Challenge of the clans (7 page)

But the chieftain's son, still smarting from the drubbing of the day before, had plotted with some of his comrades to ignore the play of the game and concentrate their force upon Finn himself. He had a plan for taking certain care of this brash stranger.

But to trap Finn wasn't so easy. He was like an otter in the water, sleek and swift and slippery. And the others of his team stayed close about, protecting him. For his own part, Finn was reveling in the challenge of the sport, feeling a new kind of headiness in being able at last to test the muscles and skills he'd been developing for so long.

But Colm and his friends persisted. Finally, their chance came. Finn drove forward, separating from his team. Far away from their support, he suddenly found himself surrounded by grim-faced adversaries.

"Now!" Colm shouted triumphantly. "On him, lads! Together!"

The whole band of them converged upon him from all sides, bearing him down beneath the surface under their crushing, flaiUng mass.

"They'll drown him, they will!" cried the trainer, and he started forward out of the cover.

But the druid gripped his arm and pulled him back.

"No!" he hissed sharply, his own gaze fixed with great interest on the struggle. "Let them go!"

In the lake, some of Finn's team were fighting to reach him, but the solid wall of opponents held them back. Already he had been beneath the water too long.

"Let's let him up, Colm!" said one of his team. "He's been down long enough now to take some of the spirit fi-om him. "

"No!" protested the chieftain's son. "You keep him down until I say! Keep him down or you'll regret it!"

Suddenly realizing what he was meaning to do, the lads began to break up, pulling away from the mass angrily.

"We'll not be killing him for you, Colm, " one told him. "Threaten all you want!"

He grinned cruelly. "Fools! It's too late to save him by now anyvv^ay! He must be drowned."

Several of the boys were peering down into the waters, thrashing^about with their feet in the spot where they had forced Finn under. They looked puzzled.

"He doesn't seem to even be here, Colm," one said.

"What?" he cried, swimming forward, shouldering them aside. "He must be there. Let me look!"

Reaching the spot, he peered intently down into the dark waters, looking for a glimmer of Finn's body below. But there was nothing.

"He can't have gotten away," Colm said in rising concern. "Where could he—"

Abruptly he was jerked beneath the surface, disappearing with a gurgling shout. Only a spreading ripple remained.

The others splashed forward to rescue him, but he was gone. They searched the waters frantically but futilely.

"There he is!" one shouted suddenly, pointing. For

the young man had popped to the surface some distance away.

They started toward him, but he was only visible for an instant, long enough to take a desperate gasp of air, before he was jerked beneath the surface again.

Realizing what peril Colm was in, the chieftain shouted "My son!" and charged forward. Bursting from cover, he ran for the lake's edge, the trainer and the druid close behind.

They had just reached the water when Colm whooshed to the surface a second time, close to the opposite shore. This time a second figure surfaced beside him.

Once more BodhmalFs harsh training had served Finn well. His swimming skills had saved him and given him means to take his revenge. Now as those across the lake watched helplessly, he dragged a spluttering Colm up into the reeds at the water's verge. Dumping the bedraggled and much humbled youth there, he climbed onto the bank. It was then that he became aware of the three new figures watching him.

Two of them were warriors, and armed. Were there more? Were they the sons of Moma, meaning to capture him? He had to get away!

With a burst of speed that further amazed the watching men, Finn rushed to grab up his tunic and spear and then headed away fi*om the lake, back toward the woods of Slieve Bladhma.

"Don't let him go!" the druid shouted. But his order was useless. Before anyone could act, the young man was far away, vanishing into the shelter of the trees.

"An amazing lad," the trainer said, staring after him with awe. "None I've ever known had such power."

"Maybe," the druid said thoughtfully. He looked at the chieftain. "Did you see his face?"

"I did," the man said irritably. He was more concerned about his son, who the other lads were now hurrying to help. "Why?"

"You didn't find it familiar?"

"Familiar?" he said, looking quizzically at the druid. "No. I didn't know him. Did you?"

"Not him. But years ago, when I was among the advisors to the king, I saw someone else much hke him." His voice was excited and his dark eyes glowed. "That's why I had to see him, to be certain. Now I would swear by all the gods my people swear by that this boy carries the blood of the daughter of Tadg!"

"Ahve!" cried Conn of the Hundred Battles, leaping up from his seat to stare down in shock at the two men.

Tadg stood before the high king's raised platform in Tara's central hall, the visiting druid beside him. On hearing his story, he had brought him at once to see Conn.

The sixteen years had made no impression upon the slender high druid. No gray touched his fine hair, no lines creased the smooth skin of the beautiful face. Conn, on the other hand, showed the wear of time. His hair had receded from his brows. His lean face and body were more gaunt. His energetic manner had become a slower and more careful one.

"Are you so certain that this is Cumhal's son?" he demanded.

"There is no way to be certain," Tadg explained. "But this druid vows that the resemblance to my daughter is remarkable, both in his features and in his hair. And he is of the right age to have been born around the time of Cumhal's death."

"But how could it be, Tadg?" Conn said accusingly. "You told me that Muirne and her child were dead."

"I told you that there were rumors of her death," Tadg reminded him. "All that we know is that she vanished and has not been heard of in all these years since. The child we know nothing about, except for the tales that a son was born. It is possible, my king. Muirne loved Cumhal. She was a woman of tender heart and great will. She would have done anything to save her child. And the glens of Slieve Bladhma would be a fine place to hide."

"Then it's clear that we can't take any risk," Conn said irritably, pacing the royal dais. "If Cunihal did have a son and he has survived, he could create a great danger. He might revive the Clan na Baiscne. He might carry out a blood feud, challenge MacMorna for the leadership, even renew the Fianna challenges of my rule!"

He shook his head as he walked, his mind filled with visions of a new Cumhal defying him, clamoring for ever greater power. It seemed all the more threatening to him now. The aches and weaknesses of age, the hints of his mortality had grown so insistent that he could no longer ignore them. And with the recognition of his frailty and vulnerability had come increased insecurity. The resentment of Cumhal that had led him to have the man destroyed had now deepened to fear of the challenge he symbolized.

He stopped pacing and fixed the high druid with a troubled gaze.

"Tadg, this cannot happen," he said emphatically, "ril have no trouble again from that clan. If this MacCumhal were to appear—"

"I understand, my king," said Tadg, breaking in smoothly, his tones soothing. "Of course this boy must be found and destroyed without anyone knov/ing of it."

"But I mustn't be brought in, " Conn quickly added, turning away as if to separate himself from the deed. "The Firbolg clans cannot think I had any part in it."

"Naturally, my king," Tadg assured him with a smile. "No one could think that the high king of Ireland would be involved in these petty feuds. This is a task that the sons of Morna must undertake. After all, the peace of the Fianna is at stake, not to mention their own leadership. "

Conn glanced back at him, drawn against his better judgment by curiosity to ask: "What will they do?"

"My fellow druid," he said, nodding at the old man, "will tell us where the lad was seen. The Clan na Morna will simply search him out. He will die unknown in the lonely wood. "

"Just be certain that he does die this time," Conn told him pointedly.

The main door of the ring fort's hall burst open and a group of warriors pushed through out of the darkness and the rain beyond. A stroke of hghtning illuminated the yard behind them, throwing them for an instant into stark relief They were an eerie sight, their drenched clothing clinging to their massive bodies, their long and dripping hair plastered about their grim faces.

At their head was Aed MacMoma himself But he was called Goll—the One-Eyed—now. A leather patch was tied across the damaged eye. But the other gleamed with no lessening of energy, and the warriors body still moved with a young man's vitality.

He glanced around him sharply, taking in the interior of the hall. All activity there had stopped. The ruddy-faced chieftain and his warriors, at their evening meal, sat with food and cups and knives suspended in their hands as they stared at this band who had appeared like storm demons from the treacherous night.

Goll started toward the chieftain's table. Beside him moved his brother Conan, made a bit balder, stouter, and more irascible by the years. They strode forward with the assurance of those who knew that they controlled.

"Who are you to be breakin' in?" angrily demanded the chieftain, who was as usual somewhat worse for the drink by this time of the evening. "Comin' in here as if you were the masters of this place! A sorry-looking lot of warriors as I ever saw. And dripping on my new rushes!"

"It is the captain of the Fianna of Ireland that I am," Goll shot back.

The chieftain blanched, sagging back in his seat. "Goll MacMoma!"

"Yes. And iVe business here. Business that you will gladly help me with. Isn't that so?"

"Of course. Captain! Of course!" the other readily agreed. He knew well of the Fianna's power, and of the ruthless nature of the sons of Morna.

"Good, " Goll went on brusquely. "We've come to find the lad—the one called Finn. Where would he be?"

"He disappeared into Slieve Bladhma, just to the southwest."

"You'll show us where," Goll ordered, then looked at his brother. "Conan, gather every man in this rath. See that they're ready to join us at once. We'll begin the search now!"

"Now?" repeated Conan incredulously. He looked past the band of warriors into the stormy night beyond the door, then around at the cozy hall. "But I was thinking of a bit of warmth, maybe some food and—"

"Tonight!" boomed Goll angrily. "We'll take no chances on this boy escaping. If this must be done, then it'll be done quickfy, Brother, quickly! Gather the men!"

Chapter Seven

FUGHT

The storm crashed about the tiny hut in the glen. Rain worked its way into the worn spots of the thatch and dripped through. The three inside huddled closer to their tiny fire and avoided the largest drops as best they could.

Young Finn honed a knife carefully. It was their only one, and it had grown thin from the years of use. Liath knitted a comforter meant to ward off the night's chill. Bodhmall was mending a cooking pot, worn through by its long service. But as her long, bony fingers worked the metal dam into the hole, she stiffened suddenly. A peculiar sensation, like the chill from a draft, was creeping over her. It was a sensation she had not felt in many years.

Her gaze lifted to the peat fire. There, in its glow-

ing red heart, an image began to form. Soon she could recognize a dark image of woods swept by curtains of rain. Through the trees, dim but recognizable, moved a party of armed men. Their image grew larger, as if they moved toward her. Soon their faces became clear. She saw the man who led them, saw the patch upon his eye. She understood what her vision meant.

The vision faded back into the red glow. Her wits not slowed by age, Bodhmall was quick to react. She turned toward Finn. Noting her abrupt move, he looked up at her.

"Bodhmall, what is it?"

"You have left the woods," she said bluntly.

He was stricken. He should have known she would find out. He colored with shame as he blurted out the truth. "I wandered to the edge. I saw a rath. I—I met some boys." His voice was anguished. "Bodhmall, I only meant to play with them. I would have told you, but—"

She leaned forward and laid a hand upon his arm. Her voice was unusually soothing. "Demna, it is all right. I expected that this would happen."

His anguish turned to bewilderment. "Expected?" he repeated.

"Of course, lad. When I gave you the fi-eedom to roam, I knew that one day your own courage and your need to know the outside world would draw you out in spite of my warnings. And I knew that on that day you would be ready."

"Ready for what?" he asked.

"To do what you were meant to do," she answered with force. "To enter the world. To ready yourself to take your father's place."

Entering the world outside Slieve Bladhma had been his dream since hearing his first tales of it. Since his brief adventure into it, it had filled his mind constantly. Now the time he had waited for had come.

"You must go out and learn wliat we could not teach you here," she went on. "You must gain the skills to become a warrior and a man of the Fianna. Only then can you hope to become the leader of the Baiscne clan, as is your right."

she rose and moved away, leaving him staring in a rather bewildered way as he tried to come to terms with this tremendous happening. She crossed the room to a large wicker basket and rummaged in its depths. She pulled forth some items and came back to him.

"It will be very dangerous," she told him. "The sons of Morna will hunt you. They cannot let you live. Here." She handed him a linen tunic and a heavy woolen cape. "These are the clothes of a common warrior. No one must know who you are until you are ready to act. Now, gather some food. You must leave here at once."

"Tonight?" he said in consternation, looking out into the rain-filled blackness.