Brothers in Arms; the re-awakening

The dale was sheltered and verdant and the horses were grazing happily nearby.

“How did they manage to ambush us so easily?” pondered Donal, wondering how he had been taken by surprise. A professional soldier, it had been worrying him since it had happened, and he was keen to learn the lesson well so that it would not happen again; a soldier often did not get such a second chance.

“It was probably mostly our own doing,” said Jac, “They may have been close enough behind us to see our torches, and while we were being slowed down both by the mind-meld and by having to lead both Targon and Kitti, they also had the advantage of the spell, without in turn being delayed by the effort of having to maintain it. Although, in turn, we should have been able to see their torches. I still don’t understand quite how they got ahead of us; one of them may have known the caves almost as well as myself.”

“Know the caves as well as you? That would take at lot of doing,” said Ethan.

“Fortunately they must have underestimated us, and they did not send all their force; how many attacked us? Seven? Eight?” Jac queried.

“I counted seven corpses, - and there was one who would have been far better off dead,” said Kitti with a shudder, “They obviously did not expect such a fierce defence. Donal had clearly been identified as our only trained fighter; hopefully it will be a while before they realize that none of their party will be coming back, and presumably whichever one of them knew the passage of the caves as well as Jac, if that’s possible, is one of the dead.”

“You sure can handle a sword, big fella,” said Ethan to Donal.

“And more than that,” said Targon, “You took the arrows that were meant for Kitti and I. That was a very brave act - it is all too clear that you are no mercenary; but then I knew that already from the mind-search.”

“In that case I must also thank Jac,” said Donal, “I had no choice but to pull out the arrows there and then, otherwise they would have encumbered my movements too greatly. I only took such a risk because I remembered how well he had healed my wounds the last time, and I hoped that he would again have the skill to mend them; and my trust in him proved to be well founded.”

“It was not all my own doing; there is a great healing in you,” said Jac, “Your life-force runs strong and burns bright as a flame - I can almost see it with my eyes closed. As a healer my intention is to focus it into the tissues around the wound – that is why your wounds ceased bleeding so quickly; they should knit well, though maybe with a few more scars.

“But there was something else I noticed,” he continued, “The quarrels were aimed at Targon, Kitti and I, even though Donal and Ethan would have made much larger, easier, and in Ethan’s case, clumsier targets; so why were they not chosen?”

“It is all too obvious,” said Kitti to Donal, “The Mfecane has chosen you. They wanted to slay us first and then to subdue you and take you alive; they clearly mean to use you for their own ends.”

“Taking us will be one thing,” said Ethan, “Getting us to do what they want will be something else entirely.”

“And you acquitted yourself well once again,” said Jac, turning to him, “Although parrying his blade with your bare arm was a trifle unorthodox. I’d say your opponent had never experienced anything so foolhardy before; although it worked this time, I’d not recommend it again. You were very lucky that his knife did not sever any arteries or nerves, else it may not have been so simple to treat; there are limits even to my medical skills. It was also fortunate the blade was so sharp; if it had been blunt, the wound would have been more ragged and dangerous.”

“Hey, it’s a case of any port in a storm,” said Ethan, unrepentant, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. It was either that or get my head chopped off. It was only my left arm anyhow; I’d hardly have missed it at all - I only need it for playing poker.”

“Still,” said Donal, “If an opponent had attempted such a parry against a stroke of mine I would have chopped his arm off. It only shows that we will have to work even harder on your tuition.”

“I was hoping you’d forget it this morning for once,” groaned Ethan.

“Get your sword,” said Donal shortly, as he rose.

They set off for Jac’s home in high spirits, even Ethan’s cantankerous demeanour not long surviving the general good humour; they had agreed to defer any further discussion on the mysterious Brotherhood until they reached their next destination, which was still some distance away to the south-east. Jac wished to take a roundabout route to further discomfit any persistent trackers, although by now they were all confident that they had shaken off any possible pursuit.

The weather matched their spirits; bright sunny skies and a pleasantly cool morning and evening. The shared ordeal had increased their trust in each other, and the conversation was more open and friendly. Less guarded and defensive now, Kitti would sing for them as they rode, Targon sometimes even managing to accompany her on the lute, although the paths Jac lead them on were still uneven and both hands were usually needed on the reins.

Donal and Ethan did not fail to notice Jac’s attentiveness to the music.

“Perhaps you should offer him some worldly advice,” suggested the amused Irishman to his companion, “He surely likes the girl, but he seems at an utter loss about how to press his suit.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Ethan, “My advice, good though it might be, would probably just go in one ear and out the other. When it comes to the ladies, anything worth knowing is never taught. Fellas his age have to learn the hard way, I’m afraid, just like you and I had to. He’ll have to walk up and say, ” Hey girlie, I like you, will you go out with me?,” and hope for the best; there ain’t no other way. Love’s a funny thing, ain’t it? Hey, Jac”, he shouted ahead, “Do you like the singing?”

“A duet between Kitti and yourself would indeed be very pleasant,” called Donal, “I would travel a long way to hear such a melodious sound.”

Jac looked back briefly in annoyance, but affected to ignore the laughter which followed the remark.

After a few days’ ride, they crested the last hill and rode down into Jac’s home valley, which was every bit as pleasant as he had described. The sides of the valley were steep and well wooded with copses and stands of oak, beech and ash. The centre of the valley was a grassy meadow in which cows were grazing contentedly, and right down the middle ran a swift-flowing stream. The river-banks were also wooded generously with hazel, alder and willow, all with their different shades of green. Near the top of the valley, where the arms of the hills reached round to meet each other, a small settlement nestled in a curve of the stream, and Jac, leaving them behind, galloped ahead towards it, his expression boyish and radiant. Ethan and Donal smiled at each other paternally.

“Real nice-looking country,” said Ethan, Donal nodding approvingly, “I can see why the young fella has been so keen to be getting home.”

“Seven years is a long time at his age, Ethan,” observed Donal, “But for you and I, merely a pittance.”

“Yep,” said Ethan, “as they used to say in Ireland, “The old dog for the hard road, and the pup for the path.” Fella called Yeats said that, I think.”

Jac had given them clear directions; “Yeah, just in case us country-folk get lost; like it’s our first time in the big city,” Ethan had said; and by the time they reached the farm, a two-storied wooden house at the end of a tree-lined avenue, Jac’s parents were waiting to welcome them. His father, his hand outstretched in greeting, looked younger than they had expected; his hair was still dark and only slightly graying at the temples. He was taller than Jac, but with his son’s wiry frame and bright, alert eyes. His wife was small and slim, with long dark hair flowing to her waist and a quick, easy smile, and she kept her arm around her son, as if afraid that if did she not hold on to him tightly enough he would disappear again for another seven years. At their feet was a shy little girl with hair a mass of golden curls, who stared at the strangers with wide astonished eyes from behind her mother’s skirts. Jac himself had eyes only for the little girl.

“Rosie, Rosie,” he called softly, reaching to her, but she only retreated further behind her mother.

“She’s never seen me before,” he explained to the others through his delighted laughter, “She doesn’t know I’m her big brother. She was born since I left home; I have a little sister and I didn’t know it - till now,” he crowed and tried to pick her up again. This time she let him, although still a little reluctantly, and he hugged her tightly before running over, holding her up in the air like a trophy, to show her off proudly to his friends.

“Meet my little sister Rosie,” he said, “Only three years old; and already a beauty.”

“A lovely child,” said Donal.

“Real pretty little thing, right enough,” agreed Ethan, “obviously doesn’t take after you.”

“She has your eyes, Jac,” said Kitti, reaching up to stroke Rose’s hair. To their surprise the little girl gave a delighted squeal, wriggled free of Jac’s grasp, ran over and jumped into Kitti’s arms, hugging her tightly round the neck.

“Wish her brother had enough guts to do the same,” whispered Ethan to Donal.

Jac was unperturbed by the temporary loss of Rosie’s affections.

“This is my father, Kyram,” he announced, more formally.

Kyram stepped forward and welcomed them all courteously but with obvious warmth.

“And my mother, Sosanna.”

Sosanna’s welcome was in contrast to her husbands. She skipped forward and hugged each one, including Kitti, whose habitual reserve had already been partly broken down by Rosie.

“Where are your manners, Kyram?” she demanded “Would you keep our guests standing in the cold all day? Ye’ve been standing out here for long enough. Come in now at once to the kitchen; you all look like you could be doing with something warm inside.”

Kyram nodded amiably and escorted them with grave good manners into the house, which was spacious, with bedrooms for all of them and a plentiful supply of hot water.

“You will be safe here”, said Kyram.

For a little while, thought Donal.

Donal found himself unable to sleep, despite their comfortable pallets. He got up and dressed silently, before slipping down the stairs and out into the cool night air. He walked down to the river and stood under an old alder tree, it’s branches reflected by the moonlight on the ripples, listening with quiet pleasure to the gentle sound of the lapping water. The alders had been common in his old country; lining the lakes and rivers all across the land, they were said to be guardians of the purity of the waters. There were bluebells in the moonshade under the alder boughs and they gave off a soft and subtle scent which further reminded him of home; the great oak forests in springtime, the meadow briefly yet richly laden with the little blue flowers. He felt a momentary pang for his lost homeland, but then was distracted by a noise behind him. Without looking, he knew at once that it was

Ethan.

“Can’t sleep either, Irishman, huh?” said Ethan, “We must be getting too accustomed to life on the run. Seems to me we’ve nearly been here too long already; I keep expecting something to disturb me just as I get myself snug and warm in my bed. This kind of place is just too darned comfortable for the likes of us, isn’t it?”

“Then let us enjoy it while we have the chance, Ethan. Whatever perils we have so far had to face, I fear that much greater hardships and trials lie ahead in wait for us,” said Donal pragmatically, “Whatever the reason we have been brought here for, I doubt it is to dwell in comfort and safety in a pleasant valley and in the company of friends.”

There was a soft splash in the darkness out on the river and Donal tensed automatically.

“Relax, big guy,” said Ethan, “Just a fish jumpin’ to take a fly. Hey, there’s a thought; when all this fuss is over why don’t you and I take a vacation for a few weeks, head for the hills and do some real fishing. I’ve seen some fish in these rivers as big as whales.”

“I would like that very much,” said Donal, smiling, “Though I am very glad that they are not whales; I have encountered the giants of the sea many times, and though they are gentle creatures they can be fierce enemies when roused.”

“Did you hunt ’em?” asked Ethan.

“Aye,” said Donal, “But only once, and as I struck the killing blow I looked into it’s eyes and saw not just pain but confusion also; it was like killing a brother, and I swore that day that never again would I join the hunt.”

They stood for a while in silence, contentedly watching the river flow by, before returning to the house. There they found Kyram sitting by a re-kindled fire, studying a book. As they watched he turned one of the pages, using the greatest of care, as if afraid the paper might tear at the slightest touch. The page crackled as he smoothed it down and Donal could see him tracing the outline of an symbol with a finger, as if it was unfamiliar and he was trying hard to recall exactly what it might

mean.

“Come in and be seated, my friends,” he said, “We have much to talk about.”

He lifted a jug and poured a dark liquid into two plain but sturdy tankards.

“Try it,” he suggested, offering it to them with what Donal felt was an appraising look, “It is a wine we brew ourselves. We add an hallucinogen - only temporary, of course - which leaves a slightly astringent but not unpleasant aftertaste. The additive stimulates our thinking; I have had a few draughts already and, by the sword, I need a few more now.”

Donal sat down close to the fire to enjoy it’s warmth, and took a cautious mouthful of the brew, swilling it around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing it. Long experience of smoking opium had made him very circumspect about tasting such substances. The taste was not unlike whiskey; grainy, almost peaty, a brief harsh rush when swallowed and then an unusual aftertaste. He sat back, still savouring the taste, and regarded his host keenly; there was an air of mastery, of command, about Kyram, which seemed incongruous in such rustic and pastoral surroundings. Donal had seen such an air before; Godfrey had possessed it, of course, enough of it for more than a thousand men, and Bohemond and Tancred, but in all of those men it had been brazen, a challenge, a sign of their naked ambition, and almost a flaw. In Kyram, by contrast, it seemed repressed, denied and hidden, as if he was trying to rid himself of it, or at least to conceal or disguise it from others.

Farmer he might be now, but to Donal’s practiced eye it was clear that he at some time had held high military office. And yet he is not much older than I, thought Donal; yet another mystery to be solved.

Over the hearth was a small bronze plaque Donal had not noticed before. It showed a lone sword laid across a burning castle; the castle was superimposed on what looked like a map, possibly of the lands of the Free Nations, Donal thought.

Kyram looked up from the book again and shook his head sadly.

“I had hoped to spare him all this,” he said, with a deep sigh.

“The lad acquitted himself well,” said Donal, “I am not easily impressed, but for one of his years he showed great wisdom and courage, and he led us to safety through many perils. Mark it well, Kyram, if not for your son’s bravery and skill both Ethan and I would have been slain as soon as we arrived.”

“That’s about right,” agreed Ethan, “But for Jac, we’d have been buzzard-meat by now. He didn’t have to help us against the shrikes, either; he could just have gone his own way and been as happy as Larry. But he stuck with us and saw us through, even if he did drag us through those damn awful caves; though I guess he didn’t have much choice about that. He’s a real sparky young fella, no doubt about that.

And you should see the way he handles a sword!”

“You mean like this?” said Kyram, with a smile which betrayed more than just a trace of bitterness. He took two slim blades from a high shelf, and began to weave them up and down in the same mesmeric fashion Jac had used, before throwing and burying them with pinpoint accuracy simultaneously in the dead centre of an old wooden shield which hung on the wall more than twenty paces away. The shield fell to the ground with a clatter and rolled away into a corner before settling

to a stop.

Ethan laughed, “He’s his father’s son, for sure.”

Kyram turned to look at Donal.

“You mentioned safety,” he said, “but perhaps there can be no safety anywhere for either one of you - or for Jac, for that matter.”

He sighed then, a great heartfelt sigh, full of loss and weariness.

“I thought that by sending him to the monastery he could be spared his destiny. He was young, idealistic; he had no understanding of war and death. I wanted him to become a healer; and it was his wish also, although I hated to lose him for so many years. He is still not so very tall, I know, but he has grown so much, so much”, his tone became anguished, “since last I saw him, and I gather from what you say that he has learned other skills, besides those that the Healers would have taught him; learned other skills, skills which are fell and perilous, and learned them all too well, it seems.”

Donal did not like the critical tone in Kyram’s voice, and spoke up at once in Jac’s defence.

“In my short time here I have already seen that this is a dangerous land. He would have had no choice in the matter; healer or no, the lad had to learn how to defend himself.”

“Do not mistake me,” said Kyram, “I place no blame at all; I could not be any more proud of him. It is only that my own plans for him have gone so sadly awry. And there is more, I am afraid,” said Kyram, setting another log in place on the fire, and stirring the coals with a poker until bright yellow flames began to surge hungrily around it’s sides.

“Why am I not surprised to hear that?” said Ethan.

Kyram gestured, indicating the book he had been reading.

“The Book of Portents contains an ancient prophecy. Our people used to set great store by it and in older times would pray enthusiastically for it to come to pass, but now it has fallen into disrepute and has been largely forgotten. Like most of my compatriots I never believed in it - till now, and now the pages seem to come alive before my eyes. It speaks clearly of you, Donal, and in more opaque references, which have never before been clearly understood, of you also, Ethan. But now I am afraid; terribly, terribly afraid, so afraid that it crushes me, afraid that it speaks of my son also.

“Such a long time in a boy’s life; seven years I have lost, seven years of watching him grow up, seven years of cherishing him, seven years that can never be returned to me, and instead I suffered seven years of loss. And now I find that my loss and heartbreak have been all for nothing; he steps back into our lives in the company of legends and wrapped in shrouds of doom and prophecy. And I had thought to protect him from this,” Kyram spoke ruefully.

“You were ill-advised in such an endeavour. Sometimes by trying to avoid that which we fear most we only call that very thing upon us. Better to face up to it like a man and take whatever may come. But the lad speaks of you with great fondness,” said Donal, “What were you trying to protect him from?”

“From the conflict - from the long bitter thankless war that I fought and that he would have been forced to fight in his turn; a war that cannot be won; a humiliation and defeat that cannot be averted. You see, I was the Seneschal – the general of the armies of the Free Nations,” Kyram finished quietly, as if confessing a terrible crime.

Donal nodded gravely, though Ethan looked up incredulously.

“You are not surprised to hear this,” said Kyram to Donal, who shook his head.

“You are no farmer, Kyram; I can see you were at one time a leader of men. I have seen many others like you,” he said, “You stand, you walk, you speak, you bear yourself like a soldier, but not just an ordinary soldier, like a general. Jac has great skills with the blade; some he has been taught, I grant you, but some are beyond learning, and obviously inherited - and he is no farmer’s son.”

“What’s wrong with being a farmer’s son?” said Ethan, “My dad was one, and he could fight like the devil.”

“Over the years I saw the Mfecane ever growing in strength, while our own Free Nations were ever losing their inclination to fight,” said Kyram, “As we came to value life more, as we pursued the gentler arts, poetry, music, sculpture and painting, as our minstrels became more exalted than our warriors, our poets more revered than our soldiers, so we lost the desire and the will to defend ourselves.

“By contrast,” he continued, “The Inquisitors have no such diversions; all their energies, all their vitality is unremittingly bent towards our utter defeat and their utter triumph. They grow bolder and more fierce and warlike with every encounter, and since the Mfecane began we have become limp with terror at their every foray. Their desire is adamant, their will as hard as iron. Their only wish is to dominate and persecute, to enslave and terrorize. What hope had we of prevailing against such an unswerving intensity of purpose, against such reckless hate?

“I became disheartened, and against the advice of my counsellors, I abdicated my position, took my wife and little child, and left in search of a more peaceful life. I just wanted an easier life for them,” they heard an unexpected note of pleading in his tone, “And perhaps the Mfecane would have overtaken us in the end, but they would have had to find us first. At least we would not have been in the front line, fighting battles for a people too vain and too indolent and too cowardly and craven to fight them for themselves. I then thought that as a Healer Jac might find a better life and a more rewarding role for himself.”

“You needn’t worry on that score,” said Ethan, helping himself to more of the wine, which he found was slipping down very easily, “He’s damn good at it, a regular Doc Holliday, I can tell you that for nothing - sowed me up as good as an old sock, he did.”

“He is truly a fine healer,” agreed Donal, “Both my friend Ethan and myself were - unfortunate, and we both sustained serious injuries on our travels; and but for your son and his skill as a physician we both might have died. However it is true that his other abilities also became very apparent, and proved to be no less vital and useful in the end.”

“So your running away was a real waste of time, wasn’t it?” said Ethan bluntly, “Seems to me you left your friends in the lurch, and your troubles have come home to roost in any case.”

Kyram flinched; “You judge me very harshly, Ethan.”

“Yeah, the truth really hurts, doesn’t it?” said Ethan, no apology evident in his voice.

“I had returned from a sortie on the borders,” said Kyram, “Eight long weeks of hiking and battling though noxious swamps, rife with ill humours and blood-sucking leeches and foul pests of all kinds, wet and cold and hungry all the time. In only that short time we lost seven good men, all good and true friends, all brave soldiers, to the traps and nets and devices of the Inquisitors. But when I returned to the courts of the Free Nations, it was as if we had never left; the forced gaiety, the trivialities, the parties, the politicking and manoeuvring continued as before; our sacrifices were ignored, the lives of my friends and the blood we had shed was unappreciated, as if it was of little value, or no value at all.

“Jac was but three years old at the time; when I entered our garden, sore, stiff, and bloody, sick with grief, I remember him running to me. I lifted him in my arms, revelling in his laughter as I hugged him closely and swung him round and round; his laughter like music, the sun shining in his hair, his eyes as bright as morning stars, still too close to the dawn of life to understand the need for tears and grief and loss. I realized then that this was real life - that this was real glory, not slogging through blood and gore for some archaic, effete, beaten culture, some doomed and hopeless moral code. It was shortly after that that I finally decided to leave; my brothers and their families came with me and we searched for somewhere we could live undisturbed and unburdened by what had become an unbearable and thankless duty.”

He walked to one of the narrow windows and stood looking out for a moment.

“And we found it, didn’t we - for a little while anyway,” his tone grew fierce, “I chose this place, this valley, and we have made it our home - have I not earned the right to love it?”

Donal did not answer him, hearing the desperation in his voice, and went over to look more closely at the book Kyram had been reading.

“What does this passage mean?” said Donal, peering curiously at what were to him incomprehensible symbols.

Kyram closed it, though not discourteously.

“It has become very late,” he said, “We have much to discuss, and much to hear also from Kitti and Targon; I had thought the Brotherhood were all dead long ago. Clearly I was wrong and it was they that summoned you, using the Earthpower and the Jewel as a conduit. But let us retire now, and we shall see what the morning brings. I know you remain uncertain, Ethan, for you have had precious little ease since you came to our world, but I promise you can sleep well tonight; there are no evil things in this valley.”

Donal’s curiosity was still very much alive, but with a soldier’s patience he recognized the good sense behind Kyram’s suggestion, and he nodded his agreement and stood up. From Ethan, however, stretched out on a long settee, there came only an answering snore. Kyram smiled and laid a cotton quilt over him, tucking it in at the edges, and he and Donal slipped quietly out of the room and up the stairs to their beds.