Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  Gobsmacked, the woman warrior released a silent whistle of appreciation at the cast even as her eyes turned to the bearded man stalking back towards his hatchet-faced comrade.

  Take them Aodhán! They’re the leaders. Make a cast!

  Despite her silent urgings, no other javelin came from the ráth. Unimpeded, the bearded man brushed past the taller man, and returned to the body of his men. Liath Luachra looked from one to the other and back again, desperately trying to judge the right moment, the right target to create the most debilitating disorder.

  Then, supported by his snarling horde, the bearded man had started his furious tirade.

  And, instinctively, Liath Luachra had loosed her bullet.

  And then …

  Well, then, she was running for her life.

  ***

  She crashed into the shelter of the forest with the fian warrior just a few paces behind her. Achieving the shadowed embrace of the trees felt like being enveloped in a welcoming hug, a sensation she had little time to appreciate. The young warrior, fearful of losing her in the shadowed greenery, made one last, all-out effort to seize her.

  Sensing his approach, Liath Luachra abruptly changed direction just as he tackled her. His extended lunge took him completely in the wrong direction and he hit the ground hard. Grasping the opportunity, she headed deeper into the forest.

  The winter weather had thinned much of the woodland vegetation, reducing the lush undergrowth to withered stalks. Although what remained provided limited opportunities for concealment, it did form a tangled net of obstacles that she could use to her advantage. Confronted by a wide clump of desiccated fern, the warrior woman knew to make a desperate dive over it, just managing to clear it and roll back onto her feet, running. Sapped of energy, she’d paid for the effort but she’d extended the distance between herself and her pursuer. Behind her, there was a pleasing sound of thrashing and cursing as the young warrior attempted to barge through the ferns and became ensnared in the briars concealed at their heart.

  Over the next few moments, she used every trick she could think of, every ruse, and every manoeuver to further increase the distance between them. Although at the limit of her physical capacity, the fian warrior was in a similar situation and she slowly succeeded in pulling away from him.

  The distant sound of shouting alerted her that the remainder of the fian warriors had entered the forest and were calling on their comrade to reveal his location. Liath Luachra ignored it. Concealed by the tightening tree trunks, she’d managed to shake off the warrior and now she dropped on all fours, crawling off at an angle to the direction in which she’d been running.

  Behind her, the fian had spread out and were beating the bushes in an attempt to drive her into the open. Contained between the steep ridge and the stream, the forest was relatively narrow at this point with only one direction really open to her; west towards An Talamh Báite. Despite this, the fian did not know for certain where she was and were obliged to search to make sure they didn’t miss her. Slowly but surely, she pulled ahead.

  When she felt she was at a safe distance, Liath Luachra rose to her feet and started to run again, stumbling now because of her fatigue. Soon the trees began to thin, the ground underfoot growing increasingly soggy as she got closer to the marshland. She followed a route different to the one she’d taken with Aodhán only a few days earlier, veering more in a westerly direction, away from the ridge. Sticking close to the remaining trees where the ground was firmer and offered concealment, she progressed deeper into the wetland.

  After an exhausting flight, harried by the calls of the warriors behind her, Liath Luachra emerged from the last stretch of trees which descended a gentle slope to a rocky protrusion that poked deep into the grey marshland. Stretching out for several hundred paces on either side was a terrain of limp, black water interspersed with low hummocks of slimy grass and clusters of yellow reed. A soft mist lay low over the water, stretched like a sea of smoke between her and her intended destination,

  Oileán Dubh – Dark Island – was the closest piece of solid ground from where she was standing. A wide, circular island, it consisted of a low, double-shouldered peak of black rock, encircled by thick evergreen woods.

  Wheezing, Liath Luachra stumbled forwards onto the first mouldy hummock, dropping to her hands and knees as she hauled herself across the precarious terrain. She followed a safe route mapped out by little reed posts placed there over the previous summer when the path had been drier and more easily traversed. Each time she passed one of the markers, she plucked it out and flung it into the surrounding water. For every few paces she slithered forward, she anticipated a cry from behind but, miraculously, she reached the rocky surface of Oileán Dubh without any alarm being raised.

  Getting to her feet, she staggered onto the island’s broken surface, her muck-covered arms and legs trembling, her chest heaving from the effort. Despite the cold, she was sweating fiercely. Heart pounding, she slumped against some nearby boulders, grasping them with both hands to support herself as she caught her breath and looked around.

  Holly and pine grew surprisingly thick and close almost down to the edge of the marsh although the undergrowth beneath them looked sickly and grey. Shadows seemed to flicker between the trunks but she knew it was only a trick of the light.

  ‘Bearach!’

  There was no response. Anxious, she nervously massaged the back of her neck. Lathered in sweat and swamp water, it was taut from stress. ‘Bearach!’ she hissed again.

  Once again, there was no reply. Liath Luachra glanced around, unsure what to do, fearful that the boy had been captured or had somehow missed the assigned meeting place. She continued to lean against the boulder. There was no point in rushing off trying to look for him until she had recovered. She had a brief breathing space before the fian caught up with her and she would most likely need it.

  Suddenly, Bearach appeared, scurrying out from the nearby trees. He hurried over to her, a great grin smeared across his face, her battle harness and leggings in his hands. Liath Luachra almost cried aloud in relief.

  Tossing her the clothes, he moved to crouch by the boulders beside her. As she attempted to dress with shaking hands he grinned again but then as he looked back across the swamp, that grin suddenly faded.

  ‘Liath Luachra.’

  She turned and felt her stomach clench. On the far side of the little swamp, standing on the rocky promontory, one of the black-faced warriors was staring coldly at her across the water. She watched as he turned his head and released a shrill yell to alert his comrades. Moments later, they had all emerged from the trees and gathered to regard her closely as they worked out the best route across.

  Eleven. There are eleven of them.

  She was still tugging her leggings on when the fian men began to advance: sloshing, wading, pulling themselves over the slippery hummocks. Without the assistance of the reed markers to guide them, they were obliged to move slowly, avoiding the sucking pools as they crossed the treacherous terrain.

  She waited until they were half-way across before she stood up, unravelling the sling that was still wrapped about her wrist. A humourless grin formed on her lips. They didn’t like that. She could see the nearer faces snarling as they splashed and stumbled, heaving themselves over the slimy hummocks, but there was an increased urgency to their movements. Exposed in the open mire, they had no cover, nowhere to run to. And they knew it.

  As she anticipated, they did the next best thing they could. They pushed themselves to move faster, stumbling, tripping, sinking knee-deep at times into the slippery mire before desperately hauling themselves out again. Some of them held small shields up to better protect themselves, others dropped down on all fours – as she had done – to improve their balance and purchase on the slippery ground.

  Her first shot took a warrior directly in the forehead, snapping his head back and sending him spinning backwards into the water. Although nowhere near as dramatic as her earlier shot on the fian
’s leader, from the crack of the stone hitting his skull she knew that particular individual wouldn’t be getting up again. Incensed by the death of their comrade, the warriors further increased their efforts. One of them, carrying a number of javelins across his back, unslung one of the missiles and cast it at her. Disadvantaged by the unsteady ground, his aim was off and it landed well to her left, sinking deep into the wet earth with a slapping noise.

  You’re next.

  Her second shot missed but gave her the range for the third. By then the warrior had prepared a second javelin and was lining it up for a cast. Her shot hit him on the knee before he could release it, smashing his knee-cap.

  The warrior screamed as he fell, slipping sideways off the greasy hummock and scrambling ineffectually to stop his slide down into the waiting marsh water. She saw him grab a handful of grass but in the wet, silt-like soil, the vegetation pulled loose and barely slowed him. He hit the water with a wet splash. There was an initial, panic-stricken thrashing but then the grey liquid engulfed him and he disappeared from sight.

  ‘They’re getting close.’

  She cursed. Bearach was still there, crouched low beside her, peeping out from between the rocks, shifting the grip on his sword. No doubt he was cursing the decision to leave all the javelins behind at the ráth for use in the defence of the settlement.

  ‘Go, Bearach. Leave now.’ Her voice was terse. The remaining warriors were much closer and she hadn’t thinned their ranks as much as she’d hoped. There was a positive side to their proximity, though, in that their closeness made them better targets. Her fourth shot hit a man in the throat, crushing his windpipe. He fell to the ground, hands clutching the flesh under his jaw and gurgling in agony while his friends slithered past him in the muck. Her fifth grazed another man in the shoulder but didn’t take him down. Her sixth sent a small fountain of water splashing up beside him but she’d missed him again.

  ‘Liath Luachra.’

  Gods!

  The boy was still there. His voice was tight. And rightfully so. The slime-coated forms were growing very close, the blood lust in their eyes clearer now as they slithered closer through the muck.

  ‘Go, Bearach. Stay low so they don’t see you.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Go!’

  Focussed on her next shot, she barely heard him run off. Her cast sent the seventh bullet smashing into another warrior’s face, cleaving up through his chin and into his brain. He collapsed onto a mound and lay there, unmoving.

  One more.

  Her last shot took the young warrior who’d been chasing her, low in the chest. The impact of the bullet knocked him back and he fell to his knees, clutching his chest. She felt no emotion at the agony in his face, no sympathy or satisfaction, nothing but an abstract calculation of the remaining threat he might pose. It wasn’t much. At the very least, she knew the bullet must have smashed his ribs, probably causing some serious internal injury. He would probably die from his wounds but, at the very least, he’d not be pursuing her again.

  That’s it!

  There was no more time. The remaining mud-spattered warriors, admittedly depleted to six, were almost on solid ground. Although winded from the effort of traversing the marsh, they’d be even more determined to get their hands on her. Now that they had her cornered on the island, they wouldn’t stop. She had to move.

  She spun and started along the steeply rising trial where Bearach had disappeared a few moments earlier. The heavy gorse hid her from the fian warriors but as she was cresting the first ridge a gleeful roar informed her that the first of them had reached solid ground.

  She felt the first sense of despair settle on her shoulders at that point. Earlier, on the ridge overlooking Glenn Ceoch, she’d come up with the scheme to draw some of the attacking force away from Ráth Bládhma. In that respect, she’d been inconceivably successful for the odds against the settlement had been substantially reduced. As part of that original scheme, she’d also planned to lure the warriors here to the swamplands to take out as many as she could with the sling.

  Unfortunately, that was as far as she’d thought it through. She hadn’t truly expected to make it this far. Now, physically and mentally exhausted, she had no idea what to do next.

  I’m ready to die.

  The unprompted reflection took her by surprise. She’d never previously experienced such a profound sense of resignation prior to battle. She’d certainly never approached it with such a sense of defeatist inevitability? Was she, she wondered, simply preparing herself for things to come?

  ‘Liath Luachra!’

  The call from the gorse and holly bushes beside the trail was so unexpected, so sudden, that she almost yelped as she skidded to a halt. Instinctively adopting a fighting stance, she brought her sword to bear but it was a familiar figure that stood up amongst the prickly shrubs.

  ‘Bearach! By the Gods! Why are you still here? I told you to leave.’

  The boy’s jaw firmed and Liath Luachra cursed under her breath.

  ‘I have to stay with you. Those warriors, they’ll … hurt you.’

  ‘They have more than that that in mind Bearach but they will pay dearly for it.’

  ‘We can fight them.’

  A shout from down the trail prompted her glance back over her shoulder. Her pursuers were coming.

  Furious, she plunged into the thick bush, ignoring the prickle and scrape of holly spines against her skin as she grabbed the boy’s shoulders and pulled him down to the ground. Whatever Bearach’s misguided reasons for staying, it was now too late for him to escape. The only way off the island was across the marsh and attempting that would place them in a situation similar to that endured by the fian warriors. They would not have time to cross the marshland without being spotted and, out in the open, hindered by the boggy terrain they would make easy targets for their enemies’ javelins. The irony was not lost on her.

  Putting her finger to her lips, she glared at Bearach as they lay side by side. A moment later they heard the heavy tread of running feet and the sound of heavy panting. The warriors rushed past the holly bushes, following the deer path around to the east. When they’d drifted out of earshot Liath Luachra rounded furiously on the boy.

  ‘Foolish child!’ she whispered fiercely. ‘You throw your life away for nothing. We cannot best six warriors.’

  He bristled at that, resenting being called him a child. His jaw firmed and his eyes darkened with uncharacteristic defiance. ‘You defeated six warriors with my brother,’ he countered.

  ‘Five warriors. Besides we had the element of surprise. And Aodhán’s skill with a javelin.’

  ‘We can still surprise them. You have me. They don’t know I’m here.’

  She wasn’t really listening for she was already trying to devise a plan for getting the boy safely off the island. Possibly, she thought to herself, she could create a diversion on one side of the island, giving him time to get away on the other side. Alternatively, she could draw the warriors with a fire, and, when they came for her, he could slip across. If he was lucky, he –

  ‘Grey One, they don’t know I’m here.’

  She looked at him, both surprised and irritated by the interruption. She was about to retort with a scornful dismissal but excited baying from the distant warriors momentarily silenced her. She listened carefully but they did not seem to be coming back. Clearly, they had found some old tracks and had mistaken them for hers.

  Brushing the encroaching holly away, she sat up, pausing briefly to consider what he’d said and the various possibilities that offered her. Finally, she released a tired sigh. The boy had really left her with no option. They could not escape the island without being seen but neither was it large enough for them to hide indefinitely. Once the fian realised they’d lost her trail, they’d backtrack and beat through the scrub and forest until they flushed her out. It was only a matter of time before they were found.

  ‘Little bandit!’ she hissed.

  Bearach
dropped his head, knowing he had pushed her too far.

  Liath Luachra fingered the crinkled burn on the skin of her hand, gaining an odd calmness from the pain it produced. She breathed deeply several times before she could speak again. ‘If they split up we might stand a chance. But we’d have to be fast.’

  ‘I’m fast,’ said the boy, lifting his head, eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘I’m fast enough to be a gaiscíoch.’

  Liath Luachra felt her heart sink.

  ***

  A cold breeze brushed the surrounding oaks, the creaking of the branches making it difficult to work out the location of the warriors from the occasional yells echoing through the island forest. Liath Luachra cautiously raised her head from behind her refuge, a fallen oak tree stretched across a small clearing in the northern section of the island. Coated in a brown layer of dead leaves and other vegetative detritus, the clearing was encircled by thick woods that stretched off for more than a hundred paces on either side.

  Slithering over to the tree line, she peered into the shadowy interior from where the last call had seemed to come. For a long moment she saw nothing, then a brief movement less than sixty paces away caught her eye. Three warriors. Moving cautiously through the trees in her direction. She chewed on her lower lip.

  They’ve split up then, divided into two groups of three.

  She slithered back into hiding behind the tumbled length of oak, lying behind its bulk in silence as she listened to the deep voices grow closer. The distinct swishing sound of heavy feet on old leaves alerted her that they’d entered the clearing. Despite the cold breeze, she was sweating and leaves were smeared to the skin of her arms and shoulders.

  She waited until they were almost on her before she stood up to face them. Startled, they froze at her sudden appearance. Despite their numerical superiority, they cautiously surveyed the clearing for any sign of ambush. Liath Luachra slid over the rotting tree trunk and twirled her sword to draw their attention. The middle warrior smiled, revealing a mouthful of brown and rotten teeth. Adjusting his grip on the sword in his right hand, he drew a round shield a little closer to his left flank. Slowly, all three began to advance.