Early Irish Myths and Sagas - Jeffrey Gantz [42]
‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Nía and Bruithne they, Conare’s two servers, the best pair in Ériu. That is why they are swarthy and why their hair stands up – because they visit the fire so often. No pair in the world are better servers than they. Three nines will fall by them at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for each man, and they will match the performance of any pair in the hostel; they will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those two,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.
‘I saw the apartment next to Conare’s,’ said Ingcél. ‘Three chief warriors were there, and they were just turning grey. They wore dark grey shirts, and each of their limbs was as thick as a man’s waist; each man had a huge, black sword, as long as a weaver’s beam, that could split a hair floating on the water. The man in the centre had a great lance, with fifty rivets through it, and its shaft would be a load for a team of oxen. He brandished the lance until sparks as big as eggs all but flew from it, and then he struck the butt against his palm three times. Before them was a great food cauldron, large enough for a bullock, with an appalling dark liquid in it, and the man dipped the lance into the liquid. If the lance was not quenched quickly, it blazed up over its shaft – you would have thought there was a roaring fire in the upper part of the house. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’
‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Three heroes they, the three best that ever took weapons in Ériu: Senchae son of Ailill, Dubthach Dóeltenga and Goibniu son of Lorgnech. And the lance that was in the hand of Dubthach, that was the Luin of Celtchair son of Uthechar that was found at the battle of Mag Tured. Whenever the blood of enemies is about to flow from the lance, a cauldron full of venom is required to quench it; otherwise, the lance will blaze up in the fist of the man carrying it, and it will pierce him or the lord of the royal house. Each thrust of this lance will kill a man, even if it does not reach him; if the lance is cast, it will kill nine men, and there will be a king or royal heir or plundering chieftain in their number. I swear by what my people swear by, the Lúin of Celtchair will serve drinks of death to a multitude tonight. Three hundred will fall by these three at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for each man, and they will match the performance of any trio in the hostel; they will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those three,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.
‘I saw an apartment with three men in it,’ said Ingcél. ‘Three strong, powerful men – a man passing by would not eye their dark, uncouth faces for fear of the terror that would result. Rough-haired garments all about them, and no other clothing on them from head to toe. Their horrible, horselike manes reached their Sides. Furious warriors, they were quick to their swords, and they struck stoutly against enemies. Each bore an iron flail with seven chains; each chain was twisted into three strands, and each had at its end a knob as heavy as a bar for lifting ten pieces of burning metal. Huge oxhides they wore, and the four-cornered clasps that fastened them were as thick as a man’s thighs, and the hair from the hides went through them. Each man had an iron staff as long and thick as an outer yoke; each staff had nine chains of iron, and each chain had a pestle of iron as long and thick as an outer yoke. These men were dejected, and they were horrible to behold; no