His mind continued to seek pleasant memories. He was undisturbed as he had requested; not even Branwen came to press food on him. He relived in his mind that battle with the Picts, and him alone against their four, dark and squat with blue paint on their powerful bodies. He remembered his fear that day-and how it had gone, vanished, so that he became what Midhir had so long counselled and demanded: a pure weapon-man. A creature of lightning judgment and reflex-and muscle. Thus had he fared, until four Picts lay dead, the last as surprised as the first. And their conqueror was hardly scratched, the lad they’d sought to make easy victim.
And…
Afternoon deepened the more. Light had long since ceased to find its way into the commandroom of Art. At last he who sat there seemed to come awake, as though he’d been asleep or away. He sighed in the manner of an old man. Realization came on him then; he had accomplished naught by sitting and mourning. Naught would ever be accomplished by wallowing in the past. There was much to be accomplished. Questions wanted answering. Art was dead. Cormac lived, and must live.
No questions will be answered by my sitting and mourning, dwelling in the yester days and mooning for a time that was happier! He gave a few seconds to that thought, and he never did it again. Once again Cormac mac Art began to live for today and tomorrow.
He rose, and frowned at the twinge in his back, at the kinks he felt. On impulse he pounced across the room. That was of some value; he paced, lifting his legs exaggeratedly high while cranking both arms, swinging them in half- and then in full-circles, meanwhile dropping occasionally into a squat or bending from the waist, stiff-legged.
Then Cormac left that chamber of memories.
It was not Sualtim’s quiet counsel he’d seek now; let tomorrow be put off a bit longer. He’d find purpose and some release in the lighter-weight company of Midhir. A moment’s reflection put another thought into his head. He’d ask Midhir for a working out with arms.
With that thought, he went to his own quarters. There he donned quilted long jerkin of leather, with its pendent crotch-protector. With his strength he could get easily into his coat of chain, without aid. He spread its oiled leather wrapping on the desk with which his father had surprised him on a birthday five years agone. On it he laid his coat of linked circles of chain. Bending to ease it up his arms, he mused on his growth. He had reached his father’s height seven months agone-and had not stopped growing.
Was his fourth coat of armour, this one that had been Midhir’s. The making and linking of slim steel rings into armour was a lengthy process of painstaking labour and considerable skill, his father had impressed upon him. Grow more, Art had said, and he could have a new coat next year, made for himself. Cormac swallowed. Would he ever see that promised mail?
At present, Midhir’s chaincoat fit. Midhir was thick and brawny; Cormac was built more rangily, with muscles like those of a cat. Already Midhir’s coat fell not so low on the youth as it had on the man of twoscore and one. Having pulled it up his arms and, with a little grunt, over his head-the while being careful about his ears and face-he let it jingle down his body and moved his shoulders under its weight, nigh twoscore pounds. He strapped on his scabbard-belt with its huge clasp of shining brass, pulled his buckler from the wall. Brass-faced and leather-backed it was, over the thick circle of wood, with both its bracer and grip padded with leather over wool. Sliding his hand through the bracer, he fisted the grip and departed the room. His cloak was heavy on his shoulders; the bearskin collar extended halfway down his back.
His stomach snarled, and he made Branwen relatively happy by stuffing his mouth with ham and his hand with pan-bread. Was not enough, she scolded; but he pointed to his overfull mouth, made a few wordless sounds, and left.
Outside he was greeted with restraint, the way that he durst not smile had the urge come on him. Midhir he found armed and wearing a leathern armour-coat, watching two youngsters. They worked away with smallish bucklers and leather-covered swords of wood. The warrior was happy to have his company sought by Cormac, and happy to be drawn away.
They walked in silence to the gate. Midhir gestured; they were passed through and set out across the broad plain. They talked, now.
The fact of death was one thing. That it had been murder was another. Who had slain Art mac Comail? Why? Could it have been an act of the moment, an act of rage; or… had someone wanted the man dead?
“If so,” Midhir said, “then it’s yourself’s in great danger, Cormac. For he’ll want the son in the earth with the father.”
“I cannot believe it. Who?”
“That,” Midhir said as they walked toward the woods, “we must learn.”
Cormac’s brain churned. Aye, And-how?”
“And then it’s vengeance ye must have, lad. It’s a matter for blood-feud.”
“Agreed, Midhir. And-”
“Know that whatever the situation may be or become at Glondrath, Cormac, Midhir mac Fionn will ever be with you.” Midhir slapped his swordhilt. “Vengeance, Cormac! Vengeance for Art!”
“Aye, and I’m thanking ye, Midhir. But-”
“Gods of my fathers-Art murdered! Vengeance I say, blood-feud and vengeance I vow, friend of my life!” And Midhir’s sword scraped partway out of his sheath in his passion.
And of a sudden Cormac mac Art grew older still.
Of a sudden he was aware of a great difference between himself and this pure man of weapons. Cormac had been trained by him, aye, until he was the equal and then the better of the master. He had also been trained, though, by Sualtim Fodla. Trained not to go thundering-blundering ever forward without taking careful stock, and counsel with himself. True, that thinking was to be done with all swiftness. Consideration and planning, these he had been taught-and to seek the answer that was not so obvious as a gnat perched on his nose.
“We have no name, Midhir. Whom shall we suspect? We-”
“We shall have a name!”
“Aye,” Cormac said, with a long aspiration. “Nor do we know whether it’s a plotter we seek, or… someone who… flew into a rage.” He was only just able to govern his voice then, and he paused a moment to gain control. “There is much to learn, Midhir, and more matters to be considered than we have knowledge of.”
“What matter? We find him! If it’s ten of them there be, we find and do death on ten then, Cormac Bear-slayer! Here-this path. ’Ware that fallen branch.”
The coolth and dimness of the woods closed about them. Cormac strove to explain. He had no notion of his own future, much less of his father’s slayer. He was glad he would at least have Midhir for companion, that he be not totally alone, now. Still, he had learned well his lessons from Sualtim and Art mac Comail. When there was opportunity, the two men of wisdom had impressed upon him, and the contemplated act merited action, it must needs be second to thinking and planning.
“And swift,” the voice of hiss father intoned in his mind, “as the situation demands.”
The pure man of action at his side hardly understood, and as they paced into the woods they were nigh to arguing. Midhir but stated that which to him was obvious.
“And shall I be taking spear and buckler and sword, then, and setting out in quest of the slayer?”
Midhir slammed first into palm.
“Aye! O’course!”
“And in which direction, Midhir?”
Midhir walked in silence.
“And what name shall we be putting on him, this man I go after this instant?”
In silence Midhir talked, and with a frown upon him. Cormac knew then that the man was alive because of his arms-expertise, his prowess and strength-and through good fortune. Nor did mac Art know that the time would come when he would team with another man of similar make-up and mentality, and him a huge flame-bearded Dane… and that mac Art’s counsel would prevail.
“Midhir.”