This is the quietest a group of six has ever sounded, Donal thought to himself.

  The party left the wagon in Rathmullan, under Niall’s watchful eye, and rode east yesterday with only the necessary supplies to reach Derry by nightfall. They refilled their sacks this morning and set out for The Creeve.

  Donal understood the mission but hated the pace at which they followed it. Derry was the biggest town he’d ever seen—though his experiences offered few comparisons. Derry had three large churches all within sight of each other. He wouldn’t admit it to Finn, but they were striking in appearance. The Black Church and the Long Tower Church were relatively close to each other, and both featured walls of dark stone. It was a striking look. Large homes and markets lined both sides of the road from the Black Church to O’Doherty’s tower house. Several of the markets sold food Donal had never seen—or smelled—in his brief life.

  How much harm could spending an extra day there cause?

  The scenery in O’Cahan lands wasn’t helping with his discontent. The sun was a welcome companion after a five-day departure, but the oncoming clouds ahead of them would catch it before sunset. Sure, the westerly wind grazed the tops of the shaggy fields, creating a rolling ocean of grass, and it gave the trees in their small groves a playful bounce. There were no thorns, ferns and every other kind of hedge to box him in, as was common near his home. The world rolled on in every direction for miles. The world, however, was flat and unchanging.

  There was a brief respite when they rested near Limavady on the River Roe. Donal squinted and stretched in vain to catch a glimpse toward the south, searching for the castle from where Brigid’s extended family ruled this part of Ireland.

  They rode in pairs for most of the way. Brigid and Fergal led, followed by Finn and Siobhan. He and Maeve took up the rear. The arrangement afforded him little chance to chat with his new acquaintances. The couple was affable in group settings like meals and rests so long as conversation didn’t delve too far into the first encounters between Fergal, Maeve and Brigid.

  “Oi,” Brigid said, pointing ahead. “That’s the Bann. We’re here.”

  The group had to take her word for it even as they stood on the river crossing. A narrow floodplain lined both banks. Outside of the plain, arboreal stretches of aspen, oak and hazel trees ran the length of the river in each direction. Two structures hinted at civilization. Half a mile to the north a small stone structure stood on top of an old ringfort on the far side of the river as it wound to the right behind the trees. A stone keep loomed over the neighboring area to the south. It was four stories at its tallest, protected by a ten-foot wooden fence and it sat upon a motte eighty feet high.

  Donal leaned forward so those up front could hear him and pointed to the south. “Is that where we’re going?” he asked.

  Brigid nodded. “Indeed it is,” she said, raising her chin and turning her head toward the rest of the group. “We’ve got a wee bit to go once we cross the river, but that is where we’re going.”

  She turned south at the first street they reached across the river. They traveled against the flow of traffic as they passed a market on the first block and ten more blocks filled with homes.

  They paused at a crossing with another main street. To their left was the trade district of The Creeve. The street was wide enough for five people to travel side-by-side or, as was the case with most of the pedestrians today, two people pushing carts without bumping into each other. More markets, tanners and blacksmiths crowded both sides of the street. The acrid smell of forges and burnt grease spoiled the smell of baked bread and produce.

  Until now the townsfolk had paid little attention to them. Once they reached the trade district, however, their presence was noted. Several people glowered at Brigid, only looking away from her when they were too far to crane their neck. The street to their right passed the nicest homes in the town before it terminated in front of a wooden fence and gate three hundred yards from where Donal sat.

  Maeve eased Scáth around Finn’s horse and joined Brigid and Fergal in the front. “Ready for the family gathering?” she asked Brigid. Brigid and Fergal exchanged an uneasy look and turned for the gate.

  The building on their right had the extended shape of an inn. A thick, yeasty smell wafted through the open front door.

  Finn wrinkled his nose and turned back toward Maeve. “Is it common to have the inn so close to the castle?”

  “No,” Maeve said. “And that’s not an inn. It’s an alehouse.”

  “Then where are we staying?” Finn asked. “The castle?”

  The corners of her mouth turned downward. “You might be getting ahead of yourself,” she said.

  Across from the alehouse stood two timber-framed houses with panels covered in mismatched shades of daub. These were the only structures along this stretch of road to have a thatched roof.

  “Servant housing,” Maeve said, pointing her chin at the building. “Brig’s family keeps them nearby—but not too close.”

  A three-foot tall stone fence on each side of the road separated the alehouse and the servants’ quarters from the buildings ahead of them. The next three homes—two on the right, one on the left—featured a flawless facade, no stains on the daub or signs of rot in the timber or the shutters that lined the upper windows. Beyond these was a smaller house set back from the street with walls built of stacked stones. At first glance the modest size of the dwelling seemed fitting with that of someone laboring for the O’Cahans. The chapel on the far side of the house, along with the small graveyard in between the two, showed Donal that its tenant served a different master.

  Finn leaned toward Siobhan. “This makes no sense,” he said. “This place up ahead looks like one of those Norman baileys, but they’ve got the chapel out here. What do you make of that?”

  Maeve leaned forward without an invitation. “I’d suppose it means the people of The Creeve have better things to do than follow whatever dopey rules you have in your head about these places?”

  A loud bang and a shout from the right grabbed their attention. An apprentice held a bloodied hand as two others scurried to his side.

  Finn pulled Gála’s reins toward the workshop. “We can help them,” he said.

  An unfamiliar voice spoke from the front, “I’m afraid that you have your own problems to sort out, lad.”

  The full attention of the bailey gatehouse was upon them. Two guards draped in chainmail entered the trampled courtyard between the chapel, workshop and the bailey. The sunlight glinted off the blades of their polearms and the perfect conical points atop their bascinets. Behind them three more men blocked the entrance. Two guards provided overwatch from the platform above the gate, their longbows leaning against their hips.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Between the guards and the sílrad stood a man in a blue gambeson ornamented with delicate patterns in red. His shoulder-length brown hair extended straight toward the back of his neck without the help of a band or tie. His brown eyes were small yet bright and the bones above them gave his brows a permanent inquisitive look, as if he were born to be a man that assessed wayward travelers.

  His nose was long and the sides of his nostrils flared to create perfect lines with the corners of his chin. He scratched the scar on his face, a faded line from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe, as he examined each of the six travelers from his stationary position. “You’re back,” he said to Brigid.

  From his position in the rear Donal could only see Brigid’s ears shift under her hair before her head dipped for a single nod.

  “What have you brought to our door?” he asked. His voice was smooth, incongruous with his body language.

  Brigid snorted. “‘Our door.’” She looked at the ground beside her.

  The man folded his arms. “It’s more mine than yours now,” he said. “You have yourself to thank for that.”

  Brigid returned her eyes to her interrogator but remained silent.

  Donal looked to Maeve for help in reading the situation. Maeve sat rigid with her jaw set. Both hands rested on her saddle horn, the higher of which pointed four fingers to the sky. She gently pushed that hand toward Donal.

  The motion caught the man’s eye. He stepped to the left of the group for a clear view of her. “I know you,” he said, the corners of his mouth rising into a flat expression. “O’Connor. Should I go get Brendan? He’s been rather occupied as of late.”

  Brigid didn’t look back to assess Maeve’s glare. She raised her left hand to regain the man’s attention. “It’s not him we’re looking for,” she said.

  “So it’s Uncle,” he said. “Who should I tell him is calling? I see two lads wrapped in our colors, but they’re also covered in dirt and plain clothes.” His eyes bounced between the brothers. “Were they lent to you by our kin—or did you steal them?”

  Donal’s head warmed. You can take ‘em all, Shadow told him. These scuts are nothing compared to what you’ve faced. Donal shook his head to knock Shadow free, another motion caught by the stranger.

  “No?” the man asked. “No to what?”

  Donal squished his face, angry at Shadow for baiting him into the spotlight. “We didn’t steal them. They’re our colors. The name’s MacLaughlin. We’re from the west.”

  “That last part is obvious, from the looks of you,” the man said. He pointed at Fergal. “Do you boys live near him? The bits of red and yellow on him—the first time herself brought him here we thought she’d captured one of the enemy.” He scoffed and circled back to Fergal. “But, no, he’s just some bogger that bewitched my cousin into living a miserable life.”

  Fergal leaned toward the man. “C’mere to me, sir. I’ve never figured out what it is about me threatens you lot so much,” he said, his voice calm, almost playful. “But you should take care in how you speak about her. After all, she’s your own kin.”

  The man stepped toward Fergal. “There’s not a thing about you that threatens me, MacDavett,” he said, “except the diseases you’re bringing here to us.”

  Brigid slid out of her saddle and walked over to him. “Breccán, we have to talk to my father. It’s important, and it involves—” she leaned closer and lowered her voice, “old family business.”

  Breccán stepped backward and pointed at Fergal. “He’s your family now, and I’d ask you to keep your distance.”

  “It didn’t have to go this way,” Fergal said as he dismounted, “mind that.”

  Maeve shifted her body weight to leave Scáth and that was all the instruction Donal needed. He hit the ground before she did. His hand hovered over his spear until he saw Maeve leave her bow behind. They ran to the front and flanked the couple. The two guards in the courtyard joined Breccán in kind.

  Finn and Siobhan’s focus was on the men above. The guards looked at each other and agreed to pick up their bows and hold them at their sides.

  Maeve inserted herself between the guards in Brigid’s face. Donal attempted the same maneuver with the guard in front of Fergal. He had less success.

  “Get out of here, boy,” the guard said, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth. “You and your brother are in over your heads.”

  “Please,” Donal said. “Just hear us out.”

  “You’re not hearin’ me,” the guard said. “Get back on your horse, or we’ll be forced to do something you may not like.” The guard shoved Donal with his polearm and its shaft struck Donal’s nose. “Oi!” the man yelled up to the archers. “Keep your eye on the lad that’s still mounted.” The guard looked back at Donal and sneered. “Your move.”

  The bridge of his nose throbbed. Water leaked from the inner corners of his eyes. Donal saw the guards above the gate hold up their bows, ready for the next command. You know what to do, Shadow said.

  Donal ‘s hands warmed as he drew them behind his ears. He unleashed a burst of energy from Mag Mon into the guard’s chest, sending the man twenty-five feet backwards into the curtain wall of the bailey. The noise of the impact drew the attention of everyone in the makeshift courtyard and, judging from the stirring of unseen voices, several people on the other side of the fence.

  “What did you do?” Siobhan yelled.

  Donal didn’t have an answer ready. “You didn’t hear him,” he said. He pointed to the platform above the gatehouse. “And then yer man told—”

  An archer had recovered from the shock and reached for the quiver bound to his waist. The guards at the gate pushed forward, ready to engage the group.

  The shouts of another man grew louder as his hurried footsteps approached the gate. He pressed his back against the inside of the wall. From his vantage point he could only see Donal and the workshop.

  The archer nocked an arrow to his bowstring. Donal stepped forward and grabbed the polearm left behind by the flying guard. He shifted his stance, ready to heave it high. Maybe not too high, Donal thought. I just need to scare him a bit.

  The hidden man waved his arms and yelled, “Lái?si? lasair!”

  He’s one of us, Donal thought. Donal heard the apprentices behind him yell and felt a wave of heat on his back as he let fly.

  The man behind the wall threw his arms toward the ground, yelled, “tala? ag eitilt,” and threw up his arms. A block of earth no wider than a buckler launched from the ground in front of the gate and intercepted the polearm in midair. The weapon fell upon the ground with a clatter and the chunk of earth disintegrated into dust.

  Donal checked with his friends, hoping they saw what had happened. Everyone in the courtyard stared at a fire pit outside the workshop—everyone except Donal and the archer.

  Donal tapped Fergal. “Fergal? Finn? What’s going on?” he asked.

  Fergal gave his head a shake and pointed to the fire. “It was the rarest thing,” Fergal said. “The fire jumped ten feet high and took the form of a fish!”

  “One of those guards must be sílrad,” Finn said.

  “It’s not the guards,” Donal said. He turned back to the bailey entrance. “There was a man behind the—”

  The man picked up the staff leaning next to him and eased himself past the guards in front of the gate and walked up to the huddle in front of Donal’s party. His red hair was too shaggy to mind a comb and his beard was uneven. His leine was the common saffron color but the ionar covering it was pristine with flourishes at the edges and seams.

  His wide-set eyes, identical in hue to Brigid’s, lingered over every corner of the courtyard before he spoke. “What’s the story?”

  Brigid pointed at her cousin. “Breccán won’t let me—”

  “—I wasn’t asking you,” the man said, firmly pushing his hand toward Brigid’s feet.

  “You’d talk to me in that manner?” Brigid asked as she gripped the man’s vest and twisted her hand.

  The guards, save for the one tending to their unconscious friend, approached Brigid until the man waved them off. “Ah here, you’ve gone deaf!” he said to her. He leaned closer and yelled, “I wasn’t asking you!”

  The pair jostled each other, prompting Fergal, Maeve and two of the guards to attempt separating the shouting parties.

  Donal was ready to join in the tumult until he heard Siobhan laugh. “That makes sense,” she said.

  “What’s so funny?” Donal asked. “What in all of this makes sense?”

  Siobhan shrugged and flipped her hand toward the fray. “That’s the brother,” she said.