The Strength of the Few by James Islington - 17

THE EARLY SUMMER SUN IS out in full force this morning as I hoe lines into the fertile soil, Gráinne trailing after me and sowing millet. Onchú’s a distance ahead: more efficient than me by far, and apparently feeling no ill effects from our carousing the previous night. He laughed as he dragged me, groggy and red-eyed, from sleep.

“Is it this all day?” I pause to lean on my implement, wiping sweat from my brow. My head still thumps and the light still seems too bright.

Gráinne grins at me, then indicates the sweep of the field gently rolling away below us. “All. Day.”

I groan good-naturedly, and resume.

We chat as we work, companionable spurts of idle conversation between bouts of physical effort on my behalf. She hints again at curiosity about my origins; I once again tell her that I ran from somewhere far away, but that it is still too difficult—emotionally and literally—to fully explain.

It doesn’t sate her, but she doesn’t press. I’m glad. I’m not going to lie to her, I trust her, and I will tell her everything one day. But my life here has become precious, and my story will sound… far-fetched, to say the least. I’ve confirmed plenty of times that the name Caten means nothing to her, that Will is unknown and the Republic not even a whisper here. Wherever this is, the mere concept of the Hierarchy would seem beyond fanciful, and certainly is beyond my currently limited capability to explain properly.

Besides, I am wary of speaking of Caten too freely. Based on what Cian told me, there’s a chance Ruarc does know about the Republic; if he were to somehow catch wind of my enquiries, it would surely expose my survival. And even if word instead reached whoever Cian and I were originally on our way to meet—whatever my lingering curiosity, whatever answers I might get from them, it’s not close to worth risking what I now have here.

Our conversation today slips toward the surrounding country; though it’s a discussion we’ve had before, I’m finding that I glean more from the same topics as my grasp of the language grows. This land—Tiroedd Rhydd, she calls it, and it seems to span everything she knows—I gather is divided into numerous small fiefdoms, and has been for living memory. These clans raid and clash at the borders and have blood feuds that run deep, but rarely actually go to war. In fact, it seems there are regional kings who act to settle major disputes between the chieftains, and then a High King for disputes between the regional ones. Though rumour also has it that High King Úrthuile has been ailing these past months. And is without a direct successor.

Gráinne talks at length about King Rónán, the regional king here. I get her to explain words like “just” and “noble” and “powerful.” It’s fairly clear that he would be her choice to replace Úrthuile.

“King Rónán,” I say as we start ambling back toward the hut for a brief midday meal, Onchú joining us. “He lives in a…” I don’t know the word for city. “Place with many people?”

She nods. “Caer Áras. I have been once.”

“How many live there?”

She licks her lips. “Many. Many.” I’ve only learned up to about the number fifty in her language, and she knows this. Her brow furrows. She says a word I don’t know and then clarifies, “Forty groups of twenty. More.”

Eight hundred. The way she emphasises the “many,” the way she spreads her hands wide to try and encompass the concept, it’s clear that so many people gathered together is astonishing to her.

I think of the Catenan Arena. A hundred thousand people in its stands. Thirty thousand dead in front of me in minutes. I wonder if she would ever believe such a thing was possible. Can I? It feels a lifetime ago, a world away.

Onchú, walking just ahead and half listening to our conversation, stops so abruptly I almost walk into his back.

“What is it?” Gráinne asks.

Onchú has stiffened; he points grimly to the copse of trees on the far hill. My gaze follows his finger, roaming before finally spotting the three dark shapes hovering at the edge of the shadows.

Wolves. Very, very large wolves.

They’re alupi.

“ Mactirmor ,” murmurs Gráinne, sounding disturbed.

I gaze at them, heart pounding. They’re five hundred feet away, but I know just how fast they can be. “Are they hunting?” Onchú has mentioned the need to protect the flocks from predators. I wish desperately for Cian’s staff; it’s not much of a weapon, but it’s an improvement on the hoe I’m holding.

“ Mactirmor do not hunt.” Onchú is shaken. “They are a manadh . A sign,” he adds, for my benefit.

“A sign,” I repeat, trying not to make it sound disbelieving.

Onchú looks at me, and any humour I may have found in his superstition is lost as I see the genuine fear in his eyes. “This evening, we must iobairt to the déithe .” He hurries on toward the house.

I turn to Gráinne, whose gaze hasn’t left the motionless alupi. “He says we must give to the…” She hesitates, then gestures all around. “The ones in control.”

And so, as we start trailing after Onchú, I learn the words for sacrifice, and gods.

The alupi never move.

AT DUSK WE GATHER WHERE the river flows into the lake to the east, and as the last of the sun fades from the sky, Onchú solemnly utters what appears to be a ritual incantation to someone called Dia Fómhar and tosses a beautiful, intricately marked bowl into the deep water. I watch with interest as it sinks from sight, and wonder how much it cost him. How many treasures have been wasted here.

But I say nothing and observe in respectful silence. For all my doubts, the alupi unsettled me, too. Gráinne assures me that they are not common, and true to Onchú’s observation, none of the livestock appear to be missing.

I cannot help but think of the one I named after myself, back on Solivagus. I was under the impression that the creatures were found only on the island.

After the simple ceremony, both Onchú and Gráinne seem more at ease, and we return to the hut for dinner. The meal passes comfortably enough, though more than once I catch Gráinne or Onchú glancing through the window into the gathering gloom, gazes searching.

The rushlight burns down. We sleep.

I do not know what time I wake, but cold silver still filters through the window.

I lie there for several seconds, eyes open, trying to put my finger on what has disturbed me. There is only steady breathing from the other side of the hut. I hesitate, then roll and lever myself one-armed to my feet. Peer out the window.

Moonlight coats the serene rolling hills. Distant treetops sway in a gentle breeze. Otherwise, there’s no movement out there. I shuffle across to the other window. Nothing there, either.

And yet there’s something. A sense, an unease I can’t shake. It’s not just an unsettled echo from the alupi earlier today. I’m sure of it.

I grab Cian’s staff. It’s the only weapon to hand. It again almost seems to pulse faintly, though it’s so subtle that I cannot help but wonder whether it is simply my imagination.

I shrug my cloak around my shoulders with a practiced flick, and slip out the door into the open air.

The night is ice against any portion of exposed skin; once the sun has gone down, the air here bites even worse than it did at Solivagus. I shiver and cautiously stalk the short perimeter of the hut. There’s nothing obviously amiss, nothing to excuse the steadily deepening feeling of dread that’s urging me to action.

I face the woods, and with an apprehensive shiver realise what’s bothering me.

There’s a second, slightly discordant pulse in my head now.

It’s different from the one coming from the staff in my hand. Just as hard to discern but this one is stronger, simply coming from much farther away. The last echoes of a distant shout, rather than a whisper. But I can still tell its rough direction.

I study the black of the tree line. Menace radiates from it. What I’m sensing feels much more remote, but…

“I know you’re out there,” I call softly.

Nothing for several seconds.

Then three men emerge from the shadows.

I’m not sure if I’m imagining it at first; the strangers look ghostly in the ethereal light, move noiselessly as they stalk toward me. Two are bare to the waist, blue whorls and lines covering their skin, hair slicked and spiked up. They are broad and muscular and each look as though they could deal with me without the long spears held loosely in their hands.

The third, trailing just behind, is garbed in white. His cloak flows out behind him. At first I think it is the ghost of Cian, but as he nears I can see he is solidly built and older, grey shot through his blond beard and shaggy hair. His staff is similar to the one I hold—carved into distinct, symbol-covered sections as well—but darker beneath the markings. Oak, I think, rather than rowan.

They’re not the source of whatever it is I’m sensing out there, though, I realise dimly. That’s still somewhere far behind them.

“Who are you?” I call the challenge loudly and clearly.

No answer. They keep coming, and from the expressions on their faces, they do not have friendly intent.

“Gráinne! Onchú!” I call the names urgently while not looking back toward the house, even as I take some wary steps of retreat. A few months ago, I might have backed myself here. But no matter how well I’ve recovered, no matter how well I’ve adapted to my injury, I know I am diminished. This is not a fight I can win.

There’s a sleepy call from inside, but any help will be too late, and Onchú and Gráinne will not be enough against warriors such as these. I need to give them time to get away. I step forward, positioning the staff roughly as I would a blade, letting the excess rest against my forearm. It’s unwieldy, unbalanced. The sort of weapon that requires two hands to be used with any skill. Still, my knowledge of how to generate power from my core remains relevant. There are techniques I can use here.

They won’t serve me well for long, though. Especially if these men know how to use those spears.

The druid’s eyes bulge as he sees what I’m doing. He points at me with fury, pace increasing. “On your knees, fealltóir na slí ,” he snarls.

I don’t know the last words, but they’re definitely not a compliment.

The two warriors are less than ten feet away; they look angry too, but also confident. I take advantage. Reverse my slow backpedalling into a lightning dart forward, pivoting as I do so to bring the entire length of the staff around at the head of the bearded, lithe man on the left. My weeks of using farm implements one-handed pay off; there’s a surprised cry of pain as the wood whistles through the air and strikes him hard on the shoulder, his flinching back the only reason he avoids a cracked skull.

I keep moving past and twist, grinning fiercely at the surprised rage on their faces. Leading them away from the house again, willing Gráinne to see what is happening and grab the children and run. “Come and get me.” A children’s taunt I’ve heard more than enough to repeat.

There’s a growl from the man I hit. A look that promises violence on the blocky face of the other. Both grip their spears in a far more ready manner, this time.

The druid sees it too, snarls an instruction I don’t quite understand to them. Something about needing me for answers, I think. The warriors’ lips curl, but their stances alter.

They come forward as one. Quick and flowing and skilled. I fend off one strike, two, dance away, dodge a pursuing third.

I don’t see the fourth until my legs are being swept from beneath me. I hit the ground hard.

“Wait!” I vaguely hear Gráinne’s voice as I try unsuccessfully to roll, another strike glancing off my ear and causing the world to spin. The men don’t heed her; a foot finds my stomach and the air explodes from my lungs as I curl into a ball, desperately protecting myself. Another blow and then a weight across my body, my arm pinned. My hair, growing long now, is grabbed and my head slammed violently back into the ground. Again. Onchú’s voice is there too, protesting. Ignored.

The assault stops. The druid is next to me now, crouching next to the man subduing me. He wrests Cian’s staff from my feeble grasp.

“There will be justice,” he spits.

I realise, before his final punch to my temple, that his eyes have gone black.

I AM ON THE FLOOR of the hut, golden-headed Gráinne washing blood from my face, when I wake.

Iron spear tips appear and hover inches from my chest as I stir; Gráinne bats them away irritably, snapping something up at the two bare-chested men glowering down at me. They ignore her. Onchú and the children watch on in the corner. Onchú looks worried. Róisín and Tadhg are glaring at the men as though they might try and attack them.

Unharmed, though, I’m relieved to see.

“Who are you?” I dredge up the words, head still fuzzy.

An uttered command from somewhere behind the warriors, and they step aside so that I can see the druid.

He is sitting, the only one in the hut doing so. His staff is in his right hand, Cian’s in his left. At least fifty years old, I think, based on his weathered features. Hale and strong. He leans forward in his chair, intent blue eyes solely on me.

“You recover quickly.” He’s enunciating his words and speaking simply. He’s been told I don’t know the language well.

I glance at the window. It’s still dark outside, the moonlight pouring in roughly at the same angle as it was before. It can’t have been more than a few minutes since the attack. I can’t sense anything unusual from out there now. “Who are you?” I repeat.

“My name is Lir.” He twitches his left hand, indicating Cian’s staff. “You stole this. Confess”—I know that one from Gráinne scolding her children—“so that death may be swift.”

A small cry from the corner, and Onchú holds back a furious Tadhg. Róisín looks close to tears.

There’s a sharp look from Gráinne to her children, and both subside. “It was given,” she says, continuing to dab at my forehead. It stings, but I have more pressing things to focus on.

“Cian told me to keep it safe,” I confirm, smoothing any trace of aggression from my tone. Lir seems to have calmed, seems willing to talk. And I am in no position to fight. “Just before he died.”

“Cian of the draoi gave you this. Freely.” The druid is openly doubtful. His voice is deep, dignified. He takes in my missing arm, my awkwardness with the language. “How did he die?”

“He was killed.”

“How? By who?”

I lick my lips and look helplessly at Gráinne. Any attempt I make to explain what happened will be broken at best, and I don’t know what this man wants to hear. Have no idea what is best to admit, and best to obfuscate. “My words are not good, yet,” I explain, a little desperately.

“I was there.” Gráinne picks up what I’m asking her to do easily enough.

She starts talking, relieving me of the burden.

I am not fluent enough yet to understand the nuances of what she is saying, but I get the gist. She explains about the attack. How Cian was brutally killed in front of the entire village, and then everyone was slaughtered in order to cover it up. The druid listens with narrowed eyes, as do the warriors flanking him. At the description of Cian’s death he physically stands, as if unable to grasp the horror of it before slumping back into his seat again. His knuckles are white around Cian’s rowan staff.

Gráinne, I note, does not mention my arrival with Cian. Nothing about faking my death, either. In fact, she seems to be claiming that I arrived in the village days before Cian, though she’s not sure exactly when. And that I lost my arm in the defence of her and her children.

When she’s done, ending at our flight here, there’s a long, heavy pause.

“The blood price for Fiachra’s cowardly raid has already been extracted. This is known,” the druid says eventually. Slowly. “But there was never mention of a draoi being slain. The Grove has heard no such claim. And even if your story were true. Why?” He finally stirs, brandishes the staff in his left hand. “Why would Cian give this to you?”

“I do not know.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“Only a little. I knew less words, then.”

Lir grimaces. “Where are you from?”

I gesture vaguely. Foreigners are rare, according to Gráinne, but they almost exclusively come from the north. “Iber.” It’s the name she told me to tell Onchú.

Lir seems familiar enough with it, because he gives an unsurprised nod. “You run from the plá .” He studies me for long seconds. A puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

The warriors with him haven’t uttered a word to this point, but now the bearded one stirs. He’s not much younger than Lir. Scarred along the shoulder from some sort of blade, a straight line of pinkish-white tracing over sinew and vein. His spear is the one pointed at my chest, and it has never wavered. There’s something hard and angry in his eyes that hasn’t faded during Gráinne’s explanation.

“The pionós for ag iompar comhlánam is death. It is clear.” He speaks fast and uses words I don’t know, but the way his muscles bunch, the way the sharp iron hovers over my heart, makes his intent clear. I still my breathing. Don’t take my eyes from him. I can’t win a fight, but I gods-damned well am not going to lay still while someone tries to end me.

“Wait.” Lir holds up a finger, still staring at me. The command in his voice seems enough to stay the warrior’s hand. “Have you had tinneas cinn ?”

I look at him blankly, then turn to Gráinne for assistance. She thinks.

“Pains in the head,” she explains, tapping her skull.

“No.”

This seems to intrigue Lir. “What about voices in the head?”

“No,” I say slowly, wondering if I’ve misunderstood, but fairly certain I haven’t.

“Hm.” Lir considers me, and the silence drags. “We are not far from Fornax. I must comhairliú the garrán ionadaí at Caer Áras. Deaglán, is your name? You will come.”

My heart drops. I look at Gráinne but I can already see the answer in her eyes, in the way her shoulders slump slightly. Whatever authority Lir has, he’s completely within his rights to demand I go with him.

It’s a step up from execution, I suppose.

“Yes,” I accede quietly. “I will come, Lir.”

The statement seems to break the tension of the room. The warriors lower their spears, even if they seem no less angry; I suspect they disagree with Lir’s decision, but they will abide by it. Gráinne smiles tightly and in the background, Onchú nods, even as there’s a sniffle from Róisín and clenched fists from Tadhg.

The next few minutes pass in a morose haze as it becomes apparent that Lir has no desire to wait around, despite the sky outside only barely beginning to lighten in the east. I gather my one simple change of clothes, then turn to Lir.

“May I talk… alone?” I ask it awkwardly, gesturing to Gráinne and the family.

He eyes me, hesitates, then nods brusquely. “Be quick.” He jerks his head, and the two warriors follow him outside.

I wait until the door is shut, then give Gráinne a sad, apologetic smile. “I should have asked more. About Cian’s staff. I should have gotten rid of it. I hope I have not brought trouble.”

“No trouble. For us,” she clarifies as Onchú and the children come to join us. “And he gave it to you.” She emphasises that with a quiet ferocity, willing me to understand how important it is. I nod.

“You go to Caer Áras. Those who killed the druid are King Rónán’s enemies. Find a way to serve him, and he will protect you.” She fusses with my shirt. “You will be safe. Even with your arm, long enough has passed that no one will be looking for you. It is an unusual injury, but not unheard of. Stay small, and you will be fine.”

I breathe out, taking solace in her assurance. Nod, then pause. Searching for the words that would have been hard, even with mastery of the language.

“I am…” How to say “in your debt”? I trail off.

“Stupid?” suggests Gráinne.

“Ugly?” pipes up Tadhg.

I narrow my eyes at them. “I owe,” I say eventually. “I owe.”

Gráinne smiles a sad smile. Onchú watches as the two children break past him, wrapping their arms around me.

“I will miss you,” says Róisín. I hug her.

“I will miss you doing our work,” says Tadhg. I hug him hard around the head until he wriggles free of my one-armed grip, grinning.

Onchú hesitates, then steps forward himself and puts a hand on my shoulder. Locks his gaze with mine. “Always room for you. Family do not owe.”

My smile tries and fails to convey the depth of my gratitude. “I will come back.” I say it to all of them. A promise. “I have been… happy. Happy .” A lump in my throat as I realise how true it is.

Before I am overcome with emotion, I smile tightly and stride to the door, not looking back.

The druid and one of his men are waiting just outside; a quick call from Lir and the other appears from around the side of the house, apparently having been sent to ensure I didn’t try fleeing out the window. Lir eyes my clearly almost empty bag, then shrugs and starts walking.

“How long travelling?” The few clouds dotting the sky are turning pink as the sun hovers just below the horizon.

There’s immediately a muttered complaint from the taller of the warriors, something I don’t catch, but Lir silences it with a look. “Two weeks. Perhaps three.”

“Three weeks,” I repeat slowly, sure I have misunderstood.

“Time enough for us to talk,” the druid observes.

I want to ask exactly where Caer Áras is, fathom why the journey will take so long, but I know the answer won’t mean anything. Eventually, I just nod.

“Time enough,” I agree, trying to keep the unease from my voice.