Chapter XXIV #4
Every eye is on me as I make my way to the torchlit armoury, a low, excited buzz following.
The smell of clove oil and smoke sharp as I examine the hundreds of options at my disposal.
The weapons are piled against the wall, often tossed haphazardly atop one another.
Many are crude, unmarked and poorly shaped; along with those, any which have only a fire-hardened tip I dismiss immediately.
Others are too long, more suited to horseback or defence, and I ignore them as well.
Wielding any spear is going to be a nightmare for me, but I at the very least need something nimble.
I move slowly among the weapons, pushing some aside to look at those beneath, or hefting a few to test their balance.
Using the time to think, and—hopefully—allow whatever anger Gallchobhar has, to ebb.
The fact is, he appears to be the strongest of King Rónán’s men, whatever rift exists between them.
And I suspect any of the warriors in this hall could beat me.
Judging from the previous bouts, this is meant to be a display more than a real fight. But an angry, advantaged man with a very real weapon isn’t an ideal opponent.
The farther toward the back of the hall I move, the better made the weapons appear to be.
Many spears now have symbols carved into their hafts, and most are made of ash, with a few oak or birch.
The heads, too, become more prominent. Bone or flint has made way to bronze and iron blades that gleam in the flickering illumination.
I stop. Feel the pressure of the room’s impatience on my back.
Lir and the king have set me up for this—to go to this place, this Loch Traenala.
Why? It could be for my safety, I suppose.
Or I could be a meaningless, sacrificial piece on their Foundation board, and they’re doing it just to aggravate their enemies. Or both. Vek. No way for me to know.
I take a spear that holds pride of place in a rack on the wall, covered with the intricate whorls and symbols I have seen on the warriors’ weapons in the hall. Its oiled iron tip gleams. I heft it. A good weight, a good balance.
I’m about to take it when the faintest pulse catches my eye.
Not a light, exactly, but a sense of … something.
Like I occasionally get from Lir and Cian’s staffs.
Like whatever warned me of Lir’s approach, a few weeks ago.
It’s barely a flicker beneath a pile of what I had initially dismissed as discarded, lesser-quality weapons.
Certainly the ones I can see look dented, cracks in hafts and dulled blades.
I take a breath. Ignore the waiting eyes and theatrical groans of the room and put the spear I’m holding back. Choose carefully.
I crouch by the pile, pushing aside the broken and the clearly inferior.
Toward the bottom of the jumble is the source of the strange pulsing.
Another spear. Divided into nine sections, just like the druids’ staffs.
The symbols on it are more crudely etched, but the ash haft is clean and straight and strong.
An obsidian tip, the only one I have seen, lies rough but razor-sharp at its end.
I hold it, puzzling at the way it draws my eye. Visually, it’s relatively unremarkable. But its balance feels perfect. Certainly not the flashiest weapon here, but undoubtedly well made.
When I straighten and turn and start walking back with it, the murmurs turn shocked. Then mutters become louder, threaded with heat and confusion.
And then, as I falteringly resume my place in the centre of the hall beside a waiting Lir, shouts. Angry and stunned. Protesting.
“Did I misunderstand what I was meant to do?” I say it to Lir urgently, confused, doing all I can to ignore the sudden feeling of violence in the room. Gallchobhar is pleading furiously with the king, who alone seems calm as he responds with a shake of the head. “I did not mean to offend.”
“You did not misunderstand.” Lir keeps one eye on the room, his caution suggesting that the severity of the hostility is not my imagination. His gaze flicks to the spear in my hand, and for a moment, I think I see sadness in it. “Your choice was just unpopular.”
“Why?”
“It once belonged to another. He died.”
I grimace. “I did not know. I can put it back. Get another.”
“No. Your taking it is being seen as presumption, but your discarding it would be an insult that few here would abide. It is done.” Lir hesitates, watching Gallchobhar’s face grow redder and redder, then squeezes me encouragingly on the shoulder.
“Keep your mind clear and you will fight well, Deaglán. I have no doubt.”
“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath as he steps away and Gallchobhar stalks around the table to stand in front of me. The man is even bigger, up close. Six and a half feet of barely bounded muscle. Bearded and scarred and angry. His long, beautifully carved spear a toy in his massive grasp.
My heart pounds. I was never skilled with a spear, even with two hands.
And though I have faced men bigger than me many times, Gallchobhar is no Octavii.
This isn’t meant to be a fight to the death, but these are real weapons and the way the giant in front of me is glowering leaves little doubt as to his intent.
He takes his stance. I take mine, awkward though it is.
“Begin,” commands Rónán, the single word slicing through the ongoing angst of the crowd.
The whites of Gallchobhar’s eyes flood to black.
Vek.