Genonn gazed out over the bay at the emerald-green sea. He did not recall it ever being so green or so vibrant. Seabirds shrieked their happiness at life, gliding on the updrafts before diving and climbing with wriggling silver in their beaks. And not just the sea. The forest, too, was alive in a way he had not seen before. The smells of recent rains were thick in the air, together with the salty tang blown up the rise by the gusting wind. He fancied he could hear many forest animals crashing or tiptoeing through the undergrowth, life-affirming noises and smells, a facade of contentment and tranquillity.
But that is all it was—a facade.
The battle two days before had been a bloody affair. Thousands were moldering on the plains of Gáirech. Those not dead were rampaging through the kingdoms, seeking a replacement for their lords’ promised riches. Hungry. Hurting. Vengeful. Warriors with a perceived grievance and no fundamental understanding of whom to blame.
“What do you think?” Kathvar asked, pulling him back onto the clifftop.
Genonn did not respond immediately but stared at Longas retreating down the hill path. If his claims were true, then Kathvar’s life was in danger. Finally, he turned to his father and said, “If he killed Fergus, he will need to kill you, too. He cannot allow that information free rein.” Warriors would shun him throughout the kingdoms of Ériu. Perhaps even beyond.
“You heard his words. Do you think he lied?”
“No. There was glee in his voice. He was proud of himself.”
“Yes. He was proud of stabbing a man in the back. I have little understanding of what is happening in the Five Kingdoms. Since when would a warrior of Ériu take pride in such a cowardly act?”
Genonn shook his head and once more turned to stare over the bay. If honest, he would tell his father he did not understand any recent events. The heroes and heroines of Ériu hacking ribbons out of each other on the hill of Gáirech was nonsense at best.
“If he tells the Cailleach, she, too, will send killers. If any of this came out, they would strangle her slowly.”
“I want to hire a guard, but I have no idea who I can trust.”
You can trust me, Father, Genonn wanted to snap but kept it to himself. “There are plenty of warriors seeking work.” Warriors who would kill their mother for the adulation of their caste.Genonn gazed out over the bay at the emerald-green sea. He did not recall it ever being so green or so vibrant. Seabirds shrieked their happiness at life, gliding on the updrafts before diving and climbing with wriggling silver in their beaks. And not just the sea. The forest, too, was alive in a way he had not seen before. The smells of recent rains were thick in the air, together with the salty tang blown up the rise by the gusting wind. He fancied he could hear many forest animals crashing or tiptoeing through the undergrowth, life-affirming noises and smells, a facade of contentment and tranquillity.
But that is all it was—a facade.
The battle two days before had been a bloody affair. Thousands were moldering on the plains of Gáirech. Those not dead were rampaging through the kingdoms, seeking a replacement for their lords’ promised riches. Hungry. Hurting. Vengeful. Warriors with a perceived grievance and no fundamental understanding of whom to blame.
“What do you think?” Kathvar asked, pulling him back onto the clifftop.
Genonn did not respond immediately but stared at Longas retreating down the hill path. If his claims were true, then Kathvar’s life was in danger. Finally, he turned to his father and said, “If he killed Fergus, he will need to kill you, too. He cannot allow that information free rein.” Warriors would shun him throughout the kingdoms of Ériu. Perhaps even beyond.
“You heard his words. Do you think he lied?”
“No. There was glee in his voice. He was proud of himself.”
“Yes. He was proud of stabbing a man in the back. I have little understanding of what is happening in the Five Kingdoms. Since when would a warrior of Ériu take pride in such a cowardly act?”
Genonn shook his head and once more turned to stare over the bay. If honest, he would tell his father he did not understand any recent events. The heroes and heroines of Ériu hacking ribbons out of each other on the hill of Gáirech was nonsense at best.
“If he tells the Cailleach, she, too, will send killers. If any of this came out, they would strangle her slowly.”
“I want to hire a guard, but I have no idea who I can trust.”
You can trust me, Father, Genonn wanted to snap but kept it to himself. “There are plenty of warriors seeking work.” Warriors who would kill their mother for the adulation of their caste.
“I know. I know. It is just understanding the best course.”
“What will we do about him?” Genonn asked, pointing at the back of the man walking down the hill. It was his father’s turn to peer over the bay, causing Genonn’s frown to deepen. Longas had killed Fergus, and he needed to pay. Despite his feelings about Gáirech’s waste, revenge was the code Genonn lived by. The code all warriors lived by.
“We have more pressing business.”
“I have nothing more pressing. I shall get after Longas.” Kathvar took hold of his wrist and shook his head. “He murdered Fergus, Father. A debt is owed.”
“I agree. However, Longas is a born killer. You are not.”
Genonn turned back to the waves as he asked, “What does that mean?”
“If you confront him, he will kill you. We will deal with Longas in good time.”
Genonn said nothing but remained on the knoll as the confessed killer passed through the gates of Indber Colptha and probably out of his reach.
“Why am I here?” he finally asked. As ever, you have no faith in me and yet wonder why I have chosen a different life.
“I need you to come with me to Dún Dealgan,” Kathvar said with an air of indifference as though Genonn should have known.
“What brought Longas here?”
“I hinted that I knew his secret, so I think he came to kill me.”
“And yet you live. How can that be?”
“By distraction and using his failings against him. Getting him to talk about his achievement. He thinks the murder to be a great act of bravery and would boast about it until his jaw broke if he could.”
“It is monstrous. I never liked him, but he is more vile than I realized,” Genonn said, shaking his head. “How did you know?”
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“I found Medb’s wailing covered in blood all a little too melodramatic. I saw her cut Mac Roth’s throat. There was none of the same emotion. Nothing but cold. When I found Longas slipping into camp after we found Fergus, I had my suspicions.” Kathvar paused. Genonn felt his usual irritation bubble under what he knew was an outward appearance of calm.
“He might have been returning from a call of the wild,” Genonn offered.
“No, he was too furtive. I admit some find natural function embarrassing. I would wager Longas is not the type.” Kathvar took hold of his sword hilt and stared at the screaming seabirds. He seemed distracted before turning back to Genonn and saying, “I suspected. I needed confirmation, which is why I lured him here.”
“You took an awful risk.”
“Not really,” Kathvar said, patting the hilt of his sword. “He remembered my reputation.”
So, I will die if I confront him, but you will be fine. Genonn could not believe his father’s arrogance, which age had failed to dampen. Warriors were rampaging through Ériuwith the heads of their victims adorning their belts. He would not do what they were doing, but did that make him less of a warrior? Not to his mind. He trained with Scáthach on the Shadowy Isle. How many of those at the battle could say the same?
“Do you really think the sight of your sword deterred him?”
Kathvar shook his head and shrugged. Genonn realized his father had no idea why Longas did not kill him. Patting his hilt and implying his sword was the reason was just his usual posturing.
“So, are you coming with me to Dún Dealgan?”
“Of course.” He owed Fergus a debt, and attending the funeral would not go even a little way to repaying it.
“We can hire horses in Indber Colptha,” he said as he started down the hill, not bothering to check if Kathvar was following.
***
The palisade of Crúachain poked through the mist, a pauper’s crown atop a monstrous head. The bleating of despondent sheep echoed from the plain. For once, Conall could not smell them because the stench of the army, which had gathered only a few days before, hung heavy in the air.
“It will be a glorious morning,” Imrinn said. Conall grunted a reply, the words from the reticent youth coming as a surprise.
Conall’s grunt was not only a result of his surprise. His thighs were aching; his arse was complaining because the cheeks felt like they’d been hung up and paddled by an angry fishwife. And all in vain. The army of Connacht was safe behind the wooden walls of their dún, their treacherous king with them.
“We’re too late,” he finally said.
Imrinn nodded, having returned to his reticence. Conall knew the youngster blamed him for Fergus’ death because he’d encouraged their friend to climb between Queen Medb’s legs and use intimacy as a way into her head. Now, one of Ulster’s great heroes was dead, murdered on the king’s orders, only to wander in the Void because of the ignominy of his passing, sword left beside the firepit, forgotten in his haste to lie with another man’s wife.
“Bull’s balls, Imrinn, you’re right to blame me. If I’d not suggested the affair…” He trailed off, glaring over the mists. “I’m a bundún, and no mistake.”
Imrinn pulled down his hood and looked at Conall, who found reading anything in the blank face impossible. He was more of an enigma than his older brother, Genonn, which Conall had not thought possible. Not until his long ride with the lad.
“I don’t blame you,” Imrinn said before turning back to the ráth. The words conveyed no feeling, which didn’t help Conall’s desire to know what had driven him to charge across the country. He knew anger was there; he was always angry, or so they said. Conall witnessed Imrinn fighting with his father, Kathvar, on the evening of the battle. His curiosity was born of the druid’s reaction to Imrinn announcing he would no longer follow the druidic way. The battle had been over, the queen defeated, everyone jubilant, even the druid, only for his youngest son to abandon the family calling. Genonn had turned his back on druidism years before, which meant Kathvar was now short a successor.
Conall shook his head, glad he was not subject to Kathvar’s wrath, who was notorious for punishing those who crossed him. Imrinn might be the old man’s son, but Conall didn’t think blood would intervene. Kathvar was one druid who let nothing get in the way of duty.
Why did you mount up and ride with me? he wondered again.
He and Imrinn had been together when they found Fergus after Medb ran into the Red Branch camp screaming bloody murder—screaming that her husband Ailill ordered the death of their hero. That morning, the warriors of Ulster gathered in a war council. All agreed that King Ailill ordered the killing. The guilt was confirmed when they discovered his army had decamped during the night, skulking off to Crúachain, not being an act of the innocent. Conall immediately gave chase, and Imrinn followed, which was a foolish thing to do. Once begun, neither could admit the folly; neither would pull on the reins and say, ‘Wait a minute. They’re an army, and we’re two men, one not even a warrior.’
Conall turned back to the black teeth of the palisade poking through the grey, the guards’ spearheads glinting in the weak sunlight. With mists below and smoke above, Crúachain appeared to be floating in the clouds, a royal palace of the Fae.
“Bull’s balls, but Ailill does live in the clouds if he thinks I won’t avenge Fergus,” he said, patting his mare’s neck, more to relieve his stress than hers.
“I cannot assist you,” Imrinn said.
“Meaning?”
“I must go, Conall. This fruitless charge across the kingdoms cost me time I don’t have.”
“So, why did you come?”
Wiping his forehead with the back of a gloved hand, Imrinn said, “I’ve no idea. Impulse? Or maybe I just needed to get away from my father.”
“Aye. I heard you fighting,” Conall admitted.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Staring over the plain, Conall asked Imrinn where he intended to go while wondering at the fickleness of youth. He also recognized the vanity of their chase, but it had no bearing on him. He had to go on. His revenge—killing the king—was all that remained; all he could do to make amends for sending Fergus on a foolish errand, which had ended the only way it could.
Instead of answering, Imrinn nodded toward the settlement and asked, “What do you mean to do here?”
Conall shook his head. He didn’t know how to answer. What could he do except await his chance to kill the king? “I suppose you’re going to the island because Kathvar isn’t in Caer Leb?”
“He’s petitioning the southern kings. Gives me a chance to talk to the elders or just to Dornoll, maybe.” The lad’s voice took on a different tone when he mentioned the leader of the Elder Council. Almost obsequious. So, he is in thrall to her. “There is a reckoning due. The Council must decide how best to claim it.”
Conall glanced over, curious, but Imrinn stared innocently across the plain. Maybe I’m hearing things that don’t exist. “Aye, there’s a debt, but who owes it other than the king?”
“The king is behind strong ramparts. An army is needed to break him out. There will be a siege, which the Elder Council must sanction. They won’t do it without proof.”
“Who else could it have been,” Conall said. They won’t do it unless it is in their own interest, you mean. No one doubted the queen when she came wailing into camp, covered in blood, he thought.
“I don’t believe her,” Imrinn said as if he’d seen into Conall’s head. “She ran into camp like a mad woman, then ran for Crúachain like a horde of síabraí was after her. That was an act of guilt, not of mourning.”
“Aye, lad, maybe,” Conall said, frowning across the plain.
“You cannot do anything here. The chase is lost. Why not come with me? Get permission from Dornoll and return with the Red Branch to lay siege.”
Conall considered the words.
The gates of Crúachain were closed, and the sentries on the palisade and gatehouse were alert. He didn’t doubt the king told them to kill him on sight. Ailill was afraid, and rightly so. They exchanged promises: Ailill promised no harm befall Fergus, and Conall pledged not to fight for the Red Branch. As soon as the battle was over, the king ordered the death of his best friend, playing Conall for a fool.
No one played him for a fool and lived.
“I’ll stay a while longer.”
Imrinn offered his wrist in the warrior’s grip. “May the Tuatha guide you.”
“That sorry lot never guided anyone,” he said with a chuckle. “Take it handy, lad.”
Conall watched as Imrinn turned and rode back into the forest. His mare whinnied, edging sideways, and he patted her neck again.
“Easy, girl. What has you so riled? I wager you were spoiling for a charge,” he said with a tight, joyless smile.
He rubbed his chin, getting some solace from the rasp, wanting to accept the wisdom of Imrinn’s words but finding it as hard as the chase.
Anyone could see there would be no glorious death seeking revenge on this day. He wouldn’t reach the gates before a slingshot, arrow, or spear knocked him from his horse, leaving him dying in sheep pellets and wondering about the vagaries of a warrior’s life.
A sudden breeze rattled the leaves as if the forest were talking to Conall, scolding him for stupidity. Urging him to go for the Red Branch, but he was too proud. They’d abandoned him when Mac Nessa put a price on his head. He would be staring into Donn’s mound before he forgave them.
The leaves rattled again.
“I hear you,” he hissed, not needing the forest to tell him. He knew he was wasting time staring across Mag nAí at the inaccessible fortress. And in truth, charging across the Five Kingdoms did nothing to alleviate his hurt. He missed his friend, and now he’d missed the funeral, his chance to give a final farewell and advice on how to convince Donn to let him sit at His table, all thrown away by a reckless chase.
He continued to stare across the plain for a few more moments, waiting for some sign of weakness despite the futility of it. Finally, with a sigh, he said, “I’m sorry, Fergus, vengeance will have to wait.”