The Kwisling [The Isbjørn book 2]

Forty-two

John finally understood why Daire always seemed so exhausted. Sitting back and discussing trivial matters was not at all his type of war. He was not a behind the scenes coordinator of war, he was the canon fodder. And to think he had to attend the meetings at least twice every day.

The few lanterns in the wall brackets cast flickering orange light across the War Room. The space was cold as usual, the chill was working under John's scarce indoor skins. His stump took the brunt of the cold as he sat, that familiar biting pain that came with the extreme cold had followed him inside. The night breeze was coming through the window, drawing the hairs on his neck to attention.

"Are you paying attention, John?" Daire uttered, nudging the man.

He shifted, drawing forward. There was a fracas under the table as his false leg caught his crutch, the stick bouncing once before settling. John switched his eyes to Daire but said nothing.

Daire's ear twitched in tandem with his settling frown. "You have no idea--"

Oengus frowned, interrupted by the exchange on the other end of the table.
"As I was saying--" His eyes were keenly on John. "The title of High General is of great responsibility. And of duty, even more so. I take the blatant disrespect of Breanach quite seriously, and since he has failed to appear at this evening's council I am forced to assume he has forfitted his position."

Heome sat back and crossed her legs at the ankles, as if making herself comfortable for a chat with someone intimate. John had never known an Isbjørn to cross anything before. "Have you a suggestion for his replacement?"

"Preferably a general from the old days, same as Breanach," Oengus returned.

"Few generals from the old days are so wildly available." Steev was flipping through the names in his head and coming up short.

Niche glanced toward Daire before turning his gaze to the general table. "What about Malachy Moynihan?"

Of all at the table, no one would have suspected Niche to suggest another Moynihan.

"Malachy?" Oegnus repeated.

"He's gone blind, hasn't he?" Steev offered.

"But his mind is what we're after," Oengus defended. "Daire, would you think your father would consider the postion?"

Daire decided not to touch this one, giving a resigned 'Mm' in place of words.

Niche sat back and folded his hands together. "'Mm' is good and all." He paused for a time. "And yet, withal, I think that it would be better if the son spoke better of his father."

Daire moistened his lips. "Better to leave it as it is." He still very distinctly recalled his last interaction with his father though it was months ago.

Niche snorted. "Ah, so there's some grudge between you?"

Daire made a little negating gesture. "No." Which was of course a lie, but the grudge was not the reason he did not see his father as a suitable council member. "Breanach's greatest flaw was his discord with men. My father is no better."

Heome nodded thoughtfully but countered. "Perhaps we should give him a chance to prove otherwise."

"Indeed." Oengus' greying brows knotted; his dark eyes glittered in the lanternlight between his narrowed lids. He was looking at John. The man still shared no opinion in the debate. He closed his teeth, hiding his tremble of outrage. "John, where is your head in this?"

John's own jaw was already clenched. Waves of pain seemed to surge through his whole body from the central source at his leg, burning spasms to the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. When he had reattached the artificial limb, he had reintroduced himself to the phantom pain the extension seemed to bring, though the chill of the room was of no help. He exhaled a shaky breath. "Elsewhere, I'm afraid." He drew up on two shakey legs, leaning forward into the table. "I need to excuse myself."