Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  The bandraoi was crouched on the embankment just to the left of the gateway rampart. Here a crack in the pilings offered a safe vantage point from which to observe the terrain extending from the causeway to the woods at the base of the southern ridge without being observed in turn. This morning, unfortunately, that view was particularly restricted. A heavy mist had, once again, settled in over the valley, wisps and tendrils clinging to the surface and coiling about the ráth like an endless shoal of ghostlike eels.

  As if we didn’t have enough to contend with. The fates are truly against us.

  In all, four of them were huddled below the ramparts about the gateway. As the central point of the ráth’s resistance, Fiacail had insisted on maintaining a strong defensive capability there. Hence, his presence and that of the blooded warrior, Tóla. He had also taken Liath Luachra’s advice and placed Aodhán beside the javelin rack above the entrance.

  Bodhmhall, with her limited combat experience, was present not for fighting ability but because of her ability to detect the presence of life through the brume. In such a mist, that talent could prove critical when the fian finally made their presence known. With the Gift, Bodhmhall could alert them as to where the enemy was massing and from which direction they intended to launch their assault.

  In addition to this role, Fiacail had also assigned the bandraoi the more physical responsibility of screening the gateway defenders from missile attacks. It was for this reason that she was hugging a wide, rectangular shield, her nerves causing her clasp it tighter than necessary. Constructed from a light wicker frame, it was stuffed with straw and overlaid with three layers of leather. Two straps had been worked into the side so that she could grip it at an angle when raised. Although not solid enough to impede a direct assault or a spear cast with force from a short distance, it would help to deflect any missiles coming in at an angle. It would also reduce the visibility of the Ráth Bládhma defenders, making it more difficult for the casters to target them effectively.

  A similar defensive cluster had been placed at the eastern end of the ráth at the gap in the pilings. This consisted of Ber Mór and his wife Lí Bán, Ultán, a Coill Mór warrior, and Gnathad as their shield bearer. The two remaining Coill Mór warriors were situated at the apex of the curving northern and southern ramparts. If they came under pressure, they would be supported to the south by Fiacail’s group and to the north by Ber Mór’s.

  All in all, it was a fragile line to hold back the great wave of anticipated warriors.

  Because of their vulnerability on the ramparts, a reserve force had also been stationed at the centre of the lis to the side of the pens where the livestock were hemmed in tightly together. Under the command of Cathal ua Cuan, this particular group had responsibility for supporting the rampart defences, responding to any intrusion where a section of the rampart was in danger of being overwhelmed.

  Although no expert in warfare, even Bodhmhall could tell that this reserve force was woefully inadequate for it consisted uniquely of Cairbre, Conchenn, and Cathal himself. With the exception of her rechtaire’s single short iron sword, none of the others were armed with metal weapons, obliged to make do with a club and a long spear. Bodhmhall clutched her stomach, feeling a sudden nausea at the thought of these frail elders attempting to oppose a swarm of violent and hardened warriors.

  Bodhmhall winced, recalling the previous evening’s Council of War. At some point over the course of the discussions, she’d argued strongly for making someone available to assist with the inevitable wounded that would result from the conflict. The stifled – almost embarrassed – silence of the warriors that followed her words had abruptly stilled that proposal. Only now could she see how naive she had been. They had no-one available to help the wounded. Indeed, during the forthcoming battle, there would be no opportunity to care for injuries. The fate of Ráth Bládhma and all who lived within it – wounded or not – would be decided in that very first assault.

  She picked nervously at the hem of her skirt. One edge was already torn and threadbare from the repeated attention and she could feel the fear swell inside her, gnawing away at her courage. Her stomach felt bitter, her bladder heavy with a desperate urge to urinate despite having just relieved herself a short time earlier.

  Utilising a technique learned during her training with the druidic order, Bodhmhall attempted to calm her mind, to free it of the mental images that threatened to overwhelm her. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes. Breathing in through her nose, she focussed on the physical sensation of air brushing against the inside of her nostrils as she drew up a memory: a pool of still, black water. The restful image was of a pond on the outskirts of Dún Baoiscne where she’d played as a child.

  After a time, her mind slowed, the intrusion of physical distraction lessening although her senses remained alert. She felt herself grow calm and as she sank deeper into a more relaxed state she could feel the fear fall away from her.

  Later, when she opened her eyes, she found she was thinking rationally again, despite a lingering sliver of anxiety that refused to go away. Holding her hands out in front of her, she was pleased to find that the shaking had ceased.

  She shifted her position on the compressed earth of the embankment as she regarded her comrades. Beside her, Aodhán was repeatedly shifting a javelin from one hand to another. Every time the weapon changed hands, he wiped the palm of his free hand on the knees of his leggings.

  Fiacail, conversely, looked as nervous as a block of granite. Sitting quietly with his back against the rampart, his eyes were closed as he sharpened the blade of one of his axes with a whetstone, using the sensation of touch alone to guide his actions. Despite his outward composure, Bodhmhall knew him well enough to know that his mind would be swirling with strategies and counter strategies, as he attempted to work through a counteraction for every assault the fian might launch at them.

  Fiacail, she realised, had owned those axes for as long as she had known him. Both weapons were identical, long wooden handles with ornate carvings that extended up to a wide metal head. Bodhmhall had never seen him use them in combat but had frequently observed him during his regular practice sessions, noting the skill in which he swivelled one weapon in each hand in complicated but well-controlled arcs. Attached to his wrist by leather loops inset into the haft, he actually guided the blows by extending his thumb along the handle. Given what she had seen him do in practice, she had little doubt that in a true battle situation those axes would be lethal.

  Of the four, Tóla was the most animated. Since his return from the valley entrance with news of the fian’s imminent arrival, he’d been grimacing and gesticulating to himself up on the gateway, wordlessly mouthing inaudible insults as though in silent argument with some individual that was invisible to the others. The bandraoi found this behaviour baffling but was grateful for the distraction from the reality of their imminent annihilation. On a bizarre and completely incongruous whim, she briefly considered calling the warrior Ultán over to interpret his friend’s behaviour.

  Foolish. Your mind is slipping.

  Resting her shield against the embankment, she raised herself off the cold surface to peer through the crack in the pilings, staring out at the fog-smeared view. Beyond the ditch, nothing but wisps of fog were visible. Hidden in the murk, the distant woods were utterly quiet, bereft of any birdsong. Similarly, despite the settlement’s expanded population, the only sound from within the ráth was the grainy rasp of Fiacail’s whetstone and the intermittent low of a disgruntled heifer, eager to reach the pasture.

  Where are they? Tóla said he heard the fian approaching the valley. They must be close.

  And then they were.

  She tensed as the first vague blur of life-light flickered into being. First one, then another and a moment later, another again.

  ‘They’re coming.’

  Her words created a flurry of muted activity. Aodhán stiffened and gripped his javelin tight with both hands. Tóla put his finger to his lips to
silence his invisible companion. Fiacail sat up, blew some dust off the blade of his axe and lay the whetstone aside. ‘How many can you see?’ the big man asked.

  Bodhmhall peered out at the gloom. ‘Three.’ She looked again, staring patiently until she was certain. ‘Only three.’

  ‘Aah.’ Fiacail relaxed. He slumped back against the wall and yawned. ‘An advance party, then. Rest easy. They’ll look around and wander away once they’ve satisfied their curiosity.’

  He closed his eyes and seemed to drift off to sleep. Bodhmhall stared at him in disbelief. Despite his calm assurances, she turned back to look through the crack, her apprehension mounting as the three dancing flames advanced, flickering like flames in a draught as they eased through the mist-shrouded trees.

  The route they had chosen was a good one. The woods at the base of the southern ridge offered the most effective concealment when approaching the ráth although the foggy conditions now made such precautions superfluous. It also brought them to within three hundred paces of the settlement, separated by nothing more than a wide strip of pasture.

  With that habitual competence of hers, Liath Luachra had pre-empted the arrival of the fian at this particular point. It was at that exact spot, in fact, that she’d originally proposed to place the skirmishing party.

  The bandraoi bit her lip.

  The thought of the warrior woman still hurt like a bruise on her heart. She wondered briefly where Liath Luachra might be. On the night of their clash, the flare of violence and the colour of her internal flame had been truly terrifying. When she’d fled the roundhouse and the settlement, Bodhmhall had truly believed she would not return.

  The following morning, when she had reappeared, haggard and forlorn, Bodhmhall had struggled to contain her relief. Their reunion, however, was neither celebration nor reconciliation for when the bandraoi had approached and reached out to touch her, Liath Luachra had brutally shrugged her hand away. The hostility of the glare thrown at her had left the bandraoi reeling.

  You cannot complain. It is your own fault.

  She unconsciously raised a hand to massage the space beneath her left breast, a physical symptom of her emotional distress. The good intentions behind her actions offered little consolation. By putting loyalty to her nephew and clan before that of Liath Luachra, the bandraoi had betrayed the woman warrior’s trust in her. Despite a lifetime of treachery and violence, Liath Luachra had a unique sense of integrity and brutal noblesse. She did not offer her trust lightly.

  That afternoon as the warrior woman had prepared the little party of refugees for leaving the ráth, the bandraoi had watched from a distance. It had been impossible to work out what was going through the Grey One’s head, why she’d returned or why she’d agreed to guide Muirne and the children to Dún Baoiscne given her earlier opposition. Whatever her reasons, Bodhmhall sensed that the closeness, the mutual affection and respect, everything that had kept them together in fact, had been irretrievably lost.

  It was early afternoon before the little group was finally ready to leave the settlement, loaded down with clothing and as much provisions as they could carry. Before they left the ráth, the bandraoi had, once again, approached the warrior woman to attempt some form of appeasement but the stony expression on her face had driven her away. Bodhmhall watched each one of them step through the gateway with a sinking heart: Bearach; Cónán; Muirne with her nephew strapped tight to her chest in a wraparound shawl; the Coill Mór children; and, of course Liath Luachra.

  When the last of the group had passed through the gateway, the passage was sealed. No one climbed up to the ramparts to call out. No one attempted to wave them off. Everyone knew that this was a final farewell, a reversed parting where those who stayed were the ones who were leaving for good.

  The bandraoi pushed such thoughts aside. Present circumstances allowed no respite for the luxury of relief, of grief or self-pity. She continued to stare out through the gap, noting how the scouts, shielded by the thick fog, had confidently advanced beyond the tree line. She watched the firefly lights approach the ráth south of the causeway, stopping abruptly just a short distance from the ditch. They had, she realised, spotted a post bearing the head of one of their comrades.

  An angry voice floated up to where she was hidden, its harsh, guttural accent emphasised by the anger and menace in its tone. She shivered, understanding nothing apart from the implicit threat of things to come. Slowly, the flickers moved, continuing their circuit of the ráth before heading back in the direction they’d come from.

  ‘They’re leaving. They’re going away.’

  Aodhán looked uncertainly from Bodhmhall to Fiacail and back again. For her part, Bodhmhall hung her head, suddenly feeling weary beyond despair. She just wanted this to end. One way or the other.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Fiacail. ‘They’ll be back soon enough.’

  ***

  The morning dragged on interminably as the inhabitants of the ráth waited for the full force of the fian to appear. Nerves stretched, they watched the morning mist dissipate, dispersed slowly by the delicate motion of a gentle breeze. When the watery veils finally cleared, they stared around at the empty valley. There was no sign of the fian.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Aodhán said to the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man. ‘Haven’t they conceded the advantage? Surely it would have made more sense to launch an attack in the mist.’

  The big man shrugged but said nothing.

  ‘Maybe they’re gone.’ The óglach suggested hopefully.

  A cold glare quickly shut him up.

  To relieve the stress on the defenders, Fiacail sent them down to the lis, one-by-one. There, they took a few moments to feed themselves on beef stew from the cauldron above the fire pit and to stretch their limbs before returning to the ramparts to be replaced by one of their comrades.

  Despite the breeze and the low temperature, the off-putting smell of shit and urine from the confined cattle was growing increasingly rank. The goats and pigs, meanwhile, milled around the interior grunting, making noise and generally getting in the way.

  By mid-day, Bodhmhall was standing upright, leaning against the pilings as she stared around the valley. There was still no sign of the attacking force.

  Where are they?

  Although the mist’s dispersal meant that her Gift was no longer required, the bandraoi remained in place. She still had her duty as shield bearer to fulfil of course but she was also prompted by a desire to maintain her presence as leader of Ráth Bládhma. After three years of guiding the settlement, it had been no small thing to relinquish martial command to Fiacail despite knowing that this was the right decision. Without Liath Luachra, there had really been no other alternative. Ráth Bládhma needed a conradh to lead the defence and, of them all, Fiacail was the only person who offered any prospect of ensuring the settlement’s survival.

  It was early afternoon when the bandraoi’s keen sight picked up the first indication of movement among the trees to the west. Raising a hand to shield her eyes against the watery glare of the winter sunlight, she stared for a very long time.

  ‘Fiacail.’

  Hearing the tension in her voice, the warrior got up and approached. He stood beside her, peering up the valley then abruptly leaned his head forward and spat into the ditch. ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘We knew it was coming.’

  With this, Aodhán and Tolá hurried over to join them. All four stood in a line against the pilings, staring. The movement at the far end of the valley was much more evident now, easily discernible as a mass of men approaching in their direction. A blast from a powerful horn was suddenly unleashed, the terrifying blare resounding off the ridges on either side. The hollow echo it produced was frighteningly loud and washed over the settlement like an incoming thunder storm. Within the ráth, the defenders stirred, nervously tightening their grip on their weapons and shuffling uneasily at their posts. Bodhmhall peered out at the nearing fian where individual figures could now be made out. The horn blasted
again, rolling down the valley like another great thunder clap.

  So many! Gods, so many!

  Bodhmhall gasped and realised, with a start, that in her fear she’d forgotten to breathe. They’d always known a substantial force was being assembled against them. To see that horde of snarling, blood-crazed warriors advancing towards them, however, put a clearer reality on that fear. She looked towards the woods on either side of the ráth, seeing distinct flickers of life where additional men had been placed to prevent any attempt at escape.

  The body of the fian was spread out in what at first looked to be a straight line but, as they drew closer, became a loose semicircle formed to curve around the settlement. Two hundred paces from the ráth the huge force halted abruptly and started to roar and bellow, battering the sides of their shields with their swords or clashing metal weapons together. Within the valley’s narrow confines, that thunderous clamour froze the blood. Bodhmhall could feel her fortitude leeching away and it took all of her self-will not to falter.

  It’s happening. It’s truly happening.

  ‘Ignore it,’ roared Fiacail, glaring around at each individual within eyesight as though to underline his words. ‘They’re full of huff and puff. They’re only doing this to intimidate you.’

  ‘They’re succeeding,’ muttered Aodhán. Fiacail glowered at him and the young man flushed.

  Finally, the terrifying din subsided and petered out. The horde stood there waiting, staring at the ráth with features that were hungry for blood and full of hatred. Bodhmhall glanced around at the strained faces of the defenders. The men on the southern and northern walls had moved up to see what they were facing and their white faces said it all. Cathal ua Cuan had also arrived up on the gateway and stood there staring at the sight of the fian. Although Bodhmhall longed to hear him make one of his disparaging remarks, he simply blanched and said nothing.

  Three figures broke away from the body of the fian and marched forward until they were within a hundred paces of the ráth. Here, they stopped to confer while they looked towards the settlement. The tallest of them was a thin, mangy looking individual wrapped in a grey wolfskin cloak. Bodhmhall studied him for he had an unusual, hatchet-like face: narrow and flat with a hostile edge. It was the cruelest looking face she’d ever seen, empty of any pity or compassion but, unlike his comrades, it was devoid of any tattoos.