Fionn put his thumb in his mouth for several seconds, then withdrew it, looking very troubled. ‘We are all in mortal danger. I can see no escape from Miodhach’s terrible trap.’
‘What does he intend to do to us?’ Goll asked.
‘He plans to kill us all,’ Fionn replied. ‘He has brought many Lochlannachs to this part of Ireland. They are commanded by Sinsear of the Battles, he who calls himself King of the World. With him are eighteen other kings and princes, and eighteen battalions of warriors. When they have disposed of us they will go after the High King and claim power over this land.’
Fionn glanced grimly at his comrades. ‘There are three thousand men in each battalion,’ he said ominously.
Goll shook his head. ‘Then we are hopelessly outnumbered.’
‘And while we are stuck to the ground like this, we can’t even make a decent fight,’ his brother added.
‘Miodhach got the three kings of the Island of the Torrent to use their magical powers to cast a spell on us,’ Fionn explained. ‘They brought over clay from that enchanted island and placed it on the floor of this palace. It is that which keeps us stuck to the ground. The only way the spell can be broken is by spilling the blood of those same three kings on the clay.’
The others groaned loudly. It seemed hopeless. Fionn raised his hand. ‘Lamentation will not help us,’ he said. ‘It is better that we should sound the Dord Fianna. Some of our comrades may hear us and come to our aid.’ The Dord Fianna was a musical war-cry which the Fianna used in times of battle or danger.
So Fionn and his comrades began to sound the Dord Fianna in a last desperate attempt to escape death at the hands of their enemies.
Oisín was getting worried. ‘My father has been gone for hours. I wonder why he sent no messenger to us as he promised,’ he said anxiously. ‘Someone will have to go to the palace and find out what has happened.’
‘I’ll go,’ volunteered Fionn’s youngest son, Fiachna.
‘And I will go with you,’ said Inse Mac Suibhne, who was Fionn’s foster-son.
They hurried away. As they approached the palace they heard the humming sound of the Dord Fianna.
‘Things must be well with them if they are making music,’ Inse observed.
Fiachna listened, then shook his head. ‘When the Dord Fianna is sounded so slowly and sadly, it usually means danger.’
There was a lull in the Dord and Fionn heard the voices outside. ‘Is that Fiachna,’ he called out.
‘Yes,’ Fiachna replied. ‘And Inse is here too.’
‘Do not come any closer,’ Fionn warned. ‘Miodhach has betrayed us. This palace is full of spells and we are stuck to the ground by the sorcery of the three kings of the Island of the Torrent. Nothing can free us but the sprinkling of their blood on the clay beneath us.’
‘What can we do to help?’ Fiachna asked.
‘Return to the camp at once and get Oisín and the others,’ Fionn ordered. ‘If you stay here you will both die under the swords of the Lochlannachs who will soon be on their way to the palace.’
But Fiachna and Inse refused to desert Fionn and the others. ‘Well then, hurry to the ford nearby and prepare to defend it,’ said Fionn. ‘The Lochlannachs have to cross it in order to get to the palace.’
Fiachna and Inse ran back to the ford. ‘One man can defend this,’ Fiachna said. ‘You stay here and guard it while I go and see what the Lochlannachs are up to.’
Inse drew his sword and took up position where the ford narrowed to a single passageway. He watched as Fiachna crossed to the far side and raced away.
In the enchanted Quicken Tree Palace, Fionn and his comrades were startled by the sound of loud mocking laughter outside the door. It opened suddenly and Miodhach appeared. He looked down on the helpless men. ‘Don’t go away!’ he jeered. ‘I have some other surprises in store for you. And don’t lose your heads yet. It will be time to lose them later!’ Still laughing, he slammed the door behind him and was gone before any of his hostages could respond.
Miodhach hurried off to his Island Palace where his Lochlannach friends were waiting. When he told them how Fionn and his companions had fallen into their trap they cheered jubilantly.
A prince among the King of the World’s followers decided that he would go straightaway to cut off Fionn’s head and bring it back to his king, thus gaining all the glory for himself.
The prince set off with a hundred of his warriors. As they arrived at the bank of the ford they saw Inse on the other side.
‘What people do you belong to?’ the prince demanded in a ringing voice.
‘The people of Fionn Mac Cumhaill,’ Inse responded.
‘Then lead us to where Fionn is,’ the prince ordered.
‘Do not attempt to cross to this side of the ford,’ Inse warned. ‘Fionn sent me here to guard it and I will allow no one to pass alive.’
The prince turned to his followers. ‘Kill him!’ he ordered. Brandishing their weapons, the warriors rushed into the water. Because the ford was so narrow on Inse’s side they could attack him only one at a time. With his mighty double-edged blade Inse cut each one down as they came against him. Soon, bodies of dead Lochlannachs were strewn all over the ford. The prince bellowed with rage and, weapon in hand, launched himself at Inse. The air rang with the clash of their weapons as they fought fiercely in the centre of the ford. But the prince was strong and fresh while Inse was tired and already wounded from combat. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. Before he could regain his feet, the prince’s sword swept down and cut off his head. The prince raised the head triumphantly in the air and took it away to show the King of the World that he had slain Fionn Mac Cumhaill’s foster-son.
Along the way he met Fiachna. ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked the prince.
‘From the ford near the Palace of the Quicken Trees,’ the prince said. ‘I was on my way to kill Fionn Mac Cumhaill but this Fianna whelp was defending the ford and killed all my men.’
He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin and held up the head of Inse. ‘See, I cut his head off. I am taking it to the King of the World, who will reward me well.’
Fiachna reached out and, taking the head, kissed it. ‘Do you know to whom you have given this head?’ he asked, his voice hoarse with grief.
‘Are you not one of the King of the World’s men?’
‘I am not,’ Fiachna said. ‘And neither shall you be for much longer!’
He drew his sword and attacked the prince. The fight was short and savage. It ended when a powerful slanting blow from Fiachna’s weapon felled the prince to the ground. Fiachna beheaded him and hurried with both heads back to the ford.
There he replaced Inse’s head on his body and gave him an honourable burial. Then, carrying the prince’s head, he raced back to the Palace of the Quicken Trees. From outside the door he shouted Fionn’s name.
‘Is that the voice of Fiachna?’ Fionn called.
‘It is indeed,’ replied Fiachna. ‘I have come with sad news. Our brave comrade, Inse, is dead. He defended the ford like a true hero, killing a hundred Lochlannachs, but he was slain by a prince of the King of the World’s army. I have avenged Inse and cut off the prince’s head.’
‘My poor Inse,’ said Fionn, mournfully. ‘I loved him like my own son. He was a valiant warrior and his death does him honour, but it is a sad loss for all the Fianna.’ Addressing Fiachna, he ordered: ‘Return to the ford and defend it as bravely as Inse did. Our comrades may arrive in time to help us.’
Before Fiachna headed off he stuck the head of the prince on a spear and planted it in the ground outside the palace – a warning to their enemies that the Fianna were not easily defeated.
In the Island Palace the rest of the Lochlannachs were waiting impatiently for Miodhach’s battle orders. A prince called Ciorthainn was worried that his brother prince had not returned from the Enchanted Palace.
‘I fear my brother is in trouble,’ he said. ‘I must go and find him.’
‘Who are you?’ Ciorthainn called out.
‘I am Fiachna, youngest son of Fionn Mac Cumhaill,’ Fiachna answered. ‘And I warn you that if you try to cross this ford you will regret it.’
Ciorthainn’s face turned red with rage. With a wild yell he led his men in a mad charge at the other side. Fiachna did not flinch but met them with his sword and shield. First he killed Ciorthainn and then cut down his men one by one, until the bodies of dead warriors lay in piles on either side of the ford. One warrior escaped the carnage and ran back frantically to the Island Palace.
Miodhach, who had been at a meeting with the King of the World, was furious when he heard what had happened. ‘Those princes should never have gone to the ford without telling me! I know how the Fianna fight, and they had no hope of defeating them without that knowledge. I will go now and kill Fiachna. Then it will be the turn of Fionn and his companions to feel my revenge.’
His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. ‘But it will not be quick. First I shall make them suffer. One of them, Conán Mac Morna, is the greatest glutton on earth. I will bring choice food and delicious drink to the palace to torment him with the sight and smell. Conán will lose his mind and while Fionn and the others are watching him suffer I will slowly kill them all.’
So, bringing the feast with him, he set off with five hundred of his best warriors. When they arrived at the ford, brave Fiachna was still guarding it.
‘Is that my old comrade, Fiachna Mac Fhinn, I see?’ Miodhach called across to him. ‘You are very dear to me, Fiachna. During all the time I lived with the Fianna you were always kind to me and never lifted a hand in anger to any horse or hound or servant belonging to me.’
But Fiachna was not impressed by Miodhach’s smooth talk. ‘I had little to do with you in all the years you lived among the Fianna. But my father, Fionn, was very kind to you and you have repaid him with the foulest treachery and trickery.’
Miodhach almost choked with anger. In a voice no longer smooth and wheedling, he ordered Fiachna to leave the ford immediately. Fiachna laughed scornfully, ‘I challenge you to make me.’
Miodhach ordered his warriors to attack. Swords drawn, they advanced on Fiachna. Like a wolf among sheep, Fiachna cut them down until he had killed them all. Mad at the slaughter of his men, Miodhach launched a ferocious attack on Fiachna with his razor-sharp broadsword. Wounded though he was from the previous battles, Fiachna responded with equal ferocity. The clash of their weapons echoed over the plain as they met in a frenzy of fury.
In the Fianna camp Oisín was pacing up and down anxiously. ‘Fiachna and Inse should have returned by now with news of Fionn and the others.’
‘Perhaps they are enjoying the feast at the palace, too,’ suggested Oscar.
Diarmaid Ó Duibhne shook his head doubtfully. ‘They would not delay,’ he said, ‘knowing that we would be anxious for news. I had better go and see what is keeping them so long.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ said his friend, Fatha Canann.
The two of them hurried off. As they approached the ford they heard the unmistakable sounds of battle. ‘I hear Fiachna’s war-shout,’ said Diarmaid. ‘He must be in combat with the Lochlannachs.
When they crested the hill overlooking the ford they saw below them a badly wounded Fiachna reeling under the savage blows of Miodhach’s broadsword.
‘Quick, Diarmaid!’ cried Fatha. ‘Save Fiachna.’
‘By the time I reach them Miodhach will have killed him,’ said Diarmaid. ‘And if I throw my spear from here I may hit the wrong man.’
‘Not you. You have never missed a target yet with it,’ Fatha declared.
Diarmaid thrust his finger into the silken loop of his spear, drew back his arm, and with all his strength sent the deadly weapon screaming through the air. It was still travelling when it struck Miodhach, passed through his heart and hit the ground twenty feet away, where it stuck, quivering and vibrating like a living thing.
‘Woe to him who is struck by that spear!’ Miodhach cried out, ‘for it belongs to Diarmaid Ó Duibhne.’
And, in his dying fury, he attacked Fiachna more fiercely than ever. Diarmaid started to rush across, shouting, ‘Spare Fionn’s son!’
‘You have not spared me,’ Miodhach snarled. ‘So I shall make sure that Fionn never sees his son alive again!’ He aimed a mighty blow at Fiachna and struck off his head.
‘I will have your head in revenge!’ Diarmaid shouted, and, with a sweep of his sword, he instantly beheaded Miodhach. He instructed Fatha to stand guard at the ford and set off for the Palace of the Quicken Trees. As he drew near he called out to Fionn.
‘I recognise your voice, Diarmaid,’ Fionn called back. ‘Do not attempt to come in, this palace is full of magic spells. We have heard the sounds of a long and bitter fight at the ford. Tell me what happened.’
‘Fionn,’ said Diarmaid, his voice heavy with sorrow, ‘your son Fiachna is dead. He killed many Lochlann warriors while defending the ford, but, when he was weak and wounded, he was struck down by the treacherous Miodhach Mac Colga. I have avenged his death and brought you the head of Miodhach.’
A great cry of lamentation went up inside the palace.
‘My brave, loyal Fiachna,’ Fionn mourned. ‘He was a true son to me, and a gallant warrior who died as every member of the Fianna would wish to die, in battle for an honourable cause.’
Conán and the other Fianna in the palace raised their voices in praise and memory of Fiachna.
‘Now, Diarmaid,’ Fionn said, ‘you have come to our assistance in many times of peril. But never before have I and my comrades here been in such danger as this. Through the treachery of Miodhach, we are stuck to the ground of this palace and can only be freed if the blood of the three kings of the Island of the Torrent is sprinkled on the clay. But, unless the ford is defended, the rest of the Lochlannachs will come here and kill us.’
‘I and Fatha will keep them at bay,’ declared Diarmaid. ‘We will not let the sacrifices of Inse and Fiachna be in vain. I will return immediately to the ford.’
‘Wait!’ Conán cried out. ‘I am tortured by hunger and thirst. Go and fetch as much food as you can find, as well as a drinking-horn full of wine.’
‘Food? At a time like this? Am I to abandon my duty just to get food for Conán, the glutton?’ Diarmaid demanded angrily.
‘If I were a relation or close friend of yours you would soon give me what I ask,’ Conán complained. ‘But, just because we have had many disagreements in the past, you prefer to see me die of hunger and thirst.’
‘Try to get some food for him, Diarmaid,’ Fionn said. ‘It will be a while before they come in search of Miodhach and for two hours now we have been tormented by Conán’s wailing and moaning. I cannot stand it anymore. I need peace if I am to think of any way out of this situation. Find him something quickly; Fatha will watch the ford in the meantime.’
‘Very well,’ Diarmaid agreed, in a reluctant voice.
He returned to the ford and told Fatha of the trap Fionn and his companions were in. ‘I promised to get Conán some food,’ he concluded.
Fatha pointed to the food and drink that Miodhach had left on the far bank of the ford. ‘That should provide a good feast for Conán,’ he said.
Diarmaid shook his head. ‘That food is tainted by the blood of our enemies. It would be poison to a Fianna warrior. I’ll try somewhere else. Stay on guard until I return.’
Diarmaid set off for the Island Palace, where the rest of the Lochlannachs were holding a banquet in anticipation of Miodhach’s triumphant return. He moved quietly to the door of the banqueting hall and peeped in. The kings and princes and their warriors were seated at long tables, enjoying the feast. Presiding over it all was Sinsear of the Battles, the self-styled King of the World. Beside him sat his son, Borba.
> Diarmaid slipped into the hall and stood in a dark corner with his sword in his hand. When a servant carrying a drinking-horn of wine passed by, Diarmaid sheared his head from his body with one swift blow of his sword.
He caught the drinking-horn in his free hand as the man fell to the floor. Then he walked down the hall, snatched one of the dishes of food from Sinsear’s table and hurried out through the door at the other end of the hall.
He ran back to the ford without spilling a drop of wine or a crumb of food. Fatha was lying asleep on the bank. At first Diarmaid was angry but then, realising that the young warrior was exhausted and that there was no immediate danger, he left him lying asleep and went on to the Palace of the Quicken Trees. ‘Conán,’ he called. ‘I have brought the food you asked for. But how will I get it to you?’
‘There is a hole in the wall opposite where I am lying,’ replied Conán. ‘Throw the food into my open mouth.’
Following Conán’s directions, Diarmaid put his hand through the hole and threw the food across. But it struck Conán in the face and dribbled down his chin.
‘I have a drinking-horn of wine for you, too,’ Diarmaid said. ‘How will I give it to you?’
‘Climb up on the roof and make a hole above me,’ Conán instructed. ‘Then pour the wine into my mouth.’
Diarmaid climbed on to the roof of the palace and used the point of his spear to make a hole. He tipped the drinking-horn in and the wine poured out in a steady stream. However, it missed Conan’s mouth entirely and splashed over his face and into his hair.
Conán spluttered angrily, complaining bitterly and loudly about Diarmaid’s carelessness.
As he turned away from the palace to return to the ford, Diarmaid smiled to himself, the swears and curses of Conán accompanying him for much of his journey. ‘That will teach him not to be always thinking of his belly,’ he said aloud.
At the ford he found Fatha still sleeping soundly, but did not wake him, as all was quiet.
Celtic Tales of Enchantment Page 2
