Dancing With Demons (29 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #Adult, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #Suspense, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Dancing With Demons
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Irél snorted disdainfully. ‘It is not exactly an honourable way of battle.’ ‘Is any battle honourable?’ snapped Fidelma.
‘The plan has its merits,’ admitted Irél, flushing. ‘As such, I accept it. I do not have to put it to my men, for we are of the Fianna.’
Fidelma repressed a smile at the arrogance of his tone.
‘Excellent. If all is well, we will depart from here as soon as possible.’
Eadulf had finally fallen asleep. He had spent hours walking around the inside of their prison while Bishop Luachan lay snoring. It was true what the old man had said. There was only one way into this strange mausoleum and one way out of it. And as there was only room for one man crawling out at a time, there was no hope at all of surprising the two warriors who stood sentinel outside, let alone making an escape, even if the wicker gate was not in the way.
He had sat down and started turning over various plans in his mind, but had to discard each one before he had advanced far into it. It was while he was doing so that he had finally fallen into a sleep of troubled exhaustion.
It was dark and the chill of early morning made Fidelma feel cold and uncomfortable. She was thankful for the knowledge of Ardgal’s men, for it appeared that Sliabh na Callaigh encompassed a row of several hills running east to west. Ardgal had told her that the extreme western peak and its close neighbour, the highest peak of all, were where the ancient pagan buildings were situated. His trackers believed that it was around this highest hill that the
dibergach
camp was to be found.
They had approached from the south towards the western side, passing a small lake through woodlands of densely branched trees. They had left their horses tethered in the woods then began to climb upwards. After a short distance, Ardgal had bade her wait with Caol and Gormán while he and his men advanced up the hill to deal with the sentinels. Behind them, the ranks of the Fianna had already halted and stood ready to make their ascent when instructed.
They waited in total silence.
It seemed strange. No sound came to them through the night air, and Fidelma was wondering if her plan was working at all when there came a rustle among the undergrowth and almost before they had time to react, one of Ardgal’s men appeared in the shadows.
‘We have dealt with all the sentinels on this side, lady,’ he whispered. ‘The Fianna can move up, but as quietly as possible.’
Irél was already motioning his men forward. Like a silent stream they ascended the hill with Fidelma, Caol and Gormán trailing in their wake.
They paused to regroup at the tree-line that gave access onto the bald peak. Fidelma could see the outline of stone buildings, of campfires, tents and some wooden structures. Then the Fianna were racing forwards; the timing was perfect. The sun was still below the eastern hills, but a thin shaft of light was creeping over the hill. The Fianna were on the sleeping
dibergach
before they knew it.
Pandemonium was suddenly let loose as the sword-wielding warriors clashed with their foes. Ardgal’s men were still using their long bows to great effect as some of the sentinels from other sides of the hill began to
run forward to engage the Fianna. Screams and roars of pain began to rise from all around.
Eadulf came awake with a start, blinking his eyes. The chamber was in darkness but someone was shaking him fiercely.
‘Brother Eadulf, something is happening outside.’ It was the voice of Bishop Luachan and he started to shake him again.
‘All right! All right!’ protested Eadulf. ‘I am awake. What is it?’ He heard the shouts and cries from outside.
‘The camp must be under attack,’ said the old bishop.
Immediately, Eadulf was on his knees.
‘Quickly, this may be our only opportunity,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down the tunnel and see what is happening. Perhaps the fighting will distract the guards. Follow me and keep close.’
Without waiting for an answer, he was already crawling swiftly on his hands and knees towards the faint grey light of dawn. Outside, through the wicker gate against which he now pressed his face, Eadulf could see only one guard, who seemed to be standing nervously, sword in hand. Eadulf could hear a terrible commotion but saw nothing. The encampment was definitely under attack – but sadly, there was no getting past the guard.
O
ut of the corner of her eye, Fidelma saw Ardgal directing his archers against a group of men who looked strangely foreign, more like Saxon warriors than Irish. There were several hand-to-hand combats going on. Together, she and Caol dodged between the fighting groups, making their way towards the wooden buildings and tents. Gormán, on Caol’s shouted instruction, was heading for some stone buildings.
Suddenly, a warrior rushed at them, brandishing his sword. Caol had not become commander of the Nasc Niadh, the elite bodyguard of the kings of Cashel, for nothing. He expertly parried the blows and slid his blade quickly under the ribs of the man, who slumped to the ground with a cry of pain and lay moaning in a spreading circle of blood.
Then Caol cried: ‘Look out!’
Instinctively, Fidelma dodged aside, feeling the wind against her skin as a blade swung past her. She pivoted on her heel to find herself inches from the distorted face of a woman. The rage and hatred on those awesome features was so intense that she flinched. The sword was upraised again, and she grabbed for the woman’s sword wrist and pulled with her full weight. As she did so, Fidelma registered the curious garb of her assailant and the strange symbols that she wore about her neck.
Although she had locked the woman’s sword arm in the tight grasp of her two hands, she realised that the woman’s left arm was free and that there was a sharp bladed-knife in her hand. Fidelma could not swing round and protect herself. She braced herself for the sharp impact, but it never came.
Instead, she felt the woman’s body stiffen against her own and then it became a dead weight. She let go of the wrist and her attacker fell to the ground.
Behind the corpse stood Caol, sword in hand.
Fidelma glanced at him, one look of thanks before the intensity of the continuing combat claimed their attention.
Peering up through the wicker gate that blocked the entrance to the tunnel, Eadulf was still thinking desperately for a way of distracting the guard.
He heard a cry from somewhere and then the guard began to move away from the gate. Even as he saw the legs of the man take a step forward, he saw them buckle as the man fell, measuring his length on the ground outside. He did not question the why or wherefore, but thrust at the wicker gate with all his strength. Surprisingly, it jerked aside with ease and then Eadulf was scrambling out.
The guard lay on the ground, two hunting arrows embedded in his body.
Eadulf turned to help the old bishop out of the passage. They paused but a moment, looking at the noisy conflict that surrounded them. Then Eadulf pointed.
‘Let us go down the hill, to the shelter of those trees until we know who is fighting whom.’
Bishop Luachan nodded. With Eadulf’s help he limped painfully on his sprained ankle, stumbling a little. As they lurched down the hill, sliding and tripping on the increasingly steep slope, Eadulf began to feel exhilaration that they had made their escape without being observed.
Then, without warning, there came a cry from his elderly companion. At the same time, the old bishop shoved him in the back and Eadulf staggered forward and fell to his knees. Something hissed through the air behind him and he heard a thud as it fell. He was on his feet in a second and peering round. Bishop Luachan was also on his knees with the momentum of the push that he had given Eadulf. A short distance away was the Saxon warrior Beorhtric, and from his stance he had just thrown something at Eadulf, doubtless a knife. Bishop Luachan’s action had prevented it from landing in his back.
Eadulf looked quickly round but could not see where it had fallen. He had no weapon with which to defend himself and the tall Saxon warrior had now unsheathed his battle-axe with a grim smile on his features.
‘Move, Luachan! Go!’ Eadulf shouted to the old man, who was clambering to his feet.
‘Yes—hobble off, old one. I will catch up with you later,’ sneered Beorhtric in the same language before reverting to his native Saxon. ‘But you, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, I shall deal with you now.’
Eadulf glanced desperately back up the hill. In the fiery dawn light, he could see the tents and buildings ablaze. Whoever was attacking them had surprised their sentinels and overwhelmed the camp. Beorhtric’s comrades were being pressed back, leaving their dead strewn behind them. He saw some even dropping their weapons and holding up their hands in surrender.
‘Give it up, Beorhtric! Your people are beaten!’ he called, backing away slightly, still looking for some weapon with which to defend himself against the advancing Saxon, who was now making short swinging motions with his axe.
Instead, Beorhtric’s features formed into an evil grin. ‘Then I will have more pleasure in despatching you to Hel first,’ he snarled.
It was all over in seconds.
With a great shout of hate, Beorhtric raised his battle-axe and rushed upon Eadulf, who jumped backwards, missed his footing and fell defenceless before the descending blade. He raised an arm in a futile effort to ward off the blow. But the blow never came. It seemed that Beorhtric had halted, frozen for a moment, with an expression of surprise on his face. He staggered, still holding himself erect and still with the weapon in his hands.
Eadulf rolled out of the way and, as he did so, he noticed something protruding from the Saxon warrior’s chest; blood was soaking his tunic.
Then, with some effort, Beorhtric raised his battleaxe once more and gave a hoarse shout of
‘Woden!’
before he fell sideways and lifeless on the ground.
A short distance away, Gormán, a long hunter’s bow in his hand, stood ready to release a second arrow. Seeing it was unnecessary, he loosened the string, advanced down the hill and stood grinning at Eadulf.
‘You should choose your friends more carefully, Brother Eadulf,’ he rebuked. He reached forward and helped Eadulf up. The latter glanced down at the dead Saxon warrior before turning to Gormán with a shaky smile of relief and gratitude.
‘What has happened?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Gormán said, ‘it would seem that we have defeated these
dibergach.’
‘How did you learn about this place?’ Eadulf wanted to know. Then: ‘Are Fidelma and Caol with you?’
Gormán made an affirmative gesture. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, for old Bishop Luachan, panting with the exertion, was now limping slowly over to join them. Eadulf introduced him.
‘Excellent,’ Gormán smiled. ‘They feared you were dead at Delbna Mór.’
‘Is my community safe? The raiders did not harm it?’ the old man immediately asked.
‘It is untouched,’ replied the warrior.
‘Who is with you?’ asked Eadulf wonderingly, as he observed the warriors now rounding up the survivors of the
dibergach.
‘Irél and members of the Fianna have joined Ardgal and some members of the Cinél Cairpre. We made the attack together. It was Fidelma’s plan. Come, we’d better find her and Caol.’
There was a quiet over the Hag’s Hill now, a curious quiet broken only by cries of pain from those wounded and dying. Dawn had broken over the hills, throwing a threatening red light across the scene. It was almost symbolic as it lit the carnage, but, of course, all it presaged was the bad weather to come. However, the sight that it lit was a bloody one.
Of the attacking force, only six had been killed and seven wounded. Of the raiders, some thirty had been killed and more than forty wounded. The others had surrendered, including most of the women.
After their simple but heartfelt reunion, Eadulf and Fidelma joined Irél in examining the dead. Eadulf realised that he had seen no sign of Cuan among the dead or survivors, and quickly told Fidelma of the man’s presence among the
dibergach.
For a second time they meticulously examined the bodies of the dead, as well as the wounded and the prisoners, but there was no trace of the warrior from Tara.
‘A pity,’ said Fidelma. ‘He must have escaped during the attack.’
They had halted by the body of the tall, black-haired woman whom everyone had called the
ceannard
, the leader.
‘Who was she?’ asked Fidelma. This woman had nearly taken her life.
‘She was apparently a priestess of their cult, but I heard no one call her by her real name,’ Eadulf said. ‘They addressed her as
ceannard
or leader.’
‘I’ll have the prisoners questioned,’ offered Irél, who had joined them. ‘Perhaps one of them will know who she is and can be persuaded to tell us.’ He glanced down at the body. ‘Strange,’ he muttered.
Fidelma looked at him with interest. ‘What is strange?’
‘For a moment I thought there was something familiar about her face.’
‘Now you mention it,’ muttered Eadulf, ‘I remember thinking the same thing when she was questioning me.’
Irél sighed: ‘All faces in death become distorted and perhaps it is because we look on her in death that we see familiarity in it.’
Fidelma made no comment but regarded the dead priestess for a few moments more before turning down the hill to join Caol and Gormán who were standing talking with Bishop Luachan and Ardgal.
A warrior had approached Irél and was talking to him with some animation. The commander of the Fianna called Fidelma back.
‘You were asking about Cuan, lady. One of my men recognised him. He and another man escaped. They were riding eastward. A third man was wounded as he tried to go with them. He has given us some interesting information … after some persuasion.’ Irél smiled without humour.
Fidelma frowned with disapproval but did not comment.
‘What information?’ Eadulf asked.
‘They had already grown tired of riding with these raiders and were planning to leave for Alba, to the kingdom of the Dál Riada on the seaboard of the Gael. The man said that when Cuan joined them he had a heavy plate – that was how he described it – a plate of silver in his saddlebag. He gave it to the woman – the
ceannard –
but when the attack started and he decide to leave with his companions, they stole it back and Cuan took it with him.’
‘So they are now heading for the coast?’ There was a tone of excitement in Fidelma’s voice.
‘For the Bóinn River,’ confirmed lrél. ‘Cuan told them he knew of a ship currently anchored there whose owner, he felt, was the sort who would take them across the Sruth na Maoile for a small consideration.’
‘Sruth na Maoile – where’s that?’ asked Eadulf.
‘The strait of water that separates the two Dál Riadas, the one in Éireann and the one in Alba. Apparently, the owner of this ship has no liking for us. He is the one whom Cenn Faelad rebuked in the market a few days ago.’
Eadulf’s eyes widened. ‘Verbas of Peqini?’
‘The same,’ confirmed Irél.
It was at noon the next day that Fidelma and Eadulf were part of a group of five riders trotting along the track which approached the banks of the great River Bóinn. They had entered the wooded plain where the Bóinn, flowing from the southern hills northward, encountered the powerful Dubh Abhainn, flowing from the west from the great Loch Rath Mór, the lake
of the big fortress. The two rivers joined forces to swing eastwards to the sea north of Tara. The settlement at their juncture was curiously called An Uaimh, the cave. The river here was deep enough for some vessels to move up from the coast to anchor. So the settlement, at this confluence of the rivers, was an excellent spot for traders and merchants to meet. It was also the principal town of the Clann Colmáin, according to Ardgal.
Ardgal had agreed to join Fidelma and Eadulf on the journey back to Tara although Fidelma had made it clear that she must first find the ship of Verbas of Peqini and question Cuan. Bishop Luachan had promised to follow them to Tara as soon as his ankle was attended to. He could not add a great deal more to the facts that they had already garnered about his visit to Sechnussach on the night before the assassination. Bishop Luachan had been adamant that the silver disk that he had discovered with Brother Diomsach would be the key to the discovering of the real
Roth Fáil,
the wheel of destiny, which was so eagerly sought by the
dibergach
and their strange female priestess. He confirmed that the day before Sechnussach’s murder, he had placed the silver disk in the hands of the High King. Ardgal could only give evidence of Dubh Duin’s character but he was keen to exonerate his clan from being wholehearted supporters of their late chief. However, in any presentation to the Great Assembly, both would be needed as witnesses to what had happened on the Hag’s Mountain.
The settlement of An Uaimh was fairly quiet as the five rode in, but they noticed with some satisfaction that there were three large ocean-going ships tied up against the wooden quays. An enquiry made to one man, lounging against bales of sheep’s wool destined for transport beyond the seas, brought forth the information that the tall masted black vessel was from Gaul and that it was indeed the ship of the merchant named Verbas of Peqini.
When they started to move towards it, the man called them back.

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