Page 89 of The Strength of the Few
The word echoes in my mind and I shiver, though thankfully I no longer have the urge to say it, or any of the others that spewed from my mouth against Gallchobhar. I carefully probe my wounds. Stitched and cleaned and bandaged. Either not as bad as I thought, or I’ve been sedated for quite a while.
I test my weight on my injured leg—it’s painful, but not impossible to walk—and then stagger to my feet, tottering and grimacing as I adjust to the ship’s motion. I’m belowdecks but the roof is low, the space narrow and long and mostly filled with supplies. No holes for oars. It’s not a large vessel.
A ladder leads up to the deck; it’s short, thankfully, and its hatch wide open, so I’m able to struggle up it one-handed. Sunlight and blue sky peer through from above as I make the awkward climb. It’s near midday.
“Ah. You are not dead, Leathf hear.” The cheerful female voice calls to me as soon as my head peeks above the timber. I turn to see a stout woman dressed in furs, teeth gleaming in a smile as she adjusts braided blonde hair. “This is good.”
I scramble my way up onto the deck with as much dignity as I can manage. The day is warm, despite a stiff breeze filling our sail. A half dozen others are scattered around the deck, some working, others just watching the shoreline go by. We’re not completely out to sea, instead following the coast, the distant rise and fall of land visible on the horizon. “My name is Deaglán.”
“A name is earned. You are Leathf hear until you have proven otherwise.”
I don’t know what it means, but from the vaguely smirking attention of the others within earshot—plus the fact that Gallchobhar came up with it—I’m guessing it’s not complimentary. I ignore it, for now. “And you are?”
“Neasa.” She reminds me a touch of Ellanher from the Letens Theatre, in a way: bigger than most women, strong and muscled and confident. The captain, here, I strongly suspect.
I let my gaze rove to the others behind her. I recognise two of them: a young man and woman, both part of the ceremony with King Rónán. Removed from their blood-stained garb they look even younger than I’d originally guessed, though already showing signs of warriors’ builds. They each wear a decorated iron armband around their bicep. In fact, I appear to be the only one who does not have one.
“Where are we going, Neasa?”
“We head for Loch Traenala.”
I frown. “On the ocean?”
“Easier than walking.”
“How long?”
Neasa waggles her hand indecisively. “Four? Five?”
“Days?”
She laughs, as if I’ve made a wonderful joke. “Weeks.”
I stare at her. Haven’t mistaken the translation, though I want to believe I have. No telling how far the actual trip is, I suppose. Whether we’ll be hugging the coastline, or heading for deeper waters. Stopping often or not at all.
“What is Loch Traenala?”
She cocks her head to the side. Trying to decide if I’m making some kind of strange jest. “Loch Traenala is thescoil chogaidh,” she says eventually, helpfully.
“I do not know what ascoil chogaidhis.”
She looks vexed, pausing to search for an alternative. “It is a … learning.”
“Another gods-damned school?” I mutter to myself.
She shakes her head despite my speaking in my own language, probablydivining what I was thinking. “Warrior learning,” she supplements. “For theBródúil. A great honour.”
I smile politely at her. “Another gods-damned school, then,” I repeat, this time in a tone that belies the words.
She squints at me, but either doesn’t realise I’m displeased or doesn’t care.
“What happened since I …” I tap my aching head.
She chuckles. “Four days ago? Madness. Shouting. Fighting. Gallchobhar exiled.” She makes an unconcerned gesture. “After then? We have fed you the tonic Lir gave us as instructed. It has kept you asleep. Helped you heal.” She eyes my leg, the fact I’m already able to stand on it, approvingly.
“Gallchobhar was exiled?” I’m confused, as well as somewhat relieved as I recall the colossal man’s murderous expression. “Why?”
“Your words.” She frowns at me, as if this is something I should know. “Thedraoiproclaimed that the spirit of King Rónán’s fallen Champion had spoken through you, and clearly accused Gallchobhar of his murder. There was still some … argument, between Gallchobhar’s supporters and everyone else. But in the end, King Rónán chose.” She spreads her hands, indicating that the last part is all that matters.
