by Caiseal Mor
“I have no wife or queen any longer,” Brocan grunted. “She may go where she will but she won't fight among our folk today.”
“She's a warrior,” the veteran reminded him. “We need every sword hand and spear point we can muster. And she has a right.”
“Let her stand among the Danaans. She is no longer Queen of the Fir-Bolg as far as I am concerned.”
“Our warriors would likely disagree,” Fergus advised in an urgent whisper. “Only the Council of Chieftains has a right to strip her of titles and responsibilities. It's not given into your hand to take such measures.”
“I'll answer to the Council of Chieftains when the time comes,” Brocan retorted. “If we win a victory today the chieftains won't care what was said between me and her. They'll be too busy rejoicing at our new-found peace and prosperity. She'll fight alongside her new king. And the Danaans will take up position at the rear. They are to engage the enemy only if some disaster befalls our warriors. Do you understand?”
“I do,” the veteran sighed. “Will you come now with me to take the brew? Fineen told me the Dagda's musicians from the east will gather soon to bless it.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I'll not be sharing the Quicken Brew with everyone else.”
“Why?”
“Because we have a chance to beat the Milesians on our own without treaties or Draoi tricks to save us.”
“Brocan!” the veteran pleaded. “If we win there won't be a treaty.”
“I realize that. And I am beginning to believe it would be a good thing if the Fir-Bolg were able to hold their own with the Danaans. I don't trust Cecht.”
“No man would blame you,” Fergus sighed, his gaze straying back to Riona and the Danaan king.
As the veteran watched, Cecht stumbled forward in the mud, dropping his burden. The cauldron, still wrapped in the blanket Isleen had carried it in, rolled back down a little way until Riona caught it.
“We'll win this battle,” the king laughed. “The Gaedhals won't have any easier a time of this hill than the King of the Danaans.”
“Will you truly place your own life at risk in the wild hope we will win the battle?”
“Yes.”
“The Druids have offered us eternal life and healing from all wounds,” the veteran reminded him.
“And they claim we will all be young again,” Brocan added, spitting on the ground in front of him to show his contempt for that promise.
“Will you ask your people to follow your example?” Fergus ventured.
“They'll do as I ask,” Brocan stated. “If I present this strategy to them as the last hope for the sovereignty of the Fir-Bolg.”
“They may not take up this cause as willingly as you might expect.”
“If we take the brew we may as well surrender our future to the Danaans,” the king reasoned. “Once we come to rely on the Danaan Druids for the Quicken Brew we lay ourselves open to coercion. If we reject the brew and gain the victory we will be in a strong position to bargain with the Danaans.”
“And what of the promise of eternal life?” the veteran asked. “The Danaan brew can provide a life free of pain, sickness and death. Would you deny that to your people?”
“I don't know about you, Fergus, but I have always expected to die one day,” Brocan quipped. “I have grown used to the idea after all the battles I have fought. As for pain, it is just a warning to us to be careful. I like to be warned of my carelessness whenever possible. And as for sickness, everyone knows it emanates from the depths of the soul. The signs of the illness may be healed but the causes will remain. Until they are eliminated there can be no true healing. This brew will deal with the symptoms well enough.”
“We have been offered life,” Fergus repeated. “Without the necessity to pass on to the Halls of Waiting.”
“I have seen enough of life to be more than curious about death.” Brocan smiled wryly. “It holds no fear for an old warrior like myself. Indeed the prospect of returning to this earth in a new form has me intrigued.”
The veteran shrugged, unconvinced by his king's argument.
“You and I have been like brothers,” Brocan went on. “Though you were fostered to my family we have shared everything from the moment you tasted my mother's breast milk. My eyes have seen what yours have. Tell me the truth. Are you not tired of fighting? Are you not weary of this world?”
Fergus dropped his head. “I am, in some respects.”
“Would you truly wish to live forever? Would you be willing to shun the prospect of death forever?”
“It is an attractive thought. It would be a revival of the senses.”
“But would you be so enthusiastic if you knew that no matter what you did you could not die? Would you still yearn for the things that make life worthwhile now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Life is sweet because at any moment it could be snatched away from us.” Brocan smiled. “There is something sacred about our vulnerability. It inspires folk to love with all their hearts while they have the opportunity. The true value of ourselves, our lifelong achievements, our ambitions, our loves, all depend on this simple premise.”
The king took a deep breath and sighed before he went on. “There is nothing surer but that one day we must depart this world for a short time. Then we go to the Halls of Waiting to shed our memories before returning refreshed like the new buds in spring.”
The veteran stared into his friend's eyes. He was beginning to agree with Brocan.
“If we charge down onto that battlefield today,” the king went on, “after partaking of the brew, we may as well give up our souls to be consumed with boredom. There will be no value in the victory if there is no risk to our lives. This battle will be the start of a long tedious time without rest. Our lives will become futile.”
“I have many memories of my long life,” Fergus sighed. “And among them are too many saddening recollections. I know there are loved ones waiting for my return. And surely time spent in the Halls of Waiting would wash my sins and sadness away forever. There is no other remedy for the dark remembrances of days gone by. It is true that many good memories will be cleansed away with them, but to avoid the path of nature is worse than foolish.”
“The Druids often speak of the way our ancestors tried to bend the forces of nature to their will,” Brocan added. “The Isles of the West were destroyed because of the greed which grew from such stupidity.”
“We have everything we need at Dun Burren.” The veteran nodded. “Our lives may be hard compared to the Danaan folk of the east, but we are a happy people, well provided for. Our clanspeople are honest and hardworking. They are honorable, gentle, loving folk who value a good heart. It would break my spirit to see them changed all for the sake of a clever Draoi trick. The Quicken Brew would cause us more problems than we can imagine.”
“Now we must convince our people,” Brocan ended, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder.
Fergus nodded as Riona and Cecht reached the summit of the hill. The exertion of the climb had shortened their breath but the Danaan king wasted no time in getting down to business. The veteran got to his feet and bowed. Brocan, however, did not stand.
“I bear news from Eber, King of the South, war leader of the Milesians,” Cecht began.
“I don't recognize a king in that barbarian,” Brocan jibed. “But I see a king before me transformed into a lowly messenger.”
Cecht straightened his back and stood to his full height as the insult struck home. “Here is your cauldron,” the Danaan spat as he dropped the vessel with a thud onto the wet ground. “Eber sends it to you with his compliments.”
“That does not cancel the insult of stealing it in the first place.”
“He didn't take it,” Cecht explained. “It was the Seer, Isleen, who brought it south.”
“Aided by Riona's boy Sárán no doubt,” Brocan spat.
“He's your son also,” the Fir-Bolg queen cu
t in.
“Not anymore,” Brocan informed her. “He awaits the judgment of a Brehon court. I've disowned him.”
“Eber sends you an offer,” the Danaan king went on. “If you yield to him now and accept him as overlord of the south, he will allow you and your people to keep your lands. He has also promised he will not levy tribute greater than one third of all your produce if you lay down your arms and come to his house in peace.”
“And did he make this offer to you also?” The king sneered.
“He did.”
“How did you answer him?”
“I told him this land had been held by my folk since before my great-grandfather's time. I told him he would have to take it from me in blood or leave this island forever.”
Brocan smiled. “Then we'll fight him together.”
“We will fight,” Cecht agreed. “And when the moment is right the Druid singers will open their doorway. The dead will rise from the field of battle and the wounded will be healed.”
Brocan held his tongue and Cecht noticed the uneasy silence immediately.
“What's happened? The Druids have made the Quicken Brew, haven't they?
The Fir-Bolg king nodded.
“And the Druid musicians?”
“They're waiting to perform their task,” Brocan assured him.
“Then what's the matter?”
“I must tell you I have a mind to win this battle.”
“Win?”
“I intend to inflict heavy casualties on their warriors and drive them into the sea.”
“You always were self-centered but such an act would be selfish even for you,” Cecht replied coldly. “The strategy of negotiating a favorable treaty has been carefully planned by the Druid Assembly. There is no other way to ensure we hold an advantage against the Gaedhals. This very day in the north Eber's brother Éremon is to fight a battle against the Danaan hosts. The whole plan relies on a common outcome which will leave the invaders awed at the skill of our Druids.”
“I'm not a Danaan,” Brocan began.
“You've brought our warriors to this field.” Riona frowned. “You have agreed to enter into a covenant with the Tuatha De Danaan. Would you compromise the honor of our people by breaking your word? What are you doing here then?”
“A great deal has happened since you were taken hostage.” Brocan shrugged. “The Fir-Bolg are here to do their part, but I haven't decided what part that will be because I have changed my mind.”
“You cowardly, treacherous old liar!” she jeered.
“You'd do well to clean the dirt from under your fingernails before you advise me to wash my hands,” Brocan snapped. “A queen who is disloyal to her own folk and her king has no right to advise in matters of diplomacy. She is no longer considered a queen.”
“Now I see what you've been planning!” Riona exclaimed. “If the Milesians are defeated here today you'll turn on the remaining Danaans and slaughter them. To rid yourself of two troubles at one stroke!”
Brocan gave no sign, no indication of his thoughts, nor did he show the slightest hint of emotion. Then his eyes fixed on his wife's for a space of several breaths. Suddenly the king turned away from her, and Fergus realized the accusation must have had some truth in it. The old veteran frowned, then swallowed hard.
“I divorce you,” Riona said in a low emotionless voice.
“What did you say?” the king asked, matching her tone.
“I divorce you.”
“So be it,” the Fir-Bolg king replied with a wave of his hand. “Fergus will be our witness as he was at our wedding. When this battle has been won I'll gladly discuss the details of your share of our holdings.”
“I want nothing but to be free of your stubbornness and my shame,” she told him. “Keep our common holdings. May they serve you well.”
“Done,” Brocan spat. “You'll not stand the field among our folk this day. If you've a mind to engage in battle, stand with your new-found family. Only twenty Danaans answered the call to fight. I am sure they will appreciate an extra sword hand in their midst.”
“You'd better think twice about turning on my folk,” Cecht advised.
“I never intended that,” Brocan replied. “If you think about it, your people will have had their share of the Quicken Brew. So it would be rather stupid of me to attack them.”
Fergus looked up from the ground, ashamed that he had doubted his king. “Then what's your plan?” he asked.
“The Danaans intend to retreat behind the veil of the Otherworld. Let them. They'll leave the land to us.”
Riona strode off for five paces or so, cursing under her breath.
“I'll go to my people now,” Cecht stated, his voice hard. “I've heard enough. Think well on your decision to turn this day to your own ends. We've never been anything more to each other than bitter enemies so I won't flinch at threatening you. If you betray my people I'll seek you out wherever you may hide and I'll put an end to your miserable life as I should have done last summer on the battleground.”
“You'll not find me hiding,” Brocan challenged. “But you will need to raise more than a mere twenty of your kindred if you wish to murder me. The Fir-Bolg are loyal, even if their queen is not.”
“I'm loyal to my people,” Riona hissed. “But I can't respect their king.”
“Your mother was a Danaan,” Brocan spat, as if that explained her attitude to him.
“Would you have Eriu come here to settle for that insult?” Riona asked.
“I'd welcome her as I always have. With a prayer she will not be visiting for very long.”
Riona laughed. “It's always been a wonder to me that with a wit like that you could have such faith in your own decisions,” she mocked.
“Most of my warriors are off in the north,” Cecht cut in, coming between them. “The Milesians have fielded a force of many hundreds there. Every fighting hand is needed if the Danaan folk are to give a good account of themselves. That's the only reason so few Danaans are assembled here today.”
“This alliance of yours doesn't seem to serve both sides with the same share,” the Fir-Bolg king noted archly. “Go make yourself ready for the fight. Since I'm in command here today your folk will fight with the reserve. You've missed one skirmish while you enjoyed the enemy's hospitality. My warriors won a victory a few days ago against a fierce foe. They'll not meekly withdraw from battle and sue for peace.”
“Be it on your head,” Cecht said finally. “But don't blame my people if many Fir-Bolg lives are squandered as a result.”
“Where's Sárán?” Riona asked abruptly.
“He's chained to a cow near Fineen's fire,” Brocan replied. “I would prefer it if you would leave him alone. Under your influence he has committed a treacherous act.”
“Under my influence?” she shot back. “You are a little-too free with your accusations! It was the king, Sárán's father, who taught him the art of serving the self first,” Riona noted with bitterness. “You nurtured his greed and that emotion is always the root of treachery.”
Cecht took her arm then and led her away before any more harsh words could be spoken. Brocan would have followed after, taunting her in his anger, but Fergus put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.
“If you really wish to win this fight,” the veteran told him, “we need to talk to our warriors and consider a battle plan.”
The king nodded, shook his shoulders to ease the tension in his body, and then the two of them went to assemble the warriors of the Fir-Bolg.
Fineen had already unchained Sárán while the brew was undergoing its final boil. The healer needed all the help he could muster so he ordered the young man to fetch him some water.
“The healing potion must be watered down before I can dole it out,” he explained to the young man.
“What if my father catches me walking about freely?” Sárán asked with concern. “I have provoked his anger enough. I wouldn't like to see him really lose his temper.”
“You are a Druid in training,” the healer reminded him. “And I am still your teacher, no matter what charges have been brought against you. Now go and do as I bid. I don't have time to argue.”
The young man nodded, picked up a bronze bucket and went down to the nearby stream to collect the water.
He had not been gone long when Dalan and Aoife came over to the fire and sat down by its warmth.
“The brew smells sweet,” the Brehon commented.
“I was forced to add a lot more honey than I planned, just to make it palatable,” Fineen admitted. “There are other herbs mixed in which were not mentioned in the recipe. To leave them out would have meant the potion would be nearly impossible to drink.”
“I hope there will be some bread with it,” Aoife commented. “I am very hungry.”
“Warriors do not eat on the morning of battle,” the Brehon informed her. “That was why there was no breakfast prepared.”
“Do Brehons break their fast before they witness a fight?” she asked.
“They do.” The healer smiled. “Dalan does in any case. I have seen him put away enough for three men before a battle.”
“It is a delicate duty,” the Brehon protested. “If I miss the slightest detail of a fight I could cause offense or misrepresent the facts. Food aids the memory.” He turned to his student. “Always eat a good meal before you sit down to remember a fight.”
“That is good advice.” Fineen nodded. “But you will not find any food here. I have some bread but only enough for those who will not be fighting to take a small piece with their brew.”
“We will make do with whatever is available,” Dalan assured him.
“Is the potion ready?” Aoife inquired.
“It is,” the healer replied.
“May we have ours now?”
“As soon as your brother returns with water from the stream I will call the ritual. When that is done everyone will take their portion. You may go to your father if you will and tell him it is time to assemble the warriors for that purpose. And then go to Cecht and tell him to bring his Danaans to the fire.”
Aoife was gone before the healer had even finished speaking.
