Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  ‘My heart is low, Liath Luachra. I think it will break in two.’

  ‘Then you must find the resolve to hold those halves together, dear one. Our lives may depend on it. These are dangerous times.’

  ‘I fear I lack your resolve.’

  ‘Bah! You have iron in you. You just can’t see it as I do.’ Liath Luachra levered herself up onto one elbow. ‘I respect your decision Bodhmhall, but having Muirne here could come down heavily on us. On our people. Hiding out here in Glenn Ceoch we’ve avoided most of the bloodshed but now -’

  She attempted to shift closer but flinched at the sudden movement. Bodhmhall wiped the tears from her face.

  ‘That’s enough talk of Muirne. You’re wounded. Let me tend to your wound.’

  ‘There is no wound. Just scratches.’

  Bodhmhall stared, noting the stiffness in her voice.

  ‘No wound?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you can barely stand.’

  Liath Luachra rolled onto her stomach, face down into the furs and muttered.

  The bandraoi considered her with open curiosity. It was unlike the conradh to be so circumspect. Although she had, admittedly, softened over the years, she was usually direct to the point of bluntness. Bodhmhall’s lips twitched as she recalled Cairbre’s initial assessment on meeting the woman warrior for the first time. He had summarised her as “a silversmith’s hammer, the perfect instrument to deliver force directly and accurately to a specific point,” an accurate, if somewhat ungenerous, description.

  ‘Is this something you’re reluctant to discuss?’ Bodhmhall hesitated. ‘Is this discomfort to do with Fiacail?’

  A muffled voice emerged from the furs. ‘Accepting help from your old husband causes me no end of discomfort. But no, that is not it.’

  Sensing that this was a boil that would not be lanced with words, Bodhmhall retreated, dropping the subject as she helped the other woman out of her clothing: the grey wolf furs, the grey woollen tunic and leggings, the grey cloak, those dull and muted colours from which her name had been derived. Liath Luachra; the Grey One of Luachair. The warrior woman had always explained her colour preferences away on practical considerations. It made her, or so she claimed, more difficult to see during the hunt or when travelling in the Great Wild. Bodhmhall, however, had always suspected deeper motives.

  By the time she got down to the inner garments, the rank smell of dried sweat was strong and pervaded the roundhouse. Removing the final items, Bodhmhall dropped them unceremoniously in a small pile at the side of the platform and considered the slim form stretched face down on the furs. With her hat removed, Liath Luachra’s black hair now spilled freely down the left side of her back. Beneath the bulk of the furs, her frame was sleek and flat-chested but deceptively strong for all that.

  Whatever her mood, however, she had spoken the truth with respect to her injuries. There were no visible wounds that Bodhmhall could see, provided one discounted the ragged set of old scars that ran from her shoulder blades down to the base of her spine.

  Dipping a rag into the bowl of scented water, she started to wash the woman warrior, carefully wiping her skin clean and getting her to roll over or raise her limbs when she needed to get at the more awkward areas. The hand-bath did not take long and, on completion, she dried her off with a loose cloth. With a frown, Bodhmhall traced one line of welted tissue along Liath Luachra’s back with the tip of her forefinger. She had become intimately familiar with the scars over the years but had never truly grown accustomed to the visual evidence of such severe punishment. Liath Luachra had never divulged how she’d come to receive them and, despite the draoi’s best attempts to find out.

  ‘Am I not beautiful?’ The sardonic tone was not quite stifled by the furs.

  ‘You are beautiful to me.’

  ‘Sweet talker.’

  Bodhmhall smiled to herself. Pouring oil into her hands, she rubbed the palms together and began to knead the woman’s back and shoulders, fingers probing deep into the muscle beneath. Despite the absence of any fresh marks – apart from minor scratches and bruises – it was immediately apparent that Liath Luachra had suffered some immense physical trauma. Although the skin was relatively clear and responded well to the touch, the muscle and ligament beneath was tighter than Bodhmhall had ever felt it before and unusually striated in parts.

  Transferring her attention to the lower limbs, Bodhmhall frowned at the swelling around the knee and ankle joints. From the extent of inflammation, it was now evident why Fiacail and his men had been obliged to carry her.

  ‘You are dear to me, Liath Luachra. I feared the worst when you did not return.’

  ‘I always return. You know that.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Bodhmhall continued to massage, working the worst of the swollen tissue. It was warm inside the roundhouse and the crackling of the little fire was soothing. After a while, the bandraoi could feel the woman warrior relax beneath her fingers and she herself settled into a peaceful rhythm, lulled by the motion, the warmth, the silence.

  ‘We saw a fire.’

  The unexpected articulation took Bodhmhall by surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘Bearach and I. We were returning to the ráth. We saw a fire. At the foot of Drom Osna.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  The bandraoi nodded automatically, belatedly realising that Liath Luachra could not see the gesture. She continued to massage, the movement of her fingers focussed now on the inflammation about the back of the Grey One’s knees, easing her touch in response to a wince from her patient.

  Liath Luachra grew quiet and Bodhmhall could almost imagine her assembling her thoughts beneath that thick mane of black hair, rearranging the words to express herself more effectively. As though on cue, the woman cleared her throat.

  ‘I was curious. I managed to crawl in closer to get a better look. Then -’

  Bodhmhall listened wordlessly as the warrior recounted the events that followed, physically transferring her own mounting disquiet into her soft manipulation of muscle and tissue.

  Later, when Liath Luachra had completed the telling, she grew quiet and remained lying face down in the furs, withdrawing into that impenetrable silence once again.

  She’s embarrassed!

  Bodhmhall placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘A rún, you are too hard on yourself.’

  ‘I ran away. I ran like a coward from that ... creature. And I kept on running. I am less than I was, Bodhmhall.’

  The bandraoi shook her head but, once again, the action went unobserved. ‘No. That reaction was not truly yours but one provoked by another party. Believe me, you do not lack courage. You are fortunate to be alive.’

  Liath Luachra twisted herself around and up off the furs so suddenly, so violently, that the bandraoi was taken by surprise and, instinctively, pulled back. The woman warrior’s eyes drilled into her.

  ‘You know what it is.’

  Bodhmhall stared, too taken aback to answer.

  ‘You do!’ The exclamation was loaded with fresh conviction. ‘What was that creature? Tell me.’

  This time it was Bodhmhall’s turn to work through the words. Several moments passed before she felt she had the right of it.

  ‘This morning, out at the lubgort. I felt a great force, a great evil wash over the land.’

  ‘What was it you felt?’

  ‘It was One with the Gift.’

  ‘One with the Gift?’

  ‘Someone with the Gift. A draoi like me but with different ability. Where I can perceive life through life-light, this... thing is... a seeker of sorts.’

  ‘A seeker?’

  ‘Yes, something that has the power to draw in on people. It can perceive – feel – their thoughts. No-one can hide from it.’

  Liath Luachra continued to observe her without expression, weighing up what she had been told.

  ‘This morning,’ continued Bodhmhall. ‘When I felt its touch, I also had the sense that this individual
was ... different. It felt tainted. Corrupted. At the time, I was too preoccupied trying to protect myself. Now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, I believe this draoi was not fully human.

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Liath Luachra. She paused, awaiting further explanation but Bodhmhall had lapsed into silence, absorbed in contemplation of the morning events. ‘Not fully human,’ prompted the conradh.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Back in Dún Baoiscne when I studied under Dub Tíre there were stories of such creatures. Tainted Ones, they called them. Men and women consumed and controlled to exist purely as the instrument of other, stronger draoi. Such draoi have the power to affect the minds of others, to provoke emotions and unnatural thoughts. I believe this is what you encountered at Drom Osna.’

  ‘But what would a draoi’s minion be doing out here in the Great Wild? I don’t -’

  Liath Luachra halted abruptly as she saw the expression on Bodhmhall’s face.

  ‘Muirne Muncháem! I should have known.’ Rolling onto her back, she snorted and slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘Already, she brings troubles down on our heads. You should dispatch her. At once.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But if this thing is as powerful as you say then it will find her. Is this not so?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Any yet -’ The conradh paused as she worked through the ramifications. ‘And yet, it appears to have missed her. How is that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suspect I simply distracted it. It did not appreciate being perceived by another.’

  Liath Luachra chewed slowly on the inside of her cheek. ‘Clann Morna seems extraordinarily intent on locating her. Two fian in winter? And now a draoi familiar? I know Muirne believes her arse shines like purest silver but it’s hard to believe anyone else would value her enough to go to such efforts.’

  Bodhmhall shrugged. ‘The motives are hard to understand. I would need to acquire imbas to have the knowing of such things.’

  ‘Imbas?’ Liath Luachra stared at her in surprise. The secret rituals used by the draoi for the acquisition of imbas – forbidden knowledge – were not initiated lightly because they invariably took a heavy toll.

  ‘It would not be my first choice,’ Bodhmhall admitted.

  ‘If you are seriously considering the imbas rituals,’ said Liath Luachra carefully. ‘You must be truly worried.’

  ‘I am worried. This Tainted One ... its doggedness, its ruthlessness terrifies me.’

  ‘Then get angry. Hate him.’

  The bandraoi looked at her in confusion.

  ‘That is how to deal with fear. If you hate your enemy, your hatred devours your fear. And your pain.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Bodhmhall responded, clearly dubious.

  ‘Do not doubt yourself, Bodhmhall. Come, you’re the talented one. You will work a scheme to save us from this creature.’

  ‘It could be that this Tainted One is not the most significant threat. Rather we should be seeking to identify the individual who hides behind the Tainted One, who directed him out to the Great Wild to find Muirne Muncháem.’

  With a sigh, Bodhmhall allowed her hands to drop to her sides. ‘I have brought this threat down on us. You were right, a rún. I should have consulted with you before making my decision. I am a poor leader.’

  ‘You’re not a poor leader. You are an exhausted one, stretched in too many directions at once. Besides, I wasn’t here and you had to make a decision.’ She reached up to grasp Bodhmhall’s wrist. ‘Lie with me, Bodhmhall. Come close and hold me. We will lick our wounds and you can draw from my strength.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t, dear one. I must occupy myself with our guests.’

  ‘Ah, our wondrous guests.’ Liath Luachra growled in pain as she rolled over onto her side. ‘First that prancing gadabout, now Muirne Muncháem. Truly, this is a day that improves with the passing.’

  ‘You may not like Fiacail but he was correct in saying you need to rest. If you sleep your muscles will relax and heal more rapidly.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The woman already sounded drowsy. ‘But our visitors can wait. Spend a moment here with me and we can both rise together.’

  ‘Very well,’ the bandraoi relented. ‘Just a moment, then.’

  Bodhmhall lay down beside the other woman and drew a fur blanket up to cover them both. Nestling in closer, she closed her eyes and nudged her nose deep into Liath Luachra’s hair, inhaling that reassuringly familiar scent deep into her nostrils.

  Liath Luachra, Muirne Muncháem and Fiacail mac Codhna. Three of the most headstrong individuals she knew. All within one restricted space.

  It was going to be a challenging night.

  ***

  The wind had risen over the course of the evening. By the time the company were gathered at the larger roundhouse it had evolved to a screaming gale and even the blackness of night could not hide the tumultuous cloud movement above them. Traversing the muddy lis at a run, Bodhmhall felt a cruel sense of satisfaction. The inhabitants of Ráth Bládhma might well be cowering behind its walls but they were, at least, sheltered from the worst of the elements. For the two fian and the prowling Tainted One, this night would prove extremely uncomfortable, hopefully hazardous.

  Such are the risks of mustering a fian so near to the close of winter.

  Inside the roundhouse, the blazing fire-pit kept the interior at a pleasant temperature and several oil lamps threw a warm, yellow glow over the surroundings. With the exception of Cónán, Bearach and Liath Luachra, all of the company had settled onto the woven reed mats that surrounded the crackling fire and were sharing the last of the uisce beatha traded with An Coill Mór earlier that year. The sharp, smoky alcohol, stored in two leather containers, had proven particularly popular with the guests from Seiscenn Uarbhaoil. Fiacail mac Codhna was effusive in his praise for the drink, holding up his wooden goblet to peer at it with heartfelt admiration. ‘My bollocks have cramped, my guts are wrenching and my throat feels like its swallowed liquid fire. My head spins and it stings when I piss. Thundering arsefart, this is truly a man’s drink!’

  Bodhmhall smiled politely before casting a surreptitious glance at the doorway. Cónán and Bearach had drawn the short straw for guard duty above the gateway. Liath Luachra had agreed to join them once she’d completed an inspection of the ráth’s defences, something she’d insisted on doing personally, despite her injuries.

  When all were settled, Bodhmhall nodded for Conchenn to commence serving. The old woman had done what she could to prepare a suitable feast at such short notice and in such restricted cooking conditions: fried pork chops from a freshly slaughtered pig, hot round loaves of bread, ash-roasted tubers and strips of a chewy meat that tasted like hare.

  Muirne, despite several hours of slumber, looked drawn and haggard from her trek across the wild lands. Fiacail, as ever when presented with an audience, was the soul of good cheer: vivacious, hearty and effortlessly charming.

  The food was passed about the circle, transferred from right to left. While the company ate, Muirne and Fiacail provided updates on extended family, friends and common acquaintances from Dún Baoiscne and Seiscenn Uarbhaoil. Any mention of conflict or politics, in particular the hostilities between Clann Morna and Clann Baoiscne, were studiously avoided.

  As she nibbled on a leg of hare, Bodhmhall glanced again to the doorway, drawn by the flap of the leather covering behind Liath Luachra, the harsh, abrupt sound a clear measure of her mood. The Grey One circled the feasting group, halting to sit at Bodhmhall’s right hand, deliberately inserting herself between the bandraoi and Fiacail mac Codhna. If their guest noticed or felt slighted in any way, he showed no obvious signs of it. If anything, he appeared happy to sidle over and provide Liath Luachra with more room while continuing a hearty conversation with Cairbre.

  At first, the conradh contributed little to the conversation. It was only later in the evening that Bodhmhall noticed her lean slowly forward to listen in on a conversation which seemed to consist pred
ominantly of Fiacail boasting of his achievements at Seiscenn Uarbhaoil.

  ‘Is it true what they say, Fiacail?’

  The big warrior turned to look at her, a hefty pig trotter in his left hand dripping grease onto the reed mats beside him. ‘What is it that they say, Liath Luachra?’

  ‘That you’ve coupled with over a hundred women.’

  The warrior gave a pained expression as he munched on the pork, sucking marrow from the bone with a relish that seemed almost sexual.

  ‘A man of breeding does not count the number of women he’s bedded,’ he answered shortly, smearing a patch of pig fat across his moustache with the tips of his fingers. ‘After the first twenty, at least.’

  There was a chorus of groans from the women, a quickly stifled cackle from Cairbre. Aodhán and Fiacail’s warriors looked at the ground in an attempt to hide the smirk on their lips. Only Liath Luachra, who continued to observe Fiacail grinding the pork bone with his teeth, considered the response with any seriousness.

  ‘Forgive me, Fiacail. I’m confused.’ She slowly put her plate to one side. ‘How does one distinguish between a man of breeding and a man who is inbred?’

  The warrior chuckled, ignoring the veiled insult. ‘That sounds like one of Bodhmhall’s riddles.’ He leaned forward even further so that he could directly address his host. ‘What say you, Bodhmhall? You are daughter to a rí and I think the company would concede that you are the shrewdest of all those gathered here.’

  Bodhmhall resisted the temptation to glance at Muirne’s reaction to Fiacail’s undisguised provocation.

  ‘What do you think?’ he insisted. ‘What is the difference between a man of breeding and a man who is inbred?’

  Bodhmhall stared into the flames and considered the question quietly. Silence descended on the feasting company as they awaited her response with undistilled anticipation. Slowly, she raised her head and smiled.

  ‘Webbed feet,’ she said.

  ***

  Finally, the time for serious discussion was upon them. Bodhmhall pushed her wooden platter to one side, brushed greasy lips with the back of her hand and waited for the talk to subside about her. The individual conversations did not take long to peter out. All eyes had been on her throughout the meal, awaiting such a signal to indicate that the social part of the evening was over.