Andrew Offutt - The Mists of Doom

“So I felt. A fell strangeness was on your face and voice, Druid. Foolish is he who believes not druids in their saying of the time-to-come, and that look on their faces. Foolish is he who believes Sualtim Fodla not, in any matter! I do not misdoubt you, Sualtim Fodla.”

They walked for a time in silence, and then Sualtim’s age forced them to skirt to the edge of the declivity down and up which Cormac had yesterday run, so that they added to their journey. Even so, when they were on level ground once again, Sualtim had need of rest.

“I’d fain hold further converse in the matter of myself, Druid.”

“Sualtim,” the old man corrected; they were awalk again, entering the wood.

“That comes not easy on me, Sualtim. Is no easy matter, this being a respectful boy one day and a man the next.”

“I know, lad. Many things have happed, one tumbling over the other.”

“Too many. Too swiftly.”

“I’ll not be denying it, Cormac.”

“Aengus,” Cormac said, with a sad and uncomprehending shake of his head.

“If such was indeed his name. Surely he was only a minor peg of others in a game of Brandub, Cormac. A follower of Iosa Chriost-in disguise! Peradventure he wore his real name, too, under a hooded cloak?”

“Then who?”

“That,” Sualtim said, “is to be learned.”

Cormac said nothing. He walked, trying to make his chaotic mind concentrate only on keeping his strides short.

“Cormac-”

“I’ve none to seek blood-feud with. And naught for me here but despair, and bitterness and… death, as ye’ve seen for me.”

“I can deny none of that, Cormac. Your life has been changed. Like skeins taken up by a new blind weaver, the threads of your life are different, all at once. Nor can the same pattern be taken up again.”

“ Why? Why am I singled out, Druid?”

“Perhaps for something else. Perhaps the gods put geas on you to do that which ye’ve yet to learn. And perhaps not, but only that you may weave your own life, become truly a man.”

“Alone.”

It was an ugly word in any language; Cormac’s tone made it the uglier. The druid had no ready reply, and they trudged in silence through the forest.

“In truth,” Sualtim said after a time, “methinks Behl has no personal interest in any individual. There are too many of us to be overseen.”

“The-the followers of the Dead God say that His father has personal interest in each person, and animal, and each happening on all the ridge of the world.”

“So they do.”

“Methinks Behl is the wiser,” Cormac said, after a time of mulling. “A god must have better things to do and think on than to be interested in Cormac mac Art.”

“Or should, indeed.”

“It’s more alone I am than any of those who believe in the Dead God, with His personal interest in them. It’s little praying I’ll be doing in this life, Druid.”

Sualtim made no reply. They walked, enveloped in woods budding into spring and each man deep in his own thoughts. Though in truth each of them thought on but one of them.

For a long while they moved thus in silence through the forest, until at last Cormac forced himself to say that which had come to the fore of his mind, again and again, to be thrust back in something approaching horror.

“I leave, Sualtim.”

“Cormac-”

Cormac had said the words; was easier now to say the rest. The decision was made; remained but to make it true, first with words and then with the deed: “I leave at once.”

“Cormac-” Sualtim trailed off. Then, “I understand. Aye. It is a man’s decision, Cormac.”

“Sualtim,” the youth said with what was nigh onto sternness, “I do not need that.”

The druid’s robe-sleeved arm moved, reached out to the tall youth. It dropped without touching his mailed arm. Great sympathy was on Sualtim, and nervousness, too. Yet there was pride; for was he and Art mac Comail-aye, and poor Midhir-who had trained and created this youth who was so strong both in mind and body-and now was forced to prove it.

“The best horse in Rath Glondarth, Cormac. Art’s horse. You will fly for safety to the northern kingdoms?”

“It is best, surely.”

“Methinks it is. And with a sumpter horse behind, and gold in your pack. Cormac. Attend me. I vow to yourself and to Behl that I shall give myself over to discovering the murderers, the identity of the plotters. And when I have information, I’ll be sending for you. Cormac-here. Tarry a moment.”

They paused amid the trees while Sualtim removed the plain lunula he wore on other than ceremonial occasions. Borrowing the much younger man’s dagger, he scratched a simple rune on its back. The druid returned the knife and bade Cormac note the mark, and commit it to memory.

“Should one bring this lunula to you, know that Sualtim has learned somewhat and has information and has sent for you. Even so, Cormac-come with care.”

Cormac nodded wordlessly; in truth just now he trusted not his throat to speak. They walked on through the wood, and Sualtim talked, and talked; his words held advice for a man now, and him alone, without family or land amid strangers. Cormac essayed to be attentive though his mind strove to wander off along the murky and fearfraught paths of might-be.

When they reached Glondrath, the two had agreed to tell none others of the decision and plan. Cormac took that which was his: his father’s sword and its’ sheath though he left behind the well-known buckler. Art’s great bearhide mantle he took as well, and a few trifles. None would question Sualtim; he it was who loaded himself with salable treasures and supplies sufficient for several days’ travel without hunting. With those packs Sualtim entered the wood until he was out of sight of the rath. Cormac, on his father’s fine black horse, rode along another trail and turned to wend through the trees only when he too was invisible to the people that had been his father’s.

The two came together in a little glade nigh in the little-used trail that led northeastward through the trees to the northern kingdoms of Eirrin: Ailech where lay Tir Connail, and Airgialla, and Dal Ariadi wherin lay both Dalriada and Ulahd that was Ulster, site of the New God’s main bishopric in Armagh.

Supplies and wherewithal they transferred to the broad back of Dubheitte: Blackwing, with Sualtim muttering that it was past time the sons of Eirrin emulated even the Romans in some things, and struck coins to simplify trading. The two gazed upon each other, and then Cormac remounted the big black horse that was ever anxious to gallop. Again the two men gazed one upon the other with misty eyes, until the younger suddenly set his jaw very tightly and rode away along the trail that would take him around the mountain that was Glondrath’s northern border. Nor did he look back.

After him Sualtim called words Cormac had heard from afore: “ Cum do ghreim, Cormac, ’s than eagal duit. ” And Sualtim Fodla repeated the injunction: “Keep your calm, Cormac, and there is no fear on you.”

Cormac heard, and rode, and did not look back.

Perhaps an hour later he drew restless Dubheitte to a halt. He sat, staring at naught, easing the rein so, the horse could worry the short new grass and taste its sweetness. Frowning, Cormac reflected.

Gods, what thoughts! Behl protect and Crom defend-that it’s to this I’ve come!

The ugly thoughts, persisted. He had trusted Sualtim all his life. Aye. And so had his father, and Midhir. As all three had trusted Aengus.

Now, his life shattered at the bloom of manhood and all three men torn from him by treachery and murder, he was no longer certain of anything… or anyone. Dared he trust even his lifelong mentor, a druid of the gods themselves?