Read Éire’s Captive Moon for Free Online

it’s yours, Agnarr?” Tuirgeis jested after the monastery had been taken.
    “The blood? Not hardly,” Agnarr returned with only slight exaggeration. He had taken a hit by a blond man with a full head of hair and a heavy staff. That hair made the man stand out among the religious men of the monastery. The strength and craftiness of the staff fighting had encouraged Agnarr not to wound him seriously; the man would make a good worker. He was even now helping a kinsman or some fellow.
    “Good,” Tuirgeis said, his eye on the captives. “That fellow there, the one you nicked? Have you found out why he’s not got the half-head of hair?”  
    Agnarr chuckled. “No, but my guess is that he’s not a . . . what did you call them? A monk. He fought well. And look at him, he’s not worrying over himself or the treasure we’ve taken.” Agnarr gestured to a growing pile of gold and precious gems that the men had gathered from within the stone edifice. Gold chalices, huge ruby rings, golden emblems of their dead Man-God. All of it good for worthy trades. Tuirgeis had every right to the smug expression that lit his dark brown eyes.
    Tuirgeis indicated they should go question the captive, so they stepped across the scarred and bloodied ground to where the man in question was talking to his companion, a dark-haired, half-bald young man with a mangled arm.
    Agnarr was surprised—truly surprised—for the first time that day when Tuirgeis addressed the captive. In another language.
    “ Nomen tuus?” Tuirgeis said, nudging the alert captive with the tip of his boot.
    “What?” Agnarr gasped, uncaring that he appeared as dumbfounded as he was.
    “I’m asking him his name,” the leader said, sounding annoyed. “Latin. If you don’t speak it, you’ll have to find a translator.”
    But, Agnarr had to wonder, how trustworthy would a captive translator be?
    He didn’t follow the conversation, but while he was listening, he found another pair of men, both with the circular hairless spot on top of their heads that most of the other men wore. He made a note of the hostility in the dark-haired member of the pair, and the wistful look in the lighter, younger one.
    “Cowan,” Tuirgeis said under his breath. “This one is a king’s son!”
    Agnarr grinned fiercely at the blond captive. “Ransom!”
    The dark head nodded once, abruptly. “Indeed. But he could also be a valued translator, you see?”
    “Yes, I do.” After studying the king’s son—the rank explained the young man’s superior attitude and spirit—Agnarr asked for and received permission to interrogate the other pair of prisoners.
    Winding through the crying and bleeding men, Agnarr paid them no heed. His focus was on the two men he was going to talk to, if he could. He would need someone who could teach him this Latin, apparently, or who would learn his own tongue.
    “What’s your name?” he asked the older, darker man he’d come to see.
    A quizzical expression met the question and Agnarr tried again, pointing at himself. “Agnarr Halvardson,” he said, speaking extremely slowly, as if to a very young child. Then he pointed to the dark man with the permanent scowl.
    The man rose awkwardly, cradling his right arm in his left hand. “Bran,” was the clear syllable that came from his mouth.
    “Bran.” Agnarr nodded. Then he pointed to the younger, red-haired man. “He is . . .?”
    Bran pulled up the somewhat vacant-eyed fellow.
    “Colum.” And there followed a stream of meaningless sounds that Agnarr cut off with a brusque gesture.
    “Bran. Colum.” Agnarr looked them over. Their teeth were sound and well-set in their jaws. Aside from Bran’s dripping wound, their arms were sound. As he moved to examine their legs, however, Agnarr was surprised again.
    Bran’s left thigh had sustained a serious wound at some point, for there was a puckered scar that appeared to run deep as well as long. Yet, earlier and now, the man had not favored this