The banners fluttered over the tumbled stones, the watchfires
flickered in the dusk, like stars across the plain. There was war.
It had raged from the Caerbourne to the Brown Hills to Aescford and
south again, for the King had risen, Laochailan son of Ruaidhrigh,
to claim the hall of his fathers, ruined as it was.
Evald had come, of course. He was among the first, riding out of
Caerdale to forestall the King’s worst enemies in the days
before the King declared himself. He came with Beorc Scaga’s
son, and armed men and no few stout farmers’ sons out of the
dale, with all the strength that he could muster. And Dryw the son
of the Dryw of Niall’s day, rode from the southern mountains
with the largest rising of that folk since Aescford. So Luel rose;
and Ban; they were expected. Latest came the folk of Caer Donn,
high in the hills: lord Ciaran led them. Ranged against them were
Damh and An Beag, the wild men of the Boglach Tiamhaidh, and the
bandit lords of the Bradhaeth and Lioslinn.
And the war was long, long and bitter, and Evald felt little of
glory in it: they named him in songs, but more and more he
understood the Cearbhallain, for what they sang as brave he
remembered most as mud and fear and being cold and hungry. But all
the same he fought, and when he had time to think at all, he spent
it missing Meredydd and his daughter and his fireside. He had pains
in his joints and his scars when it rained. A great deal of the war
seemed to be marching and riding, moving bands of men here and
there and forestalling the enemy at one point to have them break
out in another burning and looting of what they had lately made
safe, so that they had had great pains to make a border and to hold
it, for the marshes could never be trusted and the hills were full
of warfare.
But at Dun na h-Eoin all that had changed, where campfires
gathered and the enemy massed so many they looked like a blight
upon the land, their backs against the hills.
Then was a battle, fierce and long, fought from the breaking of
one day to the evening of the next, and the dark birds gathered
thick as the smoke had been before. But the King prevailed.
“Your leave,” Dryw ap Dryw asked of the King that
day on the field: “They’ll have no rest of
me.”
“Go,” said the King. Dryw was himself pale and
spattered with blood, straining at the recall like some hound
called back from the hunt. “Keep them on the move.”
So Dryw leapt onto his horse and gathered his men about him,
afoot, many of them, accustomed to move like shadows among the
hills.
“By your leave,” said Evald, “I would go with
Dryw. An Beag and Damh are old enemies of my hold—and they
have force left. The most of my men are here with me; if they should
come at Caer Wiell now—”
“We will come at their backs,” said the King.
“At all possible speed. Let Dryw harry them as he
can.”
“But Caer Wiell—” said Evald. His heart was
leaden in him looking around at the desolation, the clouds of birds
vying with the smokes of fires to darken the sky. It was not well
to dispute with Laochailan King; he was a man of middling height,
Laochailan, fair with eyes of a pale cold blue that never took
fire. He had outlived his counselors. They had held him on the
leash most of his life, and he was cold, seldom roused. Even in
battle his killing was cold; in policy he was deliberate and
immovable. And Evald turned his shoulder and strode away with a
turmoil in his thoughts. It was treason in his mind, but the will of
the Cearbhallain still held him, so that it was would and would not
with Evald. He was on the verge of gathering his folk and riding
away despite the King; Beorc Scaga’s son hurried to his side
seeing stormclouds in his eyes, seeing wrack and ruin in the offing,
on the bloody field.
“Cousin,” the King called after him.
Evald strode to a stop and turned, lifted his head, keeping his
anger behind his eyes. “My lord King.”
“I will not be scattering my men, some here, some there.
You will not be leaving this place without my will.”
“Caer Wiell was refuge for your cousin and stronghold for
men that held against all your enemies. It holds now against An
Beag and Caer Damh and makes their homecoming dangerous. My steward
is a capable man to hold against the force they left behind, but he
has too few men in his command. I have stripped my land, giving you
every man, every weapon I could bring. Now the onslaught comes at
Caer Wiell, and what profit to you if Caer Wiell should fall? You
would lose all the valley of the Caerbourne; and it would be strong
against you—as strong as it ever was for you, lord King, and
as dearly bought.”
Not even this brought passion to the King’s face.
“Do you think to ride against my command, cousin?”
For a moment breath and sense failed Evald. The field, the King,
the counselors about him swam in a bloody haze. They were close by
the ruins of Dun na h-Eoin: the black birds settled on its broken
walls to rest, some too sated to take wing. They began to pitch
tents, some bright with the green and gold and most leathern brown,
even among the slain, amid the wailing of the wounded. Men removed
the bodies, looting them too; or carried the wounded to what care
they could give them; or despatched the hopeless or the fallen
enemy. That was the manner of the King’s war, and the sound
and the stink of it muddled the mind and made right and wrong
unclear. Evald’s hand was on his sheathed sword; and blood
had gotten into his glove and dried about his fingers, whether his
own or others’ he had not yet explored. He thought only of
his home, and his eyes saw nothing clearly.
“Will you obey,” the King asked, “or
no?”
“The King knows I am loyal.”
“Then come. Come take
counsel with me. Now.”
Evald considered, looked at Beorc,
Scaga’s younger image, beside him. Beorc would ride; and
gladly. And thereafter they would be rebels against the King, and
no less to be hunted. If they were rebels, then the King might
fall, for Dryw would go with them, and so the southern mountains
and dale would do the thing that would ally them with An Beag and
Caer Damh, in deed though never in heart. And perhaps the King saw
that looming before him, since he had called him cousin twice in
the same address and spoke to him courteously. Laochailan was cold,
but he was clever too, outside the cold determination which had
peopled this field with dead. And he knew what was necessary.
“Come,” Evald said to Beorc quietly, and so they
went, across the littered field with its canebrake of spears
standing in corpses, of tattered banners of the Bogach and the
Bradheath of, death and agony.
They had pitched a tent for the King among the ruined stones of
Dun na h-Eoin, in the courtyard, by the struggling oak which had
somehow survived the fires. They had driven the pegs between the
shattered paving stones and into what had been a garden. Doves had
sung there. Now carrion crows flapped their dark and sluggish
wings, startled by their coming. And to this state the King
retreated, drawing with him others of the lords.
As they gathered, Evald glowered about him and tried to think
what there was to do—for he would far rather now have been
the least of men in Dryw’s company than the lord he was.
There was Beorc by him and no other, for he had no kinsman but the
King himself, a king who would as lief not remember that dark
history or how he had come to be. Ciaran of Donn was there with his
sons Donnchadh and Ciaran Cuilean, a fey and strange lot. Fearghal
of Ban came with his cousins, small dark men and blood-handed, like
Dalach of Caer Luel and his brothers. They were northerners all of
them and some from the plains, and none of them had any close ties
to the dale or the south.
So perforce Evald came into the tent with them, and bided his
time while the King’s servants helped Laochailan with his
armor and one brought them wine to drink. It was the color of
blood. Evald took the cup and it had the taste of it as well, a
coppery ugliness in the smoky air, the reek of sweat that was on
them.
“Dryw has sped after them,” the King said to those
who had not been there earliest. “He will keep them moving
and never give them rest.”
“I say again,” Evald began, but Laochailan King
turned that pale cold glance on him.
“You have said much,” said Laochailan. “You
try our patience.”
“I serve my King from a hold that has been his from my
father’s time.”
“From the Cearbhallain’s,” the King said softly, as if it had
to be explained, and the color leapt to Evald’s face.
“And your cousin’s, lord.” Evald kept his
voice steady, set down the cup and stripped the glove from his
hand. Some sword or axe had cut through the leather. The blood was
his. “As you kindly remember. I ask your leave—no, I
beg it, to go now and keep Caerdale in your hands. They will join
with their own forces. Dryw may not be enough for them when they
have gained what strength they have in their own holds. They will
gather forces again—”
“Do you lesson me in warfare?”
They were of an age, he and his King, born near the same year.
“I know my lord King has wide concerns. So I would
take this small one on myself.”
“And shall we all go riding to our own holds?” asked
Fearghal, ‘Two years it has taken to bring us and the
traitors to this field, and lord Evald would have us go each to his
own defense again.”
This field is half empty,” Evald said. “The enemy has gone,
has it passed your notice, lord of Ban? We sit here licking our
wounds while theirs will be healed when they have reinforced
themselves, and their strength be doubled if they should take Caer
Wiell. More than doubled. In its full strength, Caer Wiell could
hold for longer than we may have strength in us to hurl against it,
with all the Bradheath at our backs.”
“I will not have dissent,” said the King.
“That is deadlier than swords. Nor will I release any but
Dryw. His men are light-armed and apt to this kind of war. You fear
too much, cousin. Your steward is a skilled man in war; and Caer
Wiell has defenders. If anything An Beag is apt to draw off its
attackers to come in our faces, not against your lands.”
“That was not the way I learned An Beag. No. Pardon me,
lord King, but they know the value of Caer Wiell in their hands,
and I know An Beag, that they will take what chance they have. Dryw
may try but they may hold him in the hills—and I fear some
all out attack against Caer Wiell before this is done, sparing
nothing. We have hurt the enemy, never killed them. A wounded beast
is still to fear.”
“Is fear your counsel then? No, hear me. I will not divide
my forces. I will brook no talk of it.”
“Set us through the pass, lord King; and when you
come at their backs then we will be at their faces. If we are
divided, then reunite we will, over their corpses. But let Caer
Wiell fall and we will leave our corpses at every step we take into
the dale.”
The King’s fair face never turned color but his eyes were
cold. He lifted a hand that bore the Old King’s ring and
silenced the others with a gesture. “You are too forward. I
will not yield in this.”
“Lord,” Evald muttered, and bowed his head and took
np his cup again, moved off from the King’s presence, toward
Beorc who kept to the shadow, for he did not trust his wits or his
tongue just now. “Go,” he whispered to Beorc,
“take horse and take at least the message of what happened
here.”
“I will,” said Beorc, and bowed and was
almost out the door with a turn upon his heel, a hasty man like his
father.
“Recall your man,” the King said.
“Hold him!”
Spears came down athwart the doorway. “Beorc!” Evald
cried at once, knowing Beorc’s mind. Beorc stopped but
scantly short of harm, and lowered the hand he bad almost to his
sword.
“Where in such haste?” asked the King. “Dare I
guess?”
A lie tempted Evald. He rejected it and looked Laochailan in the
eye. “My messengers have the habit to come and go. Should the
enemy know more of what was done on this field than my own
folk?”
It was perilous. The King’s eye had that chillness that
went with his deepest wrath. “Cousin,” said Laochailan,
“messages are mine to send. Do you not agree?”
“Then I beg you send Beorc and quickly. He knows the
way.”
“I will not have it said a man of this host vent home, not
the lord of Caer Wiell, not his steward’s son, not the least
man of his following.”
“Lord King,” said Ciaran of Caer Donn. “But a
messenger—there is treachery in An Beag and Damh. There would
be no whispering in the camp at this man’s going. It would be
well understood—at least by Donn. The dale is at our
doorstep, and if Caer Wiell should fall it would be like the old
days, with burning and looting in the hills. A messenger to give
them heart and ourselves to come at the backs of our
enemies—but we will be slow. We have the longer way to go.
And what if their heart failed them in Caer Wiell?”
“You make yourself a part of this contention,” the
King said wryly, and he frowned, for Donn had favor with him.
“But Caer Wiell will have no lack of heart. After all, they
defend their own lives. And that is trustworthy in these
dalemen.”
“Lord,” Evald said, hot with passion, “but the
choice of a defender might be a sortie if he hoped for no
help—they are brave, my folk, but they may also be
desperate.”
“Lord King.” It was a voice hitherto unheard in
council, Ciaran Cuilean, the younger son of Donn. “You gave
your word no man of us should go home before the war is done. But
Caer Wiell is not my home. And I know the hills.”
There was a deep frown on his father’s face and on his
brother Donnchadh’s. But the King turned to him with his
anger sinking. “So. Here is one man who has the gift of
courtesy. And one I would be loath to lose.”
“Never lost,” the younger Ciaran said. He laughed,
tallest of all his kindred, fairer than most and more lighthearted.
“I have scoured those hills often enough. I can ride through
them with less trouble now, if the King will, and maybe quicker
than Beorc, who knows? He has not had the hills for his hunting,
and I have.”
“Then you will carry lord Evald’s message,”
the King said. “Do you frame it for him, cousin, and let us
be done with it. I have given you all I will.”
A fell suspicion came on Evald then—that his cousin the
King had some fear of him, feared messages and secrets
passed—feared this kinship with him. It was a dark thought
and unworthy. Others followed it, as dark and fearful. He drove
them all away. “Lord King, my lord of Donn, my
gratitude.” He worked the ring from his finger. “My
steward’s likeness you can know from his son. Show this to
him. Speak to my lady: I send this ring to her. Tell her how things
stand. That whatever they hear they must hold a little time, and
the King will be coming at An Beag from the back.”
“Lord,” said the younger Ciaran, taking the ring,
“I will.”
“There will be peril in it,” Evald said.
“Aye,” said Ciaran, just that, which so quietly spoken
mended all his thoughts of Donn.
“Speed well,” Evald said earnestly,” and
safely.”
“Your leave, sir—lord King.” So
Ciaran embraced his father, but his brother would not, and excused
himself to the door of the tent.
“I am in your debt,”
said Evald quietly. His pride was hurt, and anger still rankled in
him, for it was less than he had wanted. A terrible fear was in him
that the King wished the war to go toward the dale and batter down
its strength awhile, for it was too rich and too well-situated and
its lord was a kinsman. But that was too dire, even thinking what
the war had come to. It was too great a waste. He looked on the
young man Ciaran as young and high-hearted as once he had been, and
all his heart went with the man as he walked from out the tent and
into the dying day. But he ached with his wounds, and there was
counsel to be held. He set his hand on Beorc’s shoulder,
silently wishing him to peace, and Beorc’s arm was hard and
stiff with anger.
So the King took counsel of them, how they should map the last
assault on An Beag and Damh and the Bradhaeth, while the cries of
the wounded and of the carrion crows mingled in the evening. Evald
shivered and drank his wine. He served the King as his father
would, if he had lived to see the day; and for his mother’s
sake; and little for his own.
“That is a good man they sent,” Beorc said quietly
while the King called for wine. “They speak well of the
youngest son of Donn.”
“So shall I,” Evald said, “of all Donn, ever
after this.”
As for Ciaran, he delayed little in his going, seeking after the
best horse he could lay hand to, taking his brother’s shield
with the crescent moon of Donn upon it, for his own was broken.
“Take care,” his brother said, Donnchadh, dark as he
was fair, less tall, less favored by the King or even by their
father.
“I shall,” Ciaran said soberly, seeing to the gear,
and took the wineflask his brother pressed on him. “That will
come welcome on the trail.”
“You should have kept silent. You never should have thrust
yourself into this.”
“It is no small message,” Ciaran said, “the
saving of the dale.”
“He never trusts the dale. Never. It is unsavory. And
never you forget it.”
“I shall not,” Ciaran said, and hung the shield on
his saddle, with the parcel of bread and meat a servant brought
him. He slung his sword there too, and turned and embraced his
brother longer than his wont at partings. “Evald galls the
King. But that is not saying he is no true man, far too true to
lose . . . Keep you safe, Donnchadh.”
“And you,” his brother said, holding him by the
arms. “You take it far too lightly. As you take
everything.”
“And you are far too worried. Is this more than riding
into the same hills with the enemy in strength in them? More to
fear is Dryw: I should hate him to take me for some wild man of the
Bradhaeth. Keep yourself safe. I will see you at Caer
Wiell—and I shall have been dining on plates and sleeping in
a fine soft bed, while you shiver in the dew, Donnchadh.”
“Do not speak of sleeping.”
“Ah, you are too full of omens. I shall fare better than
you do, and worry more for you before the walls than myself behind
them. Only see that you come quickly and we will push the rascals
north and be done with them. Be more cheerful,
Donnchadh.”
So he took his leave, and flung himself into the saddle and rode
away, taking the longer path at first, which was less littered by
the dead and seeming-dead. The smokes of fires lit the hills,
campfires and the fires lit by the pit where they dragged the
dead.
It was not an auspicious hour. He would gladly have rested. But
he served the King and lived to do it when others he knew had not.
And he had to take Dryw’s way through the hills and not fall
into ambush, either of Dryw or An Beag.
He lost no time in going now, through the wrack of war. Truth,
he was not as light about the matter as he had told Donnchadh, but
he saw ruin in delaying the army at Dun na h-Eoin, ruin for more
than Caer Wiell. It was twice Laochailan’s failing, to delay
too long upon a field and throw away half of what they had gained;
and the dale was too close to Donn. Now it was rushing all
downhill, the King on the verge of moving. He was, he hoped, the
first pebble before the landslide—for now Donn would give the
King no peace. And so they would remember this ride of his, he
thought, for he rode to herald not alone the battle for the dale,
but what might well prove the telling battle of all the years of
war.
The banners fluttered over the tumbled stones, the watchfires
flickered in the dusk, like stars across the plain. There was war.
It had raged from the Caerbourne to the Brown Hills to Aescford and
south again, for the King had risen, Laochailan son of Ruaidhrigh,
to claim the hall of his fathers, ruined as it was.
Evald had come, of course. He was among the first, riding out of
Caerdale to forestall the King’s worst enemies in the days
before the King declared himself. He came with Beorc Scaga’s
son, and armed men and no few stout farmers’ sons out of the
dale, with all the strength that he could muster. And Dryw the son
of the Dryw of Niall’s day, rode from the southern mountains
with the largest rising of that folk since Aescford. So Luel rose;
and Ban; they were expected. Latest came the folk of Caer Donn,
high in the hills: lord Ciaran led them. Ranged against them were
Damh and An Beag, the wild men of the Boglach Tiamhaidh, and the
bandit lords of the Bradhaeth and Lioslinn.
And the war was long, long and bitter, and Evald felt little of
glory in it: they named him in songs, but more and more he
understood the Cearbhallain, for what they sang as brave he
remembered most as mud and fear and being cold and hungry. But all
the same he fought, and when he had time to think at all, he spent
it missing Meredydd and his daughter and his fireside. He had pains
in his joints and his scars when it rained. A great deal of the war
seemed to be marching and riding, moving bands of men here and
there and forestalling the enemy at one point to have them break
out in another burning and looting of what they had lately made
safe, so that they had had great pains to make a border and to hold
it, for the marshes could never be trusted and the hills were full
of warfare.
But at Dun na h-Eoin all that had changed, where campfires
gathered and the enemy massed so many they looked like a blight
upon the land, their backs against the hills.
Then was a battle, fierce and long, fought from the breaking of
one day to the evening of the next, and the dark birds gathered
thick as the smoke had been before. But the King prevailed.
“Your leave,” Dryw ap Dryw asked of the King that
day on the field: “They’ll have no rest of
me.”
“Go,” said the King. Dryw was himself pale and
spattered with blood, straining at the recall like some hound
called back from the hunt. “Keep them on the move.”
So Dryw leapt onto his horse and gathered his men about him,
afoot, many of them, accustomed to move like shadows among the
hills.
“By your leave,” said Evald, “I would go with
Dryw. An Beag and Damh are old enemies of my hold—and they
have force left. The most of my men are here with me; if they should
come at Caer Wiell now—”
“We will come at their backs,” said the King.
“At all possible speed. Let Dryw harry them as he
can.”
“But Caer Wiell—” said Evald. His heart was
leaden in him looking around at the desolation, the clouds of birds
vying with the smokes of fires to darken the sky. It was not well
to dispute with Laochailan King; he was a man of middling height,
Laochailan, fair with eyes of a pale cold blue that never took
fire. He had outlived his counselors. They had held him on the
leash most of his life, and he was cold, seldom roused. Even in
battle his killing was cold; in policy he was deliberate and
immovable. And Evald turned his shoulder and strode away with a
turmoil in his thoughts. It was treason in his mind, but the will of
the Cearbhallain still held him, so that it was would and would not
with Evald. He was on the verge of gathering his folk and riding
away despite the King; Beorc Scaga’s son hurried to his side
seeing stormclouds in his eyes, seeing wrack and ruin in the offing,
on the bloody field.
“Cousin,” the King called after him.
Evald strode to a stop and turned, lifted his head, keeping his
anger behind his eyes. “My lord King.”
“I will not be scattering my men, some here, some there.
You will not be leaving this place without my will.”
“Caer Wiell was refuge for your cousin and stronghold for
men that held against all your enemies. It holds now against An
Beag and Caer Damh and makes their homecoming dangerous. My steward
is a capable man to hold against the force they left behind, but he
has too few men in his command. I have stripped my land, giving you
every man, every weapon I could bring. Now the onslaught comes at
Caer Wiell, and what profit to you if Caer Wiell should fall? You
would lose all the valley of the Caerbourne; and it would be strong
against you—as strong as it ever was for you, lord King, and
as dearly bought.”
Not even this brought passion to the King’s face.
“Do you think to ride against my command, cousin?”
For a moment breath and sense failed Evald. The field, the King,
the counselors about him swam in a bloody haze. They were close by
the ruins of Dun na h-Eoin: the black birds settled on its broken
walls to rest, some too sated to take wing. They began to pitch
tents, some bright with the green and gold and most leathern brown,
even among the slain, amid the wailing of the wounded. Men removed
the bodies, looting them too; or carried the wounded to what care
they could give them; or despatched the hopeless or the fallen
enemy. That was the manner of the King’s war, and the sound
and the stink of it muddled the mind and made right and wrong
unclear. Evald’s hand was on his sheathed sword; and blood
had gotten into his glove and dried about his fingers, whether his
own or others’ he had not yet explored. He thought only of
his home, and his eyes saw nothing clearly.
“Will you obey,” the King asked, “or
no?”
“The King knows I am loyal.”
“Then come. Come take
counsel with me. Now.”
Evald considered, looked at Beorc,
Scaga’s younger image, beside him. Beorc would ride; and
gladly. And thereafter they would be rebels against the King, and
no less to be hunted. If they were rebels, then the King might
fall, for Dryw would go with them, and so the southern mountains
and dale would do the thing that would ally them with An Beag and
Caer Damh, in deed though never in heart. And perhaps the King saw
that looming before him, since he had called him cousin twice in
the same address and spoke to him courteously. Laochailan was cold,
but he was clever too, outside the cold determination which had
peopled this field with dead. And he knew what was necessary.
“Come,” Evald said to Beorc quietly, and so they
went, across the littered field with its canebrake of spears
standing in corpses, of tattered banners of the Bogach and the
Bradheath of, death and agony.
They had pitched a tent for the King among the ruined stones of
Dun na h-Eoin, in the courtyard, by the struggling oak which had
somehow survived the fires. They had driven the pegs between the
shattered paving stones and into what had been a garden. Doves had
sung there. Now carrion crows flapped their dark and sluggish
wings, startled by their coming. And to this state the King
retreated, drawing with him others of the lords.
As they gathered, Evald glowered about him and tried to think
what there was to do—for he would far rather now have been
the least of men in Dryw’s company than the lord he was.
There was Beorc by him and no other, for he had no kinsman but the
King himself, a king who would as lief not remember that dark
history or how he had come to be. Ciaran of Donn was there with his
sons Donnchadh and Ciaran Cuilean, a fey and strange lot. Fearghal
of Ban came with his cousins, small dark men and blood-handed, like
Dalach of Caer Luel and his brothers. They were northerners all of
them and some from the plains, and none of them had any close ties
to the dale or the south.
So perforce Evald came into the tent with them, and bided his
time while the King’s servants helped Laochailan with his
armor and one brought them wine to drink. It was the color of
blood. Evald took the cup and it had the taste of it as well, a
coppery ugliness in the smoky air, the reek of sweat that was on
them.
“Dryw has sped after them,” the King said to those
who had not been there earliest. “He will keep them moving
and never give them rest.”
“I say again,” Evald began, but Laochailan King
turned that pale cold glance on him.
“You have said much,” said Laochailan. “You
try our patience.”
“I serve my King from a hold that has been his from my
father’s time.”
“From the Cearbhallain’s,” the King said softly, as if it had
to be explained, and the color leapt to Evald’s face.
“And your cousin’s, lord.” Evald kept his
voice steady, set down the cup and stripped the glove from his
hand. Some sword or axe had cut through the leather. The blood was
his. “As you kindly remember. I ask your leave—no, I
beg it, to go now and keep Caerdale in your hands. They will join
with their own forces. Dryw may not be enough for them when they
have gained what strength they have in their own holds. They will
gather forces again—”
“Do you lesson me in warfare?”
They were of an age, he and his King, born near the same year.
“I know my lord King has wide concerns. So I would
take this small one on myself.”
“And shall we all go riding to our own holds?” asked
Fearghal, ‘Two years it has taken to bring us and the
traitors to this field, and lord Evald would have us go each to his
own defense again.”
This field is half empty,” Evald said. “The enemy has gone,
has it passed your notice, lord of Ban? We sit here licking our
wounds while theirs will be healed when they have reinforced
themselves, and their strength be doubled if they should take Caer
Wiell. More than doubled. In its full strength, Caer Wiell could
hold for longer than we may have strength in us to hurl against it,
with all the Bradheath at our backs.”
“I will not have dissent,” said the King.
“That is deadlier than swords. Nor will I release any but
Dryw. His men are light-armed and apt to this kind of war. You fear
too much, cousin. Your steward is a skilled man in war; and Caer
Wiell has defenders. If anything An Beag is apt to draw off its
attackers to come in our faces, not against your lands.”
“That was not the way I learned An Beag. No. Pardon me,
lord King, but they know the value of Caer Wiell in their hands,
and I know An Beag, that they will take what chance they have. Dryw
may try but they may hold him in the hills—and I fear some
all out attack against Caer Wiell before this is done, sparing
nothing. We have hurt the enemy, never killed them. A wounded beast
is still to fear.”
“Is fear your counsel then? No, hear me. I will not divide
my forces. I will brook no talk of it.”
“Set us through the pass, lord King; and when you
come at their backs then we will be at their faces. If we are
divided, then reunite we will, over their corpses. But let Caer
Wiell fall and we will leave our corpses at every step we take into
the dale.”
The King’s fair face never turned color but his eyes were
cold. He lifted a hand that bore the Old King’s ring and
silenced the others with a gesture. “You are too forward. I
will not yield in this.”
“Lord,” Evald muttered, and bowed his head and took
np his cup again, moved off from the King’s presence, toward
Beorc who kept to the shadow, for he did not trust his wits or his
tongue just now. “Go,” he whispered to Beorc,
“take horse and take at least the message of what happened
here.”
“I will,” said Beorc, and bowed and was
almost out the door with a turn upon his heel, a hasty man like his
father.
“Recall your man,” the King said.
“Hold him!”
Spears came down athwart the doorway. “Beorc!” Evald
cried at once, knowing Beorc’s mind. Beorc stopped but
scantly short of harm, and lowered the hand he bad almost to his
sword.
“Where in such haste?” asked the King. “Dare I
guess?”
A lie tempted Evald. He rejected it and looked Laochailan in the
eye. “My messengers have the habit to come and go. Should the
enemy know more of what was done on this field than my own
folk?”
It was perilous. The King’s eye had that chillness that
went with his deepest wrath. “Cousin,” said Laochailan,
“messages are mine to send. Do you not agree?”
“Then I beg you send Beorc and quickly. He knows the
way.”
“I will not have it said a man of this host vent home, not
the lord of Caer Wiell, not his steward’s son, not the least
man of his following.”
“Lord King,” said Ciaran of Caer Donn. “But a
messenger—there is treachery in An Beag and Damh. There would
be no whispering in the camp at this man’s going. It would be
well understood—at least by Donn. The dale is at our
doorstep, and if Caer Wiell should fall it would be like the old
days, with burning and looting in the hills. A messenger to give
them heart and ourselves to come at the backs of our
enemies—but we will be slow. We have the longer way to go.
And what if their heart failed them in Caer Wiell?”
“You make yourself a part of this contention,” the
King said wryly, and he frowned, for Donn had favor with him.
“But Caer Wiell will have no lack of heart. After all, they
defend their own lives. And that is trustworthy in these
dalemen.”
“Lord,” Evald said, hot with passion, “but the
choice of a defender might be a sortie if he hoped for no
help—they are brave, my folk, but they may also be
desperate.”
“Lord King.” It was a voice hitherto unheard in
council, Ciaran Cuilean, the younger son of Donn. “You gave
your word no man of us should go home before the war is done. But
Caer Wiell is not my home. And I know the hills.”
There was a deep frown on his father’s face and on his
brother Donnchadh’s. But the King turned to him with his
anger sinking. “So. Here is one man who has the gift of
courtesy. And one I would be loath to lose.”
“Never lost,” the younger Ciaran said. He laughed,
tallest of all his kindred, fairer than most and more lighthearted.
“I have scoured those hills often enough. I can ride through
them with less trouble now, if the King will, and maybe quicker
than Beorc, who knows? He has not had the hills for his hunting,
and I have.”
“Then you will carry lord Evald’s message,”
the King said. “Do you frame it for him, cousin, and let us
be done with it. I have given you all I will.”
A fell suspicion came on Evald then—that his cousin the
King had some fear of him, feared messages and secrets
passed—feared this kinship with him. It was a dark thought
and unworthy. Others followed it, as dark and fearful. He drove
them all away. “Lord King, my lord of Donn, my
gratitude.” He worked the ring from his finger. “My
steward’s likeness you can know from his son. Show this to
him. Speak to my lady: I send this ring to her. Tell her how things
stand. That whatever they hear they must hold a little time, and
the King will be coming at An Beag from the back.”
“Lord,” said the younger Ciaran, taking the ring,
“I will.”
“There will be peril in it,” Evald said.
“Aye,” said Ciaran, just that, which so quietly spoken
mended all his thoughts of Donn.
“Speed well,” Evald said earnestly,” and
safely.”
“Your leave, sir—lord King.” So
Ciaran embraced his father, but his brother would not, and excused
himself to the door of the tent.
“I am in your debt,”
said Evald quietly. His pride was hurt, and anger still rankled in
him, for it was less than he had wanted. A terrible fear was in him
that the King wished the war to go toward the dale and batter down
its strength awhile, for it was too rich and too well-situated and
its lord was a kinsman. But that was too dire, even thinking what
the war had come to. It was too great a waste. He looked on the
young man Ciaran as young and high-hearted as once he had been, and
all his heart went with the man as he walked from out the tent and
into the dying day. But he ached with his wounds, and there was
counsel to be held. He set his hand on Beorc’s shoulder,
silently wishing him to peace, and Beorc’s arm was hard and
stiff with anger.
So the King took counsel of them, how they should map the last
assault on An Beag and Damh and the Bradhaeth, while the cries of
the wounded and of the carrion crows mingled in the evening. Evald
shivered and drank his wine. He served the King as his father
would, if he had lived to see the day; and for his mother’s
sake; and little for his own.
“That is a good man they sent,” Beorc said quietly
while the King called for wine. “They speak well of the
youngest son of Donn.”
“So shall I,” Evald said, “of all Donn, ever
after this.”
As for Ciaran, he delayed little in his going, seeking after the
best horse he could lay hand to, taking his brother’s shield
with the crescent moon of Donn upon it, for his own was broken.
“Take care,” his brother said, Donnchadh, dark as he
was fair, less tall, less favored by the King or even by their
father.
“I shall,” Ciaran said soberly, seeing to the gear,
and took the wineflask his brother pressed on him. “That will
come welcome on the trail.”
“You should have kept silent. You never should have thrust
yourself into this.”
“It is no small message,” Ciaran said, “the
saving of the dale.”
“He never trusts the dale. Never. It is unsavory. And
never you forget it.”
“I shall not,” Ciaran said, and hung the shield on
his saddle, with the parcel of bread and meat a servant brought
him. He slung his sword there too, and turned and embraced his
brother longer than his wont at partings. “Evald galls the
King. But that is not saying he is no true man, far too true to
lose . . . Keep you safe, Donnchadh.”
“And you,” his brother said, holding him by the
arms. “You take it far too lightly. As you take
everything.”
“And you are far too worried. Is this more than riding
into the same hills with the enemy in strength in them? More to
fear is Dryw: I should hate him to take me for some wild man of the
Bradhaeth. Keep yourself safe. I will see you at Caer
Wiell—and I shall have been dining on plates and sleeping in
a fine soft bed, while you shiver in the dew, Donnchadh.”
“Do not speak of sleeping.”
“Ah, you are too full of omens. I shall fare better than
you do, and worry more for you before the walls than myself behind
them. Only see that you come quickly and we will push the rascals
north and be done with them. Be more cheerful,
Donnchadh.”
So he took his leave, and flung himself into the saddle and rode
away, taking the longer path at first, which was less littered by
the dead and seeming-dead. The smokes of fires lit the hills,
campfires and the fires lit by the pit where they dragged the
dead.
It was not an auspicious hour. He would gladly have rested. But
he served the King and lived to do it when others he knew had not.
And he had to take Dryw’s way through the hills and not fall
into ambush, either of Dryw or An Beag.
He lost no time in going now, through the wrack of war. Truth,
he was not as light about the matter as he had told Donnchadh, but
he saw ruin in delaying the army at Dun na h-Eoin, ruin for more
than Caer Wiell. It was twice Laochailan’s failing, to delay
too long upon a field and throw away half of what they had gained;
and the dale was too close to Donn. Now it was rushing all
downhill, the King on the verge of moving. He was, he hoped, the
first pebble before the landslide—for now Donn would give the
King no peace. And so they would remember this ride of his, he
thought, for he rode to herald not alone the battle for the dale,
but what might well prove the telling battle of all the years of
war.