The bodies were lying face down in the water. Ailill could not be sure but thought there were six. He frowned at them as they swayed gently in the wash.

“Mac Roth, go and see who it is,” Medb ordered.

“I will go, Mother,” Cet said, swinging down from his horse.

“No. I asked Mac Roth to do it.”

“Do not take on so, Mother. I am already there,” the boy said with a laugh over his shoulder. Medb smiled, seemingly infected by the boy’s youthful enthusiasm, as she nodded. Ailill thought her acceptance a little too easy and early. He was just a boy and should not go down to the fords.

“It is a warrior’s duty,” he said.

“What did you say, Ailill?” Medb asked without turning. Ailill could see the frown creasing the corner of her eye, and did not want to add further worry.

“Never mind. I was speaking my thoughts.”

Despite his words, foreboding was irritating his guts. He looked around. The rain had gone. The sun was evaporating the water from the leaves. There was a smell of summer in the air. He thought not even the killer boy would want to add to the six corpses floating in the river. Cú Chulainn would have killed them and then retreated, surely. His tactics would be hit and run. Hit and run. Scathach would have taught him that, at the least.

Ailill watched as Cet—who Medb called Maine Mórgor—made the bank and began to wade to the first of the bodies. The birds were singing, ignoring the impatient army ahorse in their domain. The warriors had started to relax, whispering to each other behind gloved hands. It seemed only Ailill was worried. He looked at the warriors and wondered if they could already have forgotten what happened? Chewing his lip, he watched as Cet reached the first body.

“Who is it, Son?” he called.

Cet shrugged and turned the body over. He stared down into the dead face for what seemed an age before looking up and calling, “It is the scout, Fraech.”

“Fraech. How did he die?” Medb called, looking at Ailill. Her frown made the crow’s feet around her eyes more pronounced.

Ailill watched as Cet searched the body. “I can find no wounds. It looks as though he drowned. No other explanation. Not long ago, either. Eyes are not yet cloudy.”

“Drowned? What of the others?” Medb called.

Ailill watched as Cet moved from corpse to corpse, calling out the cause of death for each. “There’s an arrow in this one. Think this one is one of Fraech’s men. This one has a sword wound. She is definitely Fraech’s. Saw her with him in the hostel in Crúachain the night before we marched.”

Ailill felt himself relaxing more as Cet inspected the bodies. He was sure if Cú Chulainn intended to attack, he would already have done so. At each of the earlier crossings, The Hound had attacked quickly. Ruthless and fast. Ailill patted his horse’s neck. She was getting skittish; he guessed she could smell death.

“This one is still alive,” his son called, breaking his thoughts. He looked back at the river. His son was sitting on the riverbank, cradling the head of a warrior, wiping wet hair out of her eyes.

“Ask what happened.” Ailill watched as Cet spoke to the warrior and then placed his ear near her mouth to hear her response. “They ambushed Cú Chulainn, bathing in the river. Fraech tried to drown the boy but was no match for him. The others, watching the fight, were surprised by Laeg and another she did not know.”

“Ask her to describe him.”

“Too late. She’s gone.”

Ailill thanked the Sidhe as his son stood and walked towards the column. He was smiling, pleased with himself. Ailill nodded. His worries had been unfounded. The warriors had been right to relax. He realized he should leave things martial to those with the expertise.

“It does not matter, Cet. Well done,” Ailill called with a wave.

The boy waved back, smiling, a spring in his step. Ailill looked at the queen. She, too, was smiling, relief in her eyes. He was glad. She was already suffering, and Ailill did not want to think about how she would react if another of her boys were to die on this worthless quest.

***

Staring at the warriors milling about in the road, eating, chatting, relaxing, Fergus grimaced. They were pups with no idea about who they were fighting. He was just a youth: they had heard everyone refer to him as a boy, and even the last two days had not disabused them of the idea. Few in Medb’s army had the same training as Setanta. The Galeoin did, but she made enemies of them by dispersing them, breaking their camaraderie. They knew what was afoot but would let things unfold and keep their peace.

Fergus was reluctant to give a warning.

“Stand ready, Longas,” he said.

“You expect trouble?”

“Not sure what I’m expecting. Look at the pups. Acting like they’re on a hunt and stopped for food.”

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His reticence was not only born of frustration at the queen’s actions. It was not only because she had driven Conall away. Setanta was his foster son. Ulster was his home. It was only Mac Nessa he craved vengeance against, and that was looking ever more unlikely. With no hope of success, why would he continue to support the witch?

Should he live by his oath?

Tuatha take all oaths, he thought. He looked over his shoulder towards the van and thought again about leaving. Other than the oath, he had no reason to stay. If the witch could ignore the code, then why should he abide by it? She was willing to turn against what her warriors stood by at each crossing.

Was he willing to die by his oath?

Medb planned to be in and out within five days, and the third day would soon be over. Even if she were to give in to Ailill’s demands and take on the challenge of Setanta, time was too short. The Red Branch would soon be mustering.

“Oath be cursed,” he whispered, deciding to return to the van and inform the queen of his decision to sail for Alba in search of Conall. He could not just ride away. Breaking his oath was one thing, but he needed to do it honorably.

“Wait here, Longas. I will be back in a moment. Get the troop ready to leave.”

Longas nodded and called, “Mount up. Prepare to ride.” Fergus felt a surge of pride because the warriors mounted and were in good order before he spurred his horse for the van.

Fergus ducked slightly when he heard the whistle, although he knew he was not the target. A whining followed the familiar thud. He never thought he would live long enough to hear such a sound as that which screeched from Medb’s lips. Pulling up close to the fords, he looked at the queen. She was on her knees beside the body of Maine Mórgor, rending her hair, tearing the bodice of her dress, and scratching her face. There was no sanity in her eyes. The loss of another son seemed to have been the weapon to breach her mind’s defenses.

“It is your fault, woman. If you had done as I asked, my son Cet would still be alive,” Fergus heard Ailill say, little more than a whisper.

Medb also heard him. Fergus watched her as the whites of her eyes showed, and she swooned over the body of her son. He felt a momentary twinge of pity for the witch, but it was fleeting. Everything happening to her was of her own doing. Had she followed the code, her son would still be alive. He felt a twinge of guilt. Could he have prevented the death of the boy? Probably, but Medb’s was the ultimate responsibility, so it was only a twinge.

“We withdraw and find somewhere to make camp,” Ailill shouted. Nodding at Medb, he said, “Someone pick that up and throw it over its horse. Fergus, I need your advice. It is time this folly was resolved.”

***

Dancing flames played with the shadows on Laeg’s and Setanta’s faces. In the light, they looked like the boys they were, their hardness hidden by shadow. Fedelm was not sure what ages they carried, but they were young. Setanta did not even have whiskers, and Laeg’s were so wispy that they looked like they belonged somewhere other than on his chin.

“Witch did not expect that,” Setanta laughed and threw a punch, which Laeg ducked.

Their childish humor, slapping each other, throwing insults, and acting like maggots, was giving her a throbbing in her forehead. She had never been less in the mood for joviality. They had baited the leviathan, but neither seemed concerned about the consequences. Yes, they had been killing warriors, but they ignored the time when those they faced would be more battle-hardened. Eventually, the witch would send Conall or Fergus, and this loutish behavior would not serve. The renegade warriors of Ulster would swat them like errant dung beetles.

Still, they treated it as a game.

“Will you two stop your nonsense?”

“Who stuck their gae bulga up your hole?” Setanta asked, causing Laeg to guffaw.

“Enough, Setanta. This is serious business. You must not lose sight of your goal.”

“My goal, Fedelm. Do you think I do not know what I am about?” he asked with quiet menace, a marked and instant change in his mood. “A boy died today, so he did. That’s because I do have sight of my goal.”

“Boy, which boy?”

“The young one, the son who followed her around like a wolfhound pup.”

“What do you mean, young one? How young?”

“I am not sure. Fourteen summers, maybe.”

“But he was just a boy; why did you kill a boy?”

She could not keep the horror out of her voice. A lump manifested itself in her bowel. She could understand the brutal killing of warriors; it was their trade, but to kill the children of the queen. Is he the killer I have been so loath to admit? she wondered.

“I killed the hound of Cullen at fourteen.”

“You are different, Setanta. You cannot compare.”

“He was with the army. He went down to the fords of Ath da Fert and examined the bodies of those who died. He was a warrior. I know what I am about, woman.”

She forced a smile, held out her palms, and prayed silently to the Aos Sidhe her words had not offended. She shivered and hoped the boys had not seen. Maybe she was being foolish. Setanta would not harm her. The women he crushed in Temuir had deserved it. They had torn his love into tatters. Challenging him could not be the same, surely? She looked over the fire at him. He did not return the look but stared over her shoulder into the night forest. There was something about his eyes, like something was missing. She was surprised she had not seen it before. Is it just the light? No, his eyes swallow the light. Looking at him, she felt something begin to wane. As though her ideals surrounding him had passed their zenith.

“I know you are aware of what you are about, Setanta. You are a man and a warrior. I am, however, worried you do not see the extent of the task you have undertaken. We must keep our concentration. All of us. I am just talking common sense.”

“The death of the boy will force her hand. It was a good tactic,” he said with a surly tone. “Scathach would praise me for it.”

Fedelm was not convinced. She did not think the warrior of The Shadowy Isle would agree with killing children. Although she had not met her, Fedelm had heard she was a warrior of honor.

She had a sudden urge to wait until the boys were asleep and then return to Ynys Môn. But she could not. The spymaster had been specific in his instructions. She was to allow Setanta to do as he would and trust his judgment.

“If you do not like it, Fedelm, you can ride out this night, so you can.” Fedelm looked at him, as scared of his intuition as she was of his propensity for violence.

“No, of course, I will stay. You are just being foolish.”