Chapter 13
Athousand men of Jura stood in the clearing at Ardlussa, painted for war. Swirls of blue swept over cheeks and foreheads, streaks drawn from fingers bled from eyes and mouths. Pots of woad lined a table at the edge of the field, each man dipping his fingers before stepping onto the training ground.
Murdoch squinted, incredulity creasing his face as Da marked himself, dragging three woad-stained fingers from the bridge of his nose across his closed eyes and cheeks.
“And this is meant to intimidate your enemies?”
Da bristled. “Aye. A sign to every man on this island, and any who dare invade.”
Murdoch studied the grim blue mask. “A sign of what, exactly?”
Grufa MacSorley plunged all five fingers into the bowl, smearing a diagonal streak across his face. “Our unity. Our identity. Our fearlessness.”
Calum bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. To him, this was one of the clan’s more absurd traditions—shallow symbols of a unity Jura had lost in the two hundred and fifty years since Somerled divided them.
Murdoch leaned close. “It does lend the feeling of madness, if nothing else.”
Calum looked over the ghoulish blue-streaked faces and silently agreed.
Da stripped off his tunic, the Wolfhound of Justice curling over his arm and shoulder, a Collar of Morann1 inked at its throat to mark sagacity and integrity. With his darkened hand he struck his chest, and the thousand men echoed him, the thrumming growing louder as they marched onto the field.
The beat rose in fervor until Da lifted his hand. Silence fell.
“Men of Jura! Today begins your combat training. By command of Chief Hector MacLean and the King of the Isles, we prepare for invasion. I vest command in your tànaiste, Cù Cogaidh, and to Master MacFadyen. Do you understand?”
A roar of aye answered.
“Excellent. I am certain you will rise to this occasion, Jurans.”
A second cry rang out.
Murdoch caught Calum’s eye. They nodded, ready to begin the day’s training.
Calum strode between the rows of men, voice carrying. “By order of Chief Hector MacLean of Lochbuie, you are now inducted into the Lochbuie guard. I am your tànaiste, Cù Cogaidh. You will address me as such, and nothing else. Do you understand?”
“Aye!”
“For combat purposes we train henceforth in the common tongue of the isles—Gaelic.” He switched languages. “From now on you will use no other tongue on the practice field. This will sharpen your speech and thought so you may act swiftly with our allies under duress. Do you understand?”
Another roar of assent.
He gestured toward Murdoch at the far end of the field. “There stands Murdoch MacFadyen, Master of the Lochbuie bowmen, my second-in-command. His orders are mine. You will obey him with respect, and address him only as Master MacFadyen. Do you understand?”
“Aye!”
A cluster of lads crossed their arms, smirking. Among them stood Grufa MacSorley’s eldest, Balder. Calum strode up, chest to chest with the arrogant blade. “What’s so amusing, young Balder?”
Balder rolled his eyes. “We’ve trained in glíma our whole lives. Every man here has. We can fight anyone who dares breach our shores. What’s the point of this?”
Calum had expected the question sooner or later. Better it came from a youth than from one of the stubborn elders.
“Young Balder asks a fair question. How many of you think this training a waste?”
Hands went up, a few nods followed. The rest wore the same expression: this was a redundant show of their might, not war.
“You stand here painted as one army. If the island were attacked today, would you repel it easily?”
“Aye.”
“You believe every man here would obey any order with equal skill?”
Again the chorus: “Aye.”
Calum circled a timid lad marked belly to chin in blue triskelion. “Master MacFadyen asked earlier—what is the purpose of this paint?”
Across the field, Da’s brow arched. Grufa bristled, chin high, chest out.
Balder’s face mirrored his father’s. “Have you forgotten so much, Calum MacLean? We paint ourselves because we are Picts, the last of them.”
Calum nudged a stone with his boot. “Not your forebears, Balder MacSorley. You are descended from the Norse invaders of Somerled.”
Predictably, MacLeans jeered. “The MacSorleys are Norse pretenders! We are the Picts’ descendants!”
MacSorleys barked back. “You adopted our longhouses, our customs. We conquered you!”
“Our Chief is MacLean!”
“And half Norse by his mother’s line!”
The argument swelled. Calum walked back through the shouting men to Murdoch, who looked grim. “Call them to attention.”
Murdoch’s whistle cut the noise like an arrow.
Calum raised his hands and called for silence. “Prove this training useless, and you’ll be excused. I will give you one task. Fail, and you’ll learn otherwise. From here forward, the last words from your mouths will be ‘aye or no, Cù Cogaidh.’ Do you understand?”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
He pointed to Murdoch. “Men sixteen to thirty, lines before Master MacFadyen. Thirty to fifty, with me. Fifty and older, before Cù Ceartas. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
“Excellent. When you line up, your sword will be belted to the right, shield on your back, heels together, left hand on the shoulder of the man in front of you. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
“You have two minutes. Move!”
Da and Murdoch echoed, “Move, move!”
The men scattered across the practice yard. Some rushed, others dragged their feet. At one hundred twenty seconds, stragglers still fumbled with belts and shields. Heels crooked, lines uneven, arms misplaced.
Calum inspected the rows. Even the best, before his father, looked like individuals, not a unit.
“Arms down!” The men dropped their arms. “You failed. Too slow. One in five moved with purpose. Front rest, move!”
Murdoch barked his lads into position. Calum shoved down stragglers by the shoulder. “Faster. Straight lines, heads up.”
Men trembled in the press-up hold.
“This is front rest. When I say it, you move—together, with purpose. Do you understand?”
The answer came in ragged waves. “Aye, Cù Cogaidh.”
“Louder.”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
“Press-ups. Begin.”
The men moved unevenly. Calum prowled the lines. “Orders require speed. If you lag, you’ll earn my special attention. And if you roll your eyes”—he leveled a look at Balder—“I’ll notice that too. From now, press-ups in groups of three. Master MacFadyen, count them off.”
Murdoch barked, “Drill to twenty, all together. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Master MacFadyen!”
He, Murdoch, and Da dropped into position with them.
“Up, down, up—”
“ONE!”
By twenty, men were collapsing, chests heaving. Some sagged to their knees, others stuck their rear ends high to ease the strain.
Calum barked, “I did not release you from front rest! Back down!” His gaze snapped to Balder, slouched to one side. “Come here, young Balder. You are under my special attention.”
Balder groaned, dragging himself up. From across the field, Ragnall shot to his feet, his face red and agitated. “How dare you treat the son of the Ard-Druid2 this way!”
Grufa rose too. “He still has no respect for this clan or our gods!”
Jaw clenched, Calum ignored them. “Young Balder, it seems your clan objects to your training. Sit.”
Balder smirked and flopped into the dirt, watching as the others strained in front rest.
Calum looked over the men, sweat and blue paint dripping from them. “On your feet!”
Da and Murdoch echoed the command.
“Since Balder is too valued to sweat with you, you’ll carry his weight. Run the field. Each time you pass him, thank him—for making you stronger. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
“Laps, move!”
Balder rose, his expression uneasy. “I’ll run with them.”
Calum shook his head. “Stay. I wouldnae disrespect the son of the Ard-Druid by asking him to do what is beneath him.”
The men streamed toward Ardlussa Wood, jogging in steady lines. Only Ragnall and Grufa stood still. Irritation pricked Calum—another challenge already. He strode to his father-in-law. “Why are you not running with the rest?”
Ragnall’s face purpled. “Unconscionable. I am leader of the MacSorleys—you hold no superiority over me.”
Grufa’s gaze lingered grimly on his son. Balder sat apart, shifting uncomfortably as men passed him, muttering thanks and shooting glares. Dirt was kicked in his direction; he tried to laugh it off. “My father will sort this,” he called, but the men jogged on without reply.
Calum folded his arms, facing Ragnall. “I have been sent by the king to form Jura’s defense. I am your tànaiste—”
Grufa stepped forward. “You’ve never sworn your vows to Odin. Instead you follow your weak half-god, Jesus. I do not recognize you. Nor do many MacSorleys.”
A few joggers slowed, listening closely. Calum saw the agreement in their eyes.
Ragnall’s head lifted high, exultant. “Swear to Odin now. Or are you no’ man enough?”
Calum bit back his temper. “In the strictest sense, you are right, Grufa. I havenae sworn to your gods—because I’ve no use for them.”
Shouts erupted. Several men stopped, rallying behind Ragnall and Grufa. Murdoch and Da halted too, crossing back to see the brewing fight.
Calum raised his voice above the din. “I have sworn my oath to this clan by the power of the only God. Beware, Grufa—He has heard your boasting.”
The crowd quieted, eyes turning skyward as rain began to patter from the swirling indigo clouds.
Grufa crouched, hands spread. “We came for glíma. Perhaps you’d like to test your god against ours—unless you’ve been gone so long you’ve forgotten how to fight like a man.”
Murdoch shook his head, eyeing Grufa’s sagging frame. “I wouldnae—”
Ragnall cut him off. “Mystical, both of you. Lightning and Thunder—faerie stories. Not one man here has seen proof of your worth. Let us see if our so-called tànaiste can even fight before we submit to him.”
Calum shed plaid, cuirass, tunic. “You wish to fight me?”
Grufa slapped his chest, laughing. “Call on your God, if you think you cannae best a son of Odin.”