Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  The cost had also been high for the neighbouring communities. At the very moment of victory Cathal ua Cuan had, tragically, been killed by a javelin cast from the departing fian. With the old warrior’s loss, Ráth Dearg had no surviving menfolk and, of the original population, only Gnathad, Cumann and the children remained. As a settlement, it was no more.

  Coill Mór had fared almost as badly. Ber Rua and two of his men were dead. Lí Bán and Ferchar – the red-haired warrior who’d fought so bravely on the northern rampart – were also hurt although the bandraoi was confident both would survive their wounds.

  The injured were Bodhmhall’s immediate priority following the attack. Once she’d got over the blunted realization that the fighting was done, that she had come through it alive, she’d somehow managed to move the wounded into Cairbre and Conchenn’s roundhouse. There she’d examined everyone, dressed their wounds and treated them as best she could within the limitations of her own injury.

  The intensity of the battle and these subsequent efforts took its toll, however. The aftershock had caused her to break down without warning on two occasions. The first time, in the privacy of the lean-to where she’d been gathering supplies, no one had seen her. The second time she’d been treating Lí Bán, a big-boned woman in her thirties. Despite a serous stab wound to her left breast, the older woman had found the strength to comfort the weeping bandraoi, to hold her and share in her shock and grief.

  Later, after cleaning Aodhán’s wound for a second time, Bodhmhall had sat, rested her head against the wall of the round house and promptly passed out.

  It was almost dark when the bandraoi was woken by Tóla tapping her on her unwounded shoulder. Looking up, she saw the ugly man standing before her on one leg, a spear haft under his shoulder a crude crutch to support his weight. He grinned, made an odd chirping noise and gestured for her to go outside. Blearily, she struggled to her feet and left him to watch over the others while she struggled to the doorway.

  The world was grey and fading to black as she emerged onto the lis. Heavy cloud obscured any sign of the sun sinking behind the forest to the west. Up on the gateway rampart, she caught a glimpse of Gnathad’s slim figure. The woman was armed with a fian shield and spear, and stood beside a grim faced Morag, both staring towards the fading skyline.

  Fiacail mac Codhna was waiting for her by the lis hearth, sitting on one of the logs, gazing long and hard into the flames. Despite being immersed in the thickest of the fighting, despite one deep cut across his forehead, the big man had somehow escaped with only cuts and bruises. Dried blood stained the front of his tunic but she knew that this was not his own. Unlike Bodhmhall, who’d spent the afternoon saving lives, the big man had spent his ending them, passing through the ráth and its immediate surroundings like a spectre of death, snuffing the life-light of any wounded fian warriors who still breathed. The bodies of those warriors who’d managed to breach the lis had been piled outside with their comrades in a grisly heap beyond the causeway, awaiting disposal.

  There was no sign of the children but that did not surprise the bandraoi. She was aware that they’d been hidden inside her roundhouse during the course of the attack and doubted that they’d have been permitted outside while the signs of slaughter remained so obvious. Earlier, Morag had also come to the roundhouse to tell her that she’d ordered them all to bed. Despite the fact that they’d been restrained inside for a full day, none of the children had resisted or complained. They’d understood that events of great significance and danger were taking place. They were scared and worried and did as they were told.

  Bodhmhall yawned and took a seat on the log beside the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man. She was still struggling to get her thoughts together and, with Fiacail, she would need to have her wits about her.

  ‘The ráth is secure,’ he informed her. ‘I’ve got rid of the ladders. Some were too difficult to lift so I cut the grapple hooks and let them fall into the ditch. I’ve moved those I could carry inside. They can feed your fires next winter.’

  She looked at him bleakly. There was no guarantee they would survive to the following winter.

  Absorbed by the colours of the flames, the warrior missed the expression on her face. ‘But enough of ladders. We should discuss what needs to be done next.’

  ‘We need to find Liath Luachra. And the others.’

  This time Fiacail raised his head and stared at her directly. ‘The black mantle falls, Bodhmhall. It will be too dark to make out the form of things until morning.’

  Although Fiacail’s words were full of sense, for some reason the response infuriated her. ‘Fiacail, you have fulfilled your role as conradh beyond anyone’s expectations but I am Taoiseach of Ráth Bládhma. This decision will fall to me.’

  ‘Fatigue unwinds your intellect, Bodhmhall. The decision may fall to you but so too does the night fall. Besides, Tóla says wolves are prowling the edge of the northern woods. They are been drawn by the scent of death.’

  The bandraoi shuffled along the log, away from the fire. Even with the cold air, the heat from the blazing flames was intense. ‘If Liath Luachra and the others lie wounded out in the Great Wild that is all the more reason to search for them.’

  ‘And who do you propose that we send to carry out such a task? Apart from the other women, I am the only one who is not seriously injured. I am needed here to defend the settlement against attack. The fian may have run from battle but they may return to storm the ráth again.’

  She looked at him dubiously. ‘They will not be back, Fiacail. Before I fell asleep I used my Gift to search the valley. It was empty of human life-light. The fian has lost its leader and its spirit for battle.’

  ‘I found no sign of that tall, hatchet-faced man. He’s still alive out there and the fact that you did not see them there does not mean they will not return.’

  ‘If you will refuse to help, I will go alone.’

  ‘You cannot go. It is dark and if you are Taoiseach of Ráth Bládhma as you claim to be, you need to lead your people. They depend on you.’

  ‘My people lie dead or scattered in the Great Wild.’

  ‘You have other people now.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Those of Coill Mór and Ráth Dearg, Bodhmhall. They fought for Ráth Bládhma. Some of them died for Ráth Bládhma. Those that still live have nowhere to go back to so you must accept them into Muinntir Bládhma.’

  Bodhmhall fixed him a furious stare but could not deny the truth of what he was saying. Beside her, the fire crackled mockingly. A log collapsed to one side wafting a fresh blast of hot air over her. She attempted to pull the cloak from herself but, for some reason, the clasp holding it in place proved difficult to unfasten. After several attempts, exasperated, she yanked the garment off over her head and furiously tossed it onto the ground. She glared at the warrior, daring him to make some deprecating comment but he remained steadfastly silent, focussed once more on the dance of the flames.

  Gods! Fatigue makes me absurd. Fiacail speaks the truth.

  The realisation provoked a fresh wave of despair but she managed to regain control of her emotions. Sliding back along the log, she put a hand on the big man’s shoulder and was about to apologise when a sudden noise from outside the ráth stilled her. Heart pounding, she turned to stare in the direction of the gateway, beyond which the strange, high-pitched yipping seemed to be coming.

  ‘It is not Liath Luachra,’ said Fiacail.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is not Liath Luachra. It’s the wolves. They feed on the fallen.’

  Bodhmhall returned his gaze, ashen-faced.

  ‘Do not fret,’ he said. ‘All of our people are within the walls.’

  ‘Not all of them.’

  Fiacail sighed and looked away.

  ***

  The following morning, they prepared their dead for burial, the women working with Fiacail to lay the bodies of the defenders in a line between the western rampart and the lean-to. Hampered by th
e wound to her shoulder, Bodhmhall was unable to provide much assistance. Over the course of the night, the pain had worsened. Fortunately, it hadn’t disturbed her sleep. Physically and emotionally exhausted, she had not stirred until the first light of dawn.

  In a way, she was grateful for the burning ache. The pain meant that she could feel something and anything was better than the numbing stupefaction that continued to cling to her like a damp cloak she could not discard.

  Returning briefly to the roundhouse, she checked on her charges. Lí Bán had deserted her sickbed, struggling to cope with the pain of her wound but insisting on being present for the burial of her man. Ferchar was still unconscious. During the battle, he’d received a blow to the head and although he occasionally came to his senses, even at such times he was groggy, confused and suffering greatly from head pain.

  Aodhán remained pale and feverish but he had not passed away in the night. There was still hope.

  She left the sleeping men and slipped quietly outside, crossing the lis to the gateway ladder. Yet another grey day; dark, lumpish layers of cloud hovered above the ridges on either side. Using her Gift, she scanned the valley but could see little to indicate any sign of human life. There was certainly no sign of Liath Luachra’s distinctive fire.

  Glancing down to where Fiacail had dumped the bodies of the fian warriors, she noticed that there seemed to be less of them than she remembered. Several of the remaining bodies bore signs of mauling and she shuddered as she recalled the horrendous sound of ripping flesh from the previous night. Yet another task, she realized with dismay. Once they’d buried their own dead they would have to dispose of their enemies. If not, the rotting flesh would draw even more wolves into the valley.

  Although she could not dig, her one good hand meant the bandraoi could help carry their friends to the edge of the southern woods for burial while Tóla kept watch from the gateway. It was here, looking down at Cairbre and Conchenn’s remains that Bodhmhall finally let go of the dormant heartache lying inside her like a bitter seed. The two elders had been a constant for the entirety of her existence, from her early days at Dún Baoiscne to more recent times at Ráth Bládhma. Their absence was incomprehensible, like new knowledge that did not quite fit inside her head.

  She sat for a moment with Cairbre’s head in her lap, keening quietly as she caressed the old man’s wrinkled face. His eyes were closed and his features relaxed but such repose could not be confused with sleep. His skin was white and cold to the touch. The bandraoi struggled to conceive how Ráth Bládhma could prevail without Cairbre and the tireless Conchenn. The old man had been the perfect rechtaire; calm, measured and so very, very wise.

  Not so wise if he followed you to Ráth Bládhma.

  She could still recall the moment she’d asked him to accompany her to start a colony in the distant Sliabh Bládhma hills. At the time she hadn’t really expected him to accept her offer. He had, after all, a relatively comfortable existence in Dún Baoiscne. His prompt acceptance, therefore, had taken her completely by surprise. It was only much later that she understood that decision had been driven by love for his sons. At Dún Baoiscne, despite his achievements, Cairbre would always be remembered as a freed slave and he held greater aspirations for his sons. By accompanying Bodhmhall and assisting in the creation of a new settlement at Ráth Bládhma, his boys would not grow up as ‘sons of the slave’ but as landed freemen in that community.

  She bent down and kissed the cold forehead.

  ‘Coladh sámh, a Cairbre. Sleep well. Rest gentle on soft beds where your bones no longer give you pain.’

  It was hard, emotionally draining work to bury their dead deep enough so the wolves could not touch them. The task took Fiacail and the women the better part of the morning. Shortly before noon, as they were laying the final body to rest, a yell from the settlement made them look up in alarm. Bodhmhall looked towards the gateway where Tóla was gesturing urgently to the east. Turning towards the thick forest that bordered the converging of the valley walls, she caught sight of several figures making their way towards them.

  Cónán! Muirne Muncháem and the children.

  She glanced down at the freshly turned earth where Cónán’s parents were buried and winced in sympathy for the boy. He would come looking for his parents and, as Taoiseach, it would fall to her to impart the terrible news to him.

  She closed her eyes and wished a close to this endless day, this endless grief.

  ***

  That afternoon, they released the cattle onto the nearest pasture. The winter grass wasn’t substantial there as it had been intensely grazed over the days leading up to attack but it was better than nothing and would pacify the hungry animals until other arrangements could be made. Fiacail and Morag accompanied the cattle outside, keeping them close to the settlement and watching for wolves, the grey shapes still skulking around the trees in the northern woods.

  By mid-afternoon, to everyone’s surprise, Bodhmhall insisted on driving the livestock back inside the settlement. At first, the reluctant animals resisted, unwilling to leave the pasture, but stinging blows from some slender ash branches quickly convinced them otherwise.

  As the cattle passed through the passage below her, Bodhmhall stood at the rampart and stared across at the northern woods then down at the pile of remaining fian bodies. Earlier, during the process of moving the cattle outside, they’d found one of the fian warriors half-submerged in the watery soil inside the livestock pen. During the battle, the invader had apparently fallen from the rampart and landed in amongst the cattle. Unable to rise because of his wounds or the closeness of the animals, he’d been trampled to death or had simply drowned in the piss and shit-stained sodden earth. Fiacail had regarded the compressed corpse with complete dispassion before dragging it from the sucking mud and tossing it outside with the others.

  The bodies will draw the beasts, not to mention the risk of sickness. But it must wait. There are more urgent tasks I must take in hand.

  Bodhmhall returned to check on her patients. Ferchar had regained consciousness but remained dizzy and confused. The óglach was still unconscious and hot with fever but his breathing was regular. She changed his bandages once again before making sure that the glow about his wound had not intensified. Satisfied that there was little else she could do for them, the bandraoi pulled on a heavy cloak, armed herself with a spear and headed outside.

  A soft drizzle had started to fall over the valley, saturating the trampled lis and making it even muddier then it already was. Tramping across the sludge, she arrived at the gateway to find Fiacail waiting inside the passage overhang, running a whetstone along the length of an axe blade. He held the weapon up against the weak light of the leaden sky as she drew to a stop before him. Despite his efforts, a deep nick remained in the lower section of the blade.

  ‘You leave us then? You intend to go in search of the Grey One?’

  His eyes moved from the spear in her hand to the bandaged shoulder barely visible beneath the folds of her cloak.

  ‘I have done what I can for the settlement. Liath Luachra and Bearach need me now.’

  Bodhmhall took a deep breath as she prepared herself for another vexed confrontation with the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man. To her surprise, Fiacail simply nodded and got to his feet, slotting the axe handle into a leather sheath slung across his back. ‘Very well. I will accompany you.’

  Bodhmhall stared, startled by the offer but also extremely grateful. Fighting for her life, she’d had no opportunity to observe in which direction the Grey One had fled after that initial bolt to the west. To find Liath Luachra, she would need to locate the woman’s trail and she was no tracker. Having someone like Fiacail to help her – a competent woodsman from an early age – significantly improved her chances of finding that trail.

  ‘I did not think you liked Liath Luachra.’

  ‘I don’t. But I like you.’

  They left the ráth with the gateway passage sealed behind them. Tóla and Cónán st
ood careful guard on the ramparts although in Tóla’s case it was more a case of ‘sitting’ guard. Bodhmhall threw a worried glance at the young boy. Cairbre’s son was still red-eyed and shaken. She felt guilt at leaving him with such responsibility given that he’d had so little time to grieve the loss of his parents. But grieving was a luxury none of them could afford.

  Following the stream that meandered slowly to the west, they travelled quickly until they reached a point approximately half way down the valley. Here they slowed and moved in more of a zig-zag pattern, back and forth across the pasture, with the big man pausing occasionally to study any tracks they intersected. The earth was still relatively soft due to the recent rains and the imprints they found were well defined but she could tell that Fiacail was not happy. With all the movement from the fian warriors, much of the valley floor had been trampled, making it difficult to distinguish the warrior woman’s trail from all the others. Two hundred paces from the edge of the forest, however, they had a stroke of good fortune. Fiacail stopped abruptly and bent down to examine a small imprint on the ground. After a moment of quiet deliberation he glanced up at the bandraoi. ‘It’s the Grey One.’

  Bodhmhall regarded the imprint. All she could see was a muddy footprint, not much different from the many others around it. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘The imprint of the toes point away from the ráth.’ The big man shuffled forward on his knees to rest his fingers on another imprint. ‘The distance between the steps is also wider than normal.’

  ‘So the person who left these tracks was running.’

  He nodded.

  ‘But that could have been anyone.’

  ‘True. But the imprints are less distinct than the others. That means the runner was lighter. We know Liath Luachra is lighter than most of the fian warriors. She was certainly carrying less weight.’

  To demonstrate what he meant, Fiacail indicated another set of tracks where the full outline of the foot was more deeply indented in the earth.