I ran after him and I begged him to foreswear his curse. On my knees I begged him. He could not call back the word once spoken, but his cold heart warmed a little and he granted me a boon instead. He gave me a prophecy and a hope. He said my sons would be kings and champions. And, great druid that he was, he spoke the truth.
Even so, it was no gift bestowed on me that day. He took my youngest son away and a piece of my heart went with him.
If the boy’s mother had been living still, she would never have allowed it. Druid prince or no, she would have bled and died before they took her sweet maíni from her arms. But, me … well, I did what I did. If any man knows better, let him answer: What choice did I have? Something had to be done to save our tribe. A sacrifice was needed. But, oh, it was a hard, hard thing.
Little Rónán went away that day, and before the sun had set, old Eochaid Tight-Fist was torn from his darksome hall and driven from Dúnaird. I never heard where he went, or how he fared—nor cared to know. The next day, by the acclamation of the tribe, I ascended to the throne in his place. Though I was shamed and disgraced by my grovelling on my knees in the dirt, the hearts of my people were moved—no less from pity than from deep relief that our long suffering beneath Eochaid’s stinting rule was over. They made me king, and I have ruled every day to now. Mine has not been an easy reign. The Scálda have made certain of that.
The joy of our release was still sweet and fresh when the Black Ships arrived, swarming Eirlandia’s southern coast. I have heard it said that the sea could not be seen for the enemy ships spread upon it. They came ashore—wave after wave, like a ferocious storm tide—and swiftly overran the Seven Kingdoms of the South. The Coriondi fell first and fled north—as did the Osraige, Cauci, and Menapi after them. The hapless Uterni and Velabri were all but wiped out. The brave Gangani allied with the Luceni and resisted for an entire year before succumbing the next raiding season. The remnant of those tribes fled north and the few clans remaining are clients now of the Brigantes, the Auteini, or the Bréifne.
The next years were years of war and want. Evil rained from the skies and seeped from every rock, it seemed—on and on, and still the deluge came. Those first battles took a great toll. The number of lives lost is beyond counting. The land has been ravaged and raped, and even the sheep and cattle have suffered the predation of the insatiable Scálda raiding parties that continually harass the borders. They take livestock, slaves, and weapons. What they cannot carry off, they kill. They are not human beings, they are beasts—more ravenous than wolves, and just as vicious.
Even so, they are proud of their strength and hotheaded. They can be beaten. Well I know it. We worked like slaves to staunch the blood flow; we turned back their incessant raids and eventually established a borderland—a wasteland, a wicked, dangerous place where neither man nor beast is safe. Alas, if not for the ever-mounting numbers of the enemy and the ceaseless bickering and backbiting of our own kings the Scálda might have been vanquished or pushed out long ago. That they are still here, still a plague upon this green land, still breathing the free air of Eirlandia is a wound in every true heart.
And, by the god who made me, I do feel it.
7
With heavy heads from feasting and drinking too well the night before, Conor and his friends woke to greet a dreary dawn. A heavy dew made every surface damp and lent a chill to the early morning air. But, by the time King Ardan and his ardféne were ready to take their places at the gathering, the sun had begun to burn away the wrack, and patches of blue could be seen peeping through. Despite Eamon’s best efforts, neither Conor, nor Fergal, nor Donal were to be included in the formal proceedings. Liam made certain that they knew their place—and that place was not among the assembled lords on the Hill of Tara.
‘You will stay here and tend the horses,’ Liam told them. ‘That is the only reason you are here, after all.’ He looked them up and down. ‘Or, have you forgotten?’
‘How could we ever be forgetting,’ complained Donal, ‘when you so thoughtfully remind us every spare moment of the day?’
‘No need to thank me,’ Liam replied lightly. ‘Just knowing that these valuable animals will receive the best of care at your hands is thanks enough.’
‘At least let Conor go with you,’ Fergal argued. ‘He can bring us word of what goes on up there.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of the hilltop.
‘Far be it from me to deprive you of the company of your good friend.’ Liam smiled and shook his head. ‘Nay, brother, you would think ill of me long before the sun crested midday were I to do such a low thing as that.’
‘What about the Scálda captive?’ said Donal. ‘You will need an extra hand to guard him, will you not?’
‘When you join the ardféne—should your fortunes ever improve—you can attend the council. Until then, you watch the horses.’ He gave a flat chop of his hand to cut off further conversation and hurried away to take his place among those making their way to the hilltop.
‘For a truth, I would think no more ill of him than I do now,’ Donal sighed when the battlechief had gone.
The three watched as the royal retinue merged with those of other kings on the winding hillside path leading to the summit. They looked around at the silent camp and the picket line of horses patiently waiting to be fed and watered.
‘You should go up there even so, Conor,’ said Fergal.
‘You should,’ agreed Donal.
‘We’re to stay here. That was the agreement and that is our chore today.’
‘Ach, aye—but it does not take three brave and able men to tie the feedbag on a few long-legged beasts.’
‘See here, Conor, we’ll take good care of the horses,’ Donal said. ‘You go.’
‘Go and look after our interests at the council,’ Fergal added.
‘We have interests at the council now?’
‘Aye, should anyone question how we fought off the attack and captured the enemy spy, you will be there to bear witness to the truth,’ said Fergal.
‘Eamon is there and his injuries alone bear ample witness.’
‘Aye, but what if they should doubt our good Eamon, eh? Have you considered that?’
Conor gave Donal a pat on the cheek, saying, ‘I yield to your persuasion, brother.’ With that, he started off at a trot.
‘Bring back word now!’ called Fergal.
‘And ale,’ added Donal.
Conor reached the gathering by a circuitous route, winding around the hill and approaching the assembly at angle from behind. As before, the lords and chieftains and their advisors gathered shoulder-to-shoulder one with another within the encircling ring. That was as it should be. But, in the centre of the ring, on his specially constructed platform, sat King Brecan enthroned in a high-backed chair in the manner of a king of kings—an honour which, by Conor’s reckoning, the ambitious nobleman had not earned and did not deserve. Beside the seated king stood his druid, the grim, sour-visaged Mod Ruith in his best white robe and leather hood of bleached deerskin. In his hand he held his rowan rod topped with a gold cap shaped like the spread wings of an eagle.
Seeing the two of them together, holding court as if all the world owed them a duty of fealty, brought the bile to Conor’s throat. He swallowed hard, choked it down, and spat into the grass. But the bad taste lingered. He crept closer, easing in among the onlookers and keeping well out of Brecan’s view. He located his father and Liam at the foot of the platform, and made sure to stay out of their sight, too.
He listened for a while and, if the sight of Brecan putting on airs filled him with disgust, what he heard upset him even more.
The Scálda captive knelt on the edge of the platform in front of Ardan and the Darini contingent. Miserable, sick, and shaking with fear and fever, he looked half dead—as, in fact, he undoubtedly was. But, though the Scálda captive had been produced as promised by his father, to all appearances the problem of spies tracking lords to a royal assembly had, apparently, been set aside. Conor,
arriving only a little late, was surprised. When he asked a warrior standing next to him, the warrior explained that since no one could be found to talk to the captive, his value as a source of information was worthless. Therefore, the enemy’s presence was deemed to be of no importance and whatever he and his fellow spies had been doing was now beyond recovery and unworthy of further discussion.
Conor did not see it that way. To him, the very idea of spies venturing so far into protected territory was a potent danger—and that they should be sneaking around a high council made it doubly so. Was it merely luck or chance that brought them? Or, had the enemy been given advance knowledge of the Oenach? Did no one else think such questions merited a full and forthright airing?
He glanced around at his fellow warriors and the lords ranged around the foot of the platform. Did none of them feel the least outrage at this audacious incursion by the enemy? And then he heard Mog Ruith declare, ‘Let the captive be taken to Lord Brecan’s ráth and held in exchange for future favours should any of our people fall foul of a Scálda raiding party.’
There was much nodding agreement from the lords all around and the matter was summarily dropped as Brecan began talking about the need to increase production of grain by clearing certain tracts of woodland for planting. Was this why they had been summoned to an Oenach? To discuss farming?
Angry now, Conor pushed himself forward to the edge of the platform, the words already forming on his tongue. ‘My lord Brecan,’ he called loudly. ‘Forgive a lowly warrior of the ranks, but it seems to me that the presence of this spy requires greater consideration.’
‘Conor!’ Liam hissed from his place beside Ardan. ‘What are you doing?’
Ignoring him, Conor said, ‘There are questions to be answered.’
‘You again.’ Brecan frowned heavily. ‘I should have thought Lord Ardan might teach his son something of respect in the presence of his lords and masters.’ Casting his gaze around the assembled kings and warriors, he appealed to them directly. ‘It is my judgement that the fate of this Scálda filth need no longer concern this gathering.’
‘That much is clear,’ replied Conor, holding his ground. ‘Your lordship seems to be at pains to rebuff any claim this captive might have on our attention. Why is that?’
Brecan visibly stiffened at this allegation. ‘I need not justify the decisions of the council to a warrior of the rank—no matter how insolent and ill mannered he may be.’
‘Perhaps not, your lordship,’ said Lord Ardan, coming to the defence of his son, ‘but perhaps there are those among our brother kings who would care to hear more. I number myself among them.’
At this several voices—friends of Brecan, to be sure—shouted for the council to move on to other matters. But others, louder and more insistent, called for answers to Conor’s questions.
Brecan’s frown deepened to a belligerent glower. ‘Never let it be said that the king of the Brigantes failed to allow a hearing of any subject, even the most trivial and insignificant…’
Before he had even completed the thought, Conor was on him. ‘Am I to believe, great king, that the honest concerns of our people are trivial and insignificant?’
‘I said nothing of the kind, as many here will attest,’ countered Brecan. ‘But since it seems nothing will prevent you, ask your questions and let the council judge whether they are fit to answer.’
Conor made bold to step upon the platform, but kept his distance from the king in his thronelike chair. ‘Though I am merely a warrior of the rank, as you say, I must confess I do not know which alarms me more—that one in authority should be blind to the more obvious implications of this enemy intrusion, or that you hold the presence of enemy spies deep beyond the boundaries of the protected lands to be a trivial affair?’
Several Brigantes warriors jostled forward to pull Conor from the platform. Eamon made ready to prevent them, but Lord Brecan waved them off instead. ‘You want to know how the spies slipped past our borders—is that it? Why ask me? Ask him if you can.’ The king thrust a finger at the Scálda scout, who was now quietly moaning as he lay on his side at the edge of the platform. He turned with a superior smile to his druid. ‘I do believe it would be more beneficial to address a stump in a bog.’
Several of the Brecan’s supporters laughed at this and called for Conor to step down. Two even reached out to pull him from the platform, but Eamon shouldered his way to them and, after a quiet word, they desisted.
King Ardan stepped forward. ‘The question,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard over the hubbub, ‘is not how did the spies get past our borders, but why were they following a king and his ardféne to the Oenach?’
‘And why you believe that to be a matter of no concern?’ added Conor.
Brecan shook his head. ‘Do you expect me to answer such things? How should I know? And since we cannot ask him’—he indicated the captive again—‘we may never know.’
‘I do not expect an answer from you, my lord,’ replied Ardan smoothly. ‘But I expect an airing of the issue before the council where we can all express our opinions. That is only prudent.’
‘It is a waste of breath,’ insisted Brecan. Rising slowly from his chair, he put out his hands in appeal to the gathered lords. ‘Does anyone here believe this gathering is in danger of imminent attack?’
No one made bold to speak out.
‘No?’ said Brecan, a note of triumph edging into his tone. ‘Then, let us continue with—’
‘A moment more, my lord.’ It was Ardan’s ally, Lord Cahir, wading into the debate. ‘I beg my brothers to forgive a slow, old plodder, but whether we are under imminent attack—or not—seems to me much beside the point.’ He, too, stepped up on the platform and turned to appeal to the gathering. ‘The question asked was not about possible attacks, but about the significance and implications of spies roaming so deeply and freely through our protected lands during an Oenach.’ Turning back to Lord Brecan, he said, ‘That, I believe, is the real question.’
‘Then, by all means,’ intoned Brecan, adopting a weary air, ‘feel free to ask the captive for yourself. Let him tell you what he knows. That is the only way you will receive an answer to these vexing questions of yours.’ Once more, he flung out his hand toward the wounded enemy scout.
Cahir turned to regard the captive, who was now completely inert on the platform. ‘That will be most difficult, I think.’
‘You see!’ Brecan threw out his hands as if demonstrating some sort of vindication of his stubborn position. ‘As I said, we can learn nothing because you do not speak his language.’
‘Not so,’ replied Cahir, ‘it is because he is dead.’
Conor looked at the unmoving body. Their valuable captive had quietly expired while the king argued and prevaricated. That, Conor reflected, was most unfortunate—but far from a complete disaster.
‘We have lost nothing,’ declared Conor, standing over the deceased Scálda. ‘The fact remains that the spies were here and that one of his number escaped to tell their masters what they discovered.’
‘That is unfortunate. But, tell me—what did they learn?’ said Brecan, defensive again. ‘Eh? What did they learn that they did not already know? Answer that if you can.’
‘That is beyond answering now,’ Conor admitted.
‘It is beyond answering,’ added Ardan, ‘because we do not know what it was they were sent to discover—the strength of our numbers, perhaps? Or, the placement of our settlements and strongholds, the distances between them, our fields and how they grow, where water can be found and grazing for horses, the lay of the land itself? All these, it seems to me, would be useful for an enemy intent on mounting an invasion very soon.’
‘Or,’ added Conor, ‘perhaps they had another purpose in mind.’
‘Go on,’ urged Cahir. ‘You and your friends were the ones who caught them. Tell us what is in your mind.’
‘Could it be,’ ventured Conor, ‘that they were sent to discover the location of the co
uncil itself? It occurs to me that finding out where the lords of Eirlandia met would be useful to someone preparing a future attack.’
‘When we were all together and at our most vulnerable, you mean?’ said Cahir. ‘Why, the Scálda could wipe out all the lords and battlechiefs at a single stroke. The attack would be over before any of us could lift a finger to stop it.’
‘Bah!’ cried Brecan in exasperation. ‘You are making more of this than is merited by the very few facts in evidence. The truth is we do not know, and now will never know what the enemy was doing here. We must turn away from what has happened, and look instead to what we can accomplish in days to come.’
The king returned to his chair and resumed his place, the grand monarch once more, taking control of the proceedings.
Conor, accepting there was nothing more to be gained by arguing, made a curt bow, stepped from the platform, and pushed his way through the press of the assembly. Whatever happened at the council would happen without him. He had spoken his mind; there was nothing more he could do. So, he left the hilltop and started back down the path to rejoin his friends in camp.
He was halfway down the steep-sloping path when he heard a call behind him. ‘Here now!’ someone called. ‘Stop a moment.’
Pausing, Conor glanced over his shoulder to see three warriors he did not recognise hurrying down the hill toward him. One of them carried a spear—in defiance of the ban on weapons on the council hill. Something in the narrow set of their eyes did not inspire trust. He hesitated, then continued on.
‘We want to talk to you,’ called another of the three.
‘What about?’ Conor replied, still moving.
‘What was that you were saying at the council just now?’ called the one who had spoken first, the obvious leader of the group.
‘I have nothing more to say,’ Conor told them. He kept his pace, but was soon overtaken as the warriors ran to join him.
‘But we have something to say to you,’ said the leader.
In the Region of the Summer Stars Page 7
