Suddenly Bearach erupted from the dead leaves behind them. Lunging forwards, he plunged his sword blade deep into the back of the hindmost warrior.
Good boy!
The stricken warrior screamed and swatted feebly behind him with his sword. Bearach pulled his own weapon free as his victim fell to the ground, blood from the deep wound already staining the leaves beneath him. His two comrades had whirled about at his yell, poised to confront this new threat and that’s when Liath Luachra launched herself. The nearest one – armed with a hand-axe – sensed her attack and attempted to swing back to face her but he was too slow. Her sword strike took him across the front of his throat, the force of it tearing his epiglottis right out and spinning it off into the trees.
She barely had time to register the horrible gurgling sound he made as she slid past towards the remaining warrior. This heavy-built man had already closed in on Bearach and knocked him, dazed, to the ground but, hearing her approach, swung round to meet her. Her sword slashed down with all the weight of her body behind it but he deflected it easily, rolling it off the blade of his own weapon as he shifted to one side.
Halfway through the movement, the woman warrior abruptly changed direction, adjusting her momentum to lunge sideways at an angle to her original attack. Sparks flew as the two blades scraped apart.
Pulling away, Liath Luachra cursed. The warrior was an excellent fighter, constantly circling or adjusting his movement. Worse, he had a longer sword that gave him the advantage in reach while his hand strength meant there was no corresponding loss in dexterity. Despite the death of his two comrades, he didn’t look worried. He knew that all he had to do was hold them off for a short time. Alerted by the yelling and the clash of combat, the other three warriors would not be long coming to support him.
He lunged forwards with surprising speed for a man of his size but she’d readied herself, anticipating the attack. She blocked the blow but the warrior’s sword struck hers with such a violent clang that the vibration rattled through the blade and pommel, numbing her hand.
This time it was Liath Luachra who retreated. This man was too strong, too fast to defeat with agility or brute force alone. He yelled in excitement as he drove her backwards, the strength of his sword attack too strong to block effectively, his shield held well so that his flank was protected. She backed further into the trees, hoping that the fian warrior’s mighty sword swing would be constricted by the closeness of the trunks. Realising what she was up to, he continued to press her but changed his onslaught from tight angled strikes to a series of well-targeted lunges that she struggled to avoid.
Suddenly, he moved so fast that he caught her and she bit back a yelp of surprise as his sword thrust cut through the edge of her battle harness, the flat side of the blade sliding cold and dangerous against her skin. Wrenching back, she managed to tear herself free before he could follow up but as she attempted to slide around the nearest tree trunk, she slipped on a wet patch of earth. Her feline agility permitted her to twist so that she landed on all fours but there was one horrible moment of realisation that she was completely powerless to defend herself. Looking up, she saw the gleam of victory in her opponent’s eyes, his broadsword already swinging up in a vertical arc. In that instant, she tried to raise her own sword but knew that the downward swing of that heavy weapon would have the combined power of the warrior’s two arms behind it. She didn’t have a hope of blocking it.
I’m dead!
Suddenly, there was a dull thwack of metal striking wood and the warrior unexpectedly staggered. Shocked, both adversaries glanced up to where the weapon had snagged, the blade lodged deep into the bark of an overhead branch.
Even as the curse erupted from the warrior’s mouth and he started to yank his weapon free, the women warrior was up. Rolling sideways, she twisted half-way through the roll to bring Gleas gan Ainm up in a tight arc, plunging it directly into his stomach with all the force she could muster.
She heard the big man gasp, more out of shock than pain, then blood and entrails were pouring over her hands and the hilt of the sword. Despite his injuries, the warrior would probably have remained upright if she hadn’t kicked the legs out from under him. He crashed heavily to the soggy ground and she wrenched the weapon from his guts. He stared at her, eyes flared with hatred, agony and, she imagined, infuriated disbelief.
Bearach.
She wasted no time basking in her victory. The second group of warriors would be on them in moments and, this time, there would be no opportunity for ambush. Rushing back to the centre of the clearing she found, to her relief, that the óglach was up on his feet and although he was groggily wiping his face with one hand, he had his sword clutched firmly in the other.
‘Bearach!’
He looked up at her yell, staring fuzzily at her as she grabbed him by the shoulders and started pulling him away.
It was something in his expression that warned her; an involuntary grimace, a kind of numbed appreciation of danger. It was only her instincts and keen reactions that saved her. She ducked and the sword blade from the assailant behind her went swishing overhead. Even as he struggled to regain his balance, she was up and running, pushing Bearach ahead of her.
The other warriors.
‘Run!’
They made it to the edge of the clearing at a point where two faint animal trails veered off in different directions. She pushed Bearach to the right and took the left, yipping and screaming to draw the men after her.
Making no attempt at stealth, she ran as fast as she could, following the trail as it wound uphill then, abruptly, came out of the trees, onto the exposed hill top that formed the island’s centre. Up on the hill, there was nowhere to hide, nothing to see. Nothing but bleak, black rock and a withered tree standing eerily at the very crest. Without slowing, she’d started round the curve of the slope when something in the rhythm of the pursuing footsteps alerted her. Something about it was wrong. Very, very wrong.
She glanced back over her shoulder and saw, to her horror, that only one of the warriors had followed her.
Bearach!
Her heart was in her mouth as she skidded to a halt. If her sudden about face disturbed her pursuer, however, he showed no sign of it for he came on to attack her without pause. He was a thickset man, squat and burly with no sign of a neck between his head and shoulders. What he lacked in neck, however, he more than made up for in muscle.
He came at her with a wild sword swing that she managed to dodge, then followed up with a stab from the knife in his left hand. The tip of this came closer than she’d wanted, nicking the skin in her shoulder.
Circling away, she held her own sword at the ready, looking for an opening. He gave her one, raising his knife hand too high on his left flank but her instincts immediately told her it was a ruse. Sure enough, when she feinted he reacted far more quickly than he should have, pulling back with his knife arm to reduce the point of contact and swinging down hard with the sword in his right hand. He’d obviously been prepared, waiting for her move. It was a simple trick. Probably an old trick he’d learned, one that he continued to use simply because it’d worked once before.
She backed away, blood trickling from the wound in her shoulder, and he leered at her with a face that only a blind mother could love; skin as tanned as leather, a livid scar across his forehead, artless black tattoos, a broken nose and a gash across his lips and cheek. He was also a formidable fighter, aggressive and vicious, but she was desperate. She had to end this quickly to get back to Bearach.
And there’s only one way to do that. Get in close.
She slid forwards then, feinted an attack on his ‘exposed’ side as she’d just done a moment earlier. Once again, the warrior reacted in a similar manner, drawing back on the left and striking with the right. This time, she took a risk, switching her weight from her right leg to her left so that she could surge forward, low under his sword arm to slam his chest with her shoulder.
The swiftness of the move
ment caught him completely by surprise, bowling him over backwards. Somehow, he managed to grab her harness and drag her down with him and, just before they hit the ground, got in with the knife. She felt the blade enter her outer thigh, just below her hip. Unable to control the movement because of the fall, his strike slashed rather than stabbed, the blade cutting through the flesh of her leg at an angle instead of penetrating deep into the tissue. It still hurt though, burning with an intensity that threatened to overwhelm her. Aware that her sword was useless at such close quarters, she dropped it and slammed him in the face instead, using both fists. He roared with anger and tried to stab with the knife again but she had her knee down on his inner forearm, preventing him from raising it.
Can’t hold him!
He was strong, much stronger than she’d expected. The pressure from her knee was also weakening as a result of the wound. The more she pressed, the more agonizing it became, to the point where she was close to blacking out. Desperate, she pummelled him again in the face with her free hand, momentarily stunning him while she wrestled the knife from his left hand. Before she had a chance to use it, his right hand broke free and slammed the haft of his sword against the side of her head. The blow stunned her and he used the opportunity to buck her off to one side but, instinctively, she continued to grapple, refusing to let him get to his feet.
He lunged on top of her then, fighting to get possession of the knife. Drops of spittle sprayed her face as they struggled. Wrestling on the ground, working to kill him, her mind was unconsciously registering the strangest details: the stink of his breath, the weight of his belly grinding against her as they fought.
Somehow, probably because of his sweat-lined palms, she managed to wrench her right wrist free, just enough to jab the knife in his stomach, to feel the metal sink deep into soft tissue. She was rewarded with a yelp of pain and although it wasn’t a lethal blow it was enough to make him panic. Now, ironically, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. He couldn’t get away from her at all, in fact. Liath Luachra had wrapped her left arm about his head and throat and although he could drag her backwards on the ground, he couldn’t pull himself off her. She held him there in that twisted embrace and kept on jabbing, jabbing and jabbing with the knife until he’d stopped moving and nothing lay on top of her but dead weight.
She was weeping from pain and exhaustion by the time she finally managed to roll him off. Crawling five or six paces, she retrieved her sword and, with an effort, struggled to her feet.
The warrior’s body was lying on its side. His mouth was open, as were his eyes but they were seeing nothing. His stomach, even concealed by the heavy leather jerkin, was a tattered mess of gore and blood, much of which was now spread over her as well.
She staggered back down the hill towards the trail, unable to run, stumbling on her bleeding, near-useless leg. Sword hanging limp from her gore-encrusted right hand, she wiped blood and snot from her nose with the other, never having felt so exhausted in her life.
She forced herself to lurch forward, growing increasingly desperate the further down the trail the got.
Moving too slowly. I’ll never catch them up at this rate.
By the time she’d reached the clearing her despair was rising. The bodies of the three warriors they had ambushed were still sprawled there but there was no sign of anyone else.
Despite the pain, she pushed herself on, headed down to the marshland at the edge of the island. She was stumbling through the lower woods near the eastern shore when she heard a shout, then another and another. There was excitement in those cries. Amusement. And cruelty.
Through the trees, she suddenly saw Bearach running on the grey ‘shoreline’ with the two warriors in close pursuit and immediately realised what had happened. Realising that he couldn’t fight them and live, the óglach had run. While Liath Luachra had been fighting for her life, he’d been running for his, leading his pursuers in a complete circuit of the island only to arrive back at the spot where everything had started, where they’d first set foot after crossing the marsh.
Red-faced and gasping, the boy was at the end of his ability. Unable to run any further, he backed up against the very same boulders she’d been leaning against earlier on and raised his sword to face his pursuers. Liath Luachra desperately tried to hobble faster but struggled to get through the crowded tree trunks. She yelled desperately as she staggered forwards but her voice was suppressed by the screen of the woods around her.
By then the two fian warriors had clearly had enough of their sport. Advancing on the terrified boy, they lifted their swords, ready for a quick kill.
‘Bearach!’
Somehow he had heard her. He glanced towards the woods, squinted. Then the two warriors attacked.
She was so proud of him, so proud. For he fought like a gaiscíoch, using every trick and technique she'd taught him. His attackers were startled, taken aback by his ferocity, the deadliness of his strikes. Unsettled, they momentarily backed away, moving slightly further apart.
So that they could attack again.
This time they came from both sides and Bearach struggled to block or parry the flurry of blows. Despite that, the boy did not jerk away or flinch.
For Liath Luachra, it was as though everything was moving too fast. Although she had just reached the edge of the trees, it felt that no matter how rapidly she moved, she could never get there in time. Her anguish swelled, tinged with pride, as she saw how bravely he fought, courageously blocking one assault then whipping back to avoid a feint from the second warrior. Until fatigue overtook him. Fatigue and sheer bad fortune.
Moving backwards, he stumbled on a small rock, fumbling a feint from the first warrior to leave his right flank completely exposed to the second. The killing strike came from there, a low, upward sword thrust. Liath Luachra saw the blade go in, piercing the boy’s side. She saw the eruption of blood gush out through his furs, heard his anguished scream of pain and fear, felt the pain as though she’d been stabbed herself.
And then there was nothing but hatred, nothing but wrath. Three years of repressed loathing, of frustration, of every poisonous unexpressed thought, all unleashed in one terrifying instant. She felt the black strength flow into her, savoured the bitter taste of utter ruthlessness. She moved forwards and, where before it felt as though everything was moving too fast, now it seemed to be moving impossibly slowly. Bearach was falling, taking an age to hit the ground. The two warriors, having heard her scream, were turning to face her. But incredibly sluggishly. Like two men moving in deep water.
Gleas gan Ainm slashed with almost contemptuous ease and she felt the impact of the strike right through the hilt. The blow sliced through flesh and bone, taking the first warrior’s hand off at the wrist. It tumbled through the air, sword hilt still clenched firmly in the fist as a gush of blood sprayed over her hair and face.
The second warrior materialised beside her, but fuelled as she was by such unnatural hatred, he stood no chance. She hacked and hacked and when the screaming in her head finally faded, she was standing in a bloody mess, intestines and gore wrapped about her ankles. It took a moment to regain control of her breathing, the blood pulse pounding in her ears, the taste of iron on her lips. Her hands shook, burning from the fear-fury gush of adrenaline.
Bearach was on the ground, stretched on his back several paces away. She teetered unsteadily towards him, almost falling twice before she actually reached him and collapsed by his side. His eyes looked up at her but he couldn’t move.
‘I’m sorry, Liath Lu -. I … I tried to be ...’ He wasn’t able to finish the sentence. She could feel the fear swell in her stomach once more.
He looked like a girl’s discarded doll: limp, face a deathly pale, eyes large and full of fear. He tried to speak but no words came out. She grasped his hand and he gripped her with a desperation that made her want to cry.
‘Bearach.’
His fingers loosened, releasing her own. His head slumped forwards onto his ch
est.
‘Don’t die, little bandit. Bodhmhall will heal you.’ She resisted the urge to shake him, to force him to respond. ‘Curse you, Bearach. You are my only friend. Who will I walk the Great Wild with if you’re gone?’
She howled at him but he wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t respond. The only answer was the wind, soft and ghostly over the grey mud flats, and the melancholy cry of the marsh birds.
Chapter Eleven
Long after the fighting, the cries continued. Cries of pain, of loss, of grief. Looking about the battered, blood-stained settlement however, Bodhmhall found herself unable to express any such sentiment. Emotionally, she was spent and felt nothing but a deep-rooted, withering numbness.
We have survived.
She kept telling herself that, repeating the words over and over in her head. But she didn’t really believe it. Ráth Bládhma may have survived but Muinntir Bládhma – the people that formed its heart – had not. Cairbre, Conchenn, Ultán were dead. Liath Luachra, Bearach and Cónán were missing. Aodhán had somehow survived the sword thrust to his side and still breathed but Bodhmhall did not know for how long. The óglach was now lying in his parents’ bed, unconscious from blood loss. If he survived the night and any associated fevers he had a chance. She tried not to think about it.
Tóla too was badly wounded. The cut to his lower leg meant he could not set his weight upon it without great pain, a situation that was likely to last for several weeks at the very least. He would walk again but there was a strong possibility he would limp for the rest of his life. If the man could talk he’d probably disagree but, in truth, he’d been extremely lucky. The spearhead that pierced him had penetrated so deeply he’d nearly bled to death.
Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma Page 30