In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘Hie!’ Conor shouted and, with a snap of the reins, they were flying down the road through the wood. Trusting the instinct of the horses and any errant rays of moonlight that happened to reach the path, they soon came to the river ford and splashed across to meet Galart who was waiting for them on the other side. ‘This way,’ he said, and led them off the road and through a stand of young birch and hazel trees to a little clearing. Fergal was already working to remove the chains from Gwydion who lay lifeless on the moss-thick ground. Rhiannon and Morfran hovered at his shoulder, watching with mute anguish as Fergal, using the point of Galart’s sword, struggled with the cold, killing iron binding the faéry king.

  Sliding down from Búrach, Conor hurried to Fergal’s side. ‘These chains are heavier than those we saw before,’ Fergal said as Conor came to kneel beside him. ‘The links are bigger, stronger, better forged.’ He looked around to Rhiannon. ‘We can do nothing here. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Help him, please—you must…’ She pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle a cry. ‘You must.…’

  ‘We need a stout tool of some kind,’ Conor said, glancing around. ‘Find one! Hurry!’

  ‘We will find a tool,’ said Donal. Still mounted, he gazed into the darkness, his voice coming from a distant place. ‘But not here, and not now.’ He shook himself and glanced down at Conor. ‘Now, we must hurry if we are to make good our escape. The enemy will soon be on our trail—if not already—and in greater numbers than we’ve seen tonight.’

  Rhiannon fell upon the prostrate body of her father. ‘He is dying! Please, you cannot leave him like this.’

  ‘Lady, we will all die if we stay,’ replied Fergal brusquely. ‘There is no help for him here. We have to go.’

  ‘I fear Fergal is right,’ said Conor. ‘We must leave now to have any chance to get away.’ Rising, he called a command and said, ‘Donal and I will ride ahead with Gwydion and Rhiannon. Fergal, you and the fianna come after and cover our retreat. Morfran and the others with you. Where the trail divides, follow the northern branch to the deadlands. If you do not catch us before that, make your way to Druim Orchán and we will meet you there.’

  ‘I will take Gwydion,’ countered Morfran, stepping forward. ‘Give me a horse and I will carry the king. Eraint and Lady Rhiannon will ride alongside. There may be some comfort to the king in our presence. Olwen can ride with your man Donal.’ He thrust out his chin at Conor. ‘You will lead the way.’

  Sensing it was futile to argue, Conor quickly agreed. Turning to the fianna, he said, ‘Dearg, give Morfran your horse—you and Aedd can ride together. Galart, go with Fergal.’

  ‘You heard him, lads,’ said Fergal, clapping his hands for action. ‘Do it.’ He hurried to his horse, snatched up the reins and, as soon as all were mounted, called the fianna to follow.

  Rhiannon, still kneeling by her father, seemed in a daze. Conor reached down and pulled her to her feet. ‘We can do nothing for him here. Our best hope is to reach our camp on the other side of the deadlands.’

  Morfran, mounted now, spoke a word in the faéry tongue and she replied in kind, then moved to where Eraint was mounted on Dearg’s horse; Conor lifted her up and helped seat her, and then ran to Búrach. The seven set off at once. Conor led the way, followed closely by Morfran and the unconscious king with Eraint and Rhiannon close beside; Donal came next with Olwen. In this way, the party soon reached and overtook the fianna. ‘Whatever happens, keep moving north,’ called Conor as he passed Aedd and Dearg; he repeated the same message to Fergal and Galart then sped on with the faéry close behind.

  The sky gradually lightened, greying as they went. The clouds that had been thickening through the night now formed a low, heavy roof above their heads and a fine mist began to drizzle over them. Along the forest pathways, the air smelled of damp and decaying leaves. As the light grew brighter, so, too, did Conor’s conviction that this was indeed the same trail he had travelled when following King Brecan to his ill-fated meeting with Balor Berugderc. Certain now, he pushed on with greater urgency, pursuing a breakneck course through the heavy scrub and brush lining the track—until at last reaching the end of the wood where he paused to allow Búrach a moment’s rest. When the others reined up, Morfran, on the horse next to him, asked, ‘Is it much farther this camp of yours?’

  ‘Aye, some way yet,’ he replied. ‘We must keep moving.’

  Rhiannon, from her place in front of Eraint, lifted her eyes to the hills and sighed; and it fair pierced Conor to the quick to see how much more worn and haggard she appeared. The flight had exacted a heavy price on the faéry and it was not over yet.

  ‘Take heart, Rhiannon. Just the other side of those hills—’ He indicated the undulating line of Druim Orchán in the distance, ‘my men are waiting for us. There will be food and warmth and help for your father.’

  At his words, tears welled in her crystalline blue eyes. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly,’ he assured her. ‘We have but to cross over these blighted lands and we are saved.’

  Eamon

  Aoife had a fair lead on us. Near as we could reckon, she’d fled the ráth shortly after Liam confronted her with his demands. We set out from Dúnaird at once, taking only those things we might need for a day or two on the trail. I had my spear and shield, sure, and Rónán brought whatever druids carry in those mysterious big sparáns of theirs, and his druid staff, of course.

  From Dúnaird there are only two roads, two ways to go: north, along the coast, or south. Aye, the southern road follows the coast a little way, too, before turning inland. The nearest settlements lie to the north in Robogdi lands, a sizeable tribe with close kinship ties to the Darini. The south path leads to Darini holdings and, beyond these, to the strongholds and settlements of the surrounding tribes—the Volunti first, and the Eridani, and finally to Brigantes territory. We chose the way north, thinking that Aoife would certainly find a ready welcome among the Robogdi.

  In this we were wrong. The first few holdings we came upon knew nothing of any woman travelling alone. No one had sheltered her, much less seen her. We wasted almost two days in a futile search before turning our attention to the south. Even so, a lone woman on foot cannot travel as quickly as a searcher on a strong horse. Rónán and I still had every hope of catching her before she had gone too far.

  To the south lay the Volunti and Eridani, as I say, and the Brigantes and Coriondi. Lord Cahir of the Coriondi was a good friend of our king and Aoife surely knew this. It seemed likely she might seek shelter under Cahir’s roof. Then again, the Brigantes lands were closer and, after all, it was with King Brecan that Conor had found shelter when he was made outcast. It stood to reason that Aintrén might be where he sought shelter now—and a place Aoife might go to find him. In the end, we determined that it was to the Brigantes we should go. So, we set our faces to the south, retracing our steps with renewed purpose, stopping at settlements along the way to ask after our runaway.

  ‘She is a dark-haired young woman of upright bearing,’ Rónán told them by way of description. Though that could have applied to any one of a thousand or so female folk.

  ‘And she will be carrying a harp,’ I added—and this seemed to impress those we questioned.

  No one at the first three places we stopped had seen anything of our Aoife, but at the fourth stop—a small farm steading a stone’s throw within Volunti territory, the head man sucked his teeth, thought a moment, and replied, ‘Aye, she was here with her harp and all, so she was.’

  ‘She played for us, and sang,’ added one of the farmwives. ‘Lovely she was, and so lively on the harp. Ach, I could listen all night.’

  The farmer cast a sour glance at the woman—for filching his story, no doubt.

  ‘How long did she stay?’ I asked.

  ‘Only the one night,’ answered the farmwife.

  ‘Aye,’ added the farmer quickly, ‘only the one night.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’ said Rónán.

  ‘Nay, nay,
’ he shook his grizzled grey head, ‘just that she had to move on.’

  ‘Had someone to find, so she said,’ volunteered a maid—one of the holding’s daughters. ‘We thought it strange, so we did, that a slight young thing should be all on her own like that.’ The maid fixed me with a challenging glance, and asked, ‘Is she your wife that has run off from you?’

  ‘Me? Ach, nay, nay,’ I spluttered. ‘Never that.’

  ‘She is betrothed to my brother,’ said Rónán tersely. ‘He has gone missing and she is looking for him—not that it is anything to you.’

  They could tell us no more, so we thanked them and took our leave. Our shadows stretched long on the trail by the time we reached the next settlement—a Volunti stronghold on a hill overlooking the river Teffyn. A proper old dún, this, with high walls of good, solid timber, and a large gatehouse, and a well-dug ditch around the whole. There were various houses and barns on the flatland below the mound. Rónán begged hospitality for the night, and the chieftain—a stout, red-faced fellow with a squint—could nowise refuse a druid request and gave us places at table in his hall.

  By way of thanks, Rónán sang the song of Becuma of the White Skin, and won the great approval of all who gathered in the hall to hear him. We drank with the chieftain and small warband then and went to our sleep. Next morning, as we prepared to take our leave, the chief told us Aoife had indeed been there. ‘Two nights she stayed,’ he said, ‘she was that tired.’

  ‘Did she sing for you, too?’ I asked.

  ‘Ach, aye, for a fact she did,’ replied the round-faced fellow with a smile. ‘Like a lovely bird, she sang. A right lissome girl.’ He squinted at me. ‘It’s surprised I am you should let her get away from you.’

  ‘She is betrothed to my brother,’ Rónán said bluntly.

  The chief nodded knowingly. ‘Ach, well, these things happen.’

  ‘He has gone missing and she has taken it on herself to go in search of him,’ Rónán told him. ‘If you’ve heard anything of her, we’d be in your debt.’

  ‘Your brother, you say?’ wondered the chieftain. ‘Who is your brother, then? What is his name?’

  ‘Conor mac Ardan,’ I told him. ‘Perhaps you will have heard of King Ardan of the Darini?’

  ‘Aye, we know him right enough. Good king by all accounts. Always been fair by us and ours—that much I know for a fact.’ He pointed to one of the warriors just then entering the yard. ‘Céadach there—he has just come in from riding the border. Ask him if he’s seen or heard anything of your runaway.’

  He called to the warrior, who came over to join us. Céadach walked with a limp and had a nasty red scar at the base of his throat that disappeared down into his siarc. He listened politely as Rónán repeated his request. ‘I’ve been out on the trails these last two days, aye,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t see any women traipsing around. Mind, I have heard of this Conor of yours.’

  The way he spoke the name gave me to know he did not hold Conor in the highest esteem. ‘What have you heard?’ I said, ‘If you would not think me overbold in asking.’

  ‘What did I hear?’ The warrior shrugged. ‘Only that he had turned traitor and got himself killed alongside Lord Brecan mac Lergath.’

  Rónán bristled beside me. I put out my hand to him and addressed the warrior. ‘Friend, I can tell you that did not happen. He is not dead. I have seen him with my own eyes, so I have. And I can tell you—one warrior to another—as a man of honour, Conor is no traitor.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ insisted Céadach, ‘that is what I heard.’

  ‘Ach, I believe you,’ I assured him. ‘But now that you know the truth, you will kindly correct any who, like yourself, have laboured under that filthy lie this little while.’

  The warrior nodded and accepted this reproof right manfully and begged his leave. We asked his chief if he knew which direction Aoife might have gone when leaving the dún. ‘South,’ he said, but could tell us nothing more—only that she had a way with a song and a good hand on the harp.

  We bade them farewell with thanks, and moved on.

  ‘Ignorant louts,’ muttered Rónán when we had passed well down the road. ‘Conor a traitor—is that what everyone thinks?’

  ‘Only those who do not know our Conor,’ I told him. ‘I would not fret myself. Not even druids can prevent ignorant tongues from flapping. People speak all manner of nonsense when gossip gets hold of them. It means less than the air it takes to repeat it.’

  We travelled on, passing two more Volunti settlements and a handful of Concani farmsteads before the day was half gone. At each of these places we found people who had seen Aoife and by the time the sun stood high overhead we were firm in our conviction that she was indeed heading for Aintrén, the principal stronghold of the great Brigantes tribe where Conor had taken refuge. It seemed that we were not the only ones with that selfsame notion; for, as we came to a river ford and saw that great fortress on its hill in the distance, we saw, too, our runaway Aoife—surrounded by five unknown warriors; one of them had her arm in his grasp and another was pulling on her mantle.

  ‘What is this?’ muttered Rónán darkly.

  ‘Nothing good,’ I said. Lowering my spear, I urged my horse to speed and rode to our Aoife’s defence.

  25

  The sun was well up by the time Conor, Donal, and the rescued faéry reached the low tumble of rocky humps that rose rank on rank toward the bleak heights of Druim Orchán. Beyond all hope and every expectation, they had crossed the deadlands—that wide band of territory bereft of trees or low brush to shield them, exposed to view, not a patch of shade or shadow in which to hide—and had detected no visible sign of pursuit. Before starting the long, arduous uphill climb, Conor paused to allow the horses a little rest and the travellers to regroup. While the others dismounted and refreshed themselves or tended the stricken faéry lord, Conor walked a short distance up the hill for a better view of the land they had just traversed to see how far behind Fergal and the fianna might be.

  They rested and waited, watching the barren strip and, when Conor had the fianna in his sight, he called a command to remount and prepare to move on. Waving his spear to get Fergal’s attention, he saw Fergal return the signal and then turned the grey stallion and started up the long, shelving slopes leading to the top of the ridge. Rhiannon and Eraint, Donal with Olwen, and Morfran with Gwydion, fell into line behind him and the fugitives resumed their flight. The long day wore on, step by step and rock by rock, sometimes on horseback, more often on foot.

  The sun stood low in a bone-white sky when they finally achieved the summit of the ridge. Conor, with a last lingering look behind into the desolated valley stretching away below, crossed the dividing spine of the ridge and started down the other side. Before him lay the gently rounded mounds of more familiar, friendly hills. Heavy forest clothed the slopes, stretching toward the upper heights to form a thick green cloak spreading down into wide plains and valleys. Here and there, he could make out the thin, wandering silver-blue line of a river cutting through the wooded land; empty moorland opened out in the distance glowing with a dirty copper colour in the pale autumn light.

  ‘My men are just there,’ called Conor, pointing to a large stone outcrop at the edge of the tree line below. ‘See that great heap of grey rocks? Médon and Calbhan are just under that cnoc.’

  ‘I cannot see anyone,’ said Rhiannon, riding at his right hand. Fatigue weighed on her shoulders dragging them down.

  ‘They will be there,’ Conor assured her. ‘Come along at your own pace. I’ll ride ahead.’ With that, he urged the tired grey to a fast trot on the downward trail.

  Conor reached the rocky mound well ahead of the others; he gave out a shrill whistle followed by a shout—to alert the waiting warriors. When, after a moment, he received no reply, he shouted again. Before he could call a third time, Calbhan’s fair head poked up from behind the jumble of stone. The young warrior saw the riders and began waving his arms in welcome; scrambling arou
nd the boulders he ran to meet his returning comrades. Upon catching sight of the faéry accompanying Conor, he halted and stood staring at the otherworldly beings.

  ‘Here! We need help,’ Conor called as Morfran and Gwydion arrived, with Eraint and Rhiannon trailing just behind. ‘Calbhan! To me! Listen, the king here is in a bad way.’ Sliding down from the grey stallion, he clapped his hands to reanimate the awestruck warrior. ‘Listen to me! Lord Gwydion will die unless we get these chains off him. We need a hammer and a wedge—something … anything. Go!’

  Calbhan came to himself then and, with a last glance at the faéry, scurried off to find some tool with which to remove the iron chain binding the king and slowly sucking out his life. Conor hurried to Morfran’s mount and led it the rest of the way to the little camp at the edge of the wood.

  ‘This way!’ he called to Rhiannon and Eraint. ‘Just a little further. We’re almost there.’

  Soon, they were under cover of the trees and on the path made by Médon and Calbhan as they came and went from the site to their lookout place on the heights. The camp itself was greatly changed since Conor had last seen it. There was now a substantial lean-to shelter—a bothy of boughs and branches trimmed and set upright and thatched with pine and bracken fronds. The fire ring had been enlarged and built up—with a stock of firewood nearby and three fair-sized logs to serve as benches. A large earthenware cauldron had been procured from somewhere and was simmering away on a bed of glowing embers. Lastly, a picket line for horses was strung up in the wood—near enough to a sweet-running brook so they would not have far to go to water the animals.

  Conor led Morfran’s mount into camp and helped ease Gwydion down; he and Eraint then carried the insensate king to the shelter. Rhiannon moved quickly to join him and together they gently lay the king on the rush-covered ground. Gwydion gave out a weak gasp, but did not wake. The princess seized her father’s hand and raised it to her cheek, her face twisted in anguish.