Nechtan had no idea why he was riding down Slíghe Chualann, south of Átha Clíath, on a dark night. The air had a bite, so he was wrapped tightly in his cowl. He knew where he was going; he was heading for the sundered oak, fifteen or twenty paces back from the road. He knew that much. What he didn’t know was why. There was every chance Sharvan and the usurped warband would be by the tree collecting the silver if they had not already been and gone. That’s if the queen kept her end of the contract, which he was nigh on sure would not be the case. So he might be killed, and for what?

Probably for nothing.

Riding the road in the dead of night, the seventh since the druid died, was crass stupidity. He’d ever been the optimist, as his constant dream of a steading and a redheaded seeress attested. That and the way he allowed the giant with weasel shite for brains to oust him from his own warband. Pure optimism. He thought the bad times would find an end, and everything would go back to how it should be.

Tuatha-forsaken optimism!

Still, being optimistic was not always wrong, as his being alive attested. Sharvan and Gráinne, if they had been as clever as they thought, would have cut his throat. They should never have allowed him to ride away from the camp. What was it about redheads that made them act before thinking it through? If the redhead in the brothel near Caer Leb had let him leave without a meal, he never would have heard the commotion in the settlement. Never would have whistled his way back to a rebellious camp with dreams of easy-made silver.

Tuatha take all redheads. And Tuatha take Sharvan before any other. But not just Sharvan. Nechtan was alone, no longer captain, poor and hungry because of the redheaded whore of Ynys Môn. He’d slipped into the night to live his dream for a handful of coppers, only to return and be accused of treachery. And who was committing the treason? Not him. Probably not Sharvan either, truth be told. The giant didn’t possess the brains to be treacherous. No, it had to have been Gráinne. He had no doubts. And he’d considered elevating her to lieutenant. Now, he was considering reducing her to a breeding cow when he got the chance. And he would get the chance. He’d get the shites back, sure as eggs are eggs.

He rounded a bend in the road and caught sight of the oak. Remember, The Three Sisters are not always cruel, he thought, because the oak was visible, dancing in the light of the fire beside it. He pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse down as he rode towards the orange glow. A man was leaning into the flames, hands cupped to keep warm. Shadows were dancing on the bark of the oak, split in two, black and dying. He remembered it being full of life. He wondered if it were really only three Beltaines since the oak was split.

Hesitating on the edge of the light, Nechtan looked down on the cowled figure. He could see nothing except a man roasting an animal over a fire. Possibly a hare. He started to salivate at thoughts of a juicy hare. He would give up the promised cumhals for half the meat on the spit. He hadn’t eaten since the redhead gave him some bread and cheese. It was part of the deal they struck. Feed him like she was his wife and get an extra ring. Seemed so long ago. Not that there was any silver to give up. If thirty cumhals were lying around, the man had them well concealed.

“Nice night for a payoff,” he said.

“There’s no silver, Nechtan,” Bréannin replied.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Nechtan swung out of the saddle and tied his reins to a low-hanging branch. Although the tree appeared dead, a single bud on an offshoot offered hope of a rebirth. He shook his head. Optimism. Again.

“Why you here, then, if not to pay me?”

“And there is a question worth ten cumhals. Why did I come? I have sat here in the gloom, trying to work it out. A sense of loyalty, perhaps.”

Nechtan fingered the hilt of his dagger and thought about cutting the captain’s throat. It would achieve little but would give him some satisfaction. Not enough to replace the missing silver, but some. The death of the shite would leave him free to eat all the meat and replace his sorry nag with a big black horse.

“Why would you have loyalty to me? I’m just fénnid. Work for the highest bidder. No loyalty involved. I hate loyalty. Makes warriors do stupid things, loyalty.”

“Guilt, then. I promised silver for the cattle raid and got you involved in that mess on Ynys Môn. When she said she had no intention of paying you, I thought it only fair for me to come. I am no lover of treachery, Nechtan. Well, that and my other news.”

“Other news?”

“Conall Cernach killed your warband.”

“No longer my band. I was ousted.” And then what Bréannin had said registered. “What, all of them? There were thirty good fighters left after the battle.”

“Apparently so.”

“Which company was he leading? Stupid question. The Red Branch, of course.”

“No, he was alone.” Nechtan scoffed. “He thinks you lot stole Cú Chulainn’s head…”

“But we were going to Ynys Môn when Cú Chulainn died. Why does he think it was us?”

“No idea, but he is searching for you all over the Five Kingdoms. Before dying, Sharvan must have told him you took the boy’s head. Can’t think of any other reason. Everywhere I’ve been, there’s been talk of his hunt. Surprised you didn’t hear of it.”

“Which makes no sense. Why would Sharvan tell Cernach I have the head? On his deathbed, too. He would have nothing to gain. Anyway, I don’t believe one man capable of killing the band. They were a pain in the hole mostly, but good warriors.”

“They had their brains pulped. Didn’t believe it myself until I arrived in the glade. It’s not the first time Conall has killed a warband single-handedly. He executed a band of outlaws up in the Wicklow Mountains just after the destruction of Da Derga’s. Crushed their heads with Lorg Mór while they slept. My guess is he did the same with your lot.”

“I still don’t understand why Sharvan told him I’ve Cú Chulainn’s head. Never took a head in me life. Don’t see the point. They’re not such a good trophy when they start to stink. Even less when the skin falls off.”

“So, you killed the druid, and then you were pushed out by Sharvan. Maybe he set Conall after you on purpose.”

“Only I didn’t kill the druid, either.”

“What are you talking about.”

“I let those brainless shites believe I killed him, but I was in a roundhouse stabbing me sword into a redheaded whore at the time. Heard the commotion when I was passing Caer Leb. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity for easy money.”

“And yet you came to claim the silver.”

“You’ve a nerve, Bréannin. You just finished telling me there is no silver.”

“That’s a well-made point. What are you going to do now?”

“There is only one thing I can do if Conall’s truly after me: beat him to it. Now, give me some of that mead, will you? Haven’t had a drop since I left the ministrations of the lady on the island.”

“Should I know this lady?”

“I’m surprised you don’t. Every other man in the Five Kingdoms knows her.”