Halfway to the top, Conor paused again to listen and cast a glance at the rickety wall rising directly above him—no sound or movement could be detected. Drawing a breath, he resumed his climb. Once he gained the top, he moved off the track and started around the perimeter of the ramshackle fortress, keeping close to the wickerwork wall, halting every few paces to listen. Hearing nothing to alarm him, he moved on.
Slowly, slowly, Conor worked his furtive way around the fort. Within the walls, if memory served, he recalled only two buildings: a large, thatched-roof round house used for a hall where Brecan and Balor met, and a crude hut where King Lenos and the Aes-sídhe faéry had been imprisoned—as he discovered when held there briefly himself. Once he had located that hut—not difficult, even in the dark—he lay aside his shield and spear and, drawing Eirian from his belt, quickly sliced through the rawhide straps binding the top of two wattle hurdles together, then did the same at the bottom. Having loosened one section, he then cut through the straps binding the wicker panel to the half-buried iron wheel rim to which the hurdle was fastened.
He shifted the panel from its place, set it aside, and peered through the little doorway just created directly behind the hut. The rough-timber wall of the hovel blocked any view of the yard or round house beyond. He stopped to listen. Hearing nothing to alarm him, Conor ducked under the iron arch formed by the half-buried rim and stepped through the gap. Slowly, slowly, he edged his way around the hut to get a view of the yard. Clouds had begun moving in some little time ago, and the darkness was now almost complete. He stared intently into the shadows, but could discern no activity in the yard—no guards, no watchers; the compound appeared empty save for a line of horses picketed along the far wall on the other side of the hall. Even so, he crouched down and waited for a time to see if anyone emerged from the house. No one came or went and, save for the occasional murmur of voices and a burst of rowdy laughter issuing from the round house, all remained quiet.
Conor retreated to the back of the hut where, his mouth pressed against the timber cladding of the hut, he whispered, ‘Gwydion!’
He waited a moment, then whispered again. He drew his sword and was about to tap against the wall when he heard the sound of movement inside.
‘Gwydion, can you hear me?’ He waited. ‘Can you hear me? It’s Conor.’
He waited.
‘Gwydion, is that you—’
‘Conor?’ The word was soft as a feather falling, lacking all strength—a mere sigh. ‘You’re here?’
‘I have come for you, my friend. Your rescue is at hand.’ He hurried around the building and, with a last glance across the quiet, empty yard, moved quickly to the rickety door and pulled the peg from the hasp to open the door.
Stepping into the darkness he was almost overcome by the overripe sour stench of urine and human waste. ‘I’m here,’ he whispered. ‘Where are you?’
‘Here, Conor,’ came the reply in the fluttery murmur of an ailing creature. ‘Over here.’ Fumbling his way in the darkness, Conor moved toward the sound and saw a dark, formless shape bunched in a corner.
‘Rest easy, my friend,’ Conor told him. Kneeling, he extended a hand to the unmoving mass before him. He felt a body that quivered at his touch. He moved his hand around until he felt what he knew would be there: an iron chain. ‘I will soon have you free.’
Hand over hand, Conor followed the links to where the end was fixed to one of the metal hoops that lined the walls of the hut—the iron wheel rims used in the construction of Scálda war carts; these overlapping rims formed the barrier of iron against which the faéry had no defence. As before, Conor found that the chain was fixed to the wheel rim by a large ring. Unlike last time, however, this ring was heavier and much more firmly attached. He tried prizing it open at the join using the point of his sword, but on contact with the iron he felt something of the charmed force go out of the blade and feared he might damage the weapon if he persisted in forcing it.
‘This will take a little doing,’ he told Gwydion. ‘I must find something to loosen it.’
Moving to the faéry lord’s side once more, he sought the end of the chain and found that it was attached to a heavy iron band encircling the captive king’s stomach. For good measure, another length of chain secured the king’s hands. Conor was still examining the links and fixings when he heard horses in the yard outside. Diving for the door, he peered out to see three more Scálda riders pounding through the gate; they were quickly joined by four more, two of which held torches. The horses were lathered, having been ridden hard, and the sudden appearance of the newcomers brought a few warriors out from the hall. Conor, his face pressed to the crack in the door, watched them dismount and one of them—a large, black-bearded hulk almost as wide as he was tall—summoned one of his men; the two exchanged a word and then the fellow called a command to the dozen or so warriors now gathered outside the hall. Three of their number took up the reins of the exhausted horses and led them away. Two other warriors stepped forward; one of these was handed a torch, and the two started across the yard toward the hut. ‘Someone’s coming,’ Conor hissed. He stepped through the door and pulled it shut, saying, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t be far away.’
‘Conor … don’t go.’
‘I’ll be back as soon as they’re gone.’
‘Conor, no. Don’t leave me…’
But Conor was already through the door and out.
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Conor quickly closed the hasp and replaced the peg then slipped around the side of the hovel and out of sight of the yard. He pressed himself against the back wall of the hut and clutched his spear to his chest.
The footsteps grew louder as the Scálda guards approached, then stopped as the two reached the hut. Conor heard the rattle of the hasp and the creak of the door as it swung open. Torchlight seeped through the many cracks in the cladding, and one of the guards growled a command in his despicable tongue. There came a scraping sound on the wall and then the dull chink of the iron chains … more commands … and the sound of the chains moving.
They’re taking him to the hall, thought Conor. He edged along the side of the hut and peered around the corner to see the faéry king being led away. The rest of the newly arrived Scálda were filing into the hall. Gwydion, hobbled by his chains, limped and lurched, supported in a careless, haphazard way between the two guards; all three headed across the yard to the round house. Conor was not slow to recognise a gift when he saw one. Darting out from around the side of the hut, Conor streaked like a thrown spear to Gwydion’s rescue.
At the rush of running feet, the guard holding the torch half turned, glimpsed a movement behind him and opened his mouth to shout. Conor’s blade cut short the cry as the sword point found the guardsman’s throat. Hot blood spurted into the cool night air. The torch spun to the ground as the Scálda grabbed his neck with both hands. He opened his mouth to scream, but blood bubbled from his throat instead. The second guard dropped the chain he was holding and reached for the knife in his belt as he turned. Eirian flicked upward in a savage arc, catching the fellow just below the jaw, slicing effortlessly through the veins and tendons. The man tumbled like a lopped branch, his hand still fumbling at his belt.
Gwydion, limbs shaking, staggered backward under the weight of his chains. Conor leapt forward and caught him as he slumped. ‘Can you walk?’
The faéry king gazed at him with glazed, unseeing eyes.
‘Gwydion!’ He put a hand to the king’s face and forced him to look. ‘Can you walk?’ he rasped in a sharp whisper.
Before he could frame an answer, a shout echoed out across the yard behind them. Conor cast a quick glance back toward the round house. In the fitful moonlight he made out the form of a single warrior standing in the doorway of the hall; the fellow seemed to be scanning the yard. As yet, he had not seen the two escapees, nor had he seen the two Conor had slain.
Throwing an arm around the faéry lord’s shoulders, Conor spun around and half carried, half dragg
ed the faéry lord toward the wattle wall.
The warrior called out again. Likely, Conor reckoned, someone within the hall had begun wondering why the two sent to fetch the faéry captive had not yet returned, and this one had been sent to find out what could be taking so long. The warrior stepped out into the yard. He spied the torch, still faintly burning where it lay on the ground and started toward it, took a few steps and then, seeing the bodies, rushed to them.
Conor tensed, holding his breath. Gwydion shivered beside him.
The warrior picked up the torch and held it low over the corpse of the first fallen guard. Then, as Conor watched, the Scálda straightened and, raising the torch, turned his gaze slowly around the yard.
It was then he saw Conor and Gwydion huddled against the wall.
Rather, he saw something odd and started forth to find out what it might be, shouting as he came. He was but six paces away when Conor, sword ready, leapt up to meet him.
The sight of a Dé Danann warrior looming out of the darkness brought the Scálda to an instant halt. His free hand reached to his belt for a sword that was not there. Conor advanced to meet an opponent who had foolishly engaged without a weapon.
The Scálda gaped and opened his mouth to cry out—a cry that never came. One quick lunge and the keen-edged blade did its work, sliding up under the ribs into the heart. The guard toppled like a rotten tree.
Spinning around, Conor grabbed Gwydion and pulled him toward the gate. They crossed the yard and were but four or five steps from freedom when there came another shout from the hall behind them. Conor looked back to see three more warriors emerge from the round house hall—and one of them was the big battlechief Conor had seen arriving. The black-bearded brute glimpsed the two figures at the gate, and one of his men called a command. Another guard ran into the yard and stumbled over one of the bodies sprawled there. Regaining his feet, he started shouting to those behind him.
Conor took Gwydion’s arm and gave him a shove to start him moving. ‘Run for it!’ he cried. ‘My men are in the wood below and I am right behind you.’
The faéry king lurched forward, gathered himself and lumbered away. Wheezing and tottering like an enfeebled old man, he limped along, hindered by his chains and the enervating poison of the iron.
Conor spun to face the attack, cursing the fact that he had left both his shield and spear outside the wall. The warriors closed on him fast. Conor let them come, backing quickly through the gate and down the ramp; the angle would put him below his attackers, giving them the high ground, but on the relatively narrow ramp they would not easily be able to get behind him or surround him.
The first Scálda reached Conor in great bounding leaps, thrusting with short, quick jabs of his iron spear which Conor dodged easily. The warrior loosed a wild cry and lunged again. This time, Conor did not feint to the side, but stepped forward and, seizing the spear with his free hand, yanked it hard, pulling his attacker toward him. The Scálda, momentarily unbalanced, followed his weapon and Conor slammed the knob of the Eirian’s hilt into the side of the warrior’s face.
The Scálda fell sprawling. Tucking his sword into his belt, Conor seized the man’s spear and swung it around in time to meet the second attacker, who made a great swipe with his shield to knock Conor’s spear thrust aside and narrowly avoided being skewered. As the Scálda’s shield swung out, Conor lunged in with the spear, opening a gash on the man’s unprotected chest. The warrior yelped and scrambled back, out of range.
But two more screaming Scálda had reached the gate and two more rushed in behind them. Within three heartbeats, Conor had four blades waving in the air before his face. The first made a tentative stab at him and Conor knocked away the halfhearted thrust. Another took its place and Conor knocked that one aside as well. A third drove in hard and Conor evaded the stroke and countered with a rapid sweep across the top that forced the attackers back—but only for an instant. There was more shouting from the yard behind them and the Scálda redoubled their assault. Conor deftly met each blow with a stroke of his own, but with each thrust and parry, he was forced to give ground. He edged farther down the ramp and, as he stepped backward, caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and braced himself to take a strike.
Instead, a blade slashed out of the darkness catching the nearest attacker on the upper arm. The warrior yelped and dropped his weapon and suddenly Donal was at Conor’s side, driving the point of his spear deep into the leather shield of the nearest Scálda attacker. In the sudden confusion, Conor dived forward to deliver a ferocious slash to an unprotected pair of legs and another attacker went down screaming. With Donal’s shield between them, and Donal’s deft spearwork, they were able to blunt the assault. The enemy retreated to the gate to regroup.
Donal cast a swift glance down the ramp and could just make out the lurching, lumbering form of the faéry king limping onto the wooden causeway. ‘Time to go!’ At the shout, Conor and Donal both turned and fled down the ramp. They caught up with Gwydion, still gamely hobbling as fast as his chains would allow, but struggling heavily, his breath laboured and coming in raking gulps and gasps. The sound of Conor and Donal’s flying footsteps on the walkway planks brought Gwydion around, raising his hands as if to fend off the blows he feared were coming. Conor and Donal dashed forward and, each grabbing an arm, lifted him off his feet and carried him along.
High up on the ramp behind them they could hear cries and shouts as more angry Scálda boiled out from the Iron Ráth like wasps shaken from a poked hive. Running flat out, the two Darini and their charge reached the end of the causeway and streaked for the wood beyond. As they came within the canopy of the trees, Conor glanced around: at least four enemy warriors had reached the bottom of the ramp and three more were already on the causeway. Several more were halfway down the slope and, from what Conor could make out in the scanty pallor of the feeble moon, the black-bearded battlechief was among them, torch held high, shouting commands.
Conor and Donal, carrying the faéry lord between them, dashed into the wood. As soon as they passed within the shelter of the trees, they dived off the trail and hid behind the first big oak they found. Gwydion, wheezing like a wounded animal, lay on his side on the ground and Donal stood over him. The Scálda in blind pursuit behind them, unimpeded by any burden, raced headlong into the wood and down the road.
Here the frantic pursuit faltered. Uncertain where their prey had gone, the hunters paused and, with much shouting and cursing, began searching the nearby thickets and brushy undergrowth—frantically probing among the intertwined branches with their spear points and sword blades. They were thus preoccupied when the fianna, like the Hag Queen’s avenging ravens, swooped out of the forest to wreak havoc upon their unsuspecting heads.
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That thump of hooves and crash of breaking branches was the first warning the Scálda had that their lives were about to end. Out of the darkness of the surrounding wood, four charging horses burst through the undergrowth and onto the track. The enemy closest to the surprise attack were swiftly cut down or trampled beneath the churning hooves. Others turned and fled back toward the causeway where they were met by Conor and Donal. Two Scálda managed to escape by heaving themselves into the brush.
Having dealt with the first tranche of pursuers, the fianna turned to meet the second. Fergal wheeled his horse and took position in the centre of the road; Dearg, Aedd, and Galart filled in on either side. Fergal gave a shout and all lashed their mounts forward at once. They met the oncoming Scálda at the end of the causeway and cut them down. Any that tried to escape by running along the soft earth at the edge of the bog were met by Dearg and Aedd on one side, or Galart and Fergal on the other, and were quickly dispatched to take their places at Red Badb’s grim feast in the Halls of Endless Night.
One by one, the attackers fell as they tried to force their way back onto the road. Against the mounted fianna, the enemy on foot could not form a serious threat, and when they realised their superior
numbers gave them no advantage, some quit the causeway and leapt into the bog, floundering, splashing, wallowing their way through the mud and rushes to the safety of the mist-shrouded marsh and the night. The black-bearded battlechief and those with him on the causeway heard the sounds of the clash and the despairing cries of their kinsmen and halted. Standing on the causeway midway between the road’s end and the ramp, the chieftain bellowed orders to those coming on behind him and within moments the Scálda had given up the fight and were scrambling back up to the stronghold.
‘Get our horses!’ shouted Conor, dashing onto the walkway.
Donal called after him. ‘Conor, stop! What are you doing?’
‘Get everyone mounted and ready to ride!’ He put his head down and raced out across the bog, up the ramp to the ráth. Avoiding the gate, he ran around the outside of the walls to retrieve his Pelydr and Pared, his shield. From the Iron Ráth above, he heard the shouted commands of the battlechief resounding across the yard as he prepared whatever remained of his warband to rally and form the pursuit. Quick as a shadow, Conor found the panel he’d cut out of the wall, scooped up his weapons; with Pelydr and Pared in his grip once more, he turned and fled back down the ramp and across the causeway to the road where Donal, ready mounted, was waiting with Búrach.
‘Where are the others?’ he shouted, snatching up the reins and vaulting onto the stallion’s back.
‘Gone ahead,’ Donal said. ‘We’ll catch them on the way.’ He glanced up at the ráth. ‘Let’s ride.’
In the Land of the Everliving Page 23
