Andrew Offutt - The Mists of Doom

Out of the darkness came Sualtim Fodla. A new prickling assailed Cormac, though not in fear; he assumed he was witness to another vision, another druidic Sending.

Surely Sualtim could not be here, a Connachtish druid of considerable age in Leinster just below Meath’s border. Far and far from Connacht-and far, Cormac thought with some embarrassment, from Airgialla, where he and his old tutor had agreed he’d go.

And then he heard the faint snap of a twig from the great oak that shadowed them both even from moonlight. That told Cormac that the druid was indeed come here, in the flesh.

Cormac was more than surprised. His old fithithir had found him, come to him as if directly, though he was afield in the night. And after Cormac had deliberately deceived him-or so the youth had thought-lest even Sualtim too be traitor!

“You did well, my boy.” The druid spoke very quietly. “You sought to deceive even me.”

Cormac gnawed his lower lip. He could not meet those knowing eyes. He remembered having warned Sualtim against calling him “boy”-and he said nothing.

“I understand,” Sualtim told him, just as quietly; he was but a stride away, now, and there he halted. “So. North you rode, and then swung east… lost all to bandits in the forests… saved a Leinsterish war-leader and have joined his force… and you’re after couching your first woman… or are after being bedded by her! So now it’s a man ye be in all way… Partha mac Othna na Ulaid!”

Astonishment mingled with chagrin in Cormac. Best he say nothing, he decided. He who’d thought himself so much the man but moments agone now felt much the boy, in the presence of him who’d been his tutor so long-and who seemed to know all things, impossible or no.

“Look up, son of your father. Give listen. I have been busy; I have knowledge to share. Think you I came so far only to tell you what you already know?”

Cormac looked up then, sheepishly. Sualtim,looked naught but friendly, rather like a proudly doting parent. Then a cloud came onto his face:

“Aengus mac Domnail… was in fact Eoin mac Gulbain, my b-Partha. Aye: son of that same Lord Gulban your father replaced as toisech in Rath Glondarth. Reasoning and reasonable or no, Eoin held my lord Art responsible for the fall of his father and the ruin of his family.”

“Aengus… Eoin… Gulban’s son…”

“It’s little time I have, Cormac. Eoin sought revenge then, and was inhumanly patient in his waiting for the taking of his dark vengeance. Fault him not in this, C-Partha.” Sualtim glanced around; there was only the darkness, shot with snores. “He felt he was right, and justified; he died feeling that he had done vengeance for his father.”

Cormac’s lips were tightly compressed. Not fault the man who’d slain his father?

I wish Aengus were alive, that I might slay him! Cormac was not so calmly reasoning an animal as Sualtim; Cormac had not the benefit of time in this life.

“Yet methinks another was behind Eoin, Cormac. A priest of the New Faith! A man there is named Milchu-he professes the peaceful mouthings of Iosa Chriost but serves demains; mayhap the Christians’ ‘Devil’ himself! Aye and now I’m after learning that Milchu has the ear of the Highking himself.”

“The… ard-Righ! ”

Sualtim nodded. “Milchu is surely his agent and his spy.”

“Mentor… ye-ye be thinking was the High-king’s own hand in my father’s murder?”

“Cormac… I am. It is not unknown that Lugaid mac Laegair our own High-king held no love for Art, on account of his popularity… and on account of the honoured name your father put on yourself.” Sualtim lifted a staying hand against Cormac’s speaking. “Yet no surety is on me, Cormac. It’s the answer to that question I now seek. It’s north I go. Milchu is said to be on a mission to the northern kingdoms. There will I seek out that priest, cairnech of the New Faith or no, and learn what we must needs know.”

In silence, Cormac mac Art stared at nothing while he pondered the implications of this revelation. A priest of the New Faith! The High-king! So swiftly did his mind plunge into the ugly tangle that the sound of the old man’s voice caused him to jerk.

“Cormac… if this surmising of mine gain the seal of truth, it were best that you put from your head any thought of blood-feud, lad.”

Eyes grim as a wolf’s stared at the druid from the dark, lined face. Grey as sword steel, those eyes were learning to be just as implacably hard.

Sualtim made a gesture that was nigh to pleading. “ Think! Far better ye go and present your case to the Kings Assembled at Feis-mor come fall… would be a greater shame and dishonour on Lugaid!”

The grey eyes stared. The face remained grim, impassive-and thoughtful. Only the mouth moved: “Aye-”

“I will find out,” Sualtim said. “And now I must leave. Ere there can be any thought of accusation, it’s firm evidence we must have.”

“The High-king,” Cormac mumbled, and then seemed to emerge from a trance. “Oh-no, mentor, remain ye here and rest. At least till dawn-”

Sualtim shook his head. “It’s no rest there’ll be here, Cormac. Leinster fares not well against Meath. Soon will come the men of the High-king, to claim the Boruma, and no one to be the better of it to the end of life and time.”

While Cormac stared, stunned by shock upon shock, the druid turned and started into the night. At the edge of the tree’s shadow, he turned back.

“My b-Cormac. Remember well all those things I was so at pains to teach you. For it’s knowledge will serve ye, and consideration. A sharp mind will often win out where a sword-arm would fail, or but complicate matters and bring peril. Remember ever that the opinion of none is so important as your own, where it concerns yourself. Just… just ever seek the use of the brain, son of Art, before you go reaching for the blade.”

Surprisingly, Sualtim smiled. “And now put worry from you, weapon-man . When it comes your turn to sleep, do, even if it requires glasreng-blaith .”

Cormac watched the white hair above the green robe until he saw only the hair, and then his longtime mentor was swallowed up by the night. Thinking brain and blade, brain then blade-brain rather than blade? Cormac was left alone with too many thoughts. He stepped back against the tree, hearing the sound of a little breeze humming mournfully over the Plain of Sorrow. Was a lonely wind, moaning about the lone Connachtman in Leinster.

He stared into the darkness and saw nothing. Aye , he mused, alone and lonely. It’s Cormac n-Aenfher I am; Cormac the Lonely!

Chapter Ten:

The Cattle-Raid of Leinster

The grass was still bejeweled with dew when Forgall returned with what remained of his force. Every eye among them was dulled by the cold of defeat and dismay. The battle had been a shield-splitter and Magh Broin was a plain the ravens would long be croaking over.

A full score of Forgall’s men had been slain, and but eleven of the total remained unscathed. On them all was the sour taste of defeat-and weariness, to the bone. They came in like so many hounds who had tracked the quarry long and long, and had lost it. For Leinstermen in the matter of Boruma, victory and honour were elusive quarry indeed.

Shocked at how few returned, shocked at those who did not return, Cormac and Cond, heard the order that went out to all the other Fifties, to all the army. The tribute was to be delivered.

Those who had fought remained in camp while those who had been herdsmen continued, now moving the cattle and the wains containing the other portions of the tribute up northward. The Leinsterish force was most heavy of heart and hardly swift in the performing of that unwelcome task. Without spirit in eyes or gait, Cormac and the others herded the livestock across a plain become a lake of blood.