Dancing With Demons

attention.

Peering up through the wicker gate that blocked the entrance to the tunnel, Eadulf was still thinking desperately for a way of distracting the guard.

He heard a cry from somewhere and then the guard began to move away from the gate. Even as he saw the legs of the man take a step forward, he saw them buckle as the man fell, measuring his length on the ground outside. He did not question the why or wherefore, but thrust at the wicker gate with all his strength. Surprisingly, it jerked aside with ease and then Eadulf was scrambling out.

The guard lay on the ground, two hunting arrows embedded in his body.

Eadulf turned to help the old bishop out of the passage. They paused but a moment, looking at the noisy conflict that surrounded them. Then Eadulf pointed.

‘Let us go down the hill, to the shelter of those trees until we know who is fighting whom.’

Bishop Luachan nodded. With Eadulf’s help he limped painfully on his sprained ankle, stumbling a little. As they lurched down the hill, sliding and tripping on the increasingly steep slope, Eadulf began to feel exhilaration that they had made their escape without being observed.

Then, without warning, there came a cry from his elderly companion. At the same time, the old bishop shoved him in the back and Eadulf staggered forward and fell to his knees. Something hissed through the air behind him and he heard a thud as it fell. He was on his feet in a second and peering round. Bishop Luachan was also on his knees with the momentum of the push that he had given Eadulf. A short distance away was the Saxon warrior Beorhtric, and from his stance he had just thrown something at Eadulf, doubtless a knife. Bishop Luachan’s action had prevented it from landing in his back.

Eadulf looked quickly round but could not see where it had fallen. He had no weapon with which to defend himself and the tall Saxon warrior had now unsheathed his battle-axe with a grim smile on his features.

‘Move, Luachan! Go!’ Eadulf shouted to the old man, who was clambering to his feet.

‘Yes-hobble off, old one. I will catch up with you later,’ sneered Beorhtric in the same language before reverting to his native Saxon. ‘But you, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, I shall deal with you now.’

Eadulf glanced desperately back up the hill. In the fiery dawn light, he could see the tents and buildings ablaze. Whoever was attacking them had surprised their sentinels and overwhelmed the camp. Beorhtric’s comrades were being pressed back, leaving their dead strewn behind them. He saw some even dropping their weapons and holding up their hands in surrender.

‘Give it up, Beorhtric! Your people are beaten!’ he called, backing away slightly, still looking for some weapon with which to defend himself against the advancing Saxon, who was now making short swinging motions with his axe.

Instead, Beorhtric’s features formed into an evil grin. ‘Then I will have more pleasure in despatching you to Hel first,’ he snarled.

It was all over in seconds.

With a great shout of hate, Beorhtric raised his battle-axe and rushed upon Eadulf, who jumped backwards, missed his footing and fell defenceless before the descending blade. He raised an arm in a futile effort to ward off the blow. But the blow never came. It seemed that Beorhtric had halted, frozen for a moment, with an expression of surprise on his face. He staggered, still holding himself erect and still with the weapon in his hands.

Eadulf rolled out of the way and, as he did so, he noticed something protruding from the Saxon warrior’s chest; blood was soaking his tunic.

Then, with some effort, Beorhtric raised his battleaxe once more and gave a hoarse shout of ‘Woden!’ before he fell sideways and lifeless on the ground.

A short distance away, Gormán, a long hunter’s bow in his hand, stood ready to release a second arrow. Seeing it was unnecessary, he loosened the string, advanced down the hill and stood grinning at Eadulf.

‘You should choose your friends more carefully, Brother Eadulf,’ he rebuked. He reached forward and helped Eadulf up. The latter glanced down at the dead Saxon warrior before turning to Gormán with a shaky smile of relief and gratitude.

‘What has happened?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ Gormán said, ‘it would seem that we have defeated these dibergach.’

‘How did you learn about this place?’ Eadulf wanted to know. Then: ‘Are Fidelma and Caol with you?’

Gormán made an affirmative gesture. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, for old Bishop Luachan, panting with the exertion, was now limping slowly over to join them. Eadulf introduced him.

‘Excellent,’ Gormán smiled. ‘They feared you were dead at Delbna Mór.’

‘Is my community safe? The raiders did not harm it?’ the old man immediately asked.

‘It is untouched,’ replied the warrior.

‘Who is with you?’ asked Eadulf wonderingly, as he observed the warriors now rounding up the survivors of the dibergach.

‘Irél and members of the Fianna have joined Ardgal and some members of the Cinél Cairpre. We made the attack together. It was Fidelma’s plan. Come, we’d better find her and Caol.’

There was a quiet over the Hag’s Hill now, a curious quiet broken only by cries of pain from those wounded and dying. Dawn had broken over the hills, throwing a threatening red light across the scene. It was almost symbolic as it lit the carnage, but, of course, all it presaged was the bad weather to come. However, the sight that it lit was a bloody one.

Of the attacking force, only six had been killed and seven wounded. Of the raiders, some thirty had been killed and more than forty wounded. The others had surrendered, including most of the women.

After their simple but heartfelt reunion, Eadulf and Fidelma joined Irél in examining the dead. Eadulf realised that he had seen no sign of Cuan among the dead or survivors, and quickly told Fidelma of the man’s presence among the dibergach.

For a second time they meticulously examined the bodies of the dead, as well as the wounded and the prisoners, but there was no trace of the warrior from Tara.

‘A pity,’ said Fidelma. ‘He must have escaped during the attack.’

They had halted by the body of the tall, black-haired woman whom everyone had called the ceannard, the leader.

‘Who was she?’ asked Fidelma. This woman had nearly taken her life.

‘She was apparently a priestess of their cult, but I heard no one call her by her real name,’ Eadulf said. ‘They addressed her as ceannard or leader.’

‘I’ll have the prisoners questioned,’ offered Irél, who had joined them. ‘Perhaps one of them will know who she is and can be persuaded to tell us.’ He glanced down at the body. ‘Strange,’ he muttered.

Fidelma looked at him with interest. ‘What is strange?’

‘For a moment I thought there was something familiar about her face.’

‘Now you mention it,’ muttered Eadulf, ‘I remember thinking the same thing when she was questioning me.’

Irél sighed: ‘All faces in death become distorted and perhaps it is because we look on her in death that we see familiarity in it.’

Fidelma made no comment but regarded the dead priestess for a few moments more before turning down the hill to join Caol and Gormán who were standing talking with Bishop Luachan and Ardgal.

A warrior had approached Irél and was talking to him with some animation. The commander of the Fianna called Fidelma back.

‘You were asking about Cuan, lady. One of my men recognised him. He and another man escaped. They were riding eastward. A third man was wounded as he tried to go with them. He has given us some interesting information … after some persuasion.’ Irél smiled without humour.

Fidelma frowned with disapproval but did not comment.

‘What information?’ Eadulf asked.

‘They had already grown tired of riding with these raiders and were planning to leave for Alba, to the kingdom of the Dál Riada on the seaboard of the Gael. The man said that when Cuan joined them he had a