Liam turned, instantly wary; his jaw tensed, yet he spoke with some restraint. ‘As we all know, the pride and vanity of some of the smaller kings is easily bruised. We must beware lest we give anyone cause for grievance—unintended as it might be.’
The warriors stopped what they were doing and some moved in closer, gathering around their king—all of them silent and alert.
‘That is most considerate of you, brother,’ allowed Conor graciously. ‘Yet, it seems to me that if the sight of three extra warriors excites such a grievance, then these imagined kings of yours must hold themselves very small apples indeed.’
Liam’s moustache twitched, fairly bristling at Conor’s subtle jibe. ‘You have no say in this,’ he replied. ‘You would be wise to keep that babbling mouth of yours shut.’
Despite the king’s frown, Conor charged ahead. ‘It is no secret that you resent the wearisome necessity of us horse handlers.’ He put out his hand to Fergal and Donal, who were standing nearby. ‘Therefore, we will save your maiden blushes in the presence of these small kings you admire so highly.’ Turning to address his father, Conor bowed low and said, ‘My lord, we will depart at first light tomorrow and burden your company no longer with our unwanted presence.’
Conor’s friends moved in close behind him. Donal gulped and Fergal seized his arm. ‘What are you doing?’ growled Fergal under his breath.
Ignoring him, Conor said, ‘May it go well with you at the Oenach, my king.’ He touched the back of his hand to his forehead and, without a backward glance, walked away.
The king sought to call him back. ‘Conor—’
‘Let them go, my lord,’ Liam interposed quickly. ‘They have no place here and will only make trouble if they stay.’
King Ardan watched the three younger members of his warband stalk off into the gathering twilight. ‘Let it be as you say.’
As soon as they were far enough away from the others, Fergal wasted no time letting Conor know how he felt about what had just happened. ‘Tell me now, Conor—have you lost the little good sense you had?’
‘We were this close to joining the Oenach,’ said Donal, squeezing his thumb and finger together in a pinch. ‘This close! And I hear they have women at these gatherings—dancing girls and ale maidens and—’
‘They do not,’ said Fergal.
‘They do!’ insisted Donal. ‘Anyway, I meant to find out for myself, so I did.’
‘Fret not, brothers,’ Conor replied mildly. ‘They’ll be begging us to return before the sun has quartered tomorrow’s sky.’
The two friends stared at him. Fergal pushed out his lower lip. ‘Is it certainty or stupidity I see on his face there, Donal?’
Donal, stroking his moustache, replied, ‘I cannot say. Nor can I see proud Liam begging for anything.’
‘Hear now,’ said Conor, laying a hand on Donal’s shoulder, ‘when Liam learns they must feed and water the animals without the use of the buckets, he will come running after us quickly enough.’
‘And why will they attempt the care of the horses without these very useful items?’ demanded Fergal.
‘Because they are my buckets, are they not?’ Conor allowed himself a sly smile. ‘Think you I would abandon such valuable articles? Never, I say. We will take them with us when we leave. Let the ardféne find their own buckets.’
‘Ha!’ Fergal barked a laugh. ‘Out here? Not likely.’
‘They’ll be watering thirsty horses with cupped hands!’ hooted Donal. ‘That I would like to see.’
‘Ach, nay,’ countered Fergal. ‘They’ll just bundle feed in a cloak, and take them down to the stream for water—will they not?’
‘Aye, and who will lead the noble beasts down to the watering place and stand waiting half the day while they drink? Will it be Liam, or Eamon do you think? Or, maybe Lord Ardan himself,’ replied Donal, his tone dripping derision. ‘Difficult to do while attending the gathering. Easier to just invite us to return.’
‘We will attend the gathering, my friends,’ Conor assured them.
Night was still stretched full upon the land when Conor and his two friends strapped on their swords, gathered their gear, and, filling their sparáns with hardtack and bósaill, crept away—pausing at the picket line to retrieve the six leather horse buckets. By the time the sun had risen high enough to peer over the surrounding hills, the three were far from their king’s encampment. Every now and then, they paused to cast a hopeful glance at the trail behind them; and each time they were disappointed: no horn blower summoned them back; no messenger came running with an invitation to return.
‘I begin to suspect they found their own horse buckets,’ moaned Fergal gloomily. The three had emerged from a stretch of woodland and paused at the edge of a green expanse of meadow. Regarding the two leather vessels in his hand, Fergal shrugged, and then tossed them into the long grass a few paces away. ‘So much for gaining the respect of the tribes with our gift horses.’
Donal threw his buckets away, too, saying, ‘We made a worthy attempt—no blame to you, Conor. But it was not to be.’ To Fergal, he said, ‘Come, brother, at least there is ale waiting for us at home.’
The two strode off together, letting Conor feel their dissatisfaction. Conor watched them walk a few paces, then called, ‘If I am wrong, then I will give you my mead portion until the next full moon.’
Fergal cast a glance over his shoulder. ‘And if by some wild and vagrant chance you should be proved right?’
Conor lifted his palm. ‘Then you will give me your mead portion.’
Fergal and Donal exchanged a dubious glance.
‘Both of us?’ enquired Donal.
Conor nodded. ‘As is only right and fair.’ He swung the buckets in his hand and asked, ‘But why this hesitation? Can it be your reckless words lack conviction?’
‘Done!’ said Fergal. ‘Our portions against yours. And the mead will taste all the sweeter coming from your cup, brother.’ He punched Donal lightly on the arm; they retrieved the buckets they had tossed away, and the three moved on again.
They walked on in silence, crossing the wide grassy meadow divided in the centre by a shallow rill, at the bottom of which ran a willow-lined stream; there they paused to drink and rest a moment. They stretched out on the bank and allowed the morning sun to warm them. They were just rising to leave when they heard the hoofbeats of a rider approaching. Instinctively, the three reached for their weapons and stood ready to meet whoever appeared over the rise of the bank above.
The rider was Eamon. Bearing only a naked sword tucked into his belt, he sat astride one of the gift horses and was clearly relieved to see them. Raising a hand in greeting, he said, simply, ‘You are to come back.’
‘Welcome, brother,’ said Conor. ‘Climb down from there and water your mount. An animal of that size must have a prodigious thirst.’
‘You would know,’ muttered Eamon. Nevertheless, he eased himself down from the bare back of the horse and led it to the stream where it lowered its head to the water. ‘Liam is anxious for your return.’
‘Ach, well, as to that,’ replied Fergal, ‘we are not for coming back.’
‘Much as we savour the smell of fresh dung, we have better things to do,’ offered Donal.
Eamon rolled his eyes. ‘Better things to do than sit on your haunches by a lonely brook and watch the clouds drift over your empty heads?’ He looked from him to Conor. ‘What say you?’
‘I think you have your answer. It was made abundantly clear to us that our services were no longer of any value.’
‘You have made your point,’ the elder warrior told them. He stretched his back and rolled his head on his neck to ease the tension there. ‘Come back.’
‘What—walk all that long way back only to be sent away again when we come in sight of Tara?’ said Fergal. ‘A poor bargain that.’
Eamon looked to Conor. ‘Your father needs you.’
‘He needs us until he reaches the gathering,’ countered Conor. ‘Ferg
al is right—why return today only to be sent away again tomorrow? Thank you for your gracious offer, but I think we will go home where we belong.’
‘Liam claims the horses for his own, so be it,’ said Donal. ‘Let him spend all his time feeding and watering the animals and good luck to him, I say.’
‘Well now, here you have hit on the nut of the matter there,’ Eamon said, the shadow of a smile playing about his lips. ‘You see, this morning when our battlechief ordered the care of the animals, we could find no suitable utensil to assist in this necessary chore.’
‘A very shame that,’ replied Donal. ‘Even so, I cannot think what you wish us to do about it.’
‘Come back, brothers,’ said Eamon in a softer tone. ‘All will be well. You wish to attend the council. I understand that. If you return with me now, I will see what I can do.’
‘You’ll talk to the king?’ said Fergal.
‘Convince him?’ added Donal.
‘I’ll talk to the king and do what I can to convince him to allow you to attend the council—where, I am sure, your services will be properly rewarded.’
Both Fergal and Donal looked to Conor to answer. ‘With such assurances as that, how can we refuse?’ He grinned at his two companions. ‘Brothers, it seems the value of our labours has been recognised at last.’ To Eamon, he said, ‘Hasten back to our esteemed battlechief and tell him that it will be our highest pleasure to return to our duties.’
The elder warrior inclined his head in assent. Then, gathering the reins, he clambered up onto his mount’s broad back once more. ‘Will you be very long, do you think?’
‘Look for us no later than midday, I should think,’ replied Conor.
Eamon nodded. ‘I will let them know.’ Raising a hand in farewell, he turned his mount and started off.
‘What did I tell you?’ said Conor as Eamon rode up the side of the bank and away. ‘We will yet see our service properly rewarded.’
‘You are not going to drink all our mead by yourself now,’ asked Donal. ‘Are you?’
‘To be sure,’ replied Conor cheerfully. ‘We all know there is nothing sweeter than the mead in another’s cup.’ He took up his spear and his bundle of gear and started climbing the bank of the dell. ‘You should have trusted me.’
‘We trust you, Conor,’ Fergal called after him. ‘It is Liam we doubt.’
Conor crested the bank and disappeared over the top. ‘Come on,’ sighed Fergal. ‘The churn is upturned. Crying about it will not make butter.’
Donal gave a dismissive sniff, took up his gear and buckets, and started up the bank. ‘Let him drink your cup first.’
Both warriors reached the top of the bank at the same time, almost colliding with Conor who had stopped, rigid, his attention fixed on something in the near distance. Fergal looked where Conor was staring and saw Eamon on horseback surrounded by five strange riders—all of them wearing horsetail helmets and brandishing long iron spears.
‘Scálda scouts,’ said Conor as if intoning a curse.
‘And they have Eamon at their mercy,’ breathed Donal.
‘He is a dead man,’ muttered Fergal.
‘Not yet.’ Conor pointed out positions to the left and right, and said, ‘You two take either side and attack as soon as you come in killing range.’
‘Fly!’ He started away at a loping run. ‘And Mórrígan fly with you!’
4
Conor was first to reach the circle of enemy riders, and feared he was already too late. Eamon wielded his sword this way and that in a valiant effort to fend off the long iron spears. But it was five against one and the Scálda seemed intent on making rough sport of butchering a Dé Danann warrior caught out on his own. They jabbed at him carelessly, gashing his flesh, and laughing as the blood flowed.
How long this game would continue before the Scálda tired of it, Conor could not say. As he raced nearer, he prayed to every god he knew that he would get at least one sound blow before the stalwart Eamon fell.
In fact, the distraction of the Scálda’s taunting game was all the opportunity the three friends needed. Out of the corner of his eye, Conor saw a dark flash arcing through the air and an instant later one of the enemy scouts pitched forward in the saddle, the shaft of Fergal’s spear deep in his shoulder.
Donal’s cast came but a heartbeat later. A second enemy scout, sensing danger, made a half turn in the saddle to look behind him and that slight movement saved his life. The Dé Danann spear sliced the air, narrowly missing its mark, but catching the enemy rider’s mount in the neck just below the ear.
The startled horse shied, then reared, throwing the Scálda warrior to the ground. Three remained. Grim faces squirming with surprise and rage, the Scálda swung around to engage this unexpected threat and the momentary diversion was all Eamon needed. With a cry, he lashed his mount forward, bolting for the gap left by the fallen rider. He blew by the encircling Scálda, slashing at the nearest rider as he passed. The raider took the blow on his shield and made a desperate counterstrike, but Eamon was already out of reach.
The instant Eamon was free, Conor launched his spear and raced in after it, drawing his sword as he ran. He reached the foe in four quick strides and saw his spear stuck firmly in the centre of the Scálda’s shield; he leapt, seized hold of the shaft, and pulled hard. The shield came down, exposing its bearer. Conor, blade in hand, thrust up into the rider’s briefly unprotected belly.
The blade struck a metal plate on the armour and slid off. The rider grunted and countered with a vicious chop of his own, knocking Conor’s blade sideways. Still clutching the haft of his spear, Conor fell backward, letting his weight drag down his opponent’s arm. The Scálda slashed at him but, with his own shield in the way, he could find no suitable angle to strike. Meanwhile, his mount tried to stamp on Conor as he lay on the ground. One of the horse’s hooves struck the turf beside his head, and Conor grabbed the beast’s leg and held on.
Unable to free its foot, the horse reared and Conor, clinging tight to the shaft of his spear, dragged the rider from the saddle. The warrior fell on top of him with a grunt and, releasing his grip on his shield, struggled up onto his knees, pinning Conor to the ground. He grabbed Conor by the neck and, with one swift movement, drew a long knife from the sheath at his side. Conor, writhing beneath his adversary, saw the cruel blade rise and the downward stroke begin. He blocked the strike with the edge of his sword and kicked with all his might in an effort to dislodge his attacker.
The Scálda snatched a handful of Conor’s hair and steadied his head. He raised the long knife again and prepared to slice Conor’s throat. As the fatal stroke began its descent, however, the knife blade twisted in the scout’s hand and he grabbed his own throat instead. Blood spurted between his fingers in a crimson arc; he loosed a wild roar and half turning, tried to rise.
He managed to drag himself to his feet and then, with a low, guttural groan, pitched face-first to the ground beside Conor.
Wiping blood from his eyes, Conor squinted up as Donal’s broad face appeared in the air above him. ‘Are you quite finished with your nap there, Conor? If so, we could use a little help just now.’
‘My thanks, brother. I was this close to a shave I would not have survived.’
‘It was myself I was thinking about,’ replied Donal, smoothing his moustache. ‘Aoife would have my ears if I let anyone crease that lovely skin of yours. Though why she should care at all is a mystery to me, so it is.’
‘Love is blind,’ Conor told him. Rolling over and squirming up onto his knees, he surveyed the site. Three of the five enemy scouts were dead, one was captive, and that one appeared badly injured. A short distance away, Eamon was sitting in the grass beside his horse, holding his head as Fergal tended his wounds.
‘There were five,’ said Conor. ‘The fifth one—where is he?’
‘Fled the moment the fight turned against them,’ Donal spat. ‘Coward.’
Conor climbed to his feet, picked up his sword, and wip
ed the blade on the body of the slain scout. ‘Then we must fly back to camp right away and warn the king.’
‘What about this one?’ Donal jerked a thumb at the wounded man. The warrior sat hunched over, clutching his stomach, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain.
‘Tie him up. We’ll bring him with us.’ Conor started for where Fergal was attending to Eamon. ‘It may be that someone at the gathering can get him to say something useful.’
‘And the horses?’
‘Do you need to ask?’
While Donal set about securing the three remaining Scálda mounts, Conor moved quickly to Eamon’s side and examined the elder warrior’s cuts and slashes, the worst of which was a deep gash to his sword arm. ‘Nasty,’ he observed.
‘I’ve had worse,’ replied Eamon.
‘Lucky we got here when we did,’ Fergal told him. ‘Another poke or two and you would have had worse.’
‘I had them right where I wanted them,’ sniffed Eamon. ‘Did you kill them all?’
‘Three only,’ said Fergal, tearing another strip from the warrior’s siarc to use for a bandage.
‘One we have with us still,’ Conor added. ‘One got away.’
‘Good work, lads,’ Eamon nodded. ‘It seems you were not asleep during your training after all. Now, you must ride ahead—take word to the king right away. The council should know there are scouts sniffing around the gathering.’
‘You speak my thoughts exactly,’ said Conor. ‘Can you ride?’
‘What so—with such a niggling scratch as this?’ Eamon lifted his arm, which was now bound with strips of cloth torn from his siarc. ‘I could race you back to camp.’ He offered his good hand and Fergal pulled him to his feet, where he swayed slightly. ‘And what is more—I would win.’
Conor shook his head doubtfully. ‘Fergal, take Eamon’s mount and ride to the gathering. Tell them what has happened here and that we have captured one of the scouts. We will do what we can for him—if he will let us. We’ll strip the dead, hide the bodies, and follow along with the horses.’