Andrew Offutt - The Mists of Doom

Sualtim would learn nothing, Cormac mused. Sualtim would never send for him.

And if he did… how could Cormac be sure that he was not thus summoned into a trap?

O ye gods and blood of the gods! Surely not Sualtim…

But he could not be certain.

And only Sualtim knew wither he was bent.

Nay, he dared trust no one he knew, and no one in this land at all, or in the northern kingdoms; Sualtim knew he was headed thence, and others would guess.

In an agony that had been unremitting for days and was far more than any youth or man should have to bear, Cormac decided. He would ride not north, but eastward, to Leinster. That southeastern kingdom was shrouded by a long history of rivalry with both Connacht and Meath where lay Tara. Aye! And there would he keep open his eyes and ears. Leinster was full of priests; priest-ridden Laigen, Art had called it. There he would seek-with care!-to discover hint of the identity of those who’d ordered his father slain, those who had subverted Aengus mac Domnail.

And when he learned the name or names, found the men, whether they abode in Leinster or Meath, Munster or little Osraige, Connacth or Ailech, Airgialla or Ulahd or DalRiadia to the far northeast… then would the son of Art take his revenge. Aye and with Art’s own sword, and none would deter him.

With his youthful face set as granite, he tugged at Dubheitte’s reins, jerking up the horse’s head so that the beast snorted and half reared, eyes rolling for enemy or quarry. Then Cormac clucked and loosed the reins a little, so that Dubheitte set off eastward, toward Leinster, and a new life-and the unknown. Thus did Cormac mac Art depart Rath Glondarth, and Connacht, like a thief in the night. Nor did he glance back.

Chapter Six:

Partha mac Othna of Ulster

The sky roofed the Leinsterish coast with a deep blue shot with fingers of gold and grey. Along the strand rode a weapon-man. With a low curse of exasperation, he reined in, dismounted, and stepped away from his horse to answer a call of nature grown urgent. He moved overly far from the animal and his booted spear, as it turned out; appearing as if from nowhere, two savages surprised the Gael.

Dark, squat, half naked, they shrieked awful wolf-howls designed to freeze the very marrow of their prey. The man in the sleeved blue tunic under armour-coat of black leather proved no bloodfrozen rabbit; he defended himself with sword and buckler. The flinty heads of axes clashed on wooden shield and steel clove the air with malevolent whines. Sparks flew from the clash of ax-head and rim of shield.

Above the strand and a few yards inland, another Gael was peering about in quest of a spot for nightcamp. Without cheer he seemed, and on him the look of one weary of the saddle. Yet at the sounds of armed conflict he straightened and twisted his head about on a thick neck. Erect, rangy and tall in mailcoat and helm, he listened. Then he reined his mount, about, and cantered to the lip of the promontory. Below was beach, and the sea separating Eirrin from Britain. It shimmered out to a slate-hued horizon; the dying sun hovered at world’s edge behind him.

Moving his great black horse closer to the declivity that ran gently down to the strand, he surveyed the water’s edge.

He saw the man beset by two Picts, and he saw too what they did not: five more Cruithne were running toward the scene of battle. In a few seconds they would arrive; in a few more the lone Gael would surely be dead-or worse, hacked down and not dead.

The youthful rider of the black horse did that which he would pause to consider, in years to come: Cormac of Connacht spurred down the slope to the aid of a stranger, presumably a weaponman of Leinster. He made another decision:

An old warrior had once come to Glondarth, and told Cormac’s father of his years as a reaver. Once he and his fellows had taken a Roman ship, up north of Britain. Amid the spoils was a handsome vase, of Greek origin. The man swore that it depicted mounted Achaians spearing enemies. This, he and Art of Connacht had agreed with laughter, was why the Greeks were governed from Rome! True, such a maneuver was not guaranteed to drive a man straight back off his horse on impact of spearhead with shield or armoured flesh, but the probability was akin to that of a black cloud’s bearing rain. Art’s son watched Midhir and others practice the tactic. They soon decided that were a man not afoot or in a chariot where he belonged, he’d best use ax or sword and consider his spear either as a throwing weapon or excess baggage. Nor was Cormac trained much as a horse-soldier; his people were hardly known for mounted combat.

Thus he left his spear in its long boot as Dubheitte started his plunge down the, slope to the Leinsterish shore.

That charge nigh cost Cormac his seat and perhaps more; on a horse without stirrups, a precipitate downhill charge was unwise indeed. He was forced to rein back a bit and do his best to lean against gravity. Clamping his mount with all the strength of both legs, he braced hard against the beast’s neck. Cormac knew a hollowing sensation in his stomach and the feel of being purely a nighhelpless passenger on a juggernaut unmindful of leaving him sprawling behind.

Below, the battle continued. The five Picts raced to join it.

Forced to slow, turning his mount, Cormac made another decision. He must forego the element of surprise, else he arrive only in time to avenge-and likely to die, one against seven. For the five would be upon the two battling the man in the blueplumed helmet before Cormac reached them.

Cormac bellowed out a long-drawn “HO!”

The beset Gael did not look up. Neither did his two assailants. All three were well occupied in activity requiring their full attention.

The five Cruithne took note, and froze, half-turned to stare at the huge black beast that now reached the foot of the sloping hill. Dubheitte lengthened his stride immediately he felt level soil beneath his hooves, however sandy. The horse charged as though he’d been weaned on Picts. Having taken no time to think and with no better, tactic in mind, Cormac gave the beast his head. With shield on left arm and sword in hand, he let Dubheitte gallop free. Blackwing sped as if he did, indeed possess wings.

The dark warriors seemed unable to believe the horse would not swerve. Dubheitte had no such intention. At the last possible moment his quarry began to scatter. A vicious sidearmed upstroke opened the dark-skinned back on Cormac’s right, from hip to shoulder. To the left a Pict moved an instant too slowly, and Dubheitte’s forehoof destroyed the stocky man’s ankle. Then the animal was through them, galloping on.

Straightened from his sword-slash, Cormac had to tense and lean a bit leftward; with nothing against which to brace his feet, he could only grip the horse’s sides. Fifteen pounds of shield on his arm aided him in righting himself. Then, awkwardly, he used his sword-hand to drag at the horse’s reins.

The excited animal was unwilling to halt. He fought his rider’s tug by leaning into it, slewing leftward. Ahead, one of the two Picts hemming the other Gael heard the drum of hooves and glanced around. Cormac had a fleeting glimpse of the blueshirted man catching the ax-blow on his shield while he danced one-legged: he groin-kicked him who had been unable to resist looking away.

Dubheitte made a turn that was almost too tight on itself and his rider hung on with legs straining powerfully enough to interfere with the beast’s breathing. Cormac was dismayed to see that his charge had not downed the enemy whose back he’d opened; that Pict was on his feet and braced for the Gael’s return charge for all that blood washed down his dark back and leg.