Conall hadn’t ridden more than a league when the earlier rumble became more constant, and spears of lightning lit up the sky above the forest, leaching the canopy of all color. Shivering, he lifted his head only for a heavy raindrop to hit him squarely between the eyes.
“Spring my hairy hole,” he said to the mare, patting her neck and digging his heels into her flanks. “Run!”
She neighed and picked up her pace. The warrior delighted in her strength. He’d pushed her most of the way from Crúachain, and still, she felt joy in the race.
He knew there was a hostel around the next bend. He would get a meal and bed down for the night. There was no hurry to get to Beál Feirste. Ships were trading with the Romans in Gaul, so he would have no issue finding a bench. He could row to pay for his passage. Always good exercise. It was true he was getting old, but he was still more than able to sit between a couple of sailors and pull his weight.
There was no point in wasting good silver.
The rainfall had begun in earnest by the time he reached the hostel. Drawing rein, he called, “Hallo the gate,” which was opened by a boy, wrapped in a heavy cloak, holding a guttering torch.
“A room for the night, Lord?” the boy asked with a hand over his forehead, keeping the rain out of his face.
“Aye, a room, but I’m no one’s lord,” Conall said, shaking his head.
Waving his torch as a guide, the boy said, “Stables are in back.”
As soon as Conall was sure the mare would be well cared for, he thanked the stablemaster and ran to the common room through the thrashing rain. The drops landed so hard they bounced back into the air before settling and creating little loughs for his leaking boots. When he opened the door, the heat and the noise slapped him in the face. Instead of heading straight for a bench, he stood and shook the water out of his cowl, glaring at the patrons crowding the firepit. For such a stormy night, the place was humming, the sound of a settlement with much to talk about. And loudly. Any chance of a quiet night’s contemplation went billowing through the smoke hole above the pit. The smoke covering the room like a shroud at a funeral rite was heavy with the aroma of roasting meat. Despite the unwelcome crowd, Conall started to salivate at the thoughts of ale and a haunch of boar.
Still craving his own company, he chose a bench away from the crowded firepit in the deepest shadows and called for a serving boy. He was eating when a man came over and stood before him, arms crossed, waiting patiently for permission to speak. Conall tried to ignore him, but the man would not take the hint, so he nodded reluctantly.
“You a warrior?”
“Aye. What of it?”
“We was wondering,” the man indicated the patrons around the firepit, who were staring, eyes full of the usual hunger, “if you’d any news of the battle.”
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“Which battle would that be, now?”
“Gáirech. We heard the armies of the Five Kingdoms fought there. Put the Cailleach in her place.”
“So, you have the news. What more do you need from me?”
“Details, mostly.”
Conall didn’t enjoy storytelling. He was among the few in the Five Kingdoms who could say so. He did, however, understand the need. He knew how the folk in the hostel, the cattle herders, woodsmen, smiths, and brewers, longed for a life like his. If only they knew the reality, they would be less inclined to dream. Most of them, anyway. There would be some like him who would crave it. Not that it mattered. How could he tell them there was no glory in battle? All they saw was the shiny helmets, the mail coats, golden torcs, and armbands; the riches and the banter, men and women who enjoyed their lives. How could he explain to those who toiled all day in a field it came at a price? How could he tear apart their dreams, telling them battle held only blood, shit, and the screams of the dying, all calling for their mothers in the agony of their final moments? How could he tell them that the heroes of the tales, those who died smiling and telling their comrades they would wait for them at Donn’s table, were just stories to be told around the firepit? How could he tell them there were no cheery waves as they left their mortal remains behind? How could he tell them that being a warrior took a particular sort: a person with no morals, no fear, and no compunction; a person who enjoyed the thrill of the kill; a person like him, like Fergus, like Cú Chulainn; a killer?
The easy answer: he could not.
So he faked a smile and told them how Cú Chulainn thwarted Medb’s advance with his ogham challenges. The warrior told them how he kept them at bay until the Red Branch was ready when he left to tend his wounds. How the battle swayed back and forth until Fergus broke the lines and allowed Mac Nessa to leave the field rather than kill him. He told them how he convinced Cú to join the battle and how Fergus withdrew, taking his three hundred warriors and leaving the queen’s armies in a place from where they could not recover. Conall told them how Medb sacrificed the bull and pretended victory despite her defeat. He told them it was a glorious day of battle. He told them the filidh would talk and sing of Gáirech for eternity.
He did not tell them how Fergus died, creating the two-headed monster with the Cailleach in a forest clearing. He did not tell them how some coward stabbed his friend in the back of the neck with a spear on the orders of King Ailill. He did not tell them one of Ireland’s greatest warriors died because of petty jealousy and cowardice.
He told them what they wanted to hear.
And when he finished telling them, the fire was nothing but embers. The birds could be heard singing in welcome to the new dawn. Those patrons around the firepit still awake were dazed to silence.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Conall glowered at them, staring back in a daze. They’d been satiated one more time. It had taken all night, and the preparation of the fields for the sowing would be delayed by a day, but they were happy. Or at least, he hoped the daze was one of happiness.
“And now, we need to recover. We need to be prepared for the invasion from the east.”
“Invasion?” the man who first approached him asked.
“Aye. I’ve a friend. Well, not a friend, a druid. Kathvar, they call him. High in the Elder Council. He’s always saying the Romans are coming. If he’s right, then we can’t afford to be fighting among ourselves.”
“So, now you’ll tell us of these Romans?”
“You provide the mead, and I’ll give you a story,” Conall said, holding out his cup.