Someone let out a gut-rumbling laugh.
Where his donkey ride trussed like a bird for the pot had been conducted by the subdued, the return was full of jovial banter. The Jutish warriors could give and take the worst insults without coming to blows. It was obvious to Conall that these men were comfortable in each other’s company, and he had no doubt they would be fearsome in a knock. They would stand with locked shields and kill—or die—for each other.
Which they might need to prove, he thought, gazing across the plain at the port settlement of Béal Feirste. Something was wrong. Guards were on the gates checking wains and wagons before allowing entry. Drawing rein, Conall sat astride his horse, hands on his saddle pommel, watching with a frown.
“Something is wrong?” Malthe asked.
“Only seen this like once before, when Medb locked the world out of Crúachain in fear of my reprisals—guards checked everyone. Gates are usually open, except when there’s a war on. Then they’re barred. But worse than that, the warriors on the gates are Galeoin.”
“How can you tell?”
“By their cloaks. Only the Galeoin wear a white cloak with gold trim. All of them. Warbands are usually less uniform.”
“What does it mean, Conall of the Victories?”
“I thought Mac Nessa sent Bradán to Find to negotiate a contract. This,” he nodded at the gate, “means the Galeoin are already in Mac Nessa’s pay.”
“What is happening?”
Conall watched the warriors outside the palisade for several moments before saying, “They are searching for Mac Nessa’s enemies. Reclaiming his crown was always going to be difficult. Most of Ériu’s warriors watched him run from the battle—run from Fergus. Fergus knew it would be more punishment to have the king shamed than it would to kill him on the field, so he let him live. To come back, Mac Nessa needs a very firm hand.”
And he no longer has that Tuatha-forsaken druid to advise him, so he’s buying that hand with gold.
Conall suspected that if the druid were still alive, he would advise Mac Nessa to kill himself in the face of his shame. With the old druid gone, no one would tell the cowardly king which part of his sword to use for the killing stroke. Rather than take the honorable course, the badger’s hole had chosen to continue with his ill-fated attempt to take the high kingship of the Five Kingdoms.
It’s probably no longer ill-fated. With Medb gone, he has no one to oppose him.
“What do you want to do, Conall?” Malthe asked. “Will you come and aid me or stay and face this fat man?”
“Is your ship beached?”
“Nay, she’s too big to beach. I sent my deputy ahead to get her ready.”
Conall sat for a while and considered whether he wanted to go to Juteland and become a filí. He hated telling stories almost as much as he hated farming—or, more precisely, not being a warrior. He recalled when he had acted as Ulster’s king in Mac Nessa’s absence, and he could not remember a time as dull. There was no thrill to sitting on a cold, hard seat in Emain Macha’s feast hall, listening to farmers and fishers whining about this and that. On the horse’s other flank, Mac Nessa appeared to have Ulster under his thrall, and with the Leinster warriors protecting him, he would once again be untouchable. Where would Conall be able to go? Ailill might welcome him back, but he somehow doubted it. Conall’s being in Crúachain would constantly remind him of what Medb had forced him to do. Ailill was a fair and wise man, but nobody would want to be reminded that they ordered their wife murdered and exchanged her head for that of another, even if it had belonged to the legendary Hound of Ulster.
“I think we should ride down to the gate, and if they offer us trouble, force our way in.”
“Ya. That sounds like my type of ride,” Malthe said with a grin.
There was a noticeable rise in the mood of the warriors as they goaded their mounts down the hill. Conall had thought their humor irrepressible as they rode through the forest. It was nothing compared to their cheerfulness at the thought of a coming fight. As a warrior on the downward slope of his lifespan, Conall had fought in many battles and duels and seen many moments under Donn’s shadow. That said, he’d never witnessed warriors buoyed by the prospect.
His plan to attempt entry first and fight only if necessary came crashing down as Malthe drew his sword a short distance from the gate, making an ululating war cry as he dug in his heels and charged the guards.
If Conall had been the captain, he would have kept the gates closed and only opened them when allowing entrance. However, luckily for them, the Galeoin leader left them open and only ordered them to be closed when Malthe attacked. It all happened so fast that the Jute’s massive horse was barging the gates open with its chest before the defenders could drop the locking bar in place.
Conall felt a surge of elation as he followed Malthe through the swinging gates, the warriors diving left and right to avoid the rampaging horses. This—the thrill—was what made a warrior’s life worthwhile. He felt the wind in his hair and the surge of his gut. He screamed his war cry, Ulaid, however inappropriate, and laughed at the sheer exhilaration of breaching a settlement’s walls.
As they raced between the roundhouses, something inexplicable caused Conall to draw rein and look back at the palisade. His heart skipped a beat. The Galeoin captain had closed and barred the gate, but the ramparts on either side of the gatehouse caused his heart to race. Archers facing into the settlement packed them, facing in the opposite direction from what would be natural.
“It’s a trap,” he shouted. But a trap for who? As soon as the question entered his head, Conall realized it could not be for him. No one knew he was coming. “Malthe, you should ride for your ship. This trap’s meant for you.”
Rather than do as he suggested, the Jute swung his horse around. A quizzical expression clouded his face. Conall pointed at the ramparts. The Jute needed no further explanation. As he jumped from his horse, he whistled. His warriors wheeled and drew rein.
“Shield wall,” Malthe shouted, and his warband leaped from their horses and formed a cordon around him. They surrounded themselves with their shields, so there was no way for any arrows to get through. Conall was admiring the efficiency of the Northern warriors when it struck him that he was outside the cordon, unarmed and a long way from its protection. It was at least fifty paces from where he sat astride his horse.
“Oh, cainniúr,” he shouted.
The hiss and click of a massive flight of arrows caused him to roll from his mount and under its torso just in time to avoid the arrival of the missiles. The horse screamed and bucked, peppered with arrows. As the animal bolted, Conall took a glancing blow from a hoof that dazed him for a moment. When he regained his senses, he looked toward the palisade to see Galeoin warriors charging at him. With their white and gold cloaks flying behind, their shields held out in front, they would be on him in no time. On his back, he tried to climb to his feet, but his legs did not respond to his brain’s commands. Eyes tight shut, Conall took several deep breaths as the sound of boots thumping drew closer. Rolling over to get onto his knees, he was surprised to see a pair of iron-shod boots in front of his nose. Looking up, he saw a massive warrior standing over him with a double-handed, bearded axe of the type favored by Jutish warriors.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, trying to shake the dizziness loose.
“The Drage,” a voice boomed from inside a full-faced helmet. Nodding over Conall’s shoulder, the Jute said, “Come, they will soon find their courage.”
Turning, he saw the Galeoin milling in indecision no more than twenty paces from them.
“A fighting retreat,” the Jute called, pulling him to his feet, and he realized they were not alone. Someone hustled him into the midst of about twenty warriors who began backing away.
A few moments later, the warrior who had pulled him to his feet called, “Shield wall,” causing the Jutes to stop and lock shields in the face of a charge from the Galeoin. When Leinster’s elite saw the speed with which the Jutes formed a wall, they stopped and began milling about again.
Glancing to his right, Conall saw Malthe’s group moving towards the shore briskly but short of running. He could see arrows prickling their shields, but there didn’t appear to be any injuries. After fifty paces, they stopped and formed a wall, and Conall’s group moved back. He could see the Galeoin archers still on the ramparts, but they did not loose another flight. He would like to think that honor prevented them, but he knew it was more likely to be how effective the Jutish shield wall had proved.
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Their shields are much bigger than ours, he realized. Better protection, for sure.
Conall’s group was backing into the sea in no time, and he glanced over his shoulder. The sight of the Drage rising and falling in the slight swell caused him to hiss in a breath. The longship was broad in the beam with a shallow draft and sleek, polished strakes. Rowers occupied the oars and were keeping the ship sideways to the shore. Several archers were balancing on the deck, waiting for the chance to discourage the Galeoin from pressing their attack. Conall thought the greatest peril would be when they reached the ship and were boarding with their backs to the ambushers, but as it happened, the Galeoin did nothing but stand watching.
I thought their reputation was for bravery and skill.
Finally, Malthe hoisted himself aboard and ordered them underway.
“What a waste of horses,” Conall said, nodding at the abandoned beasts running up and down the beach.
“No matter. We stole them,” Malthe said with a shrug. “That’s why they laid this trap and are not pressing the attack. Most of the horses are returned unharmed, and we are leaving. No use dying when the victory is already achieved.”
“And why you were in a hurry after the ambush?”
“Ya. Probably why they let us through the gate, too.”
Conall laughed and turned back to shore. As he stared at the warriors on the beach, he saw a tall man barge through them. Arriving on the water’s edge, the warrior crossed his arms, and Conall gave a start of recognition.
Bréannin. What is Bréannin doing with the Galeoin?
Whatever it might be, it did not bode well for him that a captain of Leinster was leading the Galeoin to apprehend Mac Nessa’s enemies, even if they were horse thieves. If he were ever going to return to his homeland, he would have to do so at the head of an army. There would be no chance if everyone had already sided with the disgraced Ulster King.
And the captain has a way about him. With him supporting the bundún, others will follow. My question is, why?
During the battle of Gáirech, Bréannin fought for Medb. Bradán described him at the battle’s end as a lonely turd in a freshly dug midden, sitting on his horse while Medb’s warriors fled, leaving him alone. It seemed that now the Witch Queen had gone, all of Ériu was falling under the sway of the fat king. Everyone knew Bréannin as a man who would broker any deal as long as the bag of gold was big enough. In fact, he’d brokered a deal to have Kathvar the Elder murdered. That Imrinn got to the druid before Nechtan’s fían was pure happenstance. With all that in mind, by reputation, Bréannin was also a man who hated Mac Nessa.
“Who’s he?” Malthe asked.
“Bréannin. A Captain of Leinster. He led the kingdom’s warband during the battle of Gáirech. If he has joined Mac Nessa, then my cause is hopeless.”
“In what way, hopeless?”
“The rest will not stay neutral with the Galeoin and Bréannin on the king’s side. Mac Nessa will convince them to join him, or he’ll crush them. There’s no way to stop him from being crowned sovereign over the Five Kingdoms. I can never return to Ériu if Mac Nessa is high king. Not without an army. It would be my death.”
“He has some fame, this Bréannin?” the Jute asked, causing Conall to sigh.
“Aye. He’s a strong leader, for sure. A warrior who commands loyalty and respect.”
“Why did he fail at Gáirech?”
“His warriors were of poor quality and unprepared, which cannot be said of the Galeoin.”
Malthe nodded, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said, “My Champion, Skadi, is an excellent archer. She can remove this Bréannin from the saga if you want.”
Conall watched the man on the beach, arms crossed, staring at their escape indifferently. Did he want the man removed from the story? He was unsure. Bréannin had done little to warrant summary execution and had allowed them to escape after recovering the horses. It would be convenient to remove him, but it was too many times that Conall had seen people killed for the sake of ease.
“No. He’s chosen badly, but that doesn’t warrant death.”
“Time for you to sit. Find somewhere out of the way, ya.”
“I can row,” Conall said, scowling. “I’m not that old.”
“I know, Éireannach,” the Jute said sympathetically. “My thegns are used to rowing together, nay. Having the same rhythm means sailing is easier.”
Conall considered telling the Jute he’d been rowing since before the fjord heard his first squall but thought better of it. Instead, he strode to the vessel’s aft and sat on a bench spanning the deck from one side to the next. Now, with time to examine the ship, he could not help but whistle between his teeth. Conall might have been rowing since before Malthe first clamped gums to a teat, but never in anything as large or sleek as this Jutish longship. Aptly named, the Drage was precisely how he would picture the legendary monster. He’d no time when they were fleeing but remembered from his glance that the figurehead was of a snarling dragon, and he thought it would put the fear of Tech Duinn into any enemies.
“She’s beautiful, ya?” the warrior who saved him said, removing her helmet as she came to stand before him.
Conall hissed in a breath at the sight of her standing with hands on hips, helmet strap grasped in a clenched fist. He’d been unaware she was a shieldmaiden, her helmet and iron cuirass effectively hiding the clues. And what a shieldmaiden. As tall as Conall, she stood with her feet slightly apart, rocking in the gentle swell. Two long warrior braids had forced their way out of her deep auburn hair, a color he’d not seen on any other Jute. She had a strong jaw and a scar from her right ear lobe to the corner of her mouth, giving the appearance of a lopsided grin. Her eyes competed with a clear evening sky after sunset for the depth of their blue and held a twinkle of mirth that caused him to smile.
“Can I sit?” she asked, nodding at the bench beside him.
“Are you not needed at the oars?”
“Nay,” she said with a snort. “I’m Malthe’s deputy captain. I’ve earned the right to sit and watch.”
“Oh,” Conall said.
“You are Conall of the Victories?” she asked as she sat beside him. “Malthe said it might be you. He wasn’t sure.”
“I am,” he said, shaking his head. “Why is my name so well known?”
The warrior’s eyes opened wide, and she, too, shook her head. “You must be aware of your battle fame, nay?”
“Battle fame?”
“Ya. The name Conall of the Victories rings out in the skáld songs. I nearly cried when Malthe ordered me back to the Drage to prepare for sailing, but my heart soared when I saw you fall off your horse—”
“I didn’t fall.”
The shieldmaiden carried on as if she’d not heard him. “When I saw you fall, soon to be surrounded by enemies, I ordered my warriors to run to your aid. It’s a good thing we were already ashore, nay. Saving your skin was a great honor, I must tell you.”
“I thank you,” Conall said with a laugh, her excitement infectious.
“It is nothing,” she said, punching her chest with both fists. “I, Skadi, will not shirk my duty.”
“You owed me nothing, Skadi. I’m a stranger to you.”
“Nay. I know you as well as I know my own brother. I have been following you in the songs since I was a child.”
Conall shuddered at the thought that the hard-faced woman sitting beside him had heard his name in their strange songs since she was young. When she took off her helmet, he thought Skadi had seen thirty or more summers but now knew it could not be so. Conall felt old through to his bones, but the truth was he’d not yet seen thirty-five summers. His life as a warrior began only sixteen summers before when he approached Mac Nessa with a plan to form a warband unequaled throughout the clans.
“Did you kill the pirate Ingcél in a heartbeat like the songs claim?” Skadi asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.
“It’s not like it sounds. He was disgraced and tired—”
“And the songs tell how you hunted down the survivors of the battle of Átha Clíath and killed them single-handedly.”
“They murdered all the people in a settlement and then feasted to celebrate. When I caught them, they were drunk and sleeping. I killed most without waking them first. They were scum, and it wasn’t as glory-filled—”
“And those you thought had murdered Cú Chulainn?”
“Again. They were drunk. You have your own battle fame, I think. Your scar says that you have.”
“Nay. I’ve seen battle,” she said, touching the white ridge self-consciously. “But it was only a skirmish, and I received my wound early, so gained no fame.”
Conall shook his head. He would never understand a thirst for glory, for battle fame. Killing so that someone would sing your story was not something he would ever condone—dying for it, even less so. It was nothing more than a waste. Ever since reaching his maturity at fourteen, he’d been surrounded by those who craved glory, most of whom died in search of it. He would never forget Scáthach telling him glory and code were for fools. Win by whatever means or die should be a warrior’s only code. He knew the woman beside him would see it another way and was not in the mood to disabuse her.
“You saved Conall of the Victories,” he said. “That must count for something?”
Skadi shrugged and looked down between her feet. “It was nothing compared to you avenging Cú Chulainn. There’s no saga in you falling off your horse.”
How is my taking the witch’s head already known?
He didn’t want to tell the woman beside him that seeking glory was a waste. He did, however, wonder how his deal with King Ailill seemed to be common knowledge. The exchange of heads happened less than two moon cycles before, yet the Jutes already knew of it. He turned to her to say the revenge of Cú’s death had been unnecessary and bought him no release of guilt. Instead, the shieldmaiden’s demeanor convinced Conall not to correct her but rather to explain that nothing is ever as it seems. Especially where the words of filí, skálds as she called them, were involved. If the storytellers were renowned for anything, it was their embellishment, making things up so their stories were more exciting. “I swore an oath that I would avenge him on the day he was slain, yet I spent many moon cycles searching for the culprits. Even then, I slew the wrong—”
“But you were not to know, and the stories say the Witch hired the band you killed to kill you,” Skadi said, slapping her thigh so hard it made Conall wince. However, when she broke into a wide grin and showed even white teeth, he couldn’t help but grin back.
“All true, but the point is, I got it wrong.”
“Ha,” Skadi interrupted. “But you didn’t stop until it was done. You killed her. We shall continue this discussion, but for now, I must guide us home.”
With those words, the shieldmaiden stood, walked to the back of the ship, and took the steering oar from a burly warrior with a plaited beard and a big gut, which Conall did not doubt was more muscle than fat. With a nod, the warrior sat before a drum and began beating a rhythm for the rowers to follow as Skadi shielded her eyes with one hand and steered with the other, putting Conall in mind of the goddess Freya.