‘Leave that to me,’ Rónán told him. ‘We will go back, but I will lay a geas on Liam that will cool his ardour.’
‘A geas,’ repeated Eamon, wholly unimpressed. ‘That’s all?’
‘I will bind him with a geas that will forbid him to so much as touch Aoife,’ Rónán explained. ‘A taboo he dare not break at the cost of the kingship he hopes one day to achieve.’
Eamon stared for a moment, then gave a little snort and stalked away shaking his head and muttering, ‘Druids.’
Rónán watched him for a moment. ‘We both know Liam cares far more for obtaining the kingship than he does for marriage—to Aoife or anyone else. Believe me, once I pronounce the geas he will be bound to observe it.’
He gave a decisive nod then looked to me. ‘What is in your mind, Aoife?’
The thought was already on my lips before I knew it. ‘Is Conor really going to be king?’
28
‘Was it that bad, then?’ asked Donal. The corpses of the enemy had been accorded the dignity they deserved: a shapeless heap on the grass open to the sky to feed the scavengers. The three Scálda horses, along with the fianna’s mounts, were now tethered and grazing on the green plain of Mag Belach. Bits of food—hardtack for the trail and a couple bags of oats—had been found among the enemy dead’s belongings. The hardtack they threw away, but Dearg made a porridge of the oats and, added to the last of their own provisions, they shared it out among them. The measly meal finished, Galart and the others went off to tend the horses, leaving Conor, Fergal, and Donal to confer.
‘If not for Rhiannon’s quick thinking, that would be me you’re seeing among the dead.’ Conor rubbed out the throbbing ache in his arm where the Scálda battlechief had bashed his shield. ‘I was that close to a place at the Hag Queen’s board.’
Fergal regarded the pile of corpses. ‘It seems you made good account of yourself all the same.’
‘Was it the charm of concealment, then?’ asked Donal.
‘That, or something very like,’ Conor said, and went on to explain how Calbhan and Eraint had helped him with the aid of faéry magic.
‘With charms and enchantments like that, just think what we could do if the faéry could be persuaded to join us on the battlefield,’ mused Donal.
‘And is this not what I’ve been saying all this time?’ said Conor. ‘Aye, but nothing happened here to change their minds. Morfran holds me to blame for Gwydion’s death and they want no more of us.’
Out on the plain, carrion birds were already circling and beginning to alight and feed. ‘Nor do I blame them,’ he added gloomily.
The three fell silent, contemplating a future that, despite the bright sun-filled day, seemed bleak and cheerless as the depths of unending winter. They were still sunk in this bitter mood when a shout hailed them from out on the plain. Conor glanced around, started, and then leapt to his feet. Fergal and Donal noted his reaction and rose to stand beside him.
‘Who is it?’ asked Fergal. ‘Donal—can you tell who it is?’
Donal squinted his eyes a moment, then said, ‘It is Médon—with two more besides.’
‘Calbhan and I spotted him earlier,’ replied Conor, exasperation edging his tone. ‘He hid in the forest when the Scálda attacked. I wonder what he has to say for himself?’
Skirting the woodland, three riders advanced at a pace. When they had come close enough, Conor strode out to meet them. Médon threw himself from his horse and ran to greet Conor, but before he could speak, Conor called out, ‘So, here you are at last, friend Médon. Or should I say Médon the Disobedient? Or, Médon the Disloyal? Perhaps, it is Médon the Cowardly?’
The young warrior dropped to his knees and bowed his head. The two warriors with him reined up but remained mounted a little way off. Fergal and Donal moved to join Conor, one on either side. ‘Well? Which is it, Médon? We are wanting an answer.’
‘We saw the Scálda raiders out on the plain,’ replied the warrior. ‘We took to the forest and lay low, but if we had known you were here, we would have engaged them—even though they had the larger warband.’
Conor gave a snort of derision. Disgusted as he was, however, it did occur to him that the wayward warrior’s claim could well be true. ‘Leaving that aside,’ said Conor, determined to hold Médon to account, ‘you disobeyed my command and quit the ridge camp, leaving Calbhan to fend for himself. Did it ever occur to you that we were counting on you to be where you promised to be—that this is the very least one should expect from a swordbrother?’
‘I am sorry, lord—’
‘Sorry?’ Conor scoffed. ‘Not as sorry, I think, as you soon will be. Do you know how the battlechiefs of old punished a man who broke ranks, retreated, or disobeyed a command?’ Conor glared at the man kneeling before him. ‘You would be killed with your own sword, your head cut off, and nailed to the gate of the ráth for the crows to feast on your eyes.’
Médon, his head still bowed, replied in a low voice, ‘You must do what you think necessary, lord.’
Fergal opened his mouth to speak, but Conor silenced him with a warning flick of his hand. ‘I have already slain three men today, and I find that I have little appetite left for killing. Yet, I am curious, Médon. Aye, that you linger in the Land of the Living with the light of life still burning in your faithless eyes you can thank my curiosity. I yearn to know why you disobeyed the command you were given and had vowed to uphold? Answer me if you can.’
When Médon did not reply, Donal said, ‘Perhaps you would allow me to take him aside and—’
‘Nay, brother. I will have an answer.’ To Médon, he said, ‘Well? Speak up. It is time to settle accounts.’
Only then did the young warrior raise his eyes, and only then did Conor and the others see how very tired he was: his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of fatigue, his flesh waxy, his hair matted, and his cloak filthy.
‘I disobeyed—it is true,’ mumbled the young man. ‘You must do as you will with me.’ He lowered his head again.
‘That is no answer,’ growled Conor. Fergal and Donal exchanged a look of concern. ‘Tell me why you disobeyed!’
It was one of the new arrivals who spoke first. ‘A moment, my lord.’ The stranger—a young man not yet twenty summers old—dropped down from his horse and moved to the kneeling Médon’s side.
Conor stared at the youth with a vague sense of recognition. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.
‘Aye, lord, I am Maol mac Morna of the Brigantes. I beg your mercy on our swordbrother.’
‘What is this to you, Maol mac Morna?’ enquired Conor, his voice dark with menace. ‘Speak quickly. I grow tired of waiting.’
‘Médon went against your command, lord. That cannot be denied. But he did so out of loyalty to you.’
‘That is true,’ called the second stranger. He also jumped down from his horse and stepped up to join the other two.
‘And who are you to intrude in this affair?’ Conor looked closer. ‘I know you, too, do I not?’
‘I hope so, lord. I am Caol mac Morna.’
‘The brothers mac Morna,’ said Donal, moving to take his place beside Conor. ‘Ach! I remember now.’
‘We were among those you helped to train,’ replied Caol. ‘And friends of many years with Médon and Galart and the other Brigantes who have already joined you to fight the Scálda.’
Conor considered this and turned back to Maol. ‘You said Médon disobeyed out of loyalty to me? This is something new.’ He glanced at Fergal, ‘Disloyalty out of loyalty. Fergal, have you ever heard of such a thing?’
Fergal shrugged. ‘With you, brother, I see and hear new things every day.’
‘All I meant, lord,’ Maol continued, ‘was that Médon acted with the best intention. He came to Aintrén to persuade more warriors to join this fianna you are raising.’
Conor looked at Médon. ‘Is this true? You went to Aintrén seeking warriors to join the fianna?’
Médon nodded. ‘So it is, lord. The more
I thought about it, the more certain I became that there would be many of the Brigantes warhost who might be anxious to escape that blowhard Vainche and his repugnant rule. Truly, I thought you would be away longer.’
‘He would have returned to the place where you left him and we with him—long before your arrival, lord,’ said Maol, placing a hand on Médon’s shoulder. ‘But on our way back we encountered some Volunti and the Ulaid as well.’
‘What so? You stopped to engage them in a skirmish to sharpen your skills and this is what delayed your return?’
‘Never that, lord. The Volunti and Ulaid are our allies. Nay, it is that when I told them of the warband forming under your rule, they asked to be allowed to return to their ráth and beg of their lord to join the fight.’
‘We told others,’ added Caol, ‘and they are even now on their way to join us.’
‘We could only get two horses,’ explained Maol. ‘The rest are coming on foot.’
Conor looked to Médon. ‘How many?’
‘Thirteen,’ he replied. ‘At least.’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Maybe more,’ said Maol. Reaching down, he pulled Médon to his feet and the three stood together. ‘Now that word has gone out that you are raising a warhost to challenge the Scálda in their own lands, I expect more will be eager to join you.’
‘All along the way,’ Caol said, ‘we spread the word that there is a rising in Eirlandia.’
Conor stared at the three young warriors then turned around and, motioning Fergal and Donal to join him in consultation, moved off a few paces to confer. ‘What are we to make of this story, brothers? Do we believe it?’
‘A bold lie, if lie it is,’ replied Fergal. Shaking his head, he added, ‘Leaving his duty like that—what was he thinking?’
Donal stroked his stubbly chin a moment, then said, ‘I find it an unlikely tale to tell when the truth or falsehood can be so easily discovered. All we need do is wait. If more warriors are on their way to join us we will know the truth the moment they arrive. If no one appears, then we will know Médon was weaving a tale to save his sorry skin.’ Donal smiled. ‘Truth or lie, we will find out soon enough, so we will.’
‘What are we to do with them until then?’ asked Fergal. He jerked his head toward where the three stood awaiting Conor’s judgement.
‘Tell them to see to the horses and—’ Conor began, then stopped himself. ‘Nay, nay. Rather, tell them to go and bathe. They smell like animals. When they are done with that they can go help with the horses.’
Fergal hurried away to deliver Conor’s command and Conor regarded Donal, who was gazing across the plain, but clearly, was seeing something else. ‘What is it?’ asked Conor. ‘What do you see?’
‘I see a man’s foot upon a stone,’ he replied.
‘Whose foot? What stone?’
Donal squinted as if by dint of will he could force the future to deliver the answers; then he sighed and shook his head. ‘For this, too, we must wait.’
29
Maol and Caol, the brothers mac Morna, were not twins, but like enough to be taken for such. Both were lithe, dark-eyed men with broad shoulders and long limbs; they were young—like most all the others in Conor’s burgeoning fianna—not above twenty-two summers, if that. And both carried their arms with the easy confidence of warriors well trained and proficient in the killing craft—which, for most of that, they had Conor, Fergal, and Donal to thank. The similarities did not stop there: both wore cloaks and siarcs of pale yellow and russet breecs the colour of autumn leaves, and both wore torcs and armbands of rolled and burnished copper, and both wore their hair hard shaved on the side and long in back and braided tight. Easy of temperament and calm of manner, they were well liked by kinsmen and friends and, because they knew Conor as a battle-seasoned warrior, seemed happy enough to cast their lot in with him and their Brigantes swordbrothers who had already joined the fianna.
By the time they and Médon had bathed and washed their clothes, they had already made a favourable impression on Fergal, who observed, ‘Good men, those two. A few more like them and we’d have true warband.’ He saw the frown forming on Conor’s face and quickly added, ‘A shame Médon betrayed his duty to get them.’ He clucked his tongue. ‘A very shame, that. But if more are coming, perhaps his lapse can be put aside this once.’
Conor gave a dismissive grunt and, ignoring the comment, said, ‘The day is still with us. We should move on.’
‘Aye, or we could linger here awhile and wait for Médon’s stragglers to arrive,’ Fergal suggested. ‘There is good grazing to be had around here and, after the last two days, I think we could all use the rest—the horses included.’
Conor considered the notion and decided. ‘Well said. Let’s put this miserable sight behind us and find a place near the river. We can hunt a little today and shelter in the forest tonight. We’ll travel on tomorrow.’
‘Where are you thinking we should go?’
‘To Lord Cahir is what I’m thinking. If there are more warriors joining us, we’ll be needing mounts for them. Maybe we can persuade him to give us some horses in return for helping protect his borders,’ Conor replied, turning his eyes to the animals grazing on the plain. ‘If not, we may be able to trade one or two of our mounts for food and fodder.’
They fell to discussing which of the horses they might willingly trade and which would be worth keeping, and how best to go about negotiating the animals’ value. A little while later, the troop moved on, hunting as they went, and following the arc of the river to a nearby bend on the spreading plain known as Mag Belach, a water meadow lined with willows and alder trees. Here, they stopped to make camp and Conor sent the newcomers out to hunt while he and the others rested. Through the day, they kept a close watch on the many approaches to the plain. But no one came and as twilight crept slowly over the broad greensward, it appeared they would enjoy a peaceful night. Firewood from the surrounding forest was readily hauled into camp and three small fires lit among the trees at the river’s edge.
The yield from the day’s hunt—three fat hares and two squirrels—along with the last of the oats and some bósaill that Maol and Caol had brought with them were prepared, but everyone went to sleep hungry.
In the morning, it was Conor who woke first and roused everyone else with orders to water the horses and prepare to ride. He saw Médon sitting by the fire ring lacing up his brócs and asked him, ‘So! Where are these thirteen warriors of yours, eh? Where are they?’
‘I cannot say, lord, but they are surely coming.’
‘Surely … surely,’ Conor scoffed, shaking his head.
The young warrior lowered his gaze to the spent ashes of the previous night’s fire as if at his own demise. ‘No doubt they will meet us on the way.’
‘Up with you!’ Conor barked. ‘Help ready the horses. We are leaving.’
Médon jumped up and, without another word or glance, hurried off. Conor watched him go, shaking his head, and slowly became aware that he himself was being watched. ‘Another day or two of that,’ Donal said, ‘and his spirit will be broken. If that is what you want, it was better to have slain him yesterday.’
Conor sighed, still watching his disobedient follower run to fetch his horse. ‘It is not his death I desire. But he must learn—and the others, too. If we are to survive we must be able to count on one another.’
‘He was trying to help. He brought back two men, after all.’
‘Two, aye, and that may be all.’
Donal crossed his arms and thrust out his chin. ‘We shall see.’
As soon as their mounts were ready, they set off riding north on the trail that ran alongside the river. The sun rose above the rim of the world, causing the mist to rise from the water and flow across the land in low banks of damp fog. They had not gone far when Galart, who was with Aedd at the head of the fianna, halted and came flying back to where Conor and Fergal rode in the rear. ‘Someone’s coming, lord! A warband, I think.’
&
nbsp; ‘Médon’s missing men?’ wondered Fergal. ‘Or another Scálda raiding party?’
‘I cannot tell—the fog is too thick, and they are still some distance away. But I think they are on foot.’
‘Then it must be Médon’s missing thirteen.’
‘Or hunters,’ suggested Conor. ‘We’ll go have a look.’
Conor and Fergal followed Galart up the trail where Aedd sat waiting and paused to gaze through the ever-shifting billows rising up off the water, trying to get a glimpse of the travellers Galart said he had seen. It took a moment, but then the fitful breeze wafted across the trail and the low-lying banks thinned and parted, and there, moving stealthily along the riverside trail, two solitary of figures emerged from the fog—two only, but quickly followed by another, and then one more.
‘Four? That’s all?’ said Fergal. ‘But how did—’
‘Shh!’ Conor hissed. ‘Wait.’
The shifting haze stole the four figures from view once more. When the fog thinned again a few moments later, they were closer. Four men, each of them carrying spears, and running with the easy loping gait of men keen to cover distance.
‘Four I make it,’ said Conor, disappointment edging his tone. ‘Only four.’
‘Not Scálda at least,’ said Fergal. ‘We might as well ride on. I’ll go back and tell the others.’
‘Stay a moment,’ Conor said. ‘I would speak to them first.’
They waited until the little group jogged closer, then rode ahead to meet them. ‘Good hunting today?’ called Fergal as the men came within hailing distance.
The fellow at the head of the group raised a hand in greeting and slowed to a walk as he approached the horses. ‘No luck yet,’ replied the fellow. ‘That is unless you know where Conor mac Ardan can be found. It is himself we are hunting.’ His eyes flicked to Conor and the light of recognition dawned on his open, affable face. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have seen him at all?’
In the Land of the Everliving Page 28
