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RIONA, Fires of Gleannmara #2

By Linda Windsor

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RIONA: Fires of Gleannmara II
by Linda Windsor
Chapter One
570's Dalraidi Scotia Minor frontier, early spring...
The mist over the loch was so thick a body could walk on it. It permeated the tunics and cloaks of the warriors on the bloodied banks at the lake’s edge. Kieran of Gleannmara walked among the wounded and slain, his muscled legs as heavy as those of the dead. It was wrong, all wrong, he thought, numbly searching their features, now waxed in the horror of their demise. What the devil had happened?
Their early morning raid took the enemy by surprise, routing and scattering the pirates like smoke in the wind. At least that’s what was thought. The main of the Dalraidi forces then turned to looting, the fighting which had brought Gleannmara’s warriors to Scotia Minor, over to start with. All the heath fruit of Brigh Leithe could not make enough beer to induce the euphoria of plunging into combat, weapon to shield, blade to flesh.
Kieran climbed the rocky rise, his limbs burning from exhaustion, Faith, he felt colder than the dead surrounding him. He secured his cloak with a jeweled brooch, his thoughts staggering from reaction to reason. If the rear guard had failed and let the enemy regroup behind them, then--
“Kieran, God’s mercy, hurry!” At the top of the rise, Bran O’Cuillin waved at Kieran frantically and disappeared on the other side.
The young king’s heart seized, run through by a terrible dread as logic came to conclusion. The rear guard was no more. The image of its young captain flashed before him. Heber! Kieran raced, dodging and leaping over the bodies that lay in his path to the crest of the hill. Heber was not just Kieran’s foster brother. The two of them were anmcharas–soulmates. They shared life and all their secrets, their dreams.
On breeching the ridge, Kieran’s stomach turned at the sight of the carnage. The bloodied white leather tunics of Heber’s men dotted the moss- and rock-covered plain. Bran dropped to his knees beside one of the fallen. The large warrior lying before the bard, drew up one leg unsteadily, as if trying to get up.
Relief nearly tripped Kieran. Heber was alive. Since the premature death of Kieran’s parents from the plague, he’d cursed the God of his upbringing more times than he spoke to Him. But for this, the young king had to give thanks.
Not that Kieran deserved God’s favor, but Heber did. His foster brother had enough faith for the two of them.
“If God’s not going to staunch his wounds,” Kieran said to Bran, “then stop praying and at least help me.”
Tearing his cloak from over his head, Kieran made a pillow of it and tucked it under Heber’s head. “And how many brigands did Eimar help cross over before they learned that striking your head was for naught?”
Heber’s black hair stood out in stark contrast to the cerulean blue of Gleannmara’s colors--as did the blood soaking them. Hand tightening around the hilt of Eimar, his sword, he spoke. Death gurgled thick in his voice. “Up.”
Kieran hastened to help his broad-shouldered friend sit upright, to ease the labor of his breath. Only then did the young king notice the gnarled hilt of a dagger lying broken where Heber had lain. Kieran felt for its blade, confirming his fear. It was buried in the large warrior’s back. A tortured cry of rage and agony checked in the young king’s throat.
Cradling his foster brother’s head, Kieran eased him down like a babe. The ever-present twinkle in Heber’s gaze vanished, replaced by a gripping desperation. No clever words of distraction came to Kieran’s mind. His eyes stung so mightily it was hard to focus.
“P...promises.” Heber transferred his waning strength from his sword Eimar to Kieran’s arm. “Remem...remember the promises.”
Was it only last night Heber brought up the possibility that not all of Gleannmara’s men would return to its precious soil? It felt like half a lifetime ago. Had Heber had some forewarning of this fate?
“Aye, I remember.” His blood curdled at what at he’d given his oath to do.
“T-tell me.”
Kieran sensed more than heard Heber’s words, for his lifelong friend was too weak to speak. His youthful strength soaked into the ground beneath them.
“Though I can’t carry you home, I’ll not abandon you to heathen soil.”
“Merciful Father!” Bran cared not who heard his cry or saw the tears streaking his face.
How Kieran envied the poet’s freedom to of manly constraint, when his own pain longed to make itself known all the way to the halls of Gleannmara. “I will further take your sister into the protection of Gleannmara as my wife, though she’s spurned me before.” And would never forgive him for her brother’s death.
Heber convulsed, swallowing his own life’s blood. “On your word.”
“On my word as your brother and as your king.” Where the even keel of his voice came from, Kieran had no idea. Surely not from the black sea tossing his emotions on its crest like the remnants of a doomed wreck.
Assuaged, Heber brightened, as when he’d teased Bran the night before for choosing a harp rather than a sword for his companion. “Then I shall see you and Bran on the other side."
With that, the light went out in the lifeless blue of his eyes. They stared not at Kieran, but past him, unfocused to all that was of this earth.
The bard crossed himself and took up his harp. Part tribute, part eulogy, his composition worthy of the ancient poet Ossian himself. When the honor was done, Kieran raised his sword above his head with both fists. Now he could scream. The blade came down with the force of his unfettered fury and anguish.
Heber had known that the warriors could not carry back the bodies of their slain for proper Christian burial; that the heathens would mutilate those left behind. So his foster brother asked of Kieran to take home the essence of all that he was in the event of death. His head.

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