Ailill listened to the sounds of an army getting ready to break camp. The fire in the pit in front of his tent was roaring because his retainer had thrown on more logs when Ailill got up and dressed. The mornings were not cold. However, unlike the braziers, he liked the sound and smells of a fresh-backed fire as much as the warmth of one. Watching the flames was a comfort: the crackle and the dancing colors were hypnotic, and the resinous scents were soothing.
Someone shouting, “Out of my way, bodalán,” caused Ailill to look up from the fire.
He frowned when he saw Mac Roth making his way over. He did not want to talk to the man. He wanted the freedom to sit beside his fire and watch the army wake up—the freedom to seethe in private. Like the mood of the camp, Ailill was hesitant. Time had run out. He wanted to return to Crúachain; the warriors were neither keen to face the Red Branch nor run from them.
More had deserted in the night.
Medb’s campaign would fizzle out with a hiss, like a flooded fire. The army was shrinking. Those waking and using the midden, dousing their heads, and eating were noticeably fewer than they had been only yesterday. He thought they would be lucky if the army numbered three thousand. Whatever the reality, they were not enough. Conall had said they needed at least twice as many warriors as the Red Branch, who could field two thousand.
He took a pull from his flagon and shook his head.
“Sire,” Mac Roth nodded, arriving before the fire pit.
“Mac Roth. What do you want? Can I not have a moment to myself?”
“I have important news.”
“Why is it that each time I hear you utter those words, my heart sinks into my boots?”
“Sire?” Ailill could read the confusion on Mac Roth’s face. He had no idea he was as unwelcome as a plague of flies recently returned from a mutilated corpse. Ailill wondered why the queen kept him. But then, he supposed she had been fighting to get rid of him for some time. At least superficially. Conall had done a better job protecting her.
Not that many would do a worse job, he thought.
“You are never the bearer of good tidings. Whenever you see fit to tell me news, it is news I would rather not hear.”
“I am sorry for that, Sire. If I did not think it important, I would say nothing.”
“Why have you come to me with this news? Is my wife indisposed again?”
“She is, Sire?”
“Are you not her bodyguard, Mac Roth?”
“I am not following, Sire?”
“Should you not be with her at all times? How can she claim indisposition if you are beside her with your hand on that seldom used sword you carry?”
If ever used, Ailill thought. And with the thought came the realization that it was true. Mac Roth had never drawn his sword in anger. Conall had hinted at it when they were all atop the gatehouse the morning the seeress predicted the debacle.
“Sire,” Mac Roth bowed.
Ailill sighed. Talking to Mac Roth was like talking to a Crúachain youth, new to the boy’s home. “What is this news?”
“It is about the Ulsterman, Sire, Fergus.”
“Why am I not surprised? Is it not always about Fergus?”
“I have been told he is collaborating with the boy, Cú Chulainn.”
“And who has told you this?”
“A stranger, Sire.”
“A stranger told you Fergus is collaborating with the enemy, and you chose to believe it? Did it not strike you as a little suspicious, Mac Roth? Your hatred of the Ulstermen is visible all over your face. Anyone with eyes in their head and a mind to manipulate you would see it.”
“I believe the stranger, Sire. How else could a boy hold up an army of five thousand? It is not possible, I say.”
“When the army being held up is being incompetently led, Mac Roth, I fear it is not only possible but probable.”
“My point, Sire. We should remove the incompetent leadership. Fergus must go.”
“I am not referring to Fergus, Mac Roth. However, putting that aside, I am in no position to help. The queen commands here, not I. Go to Medb with your suspicions. I am sure you will fare better. You are of similar mindsets, truth be told.”
***
Fergus looked at Setanta over the Ford of Dee, sitting on his horse, arms crossed over his chest. Even though he told the queen that Ferdia would not fight, he was not surprised to see the young warrior riding down to the fords. Adorned in ornate leather armor, a golden oval shield slung on his left forearm, helmet and aventail hiding his face, but not before Fergus saw the grim expression. Ferdia knew he was going to kill or die. There would be no returning from the crossing over the Dee unless it were with the head of The Hound hanging from his belt.
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Leaving her tent the previous evening, Fergus knew her words were not just idle boasting. The witch always got her way. She would use any means to make sure it happened. Whispers around the camp claimed she used her young daughter. Apparently, Finnabair threw her body at the youth, as her mother had done so many times before her.
Fergus looked over his shoulder at the warriors gathered behind and then down to the fords where The Hound waited. They were close. This time, the witch wanted to hear the words between Ferdia and her enemy. Fergus smiled. No one would describe her as an idiot. Each lesson was quickly learned. Not that Fergus thought Ferdia capable of such wiles. He was a warrior of honor, his peers all said. He would face his enemies with a stalwart heart, a sharp blade, and a polished shield, not resort to shenanigans. In other words, a warrior destined for an early grave.
Fergus was worried for Setanta. Ferdia’s peers also said he was the only trainee who had bested Setanta during their time on the Shadowy Isle. Setanta was about to meet a better for the first time since the invasion began—at least one who used to be better. Maybe time had changed that. Setanta journeyed to the land of the Jutes, which might have given him the edge.
Fergus crossed his hands over his sword pommel as Ferdia reined in and swung down from his horse. Setanta also dismounted, Lorg Mór over his shoulder. He could hear clearly as his foster son called across the water, “Do not do this, Ferdia; we are brothers.”
“Perhaps once, when we were on the Isle of Shadows, we could afford to be brothers. As soon as we left, we knew we would be on opposing sides. Connacht and Ulster have always been enemies.”
“Aye. I suppose. But it does not have to be so. Too many of my brothers have died because of this nonsense, so they have. Nonsense dreamed up by a king with teats and a couple of well-formed buttocks.”
“Ha, you, too, underestimate my queen?”
“I do not underestimate her. I hate her for turning brother against brother. She has beguiled you. We need not do this.”
“Verily, Setanta. It is so. We need not fight. Yield the crossing and return to Emain Macha.”
“I cannot yield the fords. It would break my oath, so it would.”
“So be it, Brother. Make ready to greet Donn.”
Fergus held his breath as Setanta advanced on Ferdia, Lorg Mór at the ready. It looked as though the fight would be over before it began. He remembered seeing another advance carrying Dond Desa’s hammer. Ingcél had used it against Conall after the battle of Glencree. On that occasion, the Briton had already lost the will to fight, and the battle never happened.
This time, Fergus knew it would be different. This time, there would be no surrender. This time, it would end in blood. He was afraid it would be the blood of Setanta washing into the waters of the Dee. He did not want the death of his foster son. He did not want the death of anyone except The Deceiver.
Swelling cheers and moments of silence punctuated the fight. It was instantly clear there was nothing between the fighters. Scathach trained them well and equally. There were moments of fierce clashes: sword on hammer, sword on shield, a glancing blow of hammer on shield, shield on shield. And then gasping breaks, warily watching for the next attack.
As he watched, Fergus knew it would be the one who tired first that would perish. They were both fit young men, but neither could keep up the fight for too long. They fought at a punishing pace. Both sword and hammer weighed heavy. Their shields were not light. It would be only a matter of time before one failed and died.
Finally, a swinging arc of Ferdia’s sword seemed to cut Setanta from gullet to crotch. The stroke, however, left Ferdia unbalanced, and he fell to one knee in the wash. Setanta did not fall as the sword stroke demanded, and he pushed the head of his hammer into his friend’s face, knocking out his teeth. Ferdia was dazed, blood gushing from his broken face, when Setanta lifted the hammer to deliver the death blow. The boy’s erstwhile friend held up his arms to fend off the blow, but it was useless. Fergus remembered lifting the hammer onto the back of Conall’s mare after the fight in Glencree, and two tired arms would not stop the blow.
As Ferdia’s dead body sank into the wash, Setanta fell to his knees and then flopped forward. The silence that boomed from the gathered warriors was deafening. Fergus felt his head ringing with it.
Never had he heard a silence so loud.
“They are dead! They are both dead!” the cry went up. The warriors began to cheer. None thought about the loss of Ferdia, one of Connacht’s best. They only considered that Cú Chulainn was drifting back and forth in the wash. Fergus did not join the cheering. He sat on his horse, slightly behind the queen, and stared between her shoulders, trying to see into her black heart, willing the witch to feel his wrath and quake at its meaning.
“Mac Roth, you will ride down to the fords and make sure the boy is dead,” the queen said before turning her horse and galloping for the camp.
***
“Easy now, Áine, no need to rush,” Mac Roth walked his mare slowly to the fords. He did not want to be surprised by Cú Chulainn leaping from the waves and stabbing him in the face as he had done with Nadcranntail. The last place Mac Roth wanted his head was grinning from a stake outside the cailleach’s tent. It was pretty humorous when it happened to Nad; he suspected it would be less so if it happened to him.
“Whoa, girl, easy now,” he pulled back, tugging unnecessarily hard on the bit. He could feel her straining and slapped her neck to calm her. “Whoa, I said.”
When close enough, he could see Cú Chulainn’s body had rolled in the wash. The face of the boy was visible, eyes open, staring lifelessly at the blue above. He could see no sign of a moving chest. It looked as though the bodalán was dead. He watched Ferdia’s stroke tickle the boy from crotch to gullet. No one could survive it. Finally, they could now ride into Cooley and get the herd.
“What are you waiting for?” the king called from the rise.
Mac Roth waved and said under his breath, “Ask me magairlí, sot.”
He looked down into the wash of the crossing. There was blood swirling. It seemed a lot. It was doubtful anyone survived. He looked over at Ferdia. He was face-down in the wash, so he was dead. “The river is full of blood. Ferdia is face down, so dead, unless he has gills,” he called.
“No one cares about Ferdia,” the king called. Then he hesitated, realizing he must be alienating his warriors—not that they were his warriors. The king had no control over the army since they saw him turn to the flagon.
“Make sure there is no pulse,” Fergus called.
“Shut your hole,” Mac Roth sighed and swung down from his horse. He hated wet feet. He had on his good boots. The river would ruin them, for sure. Sitting on the bank, he pulled them off and placed them under his mare. “You watch them, Áine,” he said. The mare tossed her head and snorted at him, her sentiment plain.
Mac Roth entered the water and cursed as the cold enveloped his feet. Although sure the boy was with Donn, Mac Roth approached the bobbing corpse with caution. He did not want to end in the same way as Nad, so until he had felt a lack of pulse, he would take no chances.
When thunder erupted from the road around the bend, Mac Roth jumped and ran for his horse, not finishing his task, sure he had no need. He knew the sound. There was not a warrior who did not recognize a troop of horses at the gallop. It sounded like the Red Branch had arrived to save the fords. And not before time, Mac Roth smiled to himself as he swung up onto his mare and pulled hard on the reins.
“He is dead,” he shouted to no one before digging in his heels and galloping for the army waiting on the rise.