Lee stood on the ship’s prow and held onto the ornate figurehead, letting the salt spray lash his face. They had sailed on the tide early in the morning following his speech on the knoll. Dond Desa walked through the warriors during the night, allocating a ship to those who he knew could sail. The captains then chose their crews. Before dawn, the three hundred would-be warriors were divided between the six ships. When the sun crested the horizon and the tide rose sufficiently for them to float the fleet, they pulled the vessels into the sea and began their new adventure.

The sails were up, and the oars were shipped, the warriors relaxing on the rowing benches, allowing the wind and tides to push them towards the island of the druids. Lee was on the prow to get the wind into his hair and clear his head of the mistiness it had acquired since the trial. Even as a child, Lee had found the salt spray invigorating. His mind was still trying to digest what had happened. He and his brothers were supposed to meet Donn in the Otherworld after one more glorious reave and not be ignominiously exiled across the sea to Alba. Lee had always known his foster brother was weak, but he had never suspected he was also addled. How could he have believed the idiotic excuse? It was inconceivable that anyone could believe it. The brothers should have been sentenced to ritual strangulation and bog burial, as were their accomplices.

But of course, he did not believe it, Lee thought. Otherwise why exile us?

“In trying to be fair to us, he has shown his weakness,” he screamed into the wind. “And we have all survived his wrath.”

Of the one hundred and twenty-nine raiders after the ambush on The Plain of Sheep and the march to the capital, Connery had ordered the execution of one hundred and twenty-six and the exile of his foster brothers. The families of those sentenced to death would never forgive him, but far worse than that, the kings and chieftains saw it as weakness. Maybe they would have forgiven the death sentence, but never the weakness.

The condemned had arrived in Bend Etair, and the exiles should have been one hundred and ninety, including Dond Desa and his skeleton crews, except they were swollen by the disenchanted warriors of Ireland. The condemned were now helping the disenchanted to sail Dond’s fleet to Alba. They were sailing hoping for plunder and glory but eventually expected to find a way back to their homeland. There was a risk of death to the venture, but any death would be preferable to spending eternity in a bog with a leather hide necklace.

“Sails ahead!” the lookout in the topmast called.

Lee looked up at the horizon but could see nothing. However, being sixty hands higher than Lee, the lookout would be able to see the approaching vessels.

“How many sails?” Lee called up.

“I count three sails, lord.”

Lee frowned. Three ships could mean anything. They could be raiders or merchants banding together for safety. If they were raiders, three ships would mean as many as one hundred fifty warriors—enough fighting men to cause anyone to worry. They would soon know. If they were merchants, they would flee when they spotted the sails of his father’s ships.

“Where are they heading?” he called.

“Straight ahead, lord. Our courses will cross shortly unless they change tack.”

“Let me know if they alter course.”

He walked to the stern of the ship to talk to his father. Dond Desa was wrapped in a blanket and looked frail, but his mind still functioned, and he would know how best to react to the sighting.

“You heard, Father. What do you advise?” he asked as he sat on the rowing bench opposite Dond.

“Three ships could be a raid...” Dond hesitated while he coughed. Lee looked on impatiently. “We have more ships and would win any confrontation but would sustain great losses.”

Dond paused as he thought. Finally, he continued, “If they come on, offer their chieftain an alliance. Whoever it is would be foolish to pass up on the offer when the alternative is annihilation.”

Lee nodded and looked at his brothers. They both shrugged, “We have nothing to lose,” Rogain said, and Lee returned to the ship’s prow to await the arrival of the oncoming fleet.

As the ships neared, Mane joined Lee. “You see the one in the front?” he asked.

“The black sail with a white eye?”

“Yes. That is the ship of the reaver, Ingcél. Ingcél of the one-eye. He has been raiding the coasts of Ireland constantly and is feared by those living in coastal settlements.”

“I thought raids were infrequent,” Lee said.

“Those reported to the High King are infrequent. No one trusted him to do anything about it. Ingcél has been reaving the coast for years.” Lee nodded his understanding.

“Hallo the ship!” he shouted as soon as the small fleet was within hailing distance.

A tall man climbed up to the prow of the ship with one eye. The man held a spear in his right hand and the figurehead of his ship in the other. The distance was half a spear throw, so Lee could see the broad grin on the warrior’s face. He seemed unworried about the superior number of ships facing him midway between the islands.

The man waved his spear and shouted, “Who are you, and where do you sail?”

“We are the fleet of Dond Desa, erstwhile bodyguard to the High King of Ireland, Ingcél, and we sail to Alba.”

“How do you know me, Dond Desa?”

“I am not Dond Desa; I am one of his sons, Lee. I know you because of your sail. I also know you have been raiding our coastline for many years.”

“True that,” Ingcél said, “But it is such an easy coast to raid.”

Lee nodded. Since the land had been under the Peaceful King’s reign, it was as if Irish warriors had forgotten how to be soldiers and protect what was theirs.

“What do you propose?” Ingcél asked. “You outnumber me by two to one, but your losses will be heavy if we battle.”

Lee nodded again. “For now, I would propose a truce. Let us sail to Caergybi and talk upon the sands.”

Lee watched as the warrior in the ship with the black sail pondered the request. He knew it was foolish to fight when the odds were so great, as Dond had said, but some would rather die than be thought cowardly for calling a truce.

Eventually, the man called back, “I agree. Let us adjourn to the beach and discuss terms.”

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Lee relaxed. From what he had seen of the warrior, Ingcél, he had no desire to fight him. They did outnumber the reavers by two to one, but Lee could see the men in the three longships were all hardened warriors. The shields hanging from the sides of the vessels were dented by many knocks. Almost half the men in Lee’s fleet were veterans of nothing more than raiding a few villages and killing old men armed with sticks and hoes.

Ingcél turned his ships, and the enlarged fleet sailed towards the main harbor at Caergybi on the island of Ynys Môn. Before full dark had descended, the ships were pulled up on the sands below the hillfort. Several large fires were burning. Meat was roasting in the flames of each fire, and the sailors were looking to their stores of mead. The fire had not been long lit, and the mead had only just begun to flow, when Ingcél started to boast of his feats while raiding the coasts of Gaul and Ireland.

***

“How long have you been raiding our coast and killing our people?” Dond Desa asked with a petulant tone.

Lee frowned. He did not like hearing this man boast of his raids around the coasts any more than his father. Neither did he want to anger the reaver. There was something in the Briton’s eyes.

“Ah, old man. With your weak ruler, the coasts of Ireland are like a ripe apple, ready to be plucked. You cannot begrudge a warrior for seeing his chance and taking it, can you?”

Dond Desa was sitting with a blanket around his shoulders. He felt the evening chill much more now than he had in his youth. Lee worried about his father. He used to be so strong. Now, he was a frail old man, just like one of those farmers who had never wielded a sword.

Lee looked at the warrior’s face on the other side of the fire. It was a fierce face, and the eyes brooked no argument. He guessed Ingcél would kill for copper coins and think nothing of it.

Dond pulled his blankets tighter about his shoulders and mumbled some excuse. Lee watched him head for a dune away from the fires.

“You say that old man was a fierce warrior, champion of the High King?” Ingcél asked with incredulity.

Lee just stared into the fire without responding. He was beginning to wish he had not agreed to sail to Caergybi. The Briton had no respect, and Lee knew he was in no position to teach him any.

“He is old now, but he was mighty in his day. Age will eventually take us all,” Mane said.

Ingcél smiled at Mane and said, “Not me. I will die young with a bloody sword in my hand. This I have sworn to Donn.”

“I am for bed,” Mane said.

Lee nodded as he watched the son of Ailill leave the heat of the fire with his blanket. He and his brothers had sworn similarly, but Donn deserted them. He knew that if the God had not deserted them, they would now be in a peaty grave, and the bards would be preparing to recite tales and sing songs of their battles and their deaths—their names would live on in infamy.

“Why are you sailing to Alba with a fleet of ships?” Ingcél asked.

“We have been banished by the High King for reaving.”

“I think I heard something of this. You were raiding farm villages in Connacht.” Ingcél smiled at the brothers.

Each of them had heard the barely hidden criticism in the statement. They understood the reaver was a veteran of battle, and they were little more than petty thieves. And they knew there was a veiled threat in the words of the Briton. He was warning them not to cross him.

“We are here on the beach, waiting for the pig to cook and drinking sweet mead. Now is a good time to discuss terms, yes?” Ingcél asked of Lee.

“Why were you heading for Ireland?” Lee asked, ignoring the offer of peace talks.

He was unwilling to succumb to Ingcél’s control without at least a gesture of defiance. He knew the Briton would take control; it was as inevitable as the sun’s rising and the moon’s waning. He was a hardened and bloody warrior, and Lee was nothing more than a murderer. The only time he had been in battle, he had thrown down his sword before the first thunk of metal hitting his wooden shield. In his heart, he knew that was the reason Donn had deserted them.

“I already told your father why I am here, Lee. I am raiding.”

“Yes, but why now?”

“Since I was chased from my home in Uerulámion, I have been reaving around the coasts of Ireland, Alba, and Gaul. It is the turn of Ireland once more,” he said with a glint in his eye, challenging Lee to offer some objection.

“Where is Uerulámion?”

“The east coast of Alba. North of the River Thames.”

“Why did you flee?”

“My brother Lud betrayed me. I had to flee for my life,” the Briton did not offer more. His head was down, his mind far away, so Lee decided not to press him.

“We have been banished on pain of death—”

“But for what,” Ingcél interrupted, “stealing a few cows?”

Lee did not answer but just stared into the flames of the fire, listening to the pig spitting through split skin. There was a hum around the beach, the voices of the sailors all talking at the same time in lowered tones. It was a distraction Lee welcomed, if only because it meant he could pretend annoyance and ignore the imminent loss of his warband to this Briton.

“I propose, Lee mac Desa, that we join forces. You will help me to reave against the clans of Alba. When that is done, we will go to Ireland, and I will help you to reave against your clans—vengeance will be sweet, believe me. What do you say?”

Lee continued to stare at the fire. He did not like submitting to this man so easily, but he could not think of any way to avoid it. The minute Lee suggested a truce, his fate and the fates of those following him had been sealed. He watched a globule of fat skittering across a burning log and nodded his head, “I agree with your plan. First, we raid in Alba, and then we raid in Ireland,” he said, while thinking, And hopefully, you will die in one of the places we raid.

“I will turn in now,” he said, swiping sand from his breeches as he stood.

***

The wind and salt were stinging his face. He was holding the griffin’s head as though his life would be prematurely engulfed if he let go. Turning away would lessen the sting, but he knew if he turned from the wind’s relentless attack, he would see the eye—the white eye—the eye that had been chasing him through his dreams…

“Lee, Lee, come quick!”

Lee opened his eyes. He had been dreaming, but the dream was too fleeting for him to catch, and it fled, leaving him confused and perhaps a little frightened. He could hear the soothing wash of summer surf and remembered he was on the beach at Caergybi.

“Lee, come quick!”

He rolled over and sat up.

The voice was that of his brother Gar, and he sounded distraught. Lee stood up and looked around the beach. The other sailors were rousing themselves, also woken by the calls. He could see Gar with his back to the sea, standing in front of a sand dune about thirty strides away. Rogain was already making his way over. Gar turned and saw Lee looking at him. He gesticulated violently for him to come over. Lee frowned as he watched Rogain pick up his pace and start to run.

As he reached his brothers, Lee saw Dond Desa sitting with his back to the sand dune gazing out to sea. At first, he seemed to be gazing out to sea, but as Lee looked, he could see something was wrong. It took him a few moments to realize there was no movement. His father was sitting with his back against a sand dune, with a smile and no life left in his veins. Lee’s breath caught in his throat as he stood there gazing down at the man who had given him life.

“He is dead,” Gar stated rather uselessly. Everyone gathering around the old warrior could see he was dead.

“We sail on the morning tide,” Ingcél said, turning away from the brothers.

Lee looked up sharply. He was going to object to the Briton’s tone of command, but Ingcél was already walking towards his ship, and Lee would need to shout to be heard. He did not want to seem weak in the eyes of the warriors on the beach, so he let the man walk away.

“You heard him. Bury Dond Desa in the sand dune, and let’s get the ships off the beach.”

As they sailed away, Lee looked back towards the dune where his father had been laid to rest. He hoped the smell of decay would not be detected by wild animals because digging him up would be easy. His sword and his shield were buried with him, weapons that Lee had coveted but would not take when the time came. He thought leaving Dond without them would somehow prevent his access into the Tír nÓg. Ingcél took the war hammer, laughing at the brother’s objections.

“A strong warrior wants his weapons to continue when he himself cannot,” he had said. “I will continue the fame of Dond Desa’s war hammer.” He lofted the hammer above his head as he spoke.

Lee looked at the black sail leading the fleet, perhaps portentous of what would happen with the warband. He hoped his decision to call for a truce was the right one. It had been done following the advice of Dond, but now Dond was gone, and no more advice would be forthcoming.