Finn Mac Cool

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “I didn’t know Airt had a surviving son,” he said.

  “I didn’t know Cuhal had a surviving son,” Cormac replied.

  “My mother was my father’s last wife. I was born after his … death.”

  “I was born at the end of my father’s life,” the king said softly. “Such sons are the rebirth of their fathers.”

  A lump rose in Finn’s throat. He forced words around it. “I was fostered by two remarkable women.”

  “I was fostered by two men,” countered Cormac. “One was a chief tain, the other was the Son of the Wolf. He was trying to win support for his kingship of Tara by fostering every orphan in Míd. But when he finally discovered I was Airt’s son, he sent me away into exile. As you can see, however, I have returned.” He spoke with quiet satisfaction.

  Edging past the hounds, Goll came forward. “So it was you who killed Feircus. I should have known.”

  “I defeated him in fair battle.” Cormac’s voice turned cold. “It was no assassination. I know you, One-Eye. You swung your sword for the Son of the Wolf.”

  “He made me Rígfénnid Fíanna!”

  “Indeed.” Cormac sound unimpressed. To Finn he said, “Is that a warrior’s neck bag you’re wearing under that mantle?”

  “It is. I belong to the Fíanna,” Finn said proudly.

  “Fir Bolg,” Cormac replied, his tone indicating the vast difference in their social status. “You come from a conquered people, like your one-eyed companion here.”

  “My father was Rígfénnid Fíanna!” Finn protested.

  “Him too? And am I right in assuming you want to be one yourself?”

  Finn dropped his eyes. “I, ah, I aspire to whatever position the king of Tara wants for me.”

  “Look up. Say that again.”

  Finn looked up. He could see nothing but Cormac’s commanding gaze. He fumbled through his knowledge of the tangled loyalties that must surround this man, slipping his thumb into his mouth to buy time. Someone else could tell the king about the Salmon of Wisdom.

  Cormac, Finn reminded himself, was Airt’s son. But he’d been fostered by Airt’s killer. Finn tried to imagine how he would feel if he’d been fostered by Goll Mac Morna. Children frequently invested their loyalty in their foster parents. Fosterage was an institution designed to build clan and tribal alliances, and it was not uncommon for fostered children to become more devoted to their second parents than to their first.

  Would Cormac. have killed Feircus to avenge the death of his foster father? Or to regain his real father’s position as king of Tara? Which paternal relationships mattered to him?

  Finn took his thumb from his mouth. “Cuhal my father served Airt your father devotedly,” he said. “I aspire to serve you in the same way.”

  It was the right answer. The king’s eyes warmed, though he said, “What a father does cannot be counted to his son’s credit. Sons must earn their own reputations.

  “It’s true I’ll want my own commander. The man Feircus had is still out there somewhere, hoping to recapture Tara with his followers. My new Rígfénnid Fíanna will have to face him.”

  “How much of the Fíanna will give their loyalty to you?” Finn wanted to know.

  “Aside from you? I think fénnidi from Connacht and Muma will support me, but I’m not so certain of the easterners. The Laigin influence renders a man untrustworthy in my opinion.”

  Finn stiffened. He had been born in Laigin territory. “Nor would I trust a Connachta chieftain called Huamor,” he warned Cormac. “He’ll throw in his lot with whoever wins.”

  To Finn’s surprise, the king laughed. “He will of course. Most of them will, come to that.”

  “You expect it?”

  “I know people, Finn. You can’t hope to succeed at anything unless you know something of human nature.”

  “You haven’t succeeded yet,” Goll pointed out. “Tara won’t be truly yours until the Ulaid withdraw their claim.”

  “I’m aware of that. You saw the fire damage on the palisade? Feircus’s followers sneak up on us and try to burn us out.”

  Finn enquired, “How secure are your defenses?”

  The king studied him thoughtfully for a time, stroking his beard, before answering. “They could be better. In the battle against Feircus we took a lot of casualties. My men who survived are exhausted, and even worse, they’re sick. They’ve been vomiting a lot and it’s weakened them. Those who are able to stand guard can do so for only short periods before they have to be relieved. We’re stretched very thin.”

  “That’s why it’s so quiet here,” Goll remarked.

  Cormac leaned forward and pinned him with his eyes. “Are you here to spy on me? You served the Son of the Wolf. Have you given your allegiance to my enemies?”

  “He’s given his allegiance to me,” Finn said. “I was made an officer of the Fíanna by the ki … by the last king, Feircus, who assigned Goll to travel with me under my command and give me the benefit of his experience.”

  Cormac said to Goll, “Playing on both sides of the board, are you? I’m surprised Feircus didn’t have you killed when he seized Tara.”

  Finn interjected, “Goll Mac Morna has more lives than a yew tree. But I vouch for him as an honest man, and no spy.”

  “I don’t need you to defend me,” Goll snapped.

  “It’s to this lad’s credit,” said Cormac, “that he’s willing to say a kind word for the man who killed his father. If Cuhal was his father. We can’t call it proven.”

  Finn’s cheeks reddened. But he would not be baited. This Cormac is a blunt-spoken man, he thought to himself. Perhaps he appreciates that quality in others. He cleared his throat.

  “What about command of the Fíanna?” he asked.

  Cormac leaned farther forward on his bench. A beam of wintry light pierced the thatch overhead where it was broken, lighting his face. His flesh sagged with weariness. “What makes a lad like you think he can lead the Fíanna?”

  “What makes you think I can’t?” Finn shot back boldly.

  Cormac stared at him in silence. At last he said, “I’ll strike a bargain with you. If you can hold off our enemies until more help arrives, or at least until my men are rested, you’ll get a reward. Not the command of the Fíanna, I can’t give that to a mere lad. But something appropriate. And you’ll have future consideration, of course. Will that satisfy you?”

  “It will not. But I’ll do it.”

  Cormac’s lips twitched. “Done. You’ll guard Tara. How many did you say you brought with you?”

  “One band of nine.”

  Cormac sat up abruptly. “One band? Ten counting yourself? That’s all?”

  “That’s enough,” said Finn Mac Cool.

  Cormac laughed again, but this time it was a hollow, despairing sound. “Ten of you. Ten. Wonderful entirely.” He shook his head. “Step forward, then, and let me at least have a look at each of you before I send you out to die.”

  One by one the fénnidi approached. Cailte bowed nimbly. Fergus offered a few words of praise. Madan held his neck as straight as he could. Donn and Cael were obviously awestruck. Lugaid saluted the king with grave dignity. Conan tried without success to appear good-natured and affable.

  At last only Blamec was left, cloaked in embarrassment and grime.

  “Who’s that?” Cormac asked. “A servant?”

  “I’m a warrior,” Blamec sputtered. “The best of the lot.”

  Cael suddenly found his tongue. “I’m the best!” he cried. “I’ve killed a hundred men!”

  Even Conan laughed.

  Cormac made a weary gesture. “Just do what you can. Finn, a man called Fiachaid is captain of my guard. Find him and tell him you’ll relieve ten of his men. You can draw any additional weapons you need from him as well.”

  Finn tapped three fingers to the centre of his forehead in the salute of the Fíanna. Turning, he beckoned to his band to follow as he left by the Door of Confrontations. When he passed Goll, he murmured some
thing.

  “You, One-Eye!” Cormac called. “Wait here a moment!” When the others had gone, the king asked, “What did Finn say to you?”

  “He said he’d relieve all of them, not just ten.”

  “Did he now?” Cormac was amused. “I seem to recall that Cuhal Mac Trenmor made incredible claims for himself.”

  “Cuhal was the worst sort of braggart. He fooled a lot of people, but he never fooled me.”

  “You didn’t like him.”

  “I hated him. My father hated his father.”

  “And would you also hate Cuhal’s son?”

  Finn had just credited Goll with honesty, thus forcing it upon him. “I should,” he admitted. “I should hate Finn.”

  “But you don’t.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I don’t hate him all the time,” Goll reluctantly agreed. “I can’t. He has a way about him.”

  “Then go and stand with him, One-Eye, and serve him well.”

  “My name,” said the other frostily, “is Goll Mac Morna.”

  Cormac yawned. “I know who you are.”

  Rigid with affront, Goll strode from the hall.

  Near the Slige Mor gate, a disbelieving Fiachaid was facing Finn Mac Cool. “Who are you to dismiss me?” he demanded to know.

  “Cormac’s sent us to relieve you and your men.”

  “Us? I don’t see any relief force. I just see some hulking boys.”

  “We aren’t boys, we’re warriors. The king said we could draw additional weapons from you if we wanted.”

  Fiachaid, a grizzled veteran with clear-cut Milesian features, said condescendingly, “You don’t require additional weapons, lad. I see you’re all carrying toys already.”

  Something flickered behind Finn’s eyes. “What’s that spear you carry?”

  “This?” Fiachaid brandished the weapon. It was a javelin with a trifurcated head, reminding Finn of the fishing trident that had been used against him on Black Head. “This,” Fiachaid boasted, “is the most deadly spear in Erin. It’s modelled on the famous Gae Bulga that belonged to Cuchulain. You do know who Cuchulain was, don’t you, lad? The greatest warrior Erin ever produced? The invincible champion of the Red Branch? This spear I have is exactly like his.”

  “That will do nicely,” said Finn Mac Cool.

  As he emerged from the Assembly Hall, Goll heard a startled cry. He began to run. He found Finn’s band gathered near the Slige Mor gate and shouldered his way in among them. They were watching a warrior of Goll’s generation who was lying flat on the ground. Finn stood over him, holding up an unusual spear. Bran and Sceolaun crouched nearby, ready if needed.

  The man on the ground groaned and tried to sit up. Finn extended a hand to help him. The man flinched back violently.

  “Finn hit him,” Cailte explained to Goll.

  “Hit him so hard he flew like a bird,” Fergus elaborated.

  Bran barked sharply twice, adding a dog’s point of view.

  Finn grinned. “Just a small demonstration. I shan’t need to repeat it, I trust?.” He held out his hand again. This time the man on the ground accepted it, very warily.

  Fiachaid got to his feet and stood waggling his jaw between thumb and forefinger, testing for breakage. “What did you hit me with, and you so fast I never saw it coming?”

  “Only my fist.”

  “Only? With a fist like that, you need no other weapon!” Fiachaid winced and spat out two bloody teeth.

  Finn turned to Lugaid. “You still have the silver cups?”

  “I do of course. You didn’t say anything inside about giving them to the king, so I didn’t.”

  “Let me have one of them now, then. Here. Fiachaid, take this and fill it to the brim with the best ale in Tara’s stores. You’ll feel better after a long drink.”

  The dazed man looked down at the silver cup Finn thrust into his hands. “Empty it several times,” Finn insisted, “and when you’ve had enough to make you forget the pain, keep the cup.”

  Several haggard warriors wearing Connacht plaits had by this time joined the watching fían. “Are those your men?” Finn asked Fiachaid

  “They are.”

  “Where are the rest?”

  “Guarding the roads.”

  “And that’s all the men you have?”

  “That’s all,” Fiachaid admitted ruefully. “We took a lot of casualties getting here. And inflicted a lot on the other side!” he added with surfacing pride.

  “How about servants? Are there servants at Tara who could be pressed into defending it?”

  “Connac dismissed the servants straightaway. He didn’t want anyone at Tara who’d served the Ulaid.”

  “Wise move,” commented Goll Mac Morna.

  “Tell me about the enemy,” Finn said to Fiachaid.

  “They hide at a distance, but somehow they know when we’re falling asleep on our feet. Then they rush in and try to breach the walls with fire. If they can’t control Tara, they don’t want Cormac to have it.

  “At first I thought you were Ulaid, in fact,” he added. “Until I saw how combed and polished you were, like friends.”

  Finn shot a meaningful glance at Blamec, whose round cheeks burned scarlet.

  “We’re not the enemy, Fiachaid. We’ve come to serve as your replacements. My men and I will guard the approaches to Tara while you sleep.”

  “Your men?” Fiachaid pivoted slowly, counting. “You have only nine here.” He did not repeat the mistake of calling them boys.

  “That’s all I’ll need.”

  “What’s he getting us into?” Donn whispered to Conan.

  “Trouble,” was the answer.

  Fiachaid protested, “You can’t guard the royal roads with only nine men!”

  “There are ten of us altogether and five roads. It works out perfectly. Lugaid, you and Cael take the Slige Dala from the south. Conan and Fergus, the Slige Mor. Blamec and Donn, the Slige Asal. I want Goll and Madan on the Slige Cualann that runs to the Great Bay on the east. Cailte and I shall guard the Slige Midluachra. since it’s most likely any attack will come from the north.”

  Fiachaid was staring at Finn as if he could not believe his ears.

  Goll caught Finn by the arm. “See here, you’re going too far this time. No matter how good we are, we can’t hold off an entire army.”

  Finn gestured to Goll to turn his back to the others so they would not be overheard. Then he said in a low, earnest voice, “We won’t have to hold off an army, Goll. Fiachaid just told us the other side took heavy losses. They must have done, or they wouldn’t wait until Cormac’s men are on the point of collapse before they dare attack. And then they sneak up and try to burn Tara rather than attempting face-to-face battle. I’d say there are very few of them left. Fiachaid and the king are so exhausted they don’t realize that. And we aren’t going to point it out to them.”

  “You’re learning,” said Goll Mac Morna.

  Fiachaid called irritably, “What are you two mumbling about? I don’t much like this. I’m tired, if you must know.”

  “Of course you’re tired,” Finn agreed. He beckoned to Fergus Honey-Tongue. “Take care of this good man, will you? Assure him that everything will be all right. Help him get his ale.”

  Fergus put an arm around Fiachaid’s shoulders. “Come with me,” he said in a creamy voice that flowed into Fiachaid’s ear and bathed his aching brain. “Come with me and put yourself at ease. There’s nothing to worry about now, you’ll see. We’ll take care of things while you rest. Everything will be fine, just fine.”

  Almost without realizing it, Fiachaid let Fergus lead him away. Donn trailed after them, curious to see the stores.

  “Fergus can talk a badger out of its sett,” Finn remarked to Goll.

  “I still think you’re taking a dangerous risk.”

  “That’s my decision,” Finn reminded him briskly. “I’m going to have the least-exhausted of Fiachaid’s men start beating things together, banging metal,
shouting, making noise. We’ll build fires outside so it looks as if people are already here preparing the Samhain feasts. The Ulidians who’re watching Tara will think a crowd has arrived for the Assembly. That should discourage them from further attack.

  “Then in a few days the lie will be truth and the people will arrive in earnest. It’s a great piece of luck that we were the first here. When the others come, they’ll find Cormac in firm possession of the kingship and—Och, Donn, there you are. Where did you go off to just now?”

  “While Fergus and Fiachaid were getting the ale, I checked the food supplies, such as they are. Look at this.” He held out a lump of dark bread. “This is what they’ve been eating.”

  “It looks all right to me.”

  “It isn’t. I know food, and this is spoiled in some way. It doesn’t smell right and it doesn’t crumble right. No wonder Cormac’s men are sick. We’d do better to go hungry.”

  “We can live off the land as always,” Finn said cheerfully. “It’s only for a few days, until the cartloads of tributes start to arrive. People send the best of their harvest to the king at Samhain, you know. Prepare yourselves now, and go to your posts. We have an interesting few days ahead of us.”

  “What does he mean by that?” Blamec wondered aloud.

  “Serious trouble,” prophecied Conan.

  6

  HE AWOKE DISORIENTED, IN COLD AND DARK. FRAGMENTS of bad dreams fluttered through his mind like birds of ill omen.

  “Mother?”

  He reached out blindly, groping.

  Finn’s fingers touched the coarse coat of the hound that lay stretched beside him. Bran responded with an almost feline mewling deep in the throat. The man clutched the loose skin of the dog’s neck and held on tightly.

  I’m not alone, he assured himself gratefully. Bran’s here.

  I’m not alone.

  But did I cry out?

  He could almost hear an echo.

  What did I say? Did anyone hear me?