Page 4 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

“A gain!” Cormac shouted, grinning like a fool.

Once more, young Duncan rushed him.

Once more, the lad hesitated when he reached Cormac. All the power of his charge disappeared when he swung his sword.

“You’re not afraid to hit me, are you, boy? My sister hits harder than you.”

Duncan’s face reddened, his beardless jaw clenching in anger. The young prince’s swordskill had improved greatly over the past few years, but he still lacked the power needed to keep him alive in battle. And at fifteen summers, he’d fight in the next one.

All the Fianna, the band of elite warriors who served King Brian Boru of Mumhain, helped train the king’s son.

But this morn was the last opportunity for Cormac to teach the boy before he left with the Fianna for Dyflin, to winter there on a political mission.

Knowing that Duncan may well see battle before he saw Cormac next, Cormac pushed him hard.

Duncan charged again. This time, Cormac saw the wildness in his brown eyes.

Duncan’s practice sword came down. Cormac parried, their weapons clanking loudly.

This time, Duncan didn’t stop when his stroke fell.

Again and again and again, his sword thrust toward Cormac, until he had to stop to catch his breath.

“You were angry, aye?” Cormac asked while Duncan bent over, heaving.

He nodded.

“That is how you should attack a man, but don’t be angry when you do it.”

“Why not?” Duncan asked. “I did better, didn’t I?”

“Anger makes you fast and foolish. Keep the technique, but abandon the emotion behind it. Hit through your stroke; don’t stop when you reach your mark.”

Breathing normally again, Duncan stood and swung his sword through several practice strokes. “What will I do while you’re gone?”

“Run,” Cormac answered easily. “You need better stamina for a battle. And make Abban practice with you every day.” He pointed a finger at Duncan to emphasize his orders. “Every. Single. Day. You understand?”

Duncan nodded. “Stab Abban every day and then run away.”

“Your first battle is on the horizon, and you must survive it if you want to join the Fianna one day.”

“I’m fifteen, Cormac,” Duncan groaned. “You can stop worrying. My father was fourteen when he raided Luimneach.”

“He was twenty-seven,” Cormac countered with a laugh at the bold lie. “And it matters not. I’ll never stop worrying over you.”

It was the truth, though he spoke it lightly. Duncan wasn’t his relative by blood, but Cormac considered him a nephew all the same. Cormac’s eldest sister had raised the boy, and Cormac had lived at Caiseal since Duncan’s birth. Earlier, even. He’d learned long ago that blood didn’t make a family.

The monastery bell rang for morning prayers, and Cormac stood to return to the fortress proper. “Time to go,” he told Duncan. “Don’t want to be late.”

They climbed the hill back to the fortress at Caiseal, the Rock as some called it, to find Diarmid, his youngest brother, and Finn, another warrior in Brian’s band of Fianna, jesting in the courtyard.

His brother guffawed so loudly at something Finn said that even the horses waiting beside them turned to look.

As the two men laughed and spoke, it seemed they hadn’t a single concern over their upcoming journey east. Illadan, the leader of the Fianna, watched them from the feasting hall’s steps.

Cormac sighed heavily, glancing toward the greying eastern sky.

Dark, angry clouds chased the sun toward the western horizon, no doubt bent on drowning them before the day’s end.

At least Brian allowed them use of two of his carriages for the women.

Narrowing his eyes at the coming storm, Cormac only hoped the carriages were watertight.

They couldn’t wait much longer to leave if they wanted to make any progress toward Dyflin today. By the looks of it, the rain would be heavy enough to wash out the road, or at the very least slow them considerably.

“Ready to leave,” Cormac ordered his two companions on his way past them and into the feasting hall.

Inside, he found the rest of their traveling party chatting merrily around the central hearth, as though they weren’t running late at all.

Sláine, the youngest daughter of King Brian Boru of Mumhain, waved to him as he entered.

Catrin, younger sister of the Lady Cara, who had recently accepted his brother Diarmid’s proposal of marriage amidst quite a scandal—the sort of scandal that only his devilish younger brother could cause, was too invested in some story she told to notice his approach.

King Brian and Queen Dunla, Cormac’s elder sister, farewelled the two women.

Dunla’s marriage to Brian had been the last attempt to forge a peace between Cormac’s father, King Cahill of Connachta, and the ambitious King of Mumhain.

Cormac’s chest still ached every time he thought of that night when his father had left them.

Tall of stature and grey-haired, Brian was well into the later years of his life, though he managed it well enough to continue riding to battle with his men.

Dunla, on the other hand, was only middle-aged, her black hair peppered with grey but her skin still smooth with youth.

Cormac had questioned his sister’s marriage to a man so much her senior, even a man so kind as Brian, but Dunla radiated joy and contentment.

It had been clear from very early in their marriage that Dunla was happy with her choice of husband, odd though it may seem to some.

“Cormac,” Brian called when he noticed his foster son’s appearance in the hall, “walk with me a moment.”

Cormac did as his king bid, accompanying him on a circuitous route through the back of the hall that eventually would bring them to the courtyard.

“I have a matter that must be handled with tact and delicacy,” Brian began. “I am sending two women in appearance only, to appease Sitric with the illusion of a choice in the matter of his bride.”

Cormac looked askance at the aged king. A thousand questions formed in his mind, but he knew better than to interrupt. Instead he held his tongue and nodded his understanding.

“Sitric must marry Sláine. If he is wise, he will see the political advantage for him in choosing her over Catrin, but Sitric has ever an unpredictable temperament. I feel the choice should be obvious, but I need you and Illadan to ensure he, too, sees it that way.”

The task suited Diarmed best, though Cormac fully understood why the king hadn’t asked for him.

His brother’s love affair with the first bride Brian sent to Sitric had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

Their family name would lose all value to Brian if they failed him in this a second time.

“You have my word,” Cormac assured him. “I will see it done.”

Brian inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. “Don’t hesitate to remind Sitric that a betrothal was one of the terms of our peace. Should he forfeit the marriage, he will also forfeit the peace. My patience with him is nearing its end.”

Cormac hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d grown fond of the affable Ostman over the course of their many meetings. If Brian sent men to subdue him again, Cormac and the Fianna would be among them. The thought soured his mood considerably, fueling his resolve to get Sitric married with all haste.

They left Caiseal before the ill wind brought the clouds to meet them. Unfortunately, Dyflin lay east of Caiseal—which meant they rode straight into the storm.

The four Fianna warriors rode on horseback.

Cormac and Illadan took the lead, Finn rode beside the carriages, and Diarmid watched the back.

Sláine and Catrin shared one of the small carriages.

Their lady’s maids rode in the other. The carriage drivers managed the reins in determined silence, no doubt as anxious as Cormac to be through this weather.

Though Cormac didn’t relish the thought of returning to Dyflin and the acerbic Astrid, he preferred it to traveling in a winter storm.

Snow fell rarely, but the rain that poured from the heavens at every opportunity held enough chill to compensate.

The journey should take but two days at a leisurely pace, even with the carriages.

On their own, the Fianna could make the journey in a single day.

But as the first drops of rain portended the coming onslaught, Cormac worried the journey would be as long as it was miserable.

With naught else to occupy his thoughts, they turned toward the arrival at Dyflin.

Sitric’s meddlesome sister would no doubt tear into him the moment they arrived.

Cormac had never met a more discontented person, man or woman.

She seemed intent on harassing him at every opportunity, though she got on just fine with his brothers and Finn.

What quality he held that she so disdained he couldn’t begin to guess.

All he knew was that to the best of his ability, he needed to avoid Astrid.

She had a way of making him lose his patience—the thing in which he took the greatest pride.

The first day’s journey, an affair that lasted all of six hours, went better than expected. Aye, it was slow going between the rain and wind and meager daylight hours this time of the year. But compared with that night it was downright pleasant.

The wind picked up first, just as they settled into camp for the night.

It whipped the horses’ manes and shook the leaves above them in a fit of wintry rage.

Cormac, Diarmid, Illadan, and Finn slept side by side for warmth, wrapped in their cloaks and blankets.

The women bedded down in their carriages, doing their best to keep the cold at bay.

Hours later, Cormac woke to shouting. He shot up from his blankets, wiping the sleep from his eyes and searching for the source of the commotion.

It didn’t take long to find it.

Though darkness yet devoured the land, moonlight illuminated the two carriages. Only one of them stood upright.

Diarmid and Illadan already tore through the debris of the front carriage, which lay on its side. How the first had toppled in the gales wasn’t as much a mystery as how the second still stood.

Beside Cormac, Finn jumped to his feet and together they hurried to help.

“Sláine!” Cormac called, his heart pounding. “Sláine are you in there?”

Sláine was as a sister to him, having grown up in the same household. Indeed, he knew her better than he did his own sister.

“Sláine!” Diarmid echoed, his voice frantic.

The door to the second carriage opened.

“It’s alright.” Sláine stepped out, followed by Catrin and their maids. “We were so cold we went to their carriage in the night.”

Cormac exhaled sharply, relief washing over him like the ceaseless rain. Thank the Lord the women were safe. The drivers had slept near the horses to keep them calm through the stormy night, so no one had been injured.

“Can we fix it?” Cormac asked Ailill, one of the men.

Ailill grimaced, shaking his head. “Not without tools and new wood.”

“Can the horse handle the extra passengers?” Cormac would hate for the maids to ride in the frigid rain.

“Normally, aye,” Ailill answered. “But with the roads the way they are, it may be too much weight.”

“Let’s try it. Ladies, make yourselves comfortable in there. It’s going to be tight.” He turned next to Ailill. “Get the horses ready. It’s time to keep moving.” Finally, he looked toward Diarmid and Finn. “Let’s see about retrieving their trunks and moving this off the road.”

He thought that convincing Sitric to marry Sláine would be the hardest part of the mission. As of now, it appeared getting her there in the first place may prove the greater challenge.