‘There are more coming,’ he shouted, racing back to the line. ‘But they are having to fight their way through to get here. There are Scálda on the way, too!’
With a last look at the plains below, Fergal ran to his place once more and soon, from beyond the edge of the hill, could be heard the muted rumble of horses charging up from below. At the sound, Conor’s blood-red birthmark began to itch and burn and Pelydr seemed to quicken in his hand with that ardour he had come to expect of the spear—as if the charmed weapon yearned for the clash. ‘Here they come!’ someone shouted, and the cry was answered by the stuttered clatter as late-arriving warriors slammed the bottom edges of their shields into the soft turf to close any remaining gaps in the shield wall.
The rumble of hoofbeats slowed as the enemy riders neared the top of the hill where the slope was steepest. The defenders crouched low behind their shields as the first wave of Scálda appeared over the rim of the hill. It was the first close look Conor had of their attackers, and it was a sight calculated to invoke terror: the dog-eaters had shaved their heads, save for a single hank of hair into which had been woven the skull of a bird or vole or ferret; their faces were smeared and caked with mud; the flesh of their cheeks and upper arms had been slashed in the symbolic drawing of first-blood wounds to banish fear; their hard leather armour had been crudely daubed with white lye in weird signs and symbols. Up over the rim of the hill they came—only to encounter the Dé Danann shield wall. Those leading the attack attempted to leap over the top of the wall, but speed and momentum were not with them and these were cut down or turned back before they reached the line. The rest, pinched in the narrow margin between the slope and the interlocked shields, looked for a gap or weakness to exploit. That brief hesitation was all the Dé Danann spearmen needed.
A score of spears flashed out, their blades tracing a dull gleam in the sunlight. Many struck home before the enemy knew the spears had been launched. Scálda riders fell from their mounts, some with a startled cry and others with a dying groan and, suddenly free, the charging horses turned and fled back down the hill just as a second wave of enemy riders reached the top. They saw the horses flying past them and, thinking a retreat was in progress, turned tail and followed them—to the cheers and jeers of the defenders.
As the last Scálda rider vanished over the edge of the hill, the defenders gave out a jubilant shout and those without spears ran to retrieve their weapons and any discarded by the enemy, pausing only to make certain the fallen were accounted for; those still breathing were swiftly dispatched and given a push to roll them down the slope. That done, the defenders hastily returned to take up their places in the shield wall. More Dé Danann began arriving from the northern plain. Having skirted Mag Teamhair and the battles there, the lords and warleaders of the tribes camped on Mag Rí now reached the summit to join the defence of the sacred hill. Lords and battlechiefs shouted commands down the line and ordered their ranks; others cried out to shore up the line and for a moment nothing could be heard above the shouts of men desperate to protect a tenuous advantage against an implacable and merciless foe.
The noise quickly abated as the Dé Danann braced themselves for the next assault. They waited, listening to the wind whine as it gusted fresh out of the northwest. ‘What are they doing down there?’ muttered Fergal. ‘Where are they?’
‘We’ve made them wary,’ suggested Donal from his place in the line.
Time slowed to a maddening crawl. Still, they waited.
‘Maybe the dog-eaters have given up,’ mused Galart from his place beside Conor. ‘Do you think they’ve given up?’
His question was answered a moment later by the dull drumming of hooves pounding up the hillside track. Tightening his grip on the Pelydr’s shaft, Conor braced his shield against his side, muscles tense, ready to strike.
This time the enemy charge was better coordinated: the raiders appeared over the edge of the hill, their progress slowed by the steep upward climb. Once they reached the hilltop plateau, the horses fanned out, allowing each rider a little more room to manoeuvre. This gave the attackers a little more time to choose their best point of attack. Nevertheless, the result was much the same as before: the spears flew and the foe fell hard to earth. Only a handful of Scálda even reached the battle line to exchange blows, and the rest retreated after a feint or two.
Thus, the second attack degenerated into confusion and, like a furious wave surge pounding on the shore, it swiftly withdrew, its force diminished, energy spent. As before, the last fleeing horseman disappeared below the rim of the hill and Tara’s defenders raced to retrieve weapons and send the wounded to the Hag Queen’s hall. The Dé Danann worked with swift, brutal efficiency and returned to the line once more, exuberant in their success.
From then on, the pattern was set: a glancing attack followed by a swift retreat. In between one assault and the next, straggling Dé Danann warriors used the lull to hasten up from the plains to join the battle line with the other defenders. Gradually, the numbers of defenders grew; but though Conor searched each battle group as it arrived, he never caught sight of his father, Liam, or any of the Darini.
So it went throughout the day. Each Scálda onslaught was met by fierce resistance and was duly rebuffed. Every now and then, however, an enemy blade would claim a victim—often at the assailant’s cost, but a casualty nonetheless. And each failed assault tired the defenders and wore down their resistance.
As the lowering sun stretched the shadows across the table-flat hilltop, the clouds gathering through the day, closed in and the wind sharpened, swinging directly out of the north. Donal turned his face to the wind and sniffed the air. ‘Smell that?’ he said.
Conor sniffed and caught a damp scent on the air. ‘You said it would rain.’
‘Aye, and it will be here before dark.’
‘Will the Scálda abandon the attack?’ wondered Conor. ‘Can you see that happening?’
Donal merely shook his head. ‘Truly, I only see more Scálda joining the fight.’
‘Then it is going to be a long night,’ murmured Conor.
The last lights of day vanished in a murky haze, and two Luceni warriors came along the line offering water from water skins hung around their necks and over each shoulder. Every warrior, desperately thirsty, was given a drink and the skins were passed along; they had not yet reached the end of the line before the next attack commenced.
As every time before, the Scálda appeared over the rim of the hill, their horses labouring up the steep slope. Even as the defenders tensed for the impending collision, a blinding white flash of lightning seared across the sky followed a heartbeat later by the resounding crash of thunder booming across the hilltop and echoing across the plains below. A churning curtain of rain swept in on the wind and Tara dissolved in a veil of drenching rain; the shriek of the wind blended with the wild cries of the enemy even as the storm removed the charging horsemen from sight.
The foremost rank of Scálda struck at the centre of the Dé Danann line near where Conor stood. He had but a fleeting glimpse of a dark form looming out of the rain, and lunged instinctively. The charmed blade slashed through the darkness, met a slight, yielding resistance and then slid home. The rider gave out a startled cry and toppled from his mount as his horse shied, turned, and sped away. The wounded Scálda rolled and lay writhing at Conor’s feet and Conor, reaching over the top of his shield, delivered the killing blow, the charmed blade sliding in and out as easily as a scythe through grass. Conor prepared himself for the next assailant. Working with Donal and Galart, three more riders were slain in quick succession. And then the attack was over.
The enemy retreated and the defenders removed the dead Scálda and did what they could to arrange the bodies so as to create impediments to attackers climbing the hill. Meanwhile, the Dé Danann wounded were carried away and any gaps in the shield wall repaired. Conor heard a shout behind them and glanced around to see a fresh troop of Dé Danann warriors hurrying through the rain to
join them; they had come up the northernmost path from Mag Teamhair, avoiding the western approach to stay clear of the battles there. Upon reaching the shield wall, they took their places behind those in front, forming a second rank of support. When they got close enough, Conor called out and asked if there were more defenders on the way. The reply came back, ‘I cannot say. The dog-eaters are everywhere. The plain is thick with them. We were lucky to get through.’
The initial burst of rain settled into a steady downpour, forming shallow pools in the low places and running in rivulets down the long slopes. This, Conor considered, was no bad thing. For if the Dé Danann must fight in the rain, so, too, the Scálda—a proposition that made holding the high ground all the more critical. Huddled against the wind and rain, the defenders stood their bleak vigil. While waiting for the next wave to break upon them, Conor searched the rain-streaked darkness for his father, or brother, or Eamon, or any of the Darini warriors; but, with the darkness and rain blurring his vision, he could make out nothing past the next two or three warriors along the line.
The next assault foundered before it even reached the hilltop. During the previous attacks, the horses’ hooves had churned up the soft, wet earth, making the hillside treacherous; the horses could not gain any solid footing and the belaboured beasts slid and stumbled as they neared the top; few even reached the crest before they, too, turned and slid back down. From his place in the line, Conor watched all this and a ray of hope cut through the gloom: Tara’s slope was just too steep to allow a climbing horse to reach full speed; by the time a rider attained the brow of the hill, progress had slowed so much that he was easily picked off by a waiting spear. Rain and darkness and Tara’s steep rampart united to lend the defenders a slender fighting chance. The Dé Danann were still woefully outnumbered, but they were in no way outmanned.
The abrupt collapse of the latest assault brought a raucous chorus of jeers from Tara’s defenders. Many were for seizing their imagined victory by giving chase and pulled their shields from the wall and raising a cry to pursue and punish the enemy. But these voices were quickly shouted down by more sober calls to “Stand firm!” and “Hold the line!” The overeager warriors eventually ceased their shouting and settled into a restive silence. The rain beat upon Tara’s solitary hill and the wind snaked up and over its muddy slopes. The world was dark and wet and growing cold for the men hunkered behind their shields. Lightning flared again and again, and thunder trembled the nearby hills.
The next attack on the hilltop surprised everyone. The Scálda, having at last abandoned their horses, struck out of the storm silently and on foot, advancing by stealth until they were within a spear cast of the Dé Danann shield wall. Then they launched their weapons. The ploy succeeded in catching a fair number of defenders off guard.
Breaches opened along the line as warriors succumbed to the sudden offensive—an errant throw here, a lucky stab there, and a hole in the shield wall would appear. The Scálda made the most of this weakness. With screams and shrieks, they hurled themselves at the nearest opening, trying to hack their way through on brute force alone. The clattering clash of weapons echoed from a dozen places down along the line, and all along the line tired warriors fell.
‘Close up!’ shouted Conor. ‘Close the gaps!’
The nearest warriors heard and obeyed. Those in the second rank leapt forward to drag their wounded comrades out of the way and fill the breach, driving the screaming Scálda back with the points of their spears. The fighting lasted longer than any of the previous skirmishes but, unable to gain an advantage, the surprise attack eventually waned and the enemy fell back to regroup.
That should tell us something, thought Conor, as the last Scálda warrior faded into the darkness. Horses are no use to them, and their footmen cannot break the shield wall unaided. This hopeful thought was followed by another, altogether more sober realisation: This could go on all night—aye, if not longer.
The next enemy offensive commenced almost at once—and followed much the same pattern: striking fast, killing a few, and then withdrawing in haste and disarray—only to be followed by another attack … and then another. Each time there seemed to be more Scálda footmen than before and, instead of simply trying to break the line by force alone, they halted just out of reach and, with their habitual screams and wild gyrations, taunted the Dé Danann, daring them to break ranks and fight. Conor, crouching low in the front line, could dimly make out enemy spearmen a few steps behind those making all the noise—waiting, no doubt, for the pursuing defenders to give chase. ‘Hold the line,’ he cried, pounding the butt of his spear against the wet ground. ‘Hold! Wait them out.’
The Dé Danann warhost stood in the rain and watched the enemy display, adding to the din with taunts and abuse of their own. The commotion so occupied their attention that no one saw the Scálda horsemen who, having circled around the back of the hill to the more difficult ascent of the southeastern side, were at that moment bearing down on them from behind. It was only when the enemy spears began cutting down the men around him that Conor realised how they had been distracted and deceived.
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Swarming out of the storm they came. Conor, his cries all but drowned by the wind and rain and the wild ululations of the enemy, began pulling men around to face the attack from behind. As defenders began falling around them, the Dé Danann finally realised what was happening and all along the battle line the defensive wall buckled as warriors pulled up their shields and fell back, forming individual battle groups. Within moments, the united defence of Tara’s hilltop crumbled in a tumult of chaos and confusion.
Enraged Scálda came screaming through the rain-streaked darkness: the smeared mud melting on their faces, their gashed cheeks and arms bleeding anew, the white lye daubed on their shields and breastplates running in milky rivulets down their armour gave them the look of creatures loosed from nightmares and set to wreak havoc on the world of men. They struck hard, and darted away again. Each glancing charge aimed at dividing the battle groups, driving them into isolated clusters dispersed over the hilltop where they could be picked off one by one. The stalwart Dé Danann stood their ground and in some places succeeded in forcing the enemy back. But at a cost. Every advance was paid in blood.
Wave after ferocious wave broke upon the defenders, each time the enemy inflicted hurtful blows before dashing away again—only to regroup and strike again somewhere else. It soon became clear that the Scálda had no intention of engaging in a pitched battle, but meant to swoop in and pick off the defenders one by one until none remained.
Conor cupped a hand to his eyes and scanned the battle plain as desperation closed its suffocating fist upon him. There were clustered knots of defenders scattered over the hilltop now, driven ever farther apart. We’re being cut to shreds, he thought. We’ve got to move.
‘Fergal!’ he shouted, straining to see through the dark and rain.
‘Fergal here!’ came the reply from down the line.
‘We can’t stay here like this! We’ve got to move!’
‘Lead the way!’
‘The Pillar Stone!’ cried Conor. ‘Regroup at the ring.’ He shouted the instruction to Donal and the message was repeated to everyone within hearing distance. Without waiting for a response, Conor lofted his spear and started for the council ring at a run.
The ring itself was the remnant of an ancient dún from the time when high kings ruled Eirlandia. Though the fortress was long since gone, the deep grooves formed by the three concentric ditches remained—in the centre of which stood a great yellow stone—the Pillar Stone. A timber platform had been erected nearby that served as the meeting place for the council gatherings. On the eastern edge of the plateau stood a large round house flanked by two small storage huts; nearby stood an ancient barrow said to house the remains of Eirlandia’s last high king. Some little way past the barrow tomb was a stone circle where, on occasion, feasts and such were sometimes held. There were no defensive structures on the hilltop, bu
t the platform and the ditch offered what little advantage could be had.
Blinded by wind and rain, Conor made a dash for the place; by instinct alone, he made it. Upon crossing the innermost ditch, Conor turned to see whether anyone had followed. The rain pelted down and the wind howled. A blast of forked lightning momentarily illuminated the hilltop and Conor made out clots and clumps of defenders racing to take their places inside the ring. Darkness flooded back instantly, but the muted sounds of men hastily making ready a last stand could be heard: the swish and thud of shod feet through the soaking grass, the errant clink of a blade against a shield rim, the soft muttered curse of a warrior tripping over a rock or stepping in a water-filled hole unseen in the dark. Group by group, the defenders appeared out of the rainy dark to join their swordbrothers in the ring and rebuild the shield wall. They were still shouting commands to one another when the next Scálda surge loomed out of the storm. The weak and unfinished defence crumpled, giving way in several places. Good warriors fell and the resulting gaps grew wider. The Dé Danann fought back with a ferocity born of desperation and at last succeeded in repelling the enemy assault. The Scálda retreated, leaving almost as many Dé Danann defenders dead and dying on the rain-soaked ground as remained standing on the line.
Conor did not have time to assess the damage done to the line before the enemy, sensing victory at last, sped back to the fray. Keen to exploit their hard-won gain, they came screaming—on foot and on horseback, they came and, by dint of superior numbers, succeeded in breaking through the Dé Danann line and forcing the defenders once again into smaller battle groups. Conor saw what was happening and a rush of helplessness swept over him. Glancing around, he glimpsed a small force of men bunched together in a beleaguered clump and shouted to Donal. ‘Take command!’ Shoving his hand through the Pared’s straps, Conor raised the shield and ran to join the beleaguered warband. ‘Here! Here! Let me in!’
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