The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Five, Scene Thirteen

Eowain rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Lorcán's assessment of his scheme as "impossible" had been generous. While to call it "a cliff" overstated the case, the rocky, moss-covered slope was still only several degrees shy of strictly vertical.

Near enough to a cliff for his purposes. A fall would kill or cripple him just the same.

He looked up at the gray sky. The Gods have promised nevermore to attack with Water and with Wind... That's what he'd been taught by Medyr. But the Gods, They are forgetful.

Whether for absent-mindedness or spite, rain poured from the sky. Rivulets of water trickled between the rocks and burbled in and out of cracks. The mossy scree of the slope was drenched.

It was the gorge at Caipín Creek all over again, only far bigger, and without an archer—yet—shooting at them from above.

I should call this madness off, he thought.

But yesterday's disastrous skirmishes had gained nothing and cost much. Every hour that went by, he lost more trust and loyalty from his cattle-chiefs.

Either way, his men would skirmish the whole day up the trail. He'd lose many lives, and might still not seize the crest. This trouble would drag into another day or more.

Eowain had assigned as many men as he could trust to Eithne's security. He hated the idea that she travel without him into the unfriendly lands, with bandits already known to be abroad.

Yet Eithne's caravan to the Vale of Thaynú, it had to depart that morning to reach the Vale by Cétshamain-day.

And he wouldn't be with her.

He had to bring that occupation of Gluín to an end and teach the Cailech-men better than to try his borders.

He looked up the long distance of the severe and slippery slope. I have to do the impossible.

With a deep breath, he set his jaw, swallowed the knot in his throat, and nodded to Lorcán.

Ten men volunteered, good men of his personal guard whose loyalties were beyond doubt. Lorcán found a man clever with knots, and every second man was strung to his fellow by a length of stout rope.

Eowain himself was tied between scar-faced Gaeth and barrel-chested Mahon, two of his strongest. He and each of his ten men wore a round steel helm and a jack of stern leather hung with rings of steel. Broadswords and round, iron-banded wooden shields were strapped across their backs.

The first dozen feet proved how difficult a task they'd set themselves. Six of his men scrambled back down. Gloved fingers slipped on wet lichen. Moss pulled away from the surface when pulled upon. Booted feet lost purchase when loose rock gave way under a man's weight.

But Eowain was determined. The heavy rains were to his advantage, as any watchmen atop the hill would be huddled under cover, confident no one would make that climb who didn't have to. He and his men redoubled their effort, finally found the purchase they needed, and crawled up the slope.

Eowain remembered Lorcán's advice: Don't look down. He kept his eyes focused on the next grip, the slope above of him, his next foothold, and the rock in front of him. Rain trickled down his fingers, under his sleeves and along his arms, and tickled at his armpits and ribs.

A stone came loose.

He cursed volubly, his stomach lurched. The errant slate bounced sickeningly away, clacking past his men. Eowain thanked the Gods, No harm done.