by Caiseal Mor
In the courtyard he heard a dog bark and a cow give a long low cry. Nothing unusual just before sunrise. But still, Lom's instincts told him to beware. Cautiously he poked his head out through the cowhide flap of the small stone house.
All was quiet. Perfectly still. Smoke hung low over the ring of a dozen round houses. The air was clear and brisk. There were puddles on the ground and gray clouds filled the sky. A cow had wandered out in the night. She was nudging some clumps of grass by the gate and chewing peacefully.
Lom frowned. He scanned the wall and gate to the hillfort. There was no one about.
He had never seen the gates left unguarded. There weren't any sentries to be seen. The hillfort was all too quiet. His frowned confusion was dispelled a split second later.
The gate swung silently open as if the wind had pushed it. Then a short stocky warrior appeared. The stranger was scarred with deep green spiral tattoos that swirled over his fair skin. These adornments reminded Lom of the body decorations the Danaans wore when they went to war. But this stranger was not painted. He was covered in elaborate tattoos.
The warrior did not notice Lom observing him from his doorway, so when the intruder judged all was clear he slipped silently through the gate. He closed it again without a sound and crossed the settlement to the king's hall, flattening himself against the building as he listened for any noise within. The strange warrior then went to the door and pulled aside the cowhide flap. He peered in for a moment and Lom found his breath to speak.
“Who are you?” the young man stuttered nervously.
The warrior spun around, drawing his bright silver blade from a leather scabbard. Their eyes met. Lom stood tall in defiance at the intrusion.
“Who are you?” he demanded again, his voice firm this time.
The stranger did not take his eyes off Lom for a moment. And he did not reply. He watched the young man hesitate a little and read the alarm in his face. The intruder moved out into the middle of the courtyard, pushing the stray cow out of his way as he approached. When he was no more than twenty paces away the fair-skinned intruder did something completely unexpected.
He smiled broadly at Lom. His teeth stood out white against the fierce tattoos on his face. His bright eyes sparkled like mossy green pebbles in the bottom of a stream and they were full of mirth.
As the two of them stared each other down the gate opened again and other silent forms slipped into the settlement. The strangers spread out in a fan. By the time Lom had managed to break away from the stranger's stare the hilltop fort was swarming with warriors all attired in the same manner as the smiling one. Dozens of intruders ran this way and that, spears at the ready, swords held high to strike, small shields worn tied to their upper arms.
Lom noticed Brocan's aged cousin stick his graying head out from the king's hall looking for his cow. None of the intruders noticed him and in a moment the old man had disappeared inside to raise the alarm.
This brought Lom to his senses. He took a deep breath to cry out, but before the words could escape his mouth someone else called the warning that had been on the tip of his tongue.
“Attack!”
Lom did not recognize the voice. He frowned deeply.
Then the intruders answered as one with a chilling shout. “Eber!” they screamed with delight.
And Lom realized it was not a warning he had heard. It was a war cry. In that instant he noticed that the first warrior was gone, vanished as if he were some apparition from the Otherworld.
“Rise up!” Lom cried, hurrying out into the settlement. “Take arms! The enemy is upon us!”
He had hardly spoken those few words when he noticed the first flaming torch and arrows brandished by one of the strangers.
“Spare us, Danu,” he muttered in disbelief.
Suddenly there were a dozen sputtering fires spreading across the settlement. Women, children and warriors of his own clan were running half naked from their homes, awoken by the smoke of burning thatch and the mocking laughter of the enemy.
Lom rushed to his mother's house but she wasn't there. Then he struggled against his panicked kinfolk as he made his way toward the king's house to find his father. No one was offering any resistance. Most folk were stumbling about stunned.
The Fir-Bolg had never been attacked in the dead of night before. It was against the rules of war, unthinkable that women, children and the wise should be subjected to battle. That was a warrior's duty and the battlefield was the only place for fighting.
His uncle's voice could be heard encouraging people to take their children to the safety of the nearby spring. But Lom couldn't see Fergus anywhere. The words were quickly heeded though and many folk started making their way to the second gate where there was a path leading down the hillside.
Lom was close to the king's hall when he noticed the roof was entirely engulfed in flames. It must have been the first house the Milesians set on fire. Lom had left his sword at the door before the feast the previous evening and impetuously decided he would have to retrieve it now before the fire got out of control.
He pulled his cloak over his head to protect his hair from the falling coals. Then, with a quick prayer for a heavy fall of rain, he plunged into the burning building.
What he saw chilled him to the bone. A dozen of the older folk were still wrapped in their furs, too sleepy or too drunk to wake up, even though the roof was blazing. Lom dashed around to stir them, calling to them to awaken.
Brocan coughed as he woke and it took a few moments for him to open his eyes. But as soon as he had looked about him he was on his feet, dressed and helping folk to the door. Lom woke as many as he could and finally carried Brocan's old cousin out to the courtyard.
By this time almost every building was ablaze, the gates were wide open. The livestock were being calmly herded out of the hillfort by the foreigners. Lom remembered his sword and without consideration for his own safety went back inside the hall to find it.
And it was fortunate that he did so. As he was leaving, his arms laden with bronze blades, he tripped over a form in the darkness. It was a body. The young man stuck his own sword through his belt and dropped the other weapons without hesitation. Then he dragged the unconscious form up off the ground, struggling to carry the body step by step to the door, roof timbers falling all about him and the thick smoke choking his lungs.
In no more time than it takes to draw a dozen breaths he was at the door with his burden, but to Lom it seemed like an eternity. He dumped the seemingly lifeless form on the wet ground outside just as his prayer was answered. The rain started to bucket down so heavily that Lom could feel the huge drops pummeling into his head.
He rolled the body over onto its back and pulled away the cloak wrapped tightly about the head. The rain was falling so hard now it was kicking up the mud and he could barely see. Lom pushed his own cloak aside and then examined the face before him. It was his own.
“Sárán!” he cried, fearing the worst. He shook his brother and slapped his cheeks to revive him.
Sárán opened his eyes a little and then was racked with a fit of coughing and spitting.
“Are you injured?” Lom asked anxiously.
“No,” Sárán gasped. “The smoke is choking me but I'll surely recover. The last thing I remember was Isleen leaning against me as we made our way to the door. I must have fallen over.”
There was a black mark across his head and a little blood on his tunic so Lom reasoned his brother had been hit by falling thatch.
“Where's Isleen?” Lom asked urgently.
“I don't know,” his brother replied hoarsely, coughing up a lump of black mucus before he had finished speaking.
“Perhaps she's still inside the hall.”
At that precise moment the roof to the king's hall collapsed with a crash that sent splinters, sparks and smoke in all directions. Lom dragged his brother to his feet again as quickly as he could, hoping the Seer had already escaped, for she surely would be dead now if sh
e had not.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes,” Sárán replied, but he was doubled over with a fit of hacking.
“Go to the spring at the foot of the hill and wait for me,” Lom ordered. “I'll be along soon enough.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I must find our mother and father,” Lom replied. “And I have no idea what became of Aoife last night.”
“She was off to meet Mahon when I saw her last,” Sárán told him. “Perhaps they also went for a walk. But our mother didn't return. I was waiting in the king's hall for her. I think Cecht was with her.”
“Go now,” Lom insisted.
“I'll help you search,” his brother protested. “Two pairs of eyes will see better.”
“You are a student of Fineen the healer,” Lom reminded him. “You will be far more useful at the spring. I am sure there will be folk who need tending. And you may need some attention yourself.”
“You're right,” Sárán conceded. “I will go. Don't get yourself into any trouble. I don't want to be tending your wounds by the spring.”
Lom nodded and hurried back to his own house. Miraculously it was untouched by the flames. But there was no sign of Aoife. Lom turned around to survey the havoc. Somehow he knew his sister was not safe at the spring with everyone else. She was in danger and he had to find her.
Lom drew his sword and made his way to the front gate of the hillfort to begin a search of the countryside around.
Dalan had woken to the smell of smoke. It was strong in the confined space of the house but he had thought nothing of it. Until he had noticed the fire had died down and was little more than dull coals dying among the ashes.
Only then had he seen the wisps of gray smoke snaking thin fingers across the underside of the roof. At that very instant he had heard a shout outside. This had been followed almost immediately by the noise of people running past the hut.
Fineen, asleep on the other side of the central fire, had stirred, then sat up as the noise grew louder.
As the two Druids stared at each other now in sleepy disbelief a hundred bright embers rained down upon them from the roof timbers as the thatch burst into flame. At the same time the house was drowned in a cloud of thick smoke.
“Fire!” the Brehon yelled. Within seconds both men had grabbed harps, herbs and anything else they could carry and were out in the courtyard among the throng of panicked Fir-Bolg who were making for the gate.
“What is going on?” Fineen gasped, still only half awake. “Is this a dream?”
“The houses have been set alight,” Dalan realized. “The hillfort has been breached and raided. It is too hazardous to stay here. We must make for the spring at the foot of the hill.”
“Milesians?” Fineen gasped.
“Who else would come upon this place in the night and set fire to the houses?”
“Your prayers have been answered,” the healer noted with some bitterness.
“What do you mean?'
“Brocan will not be so reluctant to join the fight against the Milesians now they have openly attacked his own hillfort.”
Dalan nodded. “But what a terrible way for his stubbornness to be challenged.”
Lom skirted over the rocky outcrops that lined the pathway to the sea. He avoided the track so as not to risk being seen by the enemy. By the time he came to the shore the sun had risen and the rain was beginning to ease a little. But he was drenched from head to foot and chilled to the bone.
At the seashore he stood for a long while struggling to pierce the veil of misty rain, searching for any sign of enemy ships. But the rain still cast a heavy sheet of gray over the strand and he could see nothing. He decided to retrace his steps and climb one of the higher outcrops where he reckoned he would get a better view of the bay. In a few minutes he was standing precariously balanced on the top of a narrow granite precipice that jutted out over the water. And almost immediately he spotted what he had been searching for.
Far out in the middle of the bay at the edge of the encroaching mist was a long dark shape sitting low in the water. At first Lom thought it was some huge monster come up from the depths of the ocean to feed. But as the mist receded he saw another shape exactly the same as the first. Both had high prows jutting forward and both were crowded with tiny black figures running this way and that in a frenzy.
Lom gasped. The vessels were huge, larger than any he had ever seen before.
His gaze fell at last on a third ship and his heart sank. He quickly calculated there must be over two hundred warriors aboard those three ships. The Fir-Bolg of the Burren had no hope of defeating such a force.
As he watched, the young warrior noticed half a dozen small rowing boats made of leather just like the curraghs the Fir-Bolg fishermen used to travel out past the Isles of Arainn. The boats had just set off from a landing place some distance up the rocky coast and they were brimming with warriors who wore shining helms and carried bright swords.
In the leading vessel Lom clearly saw a flash of bright yellow which he recognized as King Cecht's cloak. Then he noticed a woman with red hair seated beside the king and his heart cried out that he had not been able to rescue his mother from the Milesians. The other boats were loaded with cattle, goats and other plunder from the hillfort.
With a sense of hopelessness he sat down on the pinnacle of rock and watched the little boats make their way out to the ships. When they had unloaded their human cargo they made for the shore again to pick up more warriors.
Realizing there were still Gaedhals on the shore, Lom hardened his resolve to find Aoife. With no consideration for his own safety or that the odds may be utterly against him in a fight with the Milesians, he set off down the rocks for the enemy landing place.
The going was hard and slow but eventually he spotted the invaders' landing site, though there were many more warriors milling about than he had expected. Those first few rowing boats had only carried a fraction of the Milesian raiding party.
Lom concealed himself behind a rock and tried to still his beating heart while he took careful note of the enemy. He knew he wouldn't have a chance against so many. Yet he couldn't simply leave his mother and sister to the mercy of the invaders.
The young warrior leaned against the rock and the rain began to pelt down again as if in mockery of his predicament. He clung closely to the stone, oblivious to the cold and damp as he sorted through the options open to him. He edged around to where he could get a better view of the enemy and his heart leaped into his throat. Standing amidst the Milesian warriors was a young woman with flaming red hair. Aoife.
He closed his eyes and cursed the invaders under his breath.
In the next instant his sword was knocked from his grip and he felt a large hand covering his mouth so that he could not call out. Lom tried to turn his head but his attacker was too strong for him and he found himself pushed face first to the ground.
“Don't move,” the assailant urged hoarsely, but Lom was not about to give in so easily. With a violent twist of his body he managed to throw the other man off balance for a second, just long enough to launch an attack of his own. The young warrior threw a wild ill-aimed punch that connected with the other man's shoulder.
The assailant fell back against the rock and Lom kicked him hard in the groin so that he fell forward in agony. Then the young Fir-Bolg warrior grabbed his sword and lifted it to strike. The stranger cowered beside the stone with his arms over his head, gasping to breathe through his pain.
Lom was not about to let this fellow live. But he had never killed a man before, and all his training told him that it was dishonorable to take the life of a warrior who could not rise to his own defense. So Lom paused for a few crucial seconds.
And then his attacker spoke.
“Lom!” the stranger gasped. “It's me! Mahon.” He lifted his head and then slowly moved his hands down to where the pain was worst. “I've been following the Gaedhals since they captured Aoife,” he grunte
d, still suffering. “I've been waiting for an opportunity to save her. I thought you were one of their scouts. I planned to trade you for her.”
“Mahon? I never expected to see you,” the young warrior exclaimed as he sank down beside the Danaan.
Both men were drenched, cold and exhausted. The steam poured out of their mouths in great folds and their chests heaved with the exertion of the fight.
Mahon groaned. “That was quite a kick.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I'll live,” Mahon managed to gasp as he caught his breath. “I may never have children, but I'll live. There's two of us now. We have a chance of rescuing Aoife if we're careful and quick.”
“It's too dangerous.”
“We can't sit here a stone's throw from her and do nothing!”
“Be quiet!” Lom demanded. “I am trying to think.”
“Thinking won't save your sister,” Mahon spat. “It's action that's called for.”
“Your kind of action will get all three of us killed,” the young Fir-Bolg warrior replied impatiently, edging his way around the rock so he could observe the Milesian warriors again. “The first boats have returned,” he reported, “and they are loading their warriors and spoils into them now.”
“If you won't join me I will go down and challenge them myself,” Mahon threatened.
“You'd be cut down before you had walked twenty paces,” Lom whispered. “Even if you managed to defeat one of their warriors, we have no way of knowing what retribution the Milesians might take against their captives. It is simply too risky.”
“Your sister is about to be boarded onto an enemy ship!” the Danaan said in disbelief. “How can you even think in this manner?”
Lom didn't answer but watched carefully as the invaders got into the boats one by one until just one enemy warrior was left ashore with his sister. Suddenly the boats were pushing away and the last Milesian jumped to his position.