Mac Roth dropped the stake with its gruesome adornment outside his tent and headed into the forest to respond to a call of nature. Danu’s tits, but he would not let them push him around for much longer—would not allow her to mistreat him without at least a show of defiance. Mac Roth walked for ten minutes before finding a likely spot. His mood did not improve while he relieved himself, taking his time, pondering as he squatted.

Eventually, he returned to the encampment and hefted his burden onto his shoulder. Blood was running down the shaft. Mac Roth frowned and lifted it higher, trying to keep the dripping from his boots. The one thing he hated more than any other was wet feet. Wet feet and them treating him like a bodalán. Oh, how he hated them treating him like he was the arse of something recently born in a hole beside a river. Those who did always paid. Eventually, they came to regret it. Queen or no queen, she too would feel his wrath.

He had expected more from the cailleach.

Who did she think she was? First her handmaid and now her cleaner. Mac Roth was a warrior and proud of it. That Medb thought it acceptable to treat him like a servant was not. No liege should treat a warrior like a servant. There were servants for that.

He was once more heading for the forest, where he intended to throw the head under the first likely bush. He would let the cailleach use him as a midden before he would bury what remained of the fénnid.

Cursing with his head down, a voice startled him, “Mac Roth, where away with such a gruesome burden?”

He looked up. Ferbaeth, leader of the Galeoin, was sitting at a fire. There were no other warriors around. “Where is everyone?” he asked with a frown.

“They have been called to Medb’s tent. Seems she has some big announcement to make.” Mac Roth looked at the troop leader. He was twiddling a blade of grass and staring between his feet. There was a tic under his right eye.

“Announcement about what?”

“I do not know as a certainty, but I can guess.”

“Spit it out, man.”

“The Galeoin have gone. Left for Leinster during the night.”

“Bodaláin. All of them?”

“All but me. I will not abandon a venture. It is not honorable,” Ferbaeth said, looking at the forest.

There is more than honor in this, Mac Roth thought. “I understand why you would feel honor-bound, Ferbaeth, but do you think she is worth it?”

“Honor is honor. They teach us from birth. It outstrips everything.” Not believing a word, Mac Roth nodded before looking over at the forest edge.

“I doubt the cailleach has even noticed the Galeoin are gone. She dispersed you among the other troops. A few warriors from each troop. It is nothing.”

“Caomh of the Brigantes has already made his way to her tent. The Galeoin and Brigantes are old and bitter enemies.”

“So what? I am not following you.”

“There was an agreement in the troop. We met in a glade in the forest. It seems he was there, unnoticed until after they reached a decision.”

What did he hear that has you so worried? Mac Roth rubbed his chin and smiled at Ferbaeth. “You were the only dissenter?” He nodded dejectedly.

Mac Roth stared into the forest, gauging how he might use the situation. He thought Medb would want someone to pay for the desertion. Who better than the captain of the troop who had absconded? But the Galeoin was worrying about something else. If Caomh had not heard what it was, they could put Ferbaeth to the test to discover his secret.

Mac Roth threw Nad’s head into the nearest midden, put his arm around the shoulder of his new ally, and said, “You must present yourself to her. Beg her forgiveness and offer your allegiance. I see no alternative.”

Walking up the slight incline, Mac Roth saw the army gathered in a semicircle outside the cailleach’s tent. He held Ferbaeth back when they reached the crowd. He could not believe how few the army seemed. It felt like most of Medb’s force had vanished.

He looked up the hill to the area outside her tent. The chieftains were there, together with the king, who lifted his flagon and took a swig.

“Where is Longas?” Medb called.

“I left him in charge of my troop. I speak for him,” Fergus said, shrugging.

“I gathered you all here because I heard rumors of desertions,” Medb said, a voice of studied reason, catching Mac Roth off guard. The last time he heard her speak, it was anything but studied or reasonable. “I have been told my warriors are slipping out of camp during the night.”

Mac Roth looked at the chieftains. They were looking at their feet except Fergus, who tilted his head and grinned.

“Where are the leaders of the Galeoin?” she called. “I do not see them.”

The warriors gazed around as if they expected the Galeoin to appear from the forest, laughing at their little joke. No one came.

“The Galeoin left during the night, Lady,” Fergus said, arms crossed. “As you already know, I suspect.”

“I already know, do I? How would I know?”

“Caomh is standing beside you. I saw him following some Galeoin into the forest. He saw them leave and told you, I’m sure. There is no love between Brigantes and Galeoin.”

“There is no love between us, it is true,” Caomh said, “and before you all, here, now, I want to say…” Mac Roth held his breath, waiting for Caomh’s words, but they never came because a whistle and a thud saw the Brigante knocked back into the queen’s tent, adorned with the dreaded third eye.

Mac Roth frowned and looked around. The assaults are meant to have stopped, he thought. The pact was specific.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Guards, into the forest. Now is your chance. The warrior who returns with that boy’s head will receive a cumal of silver,” Ailill called.

The warriors dispersed, giving each other direction. A cumal was a good deal of money. They all wanted to be first to the prize. The chieftains remained, arms crossed, heads down.

“One of you remove that from my tent,” Medb called, pointing at the remains of her informant. One of the Queen’s Guard dragged the body by its legs until there was enough room for others to help. They carried the hapless Caomh into the forest. When they were out of sight, she asked of Fergus, “How do you know the Galeoin have left?”

“Unlike some in this camp, Lady. I use my eyes. It’s not only the Galeoin. Warriors from all troops have been slipping out at night these two nights. You’re army—”

“Do you think I should allow it to happen?” she interrupted. Mac Roth looked at Ailill, frowning, head down. “Is it not normal to punish deserters? Are they not usually hanged from the nearest tree?”

“Did Caomh tell you they deserted?”

“It does not matter what Caomh told me, Fergus; it does not change what the Galeoin have done. They have deserted. I thought they were peerless in the art of conflict.”

“They are peerless. They’re not oathbound, so they have not deserted. Nor are they fools. They know when to abandon a lost cause. Especially if the cause is for one who already abandoned them.”

“Or did they abandon the campaign because their ploy failed? Does it not seem possible they ran because we dispersed them where they could not be a threat?”

“You must—”

“Enough, Fergus,” Ailill interrupted. “The Galeoin have gone. The army is short a troop of three hundred. There is nothing else to say on the matter.”

“Not all have gone. Ferbaeth felt honor-bound to stay. I brought him with me to pledge allegiance,” Mac Roth said, delighting in the surprise it caused. The warriors who had not run off into the forest split to give them passage to the queen.

“Do I want the allegiance of the captain of a troop of deserters?” the queen asked, daggers in her eyes. “He should be paying for the desertion, I think.”

“Ferbaeth is one of the best warriors in this army, Medb. You should not shun him. You need as many swords as you can get,” Ailill said.

“All the swords I can get. I have over five thousand swords and no one to face the boy.”

“You no longer have anywhere near five thousand, truth be told.”

“I have enough. Well, are any of you willing to face this boy?”

Mac Roth looked at the warriors gathered. Except for Fergus and Ferbaeth, they were fidgeting and looking at their boots.

“Come now, anyone?” Medb repeated.

Mac Roth cleared his throat and was about to speak when a strong voice interrupted him.

“I will fight, Lady, but I must do it honorably.” Mac Roth cursed as he looked at Ferbaeth and wondered which Tuatha had decided to act against him. There could not be any coincidence in a warrior of Ferbaeth’s repute offering himself just as Mac Roth was going to propose Fergus fight for the fords.

“Good, Ferbaeth. Mac Roth will act as your second in this,” Medb said.

***

Mac Roth looked over his shoulder for the third time. He was taking a risk. If anyone saw him, he would hang from the nearest tree within moments. The forest was quiet. He could see the road running down the rise to the fords. The encampment was over the rise. There was no sign of pursuit or chance observation. He sat on a log and removed his boots. He would be damned if he would ruin his best pigskin in this venture. He removed his sword belt, armor, and jerkin, wrapping them in his cloak before hiding them under a bush, marking the spot with his best pigskin and a pang of loss. Although expensive, the boots would stand out against the forest’s darkness, and he would be able to see them from the opposite bank on his return. With another backward glance, he slipped into the water and began to swim.

The water was icy despite the warm summer air.

Blowing to fight the cold, he thought about his choice. After the death of the Brigantes, Ferbaeth had returned to the Galeoin compound to prepare, telling Mac Roth he would send for him when he was ready. He had not dallied when deciding. The choice would have been easy for anyone, he knew. The cailleach had mistreated him more than one time beyond acceptable. Ailill was no better than Fergus, who was the worst of them. Those who mistreated him always paid. It was set in stone. Mac Roth was a warrior who reacted to maltreatment.

After climbing out, he looked across the river at the forest, needing to be sure. He did not want to be hanging from a tree with the grinning face of the witch as his last sight. The rise leading to the encampment of Medb’s armies was clear; the sentries were on the other side of the rise. He was sure no one would see him. All he needed to do was find the boy. Fraech had said it would be easy. Fraech had found him quickly. It cost him his life, as befitted one of such greed, but his words had fixed themselves in Mac Roth’s head. “Just ride up to the next fords, and he will be there.”

Shivering from the cold, Mac Roth pulled himself out of the water, half a league from where the fords would be contested later in the day. He swiped the wet hair from his face as he walked towards the forest. His triús were sticking to his legs, making walking uncomfortable.

Someone said, “You look a little wet, so you do,” causing him to look under the eaves. Cú Chulainn was squatting not ten paces from him, the fearsome hammer, Lorg Mór, resting over his knee.

“I am unarmed,” Mac Roth said, hands up, palms visible.

“Aye, I think I believe you. The question, though, is, what are you doing here? Unless you have come to contest the fords, using nothing but yon unarmed hands, you are trespassing, so you are.”

“Fergus sent me to warn you.”

“Did he now? That is strange, so it is. What do you think, Laeg?”

Mac Roth frowned as Cú Chulainn’s retainer stepped out from the woods, pointing a bow at him. “For me, it is just so much dung. Why would Fergus betray his oath to the cailleach?”

“Aye, my very thought. It is easy to resolve. We can subject him to a little questioning. Torture is good for the appetite, they say.”

Mac Roth looked over his shoulder. He thought about running but could see Laeg training his bow on him. If he made it to the river, he could dive under, and there would be a chance because an arrow would not penetrate the water. Eventually, he would have to come up for air and make an easy target. His chances of survival could have been better. Dropping his hands by his sides, he nodded and followed Cú Chulainn into the forest. Laeg was behind, bow strung and arrow nocked, Mac Roth knew without looking.

They walked for a long time before climbing a steep rise and entering a clearing. The embers of a fire were still glowing, a carcass on a spit dripping the occasional fat, making them hiss.

“Plant yourself there, with your back against the oak. Keep your hands in your lap where I can see them,” the boy said, grinning like he thought it was all a great game.

“We should kill him and have done, Setanta,” Laeg said. Mac Roth felt beads of sweat rolling down his face despite his wet triús and naked torso covered in cold bumps. He kept his mouth tight shut to stop his teeth chattering.

“Stoke the fire, Laeg. We will warm him up.”

“Warm him up and then kill him?”

“No. I want to know all about him first. What is your name?” the youth asked. Mac Roth looked off into the forest and said nothing. “He is brave, Laeg, see. Willing to face a rap on the knee with Lorg Mór rather than give away the queen’s secrets.”

“I am Mac Roth.”

“Mac Roth, Captain of the Queen’s Guard. We are honored, so we are. Why are you here, Mac Roth?”

“Why did you kill Caomh?”

“Who?”

"The Brigante, Caomh. He was about to tell the army something, and you killed him with a sling.”

“Not I, Mac Roth.”

“Come now. Who else slings iron balls from the forest?”

“Not I, I say. If you persist in calling me a liar, I will smack you on the forehead with Lorg Mór.”

“I do not believe you.”

“Why not?”

“If you were to hit me with that Tuatha-cursed hammer, I would not be able to answer your questions.”

“True,” Cú Chulainn said, followed by a deep blackness, which must surely be death.