‘So we ramble around in hostile territory—as wonderful as that might be, it does nothing to help us find Evil Eye.’
‘I can find him,’ Donal said, his voice taking on that rare tone of authority. ‘I will find him.’
Fergal stared, and Conor said, ‘He has the Second Sight.’
‘I knew it!’ cried Fergal. ‘I knew there was that different about him. Why am I always the last to know these things?’
‘It was a gifting, so to speak, from our time with the faéry,’ Donal explained. ‘I did not care to make much of it until I grew more certain of it and knew I could trust it.’
‘See now,’ said Conor. ‘We could find Balor. This plan is not so impossible after all.’
‘Nay, perhaps not,’ granted Fergal. ‘But it is still mad. What if we do this and we fail? It will be the death of us.’
‘Then at least we will go to our graves with honour and the knowledge that no one in this island realm could have done more,’ said Conor. ‘The Scálda must be driven from Eirlandia—if there is even the smallest chance we can succeed, then we would be cowards not to try.’
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Fergal tugged on the end of his moustache and frowned. ‘You are fearless, brother, no man alive can say otherwise. But tell me now, how do you imagine we will steal our way into Balor’s fortress, slay him, and flee the filthy place without being seen? Had we Rhiannon’s charmed belt we might have a slender chance to succeed. Without it, we will surely fail.’
‘A faéry charm is a useful thing, to be sure,’ granted Conor. ‘Then again, I seem to remember that we have crept into an enemy stronghold before without the aid of fair Rhiannon’s silver girdle. It is how we found the faéry in the first place.’
Having exhausted their arguments, both men turned to Donal, who was sitting on a nearby stump with his chin in his fist. He saw their expectant expressions and raised his head. ‘Ach, now you are wanting to know what I think?’
‘It would make a change from listening to our talkative friend here,’ replied Conor.
‘Tell him, brother,’ said Fergal. ‘This plan of his is no plan at all. It is a design for disaster.’
Donal pursed his lips and, for a moment, seemed to gaze beyond either of them and into the woodland shadows gathering around their forest camp. Then he gave a little shake—as if with a sudden chill—and, nodding slightly, said, ‘The chances of success are very thin, it is true—and the chances of failure prodigious. Fergal is right, such an undertaking would likely end in disaster.’
‘At last!’ crowed Fergal. ‘Donal agrees with me. Let us hear no more about this mad notion.’
Conor stared aghast at the two of them. ‘Am I to believe what I’m hearing? Donal, is this so?’
Wrapping his cloak around him like a druid, Donal rose slowly in the dying light, but said nothing, merely stood gazing into the fastness of his own thoughts.
‘Tell him you agree with me and let’s be done with this,’ insisted Fergal.
‘Fergal is right in that death and disaster is likely. Conor is right in that we have done this before,’ Donal replied at last. ‘I see—’
Fergal rolled his eyes. ‘Ach, aye, so we did—and Mádoc lost his life because of it, and little Huw—and you yourself were wounded to the death if not for the faéry saving you. If we go into that accursed place again we deserve every ill that befalls us and more besides.’ He crossed his arms over his chest in staunch defiance. ‘What our friend here proposes is a path to a swift and unpleasant death. It is a mad plan and I won’t be hearing any more about it.’ Thrusting out an imploring hand to Donal, he said, ‘You said so yourself just now.’
‘So I did.’ Then, turning his gaze on Conor, Donal said, ‘It could be done.’
‘I knew it!’ Conor jumped up from his perch. ‘Aye, I knew it.’ He stalked around the campfire, pounding his fist into his palm. ‘Listen now—if we kept our wits about us and travelled at night, as we did with Mádoc, we could move about without attracting attention to ourselves.’ A slow smile spread across his face for the first time that day—or many days. ‘We will find Balor Berugderc, and we will strike him down in his fortress before anyone knew we were there.’
‘Impossible!’ protested Fergal. ‘You cannot be making a plan that will only succeed by the enemy not knowing you were there. You must plan in such a way as it makes no difference whether the Scálda know or not.’ He, too, began pacing around the little clearing. ‘What if we made out that we were Scálda … but nay, I am never so ugly. It would never deceive them.’ He gave his head a weary shake. ‘Ach, what would I give for a bowl of ale just now. All this thinking has given me a powerful thirst.’
Médon and the rest of Conor’s newly fledged fianna had spent the day foraging in the surrounding woodland. They now came trooping back with a small buck and several hares. While Médon, Galart, and Calbhan set about skinning and gutting the day’s hunt, Aedd set to work building up the fire to begin roasting the hares and a haunch of the venison, and Dearg began mixing oats with some of the blood to make a porridge.
When all their chores were finished, they all gathered around the fire to watch Dearg cook their supper. While the meat sizzled on spits made from green oak branches, the evening faded and an early moon rose to shine through the scattered cloud cover. They fell to discussing how best to get the necessary supplies to keep themselves from starving: oats and barley, butter, cheese, salt, ale and the like—all the things they would need to keep themselves alive now that they had neither tribe nor home to call their own.
Dearg shared out the meal and, by the time the deer haunch had been pared to the bone and the bowls emptied, they had all convinced themselves that as they were the best and bravest of men they would thrive wonderfully well. Conor did not mention his plot to kill Balor Berugderc, nor did Fergal or Donal so much as hint that such a daring scheme might be under consideration. In truth, there was no real plan—merely an intention, and one that was rapidly hardening into a desire to strike a blow at the beating heart of the beast that had consumed so much of Eirlandia, its land, and its people.
Instead, Conor allowed his men to assume that they would be spending the next few days securing provisions for their impending adventures, never letting on what those adventures might be, much less that they would take place beyond the borders in the lands the Scálda stole. He hinted at daring raids, and taking Scálda horses and spoils, but never a word about wanting Balor’s bloody head on the end of his spear.
They all went to their rest in good spirits and the next morning the newly formed fianna gathered their scant belongings and turned their faces to the south and the deadlands beyond. Riding easily, they worked their way through a region of low hills, steadily rising toward the rocky spine that cut across the island and marked the boundary limits of Dé Danann territory. They passed several Brigantes holdings—places where the Aintrén warriors were known, and where they were able to obtain a few supplies to bolster their paltry store. At one farming settlement, they traded half the venison carcass for oats and fodder for the horses and a bag of bósaill.
Two days later, the craggy spine of Druim Orchán rose before them; known as the Ridge of Lament, it served to divide Dé Danann territories from those under enemy control. Here they paused to observe the land and search for a suitable place from which to launch their audacious raid.
Donal moved up beside Conor as they rode along. ‘You have to tell the fianna what we aim to do. You cannot begin as battlechief of this warband this way. It is a dangerous course we have set before us—’
‘I have not yet decided on our course.’
Donal regarded him for a moment, his eyes narrowed. ‘Aye, you have—and they should know. They are your fianna. They have sworn life and blood to you. It is not right to keep this from them any longer.’
‘You’re right,’ Conor agreed with a sigh. ‘I’ll tell them tonight.’
Some little time later, they stopped to rest and water the horses and fill th
eir water skins at a tiny rill trickling along a low rocky bed. ‘Just over that great hump of rock there,’ Fergal, pointing up at the jagged blue line in the near distance, ‘lie the deadlands. Everything to the south is Scálda territory.’ To a man, the fianna gazed up the rising trail to the jagged horizon. Dark against a white, featureless sky, the stark edge seemed a desolate and forbidding barrier. Aedd, the youngest of the warriors, asked, ‘Why is it called the deadlands?’
‘Ach, well, when we were here before, it was a blighted wasteland,’ Fergal explained. ‘The trees and brush all cut down—burned to sticks and stumps, the settlements and strongholds destroyed, farms and fields ruined, too, and all the wells and waters, loughs and rivers poisoned. Whatever the Scálda could not carry off, they burned.’
‘You were here before?’ wondered Galart. ‘When was this then?’
‘It was after that Oenach—the last one your lord Brecan hosted. The one where we caught the spy.’
‘None of us were at that gathering,’ said Galart. ‘But, here now, I thought no one had ventured into Scálda lands since the Black Ships came.’
‘They are not Scálda lands,’ Conor told him. ‘They are Dé Danann lands—lands the Scálda stole. Aye, and one day we will have them back.’
‘Are Scálda strongholds very big,’ asked Aedd, ‘and well defended?’
‘Do they really have walls of iron?’ wondered Dearg.
‘Ha!’ cried Fergal. ‘Who told you such a daft thing?’
The dark-haired young warrior shrugged and glanced around at his swordbrothers for their tacit confirmation. ‘That’s what we heard.’
‘Neither walls nor gates of iron,’ Conor told them. ‘The walls of their strongholds are only timber—much like the walls of Aintrén or Dúnaird, or any others you have ever seen. And that is because many of the best ones they have were built by Dé Danann tribes driven out by the dog-eaters.’
‘To be sure,’ agreed Fergal quickly. ‘Even so, there are some made by the Scálda and these are never so strong. For all they are poorly made—with many gaps filled in with nothing but sticks and mud. We were able to walk right through those walls like smoke, and—’
Calbhan, who had been listening to all this, spoke up. ‘You mean to say you entered a Scálda stronghold?’ Dearg, standing next to him, added, ‘With Scálda in it?’
‘That we did,’ replied Conor. ‘And more.’
‘If we told you the half,’ said Fergal, ‘you would take us for braggarts or liars. Ach, you would think us old wives reciting a tale grown large in the telling.’
‘Yet, I would hear it,’ Calbhan said; indicating the others, he said, ‘I think we all would like to hear it.’ He smiled as he added, ‘Not to worry, we already think you an old wife.’
‘Insolent pup,’ muttered Fergal. Yet, cheered by the prospect of recounting his daring deeds, he drew breath to begin. ‘This is the way of it.…’
‘Hear it you shall—but not just now,’ interrupted Conor quickly. ‘We will let this old wife tell his tale tonight around the hearth. But if there is to be a hearth at all, we must first find a place to make camp before we lose the light.’
They spent what was left of the dwindling day on the ever-rising trail searching for a place near a stream or pool and a big enough patch of land for grazing the horses. As the sun dipped into the west, flaring briefly in a bright yellow blaze before sinking behind dark incoming clouds, they came to an outcrop of grey, lichen-covered stone—the base of which formed a rock wall half again as tall as a man. The outcrop faced the west and captured the sunlight and a thin little spring issued from a crease nearby to form a small pool before trailing off as a tiny burn that tumbled in fits and starts down the hill. To the south of this stone bastion grew a stand of slender rowan and hazel trees. Here, they would be sheltered from the harsh northeasterly winds and would not have to go far to refill their water skins and water the horses. A short distance down the slope gave onto a scrubby line of scrawny elder, stunted elm, and lonely hawthorn trees where they could get enough firewood to cook their food and warm themselves.
The fianna set to work at once, each man to his accustomed chore: picketing and feeding the horses, erecting the shelter, gathering firewood, and all things necessary to make life in camp bearable if not exactly comfortable. They laboured with the efficiency born of practice and soon a fire crackled in the fire ring and a roof of cut boughs and branches lashed to a willow frame formed a crude roof over their heads. When all was finished and the meal was over, they huddled around the fire to hear Fergal tell his tale.
He began by saying, ‘Well now, as you know, Lord Brecan mac Lergath had summoned the kings to a special council. Conor, Donal, and I were not among our king’s ardféne, but as it was to be a big gathering we had it in our minds to go and see what we would see.
‘As it happens, we had fought running battles with the Scálda all summer and in one skirmish we won seven horses. Conor put it in our king’s mind to make a gift of these horses to Lord Brecan and others as a show of goodwill—and it was in exchange for the care of these gift horses that we were allowed to attend. All swam along prettily enough until we fell foul of our battlechief’s sense of propriety and pique and we were commanded to leave, which we did.’ He chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. ‘Ha! We left the Oenach, taking the water buckets with us.’
‘As was only right,’ put in Donal, ‘seeing as they were our buckets.’
‘Ach, who is telling this story—you or me?’ demanded Fergal with a stern look. Donal apologised and Fergal continued. ‘We left Mag Rí early the next day and had not travelled far before Lord Arden sent a rider to fetch us back, for it did seem our absence proved more irksome than our presence. We turned around and started back—only to find that good messenger attacked by Scálda raiders. We flew to his aid and the battle was both sharp and short. Four dog-eaters killed and one wounded.
‘Back to the gathering we went, taking the wounded one with us to show the assembled lords that enemy spies were skulking about where no spies should be. Imagine our surprise when we presented the injured spy at the gathering only to be told by your man Brecan that it was nothing to worry about. Enemy spies at an Oenach and not a thing to cause a fella a mite of concern? Ach, well, that did not sit well with us, I can tell you. Our Conor took it on himself to challenge Brecan before the assembly and was called a liar and troublemaker for his pains.
‘There was more pain to come, so there was. For, on the way back to camp, four Brigantes warriors—your own kinsmen, truth be told—attacked Conor and thumped him something fierce.’
‘All that is forgotten,’ Conor told them. ‘We settled that long since.’
‘Aye, well, if Donal and I had not come looking for him, Conor would not be sitting here right now,’ continued Fergal. ‘Up we jump and pull our swordbrother from the fight and carry him down to camp where he was in a bad way. Lord Cahir heard about the attack and sent his druid to bind and dress Conor’s wounds and lend a crumb of comfort in his distress. When old Mádoc asked how he had come by his wounds, Conor told him—told him of his suspicions too.’
‘What suspicions?’ asked Aedd, speaking up.
‘Did I not say?’ wondered Fergal. ‘Ach, well, it was in Conor’s mind that the Scálda spies we had caught were sniffing about because someone had told the enemy about the Oenach and how the lords of Eirlandia would be gathered there. Who had told them? Someone who knew well beforehand when and where the gathering would take place. Who had this knowledge? Only Brecan Brigantes. Aye,’ Fergal nodded gravely, ‘and for him to deny the presence of spies when confronted with one in the flesh—and then attack the one who confronted him? Well, it raised a few suspicions as I say. So now, our Conor was not the only one to smell a rat in the granary. Old Mádoc nursed his own misgivings about Lord Brecan’s designs on the high king’s throne. He did more, did Mádoc—he hatched a plan to investigate the matter further.’
The fianna squirmed uncomfortably at
this reference to their king’s misdeeds and they glanced guiltily at one another. ‘Believe me when I say we knew nothing about this,’ said Médon, speaking for them all. ‘Though we have heard much about it since. I can only say I am sorry.’
‘Again I tell you that we put all that behind us,’ Conor said. ‘It happened. It is done. We moved on.’
‘To be sure,’ said Fergal, taking up his tale once more. ‘Old Mádoc needed help to prove his doubts and since Conor shared his misgivings, it fell to Conor to help him. Woe to Conor! For Mádoc’s plan was to show Conor up for a thief and get him cast out of the tribe. With Conor exiled, the two of them were free to go where they would and do what they could to discover the truth about King Brecan and his dealings with the Scálda. The best place to find rats is in their nest, as they say. So, it is to the Scálda that Mádoc and Conor determine to go.’
‘This is where Fergal and I come into it,’ offered Donal, breaking in again. ‘Conor’s exile sat ill with us, so it did. We decided to borrow horses and go after our swordbrother to lend him our aid if he would have it, and so—’
‘Thank you, Donal, that was the very point I was making,’ said Fergal. ‘Well, we could in no wise allow Conor to go off into hostile lands alone with just a dried up old druid for company. So we followed him and caught up with them on the road—and that road led us here, to Druim Orchán.’ He gestured to the rockbound ridge, now invisible in the darkness. ‘Beyond that border lie the lands the Scálda stole, and it was into those lands we went.
‘That first day’s ride was a shock, I can tell you. I close my eyes and see it still … the strongholds destroyed, the farms burned to cinders and all the good, clean waters poisoned and foul … skulls and bones charred black, and not a living thing left alive to tell the tale—nor birds, nor fish, nor squirrels, nor hares, nor the least thing that runs or crawls about the earth or flies above it. Nothing at all but black and barren ground and desolation. We looked upon that sight and swore upon the blades in our hands to drive the Scálda into the sea whence they came and that vow is green as the day we made it.
In the Land of the Everliving Page 17
