‘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 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.