Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  “You can sense all that?” Aran said doubtfully.

  “I felt it in the corpse. The man may be dead, but the magic is still alive. It’s . . .” She hesitated. “It’s looking for a new host.”

  The men exchanged glances. The idea chilled them as much as it did her.

  “This is a danger,” she said. “We should burn the bodies.”

  Ruarc shook his head. “Abban can send men back. It’s not something you need to see done.”

  Aine let out a slow sigh and nodded, relieved. She didn’t want to spend any more time in this forsaken place than necessary. Her first mission on the battlefield had been a success, but now that she understood the evil they faced, she couldn’t help but wonder if her efforts would be enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Eoghan demanded total commitment to every undertaking, and Conor soon understood how structured and unrelenting his mentor’s early training with Liam had been. The young man possessed as great an aptitude for teaching as he did for fighting, or perhaps he had just known Conor long enough to convey information in a way he would immediately grasp. Either way, Conor’s astonishing progress set Ard Dhaimhin buzzing about Eoghan’s talents and those of his chosen apprentice.

  Reports of war came infrequently and were sketchy at best. After Fergus’s shocking conquest of Sliebhan, his newly swelled forces stalled midway into Siomar. Both sides suffered casualties without much ground gained or lost. Occasionally, Conor wondered if Eoghan censored the incoming news to keep him focused, but his mentor seemed to respect, even if he didn’t understand, the ever-increasing pull Conor felt toward the kingdoms.

  Fall hurtled into midwinter, a time when the Fíréin focused less on their agrarian pursuits and more on fighting. In the gap between the harvest of the winter grains and the sowing of spring crops, even the craftsmen came out to hone their skills.

  “I think it’s time you fight someone other than me,” Eoghan said with a grin. “Let’s see if you’ve learned anything or if you’ve just gotten good at reading my mind.”

  Conor followed Eoghan toward the practice yards, alternately excited and terrified. He had made tremendous strides in his sword work, but he hadn’t yet had the chance to try himself against any other opponent.

  All the younger apprentices were at their lessons at Carraigmór, so only oath-bound brothers and older apprentices practiced in the yards. Conor glimpsed Riordan sparring with a man half his age with a spear. The younger brother panted and sweated under the barrage of lightning-fast movements. The passing of years had evidently diminished none of Riordan’s skills.

  “You should see him and Master Liam go at it,” Eoghan said. “It’s practically a holiday. Half the city turns out to watch.”

  “I bet. Who exactly am I fighting?”

  “Right this way.” Eoghan led Conor to a knot of oath-bound brothers standing beside a practice yard. He stopped behind one man and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Piran. I have a favor to ask.”

  Piran stepped away from the group, his expression curious. He was a lanky man in his early thirties, a few inches taller than Conor. “What is it?”

  Eoghan jerked his head back toward Conor. “I need to test my apprentice’s skills. You up for it?”

  Piran grinned. “Absolutely. I hope you’ve trained him well.”

  Conor flushed. If he performed poorly, it would be all over Ard Dhaimhin in hours. When Eoghan returned to his side, he murmured, “Are you sure about this?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ve only been training for eight months. Hold onto your sword, and they’ll be calling me a miracle worker.”

  Eoghan grinned, and Conor’s anxiety eased a degree. Less than two years ago, he could barely lift a hoe, let alone a weapon. If Eoghan didn’t care if he lost, why should he?

  Conor thought he’d be able to watch a few more matches and gather his courage, but as if of one mind, the others cleared the way for him and Piran. One man tossed him a wooden sword, and he caught it as he stepped into the yard. Piran offered a friendly grin before he assumed his guard.

  Five seconds into the match, Conor could see Piran was a natural swordsman. He had Eoghan’s fluid quality, and he handled the blade effortlessly. Before long, Conor was breathing hard, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Piran fought best on the attack, but his defense was not nearly as effective. Conor countered a thrust, and before Piran could react, launched his own offense. Several times, he saw his opportunity for the killing blow that would end the match, but he was not quick enough: Piran’s blade knocked his aim wide each time.

  Focusing too narrowly on the missed opportunity, Conor didn’t anticipate Piran’s block, an effective circular parry that opened his guard wide and twisted the sword from his hand. Piran smiled and delivered what should have been the decisive thrust.

  Instinctively, Conor dove into a shoulder roll and grasped the sword as he popped back up into a crouch. Momentarily stunned by the unexpected move, Piran could not defend against the sweep of Conor’s blade against the back of his knees. The brother stumbled, and Conor’s sword came to rest just beneath his lowest rib.

  Piran lowered his weapon. “I yield.”

  Conor stared at his opponent for several seconds before he withdrew his sword. Had he really won?

  Piran clasped Conor’s arm. “Well done. Quite impressive, indeed.”

  A smattering of applause from the others on the sidelines drew Conor’s attention back to his teacher, who watched thoughtfully. Piran glanced at Eoghan with a smile. “Be careful with this one. Given enough time, he just might best you.”

  Eoghan’s expression didn’t change. “Indeed.”

  Conor handed the sword to the next brother and made his way to Eoghan amidst murmurs of approval. Now that the shock was wearing off, he just wanted to be as far away from those considering stares as possible. “Can we go now?”

  Eoghan nodded. He looked to the others and said, “Thank you for letting us interrupt.”

  As they turned away, Conor glimpsed a silent watcher on the edge of the group: Brother Odran, the iron-hard tracker who had escorted Conor to Ard Dhaimhin nearly two years before. Conor’s heart dropped to his knees.

  Odran gave no sign of recognizing him as he acknowledged Eoghan with a nod.

  “Does he pass your test?” Eoghan asked.

  Odran’s eyes flicked to Conor. He nodded once more.

  “Test?” Conor said. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s time to expand your training. Odran will be teaching you tracking and wildcraft. He wanted to be sure you could look after yourself.”

  “How long will we be gone?” Conor tried to keep the alarm from his voice but failed miserably.

  “A few weeks,” Odran said.

  “Don’t worry, we’ve reached a point where you can stand to be away from drills for a while. Odran will keep you sharp.”

  “I’m due back out in three days,” the tracker said. “Eoghan will help you put together your supplies.” He gave Eoghan a nod just short of a bow and shot one last appraising look at Conor before he left.

  “Of all the brothers, it has to be Odran?” Conor asked.

  “You don’t like him?”

  “It’s not that.” He stopped. How could he explain his rush of self-consciousness at the sight of the man who had first revealed the depth of his weaknesses?

  Eoghan seemed to understand. “I know he’s difficult, but when it comes to survival skills, there could be no better teacher. Trust me.”

  Conor nodded and fell into step with Eoghan. The older boy’s mind was clearly elsewhere, but they walked halfway back to the village before Conor finally broke the silence.

  “You didn’t expect me to win, did you?”

  Eoghan snapped his head back toward Conor, the pensive expression dissolving into a grin. “No. But don’t let it go to your head. Your high block’s still sloppy. If you go up against a big man like Riordan, he’ll crush you.”

  Conor let
out his breath in a rush of relief. Wherever Eoghan’s mind had gone, he couldn’t help but think it related to him . . . and not in a good way. But he was back, as if that dark look had never come over him. Conor returned the grin. “You still have a few days to drill the bad habit from me.”

  Conor’s departure date arrived much too quickly, and he trudged toward the switchbacks where he was to meet Odran with uneasiness in his gut. It was the first step on a path that would take him further from Ard Dhaimhin and closer to the swiftly changing world beyond its forested borders.

  “I hope you packed well,” Odran said. “We’re expected at the first sentry post in two days, so we’ll be traveling fast.”

  Conor nodded. Eoghan had provided supplies from the storehouse and armory: a water skin, jerked meat, some scrap linen for bandages and straps, a sword, and a staff sling he could also use as a walking stick. He had filled his belt pouch with smooth stones the previous evening and retrieved the wool cloak he had brought from Lisdara.

  Odran started up the switchbacks, and Conor followed, matching him stride for stride. He might still struggle to keep up with the skilled tracker, but at least his unceasing training had given him more stamina than he had possessed the last time.

  Unlike Eoghan, Odran explained little. Instead, he expected Conor to observe him closely, only pointing out sights he would otherwise miss: a fox’s den hidden by ferns, an osprey’s nest high in the trees, an indentation in the forest floor that indicated a seasonal tributary. Mostly, Conor absorbed how Odran chose his footing, stepping soundlessly on a patch of moss or staying on the balls of his feet to avoid disturbing a fall of loose rocks, all while setting a pace untenable for all but the most experienced woodsman. He controlled his breathing, not allowing himself to pant, careful not to fall so far behind that Odran had to wait.

  When Odran called a stop, Conor collapsed gratefully on a large rock. “Are we eating from the traps?”

  “I am,” Odran said. “You are going to hunt.”

  Conor blinked at him and pushed himself to his feet. “Any advice?”

  “If you crash around like a wounded boar, you’ll scare away the small game.”

  “Thanks. That’s quite helpful.” Conor took up his staff sling, and with as much care as he could muster, crept off into the surrounding trees.

  In a forest teeming with life, it should not have been difficult to come across a squirrel or rabbit or even winter grouse. Once or twice, he glimpsed movement in the bushes, but in the time it took to fix his aim with a stone, the animal was gone. The light in the forest dwindled to pale gray by the time he returned to the camp, empty-handed but for a fistful of dark red berries. “Best I could do.”

  Odran looked up from the fire, where he turned a squirrel on a spit. “I hope you didn’t eat those. They’re poisonous.”

  Conor sighed and tossed the berries over his shoulder. The smell of roasting squirrel meat made his stomach rumble, but he had too much pride to ask Odran to share after his failure. Instead he gnawed silently on a piece of dried venison from his pack and tried not to reflect on how much it tasted like salted leather.

  The next morning, Conor kept his eyes peeled for signs of life, a stone ready in his hand. He saw his chance when a fat hare hopped from the bushes. Carefully, he crept closer, took aim, and let the stone fly.

  The rabbit fell over, stunned, but not dead. He hesitated only a moment before he seized it and broke its neck. He knotted a strip of linen from his pack around the rabbit’s hind legs and slung it over his shoulder.

  They stopped for the night a few miles short of the sentry post. While Odran checked the traps, Conor cleaned the rabbit. Skinning and gutting others’ kills in the cookhouse had long since stripped his squeamishness. He spitted the meat over the fire, proud of his small accomplishment.

  Odran returned with only a small game bird, but when Conor offered him a bit of rabbit meat, the tracker shook his head. “You earned that. Enjoy it.”

  Conor attacked the meal with enthusiasm and watched Odran gnaw the meat from the bird’s slender bones. He was an odd man, but his devotion to the brotherhood was unquestionable.

  “Do you ever wonder what’s happening out there?” Conor asked.

  “No.” Odran’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why would I?”

  “The Fíréin are waiting for a High King to unite all of Seare. You’re not curious about the kingdoms he’s supposed to unite?”

  “It probably won’t happen in our lifetime. We’re meant to live in the moment, without worrying about what is to come. Isn’t that the definition of faith?”

  Conor thought for a moment. He had never expected to have a theological discussion with Odran. “I think of faith as the belief things will work out the way they’re supposed to, even when your path looks bleak. You can’t do that if you don’t look ahead.”

  “Perhaps your path is just different from mine. Ard Dhaimhin is my final destination. You’re just passing through.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Eoghan is pushing you harder than even Master Liam pushed him, and both of you show far too much interest in what’s going on in the kingdoms.”

  Conor leaned back against a tree to finish his own meal. So he was not the only one who sensed his time at Ard Dhaimhin was growing short. But for what purpose? One man would hardly make a difference in the battle being fought between nations.

  Odran volunteered for the first watch, and Conor stretched out, troubled by the direction of his thoughts. Maybe the other man’s definition of faith was as accurate as his own. Right now, speculating about the future accomplished nothing, because he had no clue as to what awaited him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  They broke camp early the next morning amidst a damp chill that left a coating of frost on the tree limbs. Conor studied Odran as he scattered the ashes and brushed away all signs of their passing. The tracker did not acknowledge their previous night’s conversation, though he seemed impatient with Conor’s pace.

  The sentry post lay a few miles north of their camp on the edge of Seanrós, which bordered central Faolán. It was the closest Conor had been to the kingdoms in two years, and the sight of the ancient trees intermingled with the newer growth of the border forest somehow unnerved him. Odran had found him in one of these border regions, his arrival frightening away the sidhe. Would they encounter something similar on this trip? He hadn’t given thought to the things that existed outside Ard Dhaimhin’s protective wards in months.

  Conor would have missed the sentry’s dugout had Odran not caught his attention. Tree roots overhung a low rise, undercut by ages of water, and thick foliage shielded the narrow wooden door set into the side.

  The door swung inward as they approached. A stooped, elderly man peered out. “Brother Odran, you’re late.”

  Odran gestured for Conor to follow the sentry inside. “Brother Innis doesn’t waste time. Get in there.”

  Conor hurried after the sentry and ducked through the door. The dugout was dark and cramped, with a floor and ceiling of hard-packed earth. A candle glowed atop a rough-hewn table with its single chair, and a straw-stuffed pallet lay in the corner. The sentry shuffled to a niche stacked high with wax tablets and parchments, reminding Conor of a gnome from a bard’s story.

  “I’m—”

  “Brother Conor, I know. You’re the reason he’s late. Odran loses time only when he’s breaking in a new runner.”

  “I’m not a runner—” Conor began.

  Odran shook his head and leaned casually against the wall. “Feel anything unusual lately, Brother Innis?”

  “Not since the last time.” Innis produced a thin wax tablet and handed it to Odran. His eyes passed over Conor as if he weren’t there. Odran jerked his head toward the door, and they stepped out into tree-filtered sunlight.

  “That’s it?” Conor said, glancing back at the dugout.

  “That’s it. We have half a dozen other posts to visit in this quadrant today.”
<
br />   Conor fell into step beside him. “What were you asking him?”

  “Nothing that should concern you.”

  “Did Master Liam tell you not to talk to me about it?”

  “If I say no, you won’t believe me. If I say aye, I still can’t tell you.”

  Conor had come to expect Odran’s evasive answers, but that made them no less irritating. “Then why would you bring it up in front of me?”

  “If you’re as smart as Eoghan seems to think, you don’t need me to tell you.”

  Conor let out his breath in a frustrated whoosh. Why did everything have to be a riddle with him?

  Their next several stops, only two miles apart, were just as succinct, though none of the sentries were as eccentric as Brother Innis. Nowhere else did Odran ask questions, so Conor assumed only Innis had witnessed the original incident, whatever it had been.

  Halfway to their final stop of the day, Odran paused in his stride and cocked his head. “Someone breached the wards on the east edge of Seanrós. Let’s go, quickly.”

  Conor picked up his pace, doing his best to move silently without losing sight of his guide. Maybe he would get a chance to see what a tracker did after all. Hopefully it was an innocent incursion that wouldn’t involve bloodshed. Odran seemed far too comfortable with killing for Conor’s liking.

  They moved swiftly for at least half an hour, and the effort required to maintain both speed and silence wore on him. Three days was not long enough to master the Fíréin’s deadly stealth in the woods. Odran slowed his pace, but when Conor turned to look, he saw only trees. Did the tracker sense their quarry?

  Then Conor heard the soft shuffle of horses and the murmur of voices. He crouched beside Odran in a stand of giant ferns while they waited for the intruders to approach. The tracker eased his sword silently from his scabbard, and Conor palmed a stone from his belt pouch.