The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 2)

by Bill Stackhouse

  Because the conflict had resulted in such destruction, with many, many lives lost and devastated, a group of like-minded individuals, who didn’t want to go through that again, and certainly didn’t want another conflict foisted upon them because of zealot republicans or former collaborators, banded together to keep an eye out for any signs of potential treason from extremists on either side of the political spectrum.

  And while The Watchmen performed outside the law, they were, first and foremost, patriots, doing things that needed doing—things that a government could not nor should not do.

  Also, the plot against Prince Liam’s life ten years ago in the Kingdom of the Northern Shires, which Pádraig’s quick thinking had thwarted, had been aided in part by Northmen. Because of this overt action on the part of the ousted overlords, The Watchmen had redoubled their vigilance in the North.

  * * *

  Pádraig knew that the reason the sea-currach belonging to the Cruachanian Defense Forces could not get close enough to shore to get a good look at the beach below North Head was the difference in the missions between the defense forces and the Security Forces of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires:

  The Cruachanian Defense Forces were under the control of the High King. They were responsible for national security. On land, they patrolled the coastline on horseback, from various forts spaced one-day’s ride apart. At sea, they patrolled in currachs far off the coast. They were also responsible for law enforcement within the Central Federal Region itself.

  The security forces of each of the three kingdoms, on the other hand, were under the control of their respective kings. On land, they patrolled their own kingdoms. At sea, their currachs patrolled the littoral waters of their own coastline.

  “And, Lairgnen?” Pádraig asked.

  “Dispatched to check things out. After all, how innocent-looking is a clownish troubadour, playing those dratted elbow pipes and riding a mule? He was supposed to return yesterday.”

  “My guess is that he can still handle that hand-and-a-half sword with the best of them,” Pádraig remarked.

  Finbar frowned and gave a small shake of his head. “It’s been quite a while since you’ve seen him Paddy. He’s still good with the sword, mind you, but he’s lost a step or two with age. Not at all the man you remember.”

  “You’re worried?”

  “…Concerned.”

  “Well, I had my meeting with the Venerable Odhran before I came over here. I’ll be heading to Árainn Shire for the first part of my training in the North. Could just as well detour on up to Béarra Shire, if need be, and nose around North Head.”

  “Let’s give it a day or two. Now, how about supper? Mutton stew?”

  “Sounds good, Da. Then it’s over to the forge and bed for me.”

  “Bed? The evening watch has barely begun.”

  “Hey, I rode all night long last night, remember? I’m beat.”

  “You’re a wizard, lad. Isn’t there some sort of spell for that?”

  “Yeah. It’s called a good-night’s sleep.”

  Yewday - Bear 1st

  Gabhrán Shire

  It had been three quarters into the middle watch that the shutters on one of the windows of the citadel’s forge had rattled, and a high-pitched shriek had sounded from outside.

  Both Pádraig and Finbar, roused from a deep sleep, sat bolt upright in their beds at the clatter.

  “What the…” Finbar started, then continued with, “Was that you, Paddy?”

  “Not me, Da,” Pádraig replied, hopping off of his cot. “It’s coming from outside in the ward.”

  Just then the shriek and the rattling of the shutters repeated itself.

  Pádraig crossed to the window and opened the shutters outward. In the light of a waxing crescent Silver Nightingale and full Golden Owl, he failed to see what had caused the commotion.

  But, through his sleep-fuzzed brain, Finbar realized what it was and, as he rose from his cot, said, “Move away from the window, lad. Quickly!”

  No sooner had Pádraig complied, than a large fish hawk softly landed on the window sill and let out another shriek, seemingly just for the fun of it. Folding up its huge wings of brown and white feathers, it cocked its head and raised a talon. The leg had a small parchment tied to it.

  “Strike a light,” Finbar said.

  As Pádraig grabbed a tinder box from the anvil, struck a spark, and lit a candle stub once the tinder had flamed, his father untied the parchment from the bird’s leg.

  Without waiting for a dismissal, the fish hawk let out one last screech, hopped off the window sill, and spread its wings. With three silent flaps, it disappeared silently back into the night.

  Pádraig had joined his father at the window and held the candle down where Finbar smoothed the parchment on the sill.

  The message was short and concise:

  Clearing by Stag Pond

  Straightaway

  * * *

  Now, Pádraig and Finbar raced northward on the Dúnfort Road toward Gabhrán Shire, their wool cloaks wrapped tightly about them with the hoods up to ward off the bitter cold. While Finbar rode a yellow dun, borrowed from the stables at the Citadel, Pádraig sat astride Líadan, a gray mare he had appropriated from Fortress Tulach, when he had graduated from the Academy and begun his apprenticeship two years and one month earlier.

  At the border of the Central Federal Region with Gabhrán Shire, the road T-ed into another. Turning west would take them to the north-south Central Road that bisected the Northern Shires. Going in the opposite direction would take them to the Coastal Road that went north to Fort Gabhrán. Hesitating only briefly, the pair reined their mounts to the east, resuming their gallop.

  After a while, the road made a sharp S-curve—first to the left, then back again to the right—in order to skirt a small body of water called Stag Pond.

  Taking the first curve, the pair slowed but, instead of following the road as it curved to the right, they kept their horses heading left, directly into the forest. No sooner had they been completely obscured by the woods than they reached a clearing.

  There, on a fallen tree in front of a small campfire, sat the Venerable Taliesin, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Western Shires and Chief Watchman in Tulach Shire. With him were the elves, Brynmor and Cadwgawn, as well as a third man whom neither Finbar nor Pádraig recognized. A little way from the quartet, the wizard and elves’ horses grazed, along with two horses from a flatbed wagon that had been parked nearby. Tied behind the wagon, a mule just stood there, looking forlorn. In the moonlight, there was no mistaking the cloth-covered form of a person lying prone on the wagon bed.

  Without trading pleasantries with those in the clearing, both Finbar and Pádraig reined in their mounts, jumped from their saddles, and ran to the wagon. There, Finbar peeled back the cloth; and, the two of them gazed down on the waxen face of their friend and fellow-Watchman, Lairgnen the troubadour.

  “What happened?” Finbar snapped, as Brynmor and Cadwgawn came up behind him.

  The man, whom neither Finbar nor Pádraig had recognized, trailed the elves. Looking at them, the man whispered, “Cosaint!”

  Both father and son gave the prescribed reply of “Agus Seirbhís!”

  With the identifying greeting between Watchmen of ‘Protection and Service’ having been completed, Brynmor made the introductions.

  “Paddy, Finn, this is Irial. He is a section leader with the defense forces.”

  After exchanging forearm grasps, Finbar repeated himself. “What happened?”

  “He was found at the foot of the cliffs at North Head,” Irial replied. “Every indication was that he had lost his balance and had fallen.”

  Finbar snorted, contemptuously. “Anyone see it?” he asked, slowly and distressingly re-covering his old friend’s face with the cloth.

  “Nope. Apparently it happened at night. The body was discovered the next morning by fishermen.”

  Silent until now, Taliesin called out, “Come!
Sit by the fire. We need to decide on a course of action.”

  As Irial, the elves, and his father complied with the old wizard’s directive, Pádraig crossed to the rear of the wagon. The mule stood there, head drooped down low. With its moist, brown eyes reflecting the flames of the fire, it appeared almost as if the animal were crying. The young wizard reached down, took the mule’s bridle, gently lifted its head, and stroked the coarse brown hair of its muzzle.

  With that brief contact, Pádraig sensed the sadness that the animal felt.

  “I know you miss him, K2. You’ve been with him almost from the time you were a colt. We’re all going to miss him. And, I realize that you don’t know how to deal with these feelings, so I’m going to help you a little.”

  Lairgnen’s original mule had been named ‘Killian.’ Some years’ back, when the faithful animal had grown too old to carry the troubadour on his sometimes-long trips, Lairgnen had reluctantly, but mercifully, turned him out to pasture, to live out the rest of his days on a friend’s apple farm. Whether out of homage to Killian, or because he just couldn’t seem to come up with another name, the old man had named his new mule ‘Killian,’ as well. Rather than calling him by that appellation, though, Lairgnen had simply referred to him as ‘K2.’

  Hugging the mule around its neck, as he continued to stroke it, Pádraig whispered into the animal’s ear. “I’m not going to make you forget him. I wouldn’t do that. Lairgnen was your friend, and he needs to be remembered. But what I am going to do is use a spell to block out the hurt and loneliness that you’re feeling. You’ll still remember him, but only the good memories, okay?”

  Neither expecting nor receiving an answer, the young wizard closed his eyes, emptied his mind, and conjured up a spell that he placed upon the animal. After kissing K2 on its muzzle, Pádraig looked into its eyes. The moisture was gone, and they appeared to be just a tad brighter than before.

  As Pádraig joined the others by the fire, Taliesin said, “Finn tells me that you’re on your way to Árainn Shire. When do you report?”

  “It’s open, Venerable Sir. Master Odhran told me to take whatever time I needed. And, like I told Da, I could detour up to Béarra Shire and have a look around North Head.”

  The old wizard shook his mane of snow-white hair. “No, Pádraig. Especially not now. You’re too visible, and Odhran will be watching you or having you watched. We may have to use you sooner or later; but, for right now, just go about your duties and keep your eyes and ears open. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  “As you wish, Venerable Sir.”

  “What do we do about the mule?” Cadwgawn asked in his lilting voice.

  “I’ll take him,” Pádraig said, quickly.

  Finbar cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure, lad?”

  “If I’m going up to Árainn Shire near the Sawtooth Mountains, K2 may be more sure of foot than Líadan.”

  “When will the passing-over ceremony be held?” Brynmor asked. Like his son, the elder elf’s lilting voice betrayed no emotions.

  Taliesin thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “This coming Hazelday. Irial and I’ll take Lairgnen, the wagon, and the mule back to Tulach Shire and see to the preparations. Finn, that’ll give you a chance to finish up with what work you have to do at Dúnfort Cruachan, with Pádraig’s help, before riding down. Where are you scheduled next?”

  Finbar held the farrier’s contract for the Kingdom of the Western Shires, as well as for the Central Federal Region.

  “Ráth Iorras,” he answered. “But what are we going to do about North Head?”

  Irial raised a forefinger. “For now, how about nothing. Leave it to my people, Finn. Between patrolling the Coastal Road and the sea, we’re sort of invisible in plain sight. Best not to have any new faces poking around up there, just yet. Lairgnen’s death has been ruled an accident. Let it stay that way, until we have solid proof to the contrary. If we discover anything that requires further attention, we can re-address the situation then.”

  Everyone looked at Taliesin. The old wizard said, “Let’s take care of Lairgnen’s passing-over ceremony, give Irial’s people a chance to discover what they can, then we’ll meet again.” He looked over at Pádraig. “Whatever we decide, we’ll get word to you up in Árainn Shire. Who did my brother Odhran assign you to?”

  “Murchú, Venerable Sir. He’s the senior journeyman wizard in Árainn Shire. On the staff of Steward Ruari.”

  “Humph. And one of Odhran’s most trusted allies. Remember what I said, Pádraig. Go about your duties. Keep your eyes and ears open. But, don’t draw attention to yourself. And, under no circumstances are you to use any of your powers unnecessarily. No practicing spells where you can be observed. Right now, my guess is that your powers exceed Murchú’s. There’s no need for him nor Odhran to be made aware of that.”

  Hazelday - Bear 5th

  Tulach Shire

  On an island in the middle of Salmon River, a round tower, constructed of black and gray stones, rose up to an impressive height of five stories. Near the round tower, home to the Venerable Taliesin, the island also housed an enormous sacred grove of oak trees. A gap between the two largest afforded ingress to and egress from the grove.

  Standing next to the opening, Taliesin himself, hunkered down in his black, wool cloak, hood covering his mane of snow-white hair, waited for the procession that had just begun to cross the stone bridge onto his island.

  Leading the company on horseback were the elves, Brynmor and Cadwgawn. Next, Finbar and Pádraig drove a dray, pulled by a matched pair of white draught horses. On the dray, atop a wooden litter, covered with a bed of holly and mistletoe branches, lay the body of Lairgnen the troubadour. It had been washed in water from the sacred spring within the grove and wrapped in a white shroud. Tied to the back of the dray, head drooped and ears down, Killian the mule plodded along.

  The rest of the assembly which followed, either on foot or horseback, consisted mainly of older men, most of them veterans of the War for Independence who had fought alongside Lairgnen. Tuama, Reeve of Tulach Shire, represented the government and the absent Eógan, Earl of the Western Shires.

  When the group reached the entrance to the sacred grove, those in wagons or on horseback dismounted. Six of the men removed the litter from the funeral dray and followed Taliesin through the opening between the two large oaks to a clearing in the center of the grove. There stood a funeral pyre, constructed of rowan logs and kindling. The wood had been soaked in lamp oil, so saturated that droplets spilled onto the ground. Off to the side, the sacred spring bubbled up from a group of boulders, the water making its way via a small creek to where it emptied into Salmon River.

  Once the litter with the shroud-wrapped body of the troubadour had been placed upon the pyre, someone struck up a slow beat on a bodhrán, using the instrument’s tipper to produce an almost military cadence. The company filed in behind, silently. Inside, they circled the pyre three times in a sunwise direction, their right shoulders facing the center of the grove, before finally coming to a halt and turning inward toward the pyre itself.

  The lead-man in the escort set a bowl carved of rowan wood on Lairgnen’s chest. Its contents contained a handful of earth, signifying the physical being, and an equal measure of salt, symbolizing the spiritual being, a reminder of the dual nature of An Fearglas’ creations. He and the other five then stepped back into the circle of mourners.

  Taliesin raised his enormous cypress-wood staff and the bodhrán fell silent.

  “We have come together on this day in this sacred space,” the old wizard intoned, “to reflect on our comrade Lairgnen’s passing over to An Saol Eile. The five elements that An Fearglas used in the creation of His world are all present here with us for this ceremony.”

  At the utterance of the Deity’s name, every member of the company, except for the elves, bowed their heads slightly and touched their foreheads, chests, then their mouths with the first two fingers of their right hands, as they mentally
recited the ritual act of submission: May His tenets be always in my mind, in my heart, and on my lips.

  Taliesin continued. “Fire will consume Lairgnen’s physical remains, returning his husk to the Earth from which he was created. Air will take the smoke upward in a symbolic gesture of his being raised to another plane of existence. The Water from this sacred spring, which some say pours forth directly from An Saol Eile to the world of the living, will rinse and purify his ashes. And the Spirit of An Fearglas will envelope him and welcome him to his eternal home.”

  Again, the company made the ritual act of submission.

  “To Lairgnen!” the wizard called out. “Troubadour…soldier…comrade…and, most of all…friend!”

  As one, the members of the company bowed their heads, raised their right arms straight up, and shouted out, “To Lairgnen!”

  At a nod from the wizard, Pádraig began a soulful refrain on the elbow pipes. Brynmor and Cadwgawn, from opposite sides of the circle, fired flaming arrows into the side of the pyre, and the entire structure erupted into a blazing inferno.

  After the last refrain of the pipes had faded, Pádraig stood there in silence, as the funeral pyre continued to consume the remains of his friend. Along with memories of Lairgnen, though, the young wizard also recalled another passing-over ceremony, this one from long ago—the one for his mother, Aislin:

  The four-year-old Pádraig stood in this same sacred grove, the tears rolling down his cheeks as he tightly clutched Finbar’s hand, watching in dismay as the flames consumed the remains of his mother.