Macc crept through the settlement of Temuir, heading for the inner fort where the High King slept. He had already passed the feast hall and climbed the outer palisade of The King’s Fort. Despite Nuadu’s paranoia, the guards on the palisade were inattentive. Crouching in the shadow of the wooden palisade, he could see the black lump that was the Mound of Hostages just to his left. He knew Nuadu would be sleeping in his roundhouse in the inner fort, behind and to the right of the Mound. He could just make out the deeper shadow of the fort from where he was crouching.

All seemed quiet.

Macc nervously gripped his knife with his right hand, the knuckles white. He did not want to kill a man in his bed, let alone a High King, but knew it must be done. High king or no, it was little more than Nuadu deserved, having done the same to the ruler before him. However, that did not ease Macc’s tension or his loathing of assassination.

He would do it because it needed to be done. Things had been reaching a nadir over recent months. The way Nuadu had usurped power was becoming known throughout the Five Kingdoms. As is so often the way, no one spoke of it, yet it became common knowledge. The people were now openly scorning their High King, and the Elder Council always worried when hidden discontent became open scorn.

Macc wondered at the speed with which the usurper turned his own people against himself. Eterscel’s reign soured towards the end, but he had been on the throne for fourteen years. Nuadu’s reign was souring in less than a year. When he took power, there had been those willing to think he would be a strong High King, some of them among the Elder Council; those beliefs were unfounded. Macc thought it might be because he was short a hand and, therefore, in the eyes of most, not a complete man. Maybe the prejudices of the people were why the old laws forbade the disabled from being proclaimed High King? He did not rightly know.

However, the shift in people’s thinking was noticeable, which went some way towards explaining what had happened since Eterscel’s death. Macc did wonder why the druids had done nothing immediately after Nuadu wrested power from Eterscel. The council was not a forgiving order, but they could not act precipitously, they said, claiming they had spent time planning for the moment of retribution. They intimated that the planning had to be carefully done, stressing that they couldn’t rush into a situation where warriors were waving swords and using shields of indignant righteousness.

Not when one of their own was involved.

And Bres was one of their own.

He was a member of the council. The problem they claimed to have been facing was how to gainsay the apparent legitimacy of Bres’s claim. Nuadu had been proclaimed High King through a legal Bull Feast, overseen by Bres and witnessed by several chieftains. The druids could not openly contradict a foretelling by a member of their own order. That would instill mistrust in a group whose power relied on unquestioning faith.

Macc was not a vociferous supporter of the druidic ways. However, this Bres was causing him to question even his silent support of their methods. The council told Macc and Connery that they were unsure of Bres’s motives in holding a Bull Feast and declaring Nuadu High King. They claimed they could get to the root of that issue only after justice had been served and the usurper replaced. They were as keen to understand how Bres could support the removal of Eterscel as Macc, they had said.

During their time on the island of Ynys Môn, Nuadu twice sent knifemen to kill them. Luckily, both attempts had been foiled by bad luck, or ill judgment, or the intervention of the sisters, Banbha, Fódla, and Ériu. It seemed to the warrior that something had protected them from harm.

Are the Fáithe watching over us?

On the first occasion, the ship owner Nuadu hired to carry the assassins to Caergybi had killed them at sea and presented their heads to the Elder Council in the hope of a hefty reward. On the second occasion, the wolfhounds that Taidle presented to Connery as a gift of friendship had howled so loudly at the stealthy approach, the guards were compelled to investigate and discovered them about to enter the hut where the intended targets were groggy but rousing because of the noise the dogs were making. Macc had dashed to the house where Buachalla was sleeping to find her sleepy but unharmed.

And so it comes to this.

Macc turned his mind back to the present. He breathed slowly as he crept through the settlement with his back against the timber of a roundhouse. The night had reached that time when the light of the stars was gone, but the sun’s first light was yet to breast the horizon, so the shadows were deep, and the chances of him being seen were remote. Even so, he had blacked the blade of his knife so it would not catch the light of any torch or fire as he made his way through the settlement. Macc didn’t doubt there were guards outside the royal roundhouse, but they were still out of sight. He knew he would need to dispatch them quickly and with little noise if his mission was to stand any chance of success.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Edging around the house, he held his breath lest the guards should hear him. He became ever more nervous as he crept. His mind was full of what-ifs. What if Nuadu was not there? What if he was seen and the alarm raised?

As Macc arrived at the front of the roundhouse, he saw the silhouettes of two guards. Both appeared to be sleeping because their chins were resting on their chests. He guessed that under Nuadu’s silver hand, warriors had relaxed their typically tight self-control. No warrior guarding Eterscel would have fallen asleep.

Macc crept closer, staying as quiet as possible. Even though they seemed asleep, the slightest sound could awaken them to danger. If anyone raised the alarm, he would die, and all would be lost. The child he had been nurturing since pulling him from his mother’s teat all those years before would be condemned to a life of exile.

Only a few paces from his quarry, Macc once more stopped and listened. He was surprised there were no dogs in the settlement. Dogs had saved him from an assassin’s knife on Ynys Môn; from that moment, he would swear by them as guards. But there was nothing. No movement. No reason for alarm.

Something is not right.

The guard to the left of the entrance had his head lolling in what appeared to be sleep. However, Macc could see blood pooling between the man’s feet. In the dark, it looked like a pool of tar oil. His throat had been cut.

Not sleeping then.

Checking the other guard—guessing he too would be dead—Macc was careful to make sure before entering the royal house. The second guard had a knife hilt protruding from his right eye socket, which had been hidden from his view as he approached. Whoever had dispatched Nuadu’s guards did it efficiently.

Macc transferred his knife to his left hand and slowly pulled back the oxhide cover. The embers of a dying fire lit some areas of the interior, but others were shrouded in impenetrable darkness. There was no sound from within. Not even the heavy breathing of one deep in sleep. He edged in and stayed close to the timber wall, feeling his way with his foot.

He kept his movement around the interior slow, steady, noiseless. His concentration was at its peak, and his warrior instincts were to the fore. For such a large man, Macc was surprisingly light on his feet, and his senses were honed to a needle-sharp acuteness. So, the sudden striking of a flint and the flare of a torch came as a shock.

The torch swamped the darkened areas with sudden light. Macc was momentarily blinded but could hear no rush of feet indicating an attack, so he stayed calm. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a man standing beside the usurper’s bed with a flint in each hand. An oil-soaked torch blazed in a bracket nailed to the wooden column beside the bed. A blood-soaked blade lay beside the calm face of Nuadu Necht on the cushion where it rested, seemingly in repose.

Macc looked from the High King’s face to the hides covering his body. The man beside the bed wore druidic robes and had the beard of an elder of the order. Both the robes and the beard were dripping blood. The man’s face was devoid of emotion, his eyes staring at Macc with an unmanning intensity.

“You are?” Macc asked in a loud whisper, thinking that it must be Bres and wondering what possible reason he could have for killing his High King. He was surprised, though, when the druid spoke.

“I am Kathvar, Macc Cecht. The druid of Emain Macha and King Connavar.” The druid did not whisper as though their discovery in the royal roundhouse with the corpse of the late High King would not cause any concern for the people of Temuir.

“And you know me, how?”

“Everyone in the Five Kingdoms knows of Macc Cecht. You are a warrior renowned, and tales of your feats precede you wherever you travel.”

Frowning, Macc nodded. The words might be accurate, but he guessed the druid knew him regardless, had been expecting him to arrive.

“Flattery does not suit you, druid. Tell me why I should not slit your throat and heave you in next to silver hand in the bed there?”

“Quite apart from the fact that it is taboo to harm a druid, you and your future High King would gain no advantage by my death,” Kathvar said in an offhand manner, which somehow emphasized its truth.

“Unless you failed to notice, Kathvar, we are alone. There would be no witnesses.”

The druid laughed, which disconcerted Macc even further. The laugh was genuine, not in any way forced. He realized the old man did not fear him or death.

Maybe Donn himself wouldn’t scare this man.

“But many know we are here at the same time, warrior; they would surmise your guilt in a heartbeat.”

Macc thought the druid was not wrong. He could continue to threaten, but the threats would be idle, and the man with a bloody beard knew it.

They stayed still, staring at each other for a long time. Nothing stirred. Temuir remained silent. No alarm had yet been raised. The people of the settlement were safe in their lack of knowledge.

“We could stay here and stare at each other all night, or we could leave before we are discovered,” the druid said. Macc conceded the point but did not immediately leave.

“I must do something first,” he said, moving towards the usurper’s bed with his knife ready.