Now a young woman lay dead, her heart pierced by an arrow. And he had sent the bowman on his mission.
Had he broken his geasa?
Cold air swept across the hall, causing the lanterns to flicker wildly. Then the door slammed shut. The Fisher Laird peered through the gloom. A tall figure was standing by the door, and in his hands was a sword, glinting in the lantern light.
Four of his sons were talking amongst themselves and had not seen the newcomer. ‘Who in the name of Taranis are you?’ called out the Fisher Laird, putting down the jug and walking towards the man. His youngest son, Alar, was walking back towards the wall, carrying the fresh-filled lantern.
‘I am the death of your House,’ said the stranger. As the man spoke Alar moved closer to him, lifting the lantern towards the bracket on the wall. The warrior took three quick steps. The sword flashed through the air, slicing the boy’s head from his shoulders.
The remaining sons of the Fisher Laird sprang up, running back to the far wall and grabbing weapons. Three took swords, the fourth a spear. The Fisher Laird stood stock still. His youngest son’s body had fallen behind the long table, but his head had rolled across the sawdust-strewn floor, and the eyes were staring up at his father. Beyond the table the fallen lantern had spilled oil to the wooden boards, and flames were flickering there.
The warrior screamed a battle cry and ran to meet his other sons. His head swimming with ale, the Fisher Laird stumbled to where the small fire had begun and tried to stamp it out. But flames swept on across the sawdust. He swung back to see two more of his sons lying on the floor, blood flowing. Vor thrust at the man with his spear. The warrior side-stepped and slammed his sword deep into Vor’s belly, ripping the blade up and through his heart. Vor let out a terrible cry of pain.
The Fisher Laird watched his sons die, and then the warrior walked towards him.
‘I don’t know you,’ mumbled the Fisher Laird. ‘I don’t know you.’
As the man came closer he saw that his fierce eyes were odd colours, one dark, one pale. The man halted in front of him. Behind him the Fisher Laird could feel the rising flames and hear the cracking of timbers. The light lit up the warrior’s face, making him appear demonic. ‘Who are you?’
There was no answer. The sword slashed across the Fisher Laird’s belly. He fell to his knees as his entrails spilled out. Mercifully the bright sword then clove through his neck.
Lifting a lantern from the wall Connavar strode out into the night. The wind at his back, he gazed around at the sleeping settlement. Walking to a nearby hut he splashed oil to the wooden walls then set it alight. The wind fanned the flames, and burning cinders flew from one thatched roof to the next. Soon a number of fires were blazing. People began to run from their homes. Connavar moved among them, slashing left and right with his sword. Behind him flames licked out of the open doorway of the Long Hall, then broke through the roof.
Panic swept through the settlement as Conn strode through the flames, killing anyone who came within the reach of his sword. Two young men ran at him, carrying hatchets. He slew them both. The villagers began to stream from the settlement.
Blood covered, Connavar sheathed his sword, took up a pitchfork, and hurled blazing thatch into a building as yet untouched by the fire. And, as the long night wore on, he moved from hut to hut, adding to the blaze until finally all the homes were burning. His skin was scorched, and his cloak caught fire. Hurling it aside he ran to the small dockside, where seven fishing boats were moored. It took far longer to set these alight, and he spent an hour, pitching burning thatch and timbers to the decks, and dropping them into the narrow holds.
As the dawn came up he was sitting at the water’s edge, his face blackened with smoke, his hands blistered. The Long Hall had collapsed, and only the stone chimney still stood. But as Conn watched, it twisted and came crashing to the ground. Five of the boats had sunk, one other was ruined beyond repair, but in the seventh the fires had gone out, and it still bobbed upon the waters of the lake. Everything else was gone: the homes, the net huts, the storehouses.