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

by Bill Stackhouse

  That was when he had first accused Killian of eating the parchment.

  At the time, he had received a whinny-bray from the mule in response.

  * * *

  No new snow had fallen during the night, and the two wizards had collected quite a few plants and herbs from an area which Sléibhín hadn’t taken Pádraig to on his first foray, two days prior. What they had gathered, though, the apprentice wizard already knew about, but still, he was impressed with the variety they had found on the mountain.

  * * *

  Pádraig had left in plenty of time for his sword-fighting lesson that morning, not wanting to be late or cutting it too close for a second day.

  Mule and wizard reached the appointed lesson area with time to spare. Pádraig had just finished tethering Killian to an outcropping of rock when Isla arrived.

  “Good wizard. Good wizard,” she again told him, as if praising an obedient pet. “Yuh ready for another thrashing, are yuh?”

  “Oh, yes, Sword Mistress,” Pádraig answered, lightheartedly. “Can hardly wait. Can’t get enough thrashing.” He doffed his cloak and hung it across Killian’s saddle.

  “Well, then, laddie. Get yourself suited up and I’ll see if I can oblige yuh.” The dwarf set the two wooden hand-and-a-half swords, the bronze helmet, and quilted tunic on the ground. Chuckling all the way, she took her herdsman’s timestick over to where she had stuck it in the ground two days before.

  While Isla set up the timestick to keep track of the agreed-upon hour for the lesson, Pádraig, out of her sight, made a small motion with his right hand over the tunic and set a reactive spell on it. Donning the helmet and the tunic, he picked up one of the swords and began some lunging, retreating, and blocking exercises.

  The dwarf crossed back to where she had left her wooden sword and, picking it up, said, “I’ll say this for yuh, Wizard. Yuh’re no sissy. I’ll grant yuh that.” She pointed to a spot in front of her, where she wanted him to stand, and continued. “Last time we practiced the lunge, the jab, the side slash, the block, and the retreat. Tuhday, we’ll add another attack move—the overhead slash.” With that, she quickly lunged forward, raising her sword and bringing the edge down on top of Pádraig’s helmet.

  The young wizard dropped to his knees, slightly dazed.

  Isla stood there, arms folded in front of her, shaking her head. “That would have been a good time for that blocking move, laddie, dinna yuh think?”

  Struggling to his feet, Pádraig replied, “You took me by surprise!”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that yuh weren’t ready!” Isla told him, sarcastically. “Now, be sure and tell an opponent who comes after yuh with a sharp and pointy object that yuh expect him tuh let yuh know what he plans on doing with it, and exactly when.”

  “Well, I just thought that—”

  Before he could finish his complaint, Isla repeated the previous move, once again bringing him to his knees.

  “Be ready at all times, yuh dunderhead,” she chastised him. “Yuh meet somebody with a drawn weapon, yuh be ready for anything at any time.”

  Again, Pádraig got to his feet, this time holding the sword at near vertical in front of him, waiting for Isla to strike again.

  When she did so, it was a lunge and a slash at his side, catching him in the ribs, as he attempted to block a third non-existent overhead strike.

  The young wizard suppressed a smile, faking a wince instead. The reactive spell had worked perfectly. As the dwarf’s sword made contact with the tunic, the padding at the point of contact increased fourfold for just an instant, thoroughly cushioning the impact.

  However, so intent had Pádraig been in congratulating himself on his magic, he failed to block a follow-up overhead slash to the helmet.

  * * *

  Aside from having his bell rung by overhead slashes quite a few times during the hour, Pádraig’s body had come away with no bruises or contusions. He was pleased with the outcome. He was also thrilled by the fact that he had managed to block at least a half dozen of Isla’s attacks, especially seeing the surprise on her face each time he did so. However, he hadn’t landed any attacking blows of his own, and that disappointed him.

  After thanking the dwarf for the lesson, the young wizard removed the reactive spell from the tunic before returning to Sléibhín’s hut.

  * * *

  Instead of moping about when he got back, the first thing the young wizard did, after seeing to Killian’s comfort, was to build himself a wooden hand-and-a-half sword and a sort of practice dummy.

  Cutting a seven-foot-long, two-and-a-half-inch-wide limb from a pine tree outside the hut, he removed all the side branches from it, then tied the top of it to the overhang on the corner of the shed roof, leaving about six-inches of twine from the overhang to the top of the limb. The bottom he secured to a rock that then sat on the ground, again leaving about six-inches of twine between the limb to the rock. With this configuration, the dummy would be flexible, and when hit by a thrust or slash, it would move, yet quickly return to its original position. Of course, the dummy couldn’t fight back, but it would provide something on which Pádraig could hone his own thrusting and slashing skills.

  When he faced Isla for his third lesson, he hoped to be better prepared.

  Yewday - Bear 41st

  Callainn Shire

  As each member of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires left the sacred grove, he took a rowan-wood bowl of Tierney’s ashes from the flame-consumed funeral pyre and proceeded in solemn silence, single file behind Tierney’s son, Garbhán, the new Chieftain of Callainn Shire, leading his late father’s riderless piebald stallion. Wearing their dark-red tabards and capes, they passed between the two squads of Cruachanian Defense Forces not out on patrol, outfitted in their dark-blue tabards and capes, who stood there rigidly, saluting the procession.

  The soldiers of the security forces would take the former chieftain’s ashes back to Fort Callainn, then down the winding steps to the beach below, where they would toss them onto the outgoing tide of the Sea of the Evening.

  Standing quietly off to the side with Ríoghán and the Revered Oisín, the senior journeyman wizard in Callainn Shire, who had officiated at Tierney’s passing-over ceremony, Liam whispered, “A lesson for us all.”

  Ríoghán, a tall, well-built young man, a few years older than Liam, with dark-brown eyes set into his long olive face, shook his head of longish jet-black hair, and whispered back, “Yeah. Don’t drop your guard for one moment during a wild boar hunt.”

  “Or any other fight, for that matter,” Liam added.

  Both princes represented their respective fathers at the ritual service—Ríoghán, son of King Cabhan of the Northern Shires, and Liam, son of Déaglán, High King of Cruachan.

  Although the twosome were casual acquaintances, they rarely saw each other except when Cabhan came down to the Citadel of Cruachan or, on the rare occasion, when Liam traveled with or on behalf of his father up to Fortress Béarra.

  “Run into a tree?” Liam whispered again, this time with a grimace, to the short, portly, middle-aged wizard.

  “From what I understand from the section leader and captain who accompanied him on the hunt, Your Highness,” Oisín replied, “the chieftain thought he had disabled the beast with his lance. When he dismounted his horse and approached the boar on foot to complete the kill with his sword, the enraged animal got to its feet, broke off the lance, and charged Tierney, driving him back against a tree and goring him.”

  “How big was the boar?” Ríoghán asked.

  “Twenty-one stone, Your Highness. Over three-and-a-half feet high at the shoulder, and over five feet in length.”

  Both princes shuddered in unison.

  Ríoghán glanced over at Liam and said, “You’re right. A lesson for us all to remember.”

  As the Revered Oisín crossed over to take his place at the end of the ceremonial line, the two princes went to retrieve their horses.

  “
I had almost forgotten, Liam,” Ríoghán said, “congratulations on your handfasting to the Lady Máiréad.”

  “Thank you. I’m looking forward to Mid-Spring Day.”

  “No doubt,” Ríoghán replied. “Since Máiréad has been spending so much time up at Cathair Béarra with the Venerable Odhran, I’ve gotten to know her somewhat. You’re a very lucky man.”

  They had reached the horses, and Liam clapped the other man on the shoulder. “That I am, Ríoghán. That I am. Please give her my love when you get back to Cathair Béarra. And regards also to King Cabhan, Queen Radha, and your sisters. I hope to see you all at Dúnfort Cruachan on Mid-Spring Day.”

  After a brief hesitation, Ríoghán let out a small breath through his nose, and said, “I know the king plans on being there, Liam. And please give my regards to the High King and Queen Ginebra.”

  Willowday - Bear 43rd

  Árainn Shire

  After almost four weeks on the eastern slope of Stob Bàn, Pádraig’s days had settled into a more-or-less established routine.

  In the mornings he would accompany Sléibhín on his foraging treks for medicinal herbs and plants. On those days when lessons with Isla were not scheduled, he would practice for an hour or so with his dummy stick-opponent before the midday meal.

  On Alderday and Oakday afternoons, Sléibhín would make his rounds to the limited number of people living on the mountainside just below Droim Fiaclach—mainly goatherds, shepherds, and subsistence farmers—ministering to them and their animals, as required. Pádraig would accompany the herbalist, utilizing his healing gift from An Fearglas to supplement Sléibhín’s medicine.

  When they returned, once again the apprentice wizard would get in an hour or so of sword practice before supper. On Birchday and Ashday afternoons when Sléibhín didn’t go out, Pádraig managed to squeeze in two practice sessions each afternoon.

  All the while, he mentally counted down the days until the oblate wizard would depart for Fort Árainn, allowing him to slip away undetected to check out the situation up at North Head.

  As he had with his classes at the Academy, Pádraig proved to be an exceptional pupil when it came to learning swordsmanship. With his own practice augmenting the four lessons per week, he not only now managed to block the majority of Isla’s strikes, but succeeded in getting in licks of his own—not as many as she, but lately three to her four.

  He had advanced so rapidly that just a week before, after Isla had deftly turned away a left-hand side slash, she had been late in blocking his follow-up overhead slash, only deflecting his wooden sword. Pádraig’s blade had come down striking her squarely on the shoulder. Although her white, goatskin cloak had provided a small amount of cushioning, her eyes had widened just before tearing up. From then on, the dwarf had come to the young wizard’s lessons wearing a quilted tunic and a bronze helmet herself.

  * * *

  Lunge; jab; retreat.

  Block; block; block.

  Lunge; right-hand side slash; left-hand side slash; retreat.

  Block; block.

  Lunge; jab; overhead slash; retreat.

  Block; block; block.

  Pádraig smiled to himself as the twosome circled each other, both taking a moment of rest to catch their breaths. Today, he would spring it on her. Forget rule number one, he thought, never taking his eyes off Isla’s. Whose rule is it, anyway?

  Block; block; block.

  Lunge; left-hand side slash; right-hand side slash.

  But, instead of retreating or carrying on with the attack, Pádraig continued to lock swords with Isla, using his strength to back her up onto an outcropping of rock, pushing his wooden weapon right up against his teacher’s throat.

  “Yield, Dwarf, or die!” he cried out, now grinning at her.

  Isla simply shook her head and sighed. “Nae, Wizard,” she said calmly. “Canna yield tuh a dead man.”

  “Dead man?”

  She slowly lowered her eyes from his eyes to his chest. “So says my sgian bròg, laddie.”

  Pádraig glanced downward. There, he saw that she held a boot knife in her left hand, the point of its three-and-a-half-inch blade resting on his quilted tunic, aimed directly at his heart.

  “Aw, man!” he said, disgustedly, lowering his sword and backing away. “Where did that come from?”

  Isla answered by removing a brown leather scabbard from inside her left knee-high boot and replacing the stag-horn-hilted dagger in it. “And what is rule number one?” she asked. “Hmm?”

  Pádraig answered as he had on his first day of sword-fighting lessons: “Rule number one: the hand-and-a-half sword is a stand-off weapon, not a close-in weapon.”

  “Aye, laddie. And now yuh know one of the reasons why that is.” She approached him, holding the boot knife out in front of her. “Here. Consider this a graduation present.”

  “Graduation?” he repeated, accepting the dagger.

  “Remember our agreement, Wizard? Lessons until I think yuh tuh be a capable swordsman? Well, despite your woeful lack of judgment just now, yuh’ve made remarkable progress in the short time we’ve been at it. I now deem yuh tuh be a capable swordsman.” She gave a nod in Pádraig’s direction. “Congratulations, Honored Sir.”

  It was the first time that Isla had ever used the honorific, and it touched Pádraig deeply.

  He bowed slightly and replied, “Thank you, My Lady. Thank you for your teaching, your patience, and most of all, I hope, your friendship.”

  “If it’s friendship yuh’d be wanting, then yuh better stop right there with the ‘My Lady’ talk,” she said, gruffly. “I told yuh before, I’m no one’s lady but my own.”

  He chuckled and stuck the boot knife into the top of his left boot.

  “Not that way, yuh dunderhead,” Isla scolded him. “’Tis supposed tuh be hidden.” She bent down and tucked the dagger all the way into the boot so that it was completely invisible to the casual observer. Raising up, she head gestured toward Killian and said, “Bring your mule. Yuh’ve got an appointment with the Mountain King.”

  “Your da?” Pádraig asked. “Really?”

  “Yuh think I’d lie tuh yuh, laddie? And dinna be calling him my da when yuh meet him. ’Tis a formal setting and we dinna want tuh draw attention tuh our relationship.”

  * * *

  Isla and Pádraig, both still in their sword-fighting outfits and leading Killian, negotiated the winding path up the mountainside. Eventually, they came to a slope covered with broken rocks where a continuous line of dwarfs exited a cave opening, each pushing a wooden wheelbarrow piled with more broken rocks. The workers stopped, dumped their loads onto the existing pile, then returned to the cave.

  “What’s with the rocks?” the young wizard asked.

  “Spoil heap,” Isla replied. “’Tis the waste left over from a mining operation after we’ve extracted the ore from it.”

  “Gold?”

  “In some cases. Sometimes, silver. Other times, copper.”

  Pádraig stopped and looked down at the heap of rubble. “That must be some mining operation you’ve got going. How many dwarfs with picks are needed to break up that much rock out of the inside of the mountain?”

  “They dinna break it out of the mountain, laddie. Fire and water does that. The workers just break up the rocks after the fire and water’s done its job.”

  “Fire and water?”

  Isla started up again, with Pádraig and Killian following. “Two of An Fearglas’ most important elements tuh us dwarfs, after the rocks themselves, of course.” Although she kept walking, she paused in her explanation while Pádraig bowed his head and made the ritual act of submission. When he had finished, she continued with, “Yuh see, laddie, we build a huge fire down in the mine up against the wall that we need tuh bust down. The fire heats up the wall, then we pour water from a mountain stream ontuh it. The cold water causes the hot wall tuh crack and split intuh chunks, and the workers use sledges and picks tuh extract the ore from the chunks. What’
s left over—the waste—gets dumped out here.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous to be in the mine with the smoke from a fire?” Pádraig asked.

  “Air shafts, laddie. We got air shafts all along the mine going tuh the outside for ventilation. Yuh canna see ’em now; but, when there’s a fire burning, yuh’ll see smoke coming out of the mountainside.”

  Isla stopped and pointed to another opening in the side of the mountain, this one bigger, with massive iron gates guarded by two rather burly dwarfs, each carrying war axes. “Okay, here we are, Wizard. Yuh can tie your mule out here. Someone’ll bring it water and hay.”

  She looked over at one of the guards and received an almost-imperceptible nod.

  “Give me just a minute to doff the tunic and helmet and don my cloak,” Pádraig said.

  “Nae, laddie. Just stay the way yuh are. The Mountain King will enjoy seeing yuh this way.” She pointed to the cave opening with the two wooden hand-and-a-half swords she had been carrying, and ushered the young wizard through the opening.

  Just inside the entrance to the mountain, Pádraig encountered two more brawny dwarf guards with war axes. Clearly, no one uninvited was getting inside without a fight on their hands. As had the two outside guards, the inside ones bowed their heads respectfully when Isla passed between them, handing her herdsman’s timestick to one of them.

  From the anteroom, the cave opened up into a large cavern with a vaulted ceiling and polished stone walkways along the edges of the vast opening. Limestone formations, similar to giant icicles, hung down from the ceiling. Torches, stuck into the walls at one-rod intervals, illuminated the entire cavern, even piercing the darkness to the bottom of the gigantic grotto where a small stream ran through it between limestone formations protruding upward out of the ground.

  About halfway in, they came to a natural stone bridge that spanned the width of the cavern. Isla gestured Pádraig onto it with a warning. “Stay tuh the center, laddie, and mind your step. There are no railings. And if yuh have a fear of heights, dinna be looking down, or the workers’ll be hauling your carcass out of here in one of those wheelbarrows.”