In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘He’s right!’ said Conor, jumping up and cupping his palms to his eyes. ‘It is Médon and Galart … and who is that with them…?’

  ‘It is Aedd and Calbhan—’ Donal replied. ‘And Dearg.’

  ‘And Dearg!’ cried Conor. ‘So it is. The five of them. What can they be wanting?’

  ‘They have come to beg us to return, maybe,’ suggested Fergal.

  Leaving the fire ring, Conor strode out to meet the riders. Fergal and Donal took up their spears and moved out from under the shelter of the trees to see how Conor was received. The five Brigantes, led by Médon, reined up in a line before them. As soon as his mount halted, Médon slid down and strode directly toward Conor, drawing his sword as he came.

  ‘Bastard!’ growled Fergal. He lowered his spear and started forward.

  Donal snagged him by the cloak and pulled him back. ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘and watch.’

  Médon stopped a few paces before Conor, who, unarmed, stood waiting. The two spoke for a moment, but Fergal and Donal were too far away to hear what was said. Fergal, losing patience, pulled away and hurried out to stand beside Conor; Donal trailed a step behind. Fergal had crossed half the distance when Médon suddenly swung his blade sideways. He then dropped to his knees and, holding the blade across his palms, offered it up to Conor.

  As Fergal and Donal took their places beside Conor, the four other Brigantes warriors climbed down from their mounts and arranged themselves in a row behind Médon. They likewise drew their swords and, sinking to their knees, offered up their naked blades.

  ‘What is this?’ said Fergal. ‘What goes here?’

  ‘Brothers,’ replied Conor with a wide and handsome grin. ‘These good warriors have come to join our warband.’

  ‘We have no warband,’ Fergal remarked, taking in the five offered blades. ‘That is to say we had none the last time I looked.’

  ‘We have one now,’ Conor told him. ‘Here they are!’

  Turning, he spread his arms over the five young warriors and, in a solemn voice declared, ‘You have offered your blades and with them your lives to my service. I accept your service and I accept you, laying only one condition—that you vow on your honour as a warrior in Eirlandia to uphold each of your brothers through all things, aye, even though it should mean your death.’

  He paused a moment to allow those words to be understood, then said, ‘Do you make this vow?’

  ‘I do,’ replied Médon. ‘On my life and honour, I make this vow and that right readily.’ His words were echoed by each of the other four men in turn: Galart, Aedd, Dearg, and Calbhan.

  ‘Then get you up on your feet,’ Conor told them. ‘We are all swordbrothers from this day on.’

  The five rose and, somewhat sheepishly, looked at one another and at Conor. Clearly, having done what they came to do, they had no other plan or thought beyond the moment and now that it had passed they no longer knew what to do with themselves. Conor, realising they must have departed Aintrén in the middle of the night, offered the bare hospitality of his camp, ‘You have ridden far and the day grows no fairer for all that. Come, rest, and warm yourselves by the fire and we will think what to do next.’

  ‘What are we going to feed them?’ whispered Donal.

  One of the newcomers, Dearg, a lean, wiry man of pale, milk-white, lightly freckled skin and fiercely red hair, overheard and spoke up. ‘We have brought food with us. If you will permit me, I will make us all a meal to break our fast.’

  ‘A man after my own heart,’ said Fergal. ‘So he is.’

  Gathering the reins of their mounts, the five walked with Conor to the crude little camp at the edge of the forest. They had indeed come prepared to stay, bringing with them not only full water skins and bulging sparáns, but also fleeces for sleeping, cloth bags full of oats and other supplies, and, among other things, an iron pot for cooking. The new arrivals quickly unburdened the horses; then, while Dearg occupied himself with the food, Aedd and Calbhan made a picket line beneath the shelter of a spreading oak and tethered their horses beside the others, then set about rubbing down their wet coats and watering them.

  Meanwhile, Médon and Galart sat down with Conor, Donal, and Fergal to discuss what had provoked their decision to leave the Brigantes warhost. ‘Scarce two days have passed,’ Conor said. ‘What can have happened in the small space that you should embrace exile from your tribe?’

  ‘We are not exiled,’ Galart corrected, ‘nor could we stay. The gate was not yet closed on your leaving when the rot began. As soon as Médon and his battle group returned from riding the border, Lord Vainche summoned us all to the yard to address us. He told us that he was to be warleader now, and that his man, Gioll, would be his battlechief.’

  ‘Much as I expected,’ Conor observed. ‘The two of them had already reached that agreement with the queen before we left. Go on—what happened next?’

  ‘Such a turn did not sit well with some of us, as you can imagine. Only a few knew you were gone, most did not. But Lord Vainche said that it was for the best that he took up the slack reins of authority and discipline—as he said—because things had grown too lax and lazy since Brecan’s sad demise.’

  Aedd and Calbhan, who had been taking care of the horses, joined the discussion. ‘Vainche told us that under his rule the Brigantes and Bréifne would become a great warhost once more,’ said Aedd.

  ‘He said he would make of us warriors to be feared in all of Eirlandia,’ Calbhan added.

  ‘How ambitious of him,’ scoffed Fergal. ‘But is it Eirlandia we are trying to frighten now? Here was I thinking it was the vile Scálda we were meant to put the fear on.’

  ‘Aye, and there was very much more like that,’ Médon said. ‘It was when that bloated braggart Gioll called us to begin our training—that was when the day slid into the midden heap.’

  ‘Our new battlechief paired us off so we could spar and show him what manner of fighting we practiced,’ said Aedd. ‘He made us scuffle while he walked around yelling commands.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Fergal observed. ‘I might have done the same on any given day.’

  ‘Ach, aye, so you would. But I think you would be having the good sense not to carp and complain of every last thrust and jab before you knew us better. Gioll said we held our weapons poorly, and that our feet were not placed correctly, and that our shield work was sloppy, and our blade work careless—and more like that.’

  ‘He said we were the worst warriors he’d ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on,’ put in Aedd. ‘He raved and raged at everything we did.’

  Galart joined in. ‘He declared it was a wonder we were not all dead already. And this in front of our people in the yard. They watched the whole thing.’

  ‘Bad as that was, it got worse,’ said Calbhan.

  There were aggrieved nods all around. Médon took up the tale once more. ‘Aye, and the more he saw the angrier he grew, this Gioll. He told us he did not blame us for our poor training and lack of ability.’ The young warrior raised his eyes from the fire and, looking at Conor, added, ‘He said that it was a good thing Lord Vainche had dismissed you in disgrace—while there was still time to save the warband from your incompetence and stupidity.’

  ‘Conor was not dismissed,’ Donal said, ‘in disgrace or otherwise. He left of his own accord and likewise Fergal and myself. It was our choice and ours alone.’

  ‘Aye, I know it,’ Médon said, ‘but that is what Gioll said. And he told us we must unlearn everything you had taught us. He would teach us the proper way to fight.’

  ‘That is when we lost all heart,’ said Galart. ‘He began to show us this better way of his and the more he talked and demonstrated, the more it became clear to those of us who have fought the Scálda that he did not know the first thing he was talking about.’

  ‘Did he not?’ mocked Conor. ‘I am surprised.’

  ‘Ach, well, so it seemed and most of us agreed. What Gioll showed us was how our grandfathers might have engaged
an enemy, perhaps. I don’t know.’ Médon shrugged. ‘But I came away with the strong suspicion that he had never swung a blade against a screaming Scálda on horseback.’

  Dearg, who had been busy with the supplies, joined them at the fire ring with a large wooden bowl between his hands, and said, ‘Aye, and if any warrior had done what Gioll said to do in a fight that sad fellow would not live to battle’s end. Médon, here—what did you say, brother?’

  ‘A most efficient way to make corpses of ourselves.’

  ‘Aye, that was it—a most efficient way of making corpses of ourselves. That’s what Vainche’s man was showing us.’

  ‘What did you do then?’ asked Fergal, who was taking a wicked delight in the tale.

  ‘After this training was finished, Gioll and Vainche retired to the hall with those few Bréifne men and a few of the warriors they liked and hoped to win to their side. The rest of us took ourselves to the Warriors’ House to discuss what had happened out there in the yard. It was clear to most everyone that we could not follow this battlechief with good heart. To follow him at all would get us killed in the first clash. Something had to be done.’

  ‘You went to the queen with your grievance?’ suggested Donal.

  ‘We tried,’ said Dearg, kneading barley meal in the bowl with his hands. ‘Médon and Galart and Aedd—they were chosen to go to her.’

  ‘But she refused to hear us,’ said Galart. ‘She said she would not listen to any baseless complaints about Lord Vainche or his decisions. But, see now, Vainche was there with her when she said that. And he said that he expected such changes as he meant to introduce to sit ill with some who were too beholden to the old ways, but that this insolence was unseemly.’

  ‘Nay, it was worse than that,’ said Aedd. ‘He told us that from now on such disloyalty would be rooted out and punished.’

  Médon thrust out his chin. ‘I told him that it was not disloyalty, but fear for the life and welfare of the tribe and its warband that concerned us.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Galart, ‘and his high-and-mighty lordship leapt up shouting that any complaint against his rule was disloyalty in his eyes and an offense that would be met with punishment swift and stern.’

  ‘What sort of punishment?’ asked Fergal.

  ‘He didn’t say.’ Dearg began to shape small lumps of dough into round, flat loaves, placing them on hot stones at the edge of the fire.

  ‘We had no desire to discover what passed for punishment in his warped opinion,’ Médon said; he poked the fire with a stick. ‘We went back to the Warriors’ House and told the others what had happened in the meeting. Ach, Conor, you could see the heart go out of them. The five of us decided to leave then and there and come find you. It was in our minds to ask you to return and take your place at the head of the warband again.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Galart. ‘But if you would not come back, we came prepared to stay with you if you would have us.’

  Calbhan, glancing around at his fellow Brigantes said, ‘We came right gladly. That is the truth.’

  ‘Yet, you left in the night with darkness to hide you,’ Conor pointed out.

  ‘Ach, well,’ laughed Dearg. An amiable youth, he wore his red hair long and scraped back and in a tight half braid at the side of his head as if to emphasise his right to the warrior’s rank. ‘We are none of us as stupid as Gioll and his irksome lord make out. We thought it best to leave quietly lest they imagine riding after you an act of disloyalty. I had no wish to discover what manner of punishment they might devise.’

  ‘Nor could we abide another day of Gioll’s absurd training,’ said Calbhan. ‘Even Brotla knows battle better, so he does.’

  ‘Brotla?’ wondered Fergal, glancing around.

  ‘My horse!’ The dark-haired young warrior put back his head and laughed; and the mood around the fire ring, having grown sombre, began to brighten. The youngest of the group, his genial, light-hearted presence had a natural cheering effect on those around him.

  Conor’s fledgling warband did not move on that day, but remained camped at the forest’s edge where they rested and made plans for the future. For, confidence restored, and emboldened by the spirit and conviction of his new followers, a new vision, like the sun rising after a long, cold night, slowly revealed to Conor the shape of fresh possibilities.

  Of all those who sat around the fire, only Donal saw what was forming in his swordbrother’s heart and mind. When the others went off to begin preparing a rough shelter for the night, he lingered behind to exchange a private word.

  ‘We are not going to Lord Cahir,’ he said. ‘You have chosen a different path.’

  ‘In truth, I believe I do,’ Conor told him. ‘Is it that apparent?’

  ‘To me, perhaps,’ Donal glanced over his shoulder where some of the others were cutting small branches and saplings to make a roof over their heads, ‘but not to the others. Tell me, brother, what is in your mind?’

  ‘I am thinking—it is not all planned, to be sure—but I am thinking we will become a roving warband.’

  ‘A roving warband,’ Donal intoned.

  ‘Aye, a “fianna”—isn’t that the old word?’

  ‘Aye, I think so.’

  ‘We will be a roving band of warriors owing no allegiance or service to any lord, and holding no king over us. We will answer to no one but ourselves alone.’

  ‘What will you do with this roving band of warriors—this fianna of yours?’ Donal asked, watching the light come up in Conor’s dark eyes; in the shifting light of the campfire, the ruby-tinted birthmark that marred the side of his face seemed to glow with a fire from within.

  ‘Our fianna will go where others cannot go, and do what others cannot do.’

  Donal’s eyes narrowed as he glimpsed something of the shape of Conor’s design. ‘Aye, and what is it that these others cannot do?’

  ‘Seek out and kill Balor Berugderc,’ Conor replied. Before Donal could begin to frame a reply to this audacious declaration, Conor continued, ‘See here now, we sojourned in the deadlands before—and did great harm to the enemy.’

  ‘Hardly that,’ countered Donal.

  ‘At the very least, we know our way around and can remain out of sight of the enemy.’

  ‘More or less,’ Donal granted. ‘But our warband for all its zeal, laudable as that is, numbers only five blades—’

  ‘Eight, including ours,’ said Conor.

  ‘Eight then—but that is eight against the entire Scálda warhost. Not the best odds a fella could ask.’

  ‘Aye, but we do not have to defeat the entire Scálda warhost,’ Conor countered, ‘we only have to defeat one.’

  ‘Balor Evil Eye.’

  ‘Cut off the head and the creature will die, is that it?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Conor said, grinning. ‘You agree with me then.’

  ‘I did not say that,’ Donal cautioned. ‘If this plan of yours was a lump of bread, I would say it was not fully baked.’

  ‘I said it was not complete in all particulars,’ Conor replied.

  ‘Fergal will hate it.’

  ‘What will Fergal hate?’ Fergal loomed up behind them just then to stand gazing down at them with his hands on his hips. ‘You two are hatching something. What is it?’

  ‘Conor has it in his mind to go and poke the bear in his cave,’ said Donal.

  ‘Dangerous business, that,’ allowed Fergal. ‘What bear? Which cave?’

  ‘Balor Evil Eye in his ráth.’

  Fergal stared at the two before him for a moment, then put back his head and laughed. ‘Ha! What is it you are drinking—and is there any more of it?’

  ‘We could do this,’ Conor said quickly. ‘We three—among all the warriors in Eirlandia—we three alone possess the knowledge and ability to do this. Moreover, we have been given the weapons to do it—charmed weapons, the gift of the faéry to be used in just this way. And now … now we have five more brothers in arms to support us in the task. All the threads are coming together—don�
��t you see?’ Conor wondered at his sudden insight. It felt as if his feet had been placed on a path leading directly to the place he needed to go—as if some unseen hand was guiding him, and it was right. ‘This was meant to be.’

  Fergal was shaking his head before Conor finished. ‘Of all the mad things I’ve heard you say over the years, this must be the maddest ever.’

  ‘Why?’ said Conor. ‘Think about it, brother.’

  ‘Why? He asks me why? It is impossible, I say. Impossible, aye, and that is just the beginning. The region beyond the deadlands is a fair piece of territory—a realm all its own and one that happens to be under enemy control. Add to that your fella Evil Eye could be anywhere. How would we find him? Where would we even begin looking?’

  ‘Finding him might not be that difficult,’ Conor said. ‘We know where we found him the first time.’

  ‘Right so,’ replied Fergal, he moved around to take a seat on the ground across from the other two. ‘Even supposing we found him, there is the matter of getting close enough to plant a blade between his rib bones without anyone knowing.’

  ‘I was close enough once, remember. And if I got close enough again, I would ply that blade—and I would not care who knew about it!’

  ‘Even if you achieved such a vaunted feat, the Scálda would soon have your head on a stick. You’d never get out alive.’

  ‘That would be a small enough price to pay for clearing the way to end the war.’

  ‘On my sword,’ breathed Fergal, ‘I begin to believe you mean it.’

  Donal turned his gaze from the fire to Conor. ‘Ach, he is in earnest, brother. But I see a ray of light in this dark design.’

  Fergal puffed out his cheeks and sighed with frustration. ‘You, too? The pair of you are daft as two wet ferrets. Listen to yourselves! Do you hear what you are saying?’

  ‘Nay, brother—you listen,’ said Donal. ‘We are a small band and that will be a strength. A small group can roam at will where a larger force would be noticed and action taken to remove it.’

  ‘The Scálda cannot fight what they do not know to be there,’ added Conor. ‘We can make a virtue of that. Aye, so where others would have to use force, we will use stealth. We can travel through the lands the Scálda stole without being seen.’