by Jules Watson
His words were met with an enormous roar of approval. Cormac joined Conall and his Ulaid sword-brothers once more, and exclaiming among themselves, they turned back to camp. Other warriors from Laigin, Mumu, and Connacht began streaming after them, preparing to bathe and arm themselves.
“You are supposed to obey me,” Maeve growled to Fraech.
Fraech sighed, taking off his helmet and propping it on his saddle. He rotated one shoulder, flexing his sword-hand. “A king—or queen—rules a man’s body, but his spirit answers to the gods alone.” He shot her a look of grim humor. “There are other unstoppable forces in this world besides you.”
“And I suppose you have a notion to redeem yourself by smearing your guts all over the Hound’s sword?”
For some reason, Fraech’s eyes flew toward the camp. He dragged his attention back, running his fingers through his forelock. “Without your champion here, I should fight first.”
“You have a duty to all of these men as war-leader.”
Fraech paused. “I know.”
“Good.” Maeve’s side throbbed again, and she leaned on Meallán’s flank to ease it. “For I remind you of your vows to me, given in return for your life. You will stay out of this. It would not be honorable to abandon your leadership when our men need you.”
“But you are honorable, too, cousin—and five hundred men piling upon one is not glorious, it is slaughter.” Fraech cocked his head, the rising sun hitting his green eyes. “That is not what Maeve would do. It is not why the men followed you.”
She winced, turning her chin. The Maeve who stood at the temple of Lugh as the crowds cheered had burned with the passion to be a just leader, to rule nobly.
With honor.
“Go back to Cúchulainn …” Maeve could hardly get the words past her instinctive revulsion. Swallowing it, she looked across the shining river at the golden god who held death in his smile. “… and say we accept his challenge.”
Fraech put a hand on her shoulder. “Do not despair,” he said. “He must weaken in the end. He is only a man, after all.”
Cúchulainn rubbed down his horses and set them to graze beneath the trees on his side of the river, and then unpacked his chariot, arranging a great number of weapons and shields on the grass.
Excited murmurs went up from the Connacht-men whenever some particularly fine sword or spear-tip flashed in the sunlight. With a dark fascination, Maeve sat on Meallán’s back and watched the Hound wash his head in the tumbling stream and bind back his hair before donning a helmet with a bronze crest. Some of his weapons he also blessed in the water and presented to the sun, his lips moving.
His manner was flowing and graceful, head high, back straight. His hands seemed to move of their own accord, as if he was in a trance. He rested braces of spears on rocks, and stuck shields and unsheathed swords into the soft ground where he could get at them easily.
More armed warriors poured from Maeve’s camp. They had polished their swords and spears and bathed themselves clean, tied back their wet hair with fur or scraps of their women’s skirts. Arm-rings were bound over sleeves, brooches stuck through tunics.
Anything that shone, to catch the eye of the gods.
Druids from Connacht, Laigin, and Mumu had sacrificed three hares to the gods and were now marking out the boundaries of the river meadow with blood, chanting. Their spells conjured a sacred doorway through which the spirits of warriors could pass in glory to the Otherworld.
Maeve’s Champion should fight first, but Garvan was in the West. Numbed, she looked down at Fraech. “How will we decide …?”
Fraech shaded his eyes, looking up at her. He was about to answer when the mutterings of the warriors at the rear of the throng turned to exclamations, rushing to the front like a wave.
A thick-set man parted the crowd, his brown hair spiked with lime. His tread was heavy and faltering. Ailill.
She had not expected him to appear at all, and if he did, that he would arrive on his chariot flanked by spearmen, pennants streaming, horses prancing—a defiant prince for all to see.
This Ailill bore nothing but a sword, shield, and mail-shirt. His trews and tunic were unadorned and he wore no armbands. His broad shoulders were slumped, and though the glitter of his mail was cold and hard, his eyes were blank.
No one made a move to stop him.
Maeve watched Ailill, her lips quivering. Only then did she notice he had even put aside his royal torc. She slid to the ground and dashed between the warriors toward him, as light as the girl who once raced through the Laigin woods. She stepped in front of her husband.
Ailill halted, swaying.
The crowd grew hushed. Maeve searched his eyes. You do not have to do this, she wanted to say. But in his battered face, heavy with pain, she saw that he did.
She placed her fist on her breast and bent over it—an honor a king or queen rarely bestowed upon another. She touched her brow as she straightened, and holding Ailill’s arms, kissed his cheeks. “Go, husband, with the affection of your wife in your heart, and the honor of your queen on your brow. The bards will sing of your courage from this day forward.”
Ailill’s eyes were red-veined, but as he gazed down at her, they softened. “Well, firebrand, this is a better end than moldering away at my father’s fire.” Wonder lifted his drawn face and he laughed. “Lugh’s balls, but you were right after all.”
She gripped his arms. “This will not be your end.”
Ailill’s only answer was a dazed smile, and he dragged himself free of her to plow on. Maeve’s arms fell by her sides as she watched him go.
Limping, Ailill made his way down to the stream at the base of the great hill. The silence around Maeve was broken by a great clang, and then another. The Laigin warriors lifted their arms above their heads and beat their shields with their swords, drumming out the battle-song for their prince.
More men joined them, the Connacht warriors and even, at last, the Ulaid men. The din echoed off the steep, fern-clad slopes above, hammering on Maeve’s ears as she returned to her horse.
Ailill reached the stream-bank.
Cúchulainn was ignoring the noise, tightening his buckles and picking up a sword and long dagger. He turned to face his first challenger, but as he came out of the shade and the sun hit him again, Cúchulainn stopped.
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, nostrils flaring. In the midst of that wave of drumming and cheering, Cúchulainn crossed both blades over his chest and drew in great breaths all the way from his feet to his head.
Was he filling himself with something? For though she was almost blinded by the flash of iron, as he extended his back and broadened his shoulders Maeve wondered if she imagined he looked bigger than before.
The Hound’s eyes snapped open. The sunlight played over his helmet, chain mail, and blades, sheathing him in a glow that seemed to breathe as he breathed.
Cúchulainn was alight.
In a blaze, he crossed the grass to the stream-bank. A druid stood by the water beside Ailill, arms raised to summon blessings for both warriors. The moment the priest stepped back, war-cries burst from every Laigin throat. They were joined by the rest of the war-band, shouting, yelping, and bellowing. The battle-songs of the four kingdoms pierced the hammering of shields.
Silent and still, Maeve could not take her eyes off the armored figures below.
Cúchulainn stared at the prince for a long moment, recognizing him. He said something in anger and Ailill replied, both of them tense. Cúchulainn lifted his chin, and even from afar his eyes held power, framed by the steel of his helmet.
Maeve could tell by his stance that he was taunting Ailill, as warriors did in single combat. Next, they would charge back and forth, working themselves into a frenzy until one of them struck a blow.
Ailill, however, did not puff out his chest and toss insults back. He simply shrugged a shoulder, lowering his shield and sword to his sides and bowing to Cúchulainn. The Hound returned the bow. Ailill li
fted his shield and braced his blade in the combat pose.
The warriors around Maeve screamed even louder, trying to force their frenzy into the Laigin prince and set his blood on fire. Mounted again, Maeve squinted, gripping Meallán’s mane.
Cúchulainn’s shoulders were heaving; he snorted like a pawing bull, gathering his fury. Ailill, in contrast, was heavy and still, his feet dug into the muddy ground, his muscles rigid.
Blaze, Ailill! Maeve found herself praying. Find the fire in you. But Ailill had never been fiery.
The Hound of the Ulaid became a streak of light.
He bounded over the mossy stones in the stream and came at Ailill with a whirling sword. Startled at his speed, Ailill threw up his shield and Cúchulainn’s sword bit deep into the leather and wood.
Cúchulainn pulled it out and spun, raining down another blow from behind as Ailill was still trying to turn around. Desperate, Ailill flung out his arm and caught the Hound’s blade with his shield boss. The rivets in the center of the shield struck sparks off the sword, but Ailill had left his flank exposed.
Now Maeve saw why Cúchulainn bore no shield himself. With both hands ending in blades, he could whirl them into a web of silver around his head. Blinding … distracting. Dazzled by that display, Ailill swayed back on his heels. While he was immobilized, Cúchulainn threw himself into a little bound, vaulting over on the spot, both blades spinning. One of them slashed Ailill’s hip.
Ailill cried out and staggered to the side, and the men around Maeve bayed louder. Ailill limped a few steps, blood pouring down his thigh from a wound on his flank.
Maeve dropped her chin, staring at her fingers knotted in Meallán’s mane.
One brawny fighter who could only strike out with brute force; one lithe opponent who could duck and spin, and draw in the light behind the world. Maeve remembered that other fight a year ago with two such combatants … and its outcome.
She forced herself to straighten, but her breast was hollow.
Cúchulainn leaped and raced around the prince of Laigin, spinning that net of metal into a web to trap him. Ailill was forced to keep turning, and from his stance, Maeve knew he was growing dizzy. Only Red Branch warriors fought like that. It took many years of practice … and an awareness that was not entirely human.
Ailill kept lunging, crouching close to the ground with his shield to his nose then swinging in with all his force. Every time, Cúchulainn danced out of the way, landing a cut on an arm or leg and making Ailill bellow like a bull.
Running with sweat, Ailill at last lost his temper and threw everything into one wild sword-swipe. He stretched too far over his knee, though, and his shield dropped back.
The Hound snapped up the chance.
Tossing aside the prancing and leaping, Cúchulainn gathered his flame into one focused point. He struck Ailill’s sword-arm down at the elbow, and in a blur, immediately flicked his wrist to reverse that blow.
Even as Ailill was stumbling, Cúchulainn drew his blade across the prince of Laigin’s neck.
Ailill toppled and sprawled on the grass.
The swiftness of it stunned everyone to silence. Maeve shut her eyes, and the next moment a great cry of grief and anger rose from all the watching warriors and crashed over her like a wave.
By the time Maeve opened her eyes, wild-eyed Laigin men were throwing down their shields, shouting and waving fists, and rending their tunics with their daggers. The ground around Ailill’s head was bright scarlet, his face in the grass.
White-robed druids swooped upon Ailill’s body, and his Laigin swordmates tore down the slope after them. Cúchulainn, meanwhile, bowed to Ailill and, before anyone could reach him, leaped back over the stream to his own side.
He was still sheathed in light, blurring the streaks of gore that ran down his armor and the skin on his arms. Cúchulainn turned to salute the men on the slopes with his stained sword, and visibly breathed out, his shoulders lowering.
The body of Ailill of Laigin was gathered on a bier of shields and carried past the waiting throng. Maeve stared at the bloody ring around his neck, a cruel imitation of his torc, and it was then that she cracked. “A great woe has been done this day!”
She saw Ailill again as a boy, the first time he held her in the moonlight. Pretending to be bold, she had tilted her chin to kiss him, but her trembling gave her away. Young as he was, Ailill had merely smiled, gathering her against his beating heart, his skin smelling of river-water. So you’re not as brave as all that, little firebrand.
Her throat burned at the memory. “The prince of Laigin has died needlessly. Storm Cúchulainn now, all of you, and no more will share his fate!” She flung her hand toward Cúchulainn, who’d taken himself to a rock and now sat carefully upright, the sun bathing him.
Surely the Laigin warriors would want revenge.
Ailill’s swordsmen were indeed weeping by his body, which they had now rested on a patch of ferns by the lakeshore. They knelt with helmets in their hands, heads bowed. “We honor you,” they cried, dabbing blood from his wounds and smearing it on their blades.
Then, one by one they got up, the tears scouring tracks down their filthy faces. “I am next in rank,” one said, his sword across his breast. “I will fight Cúchulainn, and be the first to walk with my prince through the veils.”
“No,” another argued. “My father is the king’s elder cousin by a moon.”
“We must draw lots,” a third put in.
Maeve’s arm slowly dropped. Soon the Laigin fighters would be taken, and then the Galeóin, for Cúchulainn would make short work of those spearmen, however skilled. She turned from all the men and the fervor in their faces.
Right at her feet was Ailill’s shield. She got down and heaved it up in both hands. It had been battered by great blows, the outline of the painted bull flaked away by the Hound’s sword.
Tears pricked Maeve’s eyes. She saw herself galloping through Tiernan’s vision, circling the mound of her people and striking great shields just like this. Each blow cried out to the world that she had vowed to shelter them as their mother: not the strutting warriors, but the vulnerable ones they had forgotten.
For if these men died, one by one, Cúchulainn would stride up that hill to batter her at the end, pulverizing bone, shredding flesh. And then there would be no one to guard the mound and its glowing souls.
A faint sound escaped Maeve. Help me help them. She didn’t know who she spoke to anymore. And then the desperation seized her. It had to stop, now, while there were fighting men alive for Laigin, Mumu, and Connacht. She must pull them away, turn them all back … surrender, if that was the only way.
For once, that word did not terrify her.
Maeve opened her mouth and cried it out. “There will be no more deaths! I order you to fall back, all of you!”
She realized no one was listening to her anymore. Her voice was drowned out by the cacophony of arguing men and the clang of swords on shields. They had their backs to her, everything in them bent upon Cúchulainn and the field of death below.
As strong as it was, her spirit could not triumph over warriors after all.
Gray eyes floated into her mind. Dark hair, dark face. Ferdia. Gods, she had forgotten Ferdia.
Maeve stumbled through the camp, fear leaching the sense from her mind. It took her some time to discover where Ferdia had gone. As she ran, she had to block out the roars of dismay, turning her wet face from the wounded men and bodies already being carried past her to the druid tents.
At last she found out that Ferdia had retreated into the forest behind the ridge.
He was sitting on a mossy log in a sunny clearing, his face in his hands. His flask, sword, and pack were propped on the stumps around him. Maeve was arrested by the impression of an unseen presence sitting with Ferdia, as if by a campfire.
Ferdia’s pain had summoned a shadow of Cúchulainn.
“So the Hound is not sick, or at Emain Macha.” Maeve loomed over him. “Instead, he picks our
men off one by one. The stream runs red with blood, and Ailill is slain!” She grabbed Ferdia’s arm, making him collapse, his limbs unraveling across the log. His pupils were empty pits that saw nothing, the shadows of the branches slicing his face into broken pieces.
Maeve shook him. “You are the only one who can beat Cúchulainn and save us all!”
Ferdia wheezed like an old man, blinking bleary eyes. “You do not know what you ask.”
Reining in her fear, Maeve grabbed Ferdia’s face. Gods, he was drunk. “You and I have listened to the bard songs about Cúchulainn on many firelit nights. But fight now, Ferdia, and you will be champion! It will be your name carried in sacred songs to the gods. The women will yearn for your eyes, your shoulders, your loins. You have always been alone. Now you can have it all. You came from nothing, but fight him and you will be remembered forever!” She did not miss the flare that cut through the ale-fog. Did jealousy lie buried in the great Ferdia?
He wrenched himself free, nearly falling off the log. “For that to happen, he must die.”
“Cúchulainn knew the fate he chose by taking up arms on that Samhain day. A glorious life … a swift death.”
“And you think this fate will be sealed by me.” Ferdia stared into the imaginary flames at the heart of the grove.
“How do you know what the gods have in store for you, Daman’s son?”
Ferdia twisted up to see Maeve. The darkness in his eyes had overflowed, delving bruises below his lashes and hollows in his cheeks. “You are asking me to kill the dearest soul to my soul, the dearest heart to my heart. Is there someone, queen of ice, who means that much to you?”
At the unguarded expression that crossed her face, Ferdia’s eyes widened.
“For the safety of my people, I would do anything.” Her fist shielded her breast. She had already killed herself, for duty had become a living death. And there was no love left for her anymore.
“I do not believe you.” Ferdia smiled with the daze of a man who has just relinquished a fight. “You wept for someone that night in my tent; I felt your fire for him. You would rail at fate, bend it to your will.” His chin dropped to his chest. “Bend it …”