With whitening knuckles, Mac Roth gripped the hilt of his sword. He knew his thin, pressed lips showed his displeasure, but he could not help himself. He had heard of the brothers Cailidín. Who had not? One was uglier than the next. However, they looked like Fomorians.

They were awaiting Medb’s pleasure, lounging out the front of her tent for the army to see. Unbelievably. She should be more careful. Hire ruthless killers if needed, but do it in a hidden clearing. Do not parade them in the camp for all to see—an insult to the warriors by dumping their code in the midden.

“Is this wise, Lady?” he asked, shaking his head.

“Are you judging me, Mac Roth?” she said, looking at him in the way that always made him blanch. Someday soon, it would not be so. Her rise had reached its zenith, and his was soon to begin.

“Of course not. They have a reputation, these Cailidín.”

Even I would not hire them, he wanted to scream at her.

“A reputation. Yes, of course. You gave me the name of that hawker, Sluaghdhán. I spoke to him. He is a man of many faces, it would seem. He sent these brothers to me.”

“Might I ask why, Lady?”

“I asked him to find a Fianna who could do what your Nadcranntail could not.”

“Cú Chulainn was defeated at the fords.”

“Was he? And you think the boy will not be at the next fords and the fords after? He will not stop until he is headfirst in a peaty grave. This Fianna will achieve that.”

“The Cailidín cannot be described as fénnid. They are just killers.”

“Did you not say to me that seekers are killers and that we should hire them? How is hiring these brothers contrary to your information?”

“They are said to follow the dark arts.” I went to Sluaghdhán and spoke to him away from prying eyes. I did not invite him to lounge about outside my tent.

“As am I, Mac Roth. It is nothing but a meaningless reputation. Gossip. Nonsense from the mouths of bards in their cups and full of their lyrical prowess. There is no such thing as the dark arts. Do you think Babylon exists? Do you? Well, do you?”

“I do not profess to know anything about that.”

“But I do, Mac Roth. It is nonsense used to frighten unruly children into behaving.”

“There is the code, Lady.”

“The code. Do you think the boy is entitled to honorable treatment after what he did to Ferbaeth? He stabbed him in the back, Mac Roth. In the back.”

“But the Cailidín have a reputation,” he sighed, losing the will to argue further.

“Exactly. A reputation. They are reputed to be born killers. They have never failed in an assassination. Feared throughout all the lands of the tribes. The fragile whisper Cailidín in dark corners of dark hostels.”

“They are unscrupulous and are likely to turn on you.”

“Unscrupulous. Perhaps. Whatever the truth, they get things done. That is what I need. Warriors who get things done.”

I would not consider them warriors, Mac Roth thought but knew not to say. Warriors would not sneak into a roundhouse in the dead of night and cutthroats. Warriors would not kill anyone so long as enough cumals were on offer.

“Guards, they may enter,” Medb called.

The seven monsters made their way toward the queen’s seat, each grinning. From what Mac Roth could see, they did not have a tooth amongst them. They were at least five paces from the queen, yet Mac Roth, standing behind her seat, could smell their body odor. It was ripe, almost sweetly.

The smell of evil, he wondered.

“You understand what your task is?” the queen asked.

“Aye, gelding the young stallion,” the monster Mac Roth took to be the leader said. “Easy enough.”

“Do you know how to find him?”

“Word is brat’s laying spancel-withes at the crossings. I’d wager a crossing would be the place to begin.”

“There are many crossings,” Mac Roth said, not loosening his grip on the hilt of his sword. He could not condone the cailleach’s tactics, even if she considered Cú Chulainn beyond honor. Descending into the midden to keep him company was not the answer.

“If I were the brat, I’d lay the next challenge at the Dee. We lay a trap for him on the road to the river.”

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***

“You are sure?” Kathvar asked the man of shadows. His head was throbbing, and he was unsure what he had heard. His mouth felt like a patch of gorse, and his stomach was rebelling, so he thought he probably did not want to hear.

“Of course, I am sure. The army of Connacht has not found the herd. The bull is safe. Fiachna is as mad as a hornet nest recently prodded with a stick but unharmed. The Hound has led them on a fox hunt all over the Five Kingdoms and killed many of their best warriors while doing it.”

“Who would have thought it possible,” Kathvar mused. “I must inform the king. You return to the field and see what more you can discover of Medb’s army.”

“They are done. There is no spirit left in them.”

“Even after Fergus defeated Cú Chulainn at the fords?”

“Medb’s warriors were surprised when it happened, but as the morning wore on, they began to see something suspicious in what occurred, especially as no one could hear what they were discussing. Their spirits are once again low.”

“Even so, I think you should stay with the army and report anything worthy.”

“Your will,” the man bowed and left.

Kathvar found the king sitting on his throne, holding his head. The stink in the hall was enough to drive a normal man to vomit. Kathvar suspected the warriors were immune, as was he. Five days among the stench had that effect. No one wanted to aggravate their sore heads, so they muted their groans. Kathvar knew they would be more vociferous otherwise.

“Sire,” he said as he approached the king.

“What is it, Druid?”

“Connacht, Leinster, and Munster have united their armies and invaded Cooley,” he explained, suspecting the king would barely remember his name.

“They what?”

“They invaded Cooley. United armies. Estimates are more than five thousand warriors.”

“During The Pangs? She would not dare.”

“She did dare, Sire. If not for The Hound, she would now be on her way back to Crúachain with Fiachna’s herd and his prize bull,” Kathvar said. Your reputation would be in tatters, and your people would depose you, he did not say. The king did not need anyone to remind him how tentative a grip on a kingdom of Ériu could be.

“The Hound?”

“He has been defending the borders of Cooley.”

“One man against an army? How is that possible?”

“One man with the best training available.”

Well, a boy, anyway, Kathvar thought.

“I am away to my roundhouse,” the king said, gagging slightly.

“Sire, you must order a mustering. Time is pressing. She is still searching for Fiachna’s herd. For now, they are safe, but that safety cannot be guaranteed indefinitely.”

“Of course. Order the Red Branch to assemble. You do not need me for that simple task, surely?”

No, I do not. Nor do I need you for any other, Kathvar thought while bowing out of the king’s presence.

***

The horse skittered. Medb leaned forward in the saddle and patted its neck. She did not need the beast to panic. Not now. The Cailidín brothers were in front of her. They were mounted on the horses she provided. Nags. They did not need kingly horses from the east for what they were about: waiting for The Hound and his retainer to ride up the path just the other side of the rise.

She hoped her killers were right. They had told her where The Hound would be. Losing the fords to Fergus, he needed to lay another spancel-hoop challenge, and there were only so many places where it would work. They said that the fords across the Dee, less than a league from the rise, is where they would lay the challenge. Medb believed their instinct enough to ride almost naked to the site, covered in woad, a cloak hiding her modesty from the brothers.

Usually, she would not bother, but something about the Cailidín unnerved her. She hoped none would act on the looks they were giving her. Her warriors knew to keep their eyes averted lest they invite her wrath. These Fomorians had no such compunction. They had been ogling her since she mounted Badb, a thoroughbred. There had been no way to keep her modesty when throwing her leg over a mare sixteen hands high. The leering made her want to gag. Almost as much as the hurt look on Mac Roth’s face when she told him to stay with the army made her want to laugh.

Mac Roth could not attend her.

She did not trust him to keep quiet.

The guard’s questioning her every decision hinted at impertinence. If he thought her incapable of doing the right thing, it would only be a matter of time before he tried to force decisions upon her. Man decisions. Decisions she could do without. But that was not all. She needed this ambush to remain a secret, and Mac Roth had already proved untrustworthy.

The lead monster waved to get her attention. She had heard their names but could not tell one from the other, so she did not try. Concentrating on the rise, she could hear the clop of approaching horses. The time to spring the trap had arrived.

The Cailidín beckoned her forward. She threw off her cloak and rode up the rise before them. Medb needed to be first. She needed the boy to see her before he died. She had the reins in one hand and a spear in the other. When she topped the rise, she could see Cú Chulainn and his retainer riding up the road. They were joking, smiling, unaware she was about to leash seven demons on them: seven demons and a banshee.

She stabbed her spear into the air above her head and gave an ululating war cry. The Cailidín passed her and rode down the slope. As Medb went to goad Badb forward with the heels of her naked feet, something stopped her. She could not dig her heels in. Something had caused her to freeze. She watched the assassins ride towards the boy at a leisurely pace. They were in no hurry. Cú Chulainn would not run. He would not show his back to any warrior.

Medb was unable to emulate that bravery. She wanted to join them; she wanted to be close enough to see the light leave his eyes; she wanted to watch the killer of her son pay the price, but her heels would not respond to her command.

Medb screamed in frustration.

She heard the woosh and saw the lead assassin fly from his saddle, arrow shaft, and feathers protruding from his mouth. Memories of a fallen oak, a river crossing with the floating dead, and her son toppling from his saddle flooded her mind. She gagged. She puked. She turned Badb and fled at a gallop. The sight of the man falling, dead before he hit the turf, was too much.

***

Medb sat on her cot with her legs drawn up, her chin resting on her knees. The image of the monster falling from his mount with an arrow in his throat would not leave her. The arrow came from neither the boy nor his retainer, so others were there. She saw no others, but that meant nothing. She did not doubt that the ambush had failed. Had it been a success, the living monsters would have returned to claim their reward. They were the types who would not delay. No, somehow, Cú Chulainn had learned of her plans and had ambushed her ambush.

“I must find a way,” she said to the gap between her knees.

“My Lady?” Mac Roth asked from the open tent flaps.

“Find my husband. Tell him we need to hold a council. This has gone too far.”