Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Finn Mac Cool (2 page)
Black Head was steep above the sea.
Under their eyebrows, both youths darted covert glances upward, assessing the remaining distance. Every fénnid was an experienced runner, but this racecourse was vertical and each footstep potentially deadly. And by some trick of the light, the summit of the mountain seemed to be receding even as they climbed.
There are strange tales told of the Burren, Cailte thought. Can the mountain be growing taller to spite us?
Finn, however, was telling himself, I should have carried Cailte's cloak down with me. I should have foreseen this and been able to avoid it.
His lungs burned agonizingly. The air he breathed was liquid fire.
He ran. Cailte ran. Up and up and up they went, and still they could not see Cailte's cloak waiting above them.
What a stupid mistake, Finn thought, to challenge Cailte. If he beats me, I'll be diminished in their eyes.
If he beats me.
If.
The word took on new meaning. “If” indicated there was an alternative. “If” meant Cailte might not beat him.
Finn did not tell himself, I will win. He told himself, I will not lose.
His legs pumped and his heart hammered and he matched Cailte stride for stride, refusing to be beaten.
Cailte was not under the same pressure. Already an acknowledged champion at running, he knew that one race lost to Finn Mac Cool would not irretrievably damage his reputation. So Cailte ran his best, but he did not put in that extra effort beyond one's best that can burst the heart.
Finn did. He lengthened his stride. When rocks rose in his path, he leaped over them, gaining ground with every jump. For a time, Cailte kept up with him. Then there was a moment when the rhythm of the champion's breathing faltered, and in that moment, Finn passed him.
Try as he might, Cailte could not draw even with Finn again.
The hounds, running ahead of them, stopped abruptly and dropped their muzzles, sniffing. At their feet lay a puddle of wolf furâCailte's cloak
Finn reached it one stride before Cailte did. Swooping, he brandished the cloak above his head. The men watching below saw him wave the silvery banner and cheered.
“I can't make out who has it,” Blamec complained.
“Cailte, of course,” said Conan.
Lugaid cupped his hands around his eyes. “I don't think so. That looks like Finn to me.”
“Not possible,” Conan snorted. “Finn could never outrun Cailte.”
“I think he has,” Lugaid insisted quietly. He sounded impressed.
All of them were impressed.
Halfway to the summit, Finn and Cailte were each struggling to keep the other from seeing how breathless he was. Finn had clamped his lips together and was trying to make himself breathe softly through his nose. Cailte had bent over the fur as he brushed bits of bracken from it, hiding his flushed and panting face. From that position, he did not see the two men come down from the ridge above.
“Look here, Cailte,” Finn alerted him. “We aren't alone.”
Startled, Cailte glanced up. Two men, one his own age and one slightly older, were making their way toward them. The older one had a dead deer slung over his shoulder,
Finn tensed, then relaxed. It wasn't his stag, his poetic inspiration, but an old doe. Her head was grey with the frost of too many winters.
It was her time to die.
“You're very welcome, strangers,” Finn called in the time honoured greeting.
The man carrying the deer had a round, pleasant face but hostile eyes. “We aren't strangers. You are. This is my mountain.” His speech was clipped, abrupt with anger.
Finn had been in the FÃanna long enough to know that men sometimes made unwarranted claims to territory. “Is it now?” he asked with icy politeness.
“It is indeed. I am Iruis son of Huamor, who is chieftain of the Burren. He's given me use of this mountain to build a fort on because I'm taking a wife next Beltaine.”
“Huamor!” Finn's voice thawed. “The very man we're looking for. We must have missed his stronghold somehow. Do you know where he is now?”
“I don't know who
you
are.”
you
are.”
Finn lifted his chin. In a voice like the ringing of bells, he announced, “I am Fionn son of Cuhal son of Trenmor.”
Iruis sniffed. “Fionn means “fair,” and your hair's the colour of bleached linen, so that much is true. As for your being a son of Cuhal, Mac Tremor ⦠he was famous but he's been dead a long time. Who can vouch for you now?”
Finn's lips tightened. He spat the words between them. “No one questions me. I'm a rÃgfénnid, an officer of the FÃanna.”
Iruis was openly contemptuous now. “A boy like you?”
“He is a rÃgfénnid!” Cailte burst out. “His fÃan are down below. He has eight armed and dangerous men in addition to me, and when the rest of them learn you wouldn't take his word for his identity, you're going to be in real trouble.”
Iruis braced his legs belligerently and thrust out his jaw. Two strangers were not going to intimidate him on his own mountain. “Go look,” he ordered his companion, “and see if anyone's really down there.”
The other man stepped to the brink of the nearest rock ledge, peered over, and hastily moved back. “There are men down there,” he reported, “and they're looking up this way.”
“Not just men,” said Finn. “They're members of the FÃanna, the best army in Erin, and I can summon them with a shout. Every fénnid is an expert with sword and spear. Would you care to see a demonstration?” He smiled disconcertingly, a feral baring of teeth.
Iruis took a closer look at the strangers in the gathering twilight. Confidence began to seep from him like cold sweat.
The one who claimed to be a rÃgfénnid was rawboned with youth, but massive of frame. Hair like molten silver streamed over improbably broad shoulders. His cheekbones were boulders. He wore a huge, rough mantle of wild-animal skins crudely stitched together with sinew, and a plain deerskin tunic; but a belt around his torso held a gilded and
embossed leather scabbard. Thrusting from the scabbard was the leather-wrapped hilt of a shortsword, bound with fine silver wire and set with a pommel stone.
embossed leather scabbard. Thrusting from the scabbard was the leather-wrapped hilt of a shortsword, bound with fine silver wire and set with a pommel stone.
It was unmistakably the weapon of a rÃgfénnid. To make matters worse, Finn was unslinging his shield from his back and slipping his left arm through its straps.
Iruis began to fear he had made a dreadful mistake. His father would deny him Black Head if he had insulted an officer of the FÃannaâif he survived, that is.
Iruis slumped his shoulders in the posture of submission. The deer slid to the ground. Holding out a weaponless hand, he said, “I accept your word, of course. But one can't be too careful these days. There are outlaws even here in the Burren.”
“That's why we've come,” Finn replied. “Huamor sent a request to the king of Tara, asking for help from the FÃanna in dealing with your outlaws.”
“He did? He never mentioned it to meânot that my father discusses his affairs with me. But I didn't expect him to send for mercenaries.”
Ice crackled in Finn's reply. “We aren't mercenaries. We're part of the FÃanna.”
Iruis was flustered. “Of course, I know ⦠I mean ⦠I thought ⦔
“Did you?” Finn asked sardonically, pressing the advantage. “Did you indeed? Is it something you do oftenâthinking?”
Iruis's companion rescued him. “I'm afraid you took us by surprise, that's all,” he said to Finn. “We would like to welcome you so you won't accuse us of a lack of hospitality. But we have only the one deer. If you and your men will share it with us, however, we'll consider ourselves honoured.”
Iruis shot his friend an annoyed glance. He muttered, “I was just about to say that.”
“Then why didn't you?” the other whispered back.
Finn bit his lip to keep from smiling. He was enjoying their discomfiture hugely. “Of course we shall accept your offer of hospitality,” he said, sounding very formal, “and commend you to the king of Tara. Summon the fÃan, Cailte.”
Cailte went to the brink and shouted down. Distance distorted his words, but his beckoning wave was clear.
Blamec groaned. “We have to go all the way back up there? I don't believe it.”
“If you're lucky,” Conan suggested, “you might burst something in your brain and die on the way.”
“You have a nasty mouth, Conan.”
“He has a gift tor sarcasm,” Fergus Honey-Tongue interpolated.
“He has a nasty mouth. Perhaps it's the result of being as hairless as an eel. Conan Maol has an eel's bite.”
“Save your breath for the climb,” advised Gull. He started up and they followed. No one ran.
Far above them on the side of the mountain, the doe was being gutted and skinned. Finn and Iruis watched as the other two did the work.
“Your friend is good with his long knife,” Finn commented. “Where's he from? I don't recognize his accent.”
“He's a Connacht man from Mullach Rua. He likes to be called for his birthplace, in fact. Never uses the name he was given at birth.”
“Mullach Rua? Red Ridge?” Finn frowned, thinking. “I've heard of it. It was mentioned in one of the poems I learned to qualify for the FÃanna. I must admit, I've never been to that part of Connacht myself, though.” He caught a lobe of raw liver that Cailte tossed to him, nodded his thanks and tore it in two with his bare hands, giving halt to Iruis. The treat was quickly swallowed.
Iruis resumed, “No one goes to Mullach Rua if they can help it, it's as lonely as a cry in the dark. Red Ridge was glad to come here to spend the winter. He's assigned as a bodyguard to the woman I'm going to marry, who's also wintering with us.”
Red Ridge looked up. Coppery curls clung tightly to his skull. There was something friendly, yet uncompromising, in his eyes.
Finn took an immediate liking to him. “I didn't care for the name I was given at birth, either,” he confided.
Red Ridge said, “Mine didn't suit me.”
“Neither did mine, it could have belonged to anyone. I prefer being Finn the Fair, which describes me.”
“I prefer being Red Ridge. That's the place that shaped me. A man's name should fit like his skin, not hang from him like someone else's tunic.”
“Absolutely,” Finn agreed. He watched as Red Ridge and Cailte completed extracting the organs from the carcass, then cut the hide at neck and ankles, skillfully worked it loose from the underlying connective tissue, and peeled it off the deer inside out. Cailte turned it right side out again, then rolled up the damp bundle and handed it to Finn.
Finn promptly turned and gave it to Iruis.
After a moment's hesitation, Iruis handed it back to him “Take this as my gift,” he urged.
He knew he had lost ground to recover. He was very aware that Finn's band would join them at any moment. Indeed, the first head was just topping the nearest ledge.
Though the others had passed him as they combed, Goll Mac Morna was not bringing up the rear. He had craftily engaged Gael and Madan in conversation so that the three arrived together.
Introductions were made. Seeing them in a group, Iruis could not doubt they were fénnidi. Though they were very young, they balanced themselves on the balls of their feet like warriors and their eyes constantly scanned the landscape like hunters.
Their tall leader appeared to he little more than a boy, but a boy with a disconcertingly direct gaze. Beneath that gaze flickered something as hard and cold as iron.
Suddenly Iruis was glad he had given Finn the hide.
The atmosphere was quickly established as cordial. The cold quality lurking in Finn's eyes seemed to disappear; he grinned. he laughed, and his men laughed with him.
Iruis told them, “We'll need to gather a lot of bracken and dead brush for firewood. This is an old doe and she'll want a long roasting.”
Donn surveyed the deer with a practised eye. “I know about cooking. She'd be better boiled.”
“Roasted,” Iruis said firmly. “To boil her would mean leaving the mountain and going to the nearest farmstead for the loan of a cauldron. I won't leave Black Head tonight. I mean to choose my building site by the light of the rising sun.”
“That meat's too tough for roasting.” Donn insisted.
Iruis scowled at him.
“We won't have to leave the mountain to boil the meat,” said Finn
“Why not? Have you cauldrons with you?”
Finn gave a disdainful snort. “Fénnidi are men of no property, we don't burden ourselves with cauldrons. We find what we need whenever we go, ready to hand.”
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