Conall was forced to keep the pace steady. If left to make the decisions, Genonn would gallop his horse after Nechtan and probably wear it out or kill it. He wanted to confront the assassin. Question him. Execute him. String him up from a palisade post and flay him alive. Slowly. Very Slowly. But there was time. Conall knew the fénnid wouldn’t care for his mount. It was obvious the way he charged out of the forest. He’d whipped the horse savagely while still in sight. His savage treatment was unlikely to change as he got further away. Panic grabs the unwary and pushes them into foolish acts like fear and anger. A level head in times of great stress is worth a hundred swords. Talk of how battle frenzy made warriors invincible was just nonsense.
Raging was how a warrior might get killed.
“Hold yer whisht,” Conall said again, reining in Genonn’s impatience.
Conall knew it was up to him to ensure they didn’t turn this chase into another failure. He’d had enough of failures. He was a little older than his friend, a little wiser. Luckily, the lad Bradán did as he was told. He might raise the odd sardonic eyebrow, but that was all. He was a little bit of a puzzle, to be sure. But then, Conall had found the young more difficult to fathom as he got older. No, Genonn was the problem, wanting to drive his horse to death. When it came to things martial, Conall knew himself the better judge. Whatever he might think, Genonn was no warrior. He’d never been a warrior despite training on the island. The lad didn’t have that lack of remorse a warrior needed to be effective. He overthought everything. Never a good trait and one that’s as likely to get a fighter killed as raging during battle.
“What’s that?” Bradán called.
Conall looked up and saw a hump beside the road. Could be a horse, he thought.
As they neared, they could see steam rising from its nostrils as it kept trying to raise its head. He felt momentary pride at predicting how the fénnid would act before anger at how Nechtan treated an innocent horse. He drove it to the point where it collapsed and then left it to die, not even with the decency to finish what he started.
Conall shook his head as he reined in. White, foaming sweat covered the horse’s torso, and it kept trying to get its legs under it so it could raise itself up and defeat the specter of death looming over it.
“It seems I was right,” he said. “We can’t leave the poor beast in this state.”
“I’ll do it,” Bradán said, swinging from his saddle and drawing his dagger.
Conall was beginning to like the young man, even if he was doing it with the seeress. “Make sure it’s clean, lad, or you’ll have me to answer to.”
The youngster nodded before kneeling beside the mare’s head, stroking, whispering. When she was completely calm, he cut her jugular and sat back on his haunches to avoid the initial spurt of blood. After the gush, he lay down beside her head, stroking her neck with his free hand as he did so. Continuing his calming whispers and noises. Slowly, she settled into death. It was not quick, but it was far better than leaving her to die in the state Nechtan left her.
“You think he will continue running on foot?” Genonn asked.
“No. He knows how many are chasing him.” Conall stared down at the dead horse. This Nechtan had already shown himself to be less than honorable. “He’ll hole up somewhere and try to ambush us, assuming he still has his bow.”
“There’s no sign of it here,” Bradán said, standing and wiping his bloody hands on his cloak.
“Then we’ve to assume he’s waiting for us a little ways up the road. Stay alert, the pair of you.”
***
Nechtan couldn’t lift his Gods-forsaken leg. He was reduced to dragging it in his wake. Shite of a horse fell on it. The animal had no reason to give out on him. Bad luck was his new companion. At each turn, someone or something threw an obstacle in his way. First Sharvan taking his warband, then Conall killing all his men – and now his horse giving out, breaking his bow in the process. Piece of squirrel shite he’d paid a small fortune for snapped like a twig at the first sign of pressure.
Now his bow was gone, he would have to confront the hunters. Much less chance of success facing a warrior like Conall. The Three Sisters were really trying to send him into Donn’s mound. Well, he wasn’t dead yet. They’d been trying and failing ever since the end of the battle. He was still here, and he wouldn’t go without a fight.
Slapping at the tic developing under his left eye, Nechtan threw the broken bow into the undergrowth, unsure why he was carrying it. Damned thing was useless. Otherwise, he’d be up an oak waiting for Conall to show his face. The warrior would come. Course, he would come. Someone shot an arrow at him. No way he could let that lie. Far too much of an insult. Conall would follow in Nechtan’s wake even if the others didn’t. But how to be ready for him? How can one defeat one of the fiercest warriors who has ever lived? How do you show the Sisters where to shove their schemes? How to survive?
He had to find somewhere with an edge and quick. They were mounted and would be on him in no time. But where? Where would a fénnid get an advantage over someone like Conall Cernach? Surprise would be critical. Man to man, he would have no chance.
Gods, I hate redheads, he thought. Tuatha damned seeress drove him to this sorry pass. If she weren’t with them, after he killed the warriors, he would ride back on one of their horses and kill her. First, he would have some fun; nothing like a bit of fun to improve a man’s mood. He’d been in a great mood on the island after a couple of hours with the whore. Coppers well spent, he thought at the time. Turned out they were coppers he could have done with. Starved he was when he met Bréannin. Hadn’t had a sup of ale or a bite for a week. Came close to selling his nag. Now, he wished he had. He could have commandeered Bréannin’s. Cut the captain’s throat, eaten the hare, and then ridden the big black horse away as the new owner.
Still, that would have been ungrateful.
Bréannin warned him of Conall’s rampage. Gave him silver, some of which was still in his purse. If he shook it, he could hear it tinkle. He could buy a drink by shaking it under a hosteler’s nose. He could find a nice dark hovel of a hostel and act drunk. That would give him an edge, he realized. Warmed by the thought, he hobbled a little faster.
***
“Let me go in and nose around. I’m unknown. Conall and you, not so much,” Bradán said. Genonn raised an eyebrow at Conall, who crossed his arms before agreeing.
“No heroics. Just look around and come back,” Conall said
Bradán laughed. “I’m not one to take unnecessary risks,” he said before heading into the hostel.
“Are you sure Medb ordered Fergus killed?” Conall asked as soon as Bradán was out of sight. “The bundún wasn’t just claiming the kill?”
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Conall was glaring into the forest, lost in thought. Something had been on his mind since hearing the news. Genonn could not decide what it might be.
“The way Longas described it to my father, there could be little room for question,” Genonn said. “He was so proud of what he had achieved. I doubt it would have occurred to him to lie about it. Why?”
“No reason. Just my curiosity,” Conall shrugged, turning back to the forest.
“Come, Conall, you might be a good warrior. You are not, however, a good liar.”
“I had her at my mercy twice and let her live.”
Genonn wondered what to say. That Conall was referring to Medb was evident. He understood the guilt. He had been feeling it, although loath to admit it. But Conall could not have known how letting Medb live would result in the death of his foster son or even if killing her would have made any difference. None of which would prevent the guilt from consuming him.
He was about to say so when Bradán returned, mouth pressed together in a tight-lipped grimace. Stopping in front of Genonn, he told him Nechtan was in the hostel drinking at the counter. As far as Bradán could tell, the assassin was drunk or as near as made no difference.
“Did he see you?” Genonn asked.
“Don’t think so.” Bradán shrugged. “More interested in the drink than anything.”
“Grand. Just what we need. A drunk murderer. Be easy to hang him if he can’t stand.”
“I want him alive.” Genonn put his hands on his hips and glared at his oldest friend. “We need to know what he knows. Who paid him to kill Kathvar, and why he tried to kill Lee.”
“What makes you think his target was Lee? He might just be a lousy shot and missed one of us, most likely you. Don’t be forgetting, Genonn, you’re also a target,” Conall reminded him. “Anyway, I was having a jest. I’m sworn to find Cú’s head, and that bundún is my only chance. I can’t let Emer down, Genonn. I can’t.”
Genonn felt much the same way. But he did not think they could say Lee was not the target any more than they could say that Genonn was. “I was there when he shot Kathvar through the eye in the middle of the night. Believe me, he knows how to draw a bow.”
“Aye, if it was him,” Conall said, just above a whisper.
“What do you mean? Of course, it was him.” But as he said the words, Genonn felt a twinge of doubt. If it was not him, then why had Imrinn found his arrow?
“You saw him, did you?”
“No. But–”
“There’s no buts, Genonn. Either you saw him, or you didn’t.”
“What about the arrow? Imrinn showed me Nechtan’s markings,” Genonn said, now trying to convince himself.
“It proves nothing. Anyone could have used the arrow. Unless you saw this fénnid loose the Tuatha-forsaken thing, we can’t be sure.”
Genonn turned away without replying. For now, dealing with the fénnid was his only plan. He made for the door and said, “Let’s go and get him. He can confess or not. Standing out here talking about it won’t change anything.”
Conall ushered Genonn through the door with a bow and a sarcastic flourish.
The hostel was dim-lit and smoke-filled. The hole above the firepit was full of soot and what appeared to be a bird’s nest. It was hard to tell amidst the dancing shadows. The smoke billowed around the hole, most curling down around the wooden walls before making another dash for freedom. Genonn could see little of who was in the place because the light of the fire and the guttering braziers was not enough to see into darkened recesses.
What a dirty hovel, he thought, as he scanned the few cul an ti scum he could see. They were drinking in this dung pile instead of working their land or someone else’s. He looked at Conall, who was grinning back at him, for some reason amused by his distaste.
“Not your type of watering hole?” Conall asked.
“I don’t understand why anyone would drink here. It stinks. Can you see him?” Genonn asked Bradán, who was scanning the crowd. He shook his head.
“He was over by the barrels when I came in, shouting and making an arse of himself.”
Beside the barrels was a serving counter manned by a squat, bearded man. Tattoos and sword scars crisscrossed his bare arms and torso, visible through his open leather vest. He was staring at them with his hands on his hips, unwelcoming.
“He doesn’t want any trouble,” Bradán said, pointing his chin in the man’s direction.
“Aye, he ought to pay more attention to who he serves then,” Conall scoffed.
“Well, Tuatha take me magairlí,” the hosteler called, suddenly grinning. “If it ain’t Conall Cernach in me watering hole in this dung heap of a kingdom. What you doing so far south?”
“You know him?” Genonn asked. Conall just shrugged. “Well, as he obviously knows you, let’s ask him where Nechtan is.”
They walked between the benches, ignoring the stares of the drinkers. As they neared the hosteler, someone else shouted Conall’s name. They looked at the caller, and Bradán nodded.
“That’s Nechtan,” he said. “Or I’m not Bradán.”
“I know you?” Conall asked.
“We fought together against the pirate. At the massacre of Átha Clíath,” the stranger slurred.
“Bit dense to use that battle,” Conall hissed from the corner of his mouth. “Only Red Branch fought that day, and he ain’t one of them.
“What’s your name?” he called aloud.
“I’m Fionn. Come, join me for a cup.” Genonn was wary as he followed Conall towards the bench where the man was waving his flagon, grinning like he was horse kicked in the head as a baby.
Or has drunk too much mead, Genonn thought, conscious his own head was still thumping. The chase had pushed it out of his mind, but the hostel smell dragged it back up. He felt like he was going to puke. The man who called himself Fionn continued to grin at them until they arrived at the bench when he stood and then seemed to lose his balance, stumbling forward into Conall’s arms.
“Bull’s balls!” Conall hissed as he pulled away from the man, clutching his forearm, which had been slashed with a dagger.
Genonn caught the flash of a blade glittering in the firelight. The appearance of drunkenness was no more. The fénnid’s eyes were clear as crystal as he made a second lunge. Conall sidestepped, grabbing Nechtan by the wrist.
“You think I’d be caught unawares by a bundún like you?” he said, twisting Nechtan’s wrist. The man yelped and dropped the dagger.
“We need him alive!” Genonn shouted; just so much vain air. Nechtan was as good as dead the moment he lunged at the Old Bull with a dagger.
Conall forced him onto his knees, pulled his sword, and stabbed it down into Nechtan’s left shoulder up to its ornate hilt, all before Genonn could draw a breath. He saw the sword hilt in the light, a thing of beauty, however lethal. The sucking sound as Conall pulled it free could be heard by everyone in the hostel. But, apart from what covered the blade, there was little blood: the heart clove in two and unable to pump. Nechtan was dead before the back of his head hit the packed earth and rushes of the hostel floor.
“I could do with a drink,” Conall said, grinning.
“Now, what will we do?” Genonn asked of no one.
The grin splitting Conall’s face caused Genonn to shudder involuntarily. This is why I will never make a good warrior. I do not enjoy it enough. It was a shock. But if he was not to be a warrior, fighting for justice for the ordinary people, then what could he be? He only knew one other thing, and nothing would cause him to return to that life. Not even the death of Kathvar had driven him back to the Elder Council.
“I didn’t think my day could get worse,” Genonn said, looking at the people staring at them with pure malice. “I think they might lynch us.”
“You witnessed the attempt on my life?” Conall called. Their malice did not lessen. Bradán loosened his sword, as did Genonn.
The hosteler walked over, wiping his hands. “Unlike that coward, I was at Átha Clíath. We’ll bear witness, if needs be. Don’t see it, though. Man tried to stab you. We all saw it, didn’t we,” he called, which caused the drinkers to return to talking in hushed voices.
“I think we got away with it,” Bradán said, patting Genonn on the shoulder before staring down at the man in the rushes, face up to the rafters.
“What’s the matter,” Conall asked. “Your face says you’ve seen someone should be in Donn’s mound.”
Bradán opened his mouth as if about to reply but shook his head and said, “Let’s get out of here. Place is making me want to throw up.”