Chapter One
Black Tidings
THE HORN SOUNDED from the deck of the Ellani warship, pushed low on the water by the weight of men and plunder. A melody of five notes, long and clear. It called out over rolling waves to the rocky shores of Cregeirann beyond, the land these battled warriors called home.
From the bow of the longship, Connal listened, anticipating the fanfare that would acknowledge their triumphant return, the end of the weeks-long campaign of blood and death.
No fanfare came. Though it was only late morning, the town of Dumóir, a bustling hub of fishermen and merchants, lay wrapped in silence.
“Sound it again,” Connal said, feeling a strange unease. “Perhaps they did not hear it.”
Again Veruc brought the horn to his lips, ringing the melody out across the Iarlir. Yet still, no horn replied. Only the mourning wail of the gulls and the percussive lapping of waves against the hull.
Bringing his hand to shade his eyes, Connal surveyed his homeland more closely. They were nearer now, and still he could see no movement along the docks that lined the port. Vaguely, he could make out the rough outline of Rigtalla, his father’s hall, the seat of Cregeirann’s kings. And from it rose a single plume of black smoke. The sign of a noble’s death.
Connal shivered. It seemed a poor omen—this chilly welcome, the rising smoke. The hairs on his neck stood on end.
“Wonder who it is,” Veruc said. He was old for a warrior, well past his fiftieth winter, his once black hair now all but grey, skin ruddy and wrinkled. Two score were the years he had braved the open sea, flesh bared to the relentless lashing of wind and wave.
Connal shrugged, running a hand through his long red hair. “Probably one of the ancients on the Suid.” The casual tone sounded forced even to his own ears. “Most of them have one foot in the grave already.”
Veruc chuckled. “Shall I sound our approach again?”
“No,” Connal said. “No, we’re almost docked now.”
Not a soul was there to greet them as the longship drifted into port. There should be droves of children clamoring for a look at the victors home from battle, eager to handle the dented weapons and plundered treasures. Men and women to cheer them, warriors to clap their backs and hear the tales of battle. That was how it had always been.
Connal sighed. He leapt from the ship, striking the wooden platform with leather boots, his legs nearly buckling as they found themselves on solid ground once more. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the thatched homes, a rumbling anger rising within him. There was little chance their ship could have approached unseen. What kind of welcome was this for men who’d risked their lives for the honor of Cregeirann?
He turned to the pillar of black smoke once again, a chill running down his spine. Anxious dread clutched at his heart, a fear unknown and unnameable.
Around him the warriors disembarked, ringed men of proven worth, forged again in the fires of war. Grumbling and cursing, they too gave voice to their disappointment.
“Easy there, Fionn,” Connal said as the thin, wiry soldier cast a sack of clattering iron weapons onto the dock. “All this belongs to Craedon, your king.”
“It was our swords that won it,” Fionn muttered, holding his gaze. Hair black as a raven’s wing fell about his wind-bronzed face. He was of an age with Connal, and stood nearly as tall.
“You’ll get what is deserving,” Connal said. “My father is no hoarder of wealth.”
“If he’s even here,” Veruc put in. He leaned on his spear, its butt wedged between the dock’s wooden boards. “Where in Gaillag’s name is everyone?”
Connal said nothing. He looked to the mead hall again and frowned, wondering if his father had returned. War in Eburneum was said to be a long affair, a matter of months, not days. It was likely he was there still on his fool’s errand, marching alongside Prince Daras’s forces, putting the usurper’s troops to flight. All for a distant, foreign people.
Yet what a celebration there would be when at last he did return. The greatest feast the islands had ever seen, men and women toasting the twin victories of father and son.
Finally, the goods unloaded, Connal strode from the dock, leading his men up the sloping road to Rigtalla. But he had gone only a few paces before clapping eyes on Esca, a portly houseman of the royal family.
Esca bowed. “Good morning, my lord.”
“What’s going on here?” Connal demanded. “Why was no one here to meet us?”
Esca paused a moment and scratched at his balding scalp. “Forgive the poor welcome, lord, but I’m afraid that amid the calamity of these past days, things have nearly ground to a halt.”
“Calamity? What calamity?”
Esca’s eyes fell to his feet. “Alas, my lord. The sea has brought grim news from Eburneum—black tidings of defeat. The king is dead.”
Dead.
The word resounded within Connal’s head, yet he fought against it, armored himself against its meaning.
Esca looked up again and cleared his throat. “If… if you are ready, lord, I will take you to the hall. Your mother is there, and the Suid too.”
The houseman led and Connal staggered after, pushing silently along the cobbled streets. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. His father could nor more die than Cregeirann itself.
Connal paused at the doors of Rigtalla, steeling himself for what he would face within. Two guards stood watch, yet he did not address them. He pushed open the great oak door, stepping into the hall of kings. The air was dark and stuffy, heavy with the weight of mourning.
He blinked, adjusting to a darkness broken only by the pale light streaming through thin windows. About the low-burning hearth stood the Elders, men and women clad in black and sorrow. Their heads were bowed, their hands folded as if in meditation. At their head, his mother, Queen Enna, her face concealed by an inky veil, dressed all in robes of black, seated on her queen’s chair. And to her left, at the center, the royal throne sat empty, absent its lord.
“My son.” His mother’s voice was hoarse. “You are home.” She rose stiffly from her seat and awaited him.
“Mother,” he said, going to her and taking her hands. “I heard…” his voice faltered as the words caught in his throat.
She squeezed his hands and nodded. Through the veil he could see her tears, could feel them escape his own eyes.
“How did…” he began again. “How did this happen?”
“My lord Connal,” a raspy voice interjected. It was the Elder Ruarc, a man burdened with age, his grey beard drooping to his belt. “We have waited for your return. It is good to see you back alive and well. How did you fare?”
Connal’s head ached, and he reached for his words like a shipwrecked swimmer seeks land. “It was a victory. Ganwae’s servants will trouble the people of Edòrn no more. We came upon them by the shores of Feóthán, and there, by the full moon’s light, we slaughtered their crew. Halgar I slew, and Nalgrim his brother fled like a startled hare.” It was warm in the hall, and his heart was beating wildly. He wiped the perspiration from his brow. “But what of my father? How did his death come?”
“King Craedon fell in battle,” Ruarc said. “Lord Kierran was there and bears witness to the king’s courage.” He gestured to the dark, and following the Elder’s finger, Connal noticed the warrior, darkened by shadows, leaning against a wooden pillar. Slowly, Kierran pushed himself upright and came into the light. Tall and wide-chested, he stood with shoulders slumped. His face was haggard and worn, freshly scarred, his black beard ragged and untrimmed. He caught Connal’s eye and gave a curt nod.
Connal only stared. “How did it happen, Kierran?”
“It was a bloodbath. The bastard tricked us.”
“Orthen? They said he was a weakling.”
“So we thought. And Prince Daras was sure of it. But Orthen laid a trap for us before the mighty gates of Gallodel. They killed us with arrows from the walls and with lances in the fields, and soon, our courage broke. Daras was among the first to flee, rushing from the battle like a beaten dog. And in his wake, the Eburneans ran, following his royal banner.
“And we fled too as best we could. We fought our way through the press, holding our ranks with shields to every side. But against those wheeling bands of mailed knights and nimble hobelars, we stood little chance. Your father fought as if Gallos himself possessed him, Connal, even as the arrows pierced his armor and the horsemen bore upon him. I fought at his side till, in the chaos, I fell, brought low by a blow to the head. By the time I awoke, the fighting was done and our king slain.”
Kierran fell silent and with him the entire hall. Connal’s heart still pounded and his mind clouded. A king of Cregeirann—to fall like this? A pawn in a foreign war, caught up in the feuding of Eburnean princes. It was shameful; it galled him to think of the waste.
“We should never have gone,” Tassach murmured, a thin handsome man with watchful eyes. He was young for an elder, having only fifteen years on Connal, yet his reputation for shrewd counsel had seen him elevated before most others. “The intrigues of the Eburneans have little to do with us.” Connal found himself nodding in agreement. “Fortunately, Orthen’s peace was generous.”
“Peace?” Connal demanded. “What peace?”
A shadow passed over Kierran’s face, as the warrior averted his gaze.
“Orthen showed mercy,” Tassach said. “Once King Craedon fell and our men lost heart, he accepted their surrender. He showed mercy.”
“Mercy.” Connal spat the word. “And with what price did his mercy come?”
“Allegiance.” Ruarc’s voice was pained. “The next king of Cregeirann must return to Gallodel and kneel before the High King. For now, Orthen holds hostage the Rigsról, and will return it only after fealty is sworn.”
“Kneel?!” Connal echoed. “Since when have the men of Cregeirann bent the knee to any foreign king? Even when the Telians came, the islands held fast. We burned their galleys and slaughtered their mighty legions. And now this beardless pup thinks he will claim the Iron Rock? Hold hostage the banner of kings? Never! I shall bow to no king of Eburneum!”
“Connal,” his mother said. “Please.”
He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. The pain in his head was building.
Then Brona spoke, a lean, grim-faced old woman. “Need I remind you, lord, that we have not appointed our king? We have delayed, waiting for your return and for the days of mourning to be fulfilled. But the decision is not yet made.”
“Who else would it be?” He swept the hall with an open hand. “I am Craedon’s son! It was I who saved you from the kelpie’s torment, who tore winged Banilur from his heights. I burnt the great barges of the Cuarri and wrestled scaly Svalung from the sea. And even now, I bring you victory again, having saved our allies from Halgar the Fearless. I am Beastmaster of Cregeirann! Who among you is worthier than I to sit on the throne of the Iron Rock?”
His breast heaved as he spoke, anger and pride swelling within him.
All were silent, until Brona spoke again, her face as set and grim as before. “Even so, young lord. You are not yet king.”
Connal snorted and glared, but she did not shrink from him. “No?” he said. “You would prefer another? Kierran perhaps? The man who let his king die and surrendered to the Eburneans? Or you, Ruarc? Tassach? You have all grown soft under the protection of warriors! Well know this: I am the only man among you, if you can bear the shame of this Orthen’s ‘mercy.’ For as surely as Craedon was my father, I swear by all the saints in heaven and the spirits of earth and sea that I will not rest until the boy king pays in blood, and I hold the Rigsról in my hands!”
Tassach gasped. “You cannot go to Gallodel! Too many have fallen on foreign soil already, and you are not king. The Suid will forbid any warrior to follow you on such a venture.”
“Then Gaillag devour you all! You are a pack of rotting corpses! Old and useless—you are toothless grandfathers and senile crones!”
Queen Enna took a step towards him and raised her hands. “Connal—”
“No, mother! I will not suffer my father’s pride to be trampled underfoot. I go to Gallodel, and if there be any true men left on the Iron Rock, any loyal warriors who loved their king, let them come, and together we will bathe our swords in Eburnean blood!”
Connal rushed from the hall, the tail of his cape brushing against the floorboards. He struck the door with his fist, sending it flying open, and strode into the light, where his fighting crew stood stunned by his grief and rage.
He flew past them, blinded by a field of tears, and found his quarters in the low stone building adjoining the hall. Entering, he found it just as he had left it—walls lined with woven tapestries, bed covered in furs, a chest of woolen tunics and trousers. And there, returned by his men only a short while ago, was his armor, the hauberk still crusted with the salt of the sea and the grime of war, his round shield—green, divided by a white bar, blazoned with a black stork—and his sword in its leather sheath. He had not thought to need his arms again so soon. Yet fate had its own will, and what man was there could gainsay his destiny?
He stooped to gather these belongings when a footfall, soft and cautious, arrested him. He turned to see his mother, shadowing the threshold. Her veil was up now, revealing eyes tired and bloated, raw from weeping.
“Mother…” He did not know what else to say.
“Connal,” his mother chided. “That was unwise.” She fixed him with her stern eyes, the expression of reproof he remembered when as a boy he had lost his temper, striking another or uttering some newly-learned vulgarity.
He hung his head. Though he was nearly twenty-four years old, her disapproval still rattled him.
“You disrespected the Elders.”
“But mother,” he complained. “They are weak! They want us to serve a foreign king. They dishonor Father’s name!”
“Your father,” she said, raising her voice, “would never have spoken to the Suid like that. He respected his people, from the least to the greatest. Were he among us still, he would be ashamed of your behavior.”
That stung, and Connal felt a surge of guilt and anger. “They would never have spoken thus to my father. And when I am king, they will learn their place again!”
Her face softened. “O my son. Did you not hear them? Brona, Ruarc and the others? If you carry on with this heedless plan of yours, you will never be king.”
“They would not dare elect another!”
“They would dare. Your father did not win the crown by arrogance and entitlement. No, he gained their respect; he earned the love of his people.”
“But I have earned it! No warrior has been as tireless in defense of our people.”
“And what if Ganwae returns? Who will defend us then?”
“He will not return! I have seen to it. The old wolf’s men fled chastened with their tails between their legs. I have safeguarded us from our enemies. That is why I must rule Cregeirann.”
“There is more to rule than fighting, Connal. And if you leave now, before you have secured the title, they will give it to another. Believe me, I have been both daughter and wife to a king. And if I am to be mother to another, you must choose your actions wisely.” She held his shoulder and looked into his eyes. “Leave bravado and boasting for the battlefield, my son. The people want a king who can lead them in peace as well as war. A cool head, a reasoning judge. Show them that you are more than a wildman.”
He took her hand in his. “And I will, mother. I will show them that I am a true son of Cregeirann, that I am as wise in the craft of peace as in war. But before that, I must do this. My destiny drives me, like a ship borne by the tide. I must go to Gallodel, to take back the Rigsról. I must show the Eburnean lords that the warriors of the Iron Rock are not to be trifled with. I must do this for the very people I would rule. Else what would I be king of?”
Enna sighed and fell silent. The fight was gone from her. Slowly, Connal slung the shield over his back, strapped the sword to his waist, and heaved the burlap sack containing his armor and clothing over his shoulder. He kissed her forehead and slipped past her.
At the doorway, Connal paused, looked back, and said, “Pray for me, mother. To Aonel and all his saints. I will return and be the king you speak of. But first I must do this.”
She kept her back to him, did not turn to see him off. “I will pray,” she murmured.
♚ ♚ ♚
Connal paused at the doorway of the infirmary, his hand upon the latch. He had intended to pay his respects to those of Cregeirann’s warriors who had come back maimed by Eburnean swords, to offer them encouragement. It’s what his father would have done.
Yet now that he had arrived, Connal’s resolve faltered. He knew what awaited him within, the wounded and the dying, a grim spectacle of desperation and defeat.
As he stood wavering, the sound of singing rose from beyond the door—a woman’s high, ethereal voice. It lent him the strength he needed.
Quietly, Connal pushed open the wooden door, pausing again at the threshold to listen. Ada, his sister, stood with her back to him, swaying gently, her long golden braid rocking as she moved among the cots where the Ellani wounded lay.
She was no songweaver, yet there was power in her voice to soothe the mind. Even before their father’s death, she had tasted the pain of battle’s loss. A husband fallen to Ganwae’s raids, a son to the monster Banilur.
Ada sang now to the wounded of Aonel’s kingdom, of the green and pleasant pastures, of the day when death and violence would be no more, when spears and swords would be abandoned, and all men live in gentle harmony.
Like the wounded, Connal hung on her words, his spirit lifted by the gentle song. He thought of their father, of all those killed at Gallodel and those who fell at Feóthán, and wondered: were their sufferings truly over? Did death at last free men from violence? Tears sprang to his eyes, but he fought them back.
Slowly, the song died away. A deep quiet reigned.
Ada turned, noticing him for the first time. “Connal? I didn’t know you had returned.”
He nodded, saying nothing lest his voice betray his sorrow.
“Then you’ve heard.” She crossed the room, and pulled him into a tight embrace.
For a while, he struggled to master his grief. Then he pulled away, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. Looking about, he beheld the rows of bloodied men, some groaning in agony, others still as death. And seeing them, anger overthrew his sorrow. He would avenge them—the living and the dead.
“You’re still carrying a shield,” Ada said curiously. “And a sack. Did you only just return?”
Connal turned again to face her. “A few hours ago.” He inhaled deeply and sighed. Somehow, he must break the news of his departure. “But Ada, I… I am not staying long. I leave on the morrow.”
His sister’s eyes widened. She crossed her arms and gazed concernedly at him. “Leaving where? You only just returned.”
“For Gallodel.” Connal forced himself to meet his sister’s challenging gaze. “I have unfinished business with its king.”
Before Ada could respond, Deom, one of the wounded warriors spoke.
“My lord?” Deom wheezed. “Did you say you were going to Gallodel?” Thick bandages covered the man’s head and torso, and he was missing his shield hand, the limb ending in a cloth-wrapped stump.
“Aye, my friend,” Connal said, coming to stand by the warrior’s bed. “You were at the battle?”
“I was, lord. It was…” Deom’s voice faltered, “it was awful.”
Connal nodded. “I know. And I am going to avenge our loss, to make things right.”
“Make things right?” Deom echoed weakly, staring with haunted eyes.
“The Rigsról,” Connal said. “I will reclaim it. I will show that bastard king what manner of men he thinks to humble. And prove there is still strength and courage among the warriors of the Iron Rock.”
“It wasn’t lack of courage doomed us, lord.” Deom lifted the bandaged stump of his arm. “We gave everything. Our bodies broke to defend our banner and our king.”
“Of course,” Connal reassured him. “You fought well, Deom.”
“Connal.” Ada placed her hand firmly on his shoulder. “This is not the kind of talk these men need now. They are weary of war.”
Looking around, Connal noticed the others watching him, and realized his words might have sounded like a reproof. He would have said more, but Ada pushed him away, guiding him towards the corner.
“Are you really going to Gallodel?” she whispered.
“Yes. I must.”
“At a time like this? Look at them. Our people are hurt. They need healing.”
“Revenge will heal their wounds!” At her glare, he lowered his voice. “Our people must have their honor restored.”
“Our people have come back reeling from war. You cannot lead them out to it again.”
“I’m not. I shall take a single ship. Or two. And any men who’ll come with me.”
“What?”
“The Suid forbade me. But I’m going anyway.”
“Connal…”
“Save your warning.” Connal forced a smile. “Mother already gave me an earful.”
“You should listen to her.”
“Bah! You know mother. She worries.”
Ada rolled her eyes. “With good cause. This sounds like another of your reckless adventures. Stay, Connal.”
Connal’s smile faded as he shook his head. “I cannot. Not while our honor bids me go. The shame of swearing Orthen fealty will never be undone. The bards throughout all of Moralann will sing of it for generations—how an Eburnean king forced the Ellani to their knees, how he conquered what even the Telians could not. Our father’s name is already tarnished, Ada. His body lies in foreign soil. Orthen’s soil. If we should lose his kingdom also, it would be… would be…”
“Dishonor,” Ada said. “I know.”
“Then you know that I must go.” His words hovered between statement and question.
Ada shook her head and looked away. “I… I don’t know. There is more at stake than reputation. Let the Eburnean poets sing what they will of us. So long as we are safe.”
Safe. The word gave fuel to his rage. “We shall be safe only when we are free! And as for the poets—I will give them matter for a hundred lays. Songs to chant in the halls of lords. Let them sing of Craedon’s son, of how he defied the Eburnean king in his own bloody city, and won back glory for his people!”
Ada stared sorrowfully. “I don’t see the glory in it, Connal. It was for honor that father left. For honor that he fell. Now you would throw away your life for honor also? I think your place is here. Cregeirann’s people are wounded, not just in body but in spirit. They need leadership.”
Again Connal forced himself to meet her gaze. Ada’s words pricked him. But he would not change his mind. He could not. “And I will lead them. To Gallodel. And to glory.”
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