Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  Conor circled into the gap left by the felled man so he could face the others one at a time. A second man feinted skillfully, but Conor waited until he overcommitted himself and delivered a vicious strike to the head.

  The remaining two pressed forward, working like a pair of hunting wolves. One harried him while the other looked for an opportunity to take him down. Conor resisted the urge to draw his sword. In the seconds it took him to trade weapons, they would descend on him.

  He shifted to the offense and pressed the first man back. A sharp blow to the wrist broke the bones and sent his weapon flying. Another strike to the head dropped him, unconscious, to the turf. Before the second man could comprehend what had happened, Conor swung the staff full force into his midsection. His opponent’s ribs gave a sickening crunch, and he pitched to the ground.

  Conor whirled, looking for the next attack, but he and the dark-haired man stood alone. The other warrior’s four opponents lay dead, but Conor’s still lived, some unconscious, others writhing in pain.

  Relief flooded into the space left by adrenaline, and Conor bent forward, bracing his palms on his knees. Somehow, he had survived his first test unscathed.

  “Are you wounded?” the other man asked.

  “No.” Conor straightened and shook off a wave of dizziness. “I’m fine. You?”

  “No worse than before.” The warrior took in the scene matter-of-factly, unperturbed by the men he had slain. “That was some display. Why didn’t you kill them?”

  Why didn’t he? Conor cast about for a reasonable explanation. “I figured they’d need to be questioned.”

  “I know who sent them.” The man walked to one of Conor’s disabled opponents and wordlessly thrust the sword into his chest.

  Conor clenched his jaw and pushed down nausea as the warrior executed the men he had so painstakingly kept alive. When he thought he could speak neutrally, he asked, “Did Lord Gainor get away?”

  “Aye, and four of his bravest guards as well.” The man walked to Conor and offered his hand. “Keondric Mac Eirhinin.”

  So that’s why he recognized him: he was the young lord Gainor had pointed out during his first feast at Lisdara. Conor clasped his forearm. “Conor.”

  “Brother Conor?”

  “Just Conor will do.”

  Mac Eirhinin nodded and pushed no further. “We’re indebted to you. As you can tell, we were in no shape to meet an ambush.”

  “You’ve seen battle already.” Conor nodded towards the man’s bandaged thigh.

  “If you can call it that. It was a massacre.” Mac Eirhinin wove through the bodies, collecting weapons and tossing them into a pile. “How did you come to intervene?”

  “Just passing through. I tracked the men here. I didn’t expect to see Gainor.”

  “How do you know Lord Gainor?” The warrior’s bland tone didn’t quite cover his intense interest.

  “We met some years ago.”

  Mac Eirhinin only nodded and gestured to the weapons. “Take what you like. Ó Sedna will send men back to collect the rest.”

  Conor didn’t need anything beside his sword and staff, but the nobleman watched him, assessing, so he took his time looking through the pile of weapons. Finally, he chose a serviceable knife with a sharp, thin blade.

  “How far is the camp?” Conor asked, anxious to leave the bloody scene behind.

  “Three miles or so. With any luck, my man’s on his way back with horses already.”

  Mac Eirhinin’s limp became more pronounced as they walked toward camp, but he kept a quick pace.

  “What happened before I got here?” Conor asked. “Lord Gainor looked badly hurt, and those men did not happen onto you by accident.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  Conor chose his words with care. “I was headed to Lord Abban to offer my assistance. Just in the right place at the right time, I suppose.”

  “From what I saw, he’d be happy to have you. Comdiu knows we can use all the skilled fighters we can get.” Mac Eirhinin broke off, perhaps realizing he trailed into topics best not discussed with a stranger. “To answer your question, the battle nearly cost us our entire company. Some of us stayed behind with Lord Gainor to cover the retreat. We’re all that’s left. Seems they weren’t content to let us go after all.”

  “Looks to me they were seeking hostages. So far, Fergus hasn’t fought unless he needed to. Probably thought he could force the Mac Cuillinn’s hand.”

  “You’re well-informed,” Mac Eirhinin said slowly. “Your accent sounds Timhaigh.”

  Now they were getting to the heart of the matter. Conor wondered if the chieftain was beginning to put together the pieces. It wasn’t a large leap of logic for a man as canny as Mac Eirhinin. “I was born there, but I wouldn’t call it home. Does it matter? There’s us, and there’s them. You said yourself, you can use all the help you can get.”

  Mac Eirhinin did not answer. Conor followed his gaze to the small party of horsemen approaching in the distance.

  “Bless Balus,” Mac Eirhinin murmured. “I’ve had enough walking for one day.”

  Conor glanced at the man’s leg, where a trail of blood seeped from the bandage into his boot. His estimation of the chieftain rose another notch.

  The riders closed the distance rapidly: a different trio of men, led by a bulky, disreputable-looking warrior. Mac Eirhinin grinned as they approached. “Are those horses for us to ride, or did you just mean to bring back the bodies?”

  “Bloody cowards,” the leader grumbled. “You’d think one man could have seen to Lord Gainor and the rest stayed to fight. Under orders, they said. Who’s this?”

  “Conor,” Mac Eirhinin answered immediately.

  “Brother Conor?”

  Conor almost laughed. “No.”

  Mac Eirhinin gestured toward the leader. “This is Dearg. Behind him, Taicligh and Uvan.”

  Conor nodded to them and introduced himself to one of the two riderless geldings. The warriors’ eyes followed him as he vaulted onto the horse’s back and rested his staff against his shoulder. He made sure he stayed close to Mac Eirhinin and Dearg as they turned back toward camp, aware their gratitude did not automatically translate to trust.

  “How is Lord Gainor?” Conor asked.

  “Alive,” Dearg said. “Barely.”

  He would be dead, had Conor not happened along. The others as well. This was no coincidence, even if he still felt conflicted about the first real test of his skills.

  The camp appeared over the next rise, much larger than Conor had expected. Banners of varying colors, Faolanaigh and Siomaigh, flew above the sprawling site. “Not all the Siomaigh sided with Fergus?”

  “They were safe behind the wards when it happened, so they weren’t infected,” Mac Eirhinin said. Apparently, much more had happened than the broad strokes of the Fíréin reports had let on.

  Shouts broke out across the camp, announcing their arrival. Conor took a deep breath and prepared himself for the inevitable barrage of questions. Still, that nervousness could not compare with the realization he might soon come face to face with Aine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Aine was kneeling beside one of her patients in the infirmary tent, checking his stitches for signs of infection, when she heard a commotion of hooves and shouts outside.

  Lorcan poked his head inside. “It’s Gainor. He’s hurt. Badly.”

  Aine jumped to her feet and followed Lorcan to where four guards lifted her unconscious brother from his horse. Fear pierced her midsection. Wounded badly was an understatement.

  “Put him in his tent,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

  She paused long enough in the infirmary to collect two large sacks filled with supplies and followed the men to her brother’s tent. Dozens more had already gathered, and she had to push a path to his bedside.

  “Everyone but Lorcan, out now.”

  All but the guard immediately beat a hasty retreat. Aine knelt beside her brother
’s pallet to survey his condition. Bruises and filth mottled his pasty skin, and blood-soaked bandages bound him from head to toe. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and placed a hand on his chest.

  Gainor’s pain assailed her, and it took a moment to distinguish the injuries from one another. She sorted through the sensations, cataloging each injury with as much detachment as she could manage. Broken bones everywhere: hand, leg, ribs, collarbone, nose. Wounds from spear and sword in his shoulder, beneath his collarbone, in his side, in his leg. Part of his right ear was missing, and his left eye was swollen shut, hiding damage that could mean permanent blindness. Yet none of the wounds had been mortal.

  Aine swallowed her horror. She could not think of him as her brother now. He was simply another patient. “Lorcan, I’ll need your help.”

  With Lorcan’s assistance and some creative use of wood and linen, Aine managed to set the broken bones and tend the worst of the flesh wounds. Still, it would be a miracle if Gainor walked again, and the anesthetics at her disposal would do only so much to dull the pain.

  “A physician could have done a better job,” she said, pushing her damp hair from her face. “He can’t make the journey back to Lisdara, though. If he survives the next day and night, we’ll write Calhoun and have him send someone.”

  “You underestimate your abilities, my lady,” Lorcan said. “I’ll go fetch a servant to sit with him so you can rest.”

  Aine pushed herself to her feet, despair stealing the strength from her limbs as she wandered outside into the rapidly fading light. The wind had picked up, and the air smelled of rain. Were there others like Gainor, left for dead on the battlefield, without guardsmen to carry them to safety? She pressed her fists to her eyes and willed back tears. She couldn’t break now. Of the thousand warriors in camp, nearly a third of them were injured, half of those seriously. Without her attention, they would likely die. No, she had far too much responsibility to let herself fall apart.

  Ruarc appeared beside her. “You look exhausted.”

  “I am exhausted. Did you learn what actually happened?”

  “Each man has a different story. Best I can tell, they saw him fall but stayed with the retreat. Mac Eirhinin and his men went back for him.”

  The mention of Lord Keondric usually summoned uneasiness, but now she felt only gratitude. “Has he returned?”

  “They were pursued from the battlefield. Mac Eirhinin stayed behind to fight while the others fled with Gainor.”

  Aine understood what he left unsaid. It was the guards’ responsibility to bring the king’s tanist back safely, but it didn’t sit well to leave a man behind. She rubbed her temples. “Maybe I will go lie down. Lorcan should be back in a minute with someone to tend to Gainor.”

  Ruarc delivered her to her tent on the other side of the command pavilion, but she had no sooner stepped inside than she heard more shouts from the perimeter. Her heart leapt into her throat. She darted out as someone shouted, “Mac Eirhinin’s back!”

  “Blessed Comdiu. He’s alive?”

  Five men rode up the wide center aisle, Lord Keondric in the lead. The chieftain’s clothing was tattered and stained, and the bandage around his thigh barely staunched the flow of blood from a new wound. Still, he looked a far sight stronger than Gainor. She owed him a sincere word of thanks.

  Then Aine noticed the stranger in the party. He dismounted lightly and handed his reins to a servant. He was not one of Abban’s or Gainor’s men, but he seemed familiar nonetheless. His lean, muscular build said he was a warrior, and he wore old-fashioned clothing with his hair in a single braid. Fíréin?

  Then he turned and met her gaze, and her knees nearly buckled. He may have changed in three years, but she knew him all the same. A shock of recognition passed between them.

  Keondric was making some sort of introduction to the assemblage, but Aine barely heard him over the drumming of her heart. She took a halting step forward, and her shock turned to fierce joy that felt more like pain than pleasure.

  “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “Conor.”

  Conor hardly expected to see Aine in the group that greeted them at the center of camp. His brief glimpse in the forest had only hinted at the stunning woman she had become. When she stepped forward, he stood immobilized, his heart rising into his throat. Hope swelled within him at her expression, a mixture of amazement, joy, and something he feared to name.

  Conor started toward her, but before he could take more than a few steps, a bulky warrior with silver-blond hair positioned himself between them. “The lady may know you, friend, but we don’t.”

  The threat in the man’s voice was clear, as was the challenge in his eyes. Aine stepped forward and placed a hand on the man’s arm. “Conor is an old friend, Lorcan. It’s all right.”

  Lorcan bowed his head in acknowledgement and stepped away with obvious displeasure. Conor realized the entire group was watching the exchange with open interest. Apparently, so did Aine, because she stiffened and said formally, “This is such a surprise. How exactly did you come across Lord Mac Eirhinin?”

  “I’d like to know that as well,” came a booming voice. A bearded giant pushed to the front. “We feared the worst when you didn’t return, Mac Eirhinin.”

  “It would have been, if not for Conor. He warned us of the ambush. Conor, this is Abban Ó Sedna.”

  Conor bowed slightly. “Lord Mac Eirhinin exaggerates.”

  “I’m sure,” Abban said wryly. “Come, let’s discuss this in private.”

  Conor dared not glance at Aine as he followed Abban into the large canvas tent. Despite their polite phrasing, the words were an order, not an invitation. Mac Eirhinin may have accepted Conor as a friend, but this mountain of a battle commander might not be so easily convinced.

  Inside, Abban gestured to a chair near a large table spread with maps. The topmost one caught Conor’s attention, a fine rendering of Siomar and Faolán overlaid with a web of red lines. He read the legends on several—Callindor, Northglenn, Eavenwood—before the commander swept it out of view.

  The tent flap opened, admitting Mac Eirhinin with Aine and Ruarc steps behind. Abban gestured for them to approach, but only the young lord joined Conor at the table.

  “You are not under guard here because Mac Eirhinin calls you a friend,” Abban said. “Your Timhaigh accent, however, immediately puts your motives under suspicion. So that leaves two questions: who are you and how did you happen upon Lord Gainor’s party?”

  Conor briefly considered lying, but too many people had witnessed Aine’s reaction. It was only a matter of time before they puzzled out the truth. Too bad the truth would put no one at ease.

  “My name is Conor. Once, my clan name was Mac Nir.”

  Abban seemed surprised, but whether by his identity or his transparency, Conor couldn’t guess. “It was Mac Nir? You claim it no longer?”

  “My forebears have hardly done it honor.”

  Abban glanced at Aine. “Is this true? Is he who he claims?”

  Aine cleared her throat, but she didn’t look at him when she said, “It’s him. I’m certain.”

  “You’re in remarkably good health for a man who has been dead three years. Care to explain?”

  Conor surveyed the commander. Lord Abban would continue to press as long as he answered his questions. “Suffice it to say I had my reasons for disappearing as I did. I’ve spent the last three years at Ard Dhaimhin, and now I’ve come back to offer assistance.”

  “The Fíréin deign to send one man to help in our war?” Abban flashed a sardonic smile. “How kind.”

  “I come of my own accord. The brotherhood stays out of the kingdoms’ affairs, even in these dire times.” Conor kept his sudden pang of concern from surfacing on his face. The commander would be within his authority to have him summarily executed as a spy. “Are you so confident in your victory that you would turn down another skilled fighter?”

  Mac Eirhinin spoke up. “We were ambushed. Conor alerted us and
took down eight men himself with only a staff and a sling. Had it not been for his intervention, we would all be dead, including Lord Gainor. I’d say he’s proved his intentions rather thoroughly.”

  Abban turned back to him. Before the chieftain could speak, Conor said quietly, “The simple fact is this: I am a Balian. Fergus and his druid seek to destroy all that is good in Seare. I could not stand by in Ard Dhaimhin and watch it happen. I have some information that can be of use if you will allow me to join you.”

  Abban nodded slowly, still wary, but the worst of the suspicion had disappeared from his expression. “We can discuss the matter over supper. I expect you’ll want to wash first. Mac Eirhinin, have Lady Aine look at that leg before you lose any more blood.”

  The dark-haired lord struggled to his feet.

  “Come to the infirmary,” Aine said. “You’ll need stitches. If you’ll excuse us, my lords.” Her eyes settled on Conor and flitted away again. She followed the young chieftain from the tent, Ruarc a step behind them.

  Abban watched them go. “She’s something, isn’t she? I would have said a lady in this camp would be a disaster, but the men regard her as a lucky charm. She’s saved us all more than once.”

  “The lady healer of Lisdara,” Conor said. “She’s something of a patron saint.”

  “Indeed.” Abban fixed his eyes on Conor. “Son, you might as well be honest with me. You’re here because of her. I know the two of you became close when you were at Lisdara.”

  “She is part of the reason I’m here,” Conor said. “But that won’t keep me from my duty, should it come to it.”

  “I believe you.” Almost to himself, Abban added, “I just hope it makes a difference.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Conor scrubbed the grime from his face and hands and did his best to make himself look presentable. Abban had not yet returned, but since he wasn’t anxious to face the scrutiny of the camp, he sat down in one of the chairs and began to check over his weapons.

  The tent canvas rustled, and Conor looked up, expecting the commander. It was Aine.