Chapter 13 #4
As the stranger neared the fire and his facial features became visible, the tension drained from Aiden’s body and he sheathed his sword. “Bhaltair.”
A white-haired man garbed in an ankle-length lèine and a dark wool cloak strode into the camp. He carried a tall staff and sported a belly-grazing white beard. His face was heavily wrinkled, but he looked no older than when Aiden had last seen him. Some three or four years ago.
“What brings you here?” he asked the old man.
Niall added, “We thought you were long gone to the Maker.”
Bhaltair extended gnarled fingers toward the flames of the fire. “I go where I must.”
Aiden sighed. The old man was fond of speaking in riddles, no doubt due to his exalted age.
He claimed to be a druid, one of the ancient holy men that once roamed the north quite freely, but Aiden had never witnessed him perform any of the so-called miracles that were attributed to such men.
“Quite a coincidence, meeting you here.”
“Not a coincidence at all,” the old man said. “Do you have any tea?”
“Nay,” said Aiden, a little annoyed. “Are you suggesting you planned to meet us here?”
“Of course not,” Bhaltair said. “What about ale? I haven’t had ale in quite some time.”
Niall offered the druid his oilskin.
“Thank ye,” he said after he’d quenched his thirst. He appropriated some blankets and sat down before the fire. “I’m relieved to find you precisely where I thought you’d be. My legs are weary.”
Niall exchanged a look with Aiden. They’d told no one where they’d planned to camp for the night. Indeed, they’d chosen this spot only upon reaching it.
“How did you find us?” Aiden asked.
“The same way I find all things that I have misplaced,” he responded. “By reading the stars.”
Aiden glanced at the night sky. It was clear, and a thousand stars competed with the brilliance of the moon, but none of them pointed anywhere. Yet the man had found Aiden’s party . . . assuming he’d actually been looking for them.
“Why have you sought us out?”
Bhaltair poured more ale into his mouth. After he swallowed, he said, “There have been signs of trouble brewing. If I read them correctly, dire events are about to transpire.”
Dire events had already transpired. But what harm could there be in querying the man further? “What sort of signs?”
Bhaltair threaded his fingers through the thickly curling hairs of his beard. “I spied a two-headed squirrel the day before yesterday, and this morn a wee bird dropped from a tree branch to my feet, stone cold before it hit the ground.”
“It’s winter,” Aiden pointed out dryly. “It’s not unknown for birds to succumb to the harsh clime.”
“Indeed,” said the old man. “A bird that dies out of sight is just that—a dead bird. But a bird that dies at my feet is an augury.”
Unconvinced, Aiden asked, “And what does it foretell?”
“A death, of course.”
“Whose death?”
“That I cannot say.”
“Then your omen is pointless,” Aiden said. Turning to the other warriors, he said, “Pack up. Since sleep has eluded us, we’ll continue on our way.”
The men began to collect their belongings.
“I fear I cannot bring you with us, Bhaltair,” he told the old druid. “We travel light, on a mission of grave importance.”
Bhaltair nodded. “To rescue the lad and recover the crown.”
Aiden blinked. A bloody accurate guess.
The old man got to his feet, grabbing the wool underfoot as he stood. He folded the blanket and handed it to one of the men.
“Do you need a weapon?” he asked the druid. “If that pack of wolves returns, you might find yourself in need of one.”
“I have nothing to fear from wolves,” Bhaltair said. “I have my staff.”
“Take this dirk,” Aiden offered, handing him the knife at his belt. “These wolves are more ferocious than most I’ve seen.”
The old man opened his cloak and pointed to the sickle strung at his waist. “If need be, I’ll use my own blade. Keep yours.”
“As you wish.” Aiden replaced the knife. “If you like, you can remain in this meadow, and we’ll collect you on our return trip.”
“No need,” said Bhaltair. “But there is one further detail of the omen that you should heed.”
Plucking his saddle from the ground, Aiden carried it to his horse. “Oh?”
“The wee bird was crested.”
Aiden cinched the saddle tight, struggling to find the relevance in the old man’s words—and failing. “And what, if anything, am I to make of that?”
“It’s an obvious reference to the crown.”
Obvious was clearly in the eye of the beholder. “So the omen suggests the crown might be permanently lost?” he asked, turning to face the old man.
Bhaltair scratched his head, his brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps.”
Yet another ill-defined and uncertain response.
How was he to act on such insubstantial advice?
And more to the point, why was he even considering the advice of a madman?
He sighed. Because said madman had befriended his father, shown him the secrets of the hill fort caves, and tasked him with preserving a legend.
“I’ll keep your words in mind,” he said, hoisting himself into the saddle. He nodded respectfully to the old druid, then urged his horse into a trot.
The Black Warriors followed.