In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘We’ll wait for you at Áth Brúagh,’ Conor called after him. ‘You know the place?’

  ‘The Ford of the Brigantes?’ replied Galart. ‘Aye, I know it.’

  ‘Then you go with Fergal. Calbhan, you will come with me.’ Conor instructed Rhiannon to tell her people to prepare to journey on. She moved off to consult with Morfran and Eraint. To Galart, he said, ‘We’ll see you at the ford.’

  Donal, who stood a little apart watching this exchange, opened his mouth as if he would speak, then thought better of it. Instead, he gave Conor a farewell wave and turned to the horses. Conor moved off to gather his weapon and prepare to ride and when Calbhan did not follow, called, ‘Get your horse, lad, we’re leaving.’

  ‘What about Médon?’ asked the young warrior, stirring himself at last. ‘He won’t know where we’ve gone.’

  ‘Do not talk to me about Médon,’ huffed Conor. ‘He’ll just have to fend for himself as best he can. If that proves a hardship for him, he has no one to blame but himself.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But what?’ he snarled. ‘I should have both of you horsewhipped—him for disobeying, and you for allowing him to leave. Now get your horse. We’re leaving.’

  Calbhan’s mouth squirmed into a frown, but he held his tongue and hurried off to retrieve his mount. Moments later, Conor, Calbhan and the faéry bade farewell to Fergal and the others and departed the ridgeway camp for the safety of the lands beyond the river boundary. They journeyed in petulant and regretful silence, their progress slowing as they went; the horses were tired and it was no good pushing the animals further, lest a sudden burst of speed be required.

  The sun climbed higher by degrees and was standing almost directly overhead when they came to a wide, low plain called Mag Belach, a sprawling grassland within reach of a stand of oak and ash and elm along the river, the wide Abafínd, that served as the southern boundary for the many territories to the north and west. It was a good place, so they paused to rest their mounts and let them graze a bit before crossing the river at the Ford of the Brigantes some little distance downstream. While the horses browsed, the faéry settled in the long grass to rest and confer; meanwhile, Conor searched the backward trail for any sign of the rest of his band. Instead, he saw a lone rider coming toward them, riding along the line of trees to the north.

  He called Calbhan to him and asked, ‘See that rider there? Who is that?’ The young man squinted his eye as he gazed into the distance. ‘Can you see? That cannot be Fergal, can it?’

  ‘Nay, lord,’ he said, glancing at Conor, ‘I think it is Médon.’

  ‘Him!’ Conor growled. ‘Well, if nothing else it will be interesting to hear what tale he spins to explain his disobedience.’ He glanced at the young warrior beside him and saw the frown and wrinkled brow. ‘What? You think me too harsh?’

  ‘For a truth, I do. He only meant to—’

  ‘I have not yet begun to be harsh with him,’ Conor snapped. ‘Wait and see what punishment I devise—then tell me if I am too harsh.’

  The rider came on and was still some way off when he reined to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Ha!’ scoffed Conor. ‘The rascal has seen us and realises the trouble he is in.’

  The words were still in the air when, with a sudden start, the distant rider wheeled his mount and galloped for the river and the sheltering trees beyond.

  ‘See there!’ crowed Conor. ‘He fears the punishment waiting for him. His guilt is confessed.’

  ‘I think it is not his punishment he seeks to outrun,’ observed Calbhan. Conor heard the tension in the young man’s voice and glanced around to see him looking askance into the distance. ‘It is the Scálda.’

  Conor turned his eyes to where Calbhan was looking and his heart sank within him: a fair-sized enemy raiding party—at least twenty strong—was even now racing toward them.

  27

  ‘Quickly now! Rouse Rhiannon and the others,’ shouted Conor. ‘Tell them to hide themselves among the trees. Then arm yourself and hurry back.’ Calbhan nodded and raced away. ‘We will hold them off as long as we can to let the faéry escape,’ Conor called after him. When the warrior had gone, he added to himself, ‘There will be no escape for us.’

  Conor ran to Búrach, retrieved his weapons. ‘Come, Brother Pelydr,’ he said, sliding the spear from its sheath under the horsecloth, ‘let us teach these dog-eaters a trick or two.’ Then, tucking Eirian into his belt, he thrust his arm through Pared’s straps; exulting in the lively strength of one and the comforting weight of the other, and strode out onto the plain. The enemy raiders were close enough now that he could make out individual warriors. One look at the ugly scowls on their glowering faces, and Conor’s crimson-stained birthmark began to tingle as his blood rose to the fight. Clearly, they had marked the presence of a victim and were racing to the attack.

  Conor turned and called out to the stand of trees behind him. ‘Calbhan! To me! Hurry, man!’

  He listened for his swordbrother, but the only sound to reach his ears was the hush of the wind sighing over the long meadow grass and the drumming thump of fast-flying hooves. Conor shouted again but, receiving no reply, he tightened his grip on the spear shaft and adjusted the sword hilt at his belt. With a last backward glance toward the tree line in the vain hope of seeing Calbhan on his way to join him, he ran to take a position on a small rise nearby. He emptied his mind of all else but the fight before him and prepared himself to confront the Scálda raiders alone.

  The sight of this solitary Dé Danann warrior striding to meet them on foot brought the entire raiding party to a churning halt and put a grim smile on Conor’s lips. No doubt the raiders surmised an ambush or trap. Certainly, a bold trick of some kind. The winded horses stamped and snorted, the scowling raiders sat for a moment to assay the situation; several kept an eye on Conor while the rest surveyed the wood, searching for the disagreeable surprise they reckoned awaited them the moment they committed themselves to any action.

  Then, out from behind the forerank emerged the leader of the battle group—a man so large he made the horse beneath him look like a hill pony—and Conor recognised him: it was the great brute of a battlechief from the Scálda ráth. Even uglier in the daylight, his swarthy face was almost obscured by a virulent black beard, the ends of which were braided into twin forks that reached halfway down his chest over which he wore the Scálda breastplate of hardened leather studded with iron rings; a large, two-handed sword swung from his wide belt. On his head he wore a leather helmet festooned with a horsetail; his feet were shod with heavy brócs laced to the knee and these, too, were studded with iron rivets. He sat for a moment, eyeing Conor with a cold and calculating grin, then barked a rough guttural command to those with him.

  Three riders from the line wheeled their horses and rode for the tree line. The rest of the raiding party remained watchful, dark eyes agleam with menace as they waited for the command to strike. Nothing moved—save the horsetail plumes atop the pointed leather helmets clamped on their heads. All sat their lathered mounts in a tense, suspicious silence as they watched the three riders disappear into the wood.

  Conor, anticipating the command to attack, began tapping the bronze shaft of his spear against the rim of his shield. The raiders tensed and glanced nervously toward the trees. Conor tapped louder and faster, rousing himself to brave the imminent assault.

  ‘Come! Die with me!’ he shouted, his blood-red birthmark kindling with its accustomed fire and felt the charmed spear quicken in his hand, as if eager to be about its work.

  As if in reply to Conor’s challenge, the big battlechief growled another command and two riders joined him—one on either side. Raising his fist, the chieftain pointed a fat finger at Conor and the two raiders drew their swords and swung their shields off their backs, preparing to charge.

  Before either one had gathered the reins, however, there came a short, strangled shout from among the trees—as if someone’s startled cry of warning had been sharply t
runcated before the words could properly form. All eyes swung instantly toward the wood.

  Conor, too, held his breath and waited. The air was heavy with the pungent scent of sweating horses and men; and, aside from the snorting of winded animals and the nervous stamping of hooves, no further cry was forthcoming. Into the tense silence, Conor resumed beating on his shield rim once more with the slow, rhythmic thwack! thwack! thwack! Each blow louder and harder than the last, and each resounding slap a death-laden stab at the heart of the enemy.

  The Scálda chieftain thrust out his chin, the long ends of his braided beard quivering; turning once more to the Dé Danann before him, he ordered his two men to attack. They lifted the reins and started forward, swinging their blades with a slow, circular motion as the horses quickened their pace.

  The distance narrowed. Conor raised his shield and crouched low behind it, preparing to engage the enemy. But, just as the two came within striking distance, out from among the trees burst a riderless horse, running free, nostrils flared, eyes wide with terror. And there, bouncing against the frightened beast’s broad neck, swung the severed head of its rider. The ghastly trophy had been tied to its mane by the reins. Fresh blood splattered a wide swash across the animal’s throat and shoulder.

  The two warriors advancing on Conor halted and stared as the runaway horse crossed directly in front of them, racing toward the open plain. The Scálda raiding party roared their outrage, which made their horses jig and jostle against one another, uncertain what was happening. The big battlechief shouted another command: two riders streaked off in pursuit of the runaway horse, and two more joined the two presently advancing on Conor.

  Faced now with four combatants, Conor decided to strike the first blow. Crouching low, he waited until the first two were twenty or so paces away. Then, releasing a tremendous bellow, he launched himself at a run, driving in fast behind the point of his spear. He struck first not at the rider, but at the poor beast that had the misfortune to be under him. Staying low, Conor raked Pelydr’s keen blade along the side of the animal’s broad neck. The pain and shock caused the horse to rear and lash out with its hooves. Conor was ready. As the horse came up, the rider flung his shield arm wide to maintain his balance and Conor buried the head of the spear in his enemy’s exposed thigh.

  The charmed blade pierced clothing, skin, and muscle with the ease of a hot knife slicing ripe cheese. The wounded warrior yelped in pain and swung his sword at Conor’s head, but Conor was already dancing away and out of reach, preparing his next thrust: up under the lower edge of the leather armour. Again he struck, and again felt the blade slide through the hard leather and into living flesh. He withdrew the Pelydr’s blade quickly. The sharp, coppery scent of fresh blood bloomed in the air. The screaming rider reeled and plunged from his mount to lay writhing on the ground; his three comrades continued the attack. Two spread out to keep Conor between them, and the last circled around behind to prevent any attempt at escape.

  Distrustful now of Conor’s deadly feints and deceptions, all three advanced with caution. The remaining raiders, watching the fight from the backs of their horses, rallied their kinsmen with raucous shouts of encouragement, rattling their blades against their leather shields. Conor, whipping the point of his charmed spear in slow, lazy arcs likewise called words of encouragement for them, inviting them to allow him to introduce them to Red Badb, Hag Queen of the Tomb.

  A sly signal passed between the two advancing toward him. Both charged together—shoulder-to-shoulder, intent on riding him down and trampling him beneath the hooves of their horses. Conor allowed them to commit to the attack, then darted forward—straight into the onrushing charge. At the last moment, he gave out a mighty shout and threw his shield high. The heads of both oncoming animals rose as one and Conor swept the spearhead across the throat of the nearest. Blood gushed in a sudden gout and the horse, screaming in pain and alarm, stumbled, throwing its rider. Conor was also knocked to the ground, but held on to his spear and was able to carve a nasty groove into the leg of the rider as he passed. Rolling to his feet, Conor spun and lunged at the second rider as he pulled up and wheeled his mount to make another pass. The spearhead missed by a hair’s breadth.

  Conor spun around and lunged again, slamming the flat of his shield into the wounded Scálda’s bleeding leg. The warrior yelped and made a clumsy swipe with his sword over the top of Conor’s shield, the blade skidding along Pared’s rim; Conor easily stopped it midstroke with the shaft of his spear. Then, with his assailant’s blade trapped between shield rim and spear shaft, Conor hurled himself against the side of the horse, then bounced back a step, dragging down the rider’s blade. With a quick sideways jerk of the shield, he twisted the sword from the raider’s grip. Then, darting out from behind his shield, Conor rammed the head of Pelydr’s bright blade directly into the rider’s chest. The blow penetrated the tough leather armour and carried the unbalanced rider from his seat. He fell over the back of the horse as, half rearing, half stumbling, the beast lost its footing and rolled onto its wounded rider. Conor dove forward to deliver a killing blow, but heard the rapid thud of hoofbeats behind him. He spun around to see the third Scálda bearing down on him, arm raised, blade poised to strike.

  Conor barely had time to brace himself for the blow.

  But a peculiar thing happened. Even as the warrior’s arm swept forward, the blade seemed to jerk backward of its own accord—as if meeting a resistance in the air. The rider tried to finish the stroke, but the sword blade stubbornly refused to move.

  Conor threw his shield high and ducked low behind it. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flashing glint of light, as from an unseen blade. The light flickered and was gone; in the same instant, a gaping wound opened on the rider’s upraised arm. The Scálda tried to pull away, but his arm appeared to be frozen in that awkward attitude; his horse, however, jogged away and the hapless rider was yanked from its back as if plucked bodily from the animal by a giant hand.

  Conor was not the only one to observe this uncanny sight. The entire Scálda raiding force was now close enough to witness the extraordinary event and many of them stared in wide-eyed disbelief at what they had seen. Others darted anxious glances around themselves as if fearing a similar phantom assault.

  The black-bearded Scálda battlechief appeared likewise disturbed by the weird turn, but drew his weapon—the huge, two-handed sword that he grasped and raised in his massive fist. Hefting this enormous blade, the brute advanced on Conor. He signalled his men to follow but, preoccupied and fearful, none made bold to join their leader in the fight.

  Conor had no time to wonder about the weird event just witnessed; bloody spear level, shield high, he squared himself to meet the battlechief’s charge.

  ‘To me, you worthless cur!’ he cried, and his birthmark aflame with a fierce and wonderful battle heat, seemed to glow with an inner fire. Conor felt a surge of strength and lofted the shaft of faéry spear. ‘Come to me! Queen Badb demands fresh meat for her hungry company!’

  The Scálda chief surged ahead, teeth bared, the scowl beneath his black beard a grinning rictus of hate. Conor, loose and ready, watched for an opening. The battlechief, however, was not to make the same mistake that his men had made. Before he closed on Conor, he slipped a leg over and slid down from his mount, never taking his eyes off his opponent.

  Nor did Conor allow his attention to waver. He made a quick backward feint to draw the attack, but the big battle leader did not rise to the bait. He advanced with a slow, cautious tread. Conor tried another feint—to the left this time. But that also failed to avert the Scálda’s blade from its determined path. After another unsuccessful attempt to draw the battlechief, Conor steadied himself and took up his stance and prepared to meet the first blow.

  When it came, it was delivered with a ferocity Conor could not have imagined. The bulging muscles tensed as the sword arm came up and the heavy shoulders rolled forward. The great sword fell like a bolt of thunder from a clear sky
and the clash of the stout iron blade square on Conor’s upraised shield sounded like a thunder blast as it resounded over the plain, echoing in the nearby wood.

  The stroke would have carved a chunk out of an ordinary shield, but Pared was no ordinary shield. True to its nature, the faéry-crafted weapon not only took the blow, but did not so much as dent. Even so, Conor felt the shock to the very marrow of his bones. Before he could recover, the second blow, more devastating than the first, sent Conor reeling backward. He kept his feet, righted himself, and made a desperate lunge with his spear—which the battlechief easily knocked aside with his shield even as he raised the great sword to deliver yet another bone-shattering blow.

  Again, Conor saw the bearded battle leader’s arm swing up, and the blade commence its downward stroke. Again, Conor threw his Pared high to meet the blow … but it did not come.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Conor glimpsed an uncanny glimmer in the air and seemed to see the shape of a knife blade—a mere thickening of the air and light. Just a flash and then gone. In the same instant, a bright crimson crease opened beneath the Scálda battlechief’s upraised arm.

  The huge chieftain grimaced and cried out. He tried to swing the great sword, but the weapon resisted—as it might if hung up in the thorny branches of a bramble thicket. As it wavered there, a second slash sprung open below the first—this one deeper and more severe. Releasing his mighty sword, the battlechief made a grab at the gaping wound.

  Conor watched, peering over the rim of his shield, and saw the fork-bearded battlechief’s head whipped to the side and down as if someone had tugged hard on his beard. A moment later, a thin red line appeared along his jaw, loosing a sudden spill of hot, dark blood. The lumbering brute groaned; his eyes rolled up into his head and he sank to his knees, his fierce expression giving way to a look of bewildered wonder. Then, like a rotten elm, the giant body slewed sideways and crashed to the ground. After a feeble effort to rise, the Scálda warleader relaxed into death and lay still.