Conall was still thinking about the lack of emotion in the boy’s eyes the following morning as he was preparing to leave. He was still weary. His sleep had been fitful and not very replenishing. The word berserker would not stop hopping about in his mind like a startled hare. As he left the ox shed, he could not decide whether being mad during a battle was an asset or something to be feared. Some thought the Tuatha Dé Danann sent berserkers, but Conall was unsure. Some would consider a warrior, man, or woman who lost control in battle a liability. Most believed that with their self-control, berserkers lost their reason and killed all who came near them, friend and foe alike. Friends should know to stay away, but Conall was not sure that was enough to prevent a berserker from killing their own. The fog of battle could be enough to confuse the sane, never mind those who had lost control.

The warrior was also unsure that berserkers existed outside the imaginations of bards. He had heard many stories of the red mists of battle and warp spasms, from others—always conflicting tales—but he had never witnessed them. He thought Ingcél might have been a berserker but he could not be sure. The previous day was the only time they had met in battle, and the Briton had already lost the will to fight, so he died without showing any unusual tendencies.

But what about the boy? he wondered. His eyes are dead, but does that mean he would lose all control were he sufficiently angered? And if he is berserk, do I want him? Would anybody want him?

The sun had not yet crested the forest’s trees when Conall threw his saddle over his mare’s back. “Another ride today, Dornoll,” he said as he fed her a carrot he had found in the shed. As he tied the war hammer to the back of the saddle and slung his bags behind it, he reached a decision.

“Lugh,” he called.

The farmer appeared at the door immediately, already dressed. Apparently, he had not slept and had been waiting for the warrior’s call. Conall almost changed his mind then, suddenly wary of helping a man rid himself of his children. The farmer had pleaded poverty when he suggested the idea. Still, his eagerness, apparent even in the predawn light, belied that sentiment. He was simply keen to get rid of a large mouth that needed feeding.

“Can your boy not till the soil to earn his keep?” Conall asked.

“The plot I have cleared is not large, lord. One man is enough to keep it. The surrounding soil is not fertile enough to bear a crop. The vale will only support the homesteads that you see.”

Conall knew what the answer would be, but felt he needed to ask. He was not happy to act as a lackey in the matter and would not, except he remembered the ease with which the boy had forced the others on the field out of the game of hurling. If nothing more, he would make an excellent retainer for a warrior.

As Conall swung himself into his saddle, he said, “I will take him. He will not be fostered because he has no rights, but I might be able to find him an apprenticeship with someone at court. I cannot make any promises, and if I am unsuccessful, he will return here, too big to feed or not.”

Conall could see delight in the man’s excited nodding. “I will escort him back, man. He will not be eaten by hungry wolves on his return journey. Or killed by a knife in the dark, for that matter.”

“Of course not, lord,” Lugh said as he turned back towards the roundhouse, intent on calling his son out, only to see by the light from within that the boy was standing in the entrance, a small bag slung over his shoulder.

“Mother says I am to go to Temuir?” he asked in a small voice. Conall again wondered if he was doing the right thing. Dragging this boy away from his mother was maybe one step too far.

“Aye, son. My yields are small, and your stomach large. It is time for you to go out and find your fortune.”

“When do we leave?” the boy asked with obvious delight.

Conall snorted. He had been worrying about the farmer ridding himself of a hungry mouth to feed when the boy was evidently keen to see the back of the settlement and a loving mother.

He is as keen as he is lithe, Conall thought. “We leave now. Do you have a horse for him?”

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“Give up my only horse, warrior. Are you mad?”

Conall’s hand went immediately to the hilt of his sword. He would typically only revert to his weapons when it was a last resort, but insults from this farmer would be classed as a last resort by most of the warrior caste. While they ate the previous evening, he had suffered the whining and complaining of the man without reacting. This last, though, was one insult too far.

Lugh saw his words’ effect and wisely backed into the roundhouse, holding his hands up in supplication.

“I wish you well, son, on your adventures,” he called as he let the oxhide cover fall into place.

Conall felt his tension ease when the farmer was gone. He looked down at the boy, who was staring up at him with anticipation. “You can walk? Dornoll is willing but probably not able to carry us both. She is not as young as she was.”

The youth nodded fiercely. Conall was surprised by his contradictions. He was tall, lithe, and manly in appearance but seemed almost childlike in other respects. “Yes, lord. I will walk all the way to Temuir for a chance to meet the High King.”

“The High King is dead.”

“He is? How so? Was he killed by the reavers?”

“Never mind your questions. We have a long way to travel, so save your breath. Let us depart,” Conall said, lightly kicking Dornoll’s flanks.

“Yes, lord.”

Conall watched the lad as he ran beside the horse. He was surprised by the easy gait the boy adopted. There was no need for haste other than his desire to start the process of selecting a new High King, but the warrior rode the horse at an easy trot. The youth kept up the pace, seemingly able to run to Temuir without tiring. His breathing was even and in no way labored. The warrior was surprised at how young he appeared and yet how mature his running was. It was as though he were an athlete who had been training for many years.

“You seem to be very young, boy. How many summers have you witnessed?” he asked.

“I have seen fourteen summers, lord.”

Fourteen, Conall mused, at fourteen, I was hard in training with Dornoll. This seclusion in the forest has kept the boy back.

“What is in the bag?”

“Bread and cheese my mother gave me for the journey.”

“Mm, I did not yet break my fast. Alright, boy, we will find a likely spot and eat your mother’s viands before we continue.”

“Yes, lord.”

A short time later, they came across a small clearing beside the road, and Conall called a halt. The pine needles above acted as cover, and those on the forest floor provided a comfortable seat.

Conall took his belongings from Dornoll’s back, giving her a chance to rest, even though they had not yet traveled far. As he unstrapped the saddle, he looked over his shoulder to see the boy staring at him, mouth agape.

“Do not just stand there, boy. Break out the bread and cheese,” he scoffed as he placed his saddle at the base of a tree and leaned the shaft of the war hammer against it.

“What is that?” the boy asked, pointing at the hammer.

Conall looked at the war hammer of Dond Desa, erstwhile champion of Temuir, and felt a pang of guilt for all that had befallen since the old champion gave in to Connery’s pleading and spared Conall’s life. It seemed so long ago now that the already old warrior had led a warband to Emain Macha to execute Conall for a crime he had not committed.

He wondered what had happened to the champion of the Five Kingdoms. He knew Dond followed his sons into exile, as any father would, but there had been no word of him since. To find his hammer in the possession of the madman Ingcél hurt. Dond was a true warrior, not a killing machine like the Briton. If rumors could be believed, Ingcél used a war hammer to murder his entire family. His mother, his father, and his seven brothers were all battered into oblivion. Conall now wondered if it had been with Dond Desa’s favorite weapon.

“It is a hammer, boy. Have you never seen a hammer before?”

“No, lord.”

“I wish you would stop calling me lord. I am no man’s lord. My name is Conall.”

“I will make you a pact. I will stop calling you lord if you stop calling me boy.”

Conall looked at the youth and wanted to laugh. His head was tilted, chin up, and he had a look of defiance in his strikingly gray eyes. At that moment, he looked like a recently-blooded youth challenging for a duel. Conall could sense the same arrogance the boy had displayed while dispatching his peers on the hurling field.

“Alright then, young would-be warrior; what is your name?”

“I am Setanta, but I am not a warrior. I am the greatest hurler in the Five Kingdoms.”