The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (2 page)

The Irishmen exchanged looks, then returned to bailing out the boat. Bridei slumped down again, pressing his face against the hard timber frame of the vessel. Most of the nausea had passed, but he still felt utterly drained.

* * *

When he woke it was night, and the sky was a dark blue ocean netted with tiny silver stars. The Irishmen had apparently decided what direction their homeland lay and were rowing hard to reach it. Bridei's anxiety had eased, but he couldn’t altogether relax. Until he reached solid ground, he wouldn’t feel safe.

The men rowed all night, making Bridei marvel at their stamina. He dozed off again and when he woke a greenish land mass was visible in the distance. As the shore drew near, Bridei sat up and gazed at it with curiosity. He’d always heard Eire was a realm of treacherous, rocky coasts and gloomy mists. Instead, he observed softly rounded hills rising above the shoreline. The grass covering the hills was the most vivid green he’d ever seen.

As the boat neared land, Lun and the two other men climbed out. Wading into the surf, they guided the vessel in. The currach came to rest on the beach below an outcrop of rocks. Bridei got shakily to his feet and attempted to climb over the side. With his wrists and ankles shackled, he had to tumble himself over the edge. He landed on the wet sand and struggled to stand. By the time he got to his feet, he sensed something was wrong. The slavers were talking in low, nervous voices. He caught the words “ill luck”.

A moment later, he observed the cause of their dismay. Two men were coming down a pathway through the rocks. The men were garbed in green and gold patterned trews, leather jerkins and linen tunics. Long swords hung from their belts and they carried round, wooden shields decorated with bronze strips and bright colors. They moved briskly, with the intensity of men with a purpose.

As the warriors came closer, the slavers began frantically pushing the boat back into the water. Bridei tried to decide what to do. Should he throw in with the slavers, who he knew he could intimidate, or take his chances with the approaching warriors? The fierce expression on their faces alarmed Bridei. What if they thought he was one of the slavers and decided to attack? Then he remembered his shackles. As the men drew near, he raised his manacled wrists and called out in Irish, “May the gods bless you for rescuing me. I was taken captive and brought here against my will.”

The two warriors didn’t respond, but swept by him with their weapons drawn. They raced down the beach and into the water, shouting insults at the departing slavers. “Thieving dogs!” and “Cowardly wretches!” were some of the words Bridei was able to make out, although the speech of these men was even more heavily accented than Lun and his companions.

When the slavers’ boat was only a dark spot among the gray and white swells, the warriors gave up their harassment of the departing men and returned to where Bridei stood. They resheathed their weapons, but continued to regard him with suspicion. He smiled pleasantly and said, “Bless you for rescuing me from those foul, worthless wretches. I feared for my life at their hands.”

The men’s dour expressions didn’t relent. The taller warrior—who had a long auburn mustache and pale blue-green eyes—grabbed Bridei by the arm and shoved him toward the pathway up the rocky slope.

“Where are you taking me?” Bridei asked.

When the man didn’t answer, Bridei jerked away and tried to assume a dignified pose. “Despite the chains I wear, I’m not a slave. My father is Maelgwn the Great, king of Gwynedd. I was taken captive by one of his enemies and sold into slavery. If you can find a way to return me to my homeland, you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”

The auburn-haired man gazed at him with skepticism, and Bridei realized how disheveled and filthy he must appear. He could hardly blame these men for not believing he was a prince. Both of them seemed very young, perhaps less than twenty winters. The smaller man had lighter red hair and fair skin covered with freckles.

The auburn-haired fellow grunted and gave Bridei another shove along the pathway.

Bridei continued to resist. Glaring at the man, he said, “Tell me where you’re taking me.”

The auburn man looked at his companion and muttered something indecipherable. Bridei began to wonder if they understood him. Among the British tribes there was a great variation in the way words were pronounced. It might be the same here. Speaking in slow, careful tones, he repeated, “I refuse to go any further until you tell me where you’re taking me.”

The man unsheathed his sword and jerked his head toward the pathway. The message in his eyes was clear:
If you wish to remain alive, you will obey
.

Bridei reluctantly started up the hillside. Typical warriors. They refused to think for themselves but followed orders blindly. He hoped their chieftain was less bull-headed.

As they reached the top of the cliff and moved inland, Bridei’s gaze took in harvested fields bounded by stone walls and jewel green pastures dotted with black cattle and cream-colored sheep. A fertile, prosperous land. No wonder the warriors who guarded it were so aggressive and hostile. They must fear attack at all times.

This thought was confirmed when he saw a fortress in the distance. A large ring fort sat on the crest of a hill, its stonework glinting silvery white. A formidable stronghold, and likely the residence of the chieftain who ruled over this territory. Bridei wondered what sort of man he was. Would he be able to bargain with him and negotiate his freedom?

As he walked, Bridei marveled at the soft kiss of the balmy air and vividness of the vegetation. It was well past the fullness of the harvest moon, yet this place still retained the mellowness of summer. In his homeland, autumn could be dazzling, as the trees and bushes turned red, gold and bronze, the berries ripened and the last stands of flowers gleamed purple, white and gold among the dull bronze of bracken and fern. But all too soon the meadows faded, the forests lost their glorious color and the sullen gray skies brought rain and sleet. It surprised him that Eire, a place of which he had heard such dark, forbidding tales, could appear so welcoming and lovely this late in the year.

His curiosity grew until he couldn’t help questioning his closemouthed captors once again. “What tribe are you from?” he asked. “What’s the name of your chieftain? At least tell me the name of the man who will decide my fate.” When they still didn’t answer, Bridei made his voice pleading. “Think how you would feel if you were cast ashore in a strange land and had no idea what was to become of you.”

At last, the auburn-haired man stopped and fixed him with a stony gaze. “Our leader isn’t a man, but a woman, Queen Dessia.”

Bridei was startled. No women wielded such power in Britain, although he’d heard things were different before the Romans came. His next reaction was delight. His mind began to whirl with plans of how he would beguile this Queen Dessia. He’d compose a tale extolling her greatness, her kindness and beauty. Then he would ask her to put him on a boat back to Britain, his passage to be paid when he arrived.

Perhaps fortune had smiled upon him when the slavers’ boat was carried off course and landed in this place. He thought again of the storm. Had he caused it? And if he had, did that mean the gods had planned for him to come aground on Eire in the kingdom of Queen Dessia?

A tingle of foreboding moved down his spine. Dolgar had sold him to the slavers so they could murder him, and they would have done so if he hadn’t cursed them using the most potent forces he could conjure. Bridei recalled the moment he spoke the names of the gods, the strange sensation he’d experienced, as if some energy moved through him. Was that the power of the deities? It was rather unsettling to think about. Better to attribute his rescue to simple good luck.

For that matter, he still didn’t know that everything was going to work out to his satisfaction. Queen Dessia might ignore his protests and make him a slave. The feel of the chains on his wrists and ankles reminded Bridei of how trapped and helpless he was. What if Queen Dessia refused to listen to him?

He tried again to question his captors. “What sort of woman is Queen Dessia? Her lands appear very fertile and rich. How does she keep them safe?”

The auburn-haired man stared at him. Then a faint smile formed on his lips beneath the heavy mustache. “The queen is a sorceress. She uses magic to fend off her enemies.”

Bridei suppressed a laugh. Perhaps this Queen Dessia possessed some wit and cleverness after all. He wondered how she maintained the ruse, what tricks she used to convince her subjects—and her enemies—of her power. “What sort of magic?” he asked. “Have either of you ever seen her work a spell?”

“Nay,” the younger warrior answered. “She does her conjuring in secret.”

“Then how do you know her powers are real?”

The young warrior spoke patiently, as if explaining something to a child. “Of course her powers are real. Otherwise, Cahermara would have been overrun by our enemies long ago.”

He had a point, Bridei thought as he glanced around at the peaceful landscape of farmsteads, pastures and harvested fields.

A few moments later, Bridei spied the tower the man had mentioned. In the center of the circular fortress, a large stone column rose several dozen cubits above the rest of stronghold. Bridei had seen similar high, round structures in the lands north of the Brigantes, although none of them had been surrounded by fortifications. He saw a small, narrow window in the highest part of the tower. From that vantage point Queen Dessia would be able to survey her kingdom and keep watch for any enemy attack. But these men hadn’t spoken of her keeping watch in the tower, but working magic. Was she truly a sorceress?

Bridei considered the witchwomen he knew: His mother, although that was more rumor than truth. Morguese, his cousin and Arthur’s half-sister. He could almost believe Morguese was able to see the future and perhaps even do a few things to influence it. But she obviously hadn’t possessed the ability to work a spell of protection. Her son, Mordred, had died at the battle of Camboglanna, despite all her efforts to keep him safe.

Thinking of magic, Bridei was again reminded of the storm. He still experienced a sense of awe when he recalled what had happened. Was it possible he had powers he’d never guessed at? What if the tales of his mother’s sorcery were more than tales? What if she possessed magical abilities and had passed them on to him?

The thought intrigued him, but he remained wary. All his instincts told him sorcery was dangerous, especially when used by someone completely untrained, as he was. When he returned to Gwynedd, he would have to visit his mother and ask about these things. By the gods, he missed her. It had been near ten years since he’d looked upon her face.

He pushed the thought from his mind and focused on his surroundings. The overgrown earthworks of the fortress had obviously been constructed some seasons ago, but a section of the stone wall remained unfinished. This was a relatively new dun, which made the story of Queen Dessia’s “spell of protection” even more interesting.

Bridei glanced up at the tower. Was she watching from that hawk-like vantage point even now? Did she already know of his arrival? Thinking of his disheveled condition, he turned to his captors. “I would like to wash before I meet your queen, as a courtesy to her.”

The auburn-haired man grunted his assent.

They had a visitor.
Dessia stared out the window of the tower facing into the hillfort. Keenan had come up a short while ago and made the announcement. The man wore iron shackles, Keenan said, but he didn’t look like most of the miserable wretches brought ashore by the slavers. This man held his head high, and was even now washing at the cistern.

She could see the captive now. He’d stripped off his tunic and was dousing his head and upper body with water. He had a long, lean torso, with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles. His shoulder-length hair was as black as raven feathers. Gazing at him, a strange sense came over Dessia. She felt like she knew this man, yet she couldn’t imagine where they might have met. Perhaps it had been when she was a child, when her parents were alive and the old Cahermara a bustling fortress. But nay, this man was young. If she were a child, then he would also have been a child.

Dessia chewed her lower lip, wondering why the look of him aroused such a strong feeling of familiarity. He was a foreigner, certainly. The leather trews he wore, the blue tunic he was now rinsing out in the cistern—neither garment looked like something belonging to a man of her people. And Keenan had mentioned the visitor had been brought in wearing heavy shackles. Clearly, his captors had considered him dangerous. Perhaps he was. Observing his graceful movements, she sensed he would wield a sword with strength and quickness.

The thought made Dessia uneasy and she moved away from the window. Perhaps she’d made a mistake when she told Keenan to have Scanlan and Flann remove the man’s fetters. But she hated the slavers and was eager to be rid of any sign of them. They raided the coasts of foreign lands, stealing their victims away from their homes and forcing them into cruel servitude. Usually their captives were women and children, helpless to defend themselves.

She moved back to the window. How had this strong, apparently healthy young man been taken by the slavers? She saw no marks of violence upon him. He was still leaning over the cistern, rinsing out his tunic, and she could see that the skin of his back was smooth and unblemished, with fine, sleek muscles beneath.