Only the Stones Survive: A Novel by Morgan Llywelyn

forbidding in the gathering twilight.
    Éremón’s charioteer had just wheeled the team to a halt beside Éber’s war cart when a horde of demons burst upon them from the trees. Half-naked demons with tattooed skin and garishly painted faces; creatures who howled like wolves and carried stone axes and bronze-bladed weapons, which they wielded with savage intent.
    The warriors of the Gael fought back as best they could, but the element of surprise almost defeated them. Step by step, they lost ground.
    This was land the primitive natives knew well; they were able to take advantage of every tumbled boulder and fold of earth. They gave their opponents no chance to form a battle line. The threatening insults and grandiose boasts of Gaelic warriors, which were meant to intimidate their opponents, went unheard in the hysterical shrieking of the tattooed people.
     
     
    From long habit, Amergin never allowed chariot warriors to get too far ahead of him; his long legs could trot tirelessly in pursuit of the horses. Where the warriors were was where the action would be, the raw material for bardic epic. Or there might be an opportunity to make peace between opposing sides, one of the prerogatives of a bard. When he heard the familiar sound of battle cries, he broke into a run. As he ran, he slipped Clarsah from her satchel so she would be ready if inspiration struck.
    Amergin reached the dense stand of pine trees in time to see his mother draw her sword from her belt and slam it across the sword of a painted native, breaking his blade. “Take the blow of Mílesios!” Scotta cried as she brandished her weapon in triumph.
    A man covered with tattoos darted under her guard and speared her in the ribs.
    Before Scotta could feel the pain she was attacked again. She staggered sideways, determined not to fall. The enemy closed around her. She lunged toward one of the savages only to see him dance away, mocking the spectacle of an old woman trying to fight. Her anger was as hot as the blood flowing from her shoulder. Swords and spears and shouting; a stone club to the side of the head. Daylight became gray light, fading …
    Scotta had thought she heard Amergin calling to her. She thought she heard the music of Clarsah. The besieged woman tried to shake off her attackers and go to her favorite son. The Gael always followed the harp.
    A savage wrapped in otter skins tore her head from her shoulders with a bronze blade.
    Amergin’s shout of horror rang through the pines.
    When the painted savages saw a man holding a harp in numb fingers, they stepped aside for him.
    Ír killed the person who had killed Scotta. But it was too late. His mother’s head lay on the ground in a spreading lake of blood, with her blue eyes open. When Ír crouched down to close them, he lost what was left of his mind.
    The other sons of the Míl were beyond shock. Beyond pain and grief and even rage. While they stood beside Scotta’s dead body, every man made a silent vow in his heart.
    When they looked up, the Ivernians had melted away. It was a victory, of sorts.
    At Donn’s direction they buried Scotta where she fell, an honor accorded to warriors killed in battle. Her other sons thought she should be carried back to the rest of the tribe, but in the end Donn was given his way. He was the oldest.
    On the following day, a tomb of stones and sod was raised over Scotta. Colptha conducted the funeral rites. This displeased Éber Finn, who complained to his charioteer. “Colptha talks as if our mother was a sacrifice to the land. That’s not the way it was.”
    Scotta was interred with all the property she had brought with her, which made Éremón unhappy. He wanted to keep her velvet cloak and the best of her jewelery to give to Taya, to make up for the unexpected inconvenience of having his first wife along. But the others were watching and he did not dare.
    Ír alternately blubbered like a baby and tried to demonstrate how he slew Scotta’s murderer. He