Just after the morning sun crested the forest tops and splashed the vale in weak autumn warmth, the doors to the hostel crashed outward in a shower of sparks. Naphtha fires had been laid at the base of the gates, and barbed spears with ropes were thrown into the burning wood. With the gates weakened by the fire, the attackers had easily pulled them out.
Conall ran towards the gaping hole, calling the warriors to him as he went. He was proud to see that none held back from protecting their High King.
He stopped just inside the hostel’s gates and turned back to face the expectant warriors. The three men closest to him were monstrous in size, shaggily bearded, and fierce-eyed. “When they see you three Fomorii, they will run for the plains,” he jested. The men laughed.
He could feel the warriors’ excitement, like the surge of a flowing tide. They all knew they would probably die in this valley, but they were keen to start the battle. The frustration of being enclosed in the hostel, like a tortoise in its shell, could now be vented on the invading army.
“We go fast and form a shield wall to replace the gates. The wall will span the riverbed. The bed is not deep, so it will not create a weakness,” he said. “Curve the wall at the sides; otherwise, they will get to our flanks. They will have bows, so be quick.”
The warriors all nodded. Conall stood in the space left by the doors and guided the warriors into position. They quickly formed into two rows, with about fifty in each row. The front row knelt and pressed their shields into the mud; the back row held their shields above the men, forming an effective shelter against arrows.
Conall stood just inside the door with Da Derga at his side. He shaded his eyes from the weak sunlight and looked for Ingcél’s warband. They were gathered some distance from the hostel, at the top of a rise, probably fearful of being shot with arrows. Good, Conall thought, they do not know we have few bows. As the thought receded, he heard the hissing of a dense flight of arrows arcking towards them.
“Brace for arrows!” he shouted, just managing to get his shield arm up as the swarm struck.
His blood-red shield was of thick wood, held together by black iron bands with white gold studs and a central boss of black iron. The shield had served him well, and he knew it would be a lucky strike that managed to pass through the gap between the staves, so it was with surprise that he felt an arrow pierce the fleshy part of his forearm, which was holding the shield aloft. The pain did not come immediately but struck as he lowered the shield. He looked at the arrow sticking into the flesh and knew that he needed to take it out and bind the wound.
“Da, assume command, I have to see to this wound,” he said to the giant at his side.
“Is it serious?” Da asked.
“It is a flesh wound, but I need to get the arrow out and bind it. It should not be too long,” Conall replied.
“You can trust me to hold,” Da Derga said.
Conall looked at the renegade warband streaming down the sides of the vale in the wake of the flight of arrows. There were at least a thousand warriors, ten times those in the shield wall. The attackers were wailing as they ran down the slope.
“I know you can hold them, Da. The Red Branch will be here soon, and then we will see how good these reavers are,” Conall said, turning and running back into the hostel.
“Steady, boys,” Da Derga shouted as the screaming raiders ran for the wall.
***
The attackers reaching the shield in ones and twos created an intermittent thumping of wood on wood, like a woman beating the dust out of an oxhide with a wooden paddle. There were grunts of expelled energy as the men on both sides fought to gain or keep a foothold. The press of attackers caused the defenders to ease back before they applied their own pressure and eased forward. Short swords and daggers were thrust in the intermittent gaps that came and went between the shields in the hope of nicking a vital vein or stabbing a vital organ.
“Steady, boys,” Da Derga kept repeating as he walked up and down behind the wall of warriors.
He frowned as grappling hooks began to appear over the tops of the defender’s shields. The number of attackers meant the warriors to the rear could throw grappling lines, which they used to pull the shields forward and down, giving their warriors space to strike the defenders. Da looked over his shoulder but could see no sign of Conall returning.
“Steady boys!” the red giant called again as he moved into a gap caused by a defender’s fall.
***
As he bound the wound where the arrow had been, Conall watched the High King fretting against the rear wall of the hostel. Connery was close to panic. He was sitting with his back to the wall, muttering to himself. Conall wanted to return to the fight and not worry about the sanity of his High King, but removing the arrow had taken longer than he anticipated. The noise of the battle was lessening. The thump of metal on wood was now intermittent, the cries of the wounded constant.
The end was nearing, and the Red Branch had not arrived to rescue them. Conall could not believe how little time it had all taken. He had expected the shield wall to last longer than the time it had taken him to remove the arrow and bind his wound. He looked towards the entrance to see how Da Derga was faring, but there was no sign of the giant.
“Why is Macc taking so long?” Connery asked again of no one.
The words seemed to presage the end because the noise of battle ceased. Conall realized that only he and the High King remained in the hostel.
He wondered why Connery was asking him where Macc was. Secretly, he thought that the High King’s bodyguard had abandoned them, but voicing that idea would help no one, least of all the High King. Macc’s using Lee Flaith as a legitimate reason to run from battle hurt him. Conall had fought with Macc and did not consider him a coward.
Men can change.
“Relax, Connery,” he said. “I will make sure you are not taken by the marauders.”
Conall knew he would not want to be captured by someone with Ingcél’s reputation, and he assumed the same would be true of Connery. He turned from the doors and began to walk towards the High King with his sword drawn. It would be a mercy to slice Connery’s jugular. He would feel no pain and be on his way to Tír nÓg in a few heartbeats. Conall could see the surprise on Connery’s face as he realized what the warrior intended.
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“It will be over very quickly, Connery. You will feel nothing.” As he neared, the High King stood up and began to back away with his hands raised in supplication.
***
Conall felt very little as something struck him hard across the back of his head, knocking him into oblivion. Mane lowered the warrior’s limp form to the ground and dragged it to where the High King was once again sitting against the wall.
“Is he dead?” Connery asked.
“No, he is just sleeping.” Mane hid him under the bench beside the king and hid his sword and shield behind the butts at the back of the common room. “Now, Conall Cernach, my debt is paid. Did I not tell you?”
Connery did nothing to stop Mane; he sat quietly against the wall. Mane could see his broadsword was still sheathed, unused.
He smiled at how easy it had been.
When the fighting stopped, the attackers gathered outside the hostel, undecided about how to proceed. Ingcél and his warband were discussing who should enter the hostel first because they were afraid to confront Conall Cernach, and no one had seen Macc Cecht, either. They likely needed to fight the two fiercest warriors in Ériu before the day was done, and none of them relished the thought. Ingcél was a fierce warrior, but he was not a foolish man. Ingcél often said that in his experience, heroes and dead men were often the same.
As such, no one had seen Mane edge around the side and crawl through the culvert.
Now, Mane leveled his naked blade at the High King. “You will walk to the door,” he said.
Connery nodded and obeyed mutely. “I have High King Connery!” he shouted as the pair moved towards the open doors.
***
“So, king’s champion. We meet again.” Macc turned back from the lip of the rise and looked at the forest from where he had heard Lee’s voice.
As he expected, Gar and Rogain walked out from the shade of the trees with their brother. All three of the reavers had their swords already in their hands, but none were bloodied. Macc expected a warrior to leave the blood on his blade during a battle. It helped to put fear into an opponent. With bloodless swords, he supposed they had been avoiding the fight. That did not surprise him. The sons of Dond Desa had shown great vigor against the old men and women in Emain Macha. However, as soon as they were confronted by the warriors at Crúachain, they threw down their blades. He did not think their reaving in Alba would have differed from that raid in Ulster or their reaving in Connacht, where their victims had been easy targets.
Despite there being three, Macc knew this would be an easy contest, but he did not need the delay. He needed to get down to the hostel and help to save the High King from certain death.
Why are the Sidhe against me today? he wondered.
He could hear the clash of metal and the thunk of wooden shields as the warriors in the two shield walls fought for supremacy. The numbers were heavily in favor of the attackers, but the curve of the shield wall meant they could not outflank the defenders, so they stood firm. That would not last because the hostel gates were burning, and all the defenders were in the wall; it was only a matter of time before they tired and were routed. He could not help them from on top of this rise. He needed to kill the sons of Dond Desa as quickly as possible and get back to his king.
“Boys. Where is your father? I would apologize to him before I send you on to meet Donn,” he said with a grin.
The brothers laughed, showing Macc they now considered themselves seasoned warriors. If it were true, why were they behind the hostel instead of at the front of the shield wall?
“Dond Desa passed away just before we began reaving in Alba,” Lee said. “We miss him, even though he could no longer lift his hammer.”
Macc frowned and nodded. He realized Lee’s words meant Dond Desa had died just after the High King allowed his three sons to live.
“I, too, will miss him, but you three should not worry too much. You will greet him again soon.”
Gar and Rogain charged, screaming war cries. They came at him head-on, not thinking about how best to approach the assault, relying on their youth and superiority in numbers.
Macc smiled. He knew he was much older than them but was also a skilled warrior. Their headlong attack had him inwardly wondering how they had lasted all this time conducting such a violent pastime as reaving.
They are flying their luck as much as anything, he realized, as he easily parried a swing from Gar and slashed through Rogain’s midriff, all with the same swing of his broadsword.
Gar grunted from the jarring of Macc’s parry. Rogain dropped his sword and clutched at the viscera, which was beginning to fall from under his tunic. He fell to his knees, keening like a wounded animal, trying unsuccessfully to stuff his guts back in through the hole in both his tunic and his skin. He looked at Macc with surprise as he continued to kneel in the mud, his life cradled in the arms crossed over his waist.
Macc waited as Gar watched Rogain clinging desperately to his life. He could see blood pooling in the cradle of the boy’s arms, and knew instinctively that Rogain would not survive. Gar screamed with rage and lifted his broadsword above his head, intent on bringing it down Macc’s head, but he never had the chance. With his sword up high, he was unable to defend the thrust from Macc and his blade sliced into the boy’s jugular. Blood sprayed across his brother, who was still keening. Gar quickly lost the strength to stay on his feet and slumped beside Rogain, his lifeblood mingling with the mud.
One left, Macc thought, as he turned to where he expected Lee to be. At that moment, he caught movement from the corner of his eye and felt something bite into the small of his back. Belatedly, Macc swung his broadsword in the direction from whence the movement had come. His sword bit into flesh, but his body was already losing its obedience as he tried to turn and face the last of Dond’s sons. The world seemed to be slowing as if the Sidhe wanted to see the fight between Lee and Macc in detail, which would only be possible with slow movement.
As he pitched forward onto his face, Macc could still hear the clash of iron on iron, but it seemed to be coming from afar. His legs would not respond as he tried to rise from the mud. He rolled onto his back and saw Lee crumpled into a ball beside his brothers. His warrior instinct seemed to have saved him. Lee’s chest was still, and although Macc could see no wounds, he was obviously dead.
Rogain’s keening had turned to whimpers. Macc could see he would be no threat. He was slumped backward onto his buttocks and was sitting holding his guts in his lap as he slowly bled to death. Gar was already still. The pumping of his blood now slowed to a trickle.
Macc knew he was going to die. He felt nothing from his waist down. His back was an agony of fire each time he moved. He could still hear the clash of swords from the vale, but he could see nothing because of where he was in the base of the dingle. He needed to see what was happening. He did not want to die on this hill without knowing what was happening in the vale. With supreme effort, he forced his arms under his torso and pushed his palms down into the mud.
His target was a tree on the edge of the forest, elevated enough that with his back to it, he could see the front of the hostel. He knew he needed to keep his sword with him, so he pushed it up behind his head. Then, slowly, one agonizing surge at a time, he pushed himself backward towards the tree.
The effort required for each push exhausted him quickly. He needed to rest constantly as he made his way. His journey on his back was punctuated with the clash of iron on wood and iron on iron. Screams of the wounded fouled the air, together with the stench of death, discernible even at such a distance. He felt he would never get to the tree but continued, nonetheless. Another push was punctuated by a grimace and panting for breath. Lifting the sword above his head so he would have some means of defense when he reached the tree. Not that there would be any way to defend himself against a warrior, not from on his back, but it felt like a comfort all the same.
Each time he stopped, he looked at Rogain to see where he was regarding his journey to the Otherworld. On the third rest, he watched the chest heave and then stop. He was glad the traitors were dead and justice had been served, however belatedly. He looked at Lee and wondered again why he could see no blood.
Eventually, his mammoth effort paid off, and he reached the tree. With one final push, he raised his back, propped himself against the tree, laid his sword across his lap, and looked down into the vale of Glencree.