by Kildare
The survivors stopped and stared at the passing of these strangers through their midst. Shock and horror were still etched in the lines of their dirty, ashen faces. Cillian saw no stitch of military clothing or weapons. They were all civilians. Only their presence held the scavengers in check.
A low, stone bridge crossed over the river, defended by two towers at the entrance to the city. The gates had been torn asunder, the splintered wood and twisted metal lying in a ruined heap. A pack of stray dogs combed through the destruction. Cillian wondered how long before they turned to the dead for their meal, if they hadn’t sampled already.
The bridge had already been cleared. On the far side, a pair of coyotes ripped apart a body washed up on the shore. Cillian felt nothing at the sight. He was too emotionally exhausted. All he wanted to do was escape from this hell. Too late. He would never erase the memory of this place. They would all carry its horror with them for the rest of their lives.
The road ran on ahead, rose up out of the valley, and disappeared over a distant ridge. They quickened their pace to a trot and didn’t slow down again until many miles were behind them.
Cillian made the caboose. Not once did any of them look back. A few hours later the road crossed over a muddy stream where they stopped and watered the horses. When the horses had drunk their fill, the riders shed their clothes and scrubbed away the soot and stench. Afterward they sat in their undergarments under the shade of an oak tree, surrounded by clothes hanging from branches and spread out on boulders along the stream. For a long time no one talked, too lost in their own coping mechanisms to deal with anything else.
Cillian tried to distract himself by making out the meaning of the tattoos canvasing everyone but himself. The three Norwegian speakers, Kjartan, Arinbjørn, and Egil, were tattooed from head to foot. The three Gaelic speakers, Niamh, Rebel Sly, and Fáelán had fewer, and were indigo instead of black. All were highly stylized, the work of skilled artists, not the crude markings of a prison yard.
Egil was the largest man in the group, standing at least six-foot-five. He had light brown hair, golden-brown eyes, and a sullen, almost ugly face. His head was shaved clean, probably to try to hide his creeping baldness. A great beard hid his neck. Egil’s weapon of choice was a giant axe with an intricately adorned handle. Arinbjørn was only a little taller than Cillian, had a thick build with red hair and beard, and gray eyes. Freckles dappled his ruddy, tattooed skin. Cillian counted eight different scars that he appeared to have received in combat. He might have carried a few more Cillian couldn’t see. Arinbjørn lived a charmed life if he had received that many wounds and survived them all. He fought with a longsword.
Niamh, Rebel Sly, Fáelán, and Kjartan spoke fluent Gaelic; Kjartan, Arinbjørn and Egil spoke fluent Norwegian; and Niamh, Kjartan, and Rebel Sly spoke fluent Latin. Niamh also understood a little Norwegian, while Arinbjørn and Egil had a rudimentary knowledge of Gaelic and Latin. So everything had to be translated for everyone to understand. Only Kjartan and Cillian could easily speak all three, so their conversations often stopped as an explanation in another language was given. Cillian had also discovered that though he understood the words used in each of the three languages, many of the phrases and idioms were strange to him, and some needed an explanation. The accents were also different, as if he were hearing a strange new dialect.
Rebel Sly was the first to break the silence. “Perhaps we should’ve ridden to the next crossing, even if it did add a few extra days.”
“No,” Niamh said. “It was important for some reason. That’s why Cillian came back just as we approached the city. He needed to be there. To see it.”
“Why?” Kjartan asked.
“I don’t know,” Cillian said.
“How do we know you aren’t a spy for the Dread Queen?” Kjartan asked.
“You released Loki,” Fáelán said. “How do we know you aren’t part of the plot with Sindri and the woodsman?”
“It wouldn’t make any sense. If I were part of the plot, why would I need to be sent to Sindri’s cave? The whole point in getting me to open the book was that I didn’t know what would happen. Why it had to be me, I have no idea. As far as being a spy, why would I be spying on you? You’re warriors, not kings. What interest would the Dread Queen have in any of you? Loki has been released, and I possess Anbhás. What more reason do I have to stay among you?”
Rebel Sly nodded. “He has a point. If he was a spy, he’d be trying to follow us around and observe our activities, not lead us off on a pointless journey.”
“If he was in league with the Dread Queen,” Niamh asked, “do you think the Tuath Dé would’ve allowed him to pass through their lands? Now let us be done with these accusations. Cillian has done nothing to earn them.”
Desiring to change the subject, Cillian asked, “So when are introductions going to be made? All of you obviously know who I am, but there are a couple others here who have just as interesting identities.”
“Kjartan, Arinbjørn, and Egil,” Niamh said, pointing to each in turn, “let me introduce Fáelán, the Black Bow. And the Rebel Sly.”
The three Muir Mac Tír looked at her like she joked. A huge grin shone on Rebel Sly’s face. Fáelán showed no expression.
“You’re kidding, right?” Egil asked.
“No, I’m not,” Niamh said. “We need him.”
“We’re sworn to capture him and turn him over to the Imperator,” Kjartan said.
“Raighne is dead. Do you intend to give him to Scorpio? Besides, you quit the legions.”
“We spent years trying to capture Rebel Sly,” Arinbjørn said. “Now you want us to let him go free?”
“No, I want you to help him help Cillian. The Dread Queen and Loki are our enemies now.”
“He killed many of the empire’s soldiers,” Egil said.
“And the legions killed many of my friends,” Rebel Sly countered.
Arinbjørn shrugged. “Niamh is right. Though I desired greatly to capture you both, it’s an honor to finally meet the men who eluded the snare of the legions for so long. You were worthy adversaries. I have no cause for continued strife between us. Let our bond not be hate.”
Rebel Sly bowed his head in a show of respect. “The pursuit kept me young.”
Fáelán smiled, his first hint of emotion since this conversation began. “Speak for yourself. I think it aged me twenty years.”
Everyone laughed at this comment, and a situation that might have quickly turned volatile was instead pacified.
Kjartan rose. “It’s time. Our clothes will be dry enough. With some luck we should reach Coill na nDarach by sunset.” He still scowled, but whether it was from the conversation or the delay, Cillian couldn’t tell.
“Is he always in such a hurry?” Cillian asked.
“Always,” Niamh said. “The man is relentless. Though he’s correct in wanting to reach the Oak Wood before sunset.”
They gathered their clothing, still a little damp, and dressed. Minutes later they were back on the road, a vast sea of yellowing grass stretching to a horizon tipped by the white teeth of distant mountains. The plains lacked any trees away from sources of water or the slopes of coulees. But for the grass growing taller, the land would have reminded him of the plains encircling the Killdeer Mountains near the old farmstead. Cillian found comfort in this resemblance.
He had always seen a subtle beauty in that land, especially in the late spring and early summer when the rolling hills flushed green with new grass, and in the autumn when the grass shifted to shades as colorful as the trees. In those hills above the valley of the Little Missouri, the horizon in all directions was so far away the land and sky seemed to merge together. More beautiful still were those endless skies, an ever-changing painting repeating in an infinite variety he always found humbling and inspiring. How he missed North Dakota.
Niamh and Kjartan discussed their exploits since their separation after the fight against the trolls in which Cillian was wounded. Cillian on
ly caught patches of their conversation, more concerned with the scenery, but enough to learn that Kjartan had been pursuing roving bands of trolls, with a few minor skirmishes, ever since the troll invasion began—though nothing like the desperate battle for Arx Aequoris.
Niamh recalled Scorpio’s murder of the Imperator and their escape from the palace, but failed to explain why she had stayed behind in the city, leaving Cillian on his own. He still didn’t know what her purpose that night had been. She also failed to mention the capture of the treasure-laden wagon train. Why was she concealing so much from Kjartan that Rebel Sly already knew? Cillian considered asking but decided it was best not to reveal what she wished to hide.
They kept the horses at a steady trot, miles of land slipping away beneath them. The bath in the stream had been cleansing, almost baptismal. As much an emotional and psychological restoration as physical. The day no longer seemed so dreary. How persistent and resolute was hope.
They saw no people, no cattle nor horses, not even deer. Farms dotted the countryside. All had been abandoned. They passed through or around five villages without seeing a single soul. The entire countryside had fled. Cillian envisioned the roads crowded with those too poor to own a horse or wagon as they marched south, away from one war and into another. What people had found too burdensome to carry, they had left dumped alongside the road. One need not see the desolation of Arx Aequoris to recognize a land plunged into war.
After Niamh and Kjartan finished their conversation, she fell back from the front of the group to ride alongside Cillian.
“How are you faring?” Niamh asked.
“Sore, but otherwise fine. This body isn’t used to so much riding, and that seems to be most of what we do.”
“It’ll get easier.”
The sun was slipping over the mountains, dyeing the peaks an oily black, when they saw the Oak Wood. By the time they reached the woods, the oiliness had tarred the trees and crept across the ground.
“We need to leave the road to make camp,” Niamh said. “We’re not safe here.”
They turned off the road and rode until the gloom became too thick. Kjartan lit a fire as they unsaddled and groomed the horses. When Cillian had finished, he sat down next to the fire and kneaded the knots out of his calves and thighs. As much as his body ached, it didn’t hurt as badly as after that first ride through the mountains to escape the trolls. His body was toughening, and getting disciplined to the saddle.
Rebel Sly handed Cillian a piece of bread. “I’m afraid this is all we have. We’d hoped to buy supplies in Arx Aequoris. Had we reached the forest earlier we might’ve killed some game. As it is, we make do with what we have.”
Though disappointed, as soon as Cillian tasted the bread, he no longer cared. He was starving, as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. In truth, he had no idea when he had eaten last, or how that even worked with this body of his. All the time spent in these dreams since releasing Loki amounted to a few days. Yet the triumph had occurred months ago.
Rebel Sly sat down next to Cillian. “Are you wary of trolls, Niamh, or something else?”
“I forgot to say this earlier, but the Dread Queen has put a bounty on Cillian’s head.”
“Then we must post guards for the night,” Kjartan said. “At least two. I’d hoped that this far from the road we’d only need one.”
“She’s only after me,” Cillian said.
“That brings little comfort,” Fáelán said. “She’ll kill us all to get to you if that’s her desire.”
“Do you think she knows who he is, or is she after the sword?” Rebel Sly asked.
“I don’t know,” Niamh said. “She could be after both. We can’t allow her to get either.”
“Who’s this Dread Queen?” Cillian asked.
“She was once a member of the Tuath Dé,” Rebel Sly explained. “There was a war between her and the other Tuath Dé long ago. Since then a truce has existed between the two sides, but she’s continued her war against humans. The Dread Queen has committed great evil, especially against the Daoine Saora, who live closest to her borders.”
Kjartan stirred a stick in the fire. “Such things are no good to think about in the darkness. Tonight a good sleep is needed. Tomorrow will be another long day. Egil and I will take the first watch.”
They spread out their bedrolls on the ground as Kjartan kicked dirt onto the fire. Cillian closed his eyes, and immediately felt the darkness spreading over him as he slipped away to the symphony of crickets.
***
Cillian awoke abruptly, startled by something. The night was still pitch black. Distant thunder drifted through the woods. He considered moving his bedroll to the base of the tree in case it rained, but opted to do nothing, instead. He was too tired. Already sleep dragged him back down into its dark embrace. Another peel of thunder rumbled, followed by a flicker of lights. He blinked the weariness from his eyes. What had he just seen? At the next boom of thunder, the woods lit up with thousands of the shimmering lights. He sat up. What were the lights? As quickly as they had appeared, they had vanished again.
With each peal of thunder, a rippling of green lights fired up throughout the woods. The lights were fireflies reacting to the lightning. Thousands drifted through the air all around. He had never seen anything like it before. The others were still sleeping, except for the sentries, but he couldn’t see them. They had to be seeing this, too. He watched mesmerized for a few more minutes until he couldn’t hold his head up any longer, sank back to the ground, and drifted off to the ethereal lights floating in the darkness all around him, more dream-like than real.
VIII
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21
When Cillian awoke the first light of dawn blushed in the forest. The ground was still dry, the storm having passed through without rain. The others were also arising from their beds, except Kjartan, who was already perched over the firepit, kindling a pile of tinder. At his side lay two dead rabbits. Cillian felt lazy. He had just awoken and Kjartan had already caught breakfast.
Once the fire was going, Kjartan skinned the rabbits, skewered them on sticks, and cooked them over the fire.
They ate their simple meal of rabbit and bread with little talk. Cillian missed not having a cup of coffee to start the day. Hard to break the habit of a morning fix after more than fifty years. When they finished eating, Kjartan led Cillian away from the camp and showed him a set of tracks nearby that he’d found while hunting. Cillian squatted to get a better look. His hand easily fit inside the paw print. Cillian had seen mountain lion prints before, so he knew the tracks of a big cat, but these were far bigger than any he had ever seen.
“What size of cat leaves tracks that big?” Cillian asked.
Kjartan raised his hand to chest level. “A fhiacail fhada.”
A longtooth.
Kjartan indicated with his fingers that the cat had two long canines. He had to be referring to some kind of saber-toothed cat. One much larger than a tiger.
“As we get closer to the mountains we’ll also encounter bears like the one that charged you that night in the mountains, only more aggressive.”
Cillian recalled descriptions in the Lewis and Clark Expedition journals of the extremely aggressive nature of the plains grizzlies and their inclination to charge, even diving into the river to attack canoes. He hoped these bears weren’t that hostile or they could be in for a dangerous ride.
He walked back to the camp frightened by the prospect. He almost wished Kjartan hadn’t shown him the tracks at all. While good to know the dangers they faced, he was already burdened by enough worries without adding more.
The fire was doused, the horses saddled, gear loaded, and they made their way back to the road, then continued their course east. By now the sun had ascended over the horizon to flood the woods with light. The forest looked much different with the shadows repulsed. The oaks were ancient giants, widely spaced, and held up a continuous roof, creating an appearance similar to an Islamic mosque.
He could see for long distances in all directions. Ambush wasn’t a threat. Except for the birds and chipmunks darting up and down and round the trees, they saw and heard nothing beyond their own noisy passage.
That they weren’t the only people on the road was heard before seen. Talking and singing sounded first, then the rumbling of a caravan. They halted and waited, seeing the others before they were themselves seen. Though the members of the caravan bore weapons, it was clear they weren’t soldiers. They looked to be more refugees. The caravan ground to a halt at the sight of Cillian’s group, who did look like a band of warriors. All singing and talking ceased. Muffled whispering drifted through the still air.
“God’s grace embrace you,” Rebel Sly yelled out in Gaelic. “What news?”
A lone rider rode out to the head of the column. “Greetings. We’re traveling to Arx Aequoris.”
“Then you’re both too late, and favored by fate. The city lays in ruins, overrun by trolls. They were defeated in the end, but not destroyed.”
A murmur spread through the caravan at the terrible news. Some started to cry. Cillian empathized with their plight, having seen the extent of the trolls’ destruction. All these people wanted was to escape the bloody slaughter. Two other riders rode forward and bandied words with the first. They were in visible confusion about what to do now, heated bickering and wild gestures before they seemed to come to an agreement.
“Our wariness at your presence isn’t without reason,” the first man said, who now appeared to be their leader. He was a stout man, fair of skin and hair, dressed in the drab clothing of a peasant, a sword his weapon. “Allegiances are no longer guaranteed. We take no position on the civil strife in the South. We desire only safe passage through these lands.”
