by Caiseal Mor
“I haven't seen any Danaan warriors yet,” she hissed.
The young woman turned to face her brother and as she did so her eyes widened in surprise.
“Sárán!” she called but her warning came too late.
Before he knew what had happened a heavy blow hit the young man hard square in the middle of his back. He fell forward face first into the grass as surely as if he had been kicked down by an ox. His body hit the ground and he cried out with shock. Almost immediately the stunned youth felt a huge weight come crashing down upon him to pin him securely.
“Sárán!”
He heard his sister cry out to him but he could not see her. And in any case he was powerless to reply. Sárán Brandubh was struggling just to breathe. He strained his neck turning his head in search of his sister.
“Get up, Sárán!” the young woman cried as he caught a flash of Aoife's red hair out of the corner of his eye.
Before he could raise a plea to her for help, the confused young man heard a muffled grunt. Then suddenly the great immobilizing weight rolled off him and he could breathe again. Sárán slowly turned over onto his back and coughed until he thought he would burst.
When the fit was at its worst he felt an arm around his shoulders and his sister's hand on his forehead.
“Are you hurt?” she pleaded, but Sárán could not speak for a long while without coughing. When he eventually caught his breath and was able to look around him he saw the body of a large man lying face up in the grass.
The young man took a few moments to identify the shape. Then he jumped up in fright. He would have run off too if his feet had not been frozen to the spot with fear. A naked warrior with intricate painted designs covering his entire body was stretched out senseless. Sárán shook his head and blinked in the hope he was imagining things. But when he opened his eyes again the unconscious stranger was still there.
He was a large middle-aged man with a thick neck. A stout spear of ash and a small round shield lay beside his body. Hie head still rested against the rock that had broken his fall and rendered him senseless.
“Is he dead?” the young man stuttered.
“He is merely sleeping. He'll wake soon enough.”
There were a few simple beaded adornments in the man's braided hair and around his neck. Broad blue-green painted lines snaked over his great bulky body. It was these stripes—war markings—that declared the stranger a Danaan. He was one of the enemy.
“Aoife, what happened?” Sárán gasped as he gingerly touched his ribs searching for any breakages.
“He didn't even see you,” the young woman whispered with awe in her voice. This was her first taste of a real fight. She had never been near the battleground before. She gently brushed the long skeins of straight black hair from her brother's face. “The poor fool simply stumbled over you.” She daubed a few light kisses of sympathy on Sárán's brow then continued speaking.
“The stranger fell over and hit his head on a stone without ever being aware that you existed. I never guessed fighting could be so easy. By the way, I'm sure Mother would like to learn that throw from you. She has often wished to be able to knock Father out before he realized she was there at all. It will come in handy when he returns home drunk late at night.”
“Still your tongue. We're not supposed to be here, remember?” Sárán reminded her tersely. “I could have been killed and it would have been all your fault.”
“You won't get killed if you always fight like that,” she laughed, standing up to offer her hand to him.
“Father would skin us alive if he knew we were here,” the young man breathed nervously. He took her hand and she hauled him to his feet.
“What is he going to do to us?” She shrugged. “We're heroes. We captured an enemy scout.”
Sárán frowned, then a thought struck him.
“Oh no, Aoife,” he stammered. “What have we done?”
“We have defeated a Danaan warrior. He is our prisoner.”
“He is only our captive so long as he sleeps,” Sárán pointed out.
“Tie him up then.”
“But how will we get him back to Father's camp?”
“I didn't think of that,” Aoife admitted. “Can you walk?”
“I'm not certain. I don't think I'm too badly hurt. Just shaken.”
“Then we must take the captive to Father.”
“It is our duty,” Sárán agreed reluctantly. “But how will we do it?”
“He must weigh as much as a pony. We can't carry him.”
“I am more worried about his comrades finding us before we reach safety. If we're discovered we'll have to put up a fight.”
“We are King Brocan's children. What would the Danaans do if they captured us?” Aoife stuttered, fear slightly tainting her words.
“I don't imagine they'll treat us very well,” Sárán replied. “Do you think any of them might guess what part we had to play in Fearna's misadventure?”
“No. I haven't spoken a word to anyone about that night.”
“Let's tie this one up,” he suggested. Sárán bit his lip as he considered admitting to his sister that he had not kept the details of Fearna's death from Lom. “And then we'll go and fetch some of Father's warriors.”
Aoife nodded but she was not really taking any notice. Her thoughts were off with Fearna. She sat back down against a rock and stared off into the distance as her brother took the leather straps from his small basket to make some strong restraints.
Sárán had just wrapped the sinews round the Danaan's wrists when he heard the sound of footsteps running up the hill.
“Lay down your weapons!” came a firm and threatening command. “If you do so now you will not be harmed. You are trespassing on Danaan land.”
Sárán looked at his sword which lay in the grass just out of reach. He swallowed hard before answering boldly, “It is you who is trespassing on Fir-Bolg territory.”
A young naked warrior stood up out of the grass. His honey-colored hair was knotted into long braids. His eyes were mellow blue, determined and expressive. He had obviously earned his right to stand with the warriors of his people. The designs painted on his body were not as many or as intricate as those of the other Danaan, but they marked his profession.
The terrifying sight of this savagely arrayed stranger sent Sárán diving into the grass for his short-bladed weapon. The Danaan spoke again as Sárán stepped forward to defend himself.
“You are wrong. This part of the battleground was given to my people to defend. You are trespassing.”
“The whole of the west of Innisfail belongs by right to the Fir-Bolg from the days of our ancestors. The Danaans are invaders. Wherever you go you are trespassing,” Aoife declared as she drew her own sword.
The siblings moved slowly closer to each other until their shoulders touched.
“I will take him on,” Sárán told his sister. “You must run to get help.”
“I'll stand by you,” she snapped, annoyed at the suggestion. “I am a better fighter than you in any case.”
“If anything happens to you, Father will murder me,” the young man whispered.
“To say nothing of what I will do to you,” Aoife quipped.
Her brother shook his head. “If you know what's good for you, you'll leave us be,” he challenged the warrior, but the threat sounded hollow. The Danaan laughed.
“You are trespassing,” he repeated. Then he turned his attention to Aoife. As his eyes met hers she felt the resolve melt away from her. Suddenly she was shaking.
“Throw down your blades and no harm will come to you,” the stranger ordered.
Aoife had never seen a Danaan painted for war before this morning and this strange barbaric fellow fascinated her.
“You are my prisoners,” he went on. “You must not refuse to give up your swords or you'll be breaking the truce,” he added in a tone of friendly advice.
“Where will you take us?” Aoife demanded.
“To the King of the Danaans. He is an honorable man. You will be well treated and cared for until you are free to go home.”
“When would that be?”
“After the battle of course. You were caught trespassing. You must withdraw from the field so you can't take part in the fight tomorrow. As soon as the conflict is decided you will be set free.”
Sárán swallowed hard. His mind was buzzing with possibilities, any idea that might save him the dishonor of capture. He was going to fight tomorrow and no Danaan was going to stop him.
Sárán turned to his sister and mouthed a word.
“What?” she asked.
“Run, Aoife,” he said calmly.
“Run?”
“Run!” he screamed.
She was so startled by the power of his voice that she turned and took a dozen steps before she came to her senses. Then she stopped and turned around. She would have gone back to stand at her brother's side but it was already too late. The stranger had leapt forward to lunge at Sárán with a leaf-shaped blade. In a very short while Sárán was already retreating, driven back by the relentless attack.
The stranger was very light on his feet. Every move he made was like a step in an intricate dance. There was a gentle grace to him, thought Aoife. He was relaxed, almost playful about his task. He was not a warrior at heart, she decided.
The stranger may not have possessed the spirit of a warrior but he had the experience of one. And he was not about to let his opponent escape. With sword raised high the Danaan advanced two paces then brought his weapon down hard at his opponent's skull. Sárán blocked the blow and pushed the enemy blade away, but he hardly had time to recover before a driving thrust was aimed at him
The young man parried the sword but struggled to keep the stranger's weapon from tearing into him. His fine saffron shirt tore at the sleeve with one stab from the Danaan. And before he had time to bemoan the damage to his precious shirt another blow came down. The young man blocked it well but lost his balance on the uneven ground.
In the next moment Sárán was hastily ducking away to avoid a wide sweep from the Danaan's sword. The blade came so close to his face that he felt the rush of air as it passed. He had not recovered before the enemy made another sweep. This time Sárán was not fast enough. The very tip of the weapon caught him just above the eye. Blood trickled down his cheek into the corner of his mouth and the taste of it frightened him more than anything he had ever known.
Sárán had often wondered what it would be like to fight in a real battle. Now the only thought on his mind was to stay out of the swinging arc of that fearful blade.
The stranger struck two more blows well parried by the young Fir-Bolg. Then the Danaan took a few paces back to rest. Sárán recovered his composure and raised his blade again.
“Since you won't come peacefully,” the Danaan panted, “I will have to teach you something of the ways of the warrior.”
“Stay away from him!” Aoife yelled defiantly. “He is my brother!”
She strode forward to stand by Sárán in a show of boldness but there was a tremor in her voice that betrayed her fear.
The Danaan let his blade dangle point to the ground for a moment. He looked her square in the eye, smiled and lifted his sword, extending the point to her brother. Aoife was caught in the Danaan warrior's stare.
“There are two of us,” she ventured, unblinking.
The stranger laughed, circling the point of his sword in the air in front of Sárán. Suddenly he froze, then lowered his blade.
“He is your brother?” the Danaan asked, indicating Sárán with a brisk nod of the head.
“Yes.”
“You are both too young to be on the battlefield. You can't be older than fourteen summers.”
“I am sixteen,” Aoife replied indignantly. “And my brother will be eighteen at the next full moon.”
“You're sixteen?” the Danaan asked with a smile.
She nodded.
“Since you are so young,” the stranger declared, “I will allow you to go back to your own people and tell them exactly what happened here this morning.”
Aoife breathed a sigh of relief and dropped the point of her weapon, returning his smile. “Thank you,” she sighed. “We don't really want to fight with you.”
“What are you talking about?” Sárán yelled. “He is the enemy! It is our duty to capture him and take him back to Father's camp.”
“This was a mistake,” Aoife replied. “We should be grateful he is letting us go. I don't want Father to know what we've been up to. He expressly forbade us to follow the warriors out here. I can't imagine he'd be too happy if we ended up as guests of the Danaan king.”
Sárán grumbled under his breath but he knew she was right. This was a chance to walk away from what could have been a very embarrassing encounter.
“Very well,” Sárán conceded, addressing his sister. “I agree with you. Perhaps it would be best to accept this warrior's offer.”
“You have misunderstood me,” the Danaan cut in. “The young woman may go. She is not of warrior age. Under the rules of war I am not permitted to take her captive. But you”—the stranger turned to Sárán—“you are just old enough to be considered a warrior. And you have defended yourself well. You must come with me to answer for this intrusion.”
With that he picked up his sword again and leveled it at the young Fir-Bolg.
“You will have to take us both then!” Aoife declared. “I will not abandon my brother.”
“Then I am sorry to say we will have to fight,” the Danaan sighed.
Aoife raised her blade as he spoke and lunged forward to strike. But the stranger effortlessly blocked her attack.
Sárán moved around to strike from behind while his sister kept the Danaan's attention. The stranger was obviously impressed with her skill. She held the blade lightly so that she could swing, parry or stab with as little effort as possible. But that was also her weakness.
When the Danaan struck her blade her grip weakened and the weapon flew out of her hand. It flew swishing over the top of the long grass to land ten paces away. She swiftly moved to pick it up but the stranger blocked her with the point of his sword. Then he quickly knelt down to retrieve the blade himself.
“Submit to me or I will strike you down without mercy,” the fair-haired stranger advised in a serious tone. He watched her intently as he sheathed her sword in his belt. Aoife's eyes were twin fires of rage. She looked as if she would leap at his throat if he dropped his guard. Sárán hovered to the enemy's right, searching for an opportunity to attack.
The Danaan seemed entranced by the young woman who stared him down so defiantly. Copper red hair was rare among his people. He had only once before seen anyone with such long locks of it. He was fascinated.
“Will you submit?” he asked after a long pause.
“I will not submit to a dead man,” Aoife replied.
“What do you mean?”
No sooner had he asked the question than he understood her meaning. Remembering Sárán the Danaan spun around to face him. “You slipped my mind for a moment there,” the warrior conceded. “That was careless of me.”
In the next breath he thrust six swift stabs which had Sárán Brandubh gasping to avoid them. While the young Fir-Bolg was still reeling from that attack the enemy warrior ran forward, grabbed his opponent's sword hand and knocked the weapon out of his grasp. Sárán fell backward in shock and disappeared from his sister's view in the soft net of the long grass.
As her brother fell Aoife's rage boiled over. Before she knew what she was doing she had emptied her lungs, screaming at the stranger in fury. He took no notice of her. The warrior did not want to be caught off guard again.
“Get away from my brother!” the young woman bellowed with all her strength and would have stepped forward to lay her fists upon the Danaan had something not happened to distract her.
She distinctly heard the voice of her brother calling out her name. T
his confused her for a brief moment because the call came from well behind her. Sárán had fallen ten paces in front of her. Aoife turned, keeping an eye on the enemy in case he should rush at her. Then she caught sight of someone a short distance down the hill. Her eyes widened.
“Oh no!” Aoife cried. “Now there will really be trouble.”
The stranger watched the color drain from the young woman's face. Intrigued, he followed the line of her stare. When he realized what she was looking at his mouth dropped open.
Now it was his turn to feel fear tingle against his skin. The Danaan warrior shook his head as he looked down at the unconscious form of the young dark-haired man in the grass before him. Then he looked back up at the youth who was now charging toward him with clenched fists and fury in his eyes.
These two Fir-Bolg youths had the same face. It was more than that, they were the very same man. The Danaan shook his head.
Their eyes were as black. Their hair brushed back the same way. They both wore saffron and brown. Though this one had his shirt tied about his waist.
“Fir-Bolg trickery,” he stuttered. “I must have fallen for one of their illusions.”
The young Danaan well knew these folk were capable of subtle disguises, clever ruses and confusing spells to take advantage of their opponents. All the old stories spoke of these skills. His warrior's resolve faded. His enthusiasm for the fight waned. He dropped the point of his sword and took a step back.
This was just enough to give the charging youth a slight advantage. He was able to get close enough to his shocked enemy to punch him hard in the stomach and wrestle the sword from his hand. Before the Danaan could react he took another heavy blow across the jaw and lost his balance. When he landed on his back he lay still on the grass, unable or unwilling to move. And the thought never crossed his mind that this apparition might be his opponent's twin.
“Lom! How in the name of heaven did you find us?” Aoife demanded.
“When you didn't invite me on your adventure I decided to follow you anyway,” Lom replied. There was a tremble in his voice that made her feel ill. She had never seen him so frightened before.