Fergus was riding in the army’s vanguard when Longas pulled in beside him. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, frowning.

“Had to pay a visit to a colleen I know, over in Lúr Cinn Trá. We humped on the beach in memory of good times past,” Longas said with a wink. “Getting sand up me hole was worth it. Tuatha, but she knows what makes a warrior tick. Where is Conall? I did not see him as I was riding through.”

Fergus frowned. There was something about Longas’s reason which seemed strange. “A girl? This is serious business. We’re not taking a ride in the country.”

“Maybe taking a ride in the country is exactly what I was doing,” Longas laughed. Fergus shook his head and laughed, too. He was beginning to doubt his closest allies. It was not as though he had enough troubles without creating more.

“Be serious. We’ve hard and bloody work ahead. Isn’t the time for frolicking and laughter. What’s her name?”

“Fedelm of the red tresses.”

“You were humping the seeress?”

Longas hesitated, smiling, the smile of one unsure how to continue. “No, not the seeress. Another Fedelm. You think I would hump a seeress? Not that mad, Fergus. Just a bit of fun with a local girl. I doubt anyone missed me.”

“Is this just another of your wild stories?”

“You do me an injustice, Fergus. My stories are never wild. Besides, I wager nothing happened in me absence.”

“You think? Conall’s gone. Had a falling out with the witch.”

“Over what?”

“We’ve been visited by a demon during the night.”

“Visited by which demon, Fergus? Your superstitions are not weakening, I see. Sent by the Fomorians, was it?”

“Not superstitions,” Fergus said, staring off into the forest.

“No, which demon was it then?”

“The Hound. He harried us all night. Twenty dead and no rest for the army. Warriors are all asleep in their saddles.”

“I saw they were a wee bit drowsy. But you are jesting about the numbers, surely?”

“No. Killed seventeen with his sling and three with a boar spear. Had us chasing our own holes all night.”

“Seventeen with his sling,” Longas whistled between his teeth. “Twenty all told. Tell me you are joking, Fergus.”

“Not joking. Never been less in the mood for laughs.”

“I am good with me sling. Doubt I could kill seventeen during the night.”

“You sling?”

“I do. Was best on the Isle during training.”

“I didn’t know you trained on the Isle,” Fergus frowned. He was beginning to wonder what else he did not know about the son of Ulster.

“I did. I did not take too kindly to Uathach’s iron grip, I can tell you. I mean no offense, Fergus, but without Conall, this army’s chance of success is much reduced.” Fergus nodded. He had been worrying over the same idea.

“What are you two bodaláin planning now?” Mac Roth asked from behind.

“Watch your mouth, Mac Roth,” Longas sneered, “before I take the flat of me blade to you.”

“I would like to see you try,” he spat with a venom, which only made Longas grin harder.

“Did you hear him, Fergus? Rat’s cock said he would like to see me try. He is in the mood for laughs, even if you are not.”

“I heard. I also know he’s back in favor, so thinks he can talk like his horse just lifted its tail and dumped us in the road.”

“Did you say he is back in favor? Has she lost her senses? What could she want with a dog turd like Mac Roth?”

“I can hear you, bodaláin,” Mac Roth hissed.

“We know you can hear us. We don’t care,” Fergus scoffed.

Face reddening, Mac Roth turned his horse and rode back down the line. “One day, I shall kill him,” Longas said.

“You’ll have to wait. Conall’s first. Then me. Anything left, and you can have it.”

“Did you hear him? I would like to see you try, he said,” Longas shook his head, laughing. He used a glove to wipe the rainwater from his face. “Wish this Sidhe sent rain would stop. Water’s puddling in me boots.”

Fergus snorted, watching the anger visible in the stiffness of Mac Roth” s shoulders. He will be trouble, he thought, as Mac Roth leaned in to say something to the queen before looking back at them over his shoulder. Medb looked directly at Fergus and shook her head.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Trouble’s brewing,” Fergus sighed.

“How far to the fords?” Longas asked.

“Around that bend in the road. We’ll be there in a second.”

Reining in just out from the dripping forest eaves, Fergus wanted to laugh. The waters of the river had topped the banks on either side. He watched a log spinning past so fast it would kill a horse. He had crossed the Cronn at the fords many times. Never had it been so fierce.

“We can’t cross here,” he said to whoever would listen.

“We cannot cross here. I see. And there I was, thinking the horses could swim and the wagons be floated over.” Medb said. “Mac Roth, have my tent pitched. I do not want to eat in this rain. Oats and mutton are bland enough without watering them down. Fergus, you will attend me beside my fire.”

“My Lady,” Fergus said, swiping the rainwater from his eyes.

Watching the camp spring out of dampness into a city of cloth, Fergus felt the burden of command. Before, with Conall by his side, he thought he had someone he could rely on. Conall riding away had crushed his illusions. There had been little niggles during the campaign where he thought back to Medb’s words when she asked for his oath. Nothing had come close to the feeling building in his chest, as though being erected as part of the city of tents. Conall had gone with far too much ease. It was as though he did not care enough to stand his ground. But why? Did he not consider his friendship with Fergus important enough to fight for? Perhaps Medb was right in saying he should not have so much faith in Conall Cernach.

“So, what do you propose?” Medb asked around a mouthful of oats and mutton. She was sitting on her chair under the awning of her tent.

Fergus looked over his shoulder. “We either wait for the waters to subside or turn back and find another route.”

“Wait or turn back. I do not want to turn back. The warriors will see it as defeat. How long for the waters to subside?”

Fergus shrugged his shoulders. He had no way of knowing how long. “Tall as an oak tree,” he said.

“Tall as an oak tree? What are you talking about?”

“We’ll only know how tall it is if we climb it.”

Medb shook her head, a spoon of gloop halfway to her mouth. Fergus knew he was not making sense. He put it down to lack of sleep. He was about to elaborate when a clamoring broke out in the camp.

***

Ailill was standing between the flaps of his tent, staring across the river. The rain was sheeting, making the trees on the opposite bank nothing more than a deep shadow. Guards flanked the tent’s opening, steam rising from mail-studded leather, making them apparitions of the Donn’s world. Their hoods were up, hiding their faces but offering scant protection from the deluge.

“Come inside the tent,” Ailill said.

“We cannot, Sire,” the guard on the right replied.

“Why not? It is foolish to stand in the rain when you can stand inside and protect me just as well.”

“Queen’s orders, Sire. We are to stand outside the tent.”

“Ah, I understand. You are not here to protect me but to keep me in my place.” The guards did not comment on Ailill’s observation, but a stiffening of their stances was confirmation. “Who does she think she is? It is I who is king of Connacht, not Medb.”

The guard on the right looked over his shoulder and said, “I am sorry, Sire. Everyone has seen you are, um…” the guard hesitated, “not well. You cannot lead when ill.”

“I am not ill, man. Can you not see she is manipulating you? I am the king of Connacht, and you will do as I bid. Do as I bid, I say,” Ailill shouted, lifting his flagon and waving it at them.

“I am sorry, Sire. I cannot,” the guard shrugged and turned back, punctuated by a strange whistle and a thudding sound. Ailill sidestepped as the guard hit the tent wall before falling past him into the tent. He looked down to see a hole in the man’s forehead, just below the protection of his helmet.

The other guard crouched and started shouting, “Beware the rise! Assailant on the rise!”

Ailill looked across the river. He could see the shadow of the hill rising above the opposite bank, which had not been visible only moments before. He heard another whistling, followed by loud splintering. The central pole of his tent sagged like the elbow of a lazy warrior at a feast table, causing the tent to dip and water to cascade from its top, drenching the crouching guard further.

“Everyone into the forest, quick now, or you will feel me boot up your hole,” Longas called from the bank. Ailill watched the warriors under the Ulsterman’s command backing under the dripping trees.

“Can anyone see him?” Medb asked as she arrived to stand beside him. Fergus was with her. Ever the lapdog, he thought. Ailill looked at the warriors, staring out from their flimsy protection, each afraid they would be the next to receive a third eye.

“No, of course, we can’t see him. He’s hidden by rain and forest,” Fergus scoffed.

“Hidden by rain and forest, is he? If we cannot see him, how can he see us?”

“I doubt he can. He’s got five thousand and more to sling at. Slinging blind, he’s a good chance of hitting something,” Fergus said; the buoyancy in his tone caused anger to flare in Ailill’s guts.

“You find this funny?” he asked.

“I do, Sire. Don’t you? A boy is besting the greatest army Ériu has ever known. Mac Nessa’s so afraid of your army, he’s sent a youth to fight you.”

“A youth to fight us, is it? If you are not one of us, why are you here?” the queen asked. Ailill could hear the warning in the quietness of her voice, even if Fergus could not.

“I gave you my oath, Lady. That and vengeance on Mac Nessa.”

“Vengeance against Mac Nessa. And how is that going?”

The warriors within hearing were shuffling and looking at their feet. Embarrassed for Medb and Fergus, acting like children bickering over the champion’s cut. They had engaged in an affair, which was over, but should they not keep the bickering away from the warriors? Ailill wanted to slap them both with the flat of his longsword. Well, maybe Fergus. He would like to punish the woman like she would punish him: with the knotted hide. She was, without a doubt, the initiator, and he should treat her as such. Oh, he had known of her dalliances before, but she had never forced them down his throat in front of the armies of Ériu.

“He seems to have stopped,” Mac Roth said. Ailill looked at him and felt his hand drift towards his ornamental sword. Like the Fomorian, Cethlenn, Mac Roth was ever the bearer of bad tidings. Despite everyone telling him not to punish a messenger, Ailill could not help but imagine how the Queen’s Captain of Guards would look with his guts hanging out his arse.

“You know it’s going badly. Without counsel from Conall, it’s only going to get worse,” Fergus said, staring into the now misty rain. “You banished the true commander of your army. I’m a fighter, not an organizer.”

“You agreed to the command. You gave me your oath.”

“I gave it under duress in the knowledge Conall would be here to help. Now he’s gone.”

“So, why should I keep you by my side if you cannot perform?”

“You want me to leave, Lady? I can ride off now if that’s your wish.”

Ailill looked at Medb from under lowered brows. He was as keen to hear her response as the rest of the warriors within hearing. Rather than satisfy that wish, Medb shouted, “We move. We will find another crossing.”