Free Celtic Tales of Enchantment by Liam Mac Uistin Page A

prowess in battle, in reality he feared death more than anybody else. As the broad blade was raised over his head he was gripped with a terror greater than he had ever felt before. He heard a rushing in his head, the blood surged through his veins, and a strange and unnatural strength coursed into his body.
    With a mighty leap, he rose high in the air, evading the blow from the giant’s sword. But, in doing so, he left the skin from his back behind him on the floor. The furious giant followed him with upraised sword. ‘You shall not escape me again!’ he roared.
    â€˜Wait!’ Conán cried out. ‘Look at how injured I am.’ He turned to show his back, which was bleeding and raw from neck to waist. ‘Let me die of my wounds.’
    The giant hesitated and slowly lowered his sword. He laughed evilly. ‘A slow death is a painful death. Yes, I will leave you to die slowly in front of your friends. Your screams will make them suffer all the more. Then, when you have met your wretched end, I will send them to theirs.’ He stamped out and locked the door.
    Lobharan looked at Fionn who was lying near him. ‘Glanluadh told me that there is a magical drinking-horn upstairs in the kitchen. If we could drink from that, it would free us from whatever spell is upon us.’
    Fionn shook his head gloomily. ‘If only we could reach it … but I can see no way of getting out of this dungeon.’
    Oisín and the others agreed. Their feet and hands were chained, their strength had been drained from them, and the magician’s spell had bound them to the floor. Despite their best efforts, they could do nothing.
    Conán was the only one who had some strength, and, in spite of his injuries, he resolved to try and get a drink from the drinking-horn. But first he would have to outwit the giant. Each person in the group came up with a plan but someone else always had a reason why it wouldn’t succeed. It seemed impossible.
    At last they heard the key being turned in the lock and Draoiantóir clumped in, his sword in his hand. He went over to Conán and stared down at him.
    â€˜Are you not dead yet?’ he growled. ‘I am tired of this waiting.’ He raised his sword high over Conán’s head.
    Conán held up his hand and spoke. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what a great feat it will be, to kill a man already mortally wounded! Is it the custom in Iceland to kill those who are already dying? What kind of honour is that? You accused us of foully murdering your sons, but now you plan to avenge their honourable deaths by this shameful deed. When they talk of this day by the fires in years to come, the storyteller will recount how the mighty magician, Draoiantóir, bravely killed Conán Mac Morna, a fat, bald defenceless man, wounded and hardly able to stand!’
    Conán laughed. ‘Oh, your name will be remembered, all right, Draoiantóir, remembered as a coward.’
    â€˜A coward? How dare you call me a coward!’ the giant roared in a voice like thunder and his face turned so red it looked as though he was about to explode.
    â€˜Well,’ Conán replied, ‘if you are not a coward then make me whole again and we will see how brave you are confronting a warrior of the Fianna in all his powers.’
    â€˜Ailne!’ Draoiantóir yelled up the stairs. ‘Bring me the drinking-horn.’
    Conán’s eyes lit up with hope when he heard Ailne’s footsteps on the stone stairs. But they clouded again in disappointment when he saw that she carried not the magical drinking-horn he had expected, but a large woolly sheepskin.
    â€˜Put this on his back,’ Ailne instructed her brother. Draoiantóir took the sheepskin and placed it firmly on Conán’s raw back. His wounds were instantly healed.
    â€˜Now,’ Ailne said, ‘kill him!’
    The giant raised his sword and advanced on Conán. The great blade flashed