The three watched a little longer, and then Fergal said, ‘Have we seen enough?’
‘Aye,’ said Conor, ‘as much as we’re going to see. ‘Let’s go back and tell Mádoc what we’ve discovered. I’d like to hear what he thinks.’
They crawled back from the earthen bank and just as they turned to make good their retreat, Donal whispered, ‘Wait! Someone’s coming!’
They halted, flattening themselves to the ground. In a moment, they heard voices. Conor inched his way up to peer over the edge of the ditch bank. Out on the road he saw six Scálda—not warriors this time, though they carried spears. Dressed in dark leather tunics, they carried the carcasses of gutted deer on birch poles, two-by-two.
‘Hunters,’ Conor said. ‘Six of them.’
‘Somebody will eat well tonight,’ sighed Donal. ‘But not us, I think.’
‘Ach, see now,’ said Fergal in a strange, half-strangled voice, ‘somebody will ride.’
Conor glanced at him and then followed his eyes to where Fergal was looking. Following the first group came four more of the hunting party—each leading a horse—the last with a pony in tow.
‘No…,’ groaned Conor. ‘No, no, no.…’
‘But, I don’t—’ began Donal, and then abruptly stopped. ‘Badb’s breath!’ he growled through clenched teeth. ‘They’ve got our horses!’
18
The three Darini watched in helpless disbelief as the Scálda hunters led their horses over the bridge, across the ditch, and up into the stronghold. That they were their horses and not some others, was certain enough. If there could be another such as Búrach, Drenn, Ossin, or Grían, then the presence of Íogmar, Huw’s stubby little Cymry pony, removed any doubt whatsoever. Conor saw his prized grey stallion disappear into the ráth and so, too, any hope of an easy retreat. With a low groan, he sank down, rolled over on his back, and lay gazing emptily up at the cloud-filled sky, cursing their luck.
Losing their mounts was bad enough, but in having discovered the animals, the enemy was now alerted to their presence. Conor could well imagine the hunters boasting of their find and informing their leaders that there were intruders nearby. And who were these intruders? Dé Danann … possibly spies. Any moment, Conor expected a Scálda search party to come boiling out of the fortress to sniff out their trail. They would be discovered and … he did not like to think what would happen after that.
Fergal slumped down beside him, and Donal stared up at the ráth as if willing the horses to come galloping back to them.
‘If we go now,’ Fergal mused, ‘and if we run—’
‘What?’ muttered Donal. ‘So we can be hunted down in the wood?’
‘We might get back to the cave before the Scálda find us,’ said Fergal, finishing the thought.
‘And what then?’ demanded Donal, frustration sliding toward anger. ‘They will trap us in the cave, so they will.’
‘Better there than here,’ replied Fergal, his temper rising to match Donal’s. ‘Maybe Mádoc can do something. This was all his idea, after all.’
‘He didn’t lose the horses!’
‘Did I?’ snapped Fergal. ‘It was just stupid, rotten bad luck.’
‘Stupid is right—’
‘Quiet! Both of you!’ Conor shoved himself up into a sitting position. ‘Listen to you—yapping like dogs scrapping over a clean-picked bone. Shut up and let a man think.’
The two subsided into a prickly silence and stared at Conor. Finally, Fergal said, ‘We’ve got to do something. We can’t sit here much longer and wait for them to find us.’
‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ Conor told him. ‘We’re going to get those horses back.’
‘Brother, I do think you have not grasped the difficulty here,’ Fergal suggested. ‘How do you propose to accomplish this impossible feat?’
‘I expect the Scálda will search for us,’ said Conor. ‘So I would do if it was my ráth with spies creeping about. As soon as the searchers depart, we go in.’
Fergal stared at him. ‘Ach, aye,’ he replied with a knowing nod, ‘and that must certainly be the worst idea you have ever had.’
‘You are right there, brother,’ added Donal. ‘Maybe the worst idea anyone ever had.’
‘Is it that you expect the entire stronghold to go running off in search of us?’ said Fergal. ‘If not, the rest will remain inside—hundreds of them!’
‘Or, maybe you expect us to fight them all,’ said Donal.
‘The search party will ride out,’ insisted Conor. ‘And they will be away some little time. We will use that time to get into the fortress and find the horses. When we have found them, we take them back.’
Fergal and Donal looked at each other, shaking their heads. ‘It has finally happened, brother,’ said Fergal. ‘Our Conor’s mind has collapsed under the strain of thought.’
‘Sadly so,’ agreed Donal. ‘Ach, well, it was only a matter of time.’ To Conor, he said, ‘Are you completely insane, now?’
‘Scoff if you must,’ replied Conor evenly. ‘But the last place they will think to look for us is inside their own stronghold.’
‘What about the guards?’
‘Do you see any guards?’ replied Conor. ‘The gates are standing open. They know themselves to be secure here—so far away from the deadlands and the Dé Danann territories. If there are no guards at the gate, there will be none inside the fortress.’
‘If they suspect spies are slinking around, they will be wary,’ Donal pointed out.
‘Then we must be warier still,’ Conor countered. ‘The only way we’re getting our horses back is to take them.’
The force of Conor’s conviction carried the argument. Both Fergal and Donal admitted with some reluctance that Conor’s plan, foolhardy as it most assuredly was, would be better than trying to outrace a body of mounted warriors in the tangles of the forest. At least, it had the advantage that, if against all odds it should succeed, they would have their horses back.
‘Right, so,’ said Fergal after they had pledged themselves to the scheme, ‘how are we to do this impossible thing?’
Conor told them his hastily conceived plan and the three of them hammered at it until all were content with the shape and utility. Then they hunkered down to wait.
The sun sank lower in the west and still no party of frenzied searchers issued from the stronghold. Doubt crept in and certainty wavered. ‘We could have been back in the cave by now,’ Fergal muttered.
‘Without our horses, mind,’ Conor told him.
‘What if they don’t come out?’ asked Donal. ‘What then?’
Conor was saved having to answer by the hollow thump of hooves on the bridge. Fergal, who was closest, slithered his way to the top of the earthen bank and peered out.
‘How many?’ asked Donal. When Fergal did not reply, he asked again, more insistently. ‘Well? How many?’
He continued to observe for a moment, and then slid back down the bank. ‘A score at least,’ he reported with a grin.
‘A score, you say!’ said Donal, much impressed. ‘They must truly desire our heads to adorn their stinking hall.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Fergal. ‘And I would not be surprised if the one in the lead was the battlechief himself—the horse he rode and the way he rode it—a man who held himself very grand anyway.’
‘It took them long enough.’ Conor glanced at the sky. ‘It’ll be dark soon enough and they’ll be back.’
‘After you, brother,’ Fergal told him.
Crouching low to stay below the protecting bank, the three proceeded to make their way around the base of the hill, looking for a gap they might exploit to get inside; and, as they had seen before, these were plentiful enough and they quickly found such a place on the eastern side where the sticks-and-mud filler used to close the space between tree trunks had collapsed and pulled away, exposing a fair-sized breach.
‘There,’ said Conor, pointing to the place. ‘That will do.’
‘Squeeze
through a tiny hole like that, now?’ said Donal. ‘It would be easier to throw one another over the top.’
‘First we must get across the ditch,’ observed Fergal. To Donal, he said, ‘Or, maybe we should throw one another across that as well?’
Donal gave a snort and said, ‘Follow me and try not to get lost.’ With that, he was up and over the bank of the ditch, and all but swimming through the nettles and brambles with Conor and Fergal in his wake. They crossed the ditch and darted to the shadow of the timber wall. ‘There now, was that so difficult?’ he said, dabbing blood from the scratches on his hands and face, and picking bits of broken briar from the snags in his clothes.
Pressing themselves tight to the fortress wall, they drew their swords and worked away quietly at the wattle-and-daub filling the gap, pulling off loose chunks of crumbling material, widening the hole until it was large enough to admit them. Donal, the biggest of the three, had to be pulled through without his sword belt and cloak. Once all were through, they took refuge behind the nearest mud hut and paused a moment to watch and wait. All remained quiet in this the outer perimeter of the settlement, so they proceeded to make their way along the wall of the fortress, flitting from building to building as quietly as possible and keeping to the shadows.
There were no Scálda around, as this part of the ráth seemed to contain only storage huts of one kind or another—some small, some larger, and several that were very large indeed; the smaller ones lacked doors, but the larger ones had wickerwork doors of woven laths and branches. Carefully working their way around the border of the ráth, they came to one of these larger storehouses, and, as they rounded a corner, saw two Scálda tribesmen approach bearing a basket laden with something heavy. Conor and his companions ducked out of sight and the men went into the large storehouse. They did not stay long, but soon emerged empty-handed and went away again. Curious now, Conor signalled to the others that he wanted a look inside. So, creeping around the edge of the building, the three flitted across the narrow path, snatched open the flimsy door, and darted in. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim light inside, but what they saw made them stare in disbelief: wheels!
They gazed around the room in puzzled disbelief at rank upon rank of narrow wheels, leaning against the walls in rows ten and twenty deep. Here, then, were the hoops they had seen being made at the forge and transported on the wagons. They were used to form the iron rims of the wheels. The three moved to one of the nearer wheels to examine it more closely. Made of long ash spokes joined to a hub of oak, the wheels were thin and fairly light in weight—too thin and light for a wagon—each was exactly the same and a little better than waist high.
Fergal shook his head and Donal shrugged. Conor moved to the door, glanced out, and, seeing no one about, moved on, keeping to the narrow pathways at the rear of the buildings; some of these they looked into, but saw only tools, or weapons store and, in one, baskets of grain. At length, they came to what they imagined was the Scálda king’s hall. Conor pressed himself against the wall and glanced around the corner. There, hard against the longer side of the hall, stood a small, sturdily built shed. Unlike most of the huts they had seen so far, this one was all of timber and had a wooden door. They moved cautiously closer and, on hearing voices, pressed themselves against the wall to allow several clansmen to pass by. When the path was clear again, they continued along the side of the hall in the direction that the clansmen had gone and heard more voices—raised, raucous laughter and what sounded like cheering. At the far corner of the hall, Conor stopped and motioned for the others to stay back and, peeking around the edge of the building, saw an expansive central yard and in it a crowd of Scálda—men mostly, but many women and children was well—and a body of warriors gathered in front of the hall. They were watching one of the warriors riding around in a small two-wheeled cart.
This vehicle was pulled by two horses, running fast, and the driver, standing upright and holding the reins, was making wide and uncertain circles, sliding almost sideways with every turn—much to the ecstatic delight of the crowd. A dense haze of dust hung over the yard … and then Conor saw what it was that raised such a cloud: the fast careening cart was dragging something … a person.
A gale of laughter erupted from the yard. Conor felt his stomach tighten and his birthmark began to burn with rage. He fell back. Donal pushed forward into Conor’s place and observed for a moment, then returned, his face dark and angry. Fergal had a look next—a swift glance out into the yard, and then back. Eyes close, he mouthed a silent curse.
Another gale of laughter brought all three to peer around the building’s edge. The wheeled cart spun in a tight circle and the rope around the shoulders of the dragged man went slack; the body rolled and stopped—just in time for the wheels to turn and pass over him as the cart completed the turn. The thin iron wheel caught the victim in the middle of the back. The cart bounced high, and the man screamed in agony as his back and ribs broke and the thin iron-rimmed wheel severed his spine.
The doomed man writhed screaming in the dirt, his agony bringing more laughter, jeers of jubilation. The driver leapt down from the cart and, drawing a small knife from his belt, seized his broken victim by the hair and sliced off a chunk of his scalp, which he waved to his spectators before throwing the bloody scrap to some boys as a trophy. Lifting his face to the sky, he loosed a wild whoop and fell upon the screaming man. Kneeling on his helpless victim’s broken back, the Scálda proceeded to hack off the captive’s head. It was slow, bloody work, for the knife was small. The man’s cries subsided as death released him from his agonies.
The Scálda continued chopping and slicing with his small knife until at last the victim’s head came free. The butcher rose, bloody to the elbows, to display his gruesome handiwork to the crowd. Leaping back into the cart, he paraded around the yard with the dripping head of his victim lofted high as if some great victory had been won. The Scálda roared their approval and cheered.
And while the cheers rang out, Conor pointed beyond the grisly scene and the laughing crowd to the far corner of the yard. There, away from the commotion in the centre, stood their horses: Búrach, Drenn, Grían, Ossin, and Íogmar, tethered to iron rings set in the wall.
Some of the older boys of the tribe were now taking turns kicking the corpse and hacking off pieces of flesh with their little knives and throwing the bloody bits at one another. Others made a game of kicking the severed head. The Scálda warrior stood looking on for a moment, then joined his swordbrothers gathered outside the hall, and all went inside. Men ran forward to take the two-wheeled cart away and the crowd began to break up. Several men started toward the rear of the hall where the three intruders stood watching.
Conor glanced around. There was no place to hide, and the entire length of the hall to run. Conor snatched at Fergal’s sleeve, turned, and fled back the way they had come.
They reached the hut attached to the hall and, as the Scálda warriors came around the back side of the hall, Conor threw himself at the door to the hut, shoved it open, and leapt inside, drawing his sword as he crossed the threshold. Fergal and Donal tumbled in after him, their weapons at the ready.
The interior of the hut was dark and empty. Flattening themselves against the wall on either side of the door, they waited with breath abated until the warriors passed by outside. They heard the voices grow louder as the Scálda approached, and then grow fainter as they moved on.
Conor let out his breath and, as his gaze swept the room, froze. Fergal glanced at his face as Conor extended a hand and pointed to a far corner of the room where, in the dim light of the storeroom, cowered two of the most extraordinarily beautiful women any of them had ever seen … save Conor. He, at least, had seen one of them before.
‘It’s her!’ gasped Conor, his voice strained by disbelief. ‘The faéry queen.’
Aoife
On the night Conor rode out of Dúnaird, I wept—selfish, bitter tears. To my shame, I did not think of him and what he mig
ht be feeling as he left his home and hearth-mates. I thought only of myself and the hurt I was enduring, and would endure for the next three years. I know he did not steal the druid’s gold ornament, but I thought he had acted rashly at the council and brought this judgement on himself somehow—little sparing a thought for me. Oh, but men are such thoughtless creatures and it is women who suffer for their foolishness.
The next morning after Conor left, Liam and Eamon and one other appeared—to ward against Conor’s return. When they learned Conor and Mádoc had already been there and gone, they would say nothing but to wait for the king. The day after that, Lord Ardan and the rest of the ardféne returned to the ráth—downcast and oppressed by all that had taken place at the gathering. My lord Ardan did not wish to speak of it, and others would not for fear of going against the king. But, Eamon, good Eamon, took me aside and told me what had happened to make everyone behave so. He told me all, and my heart went out to my Conor, my love—and I cursed my selfish tears, and cursed my faithlessness for doubting him. When I heard that Fergal and Donal were making plans to leave the ráth, I went to them. ‘Give this to Conor with my love,’ I said. Unpinning my casán, I pressed it into his hand.
‘We are only going hunting, you know,’ Donal said with a sly grin.
‘Aye, I know,’ I told him, ‘but if it should happen that you see him somewhere along the way.’
‘If we happen to see him,’ Fergal replied, dropping the silver casán into his sparán, ‘I will deliver it into his hand.’
‘With all my love.’
‘To be sure, my lady, with your love.’
It was some little time later—four days, maybe five—after Fergal and Donal had gone, that Liam approached me. I had played and sung for the king and the warriors in the hall and, as I was putting away my harp and gathering my cloak, the king’s champion pulled me aside and said he had always treasured my way with song. He was glad to have a chance to tell me this as, he said, he had always meant to do.
In the Region of the Summer Stars Page 17