Andrew Offutt - The Sign of the Moonbow

“Take her hence. Return ye to the chamber of her late punishment, Dithorba!”

Snatching up the knife he’d taken long ago from a Saxon who had no further use for it, Cormac mac Art wheeled. Crouching, he ran with a cat-footed lack of sound into the depths of the dungeon. Behind him he heard a squeaking sound from a human throat and knew Riora’s protest had been continued into a room elsewhere in Moytura.

Just as he was rushing at the doorway to that which had been Riora’s prison chamber, mac Art remembered her warning that the entry was guarded by some wizard-sent murder.

Too late now to stop, he instead drove himself forward with a renewed burst of momentum. He sprang through the doorway and as far into the chamber as he could hurl himself. He was drawing steel even while he turned.

There was no attack, no menace. Here was the great stone wheel on which Riora Feachtnachis had been bound; here lay his former foe, the untenanted suit of armour he had chopped to bits. Without, he heard the clamor of excited exclamations of consternation and rage; the Danan soldiery had found the broad area that was empty of all but the corpse of him who had presided over it.

Within the chamber was no menace; perhaps the slayer at the door had died with the destruction of the Guardian, or the removal of the prisoner. Cormac’s dagger was in its sheath and now he scabbarded his sword. Stepping quickly back around the mill-wheel, he squatted. Mayhap someone would come and but glance in, then rush back to report the place empty; astonished by that fact, he might miss the man squatting in the shadows behind the wheel standing in its frame of stone and wood. If not, the Gael should be able to hold the chamber, provided he could reach the door and remain just within.

“The queen!” he heard a yell, and after an instant of silence he heard the steady jingle and clink of mail on running men. A Danan weapon-man appeared at the entry.

“Dung and darkness! She’s not here! Danu’s eyes- what’s this? ”

With another crowding close behind, the Danan in silver-winged helm and scalemail of dark iron entered. He squatted to examine the remains of the Guardian.

“It-it be just armour , Din, empty armour! and hacked as if-”

He broke off, having raised his head to find himself looking directly into the deepset eyes of Cormac mac Art. The Danan’s own glims grew wider when the man behind the torture device stood and was revealed to be impossibly dark of skin; by Danan standards, he was no less than a giant.

“The queen is gone from here, traitor. It’s soon back on the throne she’ll be, and best ye begin to run, now.”

Both Danan weapon-men were frozen in staring silence. Then, “You… you… what are you?”

“Him who conquered Elatha and that toy there at your feet, a monstrosity set by Tarmur Roag to guard the queen.”

The man in the doorway jerked his head back in the direction of the torturemaster’s grisly corpse. “You… you did that to Elatha?”

Cormac hesitated only for a moment. “Aye, and it’s shame on me for letting the beast die so quickly. An ye’d seen the condition of the queen’s maidens, of her high advisers and Commander Balan-ye’s serve no longer bloody-handed men who conscioned such and who employed such a spider as Elatha.

The two exchanged a look. “Uh-but you… never have I seen such skin. And-be all your hair… black? It is not possible! Who- what are ye? ”

“An elemental, called up by Tarmur Roag,” Cormac said, who had previously called himself Partha mac Othna, and Curoi mac Dairi, aye and even Kull, to an equally mazed Briton one night on a dark strand. “But even I could not hold with what he has caused to be done, and… I rebelled. It’s to no one I belong now, though I’m after pledging loyalty and aid to the queen- your queen.”

The two men continued to hesitate, eyeing him. Believe him or no, it was plain that neither relished a passage at arms with this over-tall stranger with the dark skin and hair they knew to be impossible. Yet neither wished to lose face-or life, by means of sorcery?-by calling for the help of their companions. No challenge had been issued, either by the Danans or the “elemental”; all three swords remained sheathed, though two wan hands and one dark gripped their three several hilts.

One of them decided to stave off the decision a bit longer. “Where-where is… Riora Feachtnachis?”

“ I call her Riora, little man. It is of your queen ye speak? Dithorba! Behind the wheel!”

The robed Danan had appeared, well within the chamber and facing the weapon-men.

“It’s Dithorba Loingsech! Swiftly Dungan-seize him!”

Dithorba whirled; the man named Dungan shot out a hand to catch at his robe; Cormac swung around the millwheel. Dungan released Dithorba and reached for his sword. While Cormac’s right hand stretched toward the mage, his shield drove forward as if bow-shot. Dungan’s arm came up just in time to parry the unorthodox attack with his own buckler, shield against shield. There was a great crash and Dungan’s shield-arm slammed back into his face. At the same time, Cormac caught Dithorba’s hand. Ten fingers linked and pressed.

Ere the man called Din could blink, his companion was down with blood on his mouth and both the big dark man with the scars and the queen’s mage had vanished from the chamber.

It was a strange and motley group that gathered in the back room of the inn of highly trusted Red Rory. Motley too was the manner of their clothing, which included bedsheets. The innkeeper’s own wife was tending the hurts of the former prisoners, aided by the older woman. Balan was gone when Cormac arrived, sent by his queen to find loyal men and bring a report of the activities of the usurpers.

The Gael was not long in that crowded room ere he was certain the queen had bade her girls be silent. They stared, large-eyed, while he bent and wriggled his way out of his mailcoat. His assortment of small wounds complained. Ale there was; food, a well-fed man in an apron told them, was coming; there could not be much bustle, so as not to arouse the attention of the patrons in the inn’s main room. Riora was in a corner, talking quietly with Torna. While she paused to shoot Cormac a hot-eyed look, Dithorba hurried to join that conference.

Cormac did not. He drank off a draught of ale, but glanced at Riora, and approached the aproned man. The Gael carried his pouch, slid from his weapon-belt.

“Ye be Red Rory?”

“Aye,” the fellow said though there was no sign of red in his cloud-pale hair and no ruddiness on his face. “And you are the hero of us all, he who-”

“Aye, all ye’ve been told-none of which I could have come close to accomplishing without Dithorba Loingsech, true hero of Moytura. And see that ye remember, Red Rory: your queen is a strong and heroic woman! It’s a physician that’s needed here, man, and here’s what ye’ll be needing to do to avoid suspicions of other guests: go to the kitchen, cry out, emerge with your hand wrapped in much cloth, and send for one with knowledge of wounds and the potions for them.”

Red Rory smiled. “A clever hero as well,” he said. “None of us had thought of such a ruse. Indeed, we all feared calling for skilled help, that someone might be suspicious of his coming.”

“There are those here who have need of it. My name is Cormac; call me that, not hero. Need there is for the placing of Captain Tathill and his dairlin’ into a room of themselves, very alone. As for me-none others must see me.”

Rory nodded. “That I know, having seen yourself now, Cormac!”

“In minutes, Rory, I’ll be dropping for need of sleep. Food can wait until I wake; a little more ale I’d be appreciating. First this day I did much walking, and that on a hillside-seeking the Doorway to Moytura, ye see. Then another and I were forced to do death on the six set by the usurpers to watch over Dithorba. Next it was Elatha, and then a thing created or raised up by Tarmur Roag to hold the queen. It’s hours and hours I’ve been on these feet and at hard exertions, Red Rory, and I will be needed here. That must be later-I’m nigh onto collapsing. Ye’ve a brewing room below-can I reach it without being seen?”