‘What a useless lot of weapons,’ he said eventually.
‘They’ve served me well,’ said Niall, irritated.
‘Too many javelins,’ said Fergus. ‘And you have no dirk. And no ivory throwing darts, which are immensely useful. Do you possess a sling? All of us can unmount a fleeing rider at two hundred paces with a sling. Bows are for children, but neither of your shields is particularly useful for deflecting arrows, the heavy shield being useful for stopping javelins, and the small
shield for knocking aside swords, but neither being right for arrows. We never use shields unless we have to. Where we are going the children of the warlords use arrows a lot – mostly stone-headed, and not too lethal – and it is good to have a wide, light-weight shield to protect against them.’
Niall listened to this in silence, then reached behind him and withdrew nine of the throwing spears. Fergus took them, cradled across his arms, and distributed them, three to each man; then Donal passed Niall a silver handled one-forged-iron dirk which Niall hefted and appreciated.
When this was done they urged their horses forward, and riding fast, riding bright, yelling their particular war cry, they left the forest and emerged on to a sloping plain, where purple heather and dark boglands hid a multitude of horrors and treacherous sites, across which the band rode with commendable indifference.
They rode east, following the winding rivers and deep valleys that cut through those low hills bordering the plains and bogs of the central lands of all five provinces. Warrior bands moved steadily eastwards too, large numbers of men in the various cloak colours and skin colours of the different tribes. As the days wore on, and Niall settled to the unusual life of a fiana, so it became apparent that a great confrontation was in the making.
They camped one night, out many miles into the lowlands, near to a twisted-oak wood around which burned the camp fires of one of these armies. Conan sneaked forward through natural dykes until he could discern words spoken from the hide tents of the king.
He returned when the moon was vanishing below the horizon and wrapped a fur blanket about his shoulders.
‘The eastern Ui Neill, including your father Lugaid, Fergus, have taken this new religion, this new god, close to their hearts, Apparently he financed a missionary party of these Lug-forsaken monks into the west and the tribes of Ailill, the Ui Briuin, slaughtered them all. So Lugaid is angry and gathering his forces together to invade Cruchain, and thence the lands of Connacht. These are Connachta moving into position to surprise the Ui Neill, when and if they come. Something is holding them up.’
‘There hasn’t been a full scale war like that for generations,’ said Fergus, ‘Not a war between whole provinces. Are you sure, Conan?’
Conan shrugged. ‘That’s all I heard. I wouldn’t waste metal on the cause of a Christian. A cow being stolen, now, that would be a different matter. A man can get angry about a cow, or even a wife, but not a Christian. They enjoy being slaughtered, anyway. It makes them into what they call “saints”. That makes them minor gods.’
‘We’ll outride them tomorrow,’ said Niall. ‘We must reach Cnocba before any big battle occurs.’
‘Agreed,’ said Donal. ‘How’s the Bear, Niall? Can we sleep safely tonight?’ In the darkness – they could not afford to light a fire – his teeth gleamed bright in the remnants of the moonlight, his eyes sparkled with humour. Niall laughed.
‘The Bear lies quiet. It goes like that. A fit of rage, then a long period of calm.’
‘Then let’s sleep while we may,’ said Fergus.
They rose with the first edge of the sun, and led their horses quietly along the river bank, away from the sleeping forces of the Connachta. A heavy mist shrouded the trees, moved sluggishly through the rows of tents, a spectral guardian extending her protective limbs about the soldiers.
Before they even heard the metallic clatter of reveille, the four men were well beyond the wood and riding across the peatlands, hard and fast.
They reached a trimmed standing stone, a crude ogam message carved down two of its edges. Fergus understood the writing and told them that here a warrior called Uargus had fallen in single combat with a marsh hag and her seven giant sons. Each tree they could see to the south grew above the body of a son, and the nettles that grew between them fed upon the scattered remains of the hag’s body itself. Uargus lay beneath the stone and could be called by obliterating the ogam, except for his name.
Donal smoothed the message down until just the name was left and after a while the stone shifted and toppled and a pale-fleshed man climbed from the pit below, stood, sword in hand, shaking the earth from the tatters of his garments. His hollow eyes were filled with worms, and he stared gruesomely up at the fiana, but said nothing.
‘Where from here lies the Swamp of the Three Sisters?’ asked Niall.
The dead warrior’s sword arm raised and indicated southwards, behind the trees. ‘Four days’ ride,’ he said, his voice deep and ghostly. ‘A giant sleeps there.’
‘We know,’ said Fergus. ‘Can you find this place again?’ he said to Niall, and Niall said that he could. The four of them rode off then, and the dead warrior climbed back into his grave. The standing stone remained toppled and has so remained ever since. It is called Clochargus, Uargus’ Stone, and the knot of trees to the south, Cill na Macseach, the Wood of the Seven Sons.
As they rode, their skins thrilling to the bite of autumn winds, their hair streaming behind, brighter, even, than the bright rays of the sun, their swords gleaming, sharper, even, than the sharp beak of the hawk, the three fiana, Donal, Conan and Fergus, chanted a haunting song that set Niall’s blood racing and his human instinct for combat surging forward.
Donal sang:
Dark Raven of the battlefield
Three-faced War Queen of the Iron Forge
Nemain, shadow fleeing across the land
Strike! Strike!
Blade singing through leather shield.
Fergus sang:
Chariot wheels smash on jagged rock
Stone arrow seeks the bravest heart
Bronze dirk gleams like seven-forged iron
Clay stiffens hair
Death freezes limbs
Blue and red are the flesh colours of the host
Purple and green are the cloak colours of the host.
Conan sang:
Badb’s shrieking fury drowned beyond the cliffs
Sea and stone scourge the great forts
White-breasted birds circle through the blue
Thrice slain warriors rise and chant
Heads in cedar oil sing
Limbs on the battlefield beckon
Lug strides the channel – his favour is with us!
They all cheered and laughed, and Niall joined in the clamour, but finally asked, ‘What forts? What purple-robed host?’
Conan said, ‘I fought a great battle on the Stone Dun that backs on to the high cliff of Aran. Ten days I held the ramparts against an invading army of the Partraige, warlike Connachta, that had crossed the shallow channel in two thousand curraghs. Not a man in the fort had the strength to fight, being struck with an ailment caught from eating uncured pork. The sea beat the cliffs and drowned the screams of the dying and the moans of those for whom I fought; the fort might have fallen to the invader but the cliffs subsided on the northern side of the Dun, where the king and the bulk of his army were pressing across our spike-stone defences. They fell into the white sea and were lost. It was a great day.’
Fergus said, ‘I fought a great battle against a Scoti army, the Cianacht, that came down from beyond the fortified city of Emain Macha. Three hosts of three thousand men, each dressed in dazzling purple cloaks, tied with gilded brooches across the shoulder, and hung with rich tapestries and emblems from their many wars. The sun on their silvered war-helms blinded all but myself, so that I rode alone to hold the ford on the river, until the sun went behind a cloud and the rest of my army could see to come and help. I fought for ten hours, and many were the blue-skinned, red-blooded heads that I carried back to Tara. Alas, my triumph was short lived, for my heroism so offended my father and my brothers that I was banished.’
‘As for myself,’ said Donal, grinning at Niall behind the other two warriors’ backs, ‘I claim less distinction.’ Niall laughed quietly. ‘Not that I’m not the
greatest swordsman from my province, you understand; I’ve killed so many thousands of men that I can’t remember even a single engagement where I doubted that I would survive.’
Fergus called back, ‘When you can brag like this, young Niall, you can truly call yourself fiana, a true carrier of the spirit of Fin mac Cumhail himself, may the gods preserve his swordfist.’
‘That moment may be sooner than you think,’ said Niall quickly, and when the other three had stopped he pointed away to the left, where the river curved and would take them to the nearest ford.
A vast army of men stood there, sun on their swords bright like the sun on a lake, a dazzling reflection that could be seen for miles.
‘Fir Thulach!’ cried Conan. ‘They guard the ford and entry to the province. I have never fought against them.’
Fergus stared at the ranked men thoughtfully. ‘They’re very pretty aren’t they. All that glitter, all that colour …’
‘Means nothing,’ said Niall, riding forward to get a better look. ‘Even the famous Galeoin, the fiercest warriors I’ve ever heard of, even they liked to sport bright coloured cloaks and kirtles.’
‘I know,’ said Fergus. ‘The Cianacht are the descendants of them, and have carried their fierceness into the present time. I was merely passing comment.’
‘They look very professional,’ said Donal.
‘Do they?’ said Fergus, smiling broadly. When Donal shook his head, not understanding, Fergus laughed and said, ‘Did you ever see an experienced army rank their swordsmen at the front, with not a javelin in sight?’
‘By the Paps of Danu!’ roared Donal, ‘He’s right! How old are you Niall?’
‘Sixteen or so,’ cried Niall back.
‘Then don’t doubt that you’ll see seventeen! Come on!’
Delighted, they raced along the river shore and up over the soft banks, to come straight at the warriors of the Fir Thulach, and match swords with them.
The swordsmen of the Fir Thulach were lined up in two ranks of twenty, one rank – the older, more experienced soldiers – calf deep in the surging waters of the river that bubbled and foamed above the shallow bedrock at this ford. The second rank, hard faced, green eyed youths, stood on the shore. They watched the four screaming men ride towards them, and moved, shuffled uneasily. Fergus laughed when he saw this, for he recognised an easy slaughter. His laugh turned to a cry of anger a moment later as the second rank of men raised their spears from where they had been hiding them.
Niall had never felt as confident as Fergus of an easy victory, but the excitement, the fervour of the coming fight, had taken him to the depths of his soul, and though it was Niall Swiftaxe, the Sneachta Doom, that rode for the first few seconds, bare legs outstretched and taut in the restraining leather
thongs that bore his weight on the saddle, the Bear began to assume control again. He cried his delight and waved his gleaming snow sword about his head. As he came near to the enemy, riding behind Fergus and in front of Conan and Donal, he reached behind with his other hand and drew a javelin from its slings. The weapon flew ahead of him and the tallest, firmest standing of the Fir Thulach staggered back, dropping his shield and sword as the spear went in through his mouth, just below the metal rim of his faceplate.
The three fiana slung javelins, then, but the Fir Thulach were ready for this assault and all three weapons were knocked aside.
But the sight of blood, that brief spurt before the water washed the body clean, it had been enough! It caused the frenzy in Niall, and his scream of human pleasure turned to an awful cry of animal anger.
Fergus cut away to the left and Conan and Donal to the right, and all four jumped the first rank of swordsmen in a single motion, hacking and slashing down as they passed above them. They ploughed through the second rank of soldiers, then turned and rode back to the ford, cutting and sweeping, and laughing all the while … all but Niall.
The Bear possessed him.
Power, rising from foot to leg, to groin, to heart, to head, to arm.
The beast god laughed in his head: Kill for me, my Berserker killer, slaughter this host of swordsluts … drench your limbs in their blood … for me, for me, for Odin!
His cry was the drawn-out shout of the God’s name, and he whirled and twisted, flexed and jerked, unbothered by the wounds he received, by the swords that sliced across him and the spears that probed inches into his flesh before he cut through the shafts and through the shaft-holder’s neck …
Donal came near him in the fight, his own broad sword hewing down the panicking ranks of the Thulach. ‘Leave a few for us!’ he cried through the wind of death screams.
His answer was in the form of the slashing point of Niall’s snow sword raking across his naked chest. Donal reared, twisted, ‘Not me, not me!’ he screamed, and frantically defended himself against the blind-edged sword that tried to take his life. But he found himself facing the twisted mask that was Niall’s face, blood running freely from the gums, white teeth bared, tongue licking animal-like at the lower lip … His eyes were tiny, ursine points of horror, and Donal ducked and wheeled away, caught a spear in his side and grimaced with pain before cutting down the offender. A second spear probed between his shoulder blades and rider and horse reared high, throwing Donal from the saddle, the spear point an arm’s length out from his breast. He staggered to his feet and snatched his small round shield from his saddle, smashed the flat of it against the spear point and knocked the weapon out of his body. Then he turned round and fought the wall of men that faced
him, but the shield was cut from his arm, along with his hand, and a moment later his final scream was drowned beneath the cry of triumph of five young warriors whose sword blades took his limbs and head in several swift motions. The staring head was impaled upon a spear and carried down to the ford.