Two Scálda rushed at them out of the darkness. Cethern turned and took them both, his sword a dull glimmer in the dancing firelight. Conor wheeled Búrach into the fight; the horse leapt forward and one of the Scálda broke off his assault on Cethern to meet him.
The spear swung around and the point came up but Conor, rather than striking at the weapon with his sword, simply allowed the blade to slide down the long iron shaft, neatly shearing three fingers from his attacker’s hand. The Scálda yelped, dropped the spear, and fell back. Conor then sliced the rawhide strap binding his left hand to Búrach’s halter. His scarlet birthmark began to tingle and burn as his blood warmed to the fight; he spun around, looking for the next place to strike.
More Scálda warriors burst from the round house, and with them, Lord Brecan and Mog Ruith—together with Balor Berugderc. The two kings took in the confusion of the clash and Mog Ruith, raising his hands, cried out in a great booming voice, employing the Dark Tongue to call down a imprecation of destruction upon the enemy.
Balor thrust out a restraining hand and roared at the old druid. When Mog Ruith persisted, the Scálda king seized the druid by the arm, dragging him back. Mog Ruith shook free of his grasp, all the while crying doom and confusion upon the foe. Infuriated now, Balor plucked the knife from his belt and drew back his arm to strike.
Two things happened at once: Lord Brecan darted forward to obstruct the thrust, and Conor reared back and let fly with the sword.
Balor lunged at the druid and Conor’s sword shivered the door in the exact place the Fomórai’s head had been an instant before. Balor’s wild, sweeping slash with the knife caught the druid on the upper arm. Mog Ruith faltered. Clutching the wound, he turned and, in a voice to melt stones, loosed a tirade of black invective as Balor buried his blade in the druid’s stomach. Blood surged through the druid’s fingers and then erupted in a black torrent from his mouth; still trying contain the awful rupture, the old bard slumped back against the wall and slid down as his legs gave way.
Cethern, having fought free of the guards, raced to join his king. Conor slid off his mount, snatched up the spear abandoned by his newly fingerless opponent, and sprinted after Cethern.
Lord Brecan seized Conor’s thrown blade and pulled it from the door. He swung the weapon hard and succeeded in driving the Scálda chieftain back against the round house wall. Balor’s armour breastplate saved him. The sword point slid off to one side, grazing a furrow in the hard leather. Balor knocked the blade carelessly aside and, with a savage back-handed rip, buried his blood-streaked blade in Lord Brecan’s chest.
The Brigantes king collapsed, tried once to rise, and then lay still.
Cethern, seeing his lord fall, loosed a cry of rage and charged. Balor, in an almost serene gesture, stooped and retrieved the sword from Brecan’s slack grasp. As Cethern closed on him, sword raised high to strike, the Scálda lord levelled the weapon. Conor saw the champion jolt to an abrupt halt—so sudden that his head and arms snapped forward. The sword spun from his hand.
Balor lunged, ramming the sword home. The blade point appeared in the middle of Cethern’s back amidst a spreading crimson bloom. The champion raised his face to the night-black sky and screamed. Balor gave the sword another brutal thrust and released it. Cethern slumped to his knees, jerked twice, and, still kneeling, toppled sideways to the ground.
Conor, in full flight, swerved off the charge and slipped away around the side of the hall. From there he surveyed the yard. Three Scálda warriors lay dead on the ground and another writhed moaning nearby. At least three more circled the fire ring and two others had joined Balor at the door.
The one-eyed king called a command to his warriors at the fire; they halted at once, turned, and began coursing through the yard. Conor dashed to the outer wall, thinking to climb over and take his chances in the woods outside the ráth. As he worked his way around the perimeter wall, however, he came to the hut and remembered his vow to the faéry who were still chained in the hut. For the briefest of instants, he stood rooted in indecision. And then the wind gusted cool and fresh out of the west, and it began to rain.
Within moments, the yard was awash. A curtain of rain swept across in a drenching sheet, dousing the fire in the centre of the yard. Smoke billowed up in a dense white fog and Conor awakened to a desperate idea. Retracing his steps, he proceeded the opposite way along the outer wall and soon came to the wagon containing the caged dogs. The odious creatures were snarling and frothing at the mouth, eager to join the fight—so, Conor let them have their way. With difficulty owing to his reinjured shoulder, he pulled himself onto the wagon and scrambled up the side of the enclosure, and then, lifting the simple latch, released the dogs.
The frenzied beasts burst from captivity and hurled themselves from the cage. All three streaked off, quickly disappearing into darkness.
Conor jumped down from the wagon and flitted to the side of the hall and looked out across the yard. Rain and smoke and darkness combined to make an impenetrable soup. He could no longer see the dogs, but he could hear their feral howls as they chose and chased down their prey. Soon the yard rang with the agonised screams of the Scálda bodyguards and the shouts of the dog’s handlers as they tried to gain control of the blood-lusting beasts.
Flitting back to the outer wall, Conor resumed his circuit around the ráth and back to the hut—remaining out of the chaos now claiming the yard. Upon reaching the hut, he ducked around the side of the ramshackle structure and in through the still-open door. ‘Lenos!’ said Conor, stumbling into the darkness. ‘Rouse your people. It is time to go.’
Then, employing the iron shaft of the spear, he prised open the first of the rings linking the chains to the hoops lining the walls of the hut. One by one, he freed the faéry from the iron hoops. ‘What about these?’ demanded Lenos, indicating the chain around his waist and those of the others.
‘That will have to wait.’ He moved to the door and peered out. Smoke and rain and the feeble embers of the fire formed a lurid confusion of shouts and flickering shadows. ‘The dogs will not keep them busy for long. Stay near the wall and make for the gate.’ As Lenos repeated his instructions, Conor stepped out into the rain-swept night. Disappearing into the soggy, smoke-filled yard, he called back, ‘Go! I will join you.’
The faéry lord called after him, but received no reply, so he led his small band of survivors along the wall to the narrow front entrance to the stronghold and out into the night and freedom.
38
Light of foot and silent as shadows, the Kerionid fled into the night. The rain settled into a steady soaking drizzle and the faéry hurried along the muddy road until they came to a fording place. They paused at the water’s edge and had scarcely caught their breath when they heard hoofbeats on the road behind them. Instantly, they scattered, fading into the trees like smoke.
A moment later, a horse and rider slid to a halt at the ford. ‘Lenos!’ called Conor. ‘Where are you?’
He waited, and then called again. The faéry lord appeared—as if taking substance from the rain-wet leaves and branches.
‘Good, you’re here,’ said Conor, sliding off his mount. He leaned on his spear and kneaded his injured shoulder to ease the pain. ‘Did everyone make it out?’ He glanced around, but could see almost nothing in the rain-streaked dark.
‘All that are left.’ Lenos gestured to the chain cinched tight around his waist. ‘Can you remove the iron now?’
Conor shook his head. ‘The links are too strong. We’ll need a tool to break them. Truly, we might have to find a blacksmith. I’m sorry. I know what the iron is doing to you—
‘Do you?’ snarled Lenos, his voice biting. ‘Do you know how the irons burn into our flesh … how it saps our strength, bleeds our vitality … every moment is torture.…’
‘As soon as I find a tool to free you, it will be done!’ Conor snapped. ‘But we cannot rest now. The Scálda will soon discover your absence and they will give chase.’
‘
You brought a horse,’ sneered Lenos. ‘That will make it easier for them to find us.’
‘I could not let them have Búrach.’ Conor clambered onto the stallion’s steaming back. ‘If you want to be caught again, stay here. If not, we have to keep moving.’
‘Where? Where can we go that they cannot find us?’
‘Brecan left some warriors in a camp nearby. If we could find them…’ Conor looked around and realised the futility of thrashing around in the forest hoping to stumble across the camp. ‘Anyway, we cannot stay here,’ Conor concluded, ‘or they will find us.’
Conor picked up the reins, but the faéry lord just stood and stared.
‘Lenos!’ barked Conor. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying? We must move on.’
‘Why do you care?’
‘We have to go—now!’
Still Lenos remained unmoved, the rain streaming down his face and dripping off the ends of his hair; he appeared at once defiant and pathetic in his defiance. Conor forced his voice to remain calm. ‘This is not the time to argue. If you stay you will be no better off than you were up there.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the ráth. ‘No, it will be worse. This time they will kill you.’
‘Why do you care what happens to us?’
Conor wiped the rain from his face and replied, ‘I made a vow to Lady Rhiannon to help your people whenever and however I could. I always honour my vows.’
‘Rhiannon?’ muttered the faéry darkly.
‘Aye, Rhiannon, daughter of Gwydion, Lord of the Tylwyth Teg,’ Conor told him. ‘Why?’
‘We are not Tylwyth Teg!’ Lenos all but spat the name. ‘We are Kerionid of the Aes-sídhe. The Tylwyth are not our people, they are our enemies—as hateful to us as the Scálda are to you.’
Conor stared at the tall faéry and his heart dropped into his stomach. What had he blundered into? It had never occurred to him that there might be more than one faéry race—let alone that Rhiannon might not thank him for saving her enemies. But what could he do about that now? He drew a deep breath and lifted his face to the night-dark sky and let the rain splash over him. It had been a long journey to this place.
‘We do not have time for this discussion,’ he said after a moment. ‘If you value your lives and care to preserve them, follow me.’
With a flick of the reins, the grey stallion walked on, splashing through the ford and into the wood on the other side. The faéry lord did not hesitate again, but summoned his people from the surrounding wood and they resumed their soggy march. Owing to the rain and darkness, Conor let the stallion have its head, and he turned his mind to the problem of eluding the Scálda pursuit. There were fewer now than when the fight began; how many remained he had no way of knowing, but assumed that if any had survived the dogs, Balor Berugderc was surely one of them. And Conor knew in his gut that the Fomórai lord would not rest until he had recovered his prisoners—or seen their heads displayed above the door to his hall.
At some point, Conor reckoned they would have to leave the road and take to the forest and head north, back toward the borderlands and safety of Dé Danann lands. He would watch for a chance to do just that, but in the meantime it was best to put some distance between themselves and Balor’s men.
Cold, wet, his injured shoulder throbbing with every jolt and lurch of the trail, Conor pushed grimly on, pausing only now and then to draw breath and search out the path ahead. The Aes-sídhe followed on foot, their progress—hindered by the wind and the rain and the strength-sapping iron—slowed to a fitful, stumbling slog. Conor did what he could to keep his little band of faéry folk moving, but it was clear that they were at the end of their endurance and would have to rest soon.
Finally, as the sky began to lighten in the east, the rain stopped and the wind fell away. By the time the sun peeped above the horizon a short time later, the woodland had given way to a rocky stretch of rough moorland of gorse and broom and tough little thorny shrubs and, directly ahead in the near distance, the slate-blue expanse of the sea.
Conor stopped to get his bearings. He dismounted and left the shelter of the trees, walking out onto the moor. The new-risen sun caused the mist to rise and painted the moor in a pale buttery light. The air smelled of wet earth and leaves. Low clouds streamed in ragged tatters on a steady northerly breeze and the white flecks of seabirds filled the air, wheeling and diving in the distance. Lenos joined him a few moments later. ‘Do you know where we are?’
Conor shook his head. ‘Do you?’
Lenos gazed at the empty moorland with an expression of immense sadness. ‘The Scálda caught us and brought us here from our home in Albion,’ Lenos told him, his voice a thready whisper. ‘The Aes-sídhe do not come to Eirlandia—once, perhaps, a long time ago. But not anymore.’
‘Well,’ Conor replied, ‘the coast is just ahead. Down on the beach there are places to hide, and we might even find a boat.’
‘A boat,’ Lenos repeated dully. ‘And if we find this boat—what then?’
‘Our lands are north of here. If we can stay ahead of Balor’s men, we might reach a Dé Danann stronghold.’
‘My people are weak and tired. We need food and rest.’ Lenos turned to regard the ragged ranks of the faéry straggling out of the woods to the edge of the moor. ‘We have lost two already.’
‘What!’ Conor rounded on him. ‘Two dead! Why didn’t you say something?’
‘Would it have made a difference? You said we had to keep moving.’
Conor stared at the faéry lord and a feeling of bleak, hopeless fatigue descended upon him. What kind of people were these? More to the point, what kind of trouble had he gotten himself into? And what, if anything, could he do about it? ‘I am sorry,’ he said at last, drawing his hand over his face as if to wipe away the pain and exhaustion. ‘Tell your people to marshal whatever strength they have left—it is only a little further. Once we get down to the shore, we can find someplace to hide. We will rest then.’
Conor glanced back at the woodland behind them. All seemed quiet and still. Three faéry women had sunk down into the gorse nearby; grey faced, their hair in long, tangled ropes, they huddled together, shivering in their thin, wet clothes. Those around them were no better. Clearly, he had to find a way to get the binding chains off—and soon, if there were to be any faéry left to save.
Conor went to the women and, with gestures and gentle words, offered them his place on Búrach’s back. Once they were mounted, he then led the company out across the moor. Closer to the sea, the land stepped down in steep declines—the remains of shattered promontories. Nearer the edge of the low cliffs, a few finger-thin streams braided themselves together to form a deeper runnel. Conor stepped into it and made the faéry do likewise, hoping that walking in the water might serve to muddle their tracks and throw the Scálda off their trail.
The runnel became a ravine, carving a deep path through the stone of the crumpled headland. Here, Conor paused. The decline was steep and rocky, and bounded on two sides by high rock walls; at the bottom was a small, sandy cove and the only way down was through the streambed.
‘This is as good a place as any,’ Conor told Lenos, ‘and better than most. Let’s get out of sight before anyone sees us.’
Down they went, picking their way over the loose scree of broken rock and stones that covered the narrow floor of the deep-carved passage. Upon reaching the bottom, the faéry dropped onto the sand and Conor had to convince them to at least drag themselves into the shade of the towering bluffs so they would not be seen from the cliff tops above. There they fell asleep. And that was where the Scálda caught up with them.
39
While the faéry slept, Conor climbed back to the gap at the top of the promontory to keep watch. He scanned the gorsy moorland, watching the line of trees in the near distance—and struggling to keep his eyes open. Any Scálda pursuit would have to leave the shelter of the wood and cross the barrens to reach the coast and he would see them in plenty of time to rouse the faér
y and escape along the strand.
A little after midday, the first of the pursuers appeared.
Conor was hunkered down among the rocks at the mouth of the defile—drowsing with his spear in his lap, his head nodding on his chest—when the high piping call of a curlew reached him from across the moor. He shook himself awake and looked up. A flicker of movement at a particularly dark patch of woodland caught his eye and, suddenly, he was not looking at a shady spot, but at a lone Scálda warrior, armed but on foot.
The searcher paused at the edge of the wood and stood gazing out across the moor. He must have seen something he found worth further investigation, Conor guessed, because he quickly disappeared back into the trees and a moment later two Scálda emerged on horseback. These were quickly followed by two on foot, and then three more mounted warriors—one of them Balor of the Evil Eye himself.
Conor backed away from his post and raced down to the beach to rouse the sleeping Kerionid. He ran to where the faéry lay curled in the shade at the base of a black boulder, shouting, ‘Lenos! Get up! They’re coming.’ He jostled the faéry lord by the shoulder. ‘Get up! Wake the others.’
The faéry came awake with a start. ‘They’re here.’ Conor told him. ‘Awaken your people and fly.’
‘How many?’ Lenos rose slowly, shaking off his slumber with difficulty.
‘Eight so far. Balor is with them. Take my horse and go.’ Conor pointed up the shingled strand to where the stony stubs of a tumbled outcrop washed in the waves. ‘Get yourselves in amongst the rocks. Hurry!’
Lenos stood looking at him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Back up the ravine,’ Conor replied, already racing away. ‘I will hold the gap as long as I can to give you time to get away.’
‘You alone?’ said Lenos. ‘I will stay with you.’
‘There is only one spear,’ Conor called back. ‘Go!’
Conor scrambled back up the steep incline of the gully to the place where the stream had forced its way between two sheer slabs of broken rock, creating a natural breach—a space wide enough to admit two or three, but no wider. The Scálda would have to abandon their horses and attack on foot and here, at this narrow place, Conor might sell his life at a respectable price.
In the Region of the Summer Stars Page 36