“Get up a search party,” Halvdan Torkilsalven commanded his retainers. They hastened to obey, but no hope shone in their countenances.
The faces of Halvdan’s companions were also grave. “He was a valiant knight,” said Walter of Narngalis.
“The best of warriors,” said Ronin.
“Aye,” said Gunnlaug. “None shall dispute his worthiness.”
“But many shall mourn,” said Kieran of Slievmordhu. “Many shall mourn.”
It was just as the search party was mounted and accoutred and about to depart that Gearnach came back. The knight arrived haggard, bloodstained and weary at the door of the hunting lodge, in the cold, cobalt light of early dawn. Triumphantly he held aloft a gruesome object; the severed head of a Marauder, which he gripped by the roots of the hair.
“I took him!” he proclaimed, his voice rasping with fatigue. “I took him.”
He staggered, and fell into the arms of the attendants, who bore him indoors to ply him with wine and water. The princes were avid to hear his tale, and indeed the knight refused to eat a bite until he had recounted the story, with the bloody head propped up before him on the table, its eyes glazed and its jaw horribly askew.
“I pursued him without rest,” Gearnach said grimly. “Through thicket and briar, over tor and down dale, though it seemed every unseelie wight in Grïmnørsland was abroad—duergars lurking behind every rock, hobyahs crouching on every bough, drowners beckoning from shadowy streams, fuathan pinning me with their unwinking stares as I ran by. A waterhorse came at me from a black pool deep in some ferny hollow. Once, three maidens in misty robes beseeched me to join their dancing beneath the trees, where human bones, paler than their gowns, lay glimmering. I am too canny to be tricked, but never have the charms I carry stood me in such good stead—my amber talisman, my steel weapons, the four-leafed clover and red verbena stitched into the hem of my shirt, and all the rest. No wicked wight could stop me. All night I hunted him, and at the end I had my way.” He downed a swig from his tankard and wiped his mouth with a filthy sleeve. “I would not let him escape,” he informed his enthralled audience. “Had I not caught him I would be roaming the wildwoods seeking him yet. A wrong has been righted.”
“Why so zealous, Two-Swords?” Gunnlaug asked. “You might have let the cur go, and saved yourself some trouble.”
Gearnach turned to the questioner and fixed him with a flinty gaze. “My Lord, he tried to abduct one who was in my charge. No thing, foul or fair, man or un-man, shall do dishonor to me or mine and not suffer for it.”
Gunnlaug barked out a short laugh of approval at this vindictive creed.
When the tale had been told, a basin of clear water was fetched. Conall Gearnach laved his bearded face and brawny hands before falling ravenously on a repast of bread and meat. Meanwhile four of the princes went out deerhunting. Out of respect for Halvdan’s deceased footboy, Walter, Kiernan and Ronin had been reluctant to embark on the jaunt, but Gunnlaug was insistent and eventually proved persuasive.
Halvdan remained at the lodge, his arms and ribs bandaged. He watched his brother and companions disappear down the gravel path, the golden glow of morning stretching their shadows long upon the ground. Afterwards he went to the stables to greet his horse and ensure that it was comfortably housed. Many thoughts were disquieting him, and his wounds throbbed painfully.
He was concerned about the intrusion of Marauders so far west, and wondered what had given rise to their enterprise; but more than that, as he ran his mind over the trials he had endured at the hands of the brigands, he mused upon what would have befallen had Conall Gearnach not come to his rescue. His death would have been certain, the length of his suffering open to conjecture. To the knight’s sheer stubbornness and impetuous courage he owed all. Two-Swords could be violently impulsive at times, but that trait could actually be an advantage in a warrior. Moreover, the knight was amongst the most chivalrous of men. Indeed, in Halvdan’s opinion Gearnach was more honorable by far than the master he faithfully served, King Uabhar of Slievmordhu. Thorgild’s son had been privy to certain tales of savagery, and he was not blinded to Uabhar’s character by filial loyalty, as his friend Kieran was. The King of Slievmordhu, Halvdan privately judged, was two-faced; dangerously so.
Continuing to ponder these matters, he returned to the warmth of the lodge’s main chamber.
Illuminated by radiance brightening through the cracks of the shutters in addition to the flicker of lanterns and firelight, Conall Gearnach was still seated at the table, finishing the last crumbs of breakfast. Halvdan rested troubled eyes upon the man who had rescued him from harm and avenged his abduction. Gearnach’s unhesitating altruism had moved him profoundly. As the knight rose from his seat and made to ascend the stairs to his bed-chamber, Halvdan addressed him quietly, his voice steady.
“Conall Gearnach, I shall never forget your deeds of this past night,” said the prince. “I will be your friend for my life.”
The knight hesitated, clearly taken aback. His cheeks reddened. “I pray thee sir, say no more!” he murmured. “There is no need for gratitude. I merely did my duty.”
“I saw also how valiantly you fought throughout the entire skirmish,” Halvdan continued, his visage graven with earnestness, “and I have not forgotten that from my boyhood days you have upheld fairness and justice without faltering. When I was a lad I wished to be such a one as you. That, I still hope for. In my judgment there is no man more just and valiant, more honorable and skillful than you. In my childhood you tutored me, and all the lessons you taught me are the ones I now know best, and love best, such as the names of the trees, the most cunning dueling tricks, the way to tame horses without violence, how to find food in the wild forest.”
“Nay,” Gearnach said, executing an awkward bow. “Nay, lord, you have the wrong man. It cannot be myself you are speaking of.” He did not add, When I was about to die under the Marauders knife you risked your life to save mine. No man has ever done me such a service—no peasant, let alone a prince. The warrior did not utter these words but Halvdan read them in the depths of his eyes. He gave a small nod, and an unspoken understanding passed between the two men.
The prince made himself smile at the knight’s halfhearted jest. “Pray go now to your rest, Gearnach. I will detain you no longer.”
Having bowed a second time, the knight departed.
Whether brought on by recent tribulations, or by the continual thunder of wind-churned waves upon the cliffs and the rattling of shutters and panes, or by the rich sauces served at dinner, that night the slumber of Prince Ronin of Slievmordhu was greatly disturbed by visions of the past.
Some weeks before he had set out for Grïmnørsland, thousands of his countrymen had assembled just outside the city of Cathair Rua, at the command of his father. King Uabhar had been inspired to create a new feast-day in Slievmordhu—the Day of Heroes. As the first of these feast-days had dawned, the cadets, the reserves and the standing army had gathered in the Fair Field, lining up behind the ranks of the famous Knights of the Brand, to renew their oath of allegiance to king and country. The troops were outfitted in dress uniform, the harness worn only for parades; ornate, brightly polished, never dented by battle—indeed, during the last couple of centuries or so of peace in Tir they had only waged real conflict against Marauders or unseelie wights. The locks of the Slievmordhuan soldiers—ranging in tone from light brown and chestnut to the color of walnuts—streamed from beneath shining helms. Their gauntletclad fists firmly gripped the poles of their numerous standards, which bristled into the blue sky like a mass of gigantic bulrushes. From the tops of these poles long, tapering pennants rippled, as bright and lively as fishes swimming upstream. The warriors’ banners, their cloaks and plumes and their flowing manes were all fluttering along the course of the wind; solemn were their faces, yet the spark of patriotic pride glinted fiercely in their eyes. A kind of hush rested upon them. The only sounds were the ringing of metal, the clanking of jointed armor pla
tes, the occasional heavy stamp of a booted foot, and the soughing and snapping of flags in the breeze. Sunlight glanced from burnished lames and steel vambraces, flickering like silver sparks as each man shifted balance slightly, or turned into the wind, never taking his eyes from the platform whereon his sovereign presided in full panoply beneath the venerated emblem of the Burning Brand. The High Commander of the Slievmordhuan armed forces stood at King Uabhar’s left hand, while the Commander-in-Chief of the Knights waited at his right, ready to speak. The voice of Conall Gearnach was powerful, and he possessed the knack of broadcasting his messages over a vast area. In this, today, he was aided by the direction of the blowing airs.
The flags having been lowered on every city building, Gearnach stepped forward, drew breath and launched into his monologue. Uabhar himself had written the speech for the knight to memorize word for word, and it was an oration so awe-inspiring, yet somehow disturbing, that it made Prince Ronin Ó Maoldúin review every precept on many an unquiet night from that hour. The utterances haunted him ever after, but he could not really say why.
“Sons of Slievmordhu,” Gearnach had cried in stirring tones, “thousands of you are gathered here upon the Fair Field of Cathair Rua. On this day, you will together swear an oath of loyalty and obedience to King Uabhar Ó Maoldúin.
“You are swearing your oath on a feast-day that Slievmordhu celebrates for the first time—the Day of Heroes. We lower our flags in remembrance of those who lived as heroes, and died as heroes. We lower our flags in memory of the giants of our past, the countless numbers who fought for Slievmordhu in the Goblin Wars.
“Woe to the country that fails to honor its heroes, for it will cease to bring them forth! A country without heroes is a country without leaders, for only a heroic leader is truly able to withstand the challenge of difficult times. The rise or fall of a realm can be determined by the presence or absence of a great king.
“Slievmordhu demands loyalty from you, not only in deed, but in character. Loyalty in character is a heroic virtue; unbreakable loyalty, a loyalty that knows no weakening. Loyalty in character means absolute obedience that does not question the results of an officer’s command, nor its reasons, but rather obeys for the sake of obedience itself. Such obedience is an expression of heroic character when following orders leads to personal disadvantage or even seems to contradict one’s personal convictions. King Uabhar Ó Maoldúin must know that when he commands, or allows a command to be given, that every man will obey absolutely, down to the last drummer-boy.
“Sons of Slievmordhu, you have given the same absolute loyalty to our king that Slievmordhu’s warriors gave long ago during the Goblin Wars, which demanded their heroic deaths for the good of the kingdom. You have the great fortune to live in a realm that the best soldiers of that era could only dream of—a kingdom that for all eternity will remain strong and united if you do your duty. For you, doing your duty means: Obey the king’s orders without question! Thereby you will be the best living memorial to the dead heroes of past wars.
“Be ever aware that you owe thanks to King Uabhar Ó Maoldúin, for his government enables victory and prosperity. Whoever you are, be you high or low, work for his ideals, and therefore for Slievmordhu. The reward for your labors is knowing you have done your duty for all that is right. It is an honor to fight, suffer, risk, bleed and sacrifice for our country’s future. You will earn the thanks of all who enjoy the advantages of life in this kingdom.
“Sons of Slievmordhu! You will now take an oath to King Uabhar Ó Maoldúin! You have the joyful privilege of taking an oath to a king who is a paragon amongst rulers, who always acts with honor and dignity, and who always chooses the right path, even when at times some of his advisors fail to understand why.
“You take an oath to a king who follows the laws of providence, upon which he acts independently of the influence of worldly powers. Through your oath you bind yourselves to a king who was sent to us by way of the grace and generosity of the Four Fates who rule our lives. He who takes an oath to King Uabhar takes an oath to great Slievmordhu! Make the vow! I swear upon my life that I will obey my king without question!”
Throughout the Fair Field the troops, rank on rank, repeated the oath, after which trumpets sounded, the flags were raised in the city and Conall Gearnach cried, “We salute the king!”
Dreaming in King Thorgild’s hunting lodge, Prince Ronin of Slievmordhu moaned and tossed upon his feather bed, slicked with sweat. His nightmares changed; not for the better.
One afternoon several days after the oath-taking Ronin and his three brothers had been strolling with their mother beneath the sun-flecked elms in the palace gardens. Presently their lauded father had joined them, shadowed at a judicious distance by his usual entourage.
The king of Slievmordhu, a man of middle height with powerful, sloping shoulders, had thrived throughout forty-one Winters. His face was square, the jaw flabby and beginning to sag. The broad, mottled forehead was molded by salient brows. His wide nose and flaring nostrils jutted above a mustachioed upper lip. Firm and rounded was his chin, his cheeks somewhat puffy. He was in a jovial mood, and anxious to announce the reason for it, so that his progeny might understand his achievements to an extent over and above the considerable degree to which he had astounded them in the past. Of his wife he took little heed.
“Lord Dubthach MacRoigh is no longer a thorn in our side,” Uabhar proclaimed, grinning broadly, “and never more will be.”
Queen Saibh stifled the look of horror she had spontaneously directed at her husband. Her fragile grip tightened on the arm of her eldest son, and her step faltered, but she spoke no word. The party came to a halt beneath a leafy bough as the youngest prince, Fergus, exclaimed, “Well, is it done, then, Father?”
“It is indeed, my son,” Uabhar affirmed, scratching his nose with an air of smugness. “The wretch admitted to treason not an hour since, under the diligent questioning of my inquisitors—just in time, fortunately, for shortly thereafter he passed from this life.” Gleefully he rubbed the back of his neck. “Which saved the cost of an execution,” he added. “Once again, justice prevails!”
“And MacRoigh being guilty of treason, his considerable estate is forfeit to the crown,” said young Fergus, not without delight.
“His lands and all his possessions,” Uabhar said, shrugging, “according to law.”
“Such a windfall will certainly swell the royal coffers,” Prince Kieran commented, “for which we must be grateful. However ‘tis a pity it happens at the expense of a man’s life. Until the last twelvemonth, MacRoigh’s reputation was impeccable. Who could have foreseen such an unaccountable alteration?”
“If not for Father’s excellent spies, the man’s plotting would never have been uncovered,” said Prince Cormac.
“Indeed, loyal lad,” the king said approvingly. “I am not suspicious by nature, as everyone knows, for I myself am as honest and forthright as the day is long; yet I yield to the counsel of those who are more distrustful than I, and sadly my beagles sniff out rotten meat occasionally.”
Ronin said quietly, “Like you, Father, there are many who would prefer to believe no ill of their fellow men. The weathermaster Ryence Darglistel, who testified in favor of MacRoigh’s character, seemed always to hold that the charges of conspiracy were trumped up.”
“Trumped up by whom, I’d like to know?” his father said. “Who would do such a thing? But that is typical of the way the weather-meddlers ride roughshod over us these days, endeavoring to seize the reins of our own kingdom and thwart us at every turn. By the Axe of Doom, they hold a much-inflated opinion of themselves. Their heads have swelled as huge as their hot air balloons, and need a good pricking.”
Ronin had been taken aback by the vehemence of his father’s denouncement of the widely revered storm-mages. He felt a twinge of uneasiness—which vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, for all his life he had been taught to invest great faith in his father’s judgment, and supposed he must be
right.
“It is of no consequence in any case,” the king went on,” for all doubt on MacRoigh’s account is now swept aside. Full confession has been heard from the man’s own mouth. Although,” he added, stealing a sidelong glance at his wife, “he was somewhat toothless and my inquisitors had to lean closely to decipher his mumbling, after his screams died down.” Uabhar examined his fingernails, apparently oblivious of Queen Saibh’s reaction. Ronin knew that his brother Kieran shared his discomfort on their mother’s behalf as the king launched into a description of the methods used to extract MacRoigh’s acknowledgment of guilt.
Conall Gearnach approached the party, striding across the lawn. A scowl flitted across his features as he entered within earshot under the trees, but on meeting Kieran’s friendly glance of greeting a warm light kindled in his eyes. His demeanor returned to neutral, however, as he waited at a few paces distance until his sovereign had finished expounding; then he bowed low. King Uabhar gave him permission to speak, whereupon the knight presented his salutations and begged for a private audience with his liege on some matter of military business.
Still in high spirits, Uabhar assented readily. He quit the gardens with Gearnach, accompanied also by Princes Cormac and Fergus, and the shadowy retinue. Kieran and Ronin resumed strolling through the grove alongside their mother, whose delicate face had grown ashen.
“Mother,” said Ronin, “Pray, do not be distressed if our father fails to comprehend your disposition as we do. It cannot be his fault that by nature he is unaware of feminine sensibilities.”
Indeed, that Uabhar was incapable of fathoming the depths of women’s subtleties had been plain to Ronin since the day Kieran had been sent to dwell for two years at the court of King Thorgild. Saibh had wept and wrung her hands, begging Uabhar to change his mind and let her dear boy stay by her side, but Uabhar would have none of it. “You would tie my heir to your apron strings and make a milksop of him,” he said, laughing heartily at his own wit. “I would make him a man. Let him go into the world and stand on his own feet! Besides, he should become acquainted with his bride-to-be, so that his eyes may be open when he is of age to wed. Many an honest man has been lured into marriage with some stramullion whose maidenly artifices have disguised her true nature. Let him not be one such hoodwinked victim!”
Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 4
