Then the warriors plunged into the ford, and came wading across to the attack, but only two at a time could come at the single defender, and he struck them down, right and left, until the ford was clogged with bodies. At last the few who were left broke off the fight, and fell back to the opposite bank, where their chieftain had been standing all this while, looking on. The chieftain was filled with red rage that so many of his men had fallen without gaining the ford, and snatching up his weapons he rushed into the water himself, against the solitary warrior who held the other bank. He was fresh, but Innsa was weary and sore wounded, and at last he missed his stroke and the enemy chieftain’s sword found his breast, and he stumbled forward with a choking cry into the swift running water. Then the chieftain seized him by the long hair, and struck off his head and brought it away.
The few warriors left to him were not, he thought, enough to press on to the Hostel of the Quicken Trees, so he had better be turning back, to take Innsa’s head to the King of the World.
But on his way, he met Ficna returning to the ford, and because he came from the Dun of the Island, thought that he must be one of their own men. So he told him triumphantly, ‘We are back from the ford below the Hostel of the Quicken Trees. There we met a young champion who slew so many of my warriors that I have had to return for more – yet I do not come empty-handed, for, see, I bring his head with me. I had hoped to bring Finn Mac Cool’s, but this is better than no head at all.’
And he tossed the severed head to Ficna as though it had been a ball.
Ficna caught and looked at it, and said, ‘Alas, dear old lad. At dusk your eyes were bright with valour.’ Then he laid the head aside that it might not hamper him, and turned wrathfully upon the enemy chieftain. ‘Do you know who I am, to whom you have tossed this champion’s head?’
‘I know that you come from the Dun of the Island.’ A hideous doubt crept upon the chieftain. ‘Are you not, then, a warrior of the King of the World?’
‘Not I,’ said Ficna, ‘nor shall you be, in a few breaths’ time,’ and he sprang with his raised spear upon the chieftain, swift and savage as a mountain cat. So the chieftain fell by the avenging hand of Ficna, whose foster brother he had slain. And Ficna struck off his head, and taking it by the hair in his left hand, but Innsa’s cradled in the crook of this right arm, he went his way.
When he came to the ford, he made a shallow grave and buried Innsa there, his head laid once more to his shoulders, and turned the green sod back over all. But the enemy chieftain’s head he carried with him, on up to the Hostel of the Quicken Trees.
Finn, who heard his step and knew it, called out to him with wild anxiety, ‘Ficna, who fought the battle that we heard raging at the ford? How has it ended?’
‘Innsa fought that battle, and the ford is clotted with the bodies of the men he slew.’
‘And how is it with Innsa?’
‘Dead where he fought,’ said Ficna.
‘And you stood by to see it happen?’
‘Ochone! Ochone! Would that I had been there to fight at his shoulder,’ cried Ficna, sharp in his throat, ‘but I was elsewhere. At least he does not lie unavenged, for I met the man who struck the blow soon after, and it is his head that I carry in my hand.’
Then Finn bowed his head on his knee and wept. ‘I have good sons, both of blood and fosterage,’ he said at last. ‘Now go back to guard the ford, and victory be on your blade. Maybe help will still come in time.’
So Ficna went down again to the ford.
Meanwhile in the Dun of the Island, another chieftain called Kirom, the brother of the first, wondered why his brother did not return, and gathered his own band, and set out to seek him.
When they came to the ford, they saw the dead men choking it, and the figure of one solitary champion on the further side. And Kirom called across to know who he was, and who had made the slaughter there.
And the answer came back, ‘I am Ficna, son of Finn Mac Cool, and as to the slaughter here, I would not be asking, if I were you, for the question raises the wrath in me, and that will be a bad thing for you, if you come at this side of the ford.’
Then Kirom and his warriors rushed the ford, and flung themselves upon Ficna. But Ficna did with them as Innsa had done, until only one man was left, who escaped and ran back to the Dun of the Island with word of what had passed. And Ficna sat down on the bank, covered with blood and very weary.
When the survivor reached the Dun and told his story, Midac of Lochlan was coldly angry, saying that the two chiefs had brought their deaths on themselves and their men, for they had neither the strength nor the courage to meet the champions of the Fianna, and should have known it. ‘But now,’ said he, ‘I will take a band of my own bravest men, the men of Lochlan, and cross the ford no matter who guards it, and slay Finn Mac Cool and his comrades with my own hands.’ So he gathered his war band, and set out, and came to the ford, and Ficna on guard on the other side.
First he tried smooth talk. ‘Ficna, my heart is warm to be seeing you again, for when I was of Finn’s household you never used me ill, nor struck at man or dog that were mine.’
‘Nor did any other of the household, or of the Fianna.’ Ficna retorted. ‘Kindness you had of us all, but especially of Finn my father; and it is a strange way you have of repaying him!’
So then Midac tried threats, and ordered the young champion aside from the ford.
But Ficna only laughed. ‘You are many to my one. Surely it can make little difference to you, that I stand in your path! Come, then, and I will give you the warmest welcome in my power!’
Then all happened just as it had happened twice already at the ford. And just as Kirom had done, Midac in red rage at seeing his men struck down, hitched up his shield and charged forward to meet the one defender in single combat, since none of his men could stand against him.
On the hill top where he waited, Oisĩn was growing more and more anxious as the night wore on to dawn, and Ficna and Innsa did not return, and he said so to Dearmid O’Dyna.
‘This was in my mind also, and I think I will be taking a walk down to the Hostel of the Quicken Trees, and see that all is well down there,’ said Dearmid.
‘And I also,’ said Fotla. And so they went together, by the way the others had taken, but before they reached the quicken trees, they heard the clash of weapons somewhere ahead of them.
‘That is Ficna,’ Dearmid said, ‘for I know his war shout, and he is sore beset.’
They began to run, side by side, and coming on the last lift of the ground, saw the ford below them in the grey dawn light, clogged with dead men, and Ficna and Midac locked in single combat, thigh deep in water. And at the same instant they saw that Ficna was hard pressed and sore wounded, sheltering behind his shield and beginning to give back.
Still running, with his heart bursting in his breast Fotla cried out, ‘Dearmid your spear! We cannot reach him in time. Throw, man, your aim is surer than mine –’
‘In this light – I may hit the wrong man.’
‘You never yet missed your throw. It is the only chance!’
And so, without slackening his headlong speed, Dearmid set his finger on the silken loop of his spear, and threw. The spear flew straight to its mark. It took Midac below the breast bone and stood out a head span beyond his back. But he yelled and thrust forward like a boar pierced by the hunter’s spear, and the moment before Dearmid and Fotla reached them, he made a last mighty sword stroke, and Ficna went down before it, while Midac, his last strength gone, crashed forward across the young warrior’s body.
Dearmid stood looking down at Ficna’s body lying in the shallows of the ford. Then he put out his foot and rolled Midac aside. The last of life still lingered in the Lochlan prince, and he groaned.
‘If I had found you dead, I would have passed you by,’ Dearmid said, ‘but since I find you living, your head shall make some little payment to Finn Mac Cool for his son’s death.’
And with one quick stroke of his sword
, he smote off Midac’s head.
Then, leaving Fotla to guard the ford, he turned and went up through the rocks towards the Hostel of the Quicken Trees, swinging Midac’s head by the hair as he went. When he reached the Hostel he shouted and hammered at the door, for the rage was still red in him. And Finn called to him knowing his voice, ‘Keep out of this place, for it crawls with foul magic. But tell us who fought the last battle at the ford. We heard the shouting and the weapon-clash, and we know nothing more.’
‘Ficna your son fought that battle, single-handed against a whole war band.’
‘And how is it with Ficna now?’
‘He is dead,’ said Dearmid, ‘Slaughtered when he was weary and sore wounded, by Midac of Lochlan. I was too late to prevent it, but I have taken vengeance for him, and it is Midac’s head that I have in my hand.’
For a long time Finn was silent. And when at last he spoke, his voice was heavy with grief. ‘Victory and strength to you, Dearmid. Often have you been the saving of the Fianna when we were in sore straits. But never have I, the Fian Captain, or those with me been in such deadly peril as this. For here we sit, held captive by enchantment, and nothing can free us save the blood of the three Kings of the Island of the Torrent, if it be sprinkled while still warm, on the ground all about us. Meanwhile we are helpless even to defend ourselves. Therefore our only hope is that you should guard the ford until sunrise, when surely the rest of the Fianna will have returned from their hunting and come to your aid.’
‘Fotla is at the ford now,’ Dearmid said, ‘and he and I together will hold it against all comers, till three sunrises hence, if need be.’ And he was turning away to go back to the ford when Conan Maol let out a groan that checked him in his tracks.
‘Miserable was the hour in which I came to this place, and cold as seashore ice is the earthen floor that holds me captive; but worst of all is to be so long without food or drink, while all the while there will be food and wine for an army no further off than the Dun of the Island. Oh Dearmid, if ever we took the oath of brotherhood that binds all the Fianna, get me some of that food, for I can bear the hunger pains in my belly no more.’
Dearmid struck his spear butt on the ground. ‘An enemy war host seeks your death, and the deaths of Finn and all those with you in there, and only Fotla and myself to hold the ford against them. Is that not enough work for two men? Must I then leave Fotla to hold the ford alone while I go running my neck into needless hazard to steal food for a glutton?’
‘If I were a maiden with blue eyes and golden hair, you would make a different answer. But you have always hated me, and many an ill turn you have done me; and now you are well pleased that I should die of hunger in this place!’
‘Och then,’ said Dearmid, ‘let you stop this snapping and snarling, and I will try to get you the food. Anything is better than to be made deaf by the wagging of that evil tongue of yours.’
He went back to Fotla and told him how the thing stood, and that he must guard the ford alone for a while, and went on towards the Dun of the Island.
It was low water, and the sand and shingle made a causeway so that he was able to reach the island almost dry shod. As he drew near, he heard loud drunken voices and all the uproar of a feast that has reached its height, and creeping to the door, he looked in, and saw the great hall crowded with warriors, and the King of the World with his son beside him in the High Place, and many servants going to and fro with great chargers of food and drinking horns brimming with wine.
Dearmid slipped through the outer doors, and took his stand in the shadows of the foreporch, close beside the inner door, and waited his chance, sword in hand. Soon, one of the servants passed close to him, and swift as a salmon’s leap. Dearmid struck off his head and caught the wine horn from his hand as he fell, so that not a drop was spilled. Then sheathing his sword, he walked into the hall and straight up to the High Table, picked up one of the serving dishes, and went out through the great door into the night bearing the food and drink with him; and in all the noise and drinking, no one noticed him or wondered at what he did.
When he reached the ford once more, he found Fotla asleep on the bank, and was half minded to rouse him with a kick, but thinking to himself that the young warrior was worn out with toil and watching, he left him there and went on up to the Hostel with the food for Conan Maol.
The next question was how to get the food to the fat warrior, but he managed it at last by tossing it in to him piece by piece, through a chink in the rotten wall, and when Conan had wolfed down the last mouthful, never so much as offering a bite to his leader and comrades, Dearmid got on the roof and broke a hole in the tattered thatch directly over where he sat captive on the floor, and poured the wine down into his great open mouth till it was gone to the last drop.
Then Dearmid went back to the ford, and found all quiet, and Fotla still asleep, and sat down beside him.
When tidings of the death of Midac and his war band reached the Dun of the Island, the three Kings of the Island of the Torrent were filled with black fury that he had gone against Finn without telling them. ‘It is our spells that hold him and his companions captive in the Hostel of the Quicken Trees,’ they said, ‘and ours by right is the killing. And now before some other chieftain thinks to try his spear, we will go and do our own killing!’
So they gathered a strong war band and set out. They came to the ford, and saw in the dim first light of day, the shape of a warrior standing guard on the further side. With one voice they called across to him to know who he was.
Back came the answer. ‘I am Dearmid O’Dyna, and one of the champions of Finn Mac Cool, and I wait here to hold the ford against all comers.’
At first they tried speaking him fair, bidding him to leave the ford and no harm should come to him, but Dearmid would have none of that. ‘Finn and his companions are under my shield till sunrise. And I do not stir from this place while I live.’
Then the foremost of the enemy rushed upon Dearmid, but he stood against them as a rock stands against a boiling sea, and struck them down as they came, more and more of them thrusting forward into the gaps left by their fallen comrades; and in the midst of the battle, Fotla started up from his sleep and glaring wildly about him, caught up his sword. He shouted to Dearmid, furious that the other had not wakened him, but Dearmid bade him keep his anger for their foes, and Fotla ran upon them so that they went down before him like ripe barley before a hail storm.
Then the three Kings, seeing their men falling left and right, set up a great yelling, and themselves charged into the ford. Dearmid met them, and they fought together until their shields were hacked and their war gear broken and their hot blood ran down. And one by one Dearmid slew the three Kings, while Fotla with his sword-play held the enemy off from him.
When all was over, the two champions stood breathing in great gasps, and bleeding from a score of wounds. And then Dearmid remembered what Finn had told him as to the breaking of the spell, and he cut off the heads of the three Kings and knotted them together by their hair, and then, Fotla behind him, went back to the Hostel of the Quicken Trees.
As they drew nearer, Finn shouted to them from within, desperate to know the outcome of the latest fighting. And Dearmid shouted back, ‘Well and truly have we held the ford, Fotla and I. We have slain the three Kings of the Island of the Torrent, and I hold their three heads warmly bleeding in the hollow of my shield. How shall I bring them to you?’
‘Victory and strength to you! Never had the Fianna of Erin two more valiant champions. Let you sprinkle some of the blood on the door.’
Dearmid did as he was bid, and as the crimson drops spattered upon the timbers, the door crashed back, and he saw Finn and his companions still captive upon the floor. Dearmid made all haste to sprinkle the ground about them, and as the bright drops fell hissing upon the earth, each of the captives groaned and struggled to his feet, weary and stiff, but free. They flung their arms about the two champions in thankfulness. But the danger was n
ot yet past, for though they were indeed loosed from the magic bonds, Finn and his companions had scarcely more strength than hour-old calves.
‘Not until the sun rises clear of the hills, and the last of this foul magic falls away, shall we have strength to draw sword,’ Finn groaned. ‘Therefore the ford is still yours to guard, my brothers. Hold until sunrise, and then we shall surely come to relieve you.’
So Dearmid and Fotla went back to the ford yet one time more.
After the last fighting, the few of the enemy to escape carried word of what had happened back to the Dun of the Island. Then Borba the Haughty rose up and said, ‘It must be that the Island of the Torrent breeds feeble warriors. Now I will take my own men and avenge the death of so many of the war host, and I will bring back the head of Finn Mac Cool to lay at my father’s feet.’ (For those who brought back word of the battle did not know that Finn and his companions were freed, though still lacking all their strength.)
So Borba gathered the boldest and best of his warriors and set out, and came to the ford.
Dearmid and Fotla saw them coming, a black, spear-barbed mass of warriors behind their shields, and felt the ground shake as they drew near, and knew that sorely out-numbered as they had been before, never until now had such a war host as this come down to the ford. And Dearmid spake quickly to young Fotla beside him: ‘Now is the time for cunning and wariness more than for valour. When they try to rush us, do not be troubling too much to kill, but to keep yourself in one piece behind your shield, for the longer we can hold them in weapon-play, the more chance we have of victory, with the sky already bright in the East, and Finn himself coming to our aid with the sunrise!’
So the two champions fought a waiting fight there at the ford, crouched behind their battered shields, against the dark wave of warriors that crashed upon them. Sometimes they slew, but more often they parried, and never did they yield back a toe’s length of ground.
The sky grew light, and lighter yet, and at last the sun rose clear of the hills, and like an old cloak, the spell-cast weakness fell from the men who waited among the quicken trees. ‘Now!’ cried Finn, and they drew their weapons and sprang up like the sun, and ran for the ford, while the swiftest among them set off like the March wind to take the call for help to Oisĩn at Knockfierna.