The Sword of Light - Chapter 5

“Ouch! Ye Gods, woman, you’re worse than the bear,” Ferin hissed through clenched teeth.

“It would go easier for you if you kept still,” Eira snipped, her mouth a thin line of irritation. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then added in a softer tone, “Please, my Lord, you must keep still and be patient.”

“Neither of which are your strong suits,” teased Finbarr from over Eira’s shoulder. The healer closed her eyes for a brief moment, her face a mask of pure ire. “A little space, I beg of you,” she said kindly, but firmly. With a guilty expression, Finbarr backed away from where he had all but pressed himself against Eira to watch her work, and in doing so found himself up against Volstan’s rumbling belly.

“Volstan, a little space, I beg of you,” Finbarr said in mock accusation.

“Just wanted to watch,” Volstan said, exasperated, and stepped back and onto Hjorin’s foot. The stoic warrior (who had also been watching intensely as Eira worked), gave a single grunt of pain.

Rowan tried not to laugh as he turned from over Eira’s shoulder and said, “You three should retrieve Ferin’s kill. Doubtless he’ll want it when this is all over, and Ceri will be wondering why we have not returned yet.”

“Do not bring her here,” Ferin said firmly, then amended in a softer tone, “she will worry if she sees me like this. When you see her, let her know that my injuries are not grave, and that I will be home soon.”

Finbarr inclined his head. “As you say, my friend,” he agreed and turned to the others, ushering them outside.

As the sounds of their footsteps and laughter faded, Eira worked freely and diligently on Ferin’s wounds. Ferin winced, and drank great mouthfuls of the mead from Eira’s skin, doing his best to stay still as she tended to his injuries one by one.

She was a woman of average height, her pear-shaped figure slight yet supple. Freckles dotted her cheeks and short, straight nose, playing with the bloodstone-green of her eyes. Her hair was the colour of warm honey. She kept it coiled into a loose braid which hung over her shoulder, exposing a single pink ear. Most of the rhododendron she’d woven into her hair for the festival had fallen out while she’d been running. She had heavy-lidded eyes giving her a dreamy, sleepy look, with impossibly long lashes and a sullen, full mouth. Her pale, long-fingered hands worked quickly, through blood and fleshcleaning, stitching, coating injuries in honey and herbs, and bandaging his arm, knee, and head. She bound his bruised ribs to sturdy them as they healed, and brushed his lips with her sweet medicine.

Without looking up from her tasks, she addressed Rowan, “You have my thanks for ridding us of those threebut why did you not go with them?”

Rowan did not answer. When Eira realized there would be no answer forthcoming, she shrugged and said, “If you would like to stay, you may; but if you do, you will help me. Brew a draught of dandelion root and pine needleplease.”

At first, Rowan was taken aback by her directness and gentle request. He blinked, and stammered, “A-as you wish,” before setting to motion.

The mead Eira offered did little to help Ferin through the haze of pain. Though his injuries were not severe, each stab of the healer’s needle, each coat of hot honeyed-herbs, stung and burned so that Ferin was left clutching the mead skin and focusing his mind on appearing indifferent and wincing as little as possible.

It did not go well for him.

Instead, he busied himself with observing as Eira tended to his bodily injuries while chastising and praising Rowan in equal parts as he did his best to aid her.

“He should rest,” she said when she had finished, straightening with a tired, albeit satisfied, expression. “You’re both welcome to wait here until your companions return.”

“You have our thanks,” Rowan told her.

“I am glad,” she said, “but thanks will not heat my hearth, nor mend my door.”

Rowan winced. “Of course,” he said, “I only meant”

“I know,” Eira said with a coy smile. She moved about the roundhouse, righting all the damage done by Finbarr, Volstan, and Hjorin as they rummaged and panicked and ate. Rowan made to help but Eira waved him away. “You’ve done enough, good hunter,” she said. “Rest and await your friends.”

Rowan did not have to wait long. Before Eira could finish cleaning, Finbarr, Volstan, and Hjorin returned with a horse-drawn wagon. A blanket covered something large and lumpy in the back of the wagon next to a bundle of wooden planks. Eira stood in the doorway, watching as Volstan and Hjorin helped Ferin into the back of the wagon next to what could only be the dead bear. Finbarr leapt from the front seat of the wagon and pat the wooden planks. “Here is your door, fine healer,” he proclaimed proudly.

Eira looked at him flatly. “It appears to me to be a bundle of wood.”

“Ah, that is because it will be a door, fair lady. Patience, I beg of you.”

Eira sighed. “Patience will not protect my home during the coming winter.”

“Well, then,” Finbarr said, stepping dangerously close to the healer and looking down at her with a smouldering grin, “if you are in need of warmth, might I offer my own services? I could keep your bed warm these winter months.” He waggled his brows salaciously.

Without stepping away from Finbarr, Eira folded her arms beneath her breasts and pursed her lips. “Perhaps if I had a bed to warm.” She looked over Finbarr’s shoulder to Rowan and said, “Take the bloodied bedding so your friend may ride in comfort. His injuries will thank you. Then burn the sheets when you have finished with them.”

Rowan nodded silently. He seemed to hesitate before moving to do as he was told. Finbarr took a step away from Eira and made a noise of gentle frustration. “There is no pleasing you, woman,” he said, shaking his head.

“Have that problem often, Finbarr?” Volstan called loudly, guffawing raucously at his own jest, infecting all those around him with his zealous mirth. Even Finbarr laughed before turning back to Eira and saying with the confidence of one accustomed to getting his way, “Patience, good woman. I will steal a kiss from you yet.” He winked. Eira rolled her eyes.

The group spent a short time haggling over what was to be done about Eira’s roundhouse thereafter. In the end, it was agreed that the five men would repay Eira for her services by helping to replace her bedding, and rethatching her roof before winter was upon them. Satisfied, they parted ways amicablythe five men returning Ferin (and his bear) to Loch Coill.

As they passed out of sight of the healers’ hut, Volstan pulled a skin of mead from somewhere inside his clothes. “Seems as good a time as any to celebrate our friend’s victory,” he said lustily.

Finbarr scoffed. “A single skin is hardly enough to celebrate with, good Volstan!”

“That is why I have brought two,” Volstan chuckled darkly, producing another skin seemingly from nowhere. The five men laughed and passed around the skins, drinking and jeering in turn.

As they drank, Ferin recounted his battle with the bear for his friends. With each mouthful of mead, Ferin felt himself becoming more and more drunk, and the drunker he became, the more lavish and preposterous his tale became as well. His companions’ exuberance only added to the story, so that by the time they came upon Loch Coill, Ferin half-believed he had slain the animal with nothing more than brute strength and the dagger from his boot.

Loch Coill was a fortress carved into the hilltop overlooking a vast lake. The hillside had been carved by Ferin’s ancestors so that five earthen banks dipped into deep fosses filled with deadly pikes, leaving but a single inlet for travellers and enemies alike. The hill upon which Loch Coill made its stand was not steep, but it was wide and round, as though a great fist fought to punch its way through the crust of the earth to clout the sky. As Ferin as his companions made their way along this lone path, they passed groups of birches, ashes, and alders dotting the fragrant hillside of purple heather. They crept in from the surrounding forest, and each year Ferin swore he saw a few more saplings spring up.

They’ll take back the land within a lifetime, he would muse.

At last, they crested over the final bank and beheld their home. A fence of heavy wooden boards, towering at one hundred hands high encircled Loch Coill and its people, protecting them. The friends passed through a set of two great doors wrought with iron and carved with the history of the tath. Ferin recalled the times his father would bring him and his brother to the doors and tell them the tales of their landhow the loch sprang forth when a tear from the moon fell to earth, or of Thokk the One-Armed who fought and killed nearly fifty men in a battle to save the keep.

Within this palisade, were three peaks. The lowest and largest of these peaks were where the people of Loch Coill lived and thrived. Blacksmiths, tanners, artisans, weavers, tinkerers, and farmers made their homes here. Crops grew in neat rows, cattle roamed in wooden paddocks, hens roosted in raised wooden huts as roosters strutted about and pecked at one another; those not watching or participating in the feastday games were hard at work. The men moved through tath, following a well-worn path to their destination. All around were the sights and smells of animals, forge fires, kilns, and foodhearth fires warmed meats, fruits, vegetables, and breads as the women of tath set to preparing supper fit for a feastday of midsummer. Brightly coloured cloth of blues, green, and golds decorated homes and fences alongside summer flowers. There would be dancing and music in the streets tonight as bonfires blazed beneath the moonlit night.

The smells of food wafted through the air, tantalizing. Volstan sniffed the air, as a dog might, and opened his mouth to say something, but Hjorin gave him a disapproving look.

“What?” Volstan asked huffily.

“You only think with your stomach,” Hjorin said.

“That’s not true,” Volstan protested and stuck his broad nose in the air. “I was merely thinking of Ferin. Doubtless he is hungry after his ordeal.”

Rowan eyed the large man, the drunkest of them all, and cleared his throat. “Perhaps some bread,” he agreed. The men laughed and jeered as they made their way to the second highest peak of Loch Coill. Here was home to warriors, shield maidens, and the druid cast.

The homes of the nobility and warriors ran along the edge of the peak in a large crescent moon shape. The rest of the peak was utilized for training young warriors and shield maidens and stabling the noble horses and war chariots. In a separate corner was the roundhouses of the druidess, Birg, and her attendees who helped her to brew the Golden Mead. Even across the wide field, the scents of apples and honey emanating from their work hut were potent.

Here, the doors of roundhouses were decorated by painted wooden round shields, signifying the deeds of the warrior or shieldmaiden dwelling within. Here there would be a shield painted with the stylized sigil of a snake, and there would be a shield awash with red, or bearing crossed golden axes, and the like. In this place, warriors would display their heroism for all to witness in a colourful pageant of bravado.

All but a few.

Ferin and his companions followed the path through the area, waving and hailing friends and allies as they went. Feastday games were still taking placebouts of glma, chariot and foot races, spear and axe throwing competitions, and drinking competitions filled the peak with rowdy laughter and exuberance. Upon seeing Ferin’s condition, some stopped what they were doing and approached, asking for explanation. Ferin lifted the blanket covering the face of the felled bear and drunkenly told the story of how he had bested the beast in single combat. Rowan, Finbarr, Hjorin, and Volstannow equally drunkboisterously concurred with Ferin’s story, excitedly telling the others how they had watched in awe as Ferin brought down the righteous fury of a God onto the head of the bear and was victorious.

“You should have seen it!” Finbarr said at least a dozen times. “Never before have I seen a man fell a bear so mightily!”

“You’re overselling it,” Hjorin hissed so that only Finbarr would hear, but the fair-haired man shooed him away. Others came to poke at the bear, or ask questions, but Rowan waved them away. “Patience,” he implored, “wait for the feast.”

With some difficulty, the five friends made their way to the tallest and final peak of Loch Coill.

Here stood the feasting hall, Hallame.

Two wooden doors four and twenty hands high opened into the hall, so three men could walk abreast between them. Unlike most roundhouses made of waddle and daub, Hallame was crafted of stone and wood so that it stood proud and strong as the people of Loch Coill. The outside was decorated much like the rest of the tath in cloth streamers of blues, greens, and golds that looped and dipped around the perimeter of the wooden roof; summer flowers were bundled at each point where the streamers connected.

Rowan and Finbarr helped Ferin to his feet and the three men walked into the hall as Hjorin saw to the horses and Volstan sat, fanning himself, next to the bear.

Inside, the walls were covered by woven tapestries which captured the histories of Loch Coill and its peopleof the lake-burst, of the first Chieftains and great warriors and druids. Where there were no tapestries, there hung weapons and shieldsartefacts of the heroes of old. Their likenesses were carved into support beams throughout the hall near their weapons so they could be forever known to the people of the land. Goat horns filled with beeswax candles were wrought to each beam, glowing golden throughout the hall to fill it with light and life.

A great stone hearth sat in the centre of the hall over which hung a large copper cauldron and a spit for roasting meats. Today, the hunters would bring their quarry to Hallame to celebrate the feastday of Dagda and share their game with the nobility of Loch Coill. Already the fires were alive as house thralls tended to the food for tonight’s feasta great hart spun round and round, slowly, on the spit over the fire, its flesh glazed with something dark and sweet smelling so the skin sizzled and cracked with flavour. In the great cauldron simmered a stew of summer vegetables and roots, herbs, and the meat of hares and ground fowl. From somewhere else wafted the scents of fresh breads and summer fruits, ready for the feast. The aromas alone were enough to make the mouth waterFerin felt his stomach gurgle hungrily.

Around the hearth, lining the walls and much of the earthen floor were numerous furs and pillows for sitting. At the point furthest from the great double doors stood a series of chairs arranged in a semi-circle. The largest and centre-most of these was a high-backed chair decorated with furs and pillows, a pair of ten-point antlers were fixed to the back of the chair so as to crown whomever sat there. This was a seat of powerthe throne of the Chieftain of Loch Coill. The seat of Ferin’s father, Feilim of the Hundred Fights.

Rowan and Finbarr set Ferin down in his usual seat, three places away from his father’s. “You,” Finbarr addressed a house thrall, “bring us bread and water.” The girl inclined her head silently and moved to do as she was told. Rowan caught the attention of another house thrall and asked, “Where is the Chieftain?”

“He is before you,” boomed a voice. From behind a curtain appeared two men. The elder was tall, broad of shoulder and chest, and held himself with an authority befitting his position. His countenance was gruff and sternserious brown eyes peered out from under a heavy brow. Streaks of white wound their way through his dulling crimson hair and plaited beard. His face, arms, and hands were covered in small silver scars from hunting and battle. As if these marks were not enough, his arms, knuckles, legs, back, and chest were covered in the woad-ink tattoos of his many fallen enemiesone hundred in total.

Golden rings encircled his neck, arms, and fingers announcing his wealth to all. He wore his finest tunic and cloak of deep hunter green for the midsummer feast. This was Feilim of the Hundred Fights, Chieftain of Loch Coill and ruler of its people.

The younger was his eldest son, FaolanFerin’s eldest brother. He was dressed similarly to his father with golden torcs encircling his neck and arms, with a fine yellow tunic and a tartan half-cloak of blue and green.

When they saw Ferin, their expressions shifted into something between confusion and surprise. Ferin had been pondering on this moment from the second the bear had fallen, dead, at his feet. Drunk as he was, he held himself upright in the chair and affected as casual an air as he could muster.

“You’ll forgive me is I don’t stand,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, “I’ve had an exhausting morning.”

He couldn’t tell if he was slurring his words or not. To judge by Faolan and Feilim’s reactions, it didn’t matter. Faolan approached him, relief softening his expression. “Well you don’t look dead,” he chuckled good-naturedly. “When I saw Rowan at the games, I feared the worst. Tell us, what has befallen you, little brother?”

Ferin felt himself smirk before he realized he was doing it, empowered by mead and hubris.

“I’ve won the Hunt,” Ferin said. He pretended to be interested in a piece of dirt under his fingernail. Just then, the house thrall Finbarr had sent off returned with a goblet of water and a heel of warm bread. Ferin took them and pretended to be only mildly interested as he ate and drank. In truth, he was so hungry he was ready to eat the heart turning to temptingly on the spit whole; so thirsty, he felt he could drink all of the sacred lake at the foot of the hill. More than anything, though, he wanted to sleep for a thousand days.

Faolan gave Ferin a look that was equal parts approval and disbelief as he placed his hands on his hips. Feilim gave a snort of derision. “Sorry to tell you, boy, but your brother is taking the crown this year. Again.”

Ferin bit back a retort and forced himself to remain outwardly calm. It had always been this way. It was no secret among his sons, let alone among the tatha, that Feilim favoured his eldest son. All their lives, glory, honour, and expectation had been heaped upon Faolan’s shoulders well beyond what the man wanted. Ferin had only ever been shackled by his father’s contempt, so eager to prove himself, but denied the chance again and again.

He’d lost his father’s love the day he was born.

The day his mother died.

Ferin pushed his emotions down into the recesses of his mind, and gave his father a grin. “You haven’t seen what I caught, yet, Da,” he insisted jovially.

“Oh?” mocked Feilim, “And where is this magnificent kill?”

Ferin’s amber eyes blazed with alcohol and indignation. All the same, he kept a cool, confident air. He took a bite of bread, chewed it deliberately, and washed it down with a mouthful of water before answering evenly. “Take a look outside.” He indicated the double doors and the wagon outside.

Faolan and Feilim exchanged another look. Feilim nodded silently to his son. Faolan glanced at Ferin, winked, and crossed the feasting hall to look in the cart outside. Volstan, still sitting astride the cart, waved drunkenly and called loudly enough for those inside to hear, “Well met, Faolan. Has your brother told you the news?”

Faolan reeled, turning back inside, laughing in astonishment. Feilim’s brows knit together in consternation. “What is it?” he asked.

“It’sa bear,” Faolan chocked out. “It’s a Gods damned bear.”

Feilim rounded on Ferin. Ferin merely smiled. He watched as his father crossed the feasting hall and peered out the door; watched as his expression moved through different emotionsfirst disbelief, then horror, then awe, then something akin to pride, as though he could only just grace the emotion, but then settled onto something more like boredom.

He turned back to his youngest son and crossed his arms. “Well, looks like you’ve finally killed your first bear,” he said evenly. “Too bad it only took you twenty years.”

In his drunken state, it took Ferin a moment to realize what was happening. His brows knit together, mouth tugging into a frown. “What?”

Feilim scoffed. “I was but a lad of fifteen when I felled my first bear. Gods, I gave the pelt to your mother as a wedding present.” Somehow, Feilim managed to turn a chuckle at a fond memory into a scathing sound. Ferin grimaced.

“That’s not fair, Da,” Faolan countered. “I’m nearly five and twenty and I’ve never killed a bear.”

Feilim waved a hand, dismissing Faolan’s words.

Suddenly, Ceridwyn appeared in the doorway, looking as though she had been running. Her pale cheeks were tinged with pink, her eyes brightened by the exercise, and she panted slightly, her chest rising and falling beneath a sapphire dress that made her eyes come to life. It was synched at the waist with a tartan sash of green and gold. A fine golden rope was braided into her hair like a circlet. “Ferin,” she gasped, rushing to his side. “Finbarr told me what happened. Are you in any pain? Do you need anything?”

“Bah, he’s right as rain, girl,” Feilim said.

Beside him, Rowan made a small chocking sound as though he had bitten his tongue. Feilim’s eyes flicked toward Rowan and grew hard. “You have something to say, dog?” he asked, voice low and menacing.

“No,” Rowan answered in a low voice.

“What did you just say to me?” Feilim asked darkly.

“No, my Lord,” Rowan corrected, fighting to keep the venom from his voice.

“That’s better.” He looked back to Ferin. “Hmph. You stride in here with hard little prick just because you think killing a bear wins you the oak crown? Pathetic. Look at youyou’ve got thralls for friends a barren wife! No. You haven’t won anything today, boy. You haven’t won a damn thing.”

“Da” Faolan began, but Feilim raised a hand to silence him. “Enough,” he said. “Away from this place. Now.”

Ferin had won the hunt. He’d brought down the mightiest kill. He’d honoured himself and the Gods that day. The crown was his. By rights, it should be his. Feilim would not yield. This was just a demonstration of power. Feilim’s power. He decides the winner, and damn the Gods. Ferin’s felt like a pot of water over a flameblood simmering beneath a dancing copper lid. He felt too hot to touch, his skin suddenly stifling.

“No,” Ferin said suddenly. He heard himself say it before he’d realized the word had escaped him. It was out in the open, then, this single word of defiance. It filled the air with its weight, bowing the shoulders of anyone unlucky enough to be in its presence. Feilim rounded on him with an odd expression that Ferin couldn’t read. The venom in his voice was easy enough to understand, though. “What did you say?”

Ferin set his jaw and got to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg and ribs. He rose to his full height and met his father’s gaze. “No,” he repeated. “I’m not leaving. I earned the crown. The Gods favoured me today, and instead of doing what is right, you insult me, my friends, and my wife. I won’t stand for this. I cannot stand for this. Being Chieftain does not give you the right to do these things.”

“It is precisely because I am Chieftain and your Da that I have the right. Every right,” Feilim snarled. “Sit back down, boy. You haven’t the stones to challenge me.”

“Da” Faolan said quickly, trying to intervene, but he was too late.

“I do challenge you!” Ferin roared. His voice reverberated off the walls of Hallame, shaking dust from the rafters. A sudden quiet filled the hall as the onlookers held their breath. “I do challenge you,” Ferin said again, “for my honour and that of my friends and loved ones.”

“Ferin, don’t do this,” Ceridwyn said quickly, grabbing him by his white-knuckled hand. “You’re hurt. You’re drunk. You can’t win this right now.”

“Listen to her, brother,” Faolan implored, but he could see there would be no convincing his brother. He turned to his father, eyes wide. “Don’t fight him, Da. It’s not a fair match. There would be no honour in winning against him right now. You’d only be hurting yourself.”

Feilim wasn’t listening to his eldest son. His eyes were trained unblinking on Ferin’s, watching for any sign that he was bluffing, waiting for him to falter, to flinch.

Ferin stood firm.

“Very well,” Feilim said. “I’ll give you what you want, boy. Get your sword.”