by Caiseal Mor
“If Eber doesn't arrive soon, he will forfeit the battle,” Brocan confided to his steward.
“He's put himself to too much trouble to simply walk away,” Fergus remarked. “He and his warriors will be here. And my instincts tell me we are in for a harder fight than we expected.”
“You are getting old,” the king joked. “There was a time when you would have been as relieved as I am not to have to fight a battle.”
As they were speaking a large group of figures appeared out of the sheets of rain to stand silently at the bottom of the hill.
“Here they are,” the veteran observed, pointing at the gathering of ragged-looking Milesians.
“How many?”
“I would guess there are only forty at the most,” Fergus laughed. “This must be some sort of trick.”
“Have all the Danaans taken the brew?” the king asked.
“Yes.”
“And are they waiting in the rear as a reserve force?”
“Cecht was none too happy about that,” the veteran noted. “But he agreed this was your fight to command as you wish.”
“Good. Their swords will see some work before this battle is won,” Brocan said confidently. “When our warriors begin to tire we'll send in the Danaans to finish our work.”
Brocan looked down on the field before him and silently puzzled at the small turnout of Milesians. After a long while he voiced a doubt. “What do you think this Eber is playing at?”
The question was answered almost immediately as the rain began to lift. There, concealed by the heavy downpour, were standing many more warriors than the forty Fergus had estimated.
Both Brocan and his foster-brother sounded groans of disappointment.
“Three hundred and fifty I would guess, or thereabouts,” the veteran said before Brocan had recovered from the shock of their sudden appearance. “And another thirty or so over there in a line.” He pointed.
“They might be reserves,” the king hoped.
“A strange place to put them then,” Fergus grunted with suspicion. Then he moved closer to the king and spoke in a low voice no one else would hear. “The weather is on our side, but even so we have no hope of stopping so many before they reach the top.”
“Each man has a throwing spear and a fighting spear,” the king calculated.
“And most have a sword as well,” the veteran added.
“We are one hundred and twenty,” Brocan sighed. “This will be a hand-to-hand fight after all. But if we can catch them on the slopes we'll have the day. And if we have the day we'll be rid of Gaedhal and Danaan at once. We'll have our land back.”
As the king spoke Fergus noticed movement among the thirty warriors standing to one side of the Milesian line. He watched and his heart sank. He could barely believe what was before his eyes.
“They have hunting bows,” he gasped.
“No warrior brings arrows to the battlefield,” the king scoffed. “The rules of war don't allow it.”
“They used fiery arrows during their raid on Dun Burren,” Fergus recalled.
“It's one thing to use arrows against a house. Another entirely to employ them against enemy warriors in battle.”
As they were discussing this point Dalan was already making his way onto the field to confront the enemy war leader on the issue. Eber came out to meet him and the two of them engaged in a heated discussion while the king and his steward looked on. Brocan scratched his head, wondering what they were saying to each other.
When the two men had finished, the Brehon made his slow way back up to the summit to speak with Brocan.
“What did he say?” the king called out.
“Arrows are customary among his people in war,” came the reply. “He claims we should have objected earlier and that it's too late for him to change his strategy now. Do you accept these conditions?”
“This is truly barbarous!” Brocan bellowed, hoping the Milesian would hear him.
“He doesn't expect to lose,” Fergus stated. “And he's not afraid of a legal objection to such tactics after the battle. Eber intends to slaughter us all.”
“Then he's in for a surprise.” Brocan smiled. “We won't submit quite so easily.” Then he turned his attention back to Dalan. “So be it!” he cried. “Let them throw what they will at us.”
With a nod of encouragement to his steward the king went to give his warriors final instructions as a wave of Milesians approached the foot of the hill.
He had walked only a few paces when the first arrows fell among the Fir-Bolg. All around the king the shafts struck soft wet earth. Brocan turned to face this threat, a weapon he had never seen used in battle. But he treated the barbed missiles with no more attention than he might the raindrops.
“We are not wild game to be hunted in this manner,” he complained bitterly.
Four warriors were struck, none of them seriously wounded.
The next fall of arrows was caught up on the wind and overshot their targets to fall in the rear of Brocan's battle line. The Danaans bore the brunt of this attack and Cecht called out a warning to his warriors to fall back out of range.
As the words left his mouth an arrow struck him hard in the shoulder.
The king cried out in shock. Riona quickly led him to where Fineen was standing by his fire.
“Take it out!” Cecht screamed, twisting his body about in agony. “Take it out!”
Fineen was there by the king's side in moments with a knife to cut the iron barb out.
“Hold him down,” the healer told Riona, and three warriors stepped forward to help. Fineen worked quickly, slicing open the flesh to ease the arrow out. As soon as it was free he threw the offending missile behind him in disgust.
“This is not war!” the healer spat but his anger was soon forgotten as he saw the change taking place around the wound in Cecht's shoulder.
As if many weeks were passing by before his eyes Fineen watched the wound begin to fester and dry out, and the torn flesh knit together again. In no more time than it takes to boil water on the fire the injury was gone, leaving a scar but no other sign.
“I can't feel any pain,” Cecht muttered. “Is the wound bad?”
“Take a look for yourself,” the healer advised with wonder in his voice. “I've never seen anything like it.”
The king looked down at the spot where the shaft had penetrated his shoulder. There was nothing but a line of seared skin where the wound had healed completely.
“I don't believe it,” he mumbled to himself, touching the scar with his fingers.
“I'm not sure I believe it myself,” Fineen added. “But we now know the Quicken Brew will do what was promised.”
“Is there any pain?” Riona gasped in awe.
“No more than if you had pinched me,” Cecht replied as he pushed the warriors out of his way and stood up. “This is a miracle.”
“It's the workings of Draoi healing,” Fineen corrected him.
“Stand in your ranks!” the King of the Danaans ordered, addressing his people. “And don't fear the enemy. They can't harm you.”
He went through his assembled warriors, showing off his scar, and everyone marveled at it.
“Listen to my orders and heed them well,” Cecht bellowed. “If you are struck by sword, spear or arrow, fall where you stand and wait until the healing has taken effect.”
“The musicians will begin their chant at the height of the battle,” Fineen declared. “When you see the doorway to the Otherworld open have no fear but march boldly in. Let no Milesians follow you and don't look back. Dalan and his student will remain behind to open negotiations on our behalf.”
Cecht leaned in close to the healer so that only he would hear what was said. “What do we do if Brocan turns his warriors against us?” he whispered.
“To stand against him would be pointless,” Fineen explained. “His warriors can do no harm to your people now.”
The king nodded, then he returned to his warriors, Riona
holding his arm to give him support, though he didn't need it.
When they were gone Fineen made ready to destroy what remained of the brew. He had only just lifted the cauldron from the fire when the next rain of arrows fell. Soon he had six Fir-Bolg warriors seeking his help with their wounds.
Queen Scota gulped, frightened by the intensity of her own heartbeat. As the Milesian Gaedhals raised their battle call and moved forward, she silently blessed their song. But all the voices of these people could not drown the thudding in her ears.
The rain eased a little more as they advanced up the muddy slope but the mist was not thinning. Then, as the warriors dropped their voices almost to a whisper, the clouds parted high above. A golden beam of sunlight, a great heavenly sword of light, swung down across the ground before the Gaedhals. Scota could almost imagine the ethereal weapon to be carving the land open before her.
“It's a sign!” she cried out at the top of her lungs as her warriors rushed on past her. “The Children of Míl will have the victory!”
Scota was certain her own fate was sealed. Her thoughts went to those she would never see in this life again. Her sons. Her dearest friends. All the terrible struggles of life were finally going to be absolved from her soul, washed away in the waters of the Well of Forgetfulness. The journey had ended. The voyage was about to begin.
The Milesian queen breathed in the sweet rain-soaked air and savored the scent one last time. Then, with an unburdened soul, she took the steps she knew would lead to the end of this life. And they were the slowest, longest, most intense steps she had ever walked.
Each intake of breath seemed to last an eternity. Her heart thumped hard, working its hardest now at the last. The queen's head pounded with a slow, steady rhythm; every sense was accentuated.
The sunlight was suddenly swallowed up in the clouds and the landscape darkened once more. Where the grass had been flattened by the feet of her warriors Scota could smell the freshness of the rain and the musty odor of the earth. She heard every cry, every jangle of weaponry, every grunt, every curse among her advancing warriors.
Colors intensified as if a magical veil had been drawn over her eyes, deepening her perception. Scota noticed her arms ached as they did after a day at the oars. Her tongue caught on the roof of her mouth. It was coated in ochre war paint that had washed off her face. The pigment tasted rich and raw like the aroma of freshly gathered mushrooms.
With each sense demanding such attention the Milesian queen began to feel overwhelmed. She staggered a little before deciding to halt for a moment. Warriors pushed past her in their rush to the conflict. Already the clash of swords, spears and shields could be heard.
A shower of stones flew down, pelted from slings behind the Fir-Bolg lines. One sailed gracefully high and then fell at a sharp angle. Scota sensed the little missile before it had even reached the top of its arc. She followed the dark speck in the sky as it hurtled toward her, never doubting for a moment it would strike her but unable to bring herself to move out of its way. It loomed larger and larger by the breath, falling slowly, gracefully, spinning down on its mission.
When the stone hit Scota the queen heard her helmet fall to the ground. At the same moment her knees buckled under her and the muddy earth crashed into her face. Her mouth filled with wet soil but the earth held her like a little child in its embrace.
Scota was suddenly more comfortable than she had ever been in all her life. And she felt the nagging tug of exhaustion holding her down, stripping her of the will to rise. The queen spat mud from her mouth but otherwise she did not move.
“I am so tired,” she whispered feebly.
Then she lay on her stomach for a few breaths more before she willed herself to roll over onto her back.
The move was surprisingly easy and painless. Scota realized she was not seriously injured, but she had no mind to get back up and join the fight. Death would come to her today, perhaps she should just lie here and wait for it.
But Scota's mind was full of images from her vision of this battle and they would not let her be. To fulfill her destiny she must go willingly to her death, not passively.
In moments the queen sat up and was soon on her knees reaching for her helm. It was badly dented and her head was ringing but Scota was determined to press on. She found her sword lying in the mud nearby, wiped its blade and looked about her.
All the Milesian warriors had passed by. The queen was alone and everything immediately around her was still.
“I've been left behind,” Scota berated herself. “Get on your feet, Queen of the Gaedhals, you have not many steps to walk now before you may take a longer sleep.”
She stood up, slowly checking her body for wounds. That was when she noticed a man who looked very much like her husband standing a little further up the hill, beckoning her to hurry. But this man was as young as Míl had been when they had first met. His hair had no touch of gray in it. It was shining brown, long and flowing. His beard was neatly trimmed and his shirt the brightest saffron, like the one he had been buried in.
Without question Scota trudged on, her heart lightened by the hope that her departed partner had come to guide her to the Halls of Waiting. She concentrated all her attention on her husband, blocking out the bitter fight that swirled about him.
He was remarkably calm; his eyes were as warm and inviting as they had been the first time she had seen him all those years ago. Scota laughed aloud and the spirit smiled back. He was so real to her it was incomprehensible he had passed over nearly thirteen winters ago.
As the ghost gently beckoned to her, Fir-Bolg warriors were pressing down on the Milesian line. Despite having more troops on the field the Gaedhals seemed to be losing ground. Míl pointed toward their son Eber, and Scota reluctantly tore her eyes away from the image of her beloved.
From where she stood the queen immediately saw that a disciplined effort at any point along the enemy line would cut the Fir-Bolg force in two and scatter the warriors. But the Milesian fighters locked in the thick of the battle had no idea victory was so easily within their grasp.
She turned her gaze back to where Míl had been standing. But her husband was gone. Scota realized he had come to give her a message.
“I must lead the charge,” the queen told herself with a hardening resolve. “If I don't act, our warriors will be pushed back into the sea. This is my destiny. It was my dreams brought the Gaedhals here to this hill. Now I will buy their future with my blood.”
Then Scota was off with renewed energy, fears forgotten, to give up her life for her people. At the top of her voice she screamed the air out of her lungs.
“To me! To me!”
Her warriors instantly rallied as they fell back toward her, fending off the enemy in their disciplined retreat. The Fir-Bolg did not follow at first, hesitant lest they should fall into a trap. But the battle fury had taken hold of them. And they did not stand their ground long before one young woman among Brocan's warriors ran forward to hurl a spear at the Gaedhals. Other Fir-Bolg followed her lead, tossing their weapons at the enemy in futile assault. Most of the spears landed short of their targets. A few young warriors drew their blades and stepped out from the ranks to taunt the enemy. Their scorn was answered by a hail of arrows from the enemy rear. Only one man fell, for mercifully the shafts mostly overshot their mark to land harmlessly behind the Fir-Bolg war party.
Fergus could see there was little holding the younger warriors in check. It suddenly seemed to him that he and Brocan were the only calm ones among all their people.
“We're losing them!” Brocan cried to his friend.
The veteran nodded then bellowed with all the force he could muster, ordering the warriors to stay in line. Either they could not hear him or they would not. The king quickly sized up the situation and sent a runner back to the top of the hill to call on the Danaan reserve.
By now Brocan had realized he could not possibly hold his warriors back. They were full of the spirit of war and would not
be turned way from this reckless charge. With a glance of resignation at Fergus he held his blade up high above his head. “Forward!” the Fir-Bolg king commanded. “We'll chase them to their ships! We'll hound them back to the shores of Iber!”
His warriors answered his order with a joyous shout. Scota felt the force of their voices rolling down the hill at her like a tumbling boulder of sound. The queen quickly formed her troops into an arrow shape with the point facing back down the hill.
They barely had time to perform the maneuver before the first Fir-Bolg ran into the waiting arms of the Milesian battle lines. As Brocan and his warriors clashed with the Gaedhals the outer arms of the arrow closed in and the Fir-Bolg were suddenly surrounded.
A battle horn sounded from the top of the hill as Scota found herself in the thick of the fight. A sword flashed by her face but there was no room in the press to raise her weapon to parry a blow. The queen staggered backward to avoid another attack and was on her back in the mud before she knew what had happened.
But Scota soon regained her feet and rushed back into the fight. It was then she noticed Eber struggling with an enemy warrior not five paces away. Her son's face was covered in sweat; his hands, red from the ochre war paint, seemed to be stained with the blood of many. Just as she had resolved to go to Eber's side she felt a hand firmly grasping her wrist.
“The line is not holding,” a familiar voice told her urgently. “The enemy have called in their reserves. They are attacking your people from behind. Break the circle and withdraw or the Gaedhals will be slaughtered.”
The grip on Scota's wrist loosened and she looked on the spirit of Míl now standing beside Eber.
“I will watch over him,” the ghost assured her. “You must concentrate on winning the day.”
Scota filled her lungs, ready to give the order. “Fall back!” she bellowed. “Fall back into a long battle line!”
The cry was taken up along the hillside by all the Milesian warriors. Soon they were withdrawing in good order, fighting a defensive retreat as they moved. But Scota had to be dragged away by her son. The very moment she had issued the order the queen had glimpsed in the distance a face she had been dreading to see. The face of the woman who was destined to send her on her way from this weary world.