In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘We might have,’ replied Fergal. ‘What sort of fellow is he—this Conor of yours?’

  ‘Ach, well, you would know him if you saw him,’ said the second of the four. ‘His reputation goes before him. If that is not enough, you would identify him for the garnet mark on his face just there—’ The fellow drew a hand over his own smooth cheek and jaw. ‘If you see him could you tell him we’re looking for him?’

  ‘I might do. But it would depend on who was asking and why.’

  The first stranger’s smile grew wide as he said, ‘Ach, now you have hit on it there, friend. I am Diarmaid mac Aodh, a warrior of the Volunti. My swordbrothers and I have heard that this Conor is raising a warband—a fianna as of old.’ The warrior indicated the two others standing a half step behind him. ‘We’ve come to join this fianna.’

  ‘And why would you be wanting to do that?’ asked Conor, speaking up then.

  ‘Easily told that is,’ replied Diarmaid with a slight bow of acknowledgement toward Conor. ‘For the reason that we are sick to the back teeth of watching these bastard dog-eaters burn our fields, steal our cattle, destroy our farms, and carry off our people. We want to take the fight to the Scálda in their own territories—’

  ‘Burn some of their strongholds for a change,’ said one of the group, speaking up just then. ‘Maybe take some of their cattle and all.’

  ‘Aye, so we would,’ affirmed Diarmaid. He glanced at Conor again, and said, ‘We were told this man Conor was a warleader who knows how to do this very thing. If that is true, we want to pledge our swords to his service.’

  ‘So, if you know where he can be found, please oblige our request and tell us,’ said the third stranger with a wink to the warrior beside him. ‘Otherwise, we will bid you good day and trouble you no more.’

  ‘Ach, well, my impatient friend,’ replied Fergal, ‘I know the very man you speak of and I think I know where to find him.’

  ‘And will you tell us yet?’ asked the second warrior. ‘For we are hard pressed to be on our way.’

  Fergal turned his gaze on the fellow. ‘What do men call you when they want to call you?’

  ‘They call me Niall—for that is my name.’

  ‘You are not Volunti, I think,’ said Conor, noting the triple slash mark on the fellow’s arm below the sleeve of his faded red siarc. ‘That, as I recall, is a Nagnati mark—is it not?’

  ‘Aye, so it is—the mark of a Nagnati warrior.’ He smiled, a flash of white teeth below a voluptuous brown moustache. ‘You know your tribal marks, I see.’

  ‘I also know that you are a long way from home, Niall of the Nagnati.’

  ‘So I am,’ said Niall. ‘So are we all, I think.’

  ‘And you there,’ said Conor, turning his attention to the other two men. ‘You do not wear the mark of the Nagnati—nor, from what I can see, the Volunti, either.’

  ‘It would be a rare thing if I did,’ replied one of the pair, a narrow-hipped, deep-chested young man. Slightly shorter than the one next to him, but with a bull neck and well-muscled shoulders, he wore his hair in a long braid down the side of his head. Extending an arm, he opened the neck of his siarc to reveal his upper chest bearing a woad-stained spiral with a barbed line through it to represent a spear. ‘I am of Cael mac Colla, and this one here is my swordbrother, Tréon mac Enda. We are Ulaid, born and bred.’

  ‘Ach, well, your luck is with you today,’ said Fergal. ‘As it happens, the man you seek is closer than you know. He will be found riding a grey stallion and carrying a sword on his hip and a shield on his back. He will be travelling in the company of a tall, handsome warrior of vast renown and prowess. Next time I see your man, I will tell him you are looking for him.’

  ‘If you would kindly do that, friend,’ said Diarmaid. ‘We would be much obliged.’

  Fergal turned to Conor and said, ‘Brother, there are four men looking for you. They claim to be warriors.’

  ‘So we are!’ cried Diarmaid, laughing. He moved to stand before Conor. ‘I knew you, my lord, the moment I set eyes to you.’

  ‘The stain on my face is difficult to miss or mistake,’ conceded Conor.

  ‘With all respect, lord, it is not the red mark of Danu on your cheek that warriors speak of when they speak your name,’ volunteered Niall. ‘It is your battle craft and skill with a blade’—his eyes flicked to Galart, who was silently enjoying the banter—‘as the bold Brigantes never tire of telling us.’

  To Conor, Diarmaid said, ‘We would be honoured to join your fianna—if you will have us.’

  ‘Tell me, what does your king have to say about this?’ said Conor. ‘No doubt he will be sorry to lose good men to another’s warband.’

  ‘Our lord may be many things, but he is not a man to waste a stray thought to warriors who are no longer content to remain under his rule,’ replied Diarmaid simply. ‘Since we are unhappy, he has given us leave to search elsewhere for our hearts’ desire.’

  ‘Why unhappy?’ asked Fergal. ‘Could it be you are contentious men who are easily dissatisfied with your lot and portion in life?’

  ‘Nay, brother, never that,’ said Cael. ‘It is that we are no longer satisfied to hide behind the walls of our strongholds and wait for enemy raiders to come and burn us from our homes. We want to see the Scálda driven back into the sea.’

  ‘Spoken like a man after my own heart,’ Conor told him. Looking to the other three, he said, ‘Is this also your desire?’

  ‘So it is,’ answered Diarmaid, and Cael, Tréon, and Niall nodded as one.

  ‘And was it Médon Brigantes who told you where to look for me?’

  ‘Him and no other,’ Cael answered. ‘Some of us met him on the way to Aintrén and he bade us take word back to our ráth and gather any who wished to join us.’

  ‘He said there were thirteen of you,’ Fergal said. ‘Where are the others?’

  The newcomers regarded each other uncertainly. ‘Ach, well, maybe there were thirteen to begin with…’

  ‘But not now?’ said Fergal.

  ‘Nay, lord…’ Diarmaid glanced around at the trail. ‘There are many more than that now.’

  ‘How many more?’

  Diarmaid turned and gestured at the trail behind him. ‘Three tens at least. But you need not take my word alone. You can count them for yourself, for here they come now.’

  Both Conor and Fergal lifted their eyes to where Diarmaid indicated. From out of the fog emerged the first rank of warriors—a body of eight or so men jogging easily along the river road. A moment or two later, another group, just as large, emerged out of the mist and these were followed by two more ranks of eight or ten—at least two of which were leading pack ponies—their forms all but obscured by the shifting curtains of fog. Thirty warriors! Instantly, and without so much as a blade lifted or a single word spoken, Conor had acquired one of the largest warbands in all Eirlandia.

  ‘Look there, brother,’ said Fergal, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘It seems you are to have a fianna worthy of the name.’

  ‘So it seems,’ replied Conor, still taking in the sight of all those warriors streaming toward him on the path. ‘The question now is what are we to do with them all?’

  30

  ‘How many?’ said Donal, both voice and eyebrows rising in astonishment.

  ‘Thirty-one all told,’ replied Fergal. ‘Brigantes and Volunti, mostly—but also Nagnati and Ulaid.’

  ‘Probably some other tribes as well,’ said Conor. ‘We did not speak to every one of them.’

  Donal glanced to the trail ahead, still obscured by fog and mist. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Not far,’ said Fergal. ‘I expect they’ll be here soon enough.’

  ‘What will we do with so many?’

  ‘The very thing I’m asking myself,’ Conor replied.

  ‘You know what this means?’ said Donal. ‘We will have a warband to rival the biggest in Eirlandia!’

  ‘That’s what I told him,’ said Fergal. ‘A right fair warba
nd—only one or two tribes can boast larger.’

  ‘This is a new thing. Has anyone ever seen such a thing?’ wondered Donal, and then: ‘How will we support so many?’

  ‘My very thought,’ said Conor. ‘We’ll make camp hereabouts—somewhere near the river.’ He looked to Fergal. ‘Find a place and make a start.’ To Donal, he said, ‘Wait here for the warriors to arrive and then we’ll decide what to do.’ With that, Conor gave Búrach a light slap of the reins and the grey trotted off. He rode back to where Galart and the others had dismounted and stood waiting beside the trail. ‘Médon!’ called Conor, while still a little way off. ‘A word.’

  Médon jumped up and hurried after Conor, who had dismounted a little farther down the trail where they would not be overheard by the others. ‘It seems we have come to an impasse.’

  ‘An impasse?’ Médon’s voice held a resigned tone and his eyes searched Conor’s face as if he feared judgement for his disobedience had come at last.

  ‘So it is,’ said Conor. ‘For we can no longer continue as we are, and yet we cannot go back to what we were before any of this happened. Something must be done.’

  ‘You must do what you think best, lord.’

  Conor nodded, then smiled. ‘Well, then, the best I can think to do is to forgive your lapse of obedience. Your wild and reckless risk has borne fruit in wild and reckless abundance. Thanks to you we are now forty-one blades strong. And that, brother, is a warband to match any in Eirlandia.’

  Médon’s demeanour changed in that moment; the pinched, haunted expression he had worn for the last day fell away and a smile spread across his face: the relief he felt made manifest for the world to see. ‘Forty-one,’ he repeated, glancing around as if to see them trooping into sight, but all he saw was the mist-wrapped track passing out of sight around a bend in the river.

  ‘They are on their way even now,’ Conor assured him. ‘The warband you sought to raise will soon arrive and, as Fergal says, we are now a fianna worthy of the name.’

  Extending his hand for the young warrior to take, the two clasped arms in the age-old acknowledgement of friendship and acceptance. ‘Your disobedience is forgiven, Médon mac Cerna, and we will speak of it no more. Instead, we will consider it foresight and ingenuity. I return you to your former place in the fianna.’

  Releasing Conor’s arm, Médon touched the back of his hand to his forehead and said, ‘You are most gracious, lord. I am yours to command.’

  ‘As to that,’ said Conor, ‘it is also thanks to you we now have many more mouths and bellies to fill, and we must have food and shelter—for tonight, aye, and all the days and nights to come hereafter. I would have you sit down with Donal and Fergal and myself to consider what is best to do.’

  ‘Food and shelter may be closer than you know,’ replied Médon happily. ‘Brigantes lands lie across the river to the north and east of here. There we will find a few farming settlements. We might do well to go to these and see what manner of aid they can offer us.’ He looked around at the surrounding countryside. ‘Even if very little, it would be better than camping in the wood.’

  Conor considered this for a moment and agreed. ‘It is a place to start.’ The two rode back together to tell Donal and Fergal and, while Dearg and the others tended the horses, the four sat down beside the track to discuss how to traverse the new landscape that had suddenly opened before them.

  Fergal was first to speak aloud what had already occurred to the others: maintaining a roving warband might be more challenging than first imagined. ‘There are few enough kings who can keep a warband as large as our fianna—and those will have a ráth with farms, and fields, and pastures to support and supply their men,’ he pointed out, adding, ‘and we have none of those.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should have those, too,’ suggested Donal.

  ‘A ráth of our own,’ Conor mused.

  Fergal stared, then started to laugh. When neither Conor nor Donal joined in the mirth, he stopped, looked again, and said in a voice ripe with disbelief, ‘Do I believe what I am hearing? You are in earnest! But this is surely the strain of our ordeal beginning to tell on your weak and feeble minds.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Ach, well, I have been fearing something like this would happen, so I have. Why not go down to the river and bathe your heads in cool water until your better sense returns—if it ever will.’

  ‘Be easy, brother,’ chided Conor. ‘It is merely an idea just now.’

  ‘Aye, a bad idea. Where do you imagine you would find land to establish this stronghold of yours? Even if you found such a place, who would farm it for you? These things take time and cannot be done overnight. We need food and shelter now, and tomorrow, and the next day, too, come to that. We are meant to be a roving warband—a fianna, if you care to recall. We don’t even have horses enough for everyone. I expect we will find it somewhat wearying to be a roving warband without them.’

  They then fell to discussing how they might beg, buy, or borrow enough horses to supply their needs; they were still at it when Calbhan arrived to tell them that Diarmaid and the fianna had been sighted some little way off and would soon be arriving.

  ‘Ach, well,’ sighed Conor, ‘it seems we have decided nothing.’

  ‘Give it time,’ replied Donal. ‘You can’t build a ráth in a day.’

  ‘True enough, but maybe you can take one,’ said Conor. Turning to Médon, he said, ‘How far are these Brigantes holdings you mentioned?’

  ‘The closest might be a half a day’s ride, more or less.’

  ‘More than that for men on foot,’ Fergal pointed out needlessly. Recognizing Conor’s thoughtful expression, he added, ‘What so? You cannot be thinking of taking over an entire settlement, now.’

  Conor, still thinking, made no reply, so Donal offered, ‘A few of us could ride on ahead to prepare a place maybe. That way we would be assured of a welcome.’

  Conor nodded absently.

  Donal said, ‘Médon and I will go on ahead then. The rest of you can follow on.’

  ‘We’ll all go together.’ Conor rose abruptly and started for his horse. ‘Forty warriors appear at your gate, you do not dare turn them away.’

  ‘Sure about that, are you?’ Fergal called after him, but received no answer.

  Fergal sat for a moment longer and watched as Conor strode off. ‘We cannot be taking over every ráth and holding we come to.’

  Donal rose, too, and stood for a moment. ‘Ach, well, not every ráth, perhaps. Just this one for now.’

  ‘And you, Donal mac Donough,’ muttered Fergal, rising to his feet, ‘you are getting to be just as bad. You should know better than to encourage his insanity.’

  ‘You wound me, brother. Anyway, his insanity needs no encouragement from me. He is more than able to maintain it all on his own.’

  ‘But you stand idly by and let him run away with himself, so you do.’

  ‘Not so,’ Donal protested. ‘I stand by and hold his cloak while he runs.’ Donal smiled at Fergal’s exasperated expression. ‘Cheer up, brother. We do not know how this will turn out. But it does no harm for a man of Conor’s temper to dream a little. Something good usually comes of it.’

  Fergal rolled his eyes at the notion, then sighed. ‘Ach, well, it is not as if we had any better choice. I like a hearth and a roof over my head as much as the next man, so I do.’

  Once the greatly expanded fianna had assembled and was welcomed by Conor, they moved on. Médon knew the region well and knew where the nearest holdings were to be found. The nearest, as it happened was no great distance from the river that formed the southern border of Brigantes lands. Even so, with so many afoot, the fianna arrived at the farming settlement late in the day. The head man of the holding was not best pleased to see such a large warband trooping into his tidy yard. The place was home to sixty-three farmers, their wives and assorted children, several dogs and fair-sized herds of cattle and pigs, some sheep and a few scraggy goats. Judging from the tepid reception offered by their head
, none of the farm folk particularly relished the idea of hosting forty-one hungry warriors and twelve horses. Yet, to refuse the request outright would be to damage the honour and standing of his clan within the tribe, not to mention earning the displeasure of his lord if it was voiced about that he had denied hospitality to foot-weary warriors, some of them Brigantes.

  Conor understood the chieftain’s dilemma and sympathised. Feeding and lodging so many men and beasts, even for just one night, would put a considerable dent in the community stores of grain and supplies of foodstuffs. Conor felt for the man—all the more since it was not just one night that he asked to stay. ‘Three days and nights,’ Conor told him, ‘and then we’ll move on.’

  ‘Three days…’ The fellow scratched his rough jaw and spat onto the ground. He glanced at the white-whiskered man beside him, one of the farming clan’s elders. ‘A fella could wish it was just two, now.’

  ‘And I could wish it was ten,’ Conor told him. ‘But we need those three days.’ His tone left no doubt that he was in earnest. Time and need was against him, and it was not as if he could simply move on down the road and hope for a better reception elsewhere. There would be no lavish welcomes for his fianna—enthusiastic or otherwise—save, perhaps, on the field of battle. Reluctant though they might be now, when the Scálda came screaming into the yard with spears and torches, these same reluctant settlements would be eager enough for the protection of these same warriors.

  Médon, standing next to Conor, grew impatient with the farmer’s dithering. ‘What is the name of this place?’ he demanded.

  ‘This is Aghabhall you’ve come to, as anyone will tell you.’

  ‘And what is your name, friend?’ he demanded, displeasure colouring his tone a darker shade.

  ‘They call me Blai,’ replied the head man. ‘And this one here,’ he nodded to the grizzled elder at his side, ‘is called Aonghus.’

  ‘And was not Lord Brecan a good king for you?’

  ‘Fair enough. We never had cause to complain overmuch.’