by Caiseal Mor
CHAPTER 26
SÁRÁN, FREED FROM HIS BONDS, HAD WATCHED THE fight begin from the top of the hill, standing with the musicians and singers of the Druid-Seers. All those who were not of the warrior class had gathered there, unsure whether the Milesians would respect the immunity they were guaranteed under Danaan laws.
It hadn't taken Sárán long to spot his brother Lom in the thick of the fighting. His twin was very conspicuous. Long jet-black hair tied at the back of his head gave him away. Sárán had felt more strongly than ever that bond which is said to exist between two identical twins. In all but body he had been beside his brother, parrying each blow, swinging his blade in fury and shouting to his comrades.
“You will be king one day,” Sárán had whispered, blessing Lom from afar. “I'll serve as your Chief Druid. It's well you took your portion of the Quicken Brew. Now we will rule our people together in the hidden world behind the veil.”
His brother had ignored their father's banishment order. Even though he had partaken of the brew, Lom was determined to fight among his own people. None of the Fir-Bolg had even noticed when he joined their ranks moments before the charge down the slope.
The air had been full of arrows falling down all around the warriors. It had seemed the Gaedhals didn't care if their own warriors were struck down by the missiles. Many Milesians had fallen to Fir-Bolg blades. Sárán had felt himself shake with revulsion every time he heard a warrior cry out in pain. Several times he'd had to turn his eyes away. At last he had been able to watch the carnage no longer. He had walked back to where his sister and teacher were watching anxiously with Dalan as the Milesians formed the shape of an arrow and surrounded the Fir-Bolg.
“The king can't see the battle from our perspective,” Fineen was muttering. “He has no idea of the danger he is in.”
“We must warn him!” Aoife cried.
“That is not permitted,” Dalan told her sternly. “We are Druids. We are observers and no more. To interfere with the ways of warriors is to break the law. Remember well what you see here today. When you are old, folk will ask you the details of this battle and you will be expected to call the story to mind without a second thought.”
“I don't intend to grow old,” Aoife replied.
Dalan frowned for a moment then realized she was referring to the effect of the Quicken Brew.
“Teacher,” Aoife began, “so many Fir-Bolg have fallen. And now they're charging into an ambush. Are you certain anyone who has taken the brew will be safe from harm?”
“Mahon will return to you without a scratch on his body, I assure you,” the Brehon told her.
“Someone has to warn them!” Sárán yelled, finding it difficult to believe such a conversation was going on at a time when all their people were in danger.
“Would I be hurt if a Milesian struck at me?” the young woman asked.
“You certainly won't be harmed,” Fineen promised.
Aoife grabbed her brother by the arm. “Come then!” she cried. “Let's lend a hand to the Fir-Bolg. This'll be the only real fight we're ever likely to see!”
Without a second thought Sárán began barreling down the hillside, screaming a warning to the warriors of his kinfolk.
“Come back!” Dalan commanded, but his words were blown away on the wind. “You are Druids! You are forbidden to take part in war!”
“They've not taken their vows yet,” Fineen reasoned, holding his friend by the shoulder to restrain him from following off down the hill to catch them. “There's nothing we can do to stop them. Let them go to warn Brocan before too many Fir-Bolg are killed.”
“That girl will go too far one day,” the Brehon muttered. But then something caught his eye out on the battlefield.
Quickly Dalan removed his Raven-feather cloak and handed it to Fineen. Then he grabbed at the healer's blue Druid cloak.
“I must borrow this for a while,” he said, distracted. “I don't want to be mistaken for a warrior.”
“What is it?” Fineen asked.
“Isleen and Lochie have returned,” the Brehon replied. “And I must go down to the battle to meet them.”
Aoife ran down the hill as fast as she could in the mud and rain. The clash of weapons grew louder as she approached the place where the Danaan warriors were making their stand. It was now impossible to tell which side had the upper hand. Everything she'd seen from the top of the hill was now a jumbled mess of constantly shifting battle lines.
Aoife shook with fear as a tall muscular Gaedhal staggered through the Danaan ranks unopposed. Her blood ran cold when he caught her eye and stared directly at her with an intensity so powerful her feet were rooted to the spot.
All around her, shouts of pain and hatred filled the air, making her breathe in short, sharp, terrified bursts. Aoife couldn't call for help; she couldn't run either. The foreigner raised his shining silvery sword to strike at her.
His face was expressionless, calm and determined. Aoife wished he'd make some sound. His silence was far more terrifying to her than a battle yell would have been.
In the next breath he lunged forward at her, thrusting the tip of his blade toward her heart. As if in slow motion Aoife watched the weapon approach but somehow she couldn't move to avoid it. The next thing she knew the Gaedhal was at her feet and she was standing just out of his reach, shivering with terror. The enemy warrior had a Milesian arrow in his back. He'd been cut down by one of his own archers.
Aoife reached out a shaking hand to touch the stranger on the crown of the head, silently blessing him and sending his spirit on its way.
“What are you doing here?” Cecht yelled at her. The Danaan king was shaking her by the arm to get her attention. “You're a Druid!”
“I was blessing him.”
“He's a Gaedhal!” the king exclaimed.
“I know,” Aoife replied, still in shock.
“Go back up the hill. There are arrows flying everywhere. You might be hit. And I wouldn't count on the Gaedhals respecting your Druid status.”
“Where's Mahon?” she cried above the din of the battlefield. Then, suddenly jolted out of her fright, she blurted out her warning about the enemy tactic. By this time, though, the Milesians had fallen back into a single battle line and Brocan had ordered a withdrawal. In moments her father too was standing at her side demanding to know what foolishness had brought her to the thick of the fight.
“Go back!” the Fir-Bolg king commanded her. “This is no place for you! You have no weapon and I can't watch after you.”
“I'll stay,” she answered defiantly, catching sight of Mahon amongst the Danaan warriors.
Brocan shook his head, let his sword drop to the ground and, quite unexpectedly, hit Aoife across the face with the back of his hand. The young woman fell into the mud and did not stir.
Without prompting, Fergus sheathed his sword and bent down to pick her up. As he threw Aoife over his shoulder he stopped to look Brocan in the eye.
“All I seem to do is carry your children off battlefields,” he grunted. The veteran looked back up to where Dalan and Fineen were standing. “And why does it always seem to be uphill?” he added, setting off with his burden.
Just then the Gaedhals raised a war cry and strode forward at the defenders, their spear points lowered. In their red war paint they looked like a swarm of strange unearthly wasps defending their hive with a forest of stingers.
“At them!” Brocan shrieked triumphantly and his warriors lowered their spear points to create a bristling row of weapons.
The Gaedhals, goaded on by Brocan's daring, were tempted into advancing. The going was hard up the muddy slope. Many warriors were already exhausted. A small number simply sat down where they were to catch their breath. But the rest struggled on.
Before the Milesian warriors had gained ten paces of mud-soaked ground, another shower of arrows pelted down. A dozen Fir-Bolg men in the front rank fell back wounded. But their comrades didn't flinch.
The Gaedhals halte
d ten paces in front of their enemy. Eber was at their head. Some of the Fir-Bolg warriors, thinking the enemy had stopped to rest, retreated a little up the rise to aid their fallen friends.
“Hold your line!” Brocan bellowed.
But as soon as a few had retreated, the others followed. The Fir-Bolg lost twenty paces then as the warriors instinctively moved out of range of the Milesian arrows. Eber made no move to chase after them. He held his ground, waiting for the right opportunity.
“Stand!” the Fir-Bolg king ordered again.
He was now certain the Milesians would have the upper hand until their archers were dealt with. Some Danaans hurried forward to take up position in the front rank, and Cecht found a place beside Brocan.
“We can't win the field,” he told the Fir-Bolg king bluntly. “Their foot soldiers outnumber us two to one. And those archers are picking your warriors off too quickly. It's only a matter of time.”
Brocan breathed deeply and stood tall. “I'll have this day,” he promised as he turned to face the Danaan king.
Another fall of arrows plummeted out of the sky. Brocan swiftly sheltered behind his shield but Cecht did not flinch for a second. When the assault had passed Brocan lowered his shield again and noticed the Danaan king's sword lying before him on the ground. He looked up at the Danaan in disbelief.
An arrow had embedded itself in Cecht's left shoulder near the bone.
“There's no pain,” the Danaan muttered in wide-eyed surprise as he reached up to touch the shaft. “This is my second arrow today.”
With a great effort he grabbed the arrow and pulled it out. The barbs tore at his flesh, leaving a gaping red wound. There was blood everywhere, the king's hair was spattered with it.
Cecht tentatively touched the wound with shaking fingers. “I can't feel anything this time,” he whispered.
Then, as Brocan watched, Cecht's wound began to heal. The blood dried and became a brown dust which washed away in the rain. Before another fall of arrows had come down, the wound was no more than a star-shaped scar on the Danaan's shoulder.
Two more Fir-Bolg warriors fell in the latest hail from the Milesian archers.
“The enemy won't bring missiles down on their own people,” Cecht suggested. “If you're so determined to fight, then let's charge down the hill side by side and fight this battle together.”
Brocan laughed out loud at the absurdity of that offer. These two old kings had often fought but never on the same side.
“With an immortal standing by my shield, how can I refuse such a challenge?” The Fir-Bolg king shrugged with a grin. “Forward!” Brocan cried. “I want a steady pace with no running!”
His warriors needed no further prompting. They readied their spears and marched down toward the waiting line of Gaedhals. They advanced slower than usual so none would slip in the mud and become an easy target.
The steady fall of arrows ceased as soon as the Fir-Bolg came close to the Milesian line. Bright silver spear points bristled on the ends of long ash-wood staves. In between the spears there were sword-wielding warriors with wicked-looking blades.
As the two sides met with a mighty resounding crash each side raised a chant. But the war songs soon degenerated into wild yells and grunted curses and then the ranks began to disintegrate. In less time than it takes to strike at an enemy twice, the battle had become a confused melee, more pushing and shoving than anything else.
Brocan's shield was of bronze but it was covered in hardened leather. Not even the Milesians' silvery steel could puncture it. The king pushed spears aside as if they were nothing more than sticks. But in the press he couldn't deliver a worthy blow to any of the Gaedhals.
Cecht managed to push through the enemy ranks as well and he was slashing at the front ranks with a wild fury. His face was on fire, filled with hatred. His strong sword arm beat down upon the Milesian shields like a blacksmith's hammer at the forge. Blow after blow he landed so swiftly no enemy warrior could slip in between to strike him.
Suddenly Brocan found himself standing alone. The warriors of the Gaedhal had faltered and fallen back down the hill in the face of such a determined assault.
“We have them!” the Fir-Bolg king sang as he tasted victory in the air.
Before he had finished speaking the enemy line collapsed and suddenly the Milesians were on the run. Brocan tossed his shield aside, raising a cry of triumph to his people.
“To the sea!” he urged them. “Chase the invaders back to the sea!”
His people were so exhilarated many simply charged forward, screaming at the top of their lungs. There was laughter in the air also, amid the cries of pain, the strong coppery smell of freshly spilled blood and the slimy squelching mud.
Before Cecht realized what had happened and could call out to the Fir-Bolg king to stand his ground, the war party had moved forward. The Danaan king lifted the battle horn secured at his waist and blew three sharp bursts. His own warriors recognized the call immediately and dutifully fell back to stand by their king. Moments later arrows began to fall again.
But Cecht's signal was ignored by the ecstatic Fir-Bolg. They were eager to drive their enemies out. Not even Danu herself, had she appeared before them in all her light and majesty, could have convinced Brocan's people to turn around.
When the other Danaans retreated toward King Cecht's standard Mahon made his way into the ranks of the Fir-Bolg. Before King Brocan's men twenty Milesian spearmen stood their ground refusing to retreat when all their comrades ran. What encouraged this brave action none could tell, but it held the Fir-Bolg advance as Brocan's people dodged around the bristling weapons.
Mahon quickly grew impatient with this impasse, screaming to the nearby warriors that they had nothing to fear. Finally in frustration he pushed forward, a broadaxe at the ready, to strike at any of the enemy who came within reach.
His heart beat wildly in his chest, pumping exhilaration throughout his body. No battle had ever been like this, no foe so deadly, no cause so just. And all fear had left him for he was secure in the knowledge no weapon would harm him this day.
A gap opened in the Fir-Bolg ranks and he spurred through it toward the forest of spears raised on the Milesian side. The enemy saw him coming with determination in his eyes and a war cry on his lips. A few faltered then turned to run. In moments panic had spread among this small group of defiant foreigners.
By the time Mahon reached the place where they had been standing the Gaedhals were already fleeing. Only one warrior among them made no move to retreat. She was a woman with gray locks stained red with ochre. The Danaan prince turned all his attention to her.
In the next instant the woman beckoned mockingly toward him, daring him to take her on.
“Do you think you can better me, lad?” she laughed. “You're barely out of your mother's arms.”
And then a chill coursed through her body as she recognized his face.
“Who are you?”
“I am Mahon, son of King Cecht of the Tuatha De Danaan.”
Without another word the queen raised her sword to strike but the young warrior hooked her blade under the haft of his axe to parry her blow. Then, before she had the chance to recover, he pushed her back into the mud.
As Scota fell she watched the Danaan raise his weapon once again to strike and just as in her dream an arrow fell from the heavens to thud into Mahon's chest near the collarbone. The warrior's eyes grew wide with fear for just a second as the shock of the sudden injury struck him.
“You will not die,” Scota told him. “I have seen this. Your wound will heal.”
The warrior looked down when he heard her words and all fear passed from his face. He grabbed the arrow with both hands and plucked it out of his body, tearing the flesh as he did so.
Scota looked on in horror. Though she had witnessed this incident before, her eyes refused to believe what was being presented to them. She felt the hilt of her sword heavy in her hand and knew she must raise the point to stab at this
young man. Before she understood what was happening, her hands were covered in his blood and the weapon was buried to the hilt in his stomach.
Still lying on her back Scota put her feet up on his thighs to withdraw her sword. It slipped out with a great gushing of red liquid then she crawled back a short way to watch what happened next.
To her utter dismay and horror the wounded man stood his ground, though he had received a wound that would have rendered a weaker man unconscious.
“How can this be?” she asked him, though Mahon never heard her above the din of battle.
The answer came in an unexpected manner. And what she witnessed confirmed all the details of that dream she'd had so long ago.
The Danaan held his guts with both his hands to stop them falling out at his feet. But he needn't have bothered. Within moments the arrow wound high in his chest near the collarbone had festered, closed and healed. Before he drew ten more breaths the young man's stomach was closing over also. In twenty the wound was gone.
Scota scrambled to her feet as Mahon smiled at the miracle. But before she had a chance to strike him again a blow rained down on her head from behind and she teetered forward.
The world all around the Milesian queen became a blur of motion. Scota found herself on her back once more in the mire. Tears filled her eyes so that she could just make out the shape of a woman standing over her. The queen wiped her face with a bloodied hand.
The strange woman before her was a Fir-Bolg warrior. Scota reached for her sword but it was beyond her grasp so she slowly edged her way up onto her elbows until she was half sitting in the mud.
“I am Scota, Queen of the Milesian Gaedhals!” she panted. As the words left her mouth a spear thrust into her body. She felt the thud as the weapon struck her and she looked up to see Riona standing over her. This was the vision she had seen in her dreams.
“I can't feel any pain,” Scota whispered.
