Fergus watched Conall ride up Slíghe Chualann. He could not tear his eyes away from the sack holding Ingcél’s head. The pirate had left swathes of dead behind him but had been killed without hardship. It seemed to be a dream of the Sidhe, the way he had been dispatched, unreal in its ease. When Conall topped the rise and was lost to sight, Fergus looked at the Red Branch warriors and called, “You heard him in the hostel, quick as you can. The sooner we send them to Donn, the sooner we can go.”
“You think Donn would take the likes of them, Fergus?” one of the nearest warriors guffawed.
“No, probably not, but you know what I mean. The sooner, the better.”
And so the murder began.
It was a thankless task, but each of the six hundred riders knew it was necessary. If they allowed the reaver’s crew to escape, they would only return under the leadership of another pirate, whether one-eyed or two. It did not matter. It would be as inevitable as death and the interference of the Elder Council.
The Red Branch warriors drew their knives and entered the hostel. The snores of the rebels were loud and seemed in unison. Fergus shook his head and smiled to himself. Fighting men seemed always to act in the same way. After a battle, a woman, when available, mead and sleep. Not that Ingcél’s pirates had fought a battle. They ran rather than face the wrath of the Red Branch. Or maybe Ingcél ran, and his crew followed. Whatever the truth, they had drunk themselves into a sleep so deep that the arrival of six hundred mounted men had not woken them.
There was no resistance from the Britons as they died. However, cutting thirty throats and piling the bodies in the center of the common room took time, so it was already the middle of the afternoon by the time the task was finished.
“Leave the bodies inside, burn the hostel, then ride for Temuir,” Fergus ordered.
“We need to wash first, Fergus,” Gul said, a warrior who had fought beside Fergus since he joined the Red Branch.
Fergus looked at Gul. He was covered in blood from his hands up to his armpits. Blood was splashed over his tunic and in his hair and beard. Fergus nodded. It would not be seemly to ride through the Chualann Mountains looking like apostles of the Red God.
“All right. Wash in the river. But do it quickly. If we are quick enough, we might be able to catch Conall.”
The sun was falling out of the afternoon sky by the time the warband finally mounted and rode out of the vale of Glencree. Despite the lateness, Fergus hoped to make it to Átha Clíath, where they could rest in the settlement and continue to Temuir at first light. Anything to make the following day’s ride shorter and get his warriors in front of a fire with a haunch and a flagon. The riders’ mood was somber as they rode through the darkening forest. They had come down from the elation of the chase. Cutting the throats of thirty drunks had a dampening impact, but that was not all. They were awakening to the reality of the High King’s death. The Peaceful King was short a head, which none of them rejoiced.
They had not respected the laws of Connery, which forbade reaving, taking away the reason for their existence. They had secretly applauded the foster brothers when they rebelled and formed a warband to go pillaging in Connacht. And when the High King failed to punish them, the warriors despised his weakness and showed it openly. The invasion was possible because the High King had pulled the teeth from the fighting men of the Five Kingdoms.
The warriors did not want an invasion. They wanted Connery deposed and the natural order returned, where the strong ruled and the rest obeyed. None of them wanted to see the Five Kingdoms put to the sword, and none wanted Connery beheaded by a madman in the vale they were riding away from.
There was no banter or camaraderie while they rode at an easy trot. Each of the men kept their own counsel. Their mood became even more subdued when they came near to Átha Clíath. Fergus could see the orange glow of fire reflecting off the night dark clouds. He knew it would be a pyre of those who had died at the battle of the fords earlier in the day. The corpses were all invaders. None of the Red Branch had fallen because instead of making a stand, the warband of Ingcél had turned and fled into the waters of the ford, where they had died. Had the warriors been trained, they would have known to form a shield wall and oppose the charge, but they did not even carry shields.
Fergus recognized the need for a pyre. If the battle had happened further from the settlement, the corpses would have been left to rot where they lay, a warning to all those who considered attacking Átha Clíath. But, close to the settlement, leaving them in the wash of the river to be dragged out by the ebb tide and then pushed back in by the flow had not been an option. Reavers were criminals, and so would not be given the usual rites. They had been cowards, so their heads would not even make suitable trophies.
The riders were gagging from the stench of burning boar. Fergus looked at those closest to him, who were trying to keep a straight face and not show any revulsion, trying to show a hardness they did not feel. They all had a slight green tinge, which Fergus knew his own face would be reflecting. He was swallowing bile, trying hard not to vomit, and needed a jug quickly. Fergus knew the settlement boasted a hostel and had a vague idea of where it was.
“Tend to your horses before you come to the common room,” he said as he dismounted.
He gave his reins to his retainer, Tagdh, sure he would treat the horse as well as his own, and searched for some mead.
As he walked through the settlement, Fergus was surprised that the pathways between the roundhouses were empty. The settlement seemed more like a world occupied by the spirits of the dead than the world of a thriving community. Apart from the gatekeeper, he had seen no one. The stillness was eerie, as though the spirits of those burning on the pyre had exacted revenge on the settlement’s people and dragged them down to the Otherworld.
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Fergus realized the cause of the stillness when he neared the hostel and could hear the revelry from within. He entered and looked at the throng of people. The common room was crowded. The settlement’s men, women, and children were there to discuss the day’s events. They rarely saw a battle like the one at the fords. Not that Fergus would describe what happened as a battle. It was more of a training day with live dummies instead of the typical straw men mounted on poles. As they charged, the thundering hooves increased the thrill. The enjoyment soon wore thin when the sound of charging horses had been replaced by screaming men and the stench of loosened bowels and bladders. When the river became red, excitement turned to labor. The labor of lance thrust, sword slash, and dagger thrust. The labor of killing helpless, hapless men.
There was no thrill to an easy kill.
Slaughter did not beget glory.
Fergus moved through the crowd, looking for somewhere to sit. He was bone weary from fighting, challenging riding, and cutting throats. Despite being asleep and defenseless, killing the rebels at Glencree had been tiring work.
I will have one jug and then find a bed, he thought as he searched.
He could hear snippets of the company’s conversations as he pushed his way toward the rear of the hostel.
“…Conall shot out Ingcél’s remaining eye at three hundred paces…”
“…spitted six reavers on his lance…”
“…killed thirty Red Branch with a single blow of Dond Desa’s war hammer…”
Fergus shook his head and smiled to himself. He knew the embellishments would continue throughout the night. The exaggerations would grow, fuelled by mead as the night wore on. By morning, what had been a rout of inexperienced warriors would have become a close-fought battle of thousands, and some heroic feat or other by Conall or Fergus himself would have won the day.
Fergus found a small space at a table against the back wall of the common room. He sat to wait for one of the serving boys or girls to take his order. While he waited, Fergus leaned back and watched the farmers. He did not blame them for embellishing the story. They were just ordinary people—men and women born into a life of backbreaking labor. They deserved to have their heroes. Hero worship was their only means of escaping the drudgery.
And then his eye lighted on someone out of place, a warrior. Not only was the man a warrior, but he was also a warrior Fergus knew: Mane Milscothach, The Honey-Tongued, champion of Connacht and son of Ailill and Medb. Mane was one of the warriors who had sided with the foster brothers, Lee, Gar, and Rogain, and then joined forces with the Briton to invade Ériu. Fergus had no idea why the brothers and those who supported them had joined in an invasion of their homeland, but that action meant they were traitors. Conall had told him the foster brothers died at the hand of Macc Cecht during the battle of Glencree and had thought the others died in the water of the fords earlier in the day.
So, why are you here in the hostel in Átha Clíath? Fergus wondered. Whatever it was, he needed to replenish his strength before facing the champion of Connacht. Although fallen on hard times, Mane was a renowned warrior, and underestimating him could prove a costly mistake.
“Is it a jug of mead, lord?” a serving girl asked.
Fergus looked away from Mane and nodded. “Yes. And bring some mutton and oats.”
By the time the jug and food arrived, several of the Red Branch had entered the common room. Fergus wolfed down the food and gulped a cup of mead before rising and walking to Mane’s table. When the Red Branch warriors saw Fergus stand and make his way over, they immediately understood the situation and moved to back him.
“Well met, Mane,” Fergus said as he approached.
The warrior scrutinized him from under a furrowed brow, and a small smile broke the corners of his otherwise tightly squeezed lips. A hush fell over the common room as though by some sixth sense. The settlement people moved to form a semicircle around the back of Fergus and the Red Branch warriors. Mane scanned the crowd before he responded.
“Fergus. What are you doing here?” he asked with a barely perceptible nod.
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
***
“I asked first,” Mane said with a smile that belied his nervousness. The Honey-Tongued had thought his ruse successful. With the arrival of Fergus, he guessed now that it had failed.
I should have left during the day and ridden north, he realized.
“We are heading for Temuir with news of Ingcél’s death.”
“You caught him then?”
“He was at Da Derga’s, waiting to die like all good pillagers. Now tell me, Mane, why you are not on the pyre with the other rebels?”
Mane hesitated and weighed the usefulness of denial. He could see four of the Red Branch warriors behind Fergus. They stared at him like something a hound had dragged into the royal roundhouse. Mane guessed denial was futile.
He shook his head and said, “Ingcél asked me to take command while he went scouting. I knew it was a ruse when he took his crew with him. Then, when I saw the red hand banner and heard the horses coming this morning, I slipped into the river. I knew the rabble would not stand before a horse charge, and I was not ready to die for a man who had already run. I crept into the settlement when you were busy dispatching the survivors. I thought it was the safest place. No one looks for traitors under their own bed.” Despite his predicament, Mane chuckled at the thought. “Nearly got away with it too.”
“Nearly,” Fergus agreed. “You know I must take you to Temuir?”
Mane nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He saw Fergus darting glances at his blade leaning against the wall beside him.
“I know you have no choice, Fergus.”
“Will you come quietly?”
Mane looked around at the company in the common room. He knew instinctively that none of them would come to his aid, so to escape, he would need to kill Fergus and the four warriors who were standing at his back. Given an element of surprise, he might have managed it, but here, in a packed common room with little space to maneuver and no surprise, it would be doomed to fail. And then there would be the rest of the warriors in the settlement. Fergus said they were returning to Temuir, and Mane could only surmise that all six hundred were in Átha Clíath. He hesitated because he had the choice of dying a warrior’s death, guaranteeing access to Donn’s mound, or yielding to Fergus. He fought on the enemy’s side, which was not an honorable course. The Briton had run, and so had Mane. He had not opposed the Red Branch at the fords, which might affect his chances of entering the mound of Donn. If he were to live a little longer, he could perform some heroic deed that would impress the God and earn him a place.
Give up now and hope for clemency, he decided. “I will come quietly,” he said.