Conall stared across Mag nAí at the wooden walls of Crúachain. He seemed destined to be forever on the outside, staring in. The guards stood on the ramparts behind their wooden walls, safe in the knowledge the fort had never fallen to a siege. Grey clouds held the sun at bay, so no light was glinting from their spearheads. He could smell cooking. Thankfully, the rains had washed away the smell of the army from a few days before. He could have used a bit of banter and leg-pulling, mood lifters, but not at the price of holding his nose and breathing through his mouth. Gods, but he’d forgotten how bad an army and all the camp followers could smell.
Rubbing a hand across his chin, Conall decided he needed to take the time for a shave. Since chasing after the might of Connacht, he’d not stopped long enough to scrape his face. Except in the hostel, where they kept him up all night, so he was too tired and hungover to bother with his shaving knife.
He was so tired, feeling it right down to his bones.
Young warriors found old age to be a source of mirth. From where Conall stood, it was anything but funny. Creaking limbs. His inability to stay upright when others were banging their cups and calling for more drinks. Gods, he hated when boisterous youths drank him under the bench. It was an embarrassment.
“I’m turning into a moany old bundún,” he said to his mare, patting her neck. “Should stop worrying over nothing. Age won’t prevent me from my duty.”
He grinned across the plain, safe in the knowledge there was not a warrior on the other side of the ramparts who could best him. He’d watched them from the rise during the Battle of Gáirech. They were not too bad for the pups he’d always known them to be, but they were no match for real warriors. The Red Branch gave them a bloody nose, even though they were outnumbered two to one. If given a chance, he would do the same.
Despite all that, they should have done more.
Letting the southern armies withdraw had been a mistake. They should have killed them all, including Medb, or more accurately, especially Medb. If they had, Cú would still be alive. The fault was not just with the Red Branch; he also made a mistake. Two mistakes. Twice, he interrupted her bathing only to let her live. Not this time. This time, she would not know of his presence. He would keep the mare back under the trees, hidden by the umbra of the forest, and wait for her to show her face. When she did, he would not offer her the same mercy he had before. There would be no doddering hesitation. When she made up stories to put him off his path, he would ignore her. Or, better yet, kill her before she had a chance to open her mouth.
This time, the Cailleach would die.
When the gate opened, Conall was disappointed to see thirty mounted warriors ride out. They were led by a giant redheaded captain. He could not recall seeing a man as big. Beside him rode a female warrior, dark-haired, seeming surly, even at such a distance. Other than the woman in the vanguard, they appeared to be celebrating, drinking from flasks. Shouting at each other. Boisterous like a fresh-paid warband. A warband who had just killed a man and stolen his head.
Conall stayed in the shadows as they rode past. So long as the mare stayed still, he should remain undetected. When they neared, he stroked her neck, keeping her calm, although he was not sure it was necessary. The warriors were so caught up in their celebrations that it would not surprise him if they missed a stampeding herd of wild horses.
More than watching the riders, he checked the bags slung across their horses’ backs. Checking for a sack with the tell-tale roundness and bloodstains of a severed head. There were none. He looked at their saddle horns, too. Many warriors would sling their trophies over the horn as a testament to their conquest. There were no heads visible anywhere. The one he guessed to be the captain didn’t even have one.
Conall began to doubt himself.
From outward appearance, they were not the warband who ambushed Cú in Windy Gap. But what could they be celebrating? The warriors she hired to fight at Gáirech had no reason to celebrate. They lost and made no silver. These warriors could only be celebrating because they’d been paid. From the happiness written over each of their features, they’d been paid well. Their laughter and banter screamed riches. The riders passing him could only have been paid for the ambush. Nothing else made any sense.
He dismounted and tied his mare to a tree. He took his shaving knife, tinder, and cooking pot from his saddlebags and headed for the river. Hot water and a shave would relax him and help him to think. The warband would be easy to find if he decided they needed finding.
***
Shortly after nightfall, Conall stared at the warriors sitting around their fires. They were still drinking. Happy. Celebrating their new wealth, which he no longer doubted came from the death of his son. While shaving, he realized they would no longer have the head. There would have been two reasons for their visit to the royal seat of Connacht: payment and delivery.
Now, he needed his suspicions to be confirmed.
As far as he knew, there was only one way to get that confirmation. The redheaded captain would soon be singing to the sound of Conall’s harp.
They’d been drinking when they rode through the gate of Crúachain, and by the state of them, they had not stopped. The banter was now intermittent and slurred, accompanied by the heavy snores of those who’d already succumbed. Good. Drinking themselves into a stupor made his task so much easier.
Only one did not drink. The female warrior who had ridden beside the captain was apprehensive and apart from the others. The rest of the band either didn’t know what worried her or didn’t care.
Does she suspect I’m here? he wondered as she leaned against a tree and started hacking at a stick with an evil-looking dagger. He shook his head. There was no way she could know. Something else has her on edge.
One by one, the warriors around the fires fell into their hides and snored. Eventually, the only one not sleeping was the stick hacker, still leaning against a tree, lost in thought, not paying attention to the forest. He could see she was not concentrating on her knife, and if it mattered at all, she was in danger of losing a finger. It didn’t matter. The tóin would be dead soon, and one finger more or less…
He felt something stirring in his guts. It was a wave of dangerous anger. Dangerous not only because it turned him wild but because it might force him to make a mistake. His guts told him to spring into the camp and smash them with Lorg Mór. His intellect told him that even with surprise on his side, the chances he would survive such an attack were few. More importantly, to survive, he would need to kill them all and lose his opportunity to question one about the head.
He tested the weight of the hammer. Conall thought it just that those responsible for Cú’s murder would die by his hammer. A hammer Conall reclaimed from the pirate Ingcél, who took it from Dond Desa. The hammer Conall gave to Cú when the lad returned from the land of the Jutes. The hammer Conall used to avenge the murder of Cú’s true parents in some hidden valley in the Wicklow Mountains. The hammer Cú then used to crush the life out of Tara’s women after they tore his first love, Dervla, into scraps. The hammer was said to give life from one end and take it from the other. A myth Dond Desa spread by naming it Lorg Mór. It was not the cudgel of the Dagda but an exquisitely crafted war hammer. Fashioned by Cullen, the smith. The best weapons maker in the Five Kingdoms and beyond. They said even the Romans craved Cullen’s mail shirts.
Conall waited for the glow from the fires to dim.
Dawn was tinging the sky visible through the canopy as he moved through the trees like a wraith. He was ever adept at woodcraft. Few could move through the forest as silently as he did.
Taking the woman’s life proved easy. One swipe of the hammer, and it was over. The noise was no more than a thud, which was not enough to wake the sleepers, still snoring because they drank too much. She made no sound, just collapsed at the bole of the tree, stick, and dagger beside her where they fell. He would have put her blade in her hand if she had been an honorable warrior. He would have closed her fist around the hilt so she could enter Donn’s mound. But she was not honorable. She took part in the cowardly ambush of a hero. The price she owed was an eternity in the Void with the other cowards and miscreants.
He moved from sleeper to sleeper, taking their lives as swiftly and silently as he took the first. No one woke. No one gave the alarm. No one held their weapons. Some gripped flagons but would not escape the Void with a dropeen of mead. Conall dispatched thirty warriors in less time than it took to bring a cauldron to the boil.
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All except the redhead. The captain.
The captain was snoring louder than any of the others had. Conall wondered if it had something to do with his beard. He had no idea. But then, it didn’t matter. Finding the head was all that mattered. He took a barbed lance from the saddle holster of one of the deceased and returned to the snoring captain. Hefting the lance, he took it in two hands, placed it point down on the giant’s midriff, and pushed it into his guts, leaning on it until the barbs were hidden by the sucking flesh. He maintained the pressure until he felt the point break the back and pierce the loam beneath.
The captain’s eyes flew open. He twisted his head from side to side, searching for the cause of his agony. The pain, no doubt, felt unbearable. Conall could see a scream building in the captain as he tried to move but found himself pinned to the sod. He groaned; the glaze over his eyes gave Conall a sense of satisfaction. A sense of achievement. The redhead could not focus. And finally, he screamed.
“What in the name of the Morrígan?” he hissed after the scream died down. “Lugh!”
“Ah, the God of Light. You looking for a torch to guide you from the dark? There’s no return, bundún. The pain is caused by a barbed lance stuck in your guts,” Conall offered with a helpful smile. “You are dying. The only question is, will it be quick, or will you die in agony? Slowly. The choice is yours.”
“Who are you?” the captain grunted, blowing out his cheeks, panting.
“Me? That’s not important. What’s important is who you are.”
“Gráinne!”
“The lass by the tree? She’s dead. Knocked her brains out with Lorg Mór.” Conall hefted the hammer so the captain could see it smeared with gore. “I’m not in good humor. You would be wise to tell me who you are.”
“Diarmuid! Aodh! Maolmordha!” the captain screamed as he twisted his head again, trying to get a sight of his warriors. His twisting and groans were bestial.
“They are all dead. I left you until last. Speak to me.” The fight slowly leached from the captain’s eyes. “Tell me who you are.”
“Fían. Hired for jobs. Paid contracts. Highest bidder.”
“I know what a fían is, man.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“If you think, you’ll know why.”
The captain said nothing, just groaned, and grabbed the shaft where it entered his guts. With hissing breaths, he pulled, trying vainly to remove the source of his pain. Finally, the shaft moved, and he screamed again. “You waste your time, bundún. The head is barbed. Needs cutting out. No removing it until after death.”
“Gods,” the captain hissed, screwing his face up.
“Why were you in Crúachain?”
“She was paying us for a job.”
“Good. Now all you need to tell me is, which job?”
“Oh, dear mother of the Dagda, can nothing be done to stop this pain?”
“There is one thing.”
“Tell me.”
“Tell me the job. Tell me what you did with his head.” The warrior closed his eyes, sighing and shaking his head. “Tell me where the head is, and I will send you to Donn. No more pain.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re saying. What head?” The man was now hissing his words out between gasping breaths.
Conall felt nothing for him. He was a treacherous cur who deserved this treatment. “Who was it killed him?”
“Money was paid in advance.”
“I don’t care what your financial arrangements were. Who killed him?” The captain shook his head in confusion. His eyes glazed over. “Who?”
Quick panted breaths before his eyes refocused, and he hissed, “The captain killed him. Arrow to the eye.”
“Are you not the captain, bundún?”
“No. Not then. Nechtan was captain. I took over the warband after the killing. Didn’t know he took the head.”
“Where is he, this Nechtan?” But there was no answer, just a groan before his eyes closed. Conall cursed as they opened again, but not completely. He could see it was the effect of muscles relaxing in death. There was no life left in them.
“Bulls balls!” he cursed again.
The man had died, giving little. Nothing but a name. Worse than that, he died with his hands grasping the shaft, which gave him entrance to the mound. He would soon be sitting at Donn’s table. The cur wouldn’t need a druid to guide him. Conall knew the passage rites were for the living, not the dead.
Losing all control, he lifted his hammer and smashed it into the face of the captain. He kept beating the head until the hair and beard were gone, replaced by red and grey gore.
“Gods, I need a drink,” he hissed and began searching for a flask and a decent pair of boots.
***
The sun chose to smile down on Dún Ailinne. Insects buzzed. The people of the settlement went about their chores with smiles. Spring was making herself heard. Finally, Bréannin thought. He was sitting on a log outside his roundhouse, contemplating life in the royal seat of Leinster, whittling. His mind was on Nechtan and his patron’s refusal to pay him. Soon, the fénnid would arrive at the sundered oak expecting nearly thirty cumhals of silver. He would be disappointed, as would his warriors. Bréannin had been a captain for long enough to know disappointed warriors were not good for the health of a captain. They were apt to show their disappointment with violence. Bréannin considered himself honorable and did not like betraying a fellow warrior. However, he was also pragmatic and knew keeping the appointment at the tree would be bad for his health. On the other hand, what would stop Nechtan’s warband from seeking him out if he did not go?
It was a tricky problem, but he forgot it when Conall Cernach rode past, leading a string of horses.
“Wonder where he got those?” he asked the half-horse, half-wood lump he was carving. He didn’t expect the horse to answer. It was a trinket he’d promised the son of his sister.
Sighing, Bréannin took the carving into his roundhouse. His curiosity would kill him, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to know where Conall came by the horses. Judging by the tackle they were carrying, the old warrior had dispatched a warband, and not for the first time. He was a warrior anyone with the sense they had when pushed into the world by their screaming mothers would not cross. Shaking his head, Bréannin laughed and wondered what his mother would say if she knew what he was about to do. He threw the carving on his cot, strapped on his sword, and headed for the stables, where he suspected Conall intended to sell the horses.
He was not wrong.
As he approached, Conall came out of the stables carrying a purse. Bréannin followed, surprised to see him enter the hostel. He stood gazing at the door with his chin in his hand. He could follow the champion into the watering hole. Clap him on the shoulder. Buy him an ale. No hard feelings over the battle, my friend. But he thought Conall would not talk about where he got the horses. Likewise, he could ask the horse master but suspected Fearghal would know no more than he did.
No, his best bet would be to follow Conall’s trail until he found where the warrior came across a string of horses.
“Wouldn’t want to be that Nechtan,” Fearghal said as he saddled Bréannin’s mount.
“How so?”
“Just had Conall Cernach in here demanding if I knew his whereabouts. Sold me a string of best warhorses. Cut down price. Asked me if I knew the whereabouts of Nechtan.”
“Did he say why he wanted him?”
“No. But there was an anger in him. Under the surface, like, but there plain as them two horns sticking out his helmet.”
Conall angrily inquiring after the whereabouts of anyone did not bode well for the person in question. Bréannin now thought he knew where the horses came from. It meant Nechtan and his warriors had parted company for some reason. He was not surprised. Much had changed, and much would continue to change after Gáirech. Mounting, he tossed Fearghal a copper and rode out of the settlement without a backward glance.
It was midday by the time Bréannin reached the clearing. The wolves ran when he reined in. The flies were not so easily frightened. He heard them buzzing long before he arrived. He did not dismount; the wolves would be less wary if he climbed to their level. His mount was skittish, but as a horse trained to stand behind a shield wall while warriors hacked at each other, it was used to the presence of death, so it did not turn and bolt.
Bréannin couldn’t get close to the corpses in the glade, but it didn’t matter. He knew it was Sharvan’s head stuck to the shaft of a spear in the center of the clearing despite it being smashed beyond recognition. It was the body lying beside the central firepit, which couldn’t be confused with another. He’d been pinned to the ground with a lance before his brains were mashed. Put to the questioning before being executed, it seemed. So, it was probably Sharvan who gave Nechtan’s name to Conall. No warrior could be blamed for spilling the barley under torture. And if he read the signs right, there had been a change of captain in the fían. Typically, such a power struggle ended in the death of one or other of the contenders. Nechtan must have survived; otherwise, Conall would not have needed to go after him. Sharvan would have admitted to killing him.
Bréannin leaned on his saddle horn and contemplated the carnage in the clearing. It was a carnage he thought he was somewhat responsible for. If he’d not brokered the deal, then none of the fly food would be there. Telling Nechtan of Conall’s hunt would go some way toward paying that debt.
A wolf howled, warning him to move on.
“I hear you,” he called.
He didn’t need to tarry. All the signs in the clearing were clear, apart from a pile of raggedy boots beside the firepit, which no amount of conjecture could explain.
He pulled on the reins and gently kicked his mount in the sides. If Nechtan survived, he would head for the arranged meeting place. Smiling at his folly for the second time in one day, Bréannin cantered back to the main road and turned south, heading for a sundered oak on the other side of the fords at Átha Clíath.