Conall topped the rise and pulled his mount to a stop with a smile. He could see a couple of homesteads in the glen, smoke rising from the holes above their cooking fires. The sound of logs being chopped was eerie in its rhythmic somnolence. The reason for his smile was a group of young boys playing hurling in the space between the roundhouses. He remembered his days with the camán and the sliotar, the thrill of the game, the camaraderie with his fellow villagers, and the fierce competition with the boys from the settlement at the other end of the vale. Those days had prepared him well for the life he had been destined to lead.
He rested for a few moments and watched the boys. One, a tall lad with long hair, was far better than the others. They could not catch him or take the sliotar from him. He laughed with each twist and turn, angering them and causing them to err. He reminded the warrior of himself as a youngster, a head taller than those of like age with arrogance in equal measure.
Conall did not feel better than his peers now. He was tired, weary from the morning’s battle at The Ford of Hurdles. A bloody bandage was tied around his bicep, an arrow wound from the battle of Glencree three days before. Another was tied around his otherwise naked head, where he had taken a blow to the back during the same battle. That blow, although still smarting, was probably the reason he had survived because those who had not fled died at the hostel. Conall had awoken sore and out of sight under a common room bench with no recollection of how he came to be there. His weapons and his shield had been hidden behind a stack of barrels. He would not have found them; only a thirst drove him in search of water.
His weariness did not surprise him. Two battles in three days would tire the hardiest of men when hale, never mind a man sporting two wounds. And he had buried the High King and his champion, Macc Cecht, between the battles. If anything, he was surprised to be in his saddle and not sleeping under a welcoming tree.
His smile broadened at the thought despite his being lost. He had left Slíghe Chualann in search of a more direct route, only to discover the mountains were unforgiving to those with no knowledge of them. It seemed that each time he was heading in a northerly direction, some obstacle forced him to divert further eastwards. And now he was wearied beyond belief and gazing down into a glen with the smoke of cooking fires rising above the tree line. The homesteads were a welcome sight, even to his mare, which skittered, eager to go down into the vale.
“You feel it too, Dornoll?” he asked, patting her neck. A sense of foreboding was in the air, augmented by the occasional wolf howl and the failing light. He guessed two battles in three days was only the beginning of the woe for the Five Kingdoms. Challenging times lay before the island nation. The death of the Peaceful King could bring nothing else. The invasion had been a rude awakening of blood and fire from Connery’s reign of plenty.
He looked towards the setting sun. It was nearing the tops of the forest trees. The night would soon blanket the land in darkness. There was no moon, so the light would not be enough for him to continue to Temuir. The forest was overrun with wolves, but they would be deterred by a fire. Not so the other predators under the eaves. The invaders had been beaten at the Ford of Hurdles, but some would have escaped the slaughter and were doubtless hiding in the forest. Although he needed haste, the warrior knew it would be safer to seek shelter for the night and better not to risk an open fire.
He dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and rode to the settlement. As he neared, the boys stopped their play to gather around, their interest piqued by his battle-weary appearance.
“Are you straight from battle, warrior?” the tall boy asked.
Conall could see nothing of the speaker because he had positioned himself with the setting sun at his back. He frowned at the boy and thought about how to answer, arms crossed over his pommel.
“I know that shield,” one of the boys cried, pointing at Lámthapad, where it was hanging over the horse’s rump. “That’s the shield of the Ulster King’s champion. Are you he, Conall Cernach, the captain of the Red Branch?”
“Is it true?” the tall boy interrupted. “Have you just ridden from battle?” he repeated.
Conall’s frown deepened. In his haste to ride to Temuir with news of High King Connery’s death, he had forgotten to cover the shield, a symbol everyone in Ulster would know. And, seemingly, in each of the Five Kingdoms. He had wanted to ride to Temuir quickly, unnoticed.
“Where was the battle?” the boy persisted. “Was it to do with the invasion? Did you defeat the reavers and execute their leader? Where is the Red Branch?”
“Enough,” Conall shouted before drawing a deep breath.
No need for anger. I suppose the fault is mine, and the damage is done, he thought before asking the inquisitor in a calmer voice, “Which is your homestead, boy?”
“It is there. The second one. You can see my father chopping wood,” the boy pointed with his camán for emphasis.
Conall nodded and rode on. As he neared the man, he could see his back was bent. He had undoubtedly spent his life bent at the waist, chopping wood and tilling dirt to keep food on his table.
“Well met, farmer,” Conall said as he reined in his mount.
The man did not respond immediately but straightened his back as much as it would go and leaned on his axe, one hand shielding his eyes from the setting sun.
“And who might you be, stranger?” he asked in a tone that was in no way welcoming. “Or, more to the point, what are you doing here? There is nothing in my glade for the high and the mighty, so there isn’t.”
“I am lost. Seeking my way to Temuir.”
“Over there, the deer track will bring you to Slíghe Chualann,” the farmer pointed his axe at the other side of the glen. “Good day to you.”
“Da, Da, look, it is the champion of Ulster,” the tall boy shouted as he ran up behind Conall.
“I did not say I was the champion of anywhere, boy.” Conall glared at the youth, usually a tactic that caused the target to back down, but the boy just stared back with his camán over his shoulder and a tilt to his head.
“If you are not Ulster’s man, why do you have Lámthapad hanging over your horse’s arse?” the farmer asked with a frown.
“You seem to know a great deal for someone hiding in the forest,” Conall said.
He could smell the barely suppressed insolence on the farmer’s breath. The man was not welcoming, and Conall would typically not tolerate it.
“I know enough to keep my family safe,” the farmer spoke more softly.
“How do you know it is Lámthapad? It might be a fake,” Conall said in a last-ditch attempt to conceal his identity.
“My brother’s a blacksmith. I know white gold when I see it. If the shield is false, it’s a very costly affectation.”
Conall shrugged. He would not have thought it likely a farmer hiding in the forest would know white gold when he saw it. He was referring to the studs that held the shield’s black bands and boss to its blood-red wooden slats. In honesty, the warrior would prefer less ostentation. Still, the shield was Ulster’s most prized possession and was always carried by the leader of the Red Branch.
“I need a favor of you,” he said.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“What is it you want, warrior?”
“Night is upon us. I was looking for succor until the dawn. I have ridden long and hard with news for Temuir.”
The farmer looked away, deep in thought. He did not want to play host to a warrior known for his ability with all weapons, nor did he want to offend. He would have heard of Conall Cernach through stories embellished by bards. The farmer probably thought he was standing before a man who would use the hammer resting across his mare’s rump without compunction, even though untrue. Conall did not revert to weapons unless there was no other option. The druidess Dornoll had taught him that killing was a last resort. The forest had darkened noticeably before the farmer reached a decision.
“You can sleep in the ox shed,” he said, waving toward the darkening forest. “There is not enough room for you to sleep in the roundhouse. The shed is warm, not overly fragrant, but warm. You may eat with us, then you must retire.”
Conall thought about taking umbrage. The farmer was skirting with impropriety by asking a warrior to sleep in dung amongst the animals. Under normal circumstances, he would take offense and force the farmer to pay homage. But on this occasion, wounded, weary, alone, and with night falling, he could not summon the energy to force the man to his will.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” he said with a sigh before dismounting. “Is there somewhere I can water the horse?”
“The ox shed is under the eaves,” the farmer pointed at the forest edge. “There is straw inside and a trough with water at the side. Do not startle the ox; it is a temperamental beast at the best of times.”
The farmer returned to chopping wood without another word.
When he reached the shed, Conall put his clenched fists into the small of his back and stretched with a groan. Dornoll skittered as he took off her saddle. Conall felt the forest’s oppression, making the mare nervous. Wolves were howling. Mists were rising from the forest floor. The night was always best spent under the thatch of the roundhouse, beside the fire with the aromas of cooking and the safety of deep-sunk timbers.
“You feel it too, Dornoll?” he asked, patting her neck and feeding her a handful of oats from his saddlebags. She tossed her head and neighed.
Conall did not look up from grooming Dornoll when he heard, “What is in the sack?”
“What do you want, boy?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, the badger’s hole says. Well, then, get lost. I do not like children at the best of times, but nosey children annoy me.”
“I am not a child,” the boy said with a pout, only running when the warrior lifted the back of his hand as if to give him a swipe.
When he had finished wiping down his horse with straw and had hobbled it beside the shed where it could reach the water trough, Conall returned to the roundhouse and knocked on the upright at the entrance before lifting the oxhide cover.
“Enter, warrior, be welcome at our table.”
Conall entered and sat opposite the farmer on a low seat fashioned from a tree trunk. “What is your name?” he asked.
“I am Lugh, and she is my wife, Deichtine.”
Conall looked over at the dowdy woman, kneeling in front of the cooking fire, tending the oats and mutton that was to be the evening meal. He had intended to greet the woman, but she did not look in his direction, so he mumbled a few barely audible platitudes before turning to Lugh and asking, “Where is the boy?”
“Using the last of the light to finish his game, so he is.”
Conall nodded and frowned, unsure how to talk to the man opposite him. “He asks a lot of questions,” he said.
“Aye. The curiosity of youth. Mead?”
Conall pointed at the wooden cup on the table in front of him. He downed the sweet liquid in one gulp and held out the cup for more. Always the warrior, he had never been good at social gatherings. He felt awkward and inept at the best of times. In the company of two strangers, he felt like a youth yet to straddle a horse on his first ride.
“I heard rumors of an invasion,” Lugh said.
“It has been quashed, the invaders put to the sword.”
Or, more accurately, the arrow, Conall thought. The arrow and the lance. Butchered and squealing like pigs. The warrior could not rid himself of the image of the rabble caught unmounted and milling about the river on the opposite bank from Átha Clíath. Three hundred mounted Red Branch warriors charging echoed while Conall stood watching the hapless men run into the river. And then arrows. They had been unprotected, a harsh lesson in the art of war, a lesson that for them would never be repeated.
The memory of the screams and the smells of death were at the forefront of Conall’s mind as he sat looking at the farmer without seeing him. It had not been his first battle, but it had been his first slaughter. It had been like killing the excess livestock before winter, even down to the baying of the animals about to die. He wiped a hand across his face and took a swig of mead.
“And the leader of the invasion?” Lugh asked.
Conall stared at the farmer, hating the man for his curiosity, which made Conall relive moments he was drinking to forget.
“What of the High King?” the farmer broke into his thoughts again.
“I can see where the lad gets his curiosity,” Conall said, staring into his cup. “He also asks too many questions.”
“I did not mean offense, lord. As a farmer, I need to know I am safe to continue tilling the soil. I need to know if the Peaceful King is alive. I must know whether I should take my family and hide in the forest.”
“Are you not already hiding in the forest?”
“I meant deeper in the forest.”
“I know, I know,” Conall held up a placatory hand. “He died at the hands of Ingcél, the leader of the invasion. The Briton executed him after the battle at Glencree.”
“There was a battle at Da’s?”
“Yes, the High King’s entourage were slaughtered defending him.”
“What of Da?”
Conall shrugged. “Dead as far as I know. The hostel is a ruin. The gates are gone. If he lived, I am sure he would have repaired them by now.”
The warrior did not add that after Macc’s departure, he had been tasked with Connery’s protection and had failed. He did not think the farmer needed such detail. He might be forgiven for asking. Which of the people would not want to know whether the king had been avenged? The blood debt had been paid in full. More than the debt to the people, Conall knew the invader needed to pay for the death of the High King. He would never have forgiven himself if that debt remained.
“There will be an assembly to select a new High King?” Lugh once more broke into Conall’s thoughts.
“There will, but I do not expect any quick resolution. Connery’s only heir escaped before the battle at the hostel. No one knows where he is, and there are no suitable replacements that I can think of.”
“What of your king, Mac Nessa?”
“As I said, I can think of no suitable replacements.”
Conall deflected further discussions about the succession by staring intensely at the cup of mead on the table. It was a look he often used, which brooked no further questions about a new king. Subdued, Lugh changed his question to, “Do you think an Assembly of Kings is a good place to make a start in life?”
“Make a start in life?”
“Where to begin seeking a fortune?”
“What are you getting at, farmer?”
“The winters are hard. My crops are not bountiful. My boy is growing too big to feed—”
“I am guessing you want me to take him to Temuir, where he can make a start in life?” Conall interrupted.
“Yes, maybe you could find him a foster family?”
“He is a farmer’s son. Fostering is a privilege for kings, chieftains, and warriors. What makes you think I can find someone to foster your boy?” Conall’s tone was incredulous. He could not fathom the depth of the farmer’s bravura, asking a champion of the Five Kingdoms to act as a broker for a service to which he had no right. The world is turned on its head since Connery took the throne, he thought.
He was about to make an angry retort when the boy came in and leaned his camán against the roundhouse wall. Although he was young when he was visible in the light of the torches, Conall saw his eyes, and he felt a shiver run up the back of his neck. They were strikingly gray, almost silver, with a depth that should not be there in one so young. But more than that, they were dead. Despite his youth, there was no emotion in them. Conall thought immediately of Ingcél. When he had looked the Briton in the eyes, they, too, had been totally devoid of feeling. Ingcél had led an inept warband, which had cost him his life, but he had been a killer. If this boy was made of the same mettle, then at the very least, he would make a good soldier.
“I will sleep on it. Now, where is the food I was promised? I must eat and sleep. Whatever I decide, tomorrow will be a long day.”
The warrior lay awake deep into the night, with his hands behind his head and his mind on the farmer’s son. Apart from Ingcél, Conall had never seen a person so utterly devoid of emotion. It was as if there was a fundamental piece missing from the boy’s psyche. A piece that would typically be considered essential for a rounded human being. A lack of emotion was often needed in a man who earned his crust by killing. Still, there was also a need for humanity on occasion. Conall did not know whether an emotionless man could show humanity when it was needed. One word kept rolling around his mind like a sliotar on the deck of a longship on the high seas.
That word was berserker.