Nechtan could see no sign of lights from Tre’r Ceiri in the heart of Ordovices’ territory, guessing they were hidden by the stone walls surrounding the settlement. The mountains were black and dense. The light from his warriors’ smoking torches danced over the narrow road and the boulders on either side, which stood like guardians to a monstrous kingdom. Nechtan knew one wrong step, and they would wake to crush them with stone weapons wielded by stone fists and merciless bearers. He felt a shuddering rise from his saddle to the nape of his neck. His neck hairs began to tingle. He didn’t feel safe in this territory and had felt his panic building as soon as they set sail from Lúr Cinn Trá.

Tuatha take Bréannin and his thirty cumhals.

Although commissions were usually negotiated in Tre’r Ceiri, Nechtan had never been to the dún. The Ordovices had a reputation for short tempers and heavy hammers. He had never been a captain who would risk his warriors. It was one of the reasons he commanded their loyalty, at least until now. In the aftermath of Gáirech, his control was slipping. Otherwise, he would never have brought them to this dread place. He hated the sea, too. Almost as much as he hated redheaded fools.

An owl hooted, causing his neck hairs to riot anew. Nechtan could see the warriors fidgeting in their saddles. Fear was a palpable force rising from his band.

Sharvan just sat and stared around, too dim to recognize the threat. Gráinne’s face was contorted as if she’d seen a síabair rising from one of the boulders. Maolmordha’s mount kept shying and whinnying, feeling the nervousness of its rider.

“Come, let’s get this over with,” Nechtan said, spurring his horse. He was sitting upright in his saddle, trying to show a strength he was not feeling.

The horses approached the stone walls with deliberate, slow steps, showing more sense than their riders. Nechtan shuddered anew as they neared the tunnel entrance, which dove under the gatehouse. A guard appeared with a torch, demanding their business. Nechtan could see several spearheads behind him and knew the walls to be crammed with warriors—the Ordovices, the terrors of Western Alba.

“I’m Nechtan with my fían. We have a meeting.”

“Aye, you’re expected. Take your mounts over to the enclosure. Leave them with the horse master. You go the rest of the way on foot.”

The guards showed them no regard as they walked out of the tunnel and into the settlement. The one who directed them to the horse enclosure pointed them toward the hostel and returned to his guard duty.

Despite the size of the settlement, it was not long before Nechtan was glowering over the lip of his cup at the cowhide concealing the entrance at the opposite end of the long hall. The steady stream of air through the hole above the firepit didn’t stop his eyes from smarting. The drinkers were coughing but bravely ignoring the dense atmosphere and the stench of unwashed bodies. Whatever wood the hallkeeper was burning, he hadn’t cured it correctly. Nechtan hated jobs half-done or not at all. The locals were not so fussy, which came as a surprise. He thought attention to detail would be essential in a place where assassins were hired.

I can sympathize with Bréannin’s refusal to come with us, Nechtan thought, shivering. He also wished he were elsewhere. Now they were drinking inside the hostel; the fían was not suffering from the same second thoughts. But then, they were swimming in mead; they had been since arriving in the hall.

He kept asking himself who would be willing to pay for the death of one of the most senior members of the Elder Council. He had his suspicions. The number of people in the Five Kingdoms who could afford to pay thirty cumhals to have someone killed was few. He thought he knew who would be entering the hall with a lot of silver and a hidden face.

A loud crack caused him to turn away from the cowhide cover, but it was only a log exploding in the pit, a tall column of sparks just beginning to fall back into the fire. Most of them anyway; Sharvan was cursing and slapping at his triús, a vain attempt to prevent the hole already there, the others laughing and slapping each other, spilling their drinks. Sharvan cursed when Gráinne threw her mead over the smoking patch.

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“You don’t want to burn,” she laughed. “Specially not there. That’s your best bit.” The warriors screamed with laughter.

Shaking his head, smiling, Nechtan looked back towards the entrance to see a tall woman standing where the light of fire and brazier did not entirely penetrate. He could see her staring intently at the warriors despite the deep shadows. He could not see any features under her cowl but imagined she would be beautiful. Something about her carriage spoke of a confidence the homely would not have. She had what appeared to be stuffed saddlebags over her shoulder.

“As I thought,” he hissed into his cup.

As if she had heard him, the woman turned towards his table and walked over, keeping her face in shadow as she came.

“Nechtan?”

“Aye,” he replied, trying to see through the shadows hiding her face.

“You are early,” she said as she dropped the saddlebags and took the bench opposite, keeping her head down.

“I always arrive early. Easiest way to spot a trap. How did you know me?”

“You are the only warrior in the hostel not enjoying himself.”

“But then, I could just be a surly shite, could I not?” he laughed.

“By the way you looked at me when I came in, my feeling is you probably are a shite. Surly? You might be. Expecting company? Definitely.” Nechtan smiled in agreement and offered her a cup. “No. I will not be here long enough to drink it. You know the target?”

“Bréannin told me. Why? My curiosity demands to know.”

“It is none of your concern. I am in this spoor hole because I do not want to answer questions. Bréannin did not make that plain?”

“Why did you ask for me?”

“You are said to be the best,” the woman said, tilting her head in question.

“Aye, that I am. But then, what does that mean? Nadcranntail was said to be the greatest warrior in the Five Kingdoms. I was in the crowd when Cú Chulainn killed him in a heartbeat. Never seen anyone die so fast. Sword into his left shoulder, heart cleaved in two, horrible way for a warrior to die.”

“Really? Sounds quick and painless.”

“And so it is. Very quick, no pain – and a shameful way to be beaten. No warrior wants to die without crossing weapons. Dying without honor is our bane, Lady.”

“I am not here to discuss warrior games. Do you want the commission or not?” Her anger was evident, even though he could see little of her face, the brazier light not piercing the shadows of her cowl.

He smiled. “Of course.”

“This,” she hefted the saddlebags onto the table, “is a down payment. The rest will be paid when the deed is done.”

“How will it be paid?”

“I am not sure I understand the question. It will be paid in silver, of course.”

“And am I to come knocking on the gates of your dún requesting it?”

“No, no. If you take Slíghe Chualann through the forest on the south side of Átha Clíath, there is a large, sundered oak fifteen or twenty paces back from the road. Black from a lightning strike. You know of it?” He nodded; the oak was so distinct it was often used as a meeting place. “Seven nights after the deed is done, Bréannin will be there with the balance.”

“Bréannin will be waiting with my silver? You expect me to trust you or him?”

“I might ask you the same question, fénnid. You have a cumhal of silver in those saddlebags. At least if I am robbing you, you have something to show for it. What will I have if you fail me?”

“You will have my reputation.”

“Your reputation. How is that any guarantee?” the woman scoffed.

“Were I to renege on an agreement, I would never be offered another contract, and a cumhal, although a tidy sum, would not last a lifetime.”

Divided among this sorry lot, it would hardly last a month.

“We must trust each other, it seems.”

“Aye, it would appear so.” Nechtan shook his head and smiled. The woman knew how to get what she wanted.

“Bréannin is waiting in Indber Colptha. If you have any questions, he will answer them.” Nechtan nodded without comment. “So, we have nothing left to discuss. I will leave. Execute the contract as soon as possible. There is some urgency. Be aware, I am not a patient person.”

Watching her walk away, he still thought the woman was a beauty, even though her face remained in shadow. He undid the saddlebag buckle, pulled back the flap, and whistled at the silver glistening in the firelight.

“So, who is she?” Sharvan asked as he sat on the bench and poured a cup of mead.

“She never said, but if I were to hazard a guess, I would say she’s the Cailleach of Crúachain.”

“Queen Medb?”

“In the flesh.”