The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  Four he knew immediately for men-of-trust. Two entered first and two entered last and they stood to either side of the little group. Their clothing was a soft leather with fringes along the arms and leggings. From their belts hung short swords. On top of all, they wore iron shirts, not of mail as the Normans wore, but of metal sheets that had been shaped to their torso and wonderfully engraved with the likenesses of birds and wild plants. Two wore helmets, differently shaped than the Norman sort and topped with the brilliant plumage of an unknown bird.

  The three men who had attended the banquet with their women were obviously chiefs. They were tall, but they held their heads a little back, as if they sought to look down at the world from as great a height as possible. They wore the same soft leather garments as their bodyguard, but theirs had been inlaid with colorful beads and shells, and across their shoulders were flung cloaks woven of a smooth fiber dyed in intricate patterns. Black hair, knotted behind their heads, was pierced by feathers. The man in the center wore in addition a circlet of silver: an eagle whose wings swept forward around his temples to hold between their tips over his brow a sun of hammered gold.

  And yet, confronted by this arrogant finery, David’s eye was caught by the last man, who hovered in the back of the group with the women—the only man who showed no wariness. He was shorter, wider, and darker than the others and his dress was a roughly-woven jacket, sashed in the front like a robe, which he wore over a kilt of a plain color. His head was wrapped in a towel so that David at first thought him injured. Then he thought him perhaps a priest of the Mohammedans. Later, he was told that the man was a servant, but his flat, unblinking eyes were like no gilly’s that David had ever seen. Had I a servant like that, he told himself as he stared into those arrogant eyes, I’d have him thrashed for his insolence.

  Suantraí

  “The ó Flaherty’s gone mad,” David announced that evening while he and his men were preparing for sleep.

  “Has he, now.” Gillapadraig took David’s cloak and draped it over his arm.

  “Pure Sweeney. I expected him to float off toward the roofbeams at any moment.”

  “Because of the New Iron Shirts?”

  “Because of the New Iron Shirts.” David pulled his knife from its sheath and threw it at the door, where it sank half a thumb into the wood. “Kevin, you sleep across the door tonight. Anyone who tries to enter, give him my welcome.” The clansman nodded and laid his cloak upon the rushes by the doorway. He pried David’s knife loose and placed it beside his pallet.

  Gillapadraig had been watching. “You expect the king to violate his hospitality?”

  David shrugged. “The ó Flaherty’s a fox, for all that he is mad. He won’t act dishonorably, but Turlough gave no pledge for my safety. The ó Flaherty is perfectly capable of closing his eyes, then expressing outrage afterward. There is a game being played here, and I don’t know which of them is playing the other, Turlough or The ó Flaherty. Both, maybe. If I’m dead, Fiachra is chief of the Sil Maelruain. Perhaps they think they can move my son more easily than me.”

  “They can move the Rock of Cruachan more easily than you. Why do you think your son might…?”

  “Because Fiachra is friendly with Donn Oc mac Garrity and the other young men–and Donn Oc has gone over to Turlough. Aedh is too close to the Foreigners for their taste, so they have all given their pledges to Turlough. They talk big about driving the Foreigners out of Aire Land, but I mind a fable about bells and cats.”

  “But, if The ó Flaherty has brought in men the equal of the Foreigners…”

  “Then he is mad, as I’ve said. Remember how in the Holy Bible the Jews called on the Romans to help them against the Greeks–and then could not rid themselves of the Romans? So the king in Leinster called on the Foreigners to help him in his war against Rory, and today Strongbow’s son is king there in all but name. Now The ó Flaherty would be calling on these new Foreigners for help against the old ones? That woman has a lot to answer for.”

  Gillapadraig paused before drawing off his own tunic. “Which woman would that be?”

  “The ó Rourke’s wife. It was because she slept with Rory that ó Rourke called for the Leinstermen’s aid in the first place.”

  Gillapadraig grunted. “It always comes down to a woman in the end. I’ll hang our clothing in the garderobe to kill the lice. Tell us about these New Foreigners. What are they like? Are they fighting men?”

  “They brought their women with them, so they are no war party. But the men look no strangers to battle, either. They were in a fight, and lately at that.”

  “Where do they come from?” Gillapadraig’s voice came from the small necessary. The dung pile that lay below the open grating provided the fumes that killed the lice.

  David shrugged. “I can tell you only what The ó Flaherty told me, and I don’t know how much truth the story holds. The strangers spoke some unknown tongue. The dark Dane translated that into the Danish they speak in the Ice Land and the Galway Dane rendered that into Gaelic, but how much of the sense of it made it through that bramble, who can say? I follow the Danish a little, and…”

  There was a knock at the door. Two raps, followed by a pause, then another rap. “It’s Donnchad,” said Kevin. He unlatched the door and Donnchad ó Mulmoy slipped in. The clan na Mulmoy had been allied with the clan na Fhlainn since time unremembered and David had given Donnchad the command of the footmen in his party.

  “The men are all settled,” the newcomer told them, “and I’ve set watches. I do not trust these western men.”

  “Did you see any of those New Foreigners about?” David asked him.

  “The red-skins? Two of their men-of-trust stood guard outside The ó Flaherty’s hall, so I take it that they are bedded down within. To me, they would not answer hail or farewell, so they might have been cast from copper for all I could tell you. The other one, the one with the rag on his head, was about on some errand, but he only glowered at me when I hailed him.”

  “A friendly folk,” Gillapadraig said.

  “They are uneasy about something,” David told him. “And they sense that we may not be with them.”

  “What did you tell The ó Flaherty?”

  “I told him that I did not think that seven warriors, six women, and a gilly would drive William the Marshal into the sea.”

  “How did he answer?”

  “About as you may expect. That these are but an embassy and their warriors over the Western Sea are as numerous as the leaves in a forest.”

  “Did the Ice Lander tell you that? They’ve no trees in the Ice Land.”

  “Thorfinn Rafn’s son, he names himself. He is not from the Ice Land, but from some other place farther off. They call it the New-Found Land.”

  “‘New-found,’ is it? Saint Brendan the Navigator sailed the shores of Ui Braiseal in the long ago.”

  David shrugged. “Thorfinn said that some of those who went with Eric the Red to the Green Land discovered it. He thinks two hundred years ago. Perhaps they went looking for Irishmen to plunder. It’s what vikings did back then, and ’tis said that a party of monks fled west from the Ice Land when the Danes first came to it.”

  “The Saga of the Lost Danes,” said Kevin. “I’ve heard that tale sung by their skalds down in Galway Town. When Leif went back, he found no trace of the settlement; only some cryptic runes. Then he vanished, too. I never thought it was true; only a saga the Ostmen made up for amusement.”

  “Olaf Gustaf’s son–he’s the tall one, the Galwegian–believed so, too. But he can understand the Danish that Thorfinn speaks. It’s near enough the Ice Land tongue. Olaf says it’s like talking to his grandsire’s grandsire. This Thorfinn claims that Leif’s party in the Vine Land met with savages–skraelings, they called them–but found them easy enough to overawe. Then one day the skraelings were attacked from the south by an army of The ó Gonklins…”

  “Ó Gonklins, was it?” said Donnchad. “So they were Irish after all?”

 
; “It sounded like ‘ó Gonklin.’ They came as foot soldiers, like the old Roman legions, but with a troop of cavalry mounted on large, hairy horses. As shaggy as the ponies from Shet Land or Ice Land, yet as large as those the Foreigners ride. The skraelings ran, and Leif’s people saw that there was no fighting such a force. They were taken to the king of The ó Gonklins, who moved them to a city farther west, on the shore of a great inland sea, and that’s why the Green Landers never found them again.”

  “That makes a better saga than the one they sing in Galway,” Kevin admitted.

  “The ó Gonklins were pushing their empire into the plains and so had little interest in the Green Land Danes. They kept a watch on the northern shores and captured any Green Lander vessel that came near thereafter, settling their crews in the new Danish towns on the Inland Sea. That’s why the Green Landers gave up sailing those waters. No one ever came back.”

  “In Galway Town,” Kevin said, “they say there is a maelstrom west of the Green Land that swallows ships whole.”

  David shrugged. “There is probably more to the story. I think the Danes helped The ó Gonklin capture the Grass Lands; and Thorfinn said something about giant hairy cattle and giant hairy elephants, but maybe Olaf misunderstood.”

  “Is it everything in their land that is giant and hairy, saving only the men?” Donnchad asked, and the others laughed.

  “So now their king is wondering where these Danes were after coming from?” guessed Gillapadraig.

  “Once he had pacified the marchlands–Thorfinn called it Thousand Lakes Land–the king thought to look east and sent these emissaries. At least, that was the story I was told. The ó Flaherty said that their ship made landfall out in ó Malley’s country. Savages the Picts may be, but they know how to separate a man from his head. Yet the Red Foreigners, few as they are, drove them off. The survivors then made their coasting until they found the mouth of Lough Corrib. That’s where they found Olaf.”

  “And why was he not taking them to Galway Town?”

  “Olaf is out-law there and, anxious for his neck, he guided them upriver to The ó Flaherty’s stronghold instead.”

  Gillapadraig pursed his lips. “An embassy, is it,” he said.

  David looked at him. “That’s what I thought. Sure, who sends an embassy out with no care to which king he is sending it?”

  The ó Flaherty took David stag-hunting the following day, in company with the sons of Rory and the eagle-chief of The ó Gonklins, who bore the outlandish name of Tatamaigh. As all were chiefs of some consequence, they were accompanied by their men-of-trust to the number prescribed by the cain-law, by gillies to wait upon their needs, and by huntsmen and skinners, and kennels of hounds, so that the party, withal, resembled a small war band and required a fleet of boats to set them on the western shore of the lough.

  They rode the soft emerald hills of Oughterard, across meadows and peat-land, with great silent hounds loping before. Beaters started the red deer and chased them from the forest into the aire-lords’ embrace, to be welcomed by the kiss of arrow and javelin. The sun was to their backs and the wind off the distant southern sea, so that a mist hung over all the land, filling up the valleys like milk. Oughterard lay in Moycullen, The ó Flaherty’s tuath-lands, and rolled westward in gentle hills toward the farther, rougher peaks of Connemara.

  They had brought down three deer—one by each chief, as was fitting—when the beaters started a boar.

  The first sign David had of it was the shriek of one of the beaters as he was tusked, followed by the baying of the deer-hounds as, gray and growling, they encircled the beast. The hunters raced their ponies toward the brush at the forest’s edge, followed by the other beaters and footmen.

  The boar was all bristles and red eyes. Caught in a ring of snapping hounds, it turned first this way, then that, then fell to tearing with his tusks at a pair of saplings behind him. The saplings grew too close together to permit the boar passage, and a good thing, too, for taking refuge behind them was the gilly of the Red Foreigners. The man’s robe was torn and a part of it hung askew. His curious headgear had come off as well, tangled a bit on the boar’s right foreleg and leading like a path to his sanctuary. His eyes bulged with terror and his hair, now unencumbered with wrapping, fell black and matted to his shoulders.

  The eagle-chief reined in some distance away and paced his mount in jerky circles. His retinue spread out to protect him, but none came closer.

  All this David saw with only part of his attention. He waited until the boar, alternating between attacks on the gilly and fending off hunters and hounds, had made another of its quarter turns. Then he hurled his javelin into the beast’s neck. The boar gave forth the most horrid grunts and cries. Turlough, riding up, fleshed his spear as well, while Little Hugh leapt from his pony and approached on foot, holding a boar-spear in front of him. He made barking cries at the creature, trying to goad it into attack.

  Turlough went white. Behind him, David saw The ó Flaherty’s archers with arrows nocked, waiting for their king’s guest to get out of the way. He gave Turlough a glance, then buried a second javelin into the boar’s left eye.

  The pig squealed and thrashed and toppled onto its side, kicking. For a moment, it seemed that it might rise up once more; then it shrugged and collapsed. Little Hugh, seeing his chance, dashed forward and struck with the spear from the blind side, but by then the blow was no more than a death-grace.

  When the boar had twitched at last into stillness, the trapped gilly stepped out of his shelter, edging around the carcass without taking his moon-eyes from it, then scurried behind David’s pony, which started a bit at the motion.

  Turlough rode to David’s side. “Well struck,” he said, offering his hand. When David took it, he added in a whisper, “And my thanks for saving my fool brother’s neck. He’s young, and young men are rash.”

  “As well, that; for where else do old men learn wisdom save from the rash deeds of their youth.”

  Turlough laughed. The ó Flaherty, who had also ridden up, studied the boar. “He is nearly as large as the one I slew for the banquet.”

  David said, “That creature will grow larger with every telling, I’m thinking.” Turlough laughed again, and The Ó Flaherty slapped David on his back. “As big as the Dun Cow!” he cried.

  “You’re after finding some fine allies,” David said as Turlough and The Ó Flaherty turned away.

  His words reined them back. “And your meaning…?” asked Turlough.

  David signaled with the finger-ogham to indicate Tatamaigh and his retinue. “What sort of chief does not trouble himself to protect his own gilly?”

  “As for that,” The ó Flaherty said, “Boars are unknown in their country and his people feared to draw near.”

  “And might such a chief not fear equally to draw near your enemy?”

  The ó Flaherty said nothing, but yanked his pony’s head round and rode off. Turlough lingered while his brother remounted. “Do you think them cowards?” he asked.

  “I think they may not be what they seem. Do you truly believe their king will send his warriors across the entire Western Ocean when William the Marshall need only crook his finger to fetch Normans by the boatload across the Irish Sea?”

  Goltraí

  Though low-born to a Connemara clan, the slain beater had served faithfully for many years, and The ó Flaherty Himself was lavish in his praise and in the gifts he bestowed on the widow. Mourners were brought in and they set up a caointeachán around the corpse, taking turns wailing and crying so that none would tire too soon. Their keenings writhed through the gathering dark, echoed from the vises and empty passages within the chapel, and came upon one from unexpected directions.

  David had gone to the chapel to pray for the dead man’s soul and stood on the flagstones before the altar, wondering what he was supposed to tell God that God did not already know. In the end, he prayed not for the servant, but for Connaught, that she not be ruined between the powerful allies of ri
val clans. Ó Conner had fought ó Conner since time’s birth. It was in the nature of things, like the rolling of the heavens in their crystal spheres. But now each faction would bring in Iron Shirts, and that would be the end of it all.

  With such grave thoughts he turned away and found that the sons of Rory had come into the chapel. David said nothing, but stepped aside that they might approach the altar. Little Hugh stopped to speak to him.

  “You didn’t save my life, you know.”

  David nodded. “I will remember that, the next time.”

  The remark puzzled Hugh, but Turlough turned about and gave him a searching look. David saw in that look that Turlough knew that he would not come over. And if not David, then not The mac Dermot—and the clans of the Sliabh ua Fhlainn and the clans of the Mag nAi would fight for Aedh, and that meant a bloody time in the West. “He’ll ruin the country,” Turlough said, and David knew he meant king Aedh.

  “Only if there is a fight,” David said. “Otherwise, why call in the Foreigners at all?”

  “Should I wait for him to die, then?”

  “Patience is a virtue in kings. The wait may not be long. Wives have husbands to defend their honor, and Aedh may cuckold one too many.”

  Turlough’s eyes retreated from his face, as if they looked on some inner struggle. His mouth turned down in a grim line. “And after Aedh, Felim. Aedh may be weak and foolish. His brother is neither, and while I may wait out one of my cousins, I have not the patience for two.”

  Little Hugh stepped close to David, though he had to stand a-toe to do it. “If you fight us, we’ll destroy you, now that we’ve the Red Foreigners on our side.”

  David looked over the younger man’s head into Turlough’s eyes. “I pity Felim the foolishness of his brother.”

  Turlough understood and put a hand on Little Hugh’s shoulder. “Come, we’re here to pray for a good man, not to quarrel with an old one.” He gazed at the body on its bier before the altar, washed and wrapped in a winding sheet. “He, at least, had no part in the quarrels of kings.”