When Conall regained consciousness, he was across a donkey’s rump, his head swaying in time to its ungainly gait. Not far from his nose, the ground moved back and forth through his vision. He knew it was a donkey because of the stench, which caused a sense of nausea to rise from his gut.
Couldn’t mistake that stench for ought else. Even Bradán don’t smell that bad.
Conall could feel something stuffing his mouth, making him gag, and he knew if he puked, he would drown. Swallowing several times, he forced the bile down and concentrated on keeping it there.
Apart from the sounds of the forest and the clopping of the donkey’s hooves, there were the subdued voices of people around him. They didn’t sound like the dirty band of warriors in the hostel. Where he would have expected the ruffians to be loud and throwing banter at each other, whoever was taking him to the disgraced King of Ulster seemed unhappy with their lot. Conall strained to hear whether Bradán was in the group, as subdued as the rest of his captors appeared to be, but he could not hear the stripling’s tones.
Where is he? he wondered, tensing his biceps.
He was not surprised to find his wrists were bound tightly behind his back. Judging by his movement, Conall didn’t think they’d tied him to the donkey, which meant he could wriggle free. Not that it mattered. There was little point in running with his hands bound in such a way. No. Without help, there was no chance of escape.
When he thought it through, Conall realized that at their pace, it would take them no more than a day to reach Emain Macha, which might have already passed—they could dump him before Mac Nessa at any moment. Wondering how long he had been unconscious, Conall guessed that they might not even be taking him to Emain Macha. Nothing remained of the king’s seat except blackened stumps and ash. Would Mac Nessa want to go there? He supposed he might. One thing the fat man had always been was stubborn, and the erstwhile king might want to rebuild his old ráth in all of its glory. In fact, the longer Conall thought about it, the more he realized that is precisely what the delusional bundún would do: try to re-create that which was beyond re-creation.
Not only stubborn but living in a dream world.
Mac Nessa ran from Gairech, and his heir, Longas, maltreated the remains of the heroes who died on the field—even melting their swords so they would be forever in the Void. The only warriors who would flock to their banner would be from Alba or Gaul and, like Bradán and Bearskin, paid a lot of gold to do so. Not that Longas would be playing any part in the old king’s plans. That particular badger’s hole was also ash, burned in the feast hall. Conall did not regret cutting Longas’s heels and leaving him in the feast hall to die. After what the self-proclaimed king had ordered done to their heroes, using the feast hall as a wicker man sacrifice was almost lenient.
The call of an animal that he’d not heard before interrupted Conall’s thoughts. The call was followed by a twittering like a flock of disturbed geese had taken wing. After the twittering, thuds and screams erupted around him. One of his captors fell close, her glassy, sightless eyes staring at him in reproof, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. He could not see any sign of what killed her, but the immediacy of death and the blood trickle indicated something had pierced her heart and lungs.
Arrows.
Bradán’s díorma had walked into an ambush. Lifting his head as far as it would go and turning from side to side, Conall tried to see what was happening but saw nothing other than the warrior’s corpse. He could only surmise that a band of skilled archers had been waiting under the trees, skilled because he and the donkey were untouched.
After a moment, he heard the tramp of many booted feet, and someone called, “Make sure they’re meat,” in a strange accent.
There were curses and calls, noises he’d expected when he first awoke, telling Conall a large warrior band in a good mood surrounded him, the sort of humor a successful ambush created: the gladness to be alive coupled with the thrill of killing your enemy. It was the sort of mood that had been missing when he awoke.
Eventually, the noise died. Someone wrenched Conall’s head up by the hair and began sawing at the knot of whatever was holding the gag. He spat the gag out as his liberator cut the ropes binding his hands, dragged him none too gently from the back of the beast, and threw him onto the ground. After landing with a resounding oomph, Conall rolled onto his back and sat up, rubbing his wrists to bring some life back into his fingers. Looking around, he saw a group of burly men, blond-haired, braids in hair and beards, blue-eyed to a one, shields slung on backs, longswords, and war axes hanging on belts beside elaborately designed iron helms. Many of them were carrying bows. All of them were grinning at him like he was the main attraction in a traveling freak show.
Jutes.
One of them was standing over him with a long dagger in his hand. His stance didn’t appear threatening, and Conall felt himself relaxing, deciding the rough way the man freed him was not through malice but because these men of the frozen north knew no gentleness. He suspected that they would even treat their coupling like a wrestling match. Their reputation was for fierce fighting and fierce living and their size. Conall was not a little man, but these warriors of Juteland made him feel so.
“Who are you?” Conall asked.
The man above him stuck his dagger in his belt and said, “I’m Malthe Larsson, brother to Dervla. These pig-smelling whoresons are my thegns.”
Rather than take offense, the warriors grinned and nodded, with the occasional “Ya” voiced for good measure.
“Well met, Malthe Larsson. I owe you a debt,” Conall said, still rubbing the circulation back into his fingers.
“Ya, you do,” the blond giant said with a nod, pulling Conall to his feet by his wrist. “We can talk as we go.”
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“Where are we going?” Conall asked, raising an eyebrow.
“We go back to Béal Feirste. My langskib is waiting—my ship, the Drage.”
“Before I go anywhere, I’ve to check the bodies.”
“He’s not there,” Malthe said with a shrug.
“Who?”
“The leery pig turd who betrayed you. He left these aerslings at the hostel with instructions to wait for him in Emain Macha. He’s taken your hammer to meet the king of the Galeoin.”
“Find mac Rossa?”
“Ya. That’s him.”
What is Bradán up to now?
There was something about accepting a contract from Mac Nessa and then meeting with Find. The disgraced ruler’s son, Longas, and Find conspired together before the battle of Gáirech. The Galeoin were planning to abandon Medb’s shield wall, causing a collapse from the inside. Luckily for the witch, she’d decided they were no good for all the wrong reasons and tried to have them murdered. Only Ailill’s sensitivity prevented the injustice, and they fled before the battle began. Bradán’s apparently reconnecting them didn’t bode well for the Five Kingdoms.
Is Mac Nessa trying to replace the Red Branch with the Galeoin?
It would make sense because the Red Branch would not serve a man who ran from battle. Some, like the Galeoin, might do it. And, of course, it had to be the Galeoin. Many considered the warband from Leinster better than the Red Branch—indeed, they had trained under the now-dead druidess Dornoll, the only army in Ériu to do so. Conall remembered Medb’s dislike of the Leinster warriors had been born of envy. They were the best warband in her army, eclipsing her warriors easily. Conall trained the pups of Crúachain, but like any stew, if you use dung to make it, it will taste like dung when you eat it. The question was, why would the skilled warriors of the Galeoin follow where the Red Branch refused? He suspected the answer would be yellow and shiny, and it didn’t fill him with confidence for the future of Ériu.
“How do you know all this?” Conall finally asked the man standing opposite him, hands on hips, impatience written across his handsome, Jutish features.
The warrior regarded him with curiosity as if he was deciding on a course of action. Finally, he said, “What the big ugly one called you was true?” Conall shook his head, unsure what the Jute was asking. “You are Conall of the Victories?”
“Oh, that. For what it’s worth, aye, that’s me.”
“You have vast battle fame, Conall. And you knew my sister.”
I knew his sister?
Conall wondered what the man could possibly be talking about. He knew no… “Oh, that Dervla. Cú’s Jutish princess?”
“Ya.”
Dervla was the beauty who had all the male warriors of the court in thrall and probably some of the females, too. When she became Lugaid’s queen, the court’s women were overwhelmed by jealousy so visceral that they murdered her during the winter solstice festival. When he discovered her body, Lugaid took his own life, unable to stand the wave of grief or perhaps the brutality of the killing. Cú executed the murderers in the capital’s bloodiest episode. Conall was not in Emain Macha when it happened because he’d followed Fergus to Medb’s court. Mac Nessa’s behavior had become something he was no longer willing to tolerate. In truth, Conall was glad he’d missed the whole affair. If he’d been in Tara, he would have tried to stop Cú and would undoubtedly have died a victim of the bloody hammer that Bradán stole.
That’s in the past. There’s more important things to think on.
Unsure of what to say to the Jute, Conall asked, “How do you know what Bradán is doing?”
“Bradán is the leery pig turd?” Conall nodded. “We were in the hostel and heard it all. When they dragged you from the hall, I followed and listened from the shadows—”
“Why?”
“Sit,” the Jute nodded. “I wanted haste, but can see you need convincing.”
Conall didn’t appreciate the tone of command. Looking around at the twenty or so burly men, he realized he had no choice and sank onto a stump by the side of the road. Malthe held out a hand, and one of the warriors passed him a flagon. Malthe took a slurp and handed it to him. Taking a pull, Conall grimaced and coughed as the fiery liquid burned his throat.
“Ha. Jutish mead is strong, ya?” he nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “I came to the Five Kingdoms to bring my sister home. Lars, my father, is no longer King of the Juti—”
“No longer king?” Conall interrupted.
After a hard stare, Malthe explained that the people rebelled when King Lars banished Dervla. None of them wanted the king to use his daughter as a tool to appease the invading wildlings from the east, but Lars, the pig that he was, did it regardless. When she returned, rescued by Cú, and the king banished her, the folk showed their displeasure by tying him to the mast of his favorite langskib, the Havørn, and giving him a Viking burial in the fjord. Malthe had not done anything to stop them. Lars was a brutal man, and none of the folk respected him, least of all his son.
“Why didn’t you stop Bradán in the hostel?” Conall asked.
“There were too many for us to take on straight away. When the pig turd left with his best warriors, I saw our chance, and we rode ahead to set the ambush.”
“Why would you bother?” Conall asked, shaking his head.
Malthe combed his beard with his fingers before answering. “There’s to be a King’s Moot, where the jarls choose a new king. I will stand, and thought to bolster my claim by bringing Dervla home. The people love her—probably why our father did what he did.”
“Dervla is dead. I’m sorry.”
“Ya. This I learned a few days ago. And her rescuer, Cú Chulainn, is also dead, killed by the Witch Queen. Which leaves you, Conall of the Victories, Cú’s foster father.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We were on our way home when we stopped in that pigsty of a hostel. I was surprised and delighted when the ugly one dressed as a bear called you Conall of the Victories. Dervla was murdered, and her avenger was murdered, but you avenged the avenger.” The Jute held out his hands, palms first, as if concluding a heavily fought argument.
“I’m sorry, Malthe, I still don’t understand.”
“Dervla needs a telling. Someone must tell the skálds what happened so they can do it well.”
“I wasn’t there when she died. What can I say?”
“You were part of the story, ya? Inside the saga. You can tell it better than me or my thegns.”
“You would kill all these people,” Conall said, nodding at the arrow-filled corpses, “and force me to Juteland just to tell a story?”
And I thought Éireannachaigh were mad into their tales.
“The saga is revered among us Juti. That said, you misunderstand me. I will not force you. I just hope you feel indebted enough to come and help me. And these—not even their mothers will mourn them...” Malthe hesitated before saying, “Besides, when a powerful king has gold on your head, maybe it would be wise to leave for a time.”
“Badger’s hole ain’t so powerful now. He ran from battle.”
“Ya, but I think the amount of power gold can buy might surprise you. Even a coward can buy power.”
Conall thought about the Jute’s words, wondering what Malthe would do if he said no. The northerner seemed honest, maintaining eye contact, a small smile twisting his mouth’s corners slightly. Did Conall really want to go to the frozen north and tell a story to a band of Jutish filí? He thought not, but then, looking at the men around him, waiting expectantly, he wasn’t sure. Malthe’s point about the price on his head was well made. He might be better challenging Mac Nessa and finishing the feud one way or another, but the truth was that he was tired of fighting his erstwhile liege through to his aging bones.
And I do owe them a debt.
“You have horses?”
“Ya, Éireannach. More than enough.”
“Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll ride with you to your ship and decide before we get there.”
“Good enough, my friend. Come, we ride,” Malthe called to the waiting warriors.