Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  Bodhmhall winced as another shower of missiles struck the gatehouse, one of them glancing off the pilings above her head.

  They’re keeping us pinned down! We can’t stop them coming across the causeway.

  ‘Come on, woman!’ Fiacail again. ‘Protect the boy!’ A slew of javelins flew overhead, some slamming into the pilings, others sailing past to land in the lis where the elderly reserve force pulled back in alarm. One of the missiles embedded itself in the buttocks of a dairy cow, sending the wounding animal bellowing and bucking in paroxysms of pain inside the crowded pen.

  Aodhán was flinging javelins back in return. Bodhmhall lifted her shield and was moving towards him when a heavy wooden pole crashed against the gatehouse’s outer stone rampart. A metal hook at the tip slipped down the inside wall, latching onto the internal stone and securing the makeshift ladder in place. Even before it was fully secured, a foul head had appeared over the top of the rampart, an invader’s filthy hand reaching over the rim to haul itself up. The fian warrior was still pulling himself up over the rampart when Tóla suddenly appeared beside her, driving a spear deep into his chest with such force that he tumbled back off the wall and disappeared from sight.

  Another javelin glanced off the wall. The air was full of screaming. Bodhmhall pushed forward towards Aodhán, past Fiacail who was hammering an axe at the hook of another assault ladder, doing his best to dislodge it while he bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Shitheads! Pox breathers! Pig fuckers!’

  The bandraoi heard rather than saw a missile whirring in from the left and instantly raised her shield to defend the óglach. A sudden blow almost knocked it out of her hands and a spear tip and two fingers of shaft erupted through the inner leather lining.

  ‘Aodhán defend the gateway. Bodhmhall help him.’

  Fiacail rushed past, headed for the southern rampart. The bandraoi glanced towards the south of the ráth and saw why the big man had left them. The Coill Mór man placed there was down, stretched limp along the embankment with most of his scalp missing. Three more of the improvised assault ladders had appeared, poking ominously above the pilings on that side. As she watched three, then four of the fian warriors climbed over the spiked wooden barriers. Struggling to free himself from the piling where his belt had become entangled, the nearest warrior didn’t notice Fiacail approach or hear the whirr of his swinging axes. One came down in a vertical arc, burying itself into the back of the raider’s skull. He hadn’t even dropped in the time it took Fiacail’s second axe to swing upwards, catching another warrior under the jaw with full force. The impact of the strike was such that the warrior was lifted off his feet and thrown violently back against the pilings.

  On the northern edge of the ráth, things were going little better. The red-haired Coill Mór man stationed there was successfully holding back an attempted intrusion from one assault ladder but a second ladder had already latched on a few paces to the left of where he was fighting for his life. One fian warrior had already clambered over the barrier by the time Ber Rua got there to confront him. Young and impossibly agile, he responded to the Coill Mór leader’s attack with almost contemptuous ease, ducking under the slashing sword then swinging up with an attack of his own. There was a clash of steel as his sword caught on the hilt of Ber Rua’s knife, then both men were struggling hand to hand.

  Protected by their comrade’s efforts, two more fian warriors had succeeded in breeching the ráth and gained a foothold on the northern embankment. They were advancing on the red-haired Coill Mór man when a spear throw from Ultán took the foremost one in the back, knocking him off the rampart and into the lis below.

  The Coill Mór man must have finally noticed the presence of enemies to his side for he glanced to his left, his face sweating and pale. Unable to protect himself from an attack on two fronts, he had no choice but to back away, retreating to his right and conceding the assault ladder.

  Leaping over his writhing comrade, the second fian warrior immediately rushed forwards. To his misfortune, in his hurry to defend the ladder, he tripped over his fallen comrade’s battle axe and momentarily lost his balance. Grasping the opportunity, the Coill Mór man immediately moved in, sliding his sword up to stab him in the stomach. There was a loud scream as the warrior fell, clutching the innards that were spilling from his eviscerated stomach. Ignoring him, the Coill Mór man immediately moved back to confront another warrior slipping in over the pilings at his previous position.

  ‘Bodhmhall!’

  She snapped about to see Aodhán stumbling backwards, his sword on the ground and a terrible gash down his left side. A fian warrior with long, black hair was pulling himself up onto the rampart, a bloody sword grasped in his right hand. She charged him without thinking, bringing her shield up to use as a weapon. He lifted his head just as she reached him, ramming the hard rim of the shield into the skin beneath his nose with all of the strength she could muster. The blow bowled him backwards off the wall, into the ditch.

  She stared at the empty space and was about to release an ululation of victory when a javelin spinning in from the side glanced off her shield and struck her in the shoulder. The impact was enough to spin her around and this time it was Bodhmhall who went tumbling off the top of the gateway, landing with a heavy thump in the lis. For several moments, she stared at the muddy surface, disorientated and unable to work out what had happened. She tried to get up but the movement caused the haft of javelin in her shoulder to twist sharply.

  She screamed.

  Her vision momentarily turned red from the pain. Forcing herself to grasp the haft of the weapon, she attempted to pull it but wasn’t able to get a firm grip. A bellow of rage from overhead caused her to look up to at the gateway where Aodhán’s arm dangled lifelessly over the lis. To the left, she could also see Tóla repeatedly battering a fian warrior who’d managed to get over the rampart wall but was struggling to fight while supporting a bloody wound in the leg. Behind the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man, another warrior was scrambling over the wall from the second assault ladder.

  ‘Fiacail!’

  Within the din and clamour of battle, the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man should not have been able to hear her yet, somehow, by some miracle he did. Over on the southern wall, she could see him knock another warrior from the pilings. The big man had been joined by Ultán, who was busy wrestling on the rampart with another invader, stabbing him repeatedly in the side with a blood-smeared knife and hand. The Seiscenn Uarbhaoil warrior’s face bore a terrifying animal-like rictus and he roared each time he plunged the knife into his enemy.

  Glancing around, Fiacail understood the risk to the gateway immediately. Aodhán and Bodhmhall were down. Tóla was on his own, attempting to defend himself against one opponent and unable to prevent incursion from two different assault ladders. Despite this, the big man was in no position to help. With three separate assault ladders, the southern side of the ráth was taking the brunt of the attack and, between them, Fiacail, Ultán and the red-haired Coill Mór man were struggling to hold them back.

  At the eastern edge, the wicker barrier blocking the gap in the pilings had been smashed aside and the Coill Mór warrior, Lí Bán and Gnathad were fighting valiantly to hold the fian assault back. Even as she watched, she saw the Coill Mór man stagger back, a spear haft embedded in his right eye. He quivered violently as he flopped to one side and slid off the rampart but the Ráth Dearg woman quickly grabbed his sword and started hacking at the incoming warriors. Lí Bán wailed in dismay, leaving her to fight alone as she ran to the aid of her husband on the northern wall.

  Ber Rua was down and unmoving, although he’d evidently managed to stab his opponent several times before he died. The young fian warrior had dragged himself further along the rampart but, bleeding copiously, it was clear that he wouldn’t be doing any more damage. The red-haired Coill Mór man was also down but had somehow managed to dislodge one of the assault ladders.

  A single assault ladder now remained on the northern rim and it was
this alone that allowed the reserve force to get there in time. Cathal ua Cuan mounted the internal ladder and ran along the rampart, swinging his club with impressive vigour for a man of his age. At the scaling ladder, a fian warrior with one leg over the pilings just had time to look up before the old man’s club smashed his head in.

  The old fighter did not stop there. Like Fiacail, he too had seen the danger at the gateway and hurried towards it, reaching it just in time to prevent the most recent invader from stabbing Tóla in the back. His first strike took the fian man behind the knee, swiping his leg up and knocking him flat on the ground. His second blow took the startled warrior across the side of the face, smashing his left cheek and eye socket.

  The old man didn’t stay to enjoy the screaming fruits of his labour but moved immediately to counter the next warrior on the scaling ladder. Despite the limitations of his club, with the advantage of a secure footing and higher ground, he was able to successfully hold them at bay.

  Bodhmhall breathed a sigh of relief and tried to ignore the torturous discomfort in her shoulder as she struggled to her feet. She staggered forwards but each step she took made the haft of the javelin quiver and the resulting agony in her shoulder was almost impossible to bear. Weeping with the pain, she stumbled on, intent on reaching the ladder to the northern curve where the reserves were now attempting to prevent the enemy from entering.

  It was not a viable contest. Cairbre was no fighter and was barely able to move with his brittle bones. Despite this, she saw him chopping downwards, repeatedly striking a fian warrior’s shield while Conchenn and Lí Bán, enraged with grief, poked ineffectually at the raiders through gaps in the pilings with the spears.

  Bodhmhall slumped against the nearest roundhouse. ‘Morag! Morag!’

  The curly-haired woman that she’d so recently treated in Coill Mór tentatively stuck her head through the leather covering, a spear grasped tightly, if inexpertly, in her hands. The only adult not defending the wall – with the exception of the traumatised Cumann – she was the last line of defence to protect the children should the fian break through to the lis.

  ‘Pull it -’ Bodhmhall wheezed. ‘Pull it out!’

  Morag looked at her in alarm then stared with wide eyes at the javelin protruding from her shoulder.

  ‘Do it!’ shouted Bodhmhall.

  The Coill Mór woman responded faster than Bodhmhall expected, grabbing the javelin haft with both hands and wrenching it free with a single tug. The sheer agony of the extraction caused Bodhmhall to stagger and for a moment she almost fainted. Hanging onto the doorway for support, she fought off clouds of unconsciousness as blood from the wound trickled down her arm. ‘Tie it up,’ she whispered and although she must have been barely audible, the younger woman quickly did as she was asked, ripping a piece of cloth from her tunic to wrap around the wound.

  Lucky. You were lucky.

  The javelin head had been unbarbed, it hadn’t hit her directly but had glanced off the shield. Admittedly, the force had been enough to knock her from the gateway but the weapon had not penetrated so deeply that it couldn’t be removed. The wound still burned like scalded flesh of course, and she was sweating and feeling nauseous, but she could move, albeit in a restricted manner. She had been remarkably lucky, even if the knowledge prompted little elation.

  Leaving the startled Morag to return inside the roundhouse, Bodhmhall grabbed the blood-coated javelin and used it as support as she tottered towards the northern ladder. Up on the pilings, the invaders had managed to climb higher on the assault ladder despite Cairbre’s efforts and the assistance of the women.

  Bodhmhall pulled herself, one-handed, up the wobbling ladder. As she dragged herself onto the rampart, she heard Cairbre shriek in agony and looked up just in time to see an upward spear thrust take the old man in the armpit, the tip ploughing through skin and bone and erupting out through the tunic on the back shoulder. The bandraoi screamed in dismay as she saw her rechtaire driven back from the pilings and an enormous, tattooed warrior leaping over the barrier to take his place. Grabbing the spear haft, the fian man rammed the helpless elder back off the rampart to fall with a cry into the lis below.

  Desperate to protect her man, Conchenn attacked with Lí Bán but the warrior simply swatted their spear thrusts aside with his shield. Spinning rapidly on one heel, he launched himself forwards and smashed the edge of the shield against the older woman’s head. Bodhmhall could hear the sickening sound of Conchenn’s skull splinter beneath the force of the blow. Intoxicated by the heady mix of physical violence and victorious achievement, the fian warrior roared with laughter as she too slid lifeless off the rampart.

  She didn’t know how she managed it but, somehow, Bodhmhall managed to reach the warrior just as he turned on the terrified Lí Bán. Unable to hold the javelin properly, she grasped it by the haft with her good hand, close to the metal tip, and jabbed it into the side of his neck. The fian warrior roared and swung about, instinctively swiping out with his shield. The flat surface smashed her violently across the chest, knocking her off her feet and onto the rampart surface. Glaring down at her with smouldering eyes, the fian man ignored the other cowering woman as he advanced on his newest target. Looming over her, he was raising his spear to a stabbing position when he suddenly shuddered and stiffened. Staring up at him, the bandraoi saw his face take on a bewildered grimace as he slowly dropped to his knees and then fell forwards, flat on his face beside her.

  Terrified, mind still reeling from the effect of the shield strike, she stared at the axe head lodged deep in the base of the warrior’s neck, the long wooden haft sticking up at an angle, still quivering from the impact. Shaking, she looked down to the lis where Fiacail was standing, his post deserted in order to save her. Chest heaving with exertion, he looked to make sure that she was alive than turned and ran back to the southern ladder.

  Behind her, Bodhmhall could hear the sound of fighting as Lí Bán fought off another attempt at entry but found herself unable to rise to her feet. Dazed, she watched Fiacail cross the lis, struggling to get back onto the rampart where Ultán was in serious trouble.

  Fighting off two fresh fian warriors, a third was clambering up over the pilings behind the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil warrior. Sensing the threat to his rear, he quickly slid backwards, smashing the newcomer in the face with the pommel of his sword.

  Turning to face his two other adversaries, Ultán stepped forward only to get slammed backwards by a sudden spear to the stomach. Staggering sideways against the pilings, he stared down in disbelief at the shaft protruding from his belly, his hands burying inside his furs as he struggled to staunch the flow of blood. The nearest fian warrior didn’t hesitate. Taking advantage of the distraction, he leapt forward at speed to grasp the haft and hammer it deeper into the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man’s solar plexus. Ultán screamed and attempted to wriggle free but he was caught, impaled like a fish on a spit. Ultán’s opponent echoed the scream with his own screech of victory, leaving the older warrior to buckle and collapse as he raced on towards the approaching Fiacail.

  Down to one axe, the big man swung the weapon in even more tightly controlled and menacing arcs. As the fian warrior sprang forward, he brought the blade swirling down in a deadly movement that the warrior successfully dodged by shifting to the rear. At the last moment, however, Fiacail changed the direction of the swing, drawing the weapon back up at an angle that allowed it to carve through the man’s Achilles from behind.

  There was a scream as the fian man’s leg collapsed but Fiacail had already bypassed him, pausing only to kick him in the head and reach down to grab his fallen sword. Rising to confront his next opponent, he smiled grimly as the twisting blade threw spatters of blood over the nervously waiting warrior. Having observed the outcome of the previous skirmish, it was clear he was not going to be as rash as his comrade.

  Slowly, the warrior advanced with his shield up and feinted a thrust at Fiacail’s head. The big man stepped back then surged forward again, slas
hing the axe down and quickly following it up with a thrust from the sword. The fian warrior parried both assaults then shuffled forwards, punching out abruptly with the shield in an effort to force Fiacail back. The effort was his undoing for Fiacail had already swung his axe again.

  Although the warrior attempted to block it, the curved metal head caught on the edge of his shield, snagging the lip. Muscles bulging from the effort, Fiacail slowly dragged the resisting shield lower and lower until the man’s increasingly panicked features were visible. With lethal abruptness, he struck from the side with his sword, struck and struck again. The fian warrior gurgled as his throat blossomed red then a font of blood erupted from this jugular. His body fell to the rampart, shuddering in death spasms. Blood continued to gush from his throat until there was nothing left.

  Over on the northern rampart, Lí Bán was huddled against the pilings, crying. Bodhmhall stared across to where Fiacail was spinning about, struggling to locate his next opponent. Bodies were stretched out on the ramparts all around him, blood was pooling at his feet. He whirled again, in confusion for no-one – no-one – was attacking him.

  It took Bodhmhall several moments to work it out as well and it was only when she saw several of the fian retreating in scattered groups up the valley that she truly understood. The battle was over. The great wave had shattered upon the headland. Pummelled and maimed, the headland had survived. Ráth Bládhma had survived.

  Bodhmhall looked over the edge of the rampart, down to where the crumpled bodies of Cairbre and Conchenn lay twisted and broken. She began to weep, for the elderly couple, for Liath Luachra, for all the others who had died when she had not.

  They had survived.

  Chapter Ten

  Liath Luachra ran.

  And did not look back.

  The heavy pound of feet, punctuated by bellows and threats, told her everything she needed to know.

  After thirty paces or so, the shouting eased off. Clearly her pursuers were saving their breath, intent on catching her. If they caught her, she knew there would be no mercy. They would pin her to the ground, most likely taking their own type of vengeance before finishing off what was left with a knife across the throat.