Genonn’s head ached, and his mouth tasted like a badger had been using it as a midden. The light shining through the canopy was not helping. It felt like the Tuatha were using the skin of his face as a temporary store for tiny arrows. The arrows became the Dagda’s club when he lifted his head, striking him between the eyes with a force he could not believe. Bang. Bang, bang, bang. Each strike accompanied by a flash of white light.
How much did I drink? Never again. Not this side of Donn’s table, anyway.
He needed water. Cold water. Lots of cold water.
Genonn pulled himself up from his hides and gazed around the clearing. The others were still asleep. Conall was on his back, snoring loud enough to drive away Banshee. The others were snoring in harmony. He grabbed his spare shirt from his saddlebags, climbed to his feet, and made for the trough outside the hostel in the center of Inbhear Scéine. He felt like he was going to throw up, zig-zagging his way up the main road. His legs felt like they were unable to keep him on his feet. If he looked up, the only way to bear it was to close his eyes.
Eventually, Genonn made it to the trough, dunked his head in the water, and came up spluttering, hair dripping, somewhat refreshed, but not enough. He stuck his head in again and came up with a mouthful of water, which he swilled and spat out—dunk, swill, spit. Slowly, the banging in his head eased, a small piece at a time.
The rasping of Conall rubbing his chin told Genonn the Old Bull was standing behind him. He continued dunking as though he had not heard. He would not allow the warrior to get off lightly. Not this time. His jaw still ached from the kick. He thought it would throb forever. His mouth clicked when he opened it as if something were dislocated. I was sure I had seen the last of beatings at the hands of the gaimbín, he thought as he dunked again, swilled, and spat.
“Will you ever forgive me, bundún?” Conall asked, too impatient to wait until Genonn finished washing.
“That’s not the way to make an apology, gaimbín.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s the only way I know, so I make no excuse. I’ve no patience for apology.”
“Which explains a good deal.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, if you were to show a little patience once in a while, you would avoid much of the trouble you encounter in life.”
“What makes you think I want to avoid trouble?” Conall chuckled. After a few moments, Genonn joined in. He could not prevent himself despite the pain it caused. “Who was it hit me?”
“Bradán.”
“Got quite a bump on the back of me head. Next time I’m around him, remind me to wear me helmet. Do I know him?”
Genonn turned to him, hands on hips. “A young warrior of Connacht. He is all right, except he is sticking his sword into Fedelm, which is not ideal when work needs doing. Leads to all sorts of issues.”
“I’m sorry, lad.”
“Sorry. Why are you sorry?”
“When was the last time you called me gaimbín?”
“Best part of twenty summers since you knocked me on my arse outside Dún Scáith. Why?”
“Twenty summers since we met. I think I know you, Genonn. You can’t deny you’re sweet on the girl. It’s written all over your face?”
Genonn felt the habitual blush. “Oh, Gods, do you think she has noticed?”
“She’s not blind.”
“I hope Bradán is not aware. I would not want to fight him.”
“I don’t think you need worry about Bradán. Just concentrate on the girl, and it will come good.”
“How so?”
“That’s how it works,” Conall said, tapping his nose with a finger.
Genonn held his peace as he toweled his face dry with his dirty shirt and pulled on his clean one. He had never seen Conall involved in anything amorous and did not think he was someone who should be giving advice about how to win a girl.
“So, am I forgiven?” Conall asked again.
“Yes, I suppose so. Now, tell me, what were you babbling about in the hostel?”
Conall shrugged, his answer whenever he was unable or unwilling to speak. On this occasion, it turned out to be because he did not remember. “Help an old bundún out, Genonn.”
“You were muttering something about Ailill. About how, after you have found Cú Chulainn’s head, you will skin the king for betraying you.”
“Ah, that. Ailill promised he would not harm Fergus if I agreed not to fight for Ulster after Medb forced me out of her army.”
“He did not break that agreement, Conall. It was Medb who ordered Fergus murdered.”
“That can’t be true. We all saw her half-dressed and covered in blood. If she ordered it, she’s more evil than I ever imagined.”
“Yes, well, I know she professes to follow the dark arts, and whether it is true or not, there is nothing blacker than her heart. The woman is evil.”
“Aye, but how do you know all this?”
“Longas told my father after the battle. I think he killed Kathvar because–”
“Wait, what’re you saying?” Conall interrupted, grabbing Genonn’s wrist in a fierce grip.
“Oh, Gods, Conall. I forgot. You did not know. Kathvar was murdered on Ynys Môn a few nights back. Someone shot him in the eye in the sacred circle. Middle of the night. I think he was planning a reconciliation but never got the chance. He died right there beside me.”
“And now, don’t I feel like a bundún busting you in the jaw. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Well, aside from the kick,” Genonn said, wiggling his jaw from side to side. The clicking was audible. “It’s Longas who will pay.”
“Never did like that sheep’s pellet. Something about him always stank of dung. Even before the bull thievery.”
“I warned my father, to no avail, as it happens. Longas – at least my wager is on Longas – paid for my father’s assassination.”
Genonn gazed over the palisade at the forest, suddenly realizing his father was somewhat culpable in his death. If Kathvar had done more to protect himself, perhaps he would still be alive. Crazy meetings in sacred circles at midnight offered him no protection. He hired warriors, left them in the hostel, and went alone to meet Genonn. Could those warriors have protected him from the fatal arrow? Genonn knew he would never know.
“You’re sure it was Longas?” Conall interrupted his train of thought.
“It was either him or Medb. Neither could have allowed my father to reveal what he knew. Kathvar thought Longas the most likely, and I agree.”
“You know, too, Genonn. You must be careful.”
“They are unaware of my knowledge. I think I am safe, at least for a little while.”
“But Longas? He wouldn’t be able to organize a drinking bout in a hostel. What makes you so sure he wasn’t lying about Fergus?”
“His boasting – no, not the boasting – the way he boasted. I was listening behind a tree, and he was so proud of what he had done that I could hear it in his voice. He acted as though he could not believe himself capable. It was far too convincing. I am sure he murdered Fergus.”
“So, we have to make for Emain Macha, then.”
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“The Red Branch has it sealed tighter than a goose’s bunghole. There is no way in save breaking down the gates.”
“You let me worry about the Red Branch. They might pretend allegiance to Longas, but if I show my face, that’ll change quicker than a hare running from hounds.”
***
Nechtan pushed himself away from the wall.
They’d not seen him leaning there, listening, laughing to himself. The two of them guilty of a common failing in the high and the mighty: thinking themselves clever but then jumping to crassly wrong conclusions. Even worse, talking openly with no idea who was listening. Walking back up the road, his mood improved. His task was going to be easier than he’d thought.
Warriors me hole, he laughed. Pair of dog shites, and no mistake. Well, in Conall’s case, maybe a bear shite. Gods, he’s big. Nechtan had never seen the warrior of Ulster up close, so he’d no idea how big until he saw him stagger out of the forest and into the settlement. Almost as big as Sharvan had been. Huge. All muscles, including between his ears, which explained how he could get it so wrong.
Completely shitewise, both of them.
Nechtan wasn’t going to correct their error, swing around the corner, and tell them they were climbing the wrong oak. It was the Cailleach paid for the murder of the druid, not Longas. Course, he knew it was Medb because she sat in the hostel in Tre’r Ceiri and handed him a cumhal of silver for doing it. He guessed she’d hired more than one assassin, hedging her bets, as he would have done. Medb was cleaning up her mess after her abortive raid into Cooley.
Cleaning instead of paying her debts.
Besides, he’d heard from a Red Branch deserter back in some piss-stinking hostel on the way down to Inbhear Scéine that Longas was a quivering wreck, cacking his triús and pickling himself in mead, sure his enemies were coming. Conall was right when he said Longas couldn’t organize a drinking bout in a hostel. Couldn’t manage to find his hole with a stick of clues in Ogham. The man was the closest thing to a two-legged goat Nechtan had ever met. Useless. He’d be dead before long. And it wouldn’t be Conall who killed him. Conall’s killing days were over. No, the Red Branch would string him up, sure as eggs are eggs. Take him into the forest and watch him dance a jig.
Nechtan climbed a tree full of foliage and stared back down the road. The sun was behind him and would be in the eyes of his target, weather permitting. Clouds were thinning, and the rain was now only a drizzle. He’d soon be able to string his bow. Ideal for a long shot. If it had persisted, the wet would have caused problems with the bowstring. Seemed the flight of his arrow would be accurate.
The first Conall would know about it would be on his back with a feathered shaft sticking out his throat, his life draining into the sod of the north road. Nechtan wasn’t a boastful man. He just knew his limitations. At a hundred paces, he could knock a fly off a cowpat without disturbing the shite. The erstwhile champion of Ulster would not see another dawn.
Nechtan pulled the hood of his cloak up. The drizzle had penetrated the forest cover, and there was nothing worse than drips building up enough weight to fall off leaves and smack him in the middle of his pate. Well, not many things, any road. He strung his bow and relaxed, calming himself in preparation.
Most would consider an arrow the coward’s way. Not Nechtan. He knew an arrow to be the only way, the safest way. The Tuatha could take honor and shove it up their lordly holes. Many a good warrior died because of honor. Kill the enemy opposite you in the most efficient way possible and move on to the next. With Conall as that enemy, best to do it at a distance. Conall was said to be better than anyone except Cú Chulainn. No use standing in front of him with a sword just so he could die. Would defeat the object, which was always to stay alive.
The wait soon began to weigh on him. The sun broke through the cloud cover. Birds began to sing about the joys of this back of beyond midden as if it were glorious. They must have chosen a less obvious road, Nechtan thought. Typical of the Three Sisters to send them a different way. He was about to unstring his bow and head back to the settlement when he heard a woman’s laugh, and five riders came around the bend in the road. He recognized Conall’s blond mane in the lead, the one called Genonn beside him. An unpracticed rider behind them, maybe a youth, and a pair bringing up the rear. The woman’s hood was up despite the drizzle having stopped. A young warrior was leaning over, talking, making her laugh. It looked like the pair were in love.
Gods, there’s a wasted emotion, Nechtan thought as he pulled the bowstring back to his ear and relaxed, breathing slow and steady. Nothing hurried. Just nice and easy. Let the arrow find its own flight. As easy as skinning a squirrel. One pull, and it was done.
He was about to loose the arrow when the woman threw off her hood, lifted her head back, and laughed. Nechtan blinked. It was the redheaded seeress who’d ridden up to the gates of Crúachain to warn the Cailleach of the bloodletting to come. The beauty he’d been trying to emulate with the whore on Ynys Môn just before Sharvan and Gráinne stripped him of the fían he built from scratch. The seeress he would give anything to lie with for a night. He couldn’t stop himself from releasing the arrow and did not stop to follow its flight, sure his aim was put off by the sight of the redhead.
“Gods, I hate redheads. Now that’s a shite if ever there was one,” he hissed as he dropped from the tree and ran for his horse.
***
Fedelm felt pleased the mood of the men had taken a turn for the better. With some cajoling and a fistful of silver, the hosteler relented and allowed them to break their fast out of the rain, which started to fall as Conall and Genonn returned from the trough. She was surprised either could walk after their behavior the previous day. She had seen Genonn’s first stumbling attempt to walk as he headed for his wash and thought he would not arrive without falling on his arse. She was wrong.
The previous night’s fight seemed forgotten when they returned to camp. Was it a fight? She wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, Genonn and Conall were once again best of friends. When they arrived back in camp, Genonn made Conall study Lee, who found it all very amusing: some childish game. Conall admitted there was a passing resemblance to Macc Cecht, but he could not be sure if Lee was the same boy who crawled into the culvert behind Macc.
“It’s a long time since. I didn’t know the lad well, anyways. Only met him briefly before the invasion. After, my mind was otherwise occupied, shall we say. Now, let’s break our fast. I feel I could eat a pig.”
Over their meal, they exchanged stories of what happened after Gáirech. Conall told them about his frustration outside Crúachain with Imrinn, about his confrontation with the Cailleach, and how he found the headless Cú in Windy Gap. He told them about his fruitless search for the head and how he went from settlement to settlement, asking questions. Finally, he told them he lost all sense of himself and ended up angry, confused, and thirsty in the deep south. It was a story of failure and an inability to cope.
Fedelm thought it was a story typical of the warrior caste, a story that might have been different if they had not been so driven by their stupid code. She lost interest when trying to listen to Genonn’s story, which consisted more of men talking about their own trials and how they overcame them. Conall enjoyed the tale, but all Fedelm felt was a need to gag.
So, as the men’s mood improved, her own worsened. She did not understand how they could reduce everything to mead and swords, drunkenness, and fighting. Instead of thinking, they charged off with their swords waving to resolve the problems faced by the Five Kingdoms.
Men could be such boys.
After eating, they packed up camp and headed north. Sick of Conall and Genonn boasting of their exploits since last they met, she rode in the rear with Bradán. She found his company easier. Of all the male warriors she’d known, Bradán was the only one to admit he didn’t much hold with the code. The only one who told her he became a warrior because it promised easy riches. He often whispered of his growing disgust at the life he’d chosen.
They were rounding a sweeping bend when she threw back her hood, keen to get some warmth on her face now that there was a break in the clouds, azure sky visible, and the sun beginning to evaporate the dampness. She had no idea what the woosh and thunk were nor why Lee flew out of his saddle, crashed into the chest of Bradán’s mount, and hit the road with a bump. Fedelm looked around in confusion as the men frantically leaped from their saddles, and she cried, “Get off,” when Bradán dragged her from hers, none too gently. The men relaxed when a horse broke from the trees and galloped away north.
“How’s the lad?” Conall asked as he ran back to them.
Fedelm knelt beside Lee. He had the shaft of an arrow protruding from his shoulder and was grimacing in pain.
“It’s superficial,” she said. “Painful, but not life-threatening, as long as no badness gets in, and I can make sure that won’t happen. He’ll be fine.”
“Good to know,” Lee panted, trying to hide his fear.
“Let’s make him comfortable. Put him over there against that oak.” Conall picked him up and carried him. Laying him gently against the tree. “Who in the name of the Tuatha was that?” he asked.
Genonn was kneeling beside Lee, frowning. She knew that look. It was the same one that creased his face when he was on the cusp of discovery. “It has the same markings as the shaft used to kill my father.”
“You’re sure?” Conall asked, leaning down to inspect it. Genonn said there was no doubt. “So, the bundún riding his nag to death is likely Nechtan?”
“That would be my guess,” Genonn said.
“Nechtan’s said to be the one stole Cú’s head,” Conall mused, rasping his chin.
Bradán spat out his stick and asked, “How do you know?”
“I wrested the truth from a fénnid I met on the road from Crúachain to Emain Macha.”
“We should be chasing him down. He killed my father and your foster son. We cannot allow him to get away.”
“Aye, but what of Fedelm and the lad? We can’t leave them here, either,” Conall said, looking down at Lee, concern in his eyes.
“Bradán can stay and protect them,” Genonn said.
“No, Bradán can’t,” Bradán scoffed. “If you’re going after Nechtan, I’m coming. You’ll need me.”
“You think?” Conall asked, still rasping his chin.
“We’ll manage. Get after him. He’s the reason we’re here, in this Tuatha-forsaken hole,” Fedelm snapped. The longer they argued, the further the killer would get. “I’ll remove the arrow.”
“Are you sure?” Bradán asked. “Lee’s very pale.”
“He’s not used to wounds,” Fedelm explained. “He’ll recover when the arrow’s out. I’ll remove it and keep him warm. Leave me your water bottles, flint, and tinder. Now, go!”
“Let’s get after him before it’s too late,” Genonn said, turning away, keen to mount and get after his father’s murderer.
“Hold yer whisht, Genonn!” Conall growled. “We can take it handy. We don’t need to run like Nechtan did. The way he galloped and used his whip and spurs on that sorry nag, it’ll be dead after a few leagues.”
“Won’t he ease off as soon as he is far enough ahead?” Bradán asked.
“Aye, he should. Don’t think he will. He could have slipped away while we made the lad comfortable. He ran. He’s not thinking straight. He’s panicking. Either way, us running after won’t change a thing. Unless he turns off or doubles back, we can follow. My guess, he’ll thrash that nag up the north road until the poor beast collapses under him.”