Inbhear Scéine had a palisade but no gates. Genonn could not help his confusion as they rode through. There had been many moments over recent days when he felt surprised and confused. In truth, a walled settlement without gates was not the strangest thing he had ever seen.

Aside from seabirds shrieking their delight at the shore, the only sounds he could hear were shouts and singing from the other side of the settlement. As they rode into the central square, he could see armed warriors standing around a hostel with stern expressions. A fight seemed inevitable, and judging by the noise from within, it would lead to bloodshed.

Genonn counted twenty warriors milling about, waiting for word from whoever captained them. If it was Conall in the hostel, as Genonn suspected, he would kill some of them. But, eventually, they would overpower him and either kill him or truss him up to hang the next day, punishment for the inevitable deaths.

“I had better intervene before this gets nasty,’ he said, swinging down from his horse. The others followed, tying their reins to the iron rail running along the hostel’s wall behind the horse trough.

“I’ll help,” Bradán offered.

Genonn shook his head and said, “No, better I do it alone. If it is Conall, he is drunk and unpredictable. He would likely kill anyone he does not know.”

“You think you can best him?” Bradán asked.

“I would not try,” he said, unbuckling his sword belt and handing it to Fedelm. “When facing Conall, words are my best weapons,” he said, half in hope.

Fedelm grabbed his wrist as he pulled down the hood of his cloak. “Be careful. He might be unpredictable even if he knows you.”

Genonn tried a smile and turned to leave. Why does she care about how Conall will react? Bradán would not be exposed to the violence, so what did it matter? He stopped outside the hostel door and inhaled the salty sea air through his nose. The seabirds still shrieked, and Genonn wondered if they were goading the fight, shouting at the gathered warriors to get on with it. Screaming at the stupidity of the ground-bound.

“You keep back from me,” he heard Conall shout. Someone too brave for their own good was probably attempting to disarm him or, Tuatha forbid, take away his drink. Bracing himself, Genonn pushed open the door and walked in.

The sight that met him would typically have caused an eruption of laughter. On this occasion, he knew bloodshed to be imminent. The warriors outside were ready to charge in, waving their swords; some would die. Even though he appeared completely and madly drunk, Conall would take some of those who tried to stop him. Aside from Cú Chulainn, Conall was the best fighter Genonn had ever seen.

It did not seem so standing in this hostel in the pit of the Five Kingdoms.

At some stage, the Old Bull had lost his boots and jerkin. He was standing on a table, a flask of ale or mead in one hand and his sword, Díoltach, in the other. He was wearing nothing but his triús and sword belt.

“What’s the meaning of all this noise?” Genonn asked as he took a few tentative steps toward the table. He hoped their many years of friendship would give him some standing. When aroused, he knew Conall could lash out and worry about it later.

“We were just discussing how I’m to skin Ailill as soon as I’ve found Cú’s head,” Conall slurred and then took a pull from his flask.

“Skin Ailill – that sounds a little drastic, Old Bull.”

Conall squinted at him, trying to focus, half-heartedly waving his sword. “I know that voice. Is that you, Genonn?”

“It is. What are you about, up there without any boots?”

“Why’re you here? This place is a maggot wriggling on a turd hanging out nowhere’s hole.”

“Someone told me a warrior was making a fool of himself, so I came to investigate.”

“I’ve not seen any warriors round here. There’s that sorry lot of bodaláin outside. Wouldn’t call them warriors. More like pups with practice swords.”

“You, Conall, are the warrior in question.”

“Me. Go on with yer. I’m just having me a drink.”

“I think you have had enough. Where are your boots?” Conall peered down at his bare feet and laughed.

“Aye, now there’s the question. Think I lost them playing bones.”

“And your jerkin?”

“Aye, that too.”

“Let’s sit and talk. See if we can get to what is bothering you.”

“What’s bothering me’s easy enough. That sot, Ailill stabbed me in the back, and I can’t do anything. Hiding behind his damned ráth like the coward he is. Wooden walls are keeping me from him. Bundún. Biggest I ever met.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Well, let’s discuss what we can do about Ailill. We can make a plan for how best to get your revenge.”

“Aye, maybe. Can you get me boots and jerkin back?”

Genonn turned to the hosteler, who held up a pair of grubby boots and a jerkin so dirty it was barely recognizable.

“I think I might be able to do something. Are we agreed?”

“Aye, come on over and make yourself comfortable,” Conall replied as he sheathed his sword.

Genonn felt a release of pressure he had not known was there. His adrenaline started to subside as he walked over. He was bending at the knees, preparing to slide onto the bench, when Conall kicked him in the face.

Hitting the floor, the back of his head smashed into the baked earth, and the ceiling rushes appeared to swim. Little stars were exploding in front of his eyes. He could hear the Old Bull laughing as if from a distance, even though he could see Conall leaning over the edge of the bench, leering at him. Another figure rose behind the warrior. Genonn felt himself slipping further into the dark as the newcomer smacked Conall on his head. Genonn saw his friend land in the rushes beside him, eyes closed, a happy grin on his face.

Glad he could see some humor in it, he thought, as darkness descended.

***

His father stood there, his gray beard tucked into his belt beside the ever-present sword. One milky eye glared at him, accusation pouring from it like venom from the tooth of an angry serpent. Kathvar was not alone: Fergus was standing behind. There was as much malice in his friend’s face as there was accusation in Kathvar’s.

“I know I let you down,” Genonn screamed, but they ignored him.

They just stood and stared. The stares said more than any words possibly could. He could see a water butt in the corner of the room. Tables were randomly strewn about. Overturned benches, keeping the tables company. They were in some sort of hostel in the middle of nowhere. Dornoll arrived and began whispering in his father’s ear. He could hear nothing.

“Speak up,” Genonn said, but again, his words evoked no response from them, unable to penetrate the barriers they erected against his pleas.

“Move him into the corner,” a voice said from the dark.

Which corner? he wanted to ask, but the words would not form. Tell me which Tuatha-forsaken corner. Gods drive you into the Void. Or am I already in the Void, he thought, not trusting his voice to work.

“Any corner will do,” the voice from the dark answered, despite the question never being asked.

His father walked over to the water butt in the corner. It was the same butt they used to have in their blockhouse when he was a child. And next to it was the wooden bucket, always full of water. He heard the sloshing as his father picked it up and walked over to him.

“What a good idea,” Dornoll screeched.

Fergus grinned at him, still saying nothing as Kathvar arrived by Genonn’s side.

“Will he be all right?” another voice from the dark, but one he thought he recognized. “How can I wake him?”

“Throw it at him,” said the first voice. “The surest way I know.”

“Wake up, Genonn, things need doing!” Kathvar screamed, throwing the water in his face. Genonn. Genonn.

“Genonn?” It was Fedelm. He sighed and opened his eyes.

“Was that really necessary?” he asked, wiping the water from his face and sitting up. “How long was I gone?”

“Not long. Nothing serious,” Bradán replied. “Just a tap.”

“Where’s Conall?” Genonn asked.

Fedelm nodded into a corner, where the aging warrior was curled up like a babe in the womb, snoring like nothing untoward had happened. “We moved him a short while ago.”

“Yes, I heard.” Fedelm angled her head, the skin around her eyes creased in confusion. “Never mind. I need a bed. But first, a drink. Where’s the hosteler.”

“I’m behind you,” the voice from his dream said. “You can have a drink. I’ll permit a drink, but I don’t want that,” pointing into the corner where the snores were getting louder, “In my hostel any longer than necessary.”

“Where can we stay?”

“There’s a camp just outside the ráth. Travelers use it when the hostel is full. It’s comfortable enough. Well covered by the forest, in a dip, so free of the wind.”

“Alright. The drink?”

“What would you prefer, Lord?”

“I am no one’s lord; just bring me a drink and lots of it.”

“You move your friend into the camp, then I’ll bring you a tun of mead.”

“Bradán, we can carry him. It does not look like he will wake up soon.”

They made camp in the clearing and left Fedelm with Conall. She said she had no desire to sit in a hostel getting drunk. Genonn had no other desire than to sit in a hostel getting drunk. He guessed that for a young seeress, there was no appeal in drowning life with mead. But he needed the solace of a stupor to aid his pain.

The hosteler brought them a jug of mead with three cups and left them alone.

“What happened?” Bradán asked.

“I thought I had got through to him. He agreed to talk and kicked me in the face when I approached the table – he was standing on it. Did I mention that?”

“I thought he was your friend,” Lee said.

“He is my friend. I think, like me, he is finding the pressure too much. Emer was relying on him, and he feels he has let her down.”

“You should take a moment and listen to yourself.” Bradán smiled, lessening the reprimand.

Genonn knew the youth was right. He, too, was piling a lot of pressure on himself.

“What happened after he kicked me? I thought I saw someone hit him with something.”

“That would have been me,” Bradán admitted.

“How did you get behind him?”

“I walked around the back of the hostel and came in by the rear entrance. Right behind him. Easy as beating an untrained pup.”

“What did you hit him with?”

“An empty jug. Broke it on his skull. He’ll have a headache for days.”

“Good. Let’s finish this one and go back to camp. We have a lot to discuss in the morning.”

“Jug’s empty.” Bradán held it above the bench, spout down, to prove his point.

“All right, one more jug, then we will return to the camp.”