Andrew Offutt - The Mists of Doom

Bress approached; then was time, he said, to test this great slayer of Picts from… wherever he said. “What is it your name is again, Slayer of Picts?”

Cormac was determined not to be provoked. “Partha mac Othna, Battle-leader.”

“Ah. Well… obviously this is an off-day for Donal.” Bress looked about. “Eochu! Eochu Lightning-hand-hither man. Ye face, uh, Partha.”

And with a little smile on his sensuous lips, Bress stepped back. Others watched, then, whilst Eochu came tramping sloshily toward Cormac, staring fixedly at him over his shield-rim. He stomped to a halt in battle-stance with his toes practically at Cormac’s. “Ha!” Eochu cried, but none saw the new man twitch. 142

Cormac circled in silence, keeping his shield ever foreward and his sword ready, away from his body at the side. Eochu made attack; Cormac caught stroke and then backstroke on his shield and smote Eochu’s helmet. The blow was pronounced not so hard as to have dented the steel, were the blade a real one. Nodding, Cormac slashed instantly upward at Eochu’s face; Eochu’s shield leapt up and in mid-stroke Cormac turned his elbow over and thrust over the shield. The blunt tip of the practice-sword ‘struck Eochu’s forehead even as Eochu’s edge banged off Cormac’s shield.

Eochu was adjudged dead-in truth, his brain was hardly his own for a time.

Bress called for Cethern of Dinn Rig. A groan arose from the others-and a minute later, adjudged wounded, Cethern had to forfeit his shield. Feeling naked, defenseless, he decided to attack violently in an attempt to take Cormac first. Cethern tried; Cethern “died:” Bress’s jaw twitched, so tightly did he clench his excellent white teeth. Men were cheering the foreign recruit. Slayer of Picts, indeed! Also “slayer” of Donal, and Eochu, and Cethern, and Bress’s plans for his muddy defeat.

“A man of prowess,” Bress said, through his teeth. Still the words sounded sneery, rather than complimentary. “Would ye be trying two at once, Man of Prowess?”

“NO!” That cry came from many throats.

From Cormac’s: “Aye, Battle-leader. It’s yourself commands, and a Blueshirt obeys!”

And so two men came, veterans slogging in mud, one in chain and the other in leather. Their fellows watched in stiff-lipped silence, tense, and accusing looks were shot at Bress mac Keth. He stood watching, eyebrows arched, chin high so that he seemed to be gazing down upon the three men a dozen feet away.

Cormac met them both, and took four great loud strokes on his buckler and with his sword struck aside a fifth and took another on his shield ere he saw his opening and stabbed one of the twins so that the man were certainly dead, had the sword been of steel. Cormac did not pause to note the man’s withdrawal, as no verdict of the judges was necessary; mac Art had still another foeman.

The youth was beginning to sweat. The sun brought a wriggly mist up from the water-soaked field. One blow the supposed Ulsterman took: was but a glancing one on his mailed upper arm, and all knew it would be hardly so much as a distraction to a man in combat.

“The boy swings like a farmer sowing grain, Fithil! What hinders ye, man?” This from Bress, in encouragement of Cormac’s opponent.

Cormac and Fithil circled, staring each at the other over rim of shield. Fithil feinted; Cormac interposed shield and feinted in return; both men aborted their strokes and moved restlessly; staring, ever staring.

“What hinders him is Partha mac Othna!” someone called, and other voices arose in assent. One of those voices belonged to first-bested Donal, who felt not so bad now he’d seen the youth dispose of so many others.

Cormac was forced to backtrack swiftly. In the mud he nearly fell, and Fithil pressed in. His sword banged loudly on Cormac’s buckler; Cormac’s blade rapped as loudly on Fithil’s left thigh. Adjudged crippled, Fithil would on better terrain have sunk to his knees. Amud, he discarded his shield and crouched low.

“Stick the boy in the stones, Fithil!”

To that encouraging cry from another partisan Bress added, “If he has any!”

“Together the two of ye might have four!” someone else bellowed at Bress.

“If the Ulsterman has three!” And great laughter arose.

Cormac grinned; Fithil grinned; Fithil risked all in a long lunge. Cormac had to leap to avoid that drive at his legs. He came down with a splash-and a ringing stroke of his sword atop Fithil’s unadorned helmet. There could be no doubt of the efficacy of that blow; Fithil was “dead.”

This besting of two opponents at once upset Bress, who had chosen two fine weapon-men to teach the Ulsterish boy a lesson. They had failed him. It appeared that but one man in Leinster could teach that lesson: taking Fithil’s sword of leather-wrapped wood, Bress advanced on the dark young recruit. Again a silence moved over the gathering, though a few men groaned. Cormac heard some of the murmurs; Bress mac Keth was Champion of Leinster!

Aye, and in seconds Cormac knew that here was a match; Bress was beyond merely good. Too, the man had much reach on him. When Cormac was at the length of his own sword and arm, Bress was still dangerous, able to inflict the deadly wound, because of the length of his arms.

“Many men have this or that skill or gift of the gods on their side,” Midhir mac Fionn had told him, more than once, for Midhir had seldom said anything meaningful only once. “Discover that. Respect that. And then seek to discover what weakness he has that works against him, for I have seen no more than five or six weapon-men in all my days who had not some weakness for the exploiting.”

Cormac sought, while with Bress mac Keth he fought a different sort of match; the match of two who were better than good, and knew it, and respected each the other’s ability. They took their time, ever shifting, feinting, circling, testing, side-stepping, essaying strokes that were hastily blocked and as hastily aborted while the attacker covered himself. Each tried using his swift-shifting eyes to lie about where he intended to strike; neither succeeded, for the other recognized the strategem in time. The sound of leather-wrapped wood on shield boomed and rolled out across the muddy field. All about them stood staring men, their booted feet invisible in mud so that all appeared to stand on stumps. And there was much murmuring, though it was very quiet.

Cormac attacked, erred, and caught a stroke to the shoulder that was adjudged wounding. Indeed, he felt it through padded coat and mail. Unhappily, he was told he could use his buckler no longer. Cormac loosed it and sent the round shield spinning as though it weighed much less than its fifteen pounds; one man ducked, another tried to catch it, and a third succeeded. The second nursed a backbent finger.

Shield-less, Cormac gazed into the grinning face of Bress Long-arm.

Already the youth had noted that Bress did not fight as Forgall did, for Bress was excellent, and longer of arm; he was proud to use sword alone. Pride. And temper. Aye. Cormac’s youthful eyes narrowed to slits and his brain raced.

Now, against an unshielded opponent, Bress succumbed to over-confidence: pride in ability. He came boring in, covering himself well while he loosed a flurry of short strokes.

With his own sword Cormac batted away one, then ‘two and then three cuts. Realization was on him that he’d not be allowed to attack; Bress would keep him busy using sword as defense only, and certainly find the opening to strike a killing blow. Accordingly Cormac bashed away a short cut with all his might, so that his arm shivered with the impact. He came back high with his own blade, drawing Bress’s shield up-and whipped out a foot to kick Bress in the shin.