Iamerge could not imagine what to do.  His friend, normally a tower of emotional strength, was devastated and though he could think of nothing to do he was there, witnessing the break-down.  Finally, reflexively, Iamerge reached out and patted the man on his shoulder where he lay.  Conal seized him with his one good hand and wept and wept.

Iamerge might have run, but anchored by Conal’s iron grip he could not.  He sat and desperately tried to think of what to do.  At last Conal’s grip loosened as his sobbing subsided.  When Conal finally released his hold completely Iamerge felt relief and yet, strangely, a sense of loss.  He reached out and patted the man as he’d done at the first.

“Thank you Iamerge, you’re a true friend.”  Conal whispered, then he lay back and covered his tear reddened eyes with his arm. 

“If there’s anything I can do. . .” Iamerge offered.

From across the room a gruff voice called, “What do I need to do to get something to eat in this place?”

Iamerge and Conal both burst out laughing.  Iamerge punched Conal gently on the shoulder before he rose and was treated to the same old twinkle in his eye that he’d come to expect from the man. “I’ll have to see if the hungry monks have left us anything.”

“I need bark tea!” came a quavering call from another quarter, pain evident in the voice.

“I can get you some cold,” called Conal. ”I’m sure the brothers will bring hot later.”  Conal and Iamerge exchanged smiles and went to their duties, self imposed though they were.

Sir Gawain and the Ghost Knight

The King is in his Hall.  There is the scent of applewood and venison roasting.  Arthur’s knights are at table, the Round Table of Camelot.  Bards tell tales accompanied by minstrels.  Well received are the jokesters telling tales that make merry, bring laughter and jeers, gafaws and then cheers.

Martin the bard strides forth with his tale, wearing motley and bells.  Knights lean closer, to listen to the story he tells, “Here then is the tale of Sir Gawain and the Ghost Knight,” chants Martin there by the fire where he stands.

“This will be good I’ll wager,” says Sir Gaheris with twinkling eye. 
Arthur silences him with a glare and Gawain, red as a beet, sinks deeper in his chair.

“Sir Gawain, he of Camelot, being a knight of the Round Table,” The knights cheer and applaud so the Bard pauses before continuing, “He did seek he, hither and thither, for good that might be done in a knightly manner, and in regards to his honor, in keeping with what best befits one of his station and high calling.

“Sadly, no call for succor from fair maiden, or plee from put upon peasantry, abused by an unscrupulous master sworn to other than our good king, nor even a chance attempt at brigandry against his person had arisen to leaven the dreary days.  Worse yet, the clouds had opened into a bone chilling, drenching rain.

“It was in low spirits and considerable discouragement that Gawain followed a road toward home.  His way wound up a long rise crowded close with mist shrouded pine.  This was a perfect place for ambuscade so that Gawain was not surprised, though relieved to tell the truth, to see a dark figure lurking beneath an enormous fir, topping a rise above him.

“Gawain placed his helm upon his head, took his lance firm in hand, and picked up his pace along that lonely road.  Soon enough he saw more clearly a figure, resolved from the mist as it were, into a knight, it seemed, caparisoned in green and athwart his path.  That is, there appeared a green knight, or rather a knightly figure arrayed in green who’s device he could not discern so as to know what man might inhabit the armor that sat upon the horse in his path.

“Ho there sir knight, who’s vassal may you be, and by what right do you bar the king’s thoroughfare? This said gallant Gawain, but to his goodly query the knight in green said not a single thing.  He sat his steed and stared, it seemed, a looming darkened specter.

“Be you friend of King Arthur of Camelot, or be you in contra-point and opposition, for I am sworn to same and will defend with vigor the right, both of myself as a knight, and to all who name him lord, of passage along this way, indeed with lance if you will not remove yourself peaceably.  Though he was not in a companionable mood Gawain added generously, Or if you are with the king we might ride on to Camelot and feast at table or some such.

“Civil enough greeting and even kind it was, but that Green Knight said not a thing, nor did he bestir himself to properly vacate the precinct of the kings roadway.  It seemed, though it were long odded unlikely to fair Gawain that this looming figure could control his equine mount to this degree, having heard the goodly knight’s command, the Green Knight’s mount lifted tail and gave vent right there upon the road, it would seem, in direct defiance of the king’s sworn man.

“But there, steaming in the roadway was clear evidence of same.  Gawain could not let this pass, so to speak. See here you dandy varlet. Said good Sir Gawain. You may be sure that this abuse of the king’s roadway will not be condoned.  Arm yourself, defend, if you can, these actions, and know that Gawain at least, will not stand such. And then with heat.  Defend yourself! Thus saying, Gawain reined ’round and paced him off a goodly run so to best engage the Green Knight at full tilt.  Wheeling, Gawain would have couched his lance and rode the scroyle down, but as he looked to find his target through his visor, much too close he saw the blighted horse, with its rider, seated calmly there astride it, walking slowly up behind our gallant knight and closing distance so as to preclude Gawain’s full tilt charge and satisfaction.

“What is this japery! Hold you there or I will. . .  See here, how am I to ride you down, like the dog you are, if I can’t gain enough way?  Ye Gods are you even a knight?  Wheeling again and riding harder, Gawain galloped to a place well back along the road.  Quickly, so as not to allow the green knight time for any other shenanigans, Gawain whirled and brought his lance to bear.

“Wroth as he was and sore put upon, nothing would have stayed Sir Gawain from violence, surely, nothing conceivable could prevent his lightening charge iresitably followed by a deadly lance thrust and victory.  The inevitability of it was undeniable, unimpeachable, solid in concept and undoubtable as it was indubitable. So it was a very great shock and surprise to Gawain when he would have kicked his mount to the charge, and to the inevitable, undeniable, indubitable, and certain end of such a charge with violent intent. . .

“. . . But as he rounded, lo, all he had to look on was the backside of the horse, and also, there above that insolent backside, the back of the Green Knight, equally insolent and more.  THIS is intolerable.  You are no true knight, are you even a man?  How can a knight turn curpin in such extremity?  Stand and FIGHT!

“This the Green Knight would not do, for with infinite aplomb the bounder wandered along the track at such a slow pace as to make a man, even a lesser man than Gawain, who in his fine pique and temper was quite beside himself at this point, rather mad with blood-lust.

“You poxy blaggard.  Turn and face me if you be a man, you smoldering mundungus.  So saying Gawain savaged his charger’s flanks and prepared to engage, though he warned the Green Knight again ere he would have struck him. Gawain railed, I will have satisfaction.  Stand, you craven gundygut, and fight or or or. . .

“But naught could come to mind that would allow Gawain to ride down an enemy who was neither facing him, nor exactly fleeing in the sort of way that might bring a proper attack from the rear, if ever one might be justified.  Honor bound, Gawain was at a loss and drew rein as roughly as he’d spurred his mount.

“His horse flesh, tempestuous itself, and sensing its masters discomfort, chose that moment to add to it.  Rearing in a most unexpected way, the charger bolted clean out from under Sir Gawain, sending him foot over withers and helm under knickers before dashing him down upon the muddy road in a splat and a rattle. 

“Momentarily stunned, Gawain quickly, at least for a heavily armored man on uncertain ground, regained his feet and drew sword to face the inevitable attack.  Alas, it did not come.  But Gawain thought, above the ringing in his ears, might there be laughter on the wind?

“Not far off his charger was cropping grass as was the sway backed plow-horse of a mount that bore the Green Knight, cheekily sitting his mount now once again athwart the road.  This was intolerable provocation, but Gawain was in no position to answer it immediately.  The situation vexed him sore.

“It was a most unknightly procedure, unsquired and alone, for Gawain to capture, remount, and rearm upon his charger.  All the while he believed he could hear distant laughter.  So it was a red faced knight, Gawain and no other, who once again stood mounted and facing the Green Knight, or rather standing at the ready to fight the Green Knight who, for his part, sat calmly side on, displaying a blank green shield, his sinister display a clear mock of such disrespect as to madden beyond all restraint the long suffering Gawain.

“Defend, I’ll give you no more warning nor quarter.  You have earned this beyond all bounds of knightly behavior and I require satisfaction.  So saying and without delay Gawain couched his lance and charged.

“Soon enough Gawain was at the gallop and bearing down on the Green Knight where he waited, at rest, before the huge spreading fir at the top of the hill.  With madening Nonchalance, the horse and rider wandered off the road, still side on to Gawain.  The small satisfaction of the Green Knight quiting the road was not now of a sufficiency to stay Gawain.

“Adjusting to the new deflection, Gawain bore down.  With satisfaction, he saw the varlet turn head on to him, awaiting his attack.  As he neared the collision, Gawain had eyes only for the heart of his enemy.  Gawain stood high in his stirrups, and leaned in against the shattering impact of taking a man full in the chest with a lance.  Indeed Gawain drew some back just before contact, and then thrust with all his might to run the man through.

“He couldn’t have missed, he was sure, Sir Gawain watched the point take the insolent knight full on his breastplate, but it was as if the Green Knight were a phantasm or wraith and its armored breast resisted his thrust no more than would a vapor.  And so, inevitably, without the counterbalancing resistance of an armored man to set him back in his saddle, Gawain followed his thrust over the back of the Green Knight’s horse and headfirst upon the road, his fall broken by naught but the horse flop that had in large part precipitated the engagement. 

“The dung did not afford any more resistance than had the Green Knight, indeed it rather smoothed and lubricated the way as Gawain skidded over the hill.  Far from slowing, it seemed, he began to gain way as he bounced and rattled down the road into a smallish village, ending his careen in a rather large communal pig wallow.

“Mortification were not nearly a sufficient descriptor of Gawain’s embarassment.  At least, though his shame was witnessed widely by the populace, Sir Gawain was saved from drowning in the murky middlemost depth of the pig wallow, being drawn forth by the efforts of four good men of the village.  Further, these same men were able to identify and secure the young vandals who had made up the wooden effigy, placed it upon a perloined plow horse, and presented it at the top of the hill from which devolved all the tragic event afore mentioned.” Martin bows with laudably dignity despite bells jingling on his hat.

When the snickers and gaffaws subside, the King nods to the bard, “Master bard, well told.” Then to Gawain he says, “Truly an amazing adventure, Sir Gawain, but what became of the young rapscallions?”

It seems Sir Gawain could not get redder, but he, with exagerated dignity, ignoring his fellow knights in hopes of salvaging something good from it all says, “Having been saved from sure death by their fathers,” he says, “I remembered my own imperfect youth and decided that the punishment should fit the crime.”

“Oh? What punishment?” asks the monarch, Arthur, over the rim of his drinking horn of red wine.

Arthur drinks deep, Gawain, clearly pleased with himself, responds,”Why, they are this moment cleaning my armor.”

He is less pleased as his king spews wine across the table, Gawain’s mantle, and his beard which drains onto his fresh doublet. “Oh Gawain, you didn’t!” Arthur moans.

* * * *

The ride has been long and trying, but it is nearing an end with every step closer to Camelot.  Still, the knight emissary from a nearby kingdom is not at all pleased to see a knight baring his way. 

Looking hard at the shield device on the mounted knight he recognises the heraldry of sir Gawain of Camelot. “Sir Gawain, what is the meaning of this?”  The knight is vexed that Gawain makes no answer, but Gawain, in full armor, visored as if for battle, plods out from under the great fir he has been lurking beneath.

The giant cauldron hung above a fire that had settled back to a sullen red glow.  Cathbad sat staring into the embers, deep in thought or devoid of it, while his druid assistants tended the cauldron, chanted, or fidgeted nervously.  Few enough of the small-folk remained, but when word of war had filtered out with those that had left, the men who would fight it began to gather to hear the words of the chief druid.

CuRuada had been seeking Emer at the fair, but he could not find her.  Indeed, Emer and her father had left for the ford of the Red where they lived.  CuRuada’s fellows brought him the exciting word of war predicted by the druid, Cathbad.  With them, Cu gathered near the chanting druids and the blackened cauldron with the other warriors, though the boys of the troop hung together.

CuRuada saw his destiny plain.  He must take up arms today.  As in other things he must excel to claim his bride.  CuRuada knew that the ceremony where young men took up their arms was normally held after the yearly sacrifice and druid divination.  Waiting was torment.  His friends in the boys troop were eager to be men, but Cu needed to be one.  Emer was reason enough and more.

CuRuada opened the carved box and stared at the broach and the knife.  When I take up arms there is no one who can keep me from you Emer.

Murmurs among the assembled men brought CuRuada out of his reverie.  Druids were bringing boiled meat out of the cauldron with meat hooks.  Some of it had already been spread out to cool and Cathbad was methodically eating what was placed before him.  This then was the beginning of the Consumption Vision.  Cathbad would eat all the bullock and after that there would be a vision of great power.

But a man eating can hold attention only so long, for the boys troop less than most.  Their whispered conversation was frowned on by the warriors around about them for awhile, but soon enough the process of Cathbad eating the bull could not hold even grizzled old warriors attention and they joined the boys in murmured conversation.

“I shall take up arms today, if the druid will ever finish his meal,” boasted Conor, a boy of the troop.

“Best think twice Conor, this of war is no business for mere boys,” said Conall, the champion’s son.

“I suppose a shan’t be able to with my arm as it is,” pouted Felmid.

“HAH!” scoffed Conor, “I’d not worry about my arm if I were you.  Better that you grow a couple more years before you think of it, Felmid.”

Felmid shouldered Conor with his good arm, “What do you know, you’re only three months older.”

“Hush now, have you no respect?” said Conall, “Think twice before you take up arms.  There are two ends to a spear.  Make sure you can stay on the right end of it.”

“I will take up arms today,” stated CuRuada flatly.  The druid was still eating, but CuRuada had no more stomach for this show, “Come get me when it is time to take up my arms.”  Without another word he walked off toward where people were gathering their things to depart.  CuRuada went first to where the Lokian smith had been and finding his booth gone went looking for him among the carts and wains of the people leaving the fair grounds.

“That is an odd fellow,” Remarked Conor.

“. . . Said the boy with more freckles than face,” Felmid laughed, but yowled when Conor thumped him on his broken arm.

“Hush you,” whispered Conall, and the boys all fell silent, “Have you no respect?”  Conall pointed to the diaz where Cathbad was finishing his meal.

Cathbad took from an assistant a huge bowl of broth mingled with blood and slowly began to drink.  His helpers hovered near as the great druid finished the last of the bull.  Cathbad dropped the bowl and held his arms out.

There was sudden noise of chanting and drumming the cauldron was drawn off the fire and fragrant incense was cast on the coals.  Others of the druids waved censers about spreading still more fragrant smoke.  In the midst of it all Cathbad sat with his arms held out. 

Then an elder druid came toward Cathbad struggling under the weight of the bullocks hide he bore, eight others carried a platform of sorts with handles where the druids held it up.  The elder shook out the bloody hide and with the help of some of the younger assistants wrapped Cathbad, already red with the blood of the sacrifice, in the bloody skin of the sacrifice.

The eight druids with the elder lifted Cathbad onto the platform which the they then lifted onto their shoulders with Cathbad, entranced, upon it.  The general noise died to silence as the elder druid took up a censer and began to chant.  He led the bearers down off the dais and all the druidry who had been helping with the vision quest fell in behind in a sort of procession.  Everyone else stood or sat around the empty dais as the procession moved off, Cathbad above all on the shoulders of the bearers.  The thin voice of the elder druid was joined by the assembly as they slowly walked away.

“What now?” asked Felmid.

Conall and several older warriors around stared at him disapprovingly.  Conor whispered, unabashed, “Cathbad sleeps off his big meal, has his vision, and then we all hear.”

Felmid considered this for a moment before commenting, “Why in the world did we stand here waiting?”

Conor shrugged, Conall frowned, and an elder warrior not far off shushed louder than Felmid’s comment.  Conall muttered under his breath, “have you no respect?”

Meanwhile CuRuada searched for the smith.  He strode along the long line of carts and wagons looking for the short dark Lokian.  When he would have almost stopped he saw the man with his wagon and team.  On seeing him Cu couldn’t imagine what he would say.  The man made up his mind for him when he looked back, and seeing the young warrior, motioned him forward.

When CuRuada walked up beside the wagon the little man called down, “Don’t tell me that you’ve come looking for another gift for yet another lady friend.”  CuRuada’s look of horror made the black-haired metal-worker laugh.  “No?  Well that’s good to hear.  How did your friend like the gift?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t find her.  Likely left with the rest; left like you.”

“Likely so. . .” said the smith. “So why come see me?”

CuRuada shrugged, “I couldn’t stand waiting for the chief druid’s vision quest.  It’s a hard thing to watch a man eat and eat.  Afterward is the ceremony where boys take up their arms and become men.  I need to take up arms today.”

“The only good reason to wait that I can see is so you don’t miss something you have to have.”

“That is good advice.  Now I owe you twice over, how shall I repay you?”

The dark Lokian laughed, ”There’s no need.”  He thought for a moment and then leaned out of his wagon looking Cu directly in the eyes, “But some day you and your friend could come see me.  I’d like to see that brooch completed.” His blue eyes danced with mischief before he added, ”My name be Goffanon the smith.  Beyond the Red Branch and up in the hills the folk know my name and the paths to my forge.  Seek me when you would find me.”

CuRuada waved, “I will come Goffanon, so says CuRuada.”

With that he rein whipped his team to better speed to close up the gap between his wagon and the next in line.  He shouted back at Cu, “Don’t forget to bring that girl of yours too.”

CuRuada turned to walk back along the cart track.  Far back along the way he saw Conor and Felmid walking toward him.  At that he remembered the smith’s advice and began to run toward his fellow boys troop members.

“Hey there Cu!” shouted Conor, “If you plan to take up arms today you best come at once.  Cathbad has eaten and his vision can’t be far off.”

“How long did we stand around while he ate?” asked Felmid, “I’m sure it can’t come as soon as we would want.”  Felmid fiddled with his splinted arm, “Not that I’ll be taking up arms.”

“I must,” stated CuRuada flatly striding toward the diaz where he had watched the druid’s divination sacrifice.

Conor and Felmid were hard pressed to keep up with him. “Hey now, hair on fire,” Conor jibbed, Felmid laughed at that encouraging him, ”What’s all the hurry for?  Cathbad has predicted war and death, of course the king isn’t too worried about that.  Kings don’t do the dying.”

Felmid broke into a jog that had him clutching his splinted arm in one way and another until he found a comfortable way to hold it.  “Yeah, at least hear what Cathbad’s Consumption Vision has to say. . .”

“It matters not.  I will take up my arms today.”

Conor and Felmid shrugged at each other and fell in behind CuRuada as he strode toward the crowd of men awaiting the Chief Druid’s vision.  As the three of them approached, there was a flurry of activity and the elder druid walked up the stairs and onto the dais followed by an entourage of younger druids.

This fellow was not so theatrical, for as soon as his following entourage took up their places around him he began to read from a wand scratched with runes.  “This is the vision of Cathbad, hear and know the future if you can understand it.” The old man’s voice boomed out over the audience, “Indeed there will be war.  This will waste the good foaling and the fine fishing and what should be blessed will be bitter.  Many will die both in fighting and for greed and for cursing that comes of war.”  The druid spoke derisively, looking down his nose at the king, “All this but reinforces what Cathbad saw from the liver and the entrails.” 

“It was the chief druid’s choice, get on with it.” said Concubar.

The old turned his eyes to where the young men gathered, “Only this word remains, this for the young, this warning before war.  The first to take up arms today will gain fame at the cost of his life, will be showered with glory, remembered forever for his deeds.  Wait you!  Know that glorious is his life, but short.  This Cathbad saw, great his deeds but so soon his death.  This was Cathbad’s seeing and we know that it is true.

Good to have a famous name, but to die young was a bitter thing.  The older of the boys troop hesitated.  Even Conall considered. 

Single-minded, CuRuada pushed through his fellows, “I will take up my arms today.  Better to be remembered than to die in a bed.”  Hearing this Concubar was proud because CuRuada was his son though he did not make it generally known.

The elder druid turned away and to his fellows he said, “This too was Cathbad’s seeing and we see it is true.”

I am forced by the format of this Blog to name the post as I begin writing.  Often it does not go as I anticipate and I want to end a post before the story really warrants it, or the story turns and the title does not reflect well the content.  In this case there are a number of things happening that occur before or during Cathbad’s vision (which we don’t actually see) and so this title seems a bit forced as does the ending and the vision.  This last for reason of wanting to wrap up a post while still offering the information promised in the title.  Hopefully I can improve the uneveness if/when I rewrite this tale.

LSO

From Clanaboy, to Hebridean, to Portuguese O’Neill to Northern Ireland Rugby baller, all display the Red Hand.  Be it dexter or sinister all  of these of the red hand seem to hail back to one person, Niall Noigiallach.  Perhaps there is cause.  Perhaps this is the cause:

Niall sat at the head table as befits the son of King Eochaid Mugmedon.  This Airgialla board was not for feasting, however.  Would that it were, thought Niall, but instead he’d picked a most inopportune time to visit his father’s subject king. 

A haggard looking fellow from west of the kings seat was speaking, “These warriors are on more than a hit and run raid.  This attack strikes at our heart.  Their aim is clear, they are coming to kill you, oh king.”

“Should we vacate then?  Flee to some safe place, perhaps to the Slave Lord himself for protection?” asked the king of his advisers but looking over at Niall.

He is a king perhaps, but a small king, thought Niall.  “Of course you have the support of my father.  But a king must protect his people and his place or he is no king.”  This one is an old worrier.  He is wondering now if it is worth being a king.

“We can not summon warriors from the our tributary Tuatha,” babbled one of the king’s officials.

“They should come.  It is their sworn duty to come.” said the king.

“But there is no time, we can’t expect . . .”

“I’m their king!  Does that count for nothing?”

“Yes my lord, but we should make arrangements to at least get the royal family clear. . .” began yet another advisor, likely a royal.

“Yes, and some measures to get clear as much of value as we can from . . .”

“No no, we should defend here, with fortification.  If we can hold here perhaps our tributary Tuaths can relieve a seige.  Mugmedon will aid us . . .”

“They are on your door-step, there is no time. . .”

“Will they attack tonight?”

“No, not that soon, perhaps they will be at the gates tomorrow, but no later.”

Niall pounded the table, fed up with the nattering, “Am I to understand that the seat of Airgialla has no warriors at all?”

“Of course, my lord, but. . .”

“No but!  We take up arms and we crush the enemy . . .” shouted Niall, he watched the room fidget.  Fearful to do what they should or to oppose him directly.

“. . . my lord, that is impossible . . .” said the advisor who was for getting as much of the wealth to safety.

“If you hide in your tec these Connachta will burn it down around your ears.  Why would your subject tuatha come if you are too cowardly yourself to go out against the invader?  But if you go out and surprise this rabble when they think they will catch you in your bed, well then you might still win.  I’ll tell you this, your tuatha will come out if they know that after you crush this enemy you may come to them for not doing their duty.”

“. . . but if they come too late . . .” began the king, but Niall could not let a weak king spoil all these men.

“If I may have your leave, I will lead your forces to crush these Connachta invaders.  Know that you have the full support of my father the Ard Righ. . .”

“but none of his strength. . .” muttered an advisor.

Niall ignored that and rushed on, “Now, this hour, send out your champions and your warriors and I will go out with my men.  There will be outriders and spies that will know it if we do not come out against them and if they return bloodied these Connachta will come with more care.”

“One day, or two, that is not enough time to gather the Tuatha . . .”

One of the younger warriors spoke for Niall, “We can bloody them. . .”

“They can make sure that no raider escapes alive to brag of this affront.” said Niall, “be sure, my father will hear and he will act.  As to these tributaries of yours, I can not say what they will do, only what they should do.”  Niall scanned the faces around the table and saw support on a few and doubt on many more, ”Look you.  A king presides here who is above their own king.  Go call these minor chiefs in their own lord’s name.”

“They might come in that way to swell our ranks.”

“See you, here is what we will do,” Niall left no room for contention, “We champions will go out to punch the Connachta in the eye.  They will come on slower and there is high ground between here and there that we will hold in the morning.  You, oh king, will gather every able man, every boy, every tall woman and you will give each of them a spear and a shield.  In the full morning with Sol Nua behind us, our ranks will look stronger than they imagine we could possibly be, but there we will stand.  Then too, you will fill the plain behind us with many cook fires, we will look like a host in the night and a more than that in the day.  Send to every clan chief and cattle king around and tell them to come in the name of their own king.  These little lord will not oppose you and what will their king say after the fact?  Of course the messengers will go on to inform those greater lords of your commands.  In twos and threes and tens and fifties they will come to swell our ranks, and the kings of your Tuatha will hound what is left of them if they do not reach us in time.  There will be doubt, and if we can overwhelm them with our first attack they may flee, thinking we have the better of them and that time is now on our side.  Having the son of Eochaid Mugmedon at the head of the host may well decide it, they may believe this larger than expected host is mine.”

“What if this puppet show doesn’t work?”

“What matter? The women and children can flee from the hill as well as they can flee from the fort.  Worst case, we retire to your stronghold and fight on, but more likely they do not expect opposition until then and they will turn back assuming their defeat before it is proved.”

“You have the command and everything you need I give you.” said the old king, caught up in the moment.

Niall blushed slightly, nobody would know it for embarrassment, “Then in addition to the things I’ve mentioned, I will need to borrow a shield of you.  I did not know I would be at war.”

The king smiled, “I have a new one of finest quality being crafted for me.  It is nearly finished but bears no mark or adornment yet.  Pure white it is.  It is yours.”

*  *  *

Niall and his body guard in three chariots rumbled along the cart track, going far too fast, but needing the haste they risked.  Night was gathering quickly and they needed to be at the hill. 

In truth, he should have been in the trailing chariot, but his men were too cautious of his safety for good speed, so he led.  His concession to safety was arming his driver and turning the reins over to a local.  The young man drove like a demon and swore like one too.

As they topped a hill and began to round a long slow curve there were men beside the track, surprised faces turned to him.  “Are you with the Ard Righ?” he managed to shout, knowing the answer.  An ill aimed spear cast that hurtled over all drove the driver to new heights of foul language and the horses responded.

His men leaped from their chariots to engage the enemy along the road, but Niall had his Airgialla driver wheel around so that Niall might cast at them from their flank and, as it turned out, harry their retreat.  They did not face his men for long, Niall’s hardened vets killed a few, but the better part of them showed their heels.

Niall took a few in the back with spear casts and, when his casting spears were all gone, his driver used the blades on the war chariot’s wheels and Niall his long sword to bring another few low.

Chariots and guard all gathered around Niall in his war chariot.  “Are you wounded?  Should we pursue?  Now do you see why you should not be in the first chariot?”  Were questions all hurled at him.

Niall answered with few words. “Mount!” he said to his men and to the demon driver, “get us to that hill as fast as you can.” The boy was a wonder.  Perhaps, if he lived, Niall would see if his master would part with him.

As they rumbled along a goat path Niall wondered if the men he’d frightened off would remember his shouted question or just the dead they’d left behind.  He wondered if his terse orders and fear had worked to motivate the weak king of Airgialla.  As they topped a rise Niall saw down in a valley beneath a great hill half a hundred cook fires.

All was lit with the strange light of a double sunset as Spark and Sol Nua plunged below the horizon.  It was a rare thing to see.  Niall wondered if it boded well or ill.  Niall nudged his Airgialla driver and pointed to the hilltop, “To the top, let’s see where the enemy lies.”  Niall motioned for his guard to flank him as they rumbled toward the summit.

He saw them long before his three chariots reached the knot of men at the summit.  This time he was ready and he urged his men on with a mighty, “For the Ard Righ!”  The dozen or so men almost held their ground, but a chariot charge is a fearsome thing.  A few of the less agile fell to spear casts and one unfortunate was ridden down my Niall’s Airgialla demon driver.  Niall would have liked to follow up the charge, he saw his men’s blood was up, but the wise thing was to hold the heights, that was the plan.

“See there,” said one of his guard, “two chariots.”

“Aye,” said Niall, “And there two more, and I count five coming from the fires.

“And two more from the North.” cried another of his men pointing, “Oh look you, they’ve caught some sneakers too.”

Niall saw.  The chariots wheeled and turned a couple of times before they stopped briefly, likely to retrieve weapons before hurrying up the hill toward Niall and his men.  Niall nudged his old driver, “Put up the standard.  If there are any who lurk, let them see while there is still some light.

Niall looked down the hill in the direction of the retreating enemy.  There was a dark blotch on the grassy plain.  “There is their main body, too late to give battle today.  Set the fires on the heights.  They’ll know we are here, but set the pickets a bit down the hill toward the enemy.  I don’t want them sneaking up on us fire blinded.”

The king of Airgialla rolled up with the five chariots from the fires.  “Have we won our race?”

“Aye, we drove some skulkers off the heights.  They saw the fires, no doubt, and they likely know that forces of the Ard Righ are here, but not how many or our disposition.  I think the morning charge will break them.”

“Pray it is so.  I’ve women and children down by the fires.  They can hold a weapon, but not much more.”

“They will look a proper army on the hill,” Niall said, confidence in every word  “Did you see the sunset?  It will rise at our back as I’d hoped.  We will press them for an early fight, our eagerness will be just another worry to them.”

Chariots kept rolling in filled with eager men.  The energy was contagious.  “We could attack them now, sweep them from the field.”

“If its a fight you want then go at night, five or six chariots together, there will be more lurkers still.  We must keep that horde from going around and keep them blinded too.  Change the drivers and the fighters each round so everyone stands a rolling watch.  We can’t let them sneak around us and they won’t know if all the racket is the same chariots or all your lords coming to your aid.”

“This is a masterful plan,” said the king, “I was wise to put the defense in your hands.”

Sadly, this post has gone on too long.  I think all this but sets the stage for the story I mean to tell of the origin of the Red Hand associated with Niall and his progeny.  I should add geographical and dynastic information and may do that when I revise this.  But the real meat of the story is yet to be revealed.

LSO

Oatey went about gathering things without another word to Lugh.  For his part, Lugh sat for a while, waiting for a thaw in the icy silence.  When it did not come, he rapidly gathered his things and was ready to go when she was.

She regarded him stoically as she began to leave and he happened to block her path in the cluttered room, “There is another giant, it is arranged.”  She said as she pushed past him and walked out into the hall.  He followed her and had to hurry not to loose her in the labyrinth of the sidhe.

Briefly he knew where he was as their path led into the large room where Lugh had attended the celebration.  Lugh waved to a few of his fellow drinkers and they returned his greeting.  That brief distraction was almost enough for him to loose his way because Oatey, after exiting the tunnel into the hall, immediately turned into another corridor.  Lugh had to scramble to catch up.

“Ayee, Oatey, I don’t know my way.” called Lugh after he almost lost her again in a tunnel with side passages stuffed with provisions.  She glanced back, but did not seem to slow as Lugh struggled to keep up.

She turned in to an arched passage that was identical to all the others up and down the hall.  Lugh hurried to follow around the corner and almost ran into Oatey from behind where she stood at a desk-like board.

“Well look there Oatey, you’ve grown a tail,” said a particularly rotund Norfolk sitting behind the desk.  Oatey looked back, regarding him with what looked like annoyance.  The man went back to putting items on the desk which Oatey gathered, organized, and stowed in her gear.

“He’ll need a load too, and a sling.”

“What? Does he know how to use it?” asked the man.

“I can show h. . .”

“I know how to use a sling,” Lugh cut them off, “I’m not a child.”

The fellow behind the desk shrugged and hopped off his stool.  Only then did Lugh see that the fellow was missing a leg.  “Here you go then,” he said, grabbing a sling off the wall and turning back.  As he jumped back onto his stool, he layed the sling out and then reached under the counter.  He scooped something into a bag and brought that out too,  “I figure basics,” he said and shoved the things toward Lugh while he looked to Oatey for confirmation.

She nodded curtly and then said, “Can you give us another couple days ration Jonesy?”

“mmm hmm, just a short trip then?”  Jonesy gathered the items and laid them on the desk.

“Yeah. I’ve marked another one.  Gonna go get it and back like the last one.”

“Be careful now.” Jonesy winked at Oatey and she smiled and waved as she turned away.  Lugh was still packing items away when the fellow grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, “Oatey’s a good girl.  No harm better come to her from the likes of you. Got that?” Jonesy whispered threateningly and then shoved him away.

Lugh gathered the last of the things and followed Oatey.