Lee could not help smiling as he looked at the palisade of Crúachain. The settlement was still as if the people were not expecting anything. There was no sign of guards on the palisade. The Plain of Sheep, Mag nAí, was bereft of life; the only sign of activity was the smoke of cooking fires rising lazily above the hillfort. Even the dogs were silent.
Lee was unable to detect anything threatening. Not that he would have felt threatened had there been guards or all the hounds of the Otherworld howling warnings of their approach. Fandall was with them, and his skilled war craft had kept them safe. His understanding of how the king and the warriors of Connacht would act had been insightful. Lee looked at Fandall from the corner of his eye. He was once more disheveled and still fond of drinking a lot of mead, but he was a good tactician, Lee thought.
Once again, the eldest of the three brothers glanced around at the scene. It was peaceful, almost idyllic. He could see the entrance to the cave Uaimh na gCat off to the left. It was believed to be an entrance into the kingdom of Donn, God of the dead, which sent a shiver up Lee’s spine. It was dark and forbidding, but there was no sign of movement to indicate an ambush. He looked at the smoke from roundhouse fires rising above the hillfort and knew the women were preparing a meal of oats and mutton cooked in sheep’s milk, which would not be happening if a battle was imminent.
“Behold, Fandall, I give you Crúachain,” he said, holding his arms wide to indicate the settlement. “We will interrupt their morning meal.”
“Is there nothing suspicious to you here, boy?” the warrior asked.
Lee shrugged. “What is there of suspicion? The plain before the settlement is bereft of even sheep.”
“Is that not suspicious? We are sitting in what is known as The Plain of Sheep. Where are the sheep?”
“Maybe the sheep are grazing in a different pasture this day.”
Fandall did not respond. He just stared at the settlement with a hard expression before growling and unsheathing his broadsword.
Lee thought the warrior was going to attack him. However, turning back to the settlement, he saw mounted warriors streaming through the gates of the outer palisade. They were spreading out in a line just outside the gates. Despite the distance, Lee could see the form of Macc Cecht in the middle of the mounted warriors. Beside Macc, what appeared to be a naked woman, painted in blue woad, boar spear to hand. So, it is true, she paints herself for battle, Lee thought. The Daughter of War fights with her teats out.
“We outnumber them, Lee,” Rogain said.
Lee looked up the plain. The slope to the settlement looked easy enough from where he was sitting, but Lee knew it would prove less than easy were they to charge. Riding a horse up even a gentle slope in the face of any archers hidden behind the palisade would prove costly to their small warband.
“Ah, it would appear to be time for us to leave,” he said, swinging his horse around only to be confronted by another band of horsemen lining up across the road to his rear.
He could see Conall Cernach in their midst; his unmistakable figure was almost as large as that of Macc Cecht. He looked left to see another band of horsemen streaming from behind the cave of Uaimh na gCat. He glanced to his right to see yet another warband coming from the trees of the forest.
They were caught in a cordon.
“It seems, my band of merry reavers, we are surrounded,” Lee chuckled and shook his head. “It has been fun, but now it is over.”
“What do you propose we do, Lee?” Rogain asked.
“I think all we can do is throw ourselves on the mercy of the High King,” Lee laughed. “It would not be a new experience for us.”
“We must fight!” Fandall shouted. “This is the glorious end that we have been craving.”
“The glorious end that you have been craving,” Gar growled.
“Your brother told me you, too, would prefer glory to surrender.” Gar laughed and shook his head.
“That is true,” Lee explained, “but they are hardened warriors, and with respect to you, Fandall, we are not. The end would be anything but glorious.”
“We will fight until the death. There is glory in that. I will not throw myself on the mercy of my enemy.”
“You can see as well as I, Fandall, that we are faced by warriors. We cannot effectively fight them, even if we want to. The only men who will die will be us.”
“We can turn and face Conall Cernach. We outnumber that group twofold.”
Lee looked back over his shoulder at the horsemen spanning the road. They were not making any move to attack, just sitting and waiting. At the distance of three spear throws, even their horses appeared to be unmoving.
Fandall was correct; there were only seventy or so riders with Conall. They would be Red Branch warriors, but Lee’s group numbered one hundred and fifty. There would be a chance. If they attacked in a wedge, they might drive through the defenders and make it out of the hastily formed cordon before the other three sides of the trap could react effectively. They would not have surprise on their side because there was only one direction in which they could flee, but double the numbers should make a telling difference.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“All right,” Lee shouted. “Form a wedge and ride at the group spanning the road.”
The rebels swung their horses around. They did not show great enthusiasm at the thought of attacking the Red Branch, but each knew it was their only chance. They had pledged an oath to die while teaching the High King the error of not being strong, but they had done it in the heat of the moment, gathered around a fire and in their cups.
They started at a walk to give the horses time to adjust and form into a wedge, which spanned the road but came to a point of one rider in front: Fandall. Lee picked up speed into a trot, and the wedge followed his lead. As they broke into a canter, Lee reined back slightly, realizing the best chance of survival was to hit the line of horsemen across the road after the initial impact. He was pleased to see his brothers following him.
Bellowing a war cry with his sword above his head, Lee watched Fandall galloping headlong towards his fate. It was inevitable that he struck the line of warriors first. Lee was fascinated to see he went straight through, leaving a warrior dangling from his horse by the stirrups, with his life pumping quickly from a wound in his neck.
***
Mane watched the rider pulling away from the wedge, too fast for his own benefit and too keen to realize that he was leaving the rest of the warband in his dust. He could tell by how the man sat in his saddle, and held his sword, he was a practised warrior.
Mane thought the lone warrior would be stopped by the first line of riders, even as he came crashing through and lifted his sword to slash a backhanded blow across Mane’s throat. He was so surprised that he did not raise his sword to parry, and his shield was on the wrong arm to make an effective defense because the unknown warrior rode to his right so his shield arm would be unable to block a sword stroke.
Every warrior wishes to die on the field of battle, and he had this at the forefront of his mind as the blow came in.
But to die for such a worthless cause was also on his mind. He closed his eyes to accept the moment of death with something akin to calmness, but instead of the bite of a sword, he heard metal clang against metal and a scraping sound as one blade rasped down another.
Mane opened his eyes to see the unknown warrior spinning in his saddle to face a new threat. Conall Cernach had somehow parried the blow that would have leached Mane’s lifeblood and might have even succeeded in beheading him. The warrior from Connacht heard the rhythm of swords coming together two at a time as the warriors of the opposing bands met. It sounded like a furious blacksmith striking his anvil repeatedly and quickly before the individual noises merged.
Mane looked at the battle between the rebels and the Red Branch, who had been spanning the road to block their flight from Crúachain. He could see the warriors in Macc Cecht’s group and those on the flanks were about to join the battle and swing the short conflict heavily in favor of the ambushers. He could see his mother in her blue woad, modesty protected by a round shield, and behind her, his father.
He was about to turn back and face the duel between Conall and the unknown warrior when he saw the leader of the marauders, Lee, he guessed, throw down his sword and put his arms into the air. That action was enough to cause the rest of the reavers to capitulate. Mane watched as swords fell to join the sheep shit in the grass, and hands were raised in supplication. He looked around at the aftermath of the battle. From what he could see, none of the warriors of the Red Branch, other than the initial casualty of the unknown warrior, had fallen. The dead and the wounded all appeared to be reavers.
He turned back to see the chest of the warrior who had broken the defensive line was heaving. His blade was resting on his saddle pommel. The warrior seemed unharmed. Conall Cernach’s horse was pawing the plain a few strides away from the heavy breather. Conall’s arms were crossed, and his broadsword rested on his left shoulder, the point above his left ear. He appeared relaxed, but Mane knew he was not. Every tendon in his body was primed to react to the inevitable attack.
Now he was unmoving, Mane could see the warrior was scruffy, his weapons in poor repair. He guessed a lack of condition was why the warrior had tired so quickly.
“You can yield, Fandall,” Conall said.
“I cannot yield. I will not be judged by that upstart boy.”
Without a word, the warriors on the plain, ambushers and defeated reavers alike, formed a mounted circle around the two men. The circle was forty strides from one side to the next—not huge, but enough for the two warriors to conclude their fight. Fandall’s breathing was becoming easier as he recovered from the initial onslaught of his charge. Mane could see Conall’s eyes were alert. He was ready for the inevitable charge.
“Finish this,” Medb hissed. “There is much to be done. Rebuilding must begin.”
Conall ignored her, waiting for the attack.
When it finally came, it was over in an instant. Fandall screamed and dug his heels hard into his horse’s flanks, trying to get some momentum, but unable to gain any speed in the few strides to his opponent. As he passed the seemingly motionless Conall, his scream ended abruptly, and his sword arm fell to his side. The warriors in the circle watched his fingers lose their grip on his sword hilt, and the sword drop into the dust, among the sheep pellets. He lifted his left hand and futilely tried to staunch the flow of blood from his neck.
Mane considered himself blessed by the Tuatha that Conall was not his enemy. Most of the watchers in the makeshift arena were shrugging and asking what had happened. Very few of them saw the flick of Conall’s sword, which just nicked the warrior’s neck. Very few of them saw Conall’s slight head movement that evaded the thrust of Fandall’s blade. They were bemused as Fandall fell from his saddle and hit the dust beside his horse’s hooves. He was dead in a matter of a few heartbeats, the last of his blood rushing from his jugular to fertilize The Plain of Sheep.
“We return to our duties,” the queen said. Conall nodded and watched as the king of Connacht mutely followed his wife back to Crúachain.
***
Mane rode over to Conall as the Red Branch warriors were piling stones over Fandall’s corpse. He had died a warrior’s death and deserved a warrior’s respect. Mane knew of Conall’s reputation. The warrior of Ulster did not regard killing men as a glory, only as a necessary evil. Fandall had chosen the wrong path, first because of who his liege was and then by the circumstances in which he found himself after Nuadu’s death. Many of the warriors under Conall’s command had grumbled when he ordered the cairn, but he did not care.
“We will respect the dead,” he had informed them. No one had argued, and Mane had smiled to himself.
“That kill was well done,” Mane said as he reined in beside Conall, who was watching the cairn grow.
“Was it? For me, it was a waste of a good warrior. Fandall tied his reins to two misguided chariots and paid for that mistake with his life.”
“Well, perhaps,” Mane said, “but I owe you my life, and you should know I always pay my debts.”
Mane could see in the eyes of his savior, Conall had dismissed his words. He knew, the champion of Ulster would be surprised, given time. Always paying his debts was not an idle boast.