Conall stared down into the dingle above the vale of Glencree at the remains of his friend, Macc Cecht, one-time champion of Temuir and Meath. He had wondered about the veracity of the youth’s tale of how he came by the sword and the story, but the corpses of the High King’s foster brothers dispelled those doubts. Lee, Gar, and Rogain’s bodies were as the boy, Amergein, had said they would be, strewn about the dingle in their death poses.

“I am relieved to see you here, my friend.”

Surprisingly, Macc’s body was untouched by the wolves, a serene figure in death. He clutched a flagon, a smile gracing his face, his eyes open but devoid of life. Conall couldn’t help but wonder if it was more than just the vagaries of nature that had spared his friend. Perhaps it was a testament to their bond, a bond that even death couldn’t sever. The sight of his friend, lifeless and peaceful, stirred a mix of emotions in Conall—grief, anger, and a fierce determination to track down Ingcél and avenge his death.

Conall cautiously rode his horse into the dingle; his senses alert for any sign of danger. The battle had only recently ended in the vale, and he knew better than to trust the silence. Raiders and looters often swarmed a battlefield, as numerous as the crows, their greed for gold rivaling the crows’ hunger for meat. He was prepared to handle any unwanted attention, but he saw no reason to invite trouble unnecessarily.

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He took the dead champion’s sword from his saddle roll and kissed the hilt before placing it reverently at the dead warrior’s feet. The boy had screamed bloody murder when Conall took the sword from him. He took it because he could not know if the youth’s tale that Macc had given him the sword was true, and he doubted it. No warrior would give up his only passport into the house of Donn, especially not when he was on the threshold.

Conall hoisted Macc onto his shoulders. The rigidity of death had passed, and his friend’s body was supple enough for him to be moved without too much effort. In death, Macc’s weight seemed to have dissipated, with his soul leaving the body. Although he grunted with the initial effort, Conall was able to bend and retrieve Macc’s sword from where he had laid it at the warrior’s feet.

He put the body face down over his saddle and led the horse out of the dingle. On his way here, after talking with Amergein, he had decided that if the tale were true, he would lay Macc to rest alongside his High King—a mark of respect and testament to the bond they had shared. It seemed fitting that Macc Cecht should lie beside the man he had nurtured throughout his short life.

Half a day had passed before Conall placed the last stone on the cairn and clapped his hands together to remove the dust. He put his hands one before the other in front of his crotch and bent his head for a moment of silence before he swung up into the saddle.

He turned his horse towards the north, intending to keep the tryst with the Red Branch so that the hunt for the reaver and his bloody warband could begin.