He was a young man. Broad shouldered and handsome with a full moustache and a thick mane of black hair that spilled down to his shoulders. The thick strands had been tied up in braids around his face, exposing the tattooed patterns on his left cheek and forehead. His noble heritage was evidenced by the embroidered, coloured tunic and pants of good quality. A green wool cloak hung draped over his shoulders, fastened beneath his chin with an elaborate bronze pin.
Liath Luachra struggled to focus and she blinked, pupils and eyelids burning. Her stomach hurt from heaving. Her joints were swollen, disjointed by strain. Her scalp and face felt scratched and torn and a headache pounded inside her temple. She stank of sweat and stale urine.
She ignored the pain. She knew how to deal with pain. It was the restraints that terrified her, the unfamiliar sense of powerlessness. She tried to speak but the word came out as a hoarse croak, her parched lips unable to articulate the sounds correctly.
‘Gaaahh.’
The response, oddly enough, seemed to satisfy her captor for he gave an easy smile. ‘Good. The rages have passed.’
With a nod, he rose from his seat and pulled a long knife from the scabbard on his belt. Unable to move, Liath Luachra watched him approach with mounting apprehension, glaring in defiance as he crouched down beside her. She forced herself not to flinch as he lifted the knife but he didn’t seem to notice her relief as he used the weapon to cut the leather thongs around her right hand. Keen and freshly ground, the blade made short work of the bindings, the severed strips falling to the ground with a single slice.
Free at last, she made another desperate attempt to rise but it was a dismal failure. Her body, pushed beyond its limits, simply refused to respond to her mental commands. She was left lying as helpless as a fish left beached in the shallows by the departing tide.
Beside her, the squatting man continued to watch her as though anticipating some particular reaction that she was unable to provide. When it became apparent that no response was forthcoming, he sighed, slipped a hand underneath her back and hauled her into a sitting position. As she was pulled upright, the fur cloak shifted and slid off to one side. She was suddenly aware of the chill touch of air against the exposed skin of her arms.
Satisfied that she was not about to fall, the man grabbed a water skin lying on the ground beside them.
‘Drink.’
He held out the leather container and she grasped it with weak hands, hauling it to her mouth to gulp the water down. Much of the liquid splashed down one side of her face but she succeeded in getting some through her parched lips.
After several long swallows, she continued to drink despite feeling sated. She could feel the water swell her internal tissue, filling her dehydrated body from the inside out.
Finally, she dropped the skin and considered the tall man who had returned to his seat on the rock. Stroking the tender, red welts on her wrists, a consequence of the bindings, she made a point of ignoring him while she looked around and assessed their surroundings although the effort set her head spinning. A muscle at the side of her face twitched, the nerve shot, but she ignored that too.
They were in a crude campsite. Located in a tight clearing, it was surrounded on all sides by forest, tall trees with wide, spanning limbs that blotted out patches of sky. She noted that her ‘benefactor’ had also constructed a rough lean-to, a shelter constructed with branches hacked from the surrounding trees. She placed a hand palm downwards on the ground beside her. It was cold but free of snow.
‘Fiacail mac Codhna!’
The young man made a pretence at a bow.
‘It always pleases a man to be recalled by the fairer sex, Liath Luachra.’ He smiled, revealing the perfect set of teeth – fiacla – from which his nickname had been derived.
Her response was a growl.
‘Even,’ he continued, completely undaunted ‘If it be for all the wrong reasons.’
‘You had the good sense to cut me loose. Don’t provoke me, big man.’
If he was in any way perturbed by the threat, the young man certainly showed no sign of it. He slapped his knee and roared with laughter, a deep, rollicking guffaw that only served to infuriate her further.
‘You prancing cockerel. What are you doing here? For that matter what am I – ’
She stopped in mid-sentence for she had suddenly noticed two other men sitting cross-legged on the other side of the little clearing, separated from her by a roaring campfire. Both were dressed in colourless, woollen jerkins and cloaks and bore the facial scarring and tattoos of seasoned warriors. Stocky and dark-haired, they shared similar pug noses and narrow foreheads, a strong resemblance that left little doubt of their close kinship. Although they were sitting half-shrouded in shadow, Liath Luachra was angry with herself for not spotting them straight off. Despite her open scrutiny, they stared back at her in silence.
‘What are you doing here?’ Fiacail completed the question for her. ‘Well, there’s an interesting tale.’ He paused to reach back to the fire and pulled a wooden bowl from the embers. The strong smell of a warm meaty broth hit her nostrils and it took all of her self-control to prevent herself from licking her lips.
Fiacail handed her the bowl. Making no pretence of manners, she raised it straight to her lips and shovelled the steaming contents down her throat, ignoring the scalding it gave her tongue.
‘You know,’ continued Fiacail, politely ignoring her lack of finesse. ‘It’s always been a matter of some amazement to me, the efforts to which some young women will rise to seek out the pleasure of my company. Now, I’m hardly the one to brag but ...’
‘Fiacail,’ she snapped, tossing the empty bowl aside with a frown of regret. She could happily have gorged another bowl or two.
‘But your approach was somewhat more original.’ He grinned that infuriating grin, completely indifferent to her glowering expression. ‘Never let it be said that Liath Luachra fails to make a dramatic entrance.’ He coughed into his hand and took on the sombre tones of a professional storyteller.
‘There I was, settled down with a fire, a warm meal and the congenial company of my kinsmen. He gestured towards the two men across the fire then widened his eyes for dramatic effect. ‘Suddenly, who should come thundering out of the undergrowth but Liath Luachra, the Grey One of Luachair.’
He raised his eyebrows, shaking his head with an exaggerated expression of incomprehension.
‘Not that we recognised you at first, of course. Your eyes bulging like a constipated toad, your mouth frothing, gibbering like a crazy woman. Without care or concern, you stampeded through our camp, trampled our little fire, and stomped on the girdle cake we’d been saving for ...’
Fiacail’s melodrama tailed off quietly.
‘Tóla and Ultán were particularly upset at the loss of that girdle cake. They’d been looking forward to the sweet taste for days. To be honest, I was none too pleased myself. That cake was a present from a close friend in Seiscenn Uarbhaoil.’
‘Fiacail,’ said Liath Luachra, her head drooping with fatigue. She closed her eyes as a pounding headache flowered up behind her temple. She had never felt so weak in her life. ‘Please just tell me what happened.’
The young man considered her in silence. After a moment he nodded to himself as though he’d made some private, internal decision.
‘Very well. Quite simply, you ran through our camp, tripped over the stones about out fire and hit the ground hard. The fall must have knocked the air out of your chest for you were wheezing and drooling, unable to even breathe. Despite this, you attempted to rise again, growling and snarling at us when we tried to restrain you. You truly had the strength of the mad, Liath Luachra. In the end, it took all three of us to restrain you, to tie you down so you could not harm yourself. Or us, for that matter. Despite your restraints, you kicked and you bucked for some time before you finally passed out.’
He looked her directly in the eyes but this time none of his earlier humour remained.
‘You were possessed by a demon, Liath Luachra. If we had not stopped you, you would have run yourself to death.’
Chapter Three
Bearach was visibly flagging as he neared the ráth. By the time he’d reached the causeway and made it through the stone gateway he was, literally, staggering. Cairbre and Aodhán, waiting inside the safety of the lis, sealed the gap behind him with a heavy door. A thick slab of hard oak lined with rows of iron bolts, its outer panels had been reinforced with strips of metal, its inner panels inlaid with leather straps. The latter allowed it to be manhandled into position, flush against the protruding stone then securely fixed to four iron rungs set into the gateway. Once it was in place, a wooden brace was wedged firmly between the door and a large boulder. The final barrier presented a substantial obstacle to anyone intent on storming Ráth Bládhma.
With the entranceway secure, Cairbre returned to the gateway while Cónán was dispatched to the eastern side of the ráth to watch for any force attempting to outflank the settlement. Bodhmhall and Aodhán descended to the lis where Bearach was slumped against the wooden frame above the fire pit. Heaving great gasps of breath into the chilly air, he lifted a ladle full of water from a nearby bucket and poured the liquid over his head, sputtering and cursing at the cold of it.
‘Where’s the venison, brother?’ Aodhán rested his weight on the shaft of his javelin, patiently regarding his brother. ‘And what have you done to lose Liath Luachra?’
Scowling, Bearach ignored his sibling as he struggled to his feet to face Bodhmhall.
‘A fian, Bodhmhall! At least twenty to thirty men.’
The bandraoi stared at him in shock.
‘A fian! Out here in the Great Wild? Are you sure?’ She cast a glance towards the older sibling, hoping for some form of reassurance. The worried expression on Aodhán’s face did nothing to allay her fears.
‘Yes, Bodhmhall,’ the boy replied. ‘There’s no doubt of it.’
Bodhmhall paused to look around at the surrounding embankment and its upper wall of log pilings. The defences, which had always protected them so well in the past, suddenly looked disturbingly ineffectual. She bit her lip as she recalled a conversation with Liath Luachra shortly after their arrival at Glenn Ceoch, when work had just commenced on repairing the ráth. At the time, the warrior woman had been explaining how the ring fort’s ditch and embankment were designed to protect its inhabitants from wildlife or opportunistic marauders. Even then, she’d made it clear that they would not be a meaningful deterrent against a determined attack from any kind of substantial force.
And twenty to thirty men is a substantial force.
‘Liath Luachra?’ she asked, trying to keep the concern from her voice but unable to tell if she had succeeded. ‘Where is she?’
Bearach nervously cleared his throat. ‘There was a fire -’ The youth paused abruptly to catch his breath. Gasping a lungful of air, he tried once more.
‘We saw a camp fire at Drom Osna on our way back to Glenn Ceoch. Liath Luachra went to go closer and get a better look. When she left, it was too far for me to see anything but I heard shouts and the sound of an alarm being raised. There was a lot of shouting so I ran.’ He averted his eyes, face scarlet with the flush of guilt. ‘I didn’t want to run, Bodhmhall. But she told me I had to. That I had to come and warn you.’
The boy was clearly upset at having deserted his mentor. Bodhmhall attempted to console him, even as she did her best to ignore her own fears at her conradh’s disappearance.
‘Do not feel guilt, Bearach. If Liath Luachra instructed you to run then you can be sure that it was the correct thing to do.’
She looked up at the slate-coloured sky. She sun had passed its peak and was starting its inevitable descent but there was little chance of darkness falling to shroud the settlement for some time yet.
‘Douse the fire pit,’ she instructed the óglach. ‘I don’t want the smoke to draw any strangers towards us. We’ll use the hut hearths for the next few days. The smoke seeps through the thatch and won’t be as visible.’
Aodhán nodded. ‘Should we keep the livestock inside?’
Bodhmhall shook her head. ‘No. But bring the cattle in to the near pasture. There’s enough grass there to last for several days. Whatever you do, don’t let them stray beyond the fences. The last thing we want is to have them wandering down by the entrance to the valley.’
The bandraoi looked about the settlement again, creating a mental list of the various tasks that needed to be completed. ‘The pigs and goats can stay in pens for a few days. We won’t have time to round them up if the fian find us. Tell the others to remain close to the ráth. If luck is with us, they will bypass the valley.’
Everyone remained resolutely silent on what would happen if the fian did not pass the valley.
‘And Liath Luachra?’ Bearach’s voice had a distinct tremor. ‘What should we do?’
Bodhmhall looked at the boy, the fear in his eyes reflecting everything that she herself felt in her own heart.
‘We don’t know where she is, Bearach. Even if we did we don’t have the force to rescue her and could end up drawing the fian down on us.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘No. We must place our trust in Liath Luachra’s abilities. For the moment, at least, I’m afraid our friend is on her own.’
***
That afternoon, the ráth and its immediate environs formed the focus of an uncharacteristically frenzied activity as desperate preparations were made to prepare the defences. Conchenn and Cairbre worked on the food supplies, filling several troughs of water inside the compound and preserving what additional food stocks they could without the use of the main fire pit.
Cónán, meanwhile, drove the cattle outside to the fenced pastures alongside the northern edge of the settlement where they would graze before being driven back into the ráth again before nightfall. Once the larger animals were settled, he rushed off to locate the pigs and goats, some of whom had been wandering in the nearer sections of wood for days.
Bearach, recovered from his gruelling marathon, relieved Aodhán on the gateway, freeing his older brother to work on the preparation of two new javelins and a spear to be added to the selection already set into the gatehouse rack.
For her part, Bodhmhall spent most of the afternoon weaving a wicker panel that could be used to plug a gap in the eastern wall of the upper rampart. During the ráth’s reconstruction, this final section had never been completed as they’d exhausted their supply of wooden pilings obtained at great effort from the nearby wood. Due to other, more demanding, priorities and the settlement’s general lack of manpower, a gap of four or five oak pilings still existed. Located high on the inner embankment, this weakness had never previously been a significant issue but given the size of the fian, this breach was now the most substantial chink in the ráth’s defences. The makeshift wicker barrier, although not a particularly effective measure, would have to do given the time constraints involved.
Immersed in her work, Bodhmhall lost all awareness of time and it was only a sudden drop in temperature that prompted her to look up and realise how late it was. Gazing down the valley, she was relieved to see Cónán herding the cattle closer to the ráth as the sun began to sink behind the trees at the distant valley entrance. She observed the darkening sky with some relief. Nightfall was not far off and soon the valley would be shrouded in a dark mantle more effective as a defence than the embankment and all of their javelins combined.
Determined to complete her task, Bodhmhall focused once more on the wicker panel. Finishing the final weave, she was manhandling the barrier into position when a stone flew past her head and glanced violently off one of the pilings. Startled, she looked towards the gateway where Aodhán and Bearach were gesturing furiously for her to join him.
Her heart sank.
Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, Bodhmhall left the panel leaning, unfixed, across the gap and hurried around the narrow earthen rampart to join the grimfaced youths.
‘What? What is it?’
Wordlessly, Aodhán pointed towards the far end of the valley where three shadowy figures were barely discernible against the gloom of the forest.
Gods!
Bodhmhall swallowed a cold lump of mucus that had inexplicably formed at the back of her throat. She continued to watch in silence as the óglach alerted his father and his other brother. Cairbre and Cónán arrived on the gateway rampart as the strangers drew closer, each carrying a javelin and an iron sword.
‘Cónán, take the eastern wall. There’s three of them in sight but there could be more. I think – ’
‘Aodhán,’ Bearach interrupted his brother. ‘Something’s not right. Look at the way they’re running.’
Although clearly displeased by the interruption, the eldest brother grudgingly turned to reassess the approaching figures. The strangers had now progressed significantly further up the valley and were about half-way between the ráth and the valley entrance. Although almost completely engulfed by shadow of night at this point, it was still possible to see that the two individuals to the rear were carrying something between them. The creases in the óglach’s forehead tightened.
‘Bodhmhall, can you ...?’
But Bodhmhall was already drawing on the full ability of her Gift, scrutinising the four bright flares that flickered in the distance.
‘There are four individuals out there. One of them is being carried by two of the others. I can’t see anyone else in the valley or up on the ridges.’ She shook her head with certainty. ‘No. Whoever they are, they’ve come alone.’
Aodhán released a sigh of relief as he stared out at the descending darkness. With a grunt, he reached down to pull a slender baton from a sheltered alcove built into the stone rampart. One end of the baton was heavily wrapped in gauze and smelled strongly of pitch. ‘Stay back,’ he told the others.
Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma Page 8