Leaving Galart, Aedd, and Diarmaid to make camp, Conor, Donal, and Fergal walked to the top of the nearest hill and gazed out over the broad green sweep of Tara’s sacred precinct, the whole spread out before them in the dwindling daylight. Directly ahead stood the looming, flat-topped eminence of Teamhair, Tara’s sacred hill, surrounded by its storied plains: to the west, Mag Teamhair, the Plain of Tara; to the north, the Royal Plain of Mag Rí; to the south, the expanse of Mag Coinnem, the Council Plain. The sun had only just set, but there were campfires already aglow here and there, sending threads of silvery smoke drifting on the freshening northwesterly breeze. Upon taking in the sight, Conor expressed a twinge of uneasiness, to which Fergal replied, ‘It is not as if we could be taking the whole fianna up to the council anyway,’ he pointed out. ‘We’d only get ourselves banished.’
‘Or start a riot,’ added Donal. ‘We’ll be doing well just to get a hearing at all.’
‘Very true,’ allowed Conor. ‘As to that, I mean to have my say and I will not be denied because some lord or other decides to make a fuss.’
‘Why would anyone be making a fuss?’ said Fergal. ‘We’re only a rebellious band of lawless exiles and outcasts showing up where we’re not wanted to stop a vainglorious pretender overreaching himself. Why should that upset anyone at all?’
Conor laughed—a sound rare enough that it made Fergal and Donal smile. ‘Ach, well, just for a moment I imagined there might be trouble.’ They fell silent, contemplating the various encampments, each with its king or lord together with some of the best of Eirlandia’s warriors.
‘Nothing has started yet,’ mused Fergal. ‘I don’t see anything happening up at the council ring.’ He indicated the flattened plateau of the sacred hill; there were no torches burning or cooking fires to indicate a feast or reception of any kind.
‘That’s as well,’ replied Conor. ‘We have work to do down here, first. If we’re lucky we might have a day or two yet before the council begins. I want to speak to my father and some of the other lords—if they’ll hear me. They should be warned lest anyone consider trusting Lord Vainche.’ He scanned the scattered campsites and wondered aloud where the Darini delegation might be camped.
‘Do you want me to go and see if I can find them?’ offered Donal.
‘Nay, it’ll be dark soon, and we’ve travelled far today,’ Conor replied. ‘We’ll rest tonight and then go look for them in the morning.’
They enjoyed a calm and restful night and, after bathing and shaving and a meal of leftover porridge and hard bread softened in water, Conor, Donal, and Fergal prepared to set off on their search for the Darini delegation. Leaving their weapons in the care of Galart, and charging Diarmaid and Aedd to watch the camp, the three rode to the top of the nearest hill where they looked out across the three plains; the last, lingering patches of morning mist and fog, slowly dispersing in the sunlight, drifted across the flat, green expanse below. The ancient mound of Tara itself had yet to shake off the few remaining shadows of night around its northern base, but the bright sun’s rays illumined the top well enough to see, even from a distance, that the council ring remained deserted.
Upon reaching Mag Coinnem, the three pursued a leisurely course that took them near the various encampments, passing close enough to guess whose camp it might be, but not so close as to disturb anyone or call undue attention to themselves. They moved across the level green, pausing now and again to ask of warriors on their way to wash or fetch water whether any knew where the Darini were camped. None of those they asked had seen the Darini or knew where they might be found. Along the way, however, they did locate the Coriondi camp and paused to exchange a word with Lord Cahir, an old friend and ally of Conor’s father.
The Coriondi king professed himself astonished and pleased to see them and invited them into his tent to refresh themselves with a bowl of ale. From the first, the lord was more than solicitous, almost fawning over them—especially Conor, who grew uncomfortable under the lord’s fulsome welcome. ‘Come in! Everyone, come in!’ Standing at the open flap of the tent, he shouted to one of his men. ‘Earchna! Bring the jar and bowls for our friends here!’ Turning to his guests once more, he gestured to the low, three-legged stools along one side of the tent and said, ‘Sit down, friends. Rest yourselves. Look at you, Conor! The last man I expected to see and yet here you are. Have you seen your father? Ach, what am I saying? Of course not—otherwise why would you be looking for him? But here you are!’ The king lowered himself into his camp chair and sat beaming at them.
Conor smiled back and said, ‘It is good to see you, too. I would have come to you sooner, but things do not always follow the straightest course.’
‘Why would you seek me?’ asked Cahir. Just then, the king’s steward, Earchna, entered with a large jar of ale and four wooden bowls. Handing the jar to the king, he passed out the bowls and then departed, closing the tent flap after him.
‘To tell you how sorry I am about Mádoc’s death. You must have heard long since how he died and what we—’
‘Stop right there!’ Cahir raised a hand. ‘I will not hear it. You are not to blame for Mádoc’s death. If anyone should be sorry, it is me and none other—sorry for allowing myself to get carried away with the old druid’s schemes. I should have known better. But there it is. Water passed. And here you are!’
The king raised the jar and bade his guests to extend their bowls, which he filled to overflowing. ‘We will drink to better times ahead, aye?’ They all echoed that sentiment, raised their bowls, and drank. When they finished, Cahir turned to Conor and said, ‘Last I heard you were an amais with the Brigantes.’
‘True enough. And did you also hear that I betrayed King Brecan to the Scálda and got him killed?’ Conor put aside his bowl and looked the Coriondi lord in the eye.
‘Something like that came my way,’ admitted Cahir. He gave a belated shrug and added, ‘But the same also said how you were killed along with him and his druid—that old … what was his name?’
‘Mog Ruith,’ answered Fergal. ‘But here is Conor alive and well and so you know the truth of the matter. Conor is no traitor, and that’s a fact.’
Cahir raised his hands. ‘A fella cannot help the birds from flying over his head, you know. That is just what I heard and, as I say, I never believed it.’ He looked to Conor again, ‘But what did happen to greedy Brecan, then?’
‘Evil Eye killed him and I was there—that much is true, at least. The two of them were meeting together to discuss a plan Brecan had conceived that would gain him the high king’s throne.’
‘A mad and dangerous plan, if you ask me,’ scoffed Fergal. ‘The man was an overambitious fool.’
‘Is this not what I always thought?’ Cahir nodded forcefully. ‘I knew it must be something like that got Brecan killed—and I told your father as much, so I did. Ardan has never given up hope that you are still alive, you know. He still believes.’
‘He’ll know by now that I’ve returned,’ Conor told him. ‘I only wish I could say the same for Mádoc and little Huw. I’m sorry for the loss of them. I want you to know that if I could have saved them, I would have.’
Cahir sighed. ‘Ach, well, water passed, as I say. It was Mádoc’s meddling that stirred all this up anyway. So there’s no one to blame but himself alone.’ The king reached for the jar and splashed more ale into the bowls, and said, ‘What do you know of this Lord Vainche who’s made himself king over there at Aintrén?’
Fergal was first to answer. ‘We know enough to know that he is not fit to rule a pigsty full of young swine much less a tribe like the Brigantes. He’s a preening, mutton-headed magpie and anyone who allies with him is a goose ripe for plucking.’
Conor was quick to apologize for Fergal’s outburst, but the Coriondi lord slapped his knee and said, ‘I like a man with bold heart and ready tongue, so I do. Well, and was I not thinking the very same thing myself? I’ve only seen the fella once or twice at some gathering or other, and found little
enough to impress me. Then again, I’ve never said two words to the man.’
‘We have had dealings,’ allowed Conor, ‘and I can tell you that Fergal’s judgement is accurate as far as it goes. However, I would add that Vainche is also a wily schemer of considerable resolve and much appeal. It will not surprise me if there are many among us who would succumb to his flatteries. That is why I must speak to my father—and anyone else who will listen—before the council begins.’
They discussed the Oenach then, and who might be susceptible to Lord Vainche’s blandishments. Then, having drained their cups, they rose to take their leave. Cahir walked with them to their horses and sent them off, saying, ‘For myself, I welcome your timely warning—and I’ll spread the word. But as for your father, I don’t think the Darini are here yet. No doubt, they will arrive today or tomorrow when the Oenach begins. Soon as I see him, I’ll tell him you’re here and looking for him. Where are you camped?’
‘Hard by the Council Plain,’ answered Conor and, thanking Cahir for his hospitality, the three collected their mounts and rode on in search of Ardan and the Darini. As soon as they were away from the Coriondi camp, Conor turned to Donal, who was riding at his left hand, and asked, ‘Nothing to say back there, brother?’
‘Nay,’ replied Donal, ‘but I think deep thoughts.’
For the second time in as many days, Conor laughed; and the sun seemed to shine a little brighter for a while.
32
After searching for their Darini kinsmen among the tribes encamped on the two farthest plains, the three gave up and returned to the grove and set their mounts to graze alongside the others. They rested through the day, keeping watch on the council ring, but evening closed in around them without anyone making a move to convene the Oenach. A peaceful night passed beside a pleasant fire and the gentle rattling of the dry beech leaves allowed them to rise the next morning rested and ready for the confrontation that lay ahead. A freshening breeze from the north and a sky the colour of a slate gave them to know the weather was on the change. ‘There will be rain before day’s end,’ was Donal’s appraisal. As before, they broke fast on little more than crumbs and water and, leaving Galart, Diarmaid, and Aedd behind, rode out once more to look for Lord Ardan and the Darini camp, hoping to have a private word before the council began.
They passed by the Coriondi camp, but did not stop this time, and quickly moved on. The three were halfway across Mag Coinnem when Donal halted abruptly. Conor reined up and turned around. ‘What is—?’
‘Listen!’
Fergal, hearing the sharp tone in Donal’s voice, stopped and looked back the way they had come. ‘I don’t hear—’
‘Shh!’ hissed Donal. They both listened for a moment and then Donal said, ‘There—did you hear that?’
Fergal shrugged and shook his head. Conor said, ‘Nay, not a—’
Just then a shout reached them from somewhere across the plain—a small sound carried on the wind, distinct and clear despite the obvious distance—a cry of alarm. Instinctively, the three turned in the direction of the sound and waited. The first, frantic cry was followed by a second shout and then others; they seemed to be coming from one of the camps at the westernmost region of Mag Teamhair at the very perimeter.
‘Something is going on out there,’ observed Fergal as the distant shouting increased, growing perceptibly louder by the moment. He pointed toward the far tree line and there, streaming out from among the fringe of trees, emerged a line of mounted warriors. Fergal’s stare hardened into anger, and Conor muttered a curse under his breath, but it was Donal who called them to action. ‘Scálda!’
The word was still reverberating as two more enemy battle groups burst out from among the trees and onto the plain. The first wave of attackers streaked toward the outlying Dé Danann camps and the alarmed cries sounded clear in the air. Conor lifted the reins and lashed Búrach forward—only to be called back by Fergal. ‘Wait!’ he shouted. ‘We have no weapons!’
Without a word, Conor wheeled the stallion, slapped the reins, started back the way they had come. Within four heartbeats, the three were galloping across the empty expanse of Mag Coinnem, shouting warnings to any they passed, but not stopping until they reached their beech grove encampment. Galart and Diarmaid, who were tending their mounts, jumped up as they thundered in.
‘Arm yourselves and get ready to ride,’ shouted Conor, throwing himself from his mount. ‘We’re under attack!’ He raced to the fire ring and snatched up Eirian, sliding the sleek blade under his belt; he grabbed up Pelydr and, slinging Pared, his impervious shield onto his back, he raced back to Búrach and vaulted onto the grey’s back, shouting, ‘To me! Everyone! To me!’
Fergal, armed and ready, was first to join him, followed by Galart, Donal, Aedd, and Diarmaid. ‘The attack is coming from the western edge of the Royal Plain,’ he told them. ‘We’ll make for Tara Hill and take the high ground.’
‘How many?’ asked Galart.
‘Sixty at least,’ replied Donal. ‘Maybe more by now.’
‘For Eirlandia!’ Conor shouted, lofting his spear, and with that they rode out, quickly gaining the top of the hill where they could see that the attack had progressed swiftly. There were not only more enemy than before, the various battle groups appeared to be coming from several different locations along the western border of both Mag Teamhair and, now, Mag Coinnem as well. Of the three plains, only Mag Rí to the north had yet to feel the assault, but the Dé Danann encamped there had raised the alarm and were now speeding to the fight.
Conor did not pause, but turned the stallion toward Tara Hill and gave Búrach his head and let him run. Over the flat turf of the plain they flew, the horses’ hooves biting into the soft earth, flinging clots of turf behind them. As they neared the base of the sacred mound, they passed a group of four Auteini warriors making for the hilltop. Conor paused long enough to shout, ‘Where were you camped?’
‘Back there,’ answered a warrior, shouting as he ran. ‘Near the centre.’
‘Who was with you?’ called Conor. ‘Have you seen the Darini?’
‘Nay,’ came the reply. ‘Not a hair.’
Conor led his ardféne onto the winding track leading to the flattened summit of the hill. The climb was steep and even Búrach struggled at the end, but they gained the top to see that they were the first. Conor wheeled the stallion and turned to look back down upon the surrounding plains. From this high vantage they could hear the sounds of the clash echoing up from below: men shouting, horses whinnying, the crack and clatter of wood and iron—all merging to form a muted roar like that of a distant windblown sea crashing onto a rocky shore—a score of small clashes dotted all across the plain, isolated skirmishes, scattered combats, each a tiny island of conflict.
‘We cannot fight them like that,’ growled Fergal. ‘They’ll cut us to bloody rags.’
As if hearing Fergal’s judgement, Dé Danann warriors began breaking away and making for the high ground—some mounted, others on foot. Soon, the entire plain was on the move: from the west where the enemy attack was concentrated, and from the north and south as well, Dé Danann warbands were in flight. The retreat to Tara Hill had begun. Dismounting quickly, Conor gave Búrach a slap on the rump and set the stallion free. He took a position on the western rim of the hilltop where the path from below met the crest. ‘They’re coming. We’ll form the battle line here!’ he called. ‘To me!’
Fergal dismounted and took his place at Conor’s right hand with Diarmaid and Aedd beside him; Donal took his place on Conor’s left with Galart beside him. The first to join them on Tara were the Cruithne who had been camped nearest the base of sacred mound. There were seven of them—three mounted, soon followed by four on foot.
‘Who else is coming?’ Conor shouted across to the Cruithne battlechief as he leapt down from his horse and directed his men to take their places on the line.
‘The Laigini were not far off,’ came the reply. ‘They should be right behind us.’
<
br /> Indeed, only a few moments later, the Laigini warband appeared over the southern edge of the hilltop: six warriors, all on foot; they quickly added their number to the growing defensive line. Next came the Cauci, three on horseback followed by three on foot; breathless but unbloodied, they hurried to take their places. Dé Danann warriors were now streaming up—alone and in pairs, or groups of three or four—some, the remnant of their tribe’s ardféne and others, on horseback, leading their comrades on foot. By the time the first wave had abated, eighty Dé Danann warriors were assembled on Tara Hill, raising a great clamour as men hastened to form the battle line: those on horseback dismounted and joined the ranks; those on foot, breathing hard from the climb, filled in gaps in the line; weapons were shared out: those who had been forced to flee without weapons were given blades by those who had two; men called out for their swordbrothers and re-formed their battle groups, shields were planted for the shield wall, extending the battle line across the western quarter of the hilltop.
Fergal, growing impatient, muttered, ‘Where are the rest? There should be more. What’s happened to the rest?’ Conor told him to go and see what he could see, and Fergal ran to the northern edge of the hilltop and stood for a time gazing down onto the plains to the north and west.
‘What do you see?’ shouted Conor, raising his voice to be heard among the clamour of weapons and warriors on the line.
In the Land of the Everliving Page 31
