“Methinks it is. And with a sumpter horse behind, and gold in your pack. Cormac. Attend me. I vow to yourself and to Behl that I shall give myself over to discovering the murderers, the identity of the plotters. And when I have information, I’ll be sending for you. Cormac-here. Tarry a moment.”
They paused amid the trees while Sualtim removed the plain lunula he wore on other than ceremonial occasions. Borrowing the much younger man’s dagger, he scratched a simple rune on its back. The druid returned the knife and bade Cormac note the mark, and commit it to memory.
“Should one bring this lunula to you, know that Sualtim has learned somewhat and has information and has sent for you. Even so, Cormac-come with care.”
Cormac nodded wordlessly; in truth just now he trusted not his throat to speak. They walked on through the wood, and Sualtim talked, and talked; his words held advice for a man now, and him alone, without family or land amid strangers. Cormac essayed to be attentive though his mind strove to wander off along the murky and fearfraught paths of might-be.
When they reached Glondrath, the two had agreed to tell none others of the decision and plan. Cormac took that which was his: his father’s sword and its’ sheath though he left behind the well-known buckler. Art’s great bearhide mantle he took as well, and a few trifles. None would question Sualtim; he it was who loaded himself with salable treasures and supplies sufficient for several days’ travel without hunting. With those packs Sualtim entered the wood until he was out of sight of the rath. Cormac, on his father’s fine black horse, rode along another trail and turned to wend through the trees only when he too was invisible to the people that had been his father’s.
The two came together in a little glade nigh in the little-used trail that led northeastward through the trees to the northern kingdoms of Eirrin: Ailech where lay Tir Connail, and Airgialla, and Dal Ariadi wherin lay both Dalriada and Ulahd that was Ulster, site of the New God’s main bishopric in Armagh.
Supplies and wherewithal they transferred to the broad back of Dubheitte: Blackwing, with Sualtim muttering that it was past time the sons of Eirrin emulated even the Romans in some things, and struck coins to simplify trading. The two gazed upon each other, and then Cormac remounted the big black horse that was ever anxious to gallop. Again the two men gazed one upon the other with misty eyes, until the younger suddenly set his jaw very tightly and rode away along the trail that would take him around the mountain that was Glondrath’s northern border. Nor did he look back.
After him Sualtim called words Cormac had heard from afore: “Cum do ghreim, Cormac, ’s than eagal duit.” And Sualtim Fodla repeated the injunction: “Keep your calm, Cormac, and there is no fear on you.”
Cormac heard, and rode, and did not look back.
Perhaps an hour later he drew restless Dubheitte to a halt. He sat, staring at naught, easing the rein so, the horse could worry the short new grass and taste its sweetness. Frowning, Cormac reflected.
Gods, what thoughts! Behl protect and Crom defend-that it’s to this I’ve come!
The ugly thoughts, persisted. He had trusted Sualtim all his life. Aye. And so had his father, and Midhir. As all three had trusted Aengus.
Now, his life shattered at the bloom of manhood and all three men torn from him by treachery and murder, he was no longer certain of anything… or anyone. Dared he trust even his lifelong mentor, a druid of the gods themselves?
Sualtim would learn nothing, Cormac mused. Sualtim would never send for him.
And if he did… how could Cormac be sure that he was not thus summoned into a trap?
O ye gods and blood of the gods! Surely not Sualtim…
But he could not be certain.
And only Sualtim knew wither he was bent.
Nay, he dared trust no one he knew, and no one in this land at all, or in the northern kingdoms; Sualtim knew he was headed thence, and others would guess.
In an agony that had been unremitting for days and was far more than any youth or man should have to bear, Cormac decided. He would ride not north, but eastward, to Leinster. That southeastern kingdom was shrouded by a long history of rivalry with both Connacht and Meath where lay Tara. Aye! And there would he keep open his eyes and ears. Leinster was full of priests; priest-ridden Laigen, Art had called it. There he would seek-with care!-to discover hint of the identity of those who’d ordered his father slain, those who had subverted Aengus mac Domnail.
And when he learned the name or names, found the men, whether they abode in Leinster or Meath, Munster or little Osraige, Connacth or Ailech, Airgialla or Ulahd or DalRiadia to the far northeast… then would the son of Art take his revenge. Aye and with Art’s own sword, and none would deter him.
With his youthful face set as granite, he tugged at Dubheitte’s reins, jerking up the horse’s head so that the beast snorted and half reared, eyes rolling for enemy or quarry. Then Cormac clucked and loosed the reins a little, so that Dubheitte set off eastward, toward Leinster, and a new life-and the unknown. Thus did Cormac mac Art depart Rath Glondarth, and Connacht, like a thief in the night. Nor did he glance back.
PART TWO
Chapter Six:
Partha mac Othna of Ulster
The sky roofed the Leinsterish coast with a deep blue shot with fingers of gold and grey. Along the strand rode a weapon-man. With a low curse of exasperation, he reined in, dismounted, and stepped away from his horse to answer a call of nature grown urgent. He moved overly far from the animal and his booted spear, as it turned out; appearing as if from nowhere, two savages surprised the Gael.
Dark, squat, half naked, they shrieked awful wolf-howls designed to freeze the very marrow of their prey. The man in the sleeved blue tunic under armour-coat of black leather proved no bloodfrozen rabbit; he defended himself with sword and buckler. The flinty heads of axes clashed on wooden shield and steel clove the air with malevolent whines. Sparks flew from the clash of ax-head and rim of shield.
Above the strand and a few yards inland, another Gael was peering about in quest of a spot for nightcamp. Without cheer he seemed, and on him the look of one weary of the saddle. Yet at the sounds of armed conflict he straightened and twisted his head about on a thick neck. Erect, rangy and tall in mailcoat and helm, he listened. Then he reined his mount, about, and cantered to the lip of the promontory. Below was beach, and the sea separating Eirrin from Britain. It shimmered out to a slate-hued horizon; the dying sun hovered at world’s edge behind him.
Moving his great black horse closer to the declivity that ran gently down to the strand, he surveyed the water’s edge.
He saw the man beset by two Picts, and he saw too what they did not: five more Cruithne were running toward the scene of battle. In a few seconds they would arrive; in a few more the lone Gael would surely be dead-or worse, hacked down and not dead.
The youthful rider of the black horse did that which he would pause to consider, in years to come: Cormac of Connacht spurred down the slope to the aid of a stranger, presumably a weaponman of Leinster. He made another decision:
An old warrior had once come to Glondarth, and told Cormac’s father of his years as a reaver. Once he and his fellows had taken a Roman ship, up north of Britain. Amid the spoils was a handsome vase, of Greek origin. The man swore that it depicted mounted Achaians spearing enemies. This, he and Art of Connacht had agreed with laughter, was why the Greeks were governed from Rome! True, such a maneuver was not guaranteed to drive a man straight back off his horse on impact of spearhead with shield or armoured flesh, but the probability was akin to that of a black cloud’s bearing rain. Art’s son watched Midhir and others practice the tactic. They soon decided that were a man not afoot or in a chariot where he belonged, he’d best use ax or sword and consider his spear either as a throwing weapon or excess baggage. Nor was Cormac trained much as a horse-soldier; his people were hardly known for mounted combat.