Enoch's Device by Joseph Finley Page A

pushed Dónall forward. His left side shrieked with pain. The Frank brought his face near and said, his breath reeking of ale and rotting teeth, “You’ll burn regardless.”
    Dónall gave a weary sigh. For unless a miracle happened in short order, the Frank was right.
    *
    Within the oak-circled grove, the priest’s dagger bit into the flesh of Ciarán’s neck. Father Gauzlin’s grin widened, while the two soldiers held his victim tight. With another flick of the blade, it would all be over. A scream gathered in Ciarán’s throat, but before it could erupt, another cry overtook it. A Gaelic cry.
    Father Gauzlin spun toward the sound as the burled head of a cudgel smashed into his jaw. Blood and teeth arced across Ciarán’s feet and onto the ground, followed by the flailing priest. Over Ciarán’s shoulder, a blacksmith’s hammer clanged against the helmet of one of his captors, whose arms fell instantly limp, releasing Ciarán from his grasp. The second Frank made a mewling noise as the pole of a pitchfork cracked into his groin from behind, practically lifting him off his feet. Niall’s fist finished the job, sending the Frank sprawling onto the carpet of acorns and leaves.
    Around Ciarán, twelve Irish monks grinned with the thrill of battle. Fintan the bookbinder stood triumphantly over Father Gauzlin, who moaned but did not try to rise. Murchad gripped the hammer that had felled the first Frank, while Áed held the tines of his pitchfork above the second Frank’s throat.
    “We saw ’em skulking their way up to the grove,” Niall said. “Figured you were still up here.”
    Ciarán didn’t know what to say. Then a desperate thought overwhelmed him. “They have Dónall!”
    “He’s here ?” Niall asked.
    “He came to me in the grove,” Ciarán said urgently. “They caught him downhill, near the bog. They’re going to burn him. We have to save him.”
    Niall glanced at the others. “You’re damn right, we do,” Bran replied.
    “That’s what I like to hear,” Niall said, exchanging his knife for one of the Franks’ sword. Bran grabbed the other Frank’s blade and led them in a silent, loping charge toward the bog.
    They could hear the Franks rustling through the woods, speaking in their native tongue and making more noise than a drove of cattle. From the direction of the sound, it was clear they were heading back toward the fields just outside the monastery’s earthen wall. Night had fallen over Derry, and Ciarán feared they might lose their way through the trees in the darkness, wasting precious time. He was following behind Murchad, who vaulted easily over a fallen tree on the narrow path, when something glimmered weakly in the moonlight. He stopped and peered at the roots of a twisted oak.
    “What’re you doing?” said Fintan beside him. “Let’s go.”
    Ciarán reached down and picked up a short sword with a leaf-shaped blade—the very one from Dónall’s cell. And from the briar thicket poked the tip of a blackened staff, and tucked away beside it was a leather bundle.
    “Wait!” Ciarán hissed.
    Fintan stopped, and Niall doubled back. “What is it?”
    “Dónall must have tossed these away before they found him.”
    “That’s Dónall’s ?” Niall asked, marveling at the weapon, which was more finely wrought than the Frankish blades.
    Ciarán slung the leather book satchel over his shoulder, still feeling uneasy about what it held inside, and picked up the staff with his free hand. “He didn’t want the Franks to find these.”
    Ahead, Murchad called out softly, “I see ’em!” Ciarán and Niall rushed downhill to where the monks had gathered in a small clearing amid a copse of birches. “They’re heading along the edge of the woods,” Murchad said, “back toward the monastery.”
    Ciarán peered through the trees. Farther downhill, the glow of the Franks’ torches illuminated a band of ten soldiers and the bishop, along with three of the huge mastiffs and their