There is no doubt in my mind that the infant, in the arms of the raven-may, was Fiachra. If I know it not from my keen eyes, I know it from the harp-string pulled taut between us that trembles melodiously. If I know it not by the harp-string, I know it by the spéirbhean aisling who beckons me toward the child.

I silently follow the raven-may and Fiachra to their lodging nearby and then to a hillside outside the village. Cutpurses and outlaws find rich opportunities to benefit on moonless nights such as this one. Under an inky hooded cloak I watch from behind stone and bush, disliking the look of an approaching band of unsavory men. They are dressed in a motley assortment of togs won from their victims. Like me, they too appear to have great interest in the "witch's moor", I overhear one of them say. Some are armed with a sgian achlais; their ill intent is clear. Surely they don't often find two young women roaming Cashel freely at night.

They would have advanced upon the witch's moor except that I stand before them now upon the torchlit upland. My sail éille cracks through the shoulders of two cutthroats and shatters the jaw of a third before he can utter his sluagh-ghairm. I must confess, it feels good to cut loose again. A quick, lean ruffian with a camán pulls me off my feet and clashes his ash-wood with my blackthorn cudgel. I suffer more than a few well-swung strokes of the hurling stick before I can roll to safety and perform the Cat Feat, leaping quickly to my feet.

I have only a moment to crack my neck and spit blood before I'm defending myself again. This time the nimble hurley-bearer is joined by a bald spearman with one eye and spiraling patterns tattooed across his scalp. I parry their attacks, finally sundering the ribs of the spearman and shattering the spry one's ash-wood into splinters.

Throwing back my mantle and baring my chest, I reveal the mark of Scáthach, evidence of my schooling at Dun Sgaith. I'm no Cúchulainn, but the bandits take the mark seriously enough and escape back toward the town as quickly as they can. I lie in the dark grass awhile, catching my breath and recovering from my aching pate.

When I rise some time later, I am uncertain whether or not I slept at all. What is certain is that it is nearly day and Fiachra and his raven-may are no longer in the witch's moor. To their inn I fly with haste.


•••

sail éille - cudgel; shillelagh
sluagh-ghairm - battle cry
camán - hurley (hurling stick)