Druid Days, Dragon Knights
Fiction - by Ron Ferguson
The clumped turf, October brown despite the sea mist, overhangs the precipice. Sir Byron the Briton extends his arms and leans into the cold wind as if he will sail from the cliff. Layers of white and gray limestone stack for a hundred feet below to where the sea nibbles the beach. Byron’s pale blue eyes measure the width of the beach below while his chainmail keeps his tunic from flapping in the wind.
Will my next step feel like flying?
The beach is his target. Far above the high tide lines. Far from the surf. Far from any chance of surviving.
Who will miss him? Nathaniel, of course. He should have spent more time with his grandson, but the boy will get over it. Byron edges forward.
Will I actually fly, if only for a few seconds?
Or, afraid to commit a mortal sin, will he again step back from the precipice to survive another dull morning?
A raspy brogue comes from behind.
“You’ll nae be jumping, will you, Byron? All armored, you’ll sink beneath the sea. If drowning be your intent, Man, go down to the beach and wade out ... for the fall from here will surely kill you.”
Startled, Byron retreats from the cliff. Is the man mad? What fool deliberately drowns himself?
His focus broken, Byron drops his arms to his sides to accept another day of defeat. “I’m unaccustomed to being lectured on my own land.”
“Nor any other place, as I recall.”
Byron doesn’t recognize the balding, gray-bearded man. However, the jagged scar across the man’s boney cheek looks familiar.
“How are you, Byron?” The scar puckers the man’s smile. His tunic, decorated with a dingy red border, shifts to reveal more scars when the man extends his hand. “The boy at your castle said you’d be here.”
“That’s my grandson, Nathaniel.” Byron does not take the offered handshake. He keeps his arthritic sword hand at his side. “No one else tracks my comings and goings. Who are you?”
“Who am I?” The man laughs, withdraws his extended hand, and then studies Byron’s face. “I’m Alan of Din Eydyn. We fought—you, Jasper the Jute, and I—with Charlemagne during the Engrian rebellion. We helped the Franks take Tortosa in 811. There, a Moorish scimitar scarred my face. That was thirty years ago, and the scar hasn’t faded. Surely, you remember? I thought I was disfigured, ruined for all women, but you said the scar gave me character. You were right. You were always right about such matters.”
“Alan? My God, Man.” Byron smothers the Scot with a hug. “You’ve lost so much weight and most of your hair. I heard you died. They said... Are you well? It’s good to see you.”
“And you, my friend.” Alan steps back, concern written on his face. He glances at the precipice. “Is all well with you?”
“I’ve been distracted, morose, since my Elizabeth passed last winter. You never appreciate the details a wife manages until she is no longer there. And I miss her... Never mind. Come with me to the Great Hall. We shall recall better years and then drink until we forget them.”
“We haven’t the time.” The Scot seizes Byron’s arm. “Jasper sends word to meet him in Dumfries. From there we sail to Movilla Abbey in Hibernia.”
“What? Jasper?” Byron hesitates. Did Alan say sail? Surely not sail? “Hibernia? I can’t leave. Not now. Why...?”
“Yes, you can, and you will for love, for honor, for duty. Druids abducted Joan’s granddaughter Emma. You remember Joan?”
Of course, Byron remembers Joan. You never forget your first love. Each of the three knights had loved her in turn. First Byron, then Alan, with Jasper the last and most desperately stricken. But with twinkling eye, Joan took none of them seriously. As practical as she was beautiful, she sought more prestige and financial security than any errant knight could offer.
“Joan Beauchamps? Why would Druids kidnap Joan’s granddaughter?” Byron isn’t poor, but neither can he readily assemble gold to help a friend with ransom.
Alan smiles grimly. “The virgin granddaughter’s eyes are the same color as Joan’s, Amethyst flaked with topaz.”
“Dragon eyes?” Byron cannot clinch his arthritic sword hand. “My God, she has dragon eyes. The Druids want to bring back a dragon.”
“Goodbye, Grandfather.” Nathaniel looks past Byron to the long ship anchored in the harbor south of Dumfries. He squints. “What shall I tell Mother?”
Byron cannot meet Nathaniel’s eyes. The boy is bright. He must suspect his grandfather is lying.
“Tell your mother and Sir Walter that I met friends and decided to stay in Dumfries awhile. Be a good lad. Stay close to Owd Dan. He’s a loyal servant. He’ll see you safely home.”
“As you say, Grandfather. That is what I shall tell them.” The boy studies Byron as if he expects never to see him again. “When will you come home?”
“I don’t know.” He gestures for Owd Dan to take the boy.
Owd Dan rests a hand on Nathaniel's shoulder and leads him from the beach.
Wiping sandy grit from his hands, Alan returns from the skiff near the shoreline.
“Time to row to the ship,” Alan says. “Jasper and Joan boarded an hour ago.”
Byron stares after his grandson. “When do we sail?”
“They have more cargo to load, so another hour. Why did you bring the boy with us?”
“Because I told him that the next time I came to Dumfries that he could come with me. It was a promise, Alan. Perhaps my last to my grandson.”
“You always were big on swearing oaths and keeping promises. Come. The skiff awaits.”
As they walk to the boat, Alan limps as if his hip pains him, but he doesn’t complain. Byron cannot remember Alan ever complaining over any injury or infirmity.
“Besides,” Byron says, “my son-in-law would have asked questions if I hadn’t brought the boy. Walter has a sharp tongue and numerous opinions about how I should live out my years. Disrespectful. He dubbed me Byron the Brittle when I broke my arm two years ago. If he weren’t my son-in-law, I would have smashed his face.”
“Sounds like an idiot.”
“He makes my daughter a decent enough husband, but he’s too harsh with my grandson. Walter believes that because he can read, write, and cypher accounts, he’s the perfect master for my estate, better than me who won those lands with my sword and wit. Is this what our world is coming to, Alan? Literature? Pen instead of sword?”
“You’re babbling, Byron. Do you still get nervous boarding a boat? The voyage is simple. Southwest past the northern coast of the Isle of Man, then East into the Strangford Lough. Finally, we land inland near Movilla Abbey.”
“I require no details for the voyage, only how long I must endure it.”
“We should be at sea less than twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four hours? ‘Sblood. Firedrakes are gone from hillside caves, but sea dragons lurk beneath the waves. I’d rather battle the Danes than follow a sail.”
“The captain is a Dane, so don’t insult him. Fortunately for you, I’ve stocked good ale aboard. You can stay drunk the entire voyage.”
“You’re a great friend, Alan.”
Byron sighs and stops short of the skiff to gather his resolve. He certainly knows how. God knows he had regathered his resolve often enough before every previous sea voyage. Alan returns when Byron does not follow.
“Something else?”
“Overcast today,” Byron says. “Might rain. How will they navigate without the sun? What fate is worse than being lost at sea?”
“This knarr is a stable merchant ship. Ten tall men could lie end-to-end from prow to stern, and two men across the beam. Room for a nervous man to pace. Danes use a sunstone to navigate gloomy weather. Come. I’ve a skin half-full of wine in the skiff. Climb aboard and finish it all before they hoist sail.”
The night sky is starless when someone shakes Byron’s shoulder. Is this the third or fourth attempt to wake him? He blinks but cannot focus. Mist dampens his clothes, and his face feels sticky from the salt spray. For some reason, his neck doesn’t ache with his usual arthritis.
“Let him sleep.” Is that Alan’s voice? “There’s nae he can do anyway except get seasick. Look what all he drank.”
“But the boy... We’ve already passed the Isle of Man.”
“I’ll see to the lad,” Alan says. “You tend the ship.”
“Wha ... Nathaniel?” Byron struggles to sit up. His mouth tastes like week-old fish pickled in spoilt beer. He can’t keep his eyes open.
“Go back to sleep, Man. All’s well.”
Byron slumps against the deck. Someone covers him with a musty blanket. All is well. That’s what an old knight needs to know.
All is well....
Anchored at the north-most point of the Strangford Lough, the knarr barely rocks. A skiff pulls alongside the ship to tender the next group ashore. Later the crew will unload its cargo.
Taking a wide stance on the ship’s deck, Nathaniel looks defiant. “I’m not sorry I stowed away, Grandfather.”
The boy’s unrepentant posture irritates Byron. Surely, that stubbornness comes from the boy’s mother, who was an obstinate child. Well, maybe Nathaniel gets some from Byron too.
“If this ship were immediately returning to Dumfries instead of waiting here for us, I’d send you with it and let your father deal with your mischief.” Byron’s head rings, and his ears ache. Or vice versa. When was the last time he drank so much? He struggles to keep the pain from his face and maintain the anger in his watery eyes. “Do you not ken the dangers of the sea, boy?”
“I can swim,” Nathaniel brags. “Father taught me.”
“Then you are one-up on me, lad, but overconfident.”
“Going ashore?” Alan passes, carrying his knapsack to the bulwarks.
“The sooner, the better,” Byron replies. “Have you a knapsack, Nathaniel?”
“No, Sir. Owd Dan has mine. Besides there was barely enough room for me to hide among the cargo.”
“Here, then. Make yourself useful and carry mine.” Byron hands his knapsack to the boy. “The next time I tell you to stay put, then you stay put.”
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but you never commanded me stay nor bade me not follow. You said only that Owd Dan would see me safely home. Not true. Owd Dan drinks more than you. He won’t notice I’m missing until he’s halfway to the castle.”
“You argue like a book-nosed scholar. In the future, I’ll leave no ambiguity, and you will obey.” Nonetheless, Byron beams at the boy’s courage.
“Yes, Sir.”
Impatient for land, Byron jumps from the skiff as it beaches. Joan, Jasper, and two monks await on shore.
Now that alcohol no longer glazes his eyes, Byron recognizes Joan. Her face is soft with age, almost puffy and her figure more matronly. Even framed with crow’s-feet, her flashing dragon eyes are unmistakable.
Joan whispers to a lanky monk dressed in a coarse brown robe. In typical Celtic tradition for tonsures, a crescent of hair has been shaved from the front of the monk’s head.
Standing aside a few yards, Jasper displays a vacant smile.
Alan unloads their knapsacks from the skiff, drops an arm over Nathaniel’s shoulders, and leads the boy toward Jasper. The plump monk joins them.
Byron pauses beyond the muddy shore, casts his eyes skyward, and gives thanks for solid land. Joan gestures to the lanky monk to follow and approaches Byron.
“Tis good to see you awake and alert, Byron.” Joan offers him a clumsy hug. “When Jasper suggested we send for you and Alan, I… Well, thank you for coming.”
“How could I not? I am surprised you recognize me. The years have changed me.”
“I’ll never forget your sky blue eyes.”
With the haze of the ship voyage fading, he takes a deep breath and feels alive, proud he endured the journey, and almost young again. Perhaps she can still stir his heart.
“This is Brother Donngal,” Joan says. The monk steps closer. “He sent word that the Druids hold Emma nearby. This is my dear friend, Sir Byron of Brittany, another brave knight come to our aid.”
Byron flexes his hand and extends it to Donngal. The monk is unlikely to notice that Byron’s grip is no longer confident.
“I apologize for seeking help, Sir Byron, but the Monastery has nowhere else to turn.” His sleeve flapping at the breeze off the lough, Donngal grips Byron’s hand. “Years ago, Movilla Abbey was active, vibrant. The Church held sway then. Bards limited their druid activity to storytelling. Other druids practiced medicine and the law. Some even became Christians. But since the Danes ransacked the Abbey fifteen years ago, we’ve had no abbot, no sanctification from the Church. All that is left among the ruins are five monks and an irregular contingent of itinerant laymen. I fear that the old druidry has not only re-emerged, it has won the hearts of many local residents.”
“Druidry?”
“Sorcery. They espouse the heretical tenets of Pythagoras although they do not call it such. The Flesh decays but the immortal Soul returns to Earth by reincarnation. Indeed, their leader, the Wizard Amergin, claims to be the reincarnation of the ancient sorcerer, Amergin Glúingel. Perhaps you’ve heard that name in the old stories? All this talk of rebirth in a new body, of course, is heresy.”
“What of Emma?” Joan asks.
Donngal shrugs. “No one has seen the girl since the druids carried her past the Monastery and rumor described the druid plans to resurrect a dragon. Please, follow me. Movilla Abbey is less than a mile away. After you settle in the rooms the brothers prepared, we’ll talk more over a late lunch.”
“Is my granddaughter in immediate danger?” Joan asks. “Shouldn’t we search for her?”
“The druids have almost finished constructing a wicker man in a grove of sacred oaks, but for the ceremony and sacrifice, they await the auspices of the lunar eclipse two nights hence. They will conceal her until then.”
“Wicker man,” Byron says. “What evil do they plan?
“Evil? These are not bad men. They simply don’t understand that the old ways are no longer best. They are neither wantonly cruel nor callous, but they are determined and dedicated. They won’t mistreat the girl before the sacrifice.”
“What is a wicker man?” Joan asks.
“A cage woven of willow, shaped to resemble a man and used for the abomination of human sacrifice. They burn their victim alive inside the wicker man. However, to resurrect not just the soul of a dragon but also its flesh requires powerful, ceremonial magic. Hence, they wait for the midnight eclipse in two nights.”
“Not cruel men” Burning her alive is not very cruel?” Joan asks. “She’s only eleven.”
“Many volunteer to be sacrificed,” Donngal says. “It’s a quick way to reincarnation for those grown weary of their current life. If there are no volunteers, then they sacrifice criminals.”
“My granddaughter is no criminal.” Joan’s expression hardens. “And she would never volunteer.”
“This ceremony requires a virgin with dragon eyes.”
Byron remembers his younger days. Persuading impressionable youths about the virtue of sacrifice and death for a grand cause has filled the ranks of many armies. Perhaps the girl did cooperate after being flattered for her dragon eyes.
“How can they know when there will be an eclipse?” Byron asks.
“The druids are excellent astronomers,” Donngal says. “This way, please. Let us collect your friends and Brother Henry before he spreads more gossip.”
When they start up the path to the Abbey, Byron and his grandson straggle at the rear of the procession. Presently, Brother Henry drifts back to babble.
“I’m sorry for the death of your granddaughter, milord,” Henry says.
“She isn’t my granddaughter, and she isn’t dead yet,” Byron says. “Else we wouldn’t be here.”
“Forgive me, but why bring your grandson?” Henry nods at Nathaniel. “Surely, he isn’t old enough to fight a dragon. Is he betrothed to the doomed girl?”
“What? No.” Byron glances at his grandson, but the boy refuses to look up. Is he embarrassed? “Fear not for the girl. Neither worry about returning dragons. Sir Jasper is a brilliant strategist. His plan will surely free the girl.”
“Ah, well. That’s good to know, milord,” Henry says. “Perhaps planning distracts him. After I attempted to describe the local druids to him, I feared that he was afflicted like Brother Donngal.”
“Afflicted.” Byron stops and grabs the monk’s arm. “What affliction?”
Nathaniel stops too.
The monk clasps his hands and allows his generous robe sleeves to engulf them. He smiles but seems incapable of joy.
“Brother Donngal suffers from the sacred disease of Alexander. He often has seizures and afterwards cannot remember when or where. He sleeps odd hours, awakens in peculiar locations, and struggles with no memory of those lost hours. I suppose that Sir Jasper is more complacent than Brother Donngal, but he wears the same haunted look. From what you say, this must be his planning demeanor.”
“I talked with Sir Jasper,” Nathaniel says. “He isn’t afflicted. He’s just forgetful like Owd Dan. He couldn’t remember my name even after Sir Alan introduced me twice. Now he thinks I’m his son and calls me Eric. He also forgot Sir Alan’s name and why we are here.”
Senile? The greatest strategist that Byron had ever met cannot remember why they had come to Hibernia. What plan remains for the girl’s rescue except brute force?
Unfortunately, the brutes on our side are grown too old.
“How many druids do we confront?” Byron asks.
Henry shrugs. “Not more than two dozen, about half are better trained in arms than our humble monks. So you see, milord, except for Amergin’s magic and a dozen armed men, the druids are ill equipped to fight against brave knights such as yourselves.”
Byron sighs and starts up the path.
Brother Henry is a witless gossip and a fool. Half of any knight’s prowess comes from his armor and the horse he rides. We have no horses, and our armor is shabby. Without Jasper, we have no strategy. Alan, the most fearsome warrior I’ve seen in battle, looks haggard, and me ... I cannot swing my own sword without losing my grip. Rescue the girl? With what? What if the druids succeed in resurrecting a dragon, who among us can stand against it? How can this fiasco get worse?
After lunch, Byron insists that Donngal show him the local landscape. The monk agrees. Although Alan looks gaunt, Byron asks him to come along. However, Joan objects to Jasper joining the expedition.
“Why must Jasper go?” Joan asks.
“We need to survey the terrain and evaluate our resources.” Byron doesn’t say that one of the resources he wants to evaluate is Jasper. “Besides, Jasper always enjoys a good hike, don’t you Jasper? Jasper?”
The old knight looks up from stroking the Abbey’s resident cat. “What?”
“Would you like to go for a walk? Brother Donngal has offered to show us the countryside.”
“Who?”
“Us. A walk.” Byron puts a hand on Jasper’s shoulder. “Just three old friends on a walk. Do you want to go?”
“A walk. Yes. Please. Is Joan going? “
“No. She and Nathaniel will clear a third room for our use. Join us for a walk, Jasper.”
“Sure. Who are you?”
“I’m Byron, your old friend and comrade. You remember me? And that’s Alan. We three fought together. Brother Donngal will lead. Do you need a walking stick?”
“No. I like walking. I walk a lot.”
“You’ll watch him?” Joan says. “Don’t let him get lost.”
“He’ll never leave my sight,” Alan says.
At a quarter of a mile from the Abbey, Donngal points out a fork in the pathway.
“The upper path leads to an east-west road. The lower path takes you across pastureland and meadows to the forest of the sacred woods.”
“Sacred woods?” Byron asks. “Is that where they construct the wicker man?”
“The druids consider all nature to be sacred, but oaks are especially revered. These traditions are very old. When St. Finnian founded Movilla Abbey two-hundred-fifty years ago, it was named for its location magh bile which means plain of the ancient tree.”
“But where will they take the girl for sacrifice?” Alan asks.
“Many places are possible. Fifteen miles west is the Giant’s Ring, ancient even before the druids, nonetheless sacred by druid precepts. Just two miles east is their favored oak grove. Who can say what they plan? Perhaps another ancient tree like the grand oak that lies beyond the fork along the upper road has inspired them.”
“Then we need to talk with a druid... uh, Alan?” Byron points to Jasper who is strolling up the upper pathway.
Alan nods and pursues the wandering knight.
“Jasper,” Alan yells. “Wait.”
“Someone told you of the wicker man,” Byron says to Donngal. “Who? Do you know a druid willing to tell us where the sacrifice is to be held?”
“I know most people nearby. A few, I’m sure are druids because they sell herbal medicines or make farming calendars. A bard came through telling stories several weeks ago. Definitely a druid, but I’ve not seen him since. Many others are secretly druids, but I could not swear which ones. Many are literate, but they write down nothing of druidism because it’s forbidden by their tenets. All is secret and only passed orally from master to student.”
“Does Amergin live nearby? What does he look like?”
“I’ve never seen the Wizard Amergin.”
“Amergin?” Alan returns with Jasper in tow. “What if I kill this master wizard? Will they give up on the sacrifice?”
“I doubt it,” Donngal says. “Once an archer releases the arrow on its path, he no longer matters to the flight. Druids are believers, not just followers. We have only a few hours until sunset. Hurry. A half mile farther along the lower path and I will point out where they build the wicker man.”
“A good plan,” Byron says. “Lead us.”
Donngal starts along the lower path. Byron grabs Alan’s arm.
“Hang back a moment.”
Alan nods and pats Jasper’s back. “Now old friend, we shall continue our walk.”
“I like walking.” Jasper smiles and starts along the path after Donngal.
“What think you of Jasper?” Byron whispers to Alan.
“Physically he is fine. He still waves his sword with authority. He’s protected Joan since her husband died four years ago. He was fine at first, but recently his mind ... Now Joan cares for him.”
“Can we depend on him?”
“He has moments of lucidity where he remembers the old days better than recent times, but he cannot plan our excursion. However, if we fight on one of his good days, we can trust our backs to him.”
“What about your health?” Byron asks. “I’ve never seen your face so drawn. Are you in pain?”
“Sometimes. I use a different painkiller each day. One day I take Bhang. Another day, henbane or hemp seed. If the pain is very bad, then poppy gives me relief. I tried Devil’s apple once, but I was half-mad for two days.”
“What malady?”
“God knows.” Alan shrugs. “I pissed blood off and on for a month before the pain in my hip got bad. I went to a healer. He says I have a cancer, but that’s what he calls anything that does not heal. The old boy does help with my pain. He mixes herbs and potions for me. I suspect he’s a druid.”
“You should not be here.”
“Where should I be? I’m dying, Byron, but I am not so afflicted that I cannot serve in this endeavor. Better to die while thrusting my sword through the dragon’s heart than lying in bed waiting for a painful end. This quest is a godsend for me. But why talk of me? You have your own secret.”
“My secret?”
“You did not shake my hand when I first greeted you at the precipice. Why?”
Byron holds out his sword hand. The knuckles are enlarged, and the joints in the first two fingers are swollen and misaligned.
“The pain is worse in the morning. I can draw my sword, but I cannot grip it tightly enough to swing it with force.”
“And you were the best swordsman ever I met.” Alan laughs. “We are a fine trio of knights intent on rescuing the fair maiden with naught but golden memories of better times.”
Donngal and Jasper wait for them atop a small ridge across the path.
“There,” Donngal points across a vast meadow to a grove of trees standing proud from the forest beyond. “Those are the sacred oaks where they weave the wicker man. The waxing gibbous moon is almost full tonight. Perhaps that will illuminate a stealthy approach.”
“Until we reconnoiter, we need someone watching the path to make sure they don’t move the wicker man,” Alan says.
Donngal nods. “I gave that job to Brother Henry this afternoon. He should be here now, but the man is easily distracted. I’ll remind him when we return to the Abbey.”
“Excellent.” Byron glances at Alan who is limping. “Let’s go back. It’s getting late, and we all need rest. Tonight will be long and tomorrow even longer.”
Donngal nods and retraces their steps on the path.
“Are we going to see Joan?” Jasper asks.
“Certainly,” Alan says. “How do you feel, old friend?”
“Sunshine makes me smile. Where are we?”
“We’re in Hibernia on a quest to save Joan’s granddaughter,” Alan says.
“I remember,” Jasper says. “I’ll need wool grease for my chainmail. Who do we fight?”
“Wizards and dragons.”
“Good, I don’t like dragons. Lately, my mind is too fuzzy for planning. Who leads us against the wizards?”
“Relax,” Alan says. “Sir Byron leads. You remember Byron.”
“Of course, Byron. Good man. Good friend. Reliable. I look forward to seeing him again.”
“Jasper.” Byron touches Jasper’s arm. “I’m here. It’s me, Byron.”
“Byron? My God, Man, is that you? Your hair is all white. You’ve aged. Buck up, we can still give them hell. I only wish that Alan were with us. Then there would be a reckoning.”
When they crest a small rise in the path approaching the Abbey, Joan runs toward them, the setting sun sparkling her hair like a halo.
“Byron, Byron,” she yells. Gasps punctuate her voice. “I am... so sorry. Nathaniel…has disappeared, and we cannot...find him.
Well past midnight, Byron quits his search for Nathaniel and returns to the Abbey. He un-sheathes his sword, drops it onto the dining room table, and sags onto a chair. Joan, already seated at the table, holds Jasper’s hand.
“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Everyone else returned an hour ago.”
“I’m not hungry. I found no sign of Emma or Nathaniel anywhere.”
“Did you find Joan’s granddaughter?” Jasper asks. “What’s her name?”
“Emma,” Byron repeats. “I didn’t find the children.”
“Tomorrow then.” Jasper nods his head in affirmation. “Tomorrow. You’ll be rested. Tracks are clearer in the sunlight. Sleep now. Search tomorrow.”
“That’s a good plan, Jasper.”
“Hello,” Henry enters from the kitchen, a half loaf of bread in his hand. “Where is Brother Donngal?”
“Asleep,” Joan says.
“The druids extinguished the campfire at the sacred oaks. They must be sleeping too. Missed supper, so I came back to eat. Do you think Brother Donngal wants me to watch the oaks all night?”
“You missed supper?” Byron says. “I didn’t see you on the trail. Not from the overlook.”
“Let’s see,” Henry says. “Young Nathaniel went with me....”
“What?” Byron sits up straight. “When?”
“When I went to watch the sacred oaks. You was still eating lunch. Smart lad, Nathaniel. On the way, he got all excited when I told him that if my betrothed were a prisoner of the druids in those sacred oaks, weren’t nothing would keep me from going to her rescue.”
“Betrothed?” Joan says. “Who’s betrothed?”
“No one,” Byron says. “What happened to the boy?”
“Well,” Henry says. “Nathaniel tells me he wants to scout the druids. He says they won’t suspect him ‘cause he’s just a boy. So I says best wait until dark, but he says he can’t. So I take him roundabout the woods to where he can sneak up from the far side—that must be when you and Brother Donngal came to the overlook, and we weren't there. I got back there just after dark, and I been watching there since. Did anyone notice whether there’s any fig preserves in the cupboard?”
“The druids have him.” Byron stands and reaches for his sword.
“Wait until morning,” Jasper repeats. “Morning is always better.”
“He’s right,” Joan says. “You’re exhausted. Rest. We will all search in the morning.”
By noon the next day, they had searched every wooded path and open meadow between the Abbey and the sacred oaks, but found no sign of the children. Frustrated, Byron and Alan ignore Donngal’s entreaties and approach the sacred grove. Donngal follows but stops a hundred yards from the grove.
Five men emerge to block the pathway where it enters the woods.
“What seek you here, friends?” The biggest man’s voice seems nervously high, but he holds a thick staff at ready.
“Lost children,” Byron says. “A girl and my grandson.”
Beyond the men in a clearing among the trees, the wicker man is visible. It looks finished.
“This is a sacred place,” the man says. “No children are here.”
“Have you seen any children?”
“We are family men. We see children every day, but none are here.”
Byron touches his sword hilt.
“Let’s go.” Alan grips Byron’s arm. “Now isn’t the time.”
Alan coaxes Byron away from the grove. Donngal waits for them.
“Return to the Abbey for lunch,” Donngal says. “Save your strength for tonight.”
Alan doesn’t complain, but the expression on his face convinces Byron that his friend needs respite.
“Very well,” Byron says.
On the walk to the Abbey, they meet Joan and Jasper at the fork in the path. Donngal leaves them and takes the upper trail to visit an ill farmer.
When they reach the Abbey, Jasper enters the dining room first.
“Eric, Son,” Jasper says. “Come give your father a kiss.”
“Excuse me, Sir, but my name is not Eric.”
Byron rushes into the dining room, followed by Joan and Alan. Nathaniel sits at the table, struggling to slice a hard block of cheese. Byron grabs the boy.
“Where have you been?”
“Uh, things look different at night,” Nathaniel says.
“Did you see my granddaughter?” Joan demands.
“No, M’am. Only men were in the grove when I got there. They had almost finished weaving a large cage of willow strips in the clearing. A few of the men saw me but ignored me. Later, two women brought flowers and held them up beside the cage as if they planned to decorate it. I watched into the night until they put out the campfire. “
“That was after midnight,” Byron says. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“Midnight? It didn’t seem that late. I started back as soon as they put out the fire.”
“And....”
“And things look different at night. I followed the moon until I got too sleepy. Then I slept under a big tree.”
“He got lost,” Alan says. “Took the high road and went too far west.”
“You were lost?” Byron says.
“I found my way back.” Nathaniel insists. “Well, I asked a farmer, and he showed me a trail leading back east to the Abbey.”
“Don’t be angry with the boy,” Alan says. “He’s done his best. What now?”
“We need a plan,” Byron says. “But just for us. I trust no one at this Abbey.”
“Agreed.”
“Let’s keep Nathaniel out of sight. When the brothers and laymen return, we’ll send them north and west to continue the search, tell them that a passerby saw a boy in that direction. We will pretend to search south and east, but instead we’ll take up watch near the sacred oaks.”
“That’s your plan?” Joan says. “What do we do when they bring Emma to the wicker man?”
“Hit them hard and fast,” Jasper says.
“What?” Alan says. “Hit them hard and fast?”
“That’s pretty much my plan too,” Byron says. “I know, it’s not a great plan, but apparently this druid magic is difficult to enact. Brother Donngal says that if we can disrupt it and delay them until after the eclipse, then we stand a chance.”
“I won’t let them burn my baby.” Joan says.
Byron rubs his chin. “Joan, I want you to take Nathaniel to someplace safe. Perhaps near the landing where the knarr awaits us on Strangford Lough.”
“No.” Joan plants her fist against her hips. Her dragon eyes flash. “I know how to use a long knife. I will stand with you at the grove to save my granddaughter.”
“I’m good with a bow,” Nathaniel says.
“Shut up, boy,” Byron says. “You don’t have a bow.”
“Brother Henry has a longbow,” Nathaniel says. “I can draw it, and I know where it is.”
Nathaniel rushes off.
Byron casts his eyes skyward. “This is completely out of hand.”
“Do the best you can with what you have,” Jasper advises.
“That’s Jasper’s motto,” Alan says. “It’s always worked before.”
“Very well,” Byron says. “Joan, arm yourself with a good knife and gather food for tonight. Help Jasper into his chainmail. Fit him with his shield and sword. Take Jasper and Nathaniel to where we landed on Strangford Lough. Alan and I will misdirect the brothers and laymen north and west when they return. We’ll meet you at the landing—”
“Don’t try to trick me, Byron,” Joan says. “I will go to the sacred grove and save my granddaughter even if I must do it alone.”
“I believe you, Joan. On my honor, I will lead us all against the druids. Now, hurry before the brothers return.”
Joan smiles and scurries to the kitchen. Jasper sits at the table and slices cheese for himself and Nathaniel.
“Well done,” Alan says. “Well done.”
“What of you, old friend? What preparations need you make?”
“My weapons and armor are always ready.”
“I meant your medicine.”
“I know what you meant. My mind drives my body. I’ll take no numbing potions today. And yourself, Byron?”
“The Abbey workshop stocks leather strapping. Before we leave, you must bind my hand to my sword.”
Unaccustomed to having his sword hilt strapped to his right hand, Byron cradles the blade with his left hand while he follows Donngal through the woods.
“Why did you bring Brother Donngal?” Joan whispers.
“He insisted,” Byron says. “And he knows these woods well. Don’t worry, I gave him no opportunity to talk with anyone at the Abbey before we left.”
“Brother Donngal sounds different today. Hollow.” Joan pushes past a thorny bramble and motions for Nathaniel not to let his slack bowstring snag the thorns.
“I noticed,” Alan says as he guides Jasper back onto the path. “Makes me nervous. I’ll watch him.”
“Quiet, now.” Donngal holds up a hand. “Smell the campfire? We’re close. I’ll circle to the front side of their camp and distract them. Count slowly to one hundred, then continue on this pathway until you reach two rock cairns in a small clearing. Enter the woods behind the smaller cairn and creep forward until you see the firelight.”
“Count to a hundred,” Alan says. “Once, Jasper could do that in his head, but I doubt that he can any longer.”
“It’s easy,” Byron says. “Ten tens. Run through all your fingers ten times.”
“How will I count the number of times I’ve counted my fingers?” Alan asks. “You do it.”
“I can’t do it,” Byron says. “My right hand is bound to my sword.”
“I can count to one hundred,” Nathaniel says.
“Very well.” Byron hesitates then asks Donngal, “What about after the clearing?”
“They won’t light the wicker man until midnight when the Earth, Sun, and Moon align,” Donngal says. “Then the moon will glow blood red.”
“Why not steal her away before the eclipse begins?” Alan asks Donngal instead of Byron.
Somehow new authority in the monk's voice is usurping Byron’s leadership.
“The eclipse lasts more than a half hour on either side of midnight.” The monk’s voice is low and even. “Without a clean rescue, the druids might catch you, recover Emma, and have time to complete the midnight ceremony. Better to interrupt near midnight because once that hour passes, they lose the total eclipse portion of the ritual.”
Donngal says no more. He turns and disappears into the moonlight-splattered woods.
Subdued, Byron says “Start counting, boy, out loud.”
After Nathaniel reaches one hundred, they follow Donngal’s instructions. When they reach the clearing, they creep into the moonlight illuminating the two cairns,
Jasper blurts out, “Where are we going?”
“Shh,” Joan places two fingers across Jasper’s lips and shakes her head.
Alan whispers to Jasper, “Battle mode, old friend. Full stealth.”
Jasper nods and grips his sword hilt. They creep into the forest behind the smaller cairn. The woods are dense.
They hear voices before they see the glow from the campfire.
“Well, it’s Brother Donngal come to partake in the ceremony,” a raspy baritone declares.
“Treachery!” Alan whispers to Byron
"Withhold judgment," Byron whispers. "He attempts to intervene for the girl's sake."
“Perhaps it only looks like Brother Donngal,” a clear tenor says. “Who do you claim to be this night?”
“I am the Wizard Amergin." The stilted voice belongs to Donngal." but I am not here to participate.”
When Joan gasps, Nathaniel looks to Byron . Byron half draws his sword. Jasper blinks in confusion.
"God's blood, Donngal is Amergin," Alan whispers too loudly. "I will kill him."
Donngal's voice continues. “As is my fated role, I am here as a judge to ensure a fair contest.”
“What contest?" the tenor says. "This sacrificial ceremony was your idea, Amergin, or Donngal, or whoever you claim to be.”
“No, the virgin sacrifice was not my idea,” Donngal says. “'Twas the dragon’s scheme.”
Byron halts his party when the firelight glow threatens to reveal them. He relegates Joan and Nathaniel to the side, and positions himself, Alan, and Jasper for the quickest route to the wicker man.
Near the clearing center, Donngal confronts the leading druids.
More than a dozen other druids stand nearby. A few more tend the campfire. Across the glade, moving shadows suggest that others guard the pathway into the clearing.
Emma is not in sight.
As if he reads Byron’s mind, Donngal says, “Where is the girl? The eclipse draws near.”
Jasper unsheathes his sword and steps forward.
“Discipline,” Byron hisses, and Jasper holds his position.
“Bring out the girl,” commands the tenor. He’s a remarkably big man to have such a high-pitched voice.
Two women escort Emma from the darkness on the far side of the glade and lead her to the wicker man. The girl’s hands are bound, but she is not blindfolded. She does not struggle. Is she drugged, or does she cooperate with her captors?
Hand to her mouth, Joan steps forward, reaching out to Emma. Alan grabs her arm to stop her.
The two druid women untie the girl and help her enter the wicker man. With her inside, they close and secure the cage with hemp rope and strips of willow.
Emma does not protest. Noiselessly, she sags against the wicker enclosure, allowing it to support her. Two brawny druids hoist the wicker man onto a framework constructed over kindling and logs.
The big druid glances up and points to the darkening edge of the moon. “It begins.”
“Now?” Alan whispers.
“Too early,” Byron hisses. “The eclipse is just starting. Wait until they are ready to light the fire.”
Byron creeps back to Nathaniel. He puts his arm over the boy's shoulder and whispers.
“String your bow and arrange your arrows for quick nocking. Are you up to it, lad? When we attack, step forward and shoot anyone who tries to light a fire beneath the wicker man. Think of them as a target not a human. The girl’s life may depend on your aim. If things go amiss, retreat into the woods with Lady Joan.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t miss.”
“You heard what I told the boy,” Byron says to Joan. “If we fail, then your granddaughter is lost. In that event, you must see to my grandson’s escape. Take him to the knarr. Do not hesitate if that time comes.”
“I won’t,” Joan says.
Byron nods. He returns to his place with Alan and Jasper. They secure their helmets and don their shields.
Jasper touches his helmet to Byron’s helmet and whispers. “Byron, my friend. More of me dies every day. Soon I will not know myself. Promise me that you will care for Joan in my stead.”
“I swear it.” Byron tries to flex his sword hand within the leather straps, but he can no longer feel his fingers.
Slowly, a hungry darkness chews across the moon’s face and tinges red. The tall druid gestures at the wicker man, and two men light torches at the campfire.
When they turn toward the wicker man, Byron yells, “Now.”
Screaming, he leads Alan and Jasper into the firelight. His legs don’t behave as he expects. Clomping full speed across the glade, he stumbles and almost falls when he attempts to leap over a log. Nonetheless, the druids seem stunned by the clumsy invasion of three old men. The druids hesitate long enough for Byron and then Alan to take up position between the torch bearers and the wicker man.
Byron gasps for air. Alan’s face reveals that he is testing his own limits.
Jasper, apparently forgetting strategy, issues a haunting war cry, advances, and attacks the nearest druid with a two-handed sword stroke that drives the man to his knees. Another druid draws a knife and circles the smiling Jasper.
Byron stops Alan from going to Jasper’s aid. “We must defend the girl.”
Byron blinks in disbelief. Does smoke from the campfire gather round Donngal and take the ghostly form of a wyvern?
A druid screams and drops his lit torch a few yards in front of Byron. Distracted, Byron had not noticed the man’s approach. The druid falls to the ground and claws at an arrow protruding from his thigh. The second torch bearer passes the wounded man. Beyond them, other druids gather clubs and knives. Two wield axes.
Determined to focus his attention, Byron steps forward to meet the next torch bearer.
“Go back, woman,” Alan yells at someone.
Byron glances over his shoulder. ‘Sblood. Joan has left the safety of the woods and is sawing at the wicker man with her knife. Where is Nathaniel?
A torch crashing against Byron’s shield attracts his attention. Reflexively, he swings his sword, and the torch bearer skips back. Byron misses two more swings at the torch bearer. His next swing painfully connects with the torch and knocks it from the druid’s hand. If Byron’s sword were not strapped to his numb hand, he would have lost his weapon. The now torchless druid retreats. Byron takes a ragged breath and staggers in pursuit.
Growing larger, the ghostly wyvern surrounding Donngal rises above the man. Its mouth opens to scream a challenge, but no sound emerges.
Another druid retrieves the torch dropped by the wounded bearer and cautiously inches forward. An unexpected third torch flies overhead, but falls short of the wicker man.
Alan charges past Byron. Grim determination has rewritten his weary countenance. He batters the second torch bearer, forcing the flames into man’s face. The druid screams, drops his torch, and runs. Alan changes stride. He thrusts his sword overhead like the Alan who long ago fought with Charlemagne. Alan cuts down the fleeing druid from behind. Then he charges the group of rallying druids.
Another torch flies overhead. This one lands at the base of the wicker man. Joan yells and kicks it away, but not before a tiny flame skips to the kindling. She renews her hacking on the wicker cage.
Two armed men confront Jasper.
Emma is alert now and sobbing.
Byron approaches the large druid with the tenor voice. The man drops his staff and, aiming his knife at Byron’s heart, charges. Byron is slow in raising his aching arm, but an arrow pierces the man’s neck while he is yet two yards away.
Nathaniel!
The druid stumbles onto Byron’s sword and the two go down together. The dying druid is heavy, and Byron struggles to free himself of the weight.
Outlined by the campfire, five druids surround Alan. The old knight swings his sword with skilled abandon. Two of the druids fall to his blade before repeated blows from the others batter the old knight to the ground. A druid raises his axe to hack the fallen warrior’s chest.
With a scream, Byron pushes free and rolls onto his knees. He stands upright in time to see the axe jerked free of Alan’s body and descend a second time. Byron charges the axman.
The man with the axe is Byron’s first victim. Byron ignores the painful jolt of his sword against the man’s face. He whirls, swings, and misses the belly of a second druid. Four druids reorganize and spread out to surround him. Others stand nearby, waiting to replace any who fall in the next attack.
Gasping for breath, Byron glances at Joan. Unable to open the wicker man, she sits against it, holding Emma’s hand. Both are crying.
The kindling still smokes despite Joan’s efforts to subdue the nascent flames. Her dress and legs are scorched. The fire flickers, catches more kindling, and grows.
Two women with lit torches approach the wicker man. Byron cannot reach them. Will Nathaniel shoot at women?
Across the clearing, Jasper slumps motionless. The bloody remains of Alan lie just beyond the men circling Byron.
The ghostly wyvern separates from Donngal. Its shape sharpens and turns translucent as it rises.
Stepping closer, the men surrounding Byron raise their weapons.
Heart pounding, Byron spins with sword extended to remind them that he is still dangerous.
“All together,” one of the Druids says.
A scream from the dragon withers and fades. The smoky outline disperses.
“Halt!” The powerful voice of Donngal commands attention.
The monk glows as if illuminated from within.
The druids hesitate.
“See how many of us they’ve killed,” cries one of the druids. “They all must die.”
“They are not unscathed. Hear my judgement. I, Amergin, declare this contest to have been fairly fought, but it is too late to resurrect the dragon. Observe the waning eclipse. Midnight has passed. The blood red fades from the moon. The ceremony has missed its time. The ghostly wyvern retreats and must gather strength elsewhere to achieve reincarnation. Put out the fire. Release the girl. Spill no more blood here or else endure my wrath.”
Three druids sulk into the darkness. The two women discard their torches, release Emma, and extinguish the fire. Others tend the wounded.
Exhausted, Byron drops to one knee. His swollen sword hand throbs against its bonds. He’ll have to cut the sword loose.
“You killed my brother,” whispers a passing druid. “Be not in Hibernia after the next sunset. No master wizard will save you then.”
The knarr exits Strangford Lough into the open sea just as the setting sun recolors the sails.
Exhausted, Byron covers Joan’s blistered legs with a blanket and settles next to her. He licks his lips at the first roll of the ship. Should he drink some ale? Perhaps later. The rocking ship seems more comforting than threatening. Is that a gift from Amergin or just his duty to Joan and the children? Perhaps he’ll be able to sleep without alcohol.
“What salve did Brother Donngal put on your burns?” he asks Joan.
“Something from Amergin. Brother Donngal spoke as if the wizard was distinct rather than another soul in his own body. He said the salve would help with healing. It does lessen the pain. Where are the children?”
“Nathaniel and Emma are watching the waves pound the prow. She remembers little of her adventure, and Nathaniel takes it all in stride.”
“She doesn’t remember? That’s a blessing.”
“Her eyes still hold a dragon, but not as strongly.”
“I detest magic,” Joan says. “What was your conversation with Brother Donngal just before we boarded?”
“First, he shook my hand and thanked me. When he did, a tingle like from rubbed amber made the hair on my arm stand up. Since then my hand hasn’t ached from arthritis. He claimed that he can no longer speak as Amergin. Henceforth, he is Brother Donngal only. He warned that the ghost wyvern still craves reincarnation, and if she gathers enough strength, she’ll return for Emma to finish the ceremony. Finally, he charged you and I with a mission.”
“What kind of mission? Not another quest, I hope.”
“Brother Donngal says your job is to raise Emma into a brave young woman filled with hope, truth, and compassion. My job is to train Nathaniel to become an honorable knight skilled enough with a sword to defeat a wyvern. He says you and I should teach them both about Jasper’s ingenuity and Alan’s courage. Together, we must impart that heritage and give our grandchildren their chance for a future.”
“That’s an impressive charge. What did you answer?”
“For the first time in years, I feel like I serve a worthwhile purpose, and so I thanked him for the opportunity.”
Joan smiles and kisses his cheek. Suddenly, she draws back and studies his face.
“Your eyes are different,” she says with concern.
“Different? How so?” Byron touches his face.
“Your eyes are no longer sky blue. Now, you have dragon eyes like mine.”