Watching her sitting with her legs pulled under her chin made Mac Roth frown. He had clung to her skirts only to have her fail before reaching the heights he craved. The cailleach had lost her mind, and he wanted to kick her in the face. He spat in the dust at the bottom of her cot before quickly covering the saliva with his boot.

“Has she said anything?” Ailill asked as he arrived beside Mac Roth.

“No, Sire. She sits with her head on her knees, staring at the tent wall.”

“Did you try speaking to her?”

“I did, Sire,” Mac Roth lied. There was no point in speaking to her. Any idiot could see she was no longer on the same plane as the rest of the camp. “She did not respond. In my opinion, the death of the boy has unhinged her, Sire.”

“If I want your opinion, I will tell you, Mac Roth. What I want from you is an hourly report on her state. Do you think you are capable of that?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Good. I will be in my tent. It is time to resolve this, and I mean to send Fergus as an envoy to the boy. You will attend the queen while he is gone.”

“Bodalán,” he hissed at the king’s retreating back. He held his breath as Ailill hesitated by the tent flaps, as if he had heard, but relaxed when the king walked out without turning. Spitting in the dust again, Mac Roth stalked out and went in search of a flagon.

He was returning from the hawkers when the words, “You were told to attend the queen,” caused him to look up. Fergus was staring at him from the entrance to the king’s tent.

“Mind your business, Fergus,” he said, lashing out at a stray dog, which whimpered and ran.

“You’re a real turd, aren’t you, Mac Roth.”

“I might be a turd, but at least I am a loyal turd.” The words caused Fergus to shake his head and laugh as he entered the king’s tent.

“Bodalán,” Mac Roth said, walking on and raising his flagon.

He pulled aside a flap of Medb’s tent before hesitating. With the cailleach gone, he had no reason to stay. Ailill did not trust him. Fergus and Longas would as soon cut his throat as wipe horseshit off their boot soles.

No matter.

He would offer his services to Mac Nessa. As Medb’s erstwhile captain, he could benefit Ulster. The Hound’s opposing them meant the king was aware of the invasion. Still, Mac Roth could offer essential information, such as the army’s disposition and numbers. Names of the warriors. Not that there were many. With Conall gone and the Galeoin dispersed and unwilling to die for her cause, he could count the champions on one hand. Mac Nessa would surely pay for such information.

“How can I rid myself of this boy?” Medb asked from her cot as Mac Roth was about to let go of the flap and ride for Ulster. “He has taken another of my sons.”

Frowning, he looked at Medb, sure the woman had fled to a Síd, leaving her mortal remains behind. She was staring at him in the same intense way but not seeing him. He shrugged, thinking she had spoken from the mound—a reflex.

“Talk to me, Mac Roth,” she said, disabusing him. He looked at her and could not help but wince. She was still living, staring at him from a face of innocent beauty with eyes of death. Mac Roth did not think he would ever face eyes like hers again.

“Lady?” he asked, returning to the foot of her cot.

“How can I kill this boy?” An involuntary shiver caused his neck hairs to tingle. She seemed not to notice.

“You could hire seekers, Lady.”

“Seekers? What are seekers?”

“Let us say there are bands of warriors without fealty who, for a price, would perform any task. Mercenaries. Fianna.”

“Assassins, you mean?”

“Like assassins, Lady, but they will do anything, not just kill. Clear out the midden if offered enough silver.”

“Anything for enough silver. And where would I acquire these seekers?”

“The camp followers have... um... certain contacts, shall we say. Hawkers. One in especial I know. I will approach him and make your need known.”

“So, you make my needs known; then what?”

“Then we wait.”

“Who is it, this hawker?”

“My Lady?”

“What is this man’s name—the one who can provide seekers?”

“He is called Sluaghdhán. I can go to him now.”

“Do it.”

***

“We can’t go on suffering these setbacks, or the army will slink off into the night. The warriors won’t continue,” Fergus said. “Already each night sees many of them on the wing, back to their farms, Sire.”

Although hearing the words, Ailill was not listening. He was looking at the newly laid fire and thinking of Cet. He did not deserve to die. He was too young. His life had only just started. Ailill’s mind would not clear the image of Cet’s grin as he toppled from his horse.

“You all right to continue, Sire?” Fergus asked.

Ailill looked at him and nodded. “Desertions aside, how would you proceed?”

“Sire?” Ailill could see the confusion on Fergus’s face.

“How do we complete this cattle raid? How do we acquire this brown bull?”

“You don’t want to return to Crúachain? I thought we’d give up now?”

“I cannot abandon the raid. Not after Cet’s death.”

Without his sword, Fergus put his hands behind his back. Ailill could see he was wringing them by the slight rolling of his shoulders. Eventually, he spoke, “Withdraw. The Red Branch will be on their feet soon enough. There’s no time to steal the bull. They catch us in Cooley; Fedelm’s seeing will be right. Won’t be anything left but blood and brains.”

Ailill looked at Fergus. He was an Ulsterman, and Ailill hated him because he had bedded Medb. He did recognize the warrior in him. However, more importantly, he also recognized the same need for vengeance. The Ulsterman wanted Mac Nessa to pay for what he had done. Ailill was relying on that need to keep the warrior under the yoke. He considered the advice sound, but he could not countenance retreat. Not now. He needed to avenge Cet’s death, but how?

He needed an ally. He needed an expert warrior. He needed Fergus.

Ailill did not trust Mac Roth. Something about Medb’s guard made his skin pucker at the base of his skull whenever he was near. And Longas? He was the son of Mac Nessa and not to be trusted, even if Fergus could not see it. Ailill knew by instinct that the man was conniving. There was something in the eyes. Something in the sneer. Something lowly about him, as though he lived in a midden and only came out after the witching hour or with a scent of weakness in the air.

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Ailill frowned.

He needed to concentrate. He was not sure of Medb’s motives in ordering the invasion. She had always professed them to be for the good of the Five Kingdoms. Ailill was not convinced. It no longer mattered. Cet’s death had broken the queen. She was sitting in her cot, staring at nothing. Dribbling and incontinence would soon follow. He had seen it before. His mother went the same way. She was not as young, but she had the same staring insanity followed by loose muscles, dribbles, and piss.

Ailill wanted revenge for Cet.

He did not want power or to oppose Mac Nessa. He wanted the head of the boy on a stick, like the four at the fords, tongues lolling. He knew the way to his revenge would be to continue the invasion. The boy had yet to face any warriors of Connacht. He had been picking away at them from afar. Ailill knew sending a warrior to the fords would win the day. If not the first, then the second or the third. But he also knew he could not tell the Ulsterman of his aim. Fergus spoke freely of his oath, but he was Cú Chulainn’s foster father. Ailill saw the pride welling when someone mentioned the boy. Oath apart, he would not knowingly hurt his son. It had been naïve of Medb to think differently.

“How long would it take to find the bull if we invaded the peninsula now?”

“Not long. They’ll have it hidden in the mountains. Army this size, we could scour them in no time. Problem is, there’s no way to get into Cooley with Cú Chulainn on the rampage.”

“Now Medb is…” he hesitated while searching for the words, “...indisposed, we can accept his challenge.”

“Accept his challenge?”

“Yes. Fight for the fords. We have warriors capable of beating him?”

“Some. You banished the warrior most likely to beat him.”

“Yes, well, leaving Conall aside, are there no others in this army?”

“There” s Ferbaeth of the Galeoin and some talk of the young warrior, Ferdia. Neither has the skill of Conall. None of it matters. Setanta won’t accept. We’ve broken the code. There’s no going back. He’ll niggle at us until the Red Branch takes the field. When they do, it’ll be over.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Yes. We’ve nothing but the pups of Connacht and the eejits Mesgegra and Mac Dedad foisted on us. The Red Branch will crush them.”

“You could convince him.”

“Me, Sire. Why would I do that? He’s my foster son. I would already have left if not for the death of Maine Mórgor.”

“Cet.”

“Sire?”

“Cet. My son’s name was Cet. Medb renamed him because of some inane prophecy. A druid said her son Maine would kill Mac Nessa. We had no son called Maine, so she renamed them. All Maine with a different end. It is ridiculous, truth be told.”

“Sorry, Sire. I didn’t know.”

“I ask again, why would Cet’s death hold you back?”

“I’m oathbound, Sire.”

“You just told me, Fergus, you would have left if not for Cet’s death. You were willing to break your oath. So, tell me the reason why you are still here.”

“I felt sorry for you and Medb.”

“Exactly. You care for us more than you want to admit.”

“Care? I’m not sure I care at all. But I wouldn’t want to see anyone hurt, only for the craic. I’m not Mac Nessa.”

“I suspected it was so. I think you will accept my task, Fergus, because you want the same thing I want.”

“I do? Tell me. What is it I want, Ailill?”

The king noted the disrespect but was not in the mood for an argument. “You want Mac Nessa to pay for the wrong he has done you. You want to see him suffer as much as he has made you suffer. You want his head on a stake.” In the same way I want your boy’s head, Ailill thought while showing nothing except the face of a grieving parent.

“I’d be mad to go unarmed without Conall’s support.”

“I will, of course, return your sword. I cannot give you Conall Cernach, but I have a young warrior keen to earn his chariot. Headstrong, to be sure, but no less able for that. He recently returned from the Shadowy Isle, so he might prove worthy. I believe Scathach does not turn out the unworthy.”

“You want me to talk Setanta round while foisting a trainee on me,” Fergus laughed, shaking his head. “Medb’s shenanigans used to make me laugh. They are nothing to yours, Ailill.”

“Not a trainee. He is fully trained, just not tried.”

“I’ll do it, king. Not for you, Medb, or Connacht. I’ll do it for myself.”

I know you will, Fergus. You will do it for yourself as much as I am doing it for Ulster. Like them all, you think me drunk and incapable, Ailill thought.

***

“Did I tell you how I bested five warriors during sword practice?” Etarcomol asked. Fergus looked at the youth before spitting in the dust of the road. “Scathach said I was the best pupil she ever had.”

“Best, were you? Glad for you.”

“And then there was the time I beat Uathach with lance and buckler.”

“Course there was. Now shut your eineach. I need to think.” Fergus looked at the rise. It was already proving a long day. He could not recall meeting a spy incapable of keeping his tongue behind his teeth. Conall was one for banter when nervous, but Ailill’s lackey would not be still for a moment. The mission was only beginning, and Fergus already felt the stirring of a pain behind his eyes.

“I was best in year pupil.”

“Are you deaf, boy? Shut your hole.”

“Did I tell you of the time I bested Uathach in the shield wall?”

“Will you shut your trap? You’re giving me a headache.”

“Sorry, Captain. I suffer from the nerves, and that’s the truth.”

“Nerves? Really? You’ll suffer terminal sword rash if you don’t shut your hole. Hold that stick up, too. We’re liable to get an iron ball as a welcome if the stick isn’t clearly visible.”

“We can’t be near yet, and that’s the truth.”

“You’re an eejit, aren’t you, boy?”

Etarcomol shrugged. Fergus could see he had taken offense but did not know what to do about it. Eejit is right, he thought, before allowing it was being unfair. There was a time when he’d recently returned from Scathach’s whip tongue and Uathach’s iron grip on an anatomical part requiring a gentler approach. It was a long time ago, but not so long ago, he had forgotten.

“How’s Uathach?” he relented. “I’ve heard some tales about that one.”

“Hardest tóin I ever knew, and that’s the truth,” Etarcomol said with a twinkle in his young eye.

“Good. You’ve some sense, then. Now, keep your hole shut and let me think.” And he did need to think. It might prove lethal if he arrived as an envoy without first thinking.

Fergus did not know how Setanta would react. He could have told his foster son of his intentions if he had been alone. The presence of run at the mouth was as a spy, not support. How, then, could he let Setanta know his intentions without alerting Ailill? The king believed he had a new ally, and Fergus wanted to keep the belief alive. A whistle caused his mare to become skittish.

He reined in and looked up at the rise.

Setanta was standing there, once again bare-chested, hands on hips; his retainer Laeg was beside him. “That is far enough, so it is. What do you want, Father?” he called.

Fergus did not miss the stress on the word father. During the night raids, his use of the name was mocking and accompanied by a wink. The wink was threatening this time; all play was gone.

“King Ailill sent me to tell you he accepts your challenge of single combat,” Fergus said, calming his mare with a stroke to her neck.

“Is it not too late for that? Your host ignored the Ogham challenge. You should not have crossed the fords.”

Fergus shrugged and looked up at the rise. “I told them to accept. It was Medb who refused. Ailill has sent me to right that wrong, however late it might be.”

“Ailill? I thought it was the Witch Queen who ruled the Connacht warriors?”

“She did. Killing her son at the fords has done for the cailleach. She’s sitting in her bed staring at the walls of her tent, dribble running down her chin.”

“I thought she was a warrior?”

“A warrior? No. I don’t think she is. She’s single-minded. Likes everyone to think she’s a warrior, but it’s horseshit as these last days prove.”

Setanta hesitated for several seconds, hand on chin. He did not take his eyes off Fergus, who was thinking he would refuse when he said, “Tell the king to send one warrior each day. Whoever wins keeps the fords. We begin tomorrow.”

Fergus did not leave but called, “You must stop attacking the camp and the column.”

Setanta nodded. Fergus knew the attacks had served their purpose. The warriors of Medb’s army were ready to go home. A good many of them had already gone.

“We have agreement?” Setanta asked

“We’re agreed. Come, Etarcomol,” Fergus said, turning his horse.

Etarcomol did not follow him but sneered, “He is nothing to look at. Just a youth.”

“Who are you?” Setanta asked.

Fergus turned back, not allowing his companion to speak, “He’s a big mouth. He only now got his chariot. Forgive his ignorance, Setanta.”

Setanta nodded and turned to leave the crest when Etarcomol called, “You had better run. I am not the old men and courtly women you are used to killing.” The boy barely finished his challenge before Setanta threw Lorg Mór, which struck him in the chest, knocking him from his saddle. Setanta walked over. The youth was on his back, fighting for breath. Setanta pulled his dagger, knelt, and pressed it slowly into Etarcomol’s throat. He did not speak; he just looked into the boy’s eyes. Fergus did not move from where he was sitting, arms crossed. When the struggles ceased, Setanta wiped his dagger on the dead boy’s tunic.

“Does this break our truce?” he asked as he sheathed it.

“No, Setanta. He forced the issue and got what he deserved.”

“Good. First fords tomorrow, so,” he said, slinging Lorg Mór over his shoulder and heading for the rise.

As Fergus was riding away, he realized his chance of coming to a personal agreement with Setanta had vanished in the brutality of the moment. He shook his head and hoped the Three Sisters would not punish him for missing yet another of the opportunities they offered.