by Caiseal Mor
“What is that?” Mahon asked in wonder.
“I haven't any idea,” Dalan admitted. “I've never seen anything like it before in my life.”
“It is beautiful,” Aoife gasped in awe. “It is calling us to dance with it.”
“You will sit still and turn your gaze away,” the Brehon commanded in a soft but firm voice.
“It will do us no harm,” she replied.
“Do as I say,” Dalan insisted. “I am your teacher. You will obey me.”
Aoife frowned and pushed away from Mahon. “A thing of such splendor could not possibly be of any threat. I will show you,” she said and stood up. Mahon reached out a hand to stop her but she was already beyond his grasp.
“I demand that you turn your eyes away!” Dalan shouted.
Aoife stopped. Slowly, reluctantly, the young woman shifted her gaze and looked directly at the Brehon. And as she did so the light went out.
In the next instant Aoife was back in Mahon's arms.
“I would have run off into the trees chasing it,” she sobbed. “I was ready to follow that light to the end of the earth.”
“We must not look upon them if they come again,” the Brehon decided. “They are sent to seduce us into leaving the safety of our fire.”
The owls suddenly began a noisy, boisterous exchange that soon became a deafening cacophony. The sound was speeding through the treetops above them like thunder traveling across the land.
“Whatever you do,” Dalan called out loudly above the noise, “don't move from this fireside. They are trying to frighten us into the darkness.”
At the edge of the firelight they could see the swooping owls, dark birds with white faces and huge eyes. Aoife and Mahon ducked their heads as the creatures sailed in close to them. The Brehon felt a wing brush his head and he lay down flat on the roadside to avoid being attacked.
“We must get away!” Aoife cried out. “They mean to do us harm!”
“Be quiet and still and all will be well,” Dalan told her sternly. “If we let our fear get the better of us, we will be defeated. We must stay together if we are to have any hope of making it through this night.”
And so they huddled close to their fire as the owls continued their diving attack. Gradually the creatures became bolder, flying in through the flames, crying with chilling angry voices. When one bird caught a feather in the fire and screeched off into the night like a shooting star, the intensity of their wrath doubled.
Suddenly the air was full of thousands of screeching birds, talons extended, falling down upon their cowering prey. The three frightened travelers could only lie flat and hope the fire would keep them at bay.
Dalan felt the urge to fight back building up inside of him. His throat was dry and his patience was wearing thin. The owls were playing a game with them and the Brehon was not about to let them win. He got to his feet, ignoring his own advice. In seconds he was thrashing about at the owls as they swooped toward him. The birds cried triumphantly. This was the moment they had been waiting for, when one of their victims would weaken.
Dalan realized his mistake even as he was getting to his feet, but he knew this attack would go on for hours unless he gained some little victory. He dodged about, avoiding the creatures as they spread wings and dived at him. Choosing his moment carefully, he enticed the birds to come closer and closer with each assault. And then he struck. When he had eyed his victim Dalan followed the creature carefully. The owl made one pass at him, flew out into the darkness and immediately swooped in again. This creature was full of malice and reckless in its approach.
Then the owl sailed high in the air, making a graceful-turn near the treetops and falling down upon the Brehon with full fury.
Dalan wrapped his cloak about his right hand to protect it, then he stood defying the owl to attack him. Just as he expected the bird singled him out, screeching with all its might as it flew directly at his head.
At the last possible moment the Brehon dodged out of the way, at the same time reaching out with his cloaked hand to grab at the creature. And then he blessed his luck as his fingers found the owl's leg. He grasped it tightly and swung the bird down at the ground with the power of its own descent. As it headed past the fire the bird slipped out of Dalan's fingers and hit the ground near Mahon, who jumped on it quickly to stop it escaping.
Dalan threw his cloak over the stunned owl and held the makeshift trap up to the other birds. “If you do not leave us in peace,” he announced, “this bird will roast over the fire for our supper. Do you hear?”
The effect was immediate. Just as abruptly as the attack had begun the owls went quiet, withdrew to their perches in the surrounding trees and the air was clear again. Dalan tied the cloak with a leather strap from his harp case and then laid his prisoner down by the warmth of the flames.
The owl soon regained consciousness and as soon as it did began to kick and scream to its comrades. But the great gathering of owls sat silent and sullen around the edge of the forest, each bird staring intently at its comrade. Their hate was growing. Their outrage building.
It was long after, when the captive owl had finally settled down, that the birds made their next move. Without a call or cry having passed between them, they rose from their perches and flew off into the night, leaving the travelers to wonder whether they had won this battle.
“You will sleep now,” Dalan told the other two. “I do not think we will be troubled again tonight. But I will keep the watch just in case.”
With that an exhausted Aoife pulled her cloak over her head and snuggled close to Mahon. In a very short while they were both resting warily. Much later when all was still they fell asleep, leaving Dalan alone with his thoughts and his fears.
Brocan, Fineen and the warriors of Dun Burren marched for a long while before they heard or saw anything unusual in the forest. The king was beginning to believe they would experience no trouble at all on this journey.
But he was wrong. The spirits of the forest were waiting until the band had traveled too far to be able to retreat. The Fir-Bolg war party was being drawn into a trap.
Torchlight illuminated the edges of the road and the wall of the forest but no one could see into its depths, so close together were the trees. Everyone was silent, expectant and nervous. And each was lost in his own thoughts.
So when the first sign of danger revealed itself only Fineen took any notice. The healer heard the owl hooting in the distance and immediately called the band to a halt.
“We must form ourselves into a defensive circle,” he urged Brocan. “The enemy will be upon us very soon.”
“What makes you think that?” the king laughed. “There hasn't been a sign of danger and the forest is quiet.”
“Do as I say!” Fineen insisted. “I know a little of the language of birds. They are passing the word among their number to attack us in force. If we are not ready for them we will suffer for it.”
Brocan did not waste any more time arguing. Even though he thought it foolish to fear a flock of owls, he did as Fineen suggested and formed the warriors up into two circles, one within the other.
The outer rank knelt down, spear points level with their bodies. The inner rank held their weapons high in readiness for assault from above. Every warrior still held a torch in one hand as they waited to see what form the threat against them would take.
They did not have to wait long. In an awe-inspiring wave thousands of birds appeared out of the dark, screeching, screaming and diving in every direction. At first even the disciplined warriors of Dun Burren were almost scattered, their formation penetrated by the ferocious birds.
The wounded who fell in the first wave were dragged into the center of the circle, eyes gouged, cheeks ripped open or faces scratched. But these were only a few. And the outrage of the remaining Fir-Bolg warriors soon outstripped their fear. They fought back with vengeance in their hearts and in a short while many owls had been struck down, impaled on spear points, cut open by swords or
scorched by torches.
Before long a hundred feathered shapes lay flapping helplessly at the feet of the formation. And for each one of the owls that was wounded another two birds lay dead. Those warriors who only had minor injuries soon stood up again to join their comrades as the air became thick with shrieking creatures.
Wherever a gap appeared in the defenses, wherever a warrior fell back injured or overwhelmed, Brocan was there to fill the space. From his mouth poured a constant stream of encouragement, gentle reprimand, determined vitriol and, when necessary, violent abuse. Although at times he could barely be heard above the noise of the winged war cry, he did not stop.
Fineen, tending the wounded in the center of the circle, screamed out in agony as an owl tore at his ear with its beak. Brocan heard the healer's cry and struck the bird down with the point of his spear. Then he cast the body into the darkness.
Before the carcass had landed the birds began their withdrawal. The main force of owls retreated to the trees on either side of the road, while a rearguard kept up a steady harassment of the defenders.
As these assaults gradually tapered off, the rearguard of the feathered war party remained on the wing while their companions rested out of reach of spear and sword. As these owls flew their chaotic circles up among the treetops Brocan realized they were marshaling themselves for a concerted attack.
Now that the king knew his warriors could defeat such an enemy he was emboldened. He reckoned the owls had no chance of breaking through his defenses or of scattering his warriors.
“We've beaten them!” he cried in triumph but none of his war party cheered. They kept their stations, grim-faced and ready for the coming assault.
“They know they will not make us run,” Brocan continued. “They are retreating!”
The warriors picked up on his enthusiasm and cheered loudly. This was an old tactic used when an enemy was doing badly and it often led to the end of a battle. Only Fineen among all of them was silent. He was busy trying to staunch the flow of blood where the top of his ear had been sheared off.
“Keep your formation tight,” he told Brocan when he had wrapped a piece of torn cloak tightly around his head. “They do not mean to attack us again until their allies have arrived.”
“Their allies?” the king asked in confusion. “More birds? We will make short work of them too,” he added confidently.
“This fight is far from finished,” the healer explained wearily. “We have just witnessed the first sting of their wrath.”
It was then the king caught sight of a strange red light rising off the road a hundred paces further south.
“What is that?” he demanded of Fineen.
“Those lights signal the arrival of the armies of the Fomor,” the healer answered solemnly. “Your warriors must hold their ranks no matter what befalls them. The Fomorian host intend to attack us from the road while the birds assault us from the sky. We are only eighty. They have thousands.”
“The Fomor are a dead people, aren't they?”
“These are the spirits of the dead. They cannot harm us unless our fear deprives us of all sense. They intend to frighten us into forgetting our discipline. They want us to run into the forest where we will surely die. If anyone breaks rank the owls will pick them to pieces. And what the birds don't get hold of, the woods will certainly devour.”
Brocan turned to his warriors to speak. “We will prevail if we stand our ground. They can only defeat us if we break formation and make for cover. Hold fast and we will have the victory.”
As he spoke the hosts of the Fomor marched into view. And even Brocan, who had confronted many enemies in his day, was shaken to the core by the sight. These warriors did not look like ghosts to him. They wore bright colors on their cloaks and carried polished swords and spears. Their faces were painted in the purple Brocan had heard described in the ancient legends. Their shields were long, rectangular and heavy. Their helms had crests of white horsehair and their eyes shone with red fury.
“Hold your ranks steady!” Fineen cried out to the now silent and stunned warriors of Dun Burren. “This army will not harm us. They are nothing more than spirits. We must not yield any ground or we will all be slaughtered.”
The Fomor closed in steadily, marching with short quick steps and humming a battle chant in time with their movements. Sixty paces away they halted just as any real war party would do, out of range of spear cast.
Brocan recognized this ancient tactic. Display your superior force. Taunt your enemy with the discipline of your warriors. Then dangle the threat in front of them to strike despair into their thoughts. Compared to this elaborate dance, the battle itself was only a small part of the engagement. It would be won and lost now in the hearts of his war party. If their spirits faltered they would all be scattered to the four winds. If they held firm no force of this world or the other would move them.
As the ghostly enemy stood silent on the road they began their war song. And it chilled Brocan's blood to hear it. A slow chant, deep and mournful, it rose gradually in intensity until it filled the air. The owls high in the trees joined in with long steady calls that complemented the melody.
Then the Fomor began a rhythmic beating of sword and spear against shield. This was the infamous song their warriors had sung in the ancient days whenever their folk came raiding Innisfail from across the sea. Fineen knew the tales well enough to be able to conjure a clear picture in his mind of their mighty ships rowed by banks of hardened fighters. The healer heard a drum join in the performance, then another, until it seemed to him there were hundreds of drummers accompanying the music.
No Fir-Bolg warrior flinched. None made any sound in answer to this challenge. They each stood with eyes wide and hearts beating hard, waiting for the attack that would surely come. Brocan looked about him. He could see his war party were balancing on the fine line which separated valor and terror.
The song grew like a budding flower, spreading out into three distinct melodies that vied with one another but always kept perfect harmony together. The Fomor took one step forward and then another. And the Fir-Bolg watched, fascinated by this timeless archaic ritual, a dance that had not been seen on this island for three generations.
The leading rank of the Fomor ran forward five paces and all in Brocan's war band gripped their weapons in anticipation. But this was just a taunt to put their nerves on edge. The enemy halted and sang a line of their song. Then the rest of their number ran forward to join them.
They continued in this manner until they were barely twenty paces away. Then Brocan stirred as if woken suddenly out of a sleep.
“They are close enough to cast spears,” he muttered to himself, surprised he had been so enthralled by their dance that he hadn't noticed. “Form two ranks!” he ordered. “Spears at the ready for the rear rank to cast.”
The front line of warriors knelt down, pushing the points of their spears forward, ready to repel the enemy. The warriors in the rear held their weapons at their shoulders, raised ready to throw.
“Don't be fooled,” Fineen warned the king. “Your spears are useless against this enemy. If you order them to cast their spears they will be defenseless when the real attack comes.”
“How will we defend ourselves then?”
“Stand firm to the last and all will be well.”
“Stand firm!” Brocan repeated. “No weapon is to be thrown unless I give the command.”
The Fomor took another step forward and their voices rolled through the Fir-Bolg ranks like thunder passing over the land. This close Brocan could clearly see the strange attire of the enemy. Their armor was very light, mostly constructed from shaped leather with some bronze reinforcing and rivets. Helms were of polished bronze that shone like pink-tinted gold. Their spears were long and heavy, good for stabbing but difficult to throw.
Shields of leather, bronze and wood protected the front rank troops, but they were huge and cumbersome, spending the vigor of the warriors before the first blo
w had been struck. Brocan was beginning to understand how these once undefeated warriors had eventually been overcome.
The king noticed a few warriors in his own front line looking back at him for guidance. He steadied them with a gesture and a strong voice.
“Hold!” he ordered. “No move until I give the order.”
Then, just as the Fomorian war song was reaching a fever pitch, and as their lines came within striking range of a handheld weapon, the noise of their battle chant ceased. The sudden and unexpected silence which followed spoke of devastation, of emptiness, of annihilation.
The tension was too much for many of the Fir-Bolg to bear. Some were allowing the tears to roll down their cheeks, others were shaking uncontrollably. A young man in Brocan's front line stood up and before anyone could stop him he had rushed forward at the enemy, his spear level in front of him.
As he approached the Fomor lines the enemy jeered at him, raised their weapons and disappeared. He ran on, slashing with his spear point at the shadows, striking nothing but empty air.
The other warriors in Brocan's war party broke their ranks to observe this wonder. Some simply stood gaping, others retreated, muttering amongst themselves.
“They must stand their ground,” Fineen insisted, grabbing the king by the sleeve. “They are falling into the enemy's hands.”
Brocan looked up at the treetops and suddenly understood this diversion had been intended to split his defenses. If all discipline faded, the birds would be able to single out his warriors and pick them off one by one.
“Form a circle of two ranks!” he screamed and for the most part his warriors obeyed the command without thinking.
But the young man who had charged out heedless at the ghostly Fomor did not hear the order. He was in the middle of the road, wildly thrashing at the empty air, defying the enemy to return and do battle with him. It was then he made a costly mistake.