Being without his sword was keeping Fergus awake. It was not the physical presence of the belt, the sheath, and the iron within so much as the meaning. He knew he was not the brightest star in the night sky, but he also knew the king took his sword because of its symbology. It represented what he had been sticking into Medb whenever the chance arose.

Tuatha take Ailill’s logic.

Fergus needed his weapon. Staring into the forest, the boles and underbrush just visible in the torchlight, the thought pounded at his head, making his eyes water. As he looked away, trying to ease the throbbing, there seemed to be an orange glint from further in the forest. He stared at the spot where he thought he had seen it, but there was nothing—just darkness. The torchlight penetrated so far, and then nothing. Blackness. Impenetrable blackness. Nothing but the night noises: the hoot of an owl, the scrabbling of something in the underbrush, human noise from where the warriors were engaging in banter, the chattering of bats from overhead.

Fergus was about to turn away and try to get some sleep when it was there again. There could be no doubt. An orange reflection was coming from something just out of range of the light for it to be distinguishable. As he watched it appear, it vanished. Fergus turned to his left. The sentry was standing staring at the same spot. He could see tenseness in the warrior’s grip on the shaft of his spear. The sentry tilted his head as though trying to get a better angle to see under the canopy.

Fergus looked back at the forest.

Something had changed. Except for the banter from the camp, the night noises had stopped, replaced by a humming. It was a strange sound he knew but could not place. He stood and strained his eyes, trying to see what was in the forest. As he strained, he heard a whistle and a thud from his left. He looked at the sentry. The man was still, not moving a muscle, not even breathing. And then he fell like the victim of an incautious woodsman: there was no warning, no shout of “tree down!” Fergus walked over and crouched to look at the man. He seemed to be sleeping with his eyes open, all three of them: the third, a black hole in his forehead. The humming and the whistle fell into place. A sling and an iron ball. Sounds of death. Weapons favored by The Hound.

Fergus returned his gaze to the forest just as Setanta walked out. The boy stopped and stared at him, his head tilted. Instinctively, Fergus made a grab for a sword he had forgotten was not there. Sighing, he lifted his chin in defiance.

Fergus’s foster son laughed and started to run at him. He could see the boy was carrying a boar spear. It must have been the spearhead reflecting the firelight that first caught his attention. Setanta’s torso was bare, muscles rippling in the orange light. Fergus let his arms fall by his sides and accepted his fate, to be killed by his foster son on a mission for a woman whom he could only class as heartless.

Fergus wanted to laugh.

He nodded as Setanta approached him.

“Evening, Father,” the boy said as he ran past. Fergus snorted. He could not be sure because of the light, but it looked like Setanta had winked at him.

***

Conall could not stop shaking his head. Ailill’s reaction to the night’s events would only enhance his reputation as a weakling. He should have stabbed Fergus in the throat after the warrior dropped his sword. No real man would have sat and whined like the king had done. Ailill should have stabbed Fergus in the eye. “Boar’s arse is a coward,” Conall said to the fire. “A drunken, spoor hole of a drunken coward.”

He shook his head again.

It was no wonder the queen looked for men elsewhere. Being fierce and voracious in appetite there would be no way Ailill could satisfy her. She needed a warrior with a spear in his triús, as Conall recalled saying to Fergus before this misguided adventure began. But then, she had eight children, so he must have had a spear at some stage. Spear or no spear, Ailill was a coward. Conall could not condone what the queen had done. However, nor could he support the coward’s actions.

What would it have cost the king to act like a man?

And then he realized Ailill had done the only thing he could. If he had killed Fergus, Conall would have had no choice but to kill the king, which would have meant a whole mess of horseshit. Maybe it was not cowardice but wisdom which guided Ailill’s choice.

“Bull’s balls, but all this thinking is thirsty work,” Conall hissed at the fire. He stood up to go and get a flagon from one of the hawkers who followed the camp.

He was nearing the edge of the warrior’s enclosure when he heard a scream cut off mid-warble. He turned back but could see nothing to explain the noise. The camp was quiet, as though the scream had not happened. The sentry to his right was staring fixedly toward the disturbance. She looked at Conall and shrugged.

Conall smiled, “Some boar’s arse burnt their fingers on a kettle, no doubt.”

“No doubt, Cap…” the sentry halted her words mid-sentence.

Conall watched as she toppled backward into the lookout fire with no explanation. Frowning, he gazed down at her, flames lapping around her boiled leather vest. The cause of death was immediately apparent. Her left eye was gone, replaced by a black hole. When he heard Fergus approaching, he stopped studying the corpse.

Fergus said, “You got one too?”

“Aye. There are others?”

“Two I’m aware of. Looks like he’s slinging iron balls from the forest edge.”

“Let us head into the camp and see what else the boar’s arse has done.”

They turned from the camp edge and were making their way in when the call went out, “Intruder in camp!”

“It seems someone spotted the boy,” Fergus smiled.

“Aye,” Conall would have said more, but Setanta’s arrival jogging towards them interrupted him. Conall noted he was carrying a boar spear, blooded down to the base of the shaft.

“Evening, Fathers,” he called as he passed.

“Did that boar’s arse just wink at us?” Conall asked.

“He did. That’s my second wink this night. He’s in a generous mood.”

“Second wink. How do you mean?”

“I’ll explain it, Conall, as we go to the witch’s tent. She’ll be looking for us, I think.”

“Aye. You go ahead. I want to make sure the king is in one piece. I will catch you up.”

***

“What is it that is so confusing?” Medb demanded. She looked at Fergus and frowned at his tight-lipped disagreement. Conall too did not agree, she could see. “What is the issue with posting more guards?”

“To cover the camp as you want, we would need to keep most of the warriors awake all night. They are a sorry pile of steaming hogshit when fully refreshed. Half asleep, they will be easy targets,” Conall said.

“I watched him kill a guard from the forest. There’d be no point in setting guards every few paces around the camp. He’d just kill them at his leisure,” Fergus added, hands behind his back, chin up.

“You watched him kill a guard. Why did you not do anything?”

“I’ve no sword. My skill as a fighter is the stuff of legend, but I’d not go up against The Hound of Ulster unarmed.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“You have no sword. What do you mean you have no sword? Where is your sword?”

“You’d better ask your husband,” Fergus hissed.

Medb looked over her shoulder. Ailill was standing beside the gathered warriors, arms crossed. “Ailill?”

He looked away and said nothing. Medb frowned. “Speak to me.” The king just turned his back and walked several paces further away. What is happening now? she wondered before turning back to the Ulstermen. She raised her eyebrows in question.

“More sentries will do nothing, Lady, except give him more targets,” Conall said.

“Can we not hunt him down?”

“Aye, we could hunt for him. It would be like hunting for a flea in the coats of a pack of wolfhounds. He is an adept woodsman. He was before he went to Scathach. Saved Mac Nessa’s son from a wild boar bigger than your mare.”

“Bigger than my mare. I have heard these fanciful tales before, Conall. Are they not just bard-fuelled stories?”

“They aren’t. I was there. Watched it with these eyes,” Fergus said. “After it was hung and bled, that boar fed the king’s table for several nights.”

“So, what am I to do? Tell me, my faithful Ulstermen,” she said, hoping the men had not missed the stress on the faithful.

“We hunker down and wait for dawn. If the boar’s arse continues to attack in the night, tomorrow, we hunt him. He will need to rest,” Conall said. “Sleeping, he will not hear our approach.”

“Hunker down. Fergus?”

“I can’t think of anything else.” Medb could see Fergus staring at Conall, questions flaring in his eyes. He was never one to keep his emotions to himself, or more accurately, incapable of keeping them to himself.

“By the Tuatha, I believe we are being held to ransom by a boy.”

“Not just any boy, Lady. The Hound has a fearsome reputation, even though he is a boar’s arse.”

“The more I listen to you, Conall Cernach, the more I am convinced you are offering advice to aid our enemies rather than us.”

“Aiding our enemies, Lady. In the name of all the Tuatha, what exactly does aiding our enemies mean?”

“What do I mean? It is simple, Conall. I have been told you are working against my venture. As you have given me nothing but negative words since I first mentioned it back in Crúachain, I am inclined to believe it. I do not think it coincidental this boy has been one step ahead of us since the march began.”

“Told by?” Conall raised his eyebrows.

“Who, does not matter. Someone is providing this boy with information.”

“And you think it is me?” Conall hissed, hand straying to his sword.

“Leave now, Conall, and do not return to our armies; you are banished henceforth,” Ailill said from the crowd’s edge.

Medb looked at Ailill, a reprimand on her tongue, which she held back when she saw his look: arms crossed, head tilted, eyes unblinking. She turned back, intent on telling her guards to seize Conall, but he was already striding away. He had his hand on the hilt of his sword, and she could tell he would not surrender so that Fergus would go to his aid. Ordering Conall arrested would cost her army dearly. She looked at Fergus, staring between his feet, lips sealed, hurt by his friend’s departure.

As Conall galloped his horse out of camp, she turned to Fergus and said, “Do you have anything to say, Fergus?”

“I don’t, Lady,” he said, staring at where Conall had been.

“Good. Remember your oath. Ailill,” Medb called as he began to walk away. “Can I have a word?”

“What do you want?” Ailill hissed. “I have more important things to be doing.”

Medb felt a flutter of confusion in her breast. What has happened? she wondered again. Ailill seemed to have returned to his usual petulant self. “I thought we might talk. In my tent. Just for a few minutes.”

“I think not, woman. I have a prior engagement.”

“I see. A prior engagement with whom?”

“Not whom, Medb, what. I have an engagement with my only remaining friend. The friend you so rightly pointed out to me. We have not seen each other for so long.”

Medb frowned at her husband’s retreating back. She felt tears tickling her eyes. Tuatha, just what I need, to appear weak now, she thought, but the sudden arrival of heavy rain allayed her fears—not in the usual one drop at a time, but all at once, a flood sent by the capricious Tuatha, perhaps even Morrigan herself.

“Mac Roth, you will attend me,” Medb shouted as she went to find some cover. As she ducked into the tent, she heard a horse galloping from the camp and looked up to see Ailill’s retainer, Ferloga, riding into the downpour.

“Where are you going in such a hurry on such a night?” she asked.

***

Dawn. Kathvar gazed at the man across the sacred glade outside Emain Macha and shivered. He was preparing fungi for the feast, so his mind was on other things. Even so, it was a shock to have the spy suddenly appear like an apparition of the Sidhe or a wraith out of one of the burial mounds. Had he not known him so well, Kathvar would fear for his life.

“You sent for me,” the man said with a slight bow as he came to stand before Kathvar, who nodded. He had concealed an Ogham message demanding the spy visit him. It meant the man had to forego sleep, but working at night was what spies did.

“The king ordered The Hound to guard the borders of Cooley. Protect the herd. You spoke to the boy?” Kathvar said.

“I did. I pointed him toward the seer, as you suggested?”

“Good. He could use help, for sure,” Kathvar shook his head, confused by the king’s order.

The spy smiled at him. He had never seen such a feral expression of mirth. There was more latent threat in the man’s smile than the lolling smile of a hungry wolf.

“I thought Cú Chulainn was just having fun with spancel-hoops,” the spy said.

“Spancel-hoops?” Kathvar asked, eyebrows raised.

“He is laying Ogham challenges at all the crossings into Cooley.”

“I am not surprised. He is a trained warrior.”

“I suppose he is.”

“Is it possible for one man to guard the borders of Cooley?”

“No. One man might watch the pass at Windy Gap, but there are many more roads into the peninsula. And watching is one thing, but defending? It would take at least a troop to defend it against a determined enemy.”

“Does the king know this?”

“Of course,” the spy paused while he thought. “He just wants to be rid of the boy. Nothing more. That would be my assessment.”

“Rid of?”

“Wants him out of the way so the warriors can get drunk without listening to his complaining. The boy is young and not yet enamored of the mead. Nor is he an Ulsterman. He does not understand the need.”

“Not an Ulsterman? Is the king not his uncle?” Kathvar smiled.

“No. That was a ruse—”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “You do not think the king regrets making him Captain of the Red Branch?”

“There is always that possibility. No one could have foreseen his violence when Mac Nessa appointed him.”

“The violence occurred before he was appointed.”

“Is that so? Then I do not know what to tell you. The king might have decided he made a mistake and is trying to rectify it. Or, he might just be too drunk to understand what he has asked of the boy. Either way, I remember the last man who attempted to send Cú Chulainn to his death ended up with a broken neck. The king should keep a watch over his shoulder.”

“Yes, Forgall did not live to regret his mistake. How do you understand the situation?” Kathvar asked. There were few he would trust to give him advice. The man standing before him was one of them.

“I think making an enemy of the boy should not be something done lightly.”

“Yes. I concur. In my boots, what would you do?”

“Far be it for me to advise you, but I would watch and wait to see what happens.”

“Why do nothing?” Kathvar frowned.

“No one wants a madman at the head of the Red Branch, so maybe the king is right in what he does. However, if his ploy fails and the boy gets to hear of your involvement…”

“Yes, I understand.”

“The Elder Council are no doubt involved.”

“The Council?”

“The Elders are sick of the king’s games, which you already know. So, they might be of the opinion an invasion of Ulster is necessary. Sorry, I forget myself, you are one of them,” the spy said with a smile. “You might need an invasion to work. Either way, it is a maze because, as I see it, you cannot continue your allegiance with Ulster and remain on the council. They are at loggerheads. But neither can you side with Connacht because she is as power-hungry as the king of the Ulaid. That leaves the boy, who leads the Red Branch. If Cú Chulainn were to stop Medb long enough to force a battle, the Tuatha might resolve the problem.”

“I agree. Battlefields are notoriously dangerous places. Thank you for your advice, though painfully extracted.”

The man bowed his head slightly and turned to leave. “Before you go, if tasked with delaying the advance of an army, how would you proceed?”

“There is only one thing to do: harry the invaders; drive them to seek retribution. Laying spancels denying river crossings would be a good start,” the man said with a smirk.

“You think that is what Cú Chulainn is doing?”

“Yes. If you saw the faces of the warriors and the queen, you would agree, I think.”

“I can see that. You will return to her army?”

“Of course,” the spy said and turned to leave.

“May the Sidhe be with you.” Without turning back, the man nodded and left the clearing. He seemed to glide through the early morning mist, making no sound. It was eerie. Kathvar shivered before dusting off a mushroom and chewing it thoughtfully.