The Shadowmagic Trilogy. John Lenahan

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СКАЧАТЬ the door. A servant was waiting. Gerard instructed him to escort me to the tower and to give me a shot of poteen to help me sleep. As Gerard closed the door I heard him mumbling to himself, ‘Lighter and fizzier – hmm.’

      The tower turned out to be a very comfortable room with a bed big enough for a football team. It wasn’t until I saw the sheets that I realised how exhausted I was – I wasn’t going to need the poteen. I undressed and got under the covers, and the servant put a small glass of clear liquid on the bedside table. Sleep was seconds away when I remembered something that Cialtie had said to my father. He said the last time he saw Finn he was on horseback on the way to the Real World and that he had stabbed the horse! He killed him, he killed his own father. He killed my grandfather. Rage enveloped me, my blood boiled and my thoughts turned to revenge. Sleep was no longer an option. I sat up in bed and fantasised about the different ways I would kill Cialtie. My hand shook as I grabbed the glass and thoughtlessly knocked back the poteen. Instantly, Cialtie didn’t seem like such a bad guy after all. I laid back and put my hands behind my head. I thought, Why make such a fuss out of everything? I started to count my blessings. I was asleep before I got very far.

      I awoke to a slap in my face – considering the dream I was having, I deserved it. But this slap in the face wasn’t from Essa in dreamland, it was real. I opened my eyes to see a fully dressed Fergal passed out next to me in the bed. He had rolled over and backhanded me in the face. I threw his arm over to his side, only to have it come back and whack me a second time. I made a mental note never to sleep with Fergal again and got out of bed.

      A servant was waiting in the hallway. He showed me to a bathroom kitted out with a steaming Olympic-sized sunken bathtub. Ah, life’s simple pleasures. I had a feeling I had better enjoy it while I could – the trip to the Fililands didn’t sound like it was going to be a Sunday afternoon stroll.

      When I got out of the bath I noticed that my clothes had been replaced with linen underwear and a soft leather shirt and trousers. Well – when in Rome.

      Breakfast was busy. Obviously many of the partygoers had stayed the night, or more probably hadn’t gone to bed at all. I saw Araf sitting with Essa, and joined them.

      ‘Good morning,’ I said.

      Araf nodded.

      Essa said, ‘Good morning, sir.’

      ‘Sir? What happened to Conor? Sir is my dad.’

      ‘Good morning – Conor, I have to go now,’ she said and left.

      I turned to Araf. ‘What was that about?’

      He shrugged.

      If I hadn’t just taken a bath I would have sniffed my armpits – she acted like I had just cleaned out the elephant stables.

      ‘Have I done something to upset her?’

      Araf shrugged again.

      ‘You know, you’re a real pleasure to chat with, Araf – and by the way my head is fine. Thank you for asking.’

      This got a nod.

      We ate in silence. I had a billion questions but I knew trying to strike up a conversation with Araf would be like trying to build the pyramids on my own. I was almost finished when a servant informed me that I was wanted in the armoury.

      I followed him to a different wing of the castle until we arrived at a gymnasium-sized, glass-roofed room. Hanging on racks around the chamber was an impressive collection of weapons: swords, bows, crossbows and an entire wall of banta sticks. In the centre of the room stood the same old man who had taken our weapons from us when we first arrived at the party. He was holding my sword belt. He motioned me over.

      ‘You are Conor?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said.

      ‘This is your sword?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Put it on.’

      I fastened it around my waist.

      ‘So, Conor of Duir – son of the one-handed Prince Oisin – BE AT GUARD!’ He drew his sword and assumed an attacking stance.

      I raised my hands. ‘Hey, I’m not going to fight you.’

      ‘Pity,’ he said, ‘I so dislike stabbing an unarmed man. Oh well – so be it.’

      He drove the point of his sword directly at my heart.

ELEVEN

      THE DAHY

      I jumped to the left, just in time to stop myself from being pierced. ‘Hey! Let’s talk about this.’

      ‘I’m not here to talk,’ the old guy said. ‘If I were you, I would draw my sword, or duck.’

      He came at me with a high backhanded cut to the head. Not only did I duck, I hit the floor and rolled to my left. I quickly got back on my feet in a crouch.

      ‘The roll was good,’ my attacker informed me, ‘but the position is not.’

      I took a quick glance around me and saw what he meant. I had boxed myself into a corner.

      ‘Since you like to talk so much,’ the old man said, ‘I will tell you one more thing. I am going to come at you with a forehand mid-cut. It will be too low to duck and too high to jump. The only defence is to draw and parry, or run and bleed.’

      I only took a microsecond to realise he was right. He cocked his sword way back and then came at me with both blade and body. I drew my sword, deflected the attack with a low parry and retreated to the middle of the room.

      Our chatting phase was obviously over. He instantly attacked me with a series of sweeping and powerful cuts, alternating high and low. I blocked and back-pedalled. To be honest, I was terrified. For as long as I could remember my father trained me in sword fighting, and I had also won a few local fencing tournaments, but this was the real thing. The swords were steel and the points were sharp. One sloppy parry and I was dead! Then my father’s words came back to me – ‘In a real sword fight, son, all thoughts of winning and losing must be suppressed. Keep one eye on his eyes and the other on his blade. Be aware of your surroundings, block and counter until your opponent tires.’

      I used to laugh at him when he said stuff like that. ‘When will I ever be in a real sword fight,’ I’d say, ‘and for that matter, when were you ever in a real fight?’ I take it all back now, Pop – if I live through this.

      I forced my father’s advice into my head and the fight attained a rhythm. In fact it became familiar. This old guy’s forearm attack was very similar to my father’s favourite assault. My father would start a major attack with a flurry of forearm cuts, then change into a reverse grip, like he was holding an ice pick, then follow through with an elbow to the chin. He called the move a Dahy Special. Sure enough, that’s exactly what this guy did! I knew from experience that the sword in this manoeuvre was less dangerous СКАЧАТЬ