by Caiseal Mor
The warrior woman knelt down beside her and took her hand as if they were sisters. Scota looked into the eyes of her killer and squeezed the woman's hand hard. Then, as the life slowly drained out of her, the Queen of the Gaedhals heard a woman's voice.
“Do you remember? I am Riona, daughter of Eriu. I was once the Queen of the Fir-Bolg of the Burren.”
“Once?” Scota whispered but her senses were already giving in to the long sleep her soul yearned for. Her heart was beating slowly now and every breath was a struggle.
“It is time to let go,” she mumbled.
“Not long now,” a man's voice assured her. “Soon we'll be at peace.”
With the last of her energy Scota managed to focus on the face before her. It was a man of her people. He was young and dark-haired. His mischievous eyes sparkled with a blue the same color as the sky on a clear morning.
“Míl!” She smiled.
In that instant she was bathed in warmth as if she had stepped into a hot spring in wintertime. All her worries left her. The last breath departed. And then Scota, Queen of the Gaedhals from the lands of the Iberi, passed on to the Halls of Waiting, guided by the spirit of her dear friend and husband.
Sárán had followed Aoife down into the thick of battle, somehow managing to stay out of his father's way. The young man had dodged among the warriors, narrowly avoiding injury, trying to find his brother Lom. Taking in the carnage all about him Sárán had decided it would be wise to bring his twin to the rear where he would be safe. If they had a future together as rulers of the Fir-Bolg, Lom would have to be protected. There were strict laws about the suitability of a candidate for kingship. A man or woman with an injury was not considered worthy of the office.
Sárán had made his way through the melee, and at last he managed to get close enough to his brother to grab him by the sleeve.
“Come with me!” he urged. “This is too dangerous a place for the likes of you.”
Lom turned to see who was tugging at his sword arm. “What are you doing here?” he sputtered in shock. “You're placing yourself in great danger.”
“I'm just as worried about you,” Sárán told his brother urgently.
“No harm can come to me!” Lom laughed as he pulled open a savage tear in his tunic to reveal a wide scar. The injury began near his neck and extended down toward his belly.
“Weren't you hurt?” Sárán gasped.
“I felt strange for a few moments,” his brother admitted, “but I am fine now. You should have seen the look on the Milesian who cut me! He couldn't believe his eyes when I lifted my blade to strike at him after he thought he had dispatched me.”
“Then it is true!” Sárán gasped. “We have become immortal.”
“It is true.”
Sárán found a sword made of Milesian steel lying in among the tangled bodies. He raised it up as he stood beside his brother. “Now we'll drive the Gaedhals away from our shores forever,” he declared and the two of them advanced side by side toward the retreating enemy.
Sárán in his green cloak and Lom in his saffron brown had boldly struck down all who came within the arc of their swinging blades. But the Gaedhals had already begun falling back to the field below the hill where their archers were still loosing arrows toward the retreating Danaans.
Now the brothers heard the battle horn of Cecht sounding out.
“You should go back,” Lom told his brother. “The fight is almost over. The Fir-Bolg will finish the task. You are a Druid in training. It is not fitting that you be found here among the slain enemy.”
“I'll go,” Sárán conceded. “But only because I do not want to risk my future career as a Druid. One day you and I will rule the Fir-Bolg and our people will thank Danu for sending us to them.”
“You will never rule,” Lom pointed out blindly. “Father has banished you. And Druids, even the most renowned Brehons, are not entitled to kingship.”
“I will be your adviser,” Sárán retorted. “Every king needs a trustworthy counselor.”
“I would be surprised if the chieftains ever allowed it,” Lom answered.
Sárán frowned. He had not considered the chieftains would hold the same opinion of him as his father.
“Go back now,” Lom urged.
“Come with me,” Sárán sulked. “Surely the doorway to the Otherworld will be opened soon. We who have taken the brew should be ready to retreat toward the hill.”
“I'll be along in a minute. I want our father to see that I have fought among my own people today. And I want the chieftains to know it too. You are right. One day I may have a chance to be elected to the kingship. It will not hurt my chances if it is well known I stood with our people in the Battle of Sliabh Mis.”
With that Lom ran up toward the pennant which marked Brocan's place on the battlefield. But he had not quite reached his father's standard when his attention was drawn to the top of the hill. At the very summit, behind the spreading branches of the great apple tree, the choir had assembled in their distinctive crescent moon formation. And the horns were blasting out as the singers began a new chant.
This song was so different from the music they had performed at the dedication of the Quicken Brew, Lom at first thought they must be a different group of musicians. This melody was strong, vibrant and taunting. The rhythm echoed the strident humming of the Danaan war chant.
Suddenly the warriors fell into an uneasy stillness as the song drifted out down onto the battlefield. Danaan, Fir-Bolg and Milesian alike stopped whatever they were doing to look up at the choir.
A subtle golden light could be discerned all around the spreading branches of the apple tree. It reminded Lom of the glow of turf coals in winter. On the tree the small green unripened apples began to swell and turn to red as if time were passing by swifter than ever.
In a sudden burst of intense song the choir raised their voices in a tremendous uplifting phrase which gradually built to a crescendo. At the same moment the golden light around the apple tree burst into a bright explosion of fiery illumination. Everyone who watched was forced to turn away as the light stung their eyes.
The land all about was brought out of the gray shades of cloudy drizzle. Above the battlefield a broad-banded rainbow emanated from the top of the hill and stretched its arc of breathtaking colors toward the sea.
A few folk whose curiosity dared them to open their eyes saw this marvel in the heavens. Lom was one of them. He still could not look at the apple tree for the light was too intense, but he could plainly see the effect that light was having on the world about him. The grassy hill was a beautiful shade of green; clouds on the far horizon took on hues of purple and red. In the distance the sea was a deep enticing blue topped with wave crests of brilliant white.
Then unexpectedly the song stopped, the light receded and the vibrant colors drained away to become the dull grays of rain once more. All around the tree there remained a dull echo of the golden illumination so that the leaves on the branches seemed to be an impossible shade of green. Apples ripe and heavy fell to the ground. A few rolled down the hill until their progress was halted by the mud.
As Lom looked with wonder a battle horn sounded and all the Danaans began to retreat toward the summit. Moments later the apple tree erupted in another fiery display which quickly burned out again. And then in its place there stood a wide stone doorway with two massive solid oak gates. The gateway swung open and the same intense golden light that had surrounded the tree poured forth from behind the doors. Lom shielded his eyes, realizing he now had a difficult decision to make.
“The Danaans are deserting the field!” Brocan cried out and the Fir-Bolg warriors raised calls of derision. “The cowards are leaving us to fight the invaders all alone! Fergus, take up your battle horn and call them to return.”
The veteran did as he was told, blowing a blast that shook the stomach of every warrior close by. But the Danaans did not turn from their march up the hill to the doorway.
Lom saw
his brother among them; his mother was there also. Aoife was walking with her arm around Mahon's waist. Lom knew he would regret it if he stayed behind with the Fir-Bolg, even though they were his own people.
Another fall of arrows rained down from above, daring Brocan's warriors to advance toward the Milesian lines. The king took up the challenge.
“This fight isn't ended yet!” he cried out.
Lom ran to his father's side in time to join the charge toward the enemy. But to his horror Brocan stumbled in the mud before they had gone twenty steps. The king rolled over and lay face down on the slope. His warriors noticed his absence immediately and their attack soon began to falter.
Lom bent down over his father and saw he had been struck by an arrow. Fergus came running over and eased the shaft from his brother's chest. The king coughed and then fell into unconsciousness. His skin was very pale and his breathing strained.
The veteran slumped down by his foster-brother, eyes staring blankly. Lom tore off his own tunic and pressed it down hard on his father's chest to staunch the flow of blood. All around them Fir-Bolg warriors were trying to keep the Gaedhals at bay.
“We have to get him to safety,” Lom told Fergus urgently.
“He's finished,” the veteran choked. “I've seen better wounds than that which were fatal. He doesn't have more than three hundred strong breaths left in him.”
“We must carry him to Fineen,” Lom insisted. “The healer may have some of the Quicken Brew. It'll save his life.”
Fergus looked up at his nephew and shook his head. “Your father would prefer it this way,” he said wearily.
“Would you let him die? With healing so close at hand?”
“It was his decision to risk his life by not taking the brew. He knew the danger.” The veteran shrugged.
“He'll die!” Lom shouted.
This was enough to wake Fergus out of his shock. “I've carried you and your sister up hills away from bloody battles. Now it's his turn.”
With that he carefully picked up the wounded king and, with Lom's help, settled the body over his shoulder. Then he carried his burden to the top of the hill in search of Fineen.
CHAPTER 27
DALAN THE BREHON HAD RUN AS FAST AS HE COULD down the hill toward the Milesian lines, certain he'd spotted Isleen and Lochie moving around among the press of warriors. But by the time he'd reached the center of the fighting the Watchers had disappeared.
As an unarmed Druid marked by his blue cloak he had been ignored by the combatants, free to move unharmed among the melee. In the thick of the fight he had found himself kneeling beside a wounded warrior. The man had received a terrible slash across the throat and was clutching the wound as he bled to death.
“If only Brocan had let his warriors drink the brew,” Dalan muttered.
“Help me!” the warrior gasped, straining to make any sound at all.
“I'll do what I can,” Dalan soothed. “Don't speak. Save your energy.”
The warrior nodded his understanding, closed his eyes and sank back into the Brehon's protective embrace.
Dalan sat in the mud on his knees, cradling the man until his pain eased with his last breath. Dalan looked into his lifeless eyes and shook his head in sorrow.
“There was nothing you could do,” a soothing feminine voice pointed out.
Dalan looked up with tears in his eyes to see Isleen and Lochie standing before him.
“You did this!” the Brehon stuttered, rage filling his heart. “You're responsible for all this misery and bloodshed.”
“That warrior you just nursed into the afterlife is fortunate to have found his peace,” Lochie noted. “You've no idea how fortunate he is. One day when you're weary of this world you'll understand.”
The Brehon didn't hear a word. All he could think of was that the Watchers were responsible for the many deaths on this field. If they hadn't interfered in the lives of mortals the Gaedhals might never have been inspired to set sail from their homeland and there might still have been peace in Innisfail. They were callous and selfish to be using ordinary folk with good hearts and kind souls for their own purposes.
“It's true.” Lochie smiled, reading the Brehon's thoughts. “We care nothing for your people or the Danaans or the Gaedhal. We're only concerned with our own future, our own fate.”
“You brought on this battle. You've destroyed the lives of so many folk in the search for your own contentment and peace.”
“Of course we have.” Isleen shrugged. “Pain, fear, anger, anguish and despair are our sustenance. If we have to continue our existence we'd both prefer to be well fed and strong.”
The Brehon felt a rage boiling in his heart such as he had never felt before. He leapt to his feet and before he knew what had happened there was a sword in his hand. It was made of bright strong Milesian steel and it weighed heavy in his grip. For a moment he held it, feeling the balance of the weapon, and it seemed to him that his fury was flowing down his arm into the blade.
“You're a Druid,” Lochie laughed. “What do you think you're doing with that weapon? Your kind are forbidden to bear arms.”
But Dalan was shaking with anger. He couldn't speak. He took two tentative steps forward, raising the sword as he advanced.
“Are you angry?” Isleen laughed. “Are you enraged?”
“Rage is so sweet,” Lochie added as if savoring the taste of it in the air. “And your rage has a hint of remorse about it. You've no idea how much strength those emotions give us.”
“I have nothing but contempt for both of you,” Dalan spat.
Isleen closed her eyes and threw back her head. “You've no idea how wonderful that feels,” she said in a low voice.
“Your kind are so weak,” Lochie laughed. “Even you, the strongest and wisest of men, are no match for us. Look about you at all we've achieved. And you stand there with a blade and can't bring yourself to use it. You're pathetic.”
This was too much for Dalan. In the next second he strode forward and brought the sword down hard on Lochie's right shoulder. The Watcher made no attempt to move out of the way. Indeed the expression on his face hardly changed.
There was a sickening crunch as the weapon split flesh down to the ribs, cracking the Watcher's collarbone. Lochie's arm dropped forward limply but he showed no sign of pain.
“That wasn't a very Druidlike response,” Isleen chided as she inspected her companion's wound.
“You'll have to do better than that.” Lochie nodded.
As the Watcher spoke the wound completely disappeared, leaving no trace, and the Watcher's torn cloak was restored to its pristine condition.
“You're wasting your time with that lump of polished steel,” Isleen advised him.
Dalan was still burning with anger but now he felt powerless as well. He lifted the sword again, surprised at how easy it was to wield now he had found its point of balance. Then he swung the blade around his head and struck Lochie with a devastating blow.
The blade lodged deep in Lochie's ribs but there wasn't a drop of blood to see, no cut, no injury at all.
“You're powerless against us,” Isleen told him. “And your rage is simply making us stronger.”
“May Balor's ghost haunt you,” Dalan hissed.
“I've already cursed Balor's spirit,” Lochie sighed. “I'm not afraid of him.” Then the Watcher took hold of the sword and flung it high in the air. The weapon landed far away over near the Milesian archers.
“You promised Lochie you'd help us,” Isleen reminded him.
“It was you then?” Dalan gasped. “It wasn't a dream.”
“You've let us down,” Lochie replied, wagging a finger in mock rebuke. “Now we'll have to think of some appropriate punishment for you.”
“I don't know how to free you from your bonds,” the Brehon shouted in desperation. “If you give me time I'll find out. But stop this terrible carnage. These folk don't deserve to suffer for your selfishness.”
“Your kind mean n
othing to us,” Isleen told him flatly, then pointed a finger at a Milesian warrior who had just dispatched a Fir-Bolg opponent. The Gaedhal's eyes widened with shock and he dropped dead in his tracks. Lochie was obviously amused at this because he turned around to pick a warrior for himself.
Before Dalan could comprehend what was happening the two Watchers had begun a frenzy of killing. Twelve Milesian warriors fell without a weapon touching them. Their comrades began to fall back in fear, believing some Danaan spell had descended on them.
“They can't see us,” Lochie explained. “It helps increase their fear.”
Dalan couldn't control his revulsion a moment longer. He rushed at Isleen, grabbing for her cloak to wrestle her to the ground.
“Stop this!” he screamed. “Stop!”
The Watcher threw back her head and laughed in a rasping, rattling cackle. She pushed her face close to Dalan's and he smelled the sweet incongruous scent of lavender. Then Isleen was gone and he was tumbling forward.
“Now you will witness our true nature,” Lochie told him as Isleen reappeared beside her companion. “The doorway has opened and your folk will never be able to close it again.”
Then, in a gradual, frightening transformation, the two Watchers began to change form. Their clothes disappeared. They stood naked before the Brehon, their bodies covered in blood and gore. It was matted into their hair and dripped from their mouths. And their eyes stood out like shining pebbles on a fine red cloth.
They had taken on the war paint of the Milesians. But instead of red ochre these foul creatures had bathed themselves in the blood of the slain.
“You've disappointed us, Dalan,” Lochie announced. “Now you'll know what real havoc is. Your people won't rest until we have our freedom.”
“We've only just begun our work,” Isleen gloated. “This is our revenge on your kind for all we've suffered through the generations.”
“I won't let you continue your bloodbath,” Dalan vowed. “I'll find a way to defeat you.”
“There's only one way to defeat us.” Lochie smiled. “You must find a way to kill us. We're too strong to be sent into the stones.”
