Enoch's Device by Joseph Finley Page B

gray-robed prisoner. They moved through one of the fields, beside a half-dozen haystacks that rose like hills in the darkness. The Franks were nearly as many as his twelve brethren and himself, yet the thought of attacking a band of trained fighters put a knot in his stomach. He had never used a weapon like the one he now held, nor had the thought ever occurred to him, for Church law forbade any monk or priest to shed blood.
    “What do we do now?” he asked Niall.
    Niall knelt on one knee, watching the Franks intently. “Like I said, we take a stand. Just like Saint Columcille would’ve done.” He glanced at his friends, making eye contact with each of them. “We’ll move through the woods, along the edge of the fields, quiet as we can until we get close. And once we’re a stone’s throw away, we’ll charge ’em.”
    “We’re going to stay and fight?” Fintan asked, his pudgy face etched with concern.
    “Only as long as we have to,” Niall replied. “You and Ciarán try to get Dónall. Once you do, head for the woods; we’ll follow you. We can lose ’em in there.”
    “Those dogs will be trouble,” Bran said.
    “It’s no different than protecting the sheep from wolves.” Niall nodded toward the twins. “That’s what those hay forks are for.” He rose to his feet with a resolute look in his eye. “Now, let’s go.”
    Gripping Dónall’s staff in one hand and clutching the short sword in the other, he hesitated in his first step as Niall took off, scurrying deftly over the fallen branches, his sandals landing softly with each footfall. Murchad and Bran were less adroit, rustling dead leaves with every stride and snapping a twig now and then. Ciarán felt the blood rush to his cheeks as he charged after his friends, darting around trees and over deadfalls. Rushing through the darkening woods, the band of monks sounded like deer running from a wolfhound.
    They were still forty yards from the Franks when the first soldier spun toward the noise. The soldiers with torches held them high as an alarmed chatter broke out among the Franks.
    They can hear us, Ciarán realized as he strode to keep up with Niall, but they can’t see us in these shadows . Ahead, Niall slowed to a halt and waited for the others to gather around him, while a chill breeze soughed through the trees.
    “Let’s show ’em what happens when you cross the Irish,” Niall told them. “On the count of three.”
    Around him, the monks drew nervous breaths. “One,” Niall said, as some made the sign of the cross. Bran recited a psalm: “Vindicate us, O God, and defend our cause.”
    “Two,” Niall counted. Ciarán’s heart drummed in his chest.
    “Three!”
    Another Gaelic cry rose from the woods, and Niall raised his sword. “Columcille!” he yelled.
    Murchad led them, joined by Bran and Niall, while Ciarán stayed close to Fintan, searching for the quickest path to Dónall. They bounded down the grassy hillside, past two of the haystacks, but the Franks stood ready with swords drawn, forming an arc around the bishop and the burly Frank who held Dónall. The thrill of danger surged through Ciarán’s veins as the monks closed on the mailed soldiers. Then the Franks unleashed their mastiffs. The first beast barreled into Senach and sent the young monk flailing backward, his screams blending with the dog’s vicious snarls. Áed set his pitchfork, and the second mastiff pounced. Skewered on the tines, it howled in pain but took down Áed under its weight while, beside him, his brother fell to the third dog. The remaining monks collided with the wall of Franks, and around Ciarán everything became a flash of chaos and blood.
    One of the Franks collapsed under a blow from Murchad’s hammer, but then a sword blade ran the brawny monk through, and his eyes froze in shock. Bran cleaved through the arm of another Frank as, beside him, Niall ducked the blade of his nearest attacker and swung his sword upward between the Frank’s