Challenge of the clans (39 page)

"I know/' Finn said, smiling. "It's all right. But you saw there was nothing to fear from him."

Crimall shook his head. "No. Poor Fiacha," he said sadly. "I couldn't believe it was the same man I knew. The last time I saw him, he was a hardy young warrior, cheerful and bold and fearing no man. Now"—he hesitated, then forced himself to go on—"now I'm afraid whatever he's suffered has done for him. Finn, it must be he's gone mad."

"That may be, Uncle," Finn said, looking after the departed Fiacha. "But right now he's also the only chance I have."

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Chapter Thirty-four

THE FINAL CHALLENGE

The eve of Samhain was darkened by an oppressive cover of gray-black clouds. They shrouded the late afternoon sun, creating an eerie, twilight atmosphere. The wind that had all day keened dismally about the fortress hill had died away. The air was heavy with the scent and feel of moisture. There was an ominous stillness, a sense of the world's holding its breath in expectation, as comes before the rising of a storm.

But it was not the forces of a natural storm that were to be unleashed upon the world this night. It was the powers of those realms beyond the mortal ones.

And all across Ireland, people shuttered tight their homes and huddled close about their comforting fires, praying to whatever protecting spirits that they knew for the safe passage of this terrible time.

At Tara, however, none of the inhabitants huddled within its buildings. Just below the main gates of the fortress, Finn MacCumhal stood with his uncle, Caoilte, and Cnu Deireoil, watching the last of the high king's people departing.

The entire population of Tara had wisely determined to remove themselves to a prudent distance for the contest that was about to come. Most had taken up positions on a distant edge of the ridge on which the fortress sat, well out of the reach of enchanted music or magical fire. With great disapproval, Caoilte watched the last fiigitives hurry away, laden with their possessions.

"They could show a bit more confidence in you," he said irritably.

"rd want none of them risking themselves by staying," Finn told him. "I've sent all the others to join them, and I expect you three to go there as well. You'll be no help to me. You'll have no defense against the music."

"Neither will you, it seems," Crimall remarked, looking around him. "There's no sign of my poor old comrade Fiacha, and not likely to be, I'm thinking."

"Maybe you could stop your ears against the sound somehow," Caoilte suggested.

"Even deafness itself can't keep out the magic of this spell," said the Little Nut.

"Maybe you could charge at him and come close enough to have a fair cast before the music has its effect," said Crimall.

"The effect takes only a moment, so I've heard," Cnu Deireoil replied. "And the sound of his playing travels far ahead of him. I'm afraid even the speed of our lad won't be enough."

"You're a great mine of cheering information, so you are," Caoilte told him.

Finn looked toward the lowering sun.

"It'll be time for his coming soon. Vd better go. You get away now, my friends."

"Finn," Caoilte began, "maybe I—"

Finn held up a hand. "I know what you're thinking, but you can't help me this time. It's my challenge, and it'll be only me against him. "

Caoilte sighed. "Be a fool to the very end, then. But don't be expecting me to grieve over your ashes."

"You know, it's been the three of you more than any others who've helped to bring me here," Finn told them with great earnestness. "I wanted to tell you that, no matter what happens now, I'm grateful for what you've done."

"Get on with you!" Cnu Deireoil replied. "You sound as if you were making a poem for your own ftmeral. There's never been anything that could stop you, lad, and there isn't now!"

Finn gave the hand of each man a final clasp and started down the hill. He had taken only two good throwing spears and the cloak of Cnoc-na-Righ with him. No other weapons would be of use in this fight. He knew his only difficulty would be in getting close enough to make use of either.

He strode down along the avenues of the fair market. Around him a few straggling merchants were hastily packing up what goods they could and abandoning their stalls. As Finn looked around at them he reflected that all of this, and the high fortress above, would be a blackened ruin at the next sunrise if he failed.

In the distant crowd. Conn watched Finn's movements attentively. He, like the other high-ranking nobility, was mounted, prepared for a rapid move should a victorious Aillen decide to turn his wrath upon them.

Finn's company had refused to participate in such a defeatist show. So had Goll MacMorna and the other Fian men, much to the dismay of Conan.

As Finn moved into the market avenues. Conn leaned down toward Tadg, who stood beside him in his chariot.

"Finn's gone out of sight," the high king said

worriedly. 'There's no chance he might be planning some trickery?"

"Our Fian chieftain?" Tadg said with a smile. "Never! His sense of fair play is as strong as Goll's."

"And what about your man of the Sidhe?" Conn asked. "Can we be certain he'll come?"

"My king, there is no doubt," the druid answered smugly. "By now Aillen has left his mound and discovered that no tribute has been given. He is likely already on his way here, burning—if you will excuse my little joke—for revenge."

Conn gave him an odd look. "There's little amusing in the destruction of Tara," he said.

"But think of the destruction of MacCumhal!" Tadg rephed.

Below them, Finn had reached the end of the market area. He stopped by the last stalls and looked out over the wide gaming fields beyond. The sun, a faint glow buried in the clouds, was dropping toward the horizon. Evening was upon them, and Aillen's coming would be soon. And what would he do then?

"Hisst! Hisst!" came a hoarse whisper.

He turned toward it. A hand was beckoning from behind a wicker wall of a market stall. He moved closer.

The head of Fiacha poked out suddenly, craned about on his thin neck as he surveyed the scene.

"No one else left about, eh?" he asked.

"Just ourselves," Finn said. "The rest are far away by now."

"Ah, it's safe then!" the man proclaimed triumphantly. He gave a rasping crow-laugh. "I've done it. I've got it. And now the magic's yours."

From behind him he pulled an object, thrusting it into Finn's hand. The warrior grasped it, looking at it in surprise.

It was a spear, very old and very worn. Its wooden pole was badly battered, even spHntering in spots. Its metal head, which seemed once to have been of a smooth and gleaming silver, was nicked, blunted, and blackened as if by intense heat.

"This is it?" he asked. "This is your magic?"

"Oh yes! Oh yes!" the crippled man assured him excitedly. "It's a spear that will keep away all magic. iVe heard the tales of it. It's very old."

"Where did you get it?"

The man cackled again in trumphant glee. "From the high king's own armory, so I did. I went in and out and his own guards never saw a bit of me! iVe got the Fian skills yet, so I have. But you see why no one could know of it until this time. Now it's too late to stop you from using it."

'This came from Conn's armory?" Finn said. He looked from the weapon to the grinning man in puzzlement. "But, if it's his spear, why hasn't he used it himself?"

A look of great bewilderment overspread the man's fece. His eyes flicked to the spear and then back to Finn.

"Ah ... I don't know that," he said with rising uncertainty. "I—I'd not thought of it before." He considered, then brightened with a new idea. "Maybe he doesn't know how to use it!"

Finn regarded him dismally. "And have you some notion that I do?" he inquired.

The man was stricken. He sagged, as if the enormity of his mistake had drained all his substance from him.

"By all the gods!" he exclaimed in a hoarse voice. "By all the gods! What I've done is useless to you!"

Finn tried to maintain what graciousness he could in the face of this final dashing of hopes.

"Never mind," he told Fiacha. "You only meant to help me, and you risked your life in it. It's my own foolishness that's brought me to this."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" the man wailed. "But I know its magic's real! If we could discover how to use it."

It was then that the words of the Shadowy One came back to Finn. If he needed to know, he could use the salmon's power.

But how? Her last, cryptic hint was that he must do as he did when he first tasted it. He thought back

over the events. It was Finnegas who had forced him to sit down and eat the fish, but only after he had already tasted it. How had that happened?

The image suddenly came clear to him. He had burned his thumb. He had thrust it, wet with the salmons juices, into his mouth to cool it.

Without hesitation, he lifted his hand and plunged his thumb into his mouth. The action startled Fiacha who, ironically, looked at the young warrior as if he had gone mad.

"What is it youVe doing, lad?" he asked.

Finn wasn't listening. His mind had been suddenly filled with a bewildering flurry of images, thick as the flakes of a blizzard or the bright fall leaves in a strong breeze. The salmon's gift of knowledge was his after all, as Finnegas had thought. Now it was flooding him with information so quickly he could grasp nothing but fleeting impressions, stray bits and pieces of ideas. He had to focus, fix on the single question of the spear.

And as he forced his mind to concentrate, the conftision faded. Almost instantly the knowledge he sought was there, like a puzzle piece dropped neatly into place. He jerked the thumb fi*om his mouth and turned to Fiacha, beaming.

"I know!" he cried. "Fiacha, if I place the spear s head to my temple, it will protect me fi-om the music's spell. It will work! Your spear will work!"

Relief filled the worn face of the crippled man.

"Ah, my lad! I don't know how it is you've discovered that, but you've given my life back to me, so you have."

A movement on the fields beyond caught Finn's attention. He looked toward it searchingly and his expression turned grim.

"It looks as if it's my own life I'm to try saving now," he said. "But you've given me a fair chance at it, Fiacha. Be away quickly. I must go out and meet our visitor before he comes near the hill."

As Fiacha scuttled away, Finn started out across the playing fields. Far away, a tiny figure was moving toward him. The being was afoot, but it was too distant

for any other details to be observed. Still, the young warrior kept his hearing sharply attuned for the first notes of the enchanting music.

He was close enough to see that the approaching figure was carrying a large, crescent-shaped harp when the first high, sweet strains of its plucked strings drifted to him. Instantly he was aware of a grogginess, like a darkness filling up his skull. The sleeping spell did, indeed, work quickly.

Without delay he lift:ed the spear, touching its battered point to his temple. He was elated to find that its magic worked quite as well. The drowsiness withdrew from his mind like a night creature shying back from the sun.

As the being moved closer, the lack of his music's effect must have become clear. The music grew in intensity, the tune faster, louder, ever more urgent in its tone. Finn only strode on, finding the melody pleasant, impressed by the skill of the harper, but untouched by the spell.

He was close enough to see the features of his adversary now. Finn discovered that this monster who had threatened Tara's survival for nine years was anything but monstrous in appearance. He seemed a young man, very slim and rather frail in build. His face was long, its features elegant—almost effeminate in their careftil sculpturing. His hair was a high, curling back-sweep of deep reddish gold, beautifully arranged. A silver tunic was covered by a cloak of brilliant green. The vast collection of jewelry that adorned him scintillated as he glided forward with a gracefiil stride. He wore no weapons and he carried nothing but the large and exquisitely worked harp he played.

Just now, however, the smooth perfection of his features was marred by a worried frown. Clearly, he could not understand why this man stalking toward him had not tumbled to the ground in sleep. His fingers flew more rapidly across the strings. The music of the harp swirled around Finn like a storm wind seeking the chinks in a house's wall. But it found no weakness. Finn

kept the spearhead clapped firmly to his temple and strode on.

The youth came to a halt. He stopped playing and lowered the harp, staring across the field at Finn in exasperation.

"And just what is it that youVe doing?" he demanded in a high and strident voice. "No man has withstood my spell before."

Finn came to a stop as well. He judged he was now just within range for a long spear throw. But attack was his last recourse.

"iVe my own magic to protect me," he told Aillen. "I'll not be put to sleep."

"Is that right?" the other said scornfully. "And just who is it that you are?"

"Finn MacCumhal is what I'm called," Finn told him with pride. "I am a warrior of the Fianna. I've come here in the service of the high king to keep you fi-om Tara. There will be no more tribute paid to you, Aillen, son of Midhna!"

"No tribute paid to me," the youth repeated in a mocldng voice. "Your high king told me that nine years ago. He woke to find his grand hall a smoking ruin."

"This time I will stop you," Finn told him coldly. "Be away fi*om here. I've no quarrel of my own with you, and I've no wish to harm you."

"No, you only want to keep me fi*om my bit of ftin!" Aillen shot back. "My only chance to come into the world, to use my powers, and you're wishing to take it fi*om me. Well, I will not have that!" He stamped his foot like a petulant child denied his favorite toy. "No mortal will tell me that I can't have what I wish on Samhain night. So you stand away fi-om me, Finn MacCumhal!"

He started forward again, striding haughtily.

"Stop!" Finn called, lifi;ing one of his throwing spears. "Don't come against me. You know that your power doesn't work!"