Andrew Offutt: The Mists of Doom

Within his head the grieving mac Art saw the face of Midhir that day two years agone, and astonishment on that face. Cormac had watched the expression give way to happiness, and pride.

“Ye’ve won, lad! It’s death ye’ve just done on me, Cormac!”

And Cormac recalled with what delight and pride Midhir had conveyed that information to Art mac Comail. Art watched them next day, at their practice. And of course Cormac lost under those eyes, was “slain” three times by Midhir, and when he looked up after that third defeat, Art was no longer there. Naturally within ten minutes the lad had put defeat on the experienced weapon-man, and his father not there to see. But Art knew, and was proud.

Art continued to give his son word and example in the ways of leading men, and Cormac stored away that knowledge. Again he heard within his head the words of Sualtim the Wise:

A sharp mind, that truly brilliant servant of Behl and Crom was fond of saying, weighs a hundred stone heavier than a sharp sword. And Art had bade them both that the word “swift” could be substituted for “sharp,” and he exchanged a long look with Sualtim, who was his friend of mutual respect.

Then Cormac had begun defeating Midhir again and again. The lessons ceased. They became workouts, to keep both men ready and sharp of brain and reflex. Aye, and Cormac remembered his father’s pride-in-son. More than once had Art recounted the history of their land, enumerating the kings of Connacht and the High-kings in Meath. And Cormac remembered the quiet words of a man who showed no bitterness, though he had cause.

“Perhaps Ailill Molt was the last son of Connacht to sit enthroned on Tara Hill and preside over the assembled kings at Feis-more,” Art had said, gazing on his stout and clever son, “and… perhaps not.”

For Art the Bear had seen his own ancestry and high promise come to little, and held far higher hopes for his son, who would be more man, surely, than himself.

Thus with his brain full of manifold and multiform thoughts of the past did Cormac mac Art sit and wallow in days gone by, and avoid thereby thinking of the present and future. And afternoon came, and deepened.

Gods! But two nights agone he had felt strapping big and mature, much the man!

Now he was aware only of being young, with no sureness on him of either his present position or of the time-to-come-even the morrow. There was little to inherit. Nor would his king be handing over command of this important outpost to one of Cormac’s years, no matter whose son he was.

His mind continued to seek pleasant memories. He was undisturbed as he had requested; not even Branwen came to press food on him. He relived in his mind that battle with the Picts, and him alone against their four, dark and squat with blue paint on their powerful bodies. He remembered his fear that day-and how it had gone, vanished, so that he became what Midhir had so long counselled and demanded: a pure weapon-man. A creature of lightning judgment and reflex-and muscle. Thus had he fared, until four Picts lay dead, the last as surprised as the first. And their conqueror was hardly scratched, the lad they’d sought to make easy victim.

And…

Afternoon deepened the more. Light had long since ceased to find its way into the commandroom of Art. At last he who sat there seemed to come awake, as though he’d been asleep or away. He sighed in the manner of an old man. Realization came on him then; he had accomplished naught by sitting and mourning. Naught would ever be accomplished by wallowing in the past. There was much to be accomplished. Questions wanted answering. Art was dead. Cormac lived, and must live.

No questions will be answered by my sitting and mourning, dwelling in the yester days and mooning for a time that was happier! He gave a few seconds to that thought, and he never did it again. Once again Cormac mac Art began to live for today and tomorrow.

He rose, and frowned at the twinge in his back, at the kinks he felt. On impulse he pounced across the room. That was of some value; he paced, lifting his legs exaggeratedly high while cranking both arms, swinging them in half- and then in full-circles, meanwhile dropping occasionally into a squat or bending from the waist, stiff-legged.

Then Cormac left that chamber of memories.

It was not Sualtim’s quiet counsel he’d seek now; let tomorrow be put off a bit longer. He’d find purpose and some release in the lighter-weight company of Midhir. A moment’s reflection put another thought into his head. He’d ask Midhir for a working out with arms.

With that thought, he went to his own quarters. There he donned quilted long jerkin of leather, with its pendent crotch-protector. With his strength he could get easily into his coat of chain, without aid. He spread its oiled leather wrapping on the desk with which his father had surprised him on a birthday five years agone. On it he laid his coat of linked circles of chain. Bending to ease it up his arms, he mused on his growth. He had reached his father’s height seven months agone-and had not stopped growing.

Was his fourth coat of armour, this one that had been Midhir’s. The making and linking of slim steel rings into armour was a lengthy process of painstaking labour and considerable skill, his father had impressed upon him. Grow more, Art had said, and he could have a new coat next year, made for himself. Cormac swallowed. Would he ever see that promised mail?

At present, Midhir’s chaincoat fit. Midhir was thick and brawny; Cormac was built more rangily, with muscles like those of a cat. Already Midhir’s coat fell not so low on the youth as it had on the man of twoscore and one. Having pulled it up his arms and, with a little grunt, over his head-the while being careful about his ears and face-he let it jingle down his body and moved his shoulders under its weight, nigh twoscore pounds. He strapped on his scabbard-belt with its huge clasp of shining brass, pulled his buckler from the wall. Brass-faced and leather-backed it was, over the thick circle of wood, with both its bracer and grip padded with leather over wool. Sliding his hand through the bracer, he fisted the grip and departed the room. His cloak was heavy on his shoulders; the bearskin collar extended halfway down his back.

His stomach snarled, and he made Branwen relatively happy by stuffing his mouth with ham and his hand with pan-bread. Was not enough, she scolded; but he pointed to his overfull mouth, made a few wordless sounds, and left.

Outside he was greeted with restraint, the way that he durst not smile had the urge come on him. Midhir he found armed and wearing a leathern armour-coat, watching two youngsters. They worked away with smallish bucklers and leather-covered swords of wood. The warrior was happy to have his company sought by Cormac, and happy to be drawn away.

They walked in silence to the gate. Midhir gestured; they were passed through and set out across the broad plain. They talked, now.

The fact of death was one thing. That it had been murder was another. Who had slain Art mac Comail? Why? Could it have been an act of the moment, an act of rage; or… had someone wanted the man dead?

“If so,” Midhir said, “then it’s yourself’s in great danger, Cormac. For he’ll want the son in the earth with the father.”

“I cannot believe it. Who? ”

“That,” Midhir said as they walked toward the woods, “we must learn.”

Cormac’s brain churned. Aye, And- how? ”

“And then it’s vengeance ye must have, lad. It’s a matter for blood-feud.”

“Agreed, Midhir. And-”

“Know that whatever the situation may be or become at Glondrath, Cormac, Midhir mac Fionn will ever be with you.” Midhir slapped his swordhilt. “Vengeance, Cormac! Vengeance for Art!”