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

by Bill Stackhouse

  He moved; he heard the steps follow.

  He stopped; they stopped.

  He started up again; so did they.

  I sure hope that’s not a wolf, bear, or cougar tracking me, he thought.

  But he quickly discarded that idea, as an unexplainable wave of nausea hit him. Fear rose in his chest, a feeling of dread shrouded him, and his heart-rate shot up.

  That’s not an animal out there. It’s not even another person.…Could it…could it really be? Pádraig wondered. Is there more than just legend to Am Fear Liath Mòr?

  Trembling with trepidation, he sent out a small mental probe.

  It detected nothing—nothing at all, except for the normal creatures of the forest night—all of them much smaller and less fearsome than cougars, bears, and wolves.

  Increasing the power of the probe, he extended it farther outward.

  Still nothing to be concerned about.

  A trace of a smile crept across his lips, and he willed his mind back to calmness. There’s nothing out there. It’s a spell. And a good one, at that. Some wizard, probably a journeyman, has cast a magic spell over the entire area. An Am-Fear-Liath-Mòr spell. Very convincing, indeed.

  Once again, he increased the power of his mental probe.

  This time, he did detect something—people, about a quarter league to the northwest.

  Although the young wizard knew that time was of the essence, he felt the need to check out this contact before continuing on. Moving very slowly, and carefully setting each foot down so that the sole of its boot broke through the icy crust gradually, muffling the sound somewhat, he closed in on the spot where he had sensed the people.

  Soon, the light from a lantern caught his attention.

  Creeping ever so carefully toward it, he finally spotted three men in a small clearing, standing outside an opening in the ground. Peeking around a large pine, he observed that a section of the forest floor, some ten feet square, had been lifted up on one end like a trap door and propped open by eight-foot logs on the corners. Smoke belched out through the opening.

  In the lantern light, Pádraig could clearly see the three men. One was a member of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires. The other two were not. But the young wizard had seen the likes of them, ten years earlier, when he and Prince Liam had been held captive.

  Dressed in blue tunics with broad skirts over brown, baggy breeches that had the excess material gathered in brown leg-wrappings from knee to foot, they wore rust-colored, wool cloaks. Blond braids hung down the sides of their faces from beneath white, knit pointed caps.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Pádraig kept himself from uttering the realization out loud. Northmen! Some of them are already here.

  Now it was more imperative than ever that he reach the citadel. He backed away from the tree, behind which he had concealed himself, again careful to make as little noise as possible. When he had put sufficient distance between himself and the threesome, he bolted for the path, giving no regard to stealth, considering only speed.

  Again, Pádraig heard footsteps; but, these were not from animal paws, nor were they magic-spell Am-Fear-Liath-Mòr footsteps. These were being made by real people. And they were after him.

  “This way!” a call went out from about six rods behind him.

  The young wizard stopped and crouched down behind a fir tree.

  “Which way?” someone else yelled.

  “He was heading southeast!” another voice answered.

  Now everyone had come to a halt. In the silence and the darkness, they all listened—Pádraig, for the searchers; the searchers for their quarry.

  During the silence, the young wizard thought about casting a shape-shifting spell and turning himself into another fir, a smaller version of the tree he hid behind. However, as far back as he could remember, Finbar had warned him repeatedly about using his gift indiscriminately:

  “Magic draws magic, Paddy. Be very careful. What you’ve been given is not a toy. Actions always have consequences.”

  But, what are the consequences of doing nothing? he wondered. Getting caught, that’s what. Clearing his mind, he went ahead and cast the shape-shifting spell.

  Nothing happened.

  Puzzled, he tried again.

  Still nothing.

  Uh-oh, he realized. There’s another wizard out there blocking my magic. But how would he or she know that I had magic in the first place that required blocking?…Somehow, though, they do know. And with that recognition, came a piece of the conversation he had had with Sléibhín the day after he had been beat up during his first lesson on how to use the hand-and-a-half sword:

  Sléibhín asked, “Tomorrow, why don’t you use some magic to assist you, Paddy? Surely you could do it in a manner so that Isla would remain unaware.”

  “It wouldn’t be sporting,” Pádraig replied. “Besides, if ever my magical powers are blocked, for whatever reason, I think I need to learn how to defend myself without them.”

  The only weapons Pádraig had with him were his homemade, wrought iron, hawk’s-beak hoof-pick, in his breeches pocket, and the stag-horn-hilted knife that Isla had given him, tucked into its brown leather scabbard down in his left boot. Against armed pursuers, he knew that the hoof-pick would be next to useless. And the three-and-a-half-inch blade on the boot knife barely better. The sword! he realized. I’ve got to get to my sword! There may be three of them after me, but that sword will be an equalizer.

  Believing that he could outrun his trackers, he looked around, got his bearings, and sprinted for the trail that would lead him to where he had hidden Killian’s saddle and the hand-and-a-half sword.

  “He’s heading southeast again!” a cry went up, and the pursuing footfalls started once more.

  “I see him! I see him!” another voice yelled. “He’s heading toward the path!”

  With the slight lead that Pádraig had gotten, he became more confident than ever that he could outdistance his pursuers.

  However, he was unable to outdistance an arrow. It caught him in the back of the right shoulder, and the young wizard stumbled, falling face first into the snow.

  “I got him! I got him!” a third voice called out. “This way! This way!”

  Pádraig tried desperately to regain his footing, but his legs were slow to respond. His eyes became difficult to focus, and he stumbled again, collapsing once more onto the snowy forest floor.

  As he desperately tried to reach over his right shoulder with his left hand and pull the arrow free, his last thought before losing consciousness was, Oh, no.…The arrow.…Must have been tipped with…

  Yewday - Bear 49th

  Béarra Shire - North Head

  Midway into the evening watch, Siollán, the young bowman who had been banished to the North Head garrison, strolled across the fort’s ward from the mess hall. As he reached the tavern door, he stopped and looked back as four of his fellow soldiers from the Security Forces of the Northern Shires galloped in through the main gate, accompanying a wagon pulled by two horses and driven by another soldier. Next to the driver sat a tall, thin man in a tan, wool cloak. The hood of the cloak had been pulled up, and, in the darkness of the courtyard, Siollán couldn’t see the man’s face.

  The four horseman quickly dismounted. One of them minded the animals, and the other three hurriedly crossed to the wagon and grabbed hold of a limp form, roughly pulling the comatose man from the cart’s bed. While one of the three soldiers ran on ahead to open the door, the other two slid their shoulders under the captive’s armpits, dragging him toward the garrison. The tall, thin man followed closely behind. No sooner had the prisoner been removed from the wagon, the driver slapped the reins and drove the cart over to the stables, trailed by the soldier tending the four horses.

  The entire incident had lasted no longer than three minutes.

  What was that all about? Siollán wondered, as he opened the door to the tavern and continued inside, out of the cold. Maybe a bandit or horse thief? I sure wo
uldn’t want to be in his boots. I’ve seen the dungeon in the cellar of this garrison. Not a pleasant place.

  What the young bowman had also seen, and had recognized even in the dark, were the two men who had dragged the prisoner into the garrison—his squad leader and section leader.

  * * *

  Having been at the garrison for less than a month, Siollán hadn’t yet made many friends. Two of his fellow bowmen, also about his age, that he had gotten to know fairly well sat with him at a table for six in the back corner of the room, the farthest table from the fireplace. Rank and time-in-service did, indeed, have its privileges. The tavern was relatively full, since on this night a traveling minstrel sang tales of courtly love, mythical exploits, and derring-do, accompanying himself on a gittern.

  The door to the tavern opened and in walked the squad and section leaders who had brought in the prisoner. Seeing that most of the tables were full and the one with the three young bowmen had empty stools, the two men crossed over to Siollán and his companions.

  “Mind if we join you?” the section leader asked, perfunctorily, pulling out a stool.

  All three bowman almost wet themselves, as they stood and gestured to the empty stools.

  “No, sirs!” they replied as one.

  “It would be an honor,” Siollán added.

  When everyone had taken their seats, the section leader signaled the alewife and made a circular motion around the table.

  The bowmen’s eyes widened as they realized that their superior had ordered a round of drinks for the entire table, and they again responded in unison with, “Thank you, sir!”

  “Well, Siollán,” the section leader said, “I see you’re adapting to your new assignment, making friends and all. Any problems?”

  “N…no sir. N…none at all. I’m h…happy to be here.”

  “Good. Good.”

  Unfortunately, Siollán couldn’t just leave it at that. His youthful curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he had to ask, “I saw the two of you bring in a prisoner, tonight. What did he do?”

  The men in authority glanced at each other for the briefest of moments, then the section leader’s eyes narrowed and he asked, sternly, “Do you remember why you were sent up here, Bowman?”

  “Y…yes, sir,” Siollán replied lowering his eyes to the tabletop.

  “And why was that?”

  “I…I seem to have a p…problem minding my own b…business, sir.”

  The other two bowmen sat upright, concentrating solely on the minstrel, now. Had they thought they could have gotten away with it unnoticed, they would have slid their stools farther away from their comrade.

  “Do you know where your next assignment will be, if you mess up here?” the section leader persisted.

  “N…no sir,” Siollán answered, still not raising his eyes.

  “I believe your family has a pig farm down in Cairbrigh Shire, do they not?”

  “Y…yes, sir.”

  “Be a good lad and try not to mess up, then,” the section leader told him, “because if you do, that will be your next assignment—back home at the pig farm with your folks. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Y…yes, sir. Perfectly.”

  Breaking the tension, the squad leader said, “Speaking of Cairbrigh Shire, I don’t know whether or not you men have seen the duty roster for tomorrow, but I believe that two of you are with me. We’ll be leaving at first light, riding down the center of the shire to the Cairbrigh Shire border and back.” Taking a wrought-iron hoof-pick, that had been forged in the image of a hawk, from his pocket, he absently turned it over and over in his hands, as he continued. “There’ve been some reports of bandit activity in the area. Nothing specific; but, nevertheless, we need to assist the shire reeve and his deputies and check it out.” Pointing across the table with the hoof-pick at one of the bowmen, he assured him, “You’re not being punished. Your name’s not on the roster because I’m taking a second swordsman in your stead, just in case. Enjoy your day off.” He set the hoof-pick on the tabletop in front of him and spun it around.

  Siollán used every ounce of resolve not to let on that he recognized the object, but he knew exactly when and where he had seen it. It was the night before he was to depart Fort Árainn for the garrison here at North Head. He had encountered Pádraig in the stable, and the young apprentice wizard had insisted on checking the bowman’s horse’s hooves before the trip:

  Using his wrought iron, hawk’s-beak hoof-pick, Pádraig cleaned the debris from the left front hoof and around the shoe, checking to make sure the shoe was secure.

  “I’ve never seen a hoof-pick like that before,” Siollán said.

  “It’s one of a kind,” Pádraig replied, as he moved to the left hind leg and repeated the procedure with that hoof. “Made it myself in my da’s forge. See? Here? That small stone there in the frog of the hoof?”

  Once Siollán had bent over to look over his shoulder, Pádraig continued. “The way I’ve fashioned the hawk’s beak, it can remove a stone with no effort at all, without injuring the soft tissue on the inside of Brian’s hoof.” He set the point of the beak under the stone and rocked the pick slightly.

  The pebble popped right out.

  “Slick,” the bowman acknowledged.

  Where would the squad leader have gotten the Honored Pádraig’s hoof-pick? Siollán wondered. Is that who they had in that wagon tonight? And, if so, why? Why would they be imprisoning an apprentice wizard? Or any level of wizard, for that matter?

  “What do you have there, sir?” one of the other bowman asked the squad leader, pointing at the hoof-pick.

  “I’m not rightly sure.” He held it up for everyone to see. After head shakes from the other two bowmen and the section leader, Siollán said, casually, “I believe it’s a farrier’s hoof-pick, sir. For cleaning debris from horses’ hooves. At least, I think that’s what it might be.”

  “What are you going to do with it, sir?” the second bowman asked.

  “Pitch it, I guess,” the squad leader replied. “Why? Do you want it?”

  “No, sir. Just curious.”

  Again, Siollán tried for a detached response. “If you don’t want it, sir , I’ll take it.”

  “And do what with it?” the section leader asked, eyebrow raised.

  Siollán shrugged his shoulders. “Just hang on to it, sir. You never know when a horse may pick up a stone while we’re out on patrol. Removing the stone seems like it would be a lot easier than walking my mount home.”

  Everyone snickered, and the squad leader shoved the hoof-pick across the table toward the young bowman. “By all means, take it, then. You’ll now be our unofficial farrier when we’re out on patrol.”

  Birchday - Bear 50th

  Béarra Shire - North Head

  From the lookout atop the garrison, six bells sounded in three groups of two peals each, signaling the beginning of the third hour of the middle watch.

  Down in the cellar of the garrison, lying on a cot in one of the fortified lockups, Pádraig stirred. Although he managed to open his eyes, they wouldn’t focus for him, even though a dim light illuminated the interior of his cell. He tried to raise himself up on one elbow, but flopped back down again, as the room seemed to move at the attempt. His throat and lips were parched, and he licked his lips, trying to get the saliva flowing again.

  “Well, there you are,” a gentle voice said, as a tall, thin man rose from a stool next to a small table where the lantern sat. “I was beginning to worry about you. Are you thirsty?”

  Pádraig managed a small nod.

  “I should think so. Here, let’s see if we can do something about that.”

  The man picked up a tankard from the table and crossed to the cot. Perching on the edge of the bed, he put an arm around Pádraig’s back and lifted the young wizard to a somewhat sitting position.

  Although still unable to focus his eyes completely, Pádraig did notice that the man wore the blue mantle of a journeyman wizard.
r />   “W…where am I?” he rasped, softly.

  “You’re at the North Head garrison. My name’s Neasán, and I’ll be taking care of you for a while. Here, drink this, now. It’s cider.” He held the mug up to Pádraig’s lips.

  “I…I was drugged,” the young wizard told him, attempting to reach his left arm toward the back of his right shoulder. “Arrow.…Tipped with some…something.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t move around too much. I’ve patched your wound, but you don’t want to be pulling it open, now, do you? Here. Drink.” Neasán again put the tankard to Pádraig’s lips.

  The young wizard sipped greedily; but, before he had consumed half of the liquid, his eyes started to glaze over. Just before slipping back into unconsciousness, he looked up at Neasán’s face and asked, “Drugged?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, Pádraig. We’ll talk more once we get to Cathair Béarra later on this evening.”

  After gently setting the comatose apprentice wizard back down, Neasán crossed to the table, picked up the lantern, and exited the cell with it and the mug of drugged cider.

  “I don’t think he will,” the journeyman wizard said to the guard, as the soldier relocked the cell door, “but if he should wake, let me know straight away. And remember, under no circumstances are you to enter that cell.”

  “Yes, Revered Sir,” the guard replied. “I understand.”

  * * *

  Siollán, the young bowman, had returned to the garrison with his squad, just as the lookout bells tolled the midpoint of the evening watch. He had taken care of Brian’s comfort, and used Pádraig’s hoof-pick to clean the debris from the horse’s hooves.

  Now, as he sat there cleaning the tack, he was interrupted by his fellow bowman who had been given the day off, so that a second swordsman could ride with the squad.

  “I understand you had a rather uneventful day,” his comrade told him, peeking over the door to Brian’s stall.