When they finished eating, the air was still as taut as a drawn bow. Lee was sitting with his back to everyone, not having spoken since returning to the camp. Bradán seemed upset by Fedelm barking at him. Genonn wondered how he could improve their humor.
Bradán was just a young warrior with a patronizing grin, chewing on a root. Besides his good looks and a sardonic, mesmerizing charm, Genonn could not help wondering why Fedelm was interested in him.
Before he turned away, Bradán caught his eye and said, “Tell me about the man we seek.”
“Conall?”
“Aye, Conall of the Victories. All I know about him comes from common room rumor.”
“I would not know where to begin.”
“Tell me how you met,” Bradán said.
“I would like to hear it too,” Fedelm agreed. Lee was nodding enthusiastically.
“How we met. That’s something I never thought would interest anyone, least of all someone so full of spunk.”
“Humor us,” Bradán said with a grin.
Genonn looked from Bradán to Fedelm to Lee. Each of them was staring at him in expectation. He had wanted to improve their mood and considered himself a storyteller. Maybe if he told the story, it would distract them for a little while? Divert them away from their worries or pain, in Fedelm’s case.
So, Genonn told them of his arrival at Dún Scáith on the Shadowy Isle as a young and disillusioned druid. He told them how Conall, nothing more than a farmer, accosted him at the bottom of the ramp and beat him senseless for no other reason than he could. He told them that Aifè befriended and helped him through a year of hard training. He told them about Scáthach and Uathach, female warriors who showed no mercy, taking what they wanted and giving nothing in return. He told them Conall, as ruthless as the women, would beat him at every opportunity.
Genonn told them how, after a year of humiliation, Scáthach took the students into the island’s hinterlands to oppose a so-called invasion. As an old and experienced warrior, he knew it was nothing more than a training exercise. But then, as a raw youth, he had seen it as a real battle.
He told them the would-be warriors marched most of the day, finally making camp on the edge of a field. He told them Uathach sat astride her warhorse and promised them there would be a battle. He remembered the words and the excitement buzzing through the warriors, Aifè included. He did not tell them of his fear – nor of his frustration at an apparent lack of it from his comrades. He remembered feeling ashamed and wondering if he had made the right decision coming to the island.
And then, an army appeared mounted on horses, forcing his worries to the back of his mind. There were at least three hundred hardened warriors to face two hundred raw youths. Scáthach and Uathach rode over to negotiate the battle terms and returned in moments to order a shield wall formed.
He told them of the women, remaining in their saddles, shouting, ordering interlocking shields and no breaks in their ranks. He remembered the screams of “Yes, Scáthach!” as the front row crouched and the second row lifted shields over their heads to protect from spears and arrows. They had trained incessantly on forming the wall and did it without fuss.
Genonn had been in the front row. The warrior to his right would protect his side, as he would defend Aifè to his left. He could still feel the weight of the long wooden shield hooked onto his left forearm. Despite their training, they needed Uathach to tell them to rest their shield edges on the ground by their feet.
Genonn laughed and shook his head as he remembered.
He recalled the slow walk of the invading warriors as they came across the field. At fifty paces, they stopped, roared, and began banging their weapons on their shields. The noise assaulted Scáthach’s raw recruits. It took all their will not to drop spears and shields and cover their ears. With a final roar, the opposing warriors charged. Scáthach ordered her ranks to take a step forward, and they lunged as one. Genonn told them how the shields clashed, wood on wood, like huge lumps of ice in a hailstorm hitting the roof of a storage shed. He remembered thinking his heart would burst as he grunted, jabbed, and pushed, the smell of sweating bodies invading his nostrils. Then other odors began creeping in, with different sounds and sensations. The shit and piss of the fallen, the foremost odor. The screams of the wounded were the foremost sound. Fear was the foremost sensation.
After a few moments, the sound of iron scraping his shield boss and edge replaced the sound of the hailstorm. His shield pulled his arm down, becoming heavier as the battle wore on. He remembered the feeling of imminent collapse but continued thrusting through the gap, working to protect Aifè. Eventually, the pressure eased as the attackers took a step backward and then another. Scáthach ordered the front row to the rear, the second to the front, and the third to raise their shields above.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Genonn hesitated. The clarity of his memories from that day surprised him. It was the first time he had recounted the story from start to finish, and he felt the detail was astounding. He shook his head to clear the horror and took a moment to compose himself.
“I had turned to retreat when I heard a mighty roar,” he continued. “Turning back, I could see a giant of a man had broken away from the opposing shield wall and was charging our retreating lines, battle-axe held aloft. He charged at the warrior to my right and, in doing so, knocked me over and swung the axe to fell the other man like a poorly rooted sapling. I knew it had been too easy. I felt a surge of that same emotion the gaimbín had sparked in me: hatred and murder. I will not say rage because what I felt was different. I felt cold. I gave no thought to the warrior on his arse, scrabbling backward from the giant and his axe. I could hear laughter echoing from within the giant’s helmet as he swung his weapon high. He was going to split my comrade from gullet to crotch.
“I surged to my feet and drove my spear into his back.
“During swordwork and spear practice, Uathach beat into us where the vulnerable areas on a warrior’s body are. I did not think about where to drive my spear. It was instinct. The blade went into his spine under the back lip of his helmet. His laughter stopped. His axe dropped. His knees crumpled from under him, and his fall wrenched my spear from my grasp.”
Genonn heard one of the listeners hiss in a breath as if they had forgotten to breathe and drew in several moments’ worth with one pull.
“As he fell to the ground, I heard Uathach shouting that the battle was over,” he continued, unable to prevent a surge of pride at his storytelling. “My comrade on the ground was gasping for breaths and leaning sideways on his elbow. I asked him if he was hurt.”
“What did he do?” Lee squealed the question.
“He pulled off his helmet and thanked me. It was Conall. Blond locks were stuck to his forehead. For once, he was not grinning as he told me he owed me a debt.” Genonn shook his head. “I told him if I had known it was him, I would have let the warrior split him in two.”
“Really?” Fedelm asked with a frown.
“Well, I said it, but I would have defended him anyway,” Genonn admitted. “And that, I think, describes Conall of the Victories.”
Genonn noticed that night had fallen. There was a nip in the air, carried by the north wind. The band were wrapped in their cowls, sitting silently around a well-banked fire. Their mood was still somber.
The story might not have lifted them, but it had him. He remembered the thrill of telling stories in the hostel while waiting for Cullen to make him a sword. He remembered the silver the patrons threw at him and their demands for his tales each night. Genonn thought about telling another story to help their spirits. He could tell the story of how he and Conall traveled in the land of Alba seeking their fortune, but he was forestalled by a call of “Hallo the camp.”
“Join us, and welcome,” Genonn called back.
“Too kind, youse are. Too kind, and that’s the truth,” a farmer said, bustling his small family into the clearing. “We was set to make camp, but all the best spots is taken. Typical of a market day night, so it is. Not that this is a typical market day. Far from it.”
“You are welcome. We have bread and the remains of a tasty root stew to offer.”
“As I said, too kind.”
The family pushed a handcart into the clearing and made themselves comfortable. The cart was piled high with bushels of grain. The firelight threw grotesque shadows on the trees, turning the bushels into monsters. Genonn felt a shudder at the images they evoked. Images of síabraí stalking the forest, the spirits of the warband who died not far from their camp.
“You were turned away from the ráth?” Genonn asked, shaking the images away.
“Aye, don’t make any sense. Said they’re protecting Longas King from British raiders. Load of old bollix, you ask me. Not seen a raiding party in these Five Kingdoms since High King lost his head over by Glencree, which was a sorry day for us farmers, and that’s the truth.”
“How far have you traveled?” Bradán asked.
“We’ve a steading close to Caisel. Prices is better here, hence the long walk. Looks like it was wasted,” the farmer grinned. “Back to Caisel to be fleeced by the robbing curs. Now, there’s a tale to tell.”
“Times are strange,” Fedelm agreed.
“After the battle, everything has gone awry,” Genonn tried another smile, which he felt came out as a grimace. The farmer and his family did not notice. “Mead?”
“Did I say already, youse are too kind?” the farmer accepted enthusiastically, grinning, showing blackened teeth.
“Have you picked up any news on your travels?” Bradán asked.
“Funny you should say that.”
“Funny. Oh, why?”
“Aye, well, we came up in a group of travelers. Met a couple traveling up from the deep south, preparation for Beltaine, like. Said they was glad to get out the place. The word between the blockhouse is Conall Cernach is on a bash, sack full of silver, and mead sodden, picking fights with anyone who looks vaguely like a warrior or similar. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere near that man when he’s lost it, and that’s the truth.”
“Did they say where?”
“Aye, right down in the furthest south. Some hole of a place called Inbhear Scéine.”