Mac Roth watched the army array themselves in a half circle at the top of the rise. They could see the fords below, almost half a league distant. Standing in the water with his arms crossed, the Hound was subduing the warriors with a stare they could not see. Medb, painted in habitual woad, was ahorse, Ailill beside her, Fergus a little behind. She was nervous, twitching her leg against the mare’s flank. At any other time, Mac Roth might have felt sympathy. Today, he did not. She had brought the situation upon herself. He could not prevent the grin from pulling at the corner of his mouth. It would soon be time to let go of her skirts and watch her plummet.

“Why did he do it?”

“Why’d who do what?” Fergus asked.

Mac Roth kept his peace and just smiled across the fords. He could see the scree slope off to the left of the road, part hidden by the forest. He had covered the body with loose stones before swimming back and going to his tent to change out of his wet triús. There was no chance anyone would discover his secret, and he felt positive about the venture for probably the first time.

“What do you mean, who do what? The Hound stab his friend in the back. Why did he kill his friend with a spear?”

“I don’t expect you to understand, Lady.” The queen’s long silence became awkward before Fergus succumbed. “It was an action caused by frustration. You heard Mac Roth. Cú Chulainn called for him to return, and Ferbaeth ignored him.”

“Ignored him. And this code of which you constantly chatter—stabbing his friend in the back was not following it, surely?”

“In my opinion, Lady, it was a rage killing. He lost control,” Mac Roth said with a smile. “From what I understand, it was not the first time.”

“No, it was not,” Medb agreed. “He rampaged through the Fort of Kings at the Samhain festival, slaying defenseless women. I do not believe it was a cold-blooded execution. I think he killed in anger. Kathvar can go and bathe his head in a handy midden.”

“Kathvar, Lady?” Fergus asked, confusion written in his square-jawed features.

“The druid says it was a cold-blooded execution.”

“It does not give us a solution to our problem,” Ailill said, arms crossed. Mac Roth did not like the king of Connacht. His eyes seemed to see things Mac Roth would rather he did not see. Whenever the king turned his eyes on him, Mac Roth felt a tingle in the back of his neck. For a drunk, he had a penetrating stare.

“Which problem, Sire?” he asked.

“We still do not have a warrior to go down to the fords there and rid us of this pesky boy,” Ailill said, nodding down the slope to where Cú Chulainn was standing.

“I am not so sure.”

“You think you have a solution, Mac Roth. I can tell by that gloating look on your face,” the queen said.

“Yes, Lady. I have been giving it some thought and think I do have a solution of sorts.”

“He has a solution of sorts. Well, do not keep us in suspense.”

“After Conall Cernach, who is the best warrior in the Five Kingdoms?”

“This boy, Cú Chulainn, I would think.”

“Other than the boy, who is best?”

“I am not in the mood for games,” Medb said. “Enough of your nonsense, tell me, who is this warrior?”

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Recognizing the threat in her tone, Mac Roth said, “Fergus is best.”

He turned to look at the Ulsterman, expecting an expression of shock. However, it was not there. Arms nonchalantly crossed, Fergus was smiling.

“Do you think I should face The Hound, Sire, Lady?”

“I do,” said Ailill. “Now that Mac Roth has mentioned it, it makes sense. It was foolish of us not to think of it before, truth be told.”

“Yes,” the queen agreed, so quietly they could only just hear her.

“Good. I will go,” Fergus said. Mac Roth felt a thrill at the words. What better way to rid himself of a rival? He did not doubt Fergus would not return. The Ulsterman had a reputation as a fearsome warrior, but what did that mean? Nadcranntail had a reputation as the fiercest warrior in the Five Kingdoms, and the whole army witnessed that it was horseshit.

Jubilation changed to a frown as Mac Roth watched the bodalán swing down from his horse and head for the crossing. Fergus unsheathed his sword, walking with it slung over his shoulder. He seemed happy. It was a strange mood for someone facing death. The Ulsterman was up to something. He had to be. Even if confident of success, he must feel some nerves. When he reached the river, Fergus stuck his blade into the bank and put his hands on his hips. Mac Roth shielded his eyes from the sun to get a better look.

“What are they doing?” Medb asked. Mac Roth looked at her, wondering if she realized how ridiculous she appeared covered in blue woad, exposed to the mocking many arrayed behind her, feasting their eyes on her flabby arse cheeks—or more accurately, looking every but at them.

“They appear to be having a chat,” Ailill said.

“A chat? About what? What is there to talk about? Fergus should be killing the boy, not discussing the weather.”

“They are close, Medb. You must expect some talk. Last regrets, that sort of thing,” Ailill said. Mac Roth snorted, unable to keep it within. Medb looked at him without expression, which caused the hairs on his forearms to rebel.

“Last regrets. You think they are discussing last regrets? You are right; they are close. However, it is not a coincidence that the boy has beaten us at every crossing. He had help. They are scheming.”

“Did we not banish his help, Medb?” Ailill asked.

“No. You banished a third of his help.”

Mac Roth looked at the queen and wondered whether to point out she had insisted Fergus stay with the army and no doubt between her thighs whenever the opportunity arose.

“A third? Who is the third piece?”

“Longas,” Medb said, frowning. “Where is he?”

“He is in the rear with the Ulster troop, Lady,” Mac Roth said, unsure what the queen meant.

He did not believe Longas was a spy. The son of Mac Nessa was a man who held more stock in banter and humping than in the intrigues of the courts of Ériu. The man also did not have the wit of a spy—nor the subterfuge. His emotions shone out of his face like a recently lit brazier.

“What could they be scheming about in front of the army?” Ailill asked. “You are being paranoid. One of them is going to die, and they are saying goodbye.”

“Mac Roth, go down there and find out what they are discussing.”

Mac Roth nodded but did not have time to spur his mount down the slope.

“No need. Look,” Ailill said, pointing down the hill, where the men had started to slash at each other with their weapons.

Mac Roth frowned. It appeared to be a genuine duel. Not at all what he had been expecting.

One sword. One hammer. A frenzied attack and desperate defense. First, one way and then the other. Backwards. Forwards. Fergus down on one knee while the army held one massive breath. Mac Roth looking over his shoulder, feeling the tenseness in the warriors. Fergus back up. A cheer. Down again, vanishing in the wash. Another bated breath. Then up. One massive strike. The Hound must surely be dead. No one could survive such a stroke. Fergus crouching, hands against his knees, staring into the wash. No sign of his adversary. Where is he? There he is, on the other side of the river. He is leaving the fords.

“The crossing is ours!” someone called, which someone else repeated.

A wave of sound rolled across the warriors. The army began to cheer—slowly, building to a crescendo he never thought to hear. Mac Roth cheered with them. He could not believe what had happened. It looked like a hard battle, but who could tell? He watched the boy walking away. Cú Chulainn did not seem to be in a hurry—did not appear to be a defeated enemy.

“I told you, Medb,” Ailill said between snatched breaths. “Fergus was too strong for the boy. Killing the fénnid was luck. The outcome was inevitable. Now we can march for the bull. We will finally beat Mac Nessa. Ulster is finished.”

The queen said nothing, just turned her mount, and rode back to the encampment.