The dawn is grey but its dullness holds an underlying promise of fair weather. In this section of the wood, the undergrowth is sodden, thick with viscous dew that clings to my feet, drenching the material below the knee of my leggings.
A sudden sound off to my left makes me drop to a crouch in the shadow of a nearby oak. It takes a moment to realise that the sound I’m hearing is laughter, distant laughter from the two Ráth Bládhma boys, playing within the sanctuary of the settlement.
I find myself leaning against the oak’s gnarled trunk, burdened by a sudden weariness that cuts straight to the marrow. That sound – the simple gaiety of children – it stirs memories that break my heart, memories of my own child and others I might have had with Lann. These boys are innocents, artless children who know nothing of the true menace prowling around them. For them, behind their palisades, this talk of danger and scouts is little more than an imagined game of warriors.
Another peal of unrestrained laughter rolls through the valley and it makes me wince inside. The last time I heard such wild hilarity was back when Murragh was with friends in Seiscenn Uairbhaoil. My son was a popular boy, a good boy – but popular and good had little value when the díberg came calling, slinking in like wolves to a field of fat sheep.
The raiders hit at dawn, with yells, sharp metal and fire. They left many dead, about a third of our people. I returned from a hunt to find my settlement ravaged, my home burnt, my son lying lifeless in the fields with a gash in his side. Fleeing for the forest, he’d done exactly what I’d taught him but the díberg caught him anyway. I buried him on the hills beyond the settlement, a quiet spot alongside the grave where his mother lies.
But, enough! Lann’s gone and Murragh’s gone and thinking of them now will only make me soft when I need a hard heart, a firm axe-hand and an unflinching resolve. Such softness must wait till I pass. Although I make my own slow path to the Dark Lands, by the blood of those once dear to me, I’ll fulfil my task before I go.
When I fall, green moss will cover these bones. The earth will melt and swallow my flesh and absorb me deep as though I’d never been. In time, my name too will fade, forgotten around the campfires at night.
Keeping low, I cut a route through the trees, leaving a shadow path in the dew behind me. I break that shadow where I can, taking harder ground when it’s available, keeping to the spaces beneath the trees where the dew hasn’t settled. Despite several tracks and backtracks, I locate no such trace of the scouts' trail which makes little sense. They surely must be up and moving.
I continue north-east, deeper into the valley and end up travelling further and further from the ráth. Pausing to look back towards the settlement, a sickly sensation blossoms in my throat. I realise the mistake I’ve made.
I’ve pulled this option wrong. By now, Father Sun casts a crackling gleam that illuminates the valley. Here, on the south-eastern flank however, that watery glaze bedazzles, its blinding glare making study of the ráth impossible. I curse then, knowing that the scouts would never have come this way. Experienced as they are, they’d know the north-western ridge offers a clearer view at this hour.
I grind my teeth in anger, furious at my own stupidity. It’s too late now to backtrack to the north-western woods, to find the scouts without revealing my own presence. By the time I locate their trail, the intruders will have departed, back to their fian to tell them of what they’ve seen.
I’ve failed. Failed my friend. Failed the people of Ráth Bládhma. Failed those who put their faith in me.
