Challenge of the clans (16 page)

"What is this place?" he asked. "How does it float?"

"It's a crannog," Caoilte told him, grinning. "And it's not floating. There's an island built of stones beneath it. It's protection. Come along."

He led them along the edge of the lake to where a narrow bridge of earth led from the shore to a gateway in the wall. It was the only way to reach the fortress without swimming.

"Here's where we cross," he said to them.

"We're going there?" Cnu Deireoil. "But it's savages living there. They'll likely kill us!"

"That they will not," Caoilte told him in an angry tone. "Still, you two might be better to wait here while I go out to speak to them first. They are a bit suspicious of strangers."

A faint sound behind him alerted Finn then, and he turned to look.

"You won't be needing to ride out there to meet them, Caoilte," he said, his hand dropping to his sword.

A dozen men, all with heavy spears poised to strike, had moved from the trees and now formed a half-circle, trapping them against the water's edge. They were a fierce-looking band, all thick of build and well muscled, very dark, many heavily bearded, and all with a like grimness of expression.

"Savages! I told you!" cried the Little Nut. "They're going to kill us!"

Finn braced himself for another battle, his muscles still aching from the last one. But Caoilte rode close and put a restraining hand on his sword arm.

"No need for that," he said. Then he lifted his other hand in a gesture of greeting to the men. "My friends, it's Caoilte MacRonan!"

The weapons were lowered at once. Broad smiles appeared and there were shouts of welcome as the warriors moved forward.

"You know them?" Cnu Deireoil asked in surprise.

"Well enough," Caoilte answered. "This was my home!"

Chapter Fifteen

FIRST TROPHIES

The warriors had greeted Caoilte, their returning tribal member, as a hero, parading him into the crannog s gathering hall and bringing out enormous vats of ale to toast him with drink after drink.

The hall was much like that of Cian, but smaller and very simply decorated. Only weapons hung upon its roughly stuccoed walls. To its favor, however, it did lack the awful litter and decay of that careless chieftain's hall. The men themselves were of a different type than he had seen before. Their bodies were thicker generally, their complexions quite swarthy and large of feature. Their clothing was plain, with little of the fine linens and silks and rich brocades he had seen Cian's warriors wear, and the Firbolg men were largely fi*ee of adornment. Their hair seemed their one point of vanity, for it was long, elaborately plaited or waved, often hung with colored beads or metal balls. Mustaches were long, careftilly tended and curled, sometimes neatly plaited as well.

Caoilte and his people, Finn had quickly learned, were of the race known as the Firbolgs. Finn knew someting about them fi*om the stories Bodhmall and Liath had told him. They were said to be the oldest race of Ireland. Long before the coming of the Milesians they had ruled here. Then invader after invader had come against them, breaking their power and taking away their duns and herds. Some had retreated into the wild places of Ireland, hving a primitive existence, but

proudly keeping their tribes whole and their culture intact. Others had mixed with the newcomers, and their blood was now strong in the people of Ireland, save for the Milesian aristocracy. Even Finn's own roots, Bodhmall had told him, could be traced to proud champions of the ancient Firbolg clans.

They were a quite friendly lot, for all their coarse look and rough manner. Gnu Deireoil had soon gotten over his initial fear and begun to entertain the warriors with his harp. Finn himself had been readily accepted as a friend to Caoilte and supphed with endless quantities of ale. At first he had only sipped at his huge mug, grimacing at the taste of the strong, dark liquid. He'd had almost none of such drink before this, disliking the taste. But here he couldn't refuse, for hospitality's sake. After the first mug or two, he had noticed the taste improving a great deal.

As the pungent ale had become easier to down, he had drunk ever more deeply. He had felt a sense of pride that he could hold his own with these hard-drinking warriors. After a time he had also become aware of a curious exuberance he had never experienced before.

His talk and laughter with the Firbolg men became more boisterous. He discovered them to be a truly grand lot of fellows, growing grander by the moment. He danced in Hne with them to Gnu Deireoil's jigs. He cried with them to the harp's soulful tunes. He hstened with proper respect and awe to their tales of savage fights and dangerous hunts. He felt more and more a part of their close company, and the impact of this new sense of fellowship was great.

While Finn was thus getting to know his new comrades, Gaoilte had been engaged in a long and intense conversation with the tribe's chieftain. Now the two approached the young warrior. The chieftain, a brawny man whose broad nose had been flattened more than once, clapped a heavy arm across Finn's shoulders.

Finn, who was just taking another drink of ale, swallowed a large mouthful and nearly choked.

"So, lad," the chieftain said heartily, "Goailte tells

me that he's taken on your training as a warrior. Well, you couldn't find a better man to do it, so you couldn't. He's one of the finest fighters in all Ireland. Why, he could have been a champion of the Fianna if he'd wished it!"

This remark seemed to disconcert Caoilte, for he spoke up hastily. "Now, Uncle, don't you be bragging on me to the lad. I'm a simple fighting man, making my living the best way I can."

"Are you?" the chieft:ain said. "Then why don't you come back? It's yourself should be the chieftain in your father's place, not me."

"No, Uncle!" Caoilte protested. "You're leader now. You've children who will follow you. I've no wish to be married and less to be settled. That's as it should be."

Finn listened to all this with great interest. He was suddenly learning a great deal about this new comrade of his.

"Well, it's good to have you back anyway, Nephew," the chieftain said. "You know you can stay as long as you wish with us. " He turned back to Finn, giving him another friendly whack across the shoulders. "And you're welcome here too, boy!" He grabbed up a pitcher of ale and refilled the mug of his young guest past the rim. "There you are! Drink up now! This is a celebration!"

"I was hoping that while we were staying here, the lad might have a chance to be in some real fighting," Caoilte said.

"Well, if it's a fight you're seeking, you've come here at the right time," the chieftain said. "We've been having great troubles with the O'Domhnall tribe up on the valley rim. "

"Aye," another warrior added emphatically. 'They've attacked our herdsmen and our hunting parties by surprise. Three of our best fighters they've killed since spring."

"We've lost half our herds as well," added another. **By the winter there'll be nothing left to us."

Their tempers raised by ale and their combative natures, other warriors now began to recount recent offenses against them with a rage that escalated quickly

with the tallying of each additional wrong. Finn listened to them with a growing indignation of his own. Just who were these evil people to be treating his comrade's tribesmen, his fine hosts, his new friends, in this terrible way?

"WeVe not been able to go against them sword-for-sword," the chieftain explained to Caoilte. "There were too many.''

"Not now!" one of the warriors cried. "WeVe got Caoilte back with us. He's match for a score of them!"

This was greeted by shouts of agreement from the company. Caoilte leaned toward Finn to call over the tumult.

"What about it, lad? Will you join us? It'll be your first chance for a real fight."

"Of course I'll join you," Finn answered fiercely. He was fully aroused now by the power of the drink, his new feelings of comradeship, and the contagious battle fervor of those around him. "I'm ready for a fight! Let's be after those treacherous raiders now!"

"There's surely a bold lad," the chieftain announced. "After my owni heart he is. " He looked around at his warriors. "What do you say? Shall we strike now?"

The response was wild cheers and shrill battle cries. Swords were brandished high.

"Then let's do a bit of raiding ourselves," he announced. "The day is young. We'll feast on their cattle this very night!'

"Just give me my chance at them," Finn declared in a combative voice, drawing his own blade. "Just give me my chance!"

"Easy, lad," Caoilte cautioned him, a Httle surprised by the young man's unexpected savageness. 'This is new to you, so I think you'd better just stay close to me."

With a gathering of weapons and a final, hearty drink, the raiding party was off. Propelled by the energy of their fired anger, they sped through the woods and up the open valley beyond. Most of this journey was only a blur to Finn, but it seemed very soon that

he stood looking across a wide meadow lit by the afternoon sun.

The cattle were there, a fat herd, its numbers swelled by those stolen from Caoilte's people. And just above, a ring fort perched on the upper rim of the valley, its timber waJls glowing in the slanting light like a golden crown.

The warriors of Caoilte's tribe made no delay in attacking. They used no strategy at all, but charged directly in at their chieftain's command. Their high, trilling war cries echoed across the valley in the still, warm afternoon.

"Remember to stay close!" Caoilte reminded Finn.

But the young man was not Hstening. Still in the throes of his own battle rage, aglow with the heat of ale in his veins, he charged right ahead with them, voicing— and quite well, he thought—a war cry of his own.

The few herdsmen with the cattle turned with a start to see this screaming horde rushing upon them. They leaped from their resting spots and pelted for the fortress, crying for help. The attacking warriors were soon about the cattle. Some of them began driving the animals away. But this process was barely under way when a clanging sound rose within the fortress.

'The alarm's being raised,' the chieftain shouted with satisfaction. *Theyll be coming now!"

To draw the enemy warriors out to fight was as important a part of the raid as securing the cattle, for only blood could make revenge complete. Caoilte's tribe was not to be disappointed, for in moments the gates flew open and a stream of warriors was pouring from the fortress.

It spread as it came down the slope toward them. The warriors about the herd scattered to meet it. The style of fighting was strictly a matter of single combats, and both sides began to choose out opponents as they closed.

Finn was in the forefront as the battle joined. With a great yell of triumph, he leaped before a pair of advancing enemies and struck a challenging pose. The two hardened, burly warriors eyed the youth quizzically.

I

"Come on! Come at me!" Finn exhorted. "I'll take both of you!"

The two looked at one another in surprise at his audacity. Who was this beardless madman? Then they shrugged and moved in upon him.

He handled them with what seemed to him marvelous skill, sweeping about them with a dazzling display of swordsmanship. Caoilte, he thought, would be quite proud of his skills. He swept here and there, parrying their rather clumsy attack, lunging and cutting and thrusting, his sword a whirl of light as he danced about, throwing them both on the defensive. It seemed the most exciting thing he had ever done.

He managed to wound one of the warriors, swinging a hard cut across his chest that caused the man to stumble and then go down, his life's blood welling from the deep slash.

It was on seeing this that Finn found things starting to go badly. The rush of exhilaration that had taken him this far was suddenly gone and he began to feel just a bit queasy. The landscape about him seemed to be pulsing and heaving. His head felt as if it were starting to whirl. He tried to fight on, but this second fellow was being quite stubborn, no longer intimidated by his artistry with the sword. In fact, the man was becoming quite a nuisance.

Finn was forced to the defensive, backing up, trying to hold his determined foe away, shaking his head to clear it and only finding that it made the spinning sensation worse. Oh, he was not well at all, he thought. He began to wish that this stubborn lout would go away and let him lie down, or possibly just kill him and put him out of his misery. He looked about and found that Caoilte and the other warriors were fully engaged themselves. He could get no help from them.

So groggy had he become that he wasn't even aware of the rock behind him until the backs of his legs came in contact with it and he was toppling. But his fall saved him, for he dropped beneath a massive stroke that would have cleaved his head to the chin.

Finn crashed heavily to the earth. The pain cleared

his head a bit and he looked up as the warrior drew back his arm to make another cut. ReaHzing his peril, Finn sat forward, driving desperately upward with his blade. It sank into the man's belly and he doubled up. His own sword swung past Finn and he crashed forward hke a felled oak trunk, across the young man's legs.

Finn was still struggling to pull himself from beneath the pinning weight when Caoilte came up to him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, rolling the body away.

"Yes, yes!" Finn said irritably, wanting to hide his unaccountable weakness. But as he tried clumsily to pull himself to his feet, his gaze fell on a scene not very £eu- away.

A warrior of Caoilte's tribe had tangled one hand in the long hair of a downed adversary. As Finn watched, he pulled the head up by the hair, stretching out the neck, and then with three hard whacks of his sword severed it from the body.

That was too much for the young warrior. His stomach seemed to turn itself inside out. He turned away and was very, very ill.

Alarmed by his condition, Caoilte moved to him, throwing a supporting arm about his shoulders.

"Finn, what's wrong with you?"