The warrior looked speculatively at Amergein before saying, “Tell me, boy, why are you sitting in this dingle above Da Derga’s hostel, listening to the ramblings of an old man instead of chasing colleens around your village?”
The warrior had no interest in the answer. He was just gathering his thoughts before he continued with the tale. He took a swig from the flagon of mead Amergein had surrendered—after much cajoling—and waited for him to speak.
“I was coming to the hostel on my way to Temuir for the Autumn Festival,” the boy responded, scuffing the mud with his boot as if keeping some guilty secret but no doubt wondering why anyone would chase colleens around a village.
“And now, you wish you were somewhere else,” the warrior mused.
“No, not at all. I’d love to hear what happened in the vale and who all the dead men are. I thought the High King had outlawed Destruction?”
“That he did, boy. That he did.”
The warrior nodded and wondered. He could feel the gnawing presence of Donn, the king of the dead, and knew his time was limited. If he did not impart the true tale soon, it would travel with him to the Land of Eternal Youth, never to be told. It would become the province of the storytellers and would be nothing but the child of many over-enthusiastic imaginations.
“Why Da Derga’s, is it not out of your way?” he asked.
“No. I am from Rathdrum, where my father trades as a metalworker. Slíghe Chualann is the fastest route and it passes the hostel on the way,” the boy said, waving his arms toward the road as if adding emphasis.
The warrior looked down on the muddiness the road had become. He could see a shine off the mud as it pushed up the vale, disappeared behind the shattered remains of the hostel gates, and reappeared on the hill on the other side of the vale.
Looking at the hostel, he could see the dead men clearly in the mid-afternoon light. The looters had gone, but the animals were still there. The boy saw it and looked down at his feet, his face had an expression of overwhelming sadness. The warrior shook his head when the boy looked up at the two lines of dead men lying in a semicircle behind the still-smoldering wood of the gates.
Death was a nagging presence even the youth could feel.
“I was going to drink a flagon, eat some boar, and sleep, even though I was late for the festival,” the boy said. “I should have been there already, preparing for tomorrow’s opening,” he continued quickly.
“And what were you going to prepare?” the warrior asked, without interest.
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“I was to bring my father’s trinkets to sell. Someday, he will train me to work the metal, but for now, I’m a seller of useless trinkets.”
“You do not sound pleased with that task, boy,” the warrior said, wondering if he could trust the youth to do the right thing.
“No. I want to be a bard, but Father says singing songs does not put meat on the board,” Amergein answered with a surliness that reminded the warrior of another.
“Where are these trinkets?” he asked, frowning at the injustice of life, to leave him dying on a hill with an inconsiderate boy for company.
“I left them near the cairn when I came to investigate the smoke.”
“The women will steal them.”
Amergein shrugged. He did not care if the women stole the trinkets, it seemed.
“You will return to your father without his wares or the silver you should have made from selling them,” the warrior shook his head. “What has today’s youth come to?” he wondered aloud.
“I do not want to sell trinkets; I want to be a bard,” the boy said, crossing his arms and looking away.
“You should listen to your father,” the warrior said, purposefully ignoring the boy’s rising anger. “I have known many bards in my time, and few of them ever had a full stomach.”
“If he did not want me to be a bard, why did he name me Amergein?” the boy asked.
“Ah, boy, everyone has romantic notions and wishes the moment when they behold their issue for the first time,” the warrior shook his head sadly. “When the dawn light breaks the horizon and the mundaneness of life returns, those dreams become like the morning mist.”
***
Amergein nodded as if agreeing with the old man. He disagreed, though. He was used to people trying to discourage him from becoming a bard. It was always the same story. “You need a lot of luck and skill to make it as a bard.” But he did not care what people said. He wanted that recognition he had seen in Rathdrum when the listeners cheered the end of a story or a song and threw silver on the dais with abandon. Silver that the listeners could ill afford to spend and invariably regretted spending the next day when cold water from the settlement stream caused the haze of mead to lift.
“I know it is hard, but I can do it,” the boy said with the same youthful surliness as earlier.
“Whatever, boy. Mark my words; you won’t find it so easy.”
Amergein looked over his shoulder into the vale with a soured expression. He wanted to hear about the dead men lying in a semicircle in front of the hostel and why they had died, not the unwanted advice of a man on Donn’s threshold. This warrior was beginning to sound far too much like Amergein’s father.
“I will light a fire,” he said, jumping up with the energy of youth. “Night will be here all too soon, and we must keep the wolves and the cold at bay.”
“No fires, boy. We want to avoid attracting the interest of the women. We might not see them, but they are still near. A fire will stop the wolves, but it would be a signal to the looters. Those hags will not be averse to helping a wounded warrior on his way to Tír nÓg if it means more loot. For that matter, they wouldn’t be averse to helping an unwounded boy into the Land of Eternal Youth.”
Amergein nodded and sat back down. He wished the warrior would hurry up with his tale or hurry up and die so he could get on with following his chosen path. “Tell me then, why was Nuadu sitting on the High King’s throne?”