A Spark is Struck in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  He quickly threw off the noose, and the horse resumed her flight.

  The boss-man, seeing Slim’s relay wave, signaled to the six archers with the oil-soaked rags affixed to their arrows and to the guards with the flaming sticks. The bowmen drew the bowstrings back and aimed at the two wagons. The guards quickly stepped forward, igniting the rags with their torches; then, just as quickly, moved back out of the way.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the Northman spotted Pádraig and Siobhán racing toward the ford. Frantically gesturing at the horse and rider, he shouted something in his native tongue. The boss-man, on the verge of ordering the bowmen to fire, switched his gaze to the phooka and farrier, and barked to his men, “Shoot them! Shoot them before they make it across!”

  Two of the bowmen, with the now-flaming arrows, switched their aim to Pádraig and Siobhán and fired. While the added weight of the oily rags would not have prevented them from making contact with something as broad as the side of a farrier’s wagon, it did, however, thwart their efforts at hitting a moving horse and rider.

  “Not you, you morons!” the boss-man yelled at the two archers who had loosed their arrows, only to see them sail wide of the mark and sizzle in the snow. “The rest of you! You!” he directed the remaining four archers with the flaming arrows, “Fire at the wagon!”

  Because the other eighteen bowmen had not yet even drawn arrows from where they had them stuck in the ground, it took precious seconds to pick one up, notch it, aim, and fire—seconds that cost them dearly. Consequently, none came close to horse and rider who were just exiting the ford and sprinting for the tree line.

  The four remaining archers with the flaming arrows fired at the wagons.

  As the projectiles took flight, Pádraig turned, taking one hand from Siobhán’s mane, and sent out an energy pulse. Three of the arrows were knocked out of the air and into the stream.

  * * *

  As the containment spell was being lifted, Yseult had quickly scampered across the open area between the woods and the longhouse, carrying a large piece of turf that she had dug from the frozen ground, as well as a goat-skin water bag, a deer-skin tinder bag, and a knife, all pilfered from the kidnappers sometime before. Setting both bags down at the base of the rear of the building, she hurriedly climbed up the side as easily as if it were one of her beloved trees. Once on top, she placed the piece of turf directly over the fire-pit opening, blocking the smoke from exiting the building. With that portion of her task completed, the little wood-nymph clambered back down to the ground, picked up the water bag and splashed its contents—lamp oil, not water—over the logs of the structure. Taking some of the kindling from the tinder bag and placing it at the base of the wall, she used the flint and firesteel from the bag to strike a spark into it. As the spark became a flame, and the flame began to crawl up the oil-soaked wall, she scurried off toward the trees with the evidence, and made her way back to her hawthorn. From there, she observed the aftermath of her treachery.

  * * *

  “Flaming arrow!” Cadwgawn shouted as he pointed at it. “Coming our way!”

  Brynmor, already reaching for one of the water bags, stopped short as Máiréad rose to her feet, raised her left hand, and let loose an energy blast that knocked the projectile from the sky. It stuck itself in the ground directly in front of the open-bed wagon, where it continued to burn.

  Seconds later, a black mare materialized through the concealment spell, speeding directly toward them. When she reached the open-bed wagon, the horse leapt, tucking all four legs under her body, and cleared the wagon by two feet. Once past, she skidded to a stop, and Pádraig slid off her back.

  After quietly saying, “Thank you, Siobhán! I’m forever in your debt!” and giving the mare a quick kiss on the muzzle, he scrambled over to his rescue party, yelling, “Two dozen archers and half a dozen or so swordsmen.”

  While Pádraig received pats on the back from the elves and men, and kisses from Máiréad, the phooka galloped off into the forest, thinking, Yseult and I have gotten you this far, my young farrier. Fulfilling the rest of your purpose is now up to you.…And may An Fearglas bless you.

  “What’s their deployment?” Finbar asked, breaking the hug with his son as a volley of arrows came out of the woods toward them, some sticking in the open-bed wagon and others flying barely beyond them.

  “The archers are behind sheaves of straw,” Pádraig replied. “The swordsmen are being held in reserve. In a building at the far side of the compound is the person with the magic. I don’t know who he is.”

  Just then, the wall of the concealment spell shuddered; and, for a few moments, the encampment became visible. While the main body of archers continued to provide covering fire, six of them were readying another volley of flaming arrows.

  “Mark the point of those six bowmen,” Brynmor ordered, drawing an arrow from his quiver.

  Cadwgawn raised up and shot an arrow directly into a tree to the left of his visual line with the archers who were removing their cloth-wrapped arrows from the oil bucket.

  Once again, the air shuddered as the concealment spell was re-established.

  “Just to the right of my arrow,” Cadwgawn told his father, pointing to the tree.

  “I made it to be about four rods,” Lairgnen added.

  Finbar glanced at his elfin friend. “You’re thinking what? The pot of oil?”

  Brynmor nodded, notching his arrow, and blindly taking aim, trying to visualize the now-invisible scene in his mind’s eye.

  “Wait!” Pádraig shouted. Grabbing Máiréad by the hand and pulling her toward him, he said, “There’s no way we can overpower that magic spell to bring down the entire concealment spell, but maybe we can poke a small hole through it. Concentrate on the area just to the right of Cadwgawn’s arrow.”

  “Do you really think—” she began.

  “Don’t think! Just concentrate with me. You provide me with a boost from your essence, and I’ll funnel our energy toward that spell.

  As the two teenagers knelt there at the side of the open-bed wagon focusing their combined energies on where they thought the oil bucket was, a volley of six flaming arrows rained in on them. Three of them hit the side of the farrier’s wagon. One lodged itself in the bed of the wagon behind which the party hid.

  “Get out of the open!” Finbar shouted to his son and Máiréad.

  “We need line-of-sight, Da!” Pádraig replied.

  Liam grabbed both of them by their shoulders and dragged them behind the open-bed wagon as more arrows came from the compound. “Then crawl under the wagon and get your line from there,” he told them.

  While Lairgnen and Cadwgawn dodged covering fire to get rid of the flaming arrows stuck in the side of the farrier’s wagon, and the two gifted ones did as the prince had suggested, Liam reached over to pull the remaining flaming arrow from the bed of the wagon. However, Finbar yanked him back down and retrieved the arrow himself, saying, “You’re their main target, Your Highness. Get over behind the farrier’s wagon and stay there out of sight!”

  “But Finbar, I—”

  “But nothing! Go!”

  A fissure in the concealment spell began to slowly appear. Through the unstable hole, Brynmor could dimly see into the compound, just enough to acquire his target.

  “Hold it! Steady, now!” he urged the teenagers. As he took aim, he happened to notice the flaming arrow that Finbar still held in his hand. Releasing the tension on his bow string, he dropped his own arrow to the ground and said, “Finn, give that to me! Hurry!”

  The farrier handed him the burning arrow, Brynmor hastily notched it, took careful aim, and let it fly.

  Pádraig and Máiréad were able to maintain the rift just long enough for everyone to see the flaming arrow hit the far rim of the oil bucket, tipping it over, splashing its contents onto the ground, and setting the oil alight.

  The closing fissure blocked out the sounds of the screams as two of the six archers were set on fire.


  Nearly exhausted, the teenage gifted ones crawled out from under the open-bed wagon, staggered to their feet, then hugged each other and, although weakened by their ordeal, danced about. Their revelry took them out in the open, beyond the cover of the wagon.

  Finbar slapped Brynmor on the back, congratulating the elf on his marksmanship.

  Although they both, as well as Lairgnen, Cadwgawn, and Liam, saw the flight of incoming arrows and took cover, Pádraig and Máiréad, still wrapped up in mutual admiration, did not.

  Liam stood and launched himself through the air, shouting, “Get down!” to his friends, and stretched his arms out in front of him in an attempt to protect them. As he bowled them over, three of the arrows found their mark, hitting him squarely in the back. His fall to the ground was so severe, it temporarily knocked him unconscious.

  Pádraig, not knowing about the elfin vest, and Máiréad, momentarily forgetting about it, crawled to the prince’s side, both calling out his name at the same time.

  * * *

  “Cease fire!” the boss-man shouted.

  The archers did as they were ordered.

  However, the captain of the first ambush team, with the memories of his dead men still fresh in his mind, rushed forward and yelled at the bowman who had survived the counter-ambush with him. “Kill the witch! Kill the witch! Now’s our chance! She’s in the open! Kill the—”

  His final utterance of the word ‘witch’ came out of his mouth as merely a gurgling of blood. The boss-man had run him through with a short-sword.

  “Stand down!” the boss-man ordered the lone bowman.

  The archer did as he was told, staring wide-eyed at his captain, lying on the ground.

  The man-in-charge expelled his breath slowly through his nose as he looked down at the man at his feet. “What part of ‘under penalty of death’ did you not understand?” he said, softly and regretfully.

  Wiping his sword on the captain’s cloak, he sheathed it. Then he and the Northman, as well as everyone else, waited and watched for any sign of life from the prince.

  Unfortunately for them, the captain had neglected to tell the boss-man about Liam’s elfin vest, and the bowman, not thinking it his place to speak up, kept his silence.

  * * *

  Although his trajectory had taken Liam outside the cover of the wagon, even as he lie there with his two friends kneeling beside him, a weeping Máiréad cradling his head in her lap, no further arrows came his way.

  Still, the two elves, each with arrows notched and bowstrings drawn, and the troubadour, with his hand-and-a-half sword at the ready, stood there, waiting and watching.

  Finbar crawled over to the three teenagers. “Don’t move a muscle, Prince Hedgehog!” he whispered as Liam started to regain consciousness. “Let them think they’ve succeeded in killing you. And you two,” he cautioned Pádraig and Máiréad, “not a word.” The farrier and his son made a big production out of picking up Liam’s seemingly lifeless body and carrying it out of sight behind the wagon.

  As they did so, Lairgnen whispered, “Tears, Lady Máiréad. More tears. Lots of tears.”

  Trying hard to hide her joy while faking sorrow, she followed Finbar and Pádraig.

  Once out of sight, the prince opened his eyes. “Does this make us even, Paddy?”

  A relieved Pádraig knelt down beside him and replied, “You were supposed to bring me food. Did you?”

  Liam laughed. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Then no, we’re not even. You would not believe the slop I’ve had to eat, waiting for you.”

  “Worse than the kidnappers’ swill?”

  “Much worse.”

  After another half hour of waiting and watching, Brynmor said, “The concealment spell’s been lifted.”

  But there was no attack. Neither were there any targets—just five horses milling around the corral, two archers fried to a crisp by the still-burning oil, a man dead from a sword wound, two more men drowned in the pond, and the longhouse in flames.

  Brynmor released the tension on his bowstring, returning the arrow to his quiver. Cadwgawn did likewise. And Lairgnen sheathed his hand-and-a-half sword.

  “Why did they quit the battle?” Pádraig asked.

  His father, standing there holding his quarterstaff, shook his head. “I don’t know, lad. Two dozen archers, you said?”

  “And a half-dozen swordsmen.”

  Brynmor pointed to the three arrows protruding from the back of Liam’s elfin vest. “Apparently, mission accomplished.”

  “But they did not even attempt to finish us off,” a perplexed Cadwgawn said.

  “You’re all acting like this is a bad outcome,” Máiréad spoke up from where she and Pádraig sat on the ground by Liam, allowing the elemental forces in the earth to recharge their essences. “Shouldn’t we be happy?”

  They all looked to Lairgnen for his take on the situation. The elderly troubadour simply frowned and shook his head. There’s more here than meets the eye, he thought. And that troubles me greatly.

  “Well, I’m extremely happy,” Máiréad said, kissing Liam and Pádraig in turn.

  * * *

  While the two lads took Máiréad over to show her where they had been imprisoned, Finbar, Lairgnen, and the elves scoured the encampment for any clues to its occupants.

  Gathering at the corral, the four Watchmen compared notes—a rather fast comparison, since none of them had discovered anything of substance.

  The three teenagers joined them just as the troubadour asked, “What do we do about the bodies and the horses?”

  “Leave the bodies and take the horses with us,” Finbar replied. “There are no markings on them whatsoever, and the garrison can always use a few extra mounts.”

  “We’ll need two of them anyway,” Pádraig spoke up, “for His Highness and the Lady Máiréad. It’s going to take us more than two days to get back to Dúnfort Cruachan with Killian and the wagons, especially since I have to take the farrier’s wagon back to Colm’s wife, Beibhinn, over in Callainn Shire. But I think it’s really important that Liam and Meig return to the dúnfort as quickly as possible, don’t you, Da?” He locked eyes with his father and, almost imperceptibly, gave three nods of his head.

  Because he stood behind his two friends, they didn’t see the nods; but, the other four did, and Cadwgawn quickly responded. “The lad is right, Finbar. And Taran and I will provide them with an escort home.”

  “But what about Máedóc?” Liam asked. “We left him with Beibhinn.”

  “Not to worry, Your Highness,” Finbar replied. “I’ll ride over with Paddy in the wagon and then return to the dúnfort with your horse.”

  Lairgnen shrugged. “It’s settled, then,” he said. “We can all make it to Tadhg’s forge tonight, then split up at first light tomorrow.”

  Brynmor gestured to his son. “Let us go saddle two of the horses.”

  As the elves headed toward the corral, Pádraig said to Liam and Máiréad, “Why don’t the two of you go with them and pick out the ones you want.”

  When the two teenagers were out of earshot, he turned to his father and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. There’s one more thing I have to take care of before we leave.”

  * * *

  Down in the cavern beneath the hawthorn, the little wood-nymph sat on the bed she had put together for Pádraig. With her twiggy head in her hands, she silently sobbed. So immersed in grief was she, Yseult neither heard nor sensed the young farrier enter the cave.

  “I hope you didn’t think I’d leave without saying a proper good-bye,” Pádraig said, softly, crossing to her.

  The nymph turned away from him, drying her eyes with the back of her bark-like hands. “A little pollen got to me,” she said. “It makes my eyes water.”

  Gone was the lilting, musical voice.

  “That must be a real nuisance for a keeper of the trees,” he replied with a smile, sitting down next to her. “Especially winter pollen. I mean, go figure. Winter pollen. I
’ll bet most people don’t even know there is such a thing.” He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  She didn’t resist.

  “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me, Yseult,” Pádraig continued. “And, although I know I won’t be able to get back up here very often, I will come back and see you from time to time whenever I’m able.”

  “You’ve got Siobhán,” the wood-nymph said, dejectedly. “And that red-haired pinky. I saw how she kissed you. Are you…are you two…” she left the sentence unfinished.

  “Her name is Meig. And, although she is my anam cara, there is no future for us together. Her station in life and mine are far apart. She will marry one of her own kind, most probably Prince Liam, whose life you helped me save today.”

  “And that does not bother you?”

  “Only when I dwell on it, but that’s the way it’ll be.” He gave a small shrug. “So we both accept it.”

  Yseult turned her face toward his, brushed the twiggy hair away from it with her hands, then hugged him with all her strength and kissed him on the lips.

  Pádraig didn’t pull back, but, instead, returned the hug, enjoying the moment.

  When, finally, they both released the embrace, the little wood-nymph said, “It is also like that with us, then, is it not? Each to our own kind?”

  “Yes, Yseult, it is. And although I may not get to see you as often as we both would like, I will never forget you.”

  “Then good-bye for now, my pinky. Be well.”

  Pádraig kissed her again, tenderly, and said, “I’ll always be your pinky, Yseult.”

  * * *

  Although she had an intense dislike of the nasty pinkies who had chopped down her precious trees to build the longhouse and other structures in their encampment, and she had had absolutely nothing to do with them, except for stealing their belongings, Yseult had gotten used to having the kidnappers around. Now that they were gone, the forest seemed unusually empty.

  From high in the boughs of the hawthorn, with tears trickling down her bark-like cheeks, the little wood-nymph watched as Pádraig and his party disappeared around the bend in the road. Overwhelmed with a sense of loneliness, since her beloved trees would not begin to wake for another month or so, she curled up into a ball on the branch where she sat and let the tears flow freely.