A Spark is Struck in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  An hour or so before sunset, they reached the Central Road where Cairbrigh, Árainn, Gabhrán, and Callainn Shires all came together. This was as far as they would travel before returning to Fort Árainn.

  Máiréad again had the men settle their horses, then she sent out one last mind-probe. Dejected at her lack of results so far, she, nevertheless, used as much of her essence as she could muster in concentrating on her soul friend and blocking out all extraneous input.

  As had happened the day before, at the farthest reaches of her mind, she detected horses and riders.

  Pointing toward Cairbrigh Shire, Máiréad whispered, “I don’t know if it’s them, but there are men and horses off that way.”

  Cian gestured to the bowman from the security forces, and the soldier cautiously started off in that direction.

  The party waited, tired from the long ride and hoping that, perhaps, it had not been for naught like the day before.

  After about ten minutes, they all could now hear the sound of horses, and the creaking sound of a wagon as well. Coming down the Central Road, they saw their bowman with a search party from Gabhrán Shire led by Lorcan, the shire reeve. The wagon was being pulled by a lone, black draught horse.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Cian asked, uneasily, as the two parties met up.

  “Afraid so,” Lorcan replied. “It’s Colm’s farrier’s wagon. I know the prince and Paddy had planned on borrowing it from Colm’s wife before heading up to Ráth Callainn.”

  “Where’s the second horse?” the section leader for the defense forces in Cian’s party asked. “Shouldn’t there be two horses?”

  A soldier for the defense forces with Lorcan’s party thought about the question for a second or two then replied, “Usually, yeah. But maybe the other one got loose and ran off. We found this one tethered next to a pond across the border in Cairbrigh Shire.”

  Máiréad spoke up, her voice full of hope. “Or maybe one of them escaped.” Seeing the skeptical looks on the men’s faces, she persisted. “It’s possible.”

  “I suppose it is, miss,” Lorcan conceded. “But not very likely.”

  “Lady Máiréad?” a second member of the Cruachanian Defense Forces with the party out of Gabhrán Shire asked. “Is that your red hair I see peeking out from under that hood? And you’re wearing breeches?”

  Gesturing toward Cian, she said, “My keeper, here, insisted that I not stand out like a peacock. Apparently my looks weren’t stealthy enough to suit him.”

  All the men laughed.

  Then the soldier continued with, “Well if it’s stealthy you’re going for, My Lady, then you succeeded. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

  “You used to be stationed at Cathair Tulach. Iollan, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, My Lady,” he replied, somewhat astonished. “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “Remember?” she said, letting out a little laugh. “How could I forget? You’re all Aednat, my lady’s maid, could talk about. She cried for weeks when you were reassigned.”

  “The life of a soldier, I’m afraid,” he said with a shrug. “When you get home, My Lady, would you tell Aednat that there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of her?”

  “She traveled with me to Ráth Árainn,” Máiréad told him. “So I’ll pass on your lie this evening. But not for your sake, Iollan, for hers, you scoundrel.”

  The other seven soldiers and the two reeves laughed heartily. Iollan’s face turned a bright crimson.

  Directing her attention to Lorcan, Máiréad asked, “May I examine the wagon, please?”

  “Most certainly, My Lady,” he replied, using the correct form of address now that he realized who the girl was.

  Cian helped her down from her horse and the two of them approached the farrier’s wagon. With an assist from the shire reeve and the member of the security forces who was driving, she climbed up onto the seat, then crawled into the bed of the wagon. Letting her mind reach out, she detected much more of Liam’s residual presence than she did Pádraig’s. Frowning, Máiréad tried to figure out how that could be. If anything, with her deep connection to Pádraig, she should have perceived more of him than the prince.

  Could they have become separated? she wondered. With Paddy leaving the wagon some time before Liam?

  Unable to come up with an answer, she rummaged around in the back of the wagon for a few minutes. Aside from farrier’s paraphernalia, a set of elbow pipes, and dirt, she found nothing to help with the search.

  As the soldier and reeve helped her down, a thought occurred to Máiréad. What about the second horse? Could Paddy have used it to escape? She quickly discarded that idea. No. He never would have left Liam in order to save himself. Never ever.

  “Where are you taking the wagon?” Cian asked Lorcan as he led Máiréad back to her steed and cupped his hands to give her an assist up.

  “Back to the garrison at Ráth Gabhrán. But with as slow as this draught horse is, and with him tripping over every pebble on the roadway, we’ll have to spend the night somewhere. I’ll send one of the soldiers ahead, though, to tell the others what we’ve found and have them relay the information to Dúnfort Cruachan.”

  “Good luck to you, then,” Cian replied. “We’ll be hightailing it home now, ourselves. Hopefully, we can catch a few hours of sleep before heading out again in the morning.”

  “Where will you look tomorrow?” Lorcan asked.

  “As much as I hate to do it, now that you’ve found the wagon we’ll take a look as far north and east of the Sawtooth Mountains as we can get.” He shuddered at the thought of dealing with the snow he knew they’d find. “Also, I’ll send one of the soldiers over to Ráth Cairbrigh to let the garrison commander there know about the wagon.”

  With that, the two parties went their separate ways, one soldier from each galloping in a different direction at full speed—one to Fort Gabhrán, the other to Fort Cairbrigh.

  Hazelday - Wolf 45th

  Cairbrigh Shire

  As dusk began to creep into the compound, Pádraig sat on his mattress, legs tucked under him and Liam’s cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders to ward off the chill, waiting for the concealment spell to be disengaged upon the arrival of the men who were to move the herd of horses.

  From his experience during the five days he had been held captive, he knew that when the spell dematerialized it would stay that way for only three to five minutes. The young farrier had rehearsed his escape over and over in his mind. He knew he’d better plan on having only the shortest amount of time.

  Holding his hoof-pick in his hand, he wondered if he’d be capable of using it as a weapon, should the need arise. But he remembered what the soldier with the Security Forces of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires had told the man-in-charge of this prison when asked about whether he should kill the prince as well as the farrier:

  “Not yet. We’ll let you know once we’ve collected the ransom. I’ve got to get back, now. If anyone fouls this up, they’ll pay with their lives.”

  Pádraig had, on occasion, assisted his father when Finbar had to put down a crippled horse. But it always bothered him afterward. However, this situation was completely different. His captors were not innocent animals that meant him no harm. They were cold-blooded killers, bent on ending his life when they received the order to do so. He would have to put aside his scruples and become as callous as they, if he intended to survive.

  Of all the contingencies he had considered in his planning, the two wolfhounds were the most unpredictable. They seemed to have free-run of the grounds. The young farrier had initially decided to try and use his gift to mask his scent, but ultimately rejected that approach, recalling his father’s cautions:

  “Magic draws magic.”

  and:

  “Actions always have consequences.”

  Pádraig also remembered how even Máiréad’s trivial use of her gift had drawn the attention of Siobhán the phooka, and realized that, when someo
ne as powerful as whoever was behind the concealment spell reached out with his mind to re-engage it, he would certainly sense Pádraig’s magic.

  When the spell is off, he reasoned, I can use my powers only as minimally and for as short a period of time as it takes to unbolt the door. Once the concealment spell’s been re-established, I’ll just have to deal with the dogs some other way.

  Not being able to look out the window and pinpoint everyone’s location was a distinct disadvantage. Pádraig’s worst fear was to open the door to his prison, step outside, and find a big. slobbery dog sitting there.

  As he waited and deliberated, he did manage a smile as one positive thought entered his mind. Liam’s clothing is sure a lot warmer than mine. Especially his cloak. I’ll bet His Royal Highness is freezing his tail off on the way to Dúnfort Cruachan. Wishing that he knew for sure whether his friend had survived, he grew more somber, thinking, I sure hope he’s freezing his tail off on the way to Dúnfort Cruachan, and not on a journey to An Saol Eile.

  * * *

  Pádraig had let his guard down and had almost dozed off when he sensed the concealment spell dissipate. Quickly he gathered his thoughts, concentrating on the door to his prison, focusing in on where the bolt should be on the other side. In his mind, he saw the mechanism and sent out a small energy pulse, visualizing the bolt moving.

  Initially, he heard nothing.

  Concentrating more intently and slightly increasing the power of his energy, he once again envisioned the bolt moving.

  And then it came—that familiar sound of metal on metal as the bolt retracted.

  Springing to his feet, Pádraig ran to the door and cautiously gave it a tentative push. The door moved about three inches. Putting his eye to the open crack, he peered out.

  Nothing but darkness.

  Shoving again so that the door moved just enough for him to squeeze through the opening, Pádraig slid out into the night, closed the door behind him, and rebolted it.

  He stood there, hoof-pick in hand, facing three other buildings to the north that he had not been able to see from the window—two other smaller storage buildings, like the one in which he had been imprisoned, and a longhouse, that he assumed was the kidnappers’ headquarters. Not a person nor a dog in sight. What he did notice, though, was that both a waning gibbous Silver Nightingale and a first quarter Golden Owl, Cruachan’s two moons, had hazy rings of light around them.

  It’s going to snow tonight for sure, Pádraig thought. Then he admonished himself. Come on! Get moving! Don’t stand here! You’re wasting valuable time!

  Crossing to the northwest corner of his prison building, he hurriedly checked the corral. Slim, Porky, and the two wolfhounds stood waiting there as four riders came across the ford.

  Pádraig quickly crept to the northeastern corner of the building and peaked around the edge. Nothing but woods. Moving southward as fast as he could, attempting to make as little noise as possible, he headed for the river downstream of the ford. A branch snapped under the young farrier’s foot, and he hesitated for a moment to listen.

  “You! In the name of the Northern Alliance, stop right where you are!” a voice called out from in front of him.

  A man dressed in leather, holding a short-sword, stepped out into Pádraig’s path about four feet in front of the young farrier.

  The man must have been used to having his orders obeyed, because he was ill prepared for what came next. Pádraig curled his right hand around the iron hoof-pick, lunged at the man, and struck him squarely on the jaw with the fist holding the pick. The man’s eyes rolled back up into his head, and he fell backwards onto the forest floor.

  Then the boy heard the boss-man by the corral shout, “Murtagh! What’s going on over there?!”

  No time for stealth anymore, Pádraig thought. Time for speed!

  The boss-man shouted to his companions. “Something’s happening down by Murtagh’s post. Go find out what it is!”

  It was now a foot race. Pádraig could hear the barking of the dogs as the animals bore down on his position, and he knew that one of his captors or at least one of the riders would follow. He reached the stream and stumbled into it, the frigid water thigh-high. Stopping momentarily as the shock of the icy water hit him, he then continued on, thrashing his way to the other side. The tree line lay about two rods beyond.

  Whipping off his cloak, he deliberately snagged it on a tree limb as he ran into the forest on the other side of the stream. He continued on for another two rods or so, then doubled back, again coming through the tree line at the same spot where the cloak hung and making a mad dash for the stream.

  The dogs were close, now, but still not within sight. Straining for more speed, Pádraig imagined all the races he had run against Liam and forced himself to pick up the pace.

  About fifteen seconds before the wolfhounds broke out of the forest on the compound side of the stream, Pádraig dove, grabbing a huge lungful of air as he did so, and sliced into the freezing water.

  He stayed under, swimming against the current close to the bottom of the brook in the direction of the ford. Even beneath the water, he sensed the concealment spell re-engage.

  Hazelday - Wolf 45th

  Gabhrán Shire

  At least a dozen times as he and Clover traveled down the Central Road, Liam had come across members of either the Security Forces of the Northern Shires or the Cruachanian Defense Forces. Riding a draught horse and dressed in Pádraig’s clothing, with the hood of the gray, wool cloak covering his head, the prince didn’t even merit a second glance from the soldiers—obviously a simple farm lad on an errand.

  Liam had been careful to stop periodically during the day and give Clover a break, letting the animal graze by the side of a brook or pond for a half hour or so each time. Even with the rests, though, what had begun as a gallop that morning near the southern border of Cairbrigh Shire had gradually deteriorated to barely a trot, now, at nightfall. And they were still only two-thirds of the way down the road between Gabhrán and Callainn Shires.

  There’s no way we’re going to make it non-stop all the way to Dúnfort Cruachan, he thought, patting the big chestnut-colored horse on the neck. If I try, I’ll end up walking. We’re going to have to spend the night somewhere. But where?

  The longer the prince stayed on the road, he knew the opportunity for recognition would increase, despite the commoner’s garments—especially the closer they got to the Central Federal Region.

  Coming up over the top of a rise in the road, even in the darkness, Liam recognized where he was. Less than three weeks before, he had gone with Pádraig and Finbar when they had brought the body of the farrier Tadhg home to his wife Neave.

  As he turned Clover through the opening in the gate and into the grounds of the forge, the prince saw the glow of lanterns through the windows of the attached living quarters. Reining the horse in by the front path, he dismounted, walked up to the door, and knocked.

  After a few moments, Neave cautiously opened the door a crack and peered out, saying, suspiciously, “Yes?…May I help you?”

  “Ma’am, I don’t know whether or not you remember me,” Liam started, sliding the hood back off his head, “but I was here a few weeks ago with Finbar and Paddy when they—”

  “Your Highness!” she said with a gasp, opening the door wider. “Of course I remember you. Please, come in out of the cold. People have been looking everywhere for you. They said that you and Paddy had been kidnapped.”

  The prince entered, wishfully eyeing the blaze in the fireplace. “Yes, ma’am, but I was able to escape, thanks to Paddy, and I need to get to Dúnfort Cruachan without delay.” He gestured toward the draught horse. “My mount is almost dead on his hooves; and, I was wondering if I might trouble you for a horse, so that I can continue on.”

  “Absolutely, Your Highness, but are you sure that you should go on tonight? Forgive me for saying so, but you look terrible. When did you last have a decent meal?”

  Counting off the d
ays in his mind since he and Pádraig had left Ráth Callainn, he said. “It’s been awhile, ma’am, but I don’t really have time. I have to get to Dúnfort Cruachan as soon—”

  Neave’s motherly instincts kicked in. “You can certainly spare a quarter of an hour. Sit down over here and let me fix you something.” She led him to a stool at a small table by the fire. “Then while you’re eating, I’ll see to your horse and saddle up a fresh one for you.”

  “I really don’t want to impose, ma’am. Just the horse will—”

  “Nonsense, Your Highness. You’ll sit and eat and I won’t be hearing another word about it.”

  Recognizing an order when he heard it, all the prince could do was grin and say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  After a meal of mutton stew and freshly-baked bread, Liam impressed upon Neave the need for absolute secrecy, then took his leave.

  Standing there at the side of a buckskin-colored gelding with a black mane and tail that the woman had saddled for him, Liam said, “I’ll have him back to you as soon as I can. And don’t worry, ma’am, I fully intend to repay you for your kindness.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Your Highness,” she replied. “You were thoughtful enough to come with Finbar when he brought my dear husband home. Consider this a repayment for your kindness.”

  Overcome with guilt, Liam attempted to hide his feelings. He hadn’t come with Finbar and Pádraig out of any concern for Neave. He had just been along for the ride—off on an adventure.

  Crossing back to the woman, framed by the doorway to her home, the prince kissed her softly on the forehead and said, simply, “Thank you, ma’am.” Turning from her, he hurried back to the horse, mounted it, and galloped off into the night, fighting back tears of remorse.