Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  The javelin seemed to swoop in out of nowhere, taking him in the lower chest and slamming through the ribcage with such force that Liath Luachra actually heard the shocked ‘oof’ of expelled air. Slammed backwards, the warrior stumbled, fell to his knees, hands grasping the haft of the weapon embedded in his torso. Slowly, he toppled to one side and did not move again.

  Seeing the fate of his comrades, the third warrior did not hesitate. He took off like a startled deer, leaping from the path and plunging down a steep forested incline where the trees and vegetation offered better cover. His decision proved fortuitous for a second javelin slammed into the side of the tree behind him just as he disappeared from view, glancing off the trunk at an angle and a force that smashed the haft in half.

  Liath Luachra reacted just as quickly, hurtling downhill into the scrub at an intersecting angle to her quarry’s trajectory. Her face slick with blood and sweat, her arms pumping. The warrior must somehow have sensed or heard her for he almost immediately changed direction, heading deeper into the forest in the direction of the Tainted One’s campsite.

  Cursing, she pursued him, doing everything she could to keep the dark silhouette in sight. Behind her, the heavy crashing of bush confirmed Aodhán’s close pursuit.

  At this point of the chase, speed was more important than subtlety. Soon, if he was unable to elude them or reach a place of safety, the warrior would start to tire and consider other, more desperate options.

  Tree trunks spun by on either side as she hurtled downwards. A collision at this speed was likely to result in serious injury but she was relying completely on animal instinct, body responding and dodging the obstacles faster than her mind could even register them.

  Briars and thickets raked at her face as she barged through clumps of scrub, twisted branches snagged her clothing and ripped her cloak but she was gaining on him, slowly but inexorably drawing closer. She could see him more clearly now, no longer a shadow but a distinct form flitting intermittently between the bulk of the trees. A great, involuntarily howl erupted from her throat, a bloodthirsty ululation that she knew would alarm him even further.

  Less than fifteen paces ahead, she saw the warrior disappear into a thick clump of scrub. Even as the brush closed behind him, the forest resounded with a piercing scream. Startled, she skidded to an unsteady halt, allowing her momentum to carry her into the shelter of a nearby pine. She stared at the clump of vegetation ahead of her. The scream had sounded genuine but could just as well have been a clever ruse for ambush.

  A heavy swish of vegetation from behind heralded Aodhán’s imminent arrival. A moment later, he slid down the slippery slope, coming to an awkward halt beside her. Several paces in front of them, there was no sign of movement and no sound from the thick bush where the warrior had disappeared. Tightening her grip on the hilt of her sword, she tentatively edged forward, nodding at the óglach to circle in from the left. Weapon at the ready, she pushed her way into the bushes.

  They found the warrior lying on the ground a few paces inside the scrub. The lower part of his leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, the ankle trapped in a narrow sink hole that was still partially obscured by dead fern and leaves. Clearly he’d stepped into the hole in the uneven ground and snapped a bone. Despite the fact his face was pale and tight with pain, his eyes were wild with hatred. He glared at them, his jaws clamped shut to prevent himself from screaming.

  She recognised him immediately as the first warrior to step out of the bushes back on the trail and knew that, despite his injuries, he was still potentially lethal. Even as she watched, he attempted to reach for the axe which lay on the ground off to his right. Twisting his body in a superhuman effort to move his fingers closer to the blade, he was actually close to touching it when Liath Luachra stepped forward and kicked it further beyond his grasp. He screamed again, this time in a combination of agony and frustration.

  Satisfied that they were in no immediate danger, Liath Luachra took a moment to catch her breath, to allow the extended dose of adrenaline pumping through her body to subside. Crouching down to rest on her ankles, she leaned forward, making sure that she remained safely beyond his reach. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Why are you here?’

  The warrior stared at her ferociously but showed no comprehension of what she was asking him. She was about to try again when he raised his head and spat directly at her.

  It was a lucky shot. The spittle hit her squarely on the left cheek.

  With cold eyes, she raised her free hand and wiped the sticky mess from her face. Slowly, she resheathed the sword and pulled her knife out, the blade still wet and sticky from the first kill. A globule of blood dripped from the tip as she held it up before him.

  ‘Are you going to hurt him?’ asked Aodhán.

  She glanced at the óglach in irritation. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He has information we need.’

  ‘And once you get it?’

  ‘Then I will kill him.’

  Aodhán looked taken aback but rallied quickly enough. The eyes of the stricken warrior flickered from one of them to the other, clearly not understanding what they were saying but comprehending enough to know that they were discussing his fate. Without warning he snarled and released a withering vocal outburst. Although neither of the Ráth Bládhma warriors understood what was said, the ferocity alone give it sufficient context. Unmoved, Liath Luachra gave a groan. ‘He doesn’t speak our tongue.’

  ‘I don’t want to kill him,’ said Aodhán. ‘He’s hurt. It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Aodhán, this animal would have slit your throat and laughed while you bled to death in front of him.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be cutting anything now. Look at him. He’s helpless.’ Aodhán frowned. ‘Perhaps we should make him prisoner.’

  ‘We can’t keep a prisoner. We have a mission to complete.’

  ‘We could bind him.’

  ‘With what? I have no rope. Besides, he has a broken leg. If we leave him out here alone in the Great Wild he’ll die slowly from hunger and thirst. Or the wolves will get him. Is that what you want?’

  The youth struggled for a suitable answer. While he attempted to come up with an alternative suggestion, Liath Luachra raised her knife and abruptly slashed it across the wounded man’s throat. The blade was razor sharp and the blood gushed from the jugular in one enormous spurt. The warrior’s body flopped a little as the spasms rolled through him but after a moment, it settled down, lay silent and unmoving.

  Aodhán stared at her, eyes wide.

  ‘These men are killers, Aodhán. They will kill your brothers, your father, your mother. They know nothing of the mercy you’re willing to offer them and would bear you in contempt for it.’

  He glared back at her but despite this defiance she was satisfied with his mettle. He had fought well in the ambush and although he’d be angry with her for a time she knew he had the iron in him to carry out the tasks assigned him.

  Reaching down, she dipped two fingers into the dead man’s bleeding throat then daubed the sticky fluid across the boy’s forehead. Although he looked sickened, he did not flinch and the warrior woman grunted in satisfaction.

  ‘There Aodhán. You are a blooded warrior now.’

  She flopped back against the trunk of a nearby oak, the effort of the run and the fight suddenly catching up with her. ‘And that was the easy part.’ She took several deep breaths to clear her head as she stared up at the sun through the thin winter canopy. They had been travelling fast in a north-westerly direction. They couldn’t be far from the Tainted One’s campsite.

  Shuffling the wicker satchel from her back, she removed Bodhmhall’s pouch and withdrew the stoppered flask. Placing it gently on the ground, she eased the stopper loose and raised the container to her nose. She sniffed at the contents, wrinkling her nose as the acrid fumes hit her nostrils. Her eyes watered.

  Aodhán looked at her, unable to contain his curiosity. ‘What’s th
at?’ he asked.

  She raised her head and gave a smile that was bitter and sad in equal measure. ‘Magic potion,’ she said.

  ***

  Darkness was not far off and the Tainted One’s campfire was blazing even more fiercely when Liath Luachra staggered out of the trees and into the clearing. Two of the tattooed warriors were sitting together by the cave entrance, sharpening the blades of their weapons. The shrouded figure of the Tainted One was still hunched down in the rocky depression, face towards the fire.

  ‘Thickheads! Come and face me!’

  Startled, the two warriors jumped to their feet and stared in astonishment at the intruder in their camp. Their eyes darted towards the Tainted One as though seeking instruction but, preoccupied with some internal deliberations of his own, the draoi appeared oblivious to what was taking place behind him.

  A great rage surged through the woman warrior. She furiously swirled her sword, cursing when it slipped from her hand and clattered noisily onto the hard rock surface of the clearing.

  ‘Inbreds!’

  Reaching down for the sword, she tripped and fell face first onto the ground. When she’d finally clambered to her feet again the two warriors had closed in, holding a few paces back with weapons at the ready, glancing uncertainly towards the Tainted One.

  Gods, these creatures are ugly.

  Two pairs of pitiless eyes regarded her, cold pale slits in the black facial tattoos that assured her a slow and merciless death. Shuddering, she raised her shaking sword point to greet them.

  She heard the whoosh of the javelin as it flew past her ear, taking the first warrior in the throat. The metal head ploughed straight through the muscle and sinew, emerging a hand’s width in length from the back of his neck. The warrior looked surprised as his eyes stared down at the shaft protruding from his throat. Gurgling and choking, he dropped to his knees, his life’s blood spilling down his chest.

  Beside him, his comrade, stared in equal astonishment. Stunned, he turned to the forest just as another javelin came whizzing in to slam him high in the chest. The force of the missile was strong enough to spin him around and he collapsed beside his comrade. He lay there, groaning incoherently and struggling to raise himself off the ground as Liath Luachra stumbled up behind him. Taking the haft of her sword in both hands, she plunged the blade at a downwards angle, through the back of his neck. It sank deep, down into the torso to pierce his heart. The lifeless body slumped forwards and rolled over on one side.

  It was at this moment that the hooded figure finally deigned to stand and turn towards her. Beneath the heavy cowl, it wasn’t possible to see the Tainted One’s face but from the stiffness of his stance he was obviously appraising Liath Luachra with some alarm.

  ‘What?’ she bellowed. ‘The Tainted One is surprised?’

  She attempted to glare but the dark figure seemed to blur and waver before her eyes. She gasped suddenly as she felt him enter her, pushing her will aside, forcing himself inside her head. The sword fell from her hand and clanged on the rocky ground, her limbs no longer responding to her instruction.

  Panicking, she started to scream, a howl of anger, outrage and fear as she felt her awareness shrinking away. A flood of power colours hit her then, exploded before her eyes and, somehow, the shadows seemed to slip, to loosen as though in revulsion of what they’d grasped. A great shudder passed through her, a sense of spiritual and emotional loathing, the mental equivalent of a retch.

  And then her mind was back. He was out of her head.

  She raised her eyes, looked over to where the Tainted One was now hunkered down, shivering and holding his head in his hands as though in immense pain.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she sneered. ‘Can’t hold your drink?’

  She started to laugh then, feeling the uisce beatha sliding smoothly through her veins, uncoiling like a snake in her guts and spinning her mind in erratic patterns. ‘And yet, it’s An Coill Mór’s best stock.’

  Grasping the fallen sword, she staggered forwards to the shrouded figure. With a brutal yank, she reached down and wrenched the hood away to reveal a bald, wrinkled skull. Two empty black eye sockets stared up at her, the sewn-up lips quivered, mouthing their silent scream. Without even thinking, she plunged her sword deep into its gut, felt the blade slide effortlessly through the frail frame, encountering almost no resistance.

  There was a strangled gasp. Nothing more.

  Releasing the Tainted One, she let the body collapse and tottered away, her head reeling. Bodhmhall’s scheme, despite its simplicity, had somehow succeeded. Distracted by Liath Luachra, the Tainted One’s bodyguards had focussed their attack on her while Aodhán had snuck in close to take them out. The rogue draoi himself had been poisoned by the flavour of her uisce beatha-stained mind.’

  We are alive! We are alive!

  She fell to her knees and vomited.

  Chapter Seven

  The mood within the ráth remained subdued following Liath Luachra and Aodhán’s departure. As she stood on the gateway, staring after the figures now faded into the falling rain, Bodhmhall could not shake the sense that the soul of the little community had departed with them.

  Practical realities promptly dispelled such sombre musings. The intense rain wasn’t long in driving the remaining inhabitants of the ráth indoors. The sole exception was Bearach who, as the last permanent member of the community with martial training, was obliged to remain on guard duty. He made a sad figure as he stood alone in the shelter of the stone passage overhang.

  Bodhmhall joined Cairbre and Conchenn in their roundhouse but did not remain with them for long. Despite their attempts to maintain a brave face, it was obvious that the elders were preoccupied with concerns for their two sons out in the Great Wild. Excusing herself, the bandraoi returned to her own dwelling where Muirne and her son lay side-by-side on the sleeping platform.

  The Flower of Almhu was still deep in slumber from the sleeping draught but, by Bodhmhall’s estimation, would awaken sometime later that morning. The bandraoi still felt a trace of guilt for drugging her guest but knew that the need to remain undetected from the Tainted One outweighed such concerns.

  Until Liath Luachra confronted him, at least.

  Bodhmhall felt a caustic bitterness in the pit of her stomach as she recalled Cairbre’s words:

  You have had the luxury of authority without true responsibility

  It was hardly a consolation to know those words were no longer valid, given that she’d just sent the one person most dear to her out to confront a lethal draoi. Especially with a scheme based on a notion she’d had no opportunity to validate.

  Once again she immersed her anxieties in a series of simple physical tasks: stoking the fire, cleaning the pots, rearranging the ingredients for her herbal remedies. Although menial, each offered distraction and an element of control that she desperately needed. Within the dim interior of the roundhouse, however, her eyes were repeatedly drawn to the distinctive yellow glow of the sleeping baby.

  Moving closer to the sleeping platform, Bodhmhall stared down at the two sleeping forms. She was struck by how serene Muirne Muncháem appeared in slumber, the tension lines from her scheming visage markedly absent in repose. Reaching down, she lifted the infant from the platform and cradled him gently in her arms. Swaddled in his warm wrapping, the babe looked strikingly small and vulnerable.

  Who chases you, a bábóg? What do they want from you so badly that they would send a small army out into the Great Wild to chase you down?

  She wondered vaguely whether it could have been some fault of the parents that had triggered such an apparently unwarranted pursuit. Some great offence, perhaps, some grievous harm caused to another party by accident or intent.

  She quickly discounted the possibility. Muirne Muncháem’s abrasive personality might have the potential to provoke such a reaction but she doubted that it would have happened in practice. The Flower of Almhu was simply too astute to risk offending someone with the power to raise
a fian – not to mention a pet draoi – to their cause. A similar argument held for her brother. In many respects, it was even less likely given Cumhal’s popularity and the general respect in which he had been held by friend and foe alike.

  Until the battle of Cnucha.

  She frowned and turned a suspicious gaze on Muirne.

  I wonder if she has told me all that I should know.

  The baby burped, distracting her from such misgivings. Bodhmhall gently stroked the soft skin of his cheeks with her fingertips. She felt an immense swell of tenderness at the realisation that this child would be her final connection, her last remaining tie to her sibling. With a sudden but completely precise sense of clarity, she knew that she would give her own life, do whatever it took, to protect this child.

  A leanbh go deo. May you always remain so innocent.

  Laying the infant back on the sleeping platform, she tucked the furs snugly in around him. Satisfied that he would not wriggle free, she returned to the fire and sat on the reed mat. The direct heat of the fire was comforting. Staring into the flames, she felt her eyelids grow heavy and realised just how tired she was from the previous night’s planning and the early start. She closed her eyes for a moment.

  Just a moment.

  Just one, very, short moment.

  ‘Bodhmhall.’

  ‘Uh!’ The bandraoi started, opened her eyes. Somebody shook her shoulder.

  ‘Bodhmhall. You are needed.’

  She looked up. Fiacail was standing over her, talking at her but she couldn’t seem to catch what he was saying. ‘What?’ she asked, struggling to tear her mind free from the tangle of clinging cobwebs. ‘What? I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

  ‘I said,’ the big man looked at her impatiently. ‘Strangers have come to your valley.’

  ***

  ‘The boy fetched me when he saw the signal.’

  ‘The signal?’ In her fatigue, Bodhmhall stumbled on the lower step of the rampart ladder. Although the rain had mercifully ceased, the rung was still wet and coated with a thick layer of slimy mud transferred from the surface of the lis.