Aedd and Dearg glanced around at the grim expressions on the faces of the others. ‘Many people?’
Fergal nodded. ‘Too many.’
‘Thirty or so,’ said Donal.
‘Fifty at least,’ growled Fergal. ‘Too many.’
‘They were killed together and thrown onto a great, stinking heap,’ Conor told them bluntly. He went on to describe the abandoned works surrounding the dún and the deserted hall and dwellings. Then, haltingly, his voice breaking now and again, he told about finding the horse pen filled with birds feasting on the corpses of executed Dé Danann. ‘Maybe as many as fifty, aye. And all Dé Danann from what we could see.’
‘Men, women, and children, they were,’ snarled Fergal. ‘Murdered and then thrown onto a great heap like rotten meat. The stench reaches to the clouds and the sky is filled with all manner of corpse-picking birds. On my sword and shield and spear, I swear I have never seen anything like it.’ He shook his head fiercely. ‘What were the bastard dog-eaters doing up there?’
The all gazed at one another in confusion. Finally, Conor said, ‘Nothing good. That much is cert—’
‘I have it!’ said Donal abruptly. ‘Why didn’t I see it before?’
‘Well?’ demanded Fergal.
‘It’s leather.’
‘Leather?’ Fergal and Conor exchanged a wondering glance.
‘They were making leather,’ Donal repeated. ‘Think about it … the vats … the furnaces … the animal bones … the charnel heap.… It is leather they were making, and I think I know why.’
‘Are we to know at all?’ said Fergal.
‘Think you now. The vats were for flenching and washing the hides—which were taken from the animals.’
‘Which accounts for all the carcasses,’ mused Conor. ‘And the furnaces?’
‘For making the lime to put in the vats in order to cure the hides.’
‘That explains all those wooden frames,’ added Conor. ‘For stretching the hides while they dried.’ Conor considered this and decided it did make sense. ‘And the human remains—the skeletons? What about those?’
Donal went very still. ‘Slaves,’ he said. ‘Dé Danann slaves … they were the ones slaughtering the cattle, working the slurry vats, washing and scraping the hides. They also quarried the limestone and stoked the furnaces to make the quicklime.’
‘Slaves … dozens of them.’ Conor rubbed his burning cheek to ease the fiery tingling there, but it was no relief.
‘But why do the dog-eaters need so much leather?’ wondered Galart.
Before Donal could reply, Conor said, ‘Armor—the Scálda arm themselves with hardened leather.’
‘And harnesses for their horses,’ added Fergal, ‘and probably for those war carts we saw. They have no end of use for the stuff.’
‘Then why abandon the settlement?’ wondered Galart.
‘Who can say?’ replied Fergal. ‘Maybe they have all the leather they need.’
‘Aye, all they need to complete the taking of Eirlandia,’ added Conor.
A sickly silence settled over them as the implications of this suggestion hardened into certainty. Combined with what they had seen of the wanton destruction of the deadlands and the constant need for vigilance in hostile territory, this latest revelation pushed the fianna to the edge of the abyss where they teetered, about to fall over into a churning welter of hopelessness and desolation. Conor knew. He felt it, too. But, as their leader, he also knew that giving into despair now would be inviting disaster.
Dragging together the scattered shreds of his own courage, he rose from his place and took up his spear. Raising Pelydr high, he brought down the butt of the shaft with a solid thump. ‘Hear me, brothers. I know what you are thinking. Today, we have seen the bestial depravity of our pitiless enemy. Think on it. Think long and hard so you will remember. Today we have seen what the Scálda intend for all our race should they succeed in wresting Eirlandia from our grasp.
‘Hear me!’ He slammed the butt of the spear again with a sound like the crack of a bone. ‘Before you, my swordbrothers, my fianna, I make this vow. I will neither rest nor cease from striving to free our land from the evil of the Scálda invasion. Though it cost my life and the lives of all I love and all I hold most dear, while there is yet breath in my body, I will not abandon the fight. I will see this outrage avenged. And I will see the day the Dé Danann rule this island realm in peace once more.’
Sleep was a long time in coming for Conor. He kept turning the image of the massive mound of corpses in his mind and hearing the cries of the rooks and ravens. When at last sleep came, he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Instantly awake, he sat up to see Donal bending over him. Pressing a finger to his lips, he handed Conor his spear and gestured for him to follow.
Into the night dark wood they went, quietly threading their way around trees and through the undergrowth, working their way along the river. As they neared a marshy fording place, Conor noticed the pale glow of a light shining through the trees. Donal saw it, too, and slowed; crouching low, they edged toward the ford for a better look. ‘There is someone on the trail,’ whispered Donal. They both stared through the thick-grown elder and scrub willow, trying to see into the path beyond.
‘What is that light?’ said Conor. ‘Not a torch, I think.’
Donal, his face ghostly in the pale, unflickering light, squinted his eyes and gazed ahead. After a moment, he shook his head. ‘Nay, nay, not that. It is something else.’
‘Can you see who it is?’ asked Conor.
‘Nay, brother, I cannot.’
‘I’ll go see. Stay here and be ready with your spear if I shout.’
Dropping down on all fours, Conor crawled through the low-growing shrubs to the very edge of the wooded trail where, hunkered down behind a leafy elder bush, he parted the branches slightly and peered out upon an outlandish sight: a group of four tall figures shining with a spectral light. Whether the glow emanated from these beings, or whether they stood within it, was not at all clear, but Conor had seen enough. Rising to his feet, he pushed through the branches, stepped out into the clearing and strode toward the shining ones with strong purposeful strides.
Fergal, having been wakened by the furtive movements in the night, appeared at Donal’s shoulder. ‘What’s happening?’ he whispered, dropping down to kneel beside him. ‘Is that…?’
‘Rhiannon!’ replied Donal. Throwing back his cloak, he leapt up and started to run. ‘The faéry have returned!’ he called back, hurrying to join the shining figures on the plain.
Conor glanced around as Donal and Fergal arrived, and beckoned them into the glowing orb of light enveloping the group. ‘Brothers, our friends need our help,’ he announced.
One glance at Rhiannon and her companions left no doubt: the faéry were in a desperate, dishevelled state. Of the four, Rhiannon seemed in the worst condition: her lustrous black hair hung in limp tangles; her immaculate clothing was crumpled and smudged—her cloak frayed and ravelled at the hem, and her seamless green mantle torn at the shoulder and travel-stained; her usually pale skin was dull and ashen; there were dark circles under her eyes, and those eyes gazed out with the unnatural brightness of fever, or fear. Those with her were no less distressed and anxious; their flesh, like their lady’s had a grey, waxy appearance, and all wore gaunt and haggard expressions—as if they had succumbed to a wasting disease. There was Olwen, the princess’s handmaid, her gaze empty, her slender body swaying with fatigue; and Morfran, King Gwydion’s brother, visibly shaken and distraught; and Eraint, the ship’s pilot who they had met when on the return voyage to Eirlandia, mute, rigid, as if bearing great pain at enormous cost. During their sojourn on the Isle of the Everliving, the Dé Danann had met them all from time to time and knew them well; in their present state, however, they were nearly unrecognisable. All three stood stiff and unmoving, watching the Dé Danann with grim wariness—as if fearing some great evil was about to devour them.
‘My dear friends,�
� Rhiannon was saying, ‘I am overjoyed to have found you so quickly.…’ Here she wavered.
Conor reached out and took her hand in his; the flesh was cold and clammy. ‘What has happened? Tell us and trust that we will help you if we can.’
Clutching Conor’s hand in a fierce grip, she reached out with the other and touched first Donal, and then Fergal as she said, ‘The worst has befallen us.’ Her voice quivered on a note of anguish. ‘My father has been taken.’
‘Taken,’ repeated Conor. ‘You mean captured.’
She nodded, dropping her head. ‘Captured, yes.’
‘Who’s taken him?’ asked Fergal. ‘Was it Balor Evil Eye?’
The faéry princess put her face in her hands; her shoulders trembled as she nodded. ‘I fear we may already be too late. I cannot … cannot reach him.’
‘What happened?’ asked Donal gently.
Eraint, the pilot spoke up, the words coming in a rush. ‘The king and his advisors were sailing to Albion,’ he said, his voice trembling with anger and violence. ‘A Scálda ship found them and gave chase. They were overtaken and boarded. Lord Gwydion was captured and his men were killed.’
‘But you escaped?’ said Conor.
‘Rhiannon and those with her were in a second ship with me. When the first was caught, we were able to fight free and escape.’ He glanced at Rhiannon and added, ‘We have come seeking your help to rescue our king.’
‘How did you find us?’ asked Donal.
‘That could not have been easier,’ Rhiannon replied and offered a sad, forlorn smile. ‘As Conor will know.’
‘Magic?’ said Fergal, catching the implication. His eyes, lit by the mysterious faéry glow, sparked with interest and he looked to Conor for confirmation.
Instead, Conor merely said, ‘And do you also know where to find your father?’
‘I do. But now that we are here, I feel our strength is much diminished. All Eirlandia seems to conspire against us. It is the iron here—there is so much of it about.’
‘The Scálda have been building mines and forges all over the southlands,’ agreed Donal. ‘Indeed, the stuff is everywhere.’
Conor announced, ‘We will gladly help rescue your father. To that end, we will require your aid in concealing us from the enemy. If you can make a charm to help us elude capture, we will be that much further toward saving Gwydion.’
Rhiannon was already shaking her head before Conor finished speaking. ‘I am sorry, my friends,’ she said, ‘but we have no magic.’
Fergal raised his eyebrows. ‘No magic? None at all?’
‘Our powers are not ours alone,’ she said, and quickly explained that the mystical force of her race descended from on high through the reigning monarch, king or queen. ‘The health of the king is everything to us. When the king suffers, we all suffer. Even the land derives its well-being from that of the king.’
‘No magic, then,’ said Fergal, stroking his moustache. ‘That will make things more difficult.’
It was Rhiannon who answered. ‘We may not have the use of charms and caims,’ she told him, her voice taking on strength and fire, ‘but we are not without some of our more subtle arts and the woodcraft that we have perfected and employed through the long history of our race.’ She fixed her gaze on Fergal as she concluded, saying, ‘These will aid your efforts if you will but trust us.’
‘I am admonished, lady,’ said Fergal, ducking his head in a small bow. Looking to Conor, he said, ‘So then, it is decided. What next?’
Turning to Rhiannon, Conor said, ‘Lady, we are ready to ride. Show us the way, and leave the rest to us.’
21
From the moment they departed the glen, the night took on a bizarre quality none of the Dé Danann could explain or later describe. Under Rhiannon and Morfran’s guidance, the journey became a fevered blur of furious motion through darkened woodland and moonlit meadows, faceless figures half seen, strange sounds, imagined creatures looming out of the shadows and disappearing again—all visions, no doubt inspired by Re Ronea, Goddess of the Night and Horses and Dreams.
The frantic pace pursued by the company began to slow with the first glints of dawn brightening the eastern sky, and by the time the sun breached the horizon, they could hear the restless churn of the wave-washed strand on a deserted stretch of beach. Here the spent horses finally stopped, and their exhausted riders dismounted in the thick morning fog flooding in from the sea. Dé Danann and Tylwyth Teg alike stood swaying on their feet, stretching aching backs, or slumping onto the damp shingle; Fergal and Galart scanned the surrounding cliffs and heights for any sign that their presence had been discovered.
Now, as the morning sun brought a thin measure of light to the land, Conor felt as if he had been moving mountains with his bare hands. Fatigued to the pith and marrow, he lowered himself onto a rock and cradled his head in his hands, his mind clouded as with the sea fog, trying, but failing, to think how they had come here. He remembered setting off. With a faéry mounted behind each Dé Danann rider, he and Rhiannon had led the way. After that, his memory became a jumble of images out of turn: flying through the woodland, ducking tree boughs and low-hanging limbs, hearing vague sounds of a chase behind them, halting in a river and standing in the water for a time, and then riding at full cry over hills and along the reed-fringed shore of a lough while the moon came and went with the scattered, wind-driven clouds overhead. Mostly, he remembered glancing behind him every now and then to see how far behind the phantom pursuit might be, while at the same time trying to keep everyone together lest anyone become lost along the way.
Stirring himself, he rose slowly, stretched again, and walked down the strand where he knelt and washed his face—once, twice. He took a mouthful of cold seawater, swished it around and spat it out, licking the sharp, salty tang on his lips. Somewhat revived, he returned to where Rhiannon and Olwen sat staring dull-eyed at the grey sea—numb, expressionless, swooning with fatigue. Clearly, the faéry were all at the end of their endurance. Conor beckoned Aedd and told him, ‘Make a fire. We will rest here a little and recover our strength.’
‘Not here, brother,’ countered Fergal. ‘This shore is too exposed. We must find some better shelter.’ He gazed down along the coastline to the south. ‘There must be a cave or hollow somewhere nearby. We can rest there.’
‘As we did with Mádoc,’ said Donal. He, too, looked along the coast, and then back to where Dearg, having gathered the reins, was standing with the horses, steam rising from their broad backs in the early morning light. ‘The horses must be fed and watered,’ he added, ‘but we cannot do that here. Fergal’s right. We’ll have to move on.’
Roused by the sound of their voices, Rhiannon stirred. She glanced around and, seeing the others standing around her, struggled to rise. Conor knelt beside her, put an arm under her shoulders and helped her to sit up. ‘Bring a water skin!’ he called, and Aedd hurried to his mount, returning a moment later with a half-filled skin.
Conor pulled the stopper and offered it to her. She thanked him and drank, then passed back the skin, saying, ‘Please, give some to the others.’
Donal called Galart to gather the water skins and share them out among the faéry. As the skins were fetched and passed around, Conor, kneeling beside Lady Rhiannon, said, ‘We are moving on to better shelter. Are you able to ride?’
She regarded him with eyes the colour of a troubled sky, bit her lip and nodded. A few moments later, all were mounted again and they moved on—albeit at a much slower pace than before—riding along the high water line, searching for a cave or secluded nook where they could make camp and rest before continuing their mission to save King Gwydion.
The southern coastline opened before them as a series of cliffs and collapsed rock stacks that formed numerous coves and crannies. They soon found a tiny bay secluded enough to afford protection from anyone watching the shore. Runnels carved in the shingle fed freshwater from the land to the sea, and sheer rock walls provided a low overhang to form
a fair shelter from the wind and rain. Here they stopped and, after tending and tethering the horses, they built a fire of driftwood and dried seaweed, and slept—waking late in the afternoon to prepare a meal. Still tired from the previous night’s exertions, they decided to stay the night and move on the next morning. Aedd and Dearg put the horses to graze through the remainder of the day, and took it in turn with Galart to keep an eye on the coastal pathways for any sign of Scálda raiders, fishermen, or a hunting party. Then, as the dwindling day’s shadows gathered around them, Conor, Fergal, and Donal sat down with Rhiannon and Morfran in counsel while Eraint and Olwen and Dearg tended to the cooking chores for their meagre evening meal of porridge and bósaill boiled in seawater.
Rhiannon began by relating the chain of events that had led the faéry to Eirlandia. ‘Some little while after you left us,’ Rhiannon said, her voice soft in the twilight, ‘what you said about the necessity of the Dé Danann and Tylwyth Teg uniting forces to vanquish the Scálda began working in my father’s mind.’
Conor remembered that conversation—and the fact that it had not ended well—but offered a polite nod of acknowledgement and tossed another knot of dried seaweed to the fire. It fizzed and crackled and shrivelled before bursting into flames. ‘I said a lot of things, as I recall.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Fergal, ‘you always do.’ To Rhiannon he said, ‘Which of our friend’s many misspoken words happened to catch King Gwydion’s ear?’
‘It was that inasmuch as we have a common enemy our interests are the same, and that if the Scálda succeed in conquering Eirlandia then Tír nan Óg will be next for destruction. And, as we know to our cost, they have acquired the ability to capture our ships.’ She gave Conor a forlorn smile. ‘My father told me what you said and I can almost see you standing before the king, pounding your fist into your hand, saying, “By standing together we can overpower the Scálda and drive them from this worlds-realm forever!” This, I think, is what finally began to work in Gwydion’s heart.’
In the Land of the Everliving Page 20
