Setanta stood on the longship’s prow and looked at the beach of Lúr Cinn Trá from under his palm. Despite the shade his hand created, he had to squint to make out anything on the beach. He could see a man mounted on a gray mare, and his heart skipped. Conall’s mare, Dornoll, was a gray. He had missed Conall and hoped it was him waiting.

When the ship struck the seabed, he leaped into the surf and ran up the beach. He could see Conall sitting astride Dornoll as though he had all the time in the world and was relaxing with the sound of the waves helping his contemplation.

“How did you know I would arrive this day?” Setanta asked as he reached the top of the beach.

“I did not, Hound. I have been coming here each morning for more than a week. I knew you would return in the spring, so I have been watching for you. Never have I spent a more boring week than this last. There is not a more tiresome bunch than sailors boasting of the Kraken they have bested or mermaids they have seen as they frolic up the beach in search of a hostel with mead and a woman to plow. Badger’s arses, the lot of them.”

Setanta nodded and smiled. His friend’s sarcasm could always be counted on when there were only warriors in the company because his natural shyness receded when he was with his peers. As the champion of Ulster, there would be no way Conall would have time to wait by the beaches of Lúr Cinn Trá on the off chance Cú Chulainn might return.

“Tell me truly why you are here, Conall,” he said with a smile and a nod.

“Truly?” Conall laughed. “The king is expecting a delivery of wine through a merchant in Lúr Cinn Trá. He wanted me to come here and ensure the merchant did not try to default on his trading tax. I saw the sail on the horizon as I passed the beach and sat here on the off chance.”

Conall frowned down at the young warrior. “I see no sack,” he said.

“Sack?”

“By all accounts, Grendel’s head is huge. I see no bleeding sack, although it would have dried by now, I suppose.”

Setanta shook his head and said, “Come, let us go into Lúr Cinn Trá and drink to my return. I will tell you about my travels in Jutland over a cup of mead.”

“The boy becomes a man, I see.”

Conall remained mounted as they made their way to the settlement. Cú Chulainn strode along beside Dornoll at a leisurely pace. “This reminds me of when we met, and you agreed to take me to the Assembly of Kings. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember, Setanta. You were a keen boy with visions of glory and no sense.” Conall smiled to show he meant the comment in jest. “Has the farmer’s son returned a warrior?”

“Farmer’s son? No, Conall, I am the son of Lugh of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

The warrior frowned down at him. “So your uncle claims,” he said.

Setanta might consider the sarcastic intonation of the word uncle as an insult, but he chose to ignore it. “Who would have thought the King of Ulster is my uncle? I thought I was destined to till the land and chop firewood.”

“Yes, Setanta, who would have thought? But whatever else you might be, you are much more than just a farmer’s son.”

“How do you mean, whatever else I might be?”

“You must remember the king of Ulster is known as Connavar The Deceiver. Not everything he says can be taken at face value. I will rephrase. Very little of what the bull’s cock says can be taken at face value.”

“Why would he lie about that?”

“Who knows, Hound? In my experience, men lie about the strangest things.”

“My father was called Lugh.”

“And do you think that bent-backed man with an axe and a sharp tongue was of the Tuatha Dé Danann?” Setanta shrugged and then remained in silent contemplation until they reached the hostel.

***

Conall hated that the boy was subject to the political wiles of Mac Nessa. Not that his motive in promoting Setanta as his nephew had any political motivation. He just wanted the boy around him like a trophy. Although young, Setanta’s feats were already widely known, and renown had grown with them. Mac Nessa was glowing in the light of that reputation. The boy was already being called “The Hound of Ulster” and so, by association, “The Hound of Mac Nessa.”

“Go and find a table, and I will stable Dornoll,” Conall said.

When he entered the common room, Conall was carrying the war hammer of Dond Desa. The company looked askance at him carrying such a brutish weapon into the hostel. Conall ignored them. It was against etiquette to bring the heavier weapons into a common room, but he did not care. He had never been one to hold too much stock in the etiquette of establishments where men came to drink. No one should force a warrior to give up the tools of their trade because of the risk of getting drunk and killing someone. It was possible to kill a man with a chisel, but was the carpenter asked to leave his tool bag outside? No.

As Conall propped the hammer against the rear wall, Setanta said, “I remember that hammer. You were carrying it the day we went to Temuir.”

“Just so, Hound. A finer hammer you are not likely to see.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I took it from the Briton, Ingcél after he died at Glencree.”

“After you killed him, you mean.”

“After he died. It is the war hammer of Dond Desa. How the rebel came by it is anyone’s guess. I know Dond went with his sons, who joined the rebel. I can only assume the Briton stole it after Dond died.”

“Could he not have taken it as a prize of battle?”

“I suppose so. I just like to remember Dond as being the unbeaten champion.”

“He was a mighty warrior, I heard.”

“Ingcél?”

“No, Dond Desa.”

“Yes, he was. He was the champion of the Five Kingdoms for many years. His sons let him down. I wish I knew what happened to him. I liked his rough ways.”

“I heard he nearly executed you once.”

“Who told you that?”

“Uathach, during one of her many administrations.” Setanta did not elaborate on what he meant.

“It was a misunderstanding. Give me some mead and tell me about your ordeal in Jutland.”

Several cups of mead later, Setanta finished telling Conall how he had met Dervla and returned her to her people. The Jutes told him that Grendel did not exist. He was a monster invented to get the young to sleep on time, nothing more. They had treated him respectfully for saving Dervla but not much else. For some reason Setanta could not fathom, they ignored Dervla. When it had come time to leave, she had wept and begged him to take her. The youth would have been sorely tempted if he had not been in love with Emer.

“Why did you bring the hammer in?” Cú Chulainn asked after finishing his tale.

“I want to give it to you.”

“But it is such a fine weapon. Why would you not keep it?”

“I think you would put the hammer to better use. I also want to reward you for coming back from Jutland alive.”

“It was not as wild and dangerous as people imagine, Conall.”

“That could be the reality of it, for sure. What do I know? Anyway, the next time someone sends you out to die, I want you to be well-armed.”

“What do you mean, sends me out to die? Who sent me out to die?”

Conall looked at his feet under the bench. He had not intended to tell the boy of Forgall’s deceit. The mead had loosened his tongue. “Nothing. I am in my cups; ignore me.”

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“Who, Conall? Do not start to tell me something and then stop. I cannot stand it.”

“It was just a slip of the tongue.”

“Conall…,”

“All right, all right. Forgall never intended for you to return from Jutland. He expected that the Jutes would kill you. They have a fearsome reputation. He does not want you married to his daughter. Despite what Connavar claims, Forgall sees you as a farmer’s son. He would never allow one of his daughters to marry a farmer’s son.”

“How do you know this?”

“I was in Lusk on king’s business. We got drunk on mead, and he boasted about it to me. If I thought you would not return from Jutland, I would have killed him.”

“But you thought it better to leave him to me.”

***

Forgall was once again standing atop his tower when the warrior arrived. There was no sheeted rain to block his view, and he knew that Cú Chulainn had returned from Jutland. This time, Forgall had prepared. The guards knew not to open the gates should the boy return.

Forgall remained well back from the tower’s edge lest the farmboy saw him. He had wanted to avoid killing him at Lusk, where he would cause Mac Nessa’s displeasure, but Cú Chulainn just kept coming back, as relentless as a frost during the winter months. Unlike a winter frost, there was a solution.

“Open the gate,” the farmboy called.

“We have orders not to allow you access, Hound. You should leave before we loose our arrows at you.”

“Who ordered it?”

“Our master, the chieftain, ordered it.”

“Forgall, are you there atop your tower? A mad question. Of course, you are up there. I will give you one chance to open the gate. If you do not, your life will be forfeit.”

“Kill him!” Forgall screamed.

The guards let loose their arrows, and Forgall watched as the farmboy fell from the saddle. He had not seen an arrow strike home, but it did not matter if he was still alive. Wounded, the king’s warrior would be quickly dealt with.

“One of you, go out and finish him.”

The guards looked at each other. They knew of the warrior’s reputation, and none wanted to go out, not when there was a chance The Hound still lived.

Forgall snorted in disgust. “Call yourselves warriors. A golden torc to the guard who goes out and cuts the Hound’s throat.”

The guards looked sideways at each other. Even a golden torc was not tempting any of them. “I shall put it another way then. If one of you does not go out and see to the warrior, I will replace you all. How will you feed your families in the coming winter without a job?”

A younger, less experienced guard drew his sword and stomped to the gate, saying, “I will do it, then. Youse langers are afraid of yer own shadows.”

He opened the gate a fraction and slipped through before walking towards where the warrior’s horse was standing, side on to the gate. The guard took a few moments to get his bearings. He could see no sign of Cú Chulainn and assumed he had dropped into the slight indent close to where the horse was cropping. One thing was sure: if he were not dead or mortally wounded, the warrior would be on his feet and charging the gate before it closed.

The young guard walked towards the horse with his sword held out like a shield. His confidence grew as he neared the animal, to the extent that he felt it was safe enough to look over his shoulder and shout at the settlement, “I still want that torc.”

When he turned back to the horse, everything had changed. He dropped his sword and stood mouth agape.

In the few moments it had taken to turn away, and back, life had become low expectancy. The horse was tossing its head, snorting, reveling in the feel of Cú Chulainn swinging onto its back from the flank where he had been hiding behind the bulk of the beast. He had not fallen. He did not even appear to be wounded.

“Donn, take me,” the youth hissed his final words as the hammer the warrior carried smashed into his chin, crushing the life from him. The other guards were on the palisade, watching the spectacle unfold.

“Close the gate!” Forgall screamed, realizing that all the guards were on the ramparts.

The scream was too late. Even as the guards realized no one could push the locking bar in place, the warrior’s mount used its chest to crash through the ajar gate. Cú Chulainn was an acclaimed warrior. He was lithe. He had no fear. He carried the fearsome war hammer, which used to belong to Dond Desa, the undefeated champion of Meath. The battle, if it could be called such, was very short.

***

When it began, Forgall had stood at the top of his tower, sure he was safe, but as each swing of the hammer crushed the life out of another of his twenty guards, he became ever more deflated. He considered running and hiding in the forest, but the last guard fell, and he realized it was too late.

Getting his sword out of its scabbard proved difficult. It seemed to be stuck through lack of use. He just managed to swing it free it as Cú Chulainn’s head appeared in the hatch. Forgall tried a slash at the head but tripped on the scabbard and fell on his hands and knees beside the hatch. Before he regained his feet, Cú Chulainn was up atop the tower. Forgall tried to raise his sword, but Cú Chulainn swatted it aside and punched him in the face. As he was trying to clear his head, he felt the warrior take him by the scruff of his tunic and haul him up until he was standing on his tiptoes.

“Please, Hound, I beg for your mercy.”

“I warned you your life was forfeit,” Cú Chulainn said as he gave the chieftain a push.

Forgall leaned ever further backward and seemed to be trying to grasp the air to stay upright. Cú Chulainn watched, expressionless, as he fell.

***

Emer had left the women’s roundhouse in time to see her father pushed from the tower. Forgall screamed once before the thump of him hitting the earth below the tower. She watched as Cú Chulainn leaned over and looked down at her father’s crooked pose.

“No!” Emer screamed as she ran. It was not far to fall; most would typically survive, but she feared for him. He was no longer a young man, and his landing was awkward. As Emer reached her father, she could see that his neck was broken, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. She fell to her knees and lifted him into an embrace.

Emer sobbed. She could not believe the warrior had killed her father. He was a beast. Her father never did anyone any wrong. What could have made Setanta so vindictive?

She looked up as the boy stepped off the ladder. He is a demi-god to look upon, she realized and then chastised herself. It did not matter. She could not deny it. She was torn between her love for Setanta and her love for her father. It was true that Forgall had done all he could to discourage the young suitor, but he did not deserve to die because of that. He was doing what he thought was best for his daughter. She had heard him order the guards to kill Setanta, but he did not mean it. It was just anger and frustration.

“He sent me to Jutland to die,” Setanta said as he reached her.

“No, I was there, remember? I heard him tell you that you needed to prove your worth.”

“He told Conall that he sent me to die. He thought the wildlands would kill me. He did not want us to marry.”

“He will get his wish then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will not marry you now, Setanta. How could I? Each time I looked at you, all I would see would be my father’s dead eyes.”

“You were promised to me by your father. On my return from Jutland, I was to have your hand.”

“You can take my hand, warrior, but I will never give you my heart.”

***

“You have returned to us. It is good. And Emer with you, I see. Forgall has relented then and permitted you to marry his daughter?” Mac Nessa asked.

They were in the feast hall in Emain Macha. Setanta had decided the best course after the chieftain’s death was to report directly to the King. Mac Nessa needed to know a chieftain had died by his hand, of course, but he also needed to understand why. Cú Chulainn did not want anyone accusing him of Forgall’s murder.

“Forgall is dead, sire.”

“Dead. How did he die?”

“I threw him from his tower.”

“It seems wherever you go, Hound, you leave a trail of bodies behind you,” Kathvar hissed.

“Be quiet, druid,” the king ordered with a frown. “What was his crime?”

“He sent me to die in the land of the Jutes.”

“He sent you to prove your worth,” Kathvar hissed again.

“I will not warn you again, druid. Be still.”

“He did not. He boasted about it while in his cups. When I returned, he refused access to Lusk and had his guards loosed arrows at me. I warned him that if he did not open the gate, his life was forfeit—”

“His response?” the king interrupted.

“He ordered my death.”

“And so you killed him.”

“He had more than enough opportunity to apologize and live.”

“You were within your rights?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Did he die well?”

“No, sire. He squealed like a stuck pig.”

“Mm, I guessed as much. Cú Chulainn, you will remain because I need to speak with you; the rest of you, the court is adjourned.”

***

Mac Nessa watched Emer walk from the hall with her head down. Had the woman been loved by anyone else, he would be devising a means of lifting her skirts. She was a rare beauty, not one he would usually allow to escape. However, The Hound was The Hound. Mac Nessa heard he wiped out Forgall’s guard without breaking a sweat. No, it would be better to have the boy as an ally.

Mac Nessa wondered whether the youth’s infatuation would be a future issue. In the current situation, he needed a new, strong right arm. Conall was no longer loyal. He thought that Medb was beaten but knew better than to underestimate the warrior queen of Connacht.

When the hall had cleared, he asked, “She will not forgive you for slaying her father?”

Setanta shook his head and looked down at his feet. Mac Nessa looked at him, forcing the sneer to remain hidden. He can kill over nothing and yet is as weak as a kitten when girls are involved. Perhaps I expect too much of him.

“She will come to her senses, Hound. I will order her to marry you, and then you will be her master.”

“No, sire. I want to win her. I do not want to force myself upon her.”

Mac Nessa said, “Well, think on it. I wanted to talk to you about a different matter.”

“What is that, father?” Cú Chulainn asked.

“It is about my boy, Lugaid.”

“You want me to smash his harp, fatten him up, and teach him how to be a warrior because—”

Mac Nessa interrupted, “No, it is nothing like that.”

Cú Chulainn nodded and remained silent, allowing him to get his thoughts together. “He is not strong like us, Cú Chulainn, so I want you to be his rock. I want you to be his father.