In the Region of the Summer Stars by Stephen R. Lawhead

Author:Stephen R. Lawhead
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

21

‘Rhiannon! Mádoc!’ Conor shouted. ‘I need you!’

He shouted again and the lady hurried aft from her place with the stricken Donal at the prow; Mádoc followed a moment later, lurching unsteadily, holding to the rail all the way to the stern. ‘Can a man have no peace?’ he said, his face clenched as if he had eaten something rotten.

‘I would not disturb your peace for all the world,’ Conor told him. ‘But I heartily doubt the Scálda behind us would be so considerate of your sweet slumbers.’

‘I am trying to keep Donal alive,’ growled the druid. ‘Scálda?’ He cast a glance over Conor’s shoulder at the pursuing vessel.

‘We must get more speed from this craft,’ Conor said, thrusting a hand at the Scálda ship behind them. ‘How—how is it done?’

Catching sight of the enemy ship, Rhiannon fell back a step; her hands fluttered like lost birds and, turning an anguished face to Conor, said, ‘I don’t know—our seamen, they know such things, but I do not.’

‘What about a charm? Do you have any magic for speed over water?’

‘I am sorry.’ Shaking her head, she glanced again at the Scálda ship and backed away. ‘You must do the best you can. I am sorry.’

Conor watched her scurry back to the shelter of the platform, then turned to Mádoc, who was staring at the enemy ship with half-closed eyes. Conor followed his gaze: he could now make out the mast and the shape of the hull beneath.

‘Well?’ said Conor. ‘Can you do anything?’

Mádoc opened his mouth to reply, but the ship lunged into a wave just then and Mádoc grabbed for the rail as bile gushed up his throat. He spat over the side and hung there, head down, heaving.

‘Fergal!’ Conor shouted. ‘We have trouble.’

‘Eh?’ Fergal cast a glance over his shoulder, and Conor pointed to the ship looming on the horizon. He took in the sight, then looked back to Conor. ‘Tell me what to do and it will be done.’

Turning back to Mádoc, Conor said, ‘Well? Can you do anything?’

The druid straightened; wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he said, ‘Can I do anything? How little you know the power of an ollamh.’ He paused, his wrinkled face crumpled in thought. At last, he said, ‘Do nothing. Only watch what I can do.’ So saying, the druid hobbled back to the prow to rummage around in the camp supplies.

Conor looked around. The enemy ship was now close enough to make out the dark shapes of warriors crowding the deck. ‘Mádoc!’ he shouted. ‘They’re getting close.’

The old druid returned with his leather satchel and with Huw in tow: the latter carried the cooking cauldron. He directed the boy to put the cauldron against the stern post and then, with a gesture, sent him back to the prow. He then dipped into his druid bag and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in birch bark and tied with a leather string. Huw returned with a bundle of kindling and a flint and iron

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