Page 51 of The Speed of Lightning
INVERLUSSA, JURA - NOVEMBER 10, 1386
Athousand men of Jura stood in the clearing at Ardlussa, painted for war. Swirls of blue swept over cheeks and foreheads, streaks drawn from fingers bled from eyes and mouths. Pots of woad lined a table at the edge of the field, each man dipping his fingers before stepping onto the training ground.
Murdoch squinted, incredulity creasing his face as Da marked himself, dragging three woad-stained fingers from the bridge of his nose across his closed eyes and cheeks.
“And this is meant to intimidate your enemies?”
Da bristled. “Aye. A sign to every man on this island, and any who dare invade.”
Murdoch studied the grim blue mask. “A sign of what, exactly?”
Grufa MacSorley plunged all five fingers into the bowl, smearing a diagonal streak across his face. “Our unity. Our identity. Our fearlessness.”
Calum bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. To him, this was one of the clan’s more absurd traditions—shallowsymbols of a unity Jura had lost in the two hundred and fifty years since Somerled divided them.
Murdoch leaned close. “It does lend the feeling of madness, if nothing else.”
Calum looked over the ghoulish blue-streaked faces and silently agreed.
Da stripped off his tunic, the Wolfhound of Justice curling over his arm and shoulder, a Collar of Morann?1 inked at its throat to mark sagacity and integrity. With his darkened hand he struck his chest, and the thousand men echoed him, the thrumming growing louder as they marched onto the field.
The beat rose in fervor until Da lifted his hand. Silence fell.
“Men of Jura! Today begins your combat training. By command of Chief Hector MacLean and the King of the Isles, we prepare for invasion. I vest command in your tànaiste, Cù Cogaidh, and to Master MacFadyen. Do you understand?”
A roar ofayeanswered.
“Excellent. I am certain you will rise to this occasion, Jurans.”
A second cry rang out.
Murdoch caught Calum’s eye. They nodded, ready to begin the day’s training.
Calum strode between the rows of men, voice carrying. “By order of Chief Hector MacLean of Lochbuie, you are now inducted into the Lochbuie guard. I am your tànaiste, Cù Cogaidh. You will address me as such, and nothing else. Do you understand?”
“Aye!”
“For combat purposes we train henceforth in the common tongue of the isles—Gaelic.” He switched languages. “From now on you will use no other tongue on the practice field. This will sharpen your speech and thought so you may act swiftly with our allies under duress. Do you understand?”
Another roar of assent.
He gestured toward Murdoch at the far end of the field. “There stands Murdoch MacFadyen, Master of the Lochbuie bowmen, my second-in-command. His orders are mine. You will obey him with respect, and address him only as Master MacFadyen. Do you understand?”
“Aye!”
A cluster of lads crossed their arms, smirking. Among them stood Grufa MacSorley’s eldest, Balder. Calum strode up, chest to chest with the arrogant blade. “What’s so amusing, young Balder?”
Balder rolled his eyes. “We’ve trained in glíma our whole lives. Every man here has. We can fight anyone who dares breach our shores. What’s the point of this?”
Calum had expected the question sooner or later. Better it came from a youth than from one of the stubborn elders.
“Young Balder asks a fair question. How many of you think this training a waste?”
Hands went up, a few nods followed. The rest wore the same expression: this was a redundant show of their might, not war.
“You stand here painted as one army. If the island were attacked today, would you repel it easily?”
“Aye.”
