In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘Hear me,’ said Conor, growing solemn. ‘We will not do this if everyone is not agreed. I have told you my thoughts, but you must both make up your own minds. We go together, as one—or we do not go at all.’

  Donal, gazing steadily at Conor, said, ‘Our friend makes a good case. Lord Cahir may have been Ardan’s friend, but he owes nothing to us and might well hold that Conor is the traitor the rumours would make him out to be. But see now, Conor has good and valuable experience with the Brigantes and knows how things stand there. Since we are about making the best of a bad lot, I say the Brigantes offer our best hope of changing our fortunes. I am satisfied.’ To Conor, he said, ‘I am with you, brother, whatever may come our way.’

  Fergal regarded his swordbrother with an odd expression. ‘Have I said otherwise?’ he complained. ‘I was about to say the very same, so I was.’

  ‘You are with us then?’ asked Donal.

  ‘I am wounded that you would ever think otherwise,’ replied Fergal rolling his eyes. ‘Sorely wounded.’

  ‘Then it is decided,’ declared Conor. ‘We go to the Brigantes and make a place for ourselves in Queen Sceana’s court.’

  ‘And then?’ wondered Fergal.

  ‘And then,’ said Conor, turning his eyes to the south. ‘We work to win back our homeland from the enemy.’

  11

  Two days of wet and blustery travel over rain-drenched hills and through wind-scoured valleys brought the exiles to the gates of Aintrén. Unlike the rough, rock-rimmed lands around Dúnaird, the country of the Brigantes was softer, rounder, and liberally seamed with rivers and streams abounding in trout and freshwater clams.

  The three travellers had paused to rest at Tara, but did not linger long. From a distance, the hill was as mysterious and majestic as ever, but bleak and lonely without the Oenach camps to populate the surrounding plains. Since the passing of the last true high king of Eirlandia, no one had possessed Tara or settle there; instead, it was used as a place where kings and lords of all Eirlandia’s tribes could gather to discuss matters of mutual concern in both formal and informal councils and gatherings. Out of respect for the ideal of sovereignty it represented, Tara Hill was considered sacred and left alone. So, after a drink and a bit of hard bread and cheese, the travellers journeyed on, arriving at the Brigantes stronghold as the damp day gave way to evening.

  Aintrén’s high timber walls had been renewed and enlarged under the late Brecan’s rule to form an impressive crown atop an imposing steep-sided hill. Below the palisade and encircling the hill were four concentric ring ditches—three containing brambles and nettles, and one filled with putrid water—to help stifle the enthusiasm of any would-be attackers. The fortress commanded clean views both ways along two broad valleys that contained the numerous fields and grazing lands that supplied the realm with grain and cattle. The chief stronghold of the Brigantes, Aintrén was impressive as it was intimidating.

  ‘It is a bigger place than I thought it might be,’ Fergal said as they stood observing from the foot of the hill on which the stronghold had been planted. ‘I knew them for a wealthy lot, but never so much as this.’

  ‘All you see and more,’ Conor told him. ‘Their tribe numbers eight clans, and each have a ráth or dún—along with many farms. They have more pigs and cattle than the two next biggest tribes combined. The warband is larger than any hereabouts so that other kings are paying tribute—at least they were paying while Brecan lived.’

  ‘To judge by what I see’—Donal’s hand made a wide sweep taking in the hill and both valleys—‘it does appear Lord Brecan was well down the road to the high king’s throne. Had he lived, I do think he could have made it.’

  ‘Ach, well now we’ll never know,’ said Fergal. ‘Nor, will we ever know whether they’ll be giving us food and lodging though we stand here flapping our tongues all night.’ To Conor, he said, ‘Lead the way, brother, and we shall soon discover if you are as highly esteemed within those gates as you imagine yourself.’

  ‘That we will.’ Conor gazed at the high walls on the hill rising above them, but made no move to proceed.

  ‘Today at all?’ asked Fergal after a moment. ‘Or is it second thoughts you are having?’

  ‘Nay, nay, never that. I was only thinking how best to present myself.’

  ‘Try the truth of the matter,’ suggested Donal. ‘That has sometimes been known to work wonders.’

  Conor gave him a raw look and, lifting the reins, urged Búrach up the long ramp to the gates, where they were met by a single guard wielding a sword and shield. A young man with a dark shag of hair, he was wrapped in a green cloak against the coming evening chill. ‘Greetings, friends,’ called the man. ‘Stand easy and declare your intentions.’ He moved forward a step or two, then stopped. ‘Conor? Is it you?’

  ‘Ach, Galart, do you not know me, friend?’

  The guardsman stared and the shield slipped down a little. ‘It is Conor!’ He stared. ‘But, they … they said you were dead.’

  ‘Nay, but not for lack of trying,’ Conor told him. He slid off the grey and strode boldly up to the young warrior. ‘But it is good to see you, my friend.’ He nodded toward the settlement inside the walls. ‘How are things within?’

  ‘Not happy—nay, not at all. I am not lying when I say they have rarely been worse.’

  ‘Well, worry not.’ Conor gave him a friendly swat on the shoulder. ‘We are here to help.’ Indicating his friends, he said, ‘Fergal, Donal—this is Galart, a right worthy spearman and foremost of the warriors of the rank.’

  ‘We were sorry to hear about the murder of your king and champion,’ offered Fergal, and Donal added, ‘I expect they will be sorely missed.’

  ‘That is not the half of it,’ replied the young warrior glumly. ‘The tribe and clans have been in turmoil ever since—and there is no end to it.’

  ‘Will you let us in?’ asked Conor. ‘We have come to pledge our swords to the aid of your queen.’

  Galart hesitated, his good-natured face creased in thought.

  ‘Why this reluctance?’ asked Conor after a moment. ‘Is something amiss?’

  ‘I am under instruction not to let anyone pass.’

  Conor glanced at his friends. ‘Is it that my friends are strangers to you?’

  Galart offered a reluctant nod. ‘Aye, to be sure.’

  ‘Even friends of the court?’ wondered Conor.

  ‘Ach! Especially them!’ cried Galart. ‘You have hit on it there, brother. These past weeks we have had so many so-called friends and well-wishers that our lady Sceana’s store of hospitality is fair exhausted. She craves a day of peace and quiet without the siege of suitors. She asked that no one be admitted from sunrise to sunrise this day.’

  ‘Suitors?’ echoed Conor.

  ‘Noblemen of one clan or another who believe she will be needing a king to rule here,’ explained Galart. ‘Not a day goes by but that someone doesn’t come thinking to claim the prize.’

  ‘That is not seemly,’ Conor replied. ‘Not seemly at all. But, see now, if you let us in my friends and I will promise not to make any demands on the queen or her hospitality. What do you say?’

  ‘Are all gates everywhere to be closed against us now?’ muttered Fergal to Donal. ‘I begin to think so.’

  Ignoring him, Conor continued to press his case. ‘You know me, Galart. And, as I think you also will recall, she held me in good favour when I lived among you. I was her chosen champion, remember?’

  Still the young warrior hesitated, chewing his lip, wavering, but holding firm to his queen’s command.

  ‘Also, I can tell you now,’ Conor leaned close to confide, ‘I was with Lord Brecan when he was killed. One day soon, your queen may like to hear what I can tell her about that dreadful night.’

  ‘Then it is true? You were there? I heard as much.’

  ‘I was in the thick of the fight. And I alone escaped—sorely wounded and unable to return until this very day.’

  Galart regarded
the three men before him, looking from one to the other, shifting from foot to foot with indecision.

  ‘If I know the queen at all, she will want to hear that her husband died with a sword in his hand,’ Conor said softly. ‘And she will want to learn his last words.’

  Galart nodded. ‘Do you promise not to make any untoward demands?’

  ‘You have my word,’ said Conor, ‘and that of my friends.’

  ‘My word is pledged,’ offered Fergal.

  ‘And mine,’ said Donal. ‘No demands.’

  The young warrior looked from one to the other and back again. ‘Then wait here,’ he sighed and, turning to the gate, rapped on it with the butt of his spear. He called to the gateman on the other side and was admitted a few moments later.

  The three travellers waited in the growing twilight, listening to the wind as it freshened from the west, driving cold, damp air before it. ‘Early winter,’ remarked Donal. ‘I see snow before Samhain.’

  Fergal grunted. ‘What is taking so long?’

  Finally, the gate opened once more and Galart poked his head through the gap. ‘You can come in,’ he told them. ‘And you can explain to Médon how it is you got past me.’ At Conor’s wondering glance, he said, ‘Aye, Cethern’s kinsman is battlechief now.’

  ‘Is he now? Well, do not worry about Médon,’ Conor told him, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘He will be more than happy to see me, I will make sure of that.’

  With this final assurance, Galart disappeared and the heavy timber door opened a little wider to admit the travellers and their horses. Conor thanked his young friend for allowing them in, and then led his party into the great yard. Galart followed them through and commanded the gateman, ‘Help me bar the gate. No one else gains entrance tonight.’

  The three entered the stronghold without attracting much notice and paused to take in the place. Twilight had fallen and there were but few people about. Smoke from the various hearths and cooking fires of the ráth drifted low across the stone-paved square in pale, many-stranded ropes. ‘The hall is there,’ Conor said, pointing across the open, empty yard to the large steeply roofed building confronting them. He indicated another, smaller house to the left of the hall—thatched with river reed and with painted doorposts, a small iron brazier burning outside, it appeared a much more convivial place than the king’s hall. ‘That is the queen’s house,’ Conor told them, then pointed out the slate-roofed Bards’ House to the right of the hall and the foremost of the warriors’ house across the yard.

  ‘Is there a guest lodge, then?’ asked Fergal.

  ‘There is,’ replied Conor. ‘And that is it over there.’ He indicated a tidy house with a blue-painted door. ‘For visitors—though I never saw any.’

  ‘Did you never stay there?’ wondered Donal.

  The memory of his delightful reception by the queen floated into his mind. Conor smiled and shook his head. ‘That particular pleasure was denied me.’

  ‘But other pleasures were not, I reckon.’ Fergal took in the expanse of the yard and the situation of the houses and whistled quietly under his breath. ‘Tidy place, this. I like it.’

  ‘Brecan ruled it well,’ Conor allowed. ‘Whatever else you may hear, he did not neglect his people.’

  They stood taking in the mood of the place. All seemed quiet enough, if somewhat bereft of the usual activity Conor remembered. The one or two folk they saw hurried about their business with heads down and shoulders hunched. Galart rejoined them and led them across an empty yard and, after tying their horses to a post outside the hall, they climbed the low wooden steps to the entrance of the hall. Unlike the times when the king was in residence, there was no guard on the door, nor could they hear any sound from within.

  Galart pulled aside the oxhide covering and pushed open the wooden door, leading them into the Brigantes king’s hall. A bare handful of warriors sat in near darkness along the board. Galart clapped his hands for attention and shouted, ‘Brothers! Look who has come to cheer us!’

  Half the board rose as one and three hurried from their places, hailing Conor, gripping his arms in welcome and pounding him on the back; others called out to be recognised.

  ‘They seem glad to see him,’ observed Donal, watching from a few paces away. ‘That’s a good sign.’

  ‘With any luck, there may be a jar or two in it yet.’ Donal glanced away from the glad reception and took in the expansive room. It was at least twice the size of Ardan’s at Dúnaird, with large rooftrees made from pine trunks and painted red and green. A long low table lined one side and benches ran the length of it. There were booths and ranks of fleece-covered pallets for sleeping, and a generous hearth, now lit only with a barely sputtering flame, in the centre of the room and, above it, a large round smoke hole; a few smoky torches fluttered from iron sconces affixed to nearby rooftrees and at either end of the great rectangular room. These did little to dispel the heavy shadows of the place; gloom seemed to come seeping out of the corners. ‘At least it is warm,’ he concluded, ‘and dry.’

  ‘At least,’ agreed Fergal, eyeing the long board where large platters of meat and bread and bowls of broth sat waiting beside numerous jars and beakers of ale.

  Then, among the little group of welcomers, there appeared a warrior who stood a bit taller than the others—almost as tall as Fergal—and slightly older than Galart and the others by two or three years. He was dressed in a dark brown siarc and breecs, and wore his hair short, but for a long braid at the side of his head; around his throat he wore a torc of twisted copper strands. Conor saw him as the crowd around him parted to allow the newcomer to join them. ‘See here!’ called Galart. ‘Conor is back from the dead.’

  ‘So I see,’ replied the newcomer. There was neither smile nor welcome on his face or in his tone.

  ‘Greetings, Médon,’ said Conor, squaring his shoulders to meet the man face-to-face. ‘I have returned.’

  ‘Like a dog to its vomit,’ said the haughty warrior with a toss of his head. ‘Here you are again—and I ask myself why.’ He pushed his mouth into a frown and looked at Conor from head to foot. ‘You should have stayed dead. But here you are and I must ask you where were you on the night our king and warleader were killed?’

  Galart made to intercede. ‘This is no place—’

  Conor put out a hand to silence him and said, ‘I was there. I saw them die.’

  ‘Because you betrayed them into the hands of the enemy.’

  This declaration caused an immediate cooling of their warm reception; the Brigantes warriors looked to Conor to challenge the allegation made against him.

  ‘There goes our ale portion,’ moaned Donal.

  ‘And our warm bed,’ commiserated Fergal. ‘I knew this was too good to be true.’

  Médon, staring in stark defiance at Conor, lifted an imperious hand and said, ‘Well? You’ve heard the accusation. What do you have to say for yourself?’

  Conor looked his accuser in the eye and answered, ‘I was there, aye, and I saw them fall. And I can tell you that your king was struck down by the hand of Balor Evil Eye, and Mog Ruith died by the same knife. Cethern, your uncle, fought bravely and well, but was overcome and died trying to protect them. Even so, thanks to Cethern, I was able to make good my escape.’ He looked to the warriors around him. ‘Had it been in my power to save them, I would have spared nothing. On my honour, I would not have left the fight without them.’

  ‘Hear him!’ shouted someone from among the ranks.

  But Médon was not finished. ‘If you escaped as you say,’ he scoffed, ‘then where have you been all this time? It should have been you who brought us word of the murder. And yet, we had to learn of it from the Scálda filth who returned the body of our lord tied to his horse—and that of our warleader chopped into crow bait and left in pieces along the trail.’

  ‘As to that—’ Conor began, then hesitated.

  ‘Well?’ demanded his accuser. ‘Was it cowardice? Knowing you had deserted your lo
rd in the hot blood of battle? Or, were you his betrayer?’ A slow, superior smile slid across Médon’s smooth face. ‘What was it then? Coward? Or traitor?’

  At the utterance of the hateful word, all eyes turned to Conor and his mouth went dry. He had to say something. Yet, anything he said would only make his position more precarious: to tell the truth could not but offend the memory of the king and incite the rancour of those whose goodwill he was trying to win. But, say nothing and his silence would serve to further impugn his integrity.

  ‘Answer!’ called one of the warriors. The word rang in the hall like a judgement. Another shouted, ‘Tell us the truth!’

  Silence descended upon the hall in a stifling fog of doubt and distrust.

  12

  ‘The truth is, Conor was not the only one to escape the enemy’s trap that night.’ It was Fergal who came to Conor’s defence, his voice loud in the fraught silence. ‘He saved others and was sorely wounded defending their retreat. He shed his own blood to save them and they walk the land of the living today because he put his life at risk to save them.’

  This bold declaration caused an outcry. ‘Show us the wounds!’ shouted some. ‘The wounds will tell.’

  Médon allowed the shouting to continue a moment, then raised his hands for quiet. When he could be heard again, he fixed Conor with a fearsome gaze and demanded, ‘Your man here says you were sorely wounded. Is this true?’

  ‘It is that.’

  ‘Who were these others?’ called someone from the ranks. ‘What tribes?’

  ‘They were fa—’ began Fergal.

  But Conor cut him off. Turning to address the warriors, he said, ‘You asked to see the wounds—I will show you.’ With that he drew back the sleeve of his siarc and turned his arm for all gathered there to see the puckered red skin of a fresh scar. He then pulled the hem of his siarc from his belt, raised it, and displayed the ugly crease in his side—despite his lengthy convalescence with the faéry the wound was still livid and with a virulent appearance to match its colour—a testament to his continuing recovery. The sight brought some gasps from the warriors who knew well enough that such injuries were not easy to heal, much less survive. Conor raised the siarc higher to reveal the long, ragged gash on his chest—shallow, true, but impressive enough in light of the others.