arising from male ego. Let us address ourselves to how we may resolve the problem as efficiently as possible.’
‘And that is?’ demanded Ardgal, amused at the crestfallen features of the illustrious commander of the Fianna.
‘Your men must approach the Hag’s Hill in the manner of hunters. The attack must take place in the last moments of darkness before dawn. It is the time when most people are in a deep sleep and do not react so quickly. The attackers must rely on their long bows as if they are hunting game. Long bows and knives. They must pick off the sentinels, silently and accurately, one by one, as they find a path up to the hill. Now we have the Fianna to back us. So once that path is made, the Fianna will come silently up the hill; once on the hilltop they will have the eastern light to help them and may attack openly. As they do so, I with Caol and Gormán will attempt to discover where Eadulf is held and release him.’
‘It sounds a simple plan in the telling,’ muttered Irél begrudingly.
‘It should be simple in the execution.’
Ardgal was thoughtful. ‘I will put it to my men. I think it is a plan that will appeal to them. Our people are hunters and farmers and not warriors. The prospect of overturning warriors with hunters’ bows will amuse them.’
Irél snorted disdainfully. ‘It is not exactly an honourable way of battle.’ ‘Is any battle honourable?’ snapped Fidelma.
‘The plan has its merits,’ admitted Irél, flushing. ‘As such, I accept it. I do not have to put it to my men, for we are of the Fianna.’
Fidelma repressed a smile at the arrogance of his tone.
‘Excellent. If all is well, we will depart from here as soon as possible.’
Eadulf had finally fallen asleep. He had spent hours walking around the inside of their prison while Bishop Luachan lay snoring. It was true what the old man had said. There was only one way into this strange mausoleum and one way out of it. And as there was only room for one man crawling out at a time, there was no hope at all of surprising the two warriors who stood sentinel outside, let alone making an escape, even if the wicker gate was not in the way.
He had sat down and started turning over various plans in his mind, but had to discard each one before he had advanced far into it. It was while he was doing so that he had finally fallen into a sleep of troubled exhaustion.
It was dark and the chill of early morning made Fidelma feel cold and uncomfortable. She was thankful for the knowledge of Ardgal’s men, for it appeared that Sliabh na Callaigh encompassed a row of several hills running east to west. Ardgal had told her that the extreme western peak and its close neighbour, the highest peak of all, were where the ancient pagan buildings were situated. His trackers believed that it was around this highest hill that the
They had approached from the south towards the western side, passing a small lake through woodlands of densely branched trees. They had left their horses tethered in the woods then began to climb upwards. After a short distance, Ardgal had bade her wait with Caol and Gormán while he and his men advanced up the hill to deal with the sentinels. Behind them, the ranks of the Fianna had already halted and stood ready to make their ascent when instructed.
They waited in total silence.
It seemed strange. No sound came to them through the night air, and Fidelma was wondering if her plan was working at all when there came a rustle among the undergrowth and almost before they had time to react, one of Ardgal’s men appeared in the shadows.
‘We have dealt with all the sentinels on this side, lady,’ he whispered. ‘The Fianna can move up, but as quietly as possible.’
Irél was already motioning his men forward. Like a silent stream they ascended the hill with Fidelma, Caol and Gormán trailing in their wake.
They paused to regroup at the tree-line that gave access onto the bald peak. Fidelma could see the outline of stone buildings, of campfires, tents and some wooden structures. Then the Fianna were racing forwards; the timing was perfect. The sun was still below the eastern hills, but a thin shaft of light was creeping over the hill. The Fianna were on the sleeping
Pandemonium was suddenly let loose as the sword-wielding warriors clashed with their foes. Ardgal’s men were still using their long bows to great effect as some of the sentinels from other sides of the hill began torun forward to engage the Fianna. Screams and roars of pain began to rise from all around.
Eadulf came awake with a start, blinking his eyes. The chamber was in darkness but someone was shaking him fiercely.
‘Brother Eadulf, something is happening outside.’ It was the voice of Bishop Luachan and he started to shake him again.
‘All right! All right!’ protested Eadulf. ‘I am awake. What is it?’ He heard the shouts and cries from outside.
‘The camp must be under attack,’ said the old bishop.
Immediately, Eadulf was on his knees.
‘Quickly, this may be our only opportunity,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down the tunnel and see what is happening. Perhaps the fighting will distract the guards. Follow me and keep close.’
Without waiting for an answer, he was already crawling swiftly on his hands and knees towards the faint grey light of dawn. Outside, through the wicker gate against which he now pressed his face, Eadulf could see only one guard, who seemed to be standing nervously, sword in hand. Eadulf could hear a terrible commotion but saw nothing. The encampment was definitely under attack — but sadly, there was no getting past the guard.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Out of the corner of her eye, Fidelma saw Ardgal directing his archers against a group of men who looked strangely foreign, more like Saxon warriors than Irish. There were several hand-to-hand combats going on. Together, she and Caol dodged between the fighting groups, making their way towards the wooden buildings and tents. Gormán, on Caol’s shouted instruction, was heading for some stone buildings.
Suddenly, a warrior rushed at them, brandishing his sword. Caol had not become commander of the Nasc Niadh, the elite bodyguard of the kings of Cashel, for nothing. He expertly parried the blows and slid his blade quickly under the ribs of the man, who slumped to the ground with a cry of pain and lay moaning in a spreading circle of blood.
Then Caol cried: ‘Look out!’
Instinctively, Fidelma dodged aside, feeling the wind against her skin as a blade swung past her. She pivoted on her heel to find herself inches from the distorted face of a woman. The rage and hatred on those awesome features was so intense that she flinched. The sword was upraised again, and she grabbed for the woman’s sword wrist and pulled with her full weight. As she did so, Fidelma registered the curious garb of her assailant and the strange symbols that she wore about her neck.
Although she had locked the woman’s sword arm in the tight grasp of her two hands, she realised that the woman’s left arm was free and that there was a sharp bladed-knife in her hand. Fidelma could not swing round and protect herself. She braced herself for the sharp impact, but it never came.
Instead, she felt the woman’s body stiffen against her own and then it became a dead weight. She let go of the wrist and her attacker fell to the ground.
Behind the corpse stood Caol, sword in hand.
Fidelma glanced at him, one look of thanks before the intensity of the continuing combat claimed their
