The Mists of Doom cma-1

by Andrew J Offutt

  Bress Lamfhada did not come.

  Cormac rose everyday, and walked.

  Nevertheless he was an impatient patient, and by the time he was allowed to leave the Royal Hospital, a bad patient. By then May was twenty days old.

  On the next day he submitted to an hour of aid in bathing, and shaving, and hair-clipping and -combing (below the bandage)-it hurt-and even to help in dressing. He and the others who were all that remained of Forgall’s Fifty went to fulfill a royal request: to see the king himself. Their fellows were astonished at Bress’s words; he allowed that it was too bad so many good men lay in the ground, while the gods suffered their world still to be cluttered by this Ulsterish boy.

  Cormac stopped short, just within the King-house. He stared; Bress met the stare, and tense men stood about, watching them both.

  “Say it, Ulsterish boy! And among my Fifty it’s fiftieth ye’ll be-and worse.”

  “Know this, Bress,” Cormac said very quietly, and even Bress blinked; was the first time his insults and sallies had had answer of the youth. “Neither of us is boy, and neither of us is coward, or foreigner. And no matter what may result, it’s in no Fifty of yours I’ll be serving-or squad of ten, or five.”

  Bress drew in a breath. Beside him, Eoghan said, “Nor I.”

  “Nor I,” Cond agreed, and then Laeg who was now Laeg One-arm, and then Donal of Maghnamadra and then-a new voice came, and quiet it was, and all wheeled to stare.

  “Nor would I,” General Conan the Wolfish said, stepping from behind an enormous oaken pillar all bound with brass. “Nor will any of ye be serving anyone at all, an ye keep waiting our king himself!”

  And like egg-sucking dogs, the chastised heroes went in to see the king.

  They emerged much praised, and rewarded, and Cormac’s genius praised for having made a great decision and plan that cost so few lives when so many might have been lost. They emerged from that audience dizzy, and joyously happy all but one, who was infuriated but silent, for these eight were to be the nucleus around which a new Coichte was to be built, and its captain was named by General Conan and approved most heartily by the king, and his name was Partha mac Othna.

  Chapter Sixteen:

  The Trouble with Honour

  That summer was for Cormac mac Art one of unequalled and almost uninterrupted happiness and serenity. Totally invisible were the terrible black clouds gathering over his head. Storm seemed to have left his life.

  New Fifty-chief Partha mac Othna was allowed to pick one man from each of ten other Fifties to form his own Coichte around himself and the new veterans who had served under Forgall mac Aed. Ten more veterans were transferred to his command. These were chosen by General Conan Conda, who was more knowledgeable and more the soldier than Fergus Buadach, the “palace general.” The recruits who completed the number of men under the supposed Ulsterish youth were in need of training.

  Cormac held counsel with himself, for his command brought problems with it. Then he conferred with other leaders. All commented that he had chosen good men from their ranks, though never the very best. That, he told them, had been deliberate, and all believed their younger peer. All were pleased to listen to his problem, and to offer advice.

  Having heard of those meetings, a Commander of Three Thousand called for Partha. He offered his counsel. And then Partha/Cormac went to General Conan Conda, whom he respected. Conan the Wolfish, too, was pleased to offer advice.

  Next Partha announced that his Coichte would be called neither Partha’s Fifty nor Tara-baiter, but after Forgall. Men there were who wept at that, and respect for the honourable Partha mac Othna broadened.

  An enemy remained, one who carefully, necessarily gave the appearance of respect, but was nevertheless disdainful and ever a trifle surly-just enough so that Cormac could not mistake it. This was his problem, and he’d had much advice on the matter, and given it much thought. That problem was surprised when the captain of Coichte Forgaill quietly requested a most private conference.

  The two of them rode out of camp together, ostensibly to test a new team of chariot horses. Soon, on the back pasture of the farm of Bresal Angair, the chariots stood idle while the horses happily cropped grass. It stood high and rich with the brilliant green of June.

  “It’s Champion of Leinster ye be, Bress Lamfhada,” Cormac said, to a man hardly at his ease, “and the rank of Battle-leader. Men are honoured to be trained by your expert self. Up on Magh Broin in the Boruma matter, and at Slieve Argait against the Picts, ye did distinction on yourself yet again, and in valour and in passing ability.”

  Bress sat staring, forgetting in his surprise to look supercilious or even disdainful, and yet sorely afflicted with wonder. What would follow this preamble of praise? Cormac spoke on.

  “No certainty has ever been on me as to the reason for your instant dislike of me. Mayhap we cannot be friends, Battle-leader. That is not fortunate for we be two of the very best, and each of us knows it.”

  Bress continued to stare; Bress continued silent.

  “Now the king and our general have made matters more difficult for us both. It’s I have the post I neither expected nor requested. It’s you were Forgall’s second, and expected command. It gives us a problem, and thus Leinster a problem.”

  “Leinster?”

  “Aye. For the very reason that we are among her very best. So will Forgall’s Fifty be. If none of those new men can come up to what we expect, I’ll be trying to have them transferred to duties that should never require them to fight.”

  “Is that-do ye threaten me?”

  “Bress, Bress! I do not. I speak of others: recruits. What man wants other than the best beside him, in the shield-splitting? Mayhap Coichte Forgaill will never have to fight. It’s best we’ll be, anyhow. No, Bress. We are here because we have great need to talk, to come to agreement-even if it is to disagree. It’s Champion of Leinster ye be. No other would I rather have training men in my command. No other, Battle-leader. Yet if it’s enemies we must be, then all will know. They will feel it, however we dissemble. In that event all would be the better were yourself to be honouring the command of another captain.”

  Cormac raised a staying hand then as Bress opened his mouth to speak, with the look of hostility on him. “A moment, Battle-leader. Tell me now, or by morning an ye wish. Will ye remain with us, with both of us trying to get along as fellow weapon-men of excellence-with a great responsibility, Bress, to these score and more of inexperienced new lads-or would ye prefer that we make a heroic announcement?”

  “I-what d’ye mean, Captain?” For Bress called Cormac naught else, with care. “A heroic announcement?”

  “Aye. We both know we be good. Others know. We could be going to the general, tell him we think it best for Leinster were we in separate Fifties, that they may be the two best.”

  “It’s a high opinion ye bear of yourself.”

  “Bress: I do. If the general agrees, we request that he make such an announcement. Will be good for the army of Leinster, and thus Leinster, for our abilities to be put to use training a hundred men, rather than fifty. And-” Cormac smiled, “naturally our Fifties will be rivals. That could only benefit Leinster.”

  Bress remained squatting for a long while in silence. He rose. When he paced a few steps to lean against a tree, Cormac also straightened; both warriors knew what was good for the legs.

  “Ye could go yourself to Conan Conda, or Fergus Buadach himself most likely, and merely ask that I be transferred.”

  “I could have done, Battle-leader,” Cormac said.

  “Ye’re already after talking with several captains-and with General Conan.”

  Cormac said nothing. He’d known for a long while that Bress spied upon him. At last Bress saw that the captain would not break the lengthening silence.

  “Yet… ye give me the choice.”

  “Bress: I do.”

  “Nor have ye aught of reason to like me or honour me. Why, then?”

  “I do have r
eason to do honour on Bress Lamfhada. He has done it on himself, in training, in the Games at fair-time, and in the shield-splitting combat. How can one not respect Bress of the Long Arm?”

  Bress thought about that. “It’s no need I have of your respect, Partha mac Othna! I need no honouring from yourself! I will fight ye now. Or any time. I do not like ye, Captain.”

  Because I saved Forgall, Cormac mused, when on his death ye’d surely have become his successor? Or for some other reason? Because I claim to be of Ulster and ye hold some grudge, bigot? Because I seemed-was!-the bumpkin, or just gained too much attention all on a sudden?

  “I know, Bress. I willnot fight ye, though. Not in words or with arms, and I know ye’ve striven to goad me to it.” Abruptly Cormac almost smiled-almost, but not quite. “Unless it be next year at Carman’s Fair, for Leinster’s championship!”

  “And be welcome! And why not this year?”

  “This year is the Great Fair at Tara. Only once every three years is it held-and the Games. Ye deserve the chance to compete for the Championship of all Eirrin, Bress. Besides-already ye’ve done defeat on me, that first day I was here.”

  Bress gazed upon the other man in the long-sleeved tunic of Leinster blue. He shook his head, with a stirring in the air of his helm’s blue plume. “I have no belief in any man’s being so honourable, Captain. I cannot accept such consideration. I look for other reasons.”

  Cormac heaved a sigh. “From your mind comes that, Battle-leader, not mine.”

  For a long while they were silent, gazing one upon the other, and both were most aware of their helms, and armour, and of the blades by their sides,

  “Captain,” Bress said, “I will speak to ye, on the morrow.”

  Cormac nodded. He’d given Bress till then to decide. He knew both anticipation and apprehension as they rode back… not that Bress might decide to transfer to another’s command, but that he might wish to remain. For Cormac would love to get on with this man who was so very good a warrior. Yet he did not relish daily proximity. Had it not been for his plaguing sense of honour, he’d have done what Bress had said: He’d have asked that the man be transferred elsewhere, that mac Art might handle his men in peace and happiness.

  Hours and hours later, an aide to General Conan came to Cormac. The general would have converse with him: Now. Cormac cloaked himself against the night’s misty chill and hurried with the aide to the house where the general both lived and held office. Cormac was most surprised to find Bress there, afore him.

  “Captain,” the general said from behind his finely-carved oaken desk, “I ask ye to relate to me, now, what ye talked of this afternoon with Bress mac Keth.”

  Surprised, Cormac looked at Bress. What showed those eyes under the superciliously arched brows… nervousness? Apprehension? Surely not fear! Cormac set his gaze on the general’s face, and did his best to recount all his and Bress’s words to each other.

  “And that be all, Captain Partha?”

  Cormac knew it was, but felt obliged to make a show of reflection. Then he said, “Aye, General.”

  The general turned to Bress Long-arm who stood to his left, and looked upon him, and said nothing, and looked… until Bress looked away.

  At last General Conan spoke. “Bress mac Keth, ye have defended Leinster well, and the Games at last year’s fair proclaim ye the best weapon-man in the realm. It is a shame on us all, then, that ye be unbearable, and a troublemaker, and with no such honour on yourself as many lesser men-and a liar as well. I will not incarcerate or discharge from the army Leinster’s Champion. Nor could I trust ye even in one of our border outposts. Best I know precisely where ye are, and can keep these eyes on ye. Accordingly on the morrow I will make announcement that I have want of a seasoned Battle-leader on my staff, and it’s yourself will volunteer at once.”

  Bress spoke quietly, looking at the general’s desk-top. “Aye, General.”

  “Go.”

  Bress left; Conan turned his pale blue eyes on the astounded Cormac. The general lifted a hand to push fingers through his thinning flaxen hair, and he sighed.

  “I’ll not ask why he dislikes ye so, Partha, and I’d not wager ye know. Nor will I tell ye what he told me. Lies. Avoid him, Partha, and do not trust him.”

  “General, it’s-”

  “Assembly an hour after breakfast, Captain. An announcement from the general. Go.”

  And Cormac went.

  And so that problem was solved, without being solved, for Cormac had no doubt but that Bress’s mind was well capable of twisting matters so that the man he knew as Partha was responsible for his removal from activity. Indeed, the days passed slowly for mac Keth that summer, for he had no specific duties whatsoever but was called on now and again to carry this message or call that man for the general. Nor did Cormac mac Art ever know what Bress had told their commander, who had heard him out, and sent at once for Cormac, and had without other comment bidden Bress utter not one word whilst Cormac spoke… and who had believed Cormac instantly.

  For mac Art the days went swiftly.

  He was his own training-master, aided by the stern, hardly imaginative but superbly competent veteran he made his second. And many nights passed all too swiftly, too, in Samaire’s company. And summer lengthened.

  From time to time the new captain saw the new aide to the general. From time to time he thought of Sualtim, and the approach of the Great Fair at Tara, and of the Assembly of Kings later. Sualtim came not. The paths of mac Keth and mac Art crossed not. Once Cormac waited a long, long hour for Samaire to keep a tryst, and then allowed his disappointment to be alleviated by another, and her older and most willing. Upon learning that Samaire had been unable to get away from the King’s House that evening and durst not send word either, Cormac felt guilt, and did not like it. Yet he liked no better the realization that he wished to remain constant to a woman with whom there could be no future.

  And July came. Coichte Forgaill went out on maneuvers with four other Fifties, and acquitted itself superbly, new men included. Well trained they were; so said Fergus Buadach most publicly while Conan Conda smiled at his side. And July steamed on, and days came and went, and the Great Fair drew nigh.

  In a room in an inn of Carman of Leinster, a pair of youths lay embracing and avowed their love. She wanted only to live out her life with him, Samaire said, and bear his sons. He wanted the same, Partha told her with sadness on him, but such could never be. He was but a weapon-man, and she the king’s daughter. She sought to argue and dissuade, though was not logical or truly reasoned or reasonable.

  And that evening, lying abed staring at an inn’s ceiling in Carman, he told her who he was, and why he’d left Connacht, and why he lived with a name not his own. She told him that she cared not and showed him, as well, and avowed that there must be a way for them.

  He wanted that too, he told her, holding her to him and pretending not to be aware of her tears. It would be pleasant to believe, he mused, that they could surmount or smash through all obstacles, or even flee them. But the sense of honour was strong in the son of Art of Connacht in this matter as in that of Bress when he’d given the man his choice that day in June. In him too was a druid-trained pragmatism, and Cormac saw no way. She must be wed to some prince or king, thus to make alliance and bear Leinsterish sons to rule elsewhere. Such was the way of kings, and their daughters.

  In truth Cormac knew in his mind that were far better he depart Leinster and hope they two could forget each other. Yet being that practical was a pain within him, and he did not say it aloud or make unbreakable resolve. He hoped still that Sualtim would bring word or send word, and that somehow all problems would be solved thus. Sure, and even that practical mind was a youth’s; he entertained ridiculous and colourful thoughts of himself showing up the High-king for a plotting bit of low-life, and being forced then to defend himself from Lugaid’s rushing attack, and slaying him, and being proclaimed High-king by the other monarchs assembled, so that all proffered gifts a
nd daughters on him, and he reached forth his hand to the sunny daughter of Leinster’s king.

  These were dreams, he told himself, holding that sunny daughter, and unworthy.

  At last it was time for her to depart the inn, and him. They would be apart for weeks: the king and his entourage left on the day after the morrow to be travelling Leinster, and visiting in Munster, with whose king they’d ride up to Tara for the Great Fair. Ulad Ceannselaigh wanted his daughter with him; his daughter would be with him, fearful of the discussion of matches for herself.

  The youthful lovers promised each the other that they’d tryst in Tara, somehow.

  They looked into each other’s eyes, and each saw the sparkle of tears. Neither made mention. She rose and dressed. Coming first to kiss him another time, she left. Suddenly unhappy after this summer of joy, Cormac rose at once and commenced donning his clothing. It lacked but a few hours to dawn; with luck he could return to camp and gain some sleep ere dawn forced him up to be the captain who brooked no excuses, or tardiness or sloth from his men, and thus could show none himself.

  After a brief interval, Cormac too left the inn. Through dark Carman he returned to camp, and he was deep in thoughts unbidden. Thus he did not see the man who’d waited so long and long with an incredible patience born of malice, and who had seen them both leave and recognized her and knew the truth, though they left not together. And the watching Bress mac Keth smiled.

  Two days later the Champion of Leinster left in the entourage of the king.

  Chapter Seventeen:

  A Druid and A Priest

  What a throng! And I thought Carman was a city full of people, and colourful! Cormac mac Art, an iota of that throng of happy sons and daughters of Eirrin, shook his head. None of the noisy fairgoers around him noticed the lone so-thoughtful young man who shook his head though none spoke to him, for all were too busy going about their private pursuits-or just being joyous. He grunted when he was jostled by a hurrying purveyor of marvelously-wrought gauds of glass beads and amber and the teeth of sea-dogs. The man grunted too, and continued his single-minded hurrying through the crowd that had come to Tara from every part of Eirrin. Cormac turned to look; the fellow was gone, one among thousands.