‘Old Mádoc, for all his obscure ways, was a canny creature. By means known to none but himself alone, he led us into that ravaged land to where the Scálda reside and we saw some sights along the way. We saw the dog-eaters making iron—cold hard metal for weapons and for round hoops for what purpose we could not guess.’
‘Shield rims!’ called Dearg. Drawn into tale, he could not stop himself interrupting.
‘So we thought, too,’ Fergal told him. ‘But nay—not shield rims, but wheel rims. Slender wheel rims made of iron for the wheels of a thing we had never seen before—’
‘What was it?’ said Calbhan. ‘Wagons?’
‘Nay, not wagons, but war carts.’
‘War carts!’ cried several listeners all at once.
‘Aye,’ Fergal assured them. ‘Carts made of wickerwork and leather and iron, and pulled by two horses. Fast and strong and big enough to carry two or three warriors into battle and away again. The Scálda are making hundreds of these war carts to complete the conquest of Eirlandia begun long since.’
‘How do you know this?’ said Médon.
‘Ach, well, we know because we saw the ore dug from the hills and we saw the forges flare and smoke, and we saw the iron rims heaped high on wagons and brought to a Scálda ráth for keeping. Aye, and we took courage and stole silent as shadows into that enemy stronghold to see storerooms full of these wheel rims waiting for the wheels they were made for.’ He paused, enjoying his listeners’ rapt attention. ‘And in one of those storerooms is where we found the faéry princess—’
‘Faéry!’ shouted the fianna almost to a man. They gaped at Fergal and exchanged astonished glances with one another. ‘Truly?’ said Galart. ‘You have seen one of the faéry?’
‘Aye, and not one only—’
‘And are they as beautiful as people say they are?’ Calbhan wanted to know.
‘All that and more,’ Fergal replied, ‘all that and more. And if you would stop your chatter and hear the rest of the tale you may yet learn something. Well, then, we stole into the stronghold as I say, and in one of the storerooms we found two faéry women bound there with iron chains—as it so happens that iron is very poison to the faéry race. It steals their magic and does slowly kill them. By binding these faéry folk in chains of iron, the Scálda were trying to force them to reveal the secret of their magic. In gaining that, the dog-eaters would gain a potent weapon to wield against us—a weapon against which there would be no defence, a weapon to drive the Dé Danann to their graves for once and forever.
‘But Conor up and says, “Brothers, we would be less than men if we did not free those suffering faéry folk from the wicked creatures who have made them captive.” So that is what we did. We freed them then and there, and in gratitude for our rescue the faéry princess—aye, she is of royal blood—cast a charm on all of us to allow us to walk right out of the fortress full of enemies with no one being the wiser.’
‘Except that is not what happened,’ Donal pointed out.
‘That is not what happened,’ Fergal granted, ‘for just as we rode from the ráth—’
‘You rode?’ said Médon. ‘Where did you get horses?’
‘The Scálda had taken our horses,’ Fergal told him. ‘Did I not say that already?’
‘Nay, brother, you never did.’
‘Ach, well, some Scálda hunters had found our horses where we left them in the wood nearby and took them up to the ráth. But, see, under the enchantment of the faéry charm of concealment, we were able to claim our mounts and ride from the fortress under the very noses of the vile and odious enemy. All the same, the charm was fleeting and began to fade before we could clear the gate, and one of the faéry was pierced by a thrown spear. She carried that wound to her grave, she did—for by the time we learned of her injury the poison of the iron had done its work and we could not save her. Donal, here, was wounded, too, by the selfsame spear and would have died if not for the healing arts of the faéry.’
‘But you did save the other one—the princess?’ said Dearg.
‘We did that very thing. Rhiannon is her name, and it is her father who gave us the weapons we carry even now.’ Fergal yawned and stretched. ‘Ach, but that is a story for another day.’
Despite the howls of protest from his listeners, Fergal would not be drawn into telling more. Finally, Conor rose and called for quiet, saying, ‘We have travelled far today and tomorrow will be here soon enough. I advise you to rest while you can.’
Galart jumped up and spoke for them all when he said, ‘I hear and obey, lord, but I will go to my rest all the easier for knowing whether this tale of Fergal’s is true, or has he made of it a story for children?’
Conor drew breath to reply, but it was Donal who answered. ‘What Fergal said is true in the same way a view of a distant ráth is true—you see the hill and the walls and fields around it and know it for the fortress of a nobleman. And this even though you may not see every ring and road, nor how big the gates, nor less yet who owns the stronghold.’
Galart, somewhat dubious, looked to the others; Dearg and Calbhan were frowning and Aedd was shaking his head. Conor, stooping to his cloak, which was spread out on the ground, retrieved his sword. ‘If any man still doubts what Donal and Fergal say, let him look at this.’ Placing the naked blade across his palms, he offered it to Galart. The young warrior took the sword and as his fist closed around the pommel, he was instantly impressed by the quickness and supple vitality of the weapon. He gave it a quick flourish and was struck by the way it seemed to anticipate his movement and intention, making the stroke almost effortless. Awed and speechless, he passed the sword to Médon, who likewise experienced the uncanny sensation produced by the charmed weapon. The others clamoured for a chance to wield the blade and when everyone had tried it, Conor put out his hand and pointed to the curious figures engraved on the broad side of the blade near the pommel. ‘This mark is the name of the sword, put there by its maker—a faéry artisan of the highest order. Fergal has a sword like it and Donal, too—as well as a faéry spear and shield. These were given to us by Gwydion, Lord of the Tylwyth Teg and King of Tír nan Óg in the Region of the Summer Stars.’
Galart’s eyes went wide and he said, ‘You have been there? All three of you?’
‘Aye, we have,’ answered Fergal, ‘and have I not been telling you the same?’
‘Will we be able to see the faéry, too, do you think?’ asked Calbhan.
‘Ach, well, I don’t know. Maybe,’ replied Conor, taking back his sword.
But Donal, suddenly very solemn, turned his face to the bleak heights of Druim Orchán. ‘You will meet the faéry,’ he said in a voice that seemed to come from under a rock, ‘sooner than you know. And fraught will be the meeting.’
19
Later that same night, after the fianna had rolled themselves in their cloaks and were asleep beside the low-burning fire, Conor came to Donal, who was sitting on a rock and gazing up at the night sky where gaps in the clouds allowed a patchwork of stars to shine through, casting the forlorn hillside in a thin and ghostly light. ‘What was that back there, brother?’ he asked. Donal edged over to make room for him on the rock. ‘You saw something tonight.’
‘Aye, I did,’ he confided. ‘Nothing good.’
‘Tell me,’ said Conor gently. ‘Was it Rhiannon?’
‘It was. There were others with her, I think, but it was her I saw. She was standing in a ruined ráth. It was dark—night I think, and she was crying.…’
Conor waited, but when Donal said no more, he asked, ‘Why was she crying?’
Donal shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But her tears were not for grief, I think—or only partly that.’ Donal, his face a dim, pale moon in the gloaming, seemed to turn inward once more to revisit the vision. ‘It seemed to me that they were tears of desperation, of fear. She was afraid and…’
‘Go on, brother, say it.’
‘Conor, I think she is here.’
Conor looked at hi
m in surprise. ‘In Eirlandia?’
Donal shook his head. ‘I mean here—in the deadlands … now, or soon will be.’
Nodding as he considered this, Conor asked, ‘Anything else?’
‘Only that.’ Donal sighed. ‘I wish I could see more, know more. But this gift is new in me still and I am never its master. I’m sorry, brother, that is all I saw.’
‘No need to be sorry. You’ve done well.’ Conor rose and stood for a moment looking up at the sky. ‘We will go on as we intend.’ He gave Donal a pat on the shoulder. ‘Rest now, brother, tomorrow we start down a path from which there will be no turning back. We may have need of your Second Sight before long.’
Donal rose from his place on the rock and, pulling his cloak around him more tightly, said, ‘You didn’t tell them—about going into the deadlands to kill Balor.’
‘I did not want them wakeful and thinking about it all night. Let them have their rest tonight. There is time enough tomorrow.’
‘You must tell them, Conor. They have a right to know.’
‘I will,’ he promised. ‘In the morning.’
The wind changed during the night and they woke the next morning to a low grey sky and a damp mist clinging to everything. They broke their fast on cold meat and porridge from the night before and then Conor called the men to gather around and hear what he had to say.
‘We going into the deadlands and beyond into Scálda territories,’ Conor told them bluntly. ‘But our purpose is not raiding or taking spoils as I may have led you to believe.’
‘What then?’ said Médon. ‘I think you did not bring us here for the balmy weather.’ He drew his cloak more tightly around himself.
‘We are taking the fight to the enemy in his lair,’ Conor said. ‘We go to find Balor Evil Eye and, once we have found him, we will kill him.’ He passed his gaze around the others as they took in this news.
‘A bold plan,’ allowed Médon after a moment. ‘We are very few against so many.’
‘We are few, aye, and that is our strength,’ Conor told him. ‘Few as we are, we will be fewer still. Only Donal, Fergal, and I will go. The rest of you will remain here and keep the camp for our return.’
A round of disappointed murmuring greeted this announcement, and Médon undertook to speak for the rest of the fianna. ‘With all respect, lord, we would go with you. I think we would be more use as blades quick and ready at your side than as idlers sitting here on the far side of a mountain.’ The others endorsed this sentiment with nods all around.
Conor heard the resolve in Médon’s voice and saw the determination on the faces of the fianna and his heart swelled with pride to see it. He motioned to Fergal and Donal to join him in consultation. ‘They do appear resolute,’ Conor said, glancing back at the fireside where the warriors waited. ‘I’m thinking we should take them with us.’
‘Ach, well, that will change things,’ said Fergal. ‘But whether for better or worse, I can’t say.’
‘Another spear or two could be a help,’ suggested Donal. ‘For tending horses and such if nothing else. I say we let any come who will.’
‘I would not take more than three, mind,’ cautioned Fergal. ‘The fewer the better.’
‘Then that is how it will be,’ said Conor, making up his mind. Returning to the fire ring, Conor announced who was to go and who would stay behind. ‘Médon, your counsel is sound,’ he said. ‘Three of you will come with us, and two will stay behind to keep our camp. Therefore, I have decided that you and Calbhan will remain here and await our return.’
Neither of the two warriors objected, but their disappointment was palpable. Conor put a hand on Médon’s shoulder and said, ‘It is a perilous journey we take and those who go may not return. I am trusting you to keep watch and, if necessary, carry a message for me.’
‘A message, lord?’
‘An important message.’ Conor nodded gravely. ‘If in the space of twelve days we have not returned, you and Calbhan are to go to Dúnaird and tell my father and my betrothed what has happened and that we will not be coming back. If you like the look of him, ask the king to take you into the warband. Otherwise, go to Cahir of the Coriondi. I have no doubt, you will be treated well in either place.’
To his credit, Médon squared his shoulders and returned Conor’s level gaze. ‘Trust it will be done.’
The six adventurers rode out a short time later. The two left behind watched their swordbrothers ascend the long slope to the crest of the ridge where they paused briefly for a last farewell, and then, one by one, disappeared over the top and were gone.
The deadlands were not dead anymore—at least they were not as lifeless as they had been the last time Conor had seen them. New growth had reclaimed much of the previously scorched and blackened ground, filling in the empty places in broad expanses of delicate new green. Grass had begun growing over the mounds of ráth and dún, and the woodland margins were edging into what had once been oat or barley fields; saplings of pine and larch, plum and elder, and tiny oak sprigs had sprung up where squirrels and birds had dropped seeds and pits and acorns. Thistles abounded in tight clusters where other plants could not thrive, and towering ranks of nettles lined the brooks and streams.
Here and there among the green-covered mounds, charred ruins of gateposts or rooftrees could still be seen. And the stench of rot and decay still hung in the air, tainting every inhaled breath. Occasionally, they saw birds—crows and solitary kites mostly, and a few straggling flocks of geese and ducks as well; there must have been squirrels around, and hares—but no larger creatures; the ground was still too barren and open for fox or deer or other animals. The deadlands were deserted, but no longer desolate. Apparently, the Scálda did not renew their devastation with any particular regularity. Danu, the Great Mother, continually reclaimed her own.
These signs of healing in the land, hopeful as they might be, failed to cheer the travellers. For, the day, having begun grey and damp, did not improve, and by the time Conor and the fianna had reached the southern limit of the deserted borderland, a miserable cold drizzle was leaking out of the dull sky and the wind was a mournful whine from the northwest. The riders had crossed the open ground as quickly as possible, and entered the shelter of the southern tree line; here Conor called a halt to their journey for the day and told his men to search out a suitable place to make camp.
‘I find myself wondering,’ said Fergal easing the aches out of his lanky limbs, ‘when it was that we were here before? Our time in Tír nan Óg has muddled my memory, I think. Was it two years, or three—or only last summer?’
‘I hardly know what to tell you,’ Conor puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘So much has happened since then if you told me it was twenty years ago, I would believe it.’
Donal, who had dismounted, stood beside his horse holding the reins and staring out across the barren land, looking back the way they had come. ‘Someone is out there,’ he said after a moment.
Conor and Fergal moved to join him. Both scanned the empty hills. At first, Conor saw nothing he had not already seen; then, out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark patch—like the shadow of a cloud scudding across the land, moving from the west to the east.
‘There—I have it,’ said Conor. ‘What is it?’
Fergal turned to regard the two of them with a wide, incredulous look. ‘What are you seeing that I cannot see?’
‘That shadow,’ Conor replied, stabbing a finger at a farther hill. ‘There, at the foot of the far hills.’
Fergal looked where Conor was pointing and said, ‘I don’t see…’
‘Just there—moving toward the far tree line to the east,’ Conor said, following the movement with his finger.
Fergal stared until his eyes ached. ‘I still cannot—’ He broke off just as a small body of riders emerged out of the dim, drizzly mist. ‘Ach! There!’ He watched for a moment, then said, ‘However did the two of you see them?’
Conor and Donal glanced at one another and
shrugged. Fergal gave a small, guttural groan of frustration and turned back to watch the riders. ‘Who are they then—since you can see so much?’
‘Scálda,’ replied both Conor and Donal at the same time. ‘Eight of them, I make out,’ added Conor.
‘Nine,’ corrected Donal. ‘They have another with them—a captive, I think.’ Both men exchanged a look. ‘I feel like I have been here before.’
‘Near enough,’ replied Conor.
‘What do you want to do?’ asked Galart; he had joined them and stood watching the distant riders as they swept across the empty land. ‘Should we follow?’
‘An excellent idea,’ said Conor. ‘I was just about to suggest it myself. Mark where the dog-eaters entered the wood. We’ll make camp there and follow on at first light. I’m thinking those riders might lead us to Balor.’
‘If only,’ said Fergal, still staring after the Scálda raiders. ‘It is my present hope to spend as few days in the southlands as possible.’
Supper that night was a subdued affair with a too-small fire and not enough to eat. Unwilling to risk announcing their presence by way of a larger camp fire, or deplete already limited supplies with a bigger meal, they made do with as little as they could spare. After settling the horses for the night, they all crowded as close to the fire ring as they dared, wrapped themselves in their cloaks and went to sleep, waking before sunrise to another wet, grey dawn. They busied themselves to banish the night chill from their bones by tending the horses, broke fast on scraps of bósaill soaked in warm water, then rode on into the cold morning mist. They soon found and began following the trail of the Scálda riders they had seen the day before. Judging from the bent and broken branches, the hoof impressions in the churned-up earth, the dog-eaters had pushed a reckless pace, little heeding the path or any minor obstacles in their way.
In the Land of the Everliving Page 18
