Cathal's Seer

By C. A. Ennis

Command of Gelligaer, an obscure mountain fortress, long neglected due to peace time politics, is Cathal’s reward for graduating at the top of his class at the Acadamh Codagh. His superiors dismissed Cathal’s dreams of a nightmarish Jovaian army swarming the walls as childhood dreams. Cathal’s superiors tell him he has no magical trace, so he can’t possibly have magical talents. He is assured that stories of the mythical warrior hero Somhairle having magical skills are simply bard’s tales. Cathal finds Gelligaer manned with misfits no one else wants. He discovers two people want Gelligaer that way: One a traitorous superior officer scheming to see Gelligaer fall, and another a mysterious priestess scheming to see Gelligaer resist the oncoming assault. A priestess who shows Cathal he possesses powers he didn’t think he had. Which one will win: The superior or the priestess?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. A. Ennis
• Release date: Jan 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310890413

C. A. Ennis

Charles is the co-author of Safe Approach, a safety book for field workers like social workers and nurses. Also writes sword and sorcery fantasy fiction and paranormal romance (as Carrie Bryce).Charles retired from the Vancouver Police Department in November 2005 after serving 29 years with them. He was awarded the Governor General’s Exemplary Service Medal. Charles' past job assignments within the VPD include the Emergency Response Team, Hostage Negotiator, Child Abuse Investigator, Gang Crime Unit, and the Mental Health Emergency Services Unit. Charles went on to be a police dispatcher for ECOMM for Southwestern B.C., retiring from ECOMM in 2013.Charles is the founder of an order of Knighthood called the Order of Paladins, British Columbia in October 2007.

Book preview

Prologue:

Caereinion, Guoidel.

The wind howls and a downpour slashes down from lowering clouds, lashing the defenders on the battlements. Flashes of lightning illuminate a horrific army packed below the walls: Thousands of prick-eared, flat-nosed creatures with intent golden eyes wearing boiled leather armour, carrying iron rimmed wooden shields, their long fingers clasping short swords and spears, filling the valley below the castle from the banks of the flooding mountain river to the slopes of a towering, smouldering volcano. Behind these hideous creatures a line of cantors in their characteristic sunrise hued scapulars topped with distinctive violet, elbow length mozzetta capes, sing unrecognizable cants, their voices magically amplified. Behind these cantors rank upon rank of Jovaian legionnaires fill the field, their gilded standards poking up above the ranks into the distance. With an inhuman roar the creatures charge, carrying ladders and ramps and grappling irons. Dark clouds of arrows descend into the creature's ranks from the walls of the fortress. Many find their mark, creatures fall in waves. Despite the slaughter, many more surge forward to take the place of the fallen. All too many carry on, bristling with arrows that don't seem to affect them. The pounding, pounding, pounding of an iron tipped ram against the front gate makes the battlements shake. Deafening explosions assault the eardrums and echo off the hills. Bright flashes leave blinding after images. Within moments ladders swing upwards, iron grappling hooks ring on the stones, and the creatures swarm the walls, climbing like monkeys: A living tidal wave smashes into the walls and slops over the top. Too few defenders meet the assault on the walls. Some of the creatures even jump into the floodwaters of the river and try to swim upstream against the racing current. Here and there creatures gain footholds on the battlements south of the drawbridge. They fight on even missing limbs and sprouting arrows and spears…

Fionúir found herself sitting up in bed, the echoes of a scream in her ears, her father hovering over her protectively with a candle in hand. Fionúir buried her face in her hands and wept.

Having the dream again mo chroi? he said, concern etched into his face as he took a seat on the bed beside her and gathered her in, gently stroking her hair.

Aye, she murmured into her hands.

Same dream as before? Fearghus said, setting the candle on the night table, sitting down beside her on the bed, and gathering his daughter into his arms.

"Same nightmare," she murmured into his chest, nodding her head.

Yer great grandmother would have told you that such dreams can be either a nightmare or a gift from the gods, he said softly, still stroking her hair, Ye should read yer great grandmother's journal, mo chroi. Tis time ye did. I went back and read her journal after ye told me of yer last dream. Yer havin' the same dreams as she did, so ye are.

What do you mean, da? Why am I havin' grandma's dream? What does her dream mean to me?

Yer dream is an indication a second Purification is coming, I daresay. Yer meant to be part of what ye saw somehow.

Now? Fionúir shuddered.

No. Yer too young, mo chroi, and ye willnae need to deal with such things for some time yet, I assure ye. Not for many years and not alone. I'll speak to Lochloinn. He'll likely be able to help ye understand yer dream more clearly, and find answers to yer questions. We will find a way, so we will.

Chapter 1

Shield Season, 10 Samhain, Dunscáthach, Innisdanu

Don't let today's disappointments cast a shadow on tomorrow's dreams.

Author unknown

Cathal Ap Cynddelw and his messmate Trow Ap Griff reached the top of the Preceptor’s Tower stairs and stepped into the small anteroom. Their boot steps echoed off the polished marble floor as they crossed to a stone bench under a window to one side of the stairs. Across from them an elaborately carved, iron bound oak door bore the sigil of Ever, the Head Preceptor of the Acadamh Draíochta. A glowing brazier of charcoal in the anteroom on the other side of the Preceptor’s door did not quite banish the winter season frost. The barely audible murmur of voices from Ever’s office indicated that Trálín, the Mharascail, supreme commander of the Armies of the West, was still meeting with another recently promoted officer of the of that force within.

Who do you suppose is in there with the Mharascail? Trow asked softly as they took a seat on the bench.

Gille Mac Lulach, Cathal murmured, frowning, I checked Liam’s roster in the Bheairic Fianna before we came up.

Trálín’s toady?

Even so, Cathal said, glaring at Ever’s oak door as he took a seat beside Trow.

Figures he can use his family connections to get himself a better posting?

I am sure he does and I’m sure he can.

The muffled sound of laughter from Ever’s office indicated that the meeting was going well for Gille.

Bastard’s always bootlicking, using his family and wealth to gain influence, Trow muttered, staring at the oak door.

Best not let them hear you, Cathal muttered, glancing meaningfully at Ever’s door and then eyeing his companion with a wry smile.

Liam would agree with me, Trow said, shaking his head, You know Gille’s always at the bottom of the class. He can barely tell one end of a sword from the other. I could never figure out what a sword master like Trálín saw in him.

Money and influence, Cathal grumbled.

Liam would post that dotard to some backwater like Gelligaer.

Cathal snorted and shook his head. Three centuries ago the rulers of the Ceilteach peoples of the west built three fortresses, Gelligaer, Caerbach, and Caereinion, to guard the passes into Guoidel, to take the brunt of the waves of hostile tribes and nations expanding westward. The peoples of the Ceilteach west had lived for the most part in peace because of the watchful eyes in these Guoideli fortresses. Two and a half centuries ago these fortresses protected the west against the Jovaian Purification Crusade. In that conflict the great warrior Somhairle defeated the Jovaian emperor at Caereinion. Yet the Jovaians had never come to Gelligaer. Nothing of significance had occurred at Gelligaer for centuries. Gelligaer became a backwater where you sent people to lose them. The recent gossip around the mess was that the commander of Gelligaer’s garrison had finally drunk himself to death and that someone out of their class must replace him.

Cathal repressed a shudder. Gelligaer, the very place I’ve seen horrors occurring in my dreams. Why do I have visions of a place I’ve never been to? Why do I see glimpses of a silver haired woman?

Aye, Liam probably would, Cathal said, trying to shake off these thoughts, But that’s Mharascail Trálín in there with Gille, not Head Preceptor Liam.

Why is Mharascail Trálín using the office of the Head Preceptor of the Acadamh Draíochta to meet us? Trow asked, glancing aside at Cathal with a puzzled expression on his face, Doesn’t the Mharascail customarily use the office of the Head Preceptor of our Acadamh Codagh to announce postings?

You know Trálín doesn’t see eye to eye with Liam, Cathal sighed, Nor with many of Liam’s staff within the Acadamh Codagh.

You mean Tralin doesn’t want to take a chance that one of the officers of the Acadamh Codagh would overhear…?

No doubt. Ever’s office is better able to magically mask their meeting.

And Trálín’s thick as thieves with Ever, Trow groused, cracking his knuckles and looking up from his boot tops to steal a glance aside at his companion, What business does a warrior and a wicce have together?

Do not start on that with me, Cathal sighed, glancing aside to see his companion grinning, Some say that in Somhairle’s day warriors and wicce had much ado with one another.

Ever doesn’t agree.

Neither does Trálín, despite his ties with Ever.

You look worried, Trow murmured, his smile fading.

Do I? Cathal shrugged.

Liam supports you, you know. He promoted you to briogáidire. Trow glanced aside at the Head Preceptor’s door.

Promotions in the Acadamh Codagh are Liam’s right. I doubt Mharascail Trálín supported Liam putting me forward for promotion and I’m surprised Trálín approved my promotion. And Trálín’s the one deciding where I get posted, not Liam.

And you don’t think Trálín will post you to the Gwalchmai in Caereinion? You got top marks, sword brother. Who better qualified? And did Liam not tell you he’d gotten a message from the Eorla in Caereinion, Fearghus, that he’d have you in his Gwalchmai Briogáid?

Aye, that’s so.

What ails you then?

You know Trálín’s been wary of me ever since I came to Dunscáthach, and certainly since the finals of the last sword competition. Cathal fingered the scar on his cheek, recalling that day. Trálín had given him that scar in the sword competitions in his early days of training at Dunscáthach. Cathal had faced Trálín three times in such competitions and though he’d come extremely close, he had never beaten the Mharascail.

You mean that he’s upset because you nearly beat him? Everyone is still talking about the judge’s decision.

Trálín is unhappy about that.

You nearly took him in that last match. It was very close.

He’s inordinately proud of the fact he is undefeated.

And exceptionally talented at never letting anyone forget his accomplisments. A more arrogant man never walked the earth, Trow snorted. So he’s a bit faster than you.

Unnaturally fast, Cathal sighed, nodding.

You think he sees you as a threat because of a sword competition? He’s the supreme commander. I grant that he looks upon us both with scorn, but what need he fear?

Damned if I know.

Cathal took a deep breath and attempted to calm himself. Cathal had come as close to beating Trálín as any had and Cathal knew these narrow victories disturbed Trálín.

We are part of a peace time army, Trow, Cathal muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he did when he was troubled, There are no battles to test the mettle of warriors and commanders. In war the weak and ineffective are weeded out.

You graduated at the top of our class, sword brother, Trow said, giving Cathal a nudge.

You already said that.

I’ll keep reminding you until you pay attention to what I’m saying.

In peace time most officers use family connections and curry favours to gain advantage. I don’t have such connections, Trow. In peace time the turds float to the top of the cess pool.

You come from a good family.

My father’s is merely the Castellan of Rhyd.

An honourable position.

He’s not noble born and he’s far from wealthy.

Wealthy and noble like Gille?

Exactly, Cathal said, nodding towards the office door.

Few of them have half your skill.

Or yours, sword brother, but is that enough?

Cathal stood, opened the shutter, and looked out the tower window over the frosted roofs of the Preceptory, the Middle Ward, and the Bheairic Fianna, and at the more distant docks arrayed at the foot of the slope below the castle of Dunscáthach. Cathal’s gaze rose from the docks to the distant horizon across the Strait of Manannan to the distant purple mountains of Eriu.

One of those ships will take us to a new posting soon. Where will we be bound?

I came to Dunscáthach, Cathal said softly, as if speaking to himself, Because I’m the youngest. My elder brother Trevyn will inherit the title of Castellan from my father. My second oldest brother Braen is the Constable. My third oldest brother Llyn remains in Rhyd, vying for whatever position he can get. My sister Rhianwen, at odds with my father, became a wicce and disappeared into Guoidel with some teacher named Lochloinn…

You’ve told me your family history before, sword brother, Trow said, shaking his head, You’re the youngest. No inheritance. Like me, you have to fend for yourself. I say you’ve done well.

Cathal nodded. He had done his best.

Close the window, would you? Trow complained, It is as cold as a Jovaian tart’s tits out there.

Cathal shrugged and swung the shutter closed on the icy draft.

You’re concerned about what Trálín thinks of your magical abilities, Trow said, raising an eyebrow as Cathal dropped back down on the bench beside Trow.

I have no magical trace, Cathal said, I was tested as a child by the Eorla’s personal wicce, Ieuan. He found no trace.

And yet you have visions.

Ever calls them dreams.

Trow made a rude noise.

Ieuan told me all wicce have a magical trace that can be detected. I have none.

Your sister Rhianwen does.

I don’t. Fact of life.

The ancient bards said Somhairle the Valorous didn’t have any trace. And yet he had magical power, did he not?

Ever says those stories are simply ballads… myths. Most wicce of the Acadamh Driaocht at Dunscáthach agree. Or if they don’t, they don’t let Ever know of their beliefs.

But you’re still having visions, are you not?

Cathal sighed and nodded. I never should have gone to Ever and told him.

You thought he’d help.

I was wrong.

I believe in you, sword brother, Trow said.

I know, and I appreciate your support, Cathal said, turning and squeezing Trow’s shoulder.

The door to Ever’s office opened and Gille Mac Lulach emerged grinning. Like Cathal, Gille wore a new helmet with a distinctive red horse hair plume indicating he’d been promoted to briogáidire at the passing out parade a couple of glasses earlier, yet there the similarity ended. The sight of MacLulach’s new briogáidire’s insignia further fuelled Cathal’s frustration and anger. Gille wore a mink lined cloak over his blue silk shirt, a gold ring with a large emerald on one finger, and a sword with another larger emerald in the pommel in a gold chased sheath.

Gille turned up his nose at the pair’s serviceable woollen cottes and cloaks. Cathal’s sword was said to have been made by the master armourer Beynon of Cavan, believed to be a descendant of the famed blacksmith Oillill, but Cathal’s sword was not a jewelled showpiece sword like Gille’s. Well worn and serviceable, Cathal’s sword had a worn leather grip wound with wire in a plain, battered sheath.

Figures you two would be together, Gille smirked.

How did you fare? Cathal asked in controlled civility, ignoring Gille’s remark.

The Sleá Fuilteacha, Gille crowed.

You got a posting to the Bloody Spears? Trow gasped, brows contracting, In Tarhlund?"

Aye, the birthplace of the legendary warrior hero Somhairle, Gille said with a smug expression, The Mharascail will see you now, Trow.

Trow got to his feet, shaking his head, stepped into Ever’s office and closed the door behind him.

Congratulations, Cathal said quietly.

Thanks, Gille chuckled, Well, best of luck to you. You’ll need all the luck you can get.

Gille strode from the ante room grinning. Cathal glared at Gille’s disappearing back and gritted his teeth. If the Mharascail handed out premium postings like that to idiots like Gille, what hope did he have of attaining a decent posting? What did Gille mean by that remark about luck?

Cathal stared at a painting on the stone wall depicting Orthanach, Head Preceptor of the Acadamh Draíochta at Dunscáthach during the First Purification Crusade.

Would you have believed me? I still have visions, despite what Ever and his staff may say, visions of things that often come to pass, dreams of people I don’t know, creatures of myth, of nightmare, and places I’ve never seen in person, like Gelligaer. If I don’t have any magickal power, then how is it that I can sometimes hear people's thoughts? I could always tell what my mother and sister where thinking. Mother tried to convince father, but father only had ears for Ieuan, not wishing to cross the Eorla. Cathal shook his head. I used to think Dunscáthach was the place to find answers.

To Dunscáthach on the island of Innisdanu Cathal had sailed, not only to study arms at the Acadamh Codagh, but to seek out preceptors of the school of wizardry, the Acadamh Draíochta, to interpret his dreams, to give him answers... to no avail. Like Ieuan and his father, the wicce preceptors advised him to disregard his visions, as they were of no import to a warrior such as he. Like Ieuan, they said they could detect no magical trace in him that would indicate that he possessed any magical ability. Ever, Head Preceptor of the Acadamh Draíochta, took Cathal aside, told him these 'visions' could only be dreams arising from anxieties or indigestion, and told him to leave well alone. Warriors and magicians didn't concern themselves with matters outside their sphere of influence.

Rather than solving his problems, the preceptors of the Acadamh Draíochta aggravated his struggle. To Cathal's dismay, word of his private queries got around, unnerving some of those around him. As Cathal seemed to be at odds with the senior preceptors of the Acadamh Draíochta, some people began to avoid Cathal's company.

Cathal didn't let his search for answers go without a fight. The ancient tales of the bards and the tomes of the library at Dunscáthach held that the ancient hero Somhairle possessed magical abilities. These tales told that Somhairle had for a time unified the two schools, the Acadamh Draíochta and the Acadamh Codagh, training men and women to be both warriors and magicians. Upset, unafraid, Cathal reminded the preceptors of the Acadamh Draíochta of these tales.

Cathal's argument mostly fell on unsympathetic ears. Many wicce had laughed at him, pointing out that Cathal was hardly a hero like Somhairle. Some warriors had scoffed too, at least until they’d crossed swords with him, after which they generally avoided the topic and Cathal too. Other wicce further suggested such alleged magical abilities were likely some bard's embellishment of Somhairle's tale. Some wicce quietly warned him to abandon his queries lest he get himself in trouble with the senior wicce. Clearly the Acadamh Draíochta claimed such magical abilities as their sole responsibility, since Ever reasserted their supremacy in matters magical. The elders of the Acadamh Draíochta jealously guarded their powers. If warriors had once wielded magic, the elders proclaimed, they'd since gone back to being merely swordsmen and shield bearers, their sole purpose protection of the wicce who performed magic.

Suddenly the door to Liam’s office opened, interrupting Cathal’s gloomy thoughts. Trow emerged, a stormy expression washing over his face briefly before he turned a slight smile towards Cathal.

Well? Cathal asked softly, What news?

Trow shook his head. I’ll tell you once you’re done, Trow replied, nodding back over his shoulder towards the office he’d left. The Mharascail is ready to see you. I’ll wait for you.

Clearly things had not gone well for Trow, unsettling Cathal even more. No time to consider or discuss Trow’s meeting though, Cathal quickly rose and entered the head preceptor’s office, closing the door behind him and turning to give the Mharascail a smart salute, striking the breast of his tunic over his heart, then sweeping his right hand out palm upward. Trálín, a handsome dark haired man, sat at Ever’s dragonwood desk. Like Gille, his clothes reflected his affluence. Trálín gave Cathal a honeyed smile, but Cathal sensed the Mharascail’s unease and guarded nature.

Surprisingly Liam, a square built man with greying ginger hair sat quietly with a guarded expression in the corner of Ever’s office on a plain wooden chair. Cathal nodded to him and received a slight nod in return. Did Liam hope to influence the outcome with his presence, or did he simply wish to witness the proceedings?

Ever’s rangy round shouldered form occupied a chair in the other corner behind his desk, his hands folded into the voluminous sleeves of his gold trimmed green silk robe. Ever’s glittering dark eyes stared from an angular face framed with lank, greying hair and a drooping moustache, his expression broadcasting thinly veiled contempt. Cathal neither detected nor expected any support from that direction. Cathal avoided both Ever’s and Trálín’s gazes, staring at a point on the wall slightly above and to the right of Trálín’s face.

The scar I gave you healed well, Briogáidire, Trálín said, still smiling.

It did my Lord. Cathal kept his voice calm and suppressed an urge to finger the scar once more.

A splendid scar to impress the ladies eh?

As you say my Lord.

Congratulations on your performance this semester and on your promotion to Briogáidire, Trálín purred, glancing aside at Liam. The Head Preceptor of the Acadamh Codagh speaks very highly of your abilities.

Thank you my Lord, Cathal murmured, nodding respectfully to Liam who silently returned the gesture.

Such accomplishments certainly should be put to good use. Therefore, I am assigning you command of the Gaiscíoch Órga.

The Golden Warriors my Lord?

Precisely. You’ll be commanding the border fortress at Gelligaer.

My Lord, Cathal murmured, swallowing and forcing himself to control the temper and fear rising within him, silently cursing ill fate or ill luck.

I am pleased to announce that Ap Griff will be your second in command, Trálín said, raising an eyebrow, It is scarcely possible to separate the two of you, so it seemed sensible to send him along. Trálín and Ever chuckled softly. Out of the corner of Cathal’s eye Liam looked as if he tried as hard as Cathal to contain his resentment.

As you will, my Lord, Cathal said, staring at the wall. Trálín’s pronouncement explained Trow’s expression when he emerged from the meeting a few moments earlier.

Dismissed Briogáidire.

Cathal ripped off another salute, did a smart about turn, opened the door and left the office, forcing himself to close the door quietly rather than slamming the door in Trálín’s face.

Trow sat on the bench waiting, looking intently at Cathal’s stormy expression.

By the bloody hands of Morrighu! Cathal swore quietly, clenching his fists.

Hush! Trow urged his companion, quickly rising from the bench, taking Cathal by the elbow, and hurrying him towards the stairs, You’re forgetting your own advice.

Let’s away, Cathal hissed before swinging into the stairwell and stomping down the stairs, I need a drink.

Assigned you to Gelligaer too, did he? Trow muttered as he rose from the bench.

Syphilitic stink dog! I’ve a mind to go back there and carve my initials in his face.

Ever or Trálín?

Both!

Could be worse, Trow said nodding cheerfully, following along behind.

Worse? Cathal came to an abrupt halt at the base of the stairs and tossed a glance back over his shoulder as Trow bumped into him.

Hard to imagine a place further from those two.

Hard to imagine our assignment to Gelligaer resulting in anything but failure, Cathal spat, Trálín sees me as an adversary that should be sent far away from any place of influence within the Army of the West. Ever sees me as a bad influence to those lamb’s dicks he calls his wizards. Bloody Morrighu, Cathal swore, hammering his fist into the stone wall, It minds me of one of my grandfather’s favourite sayings.

Which one?

What's for ye'll no go by ye!

That certainly seemed to be true in his case, Trow chuckled, taking Cathal more firmly by the elbow and steering him out into the courtyard.

"Cathal should have had an accident, Trálín said through his teeth a short time later, clenching his fists and staring at the door through which Liam had left, leaving Ever and Trálín in private, Easy enough to have something unfortunate happen on the training square."

You certainly tried for something of that sort on the training square, Ever pointed out, Isn’t that so?

Trálín looked away.

Foolish, Ever sneered, fingering his moustache as he closely eyed the Mharascail’s uneasiness. Ever knew better than any how concerned Trálín was about Cathal affecting his reputation. Trálín had only barely succeeded in besting Cathal in the three times they’d crossed swords and then only because Ever had surreptitiously slowed Cathal with magic, something even Trálín didn’t realize. Ever could see Cathal blessed with the same speed as Trálín, a fact Ever was not about to reveal to the Mharascail. Ever would never reveal this to anyone, let alone Trálín. Let Trálín think himself better than he was and let Cathal think he lacked any magical ability. Cathal was a game piece that needed to be carefully removed from the board of play. So did Trálín, but not yet. Ever had his reasons to rely on Trálín, at least for the time being. Trálín had been a useful tool to remove Cathal’s influence, an essential step in Ever’s climb to power. Seeing Trálín’s anxiety decided Ever. Trálín had largely outlived his usefulness and would soon have to be replaced.

Better he should have an accident far away and remove any suspicion, Ever calmly assured Trálín.

If only you’d succeeded in convincing him about his visions.

I did my best to convince him that he has no magickal power, Ever snapped, And well you know it. I cannot help that he is stubborn.

And his visions kept coming.

As you say, they kept coming.

You are sure we have no magickal way of stopping his visions? Trálín asked, staring out the window at the Dining Hall where Cathal and Trow were no doubt already drinking with their companions.

You think I haven’t tried?

There must be some way, Trálín said, turning back to face Ever.

Oh, to be sure, my worthy Mharascail. Magically end his life and the visions will stop. An Adstrictorus Cant would magically freeze his blood. An Etiolation Cant would gradually sap his strength to the point that he could be easily overcome. Other spells could place poison in his bloodstream. If we’d done something like that at Dunscáthach such magic would have been sensed immediately by one of the other preceptors of which we are less certain and certainly questioned and well you know it.

Trálín flinched and glanced away from Ever.

Maybe the stories about Somhairle were true…? Trálín suggested.

I must not ever let him or anyone else believe that, Ever thought.

Bah! Children’s tales, Ever sniffed, turning to hide his concern from the Mharascail, Cathal has some second sight, nothing more.

Cathal won’t let go of his visions until he finds an answer. If he finds the answer…

Even if you are correct in that assumption, the briogáidire will not trouble us much longer.

You have a plan? An incident while he is en route to Gelligaer perhaps?

I have a plan.

And I’m certainly not going to share all my plans with you, Ever thought.

Are you sure you can rely on your people? Trálín was aware that Ever had agents working for him, though Ever had never introduced him to them or even mentioned their names.

They know how to deal, Ever said, his expression revealing nothing, We shall soon see. Unbeknownst to Trálín, Ever had sent Neave and Eachann out hands ago to set a plan in motion, knowing what the outcome of their meeting with Cathal would be that far in advance. Ever’s plans had been in motion for many seasons and recently unfolding rapidly, Trálín being merely a pawn in those plans.

If they succeed they remove an obstacle for us with no suspicions falling upon us, Ever said, pouring himself a glass of wine from a decanter on his sideboard, If not, we can always count on Vilae’s cantors. Vilae wants Cathal gone more than we do. In the mean time Cathal will be in a place where what little influence he possesses can do him no good.

I’m worried that we’re running out of time, Trálín said, turning back to face Ever.

We still have plenty of time left for us to implement a contingency plan, Ever added, revealing nothing of the webs he spun, Should such a plan prove necessary.

Chapter 2:

Sword Season, 2 Oimelc, Penshaw, Guoidel

It is safer to be deceived than to deceive.

Jovaian adage.

The wind howls and a downpour slashes down from lowering clouds, lashing the defenders on the battlements. Flashes of lightning illuminate a horrific army packed below the walls: Thousands of prick-eared, flat-nosed creatures with intent golden eyes wearing boiled leather armour, carrying iron rimmed wooden shields, their long fingers clasping short swords and spears, filling the valley below the castle from the banks of the flooding mountain river to the slopes of a towering, smouldering volcano. Behind these hideous creatures a line of cantors in their characteristic sunrise hued scapulars topped with distinctive violet, elbow length mozzetta capes, sing unrecognizable cants, their voices magically amplified. Behind these cantors rank upon rank of Jovaian legionnaires fill the field, their gilded standards poking up above the ranks into the distance. With an inhuman roar the creatures charge, carrying ladders and ramps and grappling irons. Dark clouds of arrows descend into the creature's ranks from the walls of the fortress. Many find their mark, creatures fall in waves. Despite the slaughter, many more surge forward to take the place of the fallen. All too many carry on, bristling with arrows that don't seem to affect them. The pounding, pounding, pounding of an iron tipped ram against the front gate makes the battlements shake. Deafening explosions assault the eardrums and echo off the hills. Bright flashes leave blinding after images. Within moments ladders swing upwards, iron grappling hooks ring on the stones, and the creatures swarm the walls, climbing like monkeys: A living tidal wave smashes into the walls and slops over the top. Too few defenders meet the assault on the walls. Some of the creatures even jump into the floodwaters of the river and try to swim upstream against the racing current. Here and there creatures gain footholds on the battlements south of the drawbridge. They fight on even missing limbs and sprouting arrows and spears…

Cathal tossed and turned as his nightmare suddenly fractured and turned into another familiar dream:

A silver haired priestess stands grinning down at Cathal as he lay on his back in a puddle in the pouring rain. The priestess offers Cathal her hand. He reached for her…

Cathal abruptly woke sitting up in his bed, bathed in sweat, reaching as if to take the hand of the priestess he’d seen reaching for him in his dream. As he came to the realization that sweat not rain dampened him in his old room in Siarl’s redoubt, Cathal dropped heavily back onto the pillow with an anguished sigh. One of the principal reasons Cathal didn’t care to stay at Siarl’s redoubt is that his dreams, his visions came back with extra intensity in Rhyd. His visions had originally started in Cathal’s childhood home of course.

Who is that priestess? Or is she some goddess? Why does she elude me? Why did I have to take this route to Gelligaer? Why did I have to get assigned to Gelligaer?

Almost two ochtú had passed since that fateful day that Cathal received his posting to Gelligaer, one of them forty-five days of meetings, planning, and preparations. Of course the most direct road to Gelligaer ran from the Eriu port of Mawddwy, to which they’d sailed from Dunscáthach, through Cathal’s home town of Rhyd. Cathal had seriously considered taking a roundabout route to avoid Rhyd, but Trálín’s orders were strict and did not allow him the time to do so. Trálín held that the death of the commander of Gelligaer required Cathal to arrive there with all possible speed. Trálín regularly demanded Cathal get his replacements on the road without delay, leaving him little time to see to their preparation and training.

Of course the same orders allowed Cathal to argue that he ought to stay at Eorla Siarl’s redoubt in Rhyd no more than a night, which suited Cathal fine.

A lightening predawn sky outside Cathal’s window suggested favourable weather that day as he swung himself out of bed. Cathal crossed the room to the pitcher and basin on the side table to wash, his mind running through all the details of what he needed to do before leaving.

Cathal and his briogáid replacements had arrived late the previous day, Cathal having adjusted the pace to make sure they didn’t arrive too early, his intention being to spend as little time as possible in the castle his father commanded. As the sun sank below the horizon they’d crossed the bridge over the Afon Alaw and ridden around to the front gate on the east side of the Eorla’s castle. The winged sword banner of the Canadh Claimhte flew from the top of Siarl’s four storey high keep as they arrived, indicating that the Eorla was in residence.

At supper last evening the Eorla had introduced Cathal to a distant cousin of Ieuan named Neave, and Neave’s nephew and assistant Eachann. Siarl asked Cathal to provide an escort for Eachann’s convoy of four wagons of dry goods, eight teamsters, and an accompanying wicce who would be riding up to the pass at Nantgarw. Cathal’s warriors must pass through Nantgarw on their way to Gelligaer. Although Cathal didn’t care for Ieuan, he was anxious to get away. Cathal therefore readily agreed to Neave’s request as a handy excuse to leave early, though Cathal had seen no real need for supplying an escort for Eachann’s merchants. Eachann had a wicce with them to weave magic for protection and Cathal’s father Trynt had secured the pass and kept the region clear of brigands for the Eorla for many seasons. Still, one could understand how the company of a large group of warriors would certainly reassure these merchants on their journey.

Neave and Eachann proved to be lively conversationalists at supper. Indeed, Neave seemed extremely anxious that Cathal should like him and his nephew, which gave Cathal some concern, given whose relative Neave was. Cathal discussed their impending trip in detail with these guests until late to avoid conversation with his family. Cathal then used their early departure the next morning to excuse himself and head off to his bed before his father could claim his time. Cathal knew he’d probably be unable to avoid a morning conversation with his family.

A short time later Cathal entered the Great Hall, finding Trow already sitting at table with a mug of tisane in his fist by a roaring fire in the hearth, speaking earnestly with several of their rígfénnidi. Glancing aside, Cathal saw his father and brothers already seated at the raised dais at the end of the hall by their own fire. Siarl, a habitual late riser, was nowhere to be seen. Cathal spotted Ieuan’s lean form in his green robes seated at the end of the head table. Ieuan’s glittering dark eyes glared at Cathal as he entered, his gaunt face, long grey hair, and drooping moustache reminding Cathal of Ever.

Cathal’s gangling, sandy haired father Trynt looked up from his table on the dais and gestured for Cathal to join them. Sighing, Cathal made his way to the dais, glancing aside to share a brief grimace with Trow as he passed him.

I imagine the preceptors at Dunscáthach told ye the same thing I did, Ieuan said with a condescending expression as Cathal stepped up onto the dais. Ieuan, never one to miss an opportunity to prove his superiority, must have received reports from his contacts there of Cathal’s efforts to find answers regarding his visions. Cathal ignored Ieuan and sat further down the table by his father.

Good morning, Cathal said, nodding towards the male members of his family.

You seem disappointed about your posting, Trynt said as Cathal reached for a mug and the pitcher of tisane.

You seem pleased by the news, Cathal countered, schooling his face to conceal his feelings.

I am. You’ll be closer to home.

So you can keep an eye on me? Or are you happy I’m not being posted anywhere near my grandda.

I will not discuss Brian at my table, Trynt growled, his brows contracting, pounding the table with his fist for emphasis.

With no future as a wicce, Cathal had left Rhyd and enlisted in the army, seemingly following in the steps of his father. Trynt’s support of Cathal's decision seriously diminished when he learned that Cathal had elected to follow the example of his maternal grandfather Brian, formerly a junior officer in the legendary Gwalchmai Briogáid, founded by the renowned warrior hero Somhairle. Since Somhairle's day, those wishing to enter the Gwalchmai typically started with assignment to the Brainse Dearg, the Red Branch briogáid, thus as soon as Cathal came of age he enlisted in the Brainse Dearg with Brian’s approval and support.

Trynt hated Brian’s influence over his son Cathal. Curiously, Cathal, large boned, raven haired, and grey eyed, resembled his grandfather more than his thin, wheaten haired father. Trynt and Brian had been at odds for years, and Cathal's enrolment in the Brainse Dearg did nothing to improve relations between them. An extremely capable and talented swordsman, an exceptionally imaginative warrior, an exceedingly hard worker, Cathal had worked his way up through the ranks, gaining eligibility to attend the warrior school at Dunscáthach on Innisdanu. The founder of the Gwalchmai, the great warrior Somhairle, had also studied at Dunscáthach's warrior academy, the Acadamh Codagh. Cathal meant to follow in the footsteps of that great warrior.

Still upset that I didn’t follow in your footsteps and join the Singing Swords father? Cathal said, looking into his father’s eyes.

I worked my way up through the ranks of the Canadh Claimhte to become Siarl’s Castellan. Your brother Braen worked his way up to Constable. You could have done the same.

And Llyn? Too many brothers vying for too few positions father. What was wrong with my seeking a position in the Gwalchmai? Grandda was an officer there.

Brian was a junior officer.

Grandda didn’t get further because of his injury. He lost an arm in battle.

His injury? A minor skirmish that. Inconsequential. That upstart couldn’t have climbed higher up the promotional ladder even if he’d had four arms. I don’t comprehend why you believe Brian’s claims to be related to Somhairle. I don’t understand why you think you could be a hero like Somhairle the Valorous.

You don’t think I’ve the ability?

You’ve dreams far above your station in life. Your sister Rhianwen was the same.

"My mother, may she be at peace in the Otherworld,