Andrew Offutt - The Mists of Doom

“Aye, and I’m thanking ye, Midhir. But-”

“Gods of my fathers-Art murdered! Vengeance I say, blood-feud and vengeance I vow, friend of my life!” And Midhir’s sword scraped partway out of his sheath in his passion.

And of a sudden Cormac mac Art grew older still.

Of a sudden he was aware of a great difference between himself and this pure man of weapons. Cormac had been trained by him, aye, until he was the equal and then the better of the master. He had also been trained, though, by Sualtim Fodla. Trained not to go thundering-blundering ever forward without taking careful stock, and counsel with himself. True, that thinking was to be done with all swiftness. Consideration and planning, these he had been taught-and to seek the answer that was not so obvious as a gnat perched on his nose.

“We have no name, Midhir. Whom shall we suspect? We-”

“We shall have a name!”

“Aye,” Cormac said, with a long aspiration. “Nor do we know whether it’s a plotter we seek, or… someone who… flew into a rage.” He was only just able to govern his voice then, and he paused a moment to gain control. “There is much to learn, Midhir, and more matters to be considered than we have knowledge of.”

“What matter? We find him! If it’s ten of them there be, we find and do death on ten then, Cormac Bear-slayer! Here-this path. ’Ware that fallen branch.”

The coolth and dimness of the woods closed about them. Cormac strove to explain. He had no notion of his own future, much less of his father’s slayer. He was glad he would at least have Midhir for companion, that he be not totally alone, now. Still, he had learned well his lessons from Sualtim and Art mac Comail. When there was opportunity, the two men of wisdom had impressed upon him, and the contemplated act merited action, it must needs be second to thinking and planning.

“And swift,” the voice of hiss father intoned in his mind, “as the situation demands.”

The pure man of action at his side hardly understood, and as they paced into the woods they were nigh to arguing. Midhir but stated that which to him was obvious.

“And shall I be taking spear and buckler and sword, then, and setting out in quest of the slayer?”

Midhir slammed first into palm.

“Aye! O’course!”

“And in which direction, Midhir?”

Midhir walked in silence.

“And what name shall we be putting on him, this man I go after this instant?”

In silence Midhir talked, and with a frown upon him. Cormac knew then that the man was alive because of his arms-expertise, his prowess and strength-and through good fortune. Nor did mac Art know that the time would come when he would team with another man of similar make-up and mentality, and him a huge flame-bearded Dane… and that mac Art’s counsel would prevail.

“Midhir.”

“Aye “

“It’s no family estate Glondrath is, Midhir. On the morrow, or next week, the new lord and commander may come riding.”

Midhir stopped dead still. He stared at the much younger man. “By the gods my father’s people swear by! Cormac!”

“Just so, Midhir. My entire world is-ho, look there.”

“Ah. A sidhe . “

They entered a little clearing among the thickbudding trees and brush. In its center was a cairn, though not a sidhe or fairy-mound. No, Cormac saw, this was a place of worship-rites for the common folk who yet followed the very old ways, as Celts did over in Gaul. Pacing over to the pile of stones, Cormac saw the ash of a recent bonefire. Midhir was just behind him when the youth, noting that the bones were those of small animals, bent to examine them.

He heard the harp-like twang. He heard the highpitched bee-sound come, rushing through the clearing’s air. And he heard the solid thunk.

Cormac knew the sounds. A released bowstring; a whizzing arrow; its imbedding itself in a target other than straw or wood. Heedless of the ashes, Cormac fell deliberately forward, thrusting forth his shield-arm. He rolled with difficulty, holding shield and wearing sword, and only then allowed himself a look.

Midhir, an arrow standing from his eye, limply bent at both knees and then fell, partway on his side. His left leg kicked twice, then a third time, more weakly-and no more.

Midhir! The thought was anguish and anger combined in Cormac’s mind. Bloodlust and rage leaped up in him and his heart pounded so that his pulse was a drum in his temples. Yet his brain maintained control. Kicking himself half around, he hurled himself into the scant protection of the low bushes amid the trees at the clearing’s edge. No fool of viscera and twitching reaction he, to give way to emotion and rush the supposed hiding-place of the archer; the man would but make good use of another of his goose-feathered shafts ere Cormac found his position, much less reached it.

The arrow had come from directly in front of him, beyond the cairn. He had dived leftward, tumbled arolling, and hurled himself into gorse and doebush. No more than thrice his body length separated him and the bowman, diagonally across a part of the clearing. Cormac scrambled, trying to make himself small behind his shield. Cheek against the ground, he peered around the shield’s edge.

Yes; after a time he was certain he described what he’d not have seen had the season of spring been more on the land. No greenery obscured the man behind that split- or twin-trunked alder over there.

No matter how he strained his eyes, Cormac could not identify the bowman, Cormac was aquiver; not from fear did he shake, but with realization that this was surely his father’s slayer-and that the murderer was surely bent on putting an end to the line. Only minutes agone Midhir mac Fionn had said it: “For he’ll want the son in the earth with the father.”

Aye , Cormac thought, narrowing his eyes. That arrow sang its nasty bee song over my head-had I not bent to the ashes, it would have found its real target-not Midhir!

Cautiously, keeping the shield interposed, Cormac crawled and wallowed behind a thick old oak. He was able to keep it between him and the twin-tree then, while he backed, on his knees and slowly, to another broad-boled patriarch of the forest and then to a third…

Cormac rose then, and faded into the woods and its veiling shadows. He went silently as he was able with sword and buckler and jingly armour, and him on no path. The cloak caught now and again, though he held it close; a hardy, struggling redthorn fought him for possession. The lack of greenery made his passage both easier and more nearly quiet. At last he judged that he’d worked his way beyond the clearing of the cairn, behind the murderous archer.

Shield up and sword aready, he moved in.

His heart pounded and he was sweat-wet; Cormac had never before stalked another human. And then he was there, and disappointed with a feeling of weakness on him as preparedness drained; the man was gone.

Oh, he’d been here right enow. All about the double-trunked tree the new grass was well trampled, particularly here, on the side away from the clearing. Some slim green blades were still creeping slowly erect again, as though fearful of being trodden anew.

For a long space Cormac waited there, roving the woods with his gaze until his eyes stung. He saw nothing. He heard only birds and insects. Yet it was with caution that he paced out to his fallen friend.

Midhir lay still, the arrow rising from his face. Midhir was dead.

Cormac had known it in the mind behind his mind, yet he had resisted the fact and set it aside. Now tears stung his eyes while he examined the arrow that had slain the man he had but minutes agone told himself he’d cling to. Now there was no one. Only Sualtim, a stern old man too wise and old to be a comfortable grandfather, much less a father-substitute.