Conall was sitting in a darkened corner of a hostel in Átha Clíath, nursing a flagon of mead and thinking about how best to return to Emain Macha and tell the King about the death of his son and Connery and how the King had been right in his premonitions. It had been hard enough telling Áine he had buried her husband under a cairn in front of Da Derga’s hostel. Telling Mac Nessa could only be more challenging. He knew the king of Ulster would not care about Connery’s death, but the death of Longas would come hard.
Conall, still reeling from the aftermath of the battle, was uncertain about the fate of Longas. He had searched for him after waking up in the hostel, but the scene was chaotic. Many of the fallen warriors were headless, and others were unrecognizable due to charring. He did not find Longas, but he couldn't imagine the son of Mac Nessa fleeing from any battle, especially one where their High King was under threat. As he pondered over Longas's possible fate, he listened to the snippets of conversations buzzing in the crowded room. The mood was a mix of speculation and somberness, despite the loudness.
Conall, consumed by self-doubt and regret, was beginning to question the value of the training he received from the druidess Dornoll. Someone struck him down during the battle, rendering him senseless and incapable of defending the High King. Instead of drinking in a pit, he believed he should be explaining to Donn, the god of the dead, why he deserved a place at the table with the other heroes. His perceived failure felt heavy on his shoulders, filling him with a sense of unworthiness.
“He was beheaded outside the hostel,” someone at a nearby table said. Conall sipped his mead and held his tongue. He did not know how the High King died, so he could not involve himself in the talk of the drinkers.
“Not true that. I heard he died in flames,” another responded. “Swinging his sword as he blazed. A true hero, so he was.”
Conall knew that was not true. The king’s body had not shown any burns. The warrior was glad. He had seen men burn and could not think of a worse way to die.
Not that a good way to die exists, not really, he thought. And then he thought about how he last saw the High King, backing away with hands raised in supplication, mumbling and fidgeting. The image of him swinging a sword while he burned was just ludicrous.
“Either way, our High King is dead,” the first speaker said.
“Where was his champion, Macc Cecht?” another asked.
That was also a question on Conall’s mind. He was sure Longas would not have run from the battle, but Macc had run. He left through the culvert with a promise to return and a look on his face that proclaimed it a lie.
“It was inevitable, though; he was born of incest, wasn’t he? Those born of incest always die a bloody death.”
Conall looked up then to see if he could catch the eye of the doomsayer, but the room was crowded and sheathed in smoke from the cookfires. It could have been any of the drinkers. He wondered, briefly, why he should care who it was. He could do nothing to argue against anything any of the men in the hall said.
“I would wager he broke his geasa, too.”
The warrior sighed and decided to accept the rumormongering for what it was. He knew that stories about the High King would be told in hostels such as this one. Some would be true, but most would be invented by wildly imaginative townsfolk. Before long, the invented tales would become the truth the people accepted. How Connery really died would be lost, replaced by mead-fuelled hostel banter.
He only half-listened as the rumors continued. The wound in his arm was throbbing, and his head felt as if it had been used to beat down the gates of Da Derga’s hostel.
He still could not believe he had avoided meeting Donn by something striking the back of his head. When he awoke, he was hidden under a bench at the back of the common room. By some miracle of the Sidhe, none of the reavers had found him and detached his head as a trophy to be hung above the door of a homestead somewhere in Alba.
He had stood up from under the bench and gathered his hidden sword and shield. At that time, he did not think about the High King. There were more important things to consider, like how to leave the vale without being detected by Ingcél’s marauders.
When he cautiously left the hostel, the marauders were long gone. He found the head of the High King propped up on a cairn of stones beside where his body lay prone in the mud. It seemed the raider had shown Connery some respect after he died. There was no sign of mutilation or any disrespect at all, and the fact that his head was placed reverently on a stone cairn showed due respect.
Conall had dismantled the cairn and buried Connery under it, up in one of the dingles overlooking the vale. Before covering the remains, he placed the broadsword Macc had presented to the boy all those years before on his chest and wrapped his hands around the hilt. Standing and piling the stones over the High King, he realized that the sword had never been used in anger, which might explain why his reign had ended. If he had been strong enough to order the execution of his foster brothers, none of the events would have happened.
When Conall walked away from Da Derga’s and the smoking gates, he saw women looting his dead comrades and animals feasting on their flesh. He was too downhearted to try stopping either women or animals. Half dazed, he walked around the hill looking for a horse and was surprised when he found one cropping in the next vale. He thought the raiders would have stolen all the horses, but he supposed they must have been too caught up in the aftermath of the battle to chase the beasts throughout the Chualann Mountains.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Conall was glad the High King’s end had been merciful. Ingcél of the one-eye was not known for his mercy. There were few marauders, if any, who were more feared. What he had done to his family in Uerulámion had arrived as news in Ériu long before his sails were sighted, and the daughters of the settlements had been sent into the forests to hide.
Some would say his murdered parents and brothers had received justice. Apparently, they betrayed Ingcél to the Romans; all he did was repay them. Few warriors would consider the method of repayment to be butchery. Father, mother, and seven brothers were all killed in their beds, so the story went.
And now a High King, Conall thought, returning to the cup of mead on the bench before him.
I would wager this midden was never so quiet on a feast day. Understandable, I suppose.
News of Connery’s death had swept through Ériu like a dose of bog fever, and the people were in no mood to welcome the cold of winter with a festival. As such, it seemed the fair had been ill-attended, and Conall knew the drinkers were mourning the loss of their revenue as much as the death of their ruler. They knew there would be another High King chosen by the druids. Still, they suspected the peace of Connery would be a dream of a shattered past, and their profits would suffer, so they were drinking heavily and becoming more and more maudlin.
Conall knew it would only be a matter of time before one of the drinkers began demanding a song, a tale, or both. He could not see any bards in the hostel and wondered who would be brave enough to respond when the demand came. The people of Ériu were not known for their forgiving nature when it came to a poorly told story. He did not care too much. All he wanted was to return to his king in Ulster and lead the Red Branch warriors in search of the raiders.
He looked up suddenly when he heard someone say in a loud voice, “Yes, I witnessed the death of the High King.”
“Ha, and how do we know you speak the truth, boy?” someone in the hostel asked with a snort.
“Because I have the sword of the High King’s champion, Macc Cecht, as proof,” the claimant cried in a voice that seemed too loud and high-pitched.
Conall stood then to see who claimed to have his friend’s sword. Underneath his loathing that Macc had run from the battle, Conall nurtured a hope that he might have returned to defend the High King. If this boy’s claims were true, and he did have Macc’s sword, then maybe Macc tried to return. When he saw the sword, his heart leaped. Macc had tried to return to the hostel.
Or perhaps he died when he was trying to escape, Conall realized. Whatever it was, he would need some clarity from the boy about how he came by the sword.
“Up on this bench, boy, so we can all see you,” said the man who had demanded proof.
Conall watched as a very skinny, feminine-looking youth climbed onto the bench at the top of the common room and held Macc Cecht’s sword for all to see. He could not have been more than twelve years old.
“Who are you, boy?” the same inquisitor asked.
“I am Amergein, the bard.”
“Ha, you are too young and skinny to be a bard.”
“And yet, I have the sword of the mighty Macc Cecht,” the boy said, giving the blade a swish.
“That looks like a mighty sword, right enough, but how do we know you got it where you say?”
“That is the sword of Macc Cecht,” Conall said loudly enough for all in the hall to hear. Everyone turned to look at him, and a hush descended. The boy might be overly feminine and too young and skinny to be a bard, but no one could doubt that Conall was a warrior.
“And who are you?” asked the man who had told the youth to stand on the bench.
“I am Conall Cernach. I was a friend of Macc Cecht, and I was present during the siege of Da Derga’s hostel.” Conall’s pronunciation was met with whispered questions as the people in the common room digested what they had heard.
“How do we know you speak the truth?” the same man objected, perhaps too drunk to realize the risk he was taking.
Conall placed his right hand on the pommel of his sword as he said, “Do you call me a liar?”
“No, no.” The man blanched and retook his seat. Although obviously carrying a nasty wound on his arm, Conall was a large man, nearly as tall as Macc, and no one would willingly challenge him in a common room, even when drunk on mead.
“You should tell the tale then if you were there,” another of the drinkers said.
“I am no bard. I am a warrior. Let those who know how, tell the tale.” Conall resumed his seat and continued to drink his mead.
The crowd clamored to be heard, no single request distinguishable from another. However, the gist was that the youth would not be able to tell such a tale in the manner it deserved. The crowd in the hostel did not want to trust a story of such import to one so young and doubtless inexperienced.
“Let me tell you what I saw,” the boy shouted, “and then you can judge.” Only Conall heard him. The warrior stood and banged the hilt of his sword on his table until the noise died.
“Let the boy speak. If his story proves unworthy, you can do what you will, but I, for one, want to hear how he came by such a mighty sword.”
Conall looked at the youth and then nodded for him to begin his tale. The crowd had fallen silent and were waiting for the girlish boy to relate the death of the High King.
“I am Amergein, the bard, and I was on my way to the Autumn Festival in Temuir to sing my best songs when I reached the hill above Da Derga’s hostel in the mountains south of the river.”
“If you are a bard, where is your harp,” someone interrupted. The crowd all laughed.
“Be still and hear the boy,” Conall said, not loudly, but all heard him. No one dared ignore the warrior.
Amergein waited for the hecklers to settle before he continued, “Just as I left the cover of the forest on the road above the hostel, I saw a huge man with a sword burst forth from the smoking gates and confront his enemies who ringed the hill like the logs of this great feast hall. Huge was his mighty sword, like the slender flow of a stream with the sun shining upon it. Six hundred fell to the first swing of that mighty blade,” Amergein swung Macc Cecht’s sword for emphasis.
The drinkers in the hall nodded to each other and settled down to listen, each thinking how appearances could deceive even the most perceptive of people.
Amergein counted the silver pieces as he walked to the lean-to where he had left the handcart full of trinkets. Father will be so proud, he thought, as he picked up the handles and decided where to go next with his tale.
“Boy,” interrupted his planning. He looked up and saw the tall warrior standing in the shadow of the makeshift shelter. “Now we will find a quiet corner where you can forget all the nonsense you told the drunkards in the common room and tell me what really happened outside Da Derga’s Hostel.”