The mood improved slowly as they rode north. Small things: Fedelm saying thank you, Genonn offering to collect water, polite if stilted conversation, and looking at each other over the campfire instead of staring at nothing and pouting like spoiled children.

The morning they were due to arrive in Emain Macha, Conall found himself beside Bradán. Genonn and Fedelm were riding side by side in front, not exactly friendly, but at least talking. He glanced at Bradán, whose face was split by a grin, perhaps delighting in the unvoiced strategy they had started to employ, covertly pushing their charges towards a more friendly relationship. Conall was beginning to wonder about the feelings between Fedelm and Bradán. Watching them each day, they began to appear less like lovers and more like siblings with a close bond.

“Good day for a ride,” Bradán said smiling, apparently pleased with Conall’s company, which made him wonder anew. The lad’s mood was puzzling. He had less of an emotional connection to the departed, it was true, but happiness was misplaced at a time when Genonn and Fedelm were mourning.

Conall sighed and shook his head.

“A copper ring to share your thoughts,” Bradán said, grinning at him like a settlement idiot.

“How did you two meet?”

“Us two?”

“Aye, you and the seeress.”

“I was Captain of Guard for Kathvar.”

“Didn’t do a great job, lad.”

“I wasn’t there when he died,” Bradán said with regret rather than the seething anger similar criticism would evoke from Conall.

“Why not? Surely, it was your duty to be there?”

“Kathvar ordered me to protect Fedelm. I couldn’t help but swear fealty to her and so left his service. I’ve never regretted anything more.”

“Aye, well, give it time, and you will. Believe me, it’s as inevitable as death and battle.”

“Battle isn’t always sure, not in my way of thinking. Some would avoid it at all costs. Treat it as the last option.”

“That’s no talk for a warrior, Bradán. If you truly feel like that, you should choose a different way to earn your oats and mutton.”

“Funny you should say that,” Bradán said with a lopsided smile. “Changing my course in life has been on my mind a lot of late.”

Conall looked at the lad and shook his head. Having a sudden doubt in an earlier choice was not uncommon. He often wondered if he had chosen well. It started when he arrived on the Shadowy Isle. When the bloodlust took hold of him, all doubts vanished. Bradán’s words seemed different; there was conviction in them. They weren’t like his momentary doubts like he was sick of being a warrior.

“We each must do what our heart tells us,” Bradán elaborated.

“Aye. That we must.”

“There’s a hostel ahead,” Fedelm called. “Shall we stop to eat?”

Conall enthusiastically agreed, realizing he hadn’t had a drink since Indber Scéine. He was feeling the need to wet the back of his throat. Ah, for the grease that keeps life’s wheels in the rut, he smiled to himself. Turning to Bradán, he caught the lad once more grinning at him.

“What’s so funny, bundún?”

“Nothing, old man. Just happy to be in good company.”

***

The hostel had doors to the front and rear. They were open, and a spring breeze kept the common room airy and fresh. Despite the airflow, the smells of roasting meat, freshly baked bread, and mature cheese were enticing. Conall had his legs stretched out, feet up on the bench beside the seeress, cradling a cup of mead on his midriff. The room was surprisingly busy, and the mood was suppressed. The stress of the patrons was palpable. They were sitting quietly. Each nursing a cup, deep in their own worlds, as though a heavy cloud was hovering above, oppressive, dampening, and unwilling to move. Conall guessed them to be afraid of something. What, he couldn’t fathom. The only thing he knew for sure was he’d never felt anything like it.

“The stress of being a warrior, my hairy hole,” he said almost to himself.

“What?” Fedelm asked. She had her eyes closed, drifting in a somnolent haze of relaxation.

“Nothing. Speaking my thoughts. Go back to sleep.”

The table was strewn with the remnants of a heavy meal. Genonn and Bradán also had their eyes closed. The ride from Inbhear Scéine through Dún Ailinne had been hard. They needed some time to lie back and forget the troubles of the Five Kingdoms, as well as their own problems. Time to take a break from mourning.

Time for Conall to resolve his dilemma.

Staring at the thatch above their bench, he wondered how he would keep his promise to get the Red Branch to follow him. Telling his fellow travelers the warriors would abandon Longas and join him had been a boast. He had no idea how they would react to any requests for help. When Mac Nessa wanted Fergus’ head, Conall fled to Crúachain rather than give it to him. His former warband would probably view that act as a betrayal, much like he’d viewed their reaction when Mac Nessa put a price on his head. Conall promised himself never to ride with them again. It was an oath he couldn’t possibly keep.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Genonn’s need was greater.

“You’re Conall Cernach.”

Conall looked up to see a warrior standing before the bench with his arms crossed. “What of it?”

“Name’s Munremar. Served under you in the Red Branch.”

Conall hesitated before saying, “Aye. I remember. Sorry, I didn’t know you sooner. You were at the battle of Temair Luachra.”

“So I was. Retired now. Got a small steading. Nothing grand, but keeps me fed.”

“What can I do for you?” Conall pointed at the bench. Munremar sat and rubbed his chin, which caused Bradán to smile.

“It’s more what I can do for you,” he said, eyes fixed over Conall’s shoulder.

He has something on his chest. Something hard to say. “Spit it out, bundún. I won’t bite.”

“You’ve heard of what Longas has done?”

Conall shook his head. The stressed face of the veteran said there was more to come and worse. He knew it would be about Longas as soon as the man came to stand in front of their bench. Some sort of added sense warned him. It didn’t take a genius to realize Mac Nessa’s son was standing on the lip of the madness pit and capable of anything. They should have stopped him sooner.

But then, they didn’t know, Conall thought. And I wasted time hunting the wrong man. He put his feet down and stretched the ache out of his toes. I must get some new boots, he realized, glowering at the scuffed leather and thinking about the holes in his soles and the state of those belonging to the dead of Nechtan’s fían.

“So, what is it Longas has done now?” he asked with a sigh.

“Baruch took the Red Branch and fled,” the veteran said.

Conall shook his head at the old soldier, who was fidgeting nervously. “Aye, but why? Take your time and tell it as you know it. I’m not one to punish the messenger.”

Munremar stared at him across the bench. Gauging him. “You know Baruch took over as captain?”

“No. But he’s a good man.” Even if somewhat limited in grey matter, Conall didn’t say. “Go on.”

“Baruch had the Red Branch collect the fallen from the field after Gáirech. He brought them back to Emain Macha. Asked Longas and his new druid, Bres, to preside over a funeral pyre.” The man hesitated again, scuffing his feet in the rushes under the bench.

“And?” Conall prompted.

“The goat’s hole refused.”

“What are you saying?” Conall had heard the words; he was just not sure of their meaning. How could Longas refuse to hold the funeral rites for the fallen? It would be akin to denying the rising of the sun.

“He had the bodies dumped in the bog.”

“The bodies?”

“The fallen. His new King’s Guard deprived them of their weapons and threw them in the bog.”

Conall thought his heart would burst like a dam in an autumn deluge. He now knew why this man was so nervous. The news was far worse than he could have imagined. No one who considered themselves a warrior and an adherent to the code would even dream of doing what he said Longas had done. But then, why was he surprised? Longas stabbed an unarmed warrior in the neck with a boar spear. Claims that it was at the behest of the Cailleach were irrelevant. He should have killed her rather than Fergus. That action was bad enough, but to deprive the fallen heroes of their rites and weapons? Not only was it beyond madness, but it was also beyond Longas’s limited intellect. The new king tended towards the infantile when it came to scheming. Conall knew instinctively it was something he’d done at Medb’s behest. What easier way to sew dissent in the hearts of the enemy? Piss on them from the top of Slíabh Dónairt.

“He didn’t set the funeral pyre?”

“No. Longas said they’d failed. Said the Cailleach won, taking the bull and all. Said they were little better than traitors and didn’t deserve no pyre.”

“And Baruch? What did he say?”

“Word in the hostel is, he said nothing. They say he stood around like his triús were in a bunch and did what Longas told him to do. Right up to the stone that felled the palisade.”

“Which was?”

“Longas ordered Calgach, captain of his King’s Guard, to sell the swords of the fallen to the smith, Cullen, for meltdown. Baruch took the Red Branch away, then. So the rumors go.”

“And you trust these rumors?”

“Aye, I do. Red Branch is gone. I can’t think of any reason if they ain’t true. On top of which, new king’s a real hole if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Thank you for being honest.”

The old soldier nodded and retreated. Conall looked at the others sitting around the bench. Genonn and Bradán might as well have had their mouths open; their shock was so apparent. Fedelm, not so much. She was staring after the veteran but not really seeing him, her mind on something else.

And then he thought of Baruch, a man thrown into a role he didn’t understand. He was a fine warrior but not the sharpest arrow in the quiver. He probably took the Red Branch away because he didn’t know how to handle this so-called King’s Guard. A good captain, a captain like Conall or Cú, would have marched the guards into the settlement center and strangled them in front of the people. Made an example of them. Dumped them into eternal damnation, face first in the same bog where they dumped the heroes of Gáirech.

“Better to leave the bodies on the field, let the wolves and the crows have them. Leave them with their weapons, at least,” he said.

“Aye, Conall, it would,” Bradán agreed. “We need to get in there and cut the turd’s head off.”

“I’m going on alone,” Conall said as he stood.

“No, they will kill you,” Fedelm blurted.

“Aye. They’ll try. But I’m not so easy to kill.”

“I remember Longas’ troop before the battle. I know they dress in fancy rig and have little skill, but they are three hundred or were before the battle – they will kill you.” Genonn said.

“That’s a risk I must take. This is my fight. This is all the Cailleach’s doing. I made Fergus accept her attempts at seduction. Without that, none of it would have happened. Twice, I let her live when I should have killed her.”

“You think Medb is behind this?” Bradán asked, head angled, sardonic grin in place.

“That tóin’s behind everything that’s gone wrong with the kingdoms since the death of High King Conaire. Word is Mac Nessa raped her during the Assembly of Kings at Temuir, and this – all of this – is her revenge.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Bradán said. “We’ve all done crazy stuff in recent days.”

“You think. What’ve you done that’s so crazy?”

“I chased all over the Five Kingdoms searching for a drunk,” Bradán growled.

Conall shook his head, thinking the lad was beginning to sound like his lover. I thought it was dogs their masters start to resemble?

“Sorry, Conall. I don’t mean offense,” Bradán said.

Conall held up his hand. “No offence taken, bundún. Make camp near here. Beside the road so I can find you.”

“I’ll walk you to the stables,” Bradán said, making to rise. Genonn took his forearm firmly, holding him back and shaking his head.

Conall was glad. He was sick of arguing. “Good. It’s better I do this alone.”