Three days after returning to Emain Macha, Conall strode toward the feast hall in foul humor because he loathed Mac Nessa’s treatment. He did not like talking to the man. Still, he knew he could not complain overly much at being subject to Mac Nessa’s every whim because he had agreed to serve as the champion of Ulster. As such, he needed to follow the courtly etiquette to some degree.

And yet he does not.

Walking up the aisle of the hall did nothing to improve his temper. The druid Kathvar stood behind the king’s seat with that ‘I know everything that is happening’ expression the warrior hated so much.

Conall’s mood was foul because he had tried to get a private audience with the king as soon as he arrived in Temuir. He wanted to relay the information about the two battles, but his King just gave him excuses. There was no surprise in it. Mac Nessa was fond of playing games and often made Conall wait. Their shared animosity had not lessened over the years. For Conall, the King was living on borrowed time. Mac Nessa would pay for what he had done, but Conall would ensure payment did not impact Connacht’s people. The time needed to be right, and it was not yet.

“What news of the invaders?” Kathvar asked.

Conall had no more time for the druid than he had for the king, but he knew Mac Nessa allowed the elder to speak on his behalf, so he responded, “They died at the fords at Átha Clíath. Those not killed outright by arrow or lance were strangled where they lay wounded.”

“Survivors?”

“None that we know of,” Conall shrugged. “That does not mean there are none.”

“There must be survivors, Conall. Some always manage to find the coward’s way out.”

Conall could hear the veiled reference to Mane, who had chosen to try and talk his way out of death or, more probably, out of a peaty eternity.

His attempts had failed miserably.

After Mane’s body sank from view, Conall watched the noxious bubbles rising from the bog and felt the same thing the druid was now hinting at. But he did not feel the same urge to remind everyone that Mane betrayed all the warrior caste stood for. The Connacht champion had already paid with an eternity of black despair.

Conall did not think it was worth discussing his feelings with the druid and offered a compromise, “Some may have escaped. But if they did, they would be few and probably hiding in the forest, no danger to anyone. The Red Branch will ferret them out over time.”

“And what about the reaver?”

“The reaver is dead.”

“We heard he escaped the battle?”

“That is true in so far as it goes. There was no sign of him in the dead at Átha Clíath nor anywhere on the river’s north bank. We felt he must have slipped by the settlement during the night and headed south, making for his ships on the beaches of Brí Chualann, so we gave chase. We caught him outside Da Derga’s hostel in the vale of Glencree. It is where the Briton executed High King Connery. The Gods alone know why he returned to the scene of his crime. Perhaps he thought we would not look there,” Conall shrugged. “Or he had a horse’s arse for brains. Who knows?”

“Does Slíghe Chualann not pass the hostel?” Kathvar asked.

“There are other, faster ways to get to the beaches of Brí Chualann, druid.”

“Why do you think he ran? From the rumors, he did not seem to be a coward.”

Conall shrugged. He did not know why Ingcél had run, but he supposed the reaver realized a battle with the Red Branch at the head of his motley warband could end only one way. He had left the hapless would-be warriors leaderless on the banks of An Ruirthech. It confused Conall when he saw the rebels milling about on the north bank, unsure what to do. Only with hindsight did he realize Ingcél’s abandonment left them bereft of ideas. In the end, they did the only thing they could.

They died.

The Red Branch had caught up with the rebel at Da Derga’s hostel, sitting cross-legged in front of where he had cut off the High King’s head after the brief battle. The Briton had abandoned the will to fight, as well as the will to live. Conall said nothing of Ingcél’s death wish to the druid and the king. He did not think they would have much interest. He threw the leather sack with the head at the foot of Mac Nessa’s dais as he said, “Ingcél of the One Eye. I have been carrying it around, waiting for your summons.”

“It stinks,” the King said, screwing up his face.

“It would stink less had you been prompt.”

The expression on the king’s face made him smile. Conall led the Red Branch, and while he had their loyalty, the king was helpless in the face of his insubordination.

“Thank you, Conall,” the druid hissed through clenched teeth.

Conall glanced at Kathvar, his expression telling the druid that his continuing existence was at Conall’s whim. “Will that be all, King?”

“Yes, that is all, Conall,” Kathvar said.

The warrior had turned on his heel and headed for the door when a commotion broke out. He stopped and watched as two guards dragged Setanta into the hall by his arms. The lad struggled to free himself, and the grown guards found holding him difficult.

“What is the meaning of this?” Kathvar roared.

“Release him,” Conall said in a much calmer voice.

“Sorry, lord,” one of the guards said. “He joined the boys on the hurling field without invite, and when they tried to eject him, he set about them with his camán.”

“And you bring this to me because…?” the king asked in confusion.

“He has injured several boys, sire, most of them under your protection. We brought him to you for a ruling.”

“How many boys?”

“Fifty.”

“This boy is under my protection,” Conall said, using the break created by Mac Nessa’s apparent surprise. “No harm shall come to him while that is the case.”

The king held up a placatory palm before saying to the guards, “This lad bested fifty of Ulster’s finest with his camán, and you want me to punish him? I think I should be rewarding him with a torc.”

Conall could not believe what the king had said. Not waiting for an invite to join the field was a grave breach of etiquette. To recognize the boy’s bravery with a torc was surprising in its contravention. But then, Mac Nessa had always been a man who set his own rules. Luckily for the boy. Conall smiled, turned, and winked at Setanta.

“Come here” boy,” the King said. When Setanta arrived at the dais, Mac Nessa took a golden torc off his arm and handed it over. “In Ulster, we always reward bravery. Now go back to the hurling field and tell the boys you have my permission to join the game.”

“So, who is the boy?” Mac Nessa asked Conall as soon as Setanta had left the feast hall.

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“Setanta. I picked him up on my way back from intercepting the reaver at Glencree.”

“Picked him up how?”

“His father gave me succor and asked me to take the boy underwing.”

“His father is a chieftain or a warrior?”

“No, his father is a farmer, hiding in the mountains behind Átha Clíath.”

“Why did you agree?”

“There is something about the lad. I cannot put my finger on exactly what it is. His eyes, maybe. Anyway, I thought at the least he would make someone a good retainer.”

“You might well be right,” the king said. “Now I think about it, Chulainn the smith has invited the retinue to his homestead. He wants to show his gratitude for us having saved his smithery. I think you should bring the boy. Maybe Chulainn will have a use for him.”

“We did not save his smithery. The reavers would never have made it into Ulster. The invaders were a rabble following a madman on a doomed quest for riches and the kingdom of Meath. Ulster was never under threat.”

“I know that, and you know that, but let us give the blacksmith of Ulster a chance to show his gratitude, however unjustified. Chulainn is not a man we would want to offend. Will you bring the boy?”

Conall nodded. He thought that finding Setanta a position with the Smith of Ulster was a satisfactory resolution to the farmer’s problem. The boy would even be able to visit his mother on occasion. “With your permission, I will tell him.”

A few moments later, Conall stood on the edge of the field and watched Setanta mock the future of Ulster. None of the boys could touch him. Even the older boys were no match for him. The warrior wondered if the boy’s idle boast of being the best hurler in the Five Kingdoms had been idle.

He whistled to get Setanta’s attention and gestured for him to come over. “The king has invited you to a feast with the smith, Chulainn.”

Conall was surprised to see Setanta’s face fall. “It is a great honor. Why so glum?”

“I wanted to finish my game.”

Conall smiled at the youth and nodded. He could see hurling meant everything to Setanta and supposed the King would not feel slighted if the lad did not come immediately.

“Can you ride?”

“Yes. I am almost as good on a horse as I am with a camán.”

“Mm.” Conall mused. “I will give you instructions on how to find the settlement of Chulainn, and then you must follow the retinue as soon as the game is over.”

“Where will I get a horse?”

“Go to the stables and tell Tagdh I sent you.”

“Thank you, Conall.”

“As soon as you are finished,” the warrior called to Setanta’s back as he rejoined the game.

A short time later, Conall reined in beside Mac Nessa at the head of the mounted retinue gathered just inside the fort’s gates. “Where is the boy?” the king asked.

“He is finishing his game. I gave him directions and instructions to follow us.”

“Good enough,” the king said as he spurred his mount into motion.

An hour later, the king’s retinue was dismounting in Chulainn’s settlement. Chulainn was a short and broad man with an open, honest face and muscles born of years at the anvil.

“Be welcome,” he said, his arms extended to encompass the entire retinue. “We dine in the hall.”

With a broad grin, the smith led the men into the central roundhouse. Chulainn’s wealth was evident from the roundhouse’s size and the quality of the cups and plates. The round table in the hall was large enough to seat the king’s retinue and Chulainn’s retainers.

It did not take long before the mead was in full flow. It was as though the warriors who had accompanied the king needed a release from the stress caused by the invasion. No one was under any illusions that things might have gone badly on another day. Only by the grace of the Tuatha Dé Danann did the invasion of the Briton fail.

With the flowing mead, the banter began, and the crowd became boisterous and loud—each of the warriors full of their own achievements at the battle of the fords. Come nightfall, an unopposed rout had already blossomed into a hard-fought contest.

Conall sat in the company nursing a cup of mead. He was not yet ready to join in the revelry, believing it to be luck and not skill that had saved the Five Kingdoms. As such, he was the only warrior to hear the baying of Chulainn’s hound, a baying that soon became howling.

“Be still,” he shouted.

The company stopped in mid-sentence, or mid-throw in some cases, and looked at Conall with surprise. “By what right—” Mac Nessa started, but Conall did not allow him to finish.

“Listen.”

And then they all heard it. The whimpering of a hound. “Is your hound loose, Chulainn?”

“My huntsman always lets the hound out at nightfall. Of course, he is loose.”

“Setanta,” Conall shouted as he leaped to his feet and ran towards the feast hall door, the warriors, the smith, and the king following hard on his heels.

They had been so engrossed in the festivities and wallowing in their self-importance that they had forgotten the youth was following them. Mac Nessa should have warned Chulainn that another was yet to arrive. If anything had happened to the youth, Conall would never forgive himself for dragging Setanta away from his mother.

His worries ceased as he exited the hall and saw an already blood-drenched camán fall once more with a sickening slap as it crashed into what remained of the hound’s skull.

“Enough, Setanta, the beast is dead,” Conall said as he took the boy’s wrist. Setanta looked at him unseeing, and the deadness that he had first seen in those eyes shone out like the Northern Star. Conall recalled the eyes of the reaver and how he had thought them emotionless. Now, looking into Setanta’s eyes, he realized his mistake. Ingcél’s eyes had been merely hard, unforgiving. Setanta’s eyes were truly dead.

“What have you done to my hound?” Chulainn whispered in an unbelieving tone.

Setanta turned his dead eyes on the smith, and Conall grabbed him by the shoulders, worried that his camán would do more damage.

“Someone take Chulainn into the feast hall while I bring the boy down.”

Conall took Setanta to the spring and made him wash off the blood. As the lad calmed, Conall asked him, “What happened?”

“I knocked at the gate, but no one heard me, so I climbed over.”

Conall nodded. Everyone had been in the feast hall, boisterously engaged in feasting. Chulainn had apparently felt safe enough not to bother with a guard.

“The hound attacked me. I was defending myself.”

The warrior nodded, unspeaking. What he had seen as he left Chulainn’s feast hall was more than someone defending himself with his camán. There had been no sign of panic in the lad—no sign of fear. He had been systematically crushing the skull of the dog using a tool he had grown up with, his camán. Conall had been in battle and had seen men striving to kill each other. He had never seen a man beat his opponent to death without emotion. The dog was not a battle opponent or human, but Conall would have expected some sign of anger, stress, or fear. Most might have displayed some guilt at killing the animal. Not Setanta. He showed nothing.

Is this what makes a man a berserker, not a warp spasm but an unemotional killing? he wondered. Such killing on the field of battle would be truly awe-inspiring. The legends around berserkers had them losing control and going on a frenzied killing spree. If the truth were more like what Conall had witnessed, they would be a massive advantage in battle.

“We will return to the hall and hear the king’s judgment. You have killed Chulainn’s best hound. There will need to be recompense.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Conall found it challenging to reconcile the difference between the meek response and the actions he had witnessed only moments before. That Setanta could be led like a dog on a chain only a short time after beating an animal to death just did not seem normal. There was little he could do about it and more pressing matters, so Conall shrugged and walked with Setanta to the feast hall.

The pair entered the hall to complete stillness. A palpable expectancy had replaced the banter and revelry of earlier, together with stalled breaths and wide-staring eyes. The warriors were sitting at the table, holding their cups in tight fists. They stared at the pair as they walked to where the king sat beside Chulainn.

“The boy has calmed, King. What is your pleasure?” Conall asked, fearing what Mac Nessa would demand. It would be severe, he expected. Chulainn was Ulster’s blacksmith. He made their weapons. He was a prized man and to wrong him was not a course that Connavar would condone.

“How so?

“The boy has killed Chulainn’s prized hound. There must be recompense.”

“Is that how you see it, Conall? My understanding is somewhat different. I see it as the boy having proved his worth. Who among the retinue could deny his bravery or his skill? He bested a hound that most warriors were afraid of. I shall not punish him for it.”

“I have lost my best hound,” Chulainn whined. “How can I protect my smithery without a hound.”

“I will protect your homestead, sir,” Setanta said, his fists clenched and resting on his hips. The company in the hall looked at him in amazement. There had been an air of expectancy, but no one had been expecting the boy to offer himself as a guard dog.

“Did you hear?” Mac Nessa roared. “The boy has offered himself as the hound of Chulainn.”

The company cheered and banged their cups on the feast table. Setanta stared at them with a face of thunder. How dare they laugh at him? He would be the best hound that Chulainn had ever known.

“Why the long face, boy?” the king asked. “We do you honor. So much so that from now on, you will be known as Cú Chulainn, Chulainn’s Hound.”