In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Read online

  All Conor knew of the broad-shouldered lord was what he had observed at the council, where the young nobleman had sided with the lords determined to force Conor to relinquish his claim on Tara Hill. Standing beside Aengus was his truculent, thin-faced friend, Lord Toráin of the Concani, and next to him a lord Conor did not know; slightly older, he had long hair pale as wheat and a gleaming torc of twisted gold strands. Neither of the two noblemen Conor did know had forgotten the heated exchanges and accusations aired during the airechtas, and it made for an awkward and uncomfortable few moments.

  ‘Come to save us, have you?’ was the first thing out of the Concani king’s mouth.

  ‘Three wagonloads of dead and dying,’ replied Fergal bluntly. ‘It looks to me like you could use a little saving maybe.’

  ‘We have things well in hand,’ huffed Toráin, dragging a sleeve across his nose and mouth. The Concani lord had a cut on the side of his face and one on his upper arm. Blood stained his siarc at the neck and arm, but he appeared in no hurry to have his injuries tended. He thrust a finger at Morann as the Auteini lord came up. ‘We wouldn’t be here at all if the Auteini hadn’t abandoned their fortress and fled for the hills.’

  Morann’s bristled at the taunt; his nostrils flared. ‘We fought them for two days and we fought alone, you insolent young—’

  He started forth on the balls of his feet, but Conor pulled him back, saying, ‘We’re delighted to hear you’re doing so well. Even so, we bring forty-seven keen new blades to the fight. Would I be wrong in thinking they might yet find some worthwhile service?’ He looked from one lord to the next for an answer. When none came, he shrugged. ‘Well, you say you have things well in hand. We are happy to go back the way we came and leave you to reap the rewards of victory that you so richly deserve.’ To Morann, he said, ‘Go tell the fianna we will not be staying.’

  Morann, shaking his head at the ill-tempered Concani king, turned and started away.

  ‘Wait! A moment … a moment, if you will,’ blurted Aengus. ‘I’m more of the opinion that it would do no harm to include a few more warriors fresh to the fight. And I’m sure my brother kings would agree with that at least—seeing as how they agree on little enough of anything else.’ This last was said with a stern look at the quarrelsome Toráin.

  ‘What say you?’ asked Conor, looking at the unknown nobleman. ‘Do you think we might find some practice for the weapons we’ve brought all this long way?’

  ‘For a fact, I do,’ replied the fair-haired lord. He glanced at Toráin and then offered his arm to Conor, saying, ‘I am Lord Laegaire, King of the Laigini. You don’t know me, but I know you. My father and his advisors were at the doomed Oenach. He was killed during the massacre, but you were the saving of our battlechief and the others.’

  Conor took the offered arm and said, ‘What a cursed night that was. I lost my father, too. I hope we fare better today.’

  Morann, looking along the hill line, said, ‘From the hilltop, we saw three battle groups. Who else is here?’

  ‘Vainche and the Brigantes,’ answered Aengus; he gestured to the north where, some way off, another warband had gathered. ‘Liam and the Darini warriors are with him. They arrived a short while before you did and Vainche has been leading the warhost.’

  ‘Has he now?’ mused Conor. ‘If that is so, why isn’t he here now?’

  ‘After this last retreat he said he needed time alone to think,’ explained Laegaire. ‘We were to wait here while he argued with that battlechief of his over what to do next.’

  Conor looked to where the Brigantes and Darini were drawn up some little distance away, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, dismissing the insufferable lord, he turned away and asked about the strength of the enemy—how many footmen and how many riders?

  ‘Too many to count,’ replied Aengus. ‘A few hundred at least, I’d say.’

  ‘You don’t know for sure?’ wondered Fergal.

  ‘We could not get a good count,’ explained Laegaire. ‘They are using a thing we have not seen before—little horse carts with warriors—’

  ‘Chariots,’ said Conor. ‘Yes, we know. Morann told us.’

  ‘War carts, they are. Very fast,’ added Fergal. ‘The dog-eaters have been making them for some little time.’

  ‘Whatever they are,’ said Aengus, ‘they are impossible to stop. We can’t get near the things.’

  ‘We’ll find a way,’ said Fergal. Looking at the lords and warriors gathered around, he asked, ‘Who is leading the warhost?’

  ‘Now you’re here you probably think that it should be you,’ muttered Toráin, his derision thick as it was unpalatable.

  Conor turned on him. ‘Hear me, you impudent pup. We don’t have to be here at all. We could more easily have stayed at Tara and let you earn your great victory all by yourselves. Nevertheless, we have ridden hard for five days, eaten little, and slept ill in order to risk life and limb for the protection of our people—’

  ‘And what do we find?’ snarled Fergal, breaking in. ‘A sorry bunch of beaten dogs with their tails between their legs growling at each other and the enemy in full possession of their strength and the lands hereabouts! It is enough to wring tears from a stone.’ Glaring at the lords, he said, ‘How long have you been here, anyway?’

  ‘Only since this morning,’ Aengus told him.

  ‘By the Hag, we received word five days ago!’ hollered Fergal. ‘You, Aengus—you are closer to the Auteini than we are at Tara. And you, Toráin … and you, Laegaire.… You all should have been able to get here well before the dog-eaters could claim the land hereabouts—if that was your aim. Where are the Nagnati? They are only a spear’s throw away! They should be here. And where are the Ulaid and the Robogdi, eh? Where is Corgan and Cahir? Why aren’t the Eridani and Coriondi here?’

  ‘Were they even summoned at all?’ asked Conor. When no one answered, he demanded, ‘What happened? Why the long delay?’

  He stared with hard eyes at the suddenly reticent lords. ‘Well? I want an answer and I will have one.’

  ‘We were waiting,’ Aengus conceded at last. He cast a hasty, sidelong glance at his fellow lords and warleaders.

  ‘Waiting!’ Fergal shouted, fairly exploding in righteous indignation. ‘Man, what was more important to you than preventing the enemy from camping at your gates?’

  Fergal’s righteous outrage cowed them, and all shifted uneasily under his withering glare.

  ‘It was Lord Vainche,’ blustered Aengus, giving way at last. ‘We were ready to ride out—’ He glanced at Toráin and said, ‘We were, you know. But Vainche sent word that he would bring the Brigantes warband to aid us and said we were to wait until he got here.’

  ‘So you waited? For Vainche?’ said Conor, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Why?’

  The lords looked down, refusing to meet his gaze or answer his question.

  ‘If you had ridden out the moment you received the call, it is likely you would not have needed Vainche’s help at all!’ snarled Fergal. ‘If you had—’ he began, then broke off, saying, ‘What’s the use?’

  ‘Fergal’s right,’ said Conor. ‘If you had acted sooner, you would never have needed the likes of Vainche.’

  ‘Ach, well, we’re paying for it now!’ snapped Toráin.

  ‘You’re not paying at all,’ Conor told him coldly. ‘Your men are paying! The Auteini are paying. Lands lost, good warriors wounded and dying … and for what?’ No one spoke. ‘For Vainche’s insufferable self-importance!’

  A sulky silence settled over the group then. Conor was right and they knew it. There was not one among them who did not feel in his bones that the error of judgement was a failing of grave and terrible consequence, and the guilt was drawn on every face.

  Finally, Conor, having made his point, did what he could to revive their courage and conviction. ‘Hear me. What’s done is done. We’ll deal with it later,’ he told them. ‘Now we must all pull together or we will lose even more territory to the Scálda. And
if our luck is with us, maybe we can reclaim what’s been lost.’

  They fell to discussing how best to do that and were putting the finishing touches on a basic battle plan when they were interrupted by the sudden arrival of Lord Vainche and his odious, beetle-browed battlechief Gioll. Following in his wake rode Liam and Eamon. The four came trotting up on their horses and stopped a few paces away. Vainche, already scowling with displeasure, looked at Conor and demanded, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We came to help,’ replied Conor evenly. ‘A fella might have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘We don’t need help from the likes of you,’ sneered Vainche. ‘We are perfectly able to defend ourselves. So you, Conor mac Ardan, you can take your mongrel fianna and go back to Tara—back to the land you stole from the Brigantes. But you, Morann,’ he said, turning to the Auteini king, ‘you can stay and watch real warriors clean up your stinking mess.’

  Conor, a sharp reply on his tongue, swallowed it and instead looked to his brother. ‘Greetings, Liam. Still suffering the insufferable, I see.’

  Liam glared at him, but said nothing. Eamon, looking decidedly ill at ease, muttered a lame greeting, and Gioll gazed out from beneath his heavy brow, a look of gloating malice gleaming in his little piglike eyes.

  ‘I came to tell you we are ready to mount another attack,’ Vainche informed them. ‘Gather your men and ride on my command.’

  Conor felt the side of his face begin to burn as his birthmark kindled with the heat of an anger he could barely contain. The smug arrogance of the Brigantes king stole the words from his mouth. He could but stare hot blades at the haughty lord. Liam saw his brother’s face darken and knew the look only too well: he put out a hand to Vainche to forestall any further comment and said, ‘Now that they’re here, I’m thinking the extra blades would be of some value.’

  ‘So they would,’ volunteered Laegaire readily, and the others nodded their agreement. ‘In fact, we have just been discussing how to make best use of our combined warbands.’

  Vainche sniffed heavily. ‘Do what you will,’ he said, affecting a tone of weary indifference, ‘just keep him and his men far away from us. We might mistake them for the enemy and I, for one, won’t be responsible for what happens.’ With that, he lifted the reins, wheeled his horse, and rode away. Liam hesitated a moment as if he might join the other kings, then abruptly changed his mind and, without a word, turned and rode away, leaving a shamefaced Eamon to offer a limp apology. ‘I’m sorry, Conor. I would happily join you if—’

  Conor stopped him. ‘Never mind, Eamon. Stay with Liam and do what you can to keep him from falling any lower.’

  Eamon raised his spear in farewell, and rode back to the waiting Darini and Brigantes warbands.

  ‘I don’t think we can expect any real help from them,’ observed Conor, watching them go. Then, turning back to the lords around him: ‘If any of you think Vainche has a better plan to defeat the Scálda, then you are free to go to him now. Otherwise, let us proceed with the plans we’ve made and hope for the best.’

  When no one spoke up for the arrogant Brigantes lord, Fergal said, ‘Right so. What can you tell us about these chariots? How are they used?’

  ‘I thought you said you knew all about them,’ said Toráin.

  ‘We’ve seen them being made, and somewhat of how they are driven,’ replied Conor. ‘We have never seen them in battle.’

  ‘Then you will soon learn to fear them.’ The Concani lord pointed out across the plain to a broad dark line flowing out across the centre of Mag Cró like a contaminating stain, or a storm tide engulfing the strand in a flood of filthy water. ‘Here they come!’

  11

  The first thing Conor noticed was how very fast the chariots could move. While striking, it should not have been surprising; after all, the carts were light in weight—little more than a sturdy wickerwork basket on slender wheels—and pulled by two fast horses. Conor, Fergal, and Donal had briefly glimpsed a chariot under harness the day they snuck into a Scálda ráth. All the same, a broad line of swift war carts streaking into battle across an open expanse was a sight to behold. The ground trembled beneath the pounding hooves, the thin, iron-rimmed wheels carved grooves in the soft turf, and distance disappeared at an alarming rate. A hurtling chariot seemed to close on its target with all the speed of a spear in flight.

  From what Conor could see, each war cart held two men: one to drive the horses and one to fight. Principally, the Scálda used long-shafted spears as their weapon of choice; each chariot carried several of these in wicker holders strapped to the frame of the cart. With one hand, the warrior hurled the missile, and with the other he employed an oversized round shield to protect both himself and the driver. It was an impressive, if not terrifying, practice that worked only too well and, as Conor was soon to discover, required enormous courage on the part of any defender placing himself in the chariot’s path.

  Facing a chariot in full flight in battle took an enormous amount of skill, luck, and an almost reckless disregard for life. It was the rare warrior who did not look upon the sight of a two-horse battle cart bearing down upon him and suddenly wish he was somewhere else far away. Nor did it take much imagination to see that the damage a chariot attack could inflict would be devastating: equally so the fact that a spear thrown from a fast-moving war cart seemed to gather all the speed and strength of the horse and cart itself—something Conor and the fianna learned in the very first moments of conflict.

  Seeing the Scálda advance, Conor ordered the fianna to mount their horses and form their battle groups: two separate ranks, one behind the other. Each warrior was armed with a throwing spear; a long wickerwork shield covered in toughened leather with a large iron boss; a short sword with a tapering blade. Fergal led the first rank and Conor the second. The warbands of Aengus, Toráin, and Leagaire fell into place in either of the two ranks, and they all advanced together—slowly to begin, but gathering pace as they went. Meanwhile, the Scálda chariots sped over the plain, and the distance between the two sides closed with breathtaking speed.

  The resulting clash would have been catastrophic for the Dé Danann horsemen, but the chariots remained in tight formation. On they rushed, wheel-to-wheel, the hooves of the two-horse teams chewing up the earth and flinging clouts of grass and dirt into the air. Seeing no space wide enough for a horse and rider to pass between the oncoming vehicles, Fergal broke off the charge, swerving aside to avoid a disastrous collision.

  Even so, the hastily aborted attack cost the Dé Danann warhost, for as the line of defenders turned, they presented a vulnerable side to the Scálda spearmen, who loosed a barrage of spears, catching more than a few Dé Danann as they scattered to get out of the way. The canny warriors sought to deflect the thrown weapon with their shields—only to have the iron spearhead penetrate the shield to inflict a wound anyway. Most of the Dé Danann escaped serious injury—some by only a hair’s breadth—but others were not so lucky: several received puncture wounds from hurled spears, and one a broken arm when the enemy blade punched through the shield near the boss; two riders were thrown from their mounts by the force of the blow and both fell beneath the wheels of the onrushing vehicles.

  The rout of the Dé Danann defenders was complete. The attack collapsed and, within moments, all were in full retreat. The Scálda, having easily won the clash, offered only halfhearted pursuit. The defenders returned to their marshalling place at the foot of the hills, where they dismounted to rest the horses and regroup. ‘That was no good at all,’ spat Fergal, wiping sweat from his face. ‘How many did we lose?’

  ‘Three from our rank,’ answered Médon, joining them just then. ‘Two wounded and one dead.’

  ‘And the wounded?’ asked Fergal.

  ‘Concani, I think. They’ll live, but won’t fight any more today.’

  ‘The front line lost seven,’ said Conor, sliding down from Búrach’s sweaty back. ‘One dead. Six wounded—I can’t say if any of these will be fit to ride
again.’

  Lord Aengus came running up. ‘You see the difficulty. They are fast, those war carts. And if they hold the line like that, there’s no way we can get in close. We can do nothing.’

  ‘Not if we persist in attacking like that,’ said Fergal. ‘Is that what you did last time, too?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ declared Conor, thrusting the point of his spear into the ground. ‘We won’t be attacking like that again. On my life, what a balls-up!’

  ‘I didn’t know they could move so fast.’ Médon, shaking his head. ‘And so many!’

  ‘Go and see to the fianna,’ Fergal told him. ‘Tell them to prepare for another assault.’ To Aengus, he said, ‘Go tell the other lords to come and hold council. We have to talk.’

  Thus, while the warbands saw to the wounded and tended their mounts, Conor, Fergal, and the other warleaders met to plan the next assault—all, that is, except Vainche and Liam, who refused to stand close enough to even overhear Conor.

  ‘Clearly, we cannot break the enemy line with a blunt charge,’ Fergal told them. ‘But if we could get around the flanks we could attack from behind—strike before the dog-eaters can turn the carts around.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Laegaire, ‘it might work.’

  ‘How do you propose to get in behind them?’ asked Aengus. ‘We tried before but couldn’t do it. Those war carts are too fast and they turn in a blink.’

  ‘We have more men now. We can stagger the charge. Attack on three fronts,’ suggested Conor. ‘Begin the charge like before, but hold two wings back. When the Scálda commit to the centre, we bring in the wings to attack from the side. That way we can get in behind them.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Médon, ‘the field is broad enough and if they stay bunched in the centre, we could get a warband around each side if we were in position.’