Dancing With Demons sf-18

by Peter Tremayne

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Out of the corner of her eye, Fidelma saw Ardgal directing his archers against a group of men who looked strangely foreign, more like Saxon warriors than Irish. There were several hand-to-hand combats going on. Together, she and Caol dodged between the fighting groups, making their way towards the wooden buildings and tents. Gormán, on Caol’s shouted instruction, was heading for some stone buildings.

  Suddenly, a warrior rushed at them, brandishing his sword. Caol had not become commander of the Nasc Niadh, the elite bodyguard of the kings of Cashel, for nothing. He expertly parried the blows and slid his blade quickly under the ribs of the man, who slumped to the ground with a cry of pain and lay moaning in a spreading circle of blood.

  Then Caol cried: ‘Look out!’

  Instinctively, Fidelma dodged aside, feeling the wind against her skin as a blade swung past her. She pivoted on her heel to find herself inches from the distorted face of a woman. The rage and hatred on those awesome features was so intense that she flinched. The sword was upraised again, and she grabbed for the woman’s sword wrist and pulled with her full weight. As she did so, Fidelma registered the curious garb of her assailant and the strange symbols that she wore about her neck.

  Although she had locked the woman’s sword arm in the tight grasp of her two hands, she realised that the woman’s left arm was free and that there was a sharp bladed-knife in her hand. Fidelma could not swing round and protect herself. She braced herself for the sharp impact, but it never came.

  Instead, she felt the woman’s body stiffen against her own and then it became a dead weight. She let go of the wrist and her attacker fell to the ground.

  Behind the corpse stood Caol, sword in hand.

  Fidelma glanced at him, one look of thanks before the intensity of the continuing combat claimed their attention.

  Peering up through the wicker gate that blocked the entrance to the tunnel, Eadulf was still thinking desperately for a way of distracting the guard.

  He heard a cry from somewhere and then the guard began to move away from the gate. Even as he saw the legs of the man take a step forward, he saw them buckle as the man fell, measuring his length on the ground outside. He did not question the why or wherefore, but thrust at the wicker gate with all his strength. Surprisingly, it jerked aside with ease and then Eadulf was scrambling out.

  The guard lay on the ground, two hunting arrows embedded in his body.

  Eadulf turned to help the old bishop out of the passage. They paused but a moment, looking at the noisy conflict that surrounded them. Then Eadulf pointed.

  ‘Let us go down the hill, to the shelter of those trees until we know who is fighting whom.’

  Bishop Luachan nodded. With Eadulf’s help he limped painfully on his sprained ankle, stumbling a little. As they lurched down the hill, sliding and tripping on the increasingly steep slope, Eadulf began to feel exhilaration that they had made their escape without being observed.

  Then, without warning, there came a cry from his elderly companion. At the same time, the old bishop shoved him in the back and Eadulf staggered forward and fell to his knees. Something hissed through the air behind him and he heard a thud as it fell. He was on his feet in a second and peering round. Bishop Luachan was also on his knees with the momentum of the push that he had given Eadulf. A short distance away was the Saxon warrior Beorhtric, and from his stance he had just thrown something at Eadulf, doubtless a knife. Bishop Luachan’s action had prevented it from landing in his back.

  Eadulf looked quickly round but could not see where it had fallen. He had no weapon with which to defend himself and the tall Saxon warrior had now unsheathed his battle-axe with a grim smile on his features.

  ‘Move, Luachan! Go!’ Eadulf shouted to the old man, who was clambering to his feet.

  ‘Yes-hobble off, old one. I will catch up with you later,’ sneered Beorhtric in the same language before reverting to his native Saxon. ‘But you, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, I shall deal with you now.’

  Eadulf glanced desperately back up the hill. In the fiery dawn light, he could see the tents and buildings ablaze. Whoever was attacking them had surprised their sentinels and overwhelmed the camp. Beorhtric’s comrades were being pressed back, leaving their dead strewn behind them. He saw some even dropping their weapons and holding up their hands in surrender.

  ‘Give it up, Beorhtric! Your people are beaten!’ he called, backing away slightly, still looking for some weapon with which to defend himself against the advancing Saxon, who was now making short swinging motions with his axe.

  Instead, Beorhtric’s features formed into an evil grin. ‘Then I will have more pleasure in despatching you to Hel first,’ he snarled.

  It was all over in seconds.

  With a great shout of hate, Beorhtric raised his battle-axe and rushed upon Eadulf, who jumped backwards, missed his footing and fell defenceless before the descending blade. He raised an arm in a futile effort to ward off the blow. But the blow never came. It seemed that Beorhtric had halted, frozen for a moment, with an expression of surprise on his face. He staggered, still holding himself erect and still with the weapon in his hands.

  Eadulf rolled out of the way and, as he did so, he noticed something protruding from the Saxon warrior’s chest; blood was soaking his tunic.

  Then, with some effort, Beorhtric raised his battleaxe once more and gave a hoarse shout of ‘Woden!’ before he fell sideways and lifeless on the ground.

  A short distance away, Gormán, a long hunter’s bow in his hand, stood ready to release a second arrow. Seeing it was unnecessary, he loosened the string, advanced down the hill and stood grinning at Eadulf.

  ‘You should choose your friends more carefully, Brother Eadulf,’ he rebuked. He reached forward and helped Eadulf up. The latter glanced down at the dead Saxon warrior before turning to Gormán with a shaky smile of relief and gratitude.

  ‘What has happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ Gormán said, ‘it would seem that we have defeated these dibergach.’

  ‘How did you learn about this place?’ Eadulf wanted to know. Then: ‘Are Fidelma and Caol with you?’

  Gormán made an affirmative gesture. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, for old Bishop Luachan, panting with the exertion, was now limping slowly over to join them. Eadulf introduced him.

  ‘Excellent,’ Gormán smiled. ‘They feared you were dead at Delbna Mór.’

  ‘Is my community safe? The raiders did not harm it?’ the old man immediately asked.

  ‘It is untouched,’ replied the warrior.

  ‘Who is with you?’ asked Eadulf wonderingly, as he observed the warriors now rounding up the survivors of the dibergach.

  ‘Irél and members of the Fianna have joined Ardgal and some members of the Cinél Cairpre. We made the attack together. It was Fidelma’s plan. Come, we’d better find her and Caol.’

  There was a quiet over the Hag’s Hill now, a curious quiet broken only by cries of pain from those wounded and dying. Dawn had broken over the hills, throwing a threatening red light across the scene. It was almost symbolic as it lit the carnage, but, of course, all it presaged was the bad weather to come. However, the sight that it lit was a bloody one.

  Of the attacking force, only six had been killed and seven wounded. Of the raiders, some thirty had been killed and more than forty wounded. The others had surrendered, including most of the women.

  After their simple but heartfelt reunion, Eadulf and Fidelma joined Irél in examining the dead. Eadulf realised that he had seen no sign of Cuan among the dead or survivors, and quickly told Fidelma of the man’s presence among the dibergach.

  For a second time they meticulously examined the bodies of the dead, as well as the wounded and the prisoners, but there was no trace of the warrior from Tara.

  ‘A pity,’ said Fidelma. ‘He must have escaped during the attack.’

  They had halted by the body of the tall, black-haired woman whom everyone had called the cean
nard, the leader.

  ‘Who was she?’ asked Fidelma. This woman had nearly taken her life.

  ‘She was apparently a priestess of their cult, but I heard no one call her by her real name,’ Eadulf said. ‘They addressed her as ceannard or leader.’

  ‘I’ll have the prisoners questioned,’ offered Irél, who had joined them. ‘Perhaps one of them will know who she is and can be persuaded to tell us.’ He glanced down at the body. ‘Strange,’ he muttered.

  Fidelma looked at him with interest. ‘What is strange?’

  ‘For a moment I thought there was something familiar about her face.’

  ‘Now you mention it,’ muttered Eadulf, ‘I remember thinking the same thing when she was questioning me.’

  Irél sighed: ‘All faces in death become distorted and perhaps it is because we look on her in death that we see familiarity in it.’

  Fidelma made no comment but regarded the dead priestess for a few moments more before turning down the hill to join Caol and Gormán who were standing talking with Bishop Luachan and Ardgal.

  A warrior had approached Irél and was talking to him with some animation. The commander of the Fianna called Fidelma back.

  ‘You were asking about Cuan, lady. One of my men recognised him. He and another man escaped. They were riding eastward. A third man was wounded as he tried to go with them. He has given us some interesting information … after some persuasion.’ Irél smiled without humour.

  Fidelma frowned with disapproval but did not comment.

  ‘What information?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘They had already grown tired of riding with these raiders and were planning to leave for Alba, to the kingdom of the Dál Riada on the seaboard of the Gael. The man said that when Cuan joined them he had a heavy plate — that was how he described it — a plate of silver in his saddlebag. He gave it to the woman — the ceannard — but when the attack started and he decide to leave with his companions, they stole it back and Cuan took it with him.’

  ‘So they are now heading for the coast?’ There was a tone of excitement in Fidelma’s voice.

  ‘For the Bóinn River,’ confirmed lrél. ‘Cuan told them he knew of a ship currently anchored there whose owner, he felt, was the sort who would take them across the Sruth na Maoile for a small consideration.’

  ‘Sruth na Maoile — where’s that?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘The strait of water that separates the two Dál Riadas, the one in Éireann and the one in Alba. Apparently, the owner of this ship has no liking for us. He is the one whom Cenn Faelad rebuked in the market a few days ago.’

  Eadulf’s eyes widened. ‘Verbas of Peqini?’

  ‘The same,’ confirmed Irél.

  It was at noon the next day that Fidelma and Eadulf were part of a group of five riders trotting along the track which approached the banks of the great River Bóinn. They had entered the wooded plain where the Bóinn, flowing from the southern hills northward, encountered the powerful Dubh Abhainn, flowing from the west from the great Loch Rath Mór, the lakeof the big fortress. The two rivers joined forces to swing eastwards to the sea north of Tara. The settlement at their juncture was curiously called An Uaimh, the cave. The river here was deep enough for some vessels to move up from the coast to anchor. So the settlement, at this confluence of the rivers, was an excellent spot for traders and merchants to meet. It was also the principal town of the Clann Colmáin, according to Ardgal.

  Ardgal had agreed to join Fidelma and Eadulf on the journey back to Tara although Fidelma had made it clear that she must first find the ship of Verbas of Peqini and question Cuan. Bishop Luachan had promised to follow them to Tara as soon as his ankle was attended to. He could not add a great deal more to the facts that they had already garnered about his visit to Sechnussach on the night before the assassination. Bishop Luachan had been adamant that the silver disk that he had discovered with Brother Diomsach would be the key to the discovering of the real Roth Fáil, the wheel of destiny, which was so eagerly sought by the dibergach and their strange female priestess. He confirmed that the day before Sechnussach’s murder, he had placed the silver disk in the hands of the High King. Ardgal could only give evidence of Dubh Duin’s character but he was keen to exonerate his clan from being wholehearted supporters of their late chief. However, in any presentation to the Great Assembly, both would be needed as witnesses to what had happened on the Hag’s Mountain.

  The settlement of An Uaimh was fairly quiet as the five rode in, but they noticed with some satisfaction that there were three large ocean-going ships tied up against the wooden quays. An enquiry made to one man, lounging against bales of sheep’s wool destined for transport beyond the seas, brought forth the information that the tall masted black vessel was from Gaul and that it was indeed the ship of the merchant named Verbas of Peqini.

  When they started to move towards it, the man called them back.

  ‘If you want to trade with the stranger, he is over at the bruden yonder.’ He indicated one of the quayside inns.

  Fidelma turned to Gormán. ‘Take our horses to that other inn,’ she instructed, pointing to a building at the opposite end of the quayside. ‘Make sure they are watered, rubbed down and rested. Then come and join us.’

  ‘Why not take them with us, lady?’ asked Gormán. ‘After all, we are going to an inn, aren’t we?’

  Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘That’s a sailors’ inn. The one back there has stables; this one doesn’t.’

  Caol did not hide his grin at his comrade’s irritation. ‘A logical observation,’ he said smugly.

  As they began to walk away, a cry of pain rang out behind them, loud and clear. Caol, who was leading, halted and caused those behind him to do so as well. He glanced uneasily towards Fidelma and unsheathed his sword.

  ‘That’s a child’s cry,’ Fidelma observed grimly.

  The cry came again and before anyone could move, the door of the sailors’ inn opened and a small boy darted out; he ran unseeingly towards them, fear on his face. At the last moment, he saw them, tried to avoid them but collided with Brother Eadulf. For a few seconds, the boy struggled and then, seeing the silver crucifix around Eadulf’s neck, he stared up with a sudden hope in his eyes. He did not seem to recognise him as Cenn Faelad’s companion at the market in Tara.

  ‘Help me!’ he cried. ‘Please. If you are a priest of the Christian god, protect me.’

  Eadulf said gently: ‘Of course, boy. There is nothing to fear. I promise.’

  The lad almost collapsed in Eadulf’s arms.

  Just then, the door of the inn burst open again and a tall man of dark appearance lurched out. He was holding a small length of leather in his hand and stared moodily round. Spotting the boy, he began to move forward with an unsteady gait and a grin of triumph. He had clearly been drinking.

  Caol halted the man with his sword-point and demanded to know what he was doing.

  Eadulf recognised the man immediately.

  ‘It’s the merchant,’ he said quietly to Fidelma. ‘Verbas of Peqini.’

  Fidelma regarded the man in disapproval.

  Verbas of Peqini looked at the group, and lowered his hand with the flagellate. Swaying, he tried to encompass them in an oily smile and said something in a strange tongue. Meanwhile, Eadulf had been examining the boy’s face and arms.

  ‘This child has been badly beaten, Fidelma,’ he said.

  Verbas seemed to guess what he was saying. He looked at Fidelma and shrugged, then said something more in his own language.

  ‘The child is his slave,’ Eadulf volunteered. ‘He acts as this man’s translator.’

  Fidelma had already noticed the metal slave ring around the boy’s neck. Her frown deepened.

  ‘What language do you speak?’ she asked Verbas, resorting to Latin. ‘Do you speak this language?’

  The man nodded slowly. ‘I speak a little,’ he answered, to Eadulf’s surprise. When Eadulf had first met Verbas at the market in Tara, it had not occurred to him that he woul
d speak Latin. But, of course, the Roman Empire had spread its tongue throughout the known world as a language of trade and commerce, and not only the language of the conquering legions. Any merchant worth his salt would need to know Latin in order to conduct his business.

  ‘What is happening here? Why are you maltreating that child?’ demanded Fidelma.

  Verbas frowned. ‘Who are you, lady, who asks this? I am not used to women questioning me.’

  ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, a lawyer and sister to a king,’ she said, trying to find the right words to translate her authority.

  The man’s eyes widened a little. ‘You have authority in this land?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then know, lady, this boy is my slave. He has just tried to escape from me: I am legally entitled to capture and chastise him. His life is mine to do with as I will. I have bought it.’

  Assid had now recognised Eadulf and spoke to him. ‘Lord, it was said if I managed to escape I would find sanctuary in this land. I escaped and ask sanctuary. The great lord at Tara promised.’

  ‘So he did,’ agreed Eadulf in a kindly fashion.

  Fidelma, hearing the boy speak, turned to him. ‘You speak our language well, child. What is your name?’

  ‘I am Assid, lady.’

  ‘Assíd? It is an ancient name in our land, from one of the ancestors of those they call the hounds of the sea, a tribe that live in Connacht. Are you of this land?’

  ‘I do not know, lady. I only know that I want to find sanctuary here.

  Eadulf quickly explained what Cenn Faelad had promised, should the boy escape.

  She nodded thoughtfully. Meanwhile Verbas, who had not understood this exchange since it was in the language of Éireann, was looking uncomfortable.

  ‘The child is my property, bought fairly,’ he repeated in Latin. ‘I have a right to punish him for trying to escape me. I now intend to take him back to my ship.’