim would never send for him.

  And if he did… how could Cormac be sure that he was not thus summoned into a trap?

  O ye gods and blood of the gods! Surely not Sualtim…

  But he could not be certain.

  And only Sualtim knew wither he was bent.

  Nay, he dared trust no one he knew, and no one in this land at all, or in the northern kingdoms; Sualtim knew he was headed thence, and others would guess.

  In an agony that had been unremitting for days and was far more th
an any youth or man should have to bear, Cormac decided. He would ride not north, but eastward, to Leinster. That southeastern kingdom was shrouded by a long history of rivalry with both Connacht and Meath where lay Tara. Aye! And there would he keep open his eyes and ears. Leinster was full of priests; priest-ridden Laigen, Art had called it. There he would seek-with care!-to discover hint of the identity of those who’d ordered his father slain, those who had subverted Aengus mac Domnail.

  And when he learned the name or names, found the men, whether they abode in Leinster or Meath, Munster or little Osraige, Connacth or Ailech, Airgialla or Ulahd or DalRiadia to the far northeast… then would the son of Art take his revenge. Aye and with Art’s own sword, and none would deter him.

  With his youthful face set as granite, he tugged at Dubheitte’s reins, jerking up the horse’s head so that the beast snorted and half reared, eyes rolling for enemy or quarry. Then Cormac clucked and loosed the reins a little, so that Dubheitte set off eastward, toward Leinster, and a new life-and the unknown. Thus did Cormac mac Art depart Rath Glondarth, and Connacht, like a thief in the night. Nor did he glance back.

  PART TWO

  THE KINGDOM OF LEINSTER

  Chapter Six:

  Partha mac Othna of Ulster

  The sky roofed the Leinsterish coast with a deep blue shot with fingers of gold and grey. Along the strand rode a weapon-man. With a low curse of exasperation, he reined in, dismounted, and stepped away from his horse to answer a call of nature grown urgent. He moved overly far from the animal and his booted spear, as it turned out; appearing as if from nowhere, two savages surprised the Gael.

  Dark, squat, half naked, they shrieked awful wolf-howls designed to freeze the very marrow of their prey. The man in the sleeved blue tunic under armour-coat of black leather proved no bloodfrozen rabbit; he defended himself with sword and buckler. The flinty heads of axes clashed on wooden shield and steel clove the air with malevolent whines. Sparks flew from the clash of ax-head and rim of shield.

  Above the strand and a few yards inland, another Gael was peering about in quest of a spot for nightcamp. Without cheer he seemed, and on him the look of one weary of the saddle. Yet at the sounds of armed conflict he straightened and twisted his head about on a thick neck. Erect, rangy and tall in mailcoat and helm, he listened. Then he reined his mount, about, and cantered to the lip of the promontory. Below was beach, and the sea separating Eirrin from Britain. It shimmered out to a slate-hued horizon; the dying sun hovered at world’s edge behind him.

  Moving his great black horse closer to the declivity that ran gently down to the strand, he surveyed the water’s edge.

  He saw the man beset by two Picts, and he saw too what they did not: five more Cruithne were running toward the scene of battle. In a few seconds they would arrive; in a few more the lone Gael would surely be dead-or worse, hacked down and not dead.

  The youthful rider of the black horse did that which he would pause to consider, in years to come: Cormac of Connacht spurred down the slope to the aid of a stranger, presumably a weaponman of Leinster. He made another decision:

  An old warrior had once come to Glondarth, and told Cormac’s father of his years as a reaver. Once he and his fellows had taken a Roman ship, up north of Britain. Amid the spoils was a handsome vase, of Greek origin. The man swore that it depicted mounted Achaians spearing enemies. This, he and Art of Connacht had agreed with laughter, was why the Greeks were governed from Rome! True, such a maneuver was not guaranteed to drive a man straight back off his horse on impact of spearhead with shield or armoured flesh, but the probability was akin to that of a black cloud’s bearing rain. Art’s son watched Midhir and others practice the tactic. They soon decided that were a man not afoot or in a chariot where he belonged, he’d best use ax or sword and consider his spear either as a throwing weapon or excess baggage. Nor was Cormac trained much as a horse-soldier; his people were hardly known for mounted combat.

  Thus he left his spear in its long boot as Dubheitte started his plunge down the, slope to the Leinsterish shore.

  That charge nigh cost Cormac his seat and perhaps more; on a horse without stirrups, a precipitate downhill charge was unwise indeed. He was forced to rein back a bit and do his best to lean against gravity. Clamping his mount with all the strength of both legs, he braced hard against the beast’s neck. Cormac knew a hollowing sensation in his stomach and the feel of being purely a nighhelpless passenger on a juggernaut unmindful of leaving him sprawling behind.

  Below, the battle continued. The five Picts raced to join it.

  Forced to slow, turning his mount, Cormac made another decision. He must forego the element of surprise, else he arrive only in time to avenge-and likely to die, one against seven. For the five would be upon the two battling the man in the blueplumed helmet before Cormac reached them.

  Cormac bellowed out a long-drawn “HO!”

  The beset Gael did not look up. Neither did his two assailants. All three were well occupied in activity requiring their full attention.

  The five Cruithne took note, and froze, half-turned to stare at the huge black beast that now reached the foot of the sloping hill. Dubheitte lengthened his stride immediately he felt level soil beneath his hooves, however sandy. The horse charged as though he’d been weaned on Picts. Having taken no time to think and with no better, tactic in mind, Cormac gave the beast his head. With shield on left arm and sword in hand, he let Dubheitte gallop free. Blackwing sped as if he did, indeed possess wings.

  The dark warriors seemed unable to believe the horse would not swerve. Dubheitte had no such intention. At the last possible moment his quarry began to scatter. A vicious sidearmed upstroke opened the dark-skinned back on Cormac’s right, from hip to shoulder. To the left a Pict moved an instant too slowly, and Dubheitte’s forehoof destroyed the stocky man’s ankle. Then the animal was through them, galloping on.

  Straightened from his sword-slash, Cormac had to tense and lean a bit leftward; with nothing against which to brace his feet, he could only grip the horse’s sides. Fifteen pounds of shield on his arm aided him in righting himself. Then, awkwardly, he used his sword-hand to drag at the horse’s reins.

  The excited animal was unwilling to halt. He fought his rider’s tug by leaning into it, slewing leftward. Ahead, one of the two Picts hemming the other Gael heard the drum of hooves and glanced around. Cormac had a fleeting glimpse of the blueshirted man catching the ax-blow on his shield while he danced one-legged: he groin-kicked him who had been unable to resist looking away.

  Dubheitte made a turn that was almost too tight on itself and his rider hung on with legs straining powerfully enough to interfere with the beast’s breathing. Cormac was dismayed to see that his charge had not downed the enemy whose back he’d opened; that Pict was on his feet and braced for the Gael’s return charge for all that blood washed down his dark back and leg.

  Damn the training that spoke against sheathing a blooded blade! Cormac had a spear and knew how to throw it. Surely a good cast would remove one enemy.

  Dragging his complaining mount to a pause long yards from the five Cruithne, Cormac committed the reprehensible act of sheathing his blood-smeared sword. He unlimbered his spear and raised it. At the same time as he hurled it, he drummed his heels and grunted “Go!” Dubheitte lurched anew into a gallop. Again the youth was in danger of losing his seat. But with sword in hand and shield on arm he remained mounted-and unloosed another wild yell.

  Matters still went less than superbly for the weapon-man turned horse-soldier. The five Cruithne had scattered. One lay grimacing, with his splintered ankle; Cormac had made his cast at the two who stood close together. The cast missed. Nevertheless their dodging insured that neither of them would make a good return throw at once, and Cormac twitched Dubheitte toward two others: a spear wielding Pict stood over his companion of the crushed foot.

  The big horse bearing down on him must have looked like a tumbling black boulder. The Pict launched his spear too hastil
y. The long ashen shaft went so high that Cormac hardly had to duck.

  Moments later that savage’s head was rolling on the sand and his downed comrade was blinded by the gouting blood. The headless corpse toppled over him. Again their foe was through. Now four Cruithne lived, and two of those were of considerably reduced menace. At least he’d kept them all from the other Gael.

  Man and rider leaned through another turn. This time Cormac lengthened its arc, the while he took time to glance at the enemy. That proved wise: carefully leading the horse with a practiced stare, a silent Pict hurled his spear. His eye was as good as his arm. Cormac only just interposed his shield in time. With a great bam sound, the spearpoint struck his shield, drove into the wood-and stuck.

  Dubheitte came about and lengthened his leggy stride into a third charge. His rider’s shield-arm was dragged down by the long pole standing from the buckler’s face. Managing to swerve his mount, Cormac made use of the liability: the spear-haft swept the wounded Pict off his feet. Another jabbed as Cormac plunged past and the youth’s swordblade struck that spear aside. And again he was through them, at the gallop-and frustrated. Too, the impact of spear-butt with Pictish calves had torn the point free of Cormac’s shield with a jerk that would give him an aching arm-later, when he had time to notice.

  Though mac Art bent low to lessen the possibility of a spear in the back, none was hurled. He had at least disconcerted his chosen enemies.

  Even then he smiled; the man to whose aid he’d come was yanking his sword out of the belly of his standing opponent. The other lay doubled from the kick he’d taken to his stones; the blue-shirted Gael plunged the bloody sword into his side and gave it a vicious twist. Two pair of Pictish legs kicked reflexively.

  Dubheitte wanted to return to what he took to be his business. Cormac worked at slowing the animal and keeping him on a steady course of the other Gael. That man grinned and waved a dripping sword, then ran to his own horse. The chestnut-hued animal shied and flared his, nostrils at the scent of blood. His master spoke low rather than cursed, while Cormac, grimly smiling, held Dubheitte in check-semi-check. The other man mounted.