Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Finn Mac Cool (22 page)
No one congratulated him. Instead, Finn said, “Now run at your top speed from here back to the gates of Tara, and on the way, pluck the thorn from your foot without missing a stride.”
Blamec muttered with some satisfaction, “Everyone protested that.”
“But we did it,” said Fergus Honey-Tongue, “and the sun shone and the wind blew and we shouted our triumph.”
Red Ridge ached to shout his triumph.
Trying to ignore the pain in his foot, he set off at the run, back toward Tara. The gates yawned open, waiting to receive him, but they seemed very far away. Every step was an agony as his weight drove the thorn deeper and deeper into his foot. He was aware of Finn and the others running behind him, watching him.
He bent at the waist and made a swipe at his foot. Missed. Ran on and tried again. Missed again. Swore. Heard someone laugh behind him. “Is there some trick to this?” he panted over his shoulder.
“Run,” called Cailte. “Bend your knees.”
He ran. The gates were getting closer. Soon he would be there.
The others could do this. Why couldn't he?
I can, Red Ridge told himself, not believing. He grabbed at his foot again and felt the rounded head of the thorn, but his fingers were clumsy and he only drove it farther in. He knew the distance now though, and the moment in his stride when the foot was in the best position.
Just short of the gates, he made one last try. His fingernails, pincerlike, seized the head of the thorn precisely as the foot thrust forward ⦠leaving the thorn in Red Ridge's hand.
As he ran through the gates, he threw up both arms with a great shout of triumph.
And they all shouted with him, Finn loudest of all.
People crowded around him then, and he expected the longed-for congratulations. But there was one more requirement.
Finn led Red Ridge to a post mounted in a place of honour within the palisade, a post topped by a grotesque and blackened skull. Without explaining either the object or its significance, he told Red Ridge to stand with his back against the post. “Now,” he said, “this is the final requirement. You must swear your loyalty, on your honour.”
Red Ridge had expected this. He began, “I swear my loyalty to the FÃanna and the king of Tara, asâ”
Finn's face tightened. “Swear your honour to the RÃgfénnid FÃanna,” he said in a low, intense voice. “That's the only loyalty you need. But remember: you swear on the point of my sword, and if you fail in honour, your life is forfeit to me.”
Red Ridge gazed at Finn Mac Cool; at the piercing, commanding eyes; the wide and savage cheekbones; the tender, brooding mouth. Why, he wondered, all this emphasis on honour? How important could such a thing be to a simple fénnid? But if it was what Finn demanded ⦠he shrugged and repeated the vow.
And even as he spoke, something seemed to clamp around his spirit like a hand.
His startled eyes flared wide. He stared at Finn Mac Cool ⦠and felt the touch of magic.
Finn's first nine danced around him, punching his biceps and the air and each other, jubilant. “That's it!” cried Gael. “You're in the FÃanna now!”
“But the poems and the guarantee from my people ⦔
“Later,” said Finn. “We leave Tara tomorrow, and you with us.”
Trying to hold on to the moment, Red Ridge stood beside the skulltopped post and was swept by a strange euphoria. I am part of the FÃanna, he told himself; I actually
am!
am!
Until he arrived at Tara, joining the FÃanna had not seemed such a dazzling accomplishment. For a man of his birth, it was probably the best he could do, but he realized that being part of the king of Tara's band of sometime-warriors was no immense distinction for anyone but a fénnid.
Or had not been.
Until Finn Mac Cool.
Already, Finn was making the FÃanna something very special. Those who followed him were being driven by their commander to heights beyond themselves, beyond their perceived abilities. Finn was making his men better than they ever thought they could be and they adored him
for it. Looking around at them, Red Ridge saw their adoration in their eyesâexcept for the single eye of Goll Mac Morna.
for it. Looking around at them, Red Ridge saw their adoration in their eyesâexcept for the single eye of Goll Mac Morna.
He recognized the same quality of adoration in himself. He was part of the FÃanna now, part of Finn Mac Cool. His feet were firmly fixed in legend.
Throughout the winter, Cormac had been making plans. As he had told Finn, his first move would be to make a circuit of Erin and wrest as much support, or submission, as he could from its various kings, before he had to face the challenge of the Ulaid. If he had the kings of the Connachta, the Erainn, and the Laigin behind him, he felt sure he could force the Ulaid to accept him as overlord.
But he could not afford to make any mistakes.
Dominance in Erin was always shifting; today's king was tomorrow's corpse; war was the game everyone played.
Cormac Mac Airt intended to play to win.
Long before Beltaine, he had commanded Finn, “Send runners to every fÃan in winter quarters, giving them exact orders as to where they are to be by the first day of battle season. Spread the FÃanna across Erin like a fisherman's net, so that wherever I go, I have fénnidi already there, armed, rested, and ready to fight for me if need be. Tell them to be obvious; let the people see them.”
Finn had ordered a large contingent of the FÃanna, under the most seasoned rÃgfénnidi, to patrol the territory between Mid and Ulidia. When battle broke, it would begin there.
But as Goll had advised him, “The Ulaid won't be here spoiling for war on the first day of battle season. I know those northerners, they're a foxy lot. They'll hold back for a while to see what Cormac does before they make their move. I expect them to march on Tara late in the summer, after they've fully assessed his strength.”
“That's not what I would do,” replied Finn. “I'd hit him right now, before he has his allies gathered.”
“Would you?” Goll looked at Finn unblinkingly. “If you have an enemy and you break into his stronghold and batter him while he's trying to put on his clothes in the dawn, what have you accomplished if you win? There's little glory in that.”
“But an easier victory,” said Finn Mac Cool.
Goll managed, even with one eye, to look disdainful. “I've referred to your lack of style before, Finn. There is a certain way of doing things that we've alwaysâ”
“There is a new way now,” Finn said coldly. “My way.”
“You think you know so much about war, do you?”
“I know about winning, and I'm not talking about chess. You get
what you have the strength to take. You keep what you have the power to defend.”
what you have the strength to take. You keep what you have the power to defend.”
With the rest of the FÃanna assumed to be in place, Cormac left Tara on a high, clear, wind-scoured day with all his banners flying. He rode a powerfully muscled grey horse, a stallion whose hide was still dappled with youth. For the first time in many seasons, his kinsman Fiachaid did not ride a few paces behind him. By the king's order, Fiachaid and his men were to stay to guard Tara, reinforced by a detachment of the FÃanna.
Cormac was surprised that Fiachaid did not protest the arrangement. Indeed, his response upon receiving the order was, “Take good care of the new RÃgfénnid FÃanna, will you?”
Cormac raised an eyebrow. “I thought he was supposed to take care of me.”
“I have no doubt he will. But I should not like for anything to happen to him either. He is ⦠special.”
“You actually like him.”
“I do,” Fiachaid agreed. “I actually do. Which is more than I can say for Goll Mac Morna. Keep an eye on that one, Cormac. I think his feelings toward Finn Mac Cool are at best ambivalent.”
Finn had never been on a horse. No Fir Bolg rode horses; the equestrian skills were above their station. The back of a horse was meant for the seat of a king, so he could survey his territory from a regal perch and his people would be forced to look up to him. Fir Bolg were expected to keep their eyes on the ground in front of them.
Finnâwho chose to disregard thisâoften gazed at the stars.
On this morning of departure he trotted at the shoulder of the king's horse, running with the easy grace of a warrior. He was fully armed, carrying both his swords and an assortment of spears. His plaited hair gleamed silver in the sun. Behind him flowed his FÃanna like a small river, carrying spears upright. Light glanced off the polished spearheads like stars.
With their bodies, the populace of Tara formed a channel for that river, so that it flowed between two banks of people, star-crested.
Behind the FÃanna were the king's official attendants, a small army themselves. But there was no appointed companion for the king, no confidante and soul-friend. There was only Finn Mac Cool.
As they reached the Slige Cualann gate, Cormac reined in his horse and twisted around, looking back. His eyes found Ethni standing proudly. He raised a hand to her. She raised a hand to him. Whatever was said between them passed through their eyes.
Watching. Finn felt a thud of envy like a fist in the belly. But he did
not look around in search of some woman's eyes for himself. He knew Cruina was watching. There was nothing to communicate to her.
not look around in search of some woman's eyes for himself. He knew Cruina was watching. There was nothing to communicate to her.
Cormac Mac Airt and the FÃanna swept through the gates of Tara.
Ahead of them lay history.
BATTLE SEASON. SWEATING AND SHOVING AND YELLING. Bared teeth and clenched fists, faces white with fear and red with rage. Shoulder into belly, elbow into throat, hurl slash thrust, dance away dance away and come back roaring.
Immortality gushing out of a body suddenly emptied of its future.
Sport and war knotted together, and the only thing a man could be sure of was the certainty that he was alive right now, this moment, this heartbeat. In battle, he was so alive!
Cormac Mac Airt travelled the roads of Erin, excluding only Ulidia, that summer, meeting friendship with friendship and hostility with hostility. Some were willing to accept his sovereignty. Others resented him, or hated him, or fought him simply because fighting was what they did.
The provincial kings were ostensibly amenable to persuasion, willing to hear him out and bide their time to see how strong he truly was. But some of the tribal kings and chieftains saw the advance of Tara's dominion as just another tribute to be added to the load they already carried. They would not listen.
For them, Cormac had the FÃanna.
While he and his retinue were being entertained in some princely stronghold, Finn and his men were stationed outside the walls. To their astonishment, Finn would not allow the FÃanna the usual petty thievery and pillage that was the traditional pleasure of armies on the march. “When we leave one of Cormac's allies,” he said sternly, “we shall drag branches behind us to smooth away our footprints, so nothing has been disturbed by us in the land of a friend.”
But when they entered a region where armed warriors met them with spears raised, they were happier. After battle there was permissible plundering. Half of what they took belonged to the king. The other half went to Finn Mac Cool, to be divided among his men.
“I bitterly resent the fact,” Blamec commented on one occasion, “that Cormac's friends are the wealthy ones, who would have good plunder if we were allowed it, and his enemies always seem to be poor, so that what we take from them is shabby and mean.”
“If you don't want your share, you can give it to me,” replied Conan Maol.
“You always seem to get your own share and half of everyone else's too,” Donn interjected. “You're greedy, Conan.”
“I'm not greedy. I just have big hands.”
Fergus Honey-Tongue said, “Conan the Hairless has a mighty reach.”
When they were in amicable regions, the FÃanna devoted most of their time to hunting. They built hunting booths in the glens and on the hillsides to screen themselves from the weather and the eyes of their prey, and ceaselessly trained their hounds to hunt the deer and the wolf. Along their way, many of them had acquired hounds, so that Bran and Sceolaun now led a pack of huge, shaggy animals as eager as they. Finn had added Lomair and Brod and Lomluath to his personal pack, and rejoiced in watching Bran lay down the law to them. No dog questioned Bran's leadership, ever.
Deep in Erainn territory, a man called Robartach brought a huge dog to Finn, extolling its virtues above all the hounds of the FÃanna. The creature was as tall as Bran, though not as shaggy, heavier through the jaw, with pricked ears and a crescent of white showing at the edges of the eyes.
“I don't like the look of that animal,” Finn said behind his hand to Cailte. “There's a nasty glint in the eye.”
“You don't like the look of any dog that doesn't resemble Bran.”
“True. Would you say this one's any good at all?”
Overhearing, the owner replied eagerly, “The only way to know is to match them at fighting! As for a wager, if my dog overcomes yours, he will replace Bran as leader of the pack of the RÃgfénnid FÃanna and his whelps will command great prices. I have a few of them available,” he added.
“Bags full, I'd say,” remarked Conan. “And you can't get rid of them.”
Robartach, who was red-faced and balding, glared at the totally hairless Conan before turning back to Finn. “Is it a wager?”
Confident of Bran, Finn replied, “It is. But when Bran defeats your dog, I pledge you to tell every person you meet that Finn Mac Cool's Bran is the mightiest hound in Erin.”
Robartach smirked. “I won't have to. My dog will win.”
The warriors formed a circle. Finn and Robartach crouched beside
their dogs, rubbing them and whispering to them. Then they stood back. The dogs knew what was expected of them. After circling one another stiff-legged and snarling, they attacked simultaneously.
their dogs, rubbing them and whispering to them. Then they stood back. The dogs knew what was expected of them. After circling one another stiff-legged and snarling, they attacked simultaneously.
Finn's assessment of the other dog proved correct. The animal was not only savage, but devious. Its hide was very loose so that every time Bran took a hold, the other dog twisted away, leaving Bran with a mouthful of flesh but no real damage done. In that moment, Robartach's dog would double back with a dropped shoulder and try to seize Bran's foreleg in its jaws to snap the bone.
Bran fought cleanly and fiercely and bravely, but was not experienced in fighting other dogs, while it soon became obvious that Robartach's animal had been bred and trained for that express purpose.
The sounds of the dogs growling and the spectators yelling soon brought Cormac and his host outside to watch. They had to shoulder into the crowd, which was more respectful of the fighting dogs at the moment than of princes.
The battle went on and on, progressively bloodier, with Bran refusing to surrender even when it became obvious the other dog must win. At last Finn could bear it no longer. “Call off your dog!” he cried to Robartach.
“I will not.”
“Then give me his name and I'll call him off myself!”
Robartach clamped his jaws shut and stood with arms folded.
Without the dog's name, Finn could not command him. He yelled inarticulately and waded into the melee, hoping to pull the combatants apart by brute force, but the dogs were too fast even for him. He shouted at the prick-eared dog, but it ignored him and continued to rend and tear Bran's flesh.
Robartach only laughed. “Admit it, Finn. Mine is the better animal.”
Heedless of the danger to himself, Finn continued to try to separate the fighting dogs. As he struggled, he could hear the comments of the spectators, some of whom had come with Robartach. A youth spent in the wilds of Erin had given Finn almost preternatural hearing. Even over the growling of the animals, he heard one man mutter the name of Robartach's dog to a companion.
Finn froze. He stood erect, jammed his thumb into his mouth, and appeared to listen intently. Then he yelled,
“Coinn Iotair!
Hound of Rage! Stop fighting and come to me!”
“Coinn Iotair!
Hound of Rage! Stop fighting and come to me!”
When he heard his name, Coinn Iotair hesitated, In that fatal instant, Bran sank deadly fangs into his throat and ripped it open.
Robartach was dismayed. “How did you know the name?” he asked, watching his dog in its death throes.
Finn gave a nonchalant shrug. “I listened to my thumb.”
“What?”
“One of my men will explain it to you, ask any of them. You should never underestimate Finn Mac Cool.” He sank to his knees beside Bran, who was bleeding profusely. Bran tried to lick his hands.
Finn lifted the hound in his arms and approached Cormac Mac Airt. “I request your physician to heal Bran's wounds,” he said to the king.
Cormac was taken aback, and his Erainn host was appalled. “A king's physician tending an animal? You must be joking.”
“Not about this,” said Finn Mac Cool, his eyes locking with those of the king.
For the first time, Cormac felt the full force of his will. Suddenly feeling it was necessary, the king told his RÃgfénnid FÃanna, “You can't always have what you want, Finn.”
Finn's posture did not change, nor did he move a muscle in his face. Nothing changed. Yet a Thing looked out of his eyes that had not been there before, a creature more feral than a wolf, more terrible than a storm. A creature wild beyond imagining, an elemental force, a power capable of destroying everything in its path if opposed.
“Your physician will heal my dog,” said the Thing in Finn's eyes.
Cormac recalled that Finn claimed kinship with the Tuatha Dé Danann. Shapechangers.
I must face him down now, the king told himself. I must face him down surely, I dare not allow him any advantage over me.
He drew in breath to speak. The words of royal refusal were already on his tongue when his talent for reading the thoughts of others rose in him, and he knew beyond doubt that Finn would kill him where he stood if he did not help Bran.
Would kill him where he stood as a wolf would kill a king, caring nothing for his titles or ancestry.
And Finn Mac Cool was so fast that the deed would be done before any human could stop him.
With a great effort, as if his features were carved of stone that he must first soften, Cormac made himself smile. “As a favour to the RÃgfénnid FÃanna,” he said loudly, “I accede to his request. This is a splendid hound whose death would be a loss. My own physician will tend the wounds.”
The Thing that had looked at the king from Finn's eyes was gone in a blink. “I thank you for your generosity,” said Finn.
With trembling hands, Cormac's own physician bathed and dressed Bran's wounds and pulled the flaps of skin together, poulticing them and binding them with strips of linen as precisely as he would have done had the wounds been on the body of Cormac Mac Airt. The whole time he was working, Finn stood over him, saying nothing, merely watching.
The whole time he was working, Bran's eyes were fixed on Finn with
absolute devotion. The dog neither flinched nor whined, just watched Finn.
absolute devotion. The dog neither flinched nor whined, just watched Finn.
When it was over, the physician got himself a big cup of mead and went off with it for a while.
That night as they sat by their feasting fire under the stars, breathing fresh, clean air while Cormac had to breathe the stifling atmosphere of his host's banquetting hall, Cailte remarked to Finn, “You love that dog.”
Finn smiled. “I love the clamour of the hunt on the mountainside, the belling of stags in the glen, the screaming of gulls on the shore, the sound of the waterfall in the forest, the song of the blackbird in the morning.
“And I love Bran.”
Lying beside him as always, Bran pricked one badly torn ear and thumped the ground with a feathery tail.
“Poetry again?” enquired Cailte.
“I had to be a warrior today. I can be a poet tonight.”
“Is it hard to be both?”
Finn Mac Cool did not answer.
Those were indeed the days of high summer. Cormac's circuit carried his name to remote clanholds where no king of Tara had ever visited before, and wherever he went, Finn and his companions accompanied him. The legends grew around them, acquiring a life of their own. After the king's entourage had moved on, those who had met them told tales to those who had not, tales that grew in the telling like ripples spreading on a pond.
The stories of Finn's hounds, particularly of Bran and Sceolaun, multiplied in the same way. At a feast held in Cormac's honour by a king of the Deisi, Fithel the royal brehon enumerated a number of the laws pertaining to hounds, who had an extensive category of their own.
“Brehon Law,” he explained, “grades dogs into fully lawful, half-lawful, and quarter-lawful animals. Lawful dogs enjoy full recognition under the law, and for any damage done them, there must be compensation. Lawful dogs include hunting hounds, dogs kept as watchdogs, and the lapdog of a king's woman. The value of the whelp of a lawful dog is one ninth the value of its mother.
“In dogfights, every type of bite and action must be considered. If the inciter of the fight is a sensible man, his dog is free of liability. If he is a foolish man, the dog has more liability, it being considered that the animal's brain exceeds the owner's.”
Finn, who had offered no compensation to Robartach, spoke up. “When the dog of an inciter is killed, should there be an honour price paid for it?”
Fithel happily launched into a long explanation of the different grades of distress and compensation as applied to every sort of injury, including those of dogs in fights. He would as gladly have spent the night listing the laws applying to beekeeping, which were even more detailed and extensive.
But Finn did not keep bees. He did not need that information.
In the high, golden days of summer, there were women. In the royal forts of provincial kings, there were women. In the wattle huts of cattle herders, there were women. When a woman's eyes met the eyes of one of the FÃanna, sometimes a look passed between them. Sometimes a word, a touch on the arm â¦
Finn did not deny his men the pleasure of women. He did, however, hedge them with rules, so they would do nothing to dishonour themselves or the FÃanna. When he saw a glance pass between man and woman, he invariably took that man aside and spoke to him in a strong, urgent voice, reminding him of his vows and obligations, demanding that he treat the woman in a way that would leave no regrets.
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