The Crafters Book Two by Christopher Stasheff, Bill Fawcett

that allowed the English to divide and conquer. Damn them!” O’Dowd said bitterly.
    “Sad it was, but the sword is a thing of beauty,” Eben said. “I have never seen such work.”
    “It is for you and my grandson,” said the old man. “I want this treasure to stay in Ireland; see here on the hilt in the Irish ‘I belong to Brian, King of Munster’ as clear as when the swordsmith finished his work.”
    Eben swung the sword with both hands. “It would take a strong man to use this in battle.”
    Just then a rider galloped toward them, a portly man on a black horse, dressed in naval uniform. “Crafter,” he shouted, “I have been looking for you!” The man had a great beaklike hook of a nose—it was Lord Larne, the former owner of the land on which they stood.
    “Lord Larne, I have not seen you in years. What do you want?”
    “My lands that you have stolen from me by magic. I met some of your Loyalist relatives from New York who now live in London. They say that you control magic!”
    “Lord Larne, you were a terrible card player and that is all,” said Eben quietly. .
    “I am no longer Larne, I am the Earl of Tyrone, Rear Admiral of the Red in his Majesty’s Navy. I am the most important member of the nobility in this half of Ireland. I intend justice and revenge,” he said, dismounting and drawing his sword.
    “Stop, stop this, sir,” said O’Dowd, who moved to intercept the attack. The sword flashed in the winter sunlight and bit deep into the old man’s chest. He fell with a moan.
    Crafter brought the two-handed sword up, at the ready to attack. At that moment Maeve appeared behind Eben. She shouted, “He was at our house, he has powers, satanic powers like his friend Justice Blackman. Silver, silver is the answer!”
    “So, that was Blackman’s fate? Well, you have no silver there. You are a dead man and so is your wife, one of the poxey natives, I see. By all the powers of Satan, I order you to stand powerless.”
    Eben turned his sword so that the hilt formed a cross as he backed slowly away. “Silence by all the powers of good in this world,” he intoned.
    The big man shuddered but continued to advance.
    Eben swung the sword so that his hands were on the blade.
    He concentrated all his powers on the blade. Blue light seemed to flow from his fingers; the blade was bathed in a blue aura. It was done: SILVER! With a scream of rage, Eben slashed at the neck of his enemy. The sword cut deep, and, with a cry of anguish, Larne’s head bowed forward and he was dead.
    Maeve bent over her father, who whispered, “I will die, will die very soon: the wound is mortal, I know. Eben must carry me into the Great Hall inside the hill fort. Take him, too, and his horse. Nothing must be left outside.”
    Eben did as he was told. He gently carried the old man inside, placed him in his favorite chair, and kissed him on his forehead.
    Then he dragged the dead body inside and left it on the hearth. The horse balked but finally was led inside. Eben tied him to a heavy table leg.
    “Now, daughter, you know what you must do,” O’Dowd said in a weak voice. His head fell to the side; he was dead. Maeve wept as she kissed her father farewell. Eben carried in the sword of Brian Boru and placed it in O’Dowd’ s dead hands. “He should bear this sword for all time,” he said.
    Maeve kissed her father again, then led her husband back into the little cottage, and closed the door. As she intoned a series of Gaelic words and touched the door with her hands, the door faded into the whitewashed wall and disappeared. They were alone in the cottage. “It will stay thus for two hundred years,” she said with tears in her eyes. “For now, you are safe, we are safe.”
    Back at home Maeve spoke of Larne’s—Tyrone’s—threats.
    “I was frightened for you,” she told Eben.
    “All is over now,” said Eben. “Nothing more can happen.”
    “Yes, it can,” his wife answered. “A letter came from London for