Once across, the dwarf put a hand on the young wizard’s shoulder and directed him through an arched opening into one of the many side caves he had seen along the way.
As grand as the main cavern had been, this mini-cavern was even more majestic, with delicate stone formations that looked as if they had been created out of spun sugar. At the far end of the cave, a four-tiered platform rose out of the floor, and upon the platform sat a throne, carved from stone. There, Pádraig beheld Bhàtair, the Mountain King himself, buttressed by two more muscular dwarf warriors, one with a war hammer and the other with an axe. Both also had longswords in scabbards on their belts.
“Well, well, Isla,” The Mountain King boomed, standing and crossing down the four steps toward his daughter and Pádraig. “So this is the young apprentice wizard that yuh’ve been teaching how tuh use his dead friend’s sword.”
Solid as the rock from which his throne had been hewn, Bhàtair looked every bit as formidable as the mountain itself. His long, reddish-brown hair hung loose to below his shoulders, with a mustache and beard to match. The beard reached mid-chest and had been braided into five sections, each one clasped at the end with a gold ring. He was outfitted completely in oil-hardened buckskin with knee-high, fur-lined leather boots. As with his guards, he carried a longsword scabbarded on his black leather belt. The only item on his body that hinted of royalty was a thin gold band around his head.
“Aye, Your Majesty,” Isla replied with a slight bow. “This is Pádraig, my pupil…and my friend.” Turning to Pádraig, she said, “Bhàtair, the Mountain King.”
Copying Isla’s move, Pádraig gave a slight bow and said, “It is an honor to meet you, Your Majesty. The inside of your mountain is truly magnificent.”
“Isla tells me that yuh are now a competent swordsman” Bhàtair told him. “And after less than four short weeks, at that.”
“Only due to her excellence as a teacher, Your Majesty.”
“Well, let’s see how good.” The Mountain King stretched out his arm toward his daughter, and she handed him one of the wooden swords.
Pádraig did a double-take. “I beg your pardon, Sire?”
“Let’s see how good yuh really are; and that, in turn, will tell me how good a teacher Isla is.”
“You…you want me to fight you, Your Majesty? For real?”
“Not for real, for real, laddie. Just with the training swords.”
The guard on the king’s left doffed his bronze helmet and, bowing deeply, handed it to Bhàtair, taking the king’s crown for safe-keeping.
Pádraig turned to look at Isla; but, without any expression on her face, she handed him the second wooden sword.
“You knew about this?” Pádraig whispered to her.
“I suspected as much,” she replied, still expressionless.
“And you didn’t see fit to tell me?”
“I didn’t want yuh tuh worry for me, laddie.”
“For you? Worry for you?!”
“This is more about my honor than yours, Wizard. So acquit yourself well.” Turning him around she nudged him in the direction of the Mountain King. “Just remember the things I taught yuh. And dinna get cute. He’s good, but not as good anymore as he thinks he is. And not nearly as good as I am.”
As the two combatants approached each other, Pádraig thought, What’s protocol in a situation like this? But, then, he pushed the negative thought out of his mind and zoned in on the task at hand.
* * *
Isla had been correct in her assessment. Her father was not as good with the sword as she was. After Pádraig ran up a series of five unanswered strikes right away, he backed off just a tad, deliberately coming in a bit late with a few blocks here and there to allow the king to register some strikes of his own. To a very small degree, he also slowed a few of his attack moves, permitting Bhàtair to successfully block them. The young wizard didn’t completely take a dive, though. He simply eased up enough at various times during the duel so that he didn’t embarrass the older man, allowing the king to finally, just barely, eke out a win before Isla eventually called a halt to the contest.
Bhàtair, breathing hard from the workout, tossed his sword to his daughter and extended the now-empty sword-arm toward Pádraig. “Yuh acquitted yourself well, Wizard.”
Pádraig handed his sword back to Isla, then grasped the proffered forearm. “The majority of the credit belongs to Isla, Your Majesty. She’s an excellent teacher. No doubt instructed by her da.”
Dropping the forearm grasp, the Mountain King, said, “They teach flattery at the Academy, as well as magic, do they?” Turning to his daughter, he nodded his approval. “Well done, Isla. Well done, indeed.”
“Your Majesty,” she replied with a bow, a touch of blush on her cheeks.
As Pádraig finished doffing the helmet and tunic, remembering to remove the spell from it as he did so, Bhàtair reached up and put a sizable paw on the young wizard’s shoulder and said, “Walk with me. A luncheon awaits us. Nothing like a duel tuh work up an appetite, hmm?” He handed his helmet back to the guard from whom he had gotten it, exchanging it for his circlet of gold.
“And a thirst, Sire.”
The Mountain King laughed heartily and said, “Indeed.”
As they strode through the cavern, with Isla following, after doffing her own tunic and helmet and handing both outfits and the wooden swords to one of the guards, Bhàtair whispered to Pádraig, “Why did yuh hold back? Did yuh think I’d not notice?”
Pádraig didn’t reply.
“Yuh could have beaten me, yuh know.”
Pádraig simply shrugged.
“Why did yuh let me win, Young Wizard?”
After a slight pause, Pádraig answered, “Because you needed to, Your Majesty.”
“And yuh didn’t?”
Pádraig shook his head and replied, frankly, “No, Sire.”
“Interesting. And why not?”
“For me, this was just a friendly competition. For you, Your Majesty, it was much more than that. This is your kingdom, your home, and your people were looking on. It was important that the Mountain King win.”
Bhàtair thought about the answer. After a minute of silence, he said, “Even though, as yuh say, this was only a friendly competition tuh yuh, after looking intuh your eyes, laddie, I must tell yuh, I didn’t see a killer instinct.”
“Sire?”
“I have no doubt that yuh can defend yourself, Young Wizard. Yuh showed me that tuhday. But, if the time should ever come when yuh need tuh go beyond defense and deliver a killing blow, are yuh sure yuh have it in yuh?”
“If the need arose, yes, Your Majesty.”
“Yuh think so, or know so?”
“I believe so.”
The Mountain King halted and looked up directly into Pádraig’s eyes. “As I understand it, yuh couldn’t even kill a mountain lion that had Isla trapped.”
“Sire, please don’t confuse ‘couldn’t’ with ‘wouldn’t.’”
The king raised a bushy eyebrow. “Oh?”
“That cougar didn’t need killing. It was not an evil cougar, Your Majesty. It was simply a cougar going about its cougar business, with no personal malice in its heart. Believe me when I tell you that, had it been an armed bandit out to do your daughter harm, I would have dispatched him forthwith, without hesitation.”
“Are yuh sure?”
“I honestly believe so, Your Majesty.”
Bhàtair patted him on the shoulder. “‘Believing’ is not the same as ‘knowing,’ Young Wizard. Think about that, hmm?” He winked and continued walking. “But for now, come and join me at my table.”
* * *
The lunch at the Mountain King’s table had been a grand feast befitting Bhàtair’s station, with roast goose, roast lamb, a suckling pig, vegetables of every kind, and sweets that Pádraig had never tasted, but had seen at the marketplace in the Central Federal Region and knew came from far-off lands.
Before departing, he once aga
in expressed his appreciation to the king for the hospitality shown him.
As they grasped forearms, Bhàtair whispered, “Think about what I said, Young Wizard. Think long and hard on it.”
“I will, Your Majesty,” he replied, sincerely.
Leaving the hall of the Mountain King, Isla guided Pádraig back through the maze of side caverns and out to where a contented Killian stood napping on his feet, a half-eaten sheaf of hay at his side.
Pádraig donned his cloak and said, “Thank you, Isla. Thank you for everything.” Impulsively, he bent forward and downward and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
She stepped back, startled, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand, as if she had been stung by a bee. “If yuh think for one minute that I’m kissing yuh back, Wizard,” she grumbled, “yuh’ve got another think coming. Now get on with yourself. Go do something useful. Find that mountain lion and kill the beasty.”
Pádraig mounted Killian. Noticing that Isla stood there blushing, he waved to her as he rode off.
Once the young wizard had disappeared from her sight, the dwarf princess reached up and gently touched her cheek where she had been kissed, fondly replaying the moment in her mind.
* * *
On the ride back to Sléibhín’s hut, Pádraig didn’t go looking for the cougar, but he did think about his conversation with Bhàtair:
“Why did yuh let me win, Young Wizard?”
“Because you needed to, Your Majesty.”
“And yuh didn’t?”
“No, Sire.”
“Interesting. And why not?”
“For me, this was just a friendly competition. For you, Your Majesty, it was much more than that. This is your kingdom, your home, and your people were looking on. It was important that the Mountain King win.”
After a minute of silence, Bhàtair said, “Even though, as yuh say, this was only a friendly competition tuh yuh, after looking intuh your eyes, laddie, I must tell yuh, I dinna see a killer instinct.”
“Sire?”
“I have no doubt that yuh can defend yourself, Young Wizard. Yuh showed me that tuhday. But, if the time should ever come when yuh need tuh go beyond defense and deliver a killing blow, are yuh sure yuh have it in yuh?”
The conversation was almost identical to one he had had with Máiréad many years ago when, in a foot-race around Fox Pond, he had deliberately held back in order to allow Prince Liam to win. Although the prince hadn’t realized it, Máiréad had sensed what Pádraig was doing and had used her magic to cause a root to rise up out of the path and trip Liam. Later, when they were alone, she had challenged him:
“Why were you holding back in the race?”
Pádraig kept silent.
“You could have beaten him,” Máiréad insisted.
Pádraig shrugged, then asked, “Why did you trip him?”
“Because you were letting him win.…Why?”
“He needed to.”
“And you didn’t?”
The boy shook his head and replied, simply, “No.”
The girl had stopped, while Pádraig had kept on walking. When he had gotten a half-dozen steps ahead of her, she flicked the fingers of her left hand in his direction, sending a miniature lightning bolt at his backside.
Without turning around, he made a movement with his right hand, deflecting the energy spike off into the pond where it sizzled as the water extinguished it.
She flicked her fingers again, sending another power-surge toward him, this one twice as potent.
Again, Pádraig sensed and deflected it, without ever turning around.
Yet a third time she tried, redoubling the power of the energy.
Once more, without physically seeing it coming, the boy detected and stopped it before it made contact with him. Only this time, instead of deflecting it into the pond, he sent it back toward her, so that it exploded at her feet.
Although startled, Máiréad said, “So there is a limit to how much abuse you’re willing to take. Good for you.”
Everyone has their limits, Pádraig thought. And, why do people think I lack the desire to win? Should the need arise, and the stakes high enough, I do have it in me to deliver a decisive blow—not to win a friendly duel or a foot-race that means so much more to someone else than it does to me; not to kill an animal that poses no real threat; but, most certainly, to save a life.
It was, he decided, as he had told the Mountain King:
“Believe me when I tell you that, had it been an armed bandit out to do your daughter harm, I would have dispatched him forthwith, without hesitation.”
Nodding with satisfaction, he thought, This I most assuredly believe.
Yewday - Bear 49th
Iorras Shire
From the point out into the Sea of the Evening, on the north side of the watchtower near the watergate, Liam sat astride his pure-white stallion, Máedóc, his formal dark-blue cape fluttering in the chilly, early morning onshore breeze. On the prince’s left, Ruadhán, Chieftain of Iorras Shire, mounted on a gray stallion, huddled into his gray, wool cloak, thankful that this competition occurred only once per year. To Liam’s right, Eógan, Earl of the Western Shires, straddled a light-chestnut stallion with a flaxen mane and tail. He, like Ruadhán, wore a gray cloak, favored by the majority of the populace in the Kingdom of the Western Shires. However, the earl seemed not to be bothered by the cold.
Just north of the point, as dawn began to break, a dozen sea-currachs—three from the security forces of each of the three kingdoms and three from the Cruachanian Defense Forces—jockeyed for position. Most tried to get as close to the imaginary line of the watergate without crossing it and being disqualified. A few hung back, preferring to get a running start by anticipating the final signal and surging past their competition at the starting line.
Liam, looking up at the tower, received a wave from the officer of the watch. He, in turn, gestured to the member of the Cruachanian Defense Forces on his right. The bowman, standing on the ground, notched an arrow, wrapped with a lamp oil-soaked rag. The soldier beside him raised a blazing stick from the small fire that burned in front of them and transferred the flame to the arrow. Once loosed, the flaming arrow cut an arc across the barely-dawn sky, signaling the boatmen that the start of the currach race was just moments away.
A second bowman, standing on Liam’s left, notched an arrow of his own, this one also rag-wrapped and saturated with lamp oil. Another soldier standing with him plucked a burning stick from the fire as well, waiting and listening.
From the top of the tower a bell tolled six times—three sets of two peals each—signifying the beginning of the third hour of the four-hour morning watch.
As soon as the sixth bell began its knell, the soldier lit the oil-soaked rag, and the bowman let his arrow fly out over the Sea of the Evening. At the first sighting of its ascent, double sails were quickly unfurled on all the sea-currachs. The Between-Season Day boat race was officially underway.
All throughout the Saltwater Bay dock area, wagers were being made on which of the competitors would cross the finish line and enter the harbor first, some seventeen days hence. The odds at the race’s start favored both the boats of the Cruachanian Defense Forces, because they patrolled the choppy waters far out to sea, and the currachs from the Security Forces of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires, since their sailors kept watch on the largest coastline of the island, plying the littoral waters from the Central Federal Region on the east to Saltwater Bay on the west.
“I guess I’ll see you both back here in two weeks,” Liam said to Ruadhán and Eógan. “Have you placed your bets, yet? You have only until the beginning of the forenoon watch to do so.”
“Two bets, actually, Your Highness,” the chieftain replied. “One with my heart, for the number-one boat from the Kingdom of the Western Shires; and, the other, with my head, for the number-one boat from the Kingdom of the Northern Shires. And you?”
“Pretty much the same heart-head double bet. The nu
mber-one boat from the Kingdom of the Western Shires and the number-one boat from the Cruachanian Defense Forces.”
Ruadhán furrowed his brow. “I wonder if anyone ever bets on the number-two or number-three boats,” he said.
“The oarsmen’s mas, wives, or girlfriends, I’d imagine,” the prince answered with a smile.
“Not their das?”
Liam shook his head. “Naw. I don’t think so. Although they’d never admit that to their sons.” Glancing to his right, he asked, “Cousin, what about you?”
“I must confess, Your Highness, I am probably one of the few who did bet on a number-two or number-three boat. I somehow felt it my duty to place wagers on all three of the currachs from the Kingdom of the Western Shires.”
Ruadhán stifled a laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time one of their boats had won. “You’ll be stopping off at Ráth Iorras before you leave for home, won’t you, Your Highness and My Lord?” he asked. “They should have a hearty breakfast ready for us by the time we get there.”
“I’m counting on it, Ruadhán,” the prince replied. “My men and I probably won’t get anything more to eat until we reach Ráth Luíne tonight.”
“My apologies, Ruadhán, but I’ll have to pass,” Eógan answered. “I must return to Cathair Tulach by tomorrow. My party and I’ll spend tonight at Ráth Orrery.”
“The more food for me and my men,” Liam said. “Give my regards to the staff at Cathair Tulach.”
“I will, Your Highness. And pass along my good wishes to the High King. Do you happen to know if he placed a bet on the race?”
“I know for certain that he didn’t, Cousin. If he had, just as you felt it your duty to bet on all three boats from the Western Shires, politics would have dictated that the High King of Cruachan place a wager on all twelve boats.”
All three men joined in with hearty laughs.
Yewday - Bear 49th
Callainn Shire
From the point out into Saltwater Bay, past Colm’s forge, where the watergate would connect when closed, Ríoghán, son of Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires, sat astride a red-chestnut stallion, his dark-red cape fluttering in the chilly, early morning onshore breeze. His lips were drawn tight, and he had a resigned expression on his face. On the prince’s left, mounted on a seal-bay stallion, a captain with the Security Forces of the Northern Shires and commander of the garrison at Fort Callainn, also waited in anticipation. He, too, wore his dark-red cape. To Ríoghán’s right, Garbhán, having only recently been named shire chieftain after his father’s boar-hunting accident, sat tall in the saddle of his piebald stallion. He wore the tan cloak favored by the people from the Kingdom of the Northern Shires.
The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 2) Page 16
