Conall left his horse in the hostel compound. He knew the walk to Emain Macha was less than an hour, and arriving on a horse would be more conspicuous. Nearing the feast hall, he could see four men outside the door. He guessed they were from Longas’s personal guard. The so-called warriors who carried out atrocities on behalf of their self-appointed king.
They’ll pay the same price.
As far as Conall was concerned, the guards were as guilty as their leader. Longas might have ordered it, but that didn’t matter. Had they been honorable, they would have refused. He smiled to himself. Their nervousness was as evident as their overly colorful jerkins, glinting coats of mail, and their helmets polished to a high shine, like burnished silver. They twitched from foot to foot as they followed his progress. All were the actions of those fearing what was about to happen. All except one stood with his arms folded, waiting patiently, a spear leaning against his shoulder.
Reaching the top of the hill, Conall stood with his hands loosely by his side and asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Calgach. Captain of the King’s Guard,” the man said with a sneer. “More important, who are you, old man? A once feared warrior? Captain of a debunked warband? A warband that’s run from their king? Outlaws now, as are you, Conall Cernach.”
“I’m not Conall, I’m Donn, so I am.”
“Well, Donn, the king’s ordered your arrest. You’re to be tried for treason and given a leather-knotted necktie. Now, take him, lads. Make your king proud.”
The guards didn’t move. Instead, they watched Calgach fall, clutching his neck where Conall’s sword, Díoltach, had parted it with ease. Conall spat on the captain as he lay on his back, trying to stem the flow of blood from the wound.
“Anyone else?”
Saying nothing, the guards parted to allow him through to the door. They didn’t attempt to stop him. They didn’t say anything to him. He guessed they would run for the rest of the so-called King’s Guard bodaláin as soon as his back was turned.
He didn’t care.
“Get out,” he told the three guards as he entered the hall.
They scuttled through the doors without a backward glance. Conall supposed a blood-smeared Díoltach in the hands of one of the most feared fighters in the Five Kingdoms would be enough to convince most of those playing at being a warrior, those without code or training, to run like vermin. The sight of Calgach squirming beside the door as his life leached into the sod would not change their opinion. Instead, they would stay away, leaving him to do what needed to be done.
Or so he hoped.
Walking up the aisle, he could see Longas slumped on the throne. There were empty flagons strewn around his feet. He could hear the usurper’s snores all the way from the doors. Mac Nessa had flaws, but at least he knew how to be a king. This frog spawn didn’t even know how to be a man. He’d killed Conall’s friend, probably to gain this kingdom, and, if the rumors were true, denied the heroes of the battle a place at Áedh’s table. Had his intrigues at least achieved a modicum of success, Conall would understand. But he’d accomplished nothing. Either way, his disrespect was a death sentence. Longas was mad, subservient, and a moron, king of nothing.
Conall could smell piss and spew as he neared the dais. The King of Nothing needed a good wash. He was barefoot, and his clothes were filthy. Longas appeared to have lost himself in the drink. Conall shook his head, thinking how close he came to doing the same thing. He owed Genonn thanks. He would have been driven under by guilt had his friend not arrived. And Bradán, of course, for bashing him on the back of the head. His thanks might be less gentle than the thanks Genonn would get, but Conall would still give them.
Is it guilt forcing Longas to do this to himself? he wondered. If it is, let the Tuatha take that guilt and hibernate it somewhere warm.
“Bring me more mead!” Longas shouted without opening his eyes. Conall grimaced as the newly crowned sot leaned over the arm of the throne and threw up. “Mead, I tell you. Have you all been struck deaf?”
Walking up to the throne, he grabbed Longas by his jerkin, pulled him up until they were nose to nose, and told him they were alone.
It was a waste of breath. The King of Nothing was trying to focus unsuccessfully. “Who’s that?” he slurred.
“You kill my friends and then don’t know me. I am Donn, and I have come to claim you.”
“Conall, is that you?”
“No. I am Donn.”
“Very funny. You always were a jester.”
“You think this funny, bundún?”
“Can you ask them to bring me mead?” Conall threw him onto the packed earth of the floor and walked to a water butt at the rear of the hall.
“More mead! Is anyone listening to me?”
He filled a pail of water and emptied it over Longas. Returned to the butt. Repeated the soaking. Kept at it until Longas finally sputtered, “Enough, Conall. I see you.”
“I told you, I am Donn.”
“What has the King of Tech Duinn to do with me?” Longas asked, retched, and puked again before finally trying to stand and giving up.
“You disgust me, Longas. You can ask that question after you stabbed my friend in the back?”
“Who? Which friend?” Longas’ questions were belied by the pleading in his eyes. He knew his guilt. He knew the sentence was pronounced as soon as Conall heard he killed Fergus. So, he wasn’t driven to the mead by guilt; fear was driving him.
“Worse, you defiled the heroes of Gáirech.”
“Defiled them how? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Here, help me up.”
“You deny ordering your King’s Guard to dump the dead in the bog?”
“No. Calgach took it upon himself. Or was it Bres? I don’t remember.”
“And Fergus? What happened to Fergus?”
“The Cailleach told me he was a traitor and needed to be put down. I thought…”
“You don’t think, you just scheme. Scheme under the yoke of Queen Medb. It is you who is the traitor. You hitched your horses to the wrong chariot this time.”
“Here, help me up,” Longas tried again, holding his hand up.
Conall took it, pulled him halfway to his feet, and punched him in the face with the fist, still clutching the hilt of his sword. There was a satisfying crunch of broken teeth.
“Why did you turn to the Cailleach?”
“Kathvar used me as a spy and then dismissed me,” he slurred, holding his hands up as a shield. “I was offended by him. I decided to work with Medb after the battle. Since I took the kingship. We need the Five Kingdoms to be working together.” Conall wondered how much of the speech was fueled by the mead swimming through him. Did he really believe he was working for the good of the people? He doubted it.
“You think we don’t talk? Genonn was there, behind the big oak. Heard everything. Heard you gloating about murdering Fergus at the Queen’s behest. Genonn heard you tell his father it was your plan to get Cú to kill the Cailleach because you knew Cú would not rest until the one responsible for his father’s death had also died. And that failed because the Cailleach killed Cú before he learned your monstrous secret.”
“No, Conall, Genonn lies. It’s not true–” Conall interrupted the pleading with a kick, and Longas ended up face down in the dirt, heaving for a breath through his broken teeth.
Conall thought he would puke if he had to listen to more sniveling lies from the King of Nothing. He leaned over Longas, pulled up the legs of his triús to expose his ankles, and slashed Díoltach across their backs. The expected scream never arrived. Longas rolled over and stared down at his feet as if unsure why he was in sudden and excruciating pain. Blood from the deep cuts was absorbed by the dirt, and Conall realized the pain was probably being suppressed by the amount of alcohol washing through the man’s head. Even if not yet feeling the pain, the King of Nothing could not walk. He would find crawling extremely difficult. He would need to pull himself along using his arms.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
He isn’t going far.
“Enjoy your funeral,” he said, turning and walking up the aisle.
“Conall, what do you mean? Conall!”
***
Conall found the three guards he’d evicted from the hall milling about outside. They seemed unable to decide what should be done. When he approached them, they were subservient, bowing and asking for instructions. He hated weakness. He hated their weakness more than any other. After Gáirech, they let the reputation of the Red Branch get thrown in the midden by a drunk. But not just the reputation. They’d allowed Longas to squat over everything warriors held sacred.
Someone had removed the body of the captain. No matter; they could sneak off and bury him somewhere. Conall no longer cared. He only cared about Longas, trying to make for the door and a means of escape. It would be futile. His progress across the floor would be slow, and Conall would not leave any time soon.
There was no escape.
“Where’s Mac Nessa?” he asked.
“They say he’s hiding in Béal Feirste, Lord.”
“I’m no man’s lord. Send someone to find him. He must return to the throne and take charge of this spoor hole.”
“What of King Longas, Lord?”
“King Longas, is it? Since when has that bundún been a king?”
“He was elevated after Mac Nessa ran from battle.”
Díoltach was pricking the throat of the guard in an instant. “Elevated by who?”
The guard shrugged. Conall could see he was struggling with some sort of internal strife. He wanted to tell Conall to concentrate on his own affairs and leave Emain Macha in the hands of their king. However, Díoltach made a compelling argument not to.
“We elevated him. No way the coward could keep his seat.”
“You dare stand there and call Mac Nessa a coward? Only better men can do that. You’re not his better. You helped Longas treat the fallen like dung. You took away their swords and dumped them in the bog. They’re walking in the Void with no access to Tír na nÓg. Mac Nessa would not have done that!”
The guard started to scoff, “What could we do, L–” but didn’t finish his protestations because Conall took an almighty swing and struck off his head.
“Anyone else?” he asked. The remaining guards scuffed their feet in the dirt. Neither of them would look at him. “Aye, good so. Now, send someone to find Mac Nessa. Clear the feast hall of anything you bodaláin think might be of value.”
“Why, Lord?”
“Why? Because I’m going to raze it as a funeral pyre for the fallen of Gáirech.”
“Should we remove the body first?”
“Body? What body? Who told you Longas was dead?
“But, Lord–”
Conall stopped the guard with an upraised hand and barked an order to get on with it. The man hesitated before glancing at the headless body lying in the dust and changing his mind. The subservience made Conall want to gag. Groveling was nearly as bad as running. He thought it worse in some ways because groveling was invariably followed by some form of backstabbing.
“Wait a minute. What word of the Red Branch?”
“They’re said to be seeking you, Lord.”
He frowned at the man. If they were seriously searching for him, all that happened since the death of Cú might have been avoided. If only he’d known.
“When did they go?”
“Rode out two days since.”
“Direction?”
“They rode north, Lord.”
“Right. Follow my instructions and bring me some oil—lots and lots of oil.”
Conall crossed his arms as the guards scuttled down the hill. He was a little disappointed because he’d been expecting a fight. Instead, the warriors in this King’s Guard were as weaselly as Longas. No fight. No strength. Nothing but a need to see others suffer. He wondered how the Five Kingdoms ever came to be in such a deplorable condition. If Kathvar’s oft-repeated prophecy about the arrival of the Romans had any merit, then they were in trouble. The Romans were fearsome. They would cut through the unprincipled warriors of Ireland like a scythe through harvest wheat.
As he watched, he heard a sound from deep within the settlement. At first, it was difficult to distinguish. Then, as they came, it became apparent it was the sound of many voices in the throes of excitement. Conall knew they were building their courage.
“So, they are finally coming,” he said to the corpse at his feet. “I thought you bodaláin incapable of offering a decent fight.”
He crossed his arms, sword resting on his shoulder, and grinned down the hill. The grin broadened when they came into sight, led by Calgach. He had a rag wrapped tightly around his neck. It looked to be scarlet. Garish. Conall laughed and shook his head. He was getting too old for the game if he could no longer tell the dead from the living. Such mistakes cost lives. Such a mistake would cost a life. His. He might be the best in the Five Kingdoms, but he had no hope against such odds.
However, he would not go to Donn alone.
A greybeard was walking beside the captain. Conall assumed it to be the new druid, Bres. He hadn’t thought about the druid’s absence in the feast hall, his mind on Longas. Seeing the man walking up the hill in the company of this so-called King’s Guard, Conall realized the druid had abandoned his king. If this Bres had been in his rightful place, he would have died defending his king and be on his way to Tech Duinn. Instead, he was leading a band of pretenders up the hill.
“Bodaláin don’t know how easy they have it,” he said to the corpse.
Conall gave Díoltach a couple of practice swings, loosening his shoulder muscles, and thought about running back into the feast hall and finishing what he’d started before surmising there would not be time. It didn’t matter. Not really. If Longas survived, he would see out his days a cripple. Cripples were not well treated. Perfection of the body was a must in a king. Longas would be expelled from the clan as a man who was useless in every other area. The weasel would die alone, begging for whatever scraps would come his way. Always had been a rat-eat-rat world.
“You live, bundún,” Conall said as the crowd came to stand in a semicircle around the top of the hill. He estimated about two hundred garishly clad men were milling about, unsure what to do. “You must be Bres. Why aren’t you dead in the feast hall?”
“Dead, what are you saying, man? I am a druid. It is geis to kill a druid.”
“Your king is in the hall. Had you been performing your duties, you would be dead beside the squirrel turd.”
“You killed the king?” Calgach hissed.
“Not yet. But given time,” Conall grinned. “You talk a lot for a dead man.”
“What nonsense is this? As you can see, your attempt to kill me failed. Now we’re going to hang you from the nearest tree.”
“You, Calgach, will find it hard to hang a man after I’ve lopped your head off.”
The captain shook his head, his confusion at the empty threat evident. “Seize him.”
No one moved. The warriors carried on milling about. He could only assume their noise coming up the hill, trying to build up the courage to attack him, failed at the sight of his blood-covered sword.
“You’re right to be afraid. I’m Conall Cernach. Founder of the Red Branch. Bane of the pirate Ingcél. Head crusher.”
Whispers began to sound from the crowd. Conall felt a growing satisfaction. His tactic of instilling fear was working. They were not going to do as Calgach demanded. The captain was also looking around nervously. The whispers began to take shape: banshee, banshee, banshee. Ban Sidhe. Conall’s grin faltered. Why were they calling him Ban Sidhe? He was neither a woman nor of the Tuatha. His confusion evaporated when the crowd parted, and Fedelm strode through the gap, meekly followed by Genonn and Bradán.
She reached Conall and turned on the crowd, which seemed to quiver like a drawn bowstring. He realized the so-called warriors had all been on the plain of Mag nAí when Fedelm prophesied the anguish they would have to endure during the cattle raid. She told them many of their number would die at the hands of a single hero. A hero of Ulaid. Her prophecies came to pass. Cú Chulainn attacked their camps each night, leaving a swathe of dead in his wake. He killed their champions at each river crossing. He turned Medb’s armies red with their own blood. No one in the crowd fidgeting on the hill knew Cú and Fedelm had worked together.
Bres turned on them, still whispering about the presence of the Ban Sidhe. “What is this nonsense? She is just a woman.”
When the druid looked back, Fedelm leveled a glare at him, born of years under Biróg, which caused Bres to visibly wilt. “I am the Morrígan of the Ban Sidhe, and if you do not leave now, I will call Badb down on you all.”
Conall heard a crow caw from the forest edge. He glanced over to see a tree full of the birds, black eyes staring over the crowd, heads angled, showing their curiosity. He pretended a cough, lifting a hand to hide his smile, knowing it was a coincidence, but the superstitious would-be warriors did not. They saw the tree. They saw Badb in the black-winged harbingers of death. They saw the goddess waiting for word from the Morrígan.
They saw their death, and they fled.
“Don’t forget my oil,” Conall called after them.
“What do you want to do with these two?” Bradán asked, pointing at Bres and Calgach, who had forgotten their bluster and were visibly afraid, turning from side to side as though they could not believe their warriors had gone.
“Now, this is a bit of a sticky one, Calgach,” Conall said, arms again folded, Díoltach resting on his shoulder.
“I have pressing business in Caer Leb,” Bres said, edging away.
“It wasn’t so pressing a moment ago,” Fedelm snapped.
“You, druid, if you even are a druid, will stay here. You need to serve your king and will join him in the hall,” Conall said, still grinning.
Calgach unsheathed his sword, saying, “Let’s at it then.”
“You mistake me if you think we’re going to fight.” Conall shook his head. “You’ll be attending the funeral of the Red Branch warriors. Can’t do that if you’re dead.”
“I won’t be party to your games, Cernach.”
“You’ll do as you’re told. Kindly disarm the bundún,” Conall said to Bradán.
The young warrior walked over, holding out his hand for the sword. Calgach took a wild swing at him, which Bradán ducked under, catching the man’s wrist and twisting it until he dropped the blade with a squeal.
“Not very well trained, is he,” Bradán said over his shoulder. “What do you want me to do with him?”
“Take them into the feast hall. Tie them to a central pillar. Make sure it is right at the front, where they can support their king.”
Genonn walked over and took Bres by the arm. Conall was not really surprised the man was still standing there. Sensible people would have run. Bres considered his office to be his savior. He thought Conall would be constrained by the geis preventing harm to druids. The fool went meekly into the hall without a word.
When Genonn and Bradán returned, Conall asked, “Longas?”
“Sitting on the throne gazing at his feet. You cut the tendons in the back of his ankles?” Genonn asked, pulling on his earlobe.
“Was the easiest way to keep him in the hall,” Conall shrugged, pointed at his ear, and grinned.
“What are we going to do, Conall?”
“Give the fallen the funeral they deserved. At least if I can find the oil for it.”