Raised
“The way he pronounced it, it’s more Norse than Celtic”, Rita assured her listeners, which was most of the Snatched. She hiccupped and looked at the drink in her hand. “I don’t know what ‘Arn’ is, but that ‘ŧor’ is Thor.”
“So what is it in Celtic?” Dmitri asked.
“Ask the Celts”, she declared grandly.
“Wise, woman”, Ryan commented. “And you’re getting, as they say, ‘in your cups’.”
“Cup’s not that big”, Dmitri said in a rare display of humor. “Anaph should know what it is in Celtic.”
“Yeah, but Anaph is in meditation with the new king”, Ryan responded. “Till noon.”
A shaking head showed disagreement. “Hour before noon. Poor kid doesn’t even get to join his own celebration.” Tanner sipped at his spiced tea.
“There’s a method to that”, Rita said. “They’ll all be buzzed and more. He’ll be fresh. So the king looks good on his first appearance.”
Rigel tossed his head toward a group across the room. “Don’t look, but there’s a chief over there who isn’t getting buzzed.”
Rita glanced sideways. “MacBoyle”, she informed them all softly. “Not quite a feud with O’Gallagher. Attitude. Acts like a greater chief.”
“So why’s he staying sober?” asked Tanner. “Anybody got a good reason?” His tone said he didn’t think there was one.
“Trouble”, Chen replied. “He’s got an attitude. He’s in a near-feud. Thinks he should rank higher than he does. A king over all the clans will be a serious impediment to him.” He shook his head.
“Streaker doesn’t like him”, Casey announced.
Chen considered that, then grimaced grimly “He’s going to challenge Artur.”
Rigel groaned. “He’s heavier and more experienced. What chance does Artur have?”
Ryan looked thoughtful. “He’s been spending time with don Delgado and the MacRea. Maybe he’s been warned.”
Ocean spoke up for the first time. “Urien. He’s been spending time with Urien, too. Can he do that learning thing with a sword? He’s not a full Druid.”
“He’s studied – well, power things”, Antonio contributed. “Fire, a lot. Stuff I’m not sure a Druid should do. If he’s working with Artur, I think there will be surprises. Maybe not good ones, either.”
Rita frowned. “Fire. I don’t think the chiefs would see a burning sword as fair. So that’s not it.” She stared at her drink, then poured it on the floor – acceptable custom at such a celebration. “Urien’s done something to Artur’s sword, but that’s not it. Maybe he did the learning thing, too, but that isn’t his big weapon.”
“Is there such a thing as the Dark Side for Druids?” Casey asked. “If there is....”
Tanner was looking thoughtful. “The MacRea... he’s won more than a few nasty challenges. Good at tactics, too. And don Delgado knows a good chunk of style this MacBoyle won’t.”
“He’s sparred a lot with Celts, too”, Antonio added. “Knows how to counter Celt moves with Quistador.” He grinned at Chen. “And a few things you’ve showed him.
Chen was nodding, a frown furrowing his brow. “My odds are on MacBoyle hiding a small blade. Is Artur prepared for that?”
“Make them fight naked”, Rita suggested. “Hard to hide things, then. And” – hiccup – “it’s a tradition.”
“That was Picts, not Celts”, Ryan objected.
“They’re mixed together, here”, she countered.
Ocean was chuckling. “You just want to see that show.”
Now Rita laughed. “Don’t you?”
“Austin does”, Casey observed, pointing to the squire, who had a faraway, dreamy look on his face.
“Sure that’s not just that weed?” Oran joked. He backed off fast as Austin’s face darkened. “Sorry, bud! I – just, sorry.” Austin nodded and sat back, enjoyment of imagining a naked duel lost. Only Devon and Antonio understood the moment, and they not fully.
The noon hour came on quickly, the festivities and conversation filling the time – and guarded observation of the MacBoyle. The MacRea stopped by with greetings. And my thanks to you, Lord Ryan, for the chance to cross blade with don Delgado – a fine bladesman, he”, were his last words before he moved on – though he paused momentarily in his path and glanced over at the MacBoyle. When he was certain his glance had been noted, he moved on.
“Reassurance”, Chen noted. “He holds Artur to be prepared for the challenge.”
“I’ll be happier when it’s over”, Ocean said. “They’re both Celts – they shouldn’t fight each other.”
Oran rolled his eyes and shook his head. Brightening, he glanced at Austin with a grin. “And the faithful squire just wants the duel to happen.”
“I’ve never seen a naked king before”, Austin replied calmly. Ryan’s laugh sent ale flying from his mug.
Anaph appeared, Artur at his side. “Born at dawn, your king grows toward noon”, he declared.
What was supposed to come next was lost to interruption. The MacBoyle lurched away from the standing table he’d been leaning against. “An untested king is a dangerous thing”, he declared.
“He has been tested”, began Anaph.
“Ha! Tested by a man who demands obedience, tested by women! When has he been tested of the blade?” One of his men chimed in. “He duels with trees!” Laughter answered that, and not just from Clan MacBoyle.
Artur looked at the MacBoyle hard, drawing the chief’s eyes – and sighed. Maolmin would have cackled riotously at that sigh, Rita noted to the others; it was just the sort a weary but patient parent would give a wayward child. It killed the laughter, silence spreading like a fire in dry grass. “What stakes would ye, clan chief?” Artur asked.
The chief blinked and stared. It was plain he’d expected something besides the cool, calm, confident composure confronting him, and hadn’t even thought of stakes. But he was quick on the uptake. “If I win, ye do not be raised on noon, and–“
Anaph cut him off. “That is one condition”, he declared. “Artur king, accept you this?” They lapsed into the archaic speech touched by the MacBoyle and used in generous helping by Artur.
Artur scratched his left ear a moment. “I do accept: should he win, it means I do not measure up in the matter of the blade; I then shall not seek to be raised.”
“So it is accepted”, Anaph declared. “Artur king, have you a stake?”
“This: should I prevail, he shall be no longer the MacBoyle, but his heir shall take it.” Three clan chiefs in the front ranks where the assembly had gathered around Anaph, the MacBoyle, and Artur, nodded soberly – one the O’Ghallagher, another the Volkhae.
Anaph turned to the challenger. No question was necessary: “I accept”, the MacBoyle declared. “And add a stake: on my victory, ye must not come again to seek kingship until your thrice seven.”
“Sly animal”, Rita muttered. “That means that for two years, others can try to claim the torc and shield. When he’s twenty-one, Artur can try again.”
“I accept”, replied Artur, with a glare at his opponent, reducing Anaph to spectator, or perhaps referee. “And my next stake: should I prevail, he will serve where I shall name, and as I command.”
The clan chief sputtered, and stomped a foot. Everyone watching could tell he was going to refuse – but Anaph stepped in. “Clan chief of the MacBoyle, remember: by the lore of the clans, if you reject this, then Artur may declare a new stake – and you will then have no say: a Druid and a Wise Woman then accept if they judge it fair.”
By the look in the man’s eyes, he wasn’t pleased at all. But again he made no hesitation: “Do you, Druid, think this stake fair?”
Anaph blinked, crossed his eyes, and nodded. “I do. Is there a Wise Woman present?”
Rigel wished for Maolmin, but then wondered – she could be surprising. “I am present”, a voice called. Men moved aside, making a passage. A tall, graceful woman, not quite slender, glided like a warrior in a greatskirt to the opening. “I am called Aibhin, of village Knokalough.”
Anaph bowed, followed by the clan chiefs, then everyone else; she was not just a Wise Woman, but one looked to by other Wise Women to mediate disputes they could not. “Worthy Aibhin, do you think the king’s stake fair?”
She held her palms out in front of her, up and empty. “I have heard it, and find it nearly fair.” The MacBoyle managed to look both relieved and worried. “I should find it fair, if a Druid and a Wise Woman were to judge whether whatever station the king might choose for the former MacBoyle be fair.”
Artur nodded as slowly as Anaph, while the MacBoyle frowned in thought. “I concede the Wise Woman’s amend”, Artur stated. “Let my stake stand so.”
His opponent took another moment to think it through. “Then I accept this stake.”
“I believe the stakes are sufficient”, Aibhin commented to Anaph.
The Druid smiled at her. “More than sufficient, I think. And now”, he said to the opponents, the rules of the match are these–“
“Think he got the message?” Oran asked Casey in a whisper a score of people could hear.
“No worries, mate.” Casey giggled. “Streaker’s a good messenger.”
“First, you shall fight sky-clad, as did many of old to show their bravery and that they came with no intent of treachery.” He looked from one combatant to the other. Both nodded, though the MacBoyle scoffed while Artur grinned. “Second, no killing or crippling blows.” Again he get nods. “Third, either may yield, and the contest ends.” Nods followed. “Fourth, if a weapon breaks, the man may call for another. Fifth, this is no free brawl; any care from Herb Woman or Healer shall be paid for by the one who inflicted the damage. “Sixth, each contender shall have a water boy standing near, and a call for water shall bring a pause – but I warn thus: call to avoid a setback or escape a weak position, and you shall face my stakes.” With each rule, the pair of nods answered.
“Fearghailleson. MacRae. Malcom”, Anaph called. “Stand witness.” The three clan chiefs came and stood evenly spaced around the circle that had cleared for the combatants.
Anaph turned to the two. “Prepare”, he ordered simply. In short order, king and challenger shed kilts and all to stand bare with blade – though the MacBoyle bore a second blade, a long slender dagger. Artur gave it a glance and seemed to forget about it.
“Begin.”
MacBoyle attacked, a strong overhand blow with his sword, a defensive move with his dagger. But Artur was not there when the blade came down; he had dived to the left, rolled, and come up on the MacBoyle’s right. Yet he didn’t attack, but stood ready to meet one.
When you do not know your opponent, defend, and let him reveal himself. The words came to Rigel in Spanish, more military wisdom from the long-gone Lord Escobar.
The MacBoyle recovered from a stroke that met only air, and turned to find Artur waiting calmly. With a roar, he attacked again, this time with more reserve. “Art coward, boy?” he taunted. Artur said nothing; his response was a parry to the attacker’s thrust, and a twist out of the path of the dagger. Again he stood on defense, letting the MacBoyle do the work.
Strength is esteemed for battle, but endurance is the greater virtue. Rigel nodded; Artur seemed to know some combat wisdom, however it was acquired.
The new king retreated around the circle. His challenger’s attacks became a constant storm of blows with both sword and dagger. Rigel wondered how long Artur could avoid both those blades; his defenses were getting more complicated, as the MacBoyle’s attacks grew more complex and intense.
Then the dagger reached flesh. Blood well from Artur’s right hip, but the wound brought no response, no wavering of concentration. In fact, for the first time he attacked: a simple move, very basic, easily deflected.
The enemy will drive home blows. Do not lose sight of the goal. Realization came suddenly to Rigel that the fight was bringing up wisdom from the Sword of Escobar, wisdom that settled into his heart and soul and mind. He felt eyes on himself; turning, he saw Anaph watching him. He nodded, tapping the blade on his hip, and Anaph nodded back before returning his attention to the duel.
A minute passed, a minute that brought more attacks from Artur. All were simple ones, such as a novice might use – though extremely well-executed. That latter fact seemed lost on MacBoyle, who smiled and pressed harder.
Deception in combat is a sharp weapon; wield it deftly. Rigel wasn’t sure that was in accord with the Celts’ concept of combat, but it certainly was in Artur’s arsenal. Thinking on that, he almost missed Artur’s first triumph:
Thanks to the steel he wore, Rigel saw and understood what happened: the MacBoyle executed again the attack with which he had drawn blood. But Artur was ready for it, even expecting it. He met it differently this time, responding with much more sophistication: dropping to one knee, he lifted his sword to block his foe’s blow, switching hands as he raised it. With his free right hand, he reached not to deflect the dagger, but to catch it, to add his strength to its course. With a wrench that drew a cry from his opponent, he wrenched the smaller weapon free, continuing the motion to send the blade flying to sink itself into a wooden shield high on the room’s wall.
Anger in your enemy is an inconstant ally: it clouds his judgment, but lends him strength. Rigel watched the principle illustrated in action: the MacBoyle roared and attacked, his sword like a living thing, blow after blow driving Artur back. The lad retreated steadily, more and more moving in desperation as the elder fighter’s experience began to be felt. But Rigel saw a certain calculation in the retreat: most of the defense was desperate, but there were moves Artur could have countered, they were basic enough. The MacBoyle’s steel scored scratches, but no real wounds; nevertheless, the blood on the floor brought a smile to the challenger’s face.
Artur met smile with half-smile, and returned attack for attack. He’d finished taking his challenger’s measure, and began putting his knowledge to use: swords met in clanging and singing blows and slides, blows that sent shocks strong enough to make muscles shake. Artur still retreated, but not often, and one, two, three, four times pushed the MacBoyle back.
“Holy shit.” The breathed exclamation came from Ryan, who dashed into the fighting circle, scooped something off the floor, and returned. He opened his hand to show Rigel a small fleck of metal. “His blade carved that right out of the MacBoyle’s sword”, Ryan told Rigel. That’s some nice metal!”
For a long minute the battle raged as it had. Then Artur began almost dancing clear of the steel threatening him him; many watchers recognized Chen’s style in the moves. The MacBoyle grew furious: “Stand your ground! Face me, impudent pup!”
The response to his words was definitely not what he expected: Artur actually turned and fled, ducking under the MacBoyle’s swing and running across the circle. There he stood, shoulders drooping slightly, back curved. When his foe turned toward him, he straightened just late enough for weariness to be seen. Triumph mixed with rage: the clan chief charged.
That was exactly what Artur had hoped; Rigel read that on the king’s face the moment the MacBoyle was committed and couldn’t change his attack. The lad’s blade seemed to shimmer as he brought it around with both hands and struck not with the edge but the flat, not at his foe but at his foe’s sword, at the grip, to be precise. The strength built from constant chopping at trees was more than the MacBoyle’s grip could counter – so his sword went flying, ripped out of his grip. Then Artur’s sword was on the back of his neck.
“I did not seek this, but I have ended it”, the young king said softly to the much older and more experienced clan chief. “Yield.”
“And what position will you set me in?” came the response.
“Something worthwhile. And you will still be a warrior.”
The MacBoyle let out a long sigh. “I yield”, he declared. Artur’s blade swept back and clear as he offered a hand up to the defeated former chief. The man looked Artur over, as though seeking something. “I do not understand how a young man who practices the sword by chopping trees could have such skill. Nor do I understand what manner of blade you have, that can carve steel from mine. But these things are so; thus I acknowledge your worthiness to be king, and I will serve, as I said.”
“I think you shall find satisfaction in your task”, Artur told him, then turned to their audience, putting a hand on his former challenger’s shoulder. “Fellow tribesmen”, he said quietly, “long have we suffered raids which take our people away as slaves. The slavers have more powerful weapons, so there has been little we can do.
“Our friend Earl Rigel has sent men, with rifles, to aid when slavers come. Thanks to his generosity, we have lost few people this year – is it not so?”
“Aye, lad, it is so”, replied the Malcolm. “And he supplies us rifles, besides.”
Artur nodded. “But they still come. That must end. Our friend lord Antonio takes those we or Lord Rigel’s men capture, and has settled them in villages. He does not make them slaves.” He looked around to see that he had everyone’s attention. “Nor shall we. Our friend Lord Wizard Ryan now has vassals of the same people as the slavers. They, too, can take slavers and settle them in villages. So we shall continue to give captives to Lord Rigel’s people.” The king paused until he heard the shuffling of feet.
“But we shall not wait for them to come to us!” he declared in a ringing voice. “That their people do not return has not taught them to keep to their own places – but perhaps if men come and take
their people away, they will understand!”
“Lad, consider: they will attack us the more”, cautioned the Lluyd. “Would you provoke war?”
Artur shook his head. “I would not. We shall not be as they are, continuously raiding and tearing people from their homes. We shall strike but a few times, once at each Count who allows his men to enslave our people. We shall not merely raid; each time, we shall take an entire village – men, women, children, animals, belongings. And after, our Druids shall turn the things that remain into soil, leaving no trace of habitation. And in lands loyal to Earl Rigel, they may rebuild their villages, with our help.
“Here by my side is the captain who shall command in this.” Artur turned to a shocked MacBoyle. “I name you Captain of the North Border. Smite the slavers, but deal gently with the people.”
“You honor me”, MacBoyle whispered. “But who shall I have for warriors?”
“Ten from each clan”, Artur replied. “And more, if more are willing.”
A deep and serious laugh sounded in response. “Young king, more will be willing!” declared the chief of the Volhkae. “From our huts, expect ten times ten!”
Captain of the North Border MacBoyle cleared his throat. “Eryk, pick the best ten – I cannot train a thousand and half again.”
“Train?” asked the chief of the Farragher, suspicion in his tone. We shall send warriors!”
“Yes, warriors who will be brought home in bundles and blood, when they come at all!” the Captain snapped angrily. “How many flagons of our warriors’ blood fertilize the fields of the slavers, and how many of our people did they buy with it? How many generations have we fought them on our own ground – yet they have more of our people, ever more!” He glared at the chiefs and warriors.
“And where will you find better training?” a warrior called.
Artur put his hand back on MacBoyle’s shoulder. “Do you not know of Sir Chen, chief Scout to the Earl Rigel, who sneaks onto our best? Have you not heard of his manner of fighting, with but hands, or knife, or branch, or rock?”
“Or drinking mug” Oran called out. The mood stayed lightened after the laughter died.
“Anything at all”, Artur agreed. “He once said – over a flagon”, he commented, to more laughter, “That there are no weapons; there are only tools: the man is the weapon.”
“I didn’t say it that well”, Chen whispered to Rita.
Artur heard but ignored. “Send our Captain your best – and they will learn to fight as Sir Chen does.” Nods of understanding and approval, some grudging, came from the chiefs and warriors, along with many looks Chen’s way, sizing him up – from those who didn’t know him. Artur was looking around, and found his target in the back of the room.
“Lord Antonio! You have what we have always lacked, you and your sworn men. Tell what you can offer!”
A knight Rigel didn’t recognize tapped Antonio on the shoulder. One of Antonio’s caballos, a new one, he guessed as Antonio nodded. “I am called Señor Octavio Benedicto Cortez. I ride with Lord Antonio. I was a Quistador – and I know their ways of fighting.” Comprehension dawned on faces across the assembly. “So also do others.”
“Why would you help us?”
Cortez looked bleak. “They took my home. They took my family. They sold my people for my debts.” In response to the numerous looks of shock, he continued. “Yes, the slavers makes slaves of their own.”
Anaph tapped his staff on th floor and let it stand there. “Friends, mid-day approaches. The Gathering Place awaits.”
Rigel hadn’t given much thought to the schedule before; after all, he wasn’t in charge. But he wasn’t the only one now concerned with the fact that they’d had their king “born” at dawn, at the Falls, and that he was to be raised at noon – at the Gathering Place. The mystery didn’t last long, though: the room they were using wasn’t far from the tunnel down to the Valley; nearby awaited a train of long wagons with seats and railings, very like the old HO scale train cars he’d had... years, and a world ago. No horses led; the only thing attached to the train was a heavy cable which ran from the hindmost to a huge winch.
Druids urging on warriors, who followed the examples of chiefs unwilling to hesitate before their peers, the train was soon packed. When everyone essential was aboard and it would hold no more, the voice of Dallaen, Ryan’s aide, sounded loud, calling over the crowd. Ughyr, journeyman Wizard, answered back. The train lurched, jerked a few times, and began rolling down the tunnel. Rigel decided that the drinking had been a good idea, as more sober men might have been alert enough to be frightened. But with Anaph standing in the prow – Ryan’s humorous touch for the first car – his robes blowing, then whipping with the wind of their passage, staff casually tucked in the crook of his left elbow, and the young king balanced at the rail beside him, right leg hooked rather jauntily over the top, no one was going to let out the least peep that the whole thing might be dangerous.
They began to hear clicks. With each click, the train jerked, so little that only the few really alert riders noticed. “Braking system”, Chen guessed. “We’re free of the cable, but we’re not accelerating.”
“I wonder how fast we’re going”, Melanie mused, watching the stone pillars along the track whiz by. “Faster than any horse, I know.”
“About forty klicks”, Oran said. “Easy getting to the Gathering Place in time, like this.”
“We’ll roll slower and slower, Morsel”, Chen pointed out.
Oran shook his head. “Ryan wouldn’t build a track that ran on gravity. He’s got a surprise for us.” While he spoke, stone pillars and walls gave way to scenery. For those on the left sides of the cars, the Falls loomed, passed, and faded. The clicks stopped at the same time.
“We’re accelerating again”, Chen observed a minute later. “Rolling free.” Oran and Casey nodded. The others took the Scouts’ word for it; the change wasn’t enough for anyone without those gifts to notice. Around them, the Celts were too awed at the mode of transport to care.
A plume of smoke ahead grew steadily. They reached it as the train’s speed was decreasing enough for all but the drunkest warrior to notice. “Our engine”, Rita concluded. “I’ll have to compliment Ryan: start them rolling, which they understand, and let them adjust to the speed before introducing the engine.”
“I hate breathing smoke”, Ocean complained. But as it turned out, Ryan had anticipated that, too: their cars rolled on past the side track where the steam engine waited; when the train was clear, the engine started up, caught up, matched speed, closed until it bumped the last car – and pushed. Slowly the train picked up speed again. While they wrangled over what the yop speed would be, Devon joined them.
“Ryan says to tell you he hopes you like the ride”, he announced. “He was going to come, but the engine has a pressure problem, so he’s nursing it along.”
“Fifty k-p-h”, Oran announced suddenly.
Devon nodded. “We were supposed to do sixty. No biggie, though”, he added, gazing at the snow-covered fields on their left. “We’ll still be there in plenty of time for the big event.”
As it turned out, they almost weren’t: outside the Gathering Place, Celts swarmed to see the train and greet the arriving king and Druids and chieftains. The engine at the rear whined, then screamed, as Ryan threw it into reverse to slow the train. That sound sobered the passengers in short order – and saved the lives of welcomers, who fled from the path of what sounded like an angry monstrous beast.
Brakes spitting smoke, then flames, they slid to a stop. Anaph acted as though nothing at all was wrong; he grandly waved everyone off. But the Snatched headed for the engine, where a steady stream of curses rose in Ryan’s voice, in English, Celtic, and Spanish, plus some incomprehensible. When Austin, in the lead, arrived, their Wizard had quieted to match the engine, he was steaming to match it as well. Angry and frustrated, he looked to Rigel. “We’re walking back. Reverse was for slow – not stopping.” He kicked at a smoldering rail. “Anaph’s going to be pissed at what we just did to his blue oak. He let us use all this for rails, and we just fried three hundred meters.”
“Anaph will understand”, Rita assured him. She looked at the engine itself. “You can’t fix it?”
Ryan laughed bitterly. “Here? If I had another engine to bring parts... in three days. But I don’t, I have horses. You want to ride back, camp here a couple weeks. Fuck!” He punched a wooden rail.
“Rye – let’s go watch the ceremony. Your people can clean up”, Rigel recommended softly.
“Yeah. Fuck.” Ryan sounded like a kid on Christmas who’d just seen his favorite new toy break. There was nothing anyone could say to make things better, so they let Ryan nurse his frustration in silence.
The Gathering Place was packed. As non-Celts, they weren’t allowed inside the circle on such an occasion, but they couldn’t have gotten in anyway: clanfolk had been drifting in ever since word of Anaph’s intent to make a king had spread. “There’s thousands of them!” Crystal breathed, awed.
“They’ve never had a king, only chieftains”, Rita pointed out. “Everyone who could travel probably tried to be here. I’d bet there are thousands more still on their way.” She sounded sad. “Pity they’re late.”
“The lesser chiefs just grabbed something”, Casey announced from his perch atop Oran’s shoulders, who in turn sat on Chen’s. “They’re in a circle. Anaph’s saying something... now Artur is getting into the middle of the circle. Okay, her’s standing on whatever it is – oh! It’s a big shield – the lesser chiefs just handed it off to the greater chiefs. Now they’re lifting it higher. Um... two of the greater chiefs are putting armor on Artur – not like don Delgado wears, more like a vest with metal strips hooked on. It’s got lots of straps. There’s a kilt made the same way, and sandals that lace up with more of the armor up to his knees. There, they’re done. Anaph just picked up Artur’s sword. Weird; he’s just standing there, looking at it. The chiefs are looking at him... I think he’s supposed to be doing something but he isn’t – must be something wrong, I guess.
“Whoa! Anaph just cut himself with Artur’s sword, on purpose! The chief of the Siol Tormod is talking to him... they look upset. Now Anaph wiped his blood down the blade, I think. Okay, Anaph is taking the sword to Artur. He had Artur cut himself, too, and wipe the blood on the blade. I wonder what that’s about? Hey – the sword looks kinda red! Bizarre....
“Up he goes! They just lifted the shield to their shoulders. Now the lesser chiefs are helping... they’ve got it up above their heads, as high as they can reach. Wow – Artur really looks like a king, now. That gold torc is flashing in the sun, and so’s his sword. Anaph just lifted his staff and yelled something – and everybody’s cheering.”
The young Scout didn’t have to report any more; the reaction began all at once all across the circle. “Druid sound system”, Ryan guessed. “How does that fit my field theory?” His laugh bore frustration. “Every time I think I’m getting it....”
“Ryan, you’re dense for a Wizard”, Ocean chided softly. “Everything’s alive. He just gets things to cooperate.”
“Put that in math”, Ryan replied, only partly sarcastically.
“It’s only real if it has an equation”, Rita told Ocean with a grin.
Ryan shot her a dirty look. “No, if it’s real, it has an equation – that’s not the same at all.”
“What’s the equation for a crowd breaking up?” Oran asked, drawing them back to the practical.
Anaph emerged from the mass of Celts several minutes later, headed straight for them. His face was a stone mask. “He’s really pissed”, Ocean declared softly. “I can feel it from here. And his aura’s all flashing and sharp – somebody’s gonna get it big time.”
The High Druid tossed his staff to the side, where it landed upright and stood by itself. Ryan glared at it, then got thoughtful. “Ocean, do you see anything around that staff?”
“Oh, yes – lots of energy. There’s energy coming up from the earth like a round pyramid, and like a rope of energy connected to Anaph’s aura. The rope has a branch that goes to his acorn amulet, too.” She hummed a little tune. It’s like maybe his aura – well, part of his aura is shared by the staff.”
Anaph had stood silently while she spoke. He looked back at the staff and squinted, then shrugged. The simple act seemed to help him relax some; his face was a bit more human when he spoke.
“Rye and Rye, I want Urien. If he shows up, hold him.” Anaph flexed his hands and closed them. “He did some things to Artur’s sword that... abuse Life. I couldn’t undo one part, but I put a shield around it. I changed one I couldn’t get rid of – it’s sort of neutral anyway, and it won’t hurt Artur – there’s really nothing in him for it to anchor on, and now – well, think of what I did as neutering its anchor.”
“What did Urien do?” inquired Rita.
Anaph closed his eyes and shook his head. “Blood magic. You can do some good things with blood magic, but the person has to be willing. Urien didn’t even ask.”
“That’s why you put your blood on it”, Casey said.
Anaph nodded. “And Artur’s. And a bit from Lorus, chief of the Siol Tormod – Artur has that blood, so it lends strength.”
“Why’d the sword turn red?”
“Sharp eye – leave it to a Scout!” Anaph punched Casey on the shoulder. “The blood spread out evenly over the blade. There’s iron in blood, and iron in steel. There’s a” – he looked at Ryan and changed his choice of words – “sort of linking process. Iron aligns with iron, and blood life binds to the steel. I bound other energies into that.”
“Artur’s sword has an aura”, Ocean remarked.
Anaph turned and stared at her. “You can see the life energy of steel?!” he demanded incredulously.
She shook her head. “It’s not the steel, its.... Well, it was a sort of faint nasty red before. I couldn’t see it if I looked right at it, only sort of out of the corner of my eye.” She looked surprised. “Why do we call it a corner? Eyes aren’t square. Anyway, now the sword has a rich sort of brick red aura.”
Their Druid shook his head. “It would be really nice if I could see that. Anyway.... Urien has learned some potent fire powers. He’s becoming a battle Druid – but he doesn’t have the foundation or the discipline. He wants to use others like tools – that will twist him.”
“This has happened before”, Rita concluded.
Anaph sighed and nodded. “Yes. Druids eager to destroy the Others took shortcuts. They gained mega-powers. But it sucked at their own life energies... to replace them, they had to... get more from somewhere else.”
Ocean caught his meaning. “Anaph! No!?”
He nodded. “Human sacrifice. They stole life from others. The old Druids used to do human sacrifice, but the victims were volunteers, and most of the time it was just symbolic, anyway. But these” – he shuddered – “They killed the unwilling. The desire to live made their energies strong, but also easy to take – no, not take; rip out. What was left was a dim sketch of a soul, drained of substance and color.”
“Barbarians – killing their own people to keep themselves alive”, Tanner said coldly.
Anaph nodded. “They saw it as for a higher purpose. Some realized the path they’d started down, and went off to die fighting the Others. But the rest had to be hunted down. That’s what some of the Druid fighting Druid stuff was about – battle Druids had to go after the... dark Druids.” He slapped his forehead.
“We have to guard the Gathering Place. If he reaches the Stone....”
“Eraigh says it will destroy him”, Rigel informed Anaph. “He says Urien’s not balanced or whole.”
Anaph gazed at Rigel and considered. “He might be right. Eraigh has interesting talents and gets incredible insights. But I want it guarded anyway.”
“You wish what guarded, Wise One?”
“Elder Dainéal.” Anaph bowed slightly. “We have a problem. One who should be my student has taken to teaching himself, and he is learning dark lessons. He must be kept from the Gathering Place at all costs.”
“Dark lessons.” Dainéal considered this somberly. “I choose not to ask”, he said after a long moment. “Well. We have some dozens of young men, and no few young women, restless for adventure. I shall tell them of this need and service. But Druiud Anaph, they are no warriors.”
“I can help there”, Tanner offered. “And I bet the chiefs would be happy to give some instruction – and some warriors.”
Before they left that day, a team of eighty-four was settling in at the Gathering Place – one warrior from each clan, and a large batch of volunteers from Servant Village.
Americans would have complained and grumbled about the train not working. Those who’d gotten in the way and made the emergency stop necessary would have thrown blame somewhere else. But the Celts took it in stride; those who had thought to ride back reassured Ryan that they understood, and assured him that Celts have always walked everywhere. Those who’d been on the tracks settled in to help any way they could, which was mostly lifting heavy parts as the steam engine was methodically dismantled. Ryan found himself amused, humbled, impressed, and pleased: where he’d expected to need heavy lifting equipment brought in, he found that thirty or forty sturdy Celts did the trick for every item that had to move – although not without strong ropes or stout poles.
Anaph was last to leave. After Artur’s raising, he gathered two dozen student Druids. All braved the Pool; four went to the Stone.
On the trek back, Artur did little walking: a group of warriors got him on a shield, no more than half an hour from the Gathering Place, and raised him, carrying him along held high. It became a shared process; warriors at first, then others, would take the place of one of the shield-bearers, an continuous stream of Celts wanting to take part in the raising of their first king.
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