by S C McGrath
Determined to end the contest, Ruaidhrí loosed all his fury and swung his stick like a pole ax at Seán’s head, leaving himself open. Seán ducked away, avoiding the attack and then countered, landing a punishing blow to the side of Ruaidhrí’s head. There was a resounding crack as wood hit bone and Ruaidhrí staggered and fell to the ground. There was a momentary silence and then bedlam ensued. Men shouted and cheered, some charging into the arena to congratulate Seán. Incredibly, Ruaidhrí quickly regained his senses and stood up, his expression murderous, blood flowing freely down the side of his head. Seán stood triumphant, his fists raised in victory. Before the jubilant spectators could reach Seán, Ruaidhrí warned them back with a threatening sweep of his arm. He then called for his axe and sword.
“The cursed, stupid fool,” exclaimed Fionn, uttering a foul oath. “Has Ruaidhrí learned nothing from this beating?”
“It appears not. Instead he will die, for surely Seán will best him again,” replied Conall.
Déaglán watched with resigned fatalism. He knew Fionn and Conall would not stop the fight and would allow two of Eire’s finest warriors to battle to the death. We are cursed, thought Déaglán. Eire is never without conflict and it is of our own making.
The arena cleared, leaving Seán and Ruaidhrí to stand facing each other, waiting for their weapons. Suddenly, loud shouts were heard from beyond the trees to the west. The object of the alarm became clear when a runaway horse charged out of the trees and toward the men encircling the arena, knocking down one man who did not escape from the path of the crazed animal quickly enough. The horse’s mad run would have sent it past the two young warriors had Ruaidhrí stayed where he was. Instead, with no consideration for the danger, Ruaidhrí stepped into the path of the stampeding horse and attempted to stop it. He had only time to raise his hands and shout, “Whoa fine fellow,” before the horse, never slowing, hit him. The impact sent Ruaidhrí flying backwards through the air, landing with a sickening thud on the ground. The horse, stunned, staggered to its knees and collapsed. Two men ran to the horse and coaxed it to its feet where it stood trembling, its neck and flanks dark with sweat. One man took hold of its head collar while the other gently stroked the horse’s neck, then they led the frightened animal from the arena.
Meanwhile, Seán had run to where Ruaidhrí was lying and bent over him. For some time Ruaidhrí lay motionless on the ground and Seán knelt down next to him, a hush falling over the crowd. Finally, Ruaidhrí stirred, lifting his hand toward Seán, who firmly grasped Ruaidhrí’s offered hand in his own. The two young men appeared to be talking, with Seán bending close, then gesturing to where the frightened horse had been led. Ruaidhrí raised himself to a sitting position and Seán placed a steadying arm around his shoulders. The pair laughed at something one of them said. Ruaidhrí, instantly regretting his laughter, put his hand to his head. After several more minutes, Seán stood up and offered his hand to Ruaidhrí who took it. As Ruaidhrí slowly got to his feet, the men surrounding the arena roared with approval, some shouting, “Hail mighty Ruaidhrí!” All of the angry tension of the contest had dissolved and men were jesting and slapping both warriors’ backs in congratulations. Ruaidhrí, still wobbly but enjoying the adulation, threw his arm around Seán and both men smiled broadly.
“Well, you can be sure there will be a song about this contest before the day is out,” laughed Fionn.
“It deserves a grand poem, I am thinking,” replied Conall. “However, I fear Ruaidhrí is badly concussed and will have a fierce headache tomorrow,” he added, only somewhat bothered at the thought.
“Yes, but it is nothing, he has a thick skull,” Fionn said, still laughing. Then he sobered and said, “Better concussed than dead, for I have no doubt that Seán would have won the contest.”
Conall nodded. “I have a young warrior in my clan who has many of the same qualities that Seán possesses. Brian is young but in time his strength and skill will match Seán’s. With warriors such as these, the Romhanach should be prepared to die. Because die they will, by the scores,” he proclaimed with pride as the men watched the two young warriors walk from the arena, their arms around each other’s shoulders.

It was late the next morning and the mist and fog had almost disappeared. The day promised to be clear. Conall stood with Fionn and Fearghus, several feet above the crowd on the incline of a small hill with priests and priestesses of The Dagda flanking them. Niall stood below, slightly apart from the other chieftains, his warriors nearby. Seán and Ruaidhrí were standing side by side, a bond of mutual respect and friendship having arisen from the previous day’s contest. Bellicose as always, Diarmuid was loudly deriding the assembly’s purpose to those around him. Déaglán stood amongst a grove of trees at the crest of the hill, hidden but with an excellent view of all.
Surveying the crowd, Déaglán saw only a few openly hostile faces, but he knew that was of little consequence. The gathering was rife with enmity, chieftains of warring clans standing but paces from one another. Déaglán’s watchful gaze kept returning to Diarmuid. He held a jug of ale, but as yet Déaglán had not seen him take a drink.
The high priest Fearghus stepped forward and called the assembly to order. He then nodded to Conall and Fionn and addressed the chieftains. “All of you here are aware of the Romhanach threat. There is little doubt that Agricola, their commanding general, will order an invasion of our island. The manner in which we defend Eire against this invasion is in question. What you decide today is of vital importance and necessitates your most honest and thoughtful consideration. The fate of Eire is in your hands.”
Fearghus stepped back, standing shoulder to shoulder with Fionn. Conall exchanged brief words with the two men, then he straightened his shoulders, stepped forward, and began.
“Yesterday, Fionn and I watched Eire’s young warriors joist on this very spot. The contests we witnessed only confirm my belief that as warriors we have no equal. In single combat, no civilization can present a challenger who would triumph over the men who stand before us today. But the Romhanach care little for individual prowess or our ritual of single combat. They rely on vast armies and open-field combat. Their legions fight as one and with deadly effect. The Romhanach are contemptuous of our manner of warfare and trust that our internal strife will be to their advantage. They believe that we lack the discipline of command and can be drawn into battle on any pretext, thus making it easy for them to defeat us.
“The Romhanach’s assessment may be accurate. We battle each other constantly and show no regard for battlefield tactics, let alone strategy, so confident are we in our superiority as warriors. But we have never faced a foe such as the Romhanach. If we are foolhardy enough to charge their lines with no forethought or coordination of forces, they will easily decimate our ranks before we can even engage them in hand-to-hand combat.” Angry rumblings ran through the crowd and protests were sounded, the young men outraged and offended by Conall’s affront to Eire’s warriors. Fionn and Fearghus motioned for silence and many of the chieftains spoke harsh words of reproof to their men. When the angry murmuring died down, Conall continued.
“With this campaign, the Romhanach seek to gain a foothold on Eire by seizing the eastern harbors and conquering the midlands. They will then slowly but surely expand their territory and ultimately control Eire. They need not conquer our entire island with their initial invasion. They need only establish a strong fortress from which to launch future attacks. I have no doubt that the Romhanach will suffer defeats at the hands of our warriors during their campaign. But while we will leave the battlefield victorious and go home to rejoice and enjoy the comfort of our families, the Romhanach will retreat to the safety of their fortress, call for reinforcements, and devise a new battle plan. We must not allow them to establish that fortress. It is not sufficient for us to die trying to drive them from our shores. I know every man here would willingly give his life to protect his people and defend his home. That is not enough. We must triumph!
We must deliver a defeat so devastating that the Romhanach abandon all notion of conquest. We must rip the heart out of their resolve. Let the blood payment we extract be more than they are willing to suffer for glory and power.”
The same young men who had just protested now roared their approval, their bloodlust rising. The older men and the chieftains remained unmoved, stonily anticipating Conall’s next words.
“There is only one way that we can achieve such a victory and that is to unite our warriors. Eire’s warriors must fight as one with a chain of command and a carefully planned strategy. We must understand and master the Romhanach open-field combat tactics. We must all follow the orders handed down to us. Discipline is of the outmost—”
Diarmuid shouted, “And you see yourself as commander of this mighty force? You would have us all do your bidding? See how Conall already vies for control of Eire!”
“All of Eire’s chieftains will decide who is to command the warrior force,” countered Conall. “That will come later, unless you speak for all of the chieftains and wish to vote for commander now.”
“I speak only for my clan and declare that my warriors will never join a united force with dogs such as you!” Diarmuid bellowed.
“I should not say such words to a friend of mine,” commanded Fionn, his steely gray eyes full of menace. “Hold your tongue or you shall regret it.”
Diarmuid understood the deadly threat and had no wish to challenge Fionn, who he knew would gladly slay him. Diarmuid shifted on his feet, murmured an unintelligible apology, and backed down.
“Today, we are not here to decide who should command a united force but whether there will be one to command,” continued Conall. “Today we must also agree to expand Fionn’s band of warriors, drawing on the very best young men from each clan. The Fianna will supplement our united force, fighting in concert but with more speed and stealth.”
“I agree we must strike the Romhanach with overwhelming power,” stated Tuathal, a chieftain of a midlands clan. “However, I can raise a large force by relying solely on my clan and those men of friendly clans. Why would I choose to join forces with men I do not trust?”
“And who would your force of men be comprised of?” questioned Conall. “Would they all be trained and seasoned warriors, or would many be farmers and young boys with weapons no more deadly than the scythes they use in their fields? All of you have heard the tales of Queen Boudica of Sasanach, have you not?”
The crowd stirred, knowing of the horrors that befell the brave queen and her people. Enraged by Romhanach perfidy and brutality after her husband’s death, Boudica had led her tribe and many other tribes in rebellion against the Romhanach. At first Boudica and her rebels scored victories, her overwhelming numbers and angry vengeance surprising the Romhanach. Yet the Romhanach recovered and, with a force far smaller than that of Boudica’s, routed her undisciplined and untrained rebels. Tens of thousands were slaughtered, many of them farmers and tradesmen. The Romhanach also murdered the rebels’ wives and children who were camped nearby. Unwilling to face the ignominy of capture and execution, Boudica took her own life.
Conall stood silent, forcing the men to imagine the carnage and destruction, willing them to understand the enormity of Romhanach retribution. When he spoke, he did so forcefully. “Do not let the fate of Queen Boudica and her people be ours. Do not let our internal strife and quarrels spell our doom. Only a united force of trained warriors under a central command has any hope of delivering a punishing defeat to the Romhanach. We must fight as one or perish!”
“What you say may be true,” answered Tuathal. “Still, I cannot abide befriending my avowed enemies. How can I look on enemy clans with brotherhood and conciliation? That is impossible.”
“I am not asking any of you to befriend your enemies,” Conall assured them. “I would not expect you to forgive the wrongs committed by the men of rival clans. I do not ask you to embrace each other. What I do ask is that you stand shoulder to shoulder with them and battle together to defeat the Romhanach. Fight alongside all the warriors of Eire and defeat a foe who threatens what all of us hold so dear—our freedom.”
Many of the chieftains nodded in agreement, others were less convinced, reluctant to concede, even now. An impasse appeared likely. Fionn was about to address the assembly when Niall stepped forward from his place on the periphery of the group and spoke.
“I made this journey to Tara with every intention of refusing any call to unite. All of you here today know I have no love for the southern clans. I would lose no sleep if a plague visited them and wiped out every man, woman, and child. I have only slightly less enmity for most of the northern clans. There is something I do love, however, to the core of my very being, and that is Eire. The thought of a Romhanach general setting even one foot on Eire’s shores with visions of conquest is loathsome to me. I agree with Conall and Fionn. The Romhanach must not gain a foothold on Eire, no matter how small. The force with which we attack must stagger them and set them reeling. Those we do not butcher must flee to their ships, fearing our wrath and vowing never to return. If it is necessary to unite to achieve this end, so be it. If I must fight beside my avowed enemies, I will do so with a steadfast heart, for I know I will be fighting not for them but for my beloved land.”
Murmurs and rumblings spread throughout the crowd, strong words and assured responses filling the air. There were none of the riotous shouts or war cries that customarily accompanied a call to battle. Instead, an almost somber resolve and uncharacteristic stoicism permeated the assembly. There was no longer any doubt as to the course of action.
The high priest Fearghus stepped forward and raised his arm, silencing the men. “Chieftains, you must now vote. Will you swear an oath to resist the invader as united warriors? Will you battle as one?”

CHAPTER eight

éaglán relaxed, a measure of optimism easing the tension in his mind and body. He had just witnessed the impossible: Eire’s chieftains had voted to unite forces in the face of the Romhanach threat. Perhaps a miracle was possible and Eire would remain free from foreign domination. He savored the notion of victory. The moment passed and his gaze returned to the spot where Diarmuid had been standing, only to discover the chieftain was gone. Déaglán cursed his momentary inattention, angry at himself. He had been home and safe too long.
Déaglán made his way toward Diarmuid’s camp, skirting the assembly and using the oak grove as cover. He had no wish to draw the attention of others to his actions, even while in Eire. It was possible that the chieftain, disgusted with the vote to unite, had stormed back to his camp with no intention other than simply to drink himself senseless. But Déaglán’s instincts told him the chieftain’s motive was more sinister. He stopped once to search the crowd from a sheltered vantage point but still could not spot Diarmuid among the men now leaving the area.
Déaglán’s pace quickened and he left the cover of the trees. His objective now was to reach Diarmuid’s camp while the chieftain was still there. Realizing he could not concern himself with being seen when his prey was escaping, he walked purposefully, though unhurriedly. His years of stealth had taught him well. He could hide in plain sight, and he made his way through the crowd of men unheeded.
Diarmuid’s camp was relatively quiet when Déaglán reached it. A groom was currying one of the horses tied to a rope line. The rest of the horses were grazing contentedly nearby, their front legs hobbled so they would not stray too far. Several men were seated next to a campfire. One was cleaning and sharpening his sword while others were finishing their morning meal, the remnants of which appeared to be a boar. Another played a cruit, the man’s rough fingers remarkably light upon the strings, the sound gently wafting through the air. Diarmuid, however, did not appear to be there. Then, one of the grazing horses gave the chieftain away. It lifted its head and stared toward the north, its nostrils quivering as it attempted to catch the scent of its departed stablemate. The horse gav
e a mournful cry and waited. Sure enough, a not too distant cry came in response.
Déaglán knew exactly where Diarmuid was headed. Off the northern road was a dense forest known to be a refuge for knaves and thieves. Few honest men dared venture into the forest, leaving the dark, moss-covered maze of trees and brambles empty but for wild beasts and villains. Déaglán had explored the forest many times and had grown comfortable with its eerie dampness and shadows. He felt some affinity for the shrouded solitude and loneliness of the place, though it could never match the ocean’s magnificent isolation. Nor could the forest even closely approach the ocean’s ruthless and unpredictable danger. Déaglán sighed, thinking of the sea, the need to be once again sailing upon it an ever-present and insatiable addiction.
The forest looked as forbidding as ever and Déaglán slowed his pace before entering. He had jogged from Diarmuid’s camp, taking as many shortcuts as possible while trying to stay hidden. A flush of excitement surged through his body as he stepped into the shadows, the smell of decaying leaves and the damp chill immediately engulfing him. He was confident the chieftain’s meeting would be in a small clearing that lay deep within the forest, where campfires and raucous meetings could neither be seen nor heard by the outside world. The dense growth gave the advantage to a man on foot, and he thought he could reach the clearing before Diarmuid. Déaglán moved cautiously as he made his way around the looming trees and gnarled undergrowth, his senses acutely in tune with every sound and breath of air. Several times he stopped to listen, certain he heard the stealthy movement of a large wolf. It was unlikely the beast was hungry, for it made no attempt to come closer. In truth, Déaglán’s concern was with a far more deadly predator. He had no wish to have his throat cut by one of the murdering outlaws who called this wooded lair his home.