Waves in the Wind (31 page)

He stared at the ground. “I am here.”

I pointed to the fat man who still lay quivering upon the ground. “Look there. Is this man your master?”

Osgar shook his head, and then spat upon the ground. “Brógán O' Tolairg is no master of mine. Go ahead; kill the fat bastard, and all the better for it.”

I shrugged. “I have no further interest in him. He can continue to lay there, you can select his fate; it makes no difference.”

The man squinted. “Who are you?”

“I am Ossian, a Druid from the lands of the Eoghanachts. As for you, you are a bandit who lives in a village of bandits. Your former chieftain is discredited. What will you and the men of Quirene do now?”

Osgar gestured outwards from the village. “Before the darkness, we were farmers. Then our crops failed and our fields lay fallow. O' Tolairg convinced us that the only hope for our families was to turn to banditry.”

“Yes, but the sun has long since returned, and yet you haven’t returned to your fields. Your friends there,” I pointed to the bodies, “were farmers, but are now dead bandits. What say you?”

“What happens here next isn’t up to me. As for myself, I will return to my fields. The others must decide for themselves.”

“Then it is two things I say to you and the men of Quirene.” I pointed to the charred bodies. “First, take the wealth of O' Tolairg, all of it, and share it equally among the women of the men who lie there. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“The second thing is that my friends and I will ride east from here, but will be coming back this way soon. When we do, if we find bandits here, we will kill all who oppose us and burn this village to the ground. Do you understand that as well?”

Osgar’s smile was grim. “It would be difficult to misunderstand you.”

“Good.” I turned to my companions. “Come then. We can be far from here by nightfall.”

Chapter 25

The Black Death

Ever north we rode, and then east toward the coast. It was there we would find Saithne, and, somewhere near there, Aine. We came upon a farmer in his field, and asked that he point the way.

He gestured eastward. “There’s a cart track leading to Saithne. Do you know the Black Death is there?”

I nodded.

“It is foolish you are to go there then.” Leaning on his hayfork, the farmer shook his head. “It is a village of the dead, as you will be too if you do.”

We traveled on and found the track; narrow, winding and rutted through years of travel. Soon a man came toward us pushing a cart. A woman and three children walked behind him. It was as if we were invisible spirits, for they never looked up as they marched by. Like ragged ghosts, they were, the wheels of their laden cart squealing as the family plodded silently onward, away from Saithne.

It became a familiar scene, a promenade of the lost, straggling along in family groups, in twos and threes, or alone, all escaping a dreadful tragedy behind them. Then we began to find the others, those lying quiet in the tall grass alongside the road, those who carried the poison within them, those whose attempt to escape came too late.

Swarms of carrion birds, fat from feasting on the dead, chattered and fluttered among the scattered trees lining the track. We tied linen cloths over our noses to fight away the stench of bloated bodies and hold the poison of the plague at bay. I chanted prayers as we rode along to protect us from the Black Death and ghosts of the dead.

Further on, a small knot of men squatted in the shade by the roadside, Christian monks all by the looks of them. One of their number lay on his back in their midst, his eyes moving within a face swollen and blackened by pustules, proof of the plague that spelled his doom.

We rode wide of them, until the prone man croaked, “Ossian. Is it truly you?”

I reined my horse around and stopped at what I hoped was a safe distance from the fatal disease dwelling among them. “Who is it that asks?”

“It is I, father Joseph. Do you not know me?”

His inflamed face was unrecognizable, but I knew him well enough. “Aye. I know you.” I leaned forward, resting my crossed arms on the horse’s neck. “It was you I trusted to carry a message of peace to your demon bishop at Tara. And well my entire village felt the full measure of his lying response.”

“But the bishop agreed to your terms, Ossian, and that’s the truth of it.” His voice was weak, and one of his aides raised him up to place a flagon of water to his lips. Joseph drank in large gulps. Panting, he continued. “A truce now holds between us throughout the land.”

Bitterness welled within me. “A dying man should tell no lies, priest. Your bishop and his Corcu hordes offered no truce to Rath Raithleann. That’s the truth I know.”

Angry glances and muttering came from the monks gathered about Joseph, but he waved them to silence with a frail hand.

“The bishop had no hand in that. He sent word to all the tribes that depredations against you were to cease.” Joseph paused, gasping for air like a landed fish. “It wasn’t until afterwards he learned of the Corcu raid on your village, and heard you were killed. By God’s Grace, I see you now before me, and thankful I am for it. Upon my honor and sworn faith in my Holy Father, what I say is true.”

No doubt Joseph believed his own words, but I had seen too much of Christian deceit. “The Corcu ignored your bishop’s command? It seems unlikely.”

Joseph’s words fell to little more than a rasping whisper, and I leaned forward in my saddle that I might hear them. “It was your food the Corcu were after. Their people starved, they attacked your village to fill their bellies. The fact you were a heathen tribe merely eased their souls, don’t you see? The bishop was furious when he learned of it. As was the case following the raid upon Dún Ailinne, again I am ashamed of God’s followers, and may only humbly ask your forgiveness of them as I ask God to forgive them as well.”

“Forgiveness?” Venom born of deep-held hatred filled my mouth. “You dare ask that I forgive that which can never be forgiven? As for your bishop, will his fury bring back my King, my father, my family, and all the people of my village? His fury earns him no merit with me.”

“My friend,” Joseph pleaded, “Jesus Christ himself teaches forgiveness—”

“Enough! This land has known naught but fire and blood since the first Christian set foot upon its shores.” My hand shook as I pointed a trembling finger toward him. “Your faith is like the plague that now consumes you. Too much has passed that I shall never forget or forgive.”

My heart hardened against him, I wheeled my horse around toward the distant village and kicked its ribs.

Behind me came Joseph’s weak call, “Ossian—”

* * *

The sun was high overhead when first we saw the smoke. Black as ink it was, like three grotesque beckoning fingers coiling and twisting in the wind, thick columns soaring to incalculable heights within a cloudless sky.

We followed the smoke until we crested a hill and Saithne appeared downslope before us. A tremor ran through me as I gazed down on the hamlet. It was like wolfsbane—small, lovely and deadly. A colorful ocean-side village bordered by emerald fields, dying as its people died. Nearby, a handful of men tended the sources of the smoke; three pyres piled high.

“They’re burning their dead,” Goban muttered.

Horses abreast, holding dread in our hearts, we proceeded down the dusty track to the village edge, taut hands gripping reins, ready to fight or flee from men or ghosts. No one was in sight. An oppressive silence weighed upon us, our horses making soft footfalls as we walked them past the first cottages. Open windows like vacuous eyes stared at us.

Breaking pottery crashed in the hut beside us. Instantly, Goban’s hammer was in his hand. We swung our horses ‘round facing the threat. Presently, a whining yellow cur slunk from the hut, dashed around the corner, and was gone from view.

Laoidheach laughed at our timidity as we turned back on our original course. Though Saithne was a small village, finding the slaver Scannlon and Aine would require time within a place we would fain not be.

The gods were smiling, for we had gone but a short distance farther when a crone tottered from a sagging hut. Clad in a ragged black dress, a shawl screening her face, she stooped far forward grasping a walking stick taller than her down-turned head. I urged my horse forward, and stopped beside her.

Twisting her wrinkled face around to peer up at me, the hag’s gap-toothed mouth opened as she cackled. “If it’s robbing me you have in mind, you’ve found a poor bargain.”

“No mother, it’s information I seek. I look for a man and a girl.”

“Look upon the burn piles then,” her ancient voice quavered. “It’s likely you’ll find their ashes there.”

“The man’s name is Scannlon, a low dog of a slaver. Do you know him?”

“Scannlon, you say? Do I look like a woman who would know a slaver?”

“No, mother, though I thought you might have heard mention of him.”

I was turning away when she added, “That I have.”

Had I heard her right? “What’s that?”

“I said I’ve heard of him.”

Leaning down to her, I held my eagerness in check. “Would you know where I might find him?”

The crone’s eyes squinted, and she shrugged. “Let me think. I can’t seem to recall. An old woman’s mind fails when she’s hungry, you know.”

I nodded. “Half a loaf?”

“And a wee bit of beef?”

“Aye, though we’ve lamb instead.” I waved Laoidheach forward, pulled a bag from our packhorse and selected the food.

She removed her shawl and held it forward in trembling hands, eager eyes watching my every move.

I nodded toward the empty cottages. “I should think food would be abundant within the homes of the dead ones.”

“Ach. It disappears quickly into ready hands after the family dies, and I’m not so agile as I once was.”

It was a full loaf and large piece of lamb that I wrapped tightly within her shawl, and she accepted it with a smile and nod. “I thank you, sir. May the spirits keep you safe from the evil that dwells here.”

“So where is Scannlon?”

“Keep going the way you are,” she pointed, “and then left at the second lane. Past three cottages and a bit beyond, a path turns to the right. Follow it to the end. A poor hovel is there where you’ll find Scannlon if he still lives.”

Laoidheach jerked his reins, his wide eyes haunted. “Let’s go get Aine.”

We rode on, each man’s face solemn at the prospect of facing Scannlon and his slavers. But it was Aine that mostly filled my mind.

At the lane where we were to turn left, we reined aside as a man driving a slow-rolling, horse-drawn wagon crept toward us. Its wheels screeched under a heavy burden, a death wagon, and we drew further away, averting our eyes as the gruesome cargo rolled past.

Again, Laoidheach urged us on. We walked our horse down the lane and turned onto the path described by the crone. At its end squatted a hut, barely visible behind overgrown shrubbery. A filthy, wiry man leaned against the side of the door.

I was in no mood to talk and wasted no time. “I seek the man, Scannlon. Are you him?”

Eyes dropping, he spat upon the ground. “No.”

Beside me, Goban growled deep within his throat.

I goaded my horse closer to the man though he appeared unconcerned. “Very well, then. Is he within the hovel there?”

He was an indolent scoundrel. “Maybe. Who are you to be asking?”

I dismounted, shouldered the man aside and strode into the hut’s dark interior. There was but a single small room, the stench of the place enough to make a man retch. Three men lounged on the floor, and an alarm bell pealed in my head at no sign of Aine.

I glanced at each man in turn, a surly lot, and then demanded, “Which of you is Scannlon?”

A burley, gray-haired man leaped to his feet and bowed in the obsequious manner of a peasant standing before his lord. “I am Scannlon, young master, and how might I be serving you this fine day?”

“I hear you are a trader in slaves and that you have a young girl to sell.”

“It is true I sometimes trade in lowly humans, those of little value you understand, but a young girl?”

“That’s right, a girl. I was told her name is Aine and I wish to purchase her from you.”

Another of the men, still prone upon the floor, snickered.

Scannlon avoided my gaze as he frowned. “Aine? I’m not familiar with the name.”

My hand rested upon my sword hilt and I drew the blade partially from its sheath. “Do not play games with me, slaver. I will have the truth from your lying mouth.”

“Of course, young master.” He rubbed his chin with a grimy hand, and then grinned. “Ah yes, I remember the girl now. Please believe me when I say that girl was not for you. Granted, she was a fine piece of ass at first, as all of us can attest, but later, well….” He raised a finger as if suddenly inspired. “Listen, if it is a woman you want, perhaps—”

“I rode here for the woman Aine!”

The snickering man on the floor laughed aloud. Instantly my sword was in my hand, its blade at the man’s throat. “Where is she, dog? Where is Aine?”