“Mac Roth, go and see what all the clamoring is about.”
“Your will, Lady.”
Medb frowned at her oats and wished Mac Roth would hurry. To have her early morning disturbed by all the noise…
She wanted to be alone with thoughts of her son, Maine Mórgor. She wanted to cry and rend her hair. She wanted to punish her army for letting it happen. She wanted to punish Ailill for letting it happen. Why did he not stop Mórgor from going down to the fords? Why did he not die in Mórgor’s place?
Grief was not her only issue.
Her moon blood would soon be upon her. She knew by her shortness of patience. Usually, a patient woman, the few days prior, she became worse than a banshee. Ailill would often avoid her during those days. Now he was avoiding her during all her days, she realized, shaking her head ruefully. She would prefer not to have such a distraction at this time. She needed to concentrate, which was proving ever more difficult. Her mind kept wandering. Images of Maine Mórgor’s face, as he fell from his horse, would not recede.
Why? The question kept pressing the images forward.
Mac Roth returned, stuck his head through the flaps, and added to her irritation by saying, “I think you should come, Lady.”
“I should come. Must I?” Medb asked, looking at her spoon.
“I do not think you will believe it unless you hear it with your own ears.”
“My ears. I see,” Medb sighed, stood up, and dropped the wooden spoon into the gloop. “This had better be worth my time, Mac Roth. I was enjoying that.”
She watched the guard wince and frown at his boots as though she had reprimanded him. Shaking her head, Medb wondered again why she kept him.
As she ducked under the tent flaps, she stopped and stared at the apparition before her. The man was so squat, fat, and hairy that the queen wondered momentarily if the Dagda had appeared in camp. Only he could not be the Dagda because instead of a cauldron over his shoulder and an immense hammer, the man had a battle-ax as tall as Medb, shaft stuck into the ground before him, on which he was leaning. Judging by his bristling chin hair, he was smiling or sneering.
“And who are you?” Medb asked.
“They call me Nadcranntail. Strongest man and greatest warrior in the Five Kingdoms. Of the Fianna. Your man here,” nodding at Mac Roth, “said you need a seeker, Your Ladyship.”
“Strongest and greatest? Why is it I have never heard of you?”
“Can’t say, Your Ladyship,” the man boomed. “Thought everyone heard of Nadcranntail. Never met anyone who hadn’t, in a manner of speaking, Your Ladyship.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“Use Sáfach here,” hefting the ax, “to split heads. Nadcranntail’s good at splitting heads. Everyone knows Nadcranntail splits heads.”
“Tell the queen what you told me, Nad,” Mac Roth grinned, unable to keep his enthusiasm in check.
The man nodded, and his beard bristled even more. “Puppy ran. Couldn’t stand sight of Nadcranntail. Must have known Nadcranntail, Your Ladyship, in a manner of speaking.”
“Who, man? Can you not speak plainly?”
“The Hound, Lady. The Hound ran from him,” Mac Roth did not allow the seeker to answer, smiling.
“Is this true?”
“Nadcranntail always speaks true, Your Ladyship.”
“So, tell me this. If the boy already ran from you, what will he do if you approach the fords as my champion?”
“He’ll run from Nadcranntail, Your Ladyship. All runs from Nadcranntail.”
“And if he runs, the fords will be ours.”
“The fords will be yours, Your Ladyship, sure as bells tinkle.”
“And the next and then the next.”
“All fords, Your Ladyship.”
“Mac Roth?”
“Lady?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it is worth a trial. I would not face Nad in a one-to-one battle.”
“No? You surprise me. And what would Nadcranntail expect in payment?”
“Nadcranntail needs a woman. Last one died of the pox. Nadcranntail needs sons. No one to have his Sáfach after Nadcranntail’s gone to Donn.”
“I will see to it you are provided the prettiest woman of Cooley from the slaves we take,” Medb smiled. It was a cheap solution to her problem if, indeed, it was a solution.
“No, Ladyship, Nadcranntail will have Finnabair as his woman.”
“My daughter,” Medb hissed.
“Just so. Finnabair, daughter of Ailill and Medb. Good breeding from an unused royal princess, Your Ladyship.”
***
Looking at the behemoth as he swung down from his horse and trundled toward the fords, massive battle-ax over his shoulder, Ailill felt misgivings stirring. He had never seen the boy but had heard many descriptions. They varied in most aspects except for the boy’s physique. They all agreed that Cú Chulainn was lithe and extremely fit. Ailill would never profess to be an expert in things martial. However, he considered some things to be a matter of common sense. Speed and agility, for instance, would always be preferable to size and massive strength. It was easy to see which the behemoth had. Looking at the ax Nadcranntail had resting on his shoulder, Ailill doubted he could even lift it. If Cú Chulainn stood still long enough to be hit with it, this man would split the boy in two, there was no doubt. The problem would be hitting him. Ailill could not see any vengeance on this day. He looked over his shoulder at the army.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Those nearest the fords were in a semicircle, mounted so they could see. The others were sitting on the rise. There was an air of quiet expectation hanging over the warriors. It was like the fizzle of close lightning before the strike. They expected Nadcranntail to finish the task quickly or for the boy to run, as he had already. If the fénnid was speaking truthfully, as he said, he always did. Everyone believed him. Mac Roth believed. Not that Ailill trusted Mac Roth.
The hill was alive with the hum of subdued voices, an improvement over recent days’ tense, quiet, and downcast eyes. When the humming stopped, Ailill looked over the fords and saw a white stallion crest the rise on the opposite bank. His first sight of the boy left Ailill in no doubt about why the people were so willing to accept Mac Nessa’s nonsense.
Cú Chulainn looked like Lugh incarnate.
The boy leaped off his horse and went to the river, carrying nothing except a boar spear. The infamous hammer, Lorg Mór, was resting on his stallion’s rump next to the shield, Lámthapad. His torso was bare. He looked like he was going to bathe, not fight for his life against a man whose reputation was as fearsome as his mighty ax.
Ailill felt a surge of hope.
The boy’s overconfidence might well be his downfall. He could hear the noise of the army pick up. They were feeling the same surge. There was not a warrior in the Five Kingdoms able to stand against the brute strength of Nadcranntail. Everyone sitting on their horses or the slopes of the rise did not doubt that The Hound of Ulster had seen his last sunrise.
Ailill looked over his shoulder again and smiled. He had not felt as positive since the venture began. He punched the air with a fist; the warriors started to cheer—a few scattered voices, building into a crescendo. Medb was sitting beside him. She was not smiling. Her eyes had the same stare as when she awoke from her swoon after the death of Cet.
The army was also staring.
The buzz of excited voices had stopped. Their stare was one of expectation. Nadcranntail might be Fianna, but they had adopted him. There was no one doubting his prowess. They knew he would split the boy in two. There was no way Cú Chulainn could prevail against one of the fiercest fénnid in the kingdoms. None of the warriors seated on the rise, save for Fergus perhaps, would prevail against the fénnid.
Death was instant.
The two entered the fords from opposing banks and came together in the middle of the river. Nadcranntail lifted his ax high up in an arc, which just kept getting higher until reaching its apex, where it began to fall, only the wrong way. Rather than fall forwards to split the boy from head to crotch, it carried on backward, and the behemoth toppled over with it into the water without even a splash; just a slight parting of the waves, and he was gone from view.
Ailill watched as Cú Chulainn cleaned his boar spear in the water. He stood and called something, blown away by the wind. Laeg hurried over the rise and fished about in the river before rising with Nadcranntail’s axe. He began taking swipes at the little waves. To the onlookers, it seemed the retainer was trying to cleave the water.
“What is he doing?” Medb asked, nodding down to the fords.
“He’s taking the monster’s head with his own ax,” Fergus said with a chuckle. “Reckon he’ll band the skull with iron and use it as a cooking pot, Your Ladyship.”
***
He could not keep the smile from his face. Conall had warned him not to bait the queen because she would be lethal if crossed. Fergus understood. He could not stop smiling. Seeing the look she leveled at him when he said Setanta would use Nadcranntail’s skull as a cooking pot, he understood the truth of it. Conall, as always, had been right.
He threw a log on the fire and laughed aloud.
“Captain?” the sentry asked, with a look like his queen’s. Fergus watched the warrior’s hand drifting towards the hilt of his sword. He shook his head and frowned. There would be no quicker way for him to lose his good mood than having to kill someone because of a misplaced sense of loyalty.
“Stand easy,” he said, holding up his palms. “I don’t mean offense, warrior. Just can’t stop thinking about the king’s face when Nadcranntail took a bath.”
“Which is offensive.”
“Don’t be a fool, man.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t die because I’m a stallion’s phallus.” Fergus could see his words had not penetrated. The warrior’s hand continued to drift towards his sword. Fergus sighed and stood.
“So be it,” he said, drawing his sword, relaxing his knees, and dropping into the stance. He did not want to kill this man, but he would defend himself if necessary. “Come and die for an unworthy crown,” he said.
“The king might be ill, but he is not unworthy.”
“I wasn’t talking about the king. Come. Let’s get this done, so I can turn in.”
The warrior never came, instead sprouting a spear shaft from his chest. Opening his mouth to utter words of surprise, he spouted a fountain of blood and fell. Fergus watched the man’s legs twitching and his hands scrabbling to try and remove the spear. It took several moments for him to die. Eventually, he stilled.
Fergus looked towards the forest. The now familiar sight of Setanta walking from under the eaves, bare-chested and smiling, greeted his look. The boy was carrying a sack dripping blood, his war hammer slung over his shoulder.
“Father,” he said as he approached. “Entering this camp is becoming easier.”
“Do I need my sword?” Fergus asked. Setanta shrugged.
“It is entirely up to you, so it is. I have no intention of fighting you, but if you have a wish to go meet Donn, then keep it naked.”
Fergus shook his head and sheathed it. “The warriors have lost their spirit. Defeated army if ever there was one,” he said.
“Aye, I can see, so I can.”
“Why are you here?”
“Have a delivery for the witch,” Setanta hefted the sack. “Nice surprise for the morning, so it is.”
“It’s a risk, coming into camp, Setanta. Mostly, they’re done, but some still feel they’ll win. Why don’t you return to Emain Macha and let the Red Branch take over?”
“That, Fergus, I cannot do. I have given my oath to Mac Nessa and will not balk at my duty.”
Fergus nodded. He knew what it was to be oathbound but could not let it lie. “You’ve already fulfilled your oath,” he tried. Setanta shrugged and smiled. It was obvious the boy was enjoying the challenge. “Eventually, she’ll send me to face you.”
“But Conall first, I’d wager.” Fergus did not take offense at Setanta’s words. He knew Conall to be the better warrior. It was known throughout Ériu. Reacting would not change it.
“Conall has gone. The witch drove him away.”
“Really. Do you know where?”
“I’d guess Alba, but I’m not sure. Don"t do this, Setanta. I couldn’t bear facing you over a river.”
“So, why do you stay? You owe her nothing.”
“Like you, I’m bound by my oath. If it comes to battle, I’ll have to fight.”
“Aye, well, let us worry about that when the moment comes. For now, I have my delivery to make,” Setanta hefted the sack. He smiled and walked away without a backward glance.
Fergus watched him walking through the camp. No one paid him any attention. It was as though the sentries were blind. Fergus shook his head and sat down beside his fire. He needed to think. As sure as the witch had teats, she would send him to face Setanta at a ford. It was just a question of how soon she would think of it. Sighing, he threw another log on the fire and watched the sparks float away, like souls of the recent dead. Suddenly tired and craving a bed, he went to relieve himself in the forest before turning in. As he neared the warrior’s enclosure on his return, he saw two Galeoin furtively heading for the trees. The warrior Caomh of the Brigantes was following them at a safe distance. Curiosity replaced his tiredness, and Fergus also followed.