Chapter XXVII
XXVII
MY TUTOR ONCE ASKED ME WHO WOULD WIN IN A fight between two men. It was a lesson about Will, funnily enough. About how obvious advantages can lead to presumptions, but that strength can never truly be known until it is tested.
Sometimes, though, the obvious advantages are too much to overcome. I am skilled, and I am athletic, and I have a well-made weapon.
Gallchobhar is bigger, stronger, equally equipped, more skilled. He has both of his arms.
And he is using Will.
The mountainous man circles me, spinning his spear with a wide, lazy smile as the spectating crowd of warriors boisterously urge him on.
I wonder if it’s overconfidence and try to take him by surprise, darting in without even a feint.
The butt of his spear whirls, a blur despite an economy of movement.
I jerk back and barely avoid having my skull cracked open.
“You are slow, little leathfhear,” he taunts, to laughter around us.
“Better than a coward,” I respond, pointing to my eyes meaningfully.
There’s a shocked moment, as if Gallchobhar can’t quite process what I’m saying.
Then he snarls, and his spear snakes forward.
For all his size he moves like a dancer, the carved wood in his hands an extension of himself, licking out so quickly I barely have time to sway to the side.
Again. Again. He’s angry but he attacks with grace and precision.
A man who has seen too many battles and too much blood to be truly distracted by words.
Still, my balance is good. I feel better than I’d expected to. Painfully hard though it has been, these past months of work and travel have completed my body’s adjustment.
I flick my spear up to awkwardly bat away another attack and slide forward in response this time. Gallchobhar’s reach with his weapon is far greater than mine, and he simply steps back. Never in any real danger.
It visibly annoys him that I felt confident enough to try, though.
I do not know how much Will Gallchobhar is imbuing, but as the seconds pass, I’m increasingly sure that it’s not much: the level of a Septimus at most, and I doubt even that.
His strikes are fast and smooth and clever, but feel no more intimidating than they should for a man of his size.
No more powerful or threatening than anything I saw regularly at the Letens Theatre.
Still, he is easily outmatching me.
The spear blurs again and I sidestep, only to realise at the last second that he is, somehow, altering his swing.
Spinning and straightening. With my other arm I might have been able to deflect the strike but I’m essentially defenceless from my left; I dive, but it’s still a glancing blow, pain ricocheting through my stub of a shoulder. The room swims.
The spear jabbing forward again. Tip forward. I dodge once, stumbling back. Off-balance. Gallchobhar sees it.
Steps in again, and pierces the back of my leg to the laughs and cheers of the onlookers.
I howl. Stagger, drop to one knee. Barely keep my weapon in hand.
“Dúnmharfóir,” I mutter.
“What was that?” Gallchobhar snarls.
I look up. “Fealltóirí and dúnmharfóir.” My mind is suddenly sharp.
Clear. I have the impression I should stand, so I do.
Blood pours from my wound but it feels numb, now.
Barely noticeable. “You have no onóir. You are mí-oiriúnach to be curadh. You are king of the cladhaire and your cáil will be caillte. Forgotten.” I utter the words so that all can hear, this time; there is a venom to my voice that is conjured from somewhere else, a disdain far too deep to be my own.
It all comes to me in a strange clarity.
Impressions, sensations of what I should say.
I don’t understand the words, simply that they need to be said.
I could resist, I think. Refuse. But it is important to say them.
Gallchobhar’s eyes have widened beneath the verbal onslaught, and he freezes. For a moment, I would almost say panics. The laughter in the room has died to shocked silence.
He attacks. Furious. Harder and faster this time, but I see it coming, am moving even as he begins. My footwork suddenly comfortable, his strikes predictable. I deflect and dodge and deflect again, his strength accounted for by positioning and technique.
“Fealltóirí.” I block a strike. “Dúnmharfóir.” I slide smoothly away from a jab that would have pierced my side. “Coward. Here before witnesses, I míniú you. You are the one who maraithe me.”
I see no opening in his defence and yet suddenly I find myself flicking forward, the spear in my right hand uncurling from its defensive position braced against my body, whirling.
It finds a gap that simply wasn’t there a heartbeat ago.
Raps Gallchobhar across an unprotected forearm, eliciting a snarl of surprised pain.
I can feel rivulets of blood streaking down my left leg. Slicking my foot in its boot. Gallchobhar’s swagger has vanished, unsmiling as he circles. An air of truly hostile intent to him that wasn’t there before.
My vision wavers and suddenly my unnatural confidence vanishes; the pain in my leg roars back into focus, immense and impossible to ignore.
I stumble. Light-headed. Gallchobhar moves forward cautiously, maybe concerned I’m feigning my abrupt weakness, but when I swipe weakly at his probing thrust, something hard and excited glints in his eyes.
“Enough!” It is King Rónán’s rich, deep voice cutting through the shouts and haze of battle. I step back, spear tip dipping of its own accord as I exhale my utter, exhausted relief.
Gallchobhar hesitates, a fraction of a second. I know he hears.
He twitches forward and puts everything behind a final, vicious slash at my throat.
I’m not ready, not expecting it. In pain, weak and nauseous from blood loss.
Some desperate instinct jerks me to the side, but it’s not enough; there’s fire across my chest, and blood, and suddenly I’m on the ground rolling and groaning and pressing hands against a wound as too much crimson spills between my fingers.
“I said enough!” Rónán’s furious tone muzzles everything from triumph to outraged jeers, leaving only my moans.
My vision clears enough to see Gallchobhar standing over me, and for a second I think he’s going to ignore his king again.
Then he snorts and spits to the side. “Lies,” he scoffs, to the uneasy muttering of those surrounding us, before stalking away.
Then Lir is crouching beside me.
“Rest, Deaglán.” He busies himself with my wound. I can feel everything slipping away. The smoky hall, the confused crowd. I hear further anger from King Rónán, commands, outraged protest from Gallchobhar and more from the crowd. But it’s all a fading buzz. More tone than words.
“Rest,” the druid repeats gently, and I do.
THE NEXT DAYS AND NIGHTS PASS IN A BLUR OF VAGUE impressions; I am being plied with some sort of draught to dull my injuries, I think, but it means I can only dredge even the most basic of thoughts with frustrating torpidity.
I’m being bundled onto a horse, secured behind another rider.
A small group of us are cantering through green dales and splashing across clear, shallow streams, chasing the setting sun.
There’s rain against my cheek. Stars glimmering between wisps of clouds, at one point.
And then there is the ocean. Just a glimpse, sparkling beyond a stony beach as we crest a rise. I’m being helped off the horse. A dock underfoot. Creaking wood, the snap of sails, the swaying motion and rhythmic hiss of a prow slicing through water.
By the time whatever was given to me wears off enough to be certain it was not all some fever-dream, we are at sea.
“Gods.” I groan it to myself as I pry my eyes open, taking in the low wooden beams above, the rocking of my body and the muffled rhythm of splashing oars outside.
Finally feeling myself come fully back to consciousness.
“Again?” Too reminiscent of my waking after the Labyrinth, and only slightly less disorienting.
My head, clearer though it is, still pounds.
My leg and my chest burn. But I am not bound, at least. That’s a good sign.
Dúnmharfóir.
The word echoes in my mind and I shiver, though thankfully I no longer have the urge to say it, or any of the others that spewed from my mouth against Gallchobhar. I carefully probe my wounds. Stitched and cleaned and bandaged. Either not as bad as I thought, or I’ve been sedated for quite a while.
I test my weight on my injured leg—it’s painful, but not impossible to walk—and then stagger to my feet, tottering and grimacing as I adjust to the ship’s motion.
I’m belowdecks but the roof is low, the space narrow and long and mostly filled with supplies.
No holes for oars. It’s not a large vessel.
A ladder leads up to the deck; it’s short, thankfully, and its hatch wide open, so I’m able to struggle up it one-handed. Sunlight and blue sky peer through from above as I make the awkward climb. It’s near midday.
“Ah. You are not dead, Leathf hear.” The cheerful female voice calls to me as soon as my head peeks above the timber. I turn to see a stout woman dressed in furs, teeth gleaming in a smile as she adjusts braided blonde hair. “This is good.”
I scramble my way up onto the deck with as much dignity as I can manage.
The day is warm, despite a stiff breeze filling our sail.
A half dozen others are scattered around the deck, some working, others just watching the shoreline go by.
We’re not completely out to sea, instead following the coast, the distant rise and fall of land visible on the horizon. “My name is Deaglán.”
“A name is earned. You are Leathf hear until you have proven otherwise.”
I don’t know what it means, but from the vaguely smirking attention of the others within earshot—plus the fact that Gallchobhar came up with it—I’m guessing it’s not complimentary. I ignore it, for now. “And you are?”
“Neasa.” She reminds me a touch of Ellanher from the Letens Theatre, in a way: bigger than most women, strong and muscled and confident. The captain, here, I strongly suspect.
I let my gaze rove to the others behind her.
I recognise two of them: a young man and woman, both part of the ceremony with King Rónán.
Removed from their blood-stained garb they look even younger than I’d originally guessed, though already showing signs of warriors’ builds.
They each wear a decorated iron armband around their bicep.
In fact, I appear to be the only one who does not have one.
“Where are we going, Neasa?”
“We head for Loch Traenala.”
I frown. “On the ocean?”
“Easier than walking.”
“How long?”
Neasa waggles her hand indecisively. “Four? Five?”
“Days?”
She laughs, as if I’ve made a wonderful joke. “Weeks.”
I stare at her. Haven’t mistaken the translation, though I want to believe I have. No telling how far the actual trip is, I suppose. Whether we’ll be hugging the coastline, or heading for deeper waters. Stopping often or not at all.
“What is Loch Traenala?”
She cocks her head to the side. Trying to decide if I’m making some kind of strange jest. “Loch Traenala is the scoil chogaidh,” she says eventually, helpfully.
“I do not know what a scoil chogaidh is.”
She looks vexed, pausing to search for an alternative. “It is a … learning.”
“Another gods-damned school?” I mutter to myself.
She shakes her head despite my speaking in my own language, probably divining what I was thinking. “Warrior learning,” she supplements. “For the Bródúil. A great honour.”
I smile politely at her. “Another gods-damned school, then,” I repeat, this time in a tone that belies the words.
She squints at me, but either doesn’t realise I’m displeased or doesn’t care.
“What happened since I …” I tap my aching head.
She chuckles. “Four days ago? Madness. Shouting. Fighting. Gallchobhar exiled.” She makes an unconcerned gesture. “After then? We have fed you the tonic Lir gave us as instructed. It has kept you asleep. Helped you heal.” She eyes my leg, the fact I’m already able to stand on it, approvingly.
“Gallchobhar was exiled?” I’m confused, as well as somewhat relieved as I recall the colossal man’s murderous expression. “Why?”
“Your words.” She frowns at me, as if this is something I should know.
“The draoi proclaimed that the spirit of King Rónán’s fallen Champion had spoken through you, and clearly accused Gallchobhar of his murder.
There was still some … argument, between Gallchobhar’s supporters and everyone else.
But in the end, King Rónán chose.” She spreads her hands, indicating that the last part is all that matters.
“A spirit spoke through me,” I repeat flatly, inwardly shuddering at the memory. I have no sensible explanation for what happened, what I said. But nor is this one.
“Yes,” says Neasa, nodding with innocent enthusiasm, apparently oblivious to my scepticism.
“The death of Artán has long been suspicious in the minds of many, and though Gallchobhar earned his position, he was not well loved.” Her face splits into that wide, gap-toothed grin again.
“Not by me, certainly. I saw your fight. I cannot say it brought me pain to see him so shamed.”
“I can.”
She pauses, then bursts out into an uproarious laugh that I can’t help but smile at. She seems good-natured, this Neasa. Rough, but good-natured.
“What do I do until we arrive?”
She continues to beam at me. “Work. And Lir asked that I teach you the Tongue, also.”
I’m still blurry, still hazy, but something about the way she says it makes me pause. “What did you call it?”
“The Tongue,” she repeats patiently. “The language of the gods. Of ceol. Of dance.”
“And of all things that delight the heart,” I finish softly, in Common. My tutor once described Cymrian almost exactly the same way. As did my friend.
“We will begin your instruction later. But now, Leathf hear, you must row.” She indicates a spare oar.
I stare at her. Tap my bandaged leg. Roll my left shoulder pointedly.
She motions dismissively. “I have been checking your injuries and they have healed enough. And yes, some have more to overcome than others. But make no mistake, Leathf hear: you will do your part in reaching Loch Traenala, or you will not reach it.”
Protests well up inside me. I can do my best, as I did on the farm, but rowing is about rhythm and strength. Neasa is right in that my wounds seem to have closed enough that exertion, while painful, shouldn’t worsen them. But it will be painful.
There’s something in her gaze, though. Something that reminds me less of Ellanher this time, and more of Lanistia.
I take a seat on the bench, next to a broad-shouldered blond boy of about sixteen. He eyes me curiously, then gives a nod that seems friendly enough.
I awkwardly grab the oar, and start to pull.