In the Region of the Summer Stars

  Having chosen the place to make his stand, he continued on to the top to have a last look and was dismayed to see how close they were. The lead scout was almost at the entrance to the ravine, and two others were close on his heels. Conor pulled himself up the rest of the way and, standing at the top of the defile, lofted his spear in defiance of the enemy, shouting, ‘Balor! Lord of the Vermin Host! Come and fight a true warrior!’

  The sudden appearance of their quarry brought the Scálda advance party up short. They halted, suspecting a trick.

  ‘Here!’ cried Conor. ‘Death awaits you, Balor Berugderc. Come die like the dog you are!’

  The Scálda lord gave out a low snarl of contempt. Though he and his men did not understand what Conor was saying, the intent was clear enough. Balor growled a command and the three warriors nearest him dismounted and ran to join their comrades. Conor scuttled back to his redoubt. As he descended into the gap, Conor realised that this would likely be his last battle. In that instant, he was assailed by regret—not that he would die, but that he would never see Aoife again, never feel her warm hand slip into his, never tell her how much he loved her, and would go to his grave loving her.

  That he might somehow survive did not enter his mind. Eight against one … hopeless odds. The only question was how to make the best account of himself. He held a slight advantage in the choice of defence, and unless he was unlucky he could hold out for a considerable time—perhaps long enough to allow the faéry to get away. But, whether luck was with him or not, he would face the enemy and he would fight until he could no longer hold a spear. Still, he missed Fergal and fighting by his side. It would have been a great honour to enter the Otherworld with his friends beside him.

  What a fine thing, he thought, to stand with Fergal and Donal and Eamon—and Liam, too, and the rest of the Darini warband—on a windswept plain surrounded by his swordbrothers, and to go down fighting for the survival of Eirlandia and its people. That was how he had always imagined it would be, and how it was meant to be. Not like this—not dying in a ditch, unmourned, unknown … alone.…

  ‘Well, brothers, you will miss a good fight,’ he sighed, turning to face the oncoming enemy. ‘If you were here beside me, I would not fear this end so much.’

  He put the thought firmly aside. It was not worthy of a warrior entering battle for the last time.

  The first enemy to reach the gap realised the inherent danger and hesitated; he called to the two behind him and the three formed a hasty plan: two charged into the breach and one hung back to offer support and keep their prey from escaping.

  Conor had no thought of escape.

  The first two bulled ahead with reckless speed. Conor allowed them to come within striking distance, and then, ducking low, met the nearside warrior with a low, darting jab at his feet. This odd move was unexpected and caused the fellow to leap; in his attempt to avoid the blade, he crowded his comrade into the rocks, throwing him off balance. Conor was ready for that blunder. He swung the spear blade around and delivered a solid thump on the upper part of the shield, thereby driving the rim into the warrior’s face.

  The shield-struck Scálda staggered sideways, colliding with his partner, who put out his hand to keep himself from stumbling over the rocky path. Conor stabbed out with a sharp downward slash of his blade, striking the outflung arm just above the wrist. The cut was deep to the bone and, though it did not sever the hand, the blade did slice sinews and veins. Blood spurted from the wound and the warrior cried out in surprise and pain, dropping his sword. Clutching his arm, he fled, leaving his battered comrade momentarily alone.

  Conor went to work on him, shortening his grip on the spearshaft and charging in close. The Scálda, bloody nosed and somewhat dazed from the wallop to his shield, lashed out with his spear. Conor, without a shield to encumber him in the tight space, easily parried the thrust, and struck the upper rim of the shield again—driving the shield rim into the warrior’s face for a second time and breaking his nose, which began a cascade of blood. The dog-eater staggered back a step, steadied himself and advanced more slowly this time. Conor backed away, retreating deeper into the ravine. There was a cry from above and the third enemy warrior appeared; with a shout and a flash of his sword, he clattered down into the channel.

  Crimson birthmark burning now with the blood heat of battle, Conor took up his place in the narrowest part of the gully. His two adversaries drove down on him. As the bloodied Scálda closed in, Conor made as if to strike the shield a third time and the fellow, wise to this ploy, lowered the shield slightly, thereby exposing his throat. That was all the opening Conor needed; he lunged forward, driving the spear tip into the unprotected spot. The warrior gave out a half-strangled cry and fell back into his comrade, who shoved him aside and came on, screaming and swinging his sword back and forth to keep Conor from getting in a quick thrust.

  Conor let him come on a few more steps and then, rather than exchange blows, drew back the spear and let fly. The Scálda tried to dodge out of the way, but the rock walls on either side offered little room to evade the manoeuvre. The cast blade caught him on the upper arm and opened a nasty crease. The weapon clattered away and, seeing that Conor was unarmed, the warrior loosed a victory shout and charged in for a swift and easy kill.

  Conor snatched up a stone from the ravine floor and launched it at the Scálda’s head, causing him to duck behind his shield; the stone struck the rim and bounced off, and the warrior came on. But even as he drew back his sword to strike, a second stone was already in Conor’s hand and on its way.

  The missile smacked the warrior on the brow directly over his right eye; he lurched forward two more steps before sprawling at Conor’s feet. Conor dived forward, snatched the sword from the warrior’s hand, and, with a quick downward chop, dispatched him to the next world.

  Breathing hard and sweating now, Conor looked around for the dying warrior, and saw him: he had managed to drag himself to the gully entrance, only to collapse there.

  ‘One dead, one dying, and one out of the fight,’ Conor reckoned, tallying up the results of the first foray. He wiped the sweat from his face with his arm and readied himself for the next onslaught. ‘Only five more to go.’

  Five more, aye, and one of them was Balor Berugderc himself. At this thought, Conor began to think that, should he be fortunate enough to meet the Fomórai lord and war leader, he might yet achieve a result worth the cost.

  Gazing back up the sheer rock walls of the little gorge, he waited for the next assault. When, after a fair stretch of time, no one appeared, Conor cautiously made his way up to the top once more. Crouching low, he peered out to see the six remaining Scálda gathered on the moor some little distance away. The wounded warrior sat beside a bush with his arm bound in a rag, ignored by the others who stood around Balor; the Fomórai king was still mounted, but looking off across the moor—giving every appearance of waiting for something.

  So, Conor waited, too.

  The sun quartered the sky, and still they did not initiate another attack. This, Conor considered a good thing—the longer Balor delayed, the more time the faéry had to escape. Twice the Scálda had captured the faéry, and twice Conor had found and freed them, thus preventing Balor from discovering and employing their mystical skills. He remembered the first time, seeing Rhiannon, regal and defiant—even as a captive on the back of Balor’s horse—and his heart moved within him at the memory. ‘Fairest Rhiannon,’ he murmured. How pleasant it would have been to join her on the ship that bore Donal and Fergal away to safety. Then again, if he had gone that day he would not have uncovered Lord Brecan’s deceit, nor discovered King Lenos and the Kerionid. Conor Faéry-freer, that’s what they’ll call me. The thought made him smile.

  Conor watched and waited a while longer, and it occurred to him to go down to the beach to join the retreat, but he hesitated. If the Scálda caught him out in the open, he would be easy prey. Here, at least, he could hold the breach; and if he could hold out until nightfall he
might still have a chance to slip away unseen.

  That hope wilted as quickly as it bloomed. Out from the woods appeared a company of mounted Scálda warriors. Conor made a swift count and felt himself go numb: there were twenty or more at least, and others emerged from the treeline to the north even as he counted. He watched with dull dread as the first riders reached the place where Balor sat waiting. They dismounted and, at Balor’s command, quickly formed into three groups of six each. The remaining warriors dismounted and assembled a second wave of attack with the riders just then arriving.

  As the first battle group of six started toward the ravine on the run, Conor turned and bounded down the steep incline to take up his position once more, pausing only to retrieve the two spears—the one he had thrown, and the one dropped by the dying warrior. He also collected the sword abandoned by the wounded warrior. The shield he let lie; Scálda shields were too heavy and unwieldy, more hindrance than protection, in his view; better to let it, like the body on the path, be one more obstacle for the enemy to overcome. Two swords and two spears—not much against so many. Then again, he could only use one weapon at a time anyway and, with one in his hand and three in reserve, at least he was better armed than before. Not for the first time, however, he wished the spear in his hand were Bríg, and the sword at his side were Gasta. To enter the Otherworld with his trusted weapons was a thing every warrior esteemed, and to be cheated of it in the end seemed a gross injustice. With this unhappy thought in mind, Conor stashed the retrieved weapons close to hand and once again took up his position as the enemy appeared at the top of the defile.

  Emboldened by the sight of a lone warrior standing in the breach, the first battle group attack entered the ravine at a run, whooping and shouting as they came, their voices ringing off the close rock walls. While still at a fair distance, the two in the forerank launched their spears, which Conor easily avoided. They rushed on, drawing their swords—an awkward manoeuvre with a shield on one arm. Conor took his chance and hurled his first spear, impaling the leader before his blade had cleared his sword belt.

  As the warrior fell, Conor snatched up his second spear and levelled it at the next attacker, who plunged headlong toward him over the body of his writhing comrade. He met Conor’s spear thrust with the edge of his shield and Conor let the spear shaft fall—neatly entangling itself in the warrior’s legs and tripping him; he stumbled and was overrun by the two behind him—and one of these also went down. These three effectively blocked the narrow passage, slowing the attack. Conor seized the moment, darted forward, picked up his thrown spear and, reaching out, yanked down the heavy shield. He shoved the spear blade home as his foe drew back his sword to strike. With three swift strokes, Conor sent the three fallen Scálda to Queen Badb’s bleak hall. Before he could do more, the two remaining warriors at the rear of the assault turned and scuttled back up the gully, leaving Conor to collect a few more weapons for his stock.

  The Scálda paused to regroup. Conor could hear the voices and shouting echoing down the from the moor. A moment later, he glimpsed a few heads straining for a sight of him in the shadowed defile below. As their comrades had discovered to their cost, the passage was narrower than it appeared from above, and they were forced to slow their descent, lest they trip over the bodies and broken ground. It was, Conor considered, very like the shipwreck in the cove. In both cases, narrowing the approach effectively tilted the scales in his favour.

  He felt strong and his confidence remained high. After all, he had weathered the first assault with little difficulty. For all their ferocity, the Scálda were not as skilled combatants as Dé Danann warriors—something Conor had noticed on the battlefield before. The enemy relied on superior numbers to overwhelm their victims rather than the prowess of individual warriors; taken one on one, however, their shortcomings were exposed.

  The second wave of attackers did their best to overcome this drawback: they drew together in a cluster and, crouching low behind their shields, advanced down the rock-strewn gully with utmost caution. The moment they came within striking distance, Conor set his feet, expecting a sudden rush. When it did not come, he looked at their faces, watching their eyes. A spear bearer in the front rank glanced at Conor and dropped his gaze—as if looking at something at the bottom of the gully. Conor saw the man’s lips twitch with the hint of a smile beneath the beard, and risked a swift glance behind him.

  Two Scálda warriors were creeping up from the beach. They had climbed down by another way and were coming up to take him from the rear. He was trapped. To meet the two sneaking up from behind meant granting the six advancing foemen his singular advantage of the gorge; to stand his ground and engage the six before him exposed his unprotected back to the two below.

  Conor drew breath deep into his lungs and released it. Then, in an effort to speed the end to its foregone conclusion, he hailed the slowly advancing Scálda. ‘The feast halls of the dead are vast,’ he shouted, ‘and Queen Badb is eager for new blood to fill the empty cups at her table. Come! Lady Death awaits.…’ Conor slid a second sword into his belt and tightened his grip on the iron spear shaft, adding to himself, ‘Aye, and it is that rude to keep a lady waiting.’

  He had no expectation that the Scálda would understand what he said, but the words were not for the enemy: they were for the dignity of Eirlandia and its beleaguered tribes. By adding his voice to those of all the warriors who had fallen before him, Conor would acquit himself with honour in his final battle; he could enter the Otherworld as a man of courage and valour. He could die a champion.

  Conor did not wait for the enemy to reach him. He took the fight to them. The downward advance had reached the bodies of their dead comrades and, with a shout, Conor lowered his shoulders and charged. At his sudden rush, the Scálda in the foreranks raised their shields. Conor bulled into them and the force of his assault rocked the enemy back a step and opened a hole in their shield defence. Conor jammed the point of his spear into the crack and felt it strike something solid; but, before he could withdraw the spear, one of the enemy grabbed the shaft and held on. Conor tried to yank it from his grasp, failed, and released the weapon. He scurried back to his cache of weapons, snatched up another spear, and turned to face the onslaught.

  The Scálda levelled their spears and advanced over the fresh corpses of their dead. Cautious still, but relentless and determined, they edged forward. Conor heard the ring of iron behind him and shouts as the two coming up from the cove below readied their attack.

  One of the Scálda in the forerank heaved a spear. The throw in such a tight space was awkward: just over Conor’s head and wide. Conor heard it clatter down the gully, but did not turn to see where it landed. His eyes remained on the blades levelled before him.

  The enemy did not waste another throw. With a cry, they pushed forward all at once and Conor was overwhelmed. Time and again, he struck with his blade, once or twice finding a chink or crevice in their defences; but the Scálda kept their shield wall tight and did not break ranks, and Conor was forced to give up ground. Step by step, and blow by blow, they drove him from his secure position and down the defile toward the blades of their comrades.

  Walking backward over the rocky ground, Conor’s foot struck a loose stone; it rolled under him and he went down on one knee. He struggled to rise, fending off the jabs of the spears. One blade flicked out and caught him a nick on the upper chest; another grazed his side as Conor struggled onto his knees. He fought to stand, but could not get his feet under him as the blows rained down thick and fast from every angle. He parried one jab and evaded two others, but one errant thrust slashed his arm, opening an ugly, ragged gash. Blood splashed out in a scarlet rush.

  Conor roared out in pain. ‘That will cost you!’ he shouted, and, as he made a last effort to push himself upright once more, was startled to feel strong hands grasp him from behind and hoist him onto his feet. He made a desperate backward stab with the shaft of the spear.

  ‘Easy there, brother,’ came the voi
ce of the warrior who had caught him. ‘You have few enough friends in this place, I think.’

  Conor glanced over his shoulder. ‘Fergal!’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, setting Conor on his feet. ‘I should have known you would get yourself into trouble.’

  ‘It is true I could use a little help just now.’ He shook away the blood pouring down his arm.

  The sudden appearance of a second Dé Danann warrior had caused the attack to falter. They drew back to regroup and Fergal, his long spear lowered, dived into the midst of the tightly bunched group. He lunged once, and again, and two Scálda fell screaming; one of these threw down his weapons and scrambled away on hands and knees. The three remaining foemen abandoned the assault and fled back through the gap and up the gully.

  Fergal glanced back at Conor. ‘Should I give chase?’

  ‘Not unless you wish to become crow food,’ replied Conor. ‘There are at least twenty Scálda up there—probably more, by now. They will be climbing down to the beach as well.’

  ‘How bad is your arm?’ Fergal lifted the injured limb and inspected the damage. Conor winced as he pressed it lightly. ‘This will need binding. I suggest we leave while we can. Follow me.’ He turned and led the way down the ravine to the beach, passing the bodies of the two he had met on his way up.

  ‘Do you have a horse?’ asked Conor as they stepped out onto the strand.

  ‘Ach, nay, brother,’ he said. Pointing across the cove with his spear, he said, ‘It was easier to bring a boat.’

  Conor turned to see Rhiannon standing at the prow of a faéry ship. Below her on the strand stood Gwydion, holding Búrach’s bridle. Five more faéry, long swords in hand, stood guard nearby. Lenos was there with them, helping the Kerionid survivors up the boarding plank and into the ship. When the last had boarded, Lenos ascended the plank and took his place with the other faéry already gathered on deck. As Fergal and Conor hurried across the sand, Lenos caught sight of them and raised his hand in solemn salute; several of his people did the same.