In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  As the last of the mist cleared, Rónán came with a message from the brehons. ‘Eoghan would speak to you.’ Before Conor could ask why the chief brehon wanted to see him, Rónán moved off again, saying, ‘Follow me—and bring your men.’

  ‘How many?’ Conor called after him.

  ‘All of them!’

  With a last glance down onto the enemy ranks amassed below, Conor started away. ‘You heard him,’ he said to Fergal. ‘Bring everyone.’

  Fergal and Médon each brought their battle groups and followed Rónán to the council ring, where the druids had gathered around the big cauldron they had used for the druid fog the night before. The discussion ended as Conor reached the outer ring of ditches, and the brehons, ollamhs, and filidh turned to receive the warriors.

  As soon as the fianna had assembled, Brehon Eoghan raised his staff and called out in a loud voice, ‘Hear, Eirlandia, the voice of a True Bard!’

  Others, working nearby, heard the cry, and a sizeable crowd pressed in behind the fianna.

  ‘In the age before iron was given to the Dé Danann, there was a king by the name of Artuin mac Datho. Through many battles he defeated the giants and wild beasts that ruled this island realm. Seeing that he never lost a fight that he entered, the great goddess Danu took a liking to him, and one day came to him with a warning. “Goemagog, Lord of the Aggarb and Anbul, is coming to fight you today. He has formed himself a weapon of power such as you have never seen—a hammer of fire that cannot be quenched except in the blood of a champion. The king of the giants means to extinguish the fiery hammer in your blood, my friend.”

  ‘Dismayed as he was to hear this, King Artuin stoked his courage and said, “Let him come, that oversized sack of bones, and if fear does not turn his bowels to water, let him try to defeat me. I have faced all the other giants, I will face him.”

  ‘“Brave words, Artuin, but words alone will not save you today. That is why I have come. I bring a gift to help you in the fight.” At this, the great goddess called for her attendants, who appeared, with a cart drawn by a brindled ox. In the cart was a large jar made of pure white stone.

  ‘Danu commanded that the jar be brought to her and she told Artuin to put off his clothes and stand before her. He did so. The goddess put her hand into the jar and withdrew it covered in a strange liquid of radiant blue. Stepping near, she placed her hand on Artuin’s chest, leaving the mark of her palm over his heart. “By this mark of woad,” she said, “Goemagog will know that you are mine and that I go before you in this fight. He will strive and he will battle and he will do all manner of hurt against you. But my sign will protect you and the raging adversary will not prevail.” This Danu vowed to Artuin.

  ‘The great king looked down at his naked torso and said, “If such as this can protect me from harm in battle, then paint me with signs against every evil so all will know that Danu the Wise is my powerful protector.”

  ‘The goddess commended Artuin for his wisdom and did as he wished. Again and again, she dipped her hand into the jar and brought out the bright blue woad and marked the king’s flesh with signs of power and protection. Lord Artuin then went out and answered the wicked giant’s demand for battle and though many blows were struck that would have shattered lesser men, the king bore up. Protected by the blue woad, he suffered no injury; while the giant Goemagog gradually began to tire and, as the sun went down on their combat, the monstrous enemy exhausted his strength.

  ‘Unable to lift his fiery hammer above his head, much less swing it, the giant sat down on the ground. Artuin, who had endured much through that long day of strife, was not slow to seize his opportunity. Quick as a cat on a rat, the king drew back his sword and delivered a blow that carved the giant’s vile soul from his odious body. The immense carcass slumped against the hillside and Artuin leapt upon it. He hacked off the giant’s arms and threw them to the north and south; the giant’s legs he cut off and threw to the east and west. But Goemagog’s head he left where the giant had fallen.

  ‘In time, the hideous great head was covered with earth and grass grew over it and, the fairest of hills, it became known as Tara of the Kings. Out of gratitude for Danu’s aid in his time of need, Lord Artuin decreed that all his people henceforth would honour the Good Goddess as their queen. And that is how we became the Dé Danann.’

  Lowering his staff, the chief brehon then turned and put his hand to the cauldron and said, ‘Today, we face an enemy in much the same way as Artuin faced the giant. So, it is only right that we put on the protection that Danu provided.’ He smiled and asked, ‘Who will be first?’

  All eyes turned to Conor as he stepped up to the cauldron, stripping off his siarc as he came. Eoghan nodded to Rónán, who dipped his hand into the big pot and withdrew it dripping with blue paint. Then, pressing his hand against Conor’s chest, he left a bright blue print of his palm over his brother’s heart. Next, he drew a series of jagged lightning bolts along the ribs of Conor’s left side and more of the same on the right. ‘My face, too,’ Conor told him. ‘But not too much—I want Evil Eye to know who it is that defeats him this day.’

  Rónán smiled and, dipping his fingers once more, drew four parallel lines down the clean side of Conor’s face from forehead to chin, but leaving Conor’s distinctive birthmark unpainted so no one would mistake him for anyone else. Satisfied, Conor returned to his place and took up his charmed spear and shield once more.

  ‘I’ll be having that,’ Fergal shouted. He had already removed his siarc and now stepped before Rónán to receive the handprint of the goddess over his heart. He pointed to his right upper chest and Rónán drew the swooping swirl of a spiral, and then a line down either side of his torso. Fergal gave out a battle cry and, taking up his weapons, pushed his way through the press and returned to the rim of the hill to reestablish the battle line.

  ‘Who will be next?’ called Rónán. He might have saved his breath. The fianna were already shedding cloaks and siarcs and jostling one another forward in their eagerness to receive the woad. Médon, Galart, and Calbhan pushed their way to the front and received their blue prints and swirls and bands.

  Such was the demand that an empty ale vat was set up and ovates filled it with a sharp-smelling liquid while two filidh crumbled dried lumps of pale blue stuff into the vat, stirring the mixture to make more paint. Siarcs were discarded and left in a pile beside the woad pots. The brothers mac Morna went further. Stripping off all their clothes, they demanded to be painted from head to foot in stripes and prints, spirals and zigzag lines.

  Their bold gesture was taken up by others, who, in the manner of their Dé Danann forefathers, entered battle naked save for the emboldening blue signs painted on their bodies. One of the ollamhs produced a bag of fine red clay and proceeded to make a thin paste, which he applied to the heads of the warriors who unbound their hair and demanded to have it raked into spikes and spines and thorny crests.

  ‘This is how warriors went into battle in a previous age and time,’ observed Conor with approval. ‘It is fitting that today we will face the enemy as the heroes of old.’

  Aoife was there beside him. ‘And if it is fitting for the men, it is fitting for their women.’ She took her place in the line and, baring her shoulder, received the blue handprint above her left breast, and a line down either cheek. Sceana likewise received the mark of the goddess, and many of the other women as well.

  Resuming her place with Conor, Aoife raised her hand to his disfigured cheek and said, ‘This is right and good, my lord. There will never be another day like this. So, go and win us the victory and free us from the Scálda curse.’

  Conor took her hand and kissed the palm. ‘What flesh and blood and spirit can do, I will do,’ he said.

  ‘And I will do no less.’ She kissed him then, and Conor took up his weapons once more and joined Fergal on the battle line.

  One by one, and in groups of two or three, the fianna reassembled on the hilltop. Fifty-eight warriors, forty-two women, seventeen d
ruids—all of them wearing the blue of battle and supported by sixty of Tara’s residents—gazed down upon the Scálda-infested plain of Mag Rí, the Royal Plain. From somewhere among the warriors on the battle line there came the slow rhythmic beat of a spear shaft against a shield rim. This sound echoed down the line as another and then two more, and then ten more, took up the beat. Soon the hilltop resounded with the loud clattering, rattling, ear-numbing clash of Dé Danann weapons.

  Conor felt the ruby stain on his cheek tingle and warm to the thumping pulse as the battle rage roused within him. He put back his head and shouted, ‘Scálda!’

  The cry was instantly taken up by others and the shout became a roar, echoing from the hilltop and down onto Mag Rí, where it appeared to have an almost immediate effect. From the plain below came the piercing blast of a battle horn. A thousand Scálda throats gave out a tremendous war cry and the Battle of Tara commenced.

  32

  The foremost rank of chariots ringing Tara Hill moved out and those behind parted, opening a way for Scálda footmen to advance. They reached the base of the hill and broke into two branches. Arrayed in the full Scálda armour: chest plates of hardened leather, some with shoulder plates; iron skullcaps or pointed helmets sprouting horsetail plumes; round, iron-rimmed shields—some small as a cask lid, others large as a cartwheel; and long, slender-shafted iron spears. At some unseen signal the enemy leapt forward and began scrambling up the long slope, shrieking as they came.

  An answering clatter of weapons echoed across the hilltop as down the line Dé Danann shields were swung into place, spears taken up, swords readied. Conor took up his place immediately behind the front rank, ready to leap to the defence of any warrior in difficulty. Planting his shield before him, he lowered Pelydr and loosed a battle cry, ‘For life! For Tara! For Eirlandia!’

  The fianna, well-schooled in their craft, instinctively tightened the line. Crouched low behind their shields, they levelled their spears and readied themselves for the onslaught.

  The enemy pounded up the hillside. Howling like the Hag Queen’s hounds, the first wave hurled themselves upon the fianna. The crack of shield against shield resounded across the hilltop. Blades flashed and slashed and the battled commenced.

  Conor, Pelydr at the ready, kept his eyes moving along the battle line, alert to any warrior in difficulty. The sound of the clash—screaming Scálda, the grating crash of shield on shield, the metallic ring of blade on blade, shouts of encouragement and cries of warning, screams of the wounded—rent the air, numbing the senses.

  Conor caught a flash of frantic movement beside him as Fergal sprang forward; a warrior in the fore rank took a tremendous blow on his shield and staggered back a step. Before the Scálda could strike again, Fergal was there. With a rapid series of jabs, he held off the attacker and allowed the warrior to get his feet back under him and rejoin the line.

  Then it was Conor’s turn to aid a warrior who was struggling to hold his own against two Scálda assailants—one armed with a battle-axe, and the other with a stubby, shield-piercing spear. Lowering Pelydr, Conor rushed to the line and thrust the charmed blade under the lower edge of the beset warrior’s shield. The blow caught one of the attackers on the shin above the ankle and slid off, slicing deep as it passed. The battle-axe disappeared, leaving only the short spear for Conor’s man to parry.

  Conor stepped back and took a swift look down along the line to see if he was needed elsewhere. He saw Médon, standing in the centre of the line, where the attack was heaviest, lunge forward and, with two quick jabs, force two assailants to retreat a few steps, allowing the defenders to regain their footing. All along the battle line, he saw the same situation: the defenders were hard pressed, but holding their own. At least, there were no Dé Danann wounded on the ground.

  The attack, though forceful, was short-lived.

  Just as the battle was settling into a rhythmic exchange of blows, with the Scálda shoving forward and the defenders pushing back, a battle horn sounded from somewhere down below—distant, but clear and insistent, three sharp blasts that blared across the plain. On the third blast, the Scálda abandoned the assault. They fell back and streamed down the hill, melting into the forces below.

  The Scálda had lost a score or more; their bodies remained where they had fallen, untended by their swordmates. The defenders, however, had suffered only minor injuries in the attack. Médon raised a victory shout and Fergal called for the warband to tighten the line and remain vigilant. He then hurried to where Conor was watching the enemy retreat. ‘What was that?’ he said. ‘A test only?’

  ‘Aye, I’m thinking Balor was wanting to discover the true size of our warband and the strength of our defences. It may be that Evil Eye has learned some small respect for this hill of ours. I expect the next attack will be with exceeding force.’

  ‘Let him come,’ said Fergal. ‘He will find it no easier to conquer than last time.’

  ‘Brave words, brother.’

  ‘Do you doubt it?’

  Conor took his time answering. ‘Do I doubt our warband’s courage? Or their skill? I do not. I know these men and they are the best in all Eirlandia.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Fergal firmly. ‘We have made them that and no mistake.’ He looked into Conor’s clouded face. ‘But?’

  Conor gestured to the expanse of Mag Teamhair and the teeming enemy warhost gathered there. ‘Balor has brought his entire warhost and means to take Tara and claim the sacred centre of our island realm for his own.’ He turned once more to regard the ranks of chariots and horsemen below. ‘If Tara falls, I do believe the rest of Eirlandia will fall, too. And the Dé Danann race will be but a memory soon forgotten.’

  Fergal regarded Conor closely. He knew his old friend well enough to know that he rarely gave vent to such grim pronouncements—even if he harboured them. To hear him talk so when awaiting an imminent attack sent a cold finger of fear along Fergal’s spine and he turned his face away. ‘Ach, well, not if we have anything to say about it.’

  Conor heard the subtle admonition in his friend’s tone and smiled. ‘Tell the fianna to look to their weapons. Replace any damaged blades or shields. We have a moment’s respite now that may not come again later.’

  They heard quick footsteps behind them and Donal came running up. ‘That horn,’ he said, excitement lighting his dark eyes. ‘Did you hear it?’

  ‘Ach, aye,’ replied Fergal. ‘We heard it. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Don’t you see? We can use it.’

  ‘Use it how?’ said Conor. ‘We don’t have a battle horn.’

  ‘I haven’t heard one since … I can’t remember when,’ said Fergal.

  ‘But the Scálda use them,’ shouted Donal and raced away again. ‘That’s the whole point!’

  ‘What he’s on about?’ wondered Fergal. ‘Have you ever known the Scálda to use a horn in battle?’

  ‘Not in any fight I’ve ever fought.’ Conor scanned the rows of chariots and dark knots of Scálda footmen and added, ‘Then again, this is a battle like no other.’

  They both fell silent for a time and stood scanning the plain, trying to discern the movements of the enemy to guess what would happen next. They saw chariots wheeling this way and that, a clutch of mounted warriors trotting off toward the Council Plain, and others on foot moving into position. What they saw gave them to know that never in all their years of warring had either of them seen so many Scálda in one place.

  ‘There must be a thousand,’ murmured Conor at last.

  ‘More maybe,’ said Fergal.

  ‘And how many fianna?’

  ‘Fifty-eight fianna,’ replied Fergal, ‘and I reckon maybe half again as many folk at arms.’

  ‘You know what this means?’

  ‘Ach, well,’ sighed Fergal, ‘it means we must content ourselves with only a dozen or so dog-eaters each.’ He glanced at Conor and smiled. ‘Hardly worth getting out of bed of a morning.’

  Out from among the chariots, the Scálda ran,
quickly forming three branches—one for each of the surrounding plains, the largest branch anchoring the centre with a flank on either side. The central branch moved out, advancing to the foot of the hill, their leather armour dull in the sun, their blade edges bright.

  Conor took in the sight and called all the defenders on the hilltop to gather to him. When all were assembled, he called out in a loud voice, saying, ‘Balor Berugderc, Lord of the Fomórai, King of the Scálda, has decided that today will be the last day of the Dé Danann in this worlds-realm. He has chosen to attack us here because he knows that Tara Hill was once the sacred centre of Eirlandia. The enemy believes that if he can defeat us here, then Eirlandia will fall to his hand, and the long invasion of our favoured island will at last be complete.

  ‘So, today we fight, not for ourselves alone, but for the sovereignty of our lands and the survival of our race—but not only our race. For, if we fall, then other realms and races will fall in turn—the faéry will also be driven down into the darkness of oblivion, never to rise again.

  ‘Now, the world may not heed our passing, nor remember the battles we fought and hardships we endured to survive against a cruel and merciless foe. But, if the Tylwyth Teg and the Aes-sídhe and the faéry tribes in the Land of the Everliving are lost, then much of what we have loved and fought so hard to preserve will disappear and all creation will feel the loss—for the greater part of what we know of beauty and wonder in this worlds-realm will have been extinguished.

  ‘Today we will face our great enemy in battle once again. But today we have the chance to lift the scourge that has laid waste to our homeland for far too many years. Here, on the Hill of Tara, we make our last stand. If we live then we will live here. If not, then we will remain here dead. We will not be moved.