The storm was only a memory the third morning after Conall arrived in the hostel. The sun was above the canopy of trees. Birds were flying, chattering to each other, welcoming yet another spring morning. The forest smelled fresh. He couldn’t remember such a freshness since before the armies arrived on the field of Mag nAí. He’d been breathing through his mouth, a habit born of marching with hordes.

Conall dunked his head in the horse trough and came up spluttering. He’d already eaten and paid for his breakfast. His mare was frisky and skittish, unable to remain still. Conall was also skittish, not wanting to tarry, needing a fresh wind to blow away the haze from three night’s drinking. He could sleep on the move when he got far enough along. The mare knew the road without his help.

Conall swung into the saddle and glowered down at the hosteller, standing beside the trough with his arms crossed.

“What do I owe for the room?” he asked, leaning on the horn of his saddle.

“You stayed three nights in the common room. No payment needed for that. Gave us some stories to remember, which is more than enough.”

Conall cleared his throat.

It was usual for a traveler to tell tales in exchange for meat, mead, and a bed. The better the story, the less owed. He spat, trying to clear the taste in his mouth. He would have shaken his head, except three nights worth of mead was making that a risk he was not willing to take. It seemed his tales were enough to pay for a room he never took but insufficient for his breakfast. He was too tired to argue and goaded his mare through the already open gate.

As Conall reached the fork in the road, he thought the throbbing in his head would cause his skull to crack. Turning north, he decided to ride through Windy Gap. The Gap was not the fastest route, but it was not much of a detour and a good remedy for the blinding lights flashing behind his eyes. He would arrive in Beál Feirste before nightfall if he kept a steady pace.

With the gait of his mare, the rocking motion was lulling him, so he did not see the crows until he was already on the rise leading to the pass. The wind was from the south, whistling as always, so he could not hear their cawing. He guessed the noise would be ear-numbing if it blew from the north.

“Something dead up in the pass,” he said, patting the mare’s neck. “More than one something, judging by the crows.”

He turned and gazed south, thinking of Slíghe Midluachra and a route free from corpses. He’d had his fill of battles for a while. He did not want to see crows feasting on the remnants of some warrior. He reined in and sat contemplating the black clouds swooping and wheeling.

“What do you think?” he asked the mare, patting her neck again. She whinnied and shook her head, aware of what the crows meant. Staring at the wheeling birds, he realized he had no choice. He needed to know who had fallen. Needed to know if there were warriors in the pass who required help. Most, he knew, would be dead and headless, therefore beyond the clumsy care of an aging captain.

Sighing, he dug in his heels and took the rise at a canter. The sooner he reached the summit, the sooner he would be through. He felt a sudden urge to keep riding: take the rise and pretend there was nothing in the Gap but a mud-spattered track and a few boulders. As his mare began stretching her legs, fighting the incline, the idea took a firm grip.

“Bull’s balls, but I’m getting old!” he bellowed and then laughed.

Breasting the rise, he only saw the headless corpse tied to a rock because his horse stopped and whinnied, frightening the scavenging crows away from their feast. Had she not, Conall would have seen nothing but a mass of writhing black feathers, crows squawking and squabbling, others queueing above, waiting their turn. He would have continued riding for Beál Feirste. He would have ridden through the pass and not looked back. He would have been free.

He would have missed his headless foster son.

“Gods damn you, Cú, what’re you doing here?”

The youth was tied to a rock by his cloak, without a head, ravaged by crows. It should have been hard to see who it was, but Conall would recognize the lad’s torso anywhere. He’d watched him grow into the body of a god from his rangy fourteen summers. At first, he watched with curiosity and then with pride. They shared Conall’s roundhouse for a time because Cú was not a son of high enough standing to be admitted to the boys’ house.

“Cú?”

He felt a lump in his throat. How could it be? The lad was at peace beside the cairn on the rise above his dún. How did he end up here in Windy Gap, tied to a rock?

“Cú,” he called, goading his mare down the slope. As he leaped from the saddle, he caught sight of the body of Laeg a short way off, a dagger protruding from his eye.

“Oh, my son,” he cried as he cut Cú’s cloak with his sword before cradling the body onto its back.

Besides Laeg, there were other bodies: two warriors near rocks behind which they might have been hiding. There were several cold fires, scuffed as if hastily extinguished, as though a warband had waited in the pass for Cú and Laeg and hid just before they arrived. Conall scanned the Gap. It was strewn with gorse and large boulders, an ideal place for an ambush.

But how? Three nights since, you were kneeling beside the cairn. Called in to eat. How can you be here, tied to a rock in Windy Gap? Conall knew his mind was trying to deny what his eyes could see. He didn’t want to see it. He wished he were still riding, heading for Beál Feirste, not knowing what he now knew.

He scuffed a tear from his cheek and began preparing the bodies so he could carry them to Dún Dealgan. As he wrapped the torso of his foster son in the cloak, he wondered what Emer would do. How would she cope with the loss of her man? How could she bring up their young son on her own?

***

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Conall hesitated on the rise above Dún Dealgan. Could it have been only three nights since he was here, frowning at Cú beside the cairn, an evening with storm clouds gathering? And now the sun blazed across the sea, creating an orange path to the beach below Dún Dealgan, showing him the way in case he needed help finding Emer. How was it that so much changed in so short a time? Life took time. People died in battle or in their beds. Maybe crushed by a stampede of horses. Cú’s death made no sense. Perhaps a druid or a seeress like Fedelm could understand how the minds of the Three Sisters worked, but not him. How could they have a man in his prime mourning his friend one evening and then dead and missing his head three days later?

Standing with his chin in his hand, he hesitated. The scene was as tranquil as the last time he’d stood on this rise. He could see retainers moving about the steading at their tasks. Emer kept coming to the door of the roundhouse and peering up the rise. Conall was under the trees, so she could not see him. He was on foot, the bodies slung over his mare’s back. It had taken most of the day to return from Windy Gap with his gruesome burden. When he’d passed the hostel where the crowds had been fixated by tales of blood and gore, there was no sign of life. If they saw him walking by with two bodies on a horse, they gave no indication. They were hiding from the reality of the world they craved. Unwilling to have their dreams of heroism and riches crushed by a headless youth and his eye-stabbed retainer.

He’d felt anger rising as he walked past. He wanted to scream at them to come out and see what they craved so badly. Come out and see a headless youth, a husband, and a father. Not that he was a husband and a father now. Now he was crow feed.

They are entitled to dream, Conall had allowed as he rounded the bend where the first raindrop smacked him so roundly, a warning of the deluge to come. They needed entertainment, and he was the stranger with a story to tell because every stranger has a story. He was the warrior who arrived just after rumors of a battle spread through the kingdoms. The people were doing what they’d done for hundreds of summers. He could not fault them, nor could he blame them for the death.

They might have played no part, but Conall thought he might have. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d kept on. Could he have prevented the ambush? When he rode away from Dún Dealgan, Cú was in his roundhouse eating and could never have gotten to Windy Gap before him.

The third time Emer came to the door, he knew he could delay no longer. She deserved to know the fate of her husband. Taking up the reins, he headed down the path. A retainer saw him coming just after he left the forest and ran into the roundhouse, calling. Emer was waiting for him at the gate when he arrived. Her arms were folded under her breasts. He could see she was holding back tears, her lips crushed tightly together so they could not quiver. Even though they were friends, she would not cry in front of him. She was of royal blood. Showing emotion was below her.

“Where did you find them?”

“Windy Gap. How did you know it was Cú and Laeg?”

“You should credit me with some intelligence,” she snapped. “Why would you bring dead warriors into my dún if I did not know them?”

Conall kept his peace. He didn’t know how to answer without giving more unintended offense. He stood by his mare and watched Emer direct retainers to carry the bodies into the roundhouse. The retainers were somber, as the occasion demanded. Emer kept busy telling them what to do, obviously keeping thoughts of life without her husband held at bay. Later, after the shock, she would think of a son who would never know his father.

He knew she would need support, but he also knew he could not be the one to provide it. He did not handle emotions well. The guilt weighed heavy, but he knew it would pass.

“I will see to your needs shortly, Conall.”

“Dagda’s hole, Emer, don’t worry about me. You have other more important things to attend to.”

Night had fallen by the time they sat opposite each other at the table. Conall gripped a jug of mead tightly in one hand, a cup in the other. Emer clasped her hands on the table, staring at him, waiting, still fighting an unwanted emotional outburst.

“How did it happen?” she finally asked.

“I don’t know for sure. From what I could see, there was an ambush. The ambushers waited for them in Windy Gap. Jumped them. Spears and arrows. The coward’s way. Why was he riding in the gap?”

“Some woman came demanding help. Said the Cailleach’s army was raiding in the west. Killed her family. Raped her. She was so pitiful. So distressed. Cú could never refuse a woman in distress.” Emer stared into the fire as she spoke.

“So, he just believed her and left?”

“We tried to stop him. Laeg. Me. The druid.”

“Druid. Which druid?”

“Kathvar.”

“Bull’s balls, but if that bundún had a hand in this, I’ll make him suffer.” Conall felt his anger rising. He couldn’t control it. Whenever something happened, the druid or the witch had a hand in it.

“I do not think he did, Conall. He was here to ask Cú to take the High Kingship. He tried to tell him it was a trap. You know…” she drew in a shuddering breath. “Sorry, …Knew my husband better than anyone. He was headstrong and would not take advice after he had made his mind up. I always said it would be the death of him.”

So, if not the druid, then the Cailleach. “Aye, you’re right.”

“So what now?” Emer asked, still not meeting his eye, causing him to frown. What he was going to say would be brutal but necessary.

“Emer, look at me.”

She turned her head slowly. There was something in her demeanor he couldn’t fathom. Was she blaming him? He’d convinced Cú to take the field when the battle of Gáirech wasn’t going well for the Red Branch. He’d been in the settlement only a few days before, reminding him of his duty to the people of Ulster. Did Emer think his murder in the gap was related to the battle?

“You cannot bury him without a head. You must put him in your cold store. Find a local druid to help with the preparation. You know one?” Nodding, Emer turned once more to stare into the unlit fire. “I’ll go in search of his head, kill them, whoever they are, and return with it. This is my oath.”

“I will give you a bed. We can talk about it more in the morning.”

“I can’t stay, Emer. I must get on the trail of the murderers straight away. I need fresh spoor to follow.” Conall hoped she would not see the excuse for what it was. One night would make no difference. He would make camp in the forest. He knew she needed to be alone with her grief.

“I have something for you,” she said, rising from the table.

“Bull’s balls, Emer, but you don’t need to give me anything. Truly.”

“He would want you to have it.”

She went out into the night and returned a few moments later carrying something wrapped in a cloth. Before she began unwrapping it, he thought he knew what it was: Lorg Mór, the hammer of the gods.

“He left it behind. I guess he was in such a hurry he forgot it.”

“I will use it to get the vengeance he deserves,” Conall said as he took it from her.

She did not answer him. He held her shoulder briefly before heading for the stables. He saddled his mare and mounted without returning to the roundhouse to say goodbye. As he rode through the gate, he heard a scream so loud and wretched it would have caused a banshee to run and hide. He scuffed the sleeve of his jerkin against his eyes, cursing the wind for blowing up so much dust.