Chapter 27 #2
Through the barbican they came, like great horned beasts on horses built like oxen.
Their woolen mantles were the color of moss and whipped up high behind them.
They wore armor of fur and feathers, and reeked of boiled leather.
Skyre breathed it in, delighting at the wear on their polished bronze helmets and the fierceness of their arms.
The greatest Cullain warriors were gifted with cárthun, the fire-wields—great weapons of flame.
And nowhere were they more prevalent than the men from Annath.
For years, the Thrys had refused Skyre’s training, despite many past Vaichs having been masters.
Cárthun were for wartime, and never before.
Too dangerous, they said, to let a boy play with fire. But that decision was now in his hands.
Skyre called out, “My fine riders, how glad a sight to see you come!”
The warband’s leader was a bear of a man named Nacht, who was older than Skyre by twenty summers. He was thick and strong with muscle and had a scar on his right which had blacked his eye. He was known far and wide by every boy in Cullach as Béig úil.
The River Beast.
That was more than a fireside story; the warrior was legend made flesh, and Skyre marveled. The Vaich was not a small man, but Nacht towered over him like some fantastic behemoth.
“Finally, I meet you in person. And what an honor it is,” Skyre said. “I’ve prepared a grand welcome for you—a warm meal and some drink, and a hunt when you have rested! Nothing like the hunts of the east, to be sure, but hopefully a suitable game.”
The warrior looked neither impressed nor displeased. “A hunt?” he asked in a gravelly voice. “Is there time for all that?”
Skyre’s brows worked and he chuckled. “Of course. There is always time to play. And, after all, I have a request to make. Showing you a good time is the least I can do.”
“If His Majesty has business to address—”
“Not business,” said Skyre. He had hoped to ask the holler to train him. But to blurt it out now would have looked too desperate. He smiled. “Why dinnae you wash up and come to the hall? The food is ready and many will be eager to make your acquaintance.”
Nacht’s one good eye narrowed, and Skyre felt more bare with each passing minute. “We leave our post out of respect for tradition, but the work does not wait. I hope His Majesty will not delay.”
“No,” said Skyre, somewhat embarrassed. “I will be married shortly, and the Reaffirmation will follow.”
Nacht gave his horse to the stableman. “Then, I would have your ear. I bring news worth hearing by you and your council.”
Skyre shook his head. “But you’ve only just arrived—”
“Leisure is no concern of mine.”
Skyre was baffled.
“This business about weddings… I’ve never heard of a Vaich being wed before his Aardm?t.”
Skyre might have found the words insulting, but Nacht was a worn warrior who had seen real war, and the king could not argue.
“It’s… particular…” he muttered, realizing he had nothing to say. Anything that came to his mind was a dressed-up excuse.
“Yes, you are quite particular,” said Nacht.
“I…”
“Ah, dearest Nacht, welcome to Rhyd-hal.”
Skyre swiveled to see Jor crossing the yard, his steps regal, like a cat too used to being fed.
He wore a comfortable smile and gave his hand for the larger man to grasp.
At once, the holler’s face softened—as much as it could, anyway.
His blackened eye had a violent hue, but his good side contorted in a smile.
“Prince Jor, it has been a long time.”
“Too long,” Jor agreed.
“I am saddened to hear of your father’s passing. He was strong as teeth and tír.”
Fury flourished in Skyre’s throat. He glared at Jor, who patted Nacht’s enormous shoulder with ease. “He was immensely fond of you as well,” said the prince. “I know he’d be honored to be held in such high esteem. How are things in the east?”
“That is what I wished to speak of,” Nacht said, turning again to Skyre.
Jor lifted a brow. “Then, I’ve interrupted.”
“Yes,” said Skyre.
“Course not,” said Nacht, but they had spoken at the same time.
Skyre’s skin itched like a dry scab. “We were on our way to the feast hall…”
“If there is news, shouldn't you hear it?” Jor goaded. “My father always said: the work matters more.”
Nacht nodded. “A good man.”
“Aye.” Skyre’s smile had long faded, and the heat in his heart went cold. Finally, he conceded. “Why don’t you come up?”
The Vaich called his council, and the five men—Skyre, Jor, Nacht, Greyv and Rask—convened in the king’s war room. It had not yet seen use, and it should have excited him, but all Skyre felt was annoyed.
Jor should have stayed put. The king hadn’t invited him, but Nacht was much more relaxed with the prince around, and so the Vaich let him stay.
A map bolted to the center of the table showed the sprawl of his grueling green kingdom.
Annath’s stronghold in the east was a crucial chokepoint, and those who manned it were diligent by design.
Unrest within Cullach remained a conflict amongst a people, but the east was home to their most wild foes.
Annath was the long neck between Cúil Cullach and Escgalia, and the fortress of Fígha was the hand pressed against the windpipe.
“I dinnae wish to keep from the river,” Nacht said. “The border clans grow restless.”
“They are always restless after the crowning of the Vaich,” said Rask. “They’ll be wanting their pay… or their blood.”
“It isnae simple legacy which stirs them, a-nis,” said Nacht, glancing at the Vaich. “There is noise beyond the mountain. Raids to the north. You inherit hungry enemies.”
The river Fír and the mountains beyond served as the two countries’ divide, but such rugged expanses invited unsavory fiends. The mountains were teeming with beasts of men and land alike who swore allegiance to nothing.
“I thought old Lach’Dun had settled things with the Dúnan Toor,” said Skyre.
At this mention of the mountain clans, Nacht soured. “The Dúnan Toor are a savage breed I trust less than I might throw them. Still, whatever treaties were made with Lach’Dun are no treaties of yours. One should not chase another man’s gold.”
“I dinnae chase it,” Skyre said simply. “I have gold of my own.”
“And you will need pay your due,” said Rask.
“We shall see about that,” said Skyre.
The crown had a long history of paying bribes to the men in the mountains, but Skyre had no intention of making such honorless agreements. Lach’Dun had been the first to command the border clans, and Skyre would demand the same respect. If they were men of Cullach, then they would bow or meet fire.
“My father dispensed of the blood brides. But there’s no saying you shall be shown the same favor. And anyway,” Jor said with a smile, “His Majesty clearly enjoys using skin as tender.”
Skyre imagined himself lunging over the table, putting his hands to Jor’s warm throat. Nacht’s expectant gaze was all that gave him pause.
“I won’t be held at blade point nor pursestraps by my own subjects,” Skyre said curtly. “The Aardm?t comes soon, then I will ride out and meet with them.”
“Meet with them?” Nacht asked.
“They’re savages, but they’re not unreasonable,” said Skyre.
“It is never wise to wander into the bellies of beasts,” said Nacht.
“Aye,” said Greyv, swiping the miniature banner of the Dúnan Toor from the map. He held it up in the morning light, which diffused through the emblem of a white tree. “We’ll be sure to make them chew first.”
Skyre smiled. “I suppose you havenae heard, but your Vaich shan’t be killed. I will ride out and set things right myself. If these rowdy clans be nails, my Aarden Féin shall be a hammer.”
Rask grunted, but Nacht said. “Bold words from a fresh young thing. I enjoy seeing a little color in your cheeks.”
“Suppose I cannae convince you to ride with us?”
Nacht settled his helmet beneath a thick arm. “I will stay for the Reaffirmation and nothing more. My service to you, my laird, is service to the land. I mind the river.”
“I will decide of that,” said Skyre. It was hard to know what Nacht was thinking, but the Vaich decided it mattered little. “I want the strongest warriors for my Féin, and you are strong, indeed.”
Nacht said nothing, just nodded in lieu of a bow. He went out after that, and Skyre couldn’t help feeling disappointed.
A laugh split the room and he cut his gaze to Jor. “You’ll never win respect like that.”
“Like what?” Skyre threw back.
Jor’s smirk was maddening. “A show horse riding into war… Really, what did they teach you in those woods?”
Rask went sharp as a blade. The air crackled. Skyre’s fist clenched till his knuckles popped. It was one thing to insult him, another crime entirely to insult his teacher.
“You seem to think yourself clever, though are hardly wise enough not to wander into dangerous water,” growled Skyre.
Jor cocked his head. “Is that what this is? I hadn’t noticed.”
Skyre stepped forwards, but Greyv held him back. “Turn that fury to the fray, huh? There’s barbarians to kill—much better sport.”
“Uh huh,” mumbled Skyre, eyes locked on the prince.
Those dull amber orbs darkened. Jor said nothing more. He went out, leaving the chamber aflame.
“Ye ought nae be fancy with your men,” said Rask. “They’ve got jobs to do.”
Skyre glanced at him. “Their jobs are to me, and I dictate them.”
Rask looked like an angry bull, but Skyre was done listening.
“I willnae be a king who waits. My glory is out in the vale, not here in these walls.”
“Ye dinnae ken what glory is,” said Rask. “War is the playground of idle men. Find yourself something to do!”
“I’m doing exactly what you said!” Skyre snapped. “I’ll show the bastards true power.”
“Power and arrogance are two different things!” Rask growled and stormed out.
Skyre stood for a long while, breathing heavily.
“He’s well meaning,” Greyv muttered. “Or maybe he’s just old.”
“It’s easy for him to say,” Skyre grumbled. “He has years to his name. People recognize him the world over. I am Vaich and no one recognizes me.”
“Sure they do.” Greyv slammed his fist into Skyre’s brand. The younger groaned, rubbing at his chest. “And you’ve got to carve your own way. Rask kens it, too.”
Skyre grew quiet, rubbing the raised skin.
Carve his own way…
Thirteen years ago, he’d said the words and he’d meant them: I want to be a good king.
Did he mean them, still?