by Caiseal Mor
“Have you truly seen this in a vision?”
Scota nodded. “I have.” She smiled.
Then she laid her spear down in the sand and left the two captives with their guards.
Chapter 20
FERGUS AND HIS FIVEWARRIORS HAD MADE VERY GOOD time to begin with. They had set a solid pace without running, for the veteran did not want to exhaust his men's battle-readiness. The search party had just come to the crossroads marked with a standing stone when one of the scouts reported a strange sight.
Where the western road turned a sharp bend about two hundred paces into the forest, he had seen a tall woman with red hair accompanied by a younger man who fitted Sárán's description. Fergus had been unwilling to take this road at first because he knew where it led—to the ruined stronghold of the Fomor.
“Conor,” he told the man, “I want you to scout ahead down the eastern road for a thousand paces. The rest of us will sit for a while and take a breath. If you see anything, blow as hard as you can on your horn and we will come to your aid.”
The scout ran off on his errand while Fergus sat down by the stone to wait. He traced a finger over the signs cut into the massive tooth of granite but he had no idea what they might mean. In a moment he had taken his leather tankard from his belt and scooped up some water from the spring. As he held it to his mouth to drink there was a strange unfamiliar bird call nearby so he stopped to listen.
But the call was not repeated so Fergus drank a deep draught of the clear cooling water. Following the veteran's lead the others were soon dipping their tankards into the pool. By the time Conor returned each of them had banished his thirst.
“What did you see?” Fergus demanded.
“Nothing,” came the report. Then the scout got on his knees to drink up the water in large mouthfuls from the surface of the pool.
“Whoever you saw was heading down to the west,” the veteran noted. “If I don't investigate we may regret it. I don't want Sárán escaping with the cauldron. I can't risk that.”
Reluctantly Fergus decided to split his force, leaving two warriors at the crossroads. He and the rest of the search party then set off toward the deserted Fomor settlement of Dun Beg. They had not walked far down the ancient path when the two figures appeared again in the distance.
“Run!” Fergus shouted to his comrades. “If we don't we'll never catch them!”
At that pace it was not long before they came to a darker part of the forest where the trees formed a great roof over the narrow road. As they moved on the air became stale and the light dimmed. Fergus slowed his warriors and they walked on more cautiously.
“I don't like this place,” the veteran muttered. “I've heard too many tales about the forest of Dun Beg.”
Just then the veteran heard voices not too far away in amongst the trees. He turned around, trying to judge their direction, and before he could call out one of his warriors was rushing off to chase the noise.
“Come back, Conor, you fool!” Fergus cried. “This wood is no place to be wandering, even before sunset.”
But the man paid no heed and was soon gone from sight and sound. The veteran had to restrain the other two warriors to stop them following.
“It is death to enter the forest alone,” he warned them. “The spirits of the long-dead Fomorian sorcerers inhabit the dark canopy. They have been here for many generations and their wrath has not abated in all that time.”
On the opposite side of the road there was a shout.
“That is Conor's voice,” one of the other men cried in anguish. “We can't let him die alone in the woods assailed by the ghosts of the enemy.”
And with that the warrior charged in among the trees. In moments the forest swallowed him like a great beast devouring a morsel of food.
Fergus turned to the last warrior in the party. “We must get back to the crossroads. It is too dangerous to remain here.”
“What about those two?”
“They should have listened to me,” Fergus replied. “There is nothing we can do for them. They are hopelessly lost by now and by nightfall they will find themselves in peril from all sides.”
At that moment there was another cry from the heart of the woods. A shriek of terror that trailed off into a desperate fading whine for help.
Fergus found himself compelled to run to his comrades' aid. He shut his eyes to block out his surroundings, resisting the urge to rescue his men. With his body shaking, the veteran clenched both fists, willing the desire to go away. When it did, it was replaced by a terrible fear, the sort of terror he had felt many times before battle.
“We are safe as long as we stay on the road,” he told the other warrior in a trembling voice as he reluctantly opened his eyes again. But the last man was gone. He had vanished as surely as the other two.
That was enough for Fergus. Without another thought for the fate of the others he turned on his heels and ran as fast as his legs would carry him back to the crossroads, cursing that he had been tricked by the evil inhabitants of the Forest of Dun Beg.
As he approached the standing stone he could plainly see that there was no one about. The two warriors he had left behind were gone without a trace. The veteran leaned against the stone for a long while to catch his breath, trying to throw off his fear.
When he had recovered a little he dropped to his knees to scoop up a drink. But when he brought his hand up to his mouth there was a terrible stench to the water. He put his face close to the pool to examine it. All across the top of the pool there was a thin multicolored film of liquid.
The veteran touched this with the tip of his finger and brought it carefully up to his nose. He recoiled from the odor immediately.
“It didn't smell bad earlier,” he thought. “What has happened?”
That was when Fergus began to feel very sick. The trees about him started to spin and he had to sit down. He realized the water at the spring had been poisoned, and for that he blamed the Milesians, the Fomor and even Sárán.
But his last thought before drifting off into unconsciousness was that this terrible incident had all been his own fault.
Dalan followed hard on the heels of Fergus and his warriors. Deer Island at the mouth of the River Shannon was the obvious place to head for because there would be fishing boats nearby with which to cross the water and the river mouth was too wide to swim.
This part of the country was well wooded with few pathways through the forests but the Brehon had traveled this way many times before. He knew the main road south had many blind branches which ended amongst the gray ruins of Fomorian forts. These places were reputedly haunted so this country was sparsely inhabited. Dalan realized the Watchers probably knew this area very well. In ancient days it was the seat of Fomor power in the west and the last stronghold of their warriors when the combined strength of the Danaans and Fir-Bolg had forced their retreat.
The woods were silent now. No songs of Balor and his deeds rang out between the trees. Only ghosts walked these paths. And the spirits of the long-dead Fomorians wailed their breathy melodies to the accompaniment of the wind in the high branches.
By noon Dalan had come to a crossroads marked with a standing stone. Incised lines along the western side of the upright granite slab informed the traveler that the western fork of this path led to Dun Beg, last stronghold of the Fomor. The Brehon ran his fingers over the lines. No Fir-Bolg or Danaan had taken that path to Dun Beg in all the generations since Balor's folk had made their final desperate stand at the coastal fortress. The dun was far to the south, too far out of his way. Yet the Brehon was filled with a desire to go there one day and see the fortress for himself.
On the eastern side of the stone the lines told the traveler this fork led to Dun Ruan of the Fir-Bolg. On the southern face the secret scratches directed him to the Shannon, and on the north back toward Dun Burren of Brocan. By sunset, Dalan calculated, he should see the waters of the river mouth.
There was no time for rest so Dalan p
ressed on at his fastest pace in the hope of overtaking Sárán and the Watchers before they reached Deer Island. He knew if they crossed the Shannon there would be little hope of picking up their trail again. His eyes to the ground in front of him, Dalan trudged step after step through the afternoon. The forest thinned and the land became open hillsides with scattered trees, the mark of generations of inhabitants cutting the timber for their houses and fuel. It was a sign he was nearing the river.
But the Brehon hardly noticed the changing landscape. His thoughts were on Lochie and Isleen. Such was his absorption that he failed to notice the two strangers standing in the middle of the path until he was almost upon them.
It was only his intuition that saved him from walking right into them. The Brehon stopped as soon as he became aware of their presence. Cloaked and covered the two figures waited patiently in the distance.
“Have they been listening to my thoughts?” the Brehon asked himself. “Have I placed myself in danger by traveling in this country alone? What have they done with Sárán?”
All these questions flooded his mind at once as he struggled to make a firm decision whether to go on and face them or to find some way around. He knew they'd seen him. It was useless to avoid confrontation now. At least, he told himself, he would soon discover the truth.
With that Dalan strode on. When the strangers saw him coming closer, one of them squatted down in the middle of the road to wait. The other opened his cloak to reveal a sword sheathed at his side.
Dalan noted their cloaks were too fine for brigands or outlaws.
They did not remove their head coverings as was the custom when strangers met on the road. This alone convinced the Brehon he had stumbled upon Lochie and Isleen on their flight south to the Milesian camp.
Step by nervous step he came closer, heart beating hard in his chest, expecting at any moment to be cut down by these ageless enemies of the Fir-Bolg. The squatting figure stood up again and Dalan discerned immediately by her movement that this one was female. There was now no doubt in his mind whatsoever.
A deep breath and two more paces. Then Dalan stopped just beyond the reach of an unfriendly sword. The Brehon lowered his harp from his shoulder and placed it on the ground ready to dodge the expected blows.
No one spoke. The Druid could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck. He suddenly realized he was very uncomfortable in this cloak of wool and that he should have worn the Raven-feathers. To ease his discomfort he pulled back the hood and then addressed the strangers.
“I am Dalan,” he began. “I am a Brehon judge. And I am on the business of the Druid Assembly. Who dares block my path?”
“Dalan!” Aoife cried as she uncovered her red hair.
As she spoke Mahon revealed his face also and for a few shocked seconds the three travelers stared at each other in relief.
It was about an hour before sunset when Sárán and Isleen emerged from the forest close to the coast and the young man was sure he was going to collapse from exhaustion. In all the seasons he had followed Fineen around the land, he had never been pushed so hard as he was now.
Isleen on the other hand seemed as fresh and as energetic as when they had set out before dawn, though her pack was larger and heavier than his. Sárán concluded with admiration that she must be used to this pace of travel, though he was amazed she never suggested they stop for rest.
Once they cleared the forest road the young man was sure Isleen would call a halt, but she carried on with renewed vigor and determination.
“I must stop for a bite to eat,” Sárán begged when it was plain she intended to press on.
“We do not have the time,” came the sharp reply. “We must be at the mouth of the Shannon as the last of the sun's rays fall upon the land. If we are not at the appointed place the boat will leave without us.”
“You have arranged for transport across the river mouth?” Sárán asked in surprise.
“Of course I have. How did you think we would get over to the other side? It is too far for you to swim.”
The young man shrugged, catching the inference that Isleen did not think she would have any difficulty in swimming the distance, even after a full day on the road without rest.
“I can't keep going without food and water,” he protested.
Isleen laughed as she handed him her water skin. “You may drink,” she told him, “as we walk. You will get no food until we reach the shore. A full belly will slow you down. You will appreciate a meal more if you wait until the Shannon is laid out before us.”
Sárán took the skin and swallowed a gulp of cool fresh spring water. Then Isleen snatched it off him again before he could take another mouthful.
“Too much and you will double up in pain,” she declared. “I can't carry you as well.”
Thirst hardly quenched, the young man opened his mouth to argue. But he got no chance to speak. Just at that moment they came to the top of a rise and before them in the distance lay the mouth of the Shannon.
“It will not be long now,” Isleen stated. “If we move quickly we will have time to sit by the water and eat our fill before the boat arrives. But I mean to get there in plenty of time. You have slowed me down enough today.”
“Who is meeting us?” Sárán asked, trying to take his mind off the emptiness of his belly.
“People from the south.”
“The Cairige? The folk of the southern Fir-Bolg?” he pressed.
“There are more tribes in Innisfail than the Tuatha De Danaan and the Fir-Bolg,” she retorted. “Have you not traveled in the south?”
“Fineen is of the northern Danaan folk,” Sárán replied. “He is a brother to the present Dagda.”
“So you have spent much time in that exalted company?”
“I have.”
“But your people were put down by the Danaans in the ancient days,” she reminded him. “How can you bring yourself to bow down to the Danaan Druids?”
“I have never been made to feel less worthy simply because my kinfolk are not well represented at the Druid Assembly,” he replied.
“Save your breath,” she snapped. “I have a mind to walk hard now since our destination is in sight. I want you to think carefully on all that has happened in the past four seasons. And to consider the changes which are about to engulf this land.”
“What changes?” he inquired but Isleen did not answer him. Her eyes were on the mouth of the river and she had picked up her pace so that he was stumbling to keep up with her.
When they finally came to the water's edge the Seer held up a hand to the sky. The sun was one hand's breadth away from touching the horizon and this made her smile with satisfaction.
“You have done well,” she told her traveling companion. She pointed to the flat piece of land out in the middle of the river mouth. “Over there is Deer Island. When the sun touches the rim of the world in the west we can expect to see a boat coming across from the southern shore.”
“May I sit down now?” Sárán gasped, barely taking in her words.
“Yes.” She smiled. “I'm proud of you and impressed. Not many men can keep pace with me.”
The young man dropped down on the soft grass at the shore and stared up at the sky as he caught his breath. He lay like that for a little while until he had the strength to ask again, “What changes are about to overtake this land?”
“There is no doubt that the Milesians are going to be victorious,” Isleen explained. “Our people may be forced into the dark places of the earth in order to preserve our way of life. The Danaans have already hatched their plan to open up the ancient system of tunnels and underground caverns that were used in far-off times to shelter from the wrath of Balor. But I for one do not trust them to invite the Fir-Bolg to join them.”
“Our people have their own caves and tunnels,” Sárán reminded her. “The depths of Aillwee are not far from Dun Burren. Those caves are still used to store winter forage for the cattle and dried meat for the clanhold.�
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“The point I am trying to make,” Isleen said tersely, “is why should we have to withdraw underground at all? It was the Danaans who came up with this proposal. Perhaps they are happy to spend the rest of their days in a dark pit only emerging into the sunlight when there is no enemy about.”
“But you said yourself the Milesians will surely take Innisfail for themselves.”
“That doesn't mean we have to submit to them completely. If your father were a wise man he would have sought a separate treaty with the invaders instead of wasting his time with a Danaan alliance that will surely cost Fir-Bolg lives. But he was too frightened of what the Danaans might do to him and to the last of his people. Do you recall what happened in the ancient time when the Fir-Bolg formed an alliance with the Fomor against the Tuatha De Danaan?”
“I had no idea there was such an alliance!” Sárán retorted in shock. “The Fomorians were an evil race. I can't believe my ancestors would have allied with them.”
“The Danaan Druids would have you think that the Fir-Bolg have always been a little people,” she told him. “But it is not so. Your ancestors once ruled this entire country from the western ocean to the eastern strand. The Druid Assembly long ago forbade the telling of that part of the history because it could have inspired a continuing rebellion amongst the Fir-Bolg.”
“Continuing rebellion?”
“The Danaans have kept the truth of your folk quiet for many generations. Now is the time to reclaim your birthright.”
“A separate treaty?”
“Precisely.” Isleen smiled, reaching out a hand to brush the jet black hair from his forehead. “And since your father is too frightened to negotiate such a truce,” she went on, “you must do it for him.”
“Me?” Sárán gasped, sitting up.
“You are better than a king,” she told him in her best instructional tone. “You are a Druid.”