“I cannot fight him, Lady. The code is explicit. He yielded to me, and I am honor-bound to stand by his request for clemency,” Fergus said again, slapping the table for emphasis.

She had the chieftains crowded together in her tent. The stench of sweat, horses, wood-smoke, and frustration permeated her living space. Ailill wondered whether the commanders of Rome suffered from the same menagerie when they called a command meeting.

He doubted it.

Mac Roth was staring at the tapestry on the wall, pouting like a spoiled princess. Fergus’s face looked like an over-boiled beat. He was slapping the table with the flat of his hand to emphasize everything he said. The queen looked ready to order the Ulsterman’s death. It could happen in an instant. She was not known as a forgiving type. Truth be told, Ailill was surprised Fergus still had his head. Galchobhar and Bréannin stood with mouths agape, obviously unsure why they were in her tent and probably why they were on campaign.

“Why did you let him live?” she hissed.

“He yielded. I didn’t need to kill him.”

Ailill noted the pleading in Fergus’s eyes. He wanted the queen to understand it would be geis to kill his foster son. The hope was futile, and he wondered how often the warrior would need the lesson before he realized the woman had no interest in the code or the honor it engendered.

Winning was everything.

“But now he will challenge for the next crossing and need to be defeated again,” Mac Roth said. Fergus shrugged.

“No one here heard him beg for clemency,” Medb hissed.

“Not so, I heard,” Longas said, which made Ailill frown. Longas could not have heard. Either too tired or tied up with Fergus, the queen ignored the lie.

“How do we proceed?” she asked.

Ailill looked at the lieutenants. They held their peace. None of them would look at the queen. He realized she was losing more respect each time she opened her mouth and held back his smile with some difficulty. She did not understand the warrior’s way, which was strange for someone known as the Warrior Queen.

She is also known as the Witch Queen, Ailill remembered. She knew, of course. She used it to her advantage whenever the chance arose, telling anyone who would listen that she trained in Babylon, the capital of evil.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“None of this is achieving anything,” Ailill said, crossing his arms and frowning. “To proceed, we need to remove the obstacle preventing us from doing so.”

“Is there anyone we can trust to do this for us?” Medb asked, sighing, looking at the dust under her feet.

Ailill turned to the chieftains. They had crossed their arms, mimicking Fergus—all except Longas, who was grinning like a cat in a storehouse full of mice with no exit. “There is one,” he finally said.

Ailill held his breath, as did the others.

“Well?” Medb asked.

“He trained with this boy. They say he is the best of the warriors to leave The Shadowy Isle in an age. Even better than The Hound.”

“Who, man, spit it out,” Mac Roth hissed.

Longas looked around at the expectant faces. “And he is a Connachtman,” he said, eyes aglow.

“Fergus, who is he talking about?” Medb asked, obviously sick of the games.

“I am talking about Ferdia,” Longas snorted, not allowing Fergus a chance to speak.

“Why has no one mentioned this Ferdia before?”

“Because Ferdia will not do it. They are blood brothers. They stood in the shield wall together,” Fergus blurted, a red tinge of frustration or anger crept up his face.

“So, once again, you are telling me only one would stand any chance against this boy,” Medb said. “You have been saying the same to me since this Hound began attacking us. Always one, and always a new one.”

“Ferdia is the only warrior with the skill,” Longas repeated.

“But he will not do it,” Fergus said. “It would be like asking Mane Honey-Tongued to kill Mane Mórgor.”

Ailill winced at the reference, expecting Medb to finally snap and order the warrior removed. However, rather than react, she tilted her head—making him wonder if she only heard what she wanted to hear.

“I will convince him to do it,” Medb smiled at the men for the first time since calling the meeting. “You are dismissed.”

Ailill followed Longas and Fergus from the tent. He watched the Ulstermen fidgeting and frowned at their backs. He was now unsure if Connacht could trust either man. He had thought the oath of Fergus would be enough to keep him yoke-bound, but now he was not sure. A battle was coming, which would test allegiances. Testing them in the heat of battle would be too late if they did not stand with Connacht.

The battle will be a farce a lake of Connacht blood will pay for.

“How do you think she will convince Ferdia to do it?” Fergus asked. Ailill could hear the sneer in his tone.

“The same way she convinces men to do anything,” Longas sneered.

Ailill wanted to take the sword from his belt and stab them in the back, but he could not. Not because it would not be the honorable thing, but because they were not wrong. She tended to use her curly, red-covered mound to get what she wanted. As far as he was aware, she always had.