Sitting on the throne of the unfortunate chieftain, Nechtan glowered at the fénnid in the blockhouse. He frowned at their slurred words and scuffles, at their pissing in corners, and at Gráinne riding Sharvan like she was breaking a horse. He often wondered why she’d chosen a lump like Sharvan. In the light of the blockhouse, he might even describe her as passable and capable of finding a better man.
“Hey, Sharvan, can I have a go?” Maolmordha cried, which the company met with raucous cheering and cup banging.
The warriors were already displaying signs of the boredom he’d hoped to allay with the invasion of the settlement. Nechtan hated it when they no longer controlled themselves, succumbing to their frustrations. It is the lot of the warrior caste, he allowed. Without the blood and pillaging, they would never have joined a fían or any warband. Youngsters didn’t take up with a band of raiders because of a need to defend the people or even for the promise of easy riches. No. It was because they were born killers, and if they didn’t become warriors, they would end up dancing on the end of a rope. Some were like him, stolen by raiders, destined for the slave markets until someone noticed their potential. But most were just youths born into a world where killing in battle was rewarded, and a need to commit murder was given an outlet through the frequent warring.
Nechtan sighed.
They were like children with a constant need for entertainment. The torture amused them for a short while but nowhere near as long as he’d hoped. It would soon be time to move on. Maybe not such a bad thing, he thought. They had all but used up Mathaman’s stores. The silver they expected to find turned out to be nothing more than a paltry sum hidden under the throne seat.
And how was that for pretension? A throne in a flea-infested blockhouse in the Wicklow Mountains. A boil on the arse of the Five Kingdoms. The cúl an tí thought himself a king. The little silver they found meant he was no king. Kings were rich. They had gold, silver, and jewels. Kings had warriors in thrall, not the four sorry excuses the fián dispatched when they arrived. They were pretenders, commoners with rusty mail and blunt swords, raised to fill a role. Killing them had been pitifully easy. Now, they were raven food, staked out in the square before the blockhouse. Eyeless. Without cheeks. Rotting reminders that aspirations were not a good thing unless you had the proper training and no compunction.
Shame the place fell on hard times, he thought, remembering the fun last time he sat in this blockhouse. Back then, he was a young fénnid, not a captain, and Mathaman was generous with his food, mead, and women. This time, not so much. Sending an old shite to turn them away at the gate was the cause of the fat man’s plight. Had he shown courtesy, he would now be laughing with the fénnid and enjoying a cup or two, except the mead was almost gone.
“Where’s the silver?” Nechtan asked of the naked chief, hanging from the central beam by his wrists. Mathaman would be hanging by his fingers, but the dog shite had none, having refused to give up his hoard. In hindsight, Nechtan doubted there was any more silver. Mathaman was weak and would have revealed any riches. His people were not even worth driving to the slave market in Indber Colptha. Slavers would not pay for bodies with so little meat on them. Still, killing the guards, torturing the chief, and drinking the stores of mead had distracted them from their wounds.
They were on the last barrel and would soon need something else to distract them. Being captain of a fían proved more challenging than he would have liked, at least since the queen’s abortive bull thievery. Maybe it was time to find another way to make a little silver. But doing what? He supposed there was always the steading and the redhead, herding cows and raising brats, but that would take a pot of silver. A pot he currently didn’t have and was unlikely to get any time soon.
“No more silver, you say?” he called. Mathaman did not lift his head nor deign to answer. Nechtan laughed. “Soon be time to find another ráth to plunder. Can’t all be as poor as Mathaman.”
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Those who heard banged their cups and cheered. It was good to hear them cheering again. On the ride from Gáirech to Ráth Droma, he thought they were losing their banter. All he heard for days was groans, bellyaching, and whispering.
Wouldn’t do to forget the whispering.
The cup banging stopped abruptly.
The warriors started to crane their necks, trying to see. A sixth sense was alerting them to the arrival of some sport. Nechtan looked towards the door. Uala, one of the guards, was pushing someone towards the dais using the point of a lance to hurry whoever it was. A prisoner. Some fun, no doubt. The warriors began throwing things at the unfortunate, who kept his hood up, curling into himself to avoid pain.
“We have a guest, Uala?” Nechtan asked, suspecting the man was a warrior. With his hood up, there was no way to tell by his face, but he carried himself like a fighting man.
“Aye, we do. Pull down your hood, man.”
The prisoner hesitated for a moment before he complied. Nechtan smiled at Captain Bréannin, who was staring at him with a drawn face. He had the appearance of a man who’d survived a mortal wound, only to find a neighbor had razed his steading while he was away.
“Bréannin. Captain of Dún Ailinne. Where did you find him?”
“He rode up to the gate, bold as an untried warrior. Nearly fell off me perch,” Uala said, shaking his head and laughing.
“You’re a long way from home, Captain.”
“I might say the same, Nechtan. What is this?” Bréannin indicated the warriors. “You are raiders now?”
“We were always raiders. We take on the mantle of fían when the need arises, or the silver is worth the risk. Speaking of silver, Captain, I think you’re in our debt.”
“Captain no more. Not since Gáirech.”
“I thought as much. You still owe us silver, though.”
The onetime captain shook his head and jutted his chin, hissing, “I’m not to blame for the outcome of that sorry battle.”
“No. That was Medb’s fault. Had she followed the advice of her king, we would all be on the ramparts of the mighty Crúachain, baring our arses to the besieging Red Branch. You offered us silver for our part in the wall. Silver, which is, so far, not in our possession.” Nechtan listened as the erstwhile captain explained that the queen owed them silver. Shaking his head, he replied, “You offered us the contract if memory serves. What brings you to Ráth Droma?”
“I’ve another commission for you.”
Nechtan leaned forward, elbows on knees, and asked, “Another commission, is it? And why should we trust you to keep your bargain this time? Why should we not strip you of your belongings and hang you next to Mathaman? I’m sure he’d welcome some company.”
“I think thirty cumals ought to sway you.”
The warriors in the blockhouse whistled. Nechtan could see Sharvan. His eyes were open so wide they were in danger of popping out. Gráinne was frozen on his lap like a grotesque parody of the stone statues the Romans were said to make. Thirty cumals would be enough to last a frugal warrior for a lifetime. Nechtan tried to gauge the other warriors, partially hidden in the shadows. He didn’t need to see them. He could feel the excitement washing off them like an ebbing tide. They would not allow him to turn down the contract. Not with that amount on offer. Like ants working in their little nest, they would forget the past as one, guided by greed.
“Who is the patron?” he asked, turning to Bréannin.
“I am instructed not to tell you, Nechtan. If you agree, you are to go to Tre’r Ceiri, in the mountains on the coast of Alba, and meet the contact.”
The dún of the Ordovices. The place I’ve spent my time as captain avoiding. “Thirty cumals, but no patron. It sounds a risk to me, warriors. What are your thoughts?”
The cheers and banging of cups answered him. If anyone in the blockhouse voiced doubts, they went unheard through the noise.
“You will tell us the target, at least?”
“Kathvar, the druid. You know him?”
“Does your patron not know it is geis to kill a druid?”
“Maybe, but most taboos fall by the wayside when the purse is big enough.”
“Tre’r Ceiri in the Ordovices territory?”
“Of course. It’s where all contracts are sealed?”
Sailing. I hate the sea. Manannán’s as unpredictable as a redheaded wife.
“You ask a lot, Bréannin.”
“And you, Nechtan, will be richly rewarded. You decide.”
Nechtan looked at the faces gazing at him from the shadows. The merriment of moments before was now a silent expectation. Each of them was willing him to accept the commission and make them a fortune. They left him without a choice. He could not refuse.
“Prepare to leave,” he called, throwing the dregs of his drink into the dust of the blockhouse floor.