by Caiseal Mor
“They've left her behind!” Lom shouted triumphantly and in a second he was on his feet running down to the shore. He reached his sister in a matter of moments but the boats were already out of reach of even a well-aimed stone.
In the last boat a warrior with long dark brown hair stood up to observe the unexpected arrival. The two enemies stared at each other without a word passing between them.
“Come back, you bloody cowards!” Mahon screamed, arriving on the scene. “Fight us fairly for our parents!”
“Be quiet, Mahon,” Aoife said softly and the warrior was so shocked at her gentle rebuke that he simply stared at her in amazement.
“Who is that fellow?” Lom asked.
“His name is Eber,” his sister replied. “He is the brother to Éremon, their chieftain, and Amergin, their Bard. His mother is Scota, Queen of the Gaedhals. Eber is a war leader in his own right and claims to be an honorable man.”
“Honorable?” Mahon spat. “Is it honorable to raid an enemy camp in the middle of the night and take captives?”
“He was commanded to do so,” Aoife explained. “That's what he told me. Raiding is not forbidden under their laws.”
“But if they could bring themselves to attack by night,” Lom asked, “why did they not put everyone to the sword? Why did they take prisoners? And why did they release you?”
“I am only a Druid in training,” Aoife told him, “but to them I am a Druid nevertheless and therefore immune to acts of war. I begged to be taken instead of our mother but Eber would have none of it.”
“Barbarians!” Lom gasped.
Mahon put a hand on her shoulder and she turned to hold him.
“What do they intend to do with our parents?” he asked.
“They are hostages,” she replied, looking him in the eye. “Eber took them to ensure our warriors would meet them in open battle at the next full moon.”
“Open battle?” Lom repeated. “What trick is this?” “It is my duty to pass these tidings on to the Druid Assembly,” Aoife replied. “If our warriors gather at the appointed place at the nominated time, our parents will be released unharmed.”
“And if not?” Mahon cut in.
“I don't know what they intend to do with them,” she answered with a shudder. “But I can imagine.”
Chapter 18
THAT EVENING FIRES WERE BUILT WITHIN THE HILLFORT and the tribal chieftains gathered from across the Burren to hear news of the daring raid. Makeshift shelters were erected, food brought in from nearby settlements, and warriors sent to scout the coast to the south in case the invaders had more raiding in mind.
Brocan organized the defenses, whilst the gathering of information and the distribution of supplies were left to Fergus. Both men worked to the limit of their endurance, pressing those under them to their tasks with words of rebuke and stories to inspire fear.
When evening drew its veil across the land they had completed their effort. Night watches were positioned around the violated fort; fresh warriors were called in from the smaller settlements close by and a food store was prepared within the one house untouched by the flames.
When the scouts returned after dark Fergus took them aside to hear what they had to say. Then he went before the Council of the Chieftains and all the gathered inhabitants of the hillfort to give a full report of the enemy's movements.
The veteran's proud features were visibly changed by what he had heard. In the firelight the lines upon his forehead stood out starkly, the wrinkles round his eyes seemed deeper. It was as if a dozen winters had descended upon him, draining his soul of its bright spark. Despite his obvious exhaustion, however, the old warrior still had an air of authority about him which demanded respect.
“In the dawn light they came,” Fergus began. His voice was strained and cold. “Two times one hundred hard warriors from the southern lands fell upon our folk in the darkness. They gave no warning. They offered no terms. They asked for no truce.”
Fergus scanned the crowd. All the folk who lived within the hillfort walls were staring blankly into the fires. Those of their kindred who had come to their aid from the other strongholds of the Burren were wide-eyed with awe at his speech.
“Our king has no quarrel with these folk,” the veteran went on, “yet they burned our houses, our stocks of food and our halls. They drove our precious children from their beds and broke down our walls.” The veteran paused, the events of the previous night vivid in his mind.
“And most outrageous of all,” he went on, “they made off with all our cattle save the few that were killed. Our goats were not all taken, for goats are canny creatures and run at the first sign of danger. Many have returned to us this evening.”
Fergus took a slow deep breath composing himself for the next part of his tale. He did not want to betray his feelings as he spoke. “Truly these Gaedhals are a savage, unruly people. I find it difficult to believe they are our kin.”
“Our distant kin,” Brocan corrected him.
“To steal an enemy's cattle is to threaten starvation,” the veteran continued. “Battle between seasoned warriors is hard enough to bear. But to involve the entire community by raiding food and stock illustrates the depths to which these folk will sink in order to conquer us. This is not war. It is barbarism.”
The gathering voiced their agreement loudly. When they had calmed down Fergus went on. “Our way of life is under threat. The laws we hold dear are being flouted in a manner I never would have thought possible. Two hostages were taken also. They were both of the warrior class but they were unarmed when captured. Who would have thought it possible?”
Once again the assembly vented their outrage at this blatant breach of custom.
“How many of our folk were wounded in this action?” the king inquired.
“Twenty of our kin were injured,” the veteran replied solemnly. “By the mercy of Danu no one was killed.”
“For that we can be thankful,” Brocan cut in.
“Only two folk are still unaccounted for,” Fergus went on. “They are two Druids of renown, Isleen the Seer and her husband Lochie the Bard. No trace of them has been found either among our people or in the ashes of the house in which they were sleeping.”
Dalan cast a glance at Fineen. The healer nodded in silent acknowledgment of the point the Brehon was making to him.
“Hardest to bear of all, Riona, the queen of our folk who dwell in the Burren, the wife of our king, was one of the two taken hostage,” Fergus stated. “And our honored guest King Cecht of the Tuatha De Danaan was with her. We have no tidings of where they may be now, nor indeed whether they be alive or dead. But the enemy left a message with young Aoife, daughter to the king, and she will speak her news now.”
Aoife stood to take her place beside Fergus who waited with head bowed to hear her.
“It was Eber,” the young trainee Druid started. “He is the brother of the chieftain of the Milesian Gaedhals. He planned and led this raid. He commanded me to report that his kin are tired of this war.”
“Do they seek peace by raiding?” Brocan snapped and there were hums of agreement all around the fire.
“Eber claims he was ordered to make this raid by his elder brother,” she went on. “He wishes you all to know he did this under protest. It is not in his nature to make war on children and cattle.”
“What else have they been doing these past four seasons?” someone called out from the crowd.
“The reason the Milesian chieftain resolved to undertake this raid,” Aoife explained when the mutterings had died away, “was to force all the defenders of Innisfail into one last battle. The Gaedhals propose that the victor of this conflict gain the sovereignty of the land forever.”
There was an immediate chorus of bitter indignation as everyone threw their opinion at the young woman. Fergus stepped forward and raised his hands.
“Silence!” the veteran bellowed. “The cows made less noise when they were being led away from their homes for the l
ast time.”
“The Gaedhals did not expect to capture a Danaan king and a Fir-Bolg queen,” Aoife spoke up. “Eber was genuinely embarrassed at the captives he hauled in.”
“Not embarrassed enough to release them,” Brocan jibed. “Or our precious cattle. If it were not for the generosity of my neighbors and fellow chieftains, the Cauldron of Plenty would hold nothing but water this night.”
“The Milesian has given his word the hostages will be returned to us unharmed before the battle,” she went on. “And this fight will take place in nine nights near the foot of the mountains known as Sliabh Mis.”
“Nine nights?” Brocan shouted in surprise. “It is at least three days' march to that place. And it will take many more days to raise our warriors.”
“Eber has thirty ships at his disposal and they are full of hardened warriors, men and women of the land of Iber,” his daughter continued, trying to remember every detail of what she had been told. “His brother Éremon also has thirty ships. He is making a similar challenge in the northeast of Innisfail. There they will fight the gathered forces of the Danaans. The two brothers have split the countryside between them north and south.”
“So we can't count on the support of the Danaans?” Brocan asked.
“I do not know,” she answered.
Aoife closed her eyes to concentrate, desperate not to leave any detail out.
“Eber requests that Druids be sent to witness the outcome of the battle,” she recalled, “and to agree on the exact location. He has offered our people the high ground in any such conflict as a gesture to our ancient occupation of this land. There is an apple tree growing on a hill at the foot of Sliabh Mis which he says would easily be defended. Eber said he would respect that spot as our gathering place.”
“And what if we should be defeated?” the king asked. “What then?”
“We are to withdraw from the southern part of the island,” she replied, “or submit to him as king of this country.”
Once again there were expressions of disgust and cries of anger from the crowd. Fergus tried to still the gathering but in the end he decided it was best to let the fury burn out of them a little before he made any attempt to continue the proceedings.
A bronze pot larger than the Cauldron of Plenty was brought forward and cups were soon dipping into it. Fergus took his cupful of the hazel-flavored mead. Then he sat down by the fire to warm himself. The veteran did not want to waste any time but there were many in the gathering who had some comment to make and he was bound by tradition to let them speak.
When Brocan finally stood up and raised his hands for silence Fergus jumped to his feet.
“We may muster at most one hundred warriors,” he told his king and the waiting audience. “It will take seven days at least. Then we will march hard to arrive at the field in time, but I believe it can be done.”
“One hundred is only half the number of the Gaedhals,” Brocan reminded his steward. “I will not risk that the Milesians have more warriors in reserve. How many more can we raise?”
“Maybe ten or twelve at the most,” Fergus admitted. “If we press the aged and untried into service. Any other able-bodied men and women are beyond the reach of the summons. If we had another week I could have two hundred on the field.”
“We don't have any more time,” Dalan cut in. “Nine nights and that is all.”
Brocan turned to face the people seated around the fire. “And what if we do not accept this challenge?” he asked them.
Most of the gathering fell silent, confused by this question. It was unthinkable that they should ignore the insult leveled at them. Besides, most folk were concerned about the loss of their cattle. If it came to winter and they had no stock, there would surely be famine.
“If we cannot be certain we will defeat the Milesians outright,” Brocan reasoned, “it would be stupidity to face them in battle. Their weapons are superior to ours, the Druid Assembly can attest to that. And they may have many more warriors than we can possibly field.”
“The lives of Riona and Cecht may be in danger,” Fineen protested and there were many who agreed with him. “They are being held as surety. What will happen to them if we do not concede to this demand for battle?”
“I'll not be forced into a fight which we cannot possibly win,” the king countered, but it was clear the gathering would not support him in this. So Brocan, ever the one to give his kinfolk whatever they wanted, began to consider the likely outcome of a battle while he continued to argue against it.
“The lives of two are nothing compared to the future of our people. This challenge only has power over us if we accept it. If we choose to ignore the summons, we show our contempt for their claim over our land. If we fight them we legitimize their invasion.”
He surveyed the crowd. “I advise that we do nothing. Let the Milesians come to us. Next time we will be ready for them.”
Dalan raised his eyebrows. The Brehon could see the sense in this argument but he knew the Fir-Bolg of the Burren would not accept the king's wishes in this. They were stirred up by the loss of their stock. And if Brocan had not, just the night before, opposed an alliance with the Danaans, he may have had their ears. But now the chieftains were muttering that their king simply did not have the stomach for fighting.
“What of the cows?” an old woman called out. “Would you have us starve?”
“Our neighbors will aid us,” Brocan replied confidently. “As we have always aided them in times of crisis.”
“How will we pay the fines levied against us by the Brehons,” Lom interjected, “if we have no cattle to give to Cecht?”
The king narrowed his eyes at his son, wondering whether the boy had said this to turn attention to himself. Brocan decided his son would one day make a fine king. He had an excellent sense of the people's opinion.
“It's the duty of a king to defend his people,” Fergus spoke up, voicing what was on everyone's mind. “If a king can't guarantee the safety and security of the folk he is appointed to protect, then he is not entitled to the kingship.”
“But if he wastes the lives of his kinfolk in a forced challenge which they have no hope of winning, is he a better king? If he loses the land to which he and his kinfolk were born, is he a wise ruler? There is more to the office of kingship than most of you might think. This is not a time for hasty decisions and heated revenge. The loss of the cows will hurt us, it is true. But the loss of our land will be the end of our people.”
“Brocan is right!” Dalan cut in, standing up to be noticed. Everyone gasped in amazement. None of them expected the Brehon to support the king on this matter.
“The odds are against us,” he went on, carefully gauging the reaction to his words as he spoke. “We would be dancing to a Milesian tune to engage in this contest.”
“Even the Druids see the sense in what I am saying,” the king stated with confidence.
“Of all of us Brocan has the most to lose,” Dalan went on. “His wife may never return to him.”
“And what about our homes and cattle?” one chieftain spat.
“The homes can be rebuilt,” the Brehon soothed. “And the cattle will have to be bred from your neighbors' stock. No lives have been lost so far. If we are careful no one should die for this cause. Brocan is right. We have very little chance of victory against these savages.”
The crowd roared their disgust but the Brehon simply held up a hand until the gathering was silent again. His ploy had worked. The Fir-Bolg of the Burren were hot with anger and resentment. They would not be stopped in their quest for revenge.
“Poverty is nothing new to the Fir-Bolg,” the Brehon stated. “Our folk have survived harder times than this. The war against the Fomor was no less harsh.”
“Some of the kings refused to fight in those days also,” someone muttered.
“If the king won't fight,” another voice suggested, “then perhaps we need a new king.”
Brocan raised his eyebrows in surprise.
He was already considering how to gracefully bow to pressure.
“The simple truth is,” Dalan spoke up, making his move, “we could triumph in this conflict. Brocan is right, we may not win this battle. However, if we fight their contest, we will certainly be victorious in the war.”
“How is that so?” Fergus grunted with suspicion.
“They outnumber us,” the Brehon went on. “Their weapons will make short work of ours. Their warriors will be well rested. But we have a secret in store they have not even dreamed of.”
He paused to make sure he had everyone's attention.
“The Druid Assembly foresaw this day,” he went on. “They preserved the Draoi-Music which our ancestors practiced in the days before the destruction of the Isles of the West. The Assembly has decided to use this music to open the doorway between the worlds.”
There was a general mutter of awe.
“Will we enter into the Otherworld?” Brocan asked. “I would rather fight than retreat.”
“The Draoi-Seers and the Druid musicians are already on their way here from the north. They will arrive in two days.”
“I have no wish to leave my home,” Brocan stated flatly.
“What will we eat in the Otherworld?” came a call from the crowd. “Are there many cows in that place?”
Dalan smiled until he realized the comment had not been a joke at all.
“I have been entrusted with nine berries of the ancient Quicken Tree,” the Brehon continued, brushing over the question. “These are the same berries which grew in the land of Murias in the time of our ancestors.”
He removed the pouch from inside his tunic and held it up for all to see. Then he handed it to Fineen. “I give them now into a physician's hands. He will prepare the brew.”
Fineen passed the leather pouch directly to his student, Sárán, for safe keeping.
“What good are the fruits of the Quicken Tree to us?” the king scoffed.
“Will they fill our empty bellies?” someone cut in.
“As you know, a potion brewed from the berries will ensure none among our war party perishes from his injuries,” the Druid explained. “The Milesians will be so awed by this miracle they will readily make a treaty with us. The first thing we will demand is the return of our cows, for we will take them with us and eat well in the Otherworld. Once the treaty is agreed, our people will withdraw into the Otherworld and remain there in peace for the rest of eternity.”