“Hmp! I struck him before I thought, when I saw the knife,” she said, and tossed the stool so that Cormac had to jerk a leg from its path. “No child am I to have need of a long-nosed protector-certainly not a buffoon with a backwoods haircut and wrists like the slabs of pork ye doubtless raise and slaughter!” With her eyes she directed the bemazed youth’s attention to the unconscious Scumac. “It’s perfectly able I am of taking care of myself-see? Which is more than I can be saying for yourself, soldier; but for me he’d have divided your shoulderblades by another quarter-inch!”
A speechless Cormac mac Art watched her step across Scumac, nudge his nephew neatly so that he dropped from hands and knees into his own vomit, and storm from the inn in a swirl of worn off-white skirts and hair like dancing flames.
The minstrel rose and made as if to follow. At the door, he turned.
“Nothing harmed, Lasrian, I see; good for you a member of the Royal Army was here to restore order. Bad cess to yourself an these two don’t clean up their own mess, Brughaid! The nephew’s been eating his dulse half-chewed, I see.” Blue eyes switched their calm gaze to Cormac, and in them he saw youth, and amusement. “Weapon-man: it’s far better ye are with your arm than at the judging of womankind!”
And with a wink, the minstrel too departed.
Women, Cormac thought, feeling very warm and very confused. Hmp! But a girl, no more than fourteen-ummm. Well… hardly so mature as I, though. Upbringing will out, as Sualtim’s said so many time.
“Ah… soldier… member of the Royal Army, there… would ye be helping me stretch Scumac and Blai over there by the wall? Corpse-imitating drunks lying about the floor do business no good. And might I be suggesting that it must be time for ye to be seeking your camp?
Still feeling the heat that betokened his flush, Cormac helped Lasrian move the victims. Blai had passed out and his uncle was snoring, despite the fact that he lay on his belly. The chagrined youth nerved himself to ask about the minstrel-and the girl, as if she were an afterthought. Lasrian vowed not to know either, and was sorry the minstrel had left. Cormac’s impression was that minstrels were far more welcome than “backwoods buffoons” such as he’d heard himself called. He decided it was indeed time he returned to the company of weapon-men, whom he understood. Cas mac Con could take care of himself.
So can I, Cormac thought, so long as I be staying clear of Carman’s strange women!
The unsung hero of the Blue Shamrock departed it. Directions were easily asked, and got. He made his way through a Carman dim with its closeset buildings beneath a lowering sun in an overcast sky, The while, he took note of how these city Leinstermen had their hair trimmed. Hair and its grooming were important to all of Eirrin, and those words of the girl’s had hurt.
Too, he frequently held up and turned for his inspection the thick stout wrists Art and Midhir had ever spoken so highly of.
Slabs of pork? Lugh smite her backside!
Thankless blowze! The two slabs of pork lie on Lasrian’s greasy floor!
With such thoughts to cheer him and aid in the regaining of his pride, the young weapon-man of Connacht returned to the camp.
During and after dinner among his fellow Blueshirts, as Leinster’s soldiery were called, Cormac had opportunity to ask a number of questions. People loved to answer questions about their lands and their ways, he discovered swiftly, and were thereby made happy to ask none. Several of his queries he directed at Forgall, about the way he’d kicked that Pict on the beach. Forgall laughed and pointed out that when men were at the business of striving to do death on one another, it were manifestly stupid to be mindful of rules, and to confine oneself only to edge of blade. There was, he said rather archly, the sword’s point. There was the buckler’s edge, and its boss.
“And the feet,” Cormac said; he knew that other.
Aye, Forgall said, and one did have to practice; he’d seen Cormac kick that day, and lose his balance.
“Ye did! Ye said naught; methought I’d tumbled so foolishly unseen.”
“Blood of the gods, man, ye were after saving my life!”
Later, Cormac eschewed the story-telling, the games of brandub and the dicing. Rather surreptitiously, he betook himself outside, and around behind the barracks where a bit of moonlight whitened the ground. There he spent many minutes alone in the gloom, swinging sword and shield and dancing about on one foot whilst kicking viciously with the other, at nothing. He fell more than once.
Then rain commenced to patter down, and left off his strange practice to join his fellows indoors. Had any asked, he’d have sworn he gave no thought to a flame-haired, fiery-tempered inn-girl. But then he’d told them other lies, too.
Chapter Eight:
The Flame-Lady
On the morning of the morrow, Forgall announced sword-training, and gave command into the hands of Bress. The captain, attired in his best, entered Carman for a conference. All knew the subject: the Cattle Tribute.
Each man in the barracks armoured and armed himself: their swords were of wood, wrapped again and again with wide strips of leather. Bress marched them to the training area. Complaints arose; the rain had fallen long and long last night, and the field was become little more than a bog. He who lost in these mock-combats would receive a mudbath.
“So he will,” Bress said. “Only the losers, though. It’s weapon-men of Leinster we are, not children!”
“Why make mudpies then,” someone grumbled.
When Bress demanded to know who had spoken, none would tell. Bress of the Long Arm chose three judges, and set to choosing teams of two. The men of each pair would fight each other. The judges announced mud-rules: ordinarily a man adjudged to have sustained a wound was required to continue his combat on his knees. In order that none might have to kneel in inch-deep mud-and worse-this day, the “wounded” would forfeit bucklers, which would certainly cripple them in ability.
Soon the field was noisy with the banging of swords of wood-and-leather on shields and helms and armour, along with the grunts and muttered curses of men and the sluck of booted feet drawing out of the mud. Too, there were splashes. Well to one side, the judges watched. Well to the other, Bress kept keen watch, that unfortunately good-looking, sorrel-haired man, a tall and haughty superb warrior all wished were not so striking-or so sour.
Cormac mac Art did not know that it was on himself Bress had fixed his gaze. The supposed Ulsterman took his opponent’s slash on his buckler, turned the blade away, and struck a swift “killing blow.” Thus was Donal the Slender embarrassed-though he did not fall, and was at least unmuddied.
Bress approached; then was time, he said, to test this great slayer of Picts from… wherever he said. “What is it your name is again, Slayer of Picts?”
Cormac was determined not to be provoked. “Partha mac Othna, Battle-leader.”
“Ah. Well… obviously this is an off-day for Donal.” Bress looked about. “Eochu! Eochu Lightning-hand-hither man. Ye face, uh, Partha.”
And with a little smile on his sensuous lips, Bress stepped back. Others watched, then, whilst Eochu came tramping sloshily toward Cormac, staring fixedly at him over his shield-rim. He stomped to a halt in battle-stance with his toes practically at Cormac’s. “Ha!” Eochu cried, but none saw the new man twitch. 142
Cormac circled in silence, keeping his shield ever foreward and his sword ready, away from his body at the side. Eochu made attack; Cormac caught stroke and then backstroke on his shield and smote Eochu’s helmet. The blow was pronounced not so hard as to have dented the steel, were the blade a real one. Nodding, Cormac slashed instantly upward at Eochu’s face; Eochu’s shield leapt up and in mid-stroke Cormac turned his elbow over and thrust over the shield. The blunt tip of the practice-sword ‘struck Eochu’s forehead even as Eochu’s edge banged off Cormac’s shield.
Eochu was adjudged dead-in truth, his brain was hardly his own for a time.
Bress called for Cethern of Dinn Rig. A groan arose from the others-and a minute later
, adjudged wounded, Cethern had to forfeit his shield. Feeling naked, defenseless, he decided to attack violently in an attempt to take Cormac first. Cethern tried; Cethern “died:” Bress’s jaw twitched, so tightly did he clench his excellent white teeth. Men were cheering the foreign recruit. Slayer of Picts, indeed! Also “slayer” of Donal, and Eochu, and Cethern, and Bress’s plans for his muddy defeat.
“A man of prowess,” Bress said, through his teeth. Still the words sounded sneery, rather than complimentary. “Would ye be trying two at once, Man of Prowess?”
“NO!” That cry came from many throats.
From Cormac’s: “Aye, Battle-leader. It’s yourself commands, and a Blueshirt obeys!”
And so two men came, veterans slogging in mud, one in chain and the other in leather. Their fellows watched in stiff-lipped silence, tense, and accusing looks were shot at Bress mac Keth. He stood watching, eyebrows arched, chin high so that he seemed to be gazing down upon the three men a dozen feet away.
Cormac met them both, and took four great loud strokes on his buckler and with his sword struck aside a fifth and took another on his shield ere he saw his opening and stabbed one of the twins so that the man were certainly dead, had the sword been of steel. Cormac did not pause to note the man’s withdrawal, as no verdict of the judges was necessary; mac Art had still another foeman.
The youth was beginning to sweat. The sun brought a wriggly mist up from the water-soaked field. One blow the supposed Ulsterman took: was but a glancing one on his mailed upper arm, and all knew it would be hardly so much as a distraction to a man in combat.
“The boy swings like a farmer sowing grain, Fithil! What hinders ye, man?” This from Bress, in encouragement of Cormac’s opponent.
Cormac and Fithil circled, staring each at the other over rim of shield. Fithil feinted; Cormac interposed shield and feinted in return; both men aborted their strokes and moved restlessly; staring, ever staring.
“What hinders him is Partha mac Othna!” someone called, and other voices arose in assent. One of those voices belonged to first-bested Donal, who felt not so bad now he’d seen the youth dispose of so many others.
Cormac was forced to backtrack swiftly. In the mud he nearly fell, and Fithil pressed in. His sword banged loudly on Cormac’s buckler; Cormac’s blade rapped as loudly on Fithil’s left thigh. Adjudged crippled, Fithil would on better terrain have sunk to his knees. Amud, he discarded his shield and crouched low.
“Stick the boy in the stones, Fithil!”
To that encouraging cry from another partisan Bress added, “If he has any!”
“Together the two of ye might have four!” someone else bellowed at Bress.
“If the Ulsterman has three!” And great laughter arose.
Cormac grinned; Fithil grinned; Fithil risked all in a long lunge. Cormac had to leap to avoid that drive at his legs. He came down with a splash-and a ringing stroke of his sword atop Fithil’s unadorned helmet. There could be no doubt of the efficacy of that blow; Fithil was “dead.”
This besting of two opponents at once upset Bress, who had chosen two fine weapon-men to teach the Ulsterish boy a lesson. They had failed him. It appeared that but one man in Leinster could teach that lesson: taking Fithil’s sword of leather-wrapped wood, Bress advanced on the dark young recruit. Again a silence moved over the gathering, though a few men groaned. Cormac heard some of the murmurs; Bress mac Keth was Champion of Leinster!
Aye, and in seconds Cormac knew that here was a match; Bress was beyond merely good. Too, the man had much reach on him. When Cormac was at the length of his own sword and arm, Bress was still dangerous, able to inflict the deadly wound, because of the length of his arms.
“Many men have this or that skill or gift of the gods on their side,” Midhir mac Fionn had told him, more than once, for Midhir had seldom said anything meaningful only once. “Discover that. Respect that. And then seek to discover what weakness he has that works against him, for I have seen no more than five or six weapon-men in all my days who had not some weakness for the exploiting.”
Cormac sought, while with Bress mac Keth he fought a different sort of match; the match of two who were better than good, and knew it, and respected each the other’s ability. They took their time, ever shifting, feinting, circling, testing, side-stepping, essaying strokes that were hastily blocked and as hastily aborted while the attacker covered himself. Each tried using his swift-shifting eyes to lie about where he intended to strike; neither succeeded, for the other recognized the strategem in time. The sound of leather-wrapped wood on shield boomed and rolled out across the muddy field. All about them stood staring men, their booted feet invisible in mud so that all appeared to stand on stumps. And there was much murmuring, though it was very quiet.
Cormac attacked, erred, and caught a stroke to the shoulder that was adjudged wounding. Indeed, he felt it through padded coat and mail. Unhappily, he was told he could use his buckler no longer. Cormac loosed it and sent the round shield spinning as though it weighed much less than its fifteen pounds; one man ducked, another tried to catch it, and a third succeeded. The second nursed a backbent finger.
Shield-less, Cormac gazed into the grinning face of Bress Long-arm.
Already the youth had noted that Bress did not fight as Forgall did, for Bress was excellent, and longer of arm; he was proud to use sword alone. Pride. And temper. Aye. Cormac’s youthful eyes narrowed to slits and his brain raced.
Now, against an unshielded opponent, Bress succumbed to over-confidence: pride in ability. He came boring in, covering himself well while he loosed a flurry of short strokes.
With his own sword Cormac batted away one, then ‘two and then three cuts. Realization was on him that he’d not be allowed to attack; Bress would keep him busy using sword as defense only, and certainly find the opening to strike a killing blow. Accordingly Cormac bashed away a short cut with all his might, so that his arm shivered with the impact. He came back high with his own blade, drawing Bress’s shield up-and whipped out a foot to kick Bress in the shin.
Bress lurched. His right foot skidded in the mud. The edge of his padded wooden blade, hard-swung, banged the side of Cormac’s helm-and further unbalanced the champion. Bress Long-arm fell into the mud with a great splash that spattered Cormac as high as his chin. He did not notice; his head rang from what be knew was a killing blow.
All about Bress and the youth standing over him lofted whoops of laughter. Bress’s great glower soon evaporated that noise. A judge’s voice called out: Partha mac Othna was dead of a cloven head, with helmet-steel in his brain.
“Over-ruled!” Bress bawled, from the muck. “Was the flat of my blade only!”
Cormac would have seen grins and winks directed his way, but he was watching his downed opponent. Pride and anger, Cormac mused. Those are Bress’s weaknesses. I’ll be remembering. But… now he wants me not “dead.” He belies his own stroke, so that he may rise and tumble me into this sludge!
He gave Bress that opportunity. Cormac made no move to attack the downed man who, in an effort to rise, slipped and splashed down anew. Cormac banged his blade against his own chest. All knew he could have struck Bress then, and won, in accord with Bress’s own altered rules. And Bress knew. It was enough. Backing two paces, Cormac assumed a position of readiness, though he bore no shield. He waited.
Bress began to come up, mud dripping from him. He was enraged and yet forced to take care lest he slip and fall anew. Every man stood watching as if ensorceled. Bress Big-foot would make much more of this…
Forgall’s shout made every-man jerk.
“Ho, what a fight! What a well-matched pair these be! I was telling you, Bress! Only yourself could have come to my aid a few days agone the way Partha did!”
Forgall came up grinning, holding up his dress plaide from the mud. His wide-open face showed only good cheer and delight. “But-it’s yourself was to be teacher this day, Bress. It seems the student has been at the giving of lessons!”
> Hearty laughter leaped up all about and provided the wings on which tension fled. Bress muttered a few words about having slipped in the mud.
“I saw,” Forgall said smiling, looking fondly from Bress to Cormac and back.
“In truth was Bress struck the blows,” Cormac said. “He both wounded me and, in my thinking, slew me.”
“Och!” Forgall cried in delight. “What a pair of weapon-men!”
Bress did not acknowledge Cormac’s kind words. Nor dared he fault the recruit on his foot use. Was fair, and Forgall’s way of fighting, he offsetting his short-waistedness by such means; was the sensible way.
A rather startled Cormac tried mentally to examine his sudden revelation. Why, Forgall was more ingenuous than he! Had Forgall been Bress he’d have laughed; Forgall had no intention of rubbing salt into Bress’s figurative wounds with his words of teacher and student, for the captain was a good-natured weapon-man who respected those of equal and superior skill. To Forgall, it must be hardly conceivable that such as Bress and Partha did not love each the other.
Then, thinking on that, Cormac mac Art glanced up as a mucky Bress mac Keth slogged away, and the youth caught the other’s darkly vengeful look.
To Forgall, was all a game; he loved fighting, even to the death that day with the Picts. To Bress: exaltation of another was not to be tolerated-nor was defeat or minor humiliation. Cormac resolved to think hard on both men, and to attempt to mould himself accordingly.
Forgall took up a comanding position and shouted his news.
“On the morrow we march northward, for the Boruma time is upon us. The victors in to-day’s little combats are at their leave-to clean up and betake themselves wheresoever they will… you who won not must practice the more. For it’s your very lives are at stake, boys. Bress… Battle-leader… would ye be remaining with them?”
The request was that, a request and ultra-politely made; obviously Bress could not refuse. He nodded.
Cormac and those others who’d won their encounters returned to the barracks. Rather more than one of his fellows let him know how they had loved seeing Bress Lamfhada mac Keth put into his place: the mire. Cormac accepted their accolades in good fellowship and kept silent his total agreement.
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