Offutt, Andrew J
THE MISTS OF DOOM 


Cormac mac Art, king of Eirrin by birth, freebooter
by choice, makes the logest journey of them
allinto a time before he was born... 
No! Cormac, who was Cuchulain, cried out, for
life and time were closing in on him, and in his
anguished mind he heard anew the druids words of
his youth: 
If any young man should be taking up arms this day,
his name will be greater than any other name in Eirrin.

He looked down then, he who was not yet Cromac,
for centuries were in the way of it, and he felt the
cold that came... 
ROBERT E. HOWARDS 
OTHER GREAT HERO 
CORMAC MAC ART 



THE MISTS OF DOOM

An Ace Fantasy Book / published by arrangement with the Estate of
Robert E. Howard and Andrew J. Offutt and Glenn Lord

PRINTING HISTORY
Ace Edition / November 1980
Second Edition / January 1984

All rights reserved.
Copywright  1977 by Andrew J. Offutt and Glenn Lord
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information adress: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Aveenue, New York, N. Y., 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-53504-6

Ace Fantasy Books are published by the Berkely Publishing Group,
200 Madison Aveenue, New York, N. Y., 10016.
Printed in the United States of America



Contents
      Introduction: With Gratitude 
      Prologue: The Walker in the Fog 
      PART ONE: The Kingdom of Connacht 
      One: The Plotters 
      Two: The Bear 
      Three: Glondrath 
      Four: Master of Glondrath 
      Five: Exile of Glondrath 
      PART TWO: The Kingdom of Leinster 
      Six: Partha mac Othna of Ulster 
      Seven: Mesca and Mocci 
      Eight: The Flame-Lady 
      Nine: On the Plain of Sorrow 
      Ten: The Cattle-Raid of Leinster 
      Eleven: Samaire 
      Twelve: Picts! 
      Thirteen: In the Glen of Danger 
      Fourteen: On the Mountain of Death 
      Fifteen: Scars 
      Sixteen: The Trouble with Honour 
      Seventeen: A Druid and A Priest 
      Eighteen: Fugitive 



The Mists of Doom
Andrew J. Offutt
ACE FANTASY BOOKS
NEW YORK 
to
Jodie of the Erin-born
until further notice 
Introduction
With Gratitude
Though this novel appears as the fourth in the series, it is technically the 
first in that cycle of the Irish hero of the late fifth century, Cormac mac Art. 
Herein is chronicled all the information we have concerning Cormacs early life, 
his youth, the death of his father and the orphaned youths employment in 
Leinster as warriorand the events that led up to Cormacs long series of 
adventures away from his beloved homeland; the reaver or pirate Robert E. Howard 
wrote of in Tigers of the Sea. 
If you are discovering Cormac for the first time, this is the beginning and the 
best place to begin the cycle. If youve been with us through Tigers of the Sea 
and Offutts Sword of the Gael, The Undying Wizard, and Sign of the Moonbow, you 
will surely welcome this look into Cormacs originsincluding his first meeting 
with Samaire of Leinster. 
Accounts of the later events of Cormacs adventurous life were found and 
authenticated with relative ease. The stories had been passed down orally in the 
Irish tradition and more than one writer of the fifth through tenth centuries 
had written of his exploits: as commander of a crew of piratic reavers and the 
subsequent years as reaver with Wulfhere the Dane; of his adventures in Britain 
and Denmark and the little kingdom of Galicia; among the Tuatha de Danann within 
the Emerald Isle; of his crossing of life-paths with Arthur of Britain and with 
Hengist, among the first of those from oversea to carve out sword-lands in 
Britain to become England, of the matter of the sigil-ring of Egypt; of his 
perilous struggles with such sorcerers as Thulsa Doom, Tarmur Roag, Lucanor of 
Antioch, and others. 
Some of these adventures have appeared in the books previously mentioned; others 
are to follow as Offutt and Zebra Books continue to present the cycle for the 
modern reader. 
More difficult to unearth were the facts of his youth, before he became the 
famous reaver, bane of sorcerers, and Champion of Eirrin. The task of tracking 
down and assembling these accounts fell to my friend Geo. W. Proctor. 
Like Howard who first discovered and began chronicling the Cormac cycle, Proctor 
is a Texan and a lover of high adventure, particularly heroic fantasy. His own 
tales of weapon-men and images are included in my anthologies of new heroic 
fantasy, Swords Against Darkness, and he is working on his own novels. 
It was Geo. Proctor who tirelessly tracked down, along vermiculate paths leading 
into and through numerous sources, Macghnimhartha na Cormaic: The Youthful Deeds 
of Cormac. From a crumbling monastery near Cashel came the scraps of laboriously 
recopiedin Latin! manuscript, Partha na Lagen, and realized that this Partha 
(mac Othna) of Laigin or Leinster was indeed Cormac, written of as his 
cloak-name or alias. From the musty library of an aged scholarnow 
deceasedliving near Dublin that was Dubh-linn (and formerly Baile Atha Cliath 
or Ath-Cliath), came into Proctors hands the nigh-unreadable Longes mac Airt: 
the Exile of Arts Son. In the Leinsterish archives is proudly recorded Tain Bo 
an Ard Riogh: The Cattle-Raid of the High-king or the Driving off of the 
High-kings Kine. 
Laboriously Proctor checked and cross-checked, questioned and collected, 
compiled and discarded, and somehow pieced together the story of a heinous plot 
by High-king and priest... and the story of young Cormac. His work does shame on 
scholars and historians (whom in truth I have caught out in errors, in my own 
researcheswhile doubtless making errors of my own). 
Geo. and I were already in contact, and I am the chronicler and supposed expert. 
To me he sent his accountand two copies of his pages and pages of notes. 
Pleading gross ignorance of Gaelic, I asked him to compile it all into a sort of 
narrative, in outline form. (We agreed to leave out The Matter of the Queens 
Chamber, and the Story of the Twelve Picts, as being surely fanciful, apocryphal 
additions by later enthusiasts.) 
Proctor complied, and once I had rewritten his outline I obtained his approval 
of that version. It was also patiently explained to me that Ceann is not 
Sean but simply Ken and that the family name of the Leinsterish royal house, 
Ceannselaigh, would be pronounced simply KEN-sley. He also confirmed the name 
Conan: it is very old Irish, as are Crom and indeed the word amra, which means 
eulogy. Howard did like his CeltsI mean, Kelts. 
The volume, then, is my narrative based on an outline by Geo. W. Proctor of 
Tay-has, and we are all indebted to him. 
Andrew J. OffuttKentucky, U.S.A. 
Prologue:
The Walker in the Fog
Though the rain had ceased just before sundown, the clouds remained. The setting 
Eye of Behl rayed its gold and crimson across a sky of greys and deep slate. The 
spectacular effect lasted only a few minutes ere the sun was gone and the sky 
became a wash of slate and indigo and the absolute black of onyx. Night ruled. 
The imposing buildings standing aloofly apart atop the hill called Tara were 
become but shadows, some limned darkly against the sky, others spectrally pale. 
Fog and mist were permanent inhabitants of this land, which they and the forests 
had owned long before the coming of the Fir Bholgs, and then the Tuatha de 
Danann, and finally the Celts. It crawled the ground now, so that the peasantish 
houses huddled so closely all about the base of the hill were as if aswim in the 
cold fog. Some indeed were invisible beneath their dripping roofs of wattle and 
sod. No women or children were abroad, and few men. Even so close past sunset, 
many were already abed, for wakeful life and the work of the day began with 
Behls eastward appearance each morn, when pearl and nacre displaced the dark of 
night and were followed by rich gold. Thus came daily the manifestation of the 
god of the Celts, whether they abode here in this land, or over in Gallic or 
Frankish lands. For not yet had the new god, him of the Jews and then of Rome on 
which the sun had set, usurped the ancient power of Bel, or, depending upon 
where he was worshiped, Baal, or Beal, or Baal or Behl. 
This night, strangely, the fog rose up the hill among the houses of the nobles 
and even among the rath structures of the righ-danna, the many who in this way 
or that claimed kinship to the Ard-righ, the High-king. Aye, on this haunted 
night the fog eddied and crept even about that most noble lords own abode, the 
rig-thig. 
Through it, his feet and robed legs vanishing into the ever-moving gray, walked 
a man who neither strode nor strolled. Hooded he was, rendered bodiless by the 
robe and faceless by the night. Almost silently, picking his way with a long 
holly staff, he moved toward his goal. 
A peasant, in leggings and leathern stockings, a patched brown cloak and flapped 
cap of hareskin, touched his forehead when his path downward crossed that of the 
robed man ascending; the former was late wending homeward from the house of his 
lord who had spoken not complimentarily to him of the peasants care for his 
granary, for it was unpatched and the cats were hard-worked and fat from the 
catching of invading mice. 
Lord Druid, the peasant said by way of greeting, and no more, and kept 
walking. 
Nor did the druid in the hooded robe, the deep green of the forest, speak or 
otherwise acknowledge the respectful greeting. He but climbed on, a bottle-green 
phantom in the night of darkness and fog-damp and dripping eaves. His staff of 
holly made tiny sucking noises when he drew it up with each pace. 
Some of those in the service of Crom and Behl, the peasant muttered, but not 
so loudly as to be heard by aught of ears other than his own, count themselves 
too high among mere men... other mere men, he added, for all of his sea-bounded 
land were proud and few acknowledged themselves lowlywhen they were not within 
lordly earshot. 
He wended on to his little house of stout wood and roof of wattle and thatch 
with its dangling, dripping tie-stones, and when his wife Faencha did chiding on 
him for his tardiness, he was sharp with her. In a morose silence he ate his 
porkish supper and drank ale that was little more than barleywater whilst she 
overbusied her good self with her embroidery. 
The man in the druidic robe meanwhile approached the wall that had been raised 
about the splendid house of the High-king; of oak was the wall, and over half a 
foot in thickness. 
There he came upon two men in bronze-decorated helmets and close-pulled cloaks 
of scarlet wool. Their bare, fog-wet hands were fisted about the hafts of long 
spears, each banded twice with bronze. Nor said they aught, but only stared. The 
newcomers flowing sleeve whispered with the extending of his arm. They gazed on 
his fist, and at the signet there, and they nodded. The gate was opened 
respectfully for the faceless man, who passed through without the speaking of a 
word. 
Good it is to see a druid abroad and wearing a ring of the High-king himself, 
Cairthide, one of the sentries muttered, whilst they closed the gate, and his 
wife and so many others believers in the New God. 
Good it is to be knowing a druids about at all, on such a night as this! 
Cairthide said. His sigh emerged tremulously for he shivered. A good night for 
hearth and aleand locked door! 
His companion coughed and sniffed. 
Through the grounds of the High-king strode the hooded man who seemed to have no 
legs. Outbuildings for storage and creaming and smithing and the housing of 
animals had been scattered randomly, so that it was no straight course he took. 
The fog was both thinner and lower to the wet wet earth as he approached the 
rising rig-thig, as though the high son of Laegaire was immune, respected even 
by the powers of earth and water and the sky that had come down this night to 
blanket the earth. 
At the very walls of the High-kings manse, the walker in the fog was again 
challenged by two men. Helmeted they were, and mailed, armed with swords and 
bucklers with brazen decor, and long spears and each man draped in a cloak of 
dark red woollen. These stalwarts took note of the newcomers long 
walking-staff, that might have been a cudgel but for his druids robe. 
The robe-swathed man said no word, but again showed them his fist on which 
flashed a ring of gold and enamel and carbuncle. 
Enter then, Lord Druid, one sentry said, opening the great door. 
And come ye in from such a surly night, Lord Druid, the other said, with a 
smile, though he did not forget the respectful inclining of his head in its 
shining round helm. 
Robes of dark green rustled like fallen leaves; leather heels fell softly; the 
holly stick tapped once and then was lifted clear of the floor. Otherwise in 
silence, the visitor passed them by. From the wall he took a candle, which he 
waved a bit that it might flare the better while he paced through the dark 
defense-hall. On his way to the chamber he sought in that high house he saw only 
a woman abroad. She was not the wife of the High-king, and made a little 
obeisance as the cowled robe passed. It gave no sign of acknowledgement. 
A tawny-haired man in clean green leggings and blue smock of wool sat before the 
door the visitor approached. The door seemed to crawl with carven knotwork and 
fantastickal animals, lit and as if animated by the torch burning in a cresset 
of bronze to either side. 
The lord High-king is receiving no visitors, Druid. 
Once again the cowled man displayed his ring, and in silence. The other gazed 
upon it, blinking. 
For the first time, a voice emerged from the hood. In the middle range it was, 
and a bit strained as though its owner had need to cough. The voice betrayed too 
a certain shortness of breath, for Tara Hill was no brief or easy climb. 
It is disrespectful ye be, boy, and not minded to hide it. That will come as ye 
gain in wisdom. Be ye follower of Iosa Chriost? 
Aye, Lord Druid, the green-legged man said quietly, and belligerence was 
absent from his voice and manner. More, he had risen and taken a step aside. He 
stared at the darkness between the edges of the cowl, but the light of three 
glims showed him only the tip of a nose. The visitor did have a face, then. 
Wellopen it! 
With apologetic face and attitude, the tawnyhaired man rapped twice, paused 
while he counted mentally to twice ten as his most noble lord had decreed, and 
opened the door. It swung inward. The young man turned back just in time to wrap 
his fingers automatically about the candle the visitor had thrust at him. 
With a whisper of his robes, the walker in the fog passed into a room alight 
with no less than four candles; servingmaids would certainly be at the 
collecting of that wax, later! He paused as if to make certain the door closed 
securely behind himself; it did. He was in a broad room of red yew, speckled 
with copper rivets and with floor-to-ceiling hangings on two walls, warmly dark 
and richly woven and broidered with scrollwork and fanciful animals and twining 
flowers. 
In a carven chair behind a table set near the dancing hearth-fire a man sat, and 
he lifted his russet-haired head to gaze upon his visitor. High was this mans 
forehead, for his hair was thinning atop even as at the temple grey usurped the 
rusty red, and had departed to the breadth of two fingers beyond the hairline of 
his youth. Jowly his face, though he was paunchy, not fat. Fog-grey eyes fixed 
their stare on the intruder upon his guarded, fire-warmed solitude, the seated 
man alone in the loosegirt robe of silver-trimmed darkest blue, collared with 
beaver. On his chest a broad necktorc seemed to have grown, become a carcanet 
studded with jewels and traced with a design of honeysuckle vine picked out in 
red gold. The overgrown muin-torch depended even onto his pectorals. His ten 
fingers bore five rings, and one of gold and coral center-set with a large 
carbuncle; was the mate of the ring on the guests finger. 
The latter threw back his cowl with both hands, staff under his arm; the man by 
the fire smiled. His deep blue robe was split at each elbow and edged there with 
beaver fur; from those slashes emerged his arms in sleeves of white. 
A fine disguise, Milchu. Come, warm yourself. Indech! 
The seated man called out the last word, whereupon his visitor instantly 
restored his hood. Behind the door opened; the seated man looked past his guest. 

Mulled aleno, mulled wine, Indech. And knock first! 
At once, lord King. 
The door closed solidly. The robed man called Milchu moved to the fire. 
Its no talking well do till the wines after being brought, Milchu, the king 
said. Add a few oak knots if yere of a mind to. But its not for patience Im 
known. Ye bring much information? 
Much information, High Milchu broke off in a coughking of Eirrin. 
Bodes it ill or else for Lugaid mac Laegair? 
Clearing his throat repeatedly, Milchu tossed several chunky oaktree knots onto 
the fire. When the wine comes, Lugaid mac Laegair. His voice was strained; he 
coughed again. 
No night for being abroad, robed or no, High-king Lugaid said. 
And they were silent, the High-king fretting restlessly with the handle of a 
tall mug on the table before him. Moulded as a fanciful beast was that long thin 
handle, though the bear thus represented was necessarily long and thin of body, 
and its ears rose unnaturally long and pointed: The bronze tankard was inlaid 
about the base with two rows of rectangles in green and red enamel; superbly 
carven coral formed a knotwork design betwixt the rows of rectangles. Lugaids 
ringed fingers seemed to wrestle with the bronze bear. 
Come the knock they awaited; High-king Lugaid son of High-king Laegair loudly 
called Enter rather than wait those thirty or so heartbeats he had mandated as 
wait between knock and entry. 
Immediately Indech of the green leggings hurried a sizable pottery jug and two 
mugs over to the table. He bowed, set them down, looked his question. Receiving 
an equally silent reply by gesture, he poured both mugs full of dark golden 
liquid from which rose tendrils of steam. Indech glanced at the fire, seeing 
that it was blazing up all yellow and snapping. He looked again at his lord. 
Lugaid waved a hand: With another bowand a glance at Milchu, who stood by the 
fire with his back to the roomIndech departed the chamber with its rush-strewn 
floor and cold-absorbing hangings over the fine red wood of the yew-tree. 
The door closed on him. Milchu turned from the fire. Again with both hands he 
shot back the druidic cowl. He commenced loosing the laces at the robes throat; 
they ran down to a point approximately horizontal with his nipples. 
Then did he bare a pectoral pendant that was strange indeed, on the chest of a 
man in the robe of a druid of the Celts. 
The Egyptians of centuries agone had formed the device of the male triad and the 
womans parts; a loop atop two straight bars, one set perpendicular to the 
center of the other so that they formed three. Thus the male and female united, 
a symbol of the creation of life, and Life everlasting of the faith of Set and 
Horus and Osiris. After them the Romans used a similar design, formed of 
timbers, for the execution of criminals. Ankh, those of Egypt called it; the 
Sign of Life. Crux, those of the more latterly world conquerors termed it; the 
sign of Death. On it they had slain one Yeshua-Iesu in their tongue, changed in 
Eirrin to Iosafor sedition and the stirring up of the common folk against the 
priests... and, far more seriously, against the togaed representatives of Romes 
might. Along with the fish, the sign was adopted by the Friends, later called 
Saints by some and Christians by others. 
Though they claimed that this cross, like the open one of old Egypt, represented 
and promised life everlasting, there were many and many who pointed out that the 
female was closed against life and further that the sign signified pain and slow 
death, and a dead god. 
Though he had curbed it in himself now, Lugaid had been known to refer to Iosa 
Chriost who was Jesus Christus as the Dead God, and the thought crossed his mind 
now as he gazed upon that which hung on Milchus chest. 
No druid wore the cross of Iosa Chriost. 
PART ONE
THE KINGDOM OF CONNACHT
Chapter One:
The Plotters
The cross jumped and gleamed on the chest of the High-kings visitor when the 
man coughed. Watching this priest of Jesus come out of the disguising robe, 
High-king Lugaid reflected that it must sore have irked Milchu to wear the robe 
of the Old Faith over his execution symbol. Iosa was the enemy of all other 
gods; Christianity and its Saints were the enemy of all other beliefs; the 
druids of the Old Faith and the priests of the New were hardly friends! 
Lugaid grinned sourly. Toying with the mug of mulled wine, he reflected on how 
the former shepherd-slave had returned here to Eirrinfrom Rome-preaching the 
New Faith. He attacked the old ways and beliefs directly, that Padraigh or 
Patriche, claiming that while as all knew the druids could with their powers 
bring on darkness, only Jesus the Christus brought light. And he had thrown down 
the great statue of Crom Cruach and its attending statuary on the Plain of 
Slecht. Nor had that ancient god of Eirrin, no nor Behl either, done aught to 
avenge the sacrilege. 
Those there were who began to say that Padraighs god was God. His faith spread 
throughout the land of mighty warriors. Somehow the sons of Eirrin took the 
dictates of peacefulness more seriously than the people of the continent; their 
Saints slew Saints and all the in the name of Jesus whom they called Christus as 
though it were his name. Soon, Lugaid mused without pleasure, Padraigh had 
converted many. Aye, even including the wife of High-king Laegair, for he put 
guilt on her, and on his chief advisor as well, so that Laegair was no enemy of 
the Saints. Well Lugaid remembered the changes in his mother, and the change in 
the relationship between her and his royal father. 
Yet even that had not been enough for the Saints. They wanted all. 
They want all, Lugaid the king thought, and his hand clutched the tighter at his 
tankard. 
Still, the Ard-righ of Eirrin was no enemy of the Old Faith either, so that 
druids remained welcome throughout most of the land. That proved not 
sufficiently satisfactory to the dark-robed priests who came to Eirrin after 
Padraigh. That stern man with his great pointed staff preached that which had 
aided the toppling of the Empire of Rome and now survived it in quest of an 
empire of its own. 
No, Lugaid mac Laegair mused, gazing on the equally stern-faced opportunist 
Milchu, the Saints will settle for naught less than ownership of Eirrinand the 
world. And this fanatical follower of that dead son of a wright of the Jews... 
Lugaid saw Milchu for what he was, for all his ascetic face and pretensions. In 
the tradition of Padraigh himself was this man, and yet steps beyond him, for 
the priests had power now in Eirrin, and they were far from averse to using it. 
This weasel face seeks only personal power and influence, Lugaid mused, and all 
in the name of his religion. Its more willing this man is even than I or my 
uncle to set aside his moral convictions and the gentle teachings of his god, 
for after all there is always their Confession to Him... and surely to Milchu 
mac Roigh the achievement of the goal ever justifies the means used in its 
attainment! Indeed, when once man on the ridge of the earth feels that the warm 
breath of his god is upon him, its little there is he cannot justify in his 
mind! 
A fitting servant for Lugaid mac Laegair then, Lugaid mac Laegair thought. Once 
the priest had served his purposes, the man with the ever-set lips and stern 
brow would easily be handled, one way or the other! For surely I, Lugaid 
Ard-righ thought, am the superior of any at crafty plotting, though I be plotted 
against on all sides by so many, at all times. 
He was sure, in point of fact, that Milchu the priest plotted independent of 
him. For who did not? Were it not for the High-kings supremely powerful uncle 
Muirchetach mac Ercaand my own geniusLugaid would surely have been wrested 
from this highest of abodes years agone. Of this he was convinced. 
Ye passed safely and with ease, he said aloud, for surely none would expect 
to find a priest of Rome abroad, alurk in the oak-green robe of a druid! 
The priest tossed aside the robeto the floor, and with the movement his 
pectoral cross of silver flashed, for fire and candles lit the room well if 
fitfully. Nor did he show amusement. 
Its no priest of Rome I am, son of L he began and broke off to cough. Son 
of Laegair, but a priest of Iosa Chriost our Savioura priest of Eirrin, as ye 
be her High-king! 
With a slow blink of both grey eyes amid the disappearance of his smile, 
Eirrins High-king nodded. 
The ways of God are strange, Milchu said. I but use the tools he places 
before me, lord King. And he spurned that latest tool, the druidic robe, with 
his well-shod foot. 
Aye. Its not the psalms of your god ye were to bring me, though; but 
information. Sit, Milchu. And speak. 
Milchu sat, sipped, leaned forward to fix the king with a gaze from the bright 
round eyes of a fanatic. 
Information, aye. From Connacht. 
Ah, Connacht, Connacht. Long did it supply our land with its High-kings... 
until I, grandson of Niall Noiqiallach, united with the other ui-Neill and even 
those of Leinster, and overthrew Connachts power and strangle-hold on this 
hill! Dead is my predecessor Ailill Molt; dead is Connachtish power. He too 
leaned forward, his hand only toying unconsciously with the design of his mugs 
handle. And doubtless Connachtish nobles plot, and plot! Eh, Milchu? Eh,eh? 
Aye, High-king. There are those in Connacht who plot. 
Ah. Against the High-king of all Eirrin! 
Aye, High-king. Even against yourself. 
Ah. 
A glow that came not from the fire entered into Lugaids grey eyes, for so he 
had surmised, and with Lugaid who dwelt ever in the shadow of his mighty uncle 
Mac Erca and the misty fogs of his own suspicions, to surmise in the matter of 
plotting was to believe. And in truth gladness was on him for Milchus 
confirming his suspicion-become-belief, For had the priest said otherwise, then 
Lugaid Laegairs son must suspect him. Which would be to disbelieve him. 
And one, Lugaid thought, must believe ones spies... so long as one has them 
watched and checked now and again. 
Aye, Milchu said again. And plots are laid up in Ulster, too, lord King, and 
Munster, and even in Leinster 
Aye, aye, and in Meath and even here on Tara Hill! The kings eyes fair 
glittered. But what of Connacht, priest? 
and we who are united in Christ and who are everywhere, king son of a king, 
are your eyes and ears and, with some small increase in numbers, your 
protection. 
Milchu spoiled his own dramatic effect then, for whilst he sought to fix the 
king with a meaningful gaze of steel, that feather the fog seemed to have put 
into his throat tickled again, so that he coughed. 
Power, Lugaid thought. Increase in numbers, is it? That means increase in power! 
I hear ye, priest. I hear even the words ye speak not. 
Milchu. 
Lord King? 
Connacht. 
Let me tell the High-king not of those who plot, but of a perhaps worse danger 
in Coiced Connachta of the west. 
And Lugaid listened with attentiveness and narrowed eyes grey and impenetrable 
as fog, and forgot the tankard of ale and the mug of good mulled wine. 
It is of a youth only recently turned fourteen Id be speaking, lord King. 
Fourteen! A boy! Milchu 
Milchu but raised a pale, pale hand a little, fingers up, palm to the king. The 
king stared, silencing himself. And waiting. 
And is ten and four not the age of manhood, lord King? and most especially 
when the youthful man in question is rising six feet in height, with an 
athletes muscle on him, and druid-taught craftiness in him, and a consummate 
weaponish skill, a natural talent? And when he all alone but a single moons 
passage agone did battle with no less than four Cruithne on the rocky shores of 
westernmost Connacht, and sustained him but a scratch, and left four Pictish 
corpses to rot in sun and tide? 
Staring bright-eyes, his knuckles nigh white on his tankards zoomorphic handle, 
Lugaid gestured impatiently with his other hand, for the spy had paused as if to 
tease. 
This is fact, Milchu? 
This Milchu broke off coughing, and coughed, nor did he bring up aught of 
phlegm or curses. Blinking, he sipped, drank, wiped at the corner of his eye 
with a long thin index finger. 
This is fact, son of Laegair. He cut them down all four as trees are felled in 
the wood. 
It sounds like legend. 
Ah! Doesnt it! It is what Connachtmen are saying of this youth... his name 
Cormac, son of Art son of Comal. 
Art! 
Aye. 
Gods of Eirrin, what a name! Legend itself: Cormac mac Art! How dare one so 
named as Art give his son the name of that great High-king of long ago! 
He does, my lord King, and with calculation. For the lord Art of Connacht has 
naught of the fool about him, and knew what the sound of that name he gave his 
son would be, in the ears and minds of all men of Eirrin... your Eirrin, mac 
Laegair. 
My Eirrin, Lugaid said, tasting the words and looking ready to smack his lips 
over them. 
Now this lad has done deeds to call attention to himself so that his name is 
heard throughout Connacht. And too, to him is applied another name, now. For 
its yourself has said it, lord King; his deed sounds like one of legend. For 
not only did he perform this deed with spear and sword and buckler, and him 
alone, but when afterward others came upon him he stood against a great standing 
stone on the shore, with the four death-hacked Cruithne at his feet. 
Four, Lugaid muttered. 
Winded he was, and splashed with Pictish gore, and he leaned panting against 
the great rock rising up from the sand. To those who first came onto the strand, 
it appeared the lad was bound there, that he was dead there, standing... as, 
Milchu said on, emphasizing each several word now, was Eirrins greatest hero 
at his death 
Cuchulain of Muirthemne! Lugaids voice was an explosive whisper. Hey 
pronounced the name of the Irish Akilles or Odysseos/Ulysses; his lands 
greatest folk-hero whose deeds were known to every lad. And the colour of the 
High-king came and went as quickly as the aspen by the stream. 
Even Cuchulain, Milchu said. 
Then Lugaid cocked his head and came nigh to smiling. So was it at the death of 
Cuchulain, Chulans houndand was Arts son of Connact dead, then? 
Far from it, lord King. Merely dazed and exhausted was the youth and his 
long-used arms atremble, whilst all victorious he supported himself against a 
stone taller than he and four times as broad. 
Lugaids eyes were ugly and his lips tight. I much prefer a dead legend to a 
live hero, Milchuespecially with his parentage and that name. 
Aye, Milchu said, and he was silent then, seeing that the High-king pondered. 
Known well to Lugaid was Art of Connacht. Well-birthed the man was, a descendant 
of the family of High-kings so many of whom had come from Connact that it had 
been called the Cradle of Kings and even Tara of the West. Aye, Lugaid knew of 
Art mac Comail. A brave and fearless fighter in the service of Connachts king 
the man was. For many a year he had done mayhem among the ever-restless 
Cruithne, or Picts, on Connachts shores. 
Art, too, was of the descendants of Niall. 
Seventy years dead was Niall, great High-king who had sallied forth into Alba 
and Britain and even into Gaul over the water. Sons he had in plenty, Fiacaid 
and Laegair, Conal Crimthanni of the Britonish mother, and Mani, and Conal 
Gulban and Eoghan and Cairbri and Enna... only thirteen years dead was Conal of 
Tir Connail. And these were the ui-Neill, the descendants of Niall, and so was 
Art, Comals son of Connact. Yet he was king not in Tara nor in Connacht. 
Without real power the man was, and watched even by his own king for what and 
who he was. Lugaid knew he was popular and a hero, commander of a rath he 
protected well... a coastal command far from the capital at Cruachan. 
I like not the mans arrogance in naming his son Cormac, for that greatest of 
High-kings whose father was Art Aenfher, Art the Lonely. Too easily, he mused, 
staring at Milchu while hardly seeing him, do legends and popular fervors grow. 
And in Connacht...! 
And so... now even the son of Art of the Connachtish ui-Neill, and him bearing 
so auspicious and magnetic a name, is a hero... 
Aye, lord King. 
And him but fourteen. 
Aye, lord King. 
With many years ahead of him. 
Lord King, yourself has said it. 
Aye, and a threat to the highest crown, Lugaid did not say, a threat to me! 
Now... Milchu ... this is fact... 
Lord King, the information comes from one in my service, and him of Connacht, 
close to Lord Art. 
You will tell me his name. 
Milchu bowed to that and made answer at once, for it was no question but a 
command. 
Eoin mac Gulbain, High-king. 
Gulban! Ah. 
Even so, my lord King. The Lord Gulbans son Eoin is a weapon-man among those 
who serve the lord Art. A brave man and a loyal warrior, Eoin... though he wears 
another name, keeping his own under a cloak of deception. For he has with Art a 
blood-feud 
Ahhh. And this time Lugaid did not smile, for possibilities of counteractions 
took shape in his mind nigh as swiftly as plots. 
Aye, lord King, Milchu said with a nod. He knew he need not explain the 
significance to this ever-mistrustful man, this calculating plotter on Eirrins 
highest throne. Aye. Nor would Eoin mac Gulbain wish good on Art, for he feels 
that Art was responsible for the ruination of his father and the sinking of his 
family. 
Now Lugaid straightened. Now he took note of his mug, with beaming eye. He drank 
off a draught of wine. 
What said ye, Milchu, of Gods placing tools before us... 
Milchu smiled, very thinly, as if with reluctance to allow such interference 
with his ascetic mien. 
Even so, he said. And it is of interest that Eoin is baptised as one of us, 
one of the Saints. 
Lugaid was grinning. Shoulders hunched, he leaned forward on his table. And 
will do as bids a priest of his faith? 
Its only a priest of Connacht has stayed him from having his feud-vengeance on 
Art, lord King. Nor does he refrain with much willingness on him. This has he 
said of his lord, Art: If he did fifty good deeds on me, surely this would be 
my thanks, I would not give him peace, and him in distress, but every great want 
I could put on him. 
A fine worthy young son of Eirrin! And does he have a brain within him, as 
well? 
He stays his hand, lord King. 
Umm. But unwillingly. 
Even so, lord King. 
Ho. Lugaid drank. Ha. And were a priest to speak otherwise, counsel the 
opposite course, perhaps point out that Art is a great enemy of Iosa Chriost 
In truth, lord King, he is no friend 
Surely then would be this fine young mans holy duty to avenge his poor 
father! 
Surely, my lord. Were he to be so convinced. And as if hed forgot and only 
just thought of it, Milchu coughed again. 
A bad cough, the High-king commented. 
The... night air... the fog, Milchu said weakly, bent forward so that his chin 
was nearly on the table. 
He did not move from that strange posture, for the other mans eyes were upon 
him. The two gazed steadily at each other. Nor did either misunderstand the 
other. The fire crackled and played games of light and shadow with their faces, 
though not with their eyes. 
So, the Ard-righ of Eirrin thought, so simple it appears, and now we are come 
down to it. Will it be so simple, Milchus agreement to gain? Methinks not. He 
waits now... for he wants something. And that something, whatever it may be, 
lies here in these hands, for I am High-king in Eirrin! 
Shall I ask, Priest? 
My lord? 
Seek ye not to play at games with me, Milchu, who has played so many for so 
long, and who wears Eirrins highest crown! 
My lord High-king. I 
Nor will I bargain as with some merchant over pigs or embroidery-work! Ye know 
well my meaning. What is it yed be having, Milchu, Priest, to... counsel with 
Eoin as to his honour and his duty? 
My lord! 
Lugaid said nothing. Again his fingers were tracing out the shape and the inlays 
of his tankards handle. He waited. 
At last Milchu leaned back, though he did not relax. Great honour would accrue 
to my lord God, he said reflectively, and to my lord High-king and thus to 
Eirrin, were it Lugaid. Laegairs son who approved my buiding a fine church in 
the town of Ath Cliath, with myself as Bishop once its done, to do glory to 
both God and the High-king who pleases Him. 
For a time Lugaid remained as if frozen. Then he too sat back. He bethought him. 
Well he knew that men said his crown rested shakily on his thinning russet locks 
... that he was a man who like a child abroad alone at night saw demain shapes 
in every shadow... 
Such men of course were fools. The demons of treachery, Lugaid was convinced, 
did lurk in all places. The cleverer he, who with such hidden eyes as those of 
Milchu could pierce the shadows and draw away the dark veils from those who made 
plots against him. Fail to discover them and surely hed not be toppled, for 
there was his uncle Mac Erca with the weaponish host But... if Muirchetach mac 
Erca decided that a High-king who had to be protected, nephew or no, were not, 
worthy of remaining enthroned? 
Besides, Lugaid was sure that it was Mac Ercas plan to make the High-kingship 
more than it was, not only the highest seat in Eirrin, but actually king over 
the other kings of the Emerald Isle. And were a western ui-Neill to be no longer 
available to defend that land against Picts... or... others, and his heroic son 
to be nipped whilst still abudding like a rose never to be seen, an acorn fed as 
mast to the pigs rather than allowed to grow into a great strong oak... 
Aye. 
Not shaky my crown; neither is my seat on Eirrin s highest chair. Solid both, 
and to be made the more so for my sons to follow. That is, if I prepare the way 
for those to follow me... preserve crown and throne and thus serve Eirrin best; 
for how could I do elsewise, the High-king? ...by removing any who offer the 
slightest threat to crown, or throne, or honour, and future... suzerainty! 
Art mocks me by naming his son Cormac! 
Cormac mac Art challenges me by bearing the name, by his feat, by suffering 
himself to be called Cuchulain... 
Art and his weaponish son threaten Eirrin! 
It seems to me that Art and his weaponish son, Cormac and Cuchulain all 
combined, are threats. 
Milchu had but waited for him to speak it aloud. It is why Im after coming 
direct to yourself, High-king. 
The best time to meet such threats is before they become manifest and thus even 
more dangerous and harder to remove. 
The thinking of a King of Kings, lord King, Milchu said, and was careful to 
let his eyes remain flat and bland, lest they bespeak his true opinion of 
this... this fearful puppet of Mac Erca! 
Methinks the god of Romeand of Eirrinshould be honoured with a fine chapel in 
Baile Atha Cliath... would ye be taking such a commission, Priest? 
My lord King does honour on me! 
Assuredly. 
And should I wend my way eastward to Ath Cliath by a westward route, by way 
of... Connacht, lord King? 
The High-kings eyes were hooded, but he leaned forward to end the game with 
plain words and royally extended forefinger. 
Eoin mac Gulbain were better and covered surely with honour an he avenged his 
fathers loss of honour on the man who replaced that fatherand on the son! 
Milchu nodded. His eyes were agleam. He rose. 
Soon, lord High-king of Eirrin, there shall have been but one Cormac mac Art in 
Eirrin, and him that great king dead these two hundred years! As for the 
other... none shall remember him, after his death at age fourteen! 
Chapter Two:
The Bear
A grassy branch popped loudly in the fire and one of the five men gathered about 
it shot out a foot to wipe the good-sized spark into the ground. He continued 
rubbing that foot along the ground; little, value a well-made buskin of good 
cowhide if he burned a hole in its sole. Still, one had to be mindful of the 
sparks. This forestSciath Connaict, the Shield of Connachthad stood here in 
southern Connacht far longer than any man had lived, and fire in a forest was a 
terrible thing. 
Huddled in furs to ward off the breeze-brought chill of early March, the five 
men stared at the fire. Eyes of blue and of grey gazed at the great haunch and 
leg of fresh-slain elk that sizzled on the makeshift spit theyd constructed of 
good green wood gathered from close round about. Bubbling fat became grease that 
dripped down to spat and sizzle and pop amid the flames. The aroma that rose 
thick on the air was enough to make stomachs rumble, and stomachs did. 
Beneath their furs two of the five wore mail, linked in five circles of chain 
again and again in the manner of Eirrin. Two others wore the far less dearand 
more swiftly madearmour coats of boiled leather. Bosses of bronze winked dully. 
One of these men of weapons, his helm beside him and his dark hair falling loose 
and sweat-matted nigh to his shoulders within his robes hood of hares fur, had 
bossed his leatherncoat with two great blunted cones of iron. Like huge shining 
blue nipples, they stood forth an inch from either side of his chest. Another of 
the five had doffed his plain round helm, too, and was combing tangled wheaten 
locks with his fingers. 
The five stared at the meat, waiting. They swallowed repeatedly. 
Best ye get that pot back on your head, Roich, and forget the beauty of your 
hair. It was the reddish-bearded man in chainmail who spoke. This air does a 
sweaty crown no good, none at all. 
Damned things heavy, Roich muttered, but he picked up his helmet. 
Thats because yeve a neck like a chicken, Roich, the man beside him said, he 
in the thick heavy cloak of grey wolf and hare combined. 
Roich pushed him angrily and the speaker chuckled, rocking on his buttocks. 
To gain Midhirs advice is one thing, Bran, but to have my ears wounded with 
that ravens voice of yours is more than a man can bear. 
Bran and Midhir chuckled. 
The fifth among them wore an enveloping cloak of brown woollen, to which had 
been sewn a collar of badger. Around his hair a narrow leathern binding, a sort 
of head-torc or niamh-lhamn; on his chest a sun-symbol on a woven silver chain. 
He it was who spoke now: 
Its with weapon-men of Art mac Comail I set forth as druid companion, and with 
children about a campfire I find myself. Och, only the youngest among us keeps 
his peace as a man. 
Once again Edar the Druid speaks sense and truth, the mailed, reddish-bearded 
man called Midhir said. 
The four of them looked at him the druid had singled out; a lad he was, his face 
showing only the adolescent intimation of a beard to come. It would be black. 
Black the hair falling below his pot-like helm; nor was his skin fair like 
Brans and Midhirs. Yet his eyes were grey-blue, the colour even in the light 
of the dancing fire of good sword-steel. Was he wore the other coat of 
chainmail, over a shirt of soft doeskin and leggings of the same. His gaze moved 
swiftly from one to the other of his companions, returned to the elks leg over 
the fire. Praised for his mannish silence, he nevertheless spoke now. 
Midhir... he said, in, a voice not quite through its change to that of 
manhood, for he had recently reached that age at which boys were called men 
whether they were ready or not, and were so called until old age began to set 
inusually at about forty, and usually not of long duration thereafter. 
Aye, Midhir said, looking also at the meat. 
Bucking up the knees of his crossed legs, he pressed with his heels. Chain 
rustled then as he thrust himself easily to his feet without touching the ground 
with his hands, for all the weight of his muscular self and his chaincoat and 
helm. His right hand pushed away his furs; his left went in to his hip and came 
forth with a long dagger. 
Behind him, a horse whickered. Another stamped. Midhir paused to glance at the 
four animals, staked out for the grazing just without the fires light. Nearby 
rested the two carts they had drawn hence from Cruachan. The carts were empty. 
Roich twisted half around. Heard they something I did not? 
Its but happiness on them to have delivered the annual tribute to our king and 
have naught to pull but empty carts, Bran said. And less than a day from 
home. 
Weve been still and so have they, Midhir said. Morelike they were startled 
by my getting up to test this meat. And he leaned in toward the haunch and leg 
of juicy elk. 
It was then the thundersome roar exploded from the darkness of the woods. The 
noise seemed to shake the very twigs of the trees with their fledgeling buds. 
With wild calls, startled birds vacated their nests. One of the horses, the 
red-brown, reared and tugged at his leg-tether. 
All five men were on their feet in an instant and staring into the darkness. 
Mighty crashing noises, slavering snarls, and another roar announced the coming 
of... something. The mens long spears stood from one of the carts like huge 
needles from a good wifes cushion, and Roich and Bran lurched into movement 
toward them as if shoved. Driven they were, indeed, by the weapon-mans training 
that became as instinct. 
Was Bran who first snatched his spear, and at that instant the great bear came 
charging into the little encampment. 
Like a jealous guardian of the forest privacy he was, angered at the intrusion 
of men into his wood, and bent on doing death on them all. Up on his two hind 
legs he was so that he towered over all; a shaggy brown beast rising eight feet 
in height. A fleeing ring ouzel hurtled across the little clearing on blurring 
wings, and a sizable shrew, fearing the bear more than the evidence of its nose, 
rushed in among the men, headed directly for the fire. It swerved sharply, 
skidded, and was a brown streak that vanished into the forest again. 
Bran could not cast or make a running stab; the bear was already too close, and 
coming. The weapon-man swung his spear to get it in line with the beast even as 
he backed a pace. One paw the size of Brans head snapped the spear, bringing a 
grunt of pain from him as the haft slammed into his hip. The spear broke, for 
all its being good seasoned ash. 
And then the bear caught Roich, who screamed out in a voice not a mans. 
Ere Midhir could abandon dagger and draw sword, the furs flew in a rustle from 
the lad at his side, and clumbed to the earth. Surely it was worse than unwise 
for that tall, beautifully constructed youth to do what he did then, all in an 
instant; he drew both sword and foot-long knife at the same time as he rushed to 
Roichs aid. 
That writhing weapon-man had managed to strike the bear in the nose with no more 
than his knuckly fist, yet with an angry and pained roar the beast hurled him 
aside. His gaze lit instantly on that which moved: the rushing youth. A huge 
shaggy arm leaped out to grasp him. The beast emitted such a fierce growling 
that it might have been heard through all Connacht, and he moved on the youth as 
if he had a mind not to stop and tear him up at all, but to swallow him at the 
one mouthful. 
The mailed young man reacted in the manner of a seasoned warrior. So deeply did 
he chop into the furry arm that the bears instant yanking back of his limb tore 
the sword from its weilders grasp. The brute had shriekedbut attacked in 
bleeding rage, rather than fled. The other arm swept forth, and then the wounded 
one as well. The sword dropped free of riven flesh while the animal seized the 
source of its pain. 
Instantly the young man was being crushed against the great beast, which sought 
his face or neck with its terrible jaws. Was well for the Connachtish youth he 
had not removed his coat of linked steel chain, else the awful claws would have 
ribboned his back and torn him to the bone. 
Only just was the youth able to wedge an arm beneath the brutes chin, and his 
body quivered with strain while he held the yellow-white teeth scant inches from 
his face. At the same time, his legs braced and the calves knotting within 
deerskin leggings, the youth plunged his dagger again and again into his 
ferocious antagonist. 
The immediate effect was precious little, though the bear issued more screams of 
rage that blasted the humans eardrums and fanned his face with the 
charnel-house breath of the beast; this omnivorous creature must have come 
recently from its winters nap and found meat almost at once. Now it sought 
more. Its prey was incredibly strongly held, squeezed in his carapace of steel 
linksand in imminent danger now of being crushed even as a steelbacked beetle. 
His entire body quivered in the strain of muscular tension. Surely his life was 
measured in seconds. 
Straining to keep massively powerful jaws and great teeth from his face, he 
desperately re-directed the aim of his daggerand plunged it into one glaring 
feral eye. 
Long was the blade, and deep he drove it. 
Steel point sundered eyeball and drove back within that vulnerable hollow to 
pierce smallish animal brain. Reflexively the beast hurled its foe from it, for 
it was sorely stricken enow to give over battle in favour of sensible flight. 
The valiant youth was propelled mightily backward against Bran. Both fell. Past 
them stamped leather-shod feet, and Midhir drove the dagger-long wedge of a 
spearblade solidly into the brute. 
The leaf-shaped blade of iron directly pierced the beasts heart. 
Bleeding in a dozen places, the brown bear fell, rolled, clawed snarling at 
itself and the earth and air. Its roars and snarls diminished in strength and 
volume. And then its legs were kicking loosely, aimlessly. It died. 
Th-thanks be to ye, Midhir mac Fionn! the youth gasped in a strained voice, 
when Midhir helped him to his feet. 
Thanks to me! Was yourself attacked the monster, Cormac! Be ye hurt? 
Uh The youth swelled his torso in a brace of deep breaths that brought winces 
on him. Hurts a little... its terrible pain Id be feeling an my ribs or back 
were broke or cracked, would I not? 
In the aftermath of the attack and the prodigious fight, Midhirs chuckle 
emerged as a giggle uncomplimentary to himself. Aye, lad, he said, clapping 
the youth high on the back. Leaving that hand there, he looked at Roich. 
Roich? 
Bruises. Naught more. First the waggon caught me, then Cormac fell on mesmall 
wonder ye prevailed, son of Art: methinks ye outweigh yon beast! Roich was 
feeling over himself with hands that visibly quivered. He Croms beard! My 
coat is torn! Torn, as if twere naught but linen, this stout coat of leather! 
Aye, and so is the arm beneath, the druid said. Come ye back to the fire and 
let me see to it, mac Lurchain. Cormacits sure ye be theres no hurt on ye? 
Let me have look at your back. 
No need, Midhir said. Ive seen men slashed to the bone, but in the heat of 
combat they never noticed. But our Bear-slayers all right, Druid. A triumph of 
the skill and steel of Taig the Armourer! 
And Cormacs steel ribs, grinned Roich, speaking a bit loudly now the danger 
was past; his hands still shook. Much thanks I owe ye, Cormac mac Art! 
Morelike your worthless life youre owing to him, Midhir said. His hand on the 
youths back propelled him to the fire on legs suddenly gone all aquiver. 
The men moved back to their blaze, the youngest among them fair creaking from 
the crushing bearish embrace hed endured. With herbs from his pouch Edar 
treated Roichs upper arm, and the druid insisted too on seeing to the few 
scratches on Cormacs hand; the hero had not noticed them. 
The while, Roich and Bran were stintless in their praise of the bear-fighting 
youth or New-man. Was praise from Midhir that swelled the bearslayers boyish 
chest, though; this was the man most trusted by Cormacs father, who called him 
even Arbenn, chieftain, and not in jest. And it was Finns son Midhir too who 
was most responsible for the training at arms of his lords son, as it was 
Sualtim the Druid who had trained the youths brain. 
Its truly a man ye are, son of Art, Midhir said very seriously. He was 
carving their neglected dinner, now overly charred on one side. Your slaying of 
those Picts on that day of shield-splitting and now this deed are the sort that 
birth legends, and its sure that yeve caught the eye of Connachts good king. 
Cormac mac Art: Bearslayer! 
And mayhap the High-king as well, Bran said excitedly. 
The day will surely come, Midhir said on, when yell serve our lord king 
directly, and him with gratitude on him for it, and... peradventure, Cormac, 
weapon-man, its yourself wholl be winning for Connacht the Championship of 
Eirrin, even at the Great Fair! 
Aye, weapon-comrade! Roich cried. 
Cormac said naught, keeping his eyes down while he bathed in the good rich oil 
of praise. 
Were best not to be attracting the eye of the Ard-righ, Edar said quietly. It 
is known that men have died, aye and with mystery on it, once theyve caught the 
ever-roving eye of poor King Lugaid. For our High-king ever sees enemies alurk 
all about him, and snakes under his very bed. 
Snakes! Bran cried. 
And laughed, and so did the others laugh with mirth upon them. 
For all knew that their fair land of green meadows and swirly mist and high 
blue-misted mountains possessed no slithering reptiles. Nor had it ever. 
Aye, and if told there be no snakes in all Eirrin, Roich said with high 
exuberance, our High-king would surely be convinced twas a lie, and set a 
watch over him who told it! 
Nay, nay, for his own wife would assure him was Padraigh drove all those 
doubtless-millions of creepy reptiles from our land, belike with that pointed 
stave he carried! 
And they laughed anew. 
Edar was more serious still. All that Padraigh brought us is a plague of 
serpents in human form, men who slither about the fens and meadows of Crom and 
Lugh and Behl in robes of black, seeking to win all to the worship of the gibbet 
of dying Rome! 
Midhir hastily returned to his bragging on Cormac, for none among them wished to 
give ear to a druidish lecture on the druids deadly enemies. Was the biggest 
bear ever hed set the gaze of eyes on, Midhir mac Fionn avowed, and the more 
courageous Cormac was in bracing the brute single-handedly. 
I was after trying to brace him double-handedly, the young man said, rather 
shyly amid the praise, but he made such an objection to my sword that I threw 
it away! 
Again there was hale laughter, and a chuckling Midhir said, Never would I be 
saying that it was a foolhardy act, son of Art! 
Oh, never, Bran cried, and they laughed anew, while the beat of their hearts 
slowed and the prickle faded slowly from their armpits and the tremors commenced 
to quit their hands. 
Admittedly, Midhir said, half strangling on his chuckles, had the subject 
ever arisen whilst we were at your training at arms, Cormac, Id have been 
advising ye not to attack a bear taller than two men and outweighing four! 
A... bear, Edar murmured slowly, and his frown chased their laughter. 
Blinking, thoughtful, the servant of Behl and Crom frowned about at the darkling 
woods. Bears have not been seen in these forests for years, for here no caves 
lie near, to house them as they like it. Even sowere a bit early for one to be 
up and abroad after his winters snooze... 
Edar looked at Cormac, and still his brow was creased and furrowed. The others 
were silent, stilling even their breath. The druid had spoke naught but the 
truth, and now it was called to mind, neither the bears attack nor even its 
presence seemed... natural. 
It is an omen, son of Art, the druid said, and his stressing the name of 
Cormacs father reminded them all that art in their tongue meant no less than 
bear even as it did over in Pretene or Britain, where one Uther had so named 
his son. 
They sat unspeaking, impressed to the viscera, and only after several minutes 
did Roich break the silence with an enthusiasm born of nervousness. 
Its no son of this bear Cormac is! 
Though he will soon have a great enveloping winters cloak of its hide, Midhir 
said. I and Aevgrine will soon be seeing to that. 
But the youth looked dark with the shadow of thought on him. 
Omen? he said. An omen, Druid Edar? And... see ye it as good or foreboding, 
Lord Druid? 
Edar but shook his bronze-locked head. This Behl does not reveal, nor does the 
Druid-sight that allows us occasionally to glimpse the time-to-come. Though in 
truth it is by night the beast came upon us, while Behl is absent from the sky 
and only the cold moon watches... 
Was then Midhir went again to the horses, which were still hardly calm, while 
Roich and Bran attacked the gloom by commencing the comparison of Cormac with 
the mighty hero Cuchulain in his strength and in his courage. Too high were the 
spirits of all to be affected darkly this night by the druids words. Cormac 
beamed, seeming to glow from deep within him, and his unease passed. 
Nevertheless he kept his stare fixed on the fire, pretending to ignore his 
exuberant companions and their high compliments. They were after all men in 
liege to his father... 
Midhir returned to the fire. Here, Cuchulain Bearslayer, this night its the 
champions portion for yourself, he said warmly, bringing forth a dripping 
gobbet of meat larger than his hand. 
The flames commanded Cormacs eyes, and his gaze was as if trapped by the 
dancing tongues and feather-shapes of yellow and orange, crimson and white... 
The champions portion... Cu-Chulain... the Hound of Chulan... Cuchulain of 
Muirthemne... 
and then Cormac mac Art was oblivious of the proffered meat, and the voices of 
these his companions, for he was no longer with them... 
He stood in a fine shining chariot drawn by two horses with the spirit of spring 
breezes and springs. Mourning was on him for his driver just slain, his 
long-time driver and old friend Laeg, and he hurled again his spear of victory 
into the ranks of the gathered enemy, and its gleaming bronze point drove 
through a man so that he died and him behind that one was hurled backward by the 
points bursting through the first and nigh entering his belly. 
And then another of the gathered enemy leaped forward, and tore free that 
much-blooded spear, the gau-buaid, and hurled it even as Cormac whipped up his 
fine team of horses 
No! Not Cormac; no son of Art was he, with sword of blue-grey steel by side, but 
him born Setalta and later called the hound of the smith, ChulanCuchulain he 
was, and battling the enemy who had never forgot the terrible War of the two 
bulls, the Brown of Cuailgne and the White-horned of Cruachan Ai. And the spear 
drove into one of his chariot horses, the finest in all the land, even the Grey 
of Macha, King of the horses of Eirinn, and him having served Cuchulain so long 
and so well. And he, he, Cormac who was Cuchulain, cried out, for it was another 
friend hed lost this day, and life and time were closing on him the way that in 
his anguished mind he heard anew the druids words of his youth: 
If any young man should be taking up arms this day, his name will be greater 
than any other name in Eirrin. But his span of life will be short. And the boy 
Cuchulain had immediately gone and taken up arms, aye and reddened them that 
day, and too he had sworn his oath of glory: I swear by the oath of my people 
that I will make my deeds to be spoken of among the great deeds of heroes in 
their strength. 
And indeed his name became thereafter, greater than any in all Eirrin, in Emain 
Macha or Uladh or Laigen that was Leinster, or Cruachan Ai to become Connacht, 
or Tuathmumain that was become Munster. 
Then, while in the midst of the enemy he anguished over the Gray of Macha that 
lay kicking before his chariot so that it tore free of pole and harness, he of 
the enemies of Cuchulain whose name was Lugaid hurled his throwing-spear of 
enchantment, and Cuchulain grunted and was staggered at feel of the terrible 
blow. 
(By the fire in the wood of Connacht, young Cormac jerked and groaned so that 
his companions asked in concern if he had wounds on him that did not show.) 
He looked down then, he who was not yet Cormac for centuries were in the way of 
it, and he felt the cold that came after the blow to his body, and he saw then 
that the spear had gone into him. In anger rather than horror he tore it from 
his middle, for it was long and did tug heavily at him. But then, liberated, his 
bowels began to coil out onto the cushions of his chariot. Down fell his arm 
that held Dubhan his shield, and he could not force his other hand to draw forth 
Cruaidin Calcidheann, the Hard, Hard-headed One, his great bronze sword of so 
many deeds, and the Hound of Chulan knew then that his lifes span would indeed 
be short. For Lugaid had surely given him his deadly wound. 
Then did his other horse and companion of so many battles strain, and find that 
his partner was loose of the chariot, and the Black Sanglain lunged forward into 
a gallop so that had not Cuchulain gripped the chariot before him hed have been 
hurled free. Spears whizzed amid the cries of his enemies, who had stood silent 
as if in awe and disbelief that he could be so wounded. And the Grey of Macha 
that was the King of all the horses of Eirinn left there to die among his 
enemies. 
Down onto the strand beside the loch galloped the Balck Sanglain, drawing the 
chariot alone in his bolting, and it struck a great rock at the waters edge so 
that it bounded high and landed on its side, and Cuchulain was hurled from it. 
Then did he put shame on his enemies that were shouting after him, and indeed on 
all men. For he set his teeth and gathered up his guts to himself, and with the 
aid of his other hand and the chariot, he dragged himself to the edge of the 
water, and Cuchulain drank and washed himself that he might not die so filthy 
with dirt and blood and sweat before his enemies. And again by the aid of the 
chariot, he gained his feet with a lurch and a grunt. 
A great slashing cold pain ran all through him from where his hand clutched his 
entrails to himself, and seeped blood between his fingers. And his enemies stood 
hushed whilst they stared, for he walked, and with his death-wound on him. 
Each time his foot came down on the sandy earth the jar seemed worse than had he 
leaped from the top of a mighty oak, but Cuchulain walked. His eyes stared only 
ahead, at the great standing rock rising from the sand, and Cuchulain walked. 
His feet moved, one and then the other and then the first again, the while he 
clutched himself the way that his bowels did not spill forth and trip him. And 
his blood leaked and leaked, and he walked. 
He walked, in an agony of pain, and surely when they had gone a million miles, 
his mind on naught but lifting his one foot and putting it down, and then the 
other, he had paced along the loch to the standing stone that had been raised 
there, for it was a pillar-stone. 
They see a dead man walk, he thought, and clamped his teeth against a groan when 
he paused at the stone taller than he, the greatest hero Eirrin would ever know, 
with his guts slippery in his hands: His head swam and the world was red-tinged 
though sunset was hours away, and he clung to himself, holding back blood and 
looping bowels with one hand while with the other he worked. 
Hours seemed to pass while he leaned against the pillar-stone, and got loose his 
breast-belt with a bloody hand, and then his loin-girding belt. Buckled 
together, he looped them over the standing stone, and set his broad back to it, 
the while his eyes saw a darkening red fog that was somehow also a sound, a 
throbbing continuing thunder in his ears. And he made shift to fasten the belt 
over the hole in him, and secured himself thus to the pillar-stone beside the 
loch. A terrible grunting groan escaped even his set lips that ground powder 
from his teeth for he had tugged tight the belt and yet had not the strength to 
hold tight his jaws the longer. And his mouth came open, and leaked blood upon 
his chest that was like unto that of a bear. 
Yet he knew his ribs would not hold his heart, for his great heros heart was 
turned all to blood within him. 
But he stood. He had bound himself upright against the stone, the way he would 
not meet his death lying down before his enemies, like the normal man he had 
never been. And though he saw only dimly, he knew then that the host of his 
enemies came down onto the strand, shields and spears ready, and she knew that 
he faced them standing erect with heels braced and guts bound up so they could 
not spill from within him, and even now they in their company were in dread of 
approaching him closely. Laughter he would have given them then, but he knew he 
dared not, for the strain of that laughter might sunder the straps of leather 
holding back the bowels that strained and sought to pour looping from him. 
For he was Cuchulain of Muirthemne, and hed die on his feet and facing his 
enemies. And a cloud and a weakness rose to come over him, so that his eyes were 
fixed. 
It is a great shame for us, said Erc who was the son of Cairbre whom Cuchulain 
had slain, not to strike the head off this man, in revenge for his striking the 
head off my father! 
And Cuchulain saw Lugaid then, Lugaid who had done death on him, and he was 
reaching for his swordthough Lugaid in truth had gone all reddish and dark and 
seemed to pulse with the throbbing thunder Cuchulain heard; dusk must be coming 
on uncommon early this day. And he heard the pounding hooves that told him his 
beloved horses were coming to seek to save him, and them without Laeg to drive 
nor Cuchulain their lifelong master to shout them on. For he was beyond 
shouting. 
And they did, the Black Sanglain and even the wounded Grey of Macha or so he 
thought he saw, both of them that slew many with flashing hooves and terrible 
warhorse teeth, and they were slain and died, his mighty horses, and Lugaid was 
coming for him with his sword up and his shieldhand rising the way it would lock 
in Cuchulains hair that Lugaid might strike off his head. 
And sadness was on Cuchulain to discover that his body that had served him so 
well no longer paid heed to his demands of it, for his arms would not rise to 
grapple with Lugaid, though he had killed ten tens and more of mightier men. 
Lugaids face came closer, and filled all his vision, and then it seemed to 
shimmer like the pool into which a stone had been tossed, and it was no longer 
Lugaids face before Cuchulain, but that of the druid of his boyhood, Cathbadh. 
Your name will be greater than any other name in Eirrin, the druid said, and 
his face pulsed redly. But its short your span of life will be. 
And this was the death of Cuchulain and this too was the first of the 
Rememberings to come upon Cormac son of Art. 
Then Cathbadhs face, too, shimmered, even as the bright sunlight of summer off 
a thousand fine shields or off the broad surface of Loch Cuan. 
And it was not Lugaid that he saw. And it was not Cathbadh the Druid he saw, 
with his face somehow surrounded by flames so that he stared out from within 
those very flames. Aye, though in truth it was a druid, neither Lugaid nor 
Cathbadh. Was Sualtim he saw with his agonized eyes. 
Sualtim! he thought. This is not possiblethat mentor of Cormac mac Art that I 
will be is not even born yet! 
OhI am Cormac mac Art! I was Cuchulain. I am Cormac. I am in the woods, not 
dying though I have died afore in lives other than this one... the woods... 
campfire... but that is Sualtim Fodla staring at me from the fire! 
Aye. Amid the dancing campfire, now opaque so that their white-and-yellow glare 
was invisible behind him, now opalescent and wavering amid a ruddy glow, now 
transparent so that he was but a cloud and the flames were completely visible 
behind him and through him; there stood Sualtim of Wisdom Itself. 
Thin he was as ever, gaunt of face so that his skin was as aged white parchment 
drawn over the bone. A band of soft doeskin two fingers in breadth circled his 
brow, binding his thin, straight hair the colour of June clouds on a sunny day 
or the sleek coat of a red-eared white calf. On him not his robe of oak-forest 
green, but the one of white, the white robe of ceremony that was the colour of 
the hair of his head and his eyebrows. 
The quick, bird-bright eyes stared blue at Cormac mac Art. And the gaunt old 
face with its lines from nostrils to the corners of his wide mouth was drawn 
with anguish and... could that be fear? Sualtim? 
From the flames in Connacht-Shield Woods, Sualtim spoke. 
Treachery, son of Art! Get ye to the house of your father, you who are boy no 
longer, for its dark treachery stalks the rath this night. 
That was all. The image, flickered with the flicker of the fire, and grew less 
and less substantial. And then Sualtim was gone. 
Cormac would have fallen but for the hands of an anxious Midhir. 
Cormac! What is it on ye, lad? Tell me! Crom protectit must be that he had 
injuries within from that great bear! 
N-no, Cormac stammered, but still he was weak and disconcerted so that he 
reeled as he sat, and was held up only by the concerned grip of a 
weapons-compatriot. 
The boy Edar began, and interrupted himself. Cormac has the look on him of a 
man who feels his other lives. Then Edar looked about, frowning, and there was 
confusion in his voice: Sualtim? 
Cormac 
I... I am unharmed, Mid-Midhir. 
Cormac forced his brain to work. Cuchulainnever mind that: later! 
Sualtim! Well he knew that the druid had been there, had spoken to himyet he 
knew that it was not in the flesh Sualtim had come. In a Sending, a samha, he 
had warned, called... 
Shaking off Midhirs solicitous hands, Cormac thrust himself to his feet like a 
big cat. He looked about at his companions. They were staring at him. 
I have seen Sualtim. He was speaking to me. Midhir! Ye must be coming with 
menow, tonight. Two of the horses we will ride; two we leave to pull the empty 
carts on the morrow. Edar, Roich, Bran: when day comes, make haste. We leave ye 
now. 
And none gainsaid the boy-man from Eirrin who turned now to ready a pair of 
horses; the boy-man of fourteen, who was suddenly a man in other than physical 
deeds, and to be obeyed. 
Chapter Three:
Glondrath
The forest called Sciath Connaict debouched amid a sprinkling of alder and 
bilberry onto a fine long meadow that flowed out green, and planted in summer to 
a gentle rise on the leftward flank, as one emerged from the woods. Here 
Connacht defended herself. Two miles beyond the forest and this meadow lay the 
coast and the western sea. Just seaward of center on this ancient plain, a 
mighty mound rose on what was called Magh Glondarth: The Plain of Deeds, for in 
times gone by many a battle had been fought on these acres. The sprawling mound 
itself bore the name lios. When it was fortified atop so that there clustered 
what amounted to a warlike village or manor-estate as here, and ringed about 
with a strong defensive wall of earth, it became a rath. 
To Comals son Art his king had given command of this key military post, which 
was both home and holding-for-the-king. Though many called it Rath Airt, 
naturally enoughArts Rathit remained not his, but a part of the kingdoms 
important defenses. For it bristled betwixt the dense forest east of which lay 
the rest of Eirrin and its kingdoms, and the sea, whence came occasional-raiders 
from the Northlands and, unceasingly, the Cruithne; the squat dark men the 
Romans called the Old Ones: Pictii; Picts. And thus it was not Arts Rath at 
all, but a highly important outpost of the kingdom born centuries agone as 
Coiced Connachta; an outpost that took in all these acres and the land even unto 
the sea, and that for two centuries had borne the name Rath Glondarth, and, more 
simply by someones cleverness, Glondrath. 
The Rath of Deeds. And many were the deeds done here by striving men at the game 
of the Morrigu and the shield-splitting, nor ever had Rath Glondarth fallen to 
attackers. 
Just after dawn, two men on horseback emerged from the woods. To their right the 
meadowed plain rolled out and out like a carpet laid at the foot of the mountain 
that rose tall and talland gapless; to their left began the long gentle rise 
that gave way to highland farms and pasturage. Because of the forest with its 
myriad oaks and plentitude of acorns, many were the fine pigs that were raised 
hereabouts. Fond of pork, were the sons of Eirrin. 
Nearly a mile straight ahead rose the lios and Rath Glondarth, the command of 
Art mac Comail of the western ui-Neill, 
Comals fifth son was Art, and little thered been left for him on his fathers 
death. Given this command because of his sword and his warlike brain, along with 
the failure of its previous lord, Art had proven so strong and fair-handed that 
men and their families had flocked to him. His command had become his estate, 
and good was the tribute sent by him to his king each year. Good too was 
Glondraths trade; pork fattened on these grasses and roots and acorns was known 
as far to the east as Carmen and southeast as Caisel and aye, even in Tir 
Conaill of Ailech to the north. And many were the lords halls south and north 
and east of Connacht that dispalyed on their walls Pictish spears and shields 
and blades, for those there were in Eirrin who had never seen the Cruithne. 
Picts were well known betwixt the forest called Sciath Connaict and the sea. 
Both riders who emerged from the woods were cloak-muffled, furs up, for the, 
dawn-chill had hardly dissipated. They sat their mounts loosely in weariness, 
and both beasts were winded, blowing with flanks atremble. For hours they had 
been urged with care through the night-blackened forest. Their riders had held 
their mounts to a walk while trusting otherwise to the instinct and 
surefootedness of the animals on the hardpacked roadway. The trail was broad, 
though, for reasons of defense and the slowing of any possible force of 
invaders, it wound about abominably. 
Winded or no, the horses quickened their trot. One whickered and both strove to 
stretch reins and riders arms to allow a lope. For with home, oats and stable 
in sight, they were no less anxious to reach that hilltop fortress than the men 
they bore. Yet despite the haste that had driven them to the long ride through 
the night, the men held their reins now in stern hands that drew skin tight over 
knuckles. Neither was anxious, this close, to have his mount go down under him 
in final weariness. 
They but glanced at the apple orchard to the east; the guard, that was ever 
posted there to surprise interlopers would not bestir themselves and betray 
their position to challenge only two men. And besides, Midhir mac Fionn was at 
pains to display in that direction his scarlet-painted shield with its four 
sun-catching points of silver; a gift from his lord Art that shield, and known 
farther abroad then hereabouts. 
The forced ride had been cruel in more ways than one. There had been the 
darkness and the danger of a stumbling mount. There had been the sleepiness that 
came on, with the growing ache in buttocks and thighs. And too the long silent 
hours of darkness had afforded much time for brain-meandering. 
Nor had Cormac mac Art done aught else. His mind would not clear, nor would it 
consent to remain on any one of his several worries. Of no avail the years of 
words and mental exercises drilled into him by Sualtim whose counsel was ever 
that one should get to know oneself, and then to control him one thus knew, to 
make him the betterand no animal merely reacting. 
There had been too much, and all at once. The thrill of bracing that huge bear 
had been enow. Sure and such a feat deserved to be followed only by a basking in 
the bright glow of praise, followed by earned sleep. Yet close on the heels of 
that encounter and that accomplishment had come the... the rune-sent vision, the 
samha. 
Cuchulain! Sure and Cormac knew the tales, which he had heard far more than 
once. He had dreamed of those times, of those days of great and incredible 
deeds. But this! 
Had his mental state, the decline in mental and physical heightening from their 
peak following the slaying of the bear... had these and the eyeseizing, 
mind-dulling effect of the fire merely sent him into a sort of trance? Had he 
but seemed to see, to feel himself a participant in those tales of, the Hound of 
Chulan the Smith? 
Or... had Edars words held the truth? Cormac, the druid had said, had about him 
the look of a man remembering his past lives. 
Was that what I was about? Was I Cuchulainor rather am I? Is it possible? 
Certainly few in Eirrin questioned the ancient Celtic assertion of immortality 
by way of the return of the basic life force in a new body. Reincarnation was a 
part of religion and life. A man came onto the earth, and trod the ridge of the 
world for a while. The while was called a lifetime. Its length varied. Then he 
was gone for a time again to that Other Place, Donns realm. Thence he returned 
to begin anew as an infant, the offspring of new parents, a new personality with 
a new name in a new body. Nor did he remember his previous lives, save in 
occasional snatches and glimpses. Thus was explained the inexplicable: genius in 
this or that trade, or at singing, or at any of the arts or skills. 
Cormacs taking to weapons and combat seemed instinctive. Perhaps. And perhaps 
it was the continuing ability of another life, or lives. So had Sualtim 
suggested, and few argued with the druids. 
Whatever the explanationif one indeed existedthat strangeness of the 
remembering had been enough, of itself. For Cormac had felt the pain and pangs 
of dying, physical and mental, with him unable to prevent that death or even 
take one more foe with him... 
And then had appeared Sualtim. To the matter of the bear and the matter of the 
Remembering was added still a third jarring experience. 
Never before had the druidic tutor of his boyhood appeared to him thus, and the 
man himself not there. Yet Cormac was certain had been no trick of his mind. 
Illusion, perhapsbut of Sualtims mind, of Sualtims devising, of Sualtims 
sending. All through the night had Cormac mac Art worried over the meaning of 
the druids all too few words. And still he did, as he and Midhir allowed their 
mounts to pick up their pace to a trot toward the outer wall of Glondrath. 
Aye... and Cormac had known fear, too. He still did. 
Treachery, Sualtim had said. Treacheryby whom, from whom? Against whom? To what 
malignant purpose? For how could treachery be benign, or even neutral? 
Even more troublesome to his youthful mind was the dread question: Had the 
treachery succeeded in its doing and its purpose? 
He would find out soon enough. Around him bird sang their gladness of springs 
coming, and he heard them not. The horses were nearing the tall wall of oak and 
earth. Men gazed down upon the riders, men in armour and, under their helms, 
faces that Cormac well knew. Dour and drawn were the faces of the two weapon-men 
on Glondraths eastern wall, showing little warmth of welcome to their commander 
and their chieftains son. 
Much of his weariness left mac Art, then. A new energy of excitement came on 
him, born of apprehension and forebodingand fearfulness. 
The way was opened to the two, without a word. They passed within. 
Brychan! Cormac called. Whats amiss? 
The two guards exchanged a look. One said, Amiss? 
Cormacs stare was nigh onto a glare. Ye heard me aright. 
Brychan tucked under his lip; his companion made reply. The druid will tell ye, 
son of Art. 
Brychan could not help himself. Howhow knew ye aught was amiss, son of Art? 
Cormac but looked at him; Midhir glowered. The weapon man set his teeth in his 
lower lip and busied himself with the gates closing. 
The, horses paced into the sprawling townlet that had grown up around the 
fortress-become-manorhouse. There the main granary. There the other. There the 
stables. Near it the milk-sheds. There the creamery and buttery, there the cozy 
home of Midhir and his wife Aevgrine, and there doored mounds over underground 
storage chambers. Two large smokehouses. The barracks, sprawling, and homes of 
workmen and maids, drovers and churls, planters, the smith and armourer, the 
tanner and the horse-manager. Dogs yapped, wagged their tails, and some came 
running. Cormacs mount whickered. A woman lugging her wash looked his way, met 
his eyes, looked a greeting with what seemed embarrassment, looked away. 
Children were clamorously at playor work, for that life began at six or seven 
and sometimes earlier. Yet they seemed subdued, and they hushed at sight of the 
two riders. 
Taller, huger, somehow darker and more gloomily foreboding, loomed the old 
fortress itself, the house of Art; the fortress-house that had been the home of 
Cormac mac Art through his memory. 
Other people avoided his eyes, or looked away. None smiled. A chill came on 
Cormacs very bones. 
Something was sore amiss. 
From the house of great oaken beams came Sualtim. Aye, and he wore his white 
robe as he had in his bodiless appearance to mac Art in the early hours of the 
previous night. Normally Sualtim, and indeed druids in general, wore their robes 
of deep forest green; the green of the leaves of the oak sacred to Behl. 
Sualtim! Where is my father? 
Within, lad. Midhir: I would take Cormac in. Will ye be seeing to the horses? 
Midhir glanced about, caught the eye of a youth of eleven or so. Midhir 
beckoned. Then he returned his eyesto the druid, even while Cormac slid from 
his horse. He alit with a clanky jingle of armour and the thwock of 
leather-shod, wooden swordsheath against his leg. 
Cormac, Midhir said, and when the youth turned and looked questioningly up at 
him, your buckler. 
Cormac gave his longtime trainer a lookand came about to fetch his shield from 
the saddle. The two had left behind their spears, awkward and indeed dangerous 
in a fast-walk-night ride through the woods. 
Druid, Midhir said, as he threw his right leg over. He slid from his horse 
without glancing to the ground. Are ye saying that ye want me not with ye two? 

The boy came in response to Midhirs beckoning gesture; to him Midhir handed 
over the horses. Give them good care, Curnan. Its weary and doubtless hungry 
they are, but too hot to turn free in this chill. And Midhir looked again at 
Sualtim. 
Sualtim opened his mouth above the thin though very long beard of grey-flecked 
white. Ere he could speak, Cormac did. 
Nay, the son of Art said. Come ye with us, Midhir. He started past Sualtim, 
to the greathouse. 
My pupil, the druid began, from long habit, and paused to amend. Cormac... 
wait. 
The youth, half-wheeled on the old man who remained straight though age was at 
work to fold his shoulders inward. 
Ye bespoke treachery, mentor, Cormac said, forgetting hed not told Midhir of 
the words of his vision. No one weve seen here has behaved naturally. Its ill 
or wounded my father is 
I but want to go in at your side, son of Art. 
And so they went. Within, in silence, they walked past the mournful face of 
Branwen with her deep belly, and then of Conor her nigh-bald husband, and Midhir 
followed them through the fortress-house to the door of the chamber of Art mac 
Comail. Was then a hand from the cold bed of a winterbound loch grasped at 
Cormacs heart, for Sualtim did not knock. 
Not even the druid, not even Cormac, entered the presence of the stern military 
Art mac Comail without knocking. 
Cormac knew then, with his belly going light within him, that hed be finding 
druids within the room, and Art lying still and cold in death, and he was right. 

His eyes swamand it was as if they sent a signal to all within Glondrath. 
Throughout the house and the entire rath then the keening began, for such was 
the way of Eirrin, and all had but awaited the arrival of the son to begin their 
clamorous mourning of his fathers death. 
Some sons hated their fathers, often with reason. Some loved those who had sired 
them, equally with reason. Some sons were like shadeflowers all their lives, 
pale and as if delicate in their lack of forcefulness and accomplishment. Those 
were indeed sons all their days; sons of fathers, as opposed to men, who were 
also sons. Aye, and shadeflowers they were indeed, for the great light-blotting 
shadows of their fathers lay long and oppressive over them. Of these some sought 
to emerge into the light; others, like fearful rabbits, did not. When those 
fathers died, many of those sons, those permanent sons, subjects, were so 
unaccustomed to the light of freedom and decision and deeds that they were as 
blinded. Unequipped and unable to cope were they; such men became never men 
and were useless. Others kicked up their heels in the sudden freedom of the 
fatherto which they were unaccustomed, and with which they were unable to cope. 
No longer controlled, they were unbridled. And they too were useless. 
The sons of other men somehow emerged from the shadow naturally, perhaps 
realizing that they had been aided by their fathers and perhaps not. They became 
men. 
And for some the shadows were foreshortened, removed; the great oaks fell before 
the coming of their time. Many of them sought the father, Father, all their 
lives. Religion helped; the religion of the Priests of Rome was for them, as it 
was for all who sought slavery or indeed were slaves, for among them had it been 
born. Some few of these sons who were early rendered fatherless became men. 
Perhaps they realized they were fortunate never to have been overshadowed, or to 
have joined the ranks of the seekers of Father. And for them and their presence 
in it the world, too, was fortunate. 
It remained to be seen into which category Cormac mac Art would enter. Mac Art 
he was and would remain, though there was no longer an Art. 
Art was dead. His son was alive, very alive. 
He was not one with those who loved their fathers to fault. He was not one of 
those consumed with love for the father. Nor was he one of the many who hated 
the man who both sired and tyrannizedor ignoredhim. For Art had been neither 
ineffective nor tyrant; each bred hatred. Consummate respect had been on Cormac, 
for Art; his fourteen years of life and his deed had reflected it. Hed Hed had 
much to prove; Art was to be respected, and to be impressed; he was worthy. And 
too his son was not the sort to be a basker in the light of anotheror a 
delicate flower either, to dwell tranquilly in anothers shade. 
Cormac would not exult in Arts death. It did not occur to him that a son were 
the better for breaking free of the shade or having it removed from off his 
life. 
Nor would he grive to excess and know despondence. It was not in him, and 
respect and love were never the same. As Art had been stern, and military and 
gruff, and busy so that Cormac had spent much time with the weapon-man Midhir 
and the sage druid Sualtim. Cormac had indeed respected more than loved his 
father; sought his approbation more than his attention and demonstrations of 
paternal love. 
All of which was to say that Arts son Cormac had had a quite normal 
relationship with his father, though he was blessed in having one worthy of 
respect and who did not generate hatred. Few such peopled the ridge of the 
world. Siring sons, as Sualtim had pointed out in warnings to the boy as he 
approached puberty, were a simple matter. Being father to them was something 
else again. 
Cormac had wept, but not in despair. And he had put by his weeping; there was 
not time for it just now. Such luxuries must be deferred. Just now... 
Art was dead and laid out white on his bed, as had been his wife but two years 
agone. But was no disease or accident that had laid low Art son of Comal and 
called him hence to await rebirth and return. 
Sualtim had found him yester eve, on the westward side of the barracks. The 
throat of the master of Glondrath had been slashed open. Nor were there 
footprints, or other traces of the slayer. 
The druid and the women of Glondrath had washed the dead man, and his hair, and 
had dressed him in his cerements. So he had lain until the arrival of Cormac and 
Midhir. And Midhir had made a weapon-mans pronouncement; Arts throat had been 
cut, with the blade of a dagger, not a sword or broad blade of a spear. 
These few facts the three exchanged and mulled over now, in a dim-lit room 
within the greathouse. Cormacs tears had begun to seep again, though he made no 
sound, Outside, the death-keening rose loud and eerie. Was the way of Eirrin. 
Was someone he knew and trusted, sure, Midhir said, the words emerging between 
teeth that were set together. For no enemy would have got so close as to slit 
the throat of such a warrior! 
Aye, Sualtim said. Catching Cormacs eye, he looked pointedly at the young 
mans beer, that made of wheat and honey. Aye, the druid repeated. Aengus mac 
Domnail bethought him that he saw a man clambering over the rath-wall a short 
time before I discovered the bodiscovered the lord Art. 
Midhirs head jerked up and his face was instantly alert. Ah. Aengus was his 
second, as Midhir himself had been second to Art. 
Aengus is after taking out a company of men yester night, to search. Nor have 
they returned. 
Cormac sat in silence whilst he gave listen, nor would he use the beer to dull 
and ease his mind. The while he thought of Art, and of the past, and of himself, 
and the tears flowed down his cheeks. The sons of Eirrin were men, and sureness 
of it was on them; theyd no need to hold back or disguise their tears. 
Cormac knew himself to be alone now. These two discussed a dead man. He washe 
had been Cormacs only kin. He had not known the sister who died, at less than a 
year of age, a year before his birth. He hardly remembered the brother on whom 
illness and death had come, in his third year, when Cormac was but one. His 
mother was two years dead; in winter she died, as so many did. He was alone. He 
felt that alone-ness, and knew it would become loneliness. 
Despair he would combat, and reject, for he remembered the words of his father 
on that subject, after the death of Cormacs mother Sobarche. Despair was not 
worthy. That he had of his father, and he would keep all that he had of that 
good and noble man. Was Art too had told him that Eirrin had need of weapon-men, 
that Connacht did, and so he must observe Midhir, and listed to Midhir, and 
practice with him. Too, Art had said that the world had need of men who thought, 
and particularly of such men of weapons, so that he had bade Cormac listen to 
Sualtim, and made the boy subject to the druid who had earned; the sobriquet 
Fodla for his wisdom. A man should not draw blade and leap, Cormac had beep 
told, and told. A man should think, and consider, and let his own self decide, 
rather than his glands. And then were it called for, he should draw blade and 
leapand if possible with the absolute ferocity of a hungry and cornered wolf. 
Were best not to kill, he had been told, unless it were necessary. If it 
werethen kill, and kill swiftly. 
Someone had thought, and considered, and drawn blade, and slain Art, swiftly. 
On this Cormac was reflecting when they heard the horses outside, and then the 
voices and tramp of men. 
Was Aengus, with all his company. They had found naught. In the noonday sun he 
looked worse than unhappy, for all his freckles that vanished not with the 
winter; shame was on the face of Aengus Domnals son, as for some failure of his 
own. 
Midhir allowed himself to well into a rage that would build to loud railing 
against his second; Aenguss face and downcast manner helped, of course, for 
they were all of them sore in need of an object for their wrath. 
A very young man put his hand on the shoulder of Aengus Domnals son. 
Thank you, Aengus, he said, and his eyes were on Midhir, and they were clear 
of tears and blue-grey as sword-steel. 
Aengus looked both sad and grateful. Midhir subsided. They stared at mac Art 
then, the two stout weapon-men and the long-gowned druid. They saw him anew, and 
his words now heightened their new feeling for him. 
Sualtim: my father is dead and the slayer escaped. The rath mourns. Prepare him 
for burial, on the morrow. Midhir: send messengers throughout the land about, 
and to the king in Cruachan, that Art is dead and his son burying him on the 
morrow. See that none of those with Aengus go; they have done their best, and 
are weary. 
He looked at them a moment, and then Cormac turned and re-entered the house. 
Sualtim nodded. I will prepare Art, and prepare for the funerary rites, he 
said, though not for the ears of Cormac. No need for the couriers, Midhir; that 
I was thinking of this morning and I saw them dispatched. He gazed solemnly on 
Midhir and Aengus. See that no mention is made of this to Cormac. He too 
thought of it; let it be his word. 
The two men nodded, but they were gazing after the youth-become-man, not at the 
druid. So big and accomplished Cormac was for his years, and him coming to 
manhood so suddenly, and his hard encounter with the bear to be swallowed up by 
this tragedy, the way that hed never feel the good glory of it was his due. And 
now, now he was master of Glondrath, and he both knew it and had shown it. 
And, they all realized... surely he was in danger. 
Amid the keening and the intoning of words in a language far older than Eirrin, 
Cormac remained silent. Solemn, stern, their life-symbolizing robes of forest 
green laid aside for the pure colourlessness of white, Sualtim and several 
assisting druids said the ancient words, their voices rising from mere murmur to 
volume that was nigh-shouting, and descending again. 
Cormac stared dully, stricken, while his father was buried. The belief that Art 
would be back was a sustaining comfort, but provided little relief for grief and 
its normal companion, self-pity. Art would not be Art again. He would return as 
an infant and would bear the new name of that father. Even should his and 
Cormacs life-paths cross, theyd know each other not. 
Midhir stepped forward, for custom prevailed and was time for personal 
statements of loss. 
O Art my lord, you were betrayed to your death; your end is sorrowful to us 
all. You to die and we to be living! Our parting is a grief forever. His voice 
caught and trembled as he said, Farewell, weapon-companion; farewell, my lord. 

And Branwen said, Dear to me O my lord Art, was your beautiful ruddiness, dear 
to us all your manly form and your kindness; dear to us your clear grey eye that 
saw so much and held such wisdom. Dear The housekeeper broke down weeping 
then, and her husband drew her away, nor were the eyes of Conor dry. 
Was Aengus moved then to the fore, nearest that which had been Art mac Comail. 
My lord and my commander, he said quietly. There has not come your match to 
the battle; there had not come and been made wrathful in combat, there had never 
held up shield on the field of weapons the like of yourself, O Art of Comal! 
As Aengus stepped back, Sualtim switched from the Old Language to their own 
Gaelic: ...for had the world been searched from Behls rising to sunset, Art 
mac Comail, the like would not have been found of your valiant and wise self. 
And it is breaking my own heart is in my body, to be here speaking so and 
listening to the sorrowing of the women and men of Glondrath of Connacht, and 
Connacht to be in its weakness, and without strength to defend itself, for Red 
Comals son is gone from among us. 
Exaggerations all, as were the loud cries of lament and the wringing of hands 
and beating of breasts. 
Was the way of Eirrin, and none was hypocritical of lament or plaint for 
well-liked had been Art Comals son. And when all, others had spoken their last 
to the man to be received by the earth and by Donn, Lord of the Dead, his son 
came forward. Tears shimmered like dewdrops on Cormacs face. 
I am a raven that has no home, he said, little above a whisper. I am a boat 
tossed from wave to wave; I am a ship that has lost its rudder; I am... the 
apple left dangling on the tree alone, and its little thought I had of your 
being plucked from beside it. Grief on me! My sorrow, my father! Ochone! Grief 
and sorrow will be with me from this day to the end of time and life. 
After a long silence Cormac added, May the gods make smooth the path of Return 
for you, Art mac Comail, athair na Cormaic Aenfher! 
And he who had been called Cormac Pictslayer and Cormac Bearslayer and who now 
called himself Cormac the Lonely turned away of a sudden. He would not watch 
whilst they poured dirt over his father, but returned alone to the rath-house 
whilst those others completed the funerary rites of the murdered Art mac Comail 
of Connacht. 
Chapter Four:
Master of Glondrath
Cormac mac Art had sat alone in his fathers command chamber all the morning. 
Outside birds twitted and a jay shrieked his raucous cry, as though angry. 
Otherwise there were only the somewhat muted sounds of the raths going about 
its normal business; the mournful, ear-grating keening for the dead warrior had 
ended. Art was in the ground. His son sat in the chamber wherein the master of 
Glondrath had spent most of his last eleven years. This day Cormac gave to 
grief, and memories. And there was the encroachment of some bitterness. 
His father had been a weapon-man all his years, a man with the blood of 
conquerors and kings in his veins. Yet he had held little power, little land 
that was his own. A few acres, well away from here, in stewardship. He had known 
that his wife was far happier there than here; she had said naught, and he had 
striven for her peace whilst he kept the kings. 
Among those subject to him, the pigs for which Glondrath was well known were 
more numerous than human beings. The finest pork in Connacht, any agreed; the 
finest in all Eirrin, some said. And for this was known the descendant of Niall! 

Companions most of their adult lives, Art and Midhir had served the King of 
Connacht willingly and well. The counsel of Lord Art, however, was seldom asked. 
Nor was he asked to come up to the capital where lesser men glittered. No war 
came on Connacht, and the constant necessity of beating off the incursions of 
Pictish raiding parties brought Art mac Comail no great fame or honour. Wealth 
and power avoided himor rather were denied him. 
Even Arts command of this southwestern keep came not by birthright or even as 
result of his strength, but because of the weakness of another. 
Gulban mac Luaig had commanded this rath and its people until eleven years 
agone; was then Gulban embraced the New Faith and commenced to wear the cross 
rather than the torc and sundisk or lunula. Too, he began to talk of peace with 
the Picts. With the Picts, who were not considered even so much as men! For the 
New Faith changed men, as it was changing all Eirrin and thus historyelse the 
sons of Eire would have taken half of fallowing Britain erenow, rather than 
allow it to be sliced into pieces by pirates from oversea after the Romans 
departure. Battle and slaying were not right, Gulban began to say. Honour did 
not lie therein, as his people had believed for centuries upon centuries. One 
should turn the other cheek to him who slapped, and do all in ones power to 
embrace peace, to spread and maintain peacewithout point and edge. This whether 
the Picts gave heed or no. 
Was all well in theory, Cormac remembered Art and Sualtim as saying, despite the 
obvious fact that the natural state of humankind and that which led it on, ever 
onwas striving. That striving frequently led to disputes and even war betwixt 
two strivers or striving peoples. And that led to the survival of the strong 
over all the ridge of the world. It was hardly unkown that in what remained of 
the two-headed wolf that had been the Empire of Rome, Christians slew each other 
with no less zeal than those they were arrogantly pleased to call heathen and 
pagan. 
Besides, the Picts did not subscribe to such views, either in theory or 
practice. 
Those dark savages would as lief slice the stones off a priestand later his 
throat, an they were in a merciful moodas of a weapon-man. These things Gulban, 
lord of Glondrath, knew well but seemed to have forgot. Connachts king knew, 
too, and no forgetfulness was on that wise monarch. 
Indeed, as reminder, a hideous trophy hung ever on his wall amid the painted 
shields and flint weapons taken from slain Cruithne, Picts: a pouch stripped 
from the belt of one of those demons in semi-human guise. It was a hand-made 
pouch, threaded with drawstrings, made of the breast of a Gaelic woman of 
Connacht. 
Connachts kings reluctance was overcome by his wisdom and concern for his 
realm; he had Gulban stripped of rank and power. Indeed was said he had bade the 
man seek employment among the blackbirds, as he called those Romish priests, or 
at the court of the High-king, who was reportedly leaning in a crossward 
direction. 
Was then that the Connacht-righ handed over command of his important rath to his 
captain of deeds and strong will and arm, Art, son of Comal. With his wife and 
very young son, Art mac Comail moved to, Rath Glondarth and took command. Even 
with the resentment that was on many because of the fall of their former lord 
and commander, Art had these peoples respect at once, their loyalty in a 
season, and the love of most within a year. For such a man was he. 
Cormac well remembered the shame and dishonour on Gulban. 
Gulban was changed aforetime, he mused this day after the funeral, and him a 
good man formerly. Its no friend of the New Faith, the faith of the Dead God 
Ill be, ever, with their carpenter god who makes sleeping dogs of men and would 
as soon that women were slaves. For such had never been the way of the daughters 
of Eirrin! 
In his fathers chamber, Cormac sat, and he reflected on his growing to youth 
and manhood here, under the tutelage of Art and of Sualtim and Midhir. Advice he 
gained, and example, and on some occasions his lessons were accompanied by 
anguish and grief. Advice in the way of a man he gained, a man of Eirrin; a man 
of weapons. 
Aye, and so he was become, a weapon-man of Eirrin. 
First there was respect and later deep friendship with Midhir, his fathers 
close friend to whom Art always gave listen and whom he trusted to make his son 
a surpassing warrior. Cormac well remembered that aspect of his life; their 
practice and practice, their telling of warlike tales at night by the fire, 
quaffing weak ale often no more than barley-water. For ale was a staple, and 
children began early the drinking of that which all adults quaffed as a matter 
of course. And Cormac remembered how he and Midhir had lied shamelessly in 
those taletellings... each with the knowledge of the other. 
Within his head the grieving mac Art saw the face of Midhir that day two years 
agone, and astonishment on that face. Cormac had watched the expression give way 
to happiness, and pride. 
Yeve won, lad! Its death yeve just done on me, Cormac! 
And Cormac recalled with what delight and pride Midhir had conveyed that 
information to Art mac Comail. Art watched them next day, at their practice. And 
of course Cormac lost under those eyes, was slain three times by Midhir, and 
when he looked up after that third defeat, Art was no longer there. Naturally 
within ten minutes the lad had put defeat on the experienced weapon-man, and his 
father not there to see. But Art knew, and was proud. 
Art continued to give his son word and example in the ways of leading men, and 
Cormac stored away that knowledge. Again he heard within his head the words of 
Sualtim the Wise: 
A sharp mind, that truly brilliant servant of Behl and Crom was fond of saying, 
weighs a hundred stone heavier than a sharp sword. And Art had bade them both 
that the word swift could be substituted for sharp, and he exchanged a long 
look with Sualtim, who was his friend of mutual respect. 
Then Cormac had begun defeating Midhir again and again. The lessons ceased. They 
became workouts, to keep both men ready and sharp of brain and reflex. Aye, and 
Cormac remembered his fathers pride-in-son. More than once had Art recounted 
the history of their land, enumerating the kings of Connacht and the High-kings 
in Meath. And Cormac remembered the quiet words of a man who showed no 
bitterness, though he had cause. 
Perhaps Ailill Molt was the last son of Connacht to sit enthroned on Tara Hill 
and preside over the assembled kings at Feis-more, Art had said, gazing on his 
stout and clever son, and... perhaps not. 
For Art the Bear had seen his own ancestry and high promise come to little, and 
held far higher hopes for his son, who would be more man, surely, than himself. 
Thus with his brain full of manifold and multiform thoughts of the past did 
Cormac mac Art sit and wallow in days gone by, and avoid thereby thinking of the 
present and future. And afternoon came, and deepened. 
Gods! But two nights agone he had felt strapping big and mature, much the man! 
Now he was aware only of being young, with no sureness on him of either his 
present position or of the time-to-come-even the morrow. There was little to 
inherit. Nor would his king be handing over command of this important outpost to 
one of Cormacs years, no matter whose son he was. 
His mind continued to seek pleasant memories. He was undisturbed as he had 
requested; not even Branwen came to press food on him. He relived in his mind 
that battle with the Picts, and him alone against their four, dark and squat 
with blue paint on their powerful bodies. He remembered his fear that dayand 
how it had gone, vanished, so that he became what Midhir had so long counselled 
and demanded: a pure weapon-man. A creature of lightning judgment and reflexand 
muscle. Thus had he fared, until four Picts lay dead, the last as surprised as 
the first. And their conqueror was hardly scratched, the lad theyd sought to 
make easy victim. 
And... 
Afternoon deepened the more. Light had long since ceased to find its way into 
the commandroom of Art. At last he who sat there seemed to come awake, as though 
hed been asleep or away. He sighed in the manner of an old man. Realization 
came on him then; he had accomplished naught by sitting and mourning. Naught 
would ever be accomplished by wallowing in the past. There was much to be 
accomplished. Questions wanted answering. Art was dead. Cormac lived, and must 
live. 
No questions will be answered by my sitting and mourning, dwelling in the yester 
days and mooning for a time that was happier! He gave a few seconds to that 
thought, and he never did it again. Once again Cormac mac Art began to live for 
today and tomorrow. 
He rose, and frowned at the twinge in his back, at the kinks he felt. On impulse 
he pounced across the room. That was of some value; he paced, lifting his legs 
exaggeratedly high while cranking both arms, swinging them in half- and then in 
full-circles, meanwhile dropping occasionally into a squat or bending from the 
waist, stiff-legged. 
Then Cormac left that chamber of memories. 
It was not Sualtims quiet counsel hed seek now; let tomorrow be put off a bit 
longer. Hed find purpose and some release in the lighter-weight company of 
Midhir. A moments reflection put another thought into his head. Hed ask Midhir 
for a working out with arms. 
With that thought, he went to his own quarters. There he donned quilted long 
jerkin of leather, with its pendent crotch-protector. With his strength he could 
get easily into his coat of chain, without aid. He spread its oiled leather 
wrapping on the desk with which his father had surprised him on a birthday five 
years agone. On it he laid his coat of linked circles of chain. Bending to ease 
it up his arms, he mused on his growth. He had reached his fathers height seven 
months agoneand had not stopped growing. 
Was his fourth coat of armour, this one that had been Midhirs. The making and 
linking of slim steel rings into armour was a lengthy process of painstaking 
labour and considerable skill, his father had impressed upon him. Grow more, Art 
had said, and he could have a new coat next year, made for himself. Cormac 
swallowed. Would he ever see that promised mail? 
At present, Midhirs chaincoat fit. Midhir was thick and brawny; Cormac was 
built more rangily, with muscles like those of a cat. Already Midhirs coat fell 
not so low on the youth as it had on the man of twoscore and one. Having pulled 
it up his arms and, with a little grunt, over his headthe while being careful 
about his ears and facehe let it jingle down his body and moved his shoulders 
under its weight, nigh twoscore pounds. He strapped on his scabbard-belt with 
its huge clasp of shining brass, pulled his buckler from the wall. Brass-faced 
and leather-backed it was, over the thick circle of wood, with both its bracer 
and grip padded with leather over wool. Sliding his hand through the bracer, he 
fisted the grip and departed the room. His cloak was heavy on his shoulders; the 
bearskin collar extended halfway down his back. 
His stomach snarled, and he made Branwen relatively happy by stuffing his mouth 
with ham and his hand with pan-bread. Was not enough, she scolded; but he 
pointed to his overfull mouth, made a few wordless sounds, and left. 
Outside he was greeted with restraint, the way that he durst not smile had the 
urge come on him. Midhir he found armed and wearing a leathern armour-coat, 
watching two youngsters. They worked away with smallish bucklers and 
leather-covered swords of wood. The warrior was happy to have his company sought 
by Cormac, and happy to be drawn away. 
They walked in silence to the gate. Midhir gestured; they were passed through 
and set out across the broad plain. They talked, now. 
The fact of death was one thing. That it had been murder was another. Who had 
slain Art mac Comail? Why? Could it have been an act of the moment, an act of 
rage; or... had someone wanted the man dead? 
If so, Midhir said, then its yourselfs in great danger, Cormac. For hell 
want the son in the earth with the father. 
I cannot believe it. Who? 
That, Midhir said as they walked toward the woods, we must learn. 
Cormacs brain churned. Aye, Andhow? 
And then its vengeance ye must have, lad. Its a matter for blood-feud. 
Agreed, Midhir. And 
Know that whatever the situation may be or become at Glondrath, Cormac, Midhir 
mac Fionn will ever be with you. Midhir slapped his swordhilt. Vengeance, 
Cormac! Vengeance for Art! 
Aye, and Im thanking ye, Midhir. But 
Gods of my fathersArt murdered! Vengeance I say, blood-feud and vengeance I 
vow, friend of my life! And Midhirs sword scraped partway out of his sheath in 
his passion. 
And of a sudden Cormac mac Art grew older still. 
Of a sudden he was aware of a great difference between himself and this pure man 
of weapons. Cormac had been trained by him, aye, until he was the equal and then 
the better of the master. He had also been trained, though, by Sualtim Fodla. 
Trained not to go thundering-blundering ever forward without taking careful 
stock, and counsel with himself. True, that thinking was to be done with all 
swiftness. Consideration and planning, these he had been taughtand to seek the 
answer that was not so obvious as a gnat perched on his nose. 
We have no name, Midhir. Whom shall we suspect? We 
We shall have a name! 
Aye, Cormac said, with a long aspiration. Nor do we know whether its a 
plotter we seek, or... someone who... flew into a rage. He was only just able 
to govern his voice then, and he paused a moment to gain control. There is much 
to learn, Midhir, and more matters to be considered than we have knowledge of. 
What matter? We find him! If its ten of them there be, we find and do death on 
ten then, Cormac Bear-slayer! Herethis path. Ware that fallen branch. 
The coolth and dimness of the woods closed about them. Cormac strove to explain. 
He had no notion of his own future, much less of his fathers slayer. He was 
glad he would at least have Midhir for companion, that he be not totally alone, 
now. Still, he had learned well his lessons from Sualtim and Art mac Comail. 
When there was opportunity, the two men of wisdom had impressed upon him, and 
the contemplated act merited action, it must needs be second to thinking and 
planning. 
And swift, the voice of hiss father intoned in his mind, as the situation 
demands. 
The pure man of action at his side hardly understood, and as they paced into the 
woods they were nigh to arguing. Midhir but stated that which to him was 
obvious. 
And shall I be taking spear and buckler and sword, then, and setting out in 
quest of the slayer? 
Midhir slammed first into palm. 
Aye! Ocourse! 
And in which direction, Midhir? 
Midhir walked in silence. 
And what name shall we be putting on him, this man I go after this instant? 
In silence Midhir talked, and with a frown upon him. Cormac knew then that the 
man was alive because of his arms-expertise, his prowess and strengthand 
through good fortune. Nor did mac Art know that the time would come when he 
would team with another man of similar make-up and mentality, and him a huge 
flame-bearded Dane.. and that mac Arts counsel would prevail. 
Midhir. 
Aye  
Its no family estate Glondrath is, Midhir. On the morrow, or next week, the 
new lord and commander may come riding. 
Midhir stopped dead still. He stared at the much younger man. By the gods my 
fathers people swear by! Cormac! 
Just so, Midhir. My entire world isho, look there. 
Ah. A sidhe.  
They entered a little clearing among the thickbudding trees and brush. In its 
center was a cairn, though not a sidhe or fairy-mound. No, Cormac saw, this was 
a place of worship-rites for the common folk who yet followed the very old ways, 
as Celts did over in Gaul. Pacing over to the pile of stones, Cormac saw the ash 
of a recent bonefire. Midhir was just behind him when the youth, noting that the 
bones were those of small animals, bent to examine them. 
He heard the harp-like twang. He heard the highpitched bee-sound come, rushing 
through the clearings air. And he heard the solid thunk. 
Cormac knew the sounds. A released bowstring; a whizzing arrow; its imbedding 
itself in a target other than straw or wood. Heedless of the ashes, Cormac fell 
deliberately forward, thrusting forth his shield-arm. He rolled with difficulty, 
holding shield and wearing sword, and only then allowed himself a look. 
Midhir, an arrow standing from his eye, limply bent at both knees and then fell, 
partway on his side. His left leg kicked twice, then a third time, more 
weaklyand no more. 
Midhir! The thought was anguish and anger combined in Cormacs mind. Bloodlust 
and rage leaped up in him and his heart pounded so that his pulse was a drum in 
his temples. Yet his brain maintained control. Kicking himself half around, he 
hurled himself into the scant protection of the low bushes amid the trees at the 
clearings edge. No fool of viscera and twitching reaction he, to give way to 
emotion and rush the supposed hiding-place of the archer; the man would but make 
good use of another of his goose-feathered shafts ere Cormac found his position, 
much less reached it. 
The arrow had come from directly in front of him, beyond the cairn. He had dived 
leftward, tumbled arolling, and hurled himself into gorse and doebush. No more 
than thrice his body length separated him and the bowman, diagonally across a 
part of the clearing. Cormac scrambled, trying to make himself small behind his 
shield. Cheek against the ground, he peered around the shields edge. 
Yes; after a time he was certain he described what hed not have seen had the 
season of spring been more on the land. No greenery obscured the man behind that 
split- or twin-trunked alder over there. 
No matter how he strained his eyes, Cormac could not identify the bowman, Cormac 
was aquiver; not from fear did he shake, but with realization that this was 
surely his fathers slayerand that the murderer was surely bent on putting an 
end to the line. Only minutes agone Midhir mac Fionn had said it: For hell 
want the son in the earth with the father. 
Aye, Cormac thought, narrowing his eyes. That arrow sang its nasty bee song over 
my headhad I not bent to the ashes, it would have found its real targetnot 
Midhir! 
Cautiously, keeping the shield interposed, Cormac crawled and wallowed behind a 
thick old oak. He was able to keep it between him and the twin-tree then, while 
he backed, on his knees and slowly, to another broad-boled patriarch of the 
forest and then to a third... 
Cormac rose then, and faded into the woods and its veiling shadows. He went 
silently as he was able with sword and buckler and jingly armour, and him on no 
path. The cloak caught now and again, though he held it close; a hardy, 
struggling redthorn fought him for possession. The lack of greenery made his 
passage both easier and more nearly quiet. At last he judged that hed worked 
his way beyond the clearing of the cairn, behind the murderous archer. 
Shield up and sword aready, he moved in. 
His heart pounded and he was sweat-wet; Cormac had never before stalked another 
human. And then he was there, and disappointed with a feeling of weakness on him 
as preparedness drained; the man was gone. 
Oh, hed been here right enow. All about the double-trunked tree the new grass 
was well trampled, particularly here, on the side away from the clearing. Some 
slim green blades were still creeping slowly erect again, as though fearful of 
being trodden anew. 
For a long space Cormac waited there, roving the woods with his gaze until his 
eyes stung. He saw nothing. He heard only birds and insects. Yet it was with 
caution that he paced out to his fallen friend. 
Midhir lay still, the arrow rising from his face. Midhir was dead. 
Cormac had known it in the mind behind his mind, yet he had resisted the fact 
and set it aside. Now tears stung his eyes while he examined the arrow that had 
slain the man he had but minutes agone told himself hed cling to. Now there was 
no one. Only Sualtim, a stern old man too wise and old to be a comfortable 
grandfather, much less a father-substitute. 
The arrow was a long wand of ash, tipped with gray goose quill. Two blue stripes 
ringed the off-white shaft. That was the portion that counted for naught. The 
small tip that meant life or death, one more drastic change in Cormacs life and 
a far greater one in Midhirs... that tiny portion of the arrow was imbedded in 
Midhirs brain. 
Cormac moved away from the dead man. Bent to stare at the ground, he paced 
slowly. Midhir. Dead, all in a moment. Dead. And this second death, this second 
theft of life that robbed Cormac, too, of so much, was a greater blow than had 
been his fathers slaying. Not because of a greater feeling on him for Midhir 
than for Art; no, it was that he had turned in his mind to Midhir, pinned his 
hopes on this man. 
And now both were gone. There was no one. All was gone. Anguish tightened his 
stomach; desperation swirled about him like murky fog. 
Several times he jerked his head to rid himself of the tears that persisted in 
trying to blind him, though he was not sobbing. Cormac felt even more alone now 
than he had earlier this day. Now there was no one, and the thought came again 
and again. Now he 
He discovered the trail of the murderer. The man was afoot. 
Cormac used his brain only a little, this time; it was cluttered and clogged and 
partially paralyzed by grief and sorrow for self. The day was late. Dusk was 
almost on the forest, and the treetops cut out much of the light of the 
low-lying sun. The air was becoming chill. The rath was but a few minutes away, 
with horses and good spears and men whod be eager in the rage to accompany him 
in following a good trail. 
Cloaked but afoot and without spear, horse, or companions, Cormac nevertheless 
followed the murderers trail through the forest. He felt the weening necessity 
of taking action on his own, and he did. 
After a time he realized that the slayer was angling around, moving in a tight 
curve, around the northward edge of the rath-lands. He surely could not be 
headed for the mountains. The coast, then. 
Cormac followed, never giving a thought to the fact that now he could raise help 
merely by shouting out. Thereby though he would warn the murdering archer. Not 
likely the fellow would be expecting a lone youth to follow him, and bearing 
only weapons for close fighting. The slayer was moving sloppily, not troubling 
to avoid twigs that showed Cormac their fresh breaks, or loamy spots that held a 
footprint or two, or clumps of early grass that were still rising after the 
flatening by his foot. Here he had wiped animal excrement from his buskin. The 
trail was that for the following by a child; that of a man confident he had 
escaped, and was not pursued. 
Cormacs tracking took him from the forest into rocky coastal terrain where the 
archer was harder to follow. Cormac felt the cold sea-breeze that brought the 
tang of salt to his nostrils. He moved along the little runnel from a weak 
spring; found a footprint where the man had hopped it. He hurried on in the 
direction it indicated. 
Now there were no trees, and little shrubs. Stones littered the sandy earth 
beneath his feet; here reared a great boulder or outcrop of rock, there clung a 
haw. He heard seabirds, screeking and mewling like cats. Steep cliffs formed 
over the sea that ran from Eirrins western coast tonowhere, so far as any 
knew. Here a foot had slid. Here the other had come down hard. Here lay stones 
partially imbedded; two had been freshly upturned by the passage of a foot. 
The trail led the youth down a steep incline created and then scarred anew by 
erosion. It was only just walkable, and here the archer had fallen. Cormac did 
not. 
It was down onto the strand the man had gone, Cormac thought, and he ran down 
the long hill to keep from falling. Intelligence and craftiness, now, were 
submerged in a red rage. 
The sound of the battering of water against rocks rose in volume; the tangy 
scent of brine intensified; the chill grew as his cloak billowed about him. Now 
great boulders rose round about rearing up like strange plants from the sandy, 
rocky soil. Coming onto the talus at the foot of the incline, he slowed his 
steps. 
Yet still he pressed forward intently; too intently; he was completely unaware 
of the possibility of a trap until it was sprung. 
They were Picts, and they were three. 
With the shrieks that were designed to terrify their prey whilst heightening 
their own courage and ferocity, they leaped at him from behind a flanking pair 
of towering boulders whose surfaces were smoothed from long exposure to the 
saltgritty winds from seaward. 
Short men they were, and dark and broad, with black eyes under heavy brow-ridges 
and stringy, straight black hair caught by bands of leather beaded or decorated 
with-coral. Two wore buskins and leggings of filthy, greasy leather, and naught 
else but bronze bracers; the third was doubtless proud of his blue Celtic 
tunicstill stained with the blood of its former owner. This Pict wielded a 
shining sword of steel, hardly made by his kind; his companions brandished flint 
axes and had flint daggers girt at their sides. Huge-bladed things they were, 
against their chipping and snapping. All three attackers were heavily muscled, 
massive of arm and shoulder and leg, long of coal-black hairand ugly. Blue 
paint rendered them the more savage and hideous; one had added ruddy stripes 
traced diagonally down his forehead to give him a permanent scowling. 
appearance. 
They came fast and yelling, and Cormac did indeed freeze. 
Only the thick bearskin collar of his cloak saved him from the running stroke of 
a flint-headed ax. The blow staggered himand was pure reaction that jerked his 
shield-arm so that the second attacker, him with the sword, was struck hard. 
Running, he was hurled windmilling twice his length. 
Only just was Cormac able to dodge the axstroke of the third Pict. Sword-sharp, 
the flinty edge whined venomously past his nose. 
And then, happy to have foes on whom to vent his sorrow and frustrationon 
which, as the Cruithne were not considered men but only semihumanCormac met 
their return with full skill and a savagery that matched their own. 
An ax slammed down and banged on his bronze-faced buckler. While it was still 
sliding off, the Gaels slash caught that savage at the waist with Cormacs 
edge. So vicious was the side-swiping blow that the Pict was cut nigh in half 
and Cormac had to twist his arm and jerk, to free his blade. His sword-arm 
jerked up under the wrist of a second wielder of short-hafted ax, so that it 
only just touched his mailed chest. Cormacs muscles bunched and his shield came 
around as though weightless. It bashed into that mans upper arm. The ax fell 
while the Pict toppled sidewise. The sword-armed one was coming back, and Cormac 
ignored the man hed unintentionally disarmed. His eyes glared at the coming 
Pict like nuggets of frozen starlight. 
The Pict should have foregone use of his trophy and held to his familiar ax. 
With his buckler Cormac easily met the sword of a slain Celt, and his thrust 
sank a hands length of his own brand through blue Celtic shirt and dusky 
Pictish abdomen and bone, and blood, and organs. Huge-eyed the man staggered 
back off the point. He dropped his sword; his mouth burbled blood. He fell 
kicking. 
The third remaining Pict was without ax, though he had drawn his long stone 
dagger. He stared at their intended prey. Sore of wrist and upper arm, armed 
with a short blade against a long one of steel, seeing that their ambush had 
resulted in the horribly swift death of his fellows, the Pict turned and fled. 
Cormac, battle-lust soaring in him like a fire in his blood, followed the savage 
downward amid a maze of boulders and rocky outcrops. 
He halted just after rounding a rearing chunk of rock half again taller than 
himself. He stared down at the bloody corpse. Ax-hacked, it was Aengus mac 
Domnail, Midhirs second-in-command and thus Arts third. He lay in a soaked 
muck of scarlet sand. 
All three dead, was Cormacs first thoughtand then he recorded the evidence of 
his eyes. The swirling red chaos of rage and headlong pursuit fled his mind, and 
he stared in agonized comprehension. 
Chopped in several places and no longer bleeding, Aengus still clutched a bow. 
His hip-slung quiver had spilled its arrows, and so rapidly was the third Pict 
fleeing that hed not tarried so long as to snatch up the fine shafts... shafts 
tipped with gray goose, and each bearing two woad-stripes of blue. 
It was impossible. It was unbelievableand Cormac had to believe. Here was clear 
evidence: Here lay his fathers and Midhirs trusted aide, and the man had slain 
them both, and had sought to do death on Cormac as well. Mac Art had no notion 
why this man had done such treachery; on his longtime companions and friends, 
and his lord commander. His brain had been sore afflicted all the day; now his 
stomach twisted. 
Cormac stared down at the hacked mass of mangled flesh, and on him was as much 
sorrow as shock and anger. 
Oh, Aengus! 
He was given no time now to contemplate the dead mans treachery. Weapons 
clinked. A Pict called out from up the beach; another answered, and then a third 
voice rose. Cormac went instantly alert again. There was no puzzle here. A party 
of the Cruithne, several of their skin-boats full, must have made landing here. 
By coincidence had they run full onto the fleeing Aengus; mayhap he had a boat 
waiting, and they had found it. Thus they had taken Cormacs vengeance for him. 
They had heard Cormacs precipitate descent of the long declivityor thought 
that Aengus might have others with him fallen behindand set their trap. Cormac 
had destroyed it, and two of the ambushers. Now the third had summoned aide. 
Their voices told Cormac both that they were hurrying his way and that they 
formed a goodly number; too many for a sensible man to face alone. 
Swifty wiping his sword on Aenguss leggings, Cormac sheathed the blade. He 
dragged the corpse behind the tall boulder. Taking up both bow and arrows, he 
raced back up the slope. He kept his footing and made headway through sheer 
determaintain and the strength that hurled him upward. At the top, he turned and 
loosed one of the traitors arrows; perhaps its keening and sight of it would 
force the Picts to take cover for a minute or two. 
Whirling, Cormac followed his own and Aenguss trail back for many yards. He 
leaped the runnel to leave a deep footprint, stepped back and splashed down it 
for a dozen yards. From the little stream he pounced onto a boulder whose colour 
was all too dark to show a wet footprint to any other than close-searching eyes. 
And he leaped thence to hard ground, and sprinted into the forest. 
Here was no trail, no path. Here stumps, fallen branches and bushes slowed him. 
A vermiculate mass of last years honeysuckle sought to trip him. Swiftly as he 
daredand at that falling oncehe made his way back to the edge of the same 
trail. He ascended a tree that overlooked it. With care not to fall, he hurled 
one of the arrowsahead, along the trail, as though hed dropped it in headlong 
flight. Then he crouched, almost in darkness. The sky had gone a deep slate, 
save to the very west, where it had become all bloodylike the land here below, 
Cormac mused grimly. 
He breathed as Sualtim had taught him, and thought the thoughts that Sualtim had 
taught him, to still his panting and his racing pulse. And he waited. Like a 
great cat crouched in a tree where he had no business being, he waited 
soundlessly and without the slightest movement save his breathing. 
They came. Quietly they came, these woods-wise devils, so that he heard them 
only seconds before they were passing beneath his perch: He held his breath. 
Sword-grey eyes full of malign intent glared down at them, and the Picts knew it 
not. 
They passed like shadows beneath him, squatty broad men numbering a score and 
more. They went on, moving inland. In the darkness below, they became invisible 
almost immediately. Cormac heard a cry of delight; they had discovered the 
arrow. He heard them break into a trot. He released his breath very slowly, drew 
in another, just as slowly and quietly. He heard nothing. He waited longer. The 
Picts passed from earshot, and no others came; why post a rear guard when they 
came from the sea and were pursuing one who fled afore them so precipitately 
that he dropped an arrow? 
Cormac clambered down. He took a difficult, necessarily circuitous route back to 
Glondrath. 
The long march at least served to keep him warm. It was dark in the forest; 
darkness cloaked the sprawling meadow of Glondrath when he emerged from the 
woods and took up a trot. As he passed a low house, a dog barked. Others joined 
that one, as dogs would in the night, whether or no they smelled or saw aught. 
Lights began to appear. Trotting, Cormac called out his own name, again and 
again. He heard the people that had been his fathers charges calling back and 
forth, repeating the identificationwith relief. Grimly purposeful, spattered 
with blood that was not his, he strode past without making reply. 
Cormac! All good be with ye! Nervousness has been on ust that 
Cormac interrupted the speaker ere hed finished voicing his anxiety; he 
recognized Fedelm, called Iron Jaw after a horses kick had but bruised his 
face. 
Be fetching your weapons, Fedelm! Picts are well inland. 
Fedelm blinked. The cloaked youth strode on, a great stalking cat full of 
purpose. Never had Fedelm mac Conain had words of command from mac Art. Yet 
there was that about the grim young face, the way the words were spoken... 
Fedelm turned and set out for the barrack at a run. 
Cormac approached the rath-house. There a great ring of black iron swung from 
the branch of a centuried oak, swung at the end of a rope thick as a mans 
wrist. From a peg formed by a broken-off branch hung an iron rod by its rawhide 
tether. Cormacs feet had not stopped moving when he had snatched the rod and 
struck the hoop a mighty blow. Then he thrust the rod through that ring of iron, 
within which two men could have stood, and began circling his arm. 
The clangour of Glondraths alarum shattered the night with iron sound, so that 
even the dogs were shocked into silence. 
Cormac paused in his clanging: PICTS he bellowed, and clanged the signal-hoop 
the more. Other voices took up the cry, and others, and ere he had ceased 
tormenting the iron ring men, were running, some mayhap bright-eyed with the 
rosy haze of ale fumes, but all bearing arms and armour. 
Soon he was surrounded. Weapon-men aided each other into armour of chain and 
leather whilst they waited with scant patience for the arrival of others, and 
the words of the son of their dead lord. Some had brought torches, and none 
failed to perceive that there was blood on the big youth. 
The bow of Aengus Domnals son, he shouted, holding high that weapon of 
treachery. And then Cormac mac Art told the first of the expedient lies he was 
never to hesitate to use, throughout his blood-smeared life. Was only a slight 
omission of fact, this time. SLAIN, is Aengus! SLAIN, is Midhir! 
Pi-i-i-ictssss, he bellowed, turning threequarters of a circle the while he 
called out the hated word. Two I slew, and one escapedand its these eyes saw 
him come up from the strand with a score and more of his ugly fellows. Armed to 
the teeth they be and tramping through the wood as though they own itor intend 
to! 
Cries of horror and anger rose, and he had no more need of words; the men of 
Glondrath but waited to be led to the enemy that had plagued them for many tens 
of years. 
Fergus! Cormac shouted. Well I remember your injured arm, and cease your 
striving to hide it! Pick ten men to remain and defend, light torches and arm 
every woman and child lest the Picts double back! Hurry, man! 
Few were anxious to be chosen; Fergus looked about and about, and called ten 
names, one by one. He was roundly cursed more than once. 
Fergus the Horse is in command herekeep ye a close watch! We others will not 
be after returning till weve hacked them with point of spear and edge of 
blade! 
And ten remained, and the rest followed him in a mob, and Cormac mac Art was a 
leader of men. 
Chapter Five:
Exile of Glondrath
The blood thirsty thrave followed the son of their former lord through the 
nighted wood. Raging like wolves they were, eyes aglitter with rage and malice 
under the twinkle of the ever-restless starshine. Once theyd come upon the 
Pictish trail, it was easily followed, and they fair loped through the dark 
forest until they came to the low-built house of a woodcutter. Then their cries 
rose higher with their ire, those men of Connacht, for the house was splashed 
with gore and the door stood open to the night. 
Within, the family had been slain as they sat at table, and horrors had been 
perpetrated on their bodies. A dread silence fell upon the weapon-men then, and 
all heard the voice of the youth they followed without question. For Cormac mac 
Art stood in that house of gore and atrocity and swore by the earth beneath him, 
by the heaven above him, and by the sun that traveled daily to the west, that he 
would seek no rest by day nor sleep by night until this peaceful family of 
innocents was avenged. 
A man called out from behind the house then, and once again they were on the 
trail he had found, a blood-trail now, for Picts were wont to let their axes 
drip where they would. 
Farther into the woods they rushed abristle with spears. Cormac and some few 
others strove to hold them silent lest the quarry hear, and lie in wait, to set 
upon the hunters. 
But no. The Picts were blooded. The scent was in their broad nostrils, and they 
sought more. Another house the pursuers found, with its door torn half from its 
leathern hinges the way that it swung drunkenly. Bright blood splashed that 
door. Blood splashed the floor within, and ran down the walls. Here again had 
there been slaughter, and only the good wife of this murdered man was armed; she 
lay ax hacked and deliberately mutilated, with a carving knife in her fist. 
There was no blood on it, only on her and round about her. In a lovingly-wrought 
cradle lay a babe; its face was dark and its neck broken. The marks of powerful 
fingers were still in the fair skin of its throat. 
On through the cloud-haunted night rushed the Gaels of Eirrin, baying the 
Pictish trail. 
Even at the forests eastern rim they came upon a third houseand here battle 
raged. Yelling dark men sought to do massacre on another family. Amid torchlight 
and blood-chilling Pictish shrieks, a farmer and his big-built, deep-bellied 
wife battled the yelling savages, and with them their two slim sons. It was farm 
tools against knife and short-helved ax and flint-tipped spears, and the outcome 
was inevitablethough the Gaels fought valiantly to set a high price on their 
lives. 
The men of Glondrath broke from the woods like the slavering pack onto the fox 
theyd long chased. No less than seven Picts were down in their blood ere their 
fellows knew theyd been counter-attacked. The others turned then, beset by 
well-armed warriors rather than untrained farmersand two more Picts went down 
in seconds. One fell prey to the long handled hoe wielded by a lad of no more 
than eleven or twelve; the other was opened by the adze of the youths father. 
Into your house! bellowed a man at Cormacs side. 
Good advice for the farm family, with a boiling knot of stout warriors come to 
their succor. Yet none of the four obeyed, but held their ground before their 
besieged home while steel blades flashed like streaks of liquid silver in the 
starlight and carved out a path toward them. 
The dusky men of Pictdom pressed back one upon the other; they gave ground 
toward the house; a good sturdy farmwife swung her scythe to open up one of 
them, all across his muscular back. A huge-shouldered savage lunged at Cormac 
with his spear, a Celtic staff with dark iron point. So savagely did Cormac chop 
down that weapon, just behind the head, that the butt came up hard into the 
wielders armpit and like to have lifted him clear off the ground, for all his 
muscular weight. Beside mac Art, Dungal Big-head drove his own spear into that 
Pict and through him, so that Dungal had to let go his haft and draw sword. A 
spearhead scraped across his buckler and sparks danced; like a ravening wolf 
Cormac slashed sidewise. In a flash of steel the attackers head was made to 
hang only by a shred of flesh and a twinned fountain splashed both Dungal and 
Cormac with scarlet. 
Its a fine team we are, Cormac! Dungal cried, grinning. 
The young son of Art said nothing, nor did he smile. 
It is what had happened, that the battle-rage had come upon him. He hacked and 
slashed and stabbed, even half-braining a foeman with his bucklers edge. No man 
should have been able to jerk and slash with the heavy shield in that wise; 
Cormac in this combat was no normal man. Nor did he smile even in triumph, for 
he thought only of slaying Picts. On them he laid his needs for blade-reddening 
vengeance, for he could not slay him who had done death on Art and on Midhir. 
A chance use of his sword sent the blade girding deep into the vitals of a dark 
ax-wielder, and in the back of his mind mac Art recorded the fact that a 
stabbing thrust was efficacious indeed when all about him were swinging their 
weapons. Was a lesson learned long and long agone by the Romans, though few 
others on the ridge of the world used their blades as stabbing weapons. 
Around him men groaned and toppled, spitted and hacked so that blood bespattered 
wounded and dead, dying and unscathed alike. Indeed men with no wounds upon them 
looked sore blooded, whilst others who had taken severe cuts knew it not in the 
mindless blaze of battle-lust. 
About the farmhouse the night-battle whirled and eddied, blades of steel and 
iron and flint flaming and flashing. 
No Pict escaped. All were slain, with edge and point of sharp-edged steel. A man 
of Glondrath died cursing like a madman with his last breath this side of Donns 
demesne; two others were sore wounded and a third bore a woundy cut that would 
be a long-time ahealing; scratches and minor cuts were widespread among the 
company. Cormac, having suffered only a couple of scratches, had no idea how 
many apelike savages hed laid low; he was told he had downed four and wounded a 
fifth so that anothers ax slew him easily, but mac Art had been as if in a 
trance and could not swear to so much as one. 
Seven and twenty Picts bled their last on the grounds of Labraid mac Buaic, and 
afterwards weeds grew all too well there. None of Labraids family was slain or 
sore wounded, though the older son had sustained a cut he loudly hoped would 
leave a scar there on his forearm, and Labraids wife Uaithne had wrenched her 
backin swinging the curved scythe with which she saved her life from a 
short-hafted ax. With cloth from their scantling supply the farmfolk tended the 
wounds of their rescuers, the while they learned that the band of weapon-men was 
led by the son of Lord Art, and him dead these two days. 
Food and ale offered Labraid, though in truth he was no man of wealth. While his 
men loudly accepted, the new temporary lord of Glondrath made mental note to 
send both a cask of (better) ale and a fresh-slain boar to this house. 
Loud were the cries, and cups were lifted high as Celtic spirits. New and noisy 
praise was heaped upon the youthful battle-leader. He heard new comparisons of 
himself with both Cuchulain and that great Cormac afore him. But on this 
occasion there was no adolescent swelling of the head and chest of Cormac mac 
Art. On his mien was the stern-set face of a man; in his mind were only two 
slain men: Art mac Cumail and his friend Midhir. 
And still was he quiet when he led his company back through Connacht-Shield 
Wood, having reminded them of those who waited at Glondrath, and knew not 
whether to keen or cry joy. Behind them along the broad path they followed this 
time, those triumphant men of Connacht dragged seven and twenty Pictish corpses. 
And two men bore Eochu Fair-hair, to present to his sorrowing parents and 
sweetheart. 
Though weariness was on him, mac Art detoured to take up himself the body of 
Midhir, that no forest beast might feast on the man. 
Joy at the triumphant return outweighed sorrow in Glondrath, and was long afore 
many were asleep, and in truth the result of that undertaking was a rich harvest 
of babes, nine months thence. 
Wounded Eber and Curnan survived the night, and druids and attending women 
announced that both would live to fight another daythough the former would most 
probably limp. Early on that morning of the morrow, a white-bearded druid and a 
beardless youth went to the house where Midhirs wife Aevgrine keened her grief. 
When they emerged the tall, rangy youth bore the arrow he himself had drawn from 
Midhirs eye. 
Sualtim Fodla had watched the boy-man steel himself to that unhappy task, and he 
saw now that Cormac was not ill of his night of bloodletting, followed by this 
ugliness. And Sualtim frowned. For men who never knew illness after battle, and 
were not nauseous at such as the drawing of an arrow from the eye of a dead 
friend, were to be feared. Cursed of the gods they were said to be, and 
destined thereby for lives in which blood ran in scarlet rivulets. In a flash of 
manadh, or druidic foresight, Sualtim saw that indeed so would it be for Arts 
son. He knew too in that instant that the youth must not tarry here. 
Cormac. 
Cormac looked at the druid. 
Glondrath holds your doom, Cormac mac Art. 
Cormac blinked, though he did not pale. It held my fathers, he pointed out. 
Remain here and its no other birthday yell be seeing, mac Art. It is what I 
see for you, an ye remain in Glondrath, that nothing of your skin or your flesh 
will escape red doom, except what the birds will bring away in their beaks and 
claws. 
Cormac compressed his lips. Walk with me, mentor. 
They walked, and in the meadows northern end Cormac drew an arrow from beneath 
his cloak and handed it to the druid, along with that which had slain Midhir. 
What see ye, mentor? 
Call me Sualtim, Cormac; ye be boy no longer. HmmI shall not be saying that I 
see two arrows. He studied both shafts. I see two arrows made by the same 
hand, from the wood of the same tree. 
So. 
An ash. Aye, and feathered by the same goose, or I miss my guess and these eyes 
are become older than Im thinking. 
Ye see well, mentor. Two arrows from the same tree indeed, and from the same 
goose their fletching, made by the same hand. Andfrom the same quiver. 
Aye. Those two stripes, now, are no emblem familiar to me. 
Nevertheless, mSualtim, its these arrows will lead us to the slayer of 
Midhir. 
Aye. 
And, most probably, of the slayer of my father as well. 
Probable. 
And Cormac led the druid through the forest, and Sualtim made no plaint at the 
length of their trek, nor even the difficulty of its other end. Then they stood 
over the body of Aengus Domnals son. 
One of these arrows ye saw me draw forth, from Midhir, Sualtim Fodla. The other 
I took from that empty quiver there at Aenguss hip. Here be Midhirs murderer. 

The druid stared at him, and then his shoulders drooped with his sigh. Aye, he 
said, and it was a whisper. And if I must believe that, and I must indeed, then 
I believe too that Aengus slew the Lord of Glondrath. 
Cormac said naught. 
The druid stooped by the corpse, found before them only by the birds theyd 
frightened away; was why Cormac had on yester eve covered Aenguss face. The 
dead man wore a sundisk of bronze, on a beaded cord of leather. It flashed in 
the druids hand. Surely for no particular reason unless it was a flash of 
prescience or intuition, Sualtim turned over that sigil of the Old Religion of 
the Celts. He made a grunting sound of surprise then, as if struck. He looked up 
at Cormac. The latter bent, and stared. 
Scratched into the back of the sundisk of Behl was... the cross. of Iosa 
Chriost. 
Slowly Sualtim straightened, and Cormac heard the old mans joints pop. He 
looked at Cormac, and his usual solemnity of mien was clouded over with deep 
concern. 
This bodes no good, son of Art. None. Its more there is to the murder of Art 
and the attempt on his son that mere murder of a man or two. A lord has died; 
the lordling has narrowly escaped, and think not that it was pure accident and 
your own whim made ye bend just as that arrow was loosed, Cormac. 
Mac Art stared at him, saying nothing. Gulls wheeled and screamed against a 
sweet blue sky, the birds jealous of these men who had chased them from their 
morning find. Aengus had after all eyes for the pecking. 
More here than a simple blood-feud, surely, Sualtim said. Where the New Faith 
is involved, there are seldom simple motives. 
The Dead God, Cormac said, his teeth set and his lip curling. 
Aye. But so long as he has followers, and Romish plotters every oneeven those 
of Eirrinhe lives, Cormac. 
Was known my father was no friend of him or his priests! 
So it was, and is. Nor is that all of this matter; Id vow on it. Sualtim 
looked down at the corpse. Disguised, but he wanted his god by him and so 
marked the symbol on the back of his sundisksacrilege! He dared much. With a 
sigh Sualtim added, He accomplished much. Well. There is naught I can do for 
this man I thought I knew, who turned his back on the faith of his followers and 
followed the foreign godeven to murder. Will ye be doing aught for 
Cormac interrupted his lifelong mentor. I will not! The birds covet his eyes; 
let them have those orbs of Aengus BradawcAengus the Treacherous! 
Its bent on a vindictive path ye be, my pupil? 
Cormac met the soft grey eyes with his own suddenly icy-hard ones. I am. It is 
what is left me, Sualtim. Come. I have shown you what I must, and its a long 
trek back we must be making. 
Cormac turned away to go. For a few moments Sualtim gazed most thoughtfully at 
the young mans broad back. Then, with the tiniest suggestion of a smile 
twitching at the corner of his mouth, he nodded and stepped forward past the 
youth-become man. They set out to return to Glondrath. 
After a time Sualtim said, Ye spoke to me just now as though ye were Lord 
Cormac, my... he swallowed the word hed have utteredpupiland said, son. 
I meant no offense to the mentor of my youth and life. 
None was taken, Cormac. Indeed, in some ways you have been as son to me, and to 
a man with maturity on him, its prideful pleasure he feels when the boy becomes 
so obviously a man. 
Cormac went on for a time in silence. Then, Men followed me last night, mentor, 
as though I were Lord Cormac. 
And 
We both know I am not, Cormac said, and heard Sualtim sigh with relief. So he 
was worried I had big notions, was he? 
And you know you can never be lord of Glondrath, Sualtim said, very quietly, 
and far from happily. 
I know, Cormac said, as easily as he could sound; it had been but a brief 
dream. Today or tomorrow or the day after, someone will come from Cruachan, 
with fine skirts and jewels on him. And hell be telling all in Glondrath the 
name of the kings new commander. Nor will it be anyone here. 
It was no idle word I spoke, Cormac, when I told you youd not live out a year 
an you remain in Glondrath. 
So I felt. A fell strangeness was on your face and voice, Druid. Foolish is he 
who believes not druids in their saying of the time-to-come, and that look on 
their faces. Foolish is he who believes Sualtim Fodla not, in any matter! I do 
not misdoubt you, Sualtim Fodla. 
They walked for a time in silence, and then Sualtims age forced them to skirt 
to the edge of the declivity down and up which Cormac had yesterday run, so that 
they added to their journey. Even so, when they were on level ground once again, 
Sualtim had need of rest. 
Id fain hold further converse in the matter of myself, Druid. 
Sualtim, the old man corrected; they were awalk again, entering the wood. 
That comes not easy on me, Sualtim. Is no easy matter, this being a respectful 
boy one day and a man the next. 
I know, lad. Many things have happed, one tumbling over the other. 
Too many. Too swiftly. 
Ill not be denying it, Cormac. 
Aengus, Cormac said, with a sad and uncomprehending shake of his head. 
If such was indeed his name. Surely he was only a minor peg of others in a game 
of Brandub, Cormac. A follower of Iosa Chriostin disguise! Peradventure he wore 
his real name, too, under a hooded cloak? 
Then who? 
That, Sualtim said, is to be learned. 
Cormac said nothing. He walked, trying to make his chaotic mind concentrate only 
on keeping his strides short. 
Cormac 
Ive none to seek blood-feud with. And naught for me here but despair, and 
bitterness and... death, as yeve seen for me. 
I can deny none of that, Cormac. Your life has been changed. Like skeins taken 
up by a new blind weaver, the threads of your life are different, all at once. 
Nor can the same pattern be taken up again. 
Why? Why am I singled out, Druid? 
Perhaps for something else. Perhaps the gods put geas on you to do that which 
yeve yet to learn. And perhaps not, but only that you may weave your own life, 
become truly a man. 
Alone. 
It was an ugly word in any language; Cormacs tone made it the uglier. The druid 
had no ready reply, and they trudged in silence through the forest. 
In truth, Sualtim said after a time, methinks Behl has no personal interest 
in any individual. There are too many of us to be overseen. 
Thethe followers of the Dead God say that His father has personal interest in 
each person, and animal, and each happening on all the ridge of the world. 
So they do. 
Methinks Behl is the wiser, Cormac said, after a time of mulling. A god must 
have better things to do and think on than to be interested in Cormac mac Art. 
Or should, indeed. 
Its more alone I am than any of those who believe in the Dead God, with His 
personal interest in them. Its little praying Ill be doing in this life, 
Druid. 
Sualtim made no reply. They walked, enveloped in woods budding into spring and 
each man deep in his own thoughts. Though in truth each of them thought on but 
one of them. 
For a long while they moved thus in silence through the forest, until at last 
Cormac forced himself to say that which had come to the fore of his mind, again 
and again, to be thrust back in something approaching horror. 
I leave, Sualtim. 
Cormac 
Cormac had said the words; was easier now to say the rest. The decision was 
made; remained but to make it true, first with words and then with the deed: I 
leave at once. 
Cormac Sualtim trailed off. Then, I understand. Aye. It is a mans decision, 
Cormac. 
Sualtim, the youth said with what was nigh onto sternness, I do not need 
that. 
The druids robe-sleeved arm moved, reached out to the tall youth. It dropped 
without touching his mailed arm. Great sympathy was on Sualtim, and nervousness, 
too. Yet there was pride; for was he and Art mac Comailaye, and poor Midhirwho 
had trained and created this youth who was so strong both in mind and bodyand 
now was forced to prove it. 
The best horse in Rath Glondarth, Cormac. Arts horse. You will fly for safety 
to the northern kingdoms? 
It is best, surely. 
Methinks it is. And with a sumpter horse behind, and gold in your pack. Cormac. 
Attend me. I vow to yourself and to Behl that I shall give myself over to 
discovering the murderers, the identity of the plotters. And when I have 
information, Ill be sending for you. Cormachere. Tarry a moment. 
They paused amid the trees while Sualtim removed the plain lunula he wore on 
other than ceremonial occasions. Borrowing the much younger mans dagger, he 
scratched a simple rune on its back. The druid returned the knife and bade 
Cormac note the mark, and commit it to memory. 
Should one bring this lunula to you, know that Sualtim has learned somewhat and 
has information and has sent for you. Even so, Cormaccome with care. 
Cormac nodded wordlessly; in truth just now he trusted not his throat to speak. 
They walked on through the wood, and Sualtim talked, and talked; his words held 
advice for a man now, and him alone, without family or land amid strangers. 
Cormac essayed to be attentive though his mind strove to wander off along the 
murky and fearfraught paths of might-be. 
When they reached Glondrath, the two had agreed to tell none others of the 
decision and plan. Cormac took that which was his: his fathers sword and its 
sheath though he left behind the well-known buckler. Arts great bearhide mantle 
he took as well, and a few trifles. None would question Sualtim; he it was who 
loaded himself with salable treasures and supplies sufficient for several days 
travel without hunting. With those packs Sualtim entered the wood until he was 
out of sight of the rath. Cormac, on his fathers fine black horse, rode along 
another trail and turned to wend through the trees only when he too was 
invisible to the people that had been his fathers. 
The two came together in a little glade nigh in the little-used trail that led 
northeastward through the trees to the northern kingdoms of Eirrin: Ailech where 
lay Tir Connail, and Airgialla, and Dal Ariadi wherin lay both Dalriada and 
Ulahd that was Ulster, site of the New Gods main bishopric in Armagh. 
Supplies and wherewithal they transferred to the broad back of Dubheitte: 
Blackwing, with Sualtim muttering that it was past time the sons of Eirrin 
emulated even the Romans in some things, and struck coins to simplify trading. 
The two gazed upon each other, and then Cormac remounted the big black horse 
that was ever anxious to gallop. Again the two men gazed one upon the other with 
misty eyes, until the younger suddenly set his jaw very tightly and rode away 
along the trail that would take him around the mountain that was Glondraths 
northern border. Nor did he look back. 
After him Sualtim called words Cormac had heard from afore: Cum do ghreim, 
Cormac, s than eagal duit. And Sualtim Fodla repeated the injunction: Keep 
your calm, Cormac, and there is no fear on you. 
Cormac heard, and rode, and did not look back. 
Perhaps an hour later he drew restless Dubheitte to a halt. He sat, staring at 
naught, easing the rein so, the horse could worry the short new grass and taste 
its sweetness. Frowning, Cormac reflected. 
Gods, what thoughts! Behl protect and Crom defendthat its to this Ive come! 
The ugly thoughts, persisted. He had trusted Sualtim all his life. Aye. And so 
had his father, and Midhir. As all three had trusted Aengus. 
Now, his life shattered at the bloom of manhood and all three men torn from him 
by treachery and murder, he was no longer certain of anything... or anyone. 
Dared he trust even his lifelong mentor, a druid of the gods themselves? 
Sualtim would learn nothing, Cormac mused. Sualtim would never send for him. 
And if he did... how could Cormac be sure that he was not thus summoned into a 
trap? 
O ye gods and blood of the gods! Surely not Sualtim... 
But he could not be certain. 
And only Sualtim knew wither he was bent. 
Nay, he dared trust no one he knew, and no one in this land at all, or in the 
northern kingdoms; Sualtim knew he was headed thence, and others would guess. 
In an agony that had been unremitting for days and was far more than any youth 
or man should have to bear, Cormac decided. He would ride not north, but 
eastward, to Leinster. That southeastern kingdom was shrouded by a long history 
of rivalry with both Connacht and Meath where lay Tara. Aye! And there would he 
keep open his eyes and ears. Leinster was full of priests; priest-ridden Laigen, 
Art had called it. There he would seekwith care!to discover hint of the 
identity of those whod ordered his father slain, those who had subverted Aengus 
mac Domnail. 
And when he learned the name or names, found the men, whether they abode in 
Leinster or Meath, Munster or little Osraige, Connacth or Ailech, Airgialla or 
Ulahd or DalRiadia to the far northeast... then would the son of Art take his 
revenge. Aye and with Arts own sword, and none would deter him. 
With his youthful face set as granite, he tugged at Dubheittes reins, jerking 
up the horses head so that the beast snorted and half reared, eyes rolling for 
enemy or quarry. Then Cormac clucked and loosed the reins a little, so that 
Dubheitte set off eastward, toward Leinster, and a new lifeand the unknown. 
Thus did Cormac mac Art depart Rath Glondarth, and Connacht, like a thief in the 
night. Nor did he glance back. 
PART TWO
THE KINGDOM OF LEINSTER
Chapter Six:
Partha mac Othna of Ulster
The sky roofed the Leinsterish coast with a deep blue shot with fingers of gold 
and grey. Along the strand rode a weapon-man. With a low curse of exasperation, 
he reined in, dismounted, and stepped away from his horse to answer a call of 
nature grown urgent. He moved overly far from the animal and his booted spear, 
as it turned out; appearing as if from nowhere, two savages surprised the Gael. 
Dark, squat, half naked, they shrieked awful wolf-howls designed to freeze the 
very marrow of their prey. The man in the sleeved blue tunic under armour-coat 
of black leather proved no bloodfrozen rabbit; he defended himself with sword 
and buckler. The flinty heads of axes clashed on wooden shield and steel clove 
the air with malevolent whines. Sparks flew from the clash of ax-head and rim of 
shield. 
Above the strand and a few yards inland, another Gael was peering about in quest 
of a spot for nightcamp. Without cheer he seemed, and on him the look of one 
weary of the saddle. Yet at the sounds of armed conflict he straightened and 
twisted his head about on a thick neck. Erect, rangy and tall in mailcoat and 
helm, he listened. Then he reined his mount, about, and cantered to the lip of 
the promontory. Below was beach, and the sea separating Eirrin from Britain. It 
shimmered out to a slate-hued horizon; the dying sun hovered at worlds edge 
behind him. 
Moving his great black horse closer to the declivity that ran gently down to the 
strand, he surveyed the waters edge. 
He saw the man beset by two Picts, and he saw too what they did not: five more 
Cruithne were running toward the scene of battle. In a few seconds they would 
arrive; in a few more the lone Gael would surely be deador worse, hacked down 
and not dead. 
The youthful rider of the black horse did that which he would pause to consider, 
in years to come: Cormac of Connacht spurred down the slope to the aid of a 
stranger, presumably a weaponman of Leinster. He made another decision: 
An old warrior had once come to Glondarth, and told Cormacs father of his years 
as a reaver. Once he and his fellows had taken a Roman ship, up north of 
Britain. Amid the spoils was a handsome vase, of Greek origin. The man swore 
that it depicted mounted Achaians spearing enemies. This, he and Art of Connacht 
had agreed with laughter, was why the Greeks were governed from Rome! True, such 
a maneuver was not guaranteed to drive a man straight back off his horse on 
impact of spearhead with shield or armoured flesh, but the probability was akin 
to that of a black clouds bearing rain. Arts son watched Midhir and others 
practice the tactic. They soon decided that were a man not afoot or in a chariot 
where he belonged, hed best use ax or sword and consider his spear either as a 
throwing weapon or excess baggage. Nor was Cormac trained much as a 
horse-soldier; his people were hardly known for mounted combat. 
Thus he left his spear in its long boot as Dubheitte started his plunge down 
the, slope to the Leinsterish shore. 
That charge nigh cost Cormac his seat and perhaps more; on a horse without 
stirrups, a precipitate downhill charge was unwise indeed. He was forced to rein 
back a bit and do his best to lean against gravity. Clamping his mount with all 
the strength of both legs, he braced hard against the beasts neck. Cormac knew 
a hollowing sensation in his stomach and the feel of being purely a nighhelpless 
passenger on a juggernaut unmindful of leaving him sprawling behind. 
Below, the battle continued. The five Picts raced to join it. 
Forced to slow, turning his mount, Cormac made another decision. He must forego 
the element of surprise, else he arrive only in time to avengeand likely to 
die, one against seven. For the five would be upon the two battling the man in 
the blueplumed helmet before Cormac reached them. 
Cormac bellowed out a long-drawn HO! 
The beset Gael did not look up. Neither did his two assailants. All three were 
well occupied in activity requiring their full attention. 
The five Cruithne took note, and froze, half-turned to stare at the huge black 
beast that now reached the foot of the sloping hill. Dubheitte lengthened his 
stride immediately he felt level soil beneath his hooves, however sandy. The 
horse charged as though hed been weaned on Picts. Having taken no time to think 
and with no better, tactic in mind, Cormac gave the beast his head. With shield 
on left arm and sword in hand, he let Dubheitte gallop free. Blackwing sped as 
if he did, indeed possess wings. 
The dark warriors seemed unable to believe the horse would not swerve. Dubheitte 
had no such intention. At the last possible moment his quarry began to scatter. 
A vicious sidearmed upstroke opened the dark-skinned back on Cormacs right, 
from hip to shoulder. To the left a Pict moved an instant too slowly, and 
Dubheittes forehoof destroyed the stocky mans ankle. Then the animal was 
through them, galloping on. 
Straightened from his sword-slash, Cormac had to tense and lean a bit leftward; 
with nothing against which to brace his feet, he could only grip the horses 
sides. Fifteen pounds of shield on his arm aided him in righting himself. Then, 
awkwardly, he used his sword-hand to drag at the horses reins. 
The excited animal was unwilling to halt. He fought his riders tug by leaning 
into it, slewing leftward. Ahead, one of the two Picts hemming the other Gael 
heard the drum of hooves and glanced around. Cormac had a fleeting glimpse of 
the blueshirted man catching the ax-blow on his shield while he danced 
one-legged: he groin-kicked him who had been unable to resist looking away. 
Dubheitte made a turn that was almost too tight on itself and his rider hung on 
with legs straining powerfully enough to interfere with the beasts breathing. 
Cormac was dismayed to see that his charge had not downed the enemy whose back 
hed opened; that Pict was on his feet and braced for the Gaels return charge 
for all that blood washed down his dark back and leg. 
Damn the training that spoke against sheathing a blooded blade! Cormac had a 
spear and knew how to throw it. Surely a good cast would remove one enemy. 
Dragging his complaining mount to a pause long yards from the five Cruithne, 
Cormac committed the reprehensible act of sheathing his blood-smeared sword. He 
unlimbered his spear and raised it. At the same time as he hurled it, he drummed 
his heels and grunted Go! Dubheitte lurched anew into a gallop. Again the 
youth was in danger of losing his seat. But with sword in hand and shield on arm 
he remained mountedand unloosed another wild yell. 
Matters still went less than superbly for the weapon-man turned horse-soldier. 
The five Cruithne had scattered. One lay grimacing, with his splintered ankle; 
Cormac had made his cast at the two who stood close together. The cast missed. 
Nevertheless their dodging insured that neither of them would make a good return 
throw at once, and Cormac twitched Dubheitte toward two others: a spear wielding 
Pict stood over his companion of the crushed foot. 
The big horse bearing down on him must have looked like a tumbling black 
boulder. The Pict launched his spear too hastily. The long ashen shaft went so 
high that Cormac hardly had to duck. 
Moments later that savages head was rolling on the sand and his downed comrade 
was blinded by the gouting blood. The headless corpse toppled over him. Again 
their foe was through. Now four Cruithne lived, and two of those were of 
considerably reduced menace. At least hed kept them all from the other Gael. 
Man and rider leaned through another turn. This time Cormac lengthened its arc, 
the while he took time to glance at the enemy. That proved wise: carefully 
leading the horse with a practiced stare, a silent Pict hurled his spear. His 
eye was as good as his arm. Cormac only just interposed his shield in time. With 
a great bam sound, the spearpoint struck his shield, drove into the woodand 
stuck. 
Dubheitte came about and lengthened his leggy stride into a third charge. His 
riders shield-arm was dragged down by the long pole standing from the bucklers 
face. Managing to swerve his mount, Cormac made use of the liability: the 
spear-haft swept the wounded Pict off his feet. Another jabbed as Cormac plunged 
past and the youths swordblade struck that spear aside. And again he was 
through them, at the gallopand frustrated. Too, the impact of spear-butt with 
Pictish calves had torn the point free of Cormacs shield with a jerk that would 
give him an aching arm-later, when he had time to notice. 
Though mac Art bent low to lessen the possibility of a spear in the back, none 
was hurled. He had at least disconcerted his chosen enemies. 
Even then he smiled; the man to whose aid hed come was yanking his sword out of 
the belly of his standing opponent. The other lay doubled from the kick hed 
taken to his stones; the blue-shirted Gael plunged the bloody sword into his 
side and gave it a vicious twist. Two pair of Pictish legs kicked reflexively. 
Dubheitte wanted to return to what he took to be his business. Cormac worked at 
slowing the animal and keeping him on a steady course of the other Gael. That 
man grinned and waved a dripping sword, then ran to his own horse. The 
chestnut-hued animal shied and flared his, nostrils at the scent of blood. His 
master spoke low rather than cursed, while Cormac, grimly smiling, held 
Dubheitte in checksemi-check. The other man mounted. 
Forgall mac Aed! he called, the man whose shield and helmets plume were 
bright with Leinsters blue. 
Cormac did not understand. He shouted World without Picts! and grinning, the 
two men charged. 
Peradventure the gods ordain such things, as some have said; perhaps Dubheitte 
was overexcited and careless; perhaps his master was, in his inexperience and 
his prideand assumption that two mounted Gaels were more than match for four 
Picts, two of whom were wounded. And perhaps a spear-cast was particularly good, 
or merely lucky. Whatever the cause, a hurled stave went low and buried its 
flinty head in Dubheittes chest. 
The horse screamed. Cormac was hurled to the sand as the big black animal fell. 
Even if he were not dead, he was surely in shock, and thrashed strangely. 
His masters impact was painful and jarring, through mailcoat and padded 
underjack; worse was the slamming of his right elbow onto hard sand. His fingers 
sprang open. His sword made little cling-ting sounds as it struck the sand and 
skittered. 
The spear-thrower was on him and he could but scramble, grunting when a stone ax 
banged off his shoulder. The mail held. Cormac meanwhile flailed head with his 
left arm. His bucklers edge caught the Pict in the leg, just beside the knee. 
He fell. Cormac daggered the dusky warrior before he could so much as turn over. 

The youth felt hardly heroic; in four charges he had lost spear and horse and 
slain only two of the enemy. Better had he dismounted! Now a glance told him 
that the Leinsterman had somehow missed his intended foe and plunged on past. 
Well down the beach, he was turning the blaze-faced chestnut. The Pict Cormac 
had struck with edge of blade and haft of spear was sitting up. Though his back 
was crimson and one leg was obviously broken, he was awaiting the Leinstermans 
return, weapons ready. 
The fifth Pict was now rushing Cormac mac Art. 
The youth retrieved his sword. He braced himself, knees bent, left side to the 
running savage, shield presented, sword out to the side, ready. Dark Pictish 
eyes glared into grey ones, over the shields rim. The sword-steel eyes were 
just as malevolent, for all their youthfulness. 
The Pict was no such fool as to continue rushing a man so prepared; he slowed 
and got his own shield up and between them. This savage had faced Cormacs kind 
aforenow, and learned cautionwhile gaining a steel-headed ax. His knotted arm 
swung the Celtic weapon as though it were a stick, looping, looping, watching... 

Down the beach, the other Gael bellowed a wild cry. Cormac saw his own 
opponents eyes flicker; the Pict knew he must die. He loosed a terrible swing 
of his ax. Cormac took the desperation blow on his shield. As he began a rising 
swordcut, he remembered what hed seen the Leinsterman do. The Pictish shield 
whipped up and Cormac essayed the nasty tactic. 
Aborting the sword-stroke, he took vengeance for the Gael whose ax the Pict 
wielded. Cormac crotch-kicked the squat, heavily-muscled man. 
Then the off-balanced Cormac fell down. 
The Picts war-howl rose into a scream of pain and became a choking gurgle. 
Blazing black eyes bulged. His knees bent. His shield lowered as he obeyed the 
ancient, inarguable urge to clutch his wounded parts. He dropped to his knees. 
That way the swishing, almost-circular stroke of the Leinstermans sword took 
off only a little more than half the squat savages head, rather than the entire 
skull at the neck. The Pict was just as dead. Cormac meanwhile was hurling 
himself aside; his allys big horse was a great dark-brown mass as it plunged 
past, and the pound of his hooves was as thunder in the youths ears. 
HA! the Leinsterman shouted back. Robbed ye! 
Cormac gave the mans back a dirty look as he got to his feet. He hurried to 
where lay the Pict with the broken foot; hed not have the Leinsterman claim 
this one too. The courageous savage stuck up his spear; Cormac cut off its head 
and, on the backstroke, the Picts. He whirled to run the doubly wounded last 
foemanand watched the Leinsterman come loping up and urge his willing mount 
into a very thorough job of trampling the dusky form until it was scarlet. 
The gazes of two pair of Gael-grey eyes met. 
Ho, ha, easy there, Taraniseach, easy! Ho there, my greedy friend! Seven Picts 
attacked me and its yourself slew three of them! 
Cormac blinked and squatted, thrusting his sword into the sand to cleanse the 
blade of Pictish blood. Huh! Calling that one your own, are ye? As well call 
that horse mine! 
The man came to him on his prancing, headshaking mount. First glancing around to 
be sure there were no more foes, he flung his sword so that it drove into the 
sand. It stood quivering. Then he doffed his helmet, to shake out a shortish mop 
of hair as straight and black as Cormacs. Cormac saw that the fellow was 
good-looking, if button-nosed, and that he was surely in his twenties, though 
his hair was early departing his forehead. His eyes were like old stone, without 
the hint of blue. 
Aye; your mount I greatly regret, my friend. He looked at the downed beast; 
Dubheitte had snapped a foreleg in his fall. But he be not dead... 
Yes he is. 
Cormac spoke very quietly. Steeling himself against his own misery at the loss 
of the fine horse, he used his sword to end Dubheittes misery. 
The yourthful Gael looked up at the older. I do hope ye be wealthy, with many 
fine horses. 
No such luck, the man said. I gave ye my name, weapon-man, and neglected to 
add that its Coichtaigheacht I am, in the kings forces of Leinster. Ye be no 
Leinsterman, with that accent; what brought ye to this realm, to aid those so 
stupid as to be caught afoot by the enemy?. 
I am Partha son of Othna of Ulster, Cormac told him, using the name by which 
he had called himself these two weeks since hed departed Glondarth. A 
weapon-man in search of service, for its my fathers third son I am, and my 
elder brother took even my girl to himself. Nor heard I your name, Captain; I 
was distracted at the time. 
The man whod called himself Chief of fifty chuckled. Forgall mac Aed, Partha 
mac Othna. And travel no farther. Theres need in Leinster of sword-arms such as 
yours, aye, and your courage. Its hard-pressed times these are, friend Partha, 
with the Boruma nigh upon us and rumours too of Pictish restlessness. He 
glanced about at the corpses. Spies, possibly. 
Mayhap... and mayhap then we should not have done death on them all. 
Well be telling none we could have taken a prisoner or two, eh? An ye be 
looking for weaponish employment, Partha mac Othna, my lord King Ulad has need 
of ye. 
Truth, I ate the last of my provisions earlier today... and am now without a 
horse, as well. 
Forgall regarded the unfortunate steed. A fine animal; again, sorrows on me 
that he died because of myself. A fine animal... 
Forgall seemed a bit too thoughtful, on the border of suspicion. Cormac tried to 
seem both nervous and prideful, all at once: My elder brothers, he said. 
Forgall laughed and clapped a calloused hand to a mailed shoulder. Good for 
yourself, Partha, for I am a second son myself, and my brother heir to but 
little! However long ye bestrode yon animal, Id say ye had better service of 
him than your brother of a fickle maidoh, I intend no offense, Partha; the 
words slipped out. 
None taken. Shes what ye said, and more. Be there aught of food in that bulgy 
pack I see behind your saddle, Fifty-chief? 
In truth Cormac had not quite worked out his story, and had already added an 
unplanned embellishment with the allegation that Dubheitte had belonged to a 
nonexistent older brother. He preferred that there be no further discussion of 
his past until hed had time to fabricate it. Besides, he was hungry. 
Three fellows in the forest had caught him asleep but two nights agone. Two had 
held him moveless with pocked arrows whilst the third packed up the young 
pilgrims belongings. Theyd have taken Dubheitte too, had not the animal thrown 
one of their, number. Taking advantage of that distraction, Cormac had snatched 
up shield and spear. He caught an arrow in the shield, another, hastily loosed 
in the darkness, missed. His spear but grazed a man gone suddenly nerveless and 
running for his own mount. Another arrow made Cormac dodge so that he fell. The 
three men escaped into the darkness of a forest they doubtless knew. Dubheitte 
they left; those gems and bits of gold that were all Cormacs wealth in 
coin-less Eirrin they took. 
Armed and armoured, Cormac had ridden all that night lest those three thieving 
archers regain courage and return to slay him from well out of his reach. 
Though his careful queries had brought nothing that could be construed as a 
trail to his fathers killer, he remained undaunted. Mac Art was determined to 
give his life to the quest of those behind his fathers slaying, and had made 
solemn resolve to that effect. Now hed been on his way to Baile Atha Cliath, 
the Town of the Ford of the Hurdles. There he hoped to find some means of 
earning bread and meat. He had already resigned himself to sleeping on an empty 
belly this night, when he had heard and entered into Forgalls imbroglio. 
Hed be happy indeed to share the Leinsterish captains provisions. 
Forgall however, had not been stopping here for the night. Hed but reined in 
and dismounted to relieve himself. That urge had nearly resulted in his death. 
He and Cormac solemnly vowed to devise a bag to hang on the forefront of ones 
saddle, that one need not dismount to make water. 
Noting that Forgall glanced at a sky gone slate with only a puddle of molten 
red-gold to mark the suns passage, Cormac assured him he could wait a while 
longer for viands. Forgall was on his way up the coast from the capital, he 
said, to collect men from a little fort just south of Atha Cliath. This troop 
must then go back down to Carman with him, to train and receive their 
instructions for the Boruma. Captain of fifty or coichtaigheacht, Forgall said, 
he was in need of five more... four, with Cormac joining his company. 
Carman-on-the-Slaigne, Cormac remembered, was on Leinsters very northern 
border, at the estuary of the Slaigneindeed, Carmans nearest neighbour was no 
town, but the isle of Beg-Eri. Munsters capital of Cashnel was but sixty or so 
miles west of Carman, and Tara less than a hundred miles to the north. 
LeinsterLaigenformed a nearly perfect triangle, perched on one point. Munster 
and Meath bordered it, and, along the entire eastern coast, the Sea of Eirrin. 
Atha Cliath was only a bit south of Tara; the fortress Forgall was bound for, 
then, lay only five or so miles up the coast. 
Neither man was interested in anything belonging to the Cruithne, and Cormacs 
pack, on his dead horse, was empty. They did gather the weapons of metal the 
Picts had carried, taken from slain Erainn, men of Eirrin. On a shared whim, 
with grins, each man took from a dusky corpse a little leather-strung Pictish 
amulet, black. 
Twice Cormac said he would walk; thrice Forgall bade him ride. 
TaraniseachThunderhorsehe said, would carry another fourteen stone without 
noticing. Though tall, the rangy youth from Connacht weighed hardly so muchand 
Thunderhorse indeed made no objection to carrying them both. Cormac rode behind 
Forgall, whose pack was before him, on the base of Thunderhorses darkmaned 
neck. Afoot Forgall was but a couple of inches shorter than his saviour; 
mounted, Cormac was easily able to see over the other mans head. 
Its a youthful terror with a sword ye be, Partha. That bit of mustache looks 
as though its just coming in. Forgall spoke without turning. 
My height came on me early, but my face-hair is running several years late. 
Cormac/Partha was not about to reveal his extreme youth. Others might make him 
their butt, and for all he knew Leinster allowed none of his few years on its 
weaponish rolls. 
Forgall but grunted without pursuing the matter. They rode in silence for a 
time, whilst night closed down over the sea and Eirrins eastern coast. Cormac 
bethought himself of the lies hed told, of those he must tell. He wondered how 
long such a life must continue, with him wearing even his very name under a 
cloak of darkness. Had he realized that it would be a matter of years, his 
dismay would have been far greater. 
He did not give thought to those hed slain this day. They were Picts, only 
Picts, the enemies of all men. And he was a weapon-man, a warrior. Soon hed be 
a professional, accepting the board and pay of Ulad Ceannselaigh, King over 
Leinster. A tiny smile drew at the left corner of his mouth, only a little and 
certainly not disarranging his unlined face. A professional! He squared his 
shoulders proudly and rode with hands on thighs, rather than hold to Forgall or 
aught else. 
Ah, Forgall said of a sudden, and Cormac jerked. Its twice Im after making 
mention of the Boruma... do you of Ulster know of what I speak, Partha? 
Aye. None in Eirrin but knows of Leinsters Burden, Captain. 
It had occurred to Cormac that it might not be his place, his new place, to call 
a commander of weapon-men by name, and so he called him Fiftychief. Hed have to 
be mindful of such niceties now; he was no longer son of a rath commander, and 
no longer in Connacht. He was only Partha, son of Othna; third son of a minor 
noble of northward Ulahd, or Ulster. 
Ah, Forgall said again. And what do men say of Leinsters Burden, in Ulster? 

That there be no justice in it, Cormac said, and he answered truthfully; so 
men said in Connacht, at any rate. Whether there was when it was imposed none 
of us can say, across these three centuries 
Nigh four the Leinsterman snapped. 
Butsurely there be no justice in it now. 
None. And all for a woman!Two. 
They fell silent again, with the horse named for the ancient thunder-god 
plodding stolidly through deep twilight. Cormac considered the Boruma, or Boru 
Tribute, and what he knew of it. He must know such things now; he was of 
Leinster. He might well soon be fighting because of the Cattle Tribute, 
Leinsters Burden... fighting Meathmen, the men of the High-king. 
After awhile he said, I am not of Leinster, Forgall. Tell me of the Boruma, and 
how it came about when Tuathal and Eochaid lived. 
And Forgall did, as they rode through the cool night. 
King Tuathal the Desired of the first centuryas the Christians measured 
timewas sore beset by troubles. There was the usurper, Carbri CinnCait and his 
son, and his successor who returned from Pict-land, Feredach. Two daughters had 
Tuathal, though surely he wanted naught but strapping sons. His daughter Dairine 
he wed to Leinsters King Eochaid, the way that there was a union of the 
High-king and Leinster. 
She was a whore, by the blood of the gods! Forgall said. 
That part of the story was new to Cormac. Well, he thought, Leinstermen needed a 
good reason for what Eochaid didand mayhap she had been as Forgall said. 
Yet she was the wife of a king and the daughter of the High-king, and Eochaid 
would not have her slain. Instead, he took her by night to a tower, and there 
locked her up, and let it out that she had died in her sleep of a fever. And 
after a time King Eochaid went a-mourning up to Tara. 
All men understood death and the swiftness of its descent on even the most 
unsuspectingly healthy of mortals. Tuathal understood, Forgall told Cormac, and 
sympathized with his royal brother-in-law. Indeed, he solaced the southern king 
by giving him his other daughter, Fithil. 
Strange, Cormac/Partha said, that she was not wed to another, by then. 
She was a harridan, Forgall said. And he told of how Eochaid, who was a king 
and knew the benefits of alliance, brought the harridan Fithil home to 
Leinster. And time passed, and one day Fithil discovered her sister, and her 
still living. 
Cormac could understand the horror, the shame and humiliation, the cries of 
crime most horrible; both were daughters of the High-king, and both alive, and 
both wed to the same man! 
They died of broken hearts, Forgall said. 
Just... so? Of broken hearts. 
Aye, Forgall said with a most positive air, and Cormac was not minded to 
question the man. He did wonder how they told the story up on Tara hill ... 
Somehow Tuathal learned of the crime and the deaths of his daughters: treachery, 
Forgall said, foul treachery apprised the High-king. Then did the High-king 
gather together his men and auxiliaries and the members of his clanna and march 
on Leinster in sore anger and desire for revenge. Indeed Tuathals army ravaged 
the land all the way the capitalwhere Eochaid humbly submitted. (Rather, 
Forgall said, than see another Leinsterman slain, for Eochaid wept daily for his 
murdered countrymen. Cormac said naught, and Forgall could not see his face. 
Wellit was Forgalls story.) 
Tuathal then levied a crushing annual tribute: The Boruma, or cow-tribute. Nor 
had Eochaid power to resist, with Tuathals army sprawled round about and, as 
Forgall had it, numerous mothers and children of Leinster as hostages. 
Five thousand cows annually, High-king Tuathal demanded of Leinster, and five 
thousand swine, and five thousand cloaks of good workmanship, and five thousand 
vessels of good brass, well-wrought, and the final crushing blow: five thousand 
ounces of silver from the mines of little Leinster. 
The fine was to be paid annually, and no period of years was stipulated. 
Centuries later, the High-king on Tara Hill annually continued to require that 
awful drain of Leinster. Most often the Boruma had to be gathered by force, with 
the men of the High-king carrying the bloody sword down into Leinster. Those 
daughters of Tuathals and the crime of Eochaid had given cause to more of 
Eirrins blood-drenched history than aught else. Often the struggle was confined 
not just to Meath and Leinster, for others entered in because of empathy and 
alliances, even greed or unmentioned political hopes. 
Whether Tuathals daughters had been good and sweet or hideous and whoresome, 
whether Eochaid had been a monster or a man overly timid at telling the 
High-king of his elder daughters liaisonsnone of this now mattered. It was 
King Tuathal who had left the entire Emerald Isle this blood-soaked legacy. And 
now collection-time was again approaching. 
Will the tribute be paid, Forgall? 
Forgall snorted. Not willingly! 
Tara will come to collect with steel hands, then. 
Tara will. Meath will come. And Leinster will fight. 
Tradition, Cormac mused, and the word was as a curse. He contemplated the 
stupidity and greed of men. Why had no High-king been big enow, man enow to 
dispense with that which was the prime cause of dissension among all the 
kingdoms of Eirrin? Why did each crowned Ard-righ sit on Tara Hill and leave the 
Boruma in force, that had cost so many lives? Why did no man in high office, 
even the highest in the land, have the nerve and honesty to do that which was 
manifestly best for all, despite his contemporary detractors? Had a previous 
High-king caused the insulting, draining imposition to be lifted, he might have 
been damned by some in his time. Yet hed be famous now, and beloved, for his 
courage and that great act, now and for many years to come. Tradition, Cormac 
mused sourly, and a bit more of maturity came over him like a mantle. 
And the time was nigh. And here was Cormac of Connacht, self-exiled lest he be 
slain and the truth never be got at, bearing an assumed name... in Leinster. And 
Leinster would resist. That meant combat. The sons of Errin against sons of 
Eirrin, brothers of this isle, all, and no way to know them apart without the 
trappings of the very mortal kings who bade them go and die. 
Cormac who was Partha thought on it, long and long, as Taraneseach plodded 
northward through the gloom of early nightfall. 
So be it, he decided at last. I shall join Leinster, then. I will fight for 
Leinster, and pretend it is Connacht! 
And Thunderhorse plodded through the first hour of night. Slowly his hooves 
clopped away the miles, and the mailed men on his back were silent with their 
thoughts: thoughts of war. 
The fortress called Redrock was a small one, though ringed about with walls of 
earth and mud so thick that a chariot could have been driven atop them. Within 
was little more than garrison, stables and barracks, with a well and granary and 
a few other outbuildings round about the space for assembly and exercise. 
Forgall was greeted with great cheer, and Cormac knew the man was well liked by 
those he commanded. They entered, dismounted and swung their horse-weary legs 
while the big chestnut was led away to be stabled and fed. And Forgall led 
Cormac in to be housed and fed. 
Forgall mac Aed was unstinting in telling the garrison of the heroics of the 
tall youth beside him, Partha mac Othna. Partha was immediately accepted as 
companion. Smiling, friendly Leinstermen offered food and ale to a fellow 
weapon-man, and one who indeed had saved their chief. The new comers apparent 
youth was marked and remarked upon; Cormac said little, and laughed when he was 
called Parthog, one of his new comrades attaching the word youth to his 
supposed name. He noted that there were those here but a couple of years older 
than he, and yet smaller than he. He would pass, a man in deed and a boy in age, 
among men some of whom were but boys in deeds. 
Forgalls second came to him. This was a not-unhandsome, chesty man with reddish 
cheeks and huge hands at the ends of long, long arms. Bress mac Keth his name, 
Bress Lamfhada, Long-arm, his sobriquet. (Cormac learned only later that Bress 
was called Huge-feet, though not to his broad, reddish, and yet slightly equin 
face.) Mighty Bress the Warrior was not yet twenty. He wore his red brows in two 
horizontal arcs that ever gave him a perpetual look of superciliousness and 
disdain, as though all were less than he and it was condescension to speak of 
them. 
And how is it ye turn up so deep in Leinster, an Ulsterman none knows? 
Ahpardon... an Ulsterboy none knows. And Bress let his face rearrange itself 
just slightly into a sort of smile. 
I have told the captain, Cormac said, and repeated his story with brevity. He 
forbore to comment on the use of the word boy. Bress knew what hed done this 
day, and Cormac thought he must be in a testing process. Bress was not a 
fellow-soldier; he was after all Forgalls second, and due some respect. And... 
unhappy? 
Ah. And what does your father up in Ulster, third son of Othna whose brother 
took his sweetheart? 
He is the lord Othna, commander of the rath near the borders of Airgialla and 
Dal Ariada. 
Ahis that near Armagh, then? 
Less than a day north-by-west, afoot, Cormac said. He was not being tested as 
a man or a weaponman; Bress was treating him as if he might be some sort of spy! 
Cormac stood erect. Though longer of arm and thus of sword-reach, Bress was an 
inch or two shorter than the young man he braced. 
Ah. And ye come claiming to be a nobles son of Ulster, do ye?  
The barracks room had gone silent. Cormacs jaw tightened. He bethought him of 
Sualtim and his good advice, and he forced himself to draw and expel a deep 
breath through his nose. His gaze he kept on Bresss bluish green eyes. 
I come claiming to be naught but a weapon-man proven, Bress mac Keth, with 
hunger and thirst on him, and a need of oil for his swordsheath. 
Around them men laughed in a break of tension; Bress did not so much as show his 
imitation of a smile. 
It is a good answer, Forgalls voice called, and he came forward through his 
men after having conferred with sentries outside. Nor need Partha mac Othna say 
more. I vouch for Partha mac Othna, who saved my life. Enough. Arbenn-chatha; no 
more questions. Our new man is proven and this very day, on the field of battle, 
not on that of practice. Forgall arrived at the side of the stiffly standing 
Bress. The time is past for us to be abedweve a long trek on the morrow, and 
daily training after that. Enough talk. 
Bress gave Cormac a look that seemed to promise he thought it not enough. 
Cormac wondered if Arbenn-chatha were Bresss military title. Or had his chief 
called him Chieftain of battle as a chide, since the big redhead seemed bent 
on picking a fight with the new recruit, or at least challenging him strongly? 
What a little man he is, Cormac thought, despite his few years, to be jealous 
unto truculence of his commanders attentions to a new recruit! 
A man whose name Cormac did not catch led him to a sleeping bench. He spoke 
quietly. 
Best ye be staying clear of Bress, Partha. Its a fine fighter the man is, with 
or without weapons. 
He does well with his mouth, indeed. But Cormac spoke just as quietly. 
with a temper on him as mean as his sorrelhorse hair. 
An odd choice for Forgalls second in command, Cormac observed, wishing there 
were time to go over his mail-links once more. 
It is possible that Forgall be too easy-going, the other man said. Bress is 
our tempering. He is not well-loved by any I knowbut its a fighting man he is, 
who has slain no less than ten times! 
Without comment on his own tallyall in PictsCormac nodded. He accepted both 
information and advice with a nod of thanks, and reclined for sleep. 
He was so weary that, once his muscles had relaxed, not even the chorus of 
snores from his new companions or the ache in his shield-arm kept him long 
awake. 
Chapter Seven:
Mesca and Mocci
The soldiers and new recruits of Forgall mac Aed entered Carman of Leinster 
under a pearl-hued sky lightened by a waning afternoon sun. 
Though Carman was on Leinsters southern border and the stronghold of Redrock up 
near the northern, Meathish border, Forgalls company had spent but one night 
under the stars. The distance from Leinsters northernmost point to its most 
southerly was but forty miles. The kingdom was smaller than Munster, which 
sprawled to its west and south; smaller than Connacht, smaller even than Mide or 
Meath, which had been created of parts from the other kingdoms, as an expansion 
of territory around Tara of the Kings. 
Carman was the greatest center of population that fortess-raised Cormac had ever 
experienced, and he saw little while trying to see everything. 
To him the human throng was enormous and exotic. Merchants and close-crowding 
buildings; well-dressed nobles in pearl-sewn mantles, and yapping dogs; 
slouching rag-tags and bustling hawkers of this and that merchandise; all merely 
formed a backdrop. The Connachtish youths eyes swerved this way and that to 
pick out women, and girls, more females in twenty paces than hed seen in all 
his life. With fine clothes on them, and clean, curled hair, and paint or dyes 
to enhance eyes and lips! 
The men tramped; Cormac tramped; Cormac stared. An occasional pair of bold eyes 
stared in return, and girls there were who imparted more swing to their hips, 
once theyd become aware of the big tall youths grey-eyed gaze. Entranced and 
enchanted, he heard not the babble of a hundred conversations, nor noted the 
words of the loud-voiced hawkers of goods. He had seen cod and white haddock 
before, and pigs and badger-meat, and prawns and scallops and herring, and 
sloke and dulse, mace and honey, and fragrant little juniper berries his people 
used for flavouring and seasoning. He had not seen before so many fine-looking 
members of the opposite sex, and the Conachtish youth was at an age when his 
interest in females was passing high. 
At the permanent military encampment outside the citya bit too close, Cormac 
thought, to the citys main refuse dump into the Slaigneforsaw to the entry of 
Partha into King Ulads service, and to his outfitting. Yes, he could wear his 
own fine chaincoat in combat, when and if that became necessary. Otherwise, and 
for dress, the new recruit would wear the same sleeveless coat of boiled leather 
as his fellows, over their Leinsterish tunics of speedwell blue. 
Cormac learned that he would be charged for both, against his wages... 
The captain bade the veterans from Redrock be at their ease and leave, so long 
as they were back in camp by sundown, for pre-dinner muster. Aye, Cormac could 
go into Carman too: the newcomer had earned his leave that evening on the beach. 
With Boruma time so nigh, Forgall warned, many and many a day might pass ere 
again they found opportunity to recreate themselves. 
The veterans welcomed their leave, and most had already accepted Partha as a 
comrade. Some few of the other recruits, who must remain in camp, frowned; so, 
Cormac noted, did Bress mac Keth. 
A burly farmers son named Cas mac Con accompanied Cormac as guide; Cas was a 
score or so years of age, russet of hair and brown of mustache and called Bull 
by some of his comrades. Cormac willingly accepted the thickset mans guidance 
into and through a city about which mac Art knew nothing. 
Cas gave little time for sightseeing, instead taking a direct route that soon 
led them into a section of the capital that Cormac realized was hardly the best. 
He followed without thinking, hardly noticing his surroundings apart from the 
many exemplary examples of femininity; he gawked and girl-watched. A mug of ale? 
Oh, yes. This place? Certainly. Lasrians Blue Shamrock, eh? Noted for his own 
brew of beer from wheat and honey, with a secret ingredient Lasrian the brughaid 
would not reveal? Fine; Cormac knew not one place from another, and if Cas 
vouched for this one, why not? He was no expert as regards ale; an Cas thought 
Lasrians special bew worth the trying, hed do so. 
The two men entered the little tap-room, which was also an inn, with a door 
leading to private rooms behind. 
Places to sit were not hard to find. Neither, as they ordered mugs of ale, was 
companionshipfor Cas. A few minutes later the farmboy soldier was gone; so was 
the black-haired girl hed told Cormac was his cousin. The big recruit sat and 
drank alone, only sipping for he was not overly enamoured of Lasrians vaunted 
brew. He strove to look as if hed been wearing the blue tunicover his own 
leather leggingsand long vest of black leather for years. 
Cormac strove, too, not to be too noticeable in his watching of the most 
handsome girl nearby. Fiery of hair she was, and surely no older than he, though 
he saw that she was more sophisticated. That she was far from well dressed was 
of no consequence whatever; she was pretty and more, with a vivacious look about 
her. Her eyes were marvelous rounds of truly grassy green. Other patrons of the 
Blue Shamrock were no better dressed. 
Indeed, the excellent young minstrel over in the corner wore a tunic of so faded 
a red it could be called pink. His hooded cloak was threadbare in more than one 
place and his leggings looked as if theyd been made of a carrion cow found a 
century ago. In a good clear voice, he sang quietly the while he strummed his 
lute. 
Listening, enjoying the quiet music and verses-in-the-making of some love story 
or other, Cormac gave most of his attention to the girl. (Young woman, he 
thought, for I am a young man!) Naturally he pretended to be studying the brown 
liquid in his mug. 
He was mindful of nursing his ale, that he might not empty the mug and have to 
suffer its refilling. Not so the two older fellows, who had obviously been here 
longer than he; longer, indeed than necessary. The younger, perhaps twenty, made 
a teasing remark. It was directed at the girl. She continued to devote much 
attention to her nails, which she had dyed crimson in the manner of a lady of 
leisure. Berries had darkened her eyebrows, which Cormac assumed were lighter 
than her orange-red hair. 
The fellow whod failed to attract her attention with his remark now stretched 
forth a leg. He tried to toe her ankle. He could not reach. Slouching the more 
in his chair, he used his foot to tap the leg of her stool. She paid no mind. 
Her apparent interest in her nails was as deep as Cormacs in his mug of brew. 
High n mighty lil wench, huh? Nails like a ladyor a... 
She shot the young man a green-eyed stare magnificently notable for its 
coolness. When she disengaged that look, her glance flashed over Cormac, just in 
passing. He felt warmed by it. The man glanced his way; Cormac affected not to 
notice. The youth of Connacht was most aware of being well out of his element. 
Its mighty fine them nailsd feel digging into a mans shoulders, the older 
of the two drinkers said, grinning, staring at the girl. The backs of his 
shoulders. 
Is it aught else yed be having? 
This from the Blue Shamrocks owner-proprietor, or brughaid. 
Only a room in back, Lasrianwith that pretty drolleen for company. 
Lasrian shook his jowly head. Och, Scumac, its ashamed I am for ye. That wren 
as ye call her does not work hereand shes too young for yourself, sure. And 
yourself here with your nephew... Scumac! Again Lasrian gave his head a 
chastising wag. 
The older man named Scumac imitated the action. So I might be, Laz... but yon 
fillys not too young for Blai here, is she, boy? 
Blai laugheda high-voiced giggle that Cormac thought ridiculous and nigh as 
shameful as the pairs treatment of the girl... the young woman. And them uncle 
and nephew! He saw her give Lasrian the brughaid a grateful look, which told 
Cormac what hed surmised: she was a youth of tender sensibilities, better than 
those two, better than the Blue Shamrock, and distressed by the unwanted and 
lewd attentions of a pair of louts who should have been out slopping the pigs 
they doubtless slept with. 
The minstrel strummed. Lasrian beamed on him. Then, looking at the door, he 
frowned. Cormac thought he could read the round-bellied fellows mind: sure and 
the minstrel was good, and why then were none entering Lasrians bruidean to 
give listenhaving a cup the while? 
Sure and she prettiern any filly I ever saw, Uncle, Blai said. 
Hush, stallion! Scumac said, and he and his nephew guffawed. 
Unnoticed, the minstrel had commenced softly singing about Medhbh, the 
Intoxicating One, and a buachall and a bachlachcowherd and churl or herdsman 
and how they trampled blarhnad in their roughness and lack of sensitivity; 
blarhnad was a little flower. Lasrian was nervous, and Scumac and Blai entirely 
too caught up in their callous fun to take note of a most clever minstrel. 
Cormac was staring, his lips tightened and his hand very tightly clutching his 
mug. The two took no note of him either, rapt and enwrapt in a diverslon 
pleasant only to themselves. Cormac glanced at the inner doorway. No Cas mac 
Con. Good. Cormac was in no hurry to leave. He was minded to ask the minstrel if 
he knew a lay about a couple of hogherds and how they had such knowledge of 
fillies, but he held back; this was not his neighbourhood, or his city, or his 
country. 
Scumac ordered two more mugs of the reddish ale he and his nephew were so 
assiduously stowing away. Lasrian, frowning, went to his kegs. The minstrel, 
apparently unnoticed save by Cormac, was weaving a clever system of verses in 
which appeared again and again the words mesca and mocci: intoxication and pigs. 

Of a sudden Scumac, like an outsized catthough with a lurch in tribute to the 
potency of Lasrians brewwas out of his chair and at the girl. He caught her by 
shoulder and one breast and began dragging her from her seat, toward the rear; 
one of the rooms for pleasure, Cormac was sure, to which Cas had repaired with 
his cousin. 
Cormac had no other thought. He rose and rushed to the girls aid. As neither 
Blai nor his uncle wore a sword or visible dagger, Cormac did not draw his 
steel. He placed a big hand on Scumacs arm and the man jerked, swinging away. 
In thus evading Cormacs grip he incidentally let the girl slip free of his. The 
man of forty or so faced the big youth angrily, and Scumac was red of face. Then 
Cormac saw the others gaze leap past him. At the same time, just as Scumac 
started to grin, a hand fell heavily on Cormacs shoulder. 
Cormac turned and drove a fist into Blais relaxed and ale-filled belly, all in 
one movement. With an ugly gagging sound Blai doubled half over, then sank to 
his knees. His eyes bulged and his mouth gaped while he clutched his midsection 
with both hands. With an urkk and a gushy liquid sound, Blai messed Lasrians 
floor. 
From behind Cormac came another cheerless sound: a good hearty thud. He whirled, 
to see Scumac, his eyes rolling loosely, begin to bend both knees. His hands 
fell loosely open and from one a dagger dropped to the oil-dark floor. The mans 
falling to his knees jarred the floor under Cormacs feet. He stepped back then, 
as Scumac stretched his length. 
Behind the fallen man stood the girl, glaring at Cormac. She held the stool with 
which shed tested the hardness of Scumacs skull. It was hard; though the man 
lay still, he breathed naturally and there was no blood. 
A smiling Cormac mac Art said, I give ye thanks, and awaited similar words 
from her. 
Hmp! I struck him before I thought, when I saw the knife, she said, and tossed 
the stool so that Cormac had to jerk a leg from its path. No child am I to have 
need of a long-nosed protectorcertainly not a buffoon with a backwoods haircut 
and wrists like the slabs of pork ye doubtless raise and slaughter! With her 
eyes she directed the bemazed youths attention to the unconscious Scumac. Its 
perfectly able I am of taking care of myselfsee? Which is more than I can be 
saying for yourself, soldier; but for me hed have divided your shoulderblades 
by another quarter-inch! 
A speechless Cormac mac Art watched her step across Scumac, nudge his nephew 
neatly so that he dropped from hands and knees into his own vomit, and storm 
from the inn in a swirl of worn off-white skirts and hair like dancing flames. 
The minstrel rose and made as if to follow. At the door, he turned. 
Nothing harmed, Lasrian, I see; good for you a member of the Royal Army was 
here to restore order. Bad cess to yourself an these two dont clean up their 
own mess, Brughaid! The nephews been eating his dulse half-chewed, I see. Blue 
eyes switched their calm gaze to Cormac, and in them he saw youth, and 
amusement. Weapon-man: its far better ye are with your arm than at the judging 
of womankind! 
And with a wink, the minstrel too departed. 
Women, Cormac thought, feeling very warm and very confused. Hmp! But a girl, no 
more than fourteenummm. Well... hardly so mature as I, though. Upbringing will 
out, as Sualtims said so many time. 
Ah... soldier... member of the Royal Army, there... would ye be helping me 
stretch Scumac and Blai over there by the wall? Corpse-imitating drunks lying 
about the floor do business no good. And might I be suggesting that it must be 
time for ye to be seeking your camp? 
Still feeling the heat that betokened his flush, Cormac helped Lasrian move the 
victims. Blai had passed out and his uncle was snoring, despite the fact that he 
lay on his belly. The chagrined youth nerved himself to ask about the 
minstreland the girl, as if she were an afterthought. Lasrian vowed not to know 
either, and was sorry the minstrel had left. Cormacs impression was that 
minstrels were far more welcome than backwoods buffoons such as hed heard 
himself called. He decided it was indeed time he returned to the company of 
weapon-men, whom he understood. Cas mac Con could take care of himself. 
So can I, Cormac thought, so long as I be staying clear of Carmans strange 
women! 
The unsung hero of the Blue Shamrock departed it. Directions were easily asked, 
and got. He made his way through a Carman dim with its closeset buildings 
beneath a lowering sun in an overcast sky, The while, he took note of how these 
city Leinstermen had their hair trimmed. Hair and its grooming were important to 
all of Eirrin, and those words of the girls had hurt. 
Too, he frequently held up and turned for his inspection the thick stout wrists 
Art and Midhir had ever spoken so highly of. 
Slabs of pork? Lugh smite her backside! 
Thankless blowze! The two slabs of pork lie on Lasrians greasy floor! 
With such thoughts to cheer him and aid in the regaining of his pride, the young 
weapon-man of Connacht returned to the camp. 
During and after dinner among his fellow Blueshirts, as Leinsters soldiery were 
called, Cormac had opportunity to ask a number of questions. People loved to 
answer questions about their lands and their ways, he discovered swiftly, and 
were thereby made happy to ask none. Several of his queries he directed at 
Forgall, about the way hed kicked that Pict on the beach. Forgall laughed and 
pointed out that when men were at the business of striving to do death on one 
another, it were manifestly stupid to be mindful of rules, and to confine 
oneself only to edge of blade. There was, he said rather archly, the swords 
point. There was the bucklers edge, and its boss. 
And the feet, Cormac said; he knew that other. 
Aye, Forgall said, and one did have to practice; hed seen Cormac kick that day, 
and lose his balance. 
Ye did! Ye said naught; methought Id tumbled so foolishly unseen. 
Blood of the gods, man, ye were after saving my life! 
Later, Cormac eschewed the story-telling, the games of brandub and the dicing. 
Rather surreptitiously, he betook himself outside, and around behind the 
barracks where a bit of moonlight whitened the ground. There he spent many 
minutes alone in the gloom, swinging sword and shield and dancing about on one 
foot whilst kicking viciously with the other, at nothing. He fell more than 
once. 
Then rain commenced to patter down, and left off his strange practice to join 
his fellows indoors. Had any asked, hed have sworn he gave no thought to a 
flame-haired, fiery-tempered inn-girl. But then hed told them other lies, too. 
Chapter Eight:
The Flame-Lady
On the morning of the morrow, Forgall announced sword-training, and gave command 
into the hands of Bress. The captain, attired in his best, entered Carman for a 
conference. All knew the subject: the Cattle Tribute. 
Each man in the barracks armoured and armed himself: their swords were of wood, 
wrapped again and again with wide strips of leather. Bress marched them to the 
training area. Complaints arose; the rain had fallen long and long last night, 
and the field was become little more than a bog. He who lost in these 
mock-combats would receive a mudbath. 
So he will, Bress said. Only the losers, though. Its weapon-men of Leinster 
we are, not children! 
Why make mudpies then, someone grumbled. 
When Bress demanded to know who had spoken, none would tell. Bress of the Long 
Arm chose three judges, and set to choosing teams of two. The men of each pair 
would fight each other. The judges announced mud-rules: ordinarily a man 
adjudged to have sustained a wound was required to continue his combat on his 
knees. In order that none might have to kneel in inch-deep mudand worsethis 
day, the wounded would forfeit bucklers, which would certainly cripple them in 
ability. 
Soon the field was noisy with the banging of swords of wood-and-leather on 
shields and helms and armour, along with the grunts and muttered curses of men 
and the sluck of booted feet drawing out of the mud. Too, there were splashes. 
Well to one side, the judges watched. Well to the other, Bress kept keen watch, 
that unfortunately good-looking, sorrel-haired man, a tall and haughty superb 
warrior all wished were not so striking-or so sour. 
Cormac mac Art did not know that it was on himself Bress had fixed his gaze. The 
supposed Ulsterman took his opponents slash on his buckler, turned the blade 
away, and struck a swift killing blow. Thus was Donal the Slender 
embarrassedthough he did not fall, and was at least unmuddied. 
Bress approached; then was time, he said, to test this great slayer of Picts 
from... wherever he said. What is it your name is again, Slayer of Picts? 
Cormac was determined not to be provoked. Partha mac Othna, Battle-leader. 
Ah. Well... obviously this is an off-day for Donal. Bress looked about. 
Eochu! Eochu Lightning-handhither man. Ye face, uh, Partha. 
And with a little smile on his sensuous lips, Bress stepped back. Others 
watched, then, whilst Eochu came tramping sloshily toward Cormac, staring 
fixedly at him over his shield-rim. He stomped to a halt in battle-stance with 
his toes practically at Cormacs. Ha! Eochu cried, but none saw the new man 
twitch. 142 
Cormac circled in silence, keeping his shield ever foreward and his sword ready, 
away from his body at the side. Eochu made attack; Cormac caught stroke and then 
backstroke on his shield and smote Eochus helmet. The blow was pronounced not 
so hard as to have dented the steel, were the blade a real one. Nodding, Cormac 
slashed instantly upward at Eochus face; Eochus shield leapt up and in 
mid-stroke Cormac turned his elbow over and thrust over the shield. The blunt 
tip of the practice-sword struck Eochus forehead even as Eochus edge banged 
off Cormacs shield. 
Eochu was adjudged deadin truth, his brain was hardly his own for a time. 
Bress called for Cethern of Dinn Rig. A groan arose from the othersand a minute 
later, adjudged wounded, Cethern had to forfeit his shield. Feeling naked, 
defenseless, he decided to attack violently in an attempt to take Cormac first. 
Cethern tried; Cethern died: Bresss jaw twitched, so tightly did he clench 
his excellent white teeth. Men were cheering the foreign recruit. Slayer of 
Picts, indeed! Also slayer of Donal, and Eochu, and Cethern, and Bresss plans 
for his muddy defeat. 
A man of prowess, Bress said, through his teeth. Still the words sounded 
sneery, rather than complimentary. Would ye be trying two at once, Man of 
Prowess? 
NO! That cry came from many throats. 
From Cormacs: Aye, Battle-leader. Its yourself commands, and a Blueshirt 
obeys! 
And so two men came, veterans slogging in mud, one in chain and the other in 
leather. Their fellows watched in stiff-lipped silence, tense, and accusing 
looks were shot at Bress mac Keth. He stood watching, eyebrows arched, chin high 
so that he seemed to be gazing down upon the three men a dozen feet away. 
Cormac met them both, and took four great loud strokes on his buckler and with 
his sword struck aside a fifth and took another on his shield ere he saw his 
opening and stabbed one of the twins so that the man were certainly dead, had 
the sword been of steel. Cormac did not pause to note the mans withdrawal, as 
no verdict of the judges was necessary; mac Art had still another foeman. 
The youth was beginning to sweat. The sun brought a wriggly mist up from the 
water-soaked field. One blow the supposed Ulsterman took: was but a glancing one 
on his mailed upper arm, and all knew it would be hardly so much as a 
distraction to a man in combat. 
The boy swings like a farmer sowing grain, Fithil! What hinders ye, man? This 
from Bress, in encouragement of Cormacs opponent. 
Cormac and Fithil circled, staring each at the other over rim of shield. Fithil 
feinted; Cormac interposed shield and feinted in return; both men aborted their 
strokes and moved restlessly; staring, ever staring. 
What hinders him is Partha mac Othna! someone called, and other voices arose 
in assent. One of those voices belonged to first-bested Donal, who felt not so 
bad now hed seen the youth dispose of so many others. 
Cormac was forced to backtrack swiftly. In the mud he nearly fell, and Fithil 
pressed in. His sword banged loudly on Cormacs buckler; Cormacs blade rapped 
as loudly on Fithils left thigh. Adjudged crippled, Fithil would on better 
terrain have sunk to his knees. Amud, he discarded his shield and crouched low. 
Stick the boy in the stones, Fithil! 
To that encouraging cry from another partisan Bress added, If he has any! 
Together the two of ye might have four! someone else bellowed at Bress. 
If the Ulsterman has three! And great laughter arose. 
Cormac grinned; Fithil grinned; Fithil risked all in a long lunge. Cormac had to 
leap to avoid that drive at his legs. He came down with a splashand a ringing 
stroke of his sword atop Fithils unadorned helmet. There could be no doubt of 
the efficacy of that blow; Fithil was dead. 
This besting of two opponents at once upset Bress, who had chosen two fine 
weapon-men to teach the Ulsterish boy a lesson. They had failed him. It appeared 
that but one man in Leinster could teach that lesson: taking Fithils sword of 
leather-wrapped wood, Bress advanced on the dark young recruit. Again a silence 
moved over the gathering, though a few men groaned. Cormac heard some of the 
murmurs; Bress mac Keth was Champion of Leinster! 
Aye, and in seconds Cormac knew that here was a match; Bress was beyond merely 
good. Too, the man had much reach on him. When Cormac was at the length of his 
own sword and arm, Bress was still dangerous, able to inflict the deadly wound, 
because of the length of his arms. 
Many men have this or that skill or gift of the gods on their side, Midhir mac 
Fionn had told him, more than once, for Midhir had seldom said anything 
meaningful only once. Discover that. Respect that. And then seek to discover 
what weakness he has that works against him, for I have seen no more than five 
or six weapon-men in all my days who had not some weakness for the exploiting. 
Cormac sought, while with Bress mac Keth he fought a different sort of match; 
the match of two who were better than good, and knew it, and respected each the 
others ability. They took their time, ever shifting, feinting, circling, 
testing, side-stepping, essaying strokes that were hastily blocked and as 
hastily aborted while the attacker covered himself. Each tried using his 
swift-shifting eyes to lie about where he intended to strike; neither succeeded, 
for the other recognized the strategem in time. The sound of leather-wrapped 
wood on shield boomed and rolled out across the muddy field. All about them 
stood staring men, their booted feet invisible in mud so that all appeared to 
stand on stumps. And there was much murmuring, though it was very quiet. 
Cormac attacked, erred, and caught a stroke to the shoulder that was adjudged 
wounding. Indeed, he felt it through padded coat and mail. Unhappily, he was 
told he could use his buckler no longer. Cormac loosed it and sent the round 
shield spinning as though it weighed much less than its fifteen pounds; one man 
ducked, another tried to catch it, and a third succeeded. The second nursed a 
backbent finger. 
Shield-less, Cormac gazed into the grinning face of Bress Long-arm. 
Already the youth had noted that Bress did not fight as Forgall did, for Bress 
was excellent, and longer of arm; he was proud to use sword alone. Pride. And 
temper. Aye. Cormacs youthful eyes narrowed to slits and his brain raced. 
Now, against an unshielded opponent, Bress succumbed to over-confidence: pride 
in ability. He came boring in, covering himself well while he loosed a flurry of 
short strokes. 
With his own sword Cormac batted away one, then two and then three cuts. 
Realization was on him that hed not be allowed to attack; Bress would keep him 
busy using sword as defense only, and certainly find the opening to strike a 
killing blow. Accordingly Cormac bashed away a short cut with all his might, so 
that his arm shivered with the impact. He came back high with his own blade, 
drawing Bresss shield upand whipped out a foot to kick Bress in the shin. 
Bress lurched. His right foot skidded in the mud. The edge of his padded wooden 
blade, hard-swung, banged the side of Cormacs helm-and further unbalanced the 
champion. Bress Long-arm fell into the mud with a great splash that spattered 
Cormac as high as his chin. He did not notice; his head rang from what be knew 
was a killing blow. 
All about Bress and the youth standing over him lofted whoops of laughter. 
Bresss great glower soon evaporated that noise. A judges voice called out: 
Partha mac Othna was dead of a cloven head, with helmet-steel in his brain. 
Over-ruled! Bress bawled, from the muck. Was the flat of my blade only! 
Cormac would have seen grins and winks directed his way, but he was watching his 
downed opponent. Pride and anger, Cormac mused. Those are Bresss weaknesses. 
Ill be remembering. But... now he wants me not dead. He belies his own 
stroke, so that he may rise and tumble me into this sludge! 
He gave Bress that opportunity. Cormac made no move to attack the downed man 
who, in an effort to rise, slipped and splashed down anew. Cormac banged his 
blade against his own chest. All knew he could have struck Bress then, and won, 
in accord with Bresss own altered rules. And Bress knew. It was enough. Backing 
two paces, Cormac assumed a position of readiness, though he bore no shield. He 
waited. 
Bress began to come up, mud dripping from him. He was enraged and yet forced to 
take care lest he slip and fall anew. Every man stood watching as if ensorceled. 
Bress Big-foot would make much more of this... 
Forgalls shout made every-man jerk. 
Ho, what a fight! What a well-matched pair these be! I was telling you, Bress! 
Only yourself could have come to my aid a few days agone the way Partha did! 
Forgall came up grinning, holding up his dress plaide from the mud. His 
wide-open face showed only good cheer and delight. Butits yourself was to be 
teacher this day, Bress. It seems the student has been at the giving of 
lessons! 
Hearty laughter leaped up all about and provided the wings on which tension 
fled. Bress muttered a few words about having slipped in the mud. 
I saw, Forgall said smiling, looking fondly from Bress to Cormac and back. 
In truth was Bress struck the blows, Cormac said. He both wounded me and, in 
my thinking, slew me. 
Och! Forgall cried in delight. What a pair of weapon-men! 
Bress did not acknowledge Cormacs kind words. Nor dared he fault the recruit on 
his foot use. Was fair, and Forgalls way of fighting, he offsetting his 
short-waistedness by such means; was the sensible way. 
A rather startled Cormac tried mentally to examine his sudden revelation. Why, 
Forgall was more ingenuous than he! Had Forgall been Bress hed have laughed; 
Forgall had no intention of rubbing salt into Bresss figurative wounds with his 
words of teacher and student, for the captain was a good-natured weapon-man who 
respected those of equal and superior skill. To Forgall, it must be hardly 
conceivable that such as Bress and Partha did not love each the other. 
Then, thinking on that, Cormac mac Art glanced up as a mucky Bress mac Keth 
slogged away, and the youth caught the others darkly vengeful look. 
To Forgall, was all a game; he loved fighting, even to the death that day with 
the Picts. To Bress: exaltation of another was not to be toleratednor was 
defeat or minor humiliation. Cormac resolved to think hard on both men, and to 
attempt to mould himself accordingly. 
Forgall took up a comanding position and shouted his news. 
On the morrow we march northward, for the Boruma time is upon us. The victors 
in to-days little combats are at their leaveto clean up and betake themselves 
wheresoever they will... you who won not must practice the more. For its your 
very lives are at stake, boys. Bress... Battle-leader... would ye be remaining 
with them? 
The request was that, a request and ultra-politely made; obviously Bress could 
not refuse. He nodded. 
Cormac and those others whod won their encounters returned to the barracks. 
Rather more than one of his fellows let him know how they had loved seeing Bress 
Lamfhada mac Keth put into his place: the mire. Cormac accepted their accolades 
in good fellowship and kept silent his total agreement. 
He was nervous and thoughtful while he stripped and cleansed himself for he was 
much bespattered. Bad enow that Bress had disliked him on sight. Now the dislike 
had loped into a feeling beyond animosity. 
After washing, Cormac pulled on leggings of white linen. Over them he drew the 
blue tunic Lugaid the Fox was happy to lend him, and he drew his boots up over 
his tight braecs. Next came the vest of black leather with its 
shoulder-broadening guards for upper arms and shoulders, and about his waist he 
buckled his weapon-belt, without sword or scabbard. He took a dagger of course, 
sheathed at his hip, but yesterdays experience told him hed be better off in 
Carman without a sword. He might draw it in anger. As for the dagger: that was 
after all an eating utensil. 
Men were waiting for him; they wanted the suddenly-popular foreigner as part of 
their group. 
Cormac remembered his desire to have his hair Leinsterishly trimmed, and made 
mention of it. 
Och, Partha! If yed but said that afore; its I cut the hair of half the men 
here, and for a trifle. But now... 
Cormac nodded. Perhaps this evening. 
Absolutely! But comelet us go and find a good inn and empty its larder! 
The group of full dozen weapon-men, swaggering for theyd won this leave, left 
the camp. They went happily and rather boisterously along the road to Leinsters 
gate, keeping to the grass alongside; the road was muddy and theyd had enough 
of that. A carter with loose red-grey hair smiled on them, and his youngish son 
and his daughterwho was olderturned and stared large-eyed at these fine heroes 
of King Ulad. Each received a wink or three; the boy grinned, assuming they were 
for him. 
Just inside the gate sat a young slender fellow, red of hair and blue of eye. He 
was covered in a shapeless and threadbare mantle drawn on over a once-red tunic 
faded to the colour of dying red clover. In his hands a lute; on his lips a 
song. The words included mesca and mocci. 
With a smile, Cormac went to him. 
A good tune, minstrel! Have you a name? 
Most likely. An ye go to the next cross-street and turn by your right handnot 
left, rightand walk past three crossings, yell want to be asking someone for 
the Inn of the Flame Lady. 
All this Ill be wanting to do? And why? 
A certain caustic maid we both know, and her no street-slut, has desire to see 
yourself again, foreigner. Whence come ye? 
Ulster; Partha mac Othna my name. Cormacs heartbeat had speeded and the sun 
seemed to have grown warmer. Ye mean 
I mean that though it makes me none too happy and she knows it, its herself 
would have been here for all to gawp at and remark upon, did I not agree to send 
ye along. 
Partha! that from one of the other waiting Blueshirts. 
He half-turned waved a hand. Go on with ye, all. Ill not be going your way; 
its business this minstrel and I have. 
And him male! This was followed by laughter. 
He has a sister, Cormac called, and that brought laughter and hoots, remarks 
and a whistle along with a stallionish whinny. Then off the others went, not 
without Lugaid the Foxs asking whether she had a sister. Cormac turned back to 
the minstrel. What is she to yourself, minstrel? 
One I hold in esteem, the young redhead said very seriously, and Cormac heard 
warning and admonition. We are not, however, lovers. 
I hear ye. Its in your debt I am. 
Partha: you are. Begone; ye be not good enough to keep her waiting. 
That grated sufficiently for Cormac to tarry: My father commands a stronghold 
rath for Ulsters king, and is of clan-na Morna. 
The nameless minstrel snorted. In truth, he said, and it was neither a 
statement nor a question but an entirely neutral tone, unimpressed. 
Cormac started away. Ahfriend minstrel. How is she named? 
Breotigernd, the minstrel said, and Cormac laughed; the name was the same as 
that of the inn: Flame-lady. 
What else! he called and went happily the way hed been bidden. 
Soon he was aware of why the minstrel had repeated that he was not to go left; 
that way hed gone yesterday. The street to the right led him into better 
environs. After hed made three crossings of other streets, he asked directions 
to the bruidean called Breotigernd. The flower-pedlar pointed, and Cormac sadly 
told her he had naught with which to buy a blossom. Then he turned leftward and 
walked past an armourers and meat-sellers. The third building was hung with a 
yellow sign emblazoned with a stylized red flame outlining a naked woman. Cormac 
entered. 
He was disappointed. Of Flame Ladys nine patrons, none was the girl of the Blue 
Shamrock; indeed, none was female. The brughaid came to him, fast as he of the 
Blue Shamrock. Far from sure of himself or what he was doing, Cormac quietly 
asked a question. The innkeeper became visibly happier and more hospitable. 
The lady awaited in a privy chamber behind the tap-room, he said, and led Cormac 
thither. The wary youth entered. 
Cormac was astonished. Here was a board laid out with savoury viands and not ale 
but good mead. And here waited she, in a green gown cut closely to her slender 
body, and hardly so lowly as her attire of the previous day. 
She smiled. Close your mouth, huge boy. Even though flies are not yet abuzz in 
Carman, ye might dehydrate your tongue. 
I... its the same I am as on yester day, and my hair the same. What... what 
means all this? 
It means we eat together. It means I make apology for my display of temper at 
that inn of mesca and mocci, and that  I thank your fine strapping self for 
coming to my rescue as though I were a lady. And it means I bid ye be joining 
me. 
Cormac shook his head in incomprehension. And... who else? 
None other! And would ye be shutting the door? Ive no fear on me of yourself, 
huge boy. Look here, where we met on yester day a girl must be known to be able 
to take care of herself. I showed that. Nownone will join us here. I but 
remembered your great height and the thickness of your arms, and made sure 
thered be food aplenty. What have ye been at since last I saw ye? With a flash 
of white arms, she poured mead gurgling into a jack, which she extended. 
Fighting. 
Id not be doubting it! 
Cormac laughed. He took the jack, made a tiny bow, and drank off half its 
contents. This is good! 
So I thought, when I tasted it for us. Fighting. And winning, ocourse. 
Aye. But this was practicethe Royal Armys practice, he added, pridefully. 
Most of the morning. Six men I was made to face, for one in command has no love 
for me. 
Six men at once? 
Singly. Two at once. In the mud. 
Ah. Do sit down. Mightnt I be persuading ye to remove the weapon-belt and 
leather jack? It is most handsomebut the leather creaks so. New? 
New. Gods of my fathers, but shes so sure of herself, so full of 
sophistication! Its a buffoon I am indeed. And he drained his cup. 
More? 
Aye. 
There. My name isnt really Flame-Lady. 
Its what Ill be calling ye. 
Then yeve no need of knowing my real name! 
What is it? 
She laughed. Aha! she cried, and he knew hed been successfully teased. Aine. 
And do you have a name? 
He was surprised to discover he wanted to tell her his real name; he did not. 
Partha, she repeated. A good enough name; I know it or not. Ulster and 
Leinster are hardly neighbors. 
Strange that names should be so different though, betwixt kingdoms, isnt it? 
He laid aside his weapon belt. Now aine is in use all over Errin, surely. 
She shrugged. And the jiggle that movement brought about within her bodice made 
his head go light while warmth came upon him. She was the most attractive member 
of her sex hed ever been with. Indeed, hed been alone with none, not this 
way... none under twoscore years of age, at any rate. 
Aye, its such a common name, she said. Its Partha Id rather be. 
Cormac laughed. Or Drolleen? 
Aine looked unpleasant, then smiled, then laughed; the sound, he thought, was 
that of a happy brook in the hills. Do see that ye never call me that. Or 
filly, either! 
Memory will be on me till the end of my days, Flame-lady; I make vow by the 
gods my peoples people swear by. Aine. Aine. It is a pretty sound. Ye be of 
Carman? 
No, she told him, she was a merchants daughter from Ailenn, come down to Carman 
with her father for goods. They talked of that, and of trading, and they ate, 
and talked too of names, and springtime, and Carman, and other matters. She was 
bored with this self-conscious capital city, Aine told him; she preferred her 
Ailenn. When she asked about him, he mixed truth with necessary lies and made 
all as sketchy as possible. She filled his mug a third time and he told her that 
he was far ahead in the quaffing. She pointed out that he was much biggerand 
then drank off hers and filled her cup and drank most of that, and filled it to 
the brim again. How was it no green eyes hed seen afore had been so beautiful, 
so... green; no red hair so firelike, so beautiful? 
They compared ages. She claimed to sixteen years. So did he, shy a month. Ah, he 
said, lifting his cup, an older woman! And he but a poor foreign-boy all alone 
in the great city. And they laughed, and drank. 
And why did Othnas son Partha leave Ulster and travel even across Meath, all 
the way down to Leinster? 
Oh... a matter of a woman, he said, with an airy wave of his hand. 
They smiled, exchanging looks; they drank. She leaned close with her eyes on 
his, and Cormac, staggering at the brink of those green wells, asked why shed 
been in such a place as the Blue Shamrock. 
Looking suddenly not happy with him, Aine straightened. I told ye. Boredoms 
one me here, with my father ever busy at the dickering. I... wander. 
The minstrel? 
A friend I met. 
And I? 
A friend I met. A good friend. 
A better friend? 
Greedy Partha! Ocourse. Its not the bard for whom I took room and so much 
foodand mead. Good, isnt it. 
It is! It... truth to tell... 
I know! Me too: lightheaded! Well, it makes kissing easier, doesnt it? 
It did. 
It did again. And even again, and a fourth time. Her mouth was like, chestnuts 
in winter before the fire; he could not stop with but a taste. 
I was set to hurl something at you, she said softly, nestling. 
What did I do, dairlin girl? 
It is what you did not, oaf! 
He squeezed her slim waist, and his thumb wandered high. Oaf, is it? 
Ah! Owwno nodairlin boy, Partha, mo chroi... mmm ... my dairlin boy. .. 
When he left later he knew that he was indeed a man, and more than mead went to 
Cormacs head, and he walked tall and aswagger through Carman, and proved his 
maleness if not his manhood with his thought: Well, after all, its a weapon-man 
of the king I am, and her but a pedlars daughterwho wanted me. 
Chapter Nine:
On the Plain of Sorrow
The tramp of men shook the air, mingled with the lowing of kine, the creak of 
laden waggons, and the occasional whinny of a dray-horse. Northward marched the 
armed men of Leinster, toward a destination between Ailenn and Atha Cliath, up 
near the Meathish border. The marching men in their sleeved tunics of Leinster 
blue comprised a catha, a battle force three thousand strong. With them moved 
like a number of cattle, and creaking, rattling wain laden with treasure. From 
other areas of the kingdom other men marched, herding more lowing boru. 
Up the Slaigne to its joining with the Bann they tramped, and followed the Bann 
northward to its source, and still they trekked toward the north. 
Och, Leinster! Ochone! O my grief! 
All knew that Meathish forces were marching southward to meet them at the 
border. There would they claim the tribute-under-duress, the bitter legacy of 
men long, long in the ground and nigh forgotten. 
All knew too that messengers had carried strong words from the high house of 
Ulad of Leinster to that of Lugaid on Tara Hill, and back had come words no less 
strong. King Ulad had made himself plain. The High-king, he decreed, in his 
weening arrogance and desire for tribute the reason for which he remembers 
not, but demands only in greed. And Meath would not chew so great a slice of 
Leinster without having to bite it off. 
Tradition. Neither Leinster nor Meath wanted war. There would not be war. Yet 
there must be these demands, the reticence, the annual negotiations, the 
threatsand finally the pitched battle at the border on Magh na-Broin; the Plain 
of Sorrow. This, annually, for Leinsters honour. And sure, was blood that fed 
honour, time out of mind. 
Ulads General Fergus Buadach and his two elder sons had ridden up to Ailenn 
already. There they awaited the troops, slowed both by their baggage and by the 
animals they accompanied. 
The trek north was an easy one. Even the weather was kind to the troop, if the 
weather of wet, misty Eirrin could ever be said to be kind. To the people they 
passed they made a great pageant, so that the Blueshirts marched nearly every 
yard with an audience of russet-clad farmers. 
About them the heather was rising, and the bilberry, and fields were sown with 
grain. Already ferns and low, woody shrubs were renewing themselves, in their 
annual attempt to impart a nigh-subtropical aspect to much of the Emerald Isle. 
Clearly visible were the spurs and corries of distant hills. The sky had left 
off its sullen brooding to smile on eastern Eirrinand nowhere on all that isle 
could a man stand and not see hills. Cromlechs and the black of springfires 
crowned the hilltops, and now and again a druid of the Old Faith or a priest of 
the New could be seen staring, starlng in silence, knowing the mission of these 
marching men and wishing it were not so. 
Round about children stared, too, close to the shade of thatched rooves from the 
comers of which hung the stones that, anchored them in place. Tramping men 
skirted the bogs and swamps that splotched green-gold Eirrin with brown, and 
smiled at the sweet voice of the cuckoo. On the second day they passed through 
grass and farmlands, where charlocks and artichokes freely grew, and the needly 
junipers. valued for their savoury berries and fragrant wood. Wild ducks called, 
and the order was passed that they were not to be molested, this early in the 
year. 
Truag nuin! Sad evil! 
Five thousand kine. Five thousand hogs. A like number of good cloaks and brazen 
vessels of silver. As to the silver a concession had been made; nevertheless a 
well-guarded wain carried two hundred pounds. The wealth of Leinster. Ochone! 
Northward they bore it, and Cormac mac Art marched brooding as though a 
Leinsterman born. He thought too of Aine, his flame-lady with her hair like gold 
and bronze and rowan-berries, those eyes green as grass in May-time under their 
darkened brows; the taste of her lips, redolent of honey and herbs and her own 
sweet breath. Cormac brooded, and he mooned. 
Truag nuin, heavy-laden Leinster! Ochone and Ochon a righ! 
They reached their destination, and already they were sick of cattle and pigs. 
Only a camp they had, on Magh na-Broin, where men traded with local citizens and 
entrepreneurs for food and drink. Within the hour kine and swine were raising a 
stench. All very well to go forth in armour and armed, mayhap to gain honour, 
mayhap with the woundy blow or death itself. But to have to nursemaid all these 
noisy, stinking animals as well... Ochon a righ! 
Fergus the Battle-winner called in his commanders and captains for a great 
conference. Forgall went out from the camp, leaving Bress in command of his 
Fifty, with his instructions: stay in place; prepare the Coichte as other 
Fifties were being readied, to meet the enemy. Two men of each Coichte were to 
remain here, with the drovers and churls, to guard hogs and cows. 
Word came then, and it was good. Leinstermen cheered and called Meathmen weak: a 
last-minute concession by the High-king excused his brother-king and fellow 
sons of Eirrin from the porcine portion of the tribute, and half the measure of 
silver, already reduced. 
With scales and great care, men measured out half the thirty-two hundred ounces 
of good silver. Then they reloaded, and hogs and wagons moved southward. This 
lest Lugaids mind be changed still again, for in truth twas changeable as the 
winds that blew the clouds overhead so willy-nilly that often the land itself 
seemed to move. 
No man but was glad to see those stinking pigs go. 
Bress made his preparations. Bress made his choices. The barber Cond he would 
leave to mind the campand Partha mac Othna. Partha who was Cormac understood 
what had motivated Bress to such a decision; leaving behind his best fighting 
man! Cormac chafed... and obeyed without comment, a good and loyal weapon-man of 
Leinster. 
Anger was hot in him nevertheless, and he knew that one day he and Bress the 
contemner must needs settle this cloud between them. A wonder the arrogant 
Big-foot hadnt sent Cormac forward among the foremost men, in hopes hed be 
slain. 
Be sure he considered that, Cond said, as he and Cormac commiserated. But 
there is also the possibility that ye might be slaying so many Meathmen its a 
hero yed be. That, Partha, would outweigh the other in Bresss mind. 
Cormac tried not to hope for the death of Bress mac Keth. 
And so the troops marched out, less than a hundred having set out back toward 
Carman with the pigs and silver. A hundred and forty-eight remained with the 
herdsmen. A hundred and forty-eight weapon-men become cowherds. 
For two days Cormac was but a churl, a buachall or bachlach. He chafed with the 
bored men of the other companies at guarding stupid stinking beastsagainst 
naught. All were aware that northward their fellows were doing battle with the 
Meathish force. Cormac hated the inactivity and despised the lowliness of his 
task. More than restless, he had much company in his disquiet. 
The Plain of Sorrow, indeed! 
And then on the second night, whilst he was at the guarding of silent cattle 
while most of the others slept, he twitched into alertness. The youth sat with 
his back against a tall old oak wrapped against the night-chill in its leafy 
hood. Cormac stared, blinked, stared again. At first he saw only the white hair 
and beard, silvered by the moonlight. They appeared to float, eerily riding the 
air several feet above the ground. Cormacs skin writhed with horripilation as 
he pounced to his feet, spear at the ready. 
Then he saw that here was no sorcery; his visitors body had merely been 
invisible in the darkness, for it was swathed in a dark green robe. A 
woods-green robe; a druids robe. 
Out of the darkness came Sualtim Fodla. A new prickling assailed Cormac, though 
not in fear; he assumed he was witness to another vision, another druidic 
Sending. 
Surely Sualtim could not be here, a Connachtish druid of considerable age in 
Leinster just below Meaths border. Far and far from Connachtand far, Cormac 
thought with some embarrassment, from Airgialla, where he and his old tutor had 
agreed hed go. 
And then he heard the faint snap of a twig from the great oak that shadowed them 
both even from moonlight. That told Cormac that the druid was indeed come here, 
in the flesh. 
Cormac was more than surprised. His old fithithir had found him, come to him as 
if directly, though he was afield in the night. And after Cormac had 
deliberately deceived himor so the youth had thoughtlest even Sualtim too be 
traitor! 
You did well, my boy. The druid spoke very quietly. You sought to deceive 
even me. 
Cormac gnawed his lower lip. He could not meet those knowing eyes. He remembered 
having warned Sualtim against calling him boyand he said nothing. 
I understand, Sualtim told him, just as quietly; he was but a stride away, 
now, and there he halted. So. North you rode, and then swung east... lost all 
to bandits in the forests... saved a Leinsterish war-leader and have joined his 
force... and youre after couching your first woman... or are after being bedded 
by her! So now its a man ye be in all way... Partha mac Othna na Ulaid! 
Astonishment mingled with chagrin in Cormac. Best he say nothing, he decided. He 
whod thought himself so much the man but moments agone now felt much the boy, 
in the presence of him whod been his tutor so longand who seemed to know all 
things, impossible or no. 
Look up, son of your father. Give listen. I have been busy; I have knowledge to 
share. Think you I came so far only to tell you what you already know? 
Cormac looked up then, sheepishly. Sualtim ,looked naught but friendly, rather 
like a proudly doting parent. Then a cloud came onto his face: 
Aengus mac Domnail... was in fact Eoin mac Gulbain, my bPartha. Aye: son of 
that same Lord Gulban your father replaced as toisech in Rath Glondarth. 
Reasoning and reasonable or no, Eoin held my lord Art responsible for the fall 
of his father and the ruin of his family. 
Aengus... Eoin... Gulbans son... 
Its little time I have, Cormac. Eoin sought revenge then, and was inhumanly 
patient in his waiting for the taking of his dark vengeance. Fault him not in 
this, CPartha. Sualtim glanced around; there was only the darkness, shot with 
snores. He felt he was right, and justified; he died feeling that he had done 
vengeance for his father. 
Cormacs lips were tightly compressed. Not fault the man whod slain his father? 

I wish Aengus were alive, that I might slay him! Cormac was not so calmly 
reasoning an animal as Sualtim; Cormac had not the benefit of time in this life. 

Yet methinks another was behind Eoin, Cormac. A priest of the New Faith! A man 
there is named Milchuhe professes the peaceful mouthings of Iosa Chriost but 
serves demains; mayhap the Christians Devil himself! Aye and now Im after 
learning that Milchu has the ear of the Highking himself. 
The... ard-Righ! 
Sualtim nodded. Milchu is surely his agent and his spy. 
Mentor... yeye be thinking was the High-kings own hand in my fathers 
murder? 
Cormac... I am. It is not unknown that Lugaid mac Laegair our own High-king 
held no love for Art, on account of his popularity... and on account of the 
honoured name your father put on yourself. Sualtim lifted a staying hand 
against Cormacs speaking. Yet no surety is on me, Cormac. Its the answer to 
that question I now seek. Its north I go. Milchu is said to be on a mission to 
the northern kingdoms. There will I seek out that priest, cairnech of the New 
Faith or no, and learn what we must needs know. 
In silence, Cormac mac Art stared at nothing while he pondered the implications 
of this revelation. A priest of the New Faith! The High-king! So swiftly did his 
mind plunge into the ugly tangle that the sound of the old mans voice caused 
him to jerk. 
Cormac... if this surmising of mine gain the seal of truth, it were best that 
you put from your head any thought of blood-feud, lad. 
Eyes grim as a wolfs stared at the druid from the dark, lined face. Grey as 
sword steel, those eyes were learning to be just as implacably hard. 
Sualtim made a gesture that was nigh to pleading. Think! Far better ye go and 
present your case to the Kings Assembled at Feis-mor come fall... would be a 
greater shame and dishonour on Lugaid! 
The grey eyes stared. The face remained grim, impassiveand thoughtful. Only the 
mouth moved: Aye 
I will find out, Sualtim said. And now I must leave. Ere there can be any 
thought of accusation, its firm evidence we must have. 
The High-king, Cormac mumbled, and then seemed to emerge from a trance. 
Ohno, mentor, remain ye here and rest. At least till dawn 
Sualtim shook his head. Its no rest therell be here, Cormac. Leinster fares 
not well against Meath. Soon will come the men of the High-king, to claim the 
Boruma, and no one to be the better of it to the end of life and time. 
While Cormac stared, stunned by shock upon shock, the druid turned and started 
into the night. At the edge of the trees shadow, he turned back. 
My bCormac. Remember well all those things I was so at pains to teach you. For 
its knowledge will serve ye, and consideration. A sharp mind will often win out 
where a sword-arm would fail, or but complicate matters and bring peril. 
Remember ever that the opinion of none is so important as your own, where it 
concerns yourself. Just... just ever seek the use of the brain, son of Art, 
before you go reaching for the blade. 
Surprisingly, Sualtim smiled. And now put worry from you, weapon-man. When it 
comes your turn to sleep, do, even if it requires glasreng-blaith. 
Cormac watched the white hair above the green robe until he saw only the hair, 
and then his longtime mentor was swallowed up by the night. Thinking brain and 
blade, brain then bladebrain rather than blade? Cormac was left alone with too 
many thoughts. He stepped back against the tree, hearing the sound of a little 
breeze humming mournfully over the Plain of Sorrow. Was a lonely wind, moaning 
about the lone Connachtman in Leinster. 
He stared into the darkness and saw nothing. Aye, he mused, alone and lonely. 
Its Cormac n-Aenfher I am; Cormac the Lonely! 
Chapter Ten:
The Cattle-Raid of Leinster
The grass was still bejeweled with dew when Forgall returned with what remained 
of his force. Every eye among them was dulled by the cold of defeat and dismay. 
The battle had been a shield-splitter and Magh Broin was a plain the ravens 
would long be croaking over. 
A full score of Forgalls men had been slain, and but eleven of the total 
remained unscathed. On them all was the sour taste of defeatand weariness, to 
the bone. They came in like so many hounds who had tracked the quarry long and 
long, and had lost it. For Leinstermen in the matter of Boruma, victory and 
honour were elusive quarry indeed. 
Shocked at how few returned, shocked at those who did not return, Cormac and 
Cond, heard the order that went out to all the other Fifties, to all the army. 
The tribute was to be delivered. 
Those who had fought remained in camp while those who had been herdsmen 
continued, now moving the cattle and the wains containing the other portions of 
the tribute up northward. The Leinsterish force was most heavy of heart and 
hardly swift in the performing of that unwelcome task. Without spirit in eyes or 
gait, Cormac and the others herded the livestock across a plain become a lake of 
blood. 
A great greyed Ogham stone marked Meaths southern frontier. There, sore longing 
to draw steel and be men though it meant their deaths, the men of Leinster 
watched while the jubilant Meathmen took possession of cows fatted on Leinsters 
good grass. 
Cormac stared deep in thought on the ways of men. He stared at two, for there 
side by side stood General Fergus of Leinster and Lord Conor, the High-kings 
cousin and commander of his force. 
Would be a great shame on me, Cormac thought, not to stand well apart from that 
man who commanded the slayers of my comrades. The ways of nations of men are 
more strange than those of any man, and the ways of generals and kings are 
stranger still! 
By this little battle, he mused, all was settled. All? What? The battle was 
hardly war though to mothers and wives and sweehearts of dead men it was hardly 
so minor an encounter. How was anything settled by such? What could a limited 
war prove? Why then war at all, with boundaries around it, with rules and less 
than a total commitement? 
And the youth of Connacht thought, for the first but not the last time: Kings 
are fools, and nations of men greater fools, to do the bidding of such men and 
be commanded by their pettinessand to die for their whims. 
And then the Boruma was in Meathish hands. 
Meathmen went to their camp with the noisy enthusiasm born of the joy of 
battle-winning. Leinstermen turned and tramped silently back to their 
encampment. Such a vast herd of cattle was not easily driven, and the sun was 
nigh to the horizon when they reached camp once more. 
Spirits around the campfires that night could not have been lower. Though it was 
not cold, men wrapped their bodies in their cloaks and their minds in cloaks of 
dark thoughts. Among them, near Forgall, Cormac sat and pondered. Only partway 
he heard the Captain of Fiftywhich was fifty no longerswear by the blood of 
the gods, and bemoan the fact that once more had Meath set the bloody crown of 
defeat on proud Leinster. 
My grief! Onceoh but once in my life would I fain see Leinster prevail! And 
Forgall kicked out at a burning log, so that sparks leaped up in spots of bright 
yellow and ruddy gold. And Cormac sat and pondered. 
As fresh malt is ground in the mill, so shall Meath one day be ground by the 
steel of Leinster! So spoke Bress of the Long Arm, for he bore but a scratch on 
his sword-arm, and that not deep. 
No, Cormac thought, not with steel. Its never with the sword that Leinster will 
best Meath! 
Och, groaned Cas mac Con, wearing an ugly wound that would scar his face and 
likely draw the left corner of his mouth, weariness is on me like aa cloak of 
wet woollen... but how can a man sleep on such a night? 
How can any of us sleep? This from Cond the Hair-trimmer, who had not fought. 
And Cormac sat and pondered, and thought of battle, and honour, and kings, and 
generals and of sleep, and he looked round about him with dull eyes. He gazed, 
hardly seeing, on the squat plants that the cows had refused to eat. And he 
blinked. He stiffened, and blinked again, and there was a light in his eyes. 
Into his mind came the final words of Sualtim Fodla, spoken less than 
twenty-four hours agone. Why aye, Cormac recognized that plant Sualtim had 
called blasreng-blath: boar-blossom. Of old had Sualtim told him of it. Those 
furry leaves, when chewed or crushed for their mucousy juice, were used by the 
druids and the better leechesto induce sleep! A man could undergo surgery and 
not... 
An idea circled about at the perimeter of Cormacs mind, and nipped teasingly in 
the manner of a dog. 
The brain; use the brain when the sword fails... 
The nipping dog could not breach the defenses. What seemed an idea could not 
pierce into his mind. Surrounded by forlorn men who stared drearily into their 
fires, Cormac wrestled with his own brain. 
Ale! Forgall called, without enthusiasm. Ale, that I may drink to 
forgetfulness of disgrace and sorrow for comrades done to death. 
Ayeale! 
Ale! 
In the darkness a wounded man groaned Then did Cormac gasp, for he knew that man 
could be helped a bit or eased at least, by chewing leaves of boar-blossom... or 
drinking ale into which their juice had been pressed... 
Cormac mac Arts eyes snapped wide. With a lurch, he was up and at Forgalls 
side. The youth bent. He murmured to his captain. Few men so much as glanced 
that way, to see the face of their leader show puzzlement... and then seem to 
take on a glow of happiness. Of a sudden. he struck grinning at Cormacs leg, 
clutched a leathered ankle. 
Its no proper or decent notion yeve had, Partha, nor yet a one for the 
consideration of sane men. But this is no sane day, and what weve done be not 
the deeds of sane or proper men. And sure your ideas one that warms a heart 
heavy within me... and soothes the aches of wounds put on us by Meathish swords 
and taunts! 
He looked into Cormacs face, and their eyes flashed. 
As though well rested, Forgall sprang up. 
Ale! ALE! he bellowed. Casks and casks of ale, lads, and hieput bounce in 
your step! 
Darkness lay on the Plain of Sorrow, and through it rattled a cart behind two 
plodding horses with drooping heads. The cart creaked under burden: a full score 
stout casks that sloshed with liquid sounds. Atop the cart, hunched, sat two 
peasants roughly clad in their russet and dirty leathers and mist-hoods. 
The rising of a drepanoid moon saw them approaching a broad cluster of 
campfires, just north of Leinsters northern border. Not the main encampment of 
the Meathish army this, but that special space apart from it where the stenchy 
tribute was under guard. Well away from the sprawling encampment of the 
High-kings troops it was, that the nostrils of triumphant soldiery might be 
spared animal odours and night-noises. 
A sentry came abruptly alive. He challenged; the carters halted their 
dray-breasts. The sentry half turned to call to his superior. That man came, 
stared, frowned, set his fists against his hips, and stared on. 
What means this? Who be ye? What is this load? 
We be but two good honest men, Captain your worthiness, one of the carters 
said, adding swiftly, and us unarmed! Tis the cart of our master. We would but 
pass, Captain. Its good honest men we be, but honest peasants, and 
Yes, yes, and unarmed, as if wed be fearing ye two if ye bore axes and swords 
both. And why would ye be passing along here at this hour, two good honest men? 

We... were to be paid well by an honourable innkeeper but a halfscore or so 
miles hence, good Captain, up beyond yourself. Mightnt we be passing, Captain? 
We be no army, to be rousing noble well armed weapon-men such as yourself. 
Ah-huh. An innkeeper, eh? The captains eyes seemed to gleam, though the 
moonlight scarce touched them. And what is it ye be fetching to a moneygrubbing 
brughaid but a half score or so miles hence, eh, eh? Brion... go ye and rap on 
one or two of those interesting kegs. 
Oh, oh captain, one of the peasants nervously began, while the soldier was 
pacing forward, to the side of the cart. 
Thump, went his spear-haft against a wooden cask, and the sound that returned 
was not from hollowness. Catching his spear-butt at the edge of that keg, he 
rocked it. 
Slosh. 
Ale! The Meathish captains voice was as of one in awe in the presence of the 
very gods. Ale, by Lughs cup! 
Well, the carts driver said, ah... 
Ale! 
Ah... well... aye, Captain. And hurriedly, Mightnt we be passing now, 
Captain sir your worthiness? 
Ha! Not without paying the toll! Its war weve had this day, man, and your 
innkeeper untouched by itwhy had we failed in our steadfast duty, his inn might 
have been invaded by barbarians and who knows what damage done? Briontap that 
keg! 
And Brion did. And the dark liquid came spilling forth, gurgling happily like a 
mountain brook. And the captain, his eyes fair emitting sparks now, used his 
helmet to catch some, so that it frothed up golden foam in the steel pot. And 
the captain drank. 
How... how tastes it? This from Brion the sentry, with hope. 
Like sweat, muttered one of the carters, and his companion introduced an elbow 
to his ribs. 
Ha! Good! Good, by Croms beard. Its aleGood ale! Not our pale stuff, the 
delighted captain cried out. Its Leinsters good ale this be! 
Whwhy yes, Captain, aye your worthiness, the innkeeper our lords always wont 
to say theres no comparing Meathish ale to this. He imports this for Meath, 
Captain, ye see, your worship. Might we be going on along our honest way now 
yeve quenched your thirst, good Captain? 
The sentry muttered to his superior. The captain nodded, with exuberance. His 
teeth flashed in a grin. 
So your innkeeper says that, does he? Why, thats treason! And hes trafficking 
with the knavish people weve after fighting this very day. Och! For shame! I do 
fear me this load of ale is hereby declared contraband, my man, and confiscated 
in the High-Kings name! 
The High-king! The carter almost whispered, in his awe. 
Aye. Hoho! And why should not we be celebrating with the rest of the army, we 
those others are after turning into smelly-booted nursemaids to an army of 
cattle? Did not these swords spill Leinsterish blood as well and as redly as 
theirs? 
One of the two carters tensed and his knuckles went white on the fist gripping 
his horses reins. His companion of the sword-grey eyes squeezed his arm. 
Butbut Captain, fine honoured Captain, surely ye cant be meaning to... 
The younger carter, he of the darkish skin and the grey eyes, broke off. The 
captain had drawn steel, and it shone like silver in the moons cold light. The 
captains eyes were as cold. 
Its... to the count of twenty Ill be giving ye, boys, to hush your voices and 
become scarce hereabouts. Else 
The carters stared. The captain said, One. The sword lifted, gleamed. The 
carters exchanged a look. Two... three... fo 
Reins dropped. The carters scrambled from atop their sloshy load. Hitching up 
their smocks long skirts of reddish-brown homespun, they made haste into the 
night, heading for shadows back in the direction whence theyd come. 
Behind them, the captain and his sentry laughed. 
Spoils of war! the captain cried, and his eyes gleamed bright as the sword he 
now swiftly sheathed. The slap of peasantish boots faded into the night. Into 
the camp with it, Brionits I and yourself are about to become the most popular 
men in all Meath this night! 
Brion saw the two peasants disappear from his view behind a hairy, sprawly clump 
of furze that reared up in the darkness. Grinning he took up the reins of their 
horses. He did not see the two men slow to a jog; did not see the smiles 
spreading across their faces. They proceeded into the deep shadows of a growth 
of rowan bound about with last years woodbine and this years new green 
runners. 
Around them men rose up in the darkness, and Forgall and Cormac were handed 
their proper clothes. Soon whispering, hopefully smiling men were helping them 
into their chaincoats. The clump of rowan was alive with men of Forgalland nine 
others, handed into his command. The nine were all that remained of their own 
Fifty, with their captain and his seconds all slain on the Plain of Sorrow. 
Amid the trees, crouching behind the haw that partway ringed the grove like a 
low defense-wall, they waited. 
Weary weapon-men practically held their breaths in silence. Excitement and the 
hope given them by the plan of their comrade Partha had restored them as though 
theyd slept many hours. Soon it came: plainly they heard the sounds of revelry 
from the Meathish cattle-camp. 
The sons of sows are snorting up that ale as if the High-king had decreed it 
out of existence on the morrow! 
Hush. We hear them. 
Hump! They hear nothing. 
Mayhap its they wholl be out of existence soon, happily and insensibly 
guzzling... 
Pray they do indeed guzzle just so: to insensibility! 
Be silent. Forgalls voice slashed among his mens, low and angry. An.... one 
of those yonder steps away to relieve himself, and wanders this way... 
There was no need for him to say more; there was silence. They waited, 
six-and-thirty men of Leinster, armoured, armed, waiting, hoping, hearts 
pounding, helmets doffed against a betraying flash of steel in the moonlight. 
Not a man but held his breath in order to hear the betterand against being 
heard by the joyous, ale-guzzling men of Meath. 
Measured against the branches and tops of trees, the moon visibly moved in the 
cloud-drifted sky. A little breeze came, and tarried for a time, and retired for 
the night. Squatting men moved, stifling grunts, for toes and calves had begun 
to ache. They waited. The noises from the Meathish camp commenced to diminish. 
They diminished. Now but three or four continued to sing, to shout, to laugh. 
Then there were definitely but two voices. And then one. 
That man sang a couple of lines, shouted again, bellowed curses on his weakling 
fellows. He essayed another line of song, an obscenity. There came a crash; wood 
splintered. Another great string of curses. And then silence. 
And silence. Not even a cow lowed. 
The men of Leinster waited. Their heads they cocked, with one ear turned toward 
the cattlecamp, holding their breaths and straining to hear. 
There was naught to hear. Not even the wind soughed. 
Forgall made them wait longer than any other man would have done. All chafed. 
Cormac chafedand mentally congratulated his leader. Patience, he thought, and 
perhaps he matured a mite more. 
Then, with a little rustle, Forgall Mac Aed rose. All about him, with rustles 
and clinks and little grunts as circulation rushed back into limbs in which its 
flow had long been disrupted by their squatting, the others rose. 
Six-and-thirty men moved from the rowan grove and paced toward the Meathish 
camp. Helmets capped their heads now, and shields bobbed high at their sides, 
and swords and axes were naked and sinister in their fists. 
They discovered no need for their weapons. Drugged with quart upon quart of ale 
and the sleep-inducing oil of boar-blossom with which the Leinstermen had 
steeped it, the cattle-guards lay deep in slumber. Each sprawled where hed 
sagged or toppled. The camps only sounds were snores. 
Grim-faced Blueshirts stood over sleeping Meathmen. Sword- and ax-hands 
twitched. Their owners looked to their captain. Forgall too gazed upon the 
slumbrous men, and regarded the blade bared in his fist; he reflected on slain 
Leinstermen. 
A hand touched Forgalls arm; it was a big hand, unlined, and Gael-dusky. 
Best we leave them asleep and alive, Cormac Mac Art dared counsel his leader. 
Will be greater insult and shame on them and High-king Lugaid, that the 
entirety of the tribute was retaken without the spilling of one drop of 
blood! 
A smile spread over Forgalls features. Aye, he muttered low, and he lifted 
his blade on high so that all his men saw. Then he sheathed it. 
Silent men of Leinster began to move among sleeping cattle and used spear-hafts 
as goading staves. Then came forward darling Bress Mac Keth. Before him walked a 
Meathman, at swords point. 
Thisun drank not deeply enough, Forgall: Or vomited it up, more like. 
One sound, Forgall muttered, and you die. 
So I told him, Bress muttered, and the prisoner started, feeling swordpoint at 
spine. 
Forgall drew steel. Bind him. Gag him. You, my glaze-eyed friend of Meath, will 
be after telling your fellows precisely what took place here. Forgall smiled 
tightly. His sword held the Meathish weapon-man now, whilst Bress bound the 
fellowwith unnecessary tightness, of course. 
If these drunken sots ever awaken, Forgall said, do ye be telling themand 
His Arrogance the High-kingthat was Forgall Mac Aed of Athmore and Carman who 
did this... along with his sword-companion Partha Mac Othna. And its the king 
of Leinster we both serve, little fellow. 
Bound hand and foot and gagged with cloth and cord, the single wakeful Meathman 
was dumped to groundhis fall cushioned by two cow-piles of excellent sizeand 
left. His comrades slept on. Weapons and shields not worn were piled on the 
ale-cart with surprising lack of noise. Smiling men ringed the vast herd of 
cattle, knowing the thousands would follow the hundreds once they were set 
moving. They started the beasts amove, southward. The Leinstermen even 
repossessed their ale-cart, piled now with spears and shields, axes and swords, 
and a few helmets. 
The ale had not been sufficient to keep these men of the High-king asleep 
throughout the raid, however silent; was Cormacs suggestion of the 
druid-learned soporific that accomplished the snorey slumber, and all his 
comrades knew it. 
Several cages of fowls the Leinsterman left, and Forgall stood over the 
dung-besmirched man they had gagged and trussed. 
The birds we leave. Tame fowls. Its feathers you fine warriors will be eating, 
without beef or milk, when Lugaid on Tara-hill learns of what happened here this 
night! 
Laughing, the Leinstermen tramped south behind their cart. Brain, Cormac mused 
had prevailed over blade. 
Chapter Eleven:
Samaire
News of the deed reached Carman before the doors themselves. 
General Ferguss men arrived to cheers, and to the discovery that a celebration 
had been arranged in their honour. The feast was being laid on by King Ulad 
Ceannselaigh himself. It would be held in the Assembly-house, to accommodate the 
remainder of Forgalls Fiftyand its nine new members. For craft and guile had 
ever been highly respected and loved in Eirrin. 
However excited and anticipatory, Forgalls men and the rest of the army took 
almost at once to their beds. There most spent the greater part of the next 
twenty hours. 
Then it was up to bathe and see to their hair, with Cond much in demand, and 
clean their boots; in high jocularity they referred to their preparations as 
prettying themselves for society. The while, the men of Forgall laughed and 
shouted jests and threats and called one another flatha: warrior-nobles. And 
then they trooped into Carman, and were cheered through the streets. 
In clean unwrinkled shirt or long-sleeved tunic each man walked, with leggings 
of his choice over tight breeches of white linen tucked into newly-gleaming 
boots. Ceremoniously they carried their polished helms, and each wore his best 
cloak and brooch and bunne-do-ats. 
The Feis-tech was Leinsters greatest hall. Present for the celebration of a 
Leinsterish victory over Tara were nobles from Carman and elsewhere in the 
realm, and the poets and historians, minstrels and mages. Finely coiffed and 
bejewelled ladies, too, had come to do honour on the men who had outfoxed the 
High-kings menand returned five thousand cattle. The hall was scintillantly 
ablaze with richly-dyed robes, with buckles and ornaments of silver and gold, 
with pearls and gemstones, with coloured bits of glass and brilliant 
enamel-work, all flashing in the light of more candles and torches than any had 
seen before in one place. 
Musicians played. Nobles babbled to each other and to common soldiers no longer 
so common. Servants scurried so that ale flowed like a mountain stream, foaming 
and bubbling. 
Drisheen or black pudding there was, a rich mixture of entrails and blood; pork 
too in plenty, along with fresh-butchered beef (and jokes about its being the 
best-travelled beef in the history of Eirrin). The boards groaned beneath more 
side-dishes than most of Forgalls men had known could exist. Among the red 
trout and cakes made of oaten meal, there was an abundance of the famed honey of 
Carman itself, and sloak and dulse from the nearby sea, as well as its game: 
millicks, or periwinkles still in their shells, scallops and the meaty black 
sole. To wash all down the hall fair swam in good brown ale, and beer made from 
wheat and honey, and that different drink also made from honey and called mead. 
Ladies and their daughters wore crimson dyes on their nails, the black or deep 
blue of berries on their eyebrows, and other vegetable dyes here and there to 
enhance their facesor so at least they thought, those noble women of Leinster. 
Golden rings or hollow balls of gold bound hair braided and curled to hang in 
dangling spirals; others wore their thick manes up, held by pins and pearls of 
gold. Soldiersaye, and others who fancied themselves more sophisticatedgoggled 
at the wife of one kings cousin: she had dyed and bleached her hair so that it 
was an impossible silver-white. Some of these women of metropolitan Carman, 
Cormac noticed, even wore their beautiful combs of bone or horn. All the people 
of his isle were fond of their hair and its care, and their combs, but this 
style of making combs into ornaments was a new one to the youth from Connacht. 
With winter-tide gone from the earth and summer not yet here, the well-born and 
high-placed of Leinster wore silks and satins and furs, along with light linens 
and heavier woolens. A filay or poet from Athaircthech over near Osraige 
affected clothing of peasantish russetand displayed himself well, as he stood 
out among the sumptuously attired throngers. 
Many wore the peallaid originally a sheepskin and now a long strip of cloth 
adorned with stripes that crossed to form a design called plaide. 
Fresh rushes crackled and hissed underfoot and the candles flickered so that the 
marvelous figures that decorated the wall-hangings seemed to roam and gambol on 
those huge panels of white linen. 
Much in evidence all about was the superb work of the needles of Eirrins women 
and the delicate, brilliant work of jewel and metal-smiths. Clothes and 
ornaments, were broidered and purfled and picked out in sindle-whorls and 
fretwork, spirals and enamel inlays. Beside Cormac, Cas remarked the fact hed 
looked at seven noble necks ere he saw a plain torc, and Cormac advised the 
farmers son that these people possessed more than one of those neck-ringing 
badges of Celtdom. Most he saw were indeed ornate, worn only for dress 
occasions, and among them were those that wore gold lunulae or bore pendent 
sun-disks. 
Cormac saw too more than one man, and woman, and girl and boy, who wore the 
necklace of good fortune: garnets and jet beads strung on gold or silver wire. 
And despite winters being surely beyond the point of a surprise return, he saw 
two who were still wary of colds, for each wore the foot of a hare around his 
neck. 
Rich clothing and precious metals and jewels blazed, in the Feis-tech. 
Cormac was hardly the only blue-shirted guest who could not control the constant 
swiveling of his neck and his eyes that were bright in their sockets. He saw 
that the women much noted one another, too. It was just, he realized, that they 
were more circumpsect about it, as if afraid of being seen appraising or envying 
one another. 
Twisted bands of bronze or silver-gilt or even gold flashed from womanly arms, 
and he was hard put not to gawk at one young womanmarried; she wore the rolled 
linen hood. The bust of her rowanberry-hued gown was decorated with miniature 
shield-bosses! Of silver they were, the inward-whirling design of each centering 
in a wrought rowanberry of red enamel. A carnelian dangled and flashed from each 
of her ears, and her eyelids fairly dripped some pale violet dye. 
King Ulad himself, in white and yellow and gold and wearing a lunula big as his 
head, bespoke the heroics, the genius, and the courage of the guests of honour. 
Then his own filay, chief poet of Leinster, had ready a narrative for the 
occasion. Proud was Leinster; proud the poet; exaggerated was his droning 
accountand long. Ale or mead wetted his lipsand the listeners quaffed each 
time he did. 
The eye of mac Art was drawn quite naturally to a passing pretty young lady of 
worth. Seated at the high table she was, and nigh-orange of pearl strewn hair, 
with beside her a flame-topped lordling. Both wore plaides of Leinster blue 
crisscrossed with yellow stripes. They to the kings left; on his other side sat 
his elder sons. Cormacs mouth went dry and he trembled. Stunned, he promptly 
poured a draught of ale down the wrong tube and embarrassed himself with a long 
coughing fit. 
Wiping away the choke-tears, he demanded of a solicitous servant the identities 
of the two youths to the kings left. 
Why, my lord Tara-baiter: those are Ceann Mong Ruadh and Samaire, younger son 
and only daughter of our king! 
And Cormac stared on them, for last time hed seen those two they had been but a 
rag-tag minstrel and a merchants daughter named Aine. 
He continued to stare, helplessly, the while his full belly sank and strove to 
convince him it was empty. Hed thought he had lost his love, his first love, 
and her gone home to Ailenn. Och and ochone, but no! He had, lost her the more! 
For it was Samaire ingin Ulaid-Ri she was: Daybreak, daughter of King Ulad! 
Its the blood of old nobility warms my veins, but... its no suitor for the 
kings own daughter my fathers after raising in me! Behl preserve and Crom 
protect, she and I have... we have... 
And gone from mac Art was the celebratory feverthough hardly from his 
comrades-at-arms. And he ached and felt hollow and chill within, as though some 
part of him were missing and his heart pumped not hot blood but cool. 
At last the poem ended. Cormac hardly noticed. Up rose the king, and called out 
the name of Aeds son Forgall, who rose amid cheers and was asked to speak. 
Ablush with embarrassment and much ale, Forgall falteringly said he would not, 
could not take much credit. Thenonce renewed cheering and board-drumming had 
risen and sunkhe pointed out and called loudly the name of their successful 
plots master mind. 
That same Partha mac Othna had to be nudged into attention, and nigh shoved to 
his feet, for hed been elsewise distracted. Another great cheer rose: for this 
young warrior from afar whod be receiving a golden torc from the kings own 
artisan. Another poet seized the opportunity to begin to put together words 
about Othnas crafty son, and soon Parthas canniness was being compared with 
that of the heroes of Eirrish legend. Cormacs blood warmed again; his face, at 
least, seemed to burn. 
And sure all were most impressed and thricehappy... saving only Bress Long-arm. 
His hate-filled glower Cormac saw, though he was too doubly flustered to take 
note. As for the young woman beside Bresshmp. Never had Cormac seen so much 
bosom displayed, on a clothed woman. 
Somehow he managed to express his love for his adopted land and its noble 
king and his happiness for having aided in easing its Burden, and the throng 
thundered acclaim, and ormac sank swiftly down intohis seat. There followed more 
drinking, and eating, and more drinking still. Only the most private of 
conversations could now be attended, for the members of each pair or trio of 
speakers sought to make himself heard above all others in the hall. 
Cormac could not wrest his gaze from the high table. Thus he noted disagreement 
betwixt the younger royal siblings. He caught too the darkish look Prince Ceann 
shot him, and was amazed. Even then Princess Samaire, orange-gold ringlets of 
hair dangling, dancing before either ear, was calling a wand-slim servant to 
herself. The two girlish heads bent close, and for an instant the gaze of 
Aine/Samaire locked with that of Partha/Cormac. His stomach promptly executed a 
curvet like an unbroken stallion, and he swallowed hard. 
What think ye of our pretty princess? he was asked, by Cethern of Dinn Rig, 
who sat at his left. 
Ahsheoh. The kings daughter? Its on that girl she just spoke to Ive had 
these eyes, Cethye be looking at the kings daughter, man? 
OchI but look! And that servant of hers has less meat on her than my spear! 
Then Cethrn had to lean awayfor the servant in question was there! Cethern made 
a ridiculous face at Cormacover her back, as she bent between them. She 
whispered in Cormacs ear, whilst he sat bolt-still and his colour rose. 
Put your hand around me and pat my backside, Partha mac Othna, so these louts 
think were at the flirting, and attend me: Drink lightly, I am commanded to 
tell ye, for one called Aine would have converse with yourself later this eve. 
Come, man, act flirtatiousthere. Not so hard! 
And she straightened, and went away, and Cethern laughed and kissed his palm; 
Cormac had not touched the girl at all. 
Elated, he did as shed bidden, and suffered Cetherns jestingand Cass 
too-powerful nudge in his right sidewhen she passed again later, behind him, 
and trailed her hand caressingly across the span of his shoulders. Nervous but 
forcing himself not to drink, he soon became very alone in that hall. At the 
kings leave, some nobles departed. Cormac was not even aware that he received a 
sheeps-eye or two from this or that noble lady. All others meanwhile, aye, 
including the women of Eirrin who were not chattel to their men, descended with 
great gusto and passing swiftness into stuffed, barbaric drunkenness. That gave 
way by degrees to stunned drunkenness, so that most of the assemblage were 
passed out across crumb- and bone-strewn boards, or amid the rushes on the 
floor. 
Cormac smelled both vomit and fresh urine and bethought him that feasts began 
better than they ended. 
Then the king himself rose to departaye, and lurching a bit, as befit the ruler 
of triumphant sons of Eirrin. In passing he paused to do words on Partha mac 
Othna our most valuable import. Cormac flushed. King Ulad passed on, and out of 
the hall with his family. Instantly Cormac was up, stumbling over Cethern and 
then hurrying past and over and around other fallen comrades. Those whom the 
Meathmen had not scathed now lay downed by the sharp edge and point of fermented 
grains and honey. 
The door led not directly outside but to an inner gallery of passing dimness. 
There waited the so-slender servant of the princess herself. She led himby the 
damp hand, like loversinto even darker realms and to a closed door of richly 
carven oak. She tapped, released his hand, patted his backside, and departed on 
swift feet. 
He entered a most private chamber, and paused; all within was darkness. 
Do close the door, and bar it, and I shall light this candle. 
He did; sparks were struck; again; a candle came alive in a yellow point that 
drew the eyes. 
Ah, Partha! I admit to some dizzinessI hope you drank but little! 
Ye did dissemblage on mewhy? 
Ah. You use ye to me then, do you? Aine/ Samaire sighed. Ah, Partha! My 
father does do his best to keep me most sheltered indeedand watched! His only 
daughtervaluable trade-goods, you see. So... my brother Ceann and I make our 
own plots. Its good friends we are, though siblings. We disguise ourselves and 
slip out from that prison called the Kings-house whenever we can, to wander 
Carman as peoplereal people! She held high the candle; now she shrugged, and 
watched his eyes drop their gaze from her face. She smiled. Hence the Aine the 
merchants daughter role. How was I to know Id be... be taking aa liking to 
your huge self?and brainy self too, isnt it, Hero of Boruma! She gave her 
head a swift shake and little curls flew, dark gold in the candles light. 
Never have I heard poets compare a living man with a Cuchulain afore, Partha 
mac Cuchulain! 
And why not, he mused in his confusion, for I was he, once... 
He but smiled. Hed say naught. Now he knew her name, and accepted that shed 
dissembled for no reason to do with him. As for himself... he, must maintain the 
lie of his name, even to her darling self. Feeling guilt and that strong urge to 
tell his real name, he tugged his lower lip in under his teeth and studied the 
floor. 
There... there is another lie yeve had of me, Partha. I have no sixteen years 
on me; its Ceann whos sixteen, and he older than I. 
At that he looked up, suddenly smiling happily. Ahand will you be keeping my 
secret he paused over the nameSamaire? 
Aha! 
Will you now? 
Her bantering expression vanished. For ever, Partha. 
My age is not sixteen, either. Its big I am for my years 
Oh. 
He grinned. and I feared Id not gain weaponish employment or respect, an I 
spoke true of being but fourteen. 
She clapped her hands and her smile was like her name, for samair was the word 
for break of day. Ah! As if ye needed worry about respect... but... why its 
little more than a darling young boy ye be... 
His dark brows lowered and his eyes went serious and not happy; that he accepted 
not well, she saw, and she spoke swiftly while she moved to him. 
And I little more than a girl... 
A dairlin young girl, aye... 
Your dairlin girl, Partha, drettel... 
Their arms went around each other, and he had to bend well down to join his lips 
to hers, and then they were holding each other more tightly, and their mouths 
moved, pressing, and their hands... 
...and he woke hours later beside her, and smiled, and touched her beside him, 
asleep, and he smiled the wider. Then he saw, even through the heavy drape at 
the window, that the sky was going light. He knew it was close onto cocks crow. 

Lughs arms and blood of the gods, he thought (for he was training himself to 
warlike oaths) to be caught here thus would be sorest trouble for her and death 
for me, sure! 
Very slowly, sneakily like unto a thief, he eased himself from the bed. He 
dressed without waking her, and was able to make his way through the deserted 
assembly-house. Then through the just-waking city he strode, humming as he went, 
and smiling upon those who stared or scolded, and he realized: I love her! 
Aye, and he did. 
And she loved him. 
And the days passed, in Leinster, and the weeks. The hero of the Plain of Sorrow 
was offered a post as second in command in another Fifty, and he asked to remain 
with Forgall though Forgall had a second, who was Bress. And so he stayed with 
those men, without rank in a Fifty whose members now called it Tara-Baiter. 
Six days Partha spent on special duty, at the palace. Each evening the winsome, 
spear-slim Devorgill came to him on behalf of her youthful mistress Samaire, and 
each evening the Hero of Sorrows Plain said no and was adamant, for duty was 
duty and honour was honour, and hed not creep like a thief for love in the 
House of the King. On the seventh day, as on that day before the first of the 
six, he met a girl named Aine in a wood at the west end of the pasture of one 
Bresal An-gair, and they endeavoured to make up for those missed times together. 
The more fool he for not coming to her in her room, she told him; the more man 
he, he thought. 
The Blueshirts were not idle, but only at training. Now there were stories of 
Pictish incursions from the far side Lock Derg over to the west. The Cruithne 
seemed more and more bold in raiding into the north tip of Munster, that strip 
of Munsterish land separated Leinster from the western land south of Connacht. 
There Picts were settled still, and entrenched the way that Munsters king left 
them alone. Along that western border of Leinster, snuggled to Munsters 
chimney, lay little Osraige or Osry, in a thin line forming a tiny realm. Were 
its king to cry for aid, Ulads men would march. Already a few companies had 
been sent there, to crowd the border outposts lest the Picts come in force. 
And so the Blueshirts waited, and talked of Cruithne, and kept limber with their 
daily training. 
And the days passed, in Leinster, and the nights. On some of those nights Cormac 
and Samaire trysted, and, even more seldom and with greater care, during some 
days. 
Even Cormacs new stature and the golden torc conferred on him by King Ulad did 
not dissuade Bress from his weening dislike. He called his chosen enemy Partha 
nAllmurach: the Foreigner. Nor was Bress deterred from his strong pressing of 
the youth. The Long-arm seemed bent on goading Cormac into drawing steel on a 
superior, thus to be disgracedand perhaps slain into the bargain. Clinging to 
his sense of honour with difficulty, Cormac would not be so provoked. He was the 
better for it, in the minds of his fellows. The supposed Ulsterman was 
well-liked, and respected as well; Bresss fixation cost him much respect and, 
as it later fell out, considerably more. 
The malevolent, watchful eye of Bress mac Keth made the meetings of Cormac and 
Samaire more and more difficult, and thus perilous. 
Now Behltain was on Eirrin; Cetsamhain that those of the New Faith called after 
some Gallish person or legend: Walpurgas night. The eve of May Day; the 
seasons beginning and its observance more ancient among Celtic peoples than any 
could know. 
On that happy occasion of the beginning of growth that would culminate six 
months later with Samhain, the end of harvest, Partha mac Othna shared words, 
and kisses, and much more with Aine ingin Fol, merchant of Ailenn, and they 
snuggled and murmured their love. 
A forbidden love, they both knew. A hopeless love, he was sure. That she would 
not admit; Samaire held ever hope that the morrow would see to the morrow, as 
the old women of Eirrin were wont to say. Even her brother Ceann was more 
sympathetic to the clandestine lovers now, though he disapproved. Third in line 
or no, Ceann mac Ulaid was aware of being royalty and of the impossibility of 
anything goods coming of the liaisons of his sister and the foreign weapon-man. 
Ceann and Devorgillwith whom indeed Ceann was known to have disported himself, 
but he was after all male and even in Eirrin that was different. Differenthe 
and Devorgill were the only two who knew about the adolescent lovers. So all 
hoped, at any rate. 
Samaire owned that Ceann kept silent because she knew about his dalliances with 
the very, very young wife of the old, old Condla, once called Airechta, or 
Kings Championand now called Condla Taeb-trom: Big-belly. Cormac disagreed 
with her, feeling that Ceann was manly, and loved his sister, and was imbued 
with sympathy and empathy. And Samaire told him he was both naif and over 
trusting. 
Better had we never met, mac Art thought too often during that idyll. But it was 
impossible to be so dismal in her company, and her body white as the privets 
dainty blossom. Nor, in youth and in love, could he exert strength sufficient to 
part from her for good and all. 
A pity it is to give love to a man, and he to take no heed of it, she said, 
reaching for a cup of mead that should have held hazel-nuts that night before 
May dawned. It is better to be turned away, if one is not loved as one loves. 
You are loved as you love, and more, dairlin girl. 
Impossible that it be more, mo chroi... but dont be tellin me: show me! 
And he did. 
And later she told him, tracing Oghamish on his bare chest with her finger, The 
colour of the glossiest raven is on his hair, and his skin like the finest new 
copper or a fawns coat, his cheek like the blood of the speckled red calf, and 
his swiftness and his leap are like the salmon of the stream it fights and 
conquers, or the fleet deer of the grey mountain... and, sure the head and 
shoulders of Partha Othnas son are above all the other men of Leinster. 
Not all of Eirrin? 
Be not greedy, my love. 
Hmp. And have you no pretty words for me, dairlin boy? 
None, he told her, but he showed her instead, so that she had need of few 
words. 
Chapter Twelve:
Picts!
Cormac returned to a garrison in uproar. Torches blazed on high and bobbed about 
in the upraised hands of his fellows. Voices rose in a cross-ranging cacophany 
of commands and queries and replies. Harness jingled, and mail; swords and 
knives in their oiled sheaths were being buckled on over armour of leather and 
linked chain. Horses whickered or neighed shrilly in apprehension or plain 
displeasure as they were hauled forth and harnessed. Men hurried in a dozen 
directions on a score of errands, their paths crossing and crisscrossing. Cormac 
heard the wheels of waggons and carts. Men grunted while they loaded on 
supplies. 
Eochu! What 
But the Lightning-hand ran on, on someones orders, buckling on his sword the 
while. 
Here you, get yourPartha! Malingering? 
Cormac stared into a pair of icy grey-green eyes above a long nose. The 
opposite, Bress. I have nights leave; its early Ive returned. What is all 
this? 
Picts! a man shouted, rushing by all ajingle. Two spear-butts dragged behind 
him. 
Cormac echoed the word, gazing about at a semi organized bedlam of preparations. 
Picts! Here? 
Idiot! Bress snarled. Ducks anus! Of course not here. Into battle gear with 
yewe march at once. And after a glower, the Long-arm executed a self-conscious 
heel-and-toe and stalked off. 
Cormac hadnt time to seethe. He learned the situation while he made himself 
ready for battle-march. The Cruithne had raged across that tip of Munster that 
surged up betwixt their land and Osraige. They were in Osraige; across that tiny 
realms northern strip leaving a wake of blood; the Picts were in western 
Leinster! 
A fort of Osraige was overrun and its garrison slain to the last man; a fort of 
Leinster, too, had been attacked and burned out. Of its garrison, as well as the 
two hundred Blueshirts so recently sent to firm up defenses... who knew how many 
lived, if any? Farmhouses were ablaze in Leinster. Women and children lay dead, 
having been raped and mutilated; men were dead and a whole little settlement 
destroyed. Priests had been deprived of those bodily parts for which they 
claimed no use; druids lay headless. 
Munstermen marched northward; Leinsterish forces hurried down from the garrisons 
along the Meathish border; now the forces of Forgall and others were to hurry 
westward with all despatch and more, in hopes of stopping the incursion, and 
surrounding the Pictish invaders, and destroying them. 
Hurriedly Cormac gathered up armour, weapons, and field-kit. Within an hour, 
Forgalls Coichte and several other such Fifties were amarch through the night. 
Supply-wains creaked and rattled along under cursing drivers. Mayhap it was 
midnight, Cormac mused; mayhap before. It was either the eve of Behltain or the 
day itself; one of the Celts two great annual celebrations. 
What a day for the onslaught of those Pictish demons, with great fires being 
readied for the spring rites! 
Chapter Thirteen:
In the Glen of Danger
Mist rode the post-dawn air so that the sun was but a pallid glow somewhere 
beyond a sky the colour of dirty pearls, hanging low over the fog-cloaked glen. 
Through this chill gloom moved weary Blueshirts, seeking the Picts whod eluded 
them for a full week. 
Oh, theyd found evidence enow. Bodies they had found, mutilated corpses caked 
with blood and eerily alive with flies. Burned homesteads. Slain dogs, butchered 
horses. But of Picts... 
Twice had these men come on Pictish war-parties, but only that: small groups of 
the nearly naked, black-eyed devils, all too many of whom wore Celtic trinkets 
and carried Celtic weapons taken from corpses. Twice had the searching Gaels 
crushed the burly dark men in blood-letting combat. Leinsterish losses were few. 
But these had been rencontres with two little raid-parties, hardly anything 
approaching a main Pictish body. 
And that was all there had been in a full seven days of marching, tramping, 
sweating, searching. A week of tension. A full week of searching, and of 
constant disappointment mingled with their tension. A week: plenty of time for 
men to grow disgruntled and apprehensive and tense and, naturally enough for 
soldiers forced to walk and walk in full battle array, spears ready but without 
the release of battle, to complain. 
Contrary to their expectations, there was no such entity as a Pictish army. 
Oh, the invasion was a major one, right enough. It consisted, though, of the 
warriors of several separate tribes of Pictdom. Each was intent on its own 
purposes, and booty, and glory. All pillaged and murdered in several directions 
at once. Without unified purpose, without semblance of unified command or a 
single strong leader. There were tales of one, and of a powerful shaman, too. 
But no soldiers had seen them. 
The men of Forgall mac Aeds Coichte, part of Commander Conan Condas Notri da 
CeadachThree-hundredwanted and needed action, the adrenalin release of 
tension, the clamor of battle and the joy of doing something. Even men who had 
little stomach for blade-reddening were more anticipatory than aprehensive, now. 

Partha mac Othna who was Cormac mac Art had taken a cut from a flint ax on his 
cheek and another across his right forearm, from a captured Celtic sword. The 
sword was re-captured. The wounders were dead. And while his wounds were but 
minor cuts, Cormac knew theyd be scars on him, all his days. 
He was tired. All the Blueshirts of Conan Condas command were tired; as much 
downcast they were, as weary. And ever, ever wary, despite their growing 
conviction that the Picts were as unseasonable frost giving way to the sun of a 
clear morn; the devils had always been there afore them, but seemed to have 
melted away. This doubly damned slog-work enforced quiet and care, the skin 
prickling; this constant tramping about in tension without the relief and 
release of combat was maddening. It made men feel far more tired than they were. 

And nownow, this morning, it was worse. 
Visibility was such that ones shield, held out from the body by a strong arm, 
was but a dark blurring blob without detail or even its proper round shape. 
Someone to Cormacs left muttered quite succinctly, Excrement. 
Cormac agreed in silence. Cess. This cess-pool of a soupy fog, cold through 
leather leggings; this whole maddeningly frustrating quest: cess. It was Glean 
na-Guais they tramped, Danger Glen; it should have been called Glen Cess or 
Cess-pool! 
He waded through it. Tall grass wheeped against his boots. 
All around him others waded through it. Occasionally there was a little splurch 
or splash followed by a muffled curse, as a man stepped into a pool of water 
based in mud. Elsewise there was only the whisper of cloth, the occasional 
jingle of mental fittings, the creaky rustle of armour of boiled leather, and 
the strange, metallic susurrus of mailcoats. 
Fog and mist. And the sun up. Cormac frowned, considering, glancing about-at 
pale greyness. 
The picts had their druids or priests: shamans; sorcery was hardly unknown to 
them. Here, now Cormac was most wary of the position of his little company, on 
quest apart from the main army of three hundred. He was most aware and wary of 
the environment. It was unnatural, mist-haunted, tained with the reek of dark 
sorceries. For three days now they had been at the seeking out of a band of a 
hundred or so particularly vicious and successful foes. This band of savages was 
apparently led by a madmanthat leader who might well become chief of a united 
Pictish force, for it was known he had begun with but twenty. 
Too, according to words accompanied by blood from the lips of an old woman dying 
of obscene wounds, this band of fivescore was accompanied by a shaman she swore 
had sent a writhing foggy darkness on the tiny settlement of Baile Ablaich. 
Ablach! No more; all its apple trees were tattered, chopped, seared and singed 
and some still smoking with their smoldering. 
There was no more Appletown; there could hardly be said to be apple trees, for 
soldiers could not pause to attempt to quench flames so hot they ate at living 
trees. 
Now, in this silence-heavy, fog-enshrouded glen of Osraige, Cormac felt the pale 
white mist all about and it seemed he felt the silence as well. The fog was 
palpable; the silence seemed so. Surely it was unnatural. When he tilted up his 
helmed head he did not even have to squint at the sky. Was late in the 
morningfor those who rose with the sun or before, it was. The Eye of Behl 
should have burned off this damned creeping fog that was ever the bane of wet 
Eirrin with its high coasts and low damp inlands. 
And surely there should be some sounds, he thought; this was as though their 
hearing had been stoppered against the world, as if the fog were chill, wet 
woollen pressed over their ears. 
Knowing that Forgall was but three paces to his left, Cormac turned that way, to 
say so. 
And the fog seemed to be lifted, straight up as though by a great invisible 
hand, from knee-to chest-level. It flowed in the manner of a swift mountain 
stream, in the manner of wind-chased clouds shredding into pale streaming 
tatters. At that instant the awful shriek arose, from only a few paces directly 
ahead. A short, burly, dark, figure erupted from the fog-hugged earth as if 
ejected by the springy grass. It was a human form, if Picts were indeed human. 
And it sprang to attack. 
That swiftly the squat dusky men of Pictdom were all about and rushing to kill. 
Attack cries sliced the air and ululated like wolf-howls. The enemy had been 
lying await, sprawled flat and cloaked by the tall grass and misty fogor foggy 
shaman-sent mist. 
The first to spring up screaming was soon silent; he leaped directly at Cormac 
and was allowed to impale himself with ghastly neatness on a spearhead that was 
swung to meet him on pure defensive reflex. The spear went all the way through 
the leaping demon; with a grunt, Cormac released it and drew his sword. 
And then that murky glen was plunged into howling battle of volcanic ferocity. 
The fog lifted to shoulder-level, so that Cruithne could see and Leinstermen had 
to bend or squat to bring their eyes under the cloying greyness. No Gael doubted 
sorcery now; the fog had lingered long enough for them to be well into the 
meadow and surroundedand then risen to give vision to the waylayers when they 
had need to see. 
The world became very loud and time rushed as it does only for lovers and those 
encompassed by battle. 
Bracing their feet on marshy earth with grass nearly to their knees, men who had 
thought themselves tired hewed and fended, slashed and stabbed. Mindlessly 
malevolent, Picts came at them with spear and stone-headed axand swords and 
axes too of good Celtic steel and manufacture. Baneful blows they struck in that 
attack of appalling suddenness and ferocity. Mail and flesh were rent open in 
woundy gaps. Donn, Lord of the Dead, rose up happily and spread his arms to 
welcome the souls sent rushing from ruined bodies. 
A man staggered backward past Cormac with a spear-haft seeming to grow from his 
chest like a ghastly stalk, and Cormac did not recognize Fithil the Strong, nor 
did he recognize Bress Lamfhada who with a scythe-like swipe slew the slayer. 
Feet stomped grassy loam now sprinkled with blood, whilst blades of flinty stone 
and of steel slashed in sparkling blurs and whirls of silver and showers of 
crimson. 
A spearhead struck to clash ringingly on the rim of Cormacs shield so that 
bright sparks flew and danced and he lashed back with a slash that clove the 
attackers buckler and tore it from a brown arm in which a bone snapped. Past 
him leaped a Pict like a maddened wolf, a primal, totally savage blood-lust 
blazing in his terrible eyes. The aboriginal cried out hideously when the sword 
of Forgall Aeds son sank hilt-deep in his neck. Down he sank, whiles Cormac 
tore into red ruin a dusky face behind a sundered shield. 
The constant clash and grate of steel was a din that smote the ears and gave 
threat to eardrums. Amid that awful clamor of steel and flint, wood and iron 
rose the battle-shrieks of Picts, and curses, and the wretched cries, moans, and 
blood-wet gurgles of the wounded and dying. 
The dark warriors ravened into the foe they hated. They were heedless of steel, 
heedless of death. They were also far more vulnerable with the Gaels carapaces 
of rippling steel links or coats of shining, hardened leather, and the warriors 
of Pictdom died in their mania. Steel-hacked corpses strewed the sod, and blood 
created muddy patches. 
Still the attackers came, as if from the very ground itself. In their numbers 
and their ferocity, they took scarlet toll. 
Lugaid the Fox, who had one day lent Cormac a tunic of Leinster-blue, smote a 
Pict like a thunderbolt, the way that he sundered chest and heart within, and a 
spear smote him the way that he was staggered but was saved by his mail, and he 
slashed maniacally to deal out death to that stocky attacker, and wounded still 
a third after a duel of minutes, and then even while the wood of a Pictish 
spear-haft splintered on his buckler and his feet skidded on on a carpet of 
blood-slick grass, a furiously driven spear sliced through his leather cuirass 
as though it had been linen, and on through the padded jack beneath, and tore 
into his belly an inch below the sternum. A reeking puke of scarlet gushed from 
Lugaids mouth and he fell to lie twitching. Hed have been a long time dying 
and in agony, but was surely not mercy that prompted his slayer to wrench forth 
the spear and drive it into the face of Lugaid the Fox. And Lugaid was still. 
From behind, Cas mac Con took off that dark warriors head in a mighty stroke 
that began as a blurred arc of silver and ended in one of crimson. 
While Cormac parried and feinted with the teeth-gritting savage before him, 
another stuck his shield with such force that its edge cut Cormacs chin, and 
hed have died of the first Pict sure had not anothers sword taken off the 
savages arm just below the shoulder; the Connachtish youth never knew who thus 
saved his life. Already he had saved one, by the unwarlike expedient of kicking 
a Pict directly in his buttocks; the melee had deepened and thickened now so 
that single combats were the exception rather than the rule. 
Chin dripping red, Cormac staggered back 
And slipped and fell, his boot skidding off a bloody severed hand. He looked up 
at the leggings of a man who stepped across him to drive his sword deep into a 
dusky body, and Cormac was saved twice that day. He came up lunging, to drive 
his own blade so violently into the side of a grinning foe that he had to fight 
it free of clutching ribs. 
Blood of the gods, Forgall spat out, yeve saved my life again! 
Its twice my owns been saved, Cormac panted, and Ive no idea by whomuh! 
He turned the ax-blow on his shield, twisted, turned the back swing, and girded 
steel into that Picts flank. How many of these devilsuh!are there? That 
grunt was elicited by his having to twist-yank to free his blade. 
Too-damned-many! someone muttered angrily from his left, and Cormac almost 
grinned. 
He turned in time to see the speaker die, and the slayer was away then and 
Cormac had no notion who slew that Pict, or indeed whether instead he escaped. 
It was then the blood-mist came before Cormacs eyes, and hung there, and he saw 
only enemies, targets for his ravening sword. He had experienced the berserker 
battle-lust just once afore, and did not know that it was on him. 
There were less Pictish screams. Armour turned blows. Dusky skin did not. 
It was horrible, and the fog drifting, rocking like waves asea, with the sun of 
late morning striving to burn it away to reveal a plain of red-splattered grass 
littered with corpses. Was Cas raced after a fleeing Pict, and in doing so was 
well separated from the others. He came upon a Pictish shaman who stood rigid, 
eyes closed, lips amove, both hands extended. In passing, Cas took off one of 
those handsat the shoulder. Like a deer, Cas sped on for all his weariness, and 
overtook his prey. He hacked the Pict a red line from shoulders to buttocks, a 
wound two inches deep. The man sprawled forward. Cas took but two more running 
steps, and struck, and turned from a headless corpse. 
He turned to see fighting menmostly his companions. The fog was dissipating 
rapidly now, writhing like a great grey serpent with its deathwound on it. 
Rather thoughtfully, Cas returned to the shaman, who was also down and writhing, 
and Cas mac Con created another headless body. And the fog vanished so that the 
sun blazed on grass that rose greenand scarlet. 
It was over by the time Cas reached the surprisingly close-crowded scene of the 
final battle. 
Sixty Picts lay dead or twitching and writhing; those were soon made still. Ten 
sons of Eirrin lay dead, and another would surely die. Six more were sore 
wounded and a score bore some wounds beyond scratches. Every man was messy with 
blood and gore, not his, but thrown by slashing swords and axes. 
Panting, sweating men stared about, and saw no Picts save the fallen. Weary or 
no, the victors hearts raced still. That was good; they could not yet rest. 
Still panting men must needs tend the wounds of others, and collect their dead 
ere they could make their march back to the balance of Conan the Wolfishs 
force. They did, straggling on quivery legs, and soon they must move again, to 
the main army that was composed of the men of both Leinster and Osraige, the 
tiny kingdom that might have been gathered up and dropped into great Loch Corrib 
over in Connacht. 
Weary men collapsed and slept where they sank. When they awoke it was to the 
chastisement of veterans, for now it would be harder to do that which they had 
not done afore: they must see to dented helms, and to the scraping away of 
blood, that splashed mail might not rust. Too they worked at nicks in their 
swordsand used feet and muscle to straighten bent blades. Some shields were 
sundered, or so hacked that they must be replaced. Thus the dead, who had no 
need of marless bucklers or better spears and axes, aided the living. 
A battle was fought. A war remained. 
Perhaps the leader of the large band extirpated by Forgalls force had been that 
very important one. In that event Cuar mac Con, who had slain him, was a great 
though dead hero. So was Cas, son of another Con, who lived. And perhaps that 
leader and that shaman had been all-important. Or perhaps Pictish scouts and 
leaders had got together and realized that they had taken ghastly lossess on all 
fronts. 
Whatever the reason, scouts soon reported to the Gaelic leaders that the 
Cruithne were in retreat. The northern and southern forces of Leinster, with men 
of Osraige, would follow them right across northernmost Munster, to join with 
the men of that southern kingdom; all shared a hope now of wiping out the flower 
and more of young Pictish manhood. 
They must march on the morrow. Meanwhile they stoked themselves with meat and 
ale. Soon they sprawled, to gain all the sleep they could. A battle was won. A 
war remained. 
Chapter Fourteen:
On the Mountain of Death
The broad Shannon was born in Connacht, up past Cruachan. It rushed southward, 
broadening into a mile-wide Loch Ree, emerged from its southern end to form the 
boundary between Connacht and Meath. On down through northern Munster River 
Shannon sliced the land, to gain its freedom at last in the Western Sea. 
The Picts bad crossed the Shannon at lower Loch Derg, where the lake began to 
narrow back into the river; the lack of current there eased their crossing. 
Munstermen had made the crossing from LuimneachLimerickjust over thirty miles 
from their capital of Cashel. From thence they had marched but a few miles 
northward along the Shannons boggy western bank, grown up with cotton grass and 
bog bean, alive with ravens and jays and moorfowl calling among towering birches 
and spear-straight rushes. 
Within a day the Munstermen came upon the Pictish rear-guard. 
The battle was fought there on the flood plain, in a flashing glitter of bright 
steel and flint that splintered armour and bone. Cruithne died and died; some 
fled toward Shannon and were hunted down amid the hummocks and rushy quagmires 
of that swampy western shore. 
The Gaels owned the Pictish line of retreat; Luimneach controlled the Shannon 
below. The victorious Munstermen gazed across the river, and their commander 
announced that they would cross. 
Three days later the Pictish rear guard on the eastern shore was annihilated by 
the same Munsterish force; the Gaels owned both shores. Now too they had the 
fleet of skinboats with which the invaders had crossed, here at the lower mouth 
of Loch Derg, where mighty Shannon purled along as slowly as poured honey. 
Already Meathish patrols had been trebled along their southern border, just 
above Loch Derg. Munsterish couriers were dispatched to apprise the Meaths 
garrison there of the newest development; their fellows loosed the boats and 
sent them floating down to be snared by the men of Luimneach. 
All men respected and fearfully hated the savage less-than-men; soon Meathmen 
were ranked deep along every inch of their southern border. Where the border 
became that dividing Meath and Leinster two garrisons stood like stone sentinels 
only two hundred yards apart. From one fluttered the pennons of Tara and the 
High-king; the other displayed Leinster blue. Now those watchful men forgot 
their never-ending enmity and recent encounter over Boruma. Keeping a far closer 
watch for the mutual enemy, they exchanged gestures of good-will and humor. 
The forces of Leinster and Osraige were driving the Pictish remnant before them, 
westward across northernmost Munster. Surely the savages would come hurrying to 
lower Loch Derg, for their boats. 
There waited Munster; the Shannon was closed to the retreating invaders and 
their boats gone; troops from Luimneach and Cashel had marched up to prevent 
their turning southward. North waited the Meathmen and others from Leinster. The 
Picts were being driven into a trap. There was no escape, save through ranks of 
men armed and armoured and armed, too, with terrible determination. 
Posting sentries thick as primroses in summer, General Ferdiad an-Airt of 
Munster settled in to wait. He knew the Picts were coming, and he knew from what 
direction, and that a Leinsterish army drove the savages like a herd of wild 
beasts. Hopefully they would be in panicky disarray, and would never know what 
hit them. If notthey would die anyhow. 
Ferdiad the Bear had but to wait. Here would battle be joined. Here would the 
invaders, surrounded, be slain to a manif such they might be called. (Indeed, 
as Ferdiad the Bear had slain none but Cruithne in the fifteen-year career he 
had begun at age seventeen, it was said of him that he was a general whod never 
done death on a man. His sword had drunk only Pictish blood; animal blood.) 
Here would be broken the back of Pictdom. 
Unfortunately, Pictish scouts, ghosting like phantoms, discovered the absence of 
their boats and the waiting enemy. Those scouts raced back to apprise their 
leaders, who were fighting as they gave ground, not retreating pell-mell. 
Then did dark, squatly powerful aborigines confer, and turn their black eyes on 
the blue-shimmering rise of the range just inland from Shannons bank: Slieve 
Argait, the Mountain of Silver, so called for its bulging with rich veins of 
that moon sacred metal. 
And the Picts took to the hills. And Ferdiad of Munster cursed for hours. 
The men of Forgall lay weary and panting, sore of muscle and from blows and 
wounds. To their backs lay their own land. Ahead, Loch Derg narrowed into the 
Shannon just before that river widened again to join the sea, below Luimneach. 
Between the Leinstermen and the river reared jagged Slieve Argait. 
All of yesterday they had fought, without succeeding in the attempt to prevent 
the enemy from betaking themselves up that great hill. From the position they at 
last reached atop a high-flung mesa, the Picts had an excellent view of the 
slope by which approach must be made. At sunset the Gaels had wearily retreated. 

On this day, each of two charges against that excellent Pictish location had 
resulted in a mass wounding and considerable slaughter of the men of three 
Gaelic realms. The leaders of the forces of Leinster and Munster and diminutive 
Osraige licked their wounds while cursing Picts and Meathmen alike: the latter 
were cannily waiting, up along their border. 
The Picts position high atop the brooding pile of earth and stone was a 
marvelously defensible aerie. The mesas far side formed a cliff that plunged 
down into the Shannon. A deeply sliced crevasse protected them on their left or 
northern flank. To the south and east, attackers must openly reveal themselves 
to scale the mountain slopewhich was barely scalable, from the south. 
The Picts, meanwhile, were comfortable on the broad mesa. 
Keep them besieged and let the dark bastards starve, some counselled. 
Theyd not starve, others said; when theyve eaten every egg and every bird and 
creeping creature, and stripped every scrubby tree and bush of bark and leaves, 
and still hungrythen will they come down from their aerie. 
Fine, the counsellors of siege replied. Then we will fight them at our 
advantage. 
But it was not the way of Eirrin, and some men pondered... 
Was then one Partha mac Othna, an Ulsterman serving Leinsters king, went 
quietly to his Fifty-leader. That manForgall mac AedPartha drew aside. He 
muttered a plan whereby Leinstermen might win the victory, and great gloryhere 
on Munsters soil. 
Forgall gave listen. Insane, he said. 
Aye. 
Forgall turned to stare at the rugged slope men were calling the Mountain of 
Death. He remembered another insane plan of the youths: that of regaining the 
enforced tribute from Meath... 
Take a small group, the captain murmured, reviewing Cormacs suggestion. 
March south a ways, gain the bank of the Shannon, and return northward to the 
base of the cliff beneath the Picts... the shore there must be no wider than a 
spears length, Partha. And... scale it? Insane. Surely... insane... to climb up 
there and fall on the Picts from behind 
Like Picts, Cormac said. 
like Picts. Such a force must be tiny. It would stand no chance of winning 
against the hundreds of Picts up there on Silvertip. 
No. It would but turn them, distract their attention from this slope to their 
perch... whilst all others here, Leinster and Munster alike, charge up yon 
slope. He gestured at the Mountain of Death. 
In hopes that the savages would be too busy with the scalers to sling and hurl 
rocks and spears on those charging up this slope... 
Too distracted, Forgall. And consider. They have shown us what comes of a 
charge. They did not even sling all those stones that killed and wounded and 
concussed so many; its hurled down many were, Forgall! The advantage is all the 
Picts. Suppose we planned, and prepared, and made a general charge, all at 
once. Shields and helms and armour. Suppose its a thousand men charging up that 
slope all at once. How many would be falling ere they reached the top? 
Forgalls face was grim. Hundreds. 
And if the Picts were passing busy with a group of twoscore or so maniacs who 
had climbed up behind them? 
Those twoscore would surely die. But few of those who charge the slope 
would... 
Is this not the way generals think? 
Aye, and kings. Its units men are, Partha. We shall lose three hundred 
units an we do such-and-so; we shall lose but two hundred units an we do 
so-and-such... whiles if we be asking for twoscore volunteers for death almost 
certain, we shall cut our losses to less than a hundred units... Forgall 
shuddered under a rush of horripilation. Aye. It is the way generals think, and 
kings, Partha. It is why I can be neither. 
Suppose we take a bow, and 
We? 
and tinder, and an arrow or two wrapped in linen-soaked in oil. As soon as the 
summit is gained and we be in readiness, wed be loosing flaming arrows, to arc 
high. That would signal the entire force here to charge up the slope, while we 
attack from the other direction. All the scalers need not die, Forgall. 
Its too late the chargers would be, Forgall said very quietlywith thought on 
him, not fear. Those who scale the riverside cliff would surely die. We could 
not whirl and jump to escape axes and spears; in mail and from that height, wed 
drown. 
We? The two men looked at each other. Forgall said naught. Cormac said, Some 
would survive. I cannot imagine dying, though some would go down, aye. But its 
volunteers yed be asking for, Forgall, from all 
Volunteers! Forgall whipped his head about to stare at the youth he respected 
as much for his mind as for his prowess. No volunteers! Its our men will do 
it, or none, by Lughs beard! Tara-baiter Coichte becomes Pict-slayer! 
Munster-slayer, Cormac said quietly. 
And so Partha mac Othna and his captain Forgall mac Aed met with not one, but 
three generals. Those wise and brave men agreed that the plan was insane, and... 

And worthy of those descendants of Mil, who came here to settle in a land not 
their own, de Dannann or noour ancestors! 
Ferdiad the Bear looked at the youth who spoke with such heated fervor. Its a 
wild wolf ye be, son of Othna of Ulster! 
With the guile of a fox, Conan Conda said. 
A lunatic, the little general from little Osraige said. No sane man would 
attempt such a feat; no sane general would sanction it. 
Four men stared at him. And so it was decided, because one sneered. 
Guided through the Munsterish squads by General Ferdiads own aide wearing the 
generals own ring, two-and-fifty men stared upward at the pile of rock that 
bulked against the sky. The backside of Silver MountainDeath mountain. The 
cliff was sheer. Trees and vegetation mitigated that fact by rising up it rather 
thickly for a score and more feet. After that a scrubby tree or scraggly bush 
thrust out only sparsely. And beyond that 
And above that, Forgall muttered, the hard part. 
Best we wait a while, until the moon comes to shine on this... wall, Bress 
said, and he was right. They waited. 
After a time the moon, riding high in a sky nigh cloudless, was but minutes from 
bathing the cliff-face in its cold light. Forgall nodded, and the fifty men 
moved forward, and up through the crooked trees and tenacious bushes. Three went 
on from there, trailing the rope that bound them togetherand that was in turn 
secured to thicker ropes. Cormac was not among them; these men were experienced 
climbers. The others huddled and waited. 
They made their pact, and the vow. It had been repeated fifty-two times: an a 
man should fall, he would not cry out. Whether to New God or Old, each prayed 
that he might have strength to keep such a vow, and thus not betray his 
companions. But each knew that he would not fall from that tower of nature 
bulking so darkly against the stars. 
The climbers reached the top. The heavier ropes were drawn up, slithering up 
past the others like serpents. Then they were still. And then they were tugged 
up, and released: the scalers had made fast the climbing ropes for their 
fellows. 
With shields on backs, nine-and-forty men ascended the cliff. None fell. Each 
was pulled over onto the mesa and sidewise to where a clump of great stones rose 
up from the mainly flat surface. They lay gasping as silently as they could. Now 
began the longer wait. They had brought no bow, no arrows. The dark Picts had 
advantage at night; the attackers would wait until dawn. That light would signal 
those at the foot of the other side of this narrow mesa, too, and theyd rush 
upward in silence. 
They waited, two-and-fifty men lying flat, in the darkness. They could hear the 
Picts. Time dragged by on feet set in muck and honey. Never had a night been so 
long. Two Cruithne approached, muttering; mailed men prepared, their helmets off 
against a flash in the moonlight. The two Picts relieved themselves, not the 
length of a mans body from Forgall mac Aed. 
The Picts returned to their fellows. Naturally theyd be keeping a close watch 
on the eastern slope, against a night attack. The Leinstermen waited, in the 
moons ghostly radiance. Time shuffled past with the gait of a tortoise heavy 
with eggs. The Leinstermen waited. 
The blackness of the sky was mitigated. The stars dimmed. Slowly, so horribly 
slowly, black became indigo. It faded to a deep grey. Some stars disappeared 
against a sky less dark. The Leinstermen waited, and their stomachs writhed as 
the time drew nearer. Death seemed to grin down at them, from the paling face of 
the moon. The skys grey grew less deep, as though an artist mixed more and more 
white with his blackgradually, oh so gradually. 
Hands clutched helmets. Bare heads turned to stare at the pearly hue lighting 
the eastern horizon. Doubts rose; the mesas expanse cut off their view of the 
eastern worlds edge; would the others begin their charge too soon? Should they 
leap up and move now? The sky went pearly. The horizon grew pink. And then gold 
fingers rayed upward from below the edge of the world. Every man knew, then: had 
they possessed a cock, it would have crowed. Brilliant yellow-gold washed up 
from the far horizon. The sky overhead went pinkly nacreous, like a shell lined 
with palest pink. 
Forgall slid his helmet to him, ducked his head to the ground, helmed himself. 
He gestured. The gesture was passed. Helmets were pressed on. Two-and-fifty arms 
slid through shield-straps. Fists closed on the grips within those bucklers. 
Forgall rose up to his knees and reached across his armoured midsection to lay 
hand on hilt. 
Now. 
Now. 
NOW! 
The word burst as a shout from half a hundred throats. It was drawn, out to form 
a battle-cry as two-and-fifty men bounded up and drew their swords, all in one 
motion. Before them the enemy, too, came alive. 
The mesa, broad enough to accommodate perhaps seven hundred men, was occupied by 
three hundred Picts, and now they found themselves not alone. The attackers 
appeared by surprise, and charged; they must not be too close to the cliffs 
edge. In that first attack, the latest of centuries upon centuries of yelling 
Celtic onslaught, thirty Picts went down in blood. After that, the battle began. 

The dark men defended themselves and struck back, spreading out so as to flank 
and encompass the force that was armoured as they were notbut was only a sixth 
their number. 
Yelling, hacking Leinstermen could but hope their fellows were ascending the 
long eastward slope of the mountain, as swiftly as they could pull and hurl 
themselves up among the rocks and rocky irregularities. The Leinstermen had no 
place to go. They could but hack and slash, fend and parry. They could but 
endeavor to remain a curved wall, for the enemy was so sizable as to be able to 
surround every man. They could but fight and fight, either to be aided by 
hundreds of others whod come onto the mesa behind the Cruithneor to die heroes 
of Eirrin. For fifty could neither best three hundred, nor retreat. 
And then they were forty. 
And then thirty, and Cormac knew that beside him Forgall had gone down, but 
Cormac could not even think about it, for Forgalls fall left him surrounded the 
way that he must slash his way out to have allies on either side of him again. 
He did, and still the Picts pressed, and no Gaels had come onto the mesa behind 
them. Even so, with his fellows Cormac had no time for despairing thoughts. 
Every man would rather have turned and fled over the cliffs edge; every man 
knew that way was no succor, no escape, but only a death more ignominious; here 
was death with honour. 
Cormac struck so violently that he crippled two attackers at a blow. In that 
powerful half-whirl he saw Bress go down, and Cormac was not glad. His captain; 
the secondand Champion of Leinster! And how many stood yet? As many as a score? 

No time to think; Cormac was engaged by two Picts who worked well together. He 
beat them away, destroyed a shield, back-stepped, let one err by advancing. 
Cormac showed him what Forgall had said was a Romish use of the sword: he 
stop-thrust the man. Even as he saw the Pict shiver, huge-eyed, the youth heard 
the charging Gaels of the main army falling on the Pictish rear. That brought a 
wave of relief, of gladness, but even so it was too late. 
As he freed his sword from the muscular belly of the dying Pict, Cormac saw the 
mans fellow bringing down a steel ax, and knew he could neither shield nor 
dodge. He tried, letting himself fall, wrenching his arm for his sword was not 
quite free. He felt a great blow to his head, heard a terrible boom and a 
roaring thrumming, and saw an explosion of bright lights before his face. 
He knew he was hit, knew the Pict wielded a steel ax taken from a dead Celt, 
knew too that it had bit through his helm and then into his very skull. And as 
even the bright lights vanished from before his eyes, Cormac mac Art knew that 
he was surely dyingdead. 
Chapter Fifteen:
Scars
Partha. 
Strange word. A name? Aye, a name. I died then; its back in a new body I am and 
without a glimpse of Donn or I-Breasil. Back as someone called Partha... 
Partha! No, no, thats the name Im after using these months since Connachtwhy 
seems it years? Then... then... I am not dead? 
How is that possible? 
Partha! Ah ye speakwhat? 
Howhow is it possible I be not dead? Why is it so darkuh! 
He opened his eyes and saw that it was not dark at all. Light seemed to sear 
eyeballs long covered. Something tight around his forehead seemed to press down 
his lids. He blinked, again and again. A face looked down at his; someone stood 
over him. A man. Oh, it was that minstrel. What was hisno, no come Parcome, 
Cormac, Cormac, find yourself, gain control, think! 
Partha? 
Prince... Ceann. 
Aye! Ho, ye be awake! Hold ye still, now; its long and long yeve been abed, 
and yell not be wanting to disturb your bandages, Partha. At least ye know me! 
We feared for your life... then, when we at last felt yed live, days and days 
later, we feared yed come awake with no memory on ye. That I have seen happen, 
from such a slice as ye took to your skull. 
It is... hard. 
Ceann smiled. As Cormac started to lift a hand to his head, the other youth 
grasped his wrist. Amazingly strong he was, for a kings minstrelly son, Cormac 
thought; he holds me with ease! 
Wh-where 
Carman. Its Carman this is. My fathers own leech has been treating yourself, 
and the others, and both druid and priest have been here daily. 
The... others? 
Aye. Hold still, Partha, else we must tie ye down again. Your head is swollen 
still, healing under a great swath of bandage. Yeve no need to be feeling of 
it. Its many a day yeve lain here thus, and many a change of bandage yere 
after having. 
Cormac relaxed his arms, repeated; The others? 
Ceann mac Ulaids face went very serious. There be but eight of ye left of 
those who made the climb. Twoscore and four are dead, heroes in Leinster and 
Munster and Osraige and aye, up in Meath and Connacht once the storys spread in 
verse and song. Butbut, Partha... only thirty others were slain! The deaths of 
twoscore and four, and the wounds on you and seven others... these saved surely 
hundreds of lives and limbs, Partha! As for the Picts... thrice a hundred and 
twoscore and twelve died on that mesa! And a few others; some jumped over the 
cliff and none took trouble to search for them. 
For the third time, while his sluggish brain worked to assimilate what Ceann had 
said, Cormac asked, The others? 
I... I cannot give ye their names, Partha. 
Forgall? 
Dead, Partha. A hero of Leinsterof Eirrin. 
Cormac closed his eyes and bit his teeth together. That exerted pressure on his 
cloven, tight-swathed head and pain leaped like jagged lightning. He hardly 
noticed. Other pain was there, too. Forgall. First my father... and then Midhir 
and now Forgall. It continues. Those I respect, and love... die. 
He was not yet ready to remind himself that was stupid, but another form of 
in-turning, of wallowing in grief and worsening it with self-pity and -blame. 
That realization would come. Now, he opened his eyes to look up into the 
solicitous face of him who was third in line of succession to Leinsters throne. 

Cas... mac Con? 
Ceann shook his head. We tried. He died in his sleep, five days agone. He never 
awoke, even when his leg had to be removed. 
Cas. 
Then, Five days! How long has it been, Ceann? 
Thirteen days since 
Thirteen! 
Aye. Men have lain longer with such wounds. The leech calls it natural enough, a 
coma; the druid says your body needed so long to mend itself; the priest says 
that god and devil wrestled for your soul. Its often restless yeve been. 
Prince Ceann: its no priest of the Dead God Ill be welcoming in here! 
Thirteen days! 
Aye. A day and a night in a peasantish house, and two days in the waggon that 
brought ye here. Only two days agone did the leech say hed live. On yester day 
ye called out mentor and a name: Sualtim. Then did ye smile, smile even as ye 
slept and release a great relaxing breath, Partha. And its peaceful yeve been 
since. Sleeping, rather than unconscious from wounds. 
I called. He is all left meand did he come? Has Sualtim Fodla helped me still 
again? 
He asked about others. He knew mixed mental reactions at news that Bress lived, 
whole; further, hed been up and about for a seven-day. The good men die, Cormac 
thought with some bitterness, and Bress lives! Then he remembered that he too 
lived, and set the concept aside for consideration at another time. The while, 
he discovered that he had taken wounds to his chest and left leg. No longer were 
they hurtful, and he vowed silently that on the morrow hed rise from this bed, 
lest a wounded leg stiffen into a limp. Meanwhile Ceann made sure he remained 
supine. 
Samaire demanded twice-daily reports of him, Ceann said, and he must hurry to 
her now with the good news she awaited. Shed have been here day and night, but 
Ceann had convinced her that her father would learn of it. 
And have death done on me. 
Ceann did not say him nay. Ye know Ive no liking for this... relationship 
between yourself and my sister. 
Cormac stared at the wall. Aye. And ye be right. 
Ceann pursued, You know naught can come of this, Partha mac Othna! Its the 
daughter of a king she is! 
Cormac had to bite back the words that wanted to flood forth; his lineage. Then 
a man entered the room; was Eoghan mac Foil of Forgalls Fifty. Though he and 
Cormac had been but acquaintances, they greeted each other now as the oldest of 
friends. Eoghan walked with a limp, but vowed hed soon not. He told Cormac of 
the other survivors. Among them was Cond the Barber, and they chuckledbut then 
Partha frowned, for Eoghan advised him he had more need of hair restorer than 
clipper. A considerable swath of blood-caked black hair had been snipped from 
Cormacs head, and the scull scraped in that area. 
He complained of the tightness of his bandage. 
Have some ale then, Eoghan said, smiling. A lot of itit comes from the 
kings own vats, Partha! But suffer the bandage. It holds together the edge of 
the wound in your scalp; thus its less scar yell be having, and no great patch 
bare of hair will show. 
Oh, thats important, Cormac saidonly half japingand they laughed all three, 
and that brought such a blinding slash of pain that he fainted. 
That, the leech told him next dayand then General Conan Conda himself!was 
good; Partha needed more rest. To that the patient replied by demanding food 
and ale. He received only ale and a bowl of stew with bread sopping in it. He 
complainedand then, when he tried to chew, thought his head was coming off with 
pain. After a time of rest, he finished a bowl of hot stew, and drank 
considerable ale, and next day he stood despite the leechs protests and 
Ceanns. But for Ceann hed have fallen. He made the prince support him in 
walking twenty steps, and then it was more stew, with much soaked bread. He 
swallowed it whole rather than chew, for all his bravery and determination. And 
he drank more ale, which dulled the throbbing pain. The prince was not all that 
strong, mac Art realized; it was that he was weakened from lying so long abed. 
Others, less wounded and more recovered, came. Samaire came, for the princess 
could come to a heros bedside as well as could a prince. That was painful; they 
durst not touch each other and had to be only soldier and royal heiress. The 
general came again. And Ceanns older brotherthe eldest, King Ulads 
firstbornPrince Liadh. And the royal poet. And another poet. And a bard, who 
asked questions for his lay of the Mountain of Death, where the fifty had saved 
all Eirrin. Hardly so, Cormac told him, but the man paid no mind; facts hardly 
troubled most historians, and certainly must not disrupt the creative process of 
bards and poets. 
Bress Lamfhada did not come. 
Cormac rose everyday, and walked. 
Nevertheless he was an impatient patient, and by the time he was allowed to 
leave the Royal Hospital, a bad patient. By then May was twenty days old. 
On the next day he submitted to an hour of aid in bathing, and shaving, and 
hair-clipping and -combing (below the bandage)it hurtand even to help in 
dressing. He and the others who were all that remained of Forgalls Fifty went 
to fulfill a royal request: to see the king himself. Their fellows were 
astonished at Bresss words; he allowed that it was too bad so many good men lay 
in the ground, while the gods suffered their world still to be cluttered by this 
Ulsterish boy. 
Cormac stopped short, just within the King-house. He stared; Bress met the 
stare, and tense men stood about, watching them both. 
Say it, Ulsterish boy! And among my Fifty its fiftieth yell beand worse. 
Know this, Bress, Cormac said very quietly, and even Bress blinked; was the 
first time his insults and sallies had had answer of the youth. Neither of us 
is boy, and neither of us is coward, or foreigner. And no matter what may 
result, its in no Fifty of yours Ill be servingor squad of ten, or five. 
Bress drew in a breath. Beside him, Eoghan said, Nor I. 
Nor I, Cond agreed, and then Laeg who was now Laeg One-arm, and then Donal of 
Maghnamadra and thena new voice came, and quiet it was, and all wheeled to 
stare. 
Nor would I, General Conan the Wolfish said, stepping from behind an enormous 
oaken pillar all bound with brass. Nor will any of ye be serving anyone at all, 
an ye keep waiting our king himself! 
And like egg-sucking dogs, the chastised heroes went in to see the king. 
They emerged much praised, and rewarded, and Cormacs genius praised for having 
made a great decision and plan that cost so few lives when so many might have 
been lost. They emerged from that audience dizzy, and joyously happy all but 
one, who was infuriated but silent, for these eight were to be the nucleus 
around which a new Coichte was to be built, and its captain was named by General 
Conan and approved most heartily by the king, and his name was Partha mac Othna. 

Chapter Sixteen:
The Trouble with Honour
That summer was for Cormac mac Art one of unequalled and almost uninterrupted 
happiness and serenity. Totally invisible were the terrible black clouds 
gathering over his head. Storm seemed to have left his life. 
New Fifty-chief Partha mac Othna was allowed to pick one man from each of ten 
other Fifties to form his own Coichte around himself and the new veterans who 
had served under Forgall mac Aed. Ten more veterans were transferred to his 
command. These were chosen by General Conan Conda, who was more knowledgeable 
and more the soldier than Fergus Buadach, the palace general. The recruits who 
completed the number of men under the supposed Ulsterish youth were in need of 
training. 
Cormac held counsel with himself, for his command brought problems with it. Then 
he conferred with other leaders. All commented that he had chosen good men from 
their ranks, though never the very best. That, he told them, had been 
deliberate, and all believed their younger peer. All were pleased to listen to 
his problem, and to offer advice. 
Having heard of those meetings, a Commander of Three Thousand called for Partha. 
He offered his counsel. And then Partha/Cormac went to General Conan Conda, whom 
he respected. Conan the Wolfish, too, was pleased to offer advice. 
Next Partha announced that his Coichte would be called neither Parthas Fifty 
nor Tara-baiter, but after Forgall. Men there were who wept at that, and respect 
for the honourable Partha mac Othna broadened. 
An enemy remained, one who carefully, necessarily gave the appearance of 
respect, but was nevertheless disdainful and ever a trifle surlyjust enough so 
that Cormac could not mistake it. This was his problem, and hed had much advice 
on the matter, and given it much thought. That problem was surprised when the 
captain of Coichte Forgaill quietly requested a most private conference. 
The two of them rode out of camp together, ostensibly to test a new team of 
chariot horses. Soon, on the back pasture of the farm of Bresal Angair, the 
chariots stood idle while the horses happily cropped grass. It stood high and 
rich with the brilliant green of June. 
Its Champion of Leinster ye be, Bress Lamfhada, Cormac said, to a man hardly 
at his ease, and the rank of Battle-leader. Men are honoured to be trained by 
your expert self. Up on Magh Broin in the Boruma matter, and at Slieve Argait 
against the Picts, ye did distinction on yourself yet again, and in valour and 
in passing ability. 
Bress sat staring, forgetting in his surprise to look supercilious or even 
disdainful, and yet sorely afflicted with wonder. What would follow this 
preamble of praise? Cormac spoke on. 
No certainty has ever been on me as to the reason for your instant dislike of 
me. Mayhap we cannot be friends, Battle-leader. That is not fortunate for we be 
two of the very best, and each of us knows it. 
Bress continued to stare; Bress continued silent. 
Now the king and our general have made matters more difficult for us both. Its 
I have the post I neither expected nor requested. Its you were Forgalls 
second, and expected command. It gives us a problem, and thus Leinster a 
problem. 
Leinster? 
Aye. For the very reason that we are among her very best. So will Forgalls 
Fifty be. If none of those new men can come up to what we expect, Ill be trying 
to have them transferred to duties that should never require them to fight. 
Is thatdo ye threaten me? 
Bress, Bress! I do not. I speak of others: recruits. What man wants other than 
the best beside him, in the shield-splitting? Mayhap Coichte Forgaill will never 
have to fight. Its best well be, anyhow. No, Bress. We are here because we 
have great need to talk, to come to agreementeven if it is to disagree. Its 
Champion of Leinster ye be. No other would I rather have training men in my 
command. No other, Battle-leader. Yet if its enemies we must be, then all will 
know. They will feel it, however we dissemble. In that event all would be the 
better were yourself to be honouring the command of another captain. 
Cormac raised a staying hand then as Bress opened his mouth to speak, with the 
look of hostility on him. A moment, Battle-leader. Tell me now, or by morning 
an ye wish. Will ye remain with us, with both of us trying to get along as 
fellow weapon-men of excellencewith a great responsibility, Bress, to these 
score and more of inexperienced new ladsor would ye prefer that we make a 
heroic announcement? 
Iwhat dye mean, Captain? For Bress called Cormac naught else, with care. A 
heroic announcement? 
Aye. We both know we be good. Others know. We could be going to the general, 
tell him we think it best for Leinster were we in separate Fifties, that they 
may be the two best. 
Its a high opinion ye bear of yourself. 
Bress: I do. If the general agrees, we request that he make such an 
announcement. Will be good for the army of Leinster, and thus Leinster, for our 
abilities to be put to use training a hundred men, rather than fifty. And 
Cormac smiled, naturally our Fifties will be rivals. That could only benefit 
Leinster. 
Bress remained squatting for a long while in silence. He rose. When he paced a 
few steps to lean against a tree, Cormac also straightened; both warriors knew 
what was good for the legs. 
Ye could go yourself to Conan Conda, or Fergus Buadach himself most likely, and 
merely ask that I be transferred. 
I could have done, Battle-leader, Cormac said. 
Yere already after talking with several captainsand with General Conan. 
Cormac said nothing. Hed known for a long while that Bress spied upon him. At 
last Bress saw that the captain would not break the lengthening silence. 
Yet... ye give me the choice. 
Bress: I do. 
Nor have ye aught of reason to like me or honour me. Why, then? 
I do have reason to do honour on Bress Lamfhada. He has done it on himself, in 
training, in the Games at fair-time, and in the shield-splitting combat. How can 
one not respect Bress of the Long Arm? 
Bress thought about that. Its no need I have of your respect, Partha mac 
Othna! I need no honouring from yourself! I will fight ye now. Or any time. I do 
not like ye, Captain. 
Because I saved Forgall, Cormac mused, when on his death yed surely have become 
his successor? Or for some other reason? Because I claim to be of Ulster and ye 
hold some grudge, bigot? Because I seemedwas!the bumpkin, or just gained too 
much attention all on a sudden? 
I know, Bress. I willnot fight ye, though. Not in words or with arms, and I 
know yeve striven to goad me to it. Abruptly Cormac almost smiledalmost, but 
not quite. Unless it be next year at Carmans Fair, for Leinsters 
championship! 
And be welcome! And why not this year? 
This year is the Great Fair at Tara. Only once every three years is it heldand 
the Games. Ye deserve the chance to compete for the Championship of all Eirrin, 
Bress. Besidesalready yeve done defeat on me, that first day I was here. 
Bress gazed upon the other man in the long-sleeved tunic of Leinster blue. He 
shook his head, with a stirring in the air of his helms blue plume. I have no 
belief in any mans being so honourable, Captain. I cannot accept such 
consideration. I look for other reasons. 
Cormac heaved a sigh. From your mind comes that, Battle-leader, not mine. 
For a long while they were silent, gazing one upon the other, and both were most 
aware of their helms, and armour, and of the blades by their sides, 
Captain, Bress said, I will speak to ye, on the morrow. 
Cormac nodded. Hed given Bress till then to decide. He knew both anticipation 
and apprehension as they rode back... not that Bress might decide to transfer to 
anothers command, but that he might wish to remain. For Cormac would love to 
get on with this man who was so very good a warrior. Yet he did not relish daily 
proximity. Had it not been for his plaguing sense of honour, hed have done what 
Bress had said: Hed have asked that the man be transferred elsewhere, that mac 
Art might handle his men in peace and happiness. 
Hours and hours later, an aide to General Conan came to Cormac. The general 
would have converse with him: Now. Cormac cloaked himself against the nights 
misty chill and hurried with the aide to the house where the general both lived 
and held office. Cormac was most surprised to find Bress there, afore him. 
Captain, the general said from behind his finely-carved oaken desk, I ask ye 
to relate to me, now, what ye talked of this afternoon with Bress mac Keth. 
Surprised, Cormac looked at Bress. What showed those eyes under the 
superciliously arched brows... nervousness? Apprehension? Surely not fear! 
Cormac set his gaze on the generals face, and did his best to recount all his 
and Bresss words to each other. 
And that be all, Captain Partha? 
Cormac knew it was, but felt obliged to make a show of reflection. Then he said, 
Aye, General. 
The general turned to Bress Long-arm who stood to his left, and looked upon him, 
and said nothing, and looked... until Bress looked away. 
At last General Conan spoke. Bress mac Keth, ye have defended Leinster well, 
and the Games at last years fair proclaim ye the best weapon-man in the realm. 
It is a shame on us all, then, that ye be unbearable, and a troublemaker, and 
with no such honour on yourself as many lesser menand a liar as well. I will 
not incarcerate or discharge from the army Leinsters Champion. Nor could I 
trust ye even in one of our border outposts. Best I know precisely where ye are, 
and can keep these eyes on ye. Accordingly on the morrow I will make 
announcement that I have want of a seasoned Battle-leader on my staff, and its 
yourself will volunteer at once. 
Bress spoke quietly, looking at the generals desk-top. Aye, General. 
Go. 
Bress left; Conan turned his pale blue eyes on the astounded Cormac. The general 
lifted a hand to push fingers through his thinning flaxen hair, and he sighed. 
Ill not ask why he dislikes ye so, Partha, and Id not wager ye know. Nor will 
I tell ye what he told me. Lies. Avoid him, Partha, and do not trust him. 
General, its 
Assembly an hour after breakfast, Captain. An announcement from the general. 
Go. 
And Cormac went. 
And so that problem was solved, without being solved, for Cormac had no doubt 
but that Bresss mind was well capable of twisting matters so that the man he 
knew as Partha was responsible for his removal from activity. Indeed, the days 
passed slowly for mac Keth that summer, for he had no specific duties whatsoever 
but was called on now and again to carry this message or call that man for the 
general. Nor did Cormac mac Art ever know what Bress had told their commander, 
who had heard him out, and sent at once for Cormac, and had without other 
comment bidden Bress utter not one word whilst Cormac spoke... and who had 
believed Cormac instantly. 
For mac Art the days went swiftly. 
He was his own training-master, aided by the stern, hardly imaginative but 
superbly competent veteran he made his second. And many nights passed all too 
swiftly, too, in Samaires company. And summer lengthened. 
From time to time the new captain saw the new aide to the general. From time to 
time he thought of Sualtim, and the approach of the Great Fair at Tara, and of 
the Assembly of Kings later. Sualtim came not. The paths of mac Keth and mac Art 
crossed not. Once Cormac waited a long, long hour for Samaire to keep a tryst, 
and then allowed his disappointment to be alleviated by another, and her older 
and most willing. Upon learning that Samaire had been unable to get away from 
the Kings House that evening and durst not send word either, Cormac felt guilt, 
and did not like it. Yet he liked no better the realization that he wished to 
remain constant to a woman with whom there could be no future. 
And July came. Coichte Forgaill went out on maneuvers with four other Fifties, 
and acquitted itself superbly, new men included. Well trained they were; so said 
Fergus Buadach most publicly while Conan Conda smiled at his side. And July 
steamed on, and days came and went, and the Great Fair drew nigh. 
In a room in an inn of Carman of Leinster, a pair of youths lay embracing and 
avowed their love. She wanted only to live out her life with him, Samaire said, 
and bear his sons. He wanted the same, Partha told her with sadness on him, but 
such could never be. He was but a weapon-man, and she the kings daughter. She 
sought to argue and dissuade, though was not logical or truly reasoned or 
reasonable. 
And that evening, lying abed staring at an inns ceiling in Carman, he told her 
who he was, and why hed left Connacht, and why he lived with a name not his 
own. She told him that she cared not and showed him, as well, and avowed that 
there must be a way for them. 
He wanted that too, he told her, holding her to him and pretending not to be 
aware of her tears. It would be pleasant to believe, he mused, that they could 
surmount or smash through all obstacles, or even flee them. But the sense of 
honour was strong in the son of Art of Connacht in this matter as in that of 
Bress when hed given the man his choice that day in June. In him too was a 
druid-trained pragmatism, and Cormac saw no way. She must be wed to some prince 
or king, thus to make alliance and bear Leinsterish sons to rule elsewhere. Such 
was the way of kings, and their daughters. 
In truth Cormac knew in his mind that were far better he depart Leinster and 
hope they two could forget each other. Yet being that practical was a pain 
within him, and he did not say it aloud or make unbreakable resolve. He hoped 
still that Sualtim would bring word or send word, and that somehow all problems 
would be solved thus. Sure, and even that practical mind was a youths; he 
entertained ridiculous and colourful thoughts of himself showing up the 
High-king for a plotting bit of low-life, and being forced then to defend 
himself from Lugaids rushing attack, and slaying him, and being proclaimed 
High-king by the other monarchs assembled, so that all proffered gifts and 
daughters on him, and he reached forth his hand to the sunny daughter of 
Leinsters king. 
These were dreams, he told himself, holding that sunny daughter, and unworthy. 
At last it was time for her to depart the inn, and him. They would be apart for 
weeks: the king and his entourage left on the day after the morrow to be 
travelling Leinster, and visiting in Munster, with whose king theyd ride up to 
Tara for the Great Fair. Ulad Ceannselaigh wanted his daughter with him; his 
daughter would be with him, fearful of the discussion of matches for herself. 
The youthful lovers promised each the other that theyd tryst in Tara, somehow. 
They looked into each others eyes, and each saw the sparkle of tears. Neither 
made mention. She rose and dressed. Coming first to kiss him another time, she 
left. Suddenly unhappy after this summer of joy, Cormac rose at once and 
commenced donning his clothing. It lacked but a few hours to dawn; with luck he 
could return to camp and gain some sleep ere dawn forced him up to be the 
captain who brooked no excuses, or tardiness or sloth from his men, and thus 
could show none himself. 
After a brief interval, Cormac too left the inn. Through dark Carman he returned 
to camp, and he was deep in thoughts unbidden. Thus he did not see the man whod 
waited so long and long with an incredible patience born of malice, and who had 
seen them both leave and recognized her and knew the truth, though they left not 
together. And the watching Bress mac Keth smiled. 
Two days later the Champion of Leinster left in the entourage of the king. 
Chapter Seventeen:
A Druid and A Priest
What a throng! And I thought Carman was a city full of people, and colourful! 
Cormac mac Art, an iota of that throng of happy sons and daughters of Eirrin, 
shook his head. None of the noisy fairgoers around him noticed the lone 
so-thoughtful young man who shook his head though none spoke to him, for all 
were too busy going about their private pursuitsor just being joyous. He 
grunted when he was jostled by a hurrying purveyor of marvelously-wrought gauds 
of glass beads and amber and the teeth of sea-dogs. The man grunted too, and 
continued his single-minded hurrying through the crowd that had come to Tara 
from every part of Eirrin. Cormac turned to look; the fellow was gone, one among 
thousands. 
Officially, the Great Fair began on the morrow. In truth it had commenced days 
ago, as pilgrims began arriving afoot, on horseback and even oxback, in waggons 
and carts. Farmers and herders jostled fishermen and weapon-men and 
richly-attired nobleswho might well soon buy the needlework of some of those 
mens wives, or the produce of their farms, or the delicate jewellery made of 
shellfish by the wives of those who took their living from river or ocean. 
Three seeming maniacs sat before a noisy inn, torturing the air and the ears of 
many with their yowling, howling pipes. 
Bright garments fluttered and jewellery of varying degrees of worth and 
workmanship cast scintillant flashes with the movements of the wearers, male and 
female alike. Hair, cut and trimmed and washed and arranged, long combed and 
coiffed, glossed in the golden sunlight of Julys final day. Bangles jangled and 
earrings tinkled. What seemed, to the youth from a Connachtish province, to be a 
thousand conversations were carried on all at oncesome at the tops of the 
speakers voices. Girls were patted and stroked and even slapped on hip or 
behind, and most laughed and none took umbrage. Not at Fair-time! 
To this high Hill of the Kings and the renowned field sprawled about it had come 
peasants whod left their russets behind; citizens of every kingdom of the 
Emerald Isle, bearing fruits and vegetables, embroidery and leatherwork; poets 
and lyrists, pipers and tympanists from the farthest northern hamlets of Ailech 
and DalRiadia and the farthest southern townlet of Munster; from the land round 
about Loch Cuan up north and Loch Conn over in Connacht and the inlet of Cobh 
down in the south; from Tir Connaill they came, and Antrim and Cruachain and 
Killarney, Dinn Rig and ancient Muirthemne; the foothills and valleys presided 
over by Slieve Mis and Slieve Cuilinn, from Dundalk and Dun Laoghair and aye, 
even the Isles of Aran, and Cait, and of the Seven Hogs. 
Full twenty acres Tara Hill covered, with smaller duns or hills rising on it, 
and seven walled raths, each like unto a town itself. Long and long ago in the 
mists of time agone had Ollam Fodla called here the kings of all the realms of 
Eirrin, in solemn council. Then had been born the tradition of the great council 
or parliament, the kings assembled in the Great Feis. Monarchs cared not to 
depart their lands so often as once each year; the Assembly of Kings became a 
triennial occurrence. 
Now fully a half-score of centuries had Feis-mor been held each year on Tara 
Hill. And before it, in late summer, the Great Fair. The great trading and 
selling. The relation in verse and prose of the histories of the peoples of 
Eirrin, spoken aloud by respected poets and historians and story-tellers who 
went away able only to whisper. The Games; the races and combats to determine 
the new Champion of Eirrin. The hearing of plaints and the redressing of wrongs. 
The Tales of the Finn. Public announcements of the pledging of troths. 
Sword-sharp satires. And absolute law. 
Thus did the poet have it: 
The people of the Gaedhil did celebrate
  In Tara, to be highly boasted of,
  A fair without broken law or crime,
  Without a deed of violence, without dishonour. 
Whoever transgresses the law of the assembly
  (Which of old was indelibly writ)
  Cannot be spared for family connection,
  But must die for his transgression. 
Aye, and still that law at Fair-time prevailed. Men wore arms but used them not. 
He who broke the Kings Peace must die. Appeal did not exist; only so could the 
Fair exist. 
Here, amid the crowd bordering the open square where brightly bedecked tumblers 
cavorted, switching their back-bound hair; where hopeful satirists tried out 
their creations on any whod listen; here, Samaire had sent word, would she meet 
Partha. And here he was, waiting and watching, ignoring even the girl tumblers. 
And he was sore disappointed. The sun crept measurably across the sky, steadily 
westering, and there came no Samaire. 
She could not escape her damned gaoler of a father, Cormac thought morosely. It 
had happened afore. This time was a greater disappointment, for theyd been 
weeks apart. 
And then Ceann was there, and Cormac was both glad and sad, for he knew what 
message the minstrel-prince brought. And he was right: Samaire had been detained 
by their father. Naturally she could not tell him why she was so anxious to 
depart his company and shirk a princesss duty. King Ulad merely needed her by 
him, or thought that he did. And Ceann in his Leinsterish plaide must be 
elsewhere too, and Cormac dolorously plowed through the throng in quest of a 
draught of soothing ale. 
A hand fumbled at his, whilst he was locked in the crowd. Before he could draw 
away, in the press, he felt metal against his palm. He closed his fingers and 
raised the hand to look on what it contained. A moondisk. Instantly his body 
reacted. He knew that rune; Sualtim had scratched it there months agone. 
Cormac turned his gaze on the message-bearera beggar. 
I want nothing of ye, young man. On Tara Hill rises the rath of one Murcael 
Uais, cousin to the High-king by marriage. Directly below Lord Murcaels rath 
rises a grove of the oldest of trees. There, after the calling of the second 
watch of night, will be he who dares deface the back of a moondisk. 
Cormac looked again on the symbol of the night goddess, of ancient Danu. His 
heartbeat was rapid and his armpits prickled. Sualtim! With information at 
lastand just in time! Oh; he must ask weather the beggar was to return the 
pendant... 
The man was gone. The crowd, flowing like a many-hued stream, had swallowed him 
up, torn brown cloak and all. And in truth that human stream eddied about 
Cormac, split to pass him on either side as though he was a great stone in a 
springtime brook, and people muttered rude crudities or curses on the big 
youthful weapon-man who blocked them. 
Clutching the pendant, he allowed himself to be carried along by the flow. 
Despite his impatience Cormac had forced himself to wait until after the second 
night-watch had been called. Then he had taken but a few steps when he was 
challenged by the handsomely got-up Kings Watch. At last, with mist swirling 
about his ankles like a wraithy grey phantom, he made his way to the yew-grove 
below the rath he had easily identified. And there he found Sualtimand another. 

At the feet of the druid lay another robed man, though his garb was not the 
green of natures life but the black of death. A priest of the Dead God. Cormac 
saw the splash of colour; the scarlet on the mans forehead and left cheek, and 
on the ground beside that cheek. Beside him too lay a good-sized stone, bigger 
than Cormacs fist, and on it was more of the priests blood. 
Cormac stared at Sualtim Fodla. 
A druid carries no weapons, the whitebeard said, and his voice was as though 
he spoke down a barrel or up from a well. Nor is a priest supposed to do. This 
one did. Sualtim nodded, and Cormac looked, and saw the dagger protruding from 
the priests fist; the blade was covered by his robes skirt. Yet the earth of 
our Eirrin holds weapons for one attacked. I was; the stone proved effective. 
Cormac swallowed. Sualtim 
Let me talk, the druid said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance 
though he stood but a pace away. This man iswasone Milchu. Him I told ye of. 
A priest of Iosa Chriost... a spy for the High-king... a greedy ambitious man 
who desired his own bishopric as they call it. He was also the man who bade 
Aengusthat is Eoin mac Gulbain, Cormacto do that which a more honourable 
priest had forbidden: slay your father. 
Sualtim 
Hush. Only listen. Its little time I have. I should be... elsewhere. Was the 
High-king bade Milchu to go to Eoin, and bid him do death on Art of Rath 
Glondarth. Our noble High-king fears one of Arts ancestry... and is even more 
fearful of a son bearing the name of that great High-king of old: Cormac mac 
Art. Particularly once youd slain those first Picts, my boy, and your name and 
deed were becoming well-known, with comparisons to Cuchulain. 
The... High-king! Lugaid himself! 
Aye, Lugaid himself. And now, Cormac... now does Lugaid knew that the hero of 
Borumahero in Leinster, villain in Meathis Partha mac Othna. And he knows that 
Partha is also Cormac mac Art. Lugaid wanted ye dead aforetime; he does so 
doubly, now. The regaining of the Boru Tribute and your other successes in 
Leinster have but increased the Ard-righs apprehension, and hatred. 
Gods of my father! Is there never to be a ceasing of 
Attend me! I have not done, and time is short. There is one who spied on you in 
Leinster. He knew of yourunwise, most unwise, Cormactrysts with King Ulads 
daughter. And he told Ulad, who told the High-king and conferred with him even 
this night! My boy, my boythey two kings plot to destroy you, Cormac mac 
Sualtims voice had grown so weak, so seemingly distant that Cormac had bent 
closer, straining to hear even in the night silent but for insects. Now that 
voice broke off. The wise old eyes that gazed on him went vacant as though 
Sualtim had fled his own body. The druid made no further sound. He merely fell, 
crumpling like a tent bereft of its stiffening pole. As he did so, to lie face 
down at Cormacs feet, the youth saw that the whole back of Sualtims robe was a 
mass of blood. 
Ah godshe was stabbed, and yet slew the stabber, and stood erect so as to tell 
me what he has told me! Cormac squatted. Ah, Sualtim, why do you think my 
unhappy life could be of more import than your 
Cormac shuddered and his nape bristled. He had put a hand to the face of his 
fallen mentor. What he felt was not credible, never to be believed... and 
undeniably, horrifyingly true. The old mans skin was cold. 
Hurriedly, though his flesh crawled and so too his stomach within him. Cormac 
caught up a thin, veined, old hand. 
Oh ye gods and blood of the gods! 
The hand was cold. And it was stiff. Like ice it was... no. Not like ice was 
Sualtims hand. Cold as that of a dead man it was; a man from whom life had long 
since flown. 
Shuddering so that he clamped his teeth against their clicking, Cormac rose and 
backed from the pair of corpses. Milchus, too, was cold. Cormac stared down at 
them, and his brain spun in a maelstrom of horror, and disbelief. For he stared 
at the result of unhuman powers, at the incredible and unimaginable. 
Sualtim had come early to meet Cormac. And so had Milchu. And Milchu had come up 
behind the druid, and stabbed him with his death. And then he must have gloated, 
sneering, flaunting his triumph over the dying druid and over the house of Art. 
And then, somehow, perhaps with Sualtim prostrate and dying and Milchu bending 
over him, the druid had smashed the stone into the priests face. 
The slain had slain the slayer. And then, because his will and his power were so 
great and his mission so important, and his love for Cormac... then had Sualtim 
evaded Donns dread clutch, and spoken to Cormacfrom the other side of death. 
Chapter Eighteen:
Fugitive
What to do? 
What wonder and sore trouble on the mind of Cormac mac Art, and sadness at 
Sualtims death complicated his attempts to think. 
The High-king of all Eirrin plotted his death. King Ulad of Leinster knew of his 
daughters affair with a common weapon-man. He plotted. And now both kings 
plotted together. 
Am I so important then, as to occupy the time of two monarchs? 
No, he thought; doubtless theyd given him but a few minutes of their valuable 
time, and made their plan to determine his fate, and gone right on to the other 
matters requiring their attention. 
What to do? 
He still hoped to expose the Ard-righ at the Great Assembly in the fall. 
Butwill I be allowed to live that long? Or if to live... to remain free? There 
was more now, so much more. Ard-righ Lugaid was ultimately responsible for the 
death of Art mac Cumail. And of Midhir. And of Sualtim. 
And for Cormacs fleeing Connacht, taking on another namea name that Lugaid now 
knew was an alias. 
And Cormac mac Art? 
He had no proof! 
Bewildered, feeling once again very young and very alone, he was in need of 
counsel. None was available. Dead, dead, dead. Art. And Sualtim and Midhir. 
Dead. And even Forgall, whom though he was no great brain Cormac respected and 
likedand trusted. General Conan Conda? Perhaps... could a general give listen 
to words against the highest of kings? If he did, what then when he demanded 
proof? No; was worse than that, Cormac realized. He could not confide in Conan 
the Wolfish. That would only compromise that good soldier and good man; by now 
Partha/Cormac was far less than popular with the generals king. 
Tu, I need you! 
Cormac frowned. 
Tu? What word was that? A name? he knew no tu or Tu. What had been that sudden 
weird sensation, as of a great weight on his shoulders, a crown-like weight on 
his head? Were his senses taking leave of him; was his sanity staggering? 
He had no idea. He was horribly alone. 
Miserable, he took refuge in the company of others, and of exciting 
distractions. Cormac went with six others of his Fifty to watch the first of the 
martial games. They arrived just after Bress had fought, for he was Leinsters 
Champion and had won. He and the youth he knew as Partha affected not to see 
each other. Amid the cheering crowd, Cormac watched another pair of men 
circling, staring, striking at each other with leather-covered swords of wood. 
One combat ended, embarrassingly for the loser, in two strokes. Another went 
long and long, and Cormac saw how closely Bress watched. One of these men hed 
later face over his shields rim, and if he won that combat, it was another of 
these hed be meeting later still, in the continuing eliminations. 
Pfah! That from Eoghan mac Foil, on Cormacs left. None of these puny 
shield-lurkers were seeing could stand up to yourself, Captain! 
A shame ye do not compete, another of his men said, from beyond Eoghan. For 
the next Champion of all Eirrin might then be Partha mac Othna! 
Oho! 
That from the man who stood at Cormacs right, a Meathish soldier. He went on, 
So! this is the great Partha mac Othna of Ulster, hero of Leinsters king! The 
great herder of cows. 
Most of the crowd continued to shout and wager; silence fell on Cormacs men. 
They stared at the Meathmen. Cormac kept his gaze on the two contenders, a young 
lord of Ailech and a weapon-man who represented a noble of Cruachain in 
Connacht. 
Loud snuffing noises arose on Cormacs right. I say this be no hero here beside 
me, but a coward... with the stench of Connachtish pigs on him! 
Eoghan gasped. Cormac tensed and his jaw clamped. He stared fixedly at the 
contenders. 
Aye, a base coward of the foullest kind... not a man at all, this cattle-thief 
who sells his blade to Leinster whilst claiming to be of Ulster! 
Cormac turned to look at the speaker. His was not a face Cormac knew. The fellow 
was not ill-favoured, and of perhaps a score of years, perhaps less. He was 
essaying to wear his brows as did Bress; it did not become him either. 
Why seek ye to provoke me? 
Provoke ye? Whyever should ye be provoked by the hearing of truth? And how 
could I possibly seek suchwhy tis Fair-time, weapon-boy. Even Leinsterish 
cattle-thieves are welcome here in my Meath during these days! 
Its hardly a welcoming speech yere after giving me, man! 
And why should I be doing that, Partha mac Othna? Its disgrace ye and your 
plan put on a good captain of Meath! 
Ah. Yebe ye the captain of the Meathish tribute-guards? 
Not I. Hes disgraced, bereft of command and respect, for allowing himself to 
be tricked by some graceless fugitive who fled his own homeland rather than seek 
out his fathers murderer. 
Partha 
Easy, Eoghan, Cormac put back a hand to Eoghan without looking at him; he kept 
his grey gaze on the Meathish weapon-man. How could the man know so much? 
Its much ye affect to know, and much noises ye allow yourself to make. 
The man stared in anger. His mouth worked, drew in on itself, like a spiteful 
boys. Noise? Affect to know? Noise? Come away for a stroll with me, Captain 
Cloak-name, and its more noises Ill be making for ye! 
Rather would I see ye go for a stroll alone and let me rejoin those who watch 
real weapon-men. Cormacs voice remained quietwith effort. 
Real! Howould that those two were I and yourself, swineherd turned kine-thief! 
Yed soon see what comes of facing a real weapon-man! 
Words, Eoghan mac Foil said, pushing up to face the Meathman. None others may 
enter, the Games now, nor can Partha fight yourself, at Fair tune. What would ye 
have him do then, man? 
Id have him speak for himself, Leinsterman. 
Eoghan, Cormac said quietly, desperately reminding himself of his rank and 
responsibility. I do believe Ill be going along now, peradventure to taste a 
bit of ale. 
Eoghans face was dark and he was aquiver under the hand his captain laid on his 
shoulder. Without taking his eyes off the Meathmans face he said, I do believe 
Ill be going with ye, Captain. The air is gone stale here. 
And they moved back through the crowd, which pressed forward to fill their 
space. As they stepped free of the press, that same voice rose behind them; the 
mouthy fool had followed! Its not staleness ye notice, Leinsterman, but the 
stench from that Connachtish pig-boy ye accompany. 
An alarum clanged in Cormacs mind. Why was he fellow so set on trouble? How 
knew he so much? Why was he soso crude and obvious? But beside Cormac Eoghan 
was saying  ye! and spinning about, hand on hilt. 
The Leinsterman faced the Meathish weapon-man; the latter drew; Eoghan drew. 
EoghanNO! Cormac shouted. 
Eoghan paused at the cry, and thus he did not complete the movement of his blade 
toward the other mans, for neither of them carried buckler. The Meathish blade 
swerved only a littleand took Eoghan in the sword-arm. It bit deep and blood 
gushed. 
Eoghan! Cormac called again, and he had a vision of a good young weapon-man no 
longer able to follow his trade because of a crippled sword arm, and Cormac 
forgot all. His blade streaked from his scabbard. 
He did not hear the sudden new shouts from the crowd; a battle was being fought 
with real steel; blood dyed a sleeve of Leinsterish blueand Meathish earth! Now 
others turned. They saw the darker man in the blue shirt strike, saw the 
Meathman catch the blow on his own blade with a ringing grating scream of steel 
on steel, and they saw Cormacs sword slide down that other blade and drive four 
inches of its blade into the Meathmans chest. 
Onlookers were horrified; moreso Cormac mac Art, for now his full senses 
returned. He knew from the mans wound and his face that hed not live to see 
another dawn, if indeed he survived to sunset. Cormac knew that he had slain, 
though hed had no such intention. 
I broke the Kings Peace at Fair-time, Samaire! I slew a man! Witnesses there 
were aplenty; Im a dead man! 
She hugged him, pressing hard. Oh Partha! Oh Crom preserve and Behl protect! 
Partha... She was sobbing, heedlessly crushing herself against steel mail. 
Id be dead already, he said wonderingly, for he could hardly believe it had 
happened yet, days later, nor was he yet able to assimilate it. But all were as 
frozen in horrormyself included. What I did does not happen. The law is 
ancient, and clear: the punishment is death. Id not be here, he said, looking 
about the inn room with eyes that scarcely saw, but for the fact that all were 
bemazed, rooted. Then the Kings Watch came bustling through the crowd. And I 
came awakeand fled. My companions accidentally got in the way of those 
Meathmen. I came upon a horse. I took it, and rode. I think I did not even slow 
until I realized I was entering Atha Cliath. Gods, gods! Blood of the gods; I 
know not even the name of the boy who bore my message to you when I learned your 
fathers party had stopped here on the way home. 
Nor I, she said squeezing him, but hes a circle of silver the richerPartha! 
Cormac! We must flee. 
Flee? But 
She thrust herself back to look into his face, though her hands clung to him 
still. Oh dairlin, dairlin boy! Would ye remain and be slain? Think, my love. 
The Meathman... he provoked you deliberately. He had no fear on him, of the Law. 
How is that possible? 
I have thought of that. He was assured of pardon, of impunity... and only the 
High-king himself could have assured him of such safety. 
Falsely? 
He looked down into her green, green eyes. What? 
Oh Partha... Cormac! Dont you see? The High-king did indeed assure him hed be 
pardoned, or somehow taken care of. He wanted swords drawn. He had been well 
worked up over his captain, the one you tricked that night you gained back the 
Boruma. Butthink! The High-king knows your prowess! My father knows your 
prowess. They knew youd do death on their man! 
It... must be. Aye... 
We must flee, my love. We must. 
No way now for me to receive any sort of hearing, fair or otherwise, before the 
Assembly of Kings; its a wanted, hunted fugitive I am! Shes right; its stay 
and die, or flee! Gods! Flee! First an exile from Connacht... but... leave 
Eirrin? 
His voice caught when he said, Not we, Samaire. I. Its I must flee. 
No! No-oo, she cried, moaning the word. Not without me! 
Was then the knock came, on the door of that inn of Baile Atha Cliath, and when 
she asked fearfully who was there, a familiar voice replied. Your brother. 
They admitted Ceannin his patched cloak and a great red mustache. He thrust a 
bundle at her. 
Samaire: Change clothes at once. At once! Partha: ye must decide. Stay and die, 
or 
We have just said it, Ceann. I... I will... go. The words were far from easily 
said; they were nigh as hideous as death itself. 
Then it must be immediately, Ceann snapped. My father knows of this meeting; 
hes had you watched, Samaire. Even now he sends Bress, with a warrant for you, 
Partha. Resist and be slain on the spot. Neither king nor High-king cares. 
Nor Bress. 
He goes. We go! I will flee with him, Ceann. I love him! We 
Her brother wheeled on her. Think, sister! Think! An he flees successfully, 
evades the men seeking him, will be because the gods smile and he be no fool. 
But if you go with himgods of our ancestors, Samaire! Be not foolish! Our 
father will search the world over for you both! All Leinster will join the 
search for the man who carried off the kings daughter! 
She protested, weeping, even while she changed without shame into the peasantish 
cloth Ceann had brought. And Ceann railed at her. The while, he too was 
stripping. He took up a shirt and leggings, donned them; was the sleeved blue 
tunic of a weapon-man. Cormac joined his efforts to make her see reason and 
sense, though he himself was close onto tears. I love her! I am talking her out 
of going with menever to see her again! 
Prince Ceann gathered her jewels, every smallest bauble including the 
pearl-encrusted comb. These he placed in the russet shirt hed worn, and folded 
it with care over them, and used his cloak to make a bundle of it. His gaze met 
Cormacs; he pressed the valuable bundle into his hands. 
Behl smile and ever shine his light on you, Partha mac Othna. And Crom protect 
ye, weapon-man; for ye have enemies so powerful a prince shivers to think ont. 

And Ceann whirled, and snatched his sisters hand, and practically dragged her 
from the room. Nor did her wailing cease as he hurried her away. 
Cormac stood staring at the door, holding a ragtag disguise... and the jewels of 
a princess whose father righteouslyand in truth, rightfullydesired his death. 
And Cormac felt as if hed swallowed a heavy stonetwo, for one was lodged in 
his throat. 
Samaire... 
Minutes passed ere he jerked, and blinked, and began again to see with staring 
eyes. He set his brain to work constructively. Known here, hed betake himself 
elsewhere before he changed into the beggarish clothing Ceann had brought. He 
wrapped the little package still again in his military dress cloak of speedwell 
blue. He made it fast to his belt back of his left hip, behind the scabbard in 
which rested his accursed sword. He had no buckler; that hed left behind in 
Tara. Without even glancing around at that room of sorrow, he swung to the door. 

He barely avoided being bashed and swept back by it, when the door was hurled 
inward. 
Partha mac Othna: Its the, kings own warrant we bear, for your arrest. 
Och, Bress, Cormac said so terribly quietly, never have I seen ye in such 
good cheer. 
Beside Bress mac Keth in the hall stood two others. Weapon-men all, in the 
familiar colour and leathern corselets of Leinster; swords by sides and shields 
on arms. The three stared at the fugitive. Then Bress reached across his 
midsection and drew his sword. 
The Meathman was an accident, Cormac thought. Butas well flee or be slain for a 
boar as for a squealing shoat! This one Ill enjoy doing to death. And he 
reached for his own hilt. 
The man on Bresss left started forward, stumbledinto Bress. As they scrambled, 
the fellow seeming all disjointed legs and arms and Bress cursing, the other 
weapon-man winked at Cormac. Nor did he or his companion draw steel. Indeed, in 
the staggering flailing entanglement with Bress, that mans shield miraculously 
slid off his arm. 
Cormac let his sword be. Hed slain but one son of Eirrin, and he by accident; 
hed redden his blade no more in this his own land. In a long stride he stepped 
forward and all in a rush clamped Bresss right wrist in his hand and drove his 
other fist into Bresss face, just at the left eye. Bress staggered; his fingers 
came open and his falling sword nearly impaled his own foot. With care, Cormac 
struck him again, in the mouth. His knuckles came away pained and as bloody as 
the mouth of Bress, who sagged and fell unconscious. 
Blood of the gods, but that felt good! 
Cormac spun back into the room, fist dripping, hoping he judged the two men 
aright. He upended the heavy oaken table; gestured. Two grinning weapon-men 
hurriedly lay down on the floor. Cormac paused to bid them draw their swords. 
They did, and he laid the upended table on them. 
In no more than minutes, one of them gasped, the ship of Calba sails from Atha 
Cliath Harbour. 
Cormac mac Art took up the dropped shield and Bresss sword, and fled. 
From the deck of a wallowing merchant ship, bound north to Alba, a tall youth 
gazed on the land that slid by to port. A tattered, patched cloak covered him to 
the eyebrows and he held it from within against the wind that drove the 
merchanter past Eirrin and onto Magh Rian. Fog clung to the shoreline, and then 
they were past it and Eirrin fell mistily behind. He turned in order to keep his 
gaze fixed on that misty emerald land. Already it was becoming but a whitish 
outline. 
Full of sorrow and bitterness, the youth stared back at his beloved land. Under 
his peasantish attire he wore a kings golden torc. 
My voyage of exile. First from Connacht I fled, from home and hearth and those I 
knew. And now from Leinster... from all Eirrin. Long have I heard that the worst 
punishment for a Gael is exile from the land of the Gaels. We have roots, 
Sualtim said, like trees, and its far down in the earth of Eirrin they are 
locked. Soon will I know. Now it is horror and pain; will it grow worse? Bereft 
of home and friends and woman, never to hold her in these arms again, gods, 
never even to see her! Will it grow worse? Can it? Will I come to wish I had 
stayed and died, at least to lie within the soil that holds my roots? 
The tall cloakbound youth swallowed, hard; swallowed again. The sword he had 
carried aboard was with the ships sailing master. Hed gain it back soon enow, 
were there trouble on this northward voyage, along with the fine mailcoat that 
had made the mans eyes go wide. Valuable accoutrements those, to be handed him 
by a man in a ragged cloak bearing patches, but he had said nothing, with a 
princesss garnet-set silver bracelet in his hand. 
Now from within his cloak his last-minute passenger drew, surreptitiously, 
another sword. The sword that had been his fathers. He clutched it, gazed upon 
it, felt out the familiar design of the hilt, the bears head that topped it. He 
thought of how it had served his father, and then himself, of the Picts it had 
slain; in vengeance, in protection of Connacht, of Leinster, of Eirrin. 
He raised his eyes. He saw the fog close over that land. But a single shadowy 
mountain peak remained visible, weirdly standing like a ghostly sentinel atop 
the grey-white bank of fog that was like a cloud come down to earth, to hide 
Eirrin from his last gaze upon it. 
Then he swept his arm out in a backhand stroke, and let go the hilt. His 
fathers sword sailed out over the Plain of the Sea, that northward sea 
separating the land of the Scoti from the isle his feet would never again tread. 
And with scarcely a splash, the sword vanished into the water. 
Holy Mary, a voice said beside him, was that a sword ye hurled into the sea? 

Staring, and deep within the black cloud of his thoughts, the youth reacted with 
a jerk. He looked at the man whod come up so silently. Was the ships sailing 
master. He returned his sad-eyed gaze to the sea. 
Aye. 
The sailor of twoscore years or so studied him with eyes set deep in the crags 
of a face etched by sea and sun and brine-spray, and he seemed to study the 
youth, to seek a view of his soul. 
I accepted your sword and that fine mailcoat when ye came aboard, along with 
that fine bracelet that more than pays your passage. No thought was on me of 
checking ye for more weapons! 
I have none other now, only my dagger. 
Pisht: an eating utensil. But... by the Sacred Heart itself, man, why smuggle 
aboard a sword only to hurl it into the sea? 
The youth stared at the water flowing behind the ship, lapping. In my hand it 
took the life of a man, a poor foolish man of Eirrin who was only the dupe of 
another and should not have died. Was my fathers sword. He was a good man. Ill 
not carry it the more, lest I dishonour it again. 
Ah. The sailing master, too, gazed only at their wake. A young man of much 
honour, then. And a brain as welland prowess. Was it of Ulster your father 
was? 
Na. Of Connacht. 
Ah. Connacht. Aye. Connacht... they talk in Connacht of a young man, vanished. 
Presumed slain by the slayer of his father. A great slayer of Picts the lad was, 
and one destined for great deeds and fame, even as Cuchulain of old. 
Cuchulain? The Grey of Macha reared... Patience, my king, Tu said... So 
youre a man of deeds, Cimmerian,  Yezdigerd said, and on his head a crown... 
The youth jerked his head as though to clear it of fog. Cuchulain died young. 
Aye. So I am sure did this young man of whom I speak. A pity. A great pity. 
Theres another young hero of Eirrin came to an early end, too. One whose deeds 
made me shed tears, they did. I am of Leinster; Athaircthech, over near Osraige. 
Was this young hero brought great honour on Leinster, and her king. He outwitted 
the minions of Tara and took back all the Boru tribute! A great deed! A great 
hero. Made me shed tears, he did, of joy and pride. He restored Leinsters 
honour. 
Honour is not worth the pain it puts on a man, Captain. 
Methinks ye be wrong in your youth, weapon-man in your beggars cloak. 
Sometimes were dishonour on an entire people, an entire land, for a man to be 
slain by it. And him a hero, ye see. No, were truly he a man of honour, hed 
relieve Eirrin of that burden of dishonour; hed not let our Eirrin dishonour 
herself by doing death on him, but sail away under a cloak of disguise. That 
were honour. The sort of honour that prompts a Gael to break or hurl away a 
weapon that had slain a countryman. 
The two men stared in silence at the sea. The sailing master spoke. 
Were honour, too, for a man who felt gratitude for a deed done for his 
realmand by a foreigner at that!to assume that those two heroes I have 
mentioned are dead. 
They surely are, the youth beside him said, in a choked voice. 
After another silent time of gazing on the quiet sea, the merchant shipmaster 
said, Your sword and mailcoat are yours when we land, and I am proud to hold 
them for ye till then, Arts son of Connacht. 
Cormac stiffened. He continued staring seaward. His jaw was very tight. 
Arts son of Connacht is dead, Captain. 
Aye. So too is Othnas son of Ulster. I never saw either of them, but have 
great feeling for them both. So too is Calbas son of Athaircthech dead, off a 
fever in the bloom of manhood. My son. 
Sadness seems to rule the world, Captain, not kings and not justice. 
Aye, philosopher. An its a name yell be needing in Alba, its mac Calba ye be 
welcome to call yourself. 
I... I will... remember, Cormac choked out. 
And then he turned and moved the length of the ship, to turn those cold, cold 
eyes ahead, up toward fog-shrouded Alban Dal Riada. For there lay the future and 
behind him was Eirrin and the past, and the past was dead. 