Conor put his hand on Donal’s shoulder and said, ‘How many did you see?’
‘Too many to count.’
‘Do you have any idea at all?’ said Fergal.
‘They’re spread out through the trees.’ Donal swept the blade of his spear over the wide expanse of the plain. ‘They’ll soon be everywhere.’
‘Raise the alarm,’ ordered Conor, and Maol raced away. Turning to Médon, Conor said, ‘Tell the other lords to summon their warriors. Send a warning to the Auteini settlement on Mag Rí, and another to the Brigantes camped on Mag Coinnem. When you’ve done that, send someone to take word to the farms round about.’ Conor took him by the shoulder and gave him a push to get him moving. ‘Go!’
‘I see them!’ cried Donal as Médon raced away. A thin, dark line of horse-drawn chariots emerged from the dark wall of trees at the far northwest end of the plain. This first line was soon joined by another a little farther to the west, and then another. Slowly, silently, like the tendrils of a monstrous, grasping plant, or the tributaries of a river, the enemy war carts rolled out of the woodland and onto the gently sloping grassland.
Conor stood and watched the advance of the enemy and knew that he was seeing something he had not seen in Eirlandia for a generation: more than a summer raid, it was a total Scálda invasion. Not ships this time, but chariots.
Across the yard, the frantic clanging of the iron bar on its post outside the hall sounded a jangling alarm—a chiming clang that did not begin to alert the ráth to the enormity of the threat arrayed against them.
The first of the fianna arrived a few moments later, armed and ready for whatever would be required of them. These were swiftly followed by the greater portion of Tara’s resident population—the lords of the Airechtas among them—all hurrying to the rim of the hill. The sight of the Scálda host amassing on the plain below stopped the warm hearts beating in their breasts and stole the words from their mouths. Chariots in wave after wave rolled out from the far woodland, carving ruts in the grassy plain.
Rónán threaded his way through the press of people to where Conor and the fianna stood; he took a long, unflinching look, and said, ‘We must rally the tribes.’
‘If I leave now,’ said Fergal, ‘I can maybe outride—’
‘You’re needed here,’ Conor countered. ‘Someone else can ride.’
‘Let me through!’ called Lord Aengus, shoving himself forward. ‘I’ve got to raise my warband. I’ll warn everyone along the way.’
‘I’m going, too,’ cried Lord Toráin, pushing in behind him. ‘I’ll raise the warband and return before dawn. You have my word.’
Liam appeared next to him. ‘No, you stay and help here—both of you. I’ll go. Eamon will go with me. The two of us will have a better chance of getting through. Once we’re free of any pursuit, we’ll sound the alarm and send men to raise all the tribes.’
Conor regarded his brother, weighing the decision; Liam seized on the slight hesitation. ‘Hear me, Conor,’ he said, ‘I know there is no way to restore the trust we once had. No doubt you think I should join Vainche in his shroud and it may be you are right. I was wrong to side with Vainche against my own blood kin, wrong to participate in that shameful betrayal at Mag Cró. I blame no one but myself. The fault is mine and I own it.’
‘This is not the time—’ began Conor.
‘It is the perfect time,’ insisted Liam. Looking to Rónán, he said, ‘This may be the only time. Neither of you will ever know the guilt and regret I have endured since that dreadful day. If I’m ever to reclaim some small portion of your trust and redeem the honour I’ve squandered and abused, it will be through a service like this.’
Conor could see that, however he felt about his brother, the decision made sense. Liam was a formidable fighter, and if anyone could find a way to get a message through the Scálda-infested forest to the kings and warbands of the neighbouring tribes, he was their best hope. ‘Let it be as you say,’ Conor relented.
Liam reached out and gripped his brother’s arm in the warrior’s salute. ‘You’ll not be regretting this,’ he said. He turned away abruptly. ‘My horse!’ he shouted. ‘And Eamon’s, too! Now!’
Conor, seeing Dearg nearby, called, ‘Prepare fresh water skins and bósaill for their sparáns. Hurry!’
Rónán, arms crossed over his chest, stood gazing in grave concentration at the slowly assembling enemy host. Suddenly, he jerked himself upright and turned around. ‘Eoghan!’ he cried. ‘Eoghan! Where are you?’
‘I’m here!’ The old druid emerged from among the press of people lining the rim of the hill and Rónán hurried to meet him; the two stood together, their heads almost touching as they conferred. A long moment passed and then the druid chief turned and stumped away. Rónán returned to where Conor and the others waited.
‘We can help,’ said Rónán. ‘Eoghan has gone to speak to the brehons and ollamhs. We may be able to aid Liam’s errand and perhaps give us a little more time.’
‘Go on,’ said Conor.
‘Banfaíth Eithne has long delved into weather lore and had some experience in that realm. Judging from the sky, we may be able to do something.’
‘Weather,’ said Fergal, his tone flat, skeptical. But into his mind flashed a memory of another battle where weather had made all the difference. That any defenders had survived the Tara massacre at all was owing to the thunderstorm that night.
‘Do it,’ Conor told him. ‘But do it quickly.’
As Rónán disappeared through the anxious crowd, Aoife and Queen Sceana moved to Conor’s side. Aoife turned fearful eyes on the growing ranks of Scálda spreading in a dark flood across the grassy expanse. ‘It is even worse than I thought.’ She reached for the queen’s hand and the two stood together, supporting one another, their hands entwined.
‘Your warning came just in time,’ Sceana told him. ‘We heard something moving in the wood. It seemed the very ground was trembling. Then your man sounded the alarm and we fled the camp. Everyone is here.’
‘How many warriors are with you?’ asked Conor.
‘Seventeen,’ replied the queen. ‘We have no battlechief or warleader now. They are yours to command.’
Conor saw Médon coming toward him and called to him. ‘Are Liam and Eamon ready to ride?’
‘They are just about to leave,’ Médon reported. ‘Liam wants to speak to you before they go.’
‘I’ll see them off,’ Conor told him. ‘You go speak to the Brigantes. Tell them their queen has placed them under our command. Make sure they are well armed and add them to the fianna.’
Médon dashed away, and Conor hurried to the stable where Liam and Eamon were just about to take their mounts.
‘I’ll go to the Eridani first,’ Liam said as Conor came running up. ‘Eamon will go to the Coriondi. They’re closest.’ He gestured behind him to where Eamon held the halters of their horses—each with a shield on a strap and a spear holder carrying two spears. ‘We’ll go by the northern track across Mag Teamhair. We’ll have a better chance to outrun them and we can lose any pursuit in the forest.’
‘Wait but a little,’ Conor said. ‘Rónán and the druids are making a spell to help you.’
‘No time,’ replied Liam. ‘If we’re going to have any chance to get through, it must be now.’
‘It may already be too late for charging the ranks like that,’ Conor told him. ‘They are thick on the ground down there.’
‘I’m willing to try,’ said Liam.
‘You’ve never lacked courage,’ Conor replied. ‘But let’s wait and see what the druids can do. If they succeed, then you two will have a better chance to get away.’
Aoife called from across the yard, near where the druids had gathered. ‘Conor, they’re starting!’
The ovates, filidh, and ollamhs had formed a circle around the three elder brehons—Eoghan, Nolán, and Brádoch; they, in turn, stood with their heads covered and their rowan staffs upraised and the three tips touching at a point d
irectly over the kneeling figure of the banfaíth Eithne.
‘What are they trying to do?’ asked Sceana as, slowly, the outer circle of druids began moving. Arms linked, one slow step at a time, they moved in a sunwise circle, making a low, throaty humming sound as they went.
‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough,’ answered Conor. Leaving them to watch, he moved on to where Liam and Eamon were waiting at the rim of the hill, holding the reins of their mounts and increasingly impatient to be gone.
‘This is taking too long,’ Liam complained. He gazed down upon the long double rank of war carts already assembled in a wide half circle some little distance from the base of the hill; more were spreading onto Mag Rí to the north. ‘We have to go now while we still have a chance.’
‘Give it a little more time,’ urged Conor. ‘The brehons know what they’re doing.’
‘There is no more time!’ snapped Liam. ‘The attack could come at any moment, and there’s nothing to prevent it.’ He glanced around. ‘You don’t even have any walls up here, Conor! Were you even thinking at all?’
‘Keep your voice down, brother, and listen,’ said Conor tersely. ‘We have the biggest warband raised in Eirlandia for seven generations at least. And if you and Eamon get through the enemy chariot ranks and raise the tribes, we will have the largest host anyone alive has ever seen.’
‘If,’ muttered Liam. He looked to Eamon, who cast a doubtful eye to the threatening sky.
‘We could wait a little,’ said Eamon.
Leading the horses, the three made their way to the watch post located at what Tara’s inhabitants considered the back of the hill; it overlooked an area of boggy lowland to the north and eastward to Mag Rí. The trail was steeper and made several switchbacks before it reached the foot of the hill. On the plain below, the Scálda chariots appeared to have halted their advance and were now forming a long double rank across the plain and around the base of the hill to the west. The enemy would soon encircle the entire hill. ‘They’re putting a ring around Tara,’ observed Eamon. ‘They mean for no one to escape.’
‘Look!’ said Liam. ‘What’s that? Something’s happening.’
He pointed to the northeastern slope of the hillside where, curiously, the first searching fingers of fog had appeared and were feeling their way down the steep incline of the hill. Like the morning mist that often forms over a bog or lough, the wraithlike tendrils slithered and slid down toward the base of the hill, where they gathered, and thickened and flowed on. And out across the plain, along the line of the river, the fog began seeping out from among the trees, filling up the low places, thickening into an ever-growing wall—building, banking, blanketing the slope and flowing on, running in rivers toward the base of the hill in rippling rivulets that pooled, deepened, and spread—now reaching to the tops of the chariot wheels of the nearer ranks, flowing on, lapping the flanks of the horses, engulfing the footmen. Meanwhile, the fog continued cascading down Tara’s steep slopes like the surge of a waterfall, like an avalanche, burying the ground in a deluge of obscuring mist.
Out on the plain, they could hear voices raised as enemy warriors tried to calm horses that were agitated by the peculiar inundation. Soon the entire plain was steeped in fog above man height—a barrier as dense and impenetrable to sight as any timber wall. To the ranks of fianna assembled on the top of Tara Hill, the surrounding plains looked flat and white and smooth as a deep snowfall in winter. Of the besieging enemy there was neither sight nor sound. The cloaking fog concealed all.
‘The druids have done it,’ said Fergal, rushing up just then. ‘Rónán tells me it won’t last forever. You should go.’
‘It’s now or never, brother,’ Liam said, squinting his eyes to make out the torturous path leading down the rocky slope. ‘You decide.’
With a last glance at the milky moon-washed expanse below, Conor said, ‘Go—and Danu give you wings.’
Liam gave a curt nod, gathered up the reins, and mounted; Eamon swung up onto his horse and turned his mount, and the two riders disappeared over the edge of the hill and were gone.
31
A dull, dirty sun faded in a darkening sky. And with the evening came the distraught Auteini settlers, who had braved the perils of both the enemy and the druid fog to reach the precarious safety of Tara Hill. ‘We had to leave everything,’ said Morann. ‘The stock, the tools, the grain stores…’ He made a gesture of helplessness. ‘Trying to avoid the dog-eaters was hard enough and the fog didn’t make things any easier.’
‘But you got here safely,’ said Donal. ‘No one was left behind?’
‘No one,’ confirmed the Auteini lord. ‘The farmers and herdsmen were already with us—because of Lughnasadh, we were coming up here in the morning anyway. Otherwise…’ He let the thought go unsaid.
‘Never mind, you’re here now and we need you. Take your warband to Fergal,’ Conor told him. ‘Donal will see to your folk.’
Leaving Morann and Donal to organize the newcomers, Conor went to collect his faéry weapons, find Aoife, and maybe get something to eat. If there was to be a battle at daybreak, he wanted everyone to have a little something in their stomachs. Who knew when they would have a chance to eat again?
Tara’s inhabitants had not been idle. All through the night, Donal and Dearg hustled from place to place and task to task, assigning various duties: assigning folk to feed and water the horses, and slaughter a few of the sheep and cattle that happened to be on the hill, others to prepare the hall to receive the wounded.
The yard outside the hall had become the locus of activity. Aoife and Sceana had arranged the women and children into groups: the elders among them for baking, or cooking, others for preparing food; the children for tending the fires, and procuring supplies. Three huge pots of stew were bubbling on the embers, apples had been quartered, and cheese had been cut into chunks the size of walnuts to more easily feed hungry people in a hurry. Tara’s womenfolk were also busy preparing the hall to receive wounded warriors: they had pallets of rushes, skins, and fleeces readied, and baskets of unspun wool and bindings for wounds, and pots of willow bark and yarrow leaves steeped in ale and mashed into a paste for medicines.
Nor was this all. Those women who had knowledge of weapons—wives of warriors, mostly—were working with a group of craftsmen and the older farmers and boys and all were hard at work preparing replacement weapons for the battle line: sharpening spears and stropping swords until they gleamed with lethal light. Others were renewing any loose or frayed grips or bindings on swords and spears, and repairing and tightening shield straps. Some of them had armed themselves and donned the fighting gear of the fianna. When battle began, they would take their place on the line alongside their men.
Conor paused on his way to the hall and stood taking in the activity; he felt a surge of pride lift his spirits. Death might well come for them all today, but if it did, it would not find them hiding in a hole or cowering under their cloaks waiting for the end. Death, when it came, would find them defiant.
As he stood watching, he saw Aoife emerge from the hall intent on some errand; he hurried to catch her. ‘What’s happening down on the plain?’ asked Aoife as he fell into step beside her. ‘Any word?’ She had little Ciara wrapped tight in a blanket and strapped to her back.
‘No change. The Scálda are assembled and awaiting the command to attack. That could come at any moment. I thought it would have started by now, but they seem inclined to wait.’
‘Why?’ asked Sceana. ‘What is preventing them?’
‘In truth, I wish I knew. But they won’t wait forever. There will be an attack today. And when they come, they will come in force.’
Aoife understood the unspoken implications of her husband’s reply. ‘Whenever it comes, we’ll be ready,’ she told him. ‘Do not spare a thought about that.’
Her courage touched him; Conor looked at his wife and daughter and felt as though his heart would fall out of his chest. He put his hand on little Ciara’s sleepin
g head and rested it there for a moment, before moving on to the hall to take up his weapons: Pelydr, the lightning-quick spear engraved with saining charms of flight and power; Eirian, the ever-sharp sword; and Pared, the shield that could resist any blow. Sliding the sword through his belt, he slung the shield onto his back and took up his spear, feeling its lively weight fill his hand. Just holding the spear and feeling the shield on his arm made Conor feel better about the coming battle. Sustained by this hope and the activity he saw around him, he paused to take a bit of bread and beef before returning to the battle line, where he found Fergal pacing along the rim of the hill, taut with impatience.
‘I’m thinking Evil Eye means to lay siege to Tara,’ he said, stepping close to Conor and speaking low so the warriors nearby would not overhear. ‘He is daring us to come down and fight him on the plain.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Conor. ‘On the plain—where his chariots can overpower us and crush us.’
‘I hear you, brother,’ replied Fergal. ‘But even without chariots, the dog-eaters can climb the hill and overwhelm us by force of numbers.’ He flung out a hand to the innumerable encampments scattered across the plain. ‘There must be fifty of them for every one of us—maybe more!’
‘Is it that you think I do not know this?’ Conor countered. ‘I have been thinking of nothing else.’
‘Well?’
‘We stay put. If Evil Eye wants us, he must come up here and get us.’
Fergal flung a hand out toward the plain. ‘Don’t think he won’t, brother. Don’t think he won’t.’
They settled back to watch and wait. The sun edged ever higher, slowly burning away the last rags of the night’s mist and revealing the enemy warhost amassed upon the plain. To most of Tara’s inhabitants, who had never seen a chariot before, the sight was shocking—a chilling reminder of the overwhelming power marshalled against them. From the Royal Plain in the north to the Council Plain in the south, the leather-clad enemy stood ready to attack. With rank on rank of chariots, outflung wings of horsemen, and battle groups of footmen, Balor Berugderc, he of the Evil Eye, had committed the entire Scálda warhost to this battle.
In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 25