“What did you say, boy?” the barrel with a beard asked, chin bristling, slowly lowering his arms. Genonn could feel Áine’s eyes on him; they were the encouragement he needed to continue.

“I said, you will not do this thing. You will not strangle this man before I can investigate the veracity of the claims against him. Some doubt as to the justification of the sentence has been brought to my attention.”

“Veracity is it? You can take your veracity and shove it up your hole so you can. This is my ráth. I’m chief here. You’ll do as you’re told, or I’ll send you back to Ynys Môn with yon stave up your hole to keep your veracity company.”

“I am the law in this settlement,” Genonn said, sticking out his chest and lifting his chin, which proved useless.

“You’re nothing but a snot-nosed boy heading for a bloody end, so y’are.”

“I forbid it,” he said, brandishing his stave.

Mathaman shook his head, exposed his blackening teeth, and said, “Guards, seize the bodalán.”

Despite Genonn being untrained in martial arts, a quick wit and a quicker hand more than compensated for the lack. The village guards were not much better trained. They called themselves warriors but were farmers with rusting mail and blunt, aging weapons. Things might have been different if Mathaman had been a little younger and less well-endowed in the guts. However, Genonn’s staff was of heavy ash. He wasted no time in smashing it into the lower necks of the guards who stood on either side of the prisoner. Turned to the chief looking for instructions, they were not expecting the blows and collapsed like a couple of provision sacks tossed off a cart. The other two would have been a much more challenging prospect, except the crowd surged around them, pushing the guards aside and allowing passage to the blockhouse.

The woman planned this from the outset.

Once inside, Genonn used his knife to cut Donncha’s bonds before saying, “Bar the door.”

Donncha bent and picked up the heavy locking bar with one hand, closed the doors, and slotted the bar in place. Genonn nodded and smiled in triumph, crossing his arms.

“Don’t know why you’re so happy,” Donncha said, frowning.

“They cannot get in.”

“Aye, for what it’s worth.”

“What do you mean?”

“Neither can we get out. There’s water in butts, but we’ll starve soon enough. Knotted hide would have been more merciful.”

Saying, “Oh,” Genonn slumped against the wall, the reality of their situation suddenly clear.

They might not be able to get in, but all they needed to do was post a guard on the door, and they would trap the fugitives like rats in a water barrel. Eventually, starvation would force them to open the blockhouse door.

Donncha walked to the dais and plonked himself down in Mathaman’s chair. He crossed his arms and glowered at Genonn, who shrugged. The woodsman turned to look in the corner with a sulky expression. The druid wondered what Áine could see in him before realizing he was probably the only handsome man for leagues.

Genonn sat to wait with his back against a wooden piling and must have dropped off to sleep. A scratching noise woke him. A limited light in the blockhouse came from a single brazier that Donncha must have lit while Genonn slept. The scratching sounded as if a rat were digging a hole through the walls of the blockhouse.

Genonn gazed at Donncha—still sitting on the chief’s gaudy throne—but the steady rise and fall of the woodsman’s chest meant he was asleep. Genonn continued to sit with his back to the piling, listening. And there it was again, a scratching. It was coming from the doors.

After walking to the doors, holding his breath, Genonn leaned against the wood and listened. The scratching came again around the area of the locking bar. “Who is it?” Genonn hissed, unsure why he was whispering but unable to stop himself.

“It is I, Áine,” a voice whispered back.

“Who is with you?”

“The two guards you knocked on their holes, but they are asleep.”

“It is not their day, it seems,” Genonn said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It could be a trick, he thought as he lifted the bar and eased the door open a fraction. As he thought about it, he realized there would be no reason for the girl to orchestrate an escape and then betray them. Opening the doors wide enough for Áine to slip through, Genonn looked through the gap and noted the sky was clear; the stars he saw the night before were once again twinkling.

The witching hour has not long passed.

Turning back from replacing the locking bar, Genonn saw the couple engaged in an intimate kiss. From the heat, he guessed they had been apart for some time.

As soon as they were sufficiently reacquainted, the couple stood before him.

“So, what now?” Genonn asked.

“Guards are asleep. If we’re quiet, we can escape and make a new life somewhere else,” Áine proposed.

“I didn’t do it,” Donncha said, arms crossed over his chest.

“What?” Áine asked.

“I didn’t steal no sheep. I won’t let that boar’s arse win. We’ve to prove the chief is evil, so we do.”

“But how, Donncha? We cannot prove you were with me. Unless we get Usnech to recant, we cannot prove anything, and the smith hates you. Ever since you smashed him down during the match.”

“Aye. It’s true. Don’t change running being a coward’s way out. I won’t run, Áine.”

“You already ran. It’s why you’re here in this spoor hole of a bunker.”

“That was different. Stress of the moment. No time to think.”

Genonn watched the woodsman with his arms crossed over his chest and his chin angled and jutting.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

He has been thinking about this while in captivity and will not change his mind.

“What are we to do?” Áine repeated.

Genonn frowned at her plight. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, and he suspected Donncha was guilty of nothing other than falling for the wrong girl. “Do you have cumals?” he asked.

“Aye, there is some silver buried in my woodshed. Why?”

“Mathaman does not respect me because of my age. If we send for a greybeard, he must accept whatever they rule. With silver, we can send a messenger to Ynys Môn.”

“I will go,” Áine said.

“I won’t allow it,” Donncha said. “You can’t take risks on my account.”

“It’s our account, and the risks are slight, so they are. I’ll be back before you notice me gone.”

Donncha tried further objections, but she kissed them still before slipping out into the night.

“I’ll hold you to reckoning if she’s hurt,” Donncha said before returning to the chieftain’s chair.

They waited without speaking. Donncha sat in the chair, staring morosely at the door. He did not move except to go occasionally to the butts for water or to relieve himself in the darkest corner. Genonn spent the time carving Ogham messages into the pillar.

It was the morning of the third day when there was a banging on the doors. “Who is it?” Genonn called, not moving from his place.

“It is I, Kathvar.”

“How are you here so quickly?”

“I was at Indber Colptha. The girl came to me in the hostel when she heard I was there. Open the door so we can talk.”

Donncha stood and crossed his arms, making no move to open the door. His eyes spoke of distrust, which Genonn did not understand. Aid had come, so he should be rejoicing. His freedom was only a command away.

“I am glad you are here,” Genonn said to the aged man who walked through the door. He did have a grey beard, which he had tucked into his belt beside the ornate hilt of a longsword.

“How could you have been so foolish?” Kathvar demanded.

“I… I… I am,” Genonn stuttered, unsure what to say, expecting congratulations or a pat on the back. Instead, the greybeard meant to be their salvation was glowering at him.

“What, exactly, did you mean to achieve?”

“I do not understand you.”

“Why did you involve yourself in the chieftain’s business?” he spat, hands on hips.

His eyes were black, impenetrable, and, therefore, frightening. In the limited light, they resembled those of a wild boar about to charge. Something in Genonn reacted to their complete lack of empathy.

“Justice. I hoped to achieve justice. Mathaman is toying with the lives of his people. Those people need someone to stand up for them.”

“Making a stand here might cost you your place in the order.”

“So be it. If that is what it takes to see justice done, I am willing to make that sacrifice.”

“You trained ten years for a place in the order. Do not throw it away because of some misguided sense of justice.”

“Is it really misguided? Can you stand there and say you think it right that a brute like Mathaman can kill his people because he wants a woman?”

“He is the chieftain of Ráth Droma. It is because he is their liege lord that he can do this. It has ever been the way in Ériu,” the greybeard said with a shrug and a sympathetic tilt of his head. “We cannot change it, Genonn.”

“Well, I mean to use my influence as a druid to change it.”

“You cannot. I have been instructed to relieve you of your place in Ráth Droma. You are to return to Ynys Môn for reassignment.”

“And if I refuse?” Kathvar shrugged again.

Genonn turned to Donncha. He was standing with his arms crossed, with a wary look.

“If you refuse, I have instructed the troop of Fianna outside in the square to take you both and hang you from the nearest tree. Mathaman and his so-called warriors might have been unable to force an entry. That will not be so with the Fianna.”

“Which Fianna?” Genonn asked and then laughed, not believing the druid would have hired a band of mercenaries—doubting he even had time.

And who ordered him to relieve me? He’s lying.

“Look for yourself, Genonn.”

“It is a trick.”

“No trick. I swear. Look through the doors and see what The Morrigan has in store for you if you defy me.”

Something in his voice caused Genonn to move to the door. When he edged the heavy oak open slightly, the sight sealed Donncha’s fate. Twenty or so men were lounging about the square. They were wearing boiled leather vests studded with mail, and carrying evil-looking weapons. There was no stress in them. A fool could see they were masters of martial arts. This time, Genonn’s stave would avail him nothing.

“Where is the girl?” he asked.

“I sent her to Dornoll. She does not need to watch this.”

With a sigh, Genonn recognized that there was nothing he could do. The hardened mercenaries in the square would make short shrift of anything he tried.

If only Donncha had slipped away in the…

He stopped the thought because he blamed the woodsman for something Donncha had no control over. Genonn would never do that—not now, even more than ever. The poor man was a victim of his feelings for a girl. Nothing more.

Guilty of love.

“I am sorry, Donncha,” he said as he walked out, shielding his eyes from the noon sun. “I will not forgive you for this, Father,” he said to the druid as he passed.

“They are expecting you at Caer Leb,” Kathvar called to his retreating back.

Rather than walking on, Genonn hid himself on the edge of the road under the shade of the forest trees and turned back to watch.

A crow cawed on the branch above him, making him jump and curse himself for a fool: harbingers of death indeed. He knew there to be a counter for all the portents of evil. If he walked half a league, he might see a dove flying or a deer grazing; a hare might flash across his path; he might hear a boar grubbing in the loam or see lightning strike and kill a tree. Death on the one hand, life on the other.

Whatever they were doing in the blockhouse took some time. Eventually, a horn sounded, and Genonn started again. Only this time, the horn was a harbinger of death. No amount of good portents could change that simple truth.

He watched them drag Donncha down the steps of the blockhouse. The woodsman struggled vainly against his bonds. His chest and shoulder muscles bunched under his leather vest, his biceps bulging, but he was no match for the warriors of the Fíanna. Perhaps it would be a different tale if they had not bound his arms behind him.

Genonn would never know.

The warriors prodded the poor man with their spears, laughed, and drew blood. His struggles were in vain. Without a sword or a warband of his own, Genonn could do nothing but watch. He did not want to, but it was the least he owed the woodsman.

Another horn blast preceded his father’s arrival, walking out of the blockhouse beside the fat chief, Mathaman. Genonn hissed in a breath. Never before had his opinion of a person changed so rapidly and completely. He would never again see his father as a hero to emulate, only as a schemer. Kathvar the Schemer. Whether he schemed for himself or the council, it made no matter. He always strove for some goal and forsook anyone who got in his way. Genonn was too far away to hear their words, but he fancied he could see a grin on Kathvar’s face.

Mathaman waved, shouting something, which prompted the warriors to push Donncha towards the open gates. After they passed through, the deep shadows under the palisade hid them from view. Gazing up through the canopy, Genonn could see the sky was a deepening blue, the sun below the tree line behind him. After a few moments, the party reappeared up the rise on the opposite side of the ráth, boisterous, laughing, unmindful of what they were about.

“And how much did you pay them, Father, to be enjoying themselves so much?” Genonn hissed.

The warriors became more boisterous as they threw a noosed rope over a branch. Despite not hearing his father’s words, the woodsman’s pleas for mercy were plain enough, becoming hysterical when Mathaman placed the noose around his neck. The warriors hauling him aloft cut off his pleading mid-scream. Like the victim’s screams, Genonn also heard the guffaws of the warriors as they wafted their hands and turned their backs, a sure sign Donncha’s journey to Tír na nÓg had truly begun.

“I am sorry to have abandoned you,” Genonn whispered, glad he had sent the girl Áine to the Elder Council. Hence, she was not there to witness the ferocity with which the man danced his jig. Even at such a distance, he could see the once handsome face was purple and bloated, a grotesque parody of Chief Mathaman’s fat features.

Finally turning his back on the ugly scenes, Genonn followed the road deeper into the forest, staring down at his feet, lost in his vow never to return to Ynys Môn nor to take up his father’s name and mantle. He had never before seen the injustices in the Five Kingdoms of Ireland. Events in Ráth Droma, if nothing else, had opened his eyes to the cruel reality that the ordinary people had no defense nor a defender.

An owl hooted, causing another start. Genonn looked up and saw that darkness had all but fallen. Even after ten years of schooling in druidism, he still could not light a fire and knew the dawn would be a long time coming. Sighing, he moved off the road and sat with his back against a tree, preparing himself for a restless night. But, no sleep was a small price for the hours of thinking it would provide. With a sudden and certain finality, he knew deciding his future was now a priority.