9. Confrontations
Confrontations
Tuathal roused himself with some reluctance for the second watch.
A few camp servants moved as well, moving with near-silent steps as they began the morning's tasks, those that did not require light beyond dim fires and stars.
The warriors and Fiachta also stirred, starting to prepare for the day's doings.
Tuathal tended to the traveling drum, then to his needs.
He found Fiachta as the drivers hitched up the horses to the truchaine. The king nodded to him. "Good. Ride beside me until we reach the gates, or we meet Pyder and his men."
Tuathal nodded. Fiachta forgot rank, or ignored it, when he rode to battle. Had other kings and heroes done the like? The songs did not say.
Tuathal found his horse, confirmed yet again that the belly band remained snug, and strapped the drum's case to the saddle.
Then he mounted. The gelding stiffened and bounced for the first few steps, then settled.
Small wonder that warriors rode in wheeled, driven truchaine rather than riding.
He'd heard a merchant speak of warriors far to the east who used foot straps on the saddle, so they could use their hands for other things.
He'd tried to puzzle out how that might be, and had failed.
The drivers had removed all metal trim from the truchaine, anything that might shine and warn watchers. The horses snorted but moved quickly. A scout rode ahead, watching the trail for new trouble. Had Pyder blocked the way? Tuathal wondered.
They moved quickly despite the darkness.
Bright stars lit the land. Tuathal's gelding moved steadily, matching the pace of the king's own horses.
Did the gelding seek to defend his honor as a swift horse?
Tuathal tucked the idea away. Something hurried away through the fields as they passed, deer most likely.
Not a man—it moved too lightly and swiftly.
The gelding snorted, as if with derision.
Creaks of wood, rope, and leather, the steady whirring sound of wheels on dirt, thumps of hoofs walking forward, only those sounds disturbed the night's quiet.
Even the wind rested. The morning star had yet to awaken.
The first hint of the rising sun's coming faded the easternmost stars when they reached sight of Pyder's hall. Fiachta gestured, and his driver slowed, then stopped the horses near the bank of a small burn. The other warriors did the same. "What say you?" the king asked.
Tuathal listened, breathing through nose and mouth together, feeling the sense in the air. "No smoke. No beasts in the inmost fields, either." Yet the hall had not been abandoned, and the gates stood closed before them. "A trap, perhaps?"
"Perhaps. Or he waits for dawn." Hesitation colored the king's words. Then he snarled. "We do not wait." He turned in the truchai and called back, "Darragh, send light to the lord of the ford."
"Yes, oh king."
Warned, Tuathal guided the gelding well away from the warriors, up a small rise. He dismounted and tied the horse to a tree, then removed the drum from the saddle. When he turned back to face Pyder's hall, the building closest to the wall burned, roof thatch on fire.
Now men stirred. "Fire!" came the yell from within the walls.
Another arrow flew from Darragh's bow. A man's cry of pain followed.
Movement flowed from the other buildings, and warriors and servants appeared in the firelight, black shapes of shadows flickering like the red flames.
The gates of the hall swung open. Tuathal stared, blinked, and looked once more.
No, the way into the walls and courtyard remained clear.
Fiachta did not give the order to attack. Instead, the warriors and others moved farther from the hall, waiting and watching. Tuathal stayed where he was for the moment, drum in hands.
Three truchaine emerged from the gate, fighting men following.
Tuathal moved down the slope and took his place off to the side, away from the warriors with their polished blades.
The first light faded the sky. He reached inside to where his bardic gift rested, and began to tap the head of the drum.
The warriors left their truchaine and stood in front of the horses, making a line beside their king.
brRUM brum; brum tum, brRUM brum; brum tum. The rhythm filled his hands, then all of him, steady yet wild, growing louder and louder as the beater struck taut-stretched hide.
"Sons of Donnal, men so bold, strong as iron, proud as gold.
"Boar of the mountain ne'er so wild, bears of the forest, warriors wild.
"Full of glory, full of pride, pride of Donnal, never dies."
The war song grew louder and louder, more than he alone could sing.
Fiachta seemed to swell, golden hair gleaming as if fire-touched.
Across the little burn, Pyder hesitated.
His men seemed to fold in on themselves, courage drained like an empty skin of water.
No man sang their lord's lineage, no bard raised his name to glory with praise and honor. Still, none retreated.
"NoDomnail!" Fiachta bellowed.
"NoDomnail," his men answered, and they surged forward, leaping the burn like salmon leaping in the waters.
The drum drove them forward, into Pyder and his men.
Battle cries filled the morning, and the drum fell silent.
His not to fight but to watch. Tuathal took in the yells and shrieks, the thumps of sword against shield, the clang of sword on sword, the red of blood against the white and light brown of skin.
He sensed movement and turned his head. Eoghan and two other priests stalked toward him, grey cloaks part-concealing their knives and other ritual tools. He inclined his head to them but did not bow. Eoghan nodded and stopped beside him. "It is not as the songs."
"No. No words can hold the fullness of battle in their grip.
" Even Gwydion and Múinti Allav Aineran had not that skill, despite awan and word gift.
The scent of blood and bowels, shrieks and groans of the wounded, the sound of sword and spear striking flesh ...
He watched, not hiding from the sight and sound.
A large, dawn-gleaming raven circled above.
He dared not reach for it. Beside him, Eoghan bared his teeth at the sight, a smile of ferocious pleasure.
A little chill touched Tuathal's spine. He dared not speak.
Pyder's remaining men fought well. Cathal's sword arm dripped crimson and he faltered.
Rian took his place in the line. Numbers and will overcame strength, and Fiachta waved his blood-tipped spear.
Darragh and Odhran raced forward toward Pyder, the king close behind.
Pyder blanched whiter, hesitated, then tried to flee.
Hisses came from the priests. Tuathal hissed as well. "He shames his men."
"He has forfeit everything," the smaller man beside Eoghan intoned. "Let his name be forgotten."
Tuathal hid his shiver, but barely. A harsh fate indeed, to die nameless, without tale or memory. Perhaps in his next life the one once called Pyder would fare better.
Fiachta had dropped his spear and now held Pyder by the arm, wrestling him to the ground.
Why? Oh. Darragh carried rope. Soon Pyder knelt, bound and bleeding, tied like any war captive.
The priests walked forward. Tuathal remained where he was, watching.
Fiachta's warriors gathered heads or tended to their wounded arms brothers.
Fiachta turned from his prisoner and spoke with Odhran, then moved out of Eoghan's way as the priest inspected Pyder.
The captive glared at him. Did battle-fury still flow, or remained he that foolish?
Likely foolish, if he truly thought that he carried the favor of the gods.
Fiachta listened, then inclined toward the priests.
Two of the warriors grabbed the former lord of the ford and heaved him to his feet.
Eoghan gestured toward the river. Another warrior bound Pyder's feet, and they carried him like a trussed deer to a truchai.
Fiachta turned, looking, then waved toward the hill.
Tuathal descended and joined him. "Ride with me," the king commanded, still wearing his enemy's blood.
"I come." First, he made certain the gelding had grass and would not stray, then he stepped with great care into the truchai beside the king.
The other warriors followed. Had the journey not been short, he'd have lost his dignity along with his balance.
As it was, twice he almost grabbed the side panels to steady himself.
Fiachta balanced with easy grace. The moment they reached the marshy edge of the river, the truchaine stopped.
The priests joined them. Eoghan gestured, and two warriors dragged Pyder closer to the grassless land at the edge of the reeds and water. Pyder tried to kick, and snarled, "What are you doing? How dare you treat me this way?"
Fiachta drew his sword, then waved toward Tuathal.
"He denied hospitality and insulted gifts freely given," Tuathal chanted. "He heard not the cries of his people for mercy."
"He would not take the land through a woman," Eoghan intoned, face cold and inhuman, overshadowed. "The land will take of him, the waters as well." Three additional priests had joined them. Tuathal moved until three warriors stood between him and the cluster of priests.
Now the one once called Pyder shook, staring up, bound arms behind his back trembling, eyes wide. "The wrong is not mine. I ordered the landsmen to give gifts, commanded proper honors to—"
Eoghan swept his staff forward. Fiachta grabbed Pyder's hair and pulled his head back.
"You canno—Auuuugh!"
Bright blade shining, Fiachta stabbed into Pyder's heart, stepping back as scarlet gushed from white flesh. The priests grabbed Pyder and shoved him forward, pouring the blood onto the barren land.