‘But take heart, my brothers and sisters, and know that we are not alone. For, though we may be few, we are joined in battle by the spirits of all Dé Danann warriors who have gone before us and gave their lives to drive this hateful enemy from our lands. Therefore, let each and every one of us bind courage to our hearts and souls, and we will triumph!’
Silence settled over the hilltop then—the silence of men and women who were, as Conor had said, binding courage to their hearts and souls. The fianna turned once more to the battle line, and those in the rearward ranks—the women, farmers, and craftsmen who had taken up arms or were maintaining the stocks of weapons—scattered to take up their places.
The Scálda battle horn sounded out across the plain below—a single long, rising blast. The enemy gave out a throaty growl and started up the hill once more. In two howling, bone-trembling waves they came. And they came fast.
To drown out the hateful sound, the fianna raised their own voices, calling on Badb, the Blood-lusting Queen of the Halls of Darkness and Death, to guide their blades and welcome eager guests to her gruesome banquet. The warriors shouted crude insults and wild challenges and mad exaltations to the sun-washed sky as the enemy horde thundered ever nearer. Tara’s besieged defenders banged the ringed and riveted spear shafts against the sturdy rims of their shields, and the resulting clangour resounded across Tara and everyone knew the battle had at last begun in earnest.
‘Crom Cruach is hungry, brothers!’ Conor shouted, resuming his position behind the line, ready to provide support where needed. ‘He wants fresh meat for his feast.’
The first wave of attackers to reach the hilltop hurled themselves at the defenders’ shield wall. The resulting crash sent a sympathetic tremor through Conor’s frame and he could have sworn the ground trembled beneath his feet. His crimson birthmark pricked and burned with a smouldering heat, and Pelydr took life in his hands. The defending line buckled but held, and the fianna went to work—stabbing, jabbing, slashing—and soon their keen-edged blades ran red. Shrieking their hateful battle cry, the Scálda swarmed, lashing out at any flesh presenting itself to view. The metallic clash of blade on blade, shield rim, and helmet quenched all other sound, and even dimmed the cries of the wounded and dying.
Conor ranged swiftly to and fro behind the battle line, darting and diving to deliver a thrust here, a swift stab there, a slash, a jab—supporting a struggling or outnumbered defender. Fergal did the same, as did Médon, and it soon became apparent that the advantage of the hilltop was slowly countering the enemy’s superior numbers: there was simply not enough room on the crown of the hill for the enemy to exert their dominance. Any Scálda not in the front rank could not drive past the crush at the fighting line. Prevented by their own warriors from engaging, the largest portion of the enemy battle group was effectively removed from the fight. So long as the fianna held the hilltop and kept the line tight, they could stand.
A faéry blade or two would be useful just now, he thought. If only Gwydion was still alive.
The battle frenzy quickly exhausted itself, and the Scálda fell back, leaving behind two score of their own dead and wounded. Seeing the foe retreat, the defenders sent up a shout of triumph. Conor pushed forward to see the enemy running down the hill; but, as they fled, the second wave was charging up to take their place and a third was moving out from among the chariot ranks, ready to make the ascent up the hill.
In this, Conor grasped the shape of the enemy’s battle plan: like the sea pounding on the rocky shore, Balor would send wave after wave to wear down the defenders’ resistance and, ultimately, break it. Balor’s forces were virtually unlimited; he could lose scores, hundreds. He would attack again and again, without pause, without rest, sending surge after surge of fresh warriors until the fianna were simply too exhausted to lift blade or shield. There were simply too many Scálda. Sooner or later, the numbers would tell. In the end, the beleaguered defenders would succumb to fatigue or wounds. The slaughter would be complete. The last Dé Danann would fall and the Scálda would take Tara.
Pushing the thought aside, Conor called to Médon to take his place and ran to confer with Rónán and the druids.
‘Can you do anything, brother?’ he asked when he had explained Balor’s likely strategy. ‘A storm might help,’ he suggested. ‘The wind and rain saved us the night of the massacre. It could help us again.’
‘We thought of that, and the ollamhs and filidh are at work as we speak. But it takes time. Just now we have a better idea,’ Rónán replied. ‘Donal told us about the battle horn and we have a remedy.’
‘Do it,’ Conor said. ‘Don’t wait. Do it now!’ With that, Conor raced back to the marge of the hill, where the fianna were bracing for the second assault.
As before, the enemy’s chief tactic was to hurl themselves at the shield wall and break through a weak place, or force a gap they could exploit.
‘Shoulder to shoulder!’ cried Fergal, shouting to be heard above the rising tumult. ‘Tighten the line!’
Conor resumed his place and, scanning the fianna ranged before him, saw one warrior bravely striving against two sword-wielding assailants—one of which had snagged his spear and was trying to wrest it away while one of the others slashed away at the outmanned defender. Leaping to the warrior’s aid, Conor charged in, Pelydr straight and level and eager in his hand. A swift thrust of the charmed blade sent one of the attackers reeling backward; another quick jab and the second Scálda swordsman scrambled for safer footing elsewhere. The freed warrior shouted his thanks, and Conor saw that it was Aedd.
Conor turned back to the fight and an instant later a breach opened a few paces to the left. One of the fianna had taken a blow from a Scálda shield boss full in the face and had dropped to his knees. With a whoop of triumph, the Scálda leapt through the gap, hacking at the defenceless warrior as he passed.
Conor dove for the spot and met the Scálda brute as he clambered to his feet. Right behind him a second attacker bashed his way through the slender gap to join the first. Conor had time to shout a warning that the shield wall was breached, and then he had his hands full as the two helmeted Scálda bore down on him in a frenzy of slashing blades.
Conor went to work.
Crouching low behind his charmed shield, Conor launched himself at the nearest assailant. Bulling forward, he slammed Pared into the onrushing foe. Shield met shield and the crash staggered the attacker and sent him reeling. As he fell back, Conor pivoted to the second assailant, sweeping Pelydr in a lethal arc. The shaft of the charmed spear connected with the iron rim of the Scálda shield with a shattering crack; the shield flew sideways, allowing Conor to slide the blade into the attacker’s side. The spearhead met hard leather. Conor threw his weight into the blow and felt the blade pierce the armour. The warrior stumbled back, dropped his spear, and fell.
Conor swung around and caught the first attacker as he regained his feet and drove in again. Throwing Pared before him, Conor slammed into his assailant again, and again. Unbalanced, the Scálda’s heavy shield flew wide, and Conor drove Pelydr’s sleek head into the centre of the black-armoured chest. The blow threw the Scálda off his feet. He squirmed and thrashed, trying to rise, and then slumped and relaxed his grip on life.
Spinning on his heel, Conor shouted to the downed defender, ‘Are you wounded? Can you fight?’
The warrior clambered unsteadily to his feet. He was bleeding from a cut to his forehead, and a dark bruise was already forming on the side of his head. ‘Only a scrape,’ he called back. ‘I can fight.’ He took up his weapons and lurched to the line.
Fergal, raw-voiced, his face blue and fierce, was shouting encouragement to the fianna, praising their stamina and valour. The Dé Danann’s stalwart defence seemed to anger the Scálda all the more. In the grip of their battle frenzy, they threw themselves upon the shield line time and time again.
Above the battle din, Conor heard someone call his name and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw Donal, R
ónán, and two filidh hurrying toward the battle line; the druids, having stripped off their outer robes, wore only their mantles, which they had gathered to their knees and belted, and in their hands they clutched slender curved objects. Behind them, some little distance away, the ollamhs and filidh had formed a semicircle and linked arms.
‘This will only work once’ were the first words out of Rónán’s mouth. ‘If it works at all.’ At Conor’s questioning glance, he added, ‘The deception, I mean.’
Conor looked doubtfully at the three objects in the druids’ hands: each held a ram’s horn such as shepherds sometimes used. ‘Do it!’ Conor shouted as he turned to counter another surge. ‘We’re about to lose the line! Do it now!’
Raising his hand above his head, Donal turned to the druids. He gave out a shout and the druids raised the ram’s horns to their lips. Donal dropped his hands and Conor saw the druids’ cheeks puff out as they blew into their improvised battle horns.
The resulting sound emitted from the instruments was much as Conor would have expected—a thin wavering bleat that hardly penetrated as far as the battle line. If anyone heard it at all, they gave no sign.
At the sound, the ollamhs and filidh who stood looking on raised their hands, and a low sonorous chant snaked through the air. Suddenly, the weak, wavery bleat became the brilliant, high-pitched, ear-shattering blast of an enormous bronze battle carnyx.
The sound splintered the air, shimmering with a metallic clarion call. Rónán and the druids sounded their ram’s horns, and three times the carnyx sounded. It lasted only an instant, but that was enough. Like dogs trained to their handler’s whistle, the Scálda fell back in retreat. The rearward enemy ranks turned and bolted down the hill, leaving those at the battle line exposed; these did not wait, but abandoned the attack and fled after them. The shrill cry of the horn was still resounding across the plain as the last of the attackers fled the fight.
The fianna, seeing the enemy quit the field, raised a throaty cheer and shouted abuse and derision at those who, only moments before, had been on the verge of overwhelming Tara’s overstrained defence.
Conor watched the last of Balor’s warhost fleeing for the plain and then hurried to congratulate Rónán, Donal, and the druids and thank them for their good service. ‘It worked!’ cried Conor, thumping Donal soundly on the back by way of commendation. ‘You did it!’
‘We’ve gained a breathing space is all,’ Donal told him. ‘The dog-eaters will attack again.’
‘They will, aye. And we’ll be ready.’ Conor saw the sudden change in Donal’s expression; his dark eyes took on a faraway look that Conor had seen before. ‘What is it, brother? What are you seeing?’
Donal’s reply was slow in coming. His features relaxed and he looked at Conor. ‘Somone’s coming,’ he said at last.
‘Friend or foe?’ asked Conor.
‘I don’t know.’ Donal closed his eyes and shook his head. The vision was gone. ‘It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before.’
33
‘How soon?’ asked Conor, craning his neck around to look back across the hilltop—beyond the hall, past the Lia Fáil, past the Tomb of the Kings—toward the little-used eastern approach. ‘I don’t see—’
‘They’re already here!’ Donal started off on the run.
‘Who?’ shouted Conor. When Donal failed to answer, Conor called to Médon and told him that he was leaving the line, then raced after Donal and caught up with him as he reached the broken pillar of the Lia Fáil. ‘Brother, wait! Who is it? Who have you seen?’
‘I thought…,’ said Donal, dark eyes scouring the area: warriors clustered on the rim of the hill … smiths repairing weapons, women bearing baskets and bundles of food … ‘I was that sure…’ Disappointed, he turned to Conor. ‘I thought they had arrived.’
‘You were not wrong, my friend.’ The disembodied voice came from somewhere beyond the Pillar Stone.
It was a voice Conor knew and recognised. He turned toward the sound. ‘Can it be?’
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye—a subtle shifting of the light, a wrinkle in the air—and a slender figure took shape and solidity before his eyes. Dressed in bright-burnished armour decorated with sprays of stars and crescent moons, and a high-crested helmet with a veil of interlocking gold rings, the strange figure raised its gloved hands and removed its helmet.
‘Rhiannon!’ cried Conor, running to greet her.
A second bronze-clad warrior solidified in the air beside Rhiannon and likewise removed a veiled helmet. ‘Our journey here took longer than I anticipated,’ he explained. ‘I am sorry we could not come sooner.’
‘On my sword, I never thought to see you again at all,’ said Conor. ‘Welcome, Lord Morfran.’
‘We had hoped to join you before the enemy arrived in force.’ The faéry king looked toward the besieged hill. ‘At least, before the battle commenced.’ Striding forward, he stood before Conor and gripped his arm in the warrior’s embrace. ‘Even so, I trust we are not too late to be of some aid to you now.’
‘Whatever happens,’ said Donal, joining them just then, ‘we will remember you came to help when help was sorely needed.’
The faéry greeted Donal, and Rhiannon said, ‘Truly, our delay was of necessity.’ She slid the slim blade in her hand into a sword belt at her side. ‘Although we were more than willing to come alone, Morfran argued that any support we provided would be that much more potent if we brought friends.’
Morfran’s stern features arranged themselves into a rueful smile. ‘This, too, took more time and effort than I imagined.’
‘Friends, you say?’ said Donal, glancing around quickly. ‘Who is with you?’
Morfran half turned and, with a wave of his hand, summoned three more warriors encased head to foot in battle gear that appeared as if it might have been carved from stone. With odd angles and many joints, it shone with the dull lustre of slate cut, perhaps, from the roots of a mountain; the helmets, gloves, and leggings were adorned with jagged ridges, and the surface of the each item was chased with symbols and charms. In their gloved hands they each carried a silvery sword of a kind Conor had seen before: strong iron. The warrior removed the stone-coloured headpiece to reveal the long, narrow face of the Kerionid king.
‘Lenos!’ exclaimed Conor. ‘I never thought to see you again, either.’
‘It is time we repaid the debt we owe a friend.’ The faéry king gestured to the two with him, who removed their helmets to reveal his advisors, Armadal and Sealbach. ‘I regret we did not come sooner, but I trust our blades will more than make up for the delay.’
Conor looked from Lenos to Morfran. ‘How?’ was all he could think to say.
‘A tale for another time,’ replied Morfran. ‘But suffice to say, Rhiannon supplied the voice of reason.’
‘I merely reminded my lord of the sacrifices you and your people have made on our behalf, and how you have proved your friendship through suffering and blood,’ replied Rhiannon. ‘Morfran and Lenos did the rest.’
Conor glanced behind Lenos across the hilltop. ‘And are there more of you?’
‘No,’ replied Lenos. ‘Only these you see before you.’
Morfran saw the look on Conor’s face and guessed its meaning. ‘Do not be disheartened, my friend. Our ways in battle are not yours.’
‘We are here to aid you,’ explained Lenos, ‘and to that end, we have brought you a gift.’ He gestured to Armadal, who released a strap holding a bundle slung upon his back. He knelt and unrolled the soft leather and there were seven new swords made of strong iron.
‘These are for you and your men,’ Lenos said. Stooping, he withdrew a long, thin blade from the pile and held it across his palms and presented it to Conor. ‘I would there were more, but what we have, we give you to use as you see fit.’
‘Is this the haranbar you told us about?’ asked Donal, taking up one of the blades. He slashed the air a few times to try its balance. ‘Lucky the fella who has on
e of these. We’ll soon put them to the test.’
‘And you will be more than pleased when you see the way these blades perform,’ Lenos told him. ‘The best blades of the Scálda are no match for these.’
They then had to decide how best to employ the faéry and quickly came up with a plan and, while Donal and the faéry considered it further, Conor hurried to speak to Fergal and Médon, who were keeping watch at the battle line.
‘Only five?’ said Fergal when Conor had explained the plan. ‘Do you want to die today? If that is your heart’s desire, this crackbrained idea of yours should succeed right well.’
‘Five warriors is all I need,’ Conor told him. ‘There are five faéry—one for each Dé Danann.’
‘The faéry are here?’ said Médon. ‘And they agreed with this? You’re certain?’
‘Aye, they did,’ Conor insisted. ‘Lenos and Morfran both. They know we must do something to stem the Scálda tide—and that soon, otherwise Tara will be overrun. If not the next attack, then the one after. We dare not wait.’
Médon looked to Fergal. ‘It’s true. We cannot hold this line much longer. The Scálda were this close to breaking us last time.’
‘You’re with him in this?’ Fergal said, his voice rising in disbelief. He looked around to where the faéry stood watching.
‘Well?’ said Conor impatiently. ‘If you have a better idea, I’m eager to hear it. But we have to do something, and do it quick.’
‘We won’t survive the day,’ Médon declared flatly. ‘That is the sorry truth.’
Fergal wiped the sweat from his face and spat on the ground at his feet. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘The chance of success is a narrow thing at best. I know that, brother. But unless I hear a better plan—’
‘Aye, so you said. When will you go?’
‘Now. Before the Scálda mount another assault.’ Conor went on to explain that it would take a little time to work their way around behind the Scálda encampment on the plain. ‘Once we’re in position, we’ll strike.’
In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 27