‘At once,’ I told him. ‘The sooner I find Aoife, the sooner we will resolve this problem. He must be made to understand that Aoife is not his to claim or command.’
‘A problem of his own making,’ Eamon murmured gloomily. ‘Liam has his heart set on Aoife, but her loving heart is set on Conor—as it has been ever and always.’ He paused, gave a quick sideways glance, and added, ‘This is not the first time she has tried to flee our Liam’s embrace. If you think to persuade her otherwise, save your breath. Never was a lady more devoted, nor more loyal to her man.’
‘Even so,’ I told him, ‘she is alone out there and will not have an easy time of it. I cannot bear to think what Conor would do if anything should happen to her.’
‘Do you want me to go with you?’ said Eamon. Before I could say otherwise, he said, ‘I am going with you.’
‘But Liam will want—’
‘Liam will be of a better mind if he thinks I go to help you bring her home.’
As soon as a few provisions and fresh horses could be secured, we departed Dúnaird and rode off in search of the runaway Aoife.
22
Conor and the fianna travelled with all the speed they could command—though it was not nearly as fast as need required. Traversing unknown terrain in territory seeded with enemy settlements—while riding double with ailing faéry—forced the company to go in halting fits and starts. They kept to the coastal pathways as long as possible, but eventually had to move inland. Conor sent Galart and Dearg ahead to scout the trailways in order to avoid any ráth or dún they might happen upon. Their food rations, already low, dwindled further; the fianna hunted when they could, making the most of their frequent rest stops to take whatever game they could find from the surrounding woodland trails. Once, they passed close to a Scálda holding and were able to make off with a yearling cow that had wandered too far away from the herd at pasture; that served them well for several days—but the supply of hardtack bread gave out, as did the bósaill and oats.
Rhiannon served as their guide and, though her strength was fragile and failing, she urged them along a determined southward course with unwavering resolve. The other faéry remained subdued and withdrawn, holding themselves apart—more out of habit and instinct, Conor imagined, than from arrogance or disdain. Then again, to have ventured so far into Scálda territory, and suffering as they clearly were, he did not begrudge them their distance. On the other hand, the fianna regarded the faéry with an awed but wary regard—fascinated by the exotic appearance of the enchanted race, and slightly fearful of them. Aside from Conor, Donal, and Fergal, who were easy in their company, the faéry were left to themselves and appeared on the whole to prefer it.
Still, the slow pace told on everyone.
‘Would it not be better to leave Morfran and the others behind?’ asked Fergal as he and Conor watched the fianna water the horses at the edge of a stream. ‘They could rest and we would travel that much quicker. We could leave them in the care of Dearg or Aedd and the rest of us could then race ahead to Gwydion’s aid.’
‘There is much in what you say, brother,’ Conor granted. ‘But things may fall out such that we need every hand to help us.’
‘A right ready hand, aye,’ replied Fergal. ‘But our friends are in no way fit for a fight, and only delay the help we aim to bring.’
‘I wish we could move more quickly, too. I do. And I know that our slow pace goes hard against the faéry and chafes at us.’
‘They grow more feeble as the days wear on—and that is a fact. You must have seen as much yourself.’
‘Aye.’ Conor puffed out his cheeks in a sigh, but would not relent. ‘They must endure but a little longer,’ he said at last.
‘A little longer is all they have left.’
Having said what was in his mind, Fergal moved off to help with the watering, and Donal, who had been watching the exchange from a distance, turned away without comment. Later, as the sun began its sloping descent into the west, they paused at the edge of a grassy meadow to allow the faéry to rest and the horses to graze. Conor went to where Rhiannon and her handmaid, Olwen, were sitting beneath a spreading elm with her back hard against the trunk; Morfran and Eraint sat a little apart, heads resting on their knees. All four looked to Conor like warriors depleted after a long, losing battle.
‘We have travelled far today,’ said Conor, kneeling beside her. ‘But the day is almost finished. We can rest a little longer and then find a place to shelter for the night.’
Lifting her head, Rhiannon pushed a strand of raven-black hair away from her pale face and gave him a brave smile, though clearly it pained her to do so. ‘And our journey is soon at an end,’ she told him. At Conor’s alarmed expression, she put her hand on his arm. ‘I mean only that the place where my father is imprisoned is near. I can feel it—though his strength is fading.’
‘How near are we?’
She turned her head and gazed toward the rising woodland on the other side of the meadow. ‘Within that wood is a river with a fording place. On the other side we will find a well-worn trail—a road. After a time, that road divides. One branch will continue north, and the other leads south and east to a small fortress on a rocky hill.…’
At her description an image flickered in Conor’s mind along with the undeniable impression that he had been there before.
‘… A strange little stronghold—walled with iron … a place of great violence,’ Rhiannon continued. ‘That is where my father will be found.’
‘The Iron Ráth,’ mused Conor. ‘I think I know it.’ He gazed at Rhiannon, a royal princess and loyal daughter struggling to remain brave and hopeful, yet the stresses of her ordeal showed in the taut lines of her face and the hot brightness of her crystalline blue eyes. His heart moved within him. Conor covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze of encouragement; she returned the gesture with a weak smile. ‘There is no need to ride further. We will camp here tonight,’ he told her and rose. ‘I will leave you to your rest.’
He hurried back along the riverbank to where Galart and Aedd had begun setting the horses to graze. He considered what Rhiannon had just told him about the ráth where her father was being held captive; it did sound very like the place King Brecan had been murdered, and not only the king, but Cethern, and Mog Ruith—as well as a fourteen Kerionid faéry. If indeed it was the same stronghold, then the princess was right: the Iron Ráth, as Conor called it, was indeed a place of great violence.
Galart, seeing the look of intense concentration on Conor’s face, spoke up. ‘Is something troubling you, lord?’
‘Eh?’ Conor glanced up, then shook his head. ‘Nay—it is only that I am thinking I know this region and some of the land hereabouts. And I think I know where the faéry are leading us.’
‘We must be getting close then,’ observed Aedd. His easy acceptance of this fact cheered Conor somewhat. ‘You were here before, then?’
‘Aye—when I fled the Scálda ráth the night Lord Brecan was killed.’ Conor regarded the wooded hills rising above the dell. ‘Rhiannon tells me there is a river with a fording place just upstream a little way. The trail on the other side leads to the fortress.’
Fergal, coming up just then had overheard most of what was said. ‘And that is where you think Gwydion is being held?’
‘The very same,’ Conor told him. ‘Aye, and if I remember aright, it is where Balor and Brecan were wont to meet, and where I found Lenos and the Kerionid captives. Rhiannon tells me she believes her father is there now.’
‘How far is this Scálda ráth of yours?’ asked Donal coming up just then to join the others.
‘Not far at all.’ Conor observed the shadows lengthening through the valley, and said, ‘We can easily be there by midday tomorrow if not before. But we must go quietly and with all caution. There will be Scálda lurking about—all the more if Gwydion is there.’
The rescuers spent a quiet, but restless night in their camp at the meadow’s edge, moving on as soon
as it was light enough to see. They rode in silence, every sense alert, through the early morning mist along pathways and trails that remained untraveled and untroubled by any sign of the enemy. As the sun quartered the sky, they came upon a wide, shallow river bounded by low banks overgrown with reed and rushes. A short ride upstream led them to the fording place Rhiannon had indicated; here they crossed and, after pausing to scout the immediate area and reassure themselves that they had the trail to themselves, they resumed their journey.
By midday they reached the place where the road divided, and took the southern branch, proceeding with renewed caution through a wood grown dense and heavy with older trees and impenetrable thickets of plum and bramble under overspreading limbs furred with thick green moss. The sun did little to dispel the shadows and the path grew damp and muddy. Judging from the hoof prints, many of them fresh, the little roadway had seen a fair amount of use recently. Finally, seeing the way ahead begin to rise, Conor called a halt and sent Fergal and Galart ahead to find a place where they could wait without being seen from the road. The two returned almost at once with the report that they had found the Scálda stronghold.
‘Just around the next bend,’ Fergal explained, ‘the road descends to a reedy marsh. On the far side of the bog, there stands a great rocky hump of a hill and on that hill is a ráth.’
‘They’ve thrown a wooden causeway across the bog that leads to the ráth,’ Galart added. ‘It looks wide enough for a horse or two men on foot—no more.’
‘Did you see anyone about?’ asked Donal.
‘Not so much as a solitary hair on a single ugly head,’ replied Fergal. ‘Unless you told me otherwise, I would say the place was deserted.’
‘My father is there,’ Rhiannon said. Silent Morfran nodded in confirmation. ‘I know it.’
‘Good,’ said Conor. ‘Let’s get off the road before someone comes. We’ll find a place to wait.’
‘The trees thin out as you near the marsh, but there is a lot of low scrub right to the banks of the bog,’ said Galart. ‘We can hide there easily enough and still keep watch on the ráth.’
‘Show us,’ Conor instructed, and Galart led them to where the road curved and the wood grew sparse. They moved off the road and sought cover in the brush growing along the banks of the bog. There they dismounted and tethered the horses. Leaving the faéry in the care of the fianna, Conor went with Fergal and Donal to spy on the stronghold and see what could be seen from across the marsh. Creeping through the low scrubby brush they came to the edge of the bog and there it was, sitting atop its steep-sided lump of a hill overlooking a sea of rushes in a quagmire: a ramshackle fortress of hastily erected walls made of nothing more substantial than hazel wickerwork hurdles bound together with rawhide straps and then lashed to iron hoops sunk into the ground; two timber posts supported a flimsy gate that opened onto a narrow ramp leading down to a wooden causeway across the soggy spread of the bog.
‘Is this the dún you remember?’ asked Fergal as they peered through the tall rushes at the hill with its flimsy little fortress on top.
‘It is.’
‘And is it as you remember it?’
‘Aye,’ affirmed Conor. ‘Nothing has changed. As you can see, it is not much of a stronghold at all. It is made to keep the faéry in, I think, not to keep an enemy out.’ Indicating the quagmire, he said, ‘The marsh is the chief obstacle. Once across, there is nothing to stop us getting in.’
‘What about watchmen? Guards?’ asked Donal.
‘None that I recall—at least not when I was here before. It seems to me that south of the deadlands the Scálda do not trouble themselves to maintain a watch or guard of any kind. That is to our advantage, too.’
‘Think you now,’ Fergal said, putting out a hand to the makeshift little dún on its rocky hump of hill, ‘our tribes have never raided here.’
‘Until tonight,’ said Donal.
Conor smiled knowingly. ‘Ach, aye. That changes tonight.’
Donal regarded the surrounding marsh again. ‘Getting through the bog here will take some work—if it comes to that. Once the attack begins there will be no turning back.’
‘The time for turning back passed long ago, brother.’
They watched the fortress for a while and then crept back to where the others were waiting and settled down to wait for night to fall. When at last the day’s light began to fade in the west, Conor called the fianna to him to describe the plan he had been turning over in his mind. ‘I will go in alone and free Gwydion,’ he told them. ‘I know where the Scálda keep their captives and I can work quickly. Once the king is free of his chains he or one of the others should be able to conceal us with a charm to make good our escape.’
‘And if not?’ wondered Galart.
‘Then we will have a fight on our hands,’ said Fergal.
‘There may be guards up there, so I will wait for the darkest part of the night,’ Conor continued. ‘Everyone else must remain alert and watch for my signal…’ He paused. ‘If things go badly, you’ll know it soon enough.’ He glanced around at the ring of faces around him. ‘If anyone has any questions, ask now.’
‘What about Balor Evil Eye?’ wondered Aedd. ‘Will that great brute be there as well?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Fergal bluntly.
‘But that is a thing greatly to be wished,’ added Conor. ‘And if the Vermin King of the Scálda is there, then that crude fortress will become his tomb.’
‘By the spear in my hand,’ Fergal vowed, lofting the spear, ‘if Evil Eye is there, the bony skull of his hateful head will become my drinking cup!’
‘And his guts a feast for pigs,’ added Galart. Others offered similar sentiments, rousing themselves to fighting pitch.
Conor felt his ruby-red birthmark begin to tingle as his blood warmed to the possibility of engaging the great adversary of his people in personal combat. Gazing at the faces now ringed around him, he said, ‘Tonight is our first battle as a warband. Let each do all he can to make it a night of triumph.’ The fianna pledged themselves to the fight, and Conor concluded, ‘Go now and take your mounts. Be ready to move out on my signal.’
The fianna hurried to ready their horses and Conor went to Rhiannon and her companions and told them to be prepared to flee should the battle go against them. ‘If you fail,’ Morfran told him, ‘we fail with you. There will be no flight for us.’
‘So be it,’ Conor replied. Hurrying to where Búrach stood waiting, he paused to stroke the stallion’s head. The grey whickered and nuzzled him at his touch. ‘Patience, my friend. There will be fighting before the night is through. Then you and I will show those dog-eaters what a Dé Danann champion can do.’
Pulling Pelydr from its strap beneath the grey’s horsecloth, he brushed the design etched into the honed blade with his fingertips and felt the charmed weapon quicken in his grasp. Then, mounting Búrach, he raised the spear high as a signal to the others and set off, riding easily through wood in the quickly fading light, reaching the road a few moments later. The well-beaten track, sunk in shadow, led them through the dim and silent wood until they came in sight of the march and the hump of hill topped by the rude little stronghold of the Iron Ráth.
‘To your places, men,’ Conor ordered, his voice a strained whisper. The fianna scattered: Fergal and Aedd going off to take up a position on the left side of the track, and Galart and Dearg on the other. Donal joined Conor and they rode on to the end of the causeway where Conor led Búrach off the trail and into the wood; he found a place where they could watch both the causeway and the stronghold without being seen. There, he and Donal dismounted and, after tethering the horses a little way off, they settled back to wait for night to claim the marsh.
They sat for a long while in silence, listening to the quiet of the woodland around them and Conor was just about to doze off when Donal gave a jolt and sat up. ‘Shh!’ Placing a finger to his lips, he leaned close to Conor and whispered, ‘Someone’s coming!’
&n
bsp; Rolling up onto his knees, Conor peered out through the brushy tangle to see a body of riders emerge from the wood and onto the wooden causeway. A fair-sized company—ten or more warriors, armed with swords and shields. Four of them carried torches to light a path already steeped in darkness. The riders clattered across the wooden causeway across the marsh and up the ramp leading to the dún. As the last of them disappeared through the gate, Conor turned to Donal and asked, ‘Was Balor Evil Eye with them, do you think? Did you see him?’
Donal understood what Conor meant; he squinted as his sight turned inward. In a moment, he shook himself and replied, ‘Nay, brother. He is not.’
‘Pity,’ Conor sighed. Would that his great foe had been among those returning to the ráth. That he might have had a chance to end the war at a single stroke—and that chance failed—left an almost bitter taste in his mouth and he spat. ‘Too much to hope for, I suppose.’
They hunkered down again to wait and the wood round about soon echoed to the squawks and chatter of home-roosting rooks and crows; when those at last diminished, the nocturnal creatures began to stir: frogs in the marsh, and mice, ferrets, and rabbits in the undergrowth. From the hilltop fortress came neither light nor sound. All remained quiet within the walls. Still later, as the night air grew chill, clouds of misty fog began rising from the marsh, flooding the low, marsh-bound land, making an island of the rocky scrag of a hill. When at last the moon, which had long since risen above the treetops, began its descent, Conor decided it was time to act.
He gave Donal a nudge to rouse him, then rose, rolling his shoulders to loosen muscles grown tight from the long vigil. Unpinning his cloak, he handed it to Donal; sliding Eirian, his faéry sword, into his belt, he took up his spear and shield and said, ‘Watch for my signal. I won’t be long.’
Creeping quickly and quietly to the wooden causeway, Conor paused to thrust Pelydr’s blade into the mire and stir it around. He pulled the muddy blade from the ooze and, satisfied that the razor-honed edge would not catch the moonlight, he sprinted quickly across the walkway, his footfall making a dull thump on the planks. He paused at the bottom of the fortress hill and looked at the narrow switchback path ahead; in the dim light of the waning moon the track could be seen as a pale thread winding its way up to the entrance. Anyone looking down from above would, perhaps, see only a vague shadow flitting up the hillside.
In the Land of the Everliving Page 22
