Part 3: Conall

  “Is this the worst midden so far?” Bradán asked around his cup, a glint in his eye. Laughing suddenly, the beads in his braids tinkled. It was like he was a settlement fool with little on his mind, asking questions that made no sense, laughing at nothing. The mirth shining from the young warrior wasn’t just strange; it confused Conall. He couldn’t even blame it on the mead because they had just arrived and were still drinking their first flagon.

  Boy’s in strange humor, so he is.

  Conall thought a kick in the onions might remove the grin the stripling was trying to hide. It would no doubt start a brawl, distracting him, if nothing else. Truth was, he would do anything to help forget the look on Medb’s face as he let the ball fly—it was a look that haunted his fitful sleep, handsome features distorted by the same snarling expression they had when he cut off her head a short time after—the same face that King Ailill cowed away from when Conall pulled her from his sack by the hair; a look that the hole above and between her eyes failed to conceal.

  It wasn’t just her death mask occupying his mind. Conall had no idea what Medb meant when she screamed her final words: kill him. Well, not really what she meant, truth be told. It was plain what she meant—she wanted Conall dead—but who was she shouting at?

  He rubbed his stubble before taking a long pull on his mead cup and looked over the lip at Bradán sitting opposite, his head down, that same old smirk distorting his mouth, indicating his own little world was once again enthralling him. There was a slight tic in his left eye. His plaited blond braids on either side of a clean-shaven chin gave him a feminine aspect.

  Well, he did tell Fedelm he pitched his tent on the other side of the palisade.

  “The worst?” Bradán repeated. “I reckon it is.”

  Rather than reply, Conall stared at the hovel they were in. It was large and crowded with raucous warriors; the smoke from the braziers was dense and cloying, and the smell from the straw on the floor was, at best, unsavory. But the worst? He had his doubts. Bradán had led them to a goodly number of middens over recent days.

  It’s undoubtedly the most crowded we’ve been in.

  The hostel on the fringes of Béal Feirste was low in terms of dinginess. The patrons were low in terms of mead barrel dregs, too. He’d been in Dinorwic once—where kill contracts were sought and agreed—and it reminded him of this place. The warriors in the drinkery had the appearance of those who’d do anything for a few slivers of silver. There wasn’t a fresh face among them. Grizzled was the word that came to mind—even the women.

  What am I doing here?

  Recent days had seen them riding about aimlessly, neither of them sure what to do after Conall returned Cú’s head to Emer. He left Bradán in the hostel on the North Road while he rode in, sure that Emer would not welcome strangers while she mourned. And then Kathvar wanted him to go to Ráth Droma to help find a king. What a waste of time that was—Niamh, the old hermit, was either dead or hiding. The boy was restless when Conall returned and wasted no time saying, “I’m riding. Come if you want.”

  Conall hadn’t needed a second invitation, and they’d been wandering ever since. Bradán’s need for constant movement made Conall question his sanity even more than his laughing at nothing. It reminded him of the seemingly spontaneous way crows would all fly at once, diving, weaving, and cawing in anger. It also reminded him of Kathvar’s brother, Imrinn, just before he murdered his father—a need for constant movement to distract him from what he intended, which made Conall wonder what the youth could be running from.

  He hates the violence of this life. I’d wager the stripling’s running from a life he was forced to?

  “You seem distracted,” Bradán said, breaking his thoughts.

  “I got to thinking about what the witch screamed. Who was she talking to?”

  “Not again.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Come on, Conall. You never stop talking about it.”

  “I wasn’t aware,” Conall said, staring into the firepit. “Or maybe I was. I don’t rightly remember, truth be told.”

  “What did she scream?” Bradán asked with a raised eyebrow and a sigh.

  “Kill him. She obviously meant me, but who was she talking to? As far as I know, we were alone.”

  Bradán shrugged. “She’s dead, so what does it matter?”

  Conall thought about the Witch Queen. She had been the strongest woman he knew and scared him like no other. He’d never believed her claims about visiting Babylon and being an instrument of the dark side, a witch, but she still frightened him. After Connery lost his head at Da Derga’s, she began a relentless campaign against Mac Nessa, which didn’t stop until the King ran from Gáirech, effectively destroying himself. Conall knew she’d started a similar campaign against him. Ailill said Medb had hired a fían to kill him because he betrayed her. Conall didn’t doubt that she hired others—Medb never caught all her fish with one net. With her gone, some of the killers might decide to pass up on their contract—after all, Conall was reputed to be dangerous—but not necessarily all of them. Some would feel honor-bound to complete what they’d been paid for, and there would be others—those who thought to test themselves.

  “Medb once told me how long her reach was,” he said, just above a whisper. “I just fear it’s long enough to get to me from Tír na nóg.”

  “Seriously? I never had you as the suspicious type,” Bradán said as he stuck the habitual licorys stick in his mouth and started sucking on it.

  “It’s not suspicion,” Conall shrugged. “It’s a fear.”

  “I can see two flaws with your fear,” the younger man said, holding out the stick for emphasis. “First, there’s no such place as the Land of Eternal Youth. Second, if there was, there’s no way áedh would let the witch in. She’s in Tech Duinn, sure as apples is apples.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “That makes no never mind, Bradán.”

  “How so? You think Donn will let her just reach out from his mound? Wouldn’t be much of a punishment, would it? If you break the code, you’ll go to Tech Duinn, where you can do what you want. I have my doubts,” he said, shaking his head.

  “She might have hired killers before she died.”

  Bradán said, “Fear of monsters under your cot is apt to get you killed.”

  “Aye. Maybe you’re right,” Conall said, staring at a cup ring on the table. “Either way, don’t make me feel any better.”

  “Are you sure no one else was there? Maybe someone got there before you. You know, hiding in the bushes.”

  What is that look? It’s like he knows something I don’t.

  “No. What about you?” Conall asked. Lifting his head, he saw something fleeting on the stripling’s face.

  Now, he’s afraid?

  “What d’you mean?” Bradán asked so low that Conall only just heard.

  “Did you see anyone leave Emain Macha?”

  The stripling turned away before he answered as if he were hiding something. They’d been riding together so long that Conall was used to the mood swings and secretive ways. Eventually, he said, “No. After the witch, they barred the gates, and no one else left—”

  “Yer Conall of the Victories, unless me good eye’s deceiving, which it’s done afore, so it has,” interrupted them. A quiet fell over the place as if everyone had stopped to watch the encounter unfold.

  “Why d’you say that?” Conall asked, lifting his head to see a man in a bearskin cloak with a beard so shaggy it was hard to tell where the bearskin stopped, and the beard began. He had a white, ridged scar from his forehead, across the socket where his left eye once was, to below his ear.

  Now, ain’t he an ugly whoreson.

  “Well, for one thing, that hammer leaning agin the wall’s a bit of a giveaway.”

  Conall turned to look at his hammer, Lorg Mór, where it was resting against the wattle beside their bench. He knew he should have left it in the stables with his mount, but he cherished the hammer and would not consider leaving it where it might be stolen. Besides himself, he knew of only two men who’d carried Lorg Mór. He had a deep-seated respect for both: Dond Desa, the one-time champion of Eterscel—who named the hammer after An Dagda’s club—and Cú Chulainn, Conall’s foster son. Both were dead, but he loved them no less for that.

  “So, I’m Conall. What do you want?”

  “Well, now, the gold would be a good place to start, I reckon.”

  “Gold? What gold?” Bradán asked.

  “The gold the King of Ulster put on his head.”

  “The king’s dead,” Conall said. He could see Bradán edging along the bench, probably to be nearer his sword, which was scabbarded and propped next to Lorg Mór.

  “Ah, now, that ain’t rightly true. Granted, you roasted Longas, but the King now, the King’s still alive and wants you tied agin the Wickerman for what ya did to his son and his feast hall.”

  He means Mac Nessa. Surely not.

  But staring into the man’s beaded eyes surrounded by a grubby beard, he knew he spoke the truth. Somehow, Mac Nessa, the disgraced King of Ulster, had returned to seek vengeance for the death of his son: a son who usurped his throne, a son whom Conall burned in Emain Macha’s feast hall.

  “Are you going to try and kill me, bundún?”

  “Alive would be better, so it would. Mac Nessa said you’re ta burn, but I ain’t gonna take no risks.”

  “You think you can beat me?” Conall asked with a shake of his head. “You’re an ugly whoreson, but that don’t make you invincible.”

  “Conall,” Bradán warned.

  He looked behind the man and saw a crowd of warriors, each as ill-kept as the one doing the talking. He saw the glint of blades reflecting the firepit’s flames in the gloominess. A knock was imminent, and judging by the numbers behind Bearskin, it was not one they were likely to win.

  “You ready to meet Donn, boy?” he asked Bradán.

  “No. Never. I’ve been avoiding him and don’t intend to change that now.” Conall turned to look at his companion. Something in Bradán’s voice warned him of treachery—perhaps a smirk in his tone. “Did you get the contract, Gul?”

  Contract. What’s he talking about? And who’s Gul?

  “Aye, I did so, Chief,” Bearskin said. “Old fat man was so grateful he was willing to hand over all of Ulster.”

  Conall watched as Bradán stood and hefted Lorg Mór.

  “You made sure he had the gold?”

  “Aye, just like you said, Chief. He said when he ran, he took the treasury with him. I asked to see it, and he showed me. Big iron boxes full of lumps o’ yellow metal. Not sure what Longas was doing for money. Might explain his madness and his reliance on the drink.”

  “What was he doing for money, you say? Getting it from the witch, like the rest of us,” Bradán said with a snort. “Until she got a ball between the eyes.”

  “You were working for Medb,” Conall said, an ache beginning in his gut.

  “I was going to renege on my contract, but gold is gold, after all.”

  Was he in the woods that day instead of waiting beside Mag nAí? Was he meant to kill me?

  The suspicion caused a shiver to run up Conall’s spine. He’d always considered himself to be wise to the wiles of warriors. It seemed likely that this youth had duped him from the outset. Not only him. He’d duped them all. Even Genonn, the brightest human Conall had ever met, except maybe Fedelm, who Bradán also fooled. It all pointed at the brat being a master of his profession, which he’d concealed so well.

  Not a warrior, an assassin.

  “Why didn’t you kill me and save Medb?” Conall asked, seeking confirmation.

  “Honestly, at the time, I was just sick of the witch ordering me about,” Bradán said, smirking. “Then, when you were away with the druids, I realized Mac Nessa probably had all Emain Macha’s gold. I reckoned the fat man would give much of it for the right reason. That being you, of course.”

  So, if she hadn’t screamed ‘Kill him,’ I would have died, he realized, a bead of sweat running down his nose to drip on the table.

  “This Gul is your man?”

  “This is my díorma,” Bradán said, nodding at the crowd behind Bearskin.

  “What are they doing here?” Conall asked, more of himself than the stripling.

  “They’re here to bring you to your meeting with the Wickerman,” Bradán said, tilting his head in question.

  “Aye, that I understood. What’s confusing me is how the gaimbíní knew you’d be here.”

  “I arranged to meet them here when you were with the druids. All this meandering was so we’d be here at this time. Instead of waiting in the hostel when you left, I met them and made the arrangement.”

  Conall nodded and lunged across the table, making a grab for the traitor. Evidently, Bradán had been expecting it because he sidestepped, and Conall felt a blow to the back of his head. As his head hit the table and he felt his mind drift into unconsciousness, he realized no one would mark his passing, remembering he’d not said anything to Genonn about Bradán. He thought he might have had some inane reason for it but could not remember what it might have been.

  They’ll never know what happened to me.