Andrew Offutt - The Mists of Doom

Cormac turned and drove a fist into Blai’s relaxed and ale-filled belly, all in one movement. With an ugly gagging sound Blai doubled half over, then sank to his knees. His eyes bulged and his mouth gaped while he clutched his midsection with both hands. With an “urkk” and a gushy liquid sound, Blai messed Lasrian’s floor.

From behind Cormac came another cheerless sound: a good hearty thud. He whirled, to see Scumac, his eyes rolling loosely, begin to bend both knees. His hands fell loosely open and from one a dagger dropped to the oil-dark floor. The man’s falling to his knees jarred the floor under Cormac’s feet. He stepped back then, as Scumac stretched his length.

Behind the fallen man stood the girl, glaring at Cormac. She held the stool with which she’d tested the hardness of Scumac’s skull. It was hard; though the man lay still, he breathed naturally and there was no blood.

A smiling Cormac mac Art said, “I give ye thanks,” and awaited similar words from her.

“Hmp! I struck him before I thought, when I saw the knife,” she said, and tossed the stool so that Cormac had to jerk a leg from its path. “No child am I to have need of a long-nosed protector -certainly not a buffoon with a backwoods haircut and wrists like the slabs of pork ye doubtless raise and slaughter!” With her eyes she directed the bemazed youth’s attention to the unconscious Scumac. “It’s perfectly able I am of taking care of myself-see? Which is more than I can be saying for yourself, soldier; but for me he’d have divided your shoulderblades by another quarter-inch!”

A speechless Cormac mac Art watched her step across Scumac, nudge his nephew neatly so that he dropped from hands and knees into his own vomit, and storm from the inn in a swirl of worn off-white skirts and hair like dancing flames.

The minstrel rose and made as if to follow. At the door, he turned.

“Nothing harmed, Lasrian, I see; good for you a member of the Royal Army was here to restore order. Bad cess to yourself an these two don’t clean up their own mess, Brughaid! The nephew’s been eating his dulse half-chewed, I see.” Blue eyes switched their calm gaze to Cormac, and in them he saw youth, and amusement. “Weapon-man: it’s far better ye are with your arm than at the judging of womankind!”

And with a wink, the minstrel too departed.

Women , Cormac thought, feeling very warm and very confused. Hmp! But a girl, no more than fourteen-ummm. Well… hardly so mature as I, though. Upbringing will out, as Sualtim’s said so many time.

“Ah… soldier… member of the Royal Army, there… would ye be helping me stretch Scumac and Blai over there by the wall? Corpse-imitating drunks lying about the floor do business no good. And might I be suggesting that it must be time for ye to be seeking your camp?

Still feeling the heat that betokened his flush, Cormac helped Lasrian move the victims. Blai had passed out and his uncle was snoring, despite the fact that he lay on his belly. The chagrined youth nerved himself to ask about the minstrel-and the girl, as if she were an afterthought. Lasrian vowed not to know either, and was sorry the minstrel had left. Cormac’s impression was that minstrels were far more welcome than “backwoods buffoons” such as he’d heard himself called. He decided it was indeed time he returned to the company of weapon-men, whom he understood. Cas mac Con could take care of himself.

So can I , Cormac thought, so long as I be staying clear of Carman’s strange women!

The unsung hero of the Blue Shamrock departed it. Directions were easily asked, and got. He made his way through a Carman dim with its closeset buildings beneath a lowering sun in an overcast sky, The while, he took note of how these city Leinstermen had their hair trimmed. Hair and its grooming were important to all of Eirrin, and those words of the girl’s had hurt.

Too, he frequently held up and turned for his inspection the thick stout wrists Art and Midhir had ever spoken so highly of.

Slabs of pork? Lugh smite her backside!

Thankless blowze! The two slabs of pork lie on Lasrian’s greasy floor!

With such thoughts to cheer him and aid in the regaining of his pride, the young weapon-man of Connacht returned to the camp.

During and after dinner among his fellow Blueshirts, as Leinster’s soldiery were called, Cormac had opportunity to ask a number of questions. People loved to answer questions about their lands and their ways, he discovered swiftly, and were thereby made happy to ask none. Several of his queries he directed at Forgall, about the way he’d kicked that Pict on the beach. Forgall laughed and pointed out that when men were at the business of striving to do death on one another, it were manifestly stupid to be mindful of rules, and to confine oneself only to edge of blade. There was, he said rather archly, the sword’s point. There was the buckler’s edge, and its boss.

“And the feet,” Cormac said; he knew that other.

Aye, Forgall said, and one did have to practice; he’d seen Cormac kick that day, and lose his balance.

“Ye did! Ye said naught; methought I’d tumbled so foolishly unseen.”

“Blood of the gods, man, ye were after saving my life!”

Later, Cormac eschewed the story-telling, the games of brandub and the dicing. Rather surreptitiously, he betook himself outside, and around behind the barracks where a bit of moonlight whitened the ground. There he spent many minutes alone in the gloom, swinging sword and shield and dancing about on one foot whilst kicking viciously with the other, at nothing. He fell more than once.

Then rain commenced to patter down, and left off his strange practice to join his fellows indoors. Had any asked, he’d have sworn he gave no thought to a flame-haired, fiery-tempered inn-girl. But then he’d told them other lies, too.

Chapter Eight:

The Flame-Lady

On the morning of the morrow, Forgall announced sword-training, and gave command into the hands of Bress. The captain, attired in his best, entered Carman for a conference. All knew the subject: the Cattle Tribute.

Each man in the barracks armoured and armed himself: their swords were of wood, wrapped again and again with wide strips of leather. Bress marched them to the training area. Complaints arose; the rain had fallen long and long last night, and the field was become little more than a bog. He who lost in these mock-combats would receive a mudbath.

“So he will,” Bress said. “Only the losers, though. It’s weapon-men of Leinster we are, not children!”

“Why make mudpies then,” someone grumbled.

When Bress demanded to know who had spoken, none would tell. Bress of the Long Arm chose three judges, and set to choosing teams of two. The men of each pair would fight each other. The judges announced mud-rules: ordinarily a man adjudged to have sustained a wound was required to continue his combat on his knees. In order that none might have to kneel in inch-deep mud-and worse-this day, the “wounded” would forfeit bucklers, which would certainly cripple them in ability.

Soon the field was noisy with the banging of swords of wood-and-leather on shields and helms and armour, along with the grunts and muttered curses of men and the sluck of booted feet drawing out of the mud. Too, there were splashes. Well to one side, the judges watched. Well to the other, Bress kept keen watch, that unfortunately good-looking, sorrel-haired man, a tall and haughty superb warrior all wished were not so striking-or so sour.

Cormac mac Art did not know that it was on himself Bress had fixed his gaze. The supposed Ulsterman took his opponent’s slash on his buckler, turned the blade away, and struck a swift “killing blow.” Thus was Donal the Slender embarrassed-though he did not fall, and was at least unmuddied.