Conall had his boots off and was warming his toes beside the fire. He could not remember his arse ever being as sore. Of all the ills age brought, arse ache from a day’s ride was the worst. They had been riding most of the day when they arrived at the fords. There was some respite while they argued, with four heads watching them. Conall could swear the heads were laughing with their blackening tongues hanging out. When the witch suggested eating, he thought he would throw up. The crows were cawing, attracted by the same stench that had discouraged him from food.

Medb’s guts must be made of iron, he thought. But then, no, he realized. It was stubbornness. Nothing more. The queen was as pigheaded as only a woman could be. If the girl had not arrived, Conall suspected they would be there still, arguing with the queen, heads looking on, commenting with lolling, silent tongues, telling her not to cross the invisible line set by the challenge carved in the wood.

“Do you mind if I sit,” caused Conall to look up from rubbing the backs of his calves.

“Sire,” he said, his open palm pointing to a log opposite.

“I do not mean to intrude, Conall. I just wanted to know what you know about this boy, Cú Chulainn.”

“It is no intrusion, Sire,” Conall said, offering a pull from his flagon. Ailill shook his head. “So, what do you need to know?”

“I have heard it was you who found the boy.”

“Aye. It was. After the battle of Glencree, I was riding back to Temuir with news of Connery’s death, and I got lost in the Cualu mountains. I came across a settlement with a group of boys playing hurling. As it was near sunset, I asked the settlement chieftain for succor. He was Cú Chulainn’s father.”

“Oh. I heard he is the son of Lugh and Mac Nessa’s sister, Deichtine.”

“Ha. I heard the same.” Conall snorted. “As far as I am aware, boar’s arse never had a sister, Deichtine or other.”

“So, the boy is not a demigod?”

“Who knows? If he is, it is not because he is the bastard offspring of Lugh and Deichtine. You should remember, Sire, they call Mac Nessa The Deceiver. It is not for nothing. I sometimes wonder if he is cursed to lie whenever his tongue wags. Did you really believe the story?”

“No. I suppose not. Perhaps we of the tribes love the mystery of being born of the Aos Sidhe and are susceptible to that type of thing.” The king shrugged, and Conall smiled at him. “So, he is mortal.”

“Aye. He is mortal. He is talented and single-minded and will not prove easy to kill. But he is killable.” Not that I want to see him dead, Conall did not say. He looked at the fire and sighed. “You wanted to know about him, Sire.”

“Which of the stories are true?”

“Which stories have you heard?”

“I heard he killed the sons of Nechtan when he had seen but seven summers.”

“Aye. I heard that one, too. It is not true. When he was seven, Cú Chulainn lived in the mountains with his late father. I guess he had not even killed a forest animal by that age. When I met him, he was a curious boy, nothing more.”

“How many summers had he seen?”

“It is difficult to say. He told me he had seen fourteen festivals of Beltaine, but there was something about his eyes.”

“Connery died in Glencree six summers since.”

“Aye, six or seven, I would say.”

“So, Cú Chulainn is not a boy.”

“No. I suppose we call him such because he looks so young, and he began building his reputation from a young age.” Ailill nodded and looked at the fire thoughtfully.

Conall wondered if the king had fallen asleep with his eyes open when he said, “Tell me about the eyes.”

“Something was missing. It was like a key ingredient had been driven out of him, which did not seem right for one so young. He was different from any other fourteen-summers-old, which I suppose proved true on the hunt.”

“He was on a hunt?”

“Mac Nessa is fond of hunting. Shortly after the boy arrived in Emain Macha, the king organized a ride out into the forests of Murthemney. I told Setanta—his true name, Sire,” Conall answered the king’s raised eyebrows. “He was too young. Setanta became belligerent and would not settle until I invited him. It was a blessing of the Tuatha because he saved the king’s son from an enraged boar.”

“He saved Lugaid. I have not heard that tale.”

“Threw a sliotar at it to give the boy time to escape.”

“He defended the king’s son with a ball?”

“He did. Never seen the like. You have heard, of course, he killed the hound of the smith,” Conall hesitated until the king nodded. “You had to be there to see how he did it to get some sense of him. He beat it to a bloody pulp and scraps with his camán. Not even breaking a sweat. I have never seen the like. When I asked him why, he said it attacked him, and he was defending himself.”

“That sounds quite reasonable.”

“I suppose it does. Except his camán was in bits. Looked like the remains of a spiky furze pig a wolf had been at. Nothing but handle and splinters covered in gore and bone fragments. He did not even know it was broken. I had to show him the mess.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“So, you are telling me he scared you?”

“Aye. He scared me. But I liked him, too. During the normal run of things, he was a nice lad. I do not know what snapped at the smithy to make him into a killer.”

“But we both know, I think, killing a dog and killing a man are two worlds apart.”

Conall nodded, “They are. Have you not heard about when he returned from the land of the Jutes?” The king shook his head. “Boar’s arse of a chieftain, Forgall of Lusk, wanted him dead. Set his guards on him. Twenty in all. Setanta mashed their heads with his hammer and threw Forgall out of his tower. Broke his neck.”

“He killed twenty guards on his own?”

“Aye. Truth is, they were not the best, more farmers with ill-fitting armor than warriors. Even so, for the lad to kill twenty is something.”

“Is there anything else I should know, Conall?”

“You know about the death of the women of Temuir?” The king nodded. Conall was not surprised. Everyone knew about how Setanta had brained the women of the Royal Court for ripping the Jutish princess, Dervla, to pieces because of jealousy. High King Lugaid killed himself in his grief. Setanta was the foster father to the king and lover to the queen. His revenge was swift and bloody.

The king stood up to leave. “Thank you, Conall. You have opened my eyes.”

“Think nothing of it, Sire. I like a good chat by the fire, along with a flagon and flames to warm my aging bones. If you need me for anything else, do not hesitate.”

***

“We should return to Crúachain,” Ailill said, arms crossed, chin jutting. He could see she disagreed. It did not surprise him. Medb had never been a woman who would listen to reason when the reason contradicted what she wanted.

“Return to Crúachain. Run like cowards, is it? Do not tell me, Ailill, you are as superstitious as the rest of them.”

“I am not thinking of the prophecy, Medb. I was talking to Conall about this boy, Cú Chulainn. You would not believe what he is capable of.”

“Hmm. You think Conall would tell you the truth? He is an Ulsterman. He tells you the boy is a famed killer, and you come running to me and tell me we must turn tail and head for home. Does that not strike you as suspicious, Ailill?”

Ailill looked down at her in her bed, chest exposed, tilting her head, treating him like the settlement drunk. The three Ulstermen were in the entourage at her insistence. Did she take him for a fool as well as a drunk? He would wager she did. Has it always been so? he wondered as he looked down on her.

“Looking at you, Ailill, I can see you think me foolish to have these Ulstermen surrounding me. I must put up with the same from Mac Roth, but I would think you better able. Mayhap it is the mead clouding you. They are meant to be the best Ulster has to offer. Where better for them to be than beside me where I can watch them?”

“What has Conall got to gain by telling me lies? I can easily confirm what he told me. It would not take much to find out about this boy. I could walk out of your tent and ask the warriors of Connacht what they have heard.”

“Yes, you could ask the warriors. Indeed, you must, if only to satisfy your curiosity. They will tell you some fantastical tales about how this Hound killed twenty guards of Forgall—”

“You have heard, then?” he interrupted.

“Heard, of course, I have heard. They are nothing more than bard-fueled nonsense—songs to warm the cockles on a cold night or frighten the young into their beds. Beware the monster Cú Chulainn; he will eat you if you are awake beyond the witching hour.”

“He did crush the women of Temuir at the Samhain festival. Even you cannot deny it.”

“They were not warriors. They were women of the court, and they were drunk. Even you could have killed them.”

Ailill felt himself redden at the insult. To call him a traitor to his crown, wife, and people, and now to throw aspersions on his ability as a warrior. As a man, even. He clenched his fists and had to stop himself from striding across the tent and hitting her. He never thought any woman in court would be able to drive him to violence. But then, she professed to be a warrior, so maybe it would be acceptable for him to react in the way he wanted.

He was sorely tempted.

He stared at her, fists still clenched.

“I am sorry, Ailill. I did not mean it,” she surprised him. The look on her face showed genuine remorse at her choice of words. “I do not want to hurt you. But you must understand. What we do is for the good of Ériu. We cannot let The De…” she hesitated.

Ailill knew she had been about to say The Defiler. She thought her pet name for Ulster was her own. He did not want to disabuse her. He knew it would cause hurt where none was necessary. It was true, he realized; he did not mean her any harm. He just wanted the nonsense to stop. Admitting it surprised him.

“The Deceiver,” he helped.

“The Deceiver. Hmm. Yes. Mac Nessa. We cannot allow him to take the high kingship. It will be the death of the kingdoms if he does.”

“Do you believe that, Medb, truly? You think the Five Kingdoms are in danger?”

“In danger? Yes. I think these Romans will not stop at Alba’s coastline. I think they will keep coming. If we allow Mac Nessa the throne, he will use it as a toy. He will do nothing to unite the tribes and prepare. If we are not united, they will conquer us piecemeal. It is how the warrior king, Julius, subjugated Gaul. Vercingetorix united them too late. They were already beaten.”

“You will not take any persuading?”

“I will not. You know me when my mind is made up.”

“I do, Medb. I do.”

Saying which, Ailill headed for the tent flaps. He hesitated at the opening and gazed back at his queen. Medb was looking at him and seemed on the verge of saying something before changing her mind. “Sleep well, Ailill.”

“You too, Medb.”

***

He nodded and left, a spring in his step she had not seen for a long time. The image of Ailill standing by the tent flaps, hands on hips, confused her. Something about him seemed different, like he had recovered something he had lost long ago. The man she had loved when the Five Kingdoms were a sane place to live was shining through the haze of alcohol fumes.

But then, thinking about it, she had not seen Ailill take a drink since the march began. It was only the second day, but no drinking for two days was something of a record, she thought. Although he drank before Honey-Tongue’s murder, he had always been in control. After Mac Nessa’s humiliation of their son, the control evaporated, and he drank from waking until he fell over.

Something in the way he stood in the entrance, hands on hips, the old light in his eyes, had her feeling damp where he had not caused any feelings for a long time. Even thinking about it, she felt a flutter. Do I still love him? she wondered. She shook her head, smiling to herself.

Am I tempting fate with dreams of how things used to be? she asked herself. Smiling, she realized, sitting in her cot, she had to let the path the Three Sisters had given her run its course. She also realized that if there were to be any reconciliation, she needed to stop her liaisons with Fergus. She started the dalliance because the Five Kingdoms were in dire need. She continued bedding him because there was something about the warrior she liked. He was lovable, in an overgrown boy sort of way. She would miss him but miss her life with Ailill more. No, she corrected—not her life with Ailill, but Ailill himself.

“Guard, I need you to run an errand,” she called.