Macc lay rooted with his back to the tree as they dragged Connery through the gaping hole where the gates had been. He watched the High King struggle as they hauled him past the dead and dying of the two shield walls. Mane Milscothach walked behind the men with his sword drawn. Macc cursed him to a swordless death for his treachery. He could do nothing but watch. Lee’s backswing had doubtless severed his spinal cord, and no amount of desire could force his legs to raise him up. He wanted to cry, but crying was not part of the warrior creed, and the tears would not come. Perhaps he had forgotten how. Maybe he had never known how.

Taidle Ulad stood a little to the side of the entrance, watching the men dragging the king from the hostel. Macc’s shield was leaning against the druid’s legs as he crossed his arms over his white beard. He seemed to have claimed it as a trophy before the invaders could steal it.

May Donn take all his kind, the warrior prayed silently, with cold anger.

The invaders ignored the druid. They would not try attacking one of the Elder Council, indeed, they would not risk attacking any druid. Macc felt no similar compunction. He knew that if he were in the vale, his broadsword would be singing as it arced toward the white beard and the neck beyond, druid or not.

He could hear the High King shouting for him and remembered his disgust during the raid on Emain Macha all those years before when he suspected Connery was weak and had been crying. This time, he suspected Connery might be begging for mercy. Between supplications, Macc could hear him calling for his champion, unaware that he was crippled on a hill with his back against a tree, gazing down at the High King’s imminent demise.

Most of the retinue were gone, wounded, dead, or fled. Macc felt a pang of regret for his friend Conall. The warrior of Ulster would not have fled and so must have died defending Connery. He was a man who deserved the respect of the people. He was fair but uncompromising, and Macc thought he was a great loss.

He watched as the men forced Connery onto his knees. The High King was about to die, and Macc blamed himself. He should have remained beside his charge and sent Conall for water. Anger had driven him to abandon the High King—anger at his apparent weakness.

That is not a good excuse.

Macc had always known Connery was not strong and should not have punished him for it. He no longer felt angry. Now, he just felt sad, tired, and lonely. Which surprised him. Why should he feel lonely? It was the lot of a warrior to be alone, togetherness something snatched in fleeting moments of peace. Before Connery, those who took a wife invariably regretted it. Time away fighting wars was tough on the man and the woman. There had not been any wars during Connery’s reign, so the warriors had a chance to find solace in company other than that of warriors.

“Ha, Rogain, this time there is no reprieve,” he laughed at the brother cradling his guts in his lap.

He looked at Lee and remembered when he had been bound to a tree only a few moon cycles before. Bound and trying to wheedle his way out of his crimes. His mind flitted to the reprieve the brothers had been given by their High King.

“Ah, Connery, you always were gullible,” he sighed.

Connery’s cries had stopped, and Macc wondered if he was already dead, but when he looked down into the vale, he could see him on his knees with his head held high. A man was standing behind the High King. Macc could not see any detail at this distance, but he knew the man would be the reaver, Ingcél. No one else in the reaver’s warband would be allowed to perform the regicide. He could see the man’s broadsword resting on Connery’s shoulder despite the distance.

Macc hoped Connery’s death would be a clean one. He knew had he remained with the High King, he would not have allowed Connery to fall into the hands of the marauders. But because he abandoned him, the demonic Ingcél could do as he would. Macc had heard tales of how the man liked to beat his victims to a pulp and did not want the High King to end in that way; despite his lack of mental strength, Connery had been a good man.

Macc need not have worried. Watching, he saw the early morning sun glinting on the broadsword as it flashed slowly in an arc that took off Connery’s head.

“I can cry,” Macc whispered as a tear leaked from the corner of his left eye. “I am sorry, my son.”

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He could not hear what the warlord said, but he watched as Ingcél lifted his son’s head by the blond ponytail and held it up to the four points, North, South, East, and West. He said something at each point, and Macc knew the words would beseech Donn to accept the worthy into his mound. The cries as he was dragged from the hostel would not have been considered worthy. However, Connery had held his head high at the end and died like a true Éireannach, like the true son of the mighty Macc Cecht and the beautiful Buachalla.

As he watched, he saw Taidle Ulad say something to the Briton. He had no idea what the words might have been, but their effect was immediate and fatal. Ingcél unsheathed his sword and cut off the druid’s head all in a single motion. Macc saw the druid’s knees fold under him and his torso crumple into a bundle beside the body of the High King. Ingcél hefted Macc’s shield and, liking it, swung it onto his back. Macc thought it was a fair exchange.

The warlord then built a small cairn in front of the hostel. He asked no help from his warband. When it was done, he placed the High King’s head at its top. The warrior watched as the marauder said something to the head, mounted his horse, and left the battlefield, riding north towards Temuir. His army streamed after him in apparent high spirits. Macc was surprised because they did not bother entering the hostel for loot. Then he guessed that after they dragged the High King through the entrance, they thought nothing of any value would be left inside.

“Ah, my son, if I was not here stuck to this tree, I would give you water,” he said.

He fell asleep for a short spell and dreamed the High King’s head spoke to him, praised him, and thanked him for bringing water even after the battle was over. It was no longer his son’s head, only his ruler’s. He cried again for the loss, happy that Buachalla had already traveled to the land of Donn and would be there to welcome them to her table.

He awoke with a start to see a lissom, blond-headed girl breast the rise with a gangly wolfhound behind her. As the girl looked around the dingle in awe, the warrior closed his eyes and wished for a speedy end.

***

“That, then, is the tale, boy, of the death of a High King,” Macc said, looking at Amergein over the fire’s dying embers. The boy seemed to be lost in his thoughts as if all he had heard needed to be digested before he could look up and acknowledge the words of his new companion.

“It is a heady tale, lord,” Amergein finally said with a nod. “I have one question, though.”

Macc waved a hand, giving the boy leave to ask his question.

“If you were the High King’s champion, and Connery is dead there in that vale,” the boy hesitated, undoubtedly thinking how best to phrase his question. “Where are the chariots?”

“Chariots, boy, are you mad?”

“But all warriors have a chariot.”

“It is no wonder you want to be a bard, Amergein; your head is full of stuff and nonsense.” Macc watched as the boy’s face assumed the same petulant look his son had often worn.

“You told me you pulled your father’s handcart up that road,” nodding at the mud, “all the way from Rathdrum, right?”

“Yes, lord.”

“And how wide was the road?”

“Not wide, lord.”

“And how easy was it to move the handcart through the mud?”

“It was hard.”

“And can you really see the High King’s retinue riding their chariots through that morass?” Macc watched as the boy shook his head, but he could see the disbelief still in his eyes. “The High King had a ceremonial chariot that he used to keep at Temuir, and to the best of my knowledge, that was it.”

“Yes, lord,” Amergein said and then yawned widely.

“You should rest. Dawn will soon be on us, and you have had no sleep.”

“I must away. I have much to do,” Amergein looked at the warrior sheepishly as he admitted he would soon leave him alone to die.

“I am supposed to be at the festival in Temuir tomorrow, no, later today,” he realized. “Selling my father’s metalwork.”

Macc could see the boy was itching to flee and begin a new life as a bard. He did not blame him. He was now custodian of a truth that all the people of the Five Kingdoms would crave. They would beg for the story of Connery’s demise across the expanse of Ériu, maybe beyond. But he did not want to be left alone to die. Die he would, he knew, but not alone against a tree, dinner for hungry wolves.

Hungry even though they have been feasting all night.

“I must go now, lord,” Amergein repeated

“Will you stay a little longer, Amergein? At least until the sun is up.”

The boy looked around the dingle in frustration. Macc could see some internal struggle illustrated by his emotions.

Finally, he spoke, “I will, lord,” he said, not looking at the warrior’s pleading eyes.

Macc nodded his thanks and closed his eyes briefly. Dying against a tree on the edge of a cold forest was tiring work. He wanted to rest his eyes for just a moment and dream of his son praising him for his efforts.

He had no idea how much later it was when he felt the weak warmth of an early sun brush the side of his face. He opened his eyes with a start. The boy had gone. His sword had gone. He looked around the little dingle and noticed that the swords of the foster brothers had gone. He was defenseless against the wolves. Not that he would have been able to reach the swords of the foster brothers. After the effort of the day before and the blood he had since lost, he no longer had the strength to pull himself any distance. He looked around frantically for anything he could use to defend himself and saw three flagons of mead within reach.

“Ah, may the Dagda bless you, boy,” Macc said as the wolves began to howl.