It may have been because of his homesickness, or perhaps because of that rock he had fallen asleep near, and used as a make-shift pillow. That Bradán felt crabby the following day, with his ill-mood exacerbated by how the first thing he thought of the next day, was his friend Muirgel. He had hurt her he knew, and for that reason he was filled with bitter remorse. Afterwards he thought of Ríonal who was lonely like him, Eibhlin who always treated him so nicely, was next to pop into his mind, at last he thought of Colum.

  It was a sickening feeling, not one he liked, as it filled him with a certain malaise, a nauseous mixture of regret, and plain nausea.

  It was some time before Lyr would awaken, with Bradán still studying the stars that decorated the heavens overhead. Wondering as he did so about the stories and legends, of the various heroes who were celebrated with a set of constellations devoted to them. He asked himself if they had ever sat down or laid down and wondered about their place in the grand expanse of history and the universe.

  When Lyr finally awoke, it was with a loud groan, a glance here then there, then a quiet curse at the suns in the skies up above them. Lyr hated mornings just as he hated swamps, not that this was anything new to Bradán, who had known all this for quite some time.

  “Morning,” Lyr scowled at him.

  That day they at last made it out of the woods, to find a marshy hill with nearby mountains, storm-clouds overhead, with the two of them soaked to the bone, two minutes after they had stepped away from the woods. Neither of them said a word about the mountains, the wetness of the grass beneath their feet. Both of their spirits felt dragged down, to the realm of Orcus, where the dead ‘lived’ long after their physical lives had been brought to an end.

  It would be hours the next day before they would find a monastery at the base of one of the two primary mountains in the area. It was there that they, at last found shelter for the night, for the first time in days.

  Founded four-hundred years or so before, by the same monk who had founded the cloister-by-the-sea, this one though was of a different nature, as it was larger, with a greater number of monks. Unlike, the one by the sea, it was in the middle of a crossroads. But as Lyr explained, it had already been burnt down four times in the past forty years, only to be rebuilt each time, if without its original small market community next to it.

  Lyr though not aware of how these monks would receive them, pounded his fist against the wooden door, with all of his might, crying out in frustration as he did so. “Open this door, please.” Several seconds passed before, he would knock again only to scream this time at the top of his lungs. “Open this door at once!”

  This went on for some time, until there was at last a response, though not the one that either of them had expected to hear, from a monastery full of monks. “Go away!”

  “What?” Was the answer both Lyr and Bradán uttered at the same time, both of them stunned by such rudeness, with the latter of the two shivering from the cold, as he spoke.

  “We said to go away.”

  “What do you mean?” Lyr asked again, as stunned as before.

  “We said go away, we do not wish for brigands, northerners, heretics or strangers of any kind.”

  “Why would we knock on your door, if we were any of the three first ones, you just mentioned?” Bradán demanded impatiently with a roll of his eyes, at the antics of these old monks who in his eyes, had lost all sense.

  There was a silence that followed during which, the two travellers felt certain those on the other side of the door, had left. Lyr turned to Bradán during this time, muttering to him, “Let me speak with them.” Then he turned back to the door, to address those inside once more. “We are monks in the service of Brigantia, now please open this door.”

  “Go away!”

  “If you do not open this door, this instant I will curse you in the name of the goddess herself, now open up this minute!” Lyr screamed with all that he had in him, “I said to open this door!”

  It took another minute or two before the door opened, and a head poked out to study the two of them, at some length. The young man, who glowered down at them, was as unfriendly, as he was unhappy. He opened the door a bit more, to allow them in, with visible reluctance.

  “Come in,” He said from between his teeth, “Now.”

  “Fine.” Lyr spat back, with equal displeasure, clearly taken aback by the man’s rudeness, the elder pushed past him waving back at Bradán, who did not need any encouragement to follow him inside, wet and frozen as he was.

  He glanced about himself, but it was dark, and there honestly was not much to see inside as it was a simple dark, dank hallway, with doors to either side of it. With neither Lyr, nor Bradán, sure of what they had expected, with both of their legs and heads sore, from the elements and the sudden change in weather. All that either of them wanted was to find some food, as they had barely eaten in two days, only to follow that up, with some sleep. As it was exhausting work, having to all but starve to death.

  “You may sleep in the main temple hall,” They were coldly told.

  “May we eat something quickly, before we do so?” Lyr requested his steely tone, at last giving way to exhausted fatigue.

  “What? You wish for food, as well as a place to sleep?” the young man grunted annoyed, as though they had just requested a silken carpet from a Sultan.

  “Yes,” Lyr retorted emphatically, having at last lost the last of his patience with the young man, he glared back at him, “And do hurry it up.”

  “Why are you being rude to us? We have done nothing to you,” the boy demanded of him.

  “You are strangers,” was the simple answer before the peculiar man announced their arrival in the main hall, “We have arrived now, sit down and I shall fetch you, your meals.”

  Bradán shook his head at their host’s casual abruptness, he left with the two of them alone in the small hall, where they stretched out. They seated themselves away from the wet spots and corners, as some of the rain-water had seeped into the building, with the barricaded doors behind them, and the altar to the goddess Brigantia before them. The altar was decorated with a multitude of burning candles, on top of a clover decorated emerald cloth, with a statue of the goddess looming over it, in a rich display of silver.

  Bradán gasped, for he had never seen such a dazzling display of wealth in all his life, he was not sure what to think, it was certainly beautiful but monks were supposed to live frugally.

  “They have grown no less pompous in fourteen years,” Lyr complained quietly to himself, with a scowl at the statue.

  This caught his attention, he jerked around to stare at the former hunter in shock, “You visited this place before? When?”

  “Once, long ago, but I would rather not discuss it,” the elder grumbled unhappily.

  He was saved from the younger monk’s persistent questions, by the sudden, timely arrival of their host alongside two other, equally haughty monks of a similar age to the first monk. The other two monks arrived with grim countenances, with these two also glaring down at them, with such ferocity that Bradán wondered why every adult monk he met, was so difficult to get on with.

  It happened that some time later, long after the two had drifted off to sleep that they were awoken suddenly. At first Bradán thought it to be already morning, but a quick glance out the large windows of the temple revealed it to be likely about midnight. Standing above them, with visible animosity and holding up a candle each were a dozen monks.

  “We will allow you to pray with us, but after that you must leave,” One of them said to the two travelers, who blinked back in sleepy surprise.

  “What of food?” Bradán queried full of surprise, by the sudden appearance of the two men, and by how quickly they were being thrown out.

  “Why must we feed you? You are from a different cell, than ourselves: We are sworn to the monastery of Aidanthorpe, o’er to the west in Ruaidhrachta.”

  “Can we eat then leave instead of praying with you?” Lyr suggested in a voice as resolute as any he had ever used before in his life, his eyes still wearied with large dark rings under them. He had evidently enjoyed his time asleep on the temple floor about as much, as Bradán.

  “If it means you leave sooner-” the monk began to say only for the rest of the brothers to start to arrive for the midnight Session and prayers.

  One of the new arrivals gasped in shock after he caught sight of them, he stared at Lyr intently only to cry out, and interrupt his brethren mid-chant. “You! Are you not Lyr of Dalcessia? You must be, I never forget a face.”

  Bradán looked from one old man to the other intrigued by the possibility of meeting someone from Lyr’s past. This was a source of curiosity to him, because the lad had never met anyone to have any knowledge, of his life before he had brought a newborn Bradán to the Cloister-by-the-Sea.

  “‘Dalcessia’?’ Lyr questioned with a raised brow to the gouty monk, who limped into the hall, “I think you have me mistaken for another, for I have never been there before.”

  “Liar,” the bald elder growled with a fierce look in his eyes, one that seemed to dare the slightly taller man to disagree with him. “Your eyes are the same; and while you may not have that scar on your rich cheek anymore your voice also betrays you. Yet for you to have become a monk, is rather unexpected.”

  “What do you mean?” Bradán queried the fiery man fascinated.

  “You may not realize it lad, but the man you travel with, was a killer, a thief and a liar, one that was infamous in these parts as he was further to the north!” The monk proclaimed in an enraged voice that to Bradán’s amazement made Lyr squirm.

  He was about to ask another question when the prayers of some of the monks began, this reminded the lad that they did not have time for prayers, hushed accusations, or much more than travel itself. Still, Bradán could not bring himself to leave, as he needed to hear more, this was what he had prayed for, for many a years.

  “When Lyr was last here, what did he do?” Bradán asked desperately.

  “Bradán!”

  “I can tell you this; he came with a babe, and after staying here a month, he left this monastery, which was burnt to the ground, with it doubtlessly connected in some way to his presence here.”

  “Why was it his fault?” By this time the boy, had glanced over at Lyr to find him staring at the other monk in confusion, “Lyr?”

  “I did not realize this place was burnt down at that time, I thought it was burnt two years after my departure.” Lyr admitted honestly, his gaze meeting his gaze, with the lad doubtful of much that he could, however he could not help but believe him this time. There was for one thing, no hint of panic in his eyes, when Lyr lied, in Bradán’s experience, his eyes always betrayed him by darting all over the place as well as filling up with fear.

  “Liar, you were an agent for Sihtric Shortbeard,” the gouty monk accused.

  “I think he is telling the truth, with that said why do you-”

  “Get out. If you trust him so much, then you will leave without food or prayers, now leave our sanctuary which is only for the righteous.” Was the bellowed order, with the baffled Bradán stunned at the speed with which event had taken place.

  The door was closed with an abrupt slam, that was as final as it was alarming, for the lad, once they had been dragged out, and tossed outside. He had assumed they would be more reasonable than this, yet they were not.

  “Let me in, I must know what you meant! I must hear more of what you know about Lyr!” Bradán screamed at the top of his lungs, as he leapt up to his feet to pound his fists against the door with all of his might. “You have to, you sorry excuses for monks!”

  “Leave it be Bradán, we must leave,” Lyr said wearily, still grumpy from having woken up so suddenly, he was as reluctant as ever to discuss his past.

  “But what about Dalcessia? Are you from there? Was I born there?” Bradán demanded furiously, unable to believe his own ill-luck; he finally had a lead to his past that could provide him with some of the answers he had always needed. And what, had he learnt? Full of rage, frustration and exasperation, at the man who had raised him, he roared at him once he realized that the door would not open again. “Why? Why did they refuse to answer my questions? Why do they know you? What about the baby in the story, was that me?”

  Lyr avoided his gaze only to shake his robes, to remove the dust from them, then he turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “Leave it be, they will never let you back inside.”

  “Nay, I am not leaving until I have answers, to my questions.” Bradán yelled back stubbornly, only to pound his right fist against the door, only to deliver a swift kick to it, for good measure.

  “Bradán hurry,” Lyr growled impatiently at the boy, furious now too and as desperate to leave as Bradán was to stay, with the boy aware of his companion’s desperation. But the sound of his pleas only increased his determination.

  Less of an Odysseus, and more of a Thor, Bradán was stubborn by nature, and being so close to the truth, he just knew was mere meters away, was more than he could endure, more than he believed anyone could. He swore then, to get the truth no matter what, especially after coming so close to it, especially since he had made more progress in a few minutes, than in years.

  “Nay, I need to know more, I need to know if that monk was indeed someone you once knew, Lyr,” Bradán snapped arms tossed up into the air in frustration, when the door remained resolutely closed.

  “Bradán,” Lyr hissed out from between his teeth, equally frustrated but aware of how stubborn he could be. A breeze blew by as the skies began to darken again, yet the two of them remained fixed into place as firmly as the mountains that loomed over them, neither of them flinched at the coldness of the wind. At last, Lyr bent, as he always did, yet he strove to not give any ground on an issue, he did not wish to discuss. “Bradán, I-”

  “I am tired! Tired you hear? Dia, all I want is to know my mother, my father, is that so wrong?” Bradán hollered in his passion, he imitated some of Eibhlin’ speech patterns to better express himself, or rather her ruder speech from when she felt angered or cheated.

  If he noticed the mention of ‘Dia’, Lyr gave no real hint of it. Though his brow creased, his eyes closed in a tight, pain-filled demonstration as another gust whipped through, then past his brown robes. Both of them reeled from their own cataclysms at the knowledge that the past though buried, was not forgotten. Not by the gouty monk. Not by Lyr. And certainly, not by ériu.

  “I know, Bradán now come hither from there,” Lyr ordered.

  “Nay, I will stay until either you tell me about them, or they will,” Bradán cried out, stomping his right foot for emphasis.

  It took old Lyr, a moment before he answered, “If you truly wish to hear of your parents, or at least your mother, I will tell you. Just please, I beg of you; let us leave this place. This place is a horrid excuse of a temple.”

  His supplication did not move Bradán at all, in marked contrast Lyr’s promise to at last divulge something about his mother, was an enormous leap forward in his eyes.

  Bradán was no one’s fool, certainly not Lyr’s, he had long since learnt not to simply accept the old man’s words at face-value. Cautiously, he asked after considerable reflection, “Swear it. Sweat in the name of the goddess.”

  Vexed, Lyr shot him an irritated look only to swallow, before he nodded reluctantly and made the vow then and there. “I promise you in the name of Brigantia that, I will answer all of your questions that involve your mother.”

  It was as though Bradán’s spirit left him then and his heartbeat ceased to beat at that moment, so great was his shock. For some time he stood there, blinking and gaping at him, before his mind began to think once m ore and his heart to beat again.

  “Really,” He asked still a little doubtful and unsure if Lyr was or was not going to renege on his word (something he had done before despite never vowing in Brigantia’s name before).

  “Aye, I promise you, now hurry,” Lyr swore impatiently as he waved at Bradán hurry along after him.

  “Fine,” Bradán conceded with one last longing, bitter look at the door to the temple behind him. A part of him, longed to continue to wait outside of the monastery. He hated how he had always been tied to the ankles of the oppressive monks near the sea.

  This could have been his means of escape from the stubborn old man, as well as his means of learning the truth, about himself. In the next breath though, he knew that there was nothing these monks truly knew. And that to stay, would not just be him giving up, any chance of knowing his parents or anything about them.

  Once they had left the monastery behind them, as in the case of the Cloister-by-the-Sea, he did not look back once. Lyr, gave him more than ample reason to look ahead, when he began to speak to him, of what he wanted.

  “Your mother was blonde of hair, ruddy-faced and dark-eyed, much like yourself, she was also tall and of a cheery disposition.” Lyr explained as they walked, and hiked along the side of Mt-ériderin, with Bradán but a meter or two behind him. His mind focused on trying to conjure up images, in his mind’s eye of his mother.

  “What was her name?” Bradán questioned full of excitement, and with a slight snort at Lyr. Over the years, he had learnt one or two things about her, such as her love for food, potatoes, her love for wood-carving, horses and the stars, yet over the past fourteen, almost fifteen years. Lyr had kept most things about her, a secret from him, slipping out the odd interest of hers, but not elaborating about them. It was as though, he feared that by telling Bradán even her name, he might lose the last shreds of his memories of her.

  “Mabel. She was the sweetest, kindest woman, I have ever met.” Lyr confessed, head bowed in pain, a small smile on his trembling lips, one that flitted away as swiftly as it had appeared. “She- she was brave, prone to quick flashes of temper, and as spirited beyond what words could describe.”

  “Spirited how?” Bradán asked a hint of panic in his voice, as he wracked his mind for questions about her that for years had seemed to come so freely to him, with the ease of walking or breathing.

  “Simple things; she was competitive, despised to lose so much as a single argument. She hated towns, villages and monasteries, and would correct everyone whenever she felt them to be wrong, except for Ardghal.” Lyr said, his voice initially warm, but as he went on he grew increasingly despondent, only to shake the feeling away. His warmth was soon replaced with bitterness at the mention of the name Ardghal.

  Certain that this person was his father, Bradán felt his pulse quicken in eagerness at the thought, thus he could hardly contain his feelings, bursting out. “Ardghal? Was that my father’s name?”

  Lyr remained silent. A fact that Bradán did not notice immediately, only realizing that the silence was purposeful, after he repeated his question, only for Lyr to continue to ignore him. Impatient, frustrated Bradán stomped his left foot, at Lyr’s ongoing silence.

  “Answer me.” He ordered to no avail, as bullying Lyr resulted in more silence, which he took as confirmation, “That is his name! My father was called Ardghal.”

  Lyr at long last conceded defeat on the point of the lad’s father’s name, something that garnered him a dirty look from the boy, just as he began to speak. “Aye it was, but I agreed to answer questions about your mother, not your father, Bradán.”

  Bradán had half a mind to kick the old man, or to shout at him, yet he knew the monk well enough to know that it would just make Lyr clamp his mouth shut, and refuse to answer any further questions. “Fine, if you insist, my next question is; what was her birth-status?”

  “She was the daughter of a farmer, and a merchant’s son,” Lyr explained only to add in spite of the fact that Bradán had not asked. “I knew her father first, as he once tilled land that belonged to the Rí Donnchad, before his lands were overtaken by the forces of the Warlock-King.”

  “Did she only have her father for kin, or were there others there for her?” Bradán asked desperate to know more about his kinsmen.

  “Her mother died in childbirth,” Lyr answered only to glance over his shoulder at him, while he sped up to walk alongside the taller man, excited at the prospect of hearing about his grandmother.

  “Her mother died giving birth to her?” Bradán queried.

  “Nay, it was-” Lyr stopped speaking as he caught himself, only to glance down at Bradán hesitantly, obviously he was on the verge of saying something he had no desire to tell him.

  “Was…?” Bradán demanded confused by how the monk had trailed off, only to notice that they had begun to leave the mountain behind them, for another forest.

  “Was her younger brother,” Lyr finished at last, eyes unfocused and stuck on some point in the distant none save he, could perhaps see.

  “‘Younger brother’? I have an uncle? Is he still alive?” Bradán asked eager to hear more about his mother’s family, or more specifically his uncle. A man he had never known about or heard of until now and whom, he knew he would need to know more about, and would someday go out in search of, since he didn’t have anybody else. “Where is he?”

  “I do not know,” Lyr admitted only to add slightly more sharply. “Just leave it be Bradán, I no longer wish to discuss this.”

  “But-”

  “Leave it.” Lyr told him once more, avoiding his gaze so as to focus on the distance again, “It will be dark soon, let us find a place to stay the night.”

  The subject was dropped, with the heavens up above them not darkening for several hours, while the two of them fell silent. It was a cold pause that lasted but briefly, with Lyr unbending and Bradán frustrated by his inability to convince the elder to tell him, something of any value about his mother’s brother or anything not directly tied to her.

  *****

  It would be another day and a few hours before they would arrive in Dúntaobh, with neither of them discussing most of the questions that flitted through Bradán’s mind, about his family.

  In the distance they could see a series of longhouses all around a large crannóga, with a large palisade around the longhouses and crannóga with a ditch all around the barricade. Save for a narrow-strip, of land that acted as a bridge to the small mini-fort village which was full of ox-carts, people and even a few well-dressed folk. No doubt, present to offer tribute to the Nordic colonists who had recently gotten the better of the brutal native nobles, who had previously held pre-eminence thanks to the Bóruma.

  “Is that Dúntaobh? It looks different from what I expected,” Bradán stated impressed by the number of buildings and people present.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Aye it is, I do not know what you expected but this is the third of the villages, established by the Northmen, and one of the only two that survived the Warlock-King’s invasions.” Lyr answered as he studied the distant invasions with a curious gaze.

  This curiosity startled Bradán who finally tore his gaze from the view of the old settlement, to study the man he had just spent four days in the company of. The underlying curiosity in his voice was not something that Bradán was accustomed to hearing from Lyr, as he had assumed that the old man had already been to Dúntaobh in the past, long before he became a monk.

  “Have you ever been here before?” Bradán inquired unable to keep the surprise out of his voice, despite his best efforts.

  “No, I have not lad, I have travelled throughout ériu, but I have never been here before.” Lyr explained with a fascinated gleam in his large bright eyes, he leant over with a pleased smile on his lips. “Should be quite the experience for the both of us, you should be prepared to be even more awed when you see Fialinn.”

  “Is it bigger?” Bradán asked keenly, a hint of doubt in his eyes as he glanced to Lyr.

  “Much bigger, though it stinks more and has much larger city-walls,” Lyr said as he ran a hand along his neck-long beard.

  “How can they be any bigger?”

  “Stone lad, the Warlock-King had it built, shortly after he had the Bóruma killed.” Lyr clarified with a frown as dark as it was pensive, a shudder then ran through him.

  Though, Bradán did not understand what Lyr had gone through, or how he felt, with the lad certain that he was stronger than him, and therefore would never be so weak as to allow himself, to never recover from such trauma.

  Bradán was the first to begin the trek towards the village, the first to begin the trek towards Dúntaobh, heedless of the more cautious Lyr who felt slightly more wary than ever before. The elder called after him in exasperation, only to throw his arms up into the air, in frustration. Bradán reached the beginning of the line that led to the village, with an ox-cart and a small group of traveling Dwarves just in front of him, he stared at the family. He had never seen this many Dwarves in one place at a time, he’d only seen the odd one or two, pass by the Cloister, every three or four years.

  “Bradán, what in Turan’s name are you doing? I have told you before, not to race off in such an impulsive manner.” Lyr growled after him, annoyed by the youngster’s recklessness. “Do you have any idea how scared I get when you do that?”

  “Leave me be,” Bradán retorted impatiently, with a roll of his eyes, at the man who had raised him, and always seemed to do nothing but nag him. “You are always scared.”

  “Something you may someday understand should you ever have to be responsible for children yourself. ‘Tis a wise man who knows himself, and whom is honest with himself.”

  “With said ‘wise man’, dishonest with others.” Bradán complained.

  The wait to enter the village was one that took several hours that left the both of them exhausted, neither of them very appreciative of those before them, or those that inhabited the village, in that time. Once they had reached the wooden palisade’s gates (which were raised to allow people to mill about), the two of them were stopped by a pair of fur-cloaked, long-haired men, a few feet taller than either of them were.

  Neither of the guards who looked them up and down, seemed to care for them, their eyes as displeased, as full of disdain as any Bradán could have ever imagined anyone’s gaze to be. The two of them scowled so fiercely that, Lyr’s voice shook when he spoke to them.

  “M-my good sirs, we are here to offer up the tribute that the Cloister-by-the-sea owed to Brother Lughaidh, and which he in turn owed you due to the Rí’s loss to your uh, Rí.” Lyr stuttered to the initially unresponsive guards, this lack of interest sparked some irritation in Lyr.

  The trouble was that he honestly did not know what to say or do to salvage the situation; he was saved from trying to ‘help’ by the guard to the left, speaking up. “You wish to see him? You cannot, he is busy however your tribute should be given over to his brother over there, outside his longhouse.”

  As he spoke, the guard to the right examined the bag in which they had carried the Cloister’s gathered wealth in, before he waved them into the village. “Go on in. Finish your business swiftly, though monks.”

  Their knowledge of ériu’s tongue startled Bradán, who stared at them even after he had stepped past them. To the embarrassment of the youth, something that did not go unnoticed by Lyr was how the lad kept glancing over his shoulder, at the duo that stood by the gates.

  “Stop staring, Bradán,” He ordered sharply, to the boy who shot him an annoyed look in response to the scolding.

  “I did not know they spoke our tongue, you told me they came from across the sea.” He snapped, too inquisitive to let his anger keep him from the quest for more knowledge, “And that they spoke a different language, than our own.”

  “Aye, they speak our tongue, now stop staring at them,” Lyr scold him with an anxious look around at the people who milled all about them, without any interest in them.

  The crannóga was larger than Bradán had initially expected, when he had seen it from a distance, with the longhouse of the king of Dúntaobh more akin to a fort. It was separated by great wooden gates, guarded by three more men, with all three of them in possession of thick, blonde beards. Lyr raised a busy, disapproving eyebrow at the trio, who were more interested in gambling, than in their duty, something that he could likely never forgive.

  “Um, sir I am here-excuse me,” Lyr said loudly to the guards, frustrated by how they continued to ignore him, in favour of their game of dice (a pastime the Temple had never approved of). “We have come here from the Cloister-by-the-Sea, to offer tribute to Sihtric.”

  “He is absent,” One of the guards retorted with a snort, while he scratched at his right-cheek with his thumbnail.

  “Where is his brother? We were told to offer up the tribute to him,” Lyr replied at once, only to huff impatiently when it took the other man more than a few minutes, to answer him.

  “How much have you to offer us?” the same man, who had answered him before, spoke up, only to curst and slam his fist against his knee when he lost to his guffawing friend.

  “Twenty copper merks, it is all that the Cloister has left,” Lyr told him earnestly, which drew three incredulous stares.

  “Twenty copper merks? How many people is this monastery composed of?” One of the other men asked without too much interest beyond a slight sneer in their direction.

  “Thirty-seven in total, with twenty tenants each with about half an acre of land to plough.” The monk explained to them, a scowl growing on his bearded face, the more they sneered or mocked him.

  Even Bradán who had grown up full of distaste for his home felt a certain flame begin to grow in his belly at the rictus of laughter that exploded from the three Vikings. Who were about as pleasant company, as a stone in one’s boot was to one’s foot, to his mind.

  “Twenty is that per year?” the winner of the previous dice match asked, with nary a glance in their direction, while Lyr responded to this simple yet undeniable truth with a quiet ‘no’. The copper had been gathered over the course of twelve years, they were but a poor cell, by the sea after-all, which made this man respond with a slight lisp to his voice. “Wow, I did not realize that any monastery could be so poor.”

  “They are either the very best of monks, or the very worst,” The first man who had responded to them, remarked with a snicker.

  “What do you mean?” This time Bradán was the one who spoke up, his voice full of barely constrained anger at their continued insult to his home, to the only place he had ever known. A place that while not one he had praised very often, in recent years, he still did not appreciate being insulted by these strangers, who lived surrounded by mire and dung. What was worse to his mind, was the insult to his own honour, while he knew he was by no means a good monk, he was certain that he was by no means the ‘very worst’ monk in ériu.

  “You either offer us all that you have, and are thus the finest of your order, or more than likely,” the first man answered, only to pause for a moment as he shot his friends a conspiratorial look. “Are the worst of monks, and have already skimmed from what you owe us.”

  Affronted almost as much as Bradán was, Lyr gritted his teeth in anger, yet there was nothing he could do, or possibly anyone could do in that instant in time. “We are merely here to offer up tribute to you, in return for you to leave us in peace.” With those words, he unlatched the pouch from his belt to toss it at the feet of the three large men.

  They all raised sceptical brows, almost amused by the gall of these monks who were prouder than any of them probably would have preferred. Yet they were also too insignificant to truly matter enough to merit, an execution. It was then that those at the gate to the village were either ushered through or forced back away, off the bridge to either side of it, as the gates slammed shut.

  This could be done for but one reason, or to be more apt, only for one person himself; the Jarl himself. The cry went out as a large group of wounded and otherwise grim-faced men stepped on through the gates. “It is the Jarl, step aside! Step aside.”

  “Let us move to the side ourselves,” Lyr suggested, he grabbed Bradán by the arm to tug him aside also, out of the way of the procession of warriors.

  The sense of urgency in his voice was enough to persuade the lad, to do almost anything as he stared at the one hundred or so, men who limped forward. At the front walked one of the only men in leather armour, in the returning army. He was short, with dark hair, with a short, forked beard and with bright blue eyes; Sihtric was perhaps not as tall as some of his fellow Norsemen. But with the scar that ran from his temple right around his left eye, to his cheek, he had a fierce look to him that offset his lack of height.

  He barely paid either of the monks any mind, as he stepped on past his brother, up to the gate to his wooden residence, which he entered. Leaving his men, outside to collapse to the ground, or otherwise seek help themselves.

  “We really must leave,” Lyr whispered while the Jarl’s brother picked up the pouch, tossed it to one of his men, only to hurry on in after Sihtric.

  “Really? You don’t want us to help them?” Bradán queried startled by his teacher’s cowardice, as he would have expected him to provide some sort of assistance to these people.

  “Many of those injuries will soon be infected, then disease will spread which is not a thing you will wish to be present for, believe you me. It is no pretty sight.” Lyr told him in a hushed whisper, as he shot the Nordic folk a worried glance, as the Norse families were reunited with their men-folk. “Once they have us care for their own, we may never be able to leave this place ever again.”

  Bradán was not certain he agreed with everything the monk, had just stated, though he could not deny a certain amount of reluctance to stay in Dúntaobh, for much longer. The two monks edged around the center of the village, where the defeated army lay, breathlessly crumpled together. Bradán could not budge his eyes from the horrific scene, of one man with a large cloth pressed against his left eye.

  “Hurry Bradán, we-oh by the Golden Goddess, hurry!” Lyr cried out behind him, only to reach out to grab the boy by the wrist, to pull him along faster, towards the gates which were about to be closed by the guards.

  Shocked, and already out of breath, Bradán broke into a dead run as he was told to do, within a few seconds though, it was he that had to glance back, whilst tugging on the other man’s sleeve in frustration, as they raced for the gates.

  “Wait!” Lyr would cry out once more, but it was too late for them.

  The gates swung shut with a dull yet short ‘broom’ sound that left many gaping or weeping in despair or disappointment. Bradán fell back behind Lyr who had moved past three farmers, along with two families of merchants to get to the guards. More from habit, than from any need or desire to trail on, after him.

  “The gate is to remain shut until king Sihtric or someone from his household, gives permission for it to be opened once more.” The guard told everyone with a shrug of his beefy shoulders.

  “But I have fields to plough!” One man cried out.

  “This is an outrage!” Shouted another farmer.

  “I have a living to make!” One of the Dwarves yelled, it was the female one, the matriarch if Bradán had to hazard a guess as to her status, within her family.

  Her husband pipped up in support of his spouse, “We have wares to sell elsewhere, ye o’erbloated excuse for a-”

  “We also must leave!” Shouted another, by now though the guards had had enough, and had pulled out their swords from their scabbards.

  “Any other objections? No? Good, now be quiet and find yourselves a place to stay the night.” One guard growled at the same time that his comrade tugged his shoulder, from shoulder to shoulder, menacingly in what an obvious threat to all, was those gathered before him.

  “What do we do now?” Bradán asked of Lyr who gave him a look as equally helpless as Bradán’s lack of knowledge over what to do was to aggravate the lad’s feelings of anguish.

  “I suppose we have no other choice, but to stay here,” Lyr said his voice quiet and defeated.

  With mounting anxiety, enough to suffocate a man to death, Bradán felt panic begin to set in when he remembered one important detail that he was sure Lyr had forgotten. “What about food and money? How are we supposed to survive without either of those things, or alms?”

  “All will be well, we have not been caught in the trap quite yet, we still have one resource to rely upon.” Lyr assured him, though his own voice shook from fear too, with the monk swallowed very audibly before he guided Bradán away from the gates with an anxious glance over his shoulder. “We can only hope that the gate is raised within the next fortnight.”

  “You monks, where do you think to fly to in our hour of need?” Someone asked loudly of the two of them, with both of them glancing over behind them to find the furious speaker to be none other than the matriarch of the Dwarf family of merchants.

  “We intend to fly nowhere,” Bradán objected weary of the abuse, of the mockery that seemed to be consistently thrown at them by all those they encountered in the past two days, since the monastery with the gouty monk. “To flee would be to imply that we have some place to go to.”

  His witticism earned him a few chuckles, and an annoyed look from the woman-Dwarf, with Lyr quick to correct him, to salvage something of his mistake. “It is merely that I was not aware if our help would be accepted.”

  Lyr’s words had the effect he desired from the Dwarf and some of those who had been adverse to the monks present. Not all were calmed down, not all were as forgiving as the one woman who had spoken out against them.

  “Can you not hop on to it, and heal everyone with the assistance of the gods?” One man snapped at Lyr, in a fury as he pointed at the wounded nearby.

  “What do you mean? I cannot make them healthy; I have no such magic in me.” Lyr answered with a glance to the wounded, one that was as nervous as it was polite.

  “You cannot perform miracles?” the Dwarf-woman’s spouse spoke up in a loud, if amused voice. “What sort of monk are you?”

  “One not um blessed with any such abilities by the gods,” Lyr confessed sincerely, a note of self-derision in his voice, he added to Bradán. “Stay here, while I see to the wounded.” Then he turned, back to the female Dwarf, “Madam if you could see to keeping my friend, out of trouble, I would be most grateful.”

  His plea to the Dwarf garnered him a thoughtful look, from her as she raised a singular yellow brow at Bradán. “If he allows it, my name lad is Gladis, not madam.”

  “I could help,” Bradán tried to argue in spite of a lack of knowledge about medicine due in no small part to his having always ignored or run off during those lessons due to how bored he would get.

  “Bradán if you could find me a well, and draw up some water then you may help.” Lyr retorted in an indifferent tone, as he moved forward to provide assistance to the Norsemen.

  That day Lyr was to do as much harm as he did good to those patients he had. Such was his knowledge of medicine that it was at times helpful, however with ideas such as bleeding or some such ideas. He merely aggravated the injuries of some of the newly returned warriors.

  As to Bradán he spent some of his time over the few days fetching water, idling his time away or otherwise helping Gladis and her husband Murchad, with selling their wares. His duties consisted of cleaning and selling their gathered goblets and plates as they were a family of potters.

  “We come from just a bit north of Dúntaobh, though we don’t usually spend much time here.” Murchad explained, a goblet full of what Bradán was certain was not water, given how the Dwarf’s speech had begun to slur, his tongue grew increasingly looser the more he drank. “Did I ever tell ye ‘bout the time I met Gladis?”

  “Be quiet Murchad we have-wait have you been drinking again?” Gladis demanded exasperated with a hint of burgeoning anger at her husband for getting drunk, so early in the day.

  “Aye, but only water,” the male merchant lied, his face red as he hiccupped which did not help convince the perceptive woman.

  “I should suppose then, that you are hiccupping by chance?” Gladis asked sarcastically with a roll of her bright eyes, as she swiped his goblet from him only to spill the beer in it and point her husband to a shadowy corner of the village. “Now go sleep it off.”

  “You are not my mother.”

  “Nay, but how might you like it, if I told the shrew of you drinking while the children work.” Gladis shot back, at last succeeding in intimidating her husband into behaving himself.

  Bradán wrinkled his nose as Murchad passed by him, the stench one that he did not much care for. While Gladis shrugged and turned back to her make-shift shop which was placed, in the space directly against the palisade-wall near the left side of Dúntaobh, which was the area nearest to the gates. None spoke of the previous night’s events, when a small army of men had placed themselves some distance from the ‘bridge’ to Dúntaobh and had set up camp. Several of the guards taking notice of this unexpected event, with Sihtric, who had at last stepped out of his home after days spent locked away.

  Bradán did not know what had happened, for he was asleep that night, after a day full of errands, shocking sights of copious amounts of blood and injuries, and helping the Dwarves. So, he had to be told what happened by Lyr, and M?el, the eldest son of the Dwarven couple, about a decade older than Bradán, he was a much lighter sleeper than the human lad. He agreed with Lyr that, Sihtric had paled at the news of the newly arrived army. Where they disagreed though, was over the fact that Sihtric had screamed, and then flee back into the safety of his home.

  Lyr claimed that rather than flee immediately, Sihtric had stood there for some time, before he finally turned to slink back into his home, with a solemn look on his face. Personally, Bradán thought it more likely that Lyr’s version of the tale was true.

  “He did react as I said, he did,” M?el insisted with a few nods from some of his siblings, and other resentful ériu-men and women, who were dismayed at being sealed up in the village.

  Bradán gave him a sceptical look not because of any admiration for Sihtric, as he had been accused of, the prior evening. Rather because, he had difficulty imagining the bluff warrior making such a public scene. Not that it mattered to the boy, who was certain that this siege would nonetheless end badly for Sihtric.

  “Bradán, cease sitting about, I have need of another pair of hands.” Lyr shouted from where he knelt next to a wounded Northman, who groaned due to an arrow-wound to the shoulder. “Hurry lad!”

  “Why not ask M?el instead?” He asked nervously, doubtful of his own abilities.

  “Because you are to be a monk, and he is not, now hurry.” Lyr yelled back at him, impatiently while one of the Norse-women shoved a canteen against the wounded man’s lips, only for him to drink thirstily, eager to numb the pain by over-drinking. Out of arguments, Bradán rushed over from the wall to the other monk’s side, where many if not most of the wounded still lay.

  “What do you need assistance with?” Bradán enquired, once he was kneeling next to the poor man, who groaned with such misery that it pulled at his heart, which made him ashamed of his earlier uncertainty.

  “Help hold him down, while I wrench the arrow from his shoulder, and then relocate his other shoulder. This man has been less fortunate than many, of his compatriots.” Lyr murmured sympathetically only to glance to his left to the Norse-woman who gave him a slight nod in reply. “Anóra please hold-ah wait, please put the wooden slip in your father’s mouth if you will.”

  “Certainly, great brother,” Anóra answered with a slight smile, which caught and held Bradán’s attention, Anóra may have been Norse-born but she was nevertheless, a very pretty girl with a tall fulsome figure, flaxen curly hair, almost as curly as Ríonal’s hair was without curls. With bright dark eyes, and a warmth to her that held more than a few boys at the girl’s mercy.

  “Good now press down!” Lyr ordered startling Bradán who felt his cheeks redden a little when he realized that he had been caught staring at Anóra.

  The cry and high whine of pain that was released by her father was offset by his thrashing and clumsy struggles to try to escape from Lyr. Bradán gritted his teeth as he struggled to hold down the muscular Northman. There were two others who hurried over to provide assistance when they saw how Anóra and Bradán were struggling to hold her father down.

  “Good, now onto the other shoulder.” Lyr grunted once the struggles had slowed to a near stop, just as Bradán noticed that his grip on the Viking’s arm and the back of his hip was slipping. He hurriedly adjusted his grip, only to glance up, when he noticed someone running from the top of the wooden palisade, and its ladder to the doors to the Jarl-Rí’s residence.

  “Focus Bradán,” Lyr reminded him crisply.

  “R-right,” Bradán stuttered, his embarrassment returned with a vengeance when he noticed from the corner of his eyes when he went to bow his eyes, the amused look in Anóra’s eyes.

  The second struggle Anóra’s father put up was nothing in comparison to the first though his whine was much more pronounced.

  “Try not to use it for a fortnight,” Lyr advised referring to the man’s shoulder while his patient spat the wooden block, and its shards from his mouth.

  “Which arm?” Anóra asked wittily only for Lyr to reply at once.

  “Either one,” He said sternly with a slight touch of wryness in his voice.

  “Thank you.” She murmured, with a slight smile as she with the help, of one of the other Norsemen helped her father to his feet.

  “How many are left to help?” Bradán wondered already exhausted after having helped out only a single man.

  “I do not know,” Lyr admitted with a long disapproving look from him to Anóra, who was guiding her father away from them. He seemed to forget about it after a moment, as his own eyes moved to the rest of the wounded. “Let us hope this siege does not turn disastrous or last for very long.”

  Bradán nodded, understanding his grimness as all in ériu knew that when an army was on the move, more often than not it could only mean one thing those it encountered along the way and at the end of its journey: destruction for all. Destruction as atrocious as that inflicted upon Priam’s people, once Agamemnon’s forces had penetrated Ilion’s gates. And just as those ancient people had had nowhere to go in the chaos, of that dark night. Should the army outside, get past the palisade, the village would like the Ilians, have nowhere to flee to.

  It took him almost a whole minute though, to notice the younger brother of Sihtric stepping out of the longhouse, only to glance about then move towards them. Seeing him, move towards them startled Bradán, with Lyr sharing his dismay at the sight, of the large brute.

  “I wonder what he wants,” Lyr muttered to himself.

  In truth, much as Bradán was curious about these people with their peculiar habits, speech and religious ideas, as well as about what went on inside of Sihtric’s home. He was by no means; keen to know what the Jarl’s brother had in mind for them.

  A wave of premonition crawled up his spine. The feeling worsened, when he saw the tall man with a glint in his eyes, head past several of his people, with his hopes that the brute was looking at someone behind them, soon dashed.

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