They could see the River Sinann from the rise. The recent rains had swelled it. The water was brown with the silt churned up by the force of the flood. Trees and other less savory things were swirling in the eddies. From the rise, the fords appeared to be unpassable.

“Spring my hairy hole,” Conall said, grimacing and rasping his chin.

“It always rains this time of year,” Bradán said with a snort, spitting his stick out with the force of it.

“Aye, and every other time. No idea why the Romans would consider taking this Tuatha-forsaken island. Unless they have a craving for soggy boots.”

“You think they crossed?”

Conall knew Bradán was not referring to the Romans but to Ailill’s entourage. They needed to cross the river to get into the settlement.

“I know as much as you, lad. Only one way to find out, so there is.”

“It could be a trap.”

“Aye, it could. I don’t think it is, though. I’ve been unfair to Ailill since the battle. He promised no retribution against Fergus, and I should’ve believed him. If I had, none of this would’ve happened.”

“That’s why you left the Connachta company?”

“Aye, that and the Cailleach thought I was spying. She was about to order my arrest when Ailill intervened.”

“Were you?”

“Aye. Genonn and me both,” he laughed. “Longas also wheedled his way into Kathvar’s spy network. Not sure how much spying the bundún did. He had obviously been working for Medb all along. Never did trust him. Still, he’s ash now, so no matter.”

“Shall we do this, old man?” Bradán asked.

Conall nodded, and they kicked their mounts into motion.

The ride down the slope to the settlement of Átha Luain was quick. The guards on the gates beckoned them through. “We’re expected, it seems.”

As they rode through the gates, Conall was immediately struck by how new everything was. Everything had been worn and drab the last time he was in the settlement. Old. Ingcél’s marauders burned the roundhouses when forcing Connery’s entourage ever further south. He supposed if there was any positive to take from an invasion, it would be the rejuvenation it caused.

Not much of a positive in the face of all the slaughter.

“My guess is the Red Branch have arranged our welcome,” Bradán said, confirmed moments later when there was a shout, and a warrior came running over, waving frantically.

“Captain, you came.”

“Aye, Baruch, I did. But I hear you’re the captain now.”

“Not by choice. Would rather be in the wings taking orders. King’s in the feast hall. Liath’s as feisty as ever, so take care of your manners.”

“You ever seen me unmannerly?”

“Wouldn’t have an opinion on that, now.”

“Can you take care of the horses?”

Baruch waved a warrior over. “Get them stabled, fed and groomed.”

“Yes, Captain.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Come on. Best not keep Liath waiting; she’s likely to stick you with that lance of hers.”

The feast hall was dimly lit, showing none of the opulence associated with the seats of kings. As they walked the aisle, they couldn’t stop coughing. The few braziers created more oily black smoke than should be possible. Conall grinned. It was his type of place, much like his preferred hostel: a functional blockhouse devoid of the ostentation typical of the overlords of the Five Kingdoms, except for one minor detail.

Conall grinned at the recesses where heads were stored. So many kept the gruesome reminders of warriors they defeated in combat, proudly displaying signs of their prowess. Conall was not one. He turned to Bradán, who was looking everywhere but where the moldering trophies were staring at them as they passed.

“I’d guess they didn’t burn the hostel,” he said.

“Who?”

“The British pirates. Burned Átha Luain but left the drinkery intact.”

“Why would they do that?” his young companion asked, a look of confusion on his face.

“Choose another life,” Conall said with a laugh.

Bradán nodded but kept his eyes to the front.

Ailill was seated at a table on the dais. Like the hall, it had no frills, being a rough-cut board nailed to four stumps roughly the same height. Liath was standing behind him, her lance angled to provide fair warning. Conall might be a colleague and a warrior she respected, but she would react violently at the first sign of threat.

“Conall, please be seated,” Ailill said as they stopped at the foot of the dais and gave him a curt nod. The king appeared somewhat jaded, as if recent events had aged him. Nevertheless, he was sober, which Conall found a relief.

“I was sorry to hear about the death of Cú Chulainn,” Ailill said.

Conall crossed his arms under his chest, waiting for some word about why the king dragged him across the Five Kingdoms for a secret meeting. “It was a foul act of treachery.”

“I killed the warband responsible,” Conall said, shrugging. “Crushed their heads in the forest.”

“I heard. I am sorry to tell you Sharvan’s fían did not ambush Cú Chulainn. It was some of Medb’s Queen’s Guard. She was there and took the head herself–”

“Medb has Cú’s head?”

“Yes. She hired the fían to kill you, Conall, not Cú Chulainn. She paid them forty cumhals in advance. You should be careful because I have no doubt she has hired others since you killed the fían.”

“Ah, that’s what the bundún was trying to tell me.”

“Bundún?”

“Big warrior with red hair. More beard than I’ve ever seen. I stuck him to the forest floor with a lance and asked him nicely who paid him to kill Cú. He told me the payment was an advance and then died.”

“Medb arranged the ambush. She used the Cailidín sisters to lure him out of Dún Dealgan. Her Queen’s Guard was waiting in the pass. They ambushed Cú Chulainn and his retainer with spears. Laeg died immediately. Cú Chulainn tied himself to a boulder with his cloak. It took him three days to die, and only then did they dare approach and steal his head. Medb it was who took her knife to him and removed her trophy.”

“I knew I’d eventually need to seek retribution from her. Didn’t think it would be because she mutilated my son. Always knew she ordered it, though.” Conall glowered at the smoking braziers and wondered what he could do. The queen was still locked away in a reportedly impregnable fortress.

No fortress is impregnable. They only seem that way.

“What is it you want from me, Sire?”

“I want you to kill Medb.”

Where there had been the hum of hushed voices moments before, a profound silence descended. It was as though a síabair had stolen in and taken their tongues. But not only their tongues. Also, their will to be, to live, to move. They were as still as they would be in death.

“But she’s your wife,” Conall eventually said.

“She stopped being my wife when she tried to blame me for the murder of Fergus… No, that is not true. She stopped being my wife when Mac Nessa executed our son. She is a danger to us both. And, perhaps more importantly, she is a danger to the Five Kingdoms. She must be stopped.”

“Can you not stop her?”

“I was never one for the baser side of life as a warrior, Conall. Even though I know her to deserve death, I am not strong enough to mete out the sentence. She is also popular with the people despite her failure at Gáirech. If I were to order her death, I fear I would be seen as a usurper.

“I heard you were searching the Five Kingdoms for Cú Chulainn’s head. Here is my pledge. You give me her head, and I will give you his.”

“You have Cú’s head?” Conall asked, hand drifting towards Díoltach’s hilt. Liath tensed and angled her lance lower.

Ailill held up his hand. “Not I, Conall. She has it. She thinks it to be a secret and safe, but unfortunately for her, Medb talks in her sleep.”