Andrew Offutt: The Sword of the Gael

He bounded a fallen, half rotted bole, and came down on fat-stalked plant. His foot skidded on the moist green stalk. He fell, rolled, thrashed, hurled himself up by main force of will, and plunged on.

Around an oak with a bole thick enough for the building of two houses Cormac swerved. Thence he ran along’ a thick, waist-high growth of some weed he knew not, and dived into it when he sensed, as much as saw, a little opening within the bushes.

While his heart pounded in him and his breath came cold in his chest, the exile went absolutely still.

His pursuer raced noisily past, breathing hard.

After crawling out the other side of the little natural hedge, Cormac went running back the way he had come. And on, and on. Too soon he heard the noises behind him-well back, now-and he knew his last pursuer had discovered the strategic deception and was once again like a hound on the scent.

Cormac mac Art ran.

And ran. Across the stream he leapt again, with a grim smile for the bedraggled man lying on the bank, panting. He cursed as Cormac rushed by-and grinned. A tree seemed to arrange itself in the racing quarry’s path, and in dodging it he slipped and fell.

Thus was his life saved. He heard the wicked little bee-song of the arrow that wizzed through the space where he should have been, and then he heard too the cry of shock and pain, from behind.

Floundering about, taking cover, crawling through thick weeds and shaking down a cloud of the pollen of some late-blooming wildflower, Cormac ascertained that he no longer had any pursuit at, all. The fourth man rolled on the ground, with an arrow very high in his left thigh.

An arrow aimed for my heart, then , Cormac thought, and so well calculated that it ranged down enough, fifteen or twenty feet behind me, to take him just below the hip!

Cormac had no pursuit behind. But now there was an enemy ahead, and him bow-armed, and skillful at the aiming of his shafts! As for, Cormac-like his pursuers, he was totally unarmed.

With great rapidity and far more noise than he’d have preferred, he crawled back on a ragged course that paralleled his twice-run path. Then he was staring into the wide eyes of the man who had fallen into the stream; he squatted beside his fallen comrade.

“Over here, and quickly,” Cormac bade, in a ‘loud whisper. “That arrow was meant for my heart. An he wants me dead badly enough, he’ll not hesitate to slay the both of you as well,”

“My Jesus mercy,” the wet man said, looking forward. “Who?”

“I have no idea. But get over here . And pull him-if he faints from pain, it’s better off he’ll be!”

The other man came unfrozen to obey with sudden alacrity.

It was long the three of them waited, in what cover they could manage. But they heard no sound, nor came other feathered wands seeking their life’s blood. The phantom archer had melted away in the thick wood.

At last, not running, Cormac and the wet man made their way through the woods, and out. Presided over by a marshal appointed by the High-king, a crowd of people heaved a cry. Then they went silent, for pursued and pursuer came together, and grim-faced.

Soon another sort of cry was rising, and angry voices muttered and stormed, for the two men had told of the treachery and of the fallen man who awaited succor, back within the wood. The two pursuers who had first been forced to give up the fight went in quest of him, along with the wet man, for all his being winded.

Much apology was made to Cormac mac Art, who stared impassively through it all. Dark was his tunic with sweat; more ran shining down his body. When the Ard-righ’s picked marshal had ceased his apology and assurances, Cormac spoke, with his teeth nigh together.

“My hair was uncaught. I avoided stepping on a thorn, though I fell more than once, bounded trees, and a brook. I broke no branch I stepped upon, and I have eluded four fleet pursuers-and an assassin. Be this over?”

“Uh, aye, aye,” the presiding noble said, nodding nervously. “I-” He raised his voice. “I proclaim this test at an end, and the candidate having passed.”

Cormac paid no attention to those who cheered or called out jeers. “Then show me those who will cast spears at me, and show me too the shield and stave I will bear,” he said in that same tight-lipped way, “that I might inspect all, to see if I am to be murdered in the second of your damned tests!”

“Son of Art, I assure you-”

“I know man, I know, but expect me not to be less than surly-and more than apprehensive.” He stepped past the man. “Now it’s water other than sweat I’m wanting on me, and ale within me. Save assurances for when I have passed all-if I am allowed to survive!”

Even though it was Tigernach who gave him the quarterstaff, and his own at that, Cormac tested it well. The shield was a gift upon him from Cumal Uais, and a handsome one at that-but Cormac strove to break it over his knee. Bronze-bound, steel-studded wood hardened by fire and painted and enameled the shield was, and it broke not. His tools of defense, at least, were reliable.

The nine men who were to cast untipped spears at him Cormac insisted on meeting, one by one. He looked darkly into their eyes-and examined their spears. Every man, following the lead of the first, wished him well.

“Make your best cast,” Cormac bade in return, and examined the weapons he must face. None was of anything other than rocky-hard wood, well tapered so that the untipped head would fly true as the aim and skill of him who made the cast.

“I am satisfied,” Cormac said.

“I am not,” the High-king’s marshal said. Bedecked in scarlet and fawn, he introduced two weapon men, and them with sheathed swords, bucklers, and armour as well. These would flank the line of spear-casters. “Beware,” he said to the spearmen. “One already has sought this man’s life, and it’s forfeit will be the life of him who might attempt it again!”

The spearmen looked insulted, but the two weapon men stayed.

A few feet away, also helmeted and armoured and under arms, stood Tigernach mac Roig of Rath Cumal. Nor did he look kindly upon any of the eleven-or the marshal either, for the matter of that.

The priest who passed along the line of spearmen. pointedly ignored the man who was to be their target. But to him came a servant of Behl and perhaps Crom, a Druid in loose-girt white robe who leaned on his straight staff. He braced Cormac, and gazed into his grey eyes from pale blue ones, and he nodded.

“Even in the teeth of the others with their Roman-hanged godling, son of Art, ye avowed yourself for Crom, watcher over Celts for more thousands of years than men have trod Eirrin’s sod. Be well, and beware.” The man’s voice was quiet, and steady, and his eyes steady. “Beware the dark that hovers about ye, descendant of Celts, when the trumpet sounds.”

Cormac felt a shiver run through him, and gave his head a shake. Then he lowered both lids in a long blink…

“My thanks, Druid. Be ye of Meath, or Connacht?”

The quiet, droning voice came back, and the eyes seemed to drill: “Well ye know that Druids have no such earthly allegiances, son of Art. Beware the dark that hovers about ye, son of Celts, when the trumpet sounds.”

Nervous in spite of himself, Cormac showed the man a brief nod, and turned away. He jerked his head and blinked several times as he walked across meadowland to the trench prepared for him. Behind him, the Druid went to talk to each, of the spearmen. The servant of Behl and Crom walked tall, and very stiffly indeed, a spear-straight line with his robe falling about him. Nor did he lean upon his sturdy staff.

Cormac stepped down into the trench. It was not designed to aid his maneuvering, but it was, the wise men said, as had been those of the candidates for the Fian. Not so long as Cormac’s height, it was perhaps three feet wide. He stood in it to the knees-and not without having examined the ground beneath his feet. It was well packed; no treachery here. All seemed well, but he knew no shame for his caution.