7. The Cattle Raid of Fiachta #3
A steady, slow rain hid the hills the next morning.
The sun hid as well, covered by the cloud blanket that swallowed sounds and land together.
The men grumbled, and the older men moved slower until they worked heat into their joints.
His left shoulder ached a little, as usual.
The horses shook, sending more rain around them.
So too would hunting dogs if they'd brought any.
Fiachta remained reluctant to keep a pack.
Why? He'd never asked the king. Perhaps the hunting around Dunath had become poor, or the priests had warned against dogs for some reason.
Tuathal shrugged to himself. He'd ask if he remembered.
Where were the crops? The closer they drew to Pyder's lands, the poorer the fields and pastures.
The fleece on the sheep remained short, not growing as was proper for the season.
No one sheared so early. He could see the land through the grains in the fields, and other crops did not grow as tall as they should.
They lived, but thinly, as if someone had not scattered the seed properly, or birds had harvested what the farmer sowed.
The air carried warmth, for all that the rain stole it once more.
"The dirt's cool," Rian said after they stopped to water the horses and let the wagons catch the warriors. "Early spring, it feels like, not so late in the year."
Fiachta frowned and stroked his mustache. The priests muttered and frowned as well, Eoghan's eyes unreadable, he squinted so much. "We enter the lands that paid homage and toll to Pyder's father," the priest said. "Something, a blight or curse, saps the strength of the land and the beasts."
Tuathal nodded agreement. The king's eyebrows rose in a question, so he said, "It has that sense, yes, like a badly-warped harp or mis-made pipe, sounding of wrong no matter the skill of the player."
"The land's lord has not done his duty, perhaps.
" With that the priests began walking south along the path, ahead of the warriors.
Tuathal watched them, but held his tongue.
It was he who had cursed the land, then.
Or was it? Not his to worry this moment.
Getting back on the horse was his worry, and making certain the clarsach remained dry.
That, and getting his sword out of the wagon.
He'd be triply a fool not to carry it now, knowing of danger ahead.
The sky blanket frayed and released the sun later that day.
Sticky heat surrounded them. Quiet filled the air.
Trees covered the land ahead of them. A hawk passed overhead, and he reached his thoughts to it, looking through the eyes.
Movement in the trees, but too large to eat.
The hawk turned east, and Tuathal brought himself back with a whisper of thanks.
"Men in the trees ahead, oh king," he said, murmuring.
"The trees extend almost a hand by sun ahead of us. "
"Hmmm." Fiachta bared his teeth, not smiling. "Then we go ready for a surprise. The birds keep too quiet, and I see no flocks or herds or swine."
"No," Odhran said. "They are gone, so warriors or others must be here instead."
They'd ridden through the first rank of oaks, ash, and other leafy warriors, and into a large clearing around a pond. The hair on his neck stood, and Tuathal hissed. The king drew his sword, then jumped down from the truchai, ready for a fight.
"NoFiann! NoFiann! For Morak!" Yells arose from behind him.
Tuathal turned. Metal struck metal, metal struck flesh.
He eased toward the forest, a witness, not a warrior.
The horse tossed his head, so he dismounted and tied it away from the road then returned, stopping in the shadows.
Fiachta and Rian fought back to back. Rian slashed, blade bright shining, and his enemy's entrails spilled.
The stranger staggered back, then collapsed.
Twang! behind him. Tuathal ducked. Twang! an arrow hissed past, tangled in the bushes beside the path. Tuathal glanced back.
"Mine!" A man raced toward him, sword in hand. Tuathal drew his own blade and crouched, knife in his left hand. "Coward."
He waited, then lunged up, aiming for the gut.
The bigger man knocked his right arm to the side.
Tuathal's knife struck home, into the flank, then out, swinging with the attacker as speed carried him past. Knife out, then sword sweeping down, cutting flesh and tendon, crippling the stranger. The battle cry became a yowl.
Cathal joined the fight and silenced the stranger. "Mine, allav." The warrior took the man's head.
"Yours." Tuathal wiped his knife and sword clean of blood on the dead man's plaid, then sheathed them.
He caught his breath. A bitter smile twisted his lips.
A bard did not fight, true, but a bard could fight, if another struck first. He found the arrow trapped in the knotted briars.
"The swiftest shaft falls to the twisted limbs, the feathers' flight fails in green-clad arms," he sang as he drew the arrow free of the tangle.
Grey goose feathers, dark brown wood smoothed and almost polished, and a barbed head of black iron turned in his fingers.
A hunting head, not a war arrow, then. He glanced back toward the fight.
Fiachta and the others still stood. Blood streaked the king and his men, but not theirs for the most part.
A few bodies lay in the dirt, limp and resigned in death, blood pooling where heads had been.
Dust, blood, death-loosened bowels, and the pond's sourness surrounded the men, overwhelming the forest and meadow's scents.
A bird sang, notes dropping like falling drops of water into the evening air.
The arms men and serving women took what they desired from the bodies before dragging them into the woods and away from road for the beasts to take.
The king planted a spear at the edge of the meadow, then rammed a head onto the blade, a bit of the man's plaid hanging below the head as a warning to all.
Fiachta's driver returned. "There's a good camping place ahead, oh great king," he announced.
"Good. We go there and stop."
A spring-fed pool and small stream provided clear water that evening.
Once the horses had been seen to and servants started the evening fires, the warriors rinsed the heads they'd taken and put them into the sacks in the wagons.
Tuathal watched to be certain that they did not accidentally foul the spring's waters, then returned to camp as well.
Evening sounds faded, then returned, and the scent of crushed grass and cooking food drew him back to where the others gathered.
"Two days," Fiachta told them after all had eaten. "I send a messenger ahead tomorrow, with a head, so Pyder can decide if he wishes to do his duty properly, or if we take tithe for the gods as well as ourselves."
Tuathal smiled. He knew which he'd prefer, including full repayment for Pyder's insults and lack of hospitality. Which would the man choose? He could guess, but the law said the king had to give Pyder time to make good on the injury he'd done his guest.
"You did not claim the head?" Fiachta asked as Tuathal watched the fire.
He shook his own head, still on his shoulders. "No, oh king. I stopped him, but Cathal finished the fight. To Cathal the honor belongs."
Across the fire, Cathal smiled. "At last, wisdom from the word worker."
Tuathal held his peace. Now was not the time to sting the arms man with words.
Later.