Conall IV: A Brace of Eagles—Snaidhm Iolar: Conall, #4

By David H. Millar

"Butter-gold and cruelly hooked, the beak ripped a ragged gash across the newborn's throat."

 

Blacksmith's son, Conall Mac Gabhann's only desire was to follow in his father's footsteps and enjoy a long life with his childhood love, Mórrígan. The slaughter of their parents dashed those dreams. Fuelled by vengeance, both embark on the dark path of retribution. 
From the ancient forest, two great eagles take wing. With amber-gold eyes, Fate and the Goddess watch, ready to guide and meddle in human lives. 
Conall, now Clann Ui Flaithimh's 'king over kings', must complete his geis—at any cost. He takes another stride closer to Rome and a reckoning with Marcus Fabius Ambustus. Flat-bottomed biremes carry Conall's army across the Muir nIocht to crash on the shingle beaches of Northwestern Gaul. 
New enemies and uneasy alliances flourish. Assassins, treason, and betrayal thrive. 
Above all, Conall values loyalty. Thus, treason within the tribe sours his belly. Mercy will have no part in his response. 
The fourth novel in the Conall series, Conall IV: A Brace of Eagles, is a rousing epic of Celtic heroes and villains, bloody battles, political intrigue, honour, betrayal, tragedy and forbidden love.

 

 

The Conall Series contains scenes of sex, violence, and language appropriate to the period (400 B.C.) in which it is set. It is not recommended for those under 14 without parental consent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Wee Publishing Company, LLC
• Release date: Jul 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780991664078

David H. Millar

Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, David H. Millar is the founder and author-in-residence of Houston-based ‘A Wee Publishing Company’—a business that promotes Celtic literature, authors and art. Millar moved to Nova Scotia, Canada, in the late 1990s. After ten years shovelling snow, he decided to relocate to warmer climates and has now settled in Houston, Texas. Quite a contrast! An avid reader, armchair sportsman, and Liverpool Football Club fan, Millar lives with his family and Bailey, a Manx cat of questionable disposition known to his friends as "the small angry one!"

Book preview

1

405 B.C.—LUGNASAD—SOUTHERN ALBU

Butter-gold and cruelly hooked, the beak ripped a ragged gash across the newborn’s throat. Bright, arterial blood splashed the grey stone slab. Denied a final voice, the innocent’s lips trembled. A second mortal slash delivered by a pitiless talon laid the sacrifice’s belly open. Released from the bonds of skin and muscle, entrails burst forth to lie steaming on the rock’s cool, pitted surface.

Did you receive a message you approve of? Fate attempted to maintain a haughty distance from the violence, but the smell of blood and warm flesh challenged his fortitude in this guise.

With a nod of her heavy, golden-brown head, the Goddess replied, The Ancients have consented. I will cross the Muir nIocht and enter the land of the Gauls.

Gods and goddesses do not usually cross territories.

Extenuating circumstances. Rome must be stopped. My servants—the druids—must be protected. My Hand must fulfil his destiny. The people need to worship.

"Surely, it is you who needs the people’s worship?"

Bah! Semantics.

Fate changed the topic. The Roman gods did not protest?

Such was her distaste for her fellow gods; if the Goddess could have spat, she would have. The Romans got their gods from the Greeks. Likely, the Greeks got theirs from the Egyptians. All the Roman gods desire is to pose for yet more marble statues. Affecting an air of ennui, they abstained.

The scent of the warm flesh and blood tormented Fate. Conversation and debate faded. He screeched at the Goddess, and she returned his cry. Soon, the carcass had little left but cracked bones and skin. Satisfied, the eagles bent powerful legs and swept upwards. The stones of Choir-Gaur quickly became a grey mirage in the distance.

Stripped to the waist, Conall Mac Gabhann, Rí Ruirech—king over kings—of Clann Ui Flaithimh sat on the cliff’s edge. His perch overlooked the harbour at the apex of a roughly equal-sided triangle.

The other points were the great hillforts of Southern Albu—Mai Dún and Rinn-Campáil. He enjoyed the warmth of the summer sun as he surveyed the array of ships in the harbour. The sound of waves breaking on the shore and the rhythmic clunking of wooden hulls against jetties soothed away his morning headache.

To Conall, it seemed that the longer he sojourned in the pleasant kingdom of Mai Dún, the more frequent were his headaches. Nightmares, in graphic detail, recalled his mother pinned to the solid wooden table with iron spikes through her hands, her dress torn, and her arse bloodied from multiple penetrations.

He saw his blacksmith father shackled to the stanchions of the forge, his back charred and eyes sightless, burst by hot irons. Tearless, his last moments were filled with the dying screams of his hand-fast partner.

His little sisters, too young to rape, were tossed aside. Deep gashes across their throats smiled ghoulishly at Conall. Bathed in sweat, he awoke, screaming at the Goddess. Your Hand needs no visions to remind him of his duty. I will avenge my family and destroy the Romans who paid for the murders. Only the soothing embrace and tears of Mórrígan that splattered his chest restored his sanity.

With an effort of will, Conall pushed the memory aside. Enjoying the juices released, he chewed and sucked on a stalk of coastal grass. He mused that multiple sheep and goats had probably pissed on it. A smile ghosted his lips before he stretched his well-toned arms and rolled his muscled neck and shoulders. Sighing, he pulled soft, calf-high boots over what he considered were quite ugly toes.

Slowly, deliberately, as if wanting to delay his return to the myriad daily responsibilities, he criss-crossed and then tied off the boots’ long thongs. With an emphatic grunt, the king of Clann Ui Flaithimh stood and slapped dirt, grass, and sand from his triubhas—trousers. He bent over, took up his axe and shield, and turned about.

Situated in a grassy hollow, a thousand paces from the cliffs, a random patchwork of tents formed a good-sized village. They gave shelter to the ships’ crews. So many mouths to feed… and gold to pay, he muttered.

His comment was aimed at no one in particular but was overheard by the small, mahogany-skinned sailor who came into view. Palm forward, Pytheas held his hand aloft. It signalled that the portly Greek had not quite recovered from the walk up the fairly steep hillside.

Conall grinned. You need more exercise, my friend. Perhaps a stint on the oars of your galley, or I could have Fearghal set you a training regime?

Partially recovered, Pytheas laughed and stroked a black beard that glistened with jasmine-scented castor oil. I prefer decadence over austerity. Conall knew the merchant undersold himself. The beard was one of vanity and choice. Unlike many, it did not hide a fragile chin or signal a weak character. Moreover, while the Greek’s flesh may have gained more fat than muscle in recent years, he had proven loyal and resourceful in harsh circumstances.

Are they all necessary? asked Conall, his gaze once more focused on the village of sticks and skins.

The crews and rowers of the galleys make up most of the population. We have ten biremes—one hundred and twenty rowers for each vessel. Then there are the ships’ crews—captain, helmsman, piper, shipwright, bow lookout, and five or six sailors per boat. It all adds up.

Pytheas looked along the jetties as if searching for something. Then he pointed to the rugged, locally-built ships with their rough timbers and high curved bows and sterns. "Conversely, they only need a small crew—far fewer rowers. They are built for carrying cargo, the biremes for war. You need both."

How long will it take?

The ships are contracted for a year. It will likely take that long—maybe more.

Conall snorted, So, I’m financing your new partnership with Drostan. He spoke of his onetime enemy and now friend, Drostan Ruadh, the one-eyed king of the Aos na Coille—the Forest People. Drostan had returned to his beloved forests of ancient pine that stretched from coast to coast in his native Northern Albu.

A happy quirk of fate. It was quite propitious that the ships from the Votod-Daoine fell into our hands. Pytheas looked at Conall’s face to gauge whether the king of Clann Ui Flaithimh was truly unhappy. The glimmer of a smile that played at the corners of Conall’s mouth was reassuring. You did get the ‘preferred’ customer rate, Pytheas said with a huge smirk.

Ha! Spoken like a true merchant. Perhaps I should have become a partner in your venture. At the least, some of my gold would be returned to me.

Pytheas again scrutinised Conall’s expression. Was the young king serious? He had become an accomplished fidchell player. Few could read a face that seldom gave clues as to his thoughts. Drostan would have no objection—and neither would I.

Conall inclined his head, Perhaps. His attention was drawn to the vessels once more. How many warriors can the biremes transport?

The shipwrights are adding another deck to the galleys. With that, and reducing the number of rowers per ship, they will each carry fifty warriors.

Not a lot.

"The galleys are flat-bottomed, fast, and highly manoeuvrable. They are much better for beach landings and assaults. An almost full complement of rowers and sailors is needed to cope with the worsening weather that is inevitable between now and the festival of Samhain.

"We also need to be able to outrun any potential attacks. The coastal Veneti in Aremorio have fast ships and will take to the seas if they see an opportunity for plunder. Plus, there are always Phoenician and Greek slavers looking for easy prey." Pytheas hesitated.

Well?

With a cough to hide his embarrassment, Pytheas added, "Then there are the… witches on the island of Andion. Conall raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Pytheas coughed. Sailors are superstitious. The island is ancient—lots of burial grounds and tall stones. Rumour has it that a colony of nine unmarried witches lives on the island. They guard a sacred cauldron."

Pytheas shrugged and smiled weakly at Conall. The crews will not go anywhere near Andion—especially in the dark.

Anything else? Huge sea creatures, perhaps? said Conall with a boyish chuckle.

Pytheas glanced nervously at the sea, It’s not good to mock the sea gods. Neither Poseidon nor your own Manannán Mac Lir is known for having placid natures. Who knows what creatures inhabit the deeps? With a quick change of topic, Pytheas said, There is one more thing. At least two-thirds of your men will have to train as rowers. It’s the only way to make space for them on the crossing.

That’ll please them, said Conall.

Sarcasm? chuckled Pytheas.

Never!

Conall knew the importance of securing a defensible beachhead in Aremorio. It would determine the mission’s success and set the tone and foundation for the broader campaign in Gaul. A strategic blend of captains and warriors was required. Succinctly, Conall explained his thinking to Fearghal Ruad—his battle commander. They’re all sullen, foul-mouthed, foul-smelling eejits… but they’re hard bastards who’ll get the job done.

Command of the landing rested on the broad shoulders of Lonán Ò Neill. Lonán, the second-in-command of Conall’s newest recruits from Ériu’s famed Cróeb Ruad—the Red Branch—faced a singular challenge.

When he asked for two hundred volunteers, one thousand hopefuls stepped forward. According to Fearghal, a former commander of the Ulaid warriors, Lonán’s final selection was a bunch of ugly, toothless killers whose skin had so much scar tissue it was as tough as a boar’s hide.

Few were surprised when Conall also nominated Torcán Ò Dubhghaill to be part of the Aremorio landing. Even fewer were surprised at Torcán’s jig of glee on hearing the news. Torcán’s hundred, bull-headed as their leader, provided a platoon of the vaunted Clann Ui Flaithimh’s shield wall.

It was, however, a possible sign of maturity that the profuse assurances of a safe sea crossing from the tall and beautiful Sídhe or Pytheas did not convince the bluff warrior. Memories of stormy sailings on the seas and lochs of Northern Albu were all too easy and painfully recalled.

So, Torcán flung extra offerings of armour and gold into the sea for Manannán Mac Lir and into a nearby river for the Goddess—better safe than sorry.

The remaining landing party members hailed from the mountains and forests of Northern Albu. Armed with clubs and spears, Carmag Mac an t-Sionnaich’s cohort, totalled one hundred veteran forest fighters.

All sported shaggy red hair and bodies covered in elaborate tattoos. It was a sight sure to put the fear of the Hag into the enemy. The women—well, most—were distinguished from the menfolk by the lack of bushy, ginger-red beards and whiskers.

The female warriors of the Clann Ui Flaithimh were as aggressive as, some said, fiercer than the men. Hence, the raiding party included Mòrag, the voluptuous princess of the Ravens, and her warband of one hundred spearmen, archers, and slingers. Like many of her tribe and Carmag’s Forest People, Mòrag preferred to fight unrestricted by clothing.

Given her undoubted beauty, few grumbled at her lack of attire. Even fewer queried her inclusion in the assault. If any were foolish to suggest that her addition was frippery, the least they could expect was a fist in the face. Underlying Mòrag’s welcoming curves was a core of iron. The Raven’s leader could trounce any man in the raiding party.

2

MIDSUMMER—NORTH-WEST AREMORIO, GAUL

On the cliff edge, Dubnoreix, king of the Venelli , stood, legs apace and axe in hand. The tall chieftain’s violet-blue cloak flapped in the gusting winds. He was not in a congenial mood. This was partly due to having been stabbed and scratched by the tangle of thorns and brambles that carpeted the dense wildwood bordering the ancient forest.

Not for the first time, he swore. Suspicions about the unnatural movement of the bank of fog he was observing were confirmed when the mist rolled back to reveal ten sleek, amber-red galleys with square black sails. A quick calculation told him he could face over a thousand warriors—assuming the rowers took to the field.

The king cursed, and not entirely at the enemy. Around him, a handful of reluctant chieftains and their grudging warriors gathered. Formerly known as great warriors, the Venelli had grown fat and lazy from the taxes and flow of goods between Rome, Aremorio, and Albu.

Threats of physical violence followed appeals to their civic responsibility. Still, Dubnoreix had raised just one thousand of his tribe’s fighters. They were mostly the callow young, looking for adventure and glory, or the old, hoping that a sharp blade would help them escape the helplessness of old age and the misery of depending on others.

There had been no time to enforce the mutual defence agreement with the neighbouring Abrincatui. Messengers were on their way, but reinforcements would arrive too late to help with his immediate problem. Unless Dubnoreix agreed to increase their annual tributes, no help would come from the more powerful tribes to his west and south.

Given that the king considered his neighbours already gouged him, it was not a strategy he would pursue with any enthusiasm. Perhaps the many rumours of Roman gold—bribes to curtail the ambitions of the upstart king whose galleys approached—would bring them to the Venelli’s aid. Dubnoreix turned. His men milled around on the ribbon of rock-strewn ground between the cliff edge and the dense forest. He shook his head and bawled out orders.

Dubnoreix spat. A gust threw his saliva back at him. It was not an encouraging omen. The flotilla of ships swept into the shelter of the semi-circular bay. The cove was on the west side of a promontory that jutted from the northern coast of Aremorio. Filled with the wind, the square sails stretched like pregnant bellies. Ropes and cables cracked like whips in the squalls.

At a shouted command, the sails were furled, and oars retracted. The flat-bottomed galleys glided onto the beach propelled by momentum and an incoming tide.

Pytheas was well acquainted with Aremorio and its rugged coastline. Bays of gently sloping sand and pebble beaches were guarded by towering, moss-covered granite cliffs. The few narrow paths that ascended the bluffs were passable only by sure-footed goats and drunkards.

Beyond the coast, the landscape of Aremorio was a patchwork of low mountains, undulating plains, rocky plateaus dressed with heathers and mosses, and treacherous marshlands. Vast swathes of pine, oak, alder, and beech covered the fertile land. The main population centres and settlements were further inland and south of the chosen landing location. Hillforts of rock and wood perched on the many promontories that defined the long shoreline.

It was late afternoon. The Clann Ui Flaithimh advance fleet had departed the southern coast of Albu at dawn and made excellent time. Once out in the Muir nIocht waters, the weather was fair and dry. Light winds and good visibility favoured the vessels for most of the journey. The breezes enabled the rowers to take brief, well-earned rests while their ships maintained their passage with black sails unfurled.

With the end of their voyage in sight, the burning muscles of the rowers and crews navigated the crescent-shaped cove. Most offered up prayers that the warriors they carried would prevail and establish a camp. None wanted to risk a return journey at night in a sea renowned for its tricky currents and tides—and, of course, witches.

With both hands, Lonán gripped the surf-splashed rail that ran around the prow of the lead ship. Head forward and neck stretched to its limit, he screwed up his eyes and scanned the cliff top. At least the sun is behind us, he grunted. It was impossible to tell if they would be greeted by a few curious warriors or an army waiting to throw the invaders back into the sea.

It was more than likely that the Venelli were aware of the massive camp of the Clann Ui Flaithimh in Southern Albu and their intentions. Opportunistic merchants wishing to establish themselves along the growing trade routes between Albu, Gaul, and the nations surrounding the Great Sea were only too willing to peddle information for gold and influence.

According to Pytheas, the Venelli was a minor tribe. They and their king, Dubnoreix, were considered a nuisance. Still, they guarded vital trading routes and the harbours of Aremorio. Thus, they were wealthy, if annoying, people.

Scaling the sheer rock face would be a challenge in the best of times. The dark bluffs stood between ten and twenty spears tall, were covered in green and orange mosses, and were liberally painted with bird shite. Under fire and with screeching seabirds pecking at and shiting on them, a climb was suicidal. As his galley scraped to a halt on the hard-packed sand, Lonán shouted, To the cliffs! and leapt over the side into the foaming waters.

It was a short dash, no more than a hundred paces, to the foot of the heights. Still, the cloud of stones and metal slugs that rained down on the raiders made the distance appear ten times longer. Growls and curses accompanied yelps of pain as slingshots slapped exposed flesh. Shouts of "Scíatha—shields!" resonated along Clann Ui Flaithimh’s skirmish line, although anyone with a modicum of sense had already raised his defence.

With relief and just a few stinging bruises, Lonán placed palms against the cold rockface and fought to bring his ragged breathing under control. A glance along the shoreline brought some consolation. Only twenty bodies lay on the wet sand. Hopefully, they were injured and not dead. The ship’s crews would tend to them.

With his men prone against the rock, the enemy’s slings caused fewer injuries. The barrage diminished as it became impossible for the Venelli to target those directly below them. Additionally, using their slings exposed them to Mòrag’s archers.

This did not, however, prevent the Venelli from changing tactics. Large boulders, rocks, and logs were rolled over the edge. Circling seabirds, protective of their nests, added to the defence of the cliff with raucous cries and liberal splatters of shite.

Lonán knew he had to get his raiders moving or face injury and death by attrition. Five hundred paces from their current position, two narrow slopes of sand, scree, and rock swept from the cliff to the sea. Aeons of heavy winds and crashing seas had collapsed a section of the bluffs. Unfortunately, more massive boulders had tumbled into the sea, making a closer landing by ships treacherous.

His original plan was to edge along the foot of the cliffs until they came to the incline. However, the increasing volume of rocks and debris descending from the cliff edge necessitated a change of plan. He pointed at the rise and shouted at Torcán, Take your men. Secure the slope. Then he signalled Mòrag. Follow Torcán. Cover him.

The decision was sensible. Torcán’s contingent was the most heavily armoured. Leather, inlaid with iron scales, covered their torsos and upper thighs. It was very effective at deflecting slashing blades. At this time of the year, the armour was worn over a thin, woollen tunic to prevent chafing.

A leather skirt overlapped brightly coloured, plain, or plaid pants tied at the waist with cord or leather thongs. Most warriors preferred soft leather boots laced up to the top of their calves. These were also lapped in thick sheepskin or other pelts in battle and winter. A thick hide could prevent a slash from an opponent’s blade from becoming a crippling injury.

Over hips and across chests, broad leather belts and baldrics inscribed with intricate designs were secured with bronze, iron, and gold buckles and brooches. All carried an assortment of javelins, swords, axes and daggers. Heads were crowned, and unruly hair confined, with a diverse array of iron and bronze helmets.

Few of the helmets were plain. Most were embellished with gold, silver, and bronze flourishes. Torcán’s had a snarling, tusked boar figurine at its crest. The men carried their wealth on their bodies. Upper arms were encircled with gold, silver, copper, and bronze rings. Heavy torcs of precious metals hung around thickly muscled necks.

Finally, they carried waisted, oblong shields made of wood, which spanned from chin to knee. Most were faced with hide and rimmed with iron. Each had a central protruding boss, itself a weapon that could cause crippling impact injuries. Some were covered in bronze. The bronze-on-wood scíatha allowed for much more individuality in design, which was always a consideration for the artistic Gaels. That said, bronze shields were heavier—a considerable disadvantage in a long battle.

Mòrag’s minimally clad hundred took up position behind Torcán and quickly sent a hail of arrows and stones skywards. The slopes were short, only thirty to forty paces from top to bottom, but steeply inclined. Thus, it was not a tremendous strain for archers and slingers to pitch their missiles beyond Torcán as his band laboured toward the cliff-top.

The men ascended the incline in two groups—one for each slope. Each group of fifty formed up in two rows. The rear row held scíatha above the heads of the front. While the front row’s shields absorbed the barrage of slingshots, the rear hoped to reduce the risk of head injuries. Upward progress on the shifting shale and stone surface was slow, steady, and mostly unchallenged.

Meanwhile, on the beach, the remainder of Lonán’s raiding party kept tight to the cliff face as they scrambled over boulders worn smooth by the pounding of ageless seas and slick with seaweed. Loud curses filled the air as men slipped, bloodying knees and hands. Ankles twisted when rocks slithered from under their feet. The barrage from the cliff-top slowly lessened as the Venelli switched the target of their missiles to Torcán’s attack.

Your bastards will follow in Torcán’s footsteps, rasped Lonán to Carmag.

The rust-red-haired warrior dipped his head and grinned broadly at Lonán’s orders. Among the Clann Ui Flaithimh leadership, Carmag outranked the Cróeb Ruad captain, but without argument, he accepted Lonán’s command of the raid. Directed by a few hand signals, Carmag’s men and women picked up their pace and quickly overtook Lonán. Calloused, bare feet gripped the rocks better than boots or bróga.

With laboured breathing, Torcán reached and rolled over the lip of the cliff. Quickly assembling his men into their favoured shield-wall formation, he waited, ready to repulse the inevitable crazed barbarian assault. Moments later, he snorted with disappointment.

The bastards have fled.

Before him, flattened undergrowth revealed tracks leading deep into the forest. Instincts honed by battle felt his men begin to relax. In response, he shouted, Scíatha—shields! and heard the reassuring clash of iron rims. He did not trust his first impression. Torcán’s caution was justified. From the forest came a shower of stones and slugs. Shields cracked, and helmets rang as the missiles struck. Yelps and curses identified those too slow to raise scíatha.

The barrage was short-lived, dissuaded by Torcán’s wall, tramping further into the brambles and the lush tangle of undergrowth that spilt from the wildwood.

They’re clever arseholes!

The speaker was Carmag, who appeared at Torcán’s side. Mòrag’s contingent followed Carmag’s group and fanned out along the forest edge. Torcán’s expression said, "Are you going to finish?"

Carmag laughed and gestured with his left hand—his right held the great hammer he favoured. The simple and deadly weapon, with its blackthorn shaft and heavy iron head, was a gift from Conall. "They’ve retreated into the forest. Do not follow them. Leave that to my men."

The camp was set up in a semi-circle with the cliff edge as its ragged diameter. The furthest point of the crescent was one hundred paces from the bluff. With a shrug of broad shoulders and a roll of his head, Carmag and his command disappeared like ghosts into their natural habitat—the forest.

At dusk, Mòrag’s Ravens stood in a skirmish line behind the perimeter. They wore little other than the traditional black feather attached to a thin braid of hair that dangled from their scalp. A string of evenly spaced stakes marked the boundary. Instead of slings and bows, the Ravens held spears. The warrior princess would not risk injury to Carmag’s men in the deepening gloom.

It was a black, starless night. Cloaked behind slate-grey clouds, the moon’s presence was no more than an opaque blue shadow. The sound of the hunt broke the silence of the night. Wolves howled, lynxes barked and spat, bears grunted and snuffled.

Overhead, the soft wingbeats of owls barely disturbed the air as they hunted. On the ground, in fear of sudden death, prey scurried, hoping to reach the safety of hidden burrows before the talons and teeth of the predators found them. Death shrieks mapped the final resting place of the weak, the too-slow, and the unfortunate.

Lonán’s orders were for no fires and cold meals. Thus, silent and dark, the Clann Ui Flaithimh camp was an amorphous shadow on the landscape. One-half of the party took up guard duty and watched, peering into the gloom. The other half rested and ate, chewing on hard bread, cheese, and salted meat. Fresh water from a nearby spring softened the repast and quenched thirst.

Men and women drew heavy, woollen cloaks and brats around scarred shoulders that rippled with thick cords of muscle and veins. It was mid-summer. While the days were pleasantly warm, the nights carried the chill of the upcoming autumn.

The cusp between night and dawn was a dangerous time. Lonán, Mòrag, and Torcán constantly moved among their warriors, quietly encouraging and sharing stories. After a long night on damp, rocky ground, the camp was tired and irritable.

Eyes were red, strained from the constant searching of the forest. Every flickering shade, real or imaginary, every rustle of branches resulted in a surge of alertness, followed by an imperceptible but real diminishing of concentration.

Carmag sniffed the air. In the gloom before sunrise, only the senses of smell, hearing, and touch were reliable. Like him, his group was well-hidden—in trees, by fallen logs, or under the thick blanket of forest debris. As soon as they could walk, his people were taken to the forest and taught to love and fear the majestic woods—and how to use its immense strength.

The Forest People’s leader lay under a blanket of pine needles. Even in daylight, his position would have appeared as no more than another velvet wrinkle on the forest floor. He loved the earthy smell of dirt mixed with the sweetness of pine. The occasional scuttling of beetles and spiders over his skin had long ceased to bother the brawny warrior.

It was the abrupt silence that alerted Carmag. The forest became ominously quiet. Blackbirds were absent from the pre-dawn chorus. Predators and prey returned to dens and burrows. The forest floor’s carpet of needles and leaves muffled footsteps and provided the perfect conditions for stealth.

Carmag felt the vibrations. Trickles of loose soil flowed down his cheeks, coating damp, cracked lips. It was an effort of will not to spit the dirt from his mouth. Tremors of a light, cautious footfall became the thump of leather-wrapped feet as the attackers picked up their pace and jogged past.

His location was a hundred paces east of the camp. He could not raise the alarm. That would betray his position. He hoped the encampment was vigilant. They would get little warning of the upcoming assault. Carmag offered a prayer to the Goddess.

Dubnoreix stood at the tree line. Beside him, the young hornblower nervously licked his lips and sucked on a pebble. His mouth needed to be moist. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint the king with a miserable horn blast. Like wraiths, the Venelli flowed past their king and divided into three groups. They would attack the camp from the east, north, and south.

The king’s warriors displayed little uniformity in their dress. A few wore protection, mostly boiled leather or bronze breastplates, plundered from raids. Only the wealthy and elite warriors could afford to buy a complete set of armour. As with clothing, warrior families often passed weaponry down to the next in line.

The king wore mid-thigh-length mail—a gift from a Phoenician trader. He smiled at the irony. The Gauls had invented chainmail. Most of his warriors wore helmets ranging from a simple iron cap, which sometimes doubled as a food or drinking bowl, to highly decorated and adorned with horns, feathers, and animal tails. They carried hide and wood shields, round or oval-shaped, and a multiplicity of weapons and blades.

As his men crashed through the wildwood and its verdant, clinging undergrowth, Dubnoreix knew that stealth was no longer necessary or possible. He tapped the hornblower’s shoulder. The young man spat the pebble from his mouth and lifted the long-necked battle-horn. A baleful bass wail reverberated throughout the forest.

It was quickly followed by others and by a cacophony of battle cries, screams, and curses as the Venelli broke into a fast lope and zig-zagged towards the Clann Ui Flaithimh camp. A conspiracy of ravens rose from their forest nesting places, adding their harsh voice to the morning.

Torcán glanced at Mòrag and flashed what he hoped was a confident smile. He briefly wondered why, given his widely acknowledged muscular body, rakish good looks, and impressive manhood, he had never attempted to coax the curvaceous princess to spread her legs for him.

He chuckled. From what he had heard, Mòrag was as promiscuous and lacking in common sense as he. We’re a perfect match. He nodded to her, and she acknowledged his signal with a grin that suggested she knew exactly what he was thinking. But then, it took no great intellect to discern that most men and many women wanted to lay hands on Mòrag’s enticing curves.

For her part, Mòrag’s thoughts were of her infant, Barra Mac Conall. Her son’s father was Clann Ui Flaithimh’s king. Her brow furrowed. The boy needed a real father, not someone with good intentions who dropped by when he had the time. Conall’s priority was Mórrígan and his son and daughters. Thus, Mòrag and Barra often took second place to the needs of the tribe.

For all her adventures, Mòrag was quite conservative and did not entirely hold the widely held philosophy that the community raises children. She sighed. Perhaps it was time to settle down and seek a father for Barra.

The princess cast a sideways glance at Torcán and wondered. His reputation for womanising was every father’s nightmare. But then, she was no shrinking violet, and her virginity was a distant memory. She sighed again. It would be her brother and the leader of the Ravens, Brandubh Mac Artair, who would need convincing of Torcán’s worthiness.

With a deep-throated voice, Mòrag shouted an order. The Ravens dropped to one knee. Spear butts were rammed into the dirt, and spearheads were held, as Mòrag described, at ‘balls’ height. Torcán’s warriors, spaced alternately between Mòrag’s band, tightened shield straps, shuffled booted feet to firm their stance, and hefted javelins.

Lonán’s men stood behind the perimeter line. Feet stomped, and arms flexed, driving the cramps and aches of the night from hard-muscled bodies. A few random slams of blades on scíatha became tens and then hundreds. Soon, the din was a deafening crash of wood and iron.

It synchronised with the beat of their hearts, the crunch of boots on gravel and earth, and the rising war cry of Conall-Abú! It was, Lonán thought, interesting that the men’s instinct was to shout for Conall and not the old Cróeb Ruad battle cries. His brother, Cuán Ò Neill, the erstwhile leader of the thousand Cróeb Ruad who had recently joined with Clann Ui Flaithimh, would not be pleased.

At the sound of the Venelli horns, Torcán shouted, Javelins!

The young ceannairí céad—leader of a hundred—reckoned his men, even in the gloom, could pitch two volleys of javelins in the direction of the enemy’s shouts before Carmag’s warriors entered the fray. And before the sour breath of the attackers filled his nostrils and their phlegm coated his shield.

There was a communal grunt as javelins were raised along the perimeter and released. Familiar cries of anguish told him that the missiles had done their work. With a hand wrapped in iron-studded leather bands, Torcán withdrew his short sword from its scabbard. He smiled as he heard the soft swish of blades along the line.

A wolfish grin settled on his face as Torcán roared, "Conall-Abú!" This was his environment.

In the half-light, the skirmish quickly descended into the chaos of a bloody brawl. Spectral, grey shadows took on substance as they loomed from the gloom and threw themselves at the camp’s human defences.

Mòrag stood beside Torcán. She settled into a stab, block, and slash rhythm with Torcán without effort or design. Her spear stabbed at shades but found flesh and bone. With each thrust, her arms and chest juddered. Muscle, bone and gristle were a formidable barrier even to a sharp blade.

Ere long, Mòrag’s spear was slick with blood, and Torcán’s face was a nightmarish mask of red. The wrappings on his hands were soaked in gore. Strings of flesh hung from bloody studs.

Carmag stood, throwing off his earthy mantle. Clumps of black soil and root fibres clung to coarse, red body hair. He shook his long mane of braided hair, grabbed his hammer, and charged the rear of the Venelli.

The leader of the forest people was a fearsome sight in battle. Massive upper arm and shoulder muscles strained to control the swinging club with its double head of iron. In a skirmish, his men tended to give Carmag a wide berth.

The enemy was not so fortunate. With a roar that rivalled that of an angry bear, Carmag swung. Three heads became a bloody pulp. It was with some mercy that they had their backs to him. They went swiftly to Mag Mell, blissfully ignorant that shards of their skulls and pieces of their brains clung to a large lump of grey metal.

The sun rose over the horizon and the eastern mountains—a fiery red ball with a golden-orange corona. It embraced the camp and Clann Ui Flaithimh’s battlefield, bathing it in warmth and dispersing the gloom of the dusk.

Dubnoreix swore as he gauged the strength of his enemy. His men were more than double their opponent’s number. Yet, they had made little headway against the well-ordered defence. Now, they were assailed from behind. The Venelli were well-acquainted with fighting in their forests. How had the warriors, dressed only in swirling tattoos and now battered his men, remained unseen?

Concern deepened for Dubnoreix when he noted the two hundred warriors at the centre of the camp. As yet, they had not entered the affray. Hardly had Dubnoreix given form to this thought than Lonán shouted, "Cróeb Ruad, ionsaí—charge!"

Mòrag and Torcán’s lines disengaged and parted with unrehearsed yet remarkable precision. Lonán’s men flowed through the gap as the Venelli rushed forward.

It was claimed by the Ulaid of northern Ériu that each man trained as a Cróeb Ruad warrior was worth ten of any other. The assertion was only a mild exaggeration. Under the influence of many jugs of beer, even Nikandros the Spartan admitted he was unsure who he would wager against if it came to a fight between his people and the Gaels. Indeed, because of their fighting prowess, Sparta had used them as mercenaries in the past.

Sandwiched between Carmag and Lonán, the warriors of the Venelli prayed to their gods and made one final brave challenge. They were bloodily thrown back, many to nurse cracked skulls and broken bones. Honour satisfied, the Venelli took to their heels and fled into the forest.

Dubnoreix shrugged as his men ran from the battlefield. The next time, we will use wiser tactics, he said to no one in particular. His shield-bearer and the hornblower nodded with what they hoped was a grave yet understanding demeanour.

From his cover, the king continued to observe the Clann Ui Flaithimh as they stripped and beheaded the dead. He nodded approvingly as the severely wounded were dispatched with a sharp blade.

It was done efficiently and speedily. Furthermore, and unlike his bastard neighbours—the Veneti—the warriors of Clann Ui Flaithimh appeared to take little delight in mocking their prisoners or in torturing them. More than likely, they were already well-informed of Aremorio and, therefore, did not need information.

He wondered if the leaders of his enemy would show mercy to those with injuries that would heal. A sharp blade to the heart or across the throat would be kinder than a life of slavery.

3

SAMHAIN, WINTER

The weather over the narrow Muir nIocht became increasingly capricious as the feast of Samhain drew closer. Strong winds, mountainous waves, and poor visibility made sailing increasingly hazardous. With the high