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

by Bill Stackhouse

The leader of the team raised his eyes and replied, “To protect the Princess Fionnuala, Your Highness, and to make sure that she never got anywhere close to the action.”

  A tight-lipped Ríoghán picked up the dagger in front of him and turned it over and over in his hands. “A rather simple assignment, I would have thought, since we have not yet seen any action.…Although, apparently, my sister has.” He drove the point of the knife forcefully into the wooden tabletop.

  “Three seconds, Your Highness,” the team leader said, trying his best to not make it sound like a whine. “Five at the very most. I had just spoken to her moments before the wagon went through that puddle. Everyone turned toward it. I heard the princess call out, and when I turned back to her, she was…gone.…Just gone.”

  “And you’ve checked out the waggoneer?” the prince asked.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” a second member of the team spoke up. “Thoroughly. Yes, to be sure, he was going way too fast, but his coming by at that exact moment was not a diversion of any sort. It was simply a coincidence.”

  “Then explain to me how a teenage girl, dressed completely in black, in the middle of a sea of red capes, can just disappear within five seconds, leaving her weapon a rod out into the unoccupied zone?”

  No one spoke.

  Ríoghán’s temper began to increase, as did the intensity of his voice. “Did she just disappear into thin air?…Did a big bird swoop down from the sky and pick her up?…What’s your explanation, Sergeant?”

  Again, no answers were forthcoming.

  Once again calming himself, the prince asked, “And, more important, what are you doing to find her?”

  The team leader raised his palms in a gesture of futility. “All the officers are canvassing their troops, to make sure that the princess, unhappy with us for keeping tabs on her, is not just playing an elaborate prank and hiding out somewhere. Also, every soldier who was in the immediate area is being questioned, exhaustively.”

  “And yet, this is all you’ve found.” Ríoghán pointed at the dagger.

  “So far, Your Highness.”

  “Tromped down into the ground a rod out into the no-man’s land.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  With a dismissive gesture, the prince waved the soldiers out of his tent while wondering, Can this get any worse? We get down here and find the Confederation forces already marshaled and ready for us. And I have no idea what Eógan, Odhran, and the Northmen are doing over in Callainn Shire. Now I have to explain to my da about Fee? What do I say to him? ‘I have good news and bad news, Your Majesty. The good news is that we have our independence. The bad news is that, in the process, I somehow lost your youngest daughter. Sorry about that.’

  Birchday - Fox 2nd

  Gabhrán Shire

  The rain and snow had changed to sleet during the nighttime hours, the icy pellets stinging the uncovered areas of skin on the soldiers who manned the lines.

  At first light, when the watch changed and a different third of the forces went behind the lines, to be replaced by those who had managed to grab some sleep, Prince Ríoghán still sat in his command tent, thinking and brooding.

  Although the tent contained a cot, and the prince had tried to get some rest, sleep had not come. He worried about his sister, Fionnuala, as well as the lack of news from Earl Eógan. The messenger he had dispatched to Fort Callainn on Between-Season Day had yet to return. In addition, Ríoghán realized that his forces along the border were vastly outnumbered.

  I’m like a blind man, here, he thought. I need news. Badly.

  And news he received, in three waves—all of it bad.

  First, his sister’s four babysitters, who, too, hadn’t gotten any sleep, reported on the results of their canvas of the troops, both those there by the Dúnfort Road and the other half of the forces up by Stag Pond. The Princess Fionnuala was nowhere to be found. Also, the intensive questioning of those soldiers who had been in the immediate vicinity of her disappearance had yielded virtually nothing. While many had remembered her pushing through the ranks to take a look across the no-man’s land, none had remembered seeing her after the wagon went by.

  Within an hour, a lanceman from the Security Forces of the Northern Shires, released by Finbar and Isla at Fort Callainn, galloped in with the news of the deaths of Eógan and the wizard Murchú, the absence of Odhran and any Northmen, along with a report that North Head, Fort Árainn, and Fort Callainn were firmly in control of Confederation Forces and the dwarf army.

  Ríoghán summoned his officers for a staff meeting and informed them of the situation—they could expect no help from their comrades imprisoned on the west coast of the kingdom.

  “We’ve seen troops from the Eastern Shires going down the docks near Ráth Luíne and making their way around the bay toward the Callainn Shire docks,” one of the captains said. “If they’re allowed to reinforce the small contingent of Confederation forces, then—”

  “And a dwarf army,” the prince pointed out.

  “And a dwarf army,” the captain conceded. “But from what you’ve said, it consists of only about fifty dwarfs. My point is, Your Highness, that if we don’t split our forces and send enough men to retake Ráth Callainn before the Eastern Shires troops link up with those from the Confederation, we will surely be encircled by their combined forces.”

  “We have limited options available,” Ríoghán replied. “We can do as the good captain has suggested—split the troops and retake Ráth Callainn before the Eastern Shires troops can get to the Callainn Shire docks. However, that would leave us vulnerable here. As anyone can plainly see, we are already outnumbered. And, if the Confederation forces see us moving troops westward, they will, no doubt, immediately attack. Or, and I don’t like this option any better than you will, we can sue for peace.”

  After about fifteen seconds of silence, another captain spoke up. “If the Northmen aren’t coming to our aid, where is Master Odhran? And what’s he doing?”

  The prince shook his head and let out a small sigh. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  The idea arrived within a few minutes of Ríoghán’s statement. A swordsman from the Security Forces of the Northern Shires, stationed at Fortress Béarra, rode into camp, quickly dismounted, and rushed toward the command tent. He carried the letter from the Revered Neasán, which Pádraig had instructed the journeyman wizard to write, and Cadwgawn had directed him to amend, when the elf went to Fortress Béarra to pick up the journeyman wizard, Labhrás.

  Ríoghán read it through three times to himself, then lowered his head and handed the four pieces of parchment to Fintan, the senior journeyman wizard from Gabhrán Shire, to read aloud.

  Midway through the reading, all heads were bowed, as the realization set in—the insurrection was over. The Northern Shires would not be gaining its independence.

  To a man, the same thought entered each mind: Will I pay with my life?

  The final sentence of the missive, although phrased as a request, contained what the prince fully recognized as an instruction:

  Your Highness, once you have read this report, please walk to the border. A representative from the Confederation will meet you to discuss the terms of surrender.

  Ríoghán lifted his head and managed a tight, though mirthless, smile. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he told his officers, “I have to get ready for a meeting.”

  As the men stood to leave, one of the captains said, in a loud voice, “The king is dead. Long live the King of the Northern Shires!”

  The others responded with, “Long live King Ríoghán!” and saluted the now-King of the Northern Shires before turning to exit the tent.

  * * *

  The line of troops parted as Ríoghán purposely strode, unarmed, toward the Gabhrán Shire border with the Central Federal Region. The morning had warmed somewhat, and the sleet had changed back into a light rain. Despite the inclement weather, he held his head high and had fixed an unemotional expression on his face.

&nb
sp; He was but a half-dozen paces into the no-man’s land, when the opposing troops also parted, and two figures walked forward to meet him—his sister, Fionnuala, and the journeyman wizard, Pádraig, complete with a new, blue mantle, presented to him that very morning by Faolan, Arch-Wizard of Cruachan, after consultation with Master Wizard Fergal and, by scry, with the other two members of the Sodality, Taliesin and Coinneach.

  * * *

  Earlier, Pádraig had climbed the steps to the third floor of the keep, where the Princess Fionnuala was being housed. While still a rod from the princess’ bedroom, the young wizard smiled as the guard opened the door halfway to permit one of the lady’s maids to exit, closing it immediately as a hairbrush sailed by his and the girl’s heads, accompanied by Fionnuala’s scream of, “I demand you let me out of here! Right this minute!”

  From behind the now-closed door, Pádraig heard the sounds of more items being thrown and breaking against the stone walls.

  “How long’s this been going on?” he asked.

  “I came on duty at the beginning of the morning watch, Revered Sir,” the guard replied. “Our guest awoke some two hours later. She’s been throwing a constant temper tantrum ever since.”

  Pádraig looked at the maid, who had retrieved the hairbrush from the hallway floor. “Is she dressed? And has she been fed?”

  “Dressed, yes, Revered Sir. Fed? Not unless she’s licked her breakfast off the walls, because that’s where she’s thrown it.”

  The wizard took the brush from the maid. “Okay, open it up,” he directed the guard.

  As the soldier inserted his key into the lock, he said, “You’ll need more than that brush to protect yourself from that bean-sidhe, believe you me, Revered Sir.”

  “Warning taken,” Pádraig replied.

  He gave a nod, and the guard opened the door just long enough to allow him to enter.

  Once in the room, Pádraig was greeted by a snarling princess. “You have no right to hold me! Let me out of here! Now! My brother will hear of this!”

  Although she had put on a brave face, the wizard detected a quiver of her lower lip that belied the young girl’s false face of confidence. He also noticed the redness of her eyes. She had been crying.

  “I’ll be leaving to meet with your brother in about a quarter of an hour,” Pádraig told her, calmly. “Would you care to accompany me, Your Highness?”

  “Y…you’re going to meet with Ríoghán?” She considered him suspiciously.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” He set the hairbrush on a table. “How about if I have the maid bring you some hot water? You can get yourself together, and I’ll return for you in a little while. How’s that sound?”

  “O…okay.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  While happy to see his sister, Ríoghán was puzzled by the presence of the wizard. He had been relatively certain that he’d be meeting with Prince Liam.

  However, upon a suggestion from Pádraig, during his meeting with Déaglán the day before, the High King had concocted a reason for Liam to ride out early that morning to inspect the troops up near Stag Pond.

  With two rods to go, the princess bolted from Pádraig’s side and ran toward her brother, wrapping her arms around him when she got there. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  The journeyman wizard made no move to stop her. In fact, he slowed his pace somewhat to allow brother and sister some personal time together.

  Ríoghán kissed Fionnuala on the forehead. “Are you okay, Fee? Did they hurt you?”

  She nodded to the first question, and shook her head to the second, then buried her face in her brother’s neck and wept, while he gently stroked the back of her head.

  When Pádraig arrived at where the twosome stood, he bowed and said, “Your Majesty. My sincere condolences on the passing of your father.”

  “Thank you, Revered Sir,” the king replied. Head-gesturing to the girl in his arms, he asked, “May the princess return to our lines?”

  “With the weather as it is,” the new journeyman wizard replied with a friendly smile, “why don’t all three of us return, and you and I can converse in your tent. We have much to discuss.”

  “So it would seem,” Ríoghán responded.

  * * *

  After escorting Pádraig back through the lines of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires, king and wizard exchanged forearm grasps.

  “My thanks, again, for dealing with Odhran, Revered Sir,” Ríoghán said.

  “As a soldier, you understand better than most that there are times when you have to take a life, as regrettable as doing so is. That moment was definitely one of those times.”

  “I’ll let you know when everyone has arrived and things are in place on this side of the border,” the king told him.

  “Not me, Your Majesty. I hope to be on my way long before then. Most probably, you’ll be dealing directly with Prince Liam from now on.”

  “I never thought to ask before, Revered Sir, but is Liam in complete concurrence with the provisions of this treaty?”

  “The prince does not yet know about it, Your Majesty. Now that you have agreed to the proposed terms, the High King will go over the details with him this evening.”

  The only reply from Ríoghán was a raised eyebrow, as Pádraig bowed, turned from the king, and made his way across the no-man’s land to his own lines.

  * * *

  Once back in his command tent, Ríoghán summoned his officers, the wizards that were with his half of the troops, his sister, and her babysitters.

  After filling them in on only those conditions of the treaty which they needed to know about, he looked at the officers and wizards. “The rebellion is over—for good. Your troops are to stand down from their defensive posture. This afternoon, we will be breaking camp and withdrawing to Ráth Gabhrán. There, we will turn over temporary control of the ráth to the Confederation forces, until such time as all the terms of the treaty have been met.”

  He received nods from those in attendance. There were even some smiles of relief.

  “Captain,” the king continued, singling out one of the soldiers, “Take a squad and inform the officers up at Stag Pond.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the man replied.

  Ríoghán next considered another captain, his sister, and her minders. “Fee, Captain, I want you to ride back to Cathair Béarra and bring the queen, Princess Teagan, the Lady Máiréad, their lady’s maids, Field Marshal Gormán, and Chancellor Ultan back with you. On your way up, Captain, you’ll instruct our forces at Ráth Cairbrigh to also turn over temporary control of the ráth to the Confederation forces.

  The captain said, “We’ll leave immediately for Ráth Gabhrán. At first light tomorrow, we’ll ride for Ráth Cairbrigh.”

  “I can understand the field marshal and chancellor,” Fionnuala said, “but why are we bringing ma and Teagan back here?”

  “There will be a treaty-signing ceremony,” her brother replied, simply. “It is fitting that they should be present.”

  Birchday - Fox 2nd

  Central Federal Region - Dúnfort Cruachan

  Pádraig had reported the positive results of his meeting with Ríoghán to both High King Déaglán and Arch-Wizard Faolan. The High King had, in turn, informed Field Marshal Gearóid and ordered him to reduce the Troop Alert Status from ‘Probable Attack’ to ‘Possible Attack,’ the second lowest of the five-tier defensive alerts.

  Having said his goodbyes, the new journeyman wizard began packing his gear and tidying up the citadel’s forge, where he had been staying. He planned on leaving for the Sawtooth Mountains to retrieve his mule, Killian, from the dwarfs, stopping first at Fort Callainn to inform his father, Isla, and the elves of the Articles of Capitulation, prepared by the High King and agreed to by King Ríoghán.

  He had just finished stowing his spare clothing, tin whistle, lute, and elbow pipes in the tan packsack, when the door to the forge flew open with a bang,
as it hit the adjacent wall.

  There in the doorway stood Prince Liam, red-faced, with the veins in his neck throbbing. He quickly covered the distance between himself and the wizard, connecting with a right-cross, directly to the side of Pádraig’s face, forward of the left ear.

  The journeyman wizard went flying backwards, over the cot, and landed dazed, sprawled out on the dirt floor.

  The prince reached down, grabbed the edge of the cot, and turned it over, out of his way. “Get up!” he commanded. When Pádraig, shaking the cobwebs from his mind, managed to lift himself onto an elbow, the prince shouted once more. “Get up!”

  Pádraig struggled to his feet and Liam punched him squarely in the mouth, sending the young wizard into the anvil, where he bounced off and fell to the floor for a second time.

  “Get up!” the prince shouted again, but this time added, “And fight!”

  Shaking his head, Pádraig labored to a standing position, leaning on the anvil for support, blood running from the corner of his mouth. “I will stand while you use me to work off your anger, Your Highness, but I will not fight you.”

  Liam took two steps toward him, fists clenched, but stopped, tears in his eyes, and shouted, “How could you do that?!…Why would you do that?!…Do you really want her that badly?!”

  Pádraig righted the cot and sat on the edge of it, wiping the blood from his mouth with a sleeve of his tunic. “It’s not about Meig, Liam.…It’s not about you or me, either.” He pointed toward the doorway. “It’s about those men out there, ready and willing to die for their two kings.…And, it’s about politics.”

  “What do you know about politics?” the prince spat out, derisively.

  “Only what I’ve been taught, Your Highness. And ten years or so ago, my best friend in the entire world gave me a very short, but concise, lesson in politics. He told me: ‘It’s what holds the Confederation together, Paddy. Sometimes you do things you don’t necessarily want to do for the sake of the greater good.’ Well, suck it up, Buttercup, because you marrying the Princess Teagan will unite the house of Seamus with the house of Conlaoch and assure that no more blood is spilled over long-harbored feelings, either real or imagined, of past disenfranchisement.”