‘Who is it?’ demanded one of the warriors, squinting through the rain; his torc marked him out as either lord or battlechief.
‘Conor mac Ardan,’ Conor announced. ‘I must speak to your king.’
‘Let him in!’ shouted the battlechief.
Conor shoved in beside him, recognising him as one of the Auteini he had spoken to the day before. ‘Your king, where is he?’
The nearby warriors looked away and the battlechief wiped the water from his face and frowned. ‘You want to see our king?’ He pointed with his sword to a sodden, cloak-covered heap on the ground. ‘There he is.’
Conor turned to the warleader. ‘The Scálda are carving us to pieces. If we do not combine forces once more, none of us will see morning.’
Turning his face into the teeth of the storm, he scanned the lightning-fretted darkness and could just about make out the nearest battle group some little distance across the soggy turf. ‘Who is that over there?’
‘The Ulaid, I think—or what’s left of them,’ came the reply. ‘Lord Garbha and his men were beside us when the line broke.’
‘We’ll go to them,’ Conor said. ‘Tell your men to get ready to move.’
The battlechief pointed at the cloak-shrouded body of his lord. ‘And leave our king behind? That we will never do.’
‘Then you will soon join him,’ Conor replied. ‘Listen to me—all of you,’ he shouted, raising his voice. ‘Dead, you can do nothing for your lord. Stay alive and you can avenge him.’ Conor could see them waver and pressed harder. ‘You must think of your people now. They will need you in the hard days ahead.’
The reluctant warleader bent over his lord’s body, knelt, and placed his hand on the breathless chest. Then, after a moment, he rose, stood, and said, ‘We’ll do as you say.’ The battlechief looked to his waiting men. ‘Move on his command.’
Conor turned again, marked the place he aimed for and shouted, ‘Now!’ Crouching behind their shields in the lashing rain, the defenders trudged across the battleground, lurching over the bodies of the fallen, and calling for the Ulaid battlechief to make himself known. Out of the lashing rain, a lone voice answered their call. They hurried toward the sound and the combined warbands quickly folded in and blended together. Conor then led his growing band of warriors back across the chewed-up ground to the council ring. On the way, he found a band of Luceni warriors surrounded by Scálda footmen, trading blows and fighting for their lives. Conor and his gathered warriors rushed in, forcing a path with the points of their spears to the Luceni front line. ‘Conor mac Ardan here!’ he shouted. ‘Follow me to the Pillar Stone!’ The Luceni needed no convincing, but fell into step behind him and thus the warbands of two more tribes were added to the defenders. The triple ring of ditches was now forming shallow loughs; the Dé Danann sloshed across and joined their swordbrothers on the innermost ditch’s upper rim. They no sooner took their places on the line than Conor was away again.
Back into the storm he ran, every sense alive and alert. Somehow, above the wail of the wind, Conor heard the metallic ring of blade on blade—no great distance away, yet unseen in the rain-drenched dark, another solitary Dé Danann warband was fighting for its life. Conor marked the place and levelled his spear and ran toward the sound of the clash. Through the shifting curtain of rain, Conor glimpsed a cluster of warriors completely cut off by a horde of howling Scálda. The defenders were frantically trying to mount a defence against a sustained and frenzied onslaught. Conor raced into the hot heart of the desperate fight and hurled himself upon the unprotected backs of the Scálda. Four enemy warriors fell before they realised they were being taken from behind. Two more fell as they strove to disengage and turn to meet this unexpected challenge. Driving in from behind Pared, his impenetrable shield wall, Conor, wielding Pelydr like a butcher hacking at a haunch, carved a killing swathe. Like a creature bred to war, his blood-red birthmark aglow with the fiery heat of battle, he gave himself up to the fight. Bodies dropped and fell away with every exchange of blows. Shouting strong words of encouragement, Conor urged the defenders to join him in his bloody work.
Slick with rain and gore, Dé Danann spears thrust and Dé Danann blades rose and fell. The soft earth churned to blood-rich mud beneath their feet, the enemy struggled to stand against the sustained ferocity of the Dé Danann until the Scálda broke off the attack. The moment the Scálda turned tail and ran, Conor called out, ‘To the Pillar Stone, brothers! Fall back to the council ring!’
Back across the broken field they ran to join the defenders at the council ring redoubt—all except Conor, who sped away again, disappearing into a storm that had grown to fill the night with gales of icy wind and stinging rain that seemed, like the enemy, to gather new strength with every assault, scouring the darkened, corpse-strewn plain where terrified horses, their riders thrown or killed, ran this way and that; and lightning seared the turbulent sky, and angry thunder roared in reply; and lone Scálda, lost or wounded, crouched waiting to strike. Heedless of the risk, ignoring it all, Conor ran toward the resounding shouts and clash of weapons and quickly came upon a lone warband encircled by mounted Scálda.
He halted and, crouching low, looked for an opening. It came when a Scálda rider came near, charging blindly out of the darkness. The horse was almost upon him when Conor saw that the beast was none other than his very own. Leaping up, he shouted, ‘Búrach! Here, fella!’
The stallion’s head swung toward the sound, saw his rightful owner and stiffened his forelegs, skidding to a halt and pitching the surprised rider headlong over its neck. Conor seized the bridle, and swung himself onto Búrach’s back. He rode over the dazed rider, and flew to the aid of the hard-pressed Dé Danann. Holding Pelydr low, he drove into the unsuspecting enemy. His first few blows opened a way, but it closed again just as quickly when the Scálda turned and began swarming their lone mounted assailant, stabbing wildly with their iron spears.
Conor whirled this way and that, countering the strokes of the enemy with swift shieldwork, the blade of his charmed spear shearing into hard leather armour with the ease of a scythe through standing grain. Even so, it was all he could do to keep from being pulled from his mount and struck down. Faces contorted with rage and bloodlust, bloodied, mud-streaked, snarling like dogs or shrieking like the Bean Sídhe loomed out of the darkness, spears and swords struck and struck again. The counterattack was instantly so ferocious, Conor accepted that his last fight was upon him. The next stroke might be his last. He knew it, and yet he fought on. Despair clutched him close in its numbing fist and fear seemed to stream in on the wind; he manfully resisted both and, though anyone could see he was only a spear thrust away from certain death, he gripped the Pelydr’s blood-slicked shaft and redoubled his effort.
The more hopeless his predicament grew, the bolder Conor became. Having given up trying to save himself, he hewed and hacked at the close-gathered thicket of blades before him with an abandon that was wonderful to see, each blow of the faéry spear striking sparks from the soft enemy iron. Determined now to go to his grave fighting, he put back his head and, raising his spear high, taunted his attackers. ‘Come, little ones, loathly ones!’ he cried. ‘Red Badb is hungry! The Hag Queen awaits!’
And in that moment, as if in answer to this challenge, the sky blazed white and a blinding blast of lightning scoured the storm-riven sky, like an earth-flung star, like swift destiny streaking home to its mark, a searing gash of blue-white fire stabbed down through the turbulent air, striking the upraised spear and scattering tongues of flame in all directions. Pelydr rang like a struck bell. The answering thunder drowned all other sound, filling the night like a judgement of doom from the lips of Great Danu herself. Conor felt the jolt like the blow of a hammer to his skull and his vision dimmed. Bright fire seemed to spread through each and every sinew in his body. His sodden cloak steamed, and his siarc and breecs dried instantly. His skin remained unscathed, but his facial blemish flared with a deep crimson glow like live coals in a forge,
kindling with a weird and glorious warmth that strengthened and spread out in a heated bloom to envelop both horse and rider entirely.
The lightning bolt removed all fatigue, all fear, all doubt. Conor felt the ravenous, scorching desire of the Dé Danann long oppressed, the frustrated yearning of a people longing to be free from the threat of death and destruction. It seemed to him that he embodied the hopes and fears of his countrymen and knew in his bones that he held the power to free them at last. In that moment, Conor felt his strength reborn and knew he could dare anything, do anything.
More: in that moment, Conor mac Ardan, son of the Darini, Lord of the Fianna, became invincible.
Lofting Pelydr once more, he gave out a roar that rattled the blades ranged about him; the spear in his fist, its blade and shaft agleam with a keen and deadly light, seemed to come alive in his hand. The enemy, stunned beyond sense by the blast, fell back in terror at the sight. Conor pulled hard on the reins, Búrach, no less terrified by the lightning strike, reared, lashing out with his forelegs. ‘Búrach! Hie!’ cried Conor, and the stallion leapt forward. The Scálda in his path shrank from this flame-touched apparition that lightning could not consume, and thunder did not destroy. Conor, gripping his spear with a grasp as tight as life, lunged again and again and again, each stroke delivered another guest to Red Badb’s hall. Unable to defend themselves against such terrible magic, the Scálda turned and ran, fleeing in disordered ranks before him.
The sight of this solitary rider dispatching Scálda with every cut and thrust of his faéry spear emboldened the beleaguered Dé Danann and they took to their weapons with renewed vigour. Any advantage the Scálda possessed to that moment melted away in the heat of the exchange and they abandoned the fight, streaming back into the darkness as from which they came. With them went the otherworldly gleam that had illumined Conor and his grey stallion, dimming as the last of the Scálda disappeared into the rain-riven night.
Silence claimed Tara’s Hill then. Slowly, slowly, the storm died away; its wrath spent, the rain dwindled and ceased and even the wind seemed to sigh and hold its breath. Conor, dizzy now and a little dazed, came to himself once more to the slack-jawed, openmouthed expressions of awe of those around him. Some of the warriors nearest him backed away; the rest stood in flat-footed amazement at what they had just witnessed. Then the storm closed in once more; the rain renewed its onslaught and the icy wind wailed. Conor, suddenly cold, and shaking uncontrollably, slid from his horse and sank to his knees. In days to come, there would be other battles, greater battles, but this one, at least, was over.
Eamon
The dead … Badb take me, there were so many! Sodden corpses lay strewn in all directions! Corpses of friend and foe alike, aye, and all mired in the blood-tinged mud. Riderless horses stood forlorn, proud heads bent low—and I felt like one more of those poor, tail-draggled beasts, so I did. My siarc and breecs were black with blood—some of it my own. Never had I seen such a battle, such a night. How we survived, I believe we will never know.
Ach, but there were so many who did not survive … so very many. The decision to take and hold the high ground aided us and hindered the dog-eaters. True enough. But in the end, it was the fury of the storm that decided the battle’s outcome.
Word came to us that the way was clear to the top of Tara’s mound. The tribes were uniting up there to make our stand. My lord Ardan gave the command and we all ran for the high ground. But before we even reached the foot of the hill, we were cut off by a wing of mounted Scálda and were forced to fall back and rely on our own defence. As the battle fell out, this was to be our portion in the fight. For, each time there came a chance to climb the hill, another assault would steal the chance away.
‘They’re at us coming and going,’ called Ardan. ‘Attacking or retreating, we’re in their way.’
Aye, and he was right. Whether riding to attack the hill, or retreating to regroup, the Scálda passed us on the way, preventing any attempt we made to mount the long slope. The best we could do was work ourselves out of the direct approach and maybe find another path to the top. This we did, moving farther by steps and lurches away from the main course of the battle. But we got no farther.
Though I tried three times to scout out a side trail, if the darkness alone had not made it difficult, the storm made it impossible. Down there on the Mag Teamhair, we could not even see the top of the hill, so we fought the battles that came to us—and those were enough to keep us sharp-eyed and ready—and we waited for either a break in the storm, or a lull in the fighting to allow us to join our swordbrothers holding the hilltop.
Now, the sorry sun of an ill-favoured day crept toward dawn and I stood stiff legged on the wasted battleground and witnessed what the night had left behind: the dross and squander of war flung across the churned-up ground like flotsam heaved up on the beach and left there to rot when the squall passed on to plunder other lands. The night’s raw gale had gone, leaving only a desolate calm and the dead: Scálda and Dé Danann alike, fierce enemies in life but alike in death. A spear to the gut brings all men to the same level.
As soon as it was light enough to see your hand in front of your face, the miserable few of us who remained in the Land of the Living began searching among the bodies for fallen friends and any still clinging to life. I had not seen Lord Ardan since he commanded me to go and search out a clear trail to the hilltop. Allowing for darkness and the confusion of battle, our separation did not alarm me, but as our lord was not to be seen among the survivors working the battlefield, I did feel a pang of concern as I turned over the bodies.
I had just rolled the ninth or tenth corpse—an Eblani battlechief, judging from his heavy braid and thick bronze torc—when I heard someone call my name. I raised my head and peered through the mist to see Liam, some little way off, bending over a small heap of bodies near the foot of Tara’s slope. I answered, my voice rough and hoarse from shouting all night, and picked my way over the chewed-up turf to where I found him stooping over the body of his father.
‘He is still alive,’ whispered Liam as I joined him.
One glance at the pale, waxy flesh and dull eyes, and I shook my head. ‘Not much longer, I fear.’
‘Help me get him on a horse,’ said Liam, bending low over his father.
‘Liam, he is beyond—’
‘Go! Hurry!’
With little thought or care, I went for the first poor beast I saw—a mud-caked mare nearby—and brought it back. Liam, on his knees beside his father, said, ‘I am here, my king.’ He clasped his father’s bloodstained hand to his breast. ‘We are taking you home.’
Ardan’s eyelids fluttered and a faint smile touched his lips. ‘Too late for that. Listen, my son, I want—’ He coughed and could not continue.
‘Here, get him up on the horse,’ said Liam, taking Ardan by the shoulders and raising him into a sitting position. That was as far as we got him. Panting from the exertion, his breath coming in gasps, Ardan still had a thought for his people. He said, ‘You will be king now.…’ And, raising a shaky hand, my lord of many years touched the slender twist of silver at his neck. ‘Take this…’
‘Father, I—’
Ardan gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Take it … make it your own, my son.’
Unable to speak, Liam simply nodded.
Ardan closed his eyes for a moment and then roused himself once more. ‘Liam?’ he said, growing frantic. His hand flailed, reaching for something he could no longer see. ‘Liam?’
‘I am here, Father.’ He took his father’s searching hand.
‘Let Conor come home,’ Ardan said, his voice fading to a dry, hushed whisper.
‘Father? I did not hear—’
‘Conor … let him come home … it is time.’
Liam clutched his father’s hand the tighter. ‘But, Father—’
Ardan struggled up, his eyes wide, but unseeing. ‘Promise me,’ he said with renewed force. ‘End his exile … promise me…’
&nbs
p; Liam glanced at me and I nodded my encouragement. Finally, he said, ‘I promise, Father.’
My poor grieving heart moved within me. Our good king’s last thoughts were of his outcast son. More than that, Liam had heard the request and made the promise. It was right and good.
Ardan slumped back once more and we lowered him to the ground. ‘Is Eamon here?’
‘I am here, my king.’ I reached up and pressed the hand of my friend, kinsman, and lord. ‘I am with you.’
‘You will be battlechief,’ Ardan whispered. ‘Accept Conor back into the warband. Give him my sword.’
‘With pleasure, lord.’
The flicker of a smile flitted across Ardan’s dry lips. ‘Then all is well.…’ He closed his eyes once more.
‘Come, let’s get him somewhere dry and warm where he can rest.’ Somehow, we lifted the all but lifeless body up onto the horse and, taking up the dangling reins, Liam led the bedraggled beast away. I walked alongside, keeping my hand on the king’s side to keep him from sliding off his mount. We had gone but a few paces when Liam called over his shoulder, ‘Tell the ardféne we’re going home. We’ll make a start and the rest of you follow.’
‘Liam,’ I said, ‘there is no need.’
He heard the note of sorrow in my voice and stopped. ‘What? Why is—’
‘He is gone, Liam.’ My voice sounded flat in my ears and my tongue numb as I spoke the fateful words. ‘Your father is dead.’
It took Liam a moment to realise what I had said: Ardan mac Orsi had breathed his last and his cup and throne would know him no more.
We sat for a long moment in silence, gazing at the body of our lord and contemplating what we had lost and what was now to be done. Finally, I turned sad eyes to Liam and said, ‘Sorry as I am to lose him, it is well he lived to tell us his last request. It will be good to have Conor back among us again.’
In the Land of the Everliving Page 33
