Angus and the Dead City

Angus and the Dead City

By Eliza Grey

Copyright 2019 Eliza Kelley

To Dad,

this one’s for you

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns… – The Odyssey, translated by Robert Fagles

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

A Guide

About the Author

Connect with Eliza Grey

Prologue

Carrick Draibais tore through the enemy line.  The Rusticos wore wool over their faces, and heavy shifts of leather over padded clothes.  They fought well, in tight units which were smoothly coordinated. They usually bunched up where Carrick approached, but he supposed there had not been enough time—or not enough men, the fighting that week had been brutal— this time.  The land on the enemy side was similar to his own—rocky bones, sloping upwards, covered by dirt, then blood, then other bones.

Glancing behind him, Carrick swore.  He was cut off from his men. Sudden reinforcements had bulged into the gap.  Archers were creeping towards him, from the east and north and west. To the south was the ocean, gleaming and magnificent.  Carrick looked at it for a long moment. He looked at the rich green hills lining the calm water, looked at the way the currents swirled, making little ripples and rivets which glimmered in the sun, and looked at the pale beach-- close enough that he could reach the carefree waves, if he ran.

Instead, he turned toward the battle.

The men of Comhar Ladir told each other later, as they tied white bands to their forearms, that it took one hundred arrows to take down the great Draibais.  The women who tended the men told each other it was two hundred. Draibais’ personal woman said it took three hundred, and every one of them while his back was turned.  It was this story that reached Bronah, Carrick’s wife, when a young man came to break the news. Those around her insisted that it was not three hundred arrows, but five hundred, and that Draibais had killed every archer in the army before dying.

As Bronah began to give birth to their only child, she held her sister’s hand tight and pictured all the white banners and dresses being made throughout the kingdom.  She saw all the headbands and armbands being worn by soldiers, and commanders, and even generals. She understood, suddenly, that white would become grey, with blood and dirt, or age and poor treatment.  Then she turned her attention to the coming baby.

Chapter One

Angus stood with his back against the fence, considering his opponent. Padraig was tall, broad, and very confident. He waved to the other young men about the enclosure, who tried to look disinterested.

Angus himself had his mother’s slim frame, his father’s black eyes, and his own peculiarly wry smile.

Are you ready, Angus asked, Or will you preen all day?

Preen? Padraig laughed, I’m getting the home field advantage. But then, who am I kidding? You’ll never have that.

Angus let the insult slide by him. Smack talk was just part of the art.

Well? prompted Angus.

Padraig held out his blunted blade. May the best man win.

Ai, Angus replied, holding up his own, Or the most skilled.

Padraig laughed as he lunged forward. Do you already admit defeat?

Angus stepped to one side and scored a riposte on Padraig’s shoulder. Oh no, he replied, I can just never admit to being the best man. Too many men, living and dead, for me to be the best.

Padraig feinted, and Angus scored a stop hit against a second lunge.

Still can’t live up to your old man, can you? Padraig sneered.

Angus took a sharp breath.

You’re too obvious, it’s a shame you won’t be an actor. Might be a little, lower on the ladder—but— Padraig panted as he parried a savage attack, —at least you’d be honest.

Angus took a step back, panting as well, keeping his point-in-line with Padraig, who seemed more than willing to rest as well. Angus suspected that, under all that armor and natural muscularity, there was a great deal of flab.

Angus thought about pointing this out, as he advanced and began to slowly wear down Padraig’s defenses, but his jaw was clenched too tight to open.

Padraig’s jaw stayed loose as ever.

Mama’s boy, he retreated helplessly.

Midget, as he parried desperately.

Faker. He nearly scored a hit that time.

Widow’s child. He panted, What’s that they’re said to do? I’ve heard it’s not fit for—

Angus hit his opponent on the helm very, very hard. Padraig collapsed to the ground, making a sound like an injured mouse.

After a moment, Angus stooped to check his pulse. Relax, he’s alive.

The disinterested crowd let out a sigh of relief. Padraig’s father would have been livid.

I heard, Redmond said, That you made an enemy this morning.

The household of Redmond made a habit of having a small, private lunch, and a more political dinner. So, Redmond, Cerias, Angus, and Bronah were crammed into a cubby table in the kitchen. Oisin sometimes joined them as well, but he mostly ate with his fiancé instead.

Angus shifted uncomfortably. He made me his enemy first.

Redmond observed him for a moment, making Angus squirm even more. See that it doesn’t go too far. Padraig’s family is one of the most prominent.

War profiteers, Angus muttered.

You didn’t mention that?

No—my smack talk was decent.

And he crossed the line?

Angus’s jaw clenched. Yes.

Redmond turned to Cerias, who had been watching all this with interest.

How was your day, dearie?

Dull as always, she said without venom, but we did learn how to knit shirts.

Angus stared. You can knit shirts?

Cerias nodded. You wear them over all your clothes—it’s a technique from the Chazos.

The polite term is Legatas. Bronah told her, not looking up from her own knitting. It seemed to Angus that his mother was always doing something—reading, doing accounts, knitting, mending, anything you can carry around really—but she never seemed to pay any less attention to the world about her. It was a constant source of confusion for Angus.

Bronah is right, Redmond chided, and it’s Ippeis, not Populas—and for heaven’s sake, don’t call the Rusticos anything but, erm…

See! You can’t even remember their supposed name. For all we know it’s just one giant joke on us. And anyways, they’re our enemies—

Not right now. said Bronah, And if we’re wise, they won’t be again.

There was a brief silence.

Thank goodness for Bronah, Redmond muttered, or you’d never blunt your tongue.

Me—what about you?

Angus sighed, and soaked in the familiar bickering. It was at times like these that he forgot that Cerias and Oisin were Redmond’s children, and that he was not. Times like these that he felt they were all one in status and family, and that they would stand or fall together. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, they really would—and he made up his mind to forgive Padraig.

But Padraig wouldn’t talk to Angus. He wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t sit next to him, wouldn’t even mention him. The other boys would shift uneasily if the two were in the same room together. Angus tried his best, but it was never enough to smooth things over between them. Some of the boys refused to sit with Angus as well—still more disturbing, some refused to sit with Padraig.

Filthy war profiteer, one of Angus’ friends muttered.

Fuilageds, someone else said, close to Angus, but far enough that he couldn’t tell who said it, Can’t keep their temper, can they?

Wouldn’t be so rich if they’d fought like men.

Unpatriotic.

Cowards.

Angus spent most of his time trying to quell the tide of vindictive words, but they kept springing up— like water from a stream’s head, or like the creeping summer rains. He eventually just let them flow, resenting himself for it, and greeted Padraig only with a morose smile. Even that only heated the situation.

Walking home from the Men’s Square one afternoon, he was met by Cerias.

Hey, she said. Go well?

Nothing you would have enjoyed, he muttered, walking right past her. You’re just a girl.

Cerias paused. Angus hoped she wouldn’t follow. She had an annoying habit of being right.

She trotted after him.

Well, she said, Someone’s in a mood. Padraig, I assume?

I don’t even mind him anymore. At least he’s just silent—everyone else feels the need to take sides and bad talk the other ‘team’ and I don’t even know what they’re saying about me, but— He turned to her seriously. It’s bad, Cerias. It crosses a line. If they want to do those things, they shouldn't say them on my behalf.

He turned away, It’s really just, not okay.

Cerias patted him on the shoulder. Hey, she said. It’s okay to not be okay.

He snorted. Comforting is not your strong suit.

Truth is my strong suit, she replied confidently. And the truth is, people see you as a rallying point. I see people do it in the streets, too. It’s not your fault—just your blood, probably. Your father’s blood. The fact is, nobody really likes the Fuilageds. And they see the fight as a kind of—a way to spark things. The war left things kind of a mess, I guess. Least, everything seems to be a bit messy.

Monologues, Angus said drily, but he felt better. Cerias always seemed to have some kind of explanation, albeit, not always a true one. But one was always there.

You started it. She took his hand and pulled him along. Come on, we’re going to be late for lunch.

Angus rolled his eyes. It wasn’t in the bounds of propriety, but holding hands made him feel a kid again.

He’d been eight when Redmond opened his home to them. They’d been staying with Angus’ aunt, but when she and her husband decided they would move out east, Bronah began to look for other living conditions.

Is there something wrong with the Chazos? Angus had asked sleepily as they’d moved to Redmond’s. He hadn’t known where they were