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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
A thrilling tale of magic and warfare in ancient Ireland. April 1014. Dubliner Elva watches helplessly as her sister comes under the control of an evil queen. Dara marches towards the city as part of Brian Boru's army, while Skari sails from the Orkneys to fight with King Sitric of Dublin. As the armies come ever closer to each other, no one knows what will happen when they meet to fight what has been called the last battle. Nor do the children realise that their fates are linked in ways they could never have imagined, ways which will test all their courage and loyalty.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Dara woke abruptly. The moon was above the trees, high and full. All around him lay the sleeping soldiers. The camp was silent except for the occasional grunt from one of the sleepers or the soft whimper of a dreaming dog.
Dara felt instantly and totally awake. He knew this feeling from many nights spent outside in the wild places. There was something or someone near him. Watching him.
He sat up and looked across into the shadows of the great oak trees that surrounded the ruined monastery. As silently as he could, he got up and peered into the darkness, pulling out his knife. Bent towards the ground to keep out of the moonlight, he began creeping quietly towards the oak trees. He thought he could see something moving below the trees, creating a rustle in the young ferns and pale spring grass.
He blinked: something white moved in the moonlight. Some kind of animal? Was it a cat? But it was too big, too long, to be any cat he had ever seen. Could it be a stoat? But Dara knew that there were no white stoats in Ireland; the king’s white furs had come from the far north, the homelands of the Norsemen. Maybe this one had escaped from a Norse ship?
The creature was behaving in a most peculiar manner, leaning over the faces of the sleeping soldiers. For all the world, it looked as if it was whispering something in their ears.
Elva ran along the banks of the Liffey, cursing silently when the prickly gorse and hawthorn caught in her cloak. She had woken that night to see shards of moonlight shining through the tiny gaps in the wattle wall of the house. Once again her sister was missing from her place beside her in their bed.
It had happened before and Elva had lain awake for hours, waiting for Arna to come back. She had finally fallen asleep and in the morning had found that Arna was back, curled up asleep beside her. Elva poked her awake.
‘Where did you go off to, last night?’ she asked as soon as Arna opened sleepy eyes, eyes which immediately narrowed in anger.
‘What? I was here asleep all night. You must have been having one of your stupid dreams,’ she said, her voice sarcastic. Everyone knew that Elva had strange dreams.
‘It wasn’t a dream,’ Elva insisted. ‘I woke up and you were gone.’
Arna took Elva’s shoulders in her hands and pinched them hard, staring into her sister’s eyes with her own fierce silvery ones.
‘I wasn’t gone anywhere, do you understand?’ she had said. ‘And don’t you dare tell your crazy dreams to my father or your mother!’
This time, when Elva woke up, she was determined to find out what was going on. She felt the hollow beside her in the bed. Yes, it was still warm, which meant that Arna was not long gone. She pulled on her calfskin boots and saffron cloak, and whispered fiercely at Pingin, her terrier, who was raising his ears in puzzlement, to stay exactly where he was and keep guard. She crept out past the sleeping dogs and servants and was just in time to see her sister take the route down towards the tunnel in the walls, where the river flowed out of the city.
She had to be very careful creeping through the tunnel behind her, but Elva could be as silent as a cat when she wanted and managed to keep Arna in sight without being seen herself. She was helped by the fact that Arna seemed half-asleep as she moved, as if she were walking in some kind of trance. Elva followed her sister through the meadows that ringed the city, past horses and cows that were not disturbed by the sight of two girls moving quietly in the moonlight.
But when Arna started to make her way through the woods towards the Irish camp, Elva almost turned back. Every child in Dublin had been terrorised by stories of the savage Irish gathering outside the walls, creatures more frightening than wild boars or even wolves. If she and her sister were caught by these soldiers, they would surely be murdered, or at the very least sold as slaves.
But when Arna reached the camp it was as if some kind of spell had been laid on the soldiers. Nobody woke; no guard dog sounded the alarm. The bodies of the men and youths lay on the ground, wrapped in their cloaks, some of them snoring gently. And there was her sister, leaning over them, one by one, as if whispering or breathing something into their ears …
And then the boy sat up. He had his back to Elva so he didn’t see her, but his waking had made her sister disappear into the shadows. She followed them both, impressed by the boy’s skill at woodcraft, which was as good if not better than her own. He moved silently through the trees, making no sound at all. At one stage he stopped and turned as if he heard something behind him and she stood still, scarcely daring to breathe. When they reached the Liffey, Elva saw Arna slip into the water and disappear in a shaft of moonlight.
Then the boy turned and saw her, where she stood shivering in the cold April air.
PART ONE 16–17 APRIL 1014
LAUGERDAGR, SUNNUDAGR DÉ SATHAIRN, DÉ DOMHNAIGH SATURDAY, SUNDAY
CHAPTER 1
THE END OF THE MARCH
Dara stopped at the top of the ridge and caught his breath. Was it possible to actually burst with excitement? If so, he must be very close to it. In the distance, he could see smoke rising, mingling with the mist above the roofs of Dublin. It was so cold he that when he breathed out, his breath created its own little patch of mist in the blue air. Far below him, water glinted through green branches. The course of the river showed their way forward, leading to the town and the sea beyond. Most important of all, it showed the way to King Brian’s camp. The end of the journey.
Dara could just make out the shape of the walls that circled Dublin. It was certainly bigger than the only other town he had seen, Limerick. But Dara felt a twinge of disappointment – from here the town didn’t look that impressive. A huddle of low houses, the walls of the Norse King’s palace rising above them. One or two spires, Christian churches. He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of his dream. Turlough’s voice was full of excitement.
‘There it is, Sitric Silkbeard’s kingdom,’ he said. ‘That’s where the Norsemen and the Leinstermen are gathered. Just waiting for us to attack. Whoohoo! When we do they won’t know what hit them! We’ll show them all that my grandfather King Brian really is the High King of all Ireland. We’ll be heroes like the warriors of Glen Mama.’
Dara grinned back at his friend. Both he and Turlough had been too young to fight in the great battle of Glen Mama four years ago but they had listened to many tales and songs about the glorious victory. The Munstermen had trounced the Leinstermen and their Dublin allies. Now, finally, they were going to be part of one of those heroic stories. Part of what was perhaps the greatest adventure of all, because if King Brian Boru won this war, no-one would challenge him again. Instead, Sitric and his Norsemen and Mael Mordha and his Leinstermen would pay tribute to Brian as High King. ‘I can’t wait for the battle to start!’ Dara said, grinning from ear to ear.
Dara’s father and his uncle Cormac joined them at the ridge. Both men had been on many campaigns with Brian Boru. Dara’s father smiled at his young son and said, ‘Well, ye will have to wait a bit yet. Come on, lads, we still have a way to go, so we need to get moving. It’s all ahead of us … we will drive the Northmen into the sea and watch them swim for their lives! You have shown your courage on this march, Dara, and I’m proud of you. And I know I will be even prouder of you after this battle. And as for you, Turlough, your father and your grandfather already know your worth, but soon you will be known everywhere as one of the bravest princes of Dal Cais.’
Turlough’s father was Murrough, King Brian’s chosen heir. Both boys smiled shyly, a little embarrassed by such high praise, but determined to live up to it.
‘The sea is beyond Dublin, isn’t it?’ said Dara, trying to peer through the mist. ‘I can’t see it yet.’
‘No, we won’t even be able to see it from our camp tonight,’ said his father. ‘The main part of the army is camping in the woods and fields to the north, near the coast. We have been told to stay on this side of the river, at Kilmainham, in case any Leinstermen come up from the south or west. But King Brian has promised he will visit us today or at the latest, tomorrow. So, as I said, it’s time to move. Shift yourselves!’ He called out loudly, ‘Men, march on!’
All around him, men and boys picked up their packs and hoisted them onto their backs. Sighing, Dara did the same. The leather straps dug into his shoulders, rubbed raw from weeks of its weight. His feet slipped in the wet soles of his sandals and he wondered if they would ever feel dry again. They had marched along the Great Road from Brian’s kingdom in Dalcassia, in the West of Ireland, and it had been a long and a hard march. Dangerous too, once they had reached the territory of the Leinstermen. It was up to everyone to watch out for the enemy, lurking in the forests all around them. It was also up to everyone to carry their own weapons and equipment, for the pack ponies were used only for heavy gear such as cooking pots and spare weapons, and very few were allowed the privilege of riding the horses.
Dara had walked until his feet were blistered, his back ached and his hands had cramp from holding onto his pack. But he knew better than to complain. It was a great honour to march as part of King Brian Boru’s army and Brian’s soldiers never complained. Well, except Niall. Dara’s friend, Niall, complained quite a lot. But he was not on this march. He had been sent east earlier in the spring and Dara had missed him. He couldn’t wait to see him again. For some weird reason, it was easier to be cheerful when Niall was around moaning about everything and falling over his feet.
One of the men suddenly burst out singing, and the rest joined in. It lifted Dara’s spirits as he marched. Every time they sang together on the march it made him feel so happy to be part of this army, all of them facing danger together. They were like brothers.
He raised his head from the muddy track, and saw a flock of swans flying down the valley. How very much easier it would be if armies could fly!
Still singing, the company marched steadily along the river valley, deeper into the trees that clustered to the west of the city. The cover still let plenty of light through, even though it was late April. Dara imagined that in high summer it must be like travelling through a green, underground tunnel. The wood was full of the sound of birdsong, and thrushes and blackbirds peered at them through the branches or flew across their path as the noise of marching feet and singing voices disturbed them from their nests. They passed hawthorn trees, just starting to bloom, and patches of blue haze where the bluebells were opening out. It had been a long, cruel winter and Dara saw that there were still clumps of primroses in the deepest shade. Then one of them took flight and he realised it was not a flower at all, but a yellow butterfly. The first he had seen this year. Surely a good omen?
He caught up with Turlough. He wanted to ask him about Kilmainham.
‘Isn’t it where Brian camped before Christmas? When he had to give up the siege of Dublin because the weather got too cold and they ran out of food?’
Turlough nodded. ‘That’s it. There are the remains of an old monastery there and it’s close to the Liffey. The King likes it at Kilmainham: he will probably attend mass there tomorrow, for Palm Sunday. The city walls are only a mile or so to the east. So don’t go wandering off on your own, Dara. There may be scouts from the Norse armies around. They say the warriors from the Isle of Man will stick a dagger in you as soon as look at you.’
CHAPTER 2
THE IRISH CAMP
The camp at Kilmainham was buried in the forest on the banks of a small river, which Turlough told Dara was called the Camac. As soon as they arrived, there was a shout of delight and Dara was enveloped in a bear-hug from Niall, who, in his enthusiasm, managed to knock him over. Dara lay on the ground laughing, hardly able to pull himself up because of the weight of his pack. This kind of thing was only to be expected from Niall; the weapons master had once described him as having not just two left feet, but two left arms as well.
Niall pulled his friend up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You made it! Brilliant!’
Dara grinned back. ‘I did! My father finally talked my mother into letting me come with the army … Now, tell me everything! What have I missed?’
‘Where do I start? Well, the first thing is that some of us will be moving camp from here to the main camp, further north. The ground is more open there. Better for fighting!’ Niall shivered dramatically. ‘But part of the land up there is wooded too; I hope we won’t be sent to sleep there. That’s where Tomar’s Wood is. The ghosts of dead Norse soldiers haunt it. It’s horrible – always foggy and cold there. It used to be one of the Norse holy places until Malachy of Meath burnt it and cut it to bits a few years ago. But there’s still enough left of it to be scary. They say the trees themselves hate the Irish! Anyway, Malachy’s armies have come down to join us there. And in Dublin, King Sitric has called in his friends and relations from the other Norse kingdoms and they’re gathering in the bay and the river. Dublin is full of their ships,’ Niall finally paused to draw breath, but only for a moment. ‘Their ships are amazing looking. We should try to get on a scouting party and get down to the bay to have a look. I have told everyone how good you are at scouting, Dara, how quiet you can be when you move through the woods.
‘But they probably won’t let us go – we are hardly let go anywhere. It’s a pain.’
Niall pulled a face.
‘We’re not even supposed to go east of the big boundary stone that marks the edge of the monastery. So we’re stuck here, my friend. To be honest, it’s been boring, just waiting for something to happen. We get all the horrible jobs too, because we’re the youngest. And the food is terrible. And I’m really sick of sleeping on the ground …’
Dara grinned. Same old Niall.
His friend continued: ‘But now that the armies have come from Meath and your lot from Dalcassia, things are bound to get exciting!’
Dara hoped Niall was right. But despite himself he felt a shiver run down his spine. There was a part of him that was anxious. He had never fought in a battle before. He had nearly been left at home with the children, until finally his father had agreed to let him come along. His mother had not been happy with the decision. His father had said: ‘We can’t molly-coddle him forever, Lia. He is a Dalcassian, born to fight for his king. I know it’s hard to see him go into danger. But there is danger at home too.’
His mother said nothing more. She knew only too well the dangers that lurked everywhere, threatening her children, even close to home. Like the Shannon River, the river they all loved, that had taken Ronan in a flash-flood only the previous winter. And Dara had desperately wanted to get away. Away from his mother’s fussing. Away from memories of his older brother Ronan. To a place where he could show his father he was just as brave a son and good a warrior as his brother. And now here he was.
There was a shout from Cormac: ‘Come on, lads, less talk and more work! We have to set up camp before dark!’
Dara soon discovered that what Niall had said was true. Because he was one of the youngest soldiers, he was considered everyone’s dogsbody. After a boring and back-breaking hour gathering branches, he was sent on errands, bringing messages to different people around the camp. This was better, as it meant that he was able to explore. Thousands of warriors had come, from all parts of Ireland to fight with the High King. As he ran from one chieftain to another, Dara heard bits of gossip about the plans for the attack. He noticed that there were even some Norse soldiers in the camp, fighting on Brian’s side. Mostly they were there for gold rather than out of any loyalty towards Brian. But some Norsemen, like Ospak of the Isle of Man, had come to support the High King because they believed that his war was a just one.
