In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘And then?’ wondered Médon.

  Conor flashed a sudden grin. ‘And then we’ll see if this monster has a head.’

  34

  ‘I wear this loathsome gear,’ said Conor, ‘but my true garment is my woad.’ Holding out his arms, he turned around in a slow circle. ‘How do I look?’

  Donal surveyed Conor and the four behind him with a critical eye. ‘Close enough, I reckon—so long as no one looks too close.’

  ‘The truth, brother. Will we pass?’

  ‘Ach, well, it won’t do to press it overmuch, but keep moving and you should evade the hasty glance.’ He nodded firmly. ‘Anyway, if the faéry do their job, you won’t be needing any of this. Then again, you need all the help you can get. It’ll do.’

  Although it made Conor’s stomach squirm he had donned Scálda armour removed from dead enemy combatants on the field. The dusky leather breastplate and leggings, the horsetail helmet, and heavy round shield might disguise him well enough. Unwilling to leave his charmed shield behind, Conor also slung Pared onto his back as well. Galart, Aedd, Calbhan, and Diarmaid—the four chosen to accompany Conor—had retrieved their own battle gear and now all five stood dressed in the rough guise of a Scálda raiding party. Their weapons, however, were of the more superior kind supplied by the faéry. These they daubed with mud to reduce their innate brilliance.

  Aoife, having learned of the faéries’ arrival and Conor’s plan, came to bid her husband farewell. Got up in Scálda armour, he hardly looked himself. His strange appearance made parting even more difficult than she imagined it would be, and she could not suppress a gasp when she saw him. Conor heard her sharp intake of breath and, stepping close, took her hand. ‘If there was another way, I would take it,’ he told her, keeping his voice low. ‘I do this for you, for Ciara, for everything we cherish and hold dear. This is the only way I know.’

  The low, guttural rumble of thunder, like the grumble of a slowly awakening god, sounded across the hilltop. Instinctively, both Conor and Aoife glanced up. The sky, bright and cloudless only moments before, now lowered with dark, angry clouds. Lightning scattered shadows in all directions and the resulting thunder trembled the ground beneath their feet. From the yard outside the hall there arose a strange, ululating wail as Rónán, Eoghan, and all the higher-ranking druids strode purposefully to the edge of the hill. They planted themselves at the end of the battle line and there they stood: heads thrown back, hands raised high, a low droning chant issuing from somewhere deep in their chests. With a scathing curse in the secret language of the Dark Tongue, they conjured a storm to break upon the heads of the enemy. The force of their voices, combined and united in a single, unending note, sent a chill through the bowels of everyone who heard it.

  Aoife put a hand to Conor’s chin and turned his head to look at her. ‘I will always trust you, my heart,’ she said, unable to keep the quaver of emotion from her voice. She leaned in, kissed him quickly, and released him, saying, ‘Go and do what you have to do to save us.’

  With a last embrace, Conor led his four chosen fianna to the eastern side of the hill, where the faéry were ready and waiting. Aoife watched them troop off and caught sight of Princess Rhiannon, almost radiant in her peerless armour, reaching out and putting a hand on Conor’s arm. The sight of the two of them together sent a sudden pang of jealous longing through her. She averted her eyes abruptly, pushed the unworthy thought from her, and made her way back to the hall to help with the wounded warriors.

  Conor paired each of the fianna with one of the faéry, matching them as seemed best to him. When he was happy with the arrangement, he addressed his little band. ‘What we’re about to do we do not only for the survival of both our races today, but for the survival of Eirlandia, Albion, and Cymru tomorrow.’

  Reaching out, he put a hand on Médon’s shoulder and gathered the fianna with his eyes. ‘My friends … my good and faithful friends, I expect nothing less than the courage I have seen in you and know you all to possess. Call on that courage now and, whatever may befall us today, let us acquit ourselves with honour in the midst of our enemies.’

  Grim-faced, the fianna and faéry voiced their assent. Turning to Rhiannon, Conor gave a nod, and the faéry princess raised her hand palm outward and addressed the fianna, saying, ‘You and your lord have taken on the appearance of the enemy so that you may pass among the foe unobserved and, with every hope, unhindered. But you should know that the Tylwyth Teg have long possessed this quality and raised it to an art through our mystical skills. I will now touch each of you with a charm of concealment and you will be paired with one of the fair folk so that the charm will retain its potency long enough to allow us to penetrate the enemy line. After that, we must all rely on our skill at arms. May Danu lend strength to our arms, courage to our hearts, and cunning to our minds.’

  Morfran took over and quickly ordered the warriors into Conor’s selected pairs and said, ‘Prepare yourselves to receive the enchantment of our people, a gift to you from those for whom you fight today. Open your hearts and minds and believe in the righteousness of our cause, and remember—you fight not only for the life of your people today, but also for the continued light of your people in this worlds-realm for ages to come.’

  So saying, he took his place among the warriors, and Rhiannon, stepping before each pair of warriors in turn, traced a strange sign in the air and, with a light touch to each forehead, spoke the words of the concealment charm in the tongue of her people. One by one, the warriors faded from view. Lastly, she made the charm for Conor and herself, and put her hand to his belt. The charm took force and Conor could once again see his men—though it was as if he saw them through a film of mist; around each pair a vague, watery nimbus shimmered.

  Satisfied that the faéry magic was working, Conor gave the signal to move out and they started down the hillside. Each of the faéry would hold tight to a defender’s belt and in this way remain in constant contact to enable the charm to work as long as possible. Crouching low, and keeping to the natural ditches and gulleys carved into the rocky slope, the raiders made a somewhat laboured, awkward descent of Tara Hill’s steep eastern side. They had almost reached Mag Rí when the storm broke. The air gusted with a sudden blast of icy wind, and rain began to pelt down in big, hard drops. Within moments, the hilltop was awash in driving rain and Tara was surrounded by a dense curtain of water. Thunder boomed and lightning flared; rain lashed the upper slopes, fierce and cold, turning to a sharp, stinging hail.

  Upon reaching the foot of the hill, the little raiding party flitted across the plain and ran for the surrounding wood. Once well into the shelter of the trees, they began working their way around the perimeter of Mag Rí toward Mag Teamhair, picking their way through the close-grown thickets of elder and bramble and stands of hazel and birch, thankful that the storm masked the sound and movement of their passing. Even so, it was tense work and tedious. As he navigated their path, Conor turned in his thoughts to the coming confrontation and how he might make best use of his brief advantage and avoid the numerous dangers before him. He did not allow himself to consider whether he would survive the fight; instead, he desired, above all else, merely to locate Balor Berugderc and get in close enough to strike. That was his sole aim and desire, and if he could accomplish that, he would trust Pelydr do the rest.

  Eventually, the charmed company reached a position Conor judged well behind the enemy encampment. Allowing the others to rest a moment, Conor and Rhiannon went on ahead to spy out the field and determine exactly how the enemy was positioned and what obstacles they would encounter upon leaving the shelter of the wood. The trees and brushy undergrowth thinned as the two crept nearer the open plain, and they began to hear battle sounds on the distant hilltop. Nearer still, the sound of the clash grew louder until the cover of the woodland gave way to a view of Tara Plain spreading before them with the hill looming in the near distance beyond. Closer, they could now see what they could observe only dimly from the hilltop: scores
of small camps clustered around crude tentlike shelters scattered from one end of the plain to the other and spilling over onto Mag Coinnem.

  Beyond these camps, innumerable ranks of horses on picket lines and empty chariots waited to be called into action. Farther on, past the horse pickets and war carts, stood the Scálda warhost, spreading across the plain and swarming up the slopes of Tara Hill, where storm clouds roiled and churned—strange and lurid and threatening. Rain fell in sheets, wreathing the hilltop in a veritable curtain of water, sluicing down the slopes, and channelling into rivulets and runnels, saturating the ground and making the footing treacherous for combatants at the sharp end of the fighting as well as for those attempting to climb the increasingly slippery paths. The storm, as much as the crush along the battle line at the top, prevented the main body of the enemy attack force from advancing and overwhelming the defences.

  Conor scanned the Plain of Tara, marking how the Scálda chariots were arranged, looking for anything that might indicate where Balor had established his command post. He spied a sizeable buildup of men and horses in the centre of the plain surrounded by what appeared to be supply wagons. ‘If I was Balor, that’s where I’d be,’ Conor whispered. ‘We’ll try there first.’

  The two crept back into the cover of the wood and returned to where the others were waiting. ‘Fergal and the fianna are holding their own up there,’ Conor reported, rubbing his cheek with the smooth shaft of his spear. ‘The druids’ storm has stalled the fighting up there for now, so we have a small space to work. Stay close together and however tempting it might be, do not strike out at the enemy unless you are attacked. It is crowded on the plain, and getting close to Balor will be difficult enough without drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves.’ Conor glanced into every face to make sure his instructions were understood. ‘Remember, Balor is the only foe we seek. Find him, and the battle is ours.’

  The charmed company moved to the edge of the wood and paused briefly to look out onto the scattered Scálda encampments and survey the wider battlefield. Conor did not allow the sight of the enemy hordes to overawe his men. Swinging his shield into place, he pointed with his spear and declared, ‘Somewhere out there Balor Evil Eye awaits the doom that he has earned ten thousand times over. We won’t keep him waiting any longer.’

  35

  Conor drew a breath and, with Rhiannon right beside him, stepped cautiously out onto the verge of the Tara Plain. He signalled the others to follow and moved on quickly. Veiled by the faéry charm of concealment, they headed for the nearest Scálda camp in the centre of the plain. Silent as fog and invisible as air, they crossed the lumpy, uneven ground—chewed and broken by the passing of many horses, chariots, and feet—and reached the first of the outlying enemy camps.

  Little more than a shabby scrap of a tent and a fire ring, the camp was deserted; every last Scálda warrior was somewhere among the battle groups massed out on the plain and around the hill. Lines of empty chariots had been drawn up behind the enemy warhost with a corridor of sorts separating the war carts from the Scálda horde. Along this passageway, footmen and riders and chariots came and went in constant motion. Conor, with Rhiannon’s slim hand gripping his belt and her footsteps following his own, proceeded directly to the ranks of waiting chariots where he paused again to survey the battleground. Some little distance to the northwest, he caught sight of a dense knot of enemy warriors clustered around a slightly raised mound.

  ‘Just there,’ he whispered, indicating the slight elevation and surrounding Scálda throng as the four fianna and their faéry escorts gathered around him. ‘If Evil Eye is out there, I’m thinking that is where he’ll be found.’

  ‘Reaching him won’t be easy,’ Lenos pointed out. ‘So many bodies close about.’

  ‘We’ll have to work quickly—get in fast before they know we’re there,’ suggested Galart.

  ‘Will the charm hold long enough for us to get there?’ wondered Aedd.

  Rhiannon looked doubtful. ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Conor. ‘We are disguised enough to pass among them if we just keep moving. Rhiannon and I will lead the way. Stay close and stay alert.’

  Out from among the empty vehicles and into the wide grassy corridor they ran, dodging the horsemen and war carts passing along the strip. All the while, Conor kept his eye on the mound in the near distance, trying to discern what was happening there; as they drew closer, he became ever more convinced that Balor was there directing the battle. So tightly packed were those around the elevated vantage point, however, that getting in close enough to strike soon became an ordeal requiring steady nerve and nimble footwork as they stole ever closer to the mound Conor had identified.

  Halfway across the gap, and Conor was sweating in his ungainly, ill-fitting armour. Owing to the continual rush of chariots and men, the passage was proving more fraught than he imagined and it was taking all his stealth and skill to avoid colliding with one or the other as they raced back and forth behind the lines. From time to time, he heard Rhiannon breathe a word of warning or encouragement as they moved over the uneven ground in an awkward stop-and-go lockstep to avoid a racing chariot or a troop of hustling Scálda.

  The mound lay just ahead, and Conor was searching for a way through the thronging enemy when Diarmaid gave out a strangled shout. He spun around to see his crew strung out some way behind him—and Aedd and Sealbach standing directly in the path of an onrushing chariot. Diarmaid shouted again and the two dived out of the way, rolling aside a hair’s breadth from the pounding hooves and wheels.

  Aedd lost his grip on his spear as he fell, and the long shaft was kicked by one of the horses and flipped up into the harness, where it caught. The animal stumbled. The chariot slewed sharply sideways, tipped, and spilled the occupants onto the ground. The terrified horses continued to run, dragging the overturned cart into the ranks of enemy footmen. Within a heartbeat, Scálda were scattering in every direction as the runaway cart and horses ploughed into the throng of swarming bodies.

  Instantly, half the Scálda host was caught up in the collision and the other half was thrown into confusion. The cursing and shouting drew the attention of the Scálda on the mound. One of the Scálda chieftains barked a command and several warriors leapt to obey; pushing through the mob, they ran to take control of a situation that was quickly descending into chaos.

  As more warriors on the mound turned their attention to the commotion in the ranks around them, Conor saw his chance.

  With Rhiannon at his back, he dove unseen into the rapidly thinning host. Darting through gaps, halting, feinting to one side and then the other, and, when he could not avoid it, shoving an unwary warrior out of the way with his shield, Conor advanced. The fianna and their faéry escorts followed in his wake, employing all their cunning to avoid colliding with the foe. They reached the mound—a crude hillock made of earth and turves hastily hacked from the ground and piled into a great lumpen dune to allow Balor an elevated view of the Scálda battle groups scattered across the plain. Conor started up the side of the earthen knoll, but Rhiannon pulled him back. ‘Conor,’ she whispered with harsh urgency, ‘your legs!’

  He looked down and saw that the watery aura that had so far surrounded him was fading: first his legs and then his entire lower half were taking on substance. Magic spent, the concealing charm had done its work; it was finished. The much-distracted enemy failed to notice this bizarre transformation, however; Conor did not wait to be discovered. Raising Pelydr, he said, ‘Let me go.’

  Rhiannon, still clinging to his belt, refused. ‘I’m staying with you.’

  ‘Let me go, Rhiannon. This is my fight!’

  ‘Take him, Conor,’ she said, releasing her hold. ‘End it!’

  Conor sprang forward. The enemy parted and there stood Balor Berugderc, Lord of the Fomórai, King of the Scálda—looking much the same as the day Conor first saw him: the matted hanks of thick black hair, the livid scar that cleft his face from chin to brow
and left him with a malevolent stare and twisted his mouth into a vicious snarl. The one-eyed king wore the long siarc of heavy leather studded with tiny triangular iron plates and he carried a two-handed iron sword with a grip of braided silver. An oversized chair made of ox bones and covered in horsehide had been set up atop the mound—a battle throne from which to command his troops. Leaning against the throne was a large, round oaken shield with an iron rim, bearing the image of a coiled serpent. Standing next to Balor was one of his commanders, a thick-bodied brute with a tangled mane of thick black hair and a braided beard. At their feet, a black pot sat on a smudgy fire giving off aromatic fumes of darkly pungent incense.

  Six flying steps took Conor to the foot of the mound. The fianna and faéry, visible now, trailed behind and strove to keep up. Away on Tara Hill, thunder crashed, booming out across the plain. The rain and hail drenched the upper heights, impeding the assault and driving the stragglers down the increasingly slippery slope. For Conor, however, that tumult became a blur and distant thrum—like that of surf tumbling rocks on a beach. He saw only Balor—standing beside his chair, waving his sword back and forth as he shouted commands to his battlechiefs ranged below the mound.

  Throwing aside his ungainly Scálda shield, Conor swung Pared into position, lowered Pelydr, and charged. Balor, his attention still occupied with the battle elsewhere, did not see Conor closing on him, but the Scálda battlechief beside him did. The enemy chief shouted a warning and, raising his sword, stepped into Conor’s path. Pelydr’s charmed blade easily penetrated the Scálda’s thick leather chestplate, burying its head deep in his side. The chieftain gasped and fell back, releasing his sword. He clutched at the spear as he fell and took the charmed weapon with him. Conor released the shaft and drew the blade Eirian from his belt.

  With a savage growl, Balor yanked the spear free and squared off. He raised his heavy iron sword and swung once, twice, and a third time in quick succession, trying to drive Conor back down the side of the mound. Conor parried the first blow, ducked the second, and lunged as Balor’s third swipe went wide. With a neat upward flick, Eirian caught the Scálda lord’s right arm on the outward stroke and the razor-sharp blade opened a livid gash. Balor jerked away, swinging hard on the backstroke. The strike was clumsy and ill-timed; Conor easily evaded it and let Pared take the hit. The charmed shield shivered under the force of the blow, but did not dent or crack.