Beside him stood a shorter individual with a beard that went down to his waist and hair that had been cropped close to highlight the tattoos on his skull. Both he and the taller man looked to be in charge for they did most of the talking and directed the third one forwards towards the ráth.
‘A techtaire,’ grunted Cathal. ‘They’re sending a messenger.’
Fiacail turned, startled by the presence of the older man and the two Coill Mór warriors who’d followed him up onto the gateway. ‘Get back to your position, you old fool.’ He turned to the Coill Mór men. ‘And you. Go on! Get back.’
Surly but scared, the Coill Mór warriors did as they were told. The old man frowned and glowered at Fiacail but then, he too, began to descend the ladder to the lis. Fiacail looked around at the others. ‘Everyone else, stay low. We don’t need to let them know how many we are.’
The approaching techtaire was a bald, stocky man with an oddly lumpy face distorted even further by the irregular patchwork of tattoos. He came to a halt before the causeway, his hostile squint looking up at the pilings for any sign of life. Bodhmhall crouched even lower although she was sure he couldn’t possibly see her through the little crack.
‘I think he wants to parlay,’ she whispered.
Fiacail sniffed and scratched his nose. ‘Given events as Ráth Dearg, I’d have thought these devils more interested in slaughter than talk.’
‘They’ve lost their draoi, Fiacail. They may be treating us with caution.’
He pursed his lips and tapped them with the tips of his fingers. ‘When you have a force that size you don’t need to be cautious. It must be something else.’
He glanced at her and although he said nothing she knew what he was thinking. There would be no capitulation. No negotiation. The fian needed their food but they were not going to let the inhabitants live, no matter what greasy promises they offered.
She nodded. ‘We fight. No surrender.’
‘Good.’ He nodded in approval. ‘Still, I’m happy to waste a bit of time with the parlay talk. Enjoy these moments, Bodhmhall. Savour them for they are the sauce of life. You will live more with every breath you take now than you have ever lived in your life before.’ He offered her a mirthless grin. ‘Now, let’s hear what this dog has to say.’
With that, he crawled towards the inner edge of the embankment. There, making sure he couldn’t be observed from outside, he stood up as though he’d just mounted the ladder and wandered nonchalantly towards the rampart like a man out for a morning stroll. With a great yawn, he stretched his shoulders, making sure to face the opposite side of the ráth from where the fian were assembled. He made a point of taking his time before he happened to ‘notice’ the warrior below. Leaning forward he beamed down at the techtaire with his widest smile, as though recognising a welcome neighbour.
‘Well, hallo there, friend.’
The Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man’s voice projected well, sounding surprisingly clear in the gentle breeze. The techtaire, who’d been assessing the depth of the ditch while he waited, glanced up with a neutral expression although a quick flicker across his face revealed his surprise at being addressed by a male. The two axes strapped across Fiacail’s back were not lost on him either.
Ignoring the greeting, the man called up with a hoarse voice rendered all the harsher from the strange, guttural accent. ‘This is settlement ... The Ráth Bládhma?’
He watched stonily as Fiacail turned away, that cruel expression rapidly transforming to one of alarm as the big man grasped a javelin from the rack and flung it at him. The techtaire squawked, a mixture of shock and outrage, as the weapon thudded into the earth, quivering from the force of the impact as it protruded from the ground between his legs. An angry murmur passed through the fian, sounding like the drone from an enraged swarm of bees. Fiacail paid it no heed.
‘I don’t recognise the accent of your mangled tongue, stranger, but when I greet someone I am accustomed to a response in kind.’
For a moment it looked as though the fian’s emissary was about to snarl and it took a visible effort on his part to hold his rage in check. He glanced angrily back towards the two men behind him. The bearded man returned his stare mutely but the taller one slowly shook his head. Twisting about to face the ráth once more, the warrior’s mouth turned upwards in a misshapen, gap-toothed smile that looked all the more feral for the lack of humour in his eyes. ‘Greeting.’
‘And greetings, once more, to you. What is your business in our valley?’
‘We seek the habitat, the Ráth Bládhma.’
‘Well then you are truly fortunate for you’re standing before Ráth Bládhma.’
The messenger nodded, the false smile faltering from the effort of maintaining it. ‘We understands …’ He paused, his tongue struggling over a language that was a twisted stick in his mouth. ‘We understands,’ he tried again. ‘A woman reigns Ráth Bládhma.’
‘That’s true. Alas, she is ... preoccupied. She is taking her bath.’ He leaned forward and offered the messenger a conspiratorial wink. ‘Women!’
Terror afforded Bodhmhall little space for offence. Clutching the handle of her shield with the grip of a drowning man, she stared, captivated by the interplay between the two men. The messenger gazed up at Fiacail, taken aback by the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man’s assured bonhomie, his hale and hearty demeanour.
‘You have the woman? The Muirne Muncháem?’
The man’s accent mangled the Flower of Almhu’s name and although it was close enough to work it out, Fiacail pretended he hadn’t recognised it. He shook his head in careful deliberation. ‘I don’t understand. Which one is she, then? So many women, it’s hard to remember them all.’
‘She is...’ The fian warrior hesitated, struggling to remember the correct expression. ‘With child.’
Fiacail nodded. A substantial pork chop suddenly appeared in his right hand and he chewed on it with exaggerated relish while pretending to give the matter great attention. Through the gap in the pilings, Bodhmhall noted how the techtaire’s eyes focussed on the meat and his tongue involuntarily licked his lips.
Fiacail was right. They are starving.
Fiacail wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Ah, yes! The fat one. Yes, she’s in here. Not my particular favourite but ...’ He shrugged.
‘Send her out. Give her to we.’
The big man shook his head. ‘Now, now, little tattooed man. I thought I’d made my expectations of etiquette clear?’
The techtaire glared furiously at him and again glanced back towards his leaders. The two men looked on in flinty silence before the tall one gestured for him to proceed. With obvious ill grace, the warrior attempted a smile once more.
‘With grace, we seek you to deliver us the woman named Muirne.’
Bodhmhall stiffened, suddenly divining why the fian were not attacking.
They want the baby alive! That is why they don’t attack. They fear hurting the child.
That wouldn’t stop them of course.
‘Very well. Wait there. I’ll see if she’s available.’
Before the messenger could respond, Fiacail pulled back from the rampart and dropped back out of sight. With a sigh, he sat on the inner edge of the embankment, legs dangling down above the lis. Noting the spread of defenders regarding him in alarm, he gave a wide grin then made a jerking masturbation gesture with his right hand. Despite their fear, the Ráth Bládhma fighters grinned and stifled a laugh.
Heart pounding, Bodhmhall stared out at the fian emissary who stood abandoned at the front of the ráth. The infuriated warrior was at a loss. Face contorted into a snarl, he glowered at the top of the gateway, unable to leave without looking foolish in front of his watching comrades.
The bandraoi turned her gaze to Fiacail. Her old husband had surprised her. She’d known of his potential as a battle leader of course but few could have matched his nonchalant command and deliberate calm, his ability to maintain the morale of the settlement under such ho
peless circumstances.
Sensing her attention, he glanced towards her and grinned. ‘Maybe if we stay down they’ll just go away.’
Bodhmhall suppressed a hysterical giggle.
‘That was a waste of a javelin,’ hissed Aodhán.
Fiacail shook his head. ‘It served a purpose. They know we’re ready to fight. They also think we can afford to waste a javelin.’
‘But we can’t.’
‘True, but they don’t know that. Now they’re under the impression we have so many javelins we’re happy to use one playing games with their messenger. With any luck, when they come in for the kill, they’ll come in more cautiously to avoid a potential volley of missiles. We have a better chance of repelling a slow attack than a full-on wave of warriors.’
‘You think we can beat them off?’
The big man shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible.’
‘I would have kept the javelin. Better sticking out of a fian man’s guts than out of the mud.’
The Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man stared coldly at the óglach. ‘Boy, you can question me when your balls drop. Until that day, you just keep your words in a place where they won’t end up putting you in harm’s way.’ With that, he tossed the pork chop aside and wiped his hands on his leggings. ‘Now let me be. I need to focus. These mind games take their toll.’
Taking several deep breaths, he got to his feet and strolled back towards the rampart. There, arms folded, he leaned forward against the stone structure and looked down at the fuming warrior.
‘Hallo again, foreign man. I see you.’
The messenger glared, unable to risk speaking for fear he would lose what little self-control remained.
‘Alas, the woman you seek is engaged in a sleep of beauty. Given that she has a face like a pig’s arse this is likely to take some time but you have our permission to wait outside.’
The warrior stood there, practically quivering with fury. ‘Deliver the woman,’ he snarled. ‘Now!’
Fiacail grinned broadly. ‘You know, for such a little arse-crack of a man, you make an irritatingly loud farting sound.’
The warrior would have responded had he not been grabbed roughly by the arm. Taken by surprise, he turned to find the bearded man had silently moved up behind him. The techtaire listened as his leader spoke harshly to him. When he’d finished, he turned moodily to face Fiacail once more, urged by the silent vehemence of his leader behind him.
‘The Man of Blood say all those within will die but you ...’ He regarded Fiacail with evident relish. ‘With you, he promises that he will use his sword. He cutting your balls and wears them as necklace.’
Fiacail stared at him in silence before transferring his gaze to his malevolent companion. ‘Then, by the Gods, your Man of Blood will blunt his blade. My balls are firmly attached and it’ll take more than his little mouse paws to achieve such a deed.’ Fiacail tossed him a contemptuous look. ‘This conversation bores me.’ He turned his gaze to look Aodhán in the eye. ‘Now.’
The young warrior responded with a blur of movement. All of a sudden he was upright at the rampart, his arm pulling back then abruptly snapping forwards. The javelin left his hand before anyone truly had time to register what he was doing yet everyone heard it smash the techtaire’s forehead, snapping his head back with an audible crack that knocked him clear off his feet. The Man of Blood staggered backwards with impressive alacrity then stared at the still-quivering body lying before him.
Bodhmhall looked on in shock. It had been an astounding cast. An exceptional cast. One that she would not have believed possible at such a distance. Its suddenness had also taken everyone by surprise, shocked them and sent a clear and simple message. Approach and you face death.
The hatchet-faced man near the massed fian looked on impassively. The Man of Blood, however, stepped forward and glared up at Fiacail with utter loathing. Placing a foot on the corpse, he caught hold of the javelin haft and yanked with both hands. The barb of the head had caught on the inside of the skull however and several strong upward tugs were required before the brain-smothered tip finally jerked free with a gory, squishing noise. Holding the javelin aloft, the Man of Blood took it in both hands then contemptuously snapped it across his knee. Tossing the broken pieces aside, he turned his back on the ráth and slowly sauntered back to his men.
‘It starts,’ said Fiacail quietly. ‘Prepare yourselves. He will unleash them now.’ For a moment, he seemed to falter, grabbing hold of the rampart with both hands as though for support. Composing himself, he reached over to cover the bandraoi’s hand with his own great paw. ‘I am sorry, Bodhmhall. So sorry for having hurt you.’
She grasped his fingers tightly in response, unable to speak for the fear that was choking her.
The Man of Blood, meanwhile had got as far as the taller, hatchet-faced man. He walked past him brusquely, ignoring the other’s attempt to engage him.
Reaching his men, the bearded man drew forth a heavy sword and wielded it high as though to demonstrate to the defenders what fate awaited them. Opening his mouth he released a roar of pure fury.
‘GAAAHHHH! You will die! A hundred times over. We will enter your flea-pit of a settlement, we will rape your women and burn their bodies on the bonfire. We will open the throats of your children, feed the earth with their blood as we feed ourselves upon your meat.’
Bodhmhall looked on in horror, momentarily oblivious to the fact that the horrific warrior was screaming in her language. Even at this distance, she could visualise the spittle flying from his mouth as he worked himself up to a frenzy, evidently working up his men as well given the increasing volume of snarls and bellows that rumbled through the ranks. Her Gift showed her a growing red aura slowly radiating out from the assembled warriors.
She shivered.
‘I will rip the unborn child from the womb of Muirne Muncháem. I will eat it raw. And you, queen bitch of thorns …’ Bodhmhall shuddered for he seemed to be addressing her directly. ‘I will slice your sex open with my blade and -’
Whatever the Man of Blood’s intentions, they were abruptly cut short as his jaw exploded. Fragments of bone, flesh and even an eyeball erupted from his face, arching high into the air then landing with a plop on the ground before the startled warriors.
A stunned silence filled the valley as everyone, defenders and attackers alike, stared in complete and utter shock. Sagging briefly, the bearded man toppled sideways and collapsed onto the grass.
As the initial sense of disbelief wore off, all eyes turned to the woods south-west of the ráth, drawn by the movement of a figure emerging onto a slight rise in front of the trees.
Liath Luachra!
Bodhmhall’s heart lurched with both shock and emotion as she stared at the familiar figure, the sling dangling from her right hand, her sword Gleas Gan Ainm in her left. The woman warrior stood staring at the assembled warriors, tall and straight ... and completely naked.
Without warning, she released a loud, blood-curdling whoop as she slid down the little slope, into a flanking group of three warriors who were staring gobsmacked at her breasts. Her sword flashed in the sunlight and the nearest of them stumbled backwards, both hands attempting to stem the blood spurting from his face. Then she was past at a run, legs pounding westwards across the pasture.
It took the invaders one heavy, shock-laden moment to drag their eyes from their fallen comrade. There was another stunned silence as they stared at the fleeing female figure then, with a furious roar, a whole section of the horde suddenly surged after her, howling with rage and desire.
Bodhmhall turned to stare at Fiacail, her mouth hanging open. ‘What -’ she started to ask but stopped for Fiacail was clearly as dumbfounded as her. Slowly a look of comprehension crossed his features.
‘She’s drawing them away. By the Gods! She’s drawing them away.’
A similar conclusion appeared to have been reached by the tall hatchet-faced man for he was suddenly amongst his men, whipping them with a leather bu
llwhip, screaming abuse and driving them back towards their original goal. His efforts proved successful for although almost a quarter of his men continued their pursuit of Liath Luachra, the main body of the fian surged forward in response, howling with unbridled excitement. The now ragged force split into three sections, belatedly responding to some prearranged plan. One section headed straight for the causeway, two others veered off the sides, the first curving up to the north of the ráth, the second to the south. Several of the warriors ran in small groups, hauling long section of thin tree trunks strapped together with flax.
‘To arms,’ roared Fiacail.
Twenty paces from the causeway, the main section suddenly slowed, allowing a smaller group of four to five warriors to draw ahead, each carrying a cluster of javelins in their hands. Bodhmhall stared numbly as they drew to a halt and launched their missiles, watching entranced as they arched upwards then slowly started to descend towards her.
‘Get down, woman!’
She felt a rough hand grab her by the belt of her tunic and hurl her down, then she was smothered by Fiacail’s weight and the darkness of the shield frame pulled over them both. There was a loud crack on the gateway floor in front of her as a metal javelin head struck, spattering her face with chips of stone. Then the weight was off her again and she could hear Fiacail bellowing.
‘Aodhán! Kill their casters! Kill them!’
She pushed herself up of the ground, her gaze moving up to where Aodhán was crouched. At first, the óglach stared in shock then something seemed to shift behind those eyes as all the years of training with Liath Luachra kicked in. A cold look of concentration came over him and, grasping a fresh javelin from the rack, he advanced at a crouch to the edge of the rampart.
Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma Page 26
