Conall II: The Raven’s Flight—Eitilt an Fhiaigh Dhuibh: Conall, #2

1

409 B.C.—SPRING—NORTHERN ALBU

Cassius Fabius Scaeva, Patrician and citizen of Rome was an arrogant, dissolute bastard. It was thus an affront to his dignity and considerable ego that he was a slave. According to his master, he was a bloody poor one, too. Adding further insult to injury, the cause of his downfall was a barbarian—the High Queen of Ériu, Macha Mong Ruad.

The gaunt Roman aristocrat scratched at recent flea bites and drew a lice-infested cloak around his unwashed body. In those brief moments, before his master commenced prodding him through daily chores with beatings and arbitrary abuse, Cassius again railed against his lot in life. As the cold, pre-dawn sky blushed red, the Roman shivered against the wooden wall of the stall he shared with the livestock and measured his options.

A year had passed since Macha had arranged his kidnapping and transport to the farthermost part of Albu—a land he knew better as the Tin Islands. At the periphery of the known world, the wedge of moorland and marshes was bounded on two sides by a bitterly cold sea and to the west by towering snow-capped mountains swaddled in dense forests and wildwoods. There, wolves, bears, and lynxes prowled the land. Pairs of golden eagles soared high above, scanning for young sheep and red deer.

The local tribes lived in semi-permanent, scattered settlements consisting of small clusters of utilitarian dwellings built of stone, wood, and thatch. There was little need for forts. Chieftains often moved their people from place to place. The land was too meagre for farming, so a nomadic lifestyle was as inevitable as it was practical. As far as Cassius could see, the only assets worth protecting were the vermin-riddled herds of cattle and sheep.

A few circular stone towers—brochs—stood here and there. They had been built more for vanity than defence and were not favoured by Cassius’ captors. Their only actual forts were on a coastal promontory and an island at the edge of the tribe’s territory. Cassius snorted derisively through his twice-broken, aquiline nose. What idiot puts a fort on an island at the edge of the world? Who did the noble think was going to attack him? The fish?

Cassius counted five minor tribes in this northeastern region. Their borders were marked by huge standing stones carved with intricate, curling tribal designs. The people belonged to the Cinn Péinteáilte—the Painted Ones. Their bodies were covered in variations of the same sigils, painted or etched permanently onto their skin using metal and bone needles. The sigils were their armour, and so they fought fiercely and naked.

The Roman’s owners were known as the Na Daoine Smeurta—The Smeared. The tribe’s name originated from a tradition of coating their bodies with animal blood and fat. In times of war, the blood of human enemies was preferred. To the sensibilities of an aristocrat such as Cassius, the stench of rancid fat was especially rank in the warmer months. Yet it did not seem to bother the tribe members. In winter, however, the layer of fat gave the Na Daoine Smeurta some protection from the harsh cold. It could also prevent an enemy from getting a good grip in a closely fought battle.

Three tribes took their names and characteristics from wild animals or fowl: the Aos an Fhithich or Raven People to the south, the Aos nan Cat or Cat People to the north and the Aos nan Caorach or Sheep People to the west.

Beyond the Aos an Fhithich lay the territory of the Na Daoine Tùrsach. They were a fanatical religious community of priest-warriors whose tuireadh—death chants—struck fear even into the hearts of Cassius’ captors. From snippets of conversation, the Roman had gleaned that much larger tribes inhabited the great highland forests and lowlands further to the south.

Apart from occasional cattle raids, the Na Daoine Smeurta had little contact with neighbouring tribes. Cassius fervently wished that he, too, had no contact with them. The language of the tribe was gruff and heavily accented. It was strikingly different from the softer, melodic tones of the inhabitants of Ériu.

Cassius’ neck muscles knotted as his thoughts were drawn to Conall Mac Gabhann. The vivid, bitter memories of his nemesis produced a dull throb in his temples. The young barbarian had shocked the Roman with his revenge-driven tenacity and resourcefulness. Grimly, though only to himself, Cassius conceded that it was he who, having arranged the slaughter of Conall’s family, had spurred Conall along the path from lowly apprentice blacksmith to warrior king.

In an absurdity of fate, Cassius’ most likely escape from his current predicament lay in Conall’s relentless quest to find him. The Roman was also aware that this path would probably lead to an excruciatingly painful death—unless he had something with which to bargain. Some piece of information that would at the least cause Conall and his witch-queen Mórrígan to pause.

The Roman smiled in small comfort before his ribs bore the dull thud of his master’s calloused barefoot.

2

SUMMER—NORTHWESTERN ALBU

Aday’s walk inland from the northeastern coast of Ériu, Ráth na Lairig Éadain sat upon a towering black nipple of rock that rose from the gleann floor. Fishermen and traders from the small coastal villages in the shadow of the fortress were happy to provide information on Cinn Tìre and the inhabitants of the long, narrow peninsula across the sea. According to lore, the Aos an Eich —the Horse People were thought to be descendants of the Ulaid of northern Ériu.

Conall Mac Gabhann sat on the grassy verge of the cliff and gazed east toward Albu. As he listened to the squeals of laughter from his daughters, Danu and Brighid, playing tag behind him, Conall reflected that he was an apprentice blacksmith helping his father not so long ago. Now, he was a warrior king bent on avenging his parents' and sisters’ murders and was responsible for a growing army and their followers. The scars on his hands were from blades, not errant cinders or hammers.

He intended to avoid a costly skirmish when his army and people landed on Cinn Tire. From what he had heard, horses were the key. Íar Mac Dedad, his friend and the commander of his fledgeling cavalry, had a passion for life and horses that knew few limits. Hence, Conall had chosen him to lead the delegation.

As a gift for the Aos an Eich’s king, Íar had selected some fine horse stock from his herds. Accompanied by Deaglán Ó Neill, Cian Craobhach, and a small group from Conall’s caomhnóirí—his personal guard, Íar set off to negotiate passage through Eachdonn Breac’s lands. It was the first step in the quest to find Cassius.

Eachdonn Breac, king of the Aos an Eich, watched the group approach from his vantage point on the thick, stone-faced ramparts of Dùnsgéitheig. The wall, five paces thick at its base and clad with stone on its inner and outer surfaces, protected the king’s residence.

There was only one entrance. It looked eastward and was imposingly lined with cut stone and finished with solid oak gates. The gates were secured with a heavy beam mated with slots cut into the rock.

The outer wall rose to one and a half times the height of a warrior. Broad stone steps had been cut on each side of the entrance, allowing access to the inner parapet. Fifty of Eachdonn’s spearmen lined the rampart. A similar number of horsemen waited out of sight behind the fort.

Local fishermen had alerted Eachdonn to the galley anchored in the cove at Ceann an Locha on the narrow peninsula of Cinn Tire. Of itself, the presence of the ship was not unusual. Traders and merchants from the tribes in the far south and Greeks and Phoenicians were fairly frequent visitors. The hardy breed of horses his people raised was highly valued for work and war. Since the early days of the tribe, horses had provided a constant resource used for trade and barter.

Astride their horses, the three men at the front of the small group rode with the posture of seasoned warriors—relaxed but alert for trouble. Ornately decorated helmets glinted in the sun. Rust-coloured leather armour, inlaid with iron scales, protected their torsos.

Each carried a small, circular scíath painted red and embellished with a black raven. Three javelins in leather sheaths were strapped to each horse’s flank. Even from a distance, Eachdonn could make out that the riders and their guards carried a range of swords and axes.

The leaders were accompanied by a ten-man guard that kept pace with the riders and held to a disciplined formation as they tramped along the rutted trail. Their helmets were less ornate, but they, too, wore boiled leather armour over a short tunic of soft leather. Most wore brightly coloured pants that ended in boots or bróga—shoes. Each carried a tall shield spanning from chin to knee with the same emblem—a black raven on a red sky.

Eachdonn absentmindedly brushed his hand over long, auburn hair that hung like a horse’s mane over his broad shoulders. Tugging at random clumps of knots, he thought he might need a haircut. Their weapons and armour are certainly uncommon, he mused. A small patch of bristles on his recently scraped chin annoyed him. Inevitably, the king’s attention and deep, fern-green eyes were drawn to the horses.

With a note of admiration and envy, he sighed. Eachdonn loved his tribe’s ponies fiercely, but the ones approaching were sleek and powerful beasts. They were also at least a hand taller than his shaggy breed. Possibilities swept through his mind. Let’s hope they have honour as well as great taste in horses.

Due to the tides, it had been late afternoon when the group arrived at Maol Chinn Tìre—the headland of the peninsula. The landing on the shingle beach was uneventful, save for the numerous oaths and curses shouted as men splashed their way through bone-chilling waters. A second round, populated liberally with more swearing and threats of roasted horsemeat, broke out when Íar, Deaglán and Cian’s horses shook themselves dry. The men’s few remaining dry clothes were soon soaked.

Quit your complaining! said Íar. The tenor of his voice was disturbingly similar to that of his horse. We’ll camp here for the night and journey on at dawn. Build a good fire with the driftwood. We’ll eat, sleep, and get an early start.

To Deaglán, who had just removed his helmet and was tying his long, fire-red hair back from his face with a leather thong, Íar said, Take two men and do a quick survey before the light fades. Find a path off this beach. See if there are any threats we should be aware of. Deaglán dipped his head and moved off.

At first light, the band strapped on armour and weapons. The season had turned from winter to spring, yet the weather remained bitterly cold. Hence, the men made good use of their brightly coloured, heavy woollen brats, leg wraps, and multiple layers of tunics and socks.

Cliffs worn smooth by the blasts of stormy seas and by gathered winds that flayed the land with sand and rock rose from the shoreline. Deaglán led the party to a well-trodden pathway, allowing passage for man and horses.

Immediately adjacent to the coastline, the land was primarily flat and tended by many small homesteads. Beyond the fertile coastal plain, the landscape became hilly moorland, sparsely populated with oak, ash, aspen, birch, rowan, holly, willow, and alder. The rugged countryside was still covered in thickly packed snow, broken only by bright orange and yellow splashes from prolific gorse bushes. Indigo-tinted crags and snow-capped peaks swaddled in silver-grey clouds towered in the distance.

Their journey was well-observed but did not appear to cause undue alarm. The only attack they faced came from children who, hiding behind dry stone walls, launched volleys of snowballs. Squeals of delight followed when a few of those walking returned fire—although with restrained strength. A large, fortified roundhouse appeared as the small band rounded a bend of the meandering coastline.

The dwelling made excellent use of the crag upon which it sat. To the front, there was a thick, stone-faced rampart and ditch; behind, a sheer cliff face plunged to the waters below. As Íar’s group approached, men armed with spears and shields positioned themselves in front of the building. The leader pointed ahead with his spear and, in a rolling growl of a brogue, said, "Continue along this path. Ye’r expected. If ye pick up your pace, ye’ll make Dùnsgéitheig before dark."

As Dùnsgéitheig came into view, Deaglán was incredulous. "By the Hag, Íar. Another fort! We’ve travelled less than a day from the cove, and this is the second we’ve seen. The Cinn Péinteáilte—Painted Ones—must like building forts. Or they do a lot of fighting."

The much older, shaven-headed Cian laughed at his red-haired nephew. Aye, although that last one was more of a fortified home. Trees appear scarce, so it’s understandable why they use stone and dirt. Nodding towards Dùnsgéitheig, he added, "But that is much better built. More like an ráth—fort."

Deaglán sighed. Cúscraid is going to have to do some thinking if we need to crack any of these open.

As they drew alongside him, Íar Mac Dedad roared with laughter at the craic shared between the two men. His laugh was infectious, and soon, the guard had joined in, with the raucous sound carrying to the bemused warriors on the walls of Dùnsgéitheig.

It seems our visitors are in good spirits, said Eachdonn as he watched the group’s leader walk his mount slowly forward.

When within hailing distance of the fort, Íar stopped and removed his helmet. As he shook long, braided hair the colour of deep amber with streaks of sandstone, he looked up at the men on the wall. Their spear tips were visible, glinting in the afternoon sun.

In a booming voice, he called out, "I am Íar Mac Dedad, son of Rí Deda Mac Sin of Curraghatoor in the land of Ériu and a loyal servant of Rí Conall Mac Gabhann. He held up the reins of two magnificent horses, We come as friends and bring greetings and gifts." Following Íar’s lead, Deaglán and Cian removed their helmets and cantered forward.

He certainly has a voice to match his girth, remarked Eachdonn to the warrior closest to him. The man nodded his head in agreement. The king leaned forward, placing his hands firmly on the smooth, grey stone of the ramparts. Enter as friends and eat with us. Under his breath, he added, Let us hope that you also leave as friends.

A blazing wood and peat fire provided light and warmth at the centre of the roundhouse. As the evening passed, the light from the flames and rushlights grew obscured through a dense haze of aromatic smoke. The dim light did nothing to disguise the increasingly flushed cheeks caused by the heat and abundantly flowing beer. Indeed, it transpired that Íar and Eachdonn shared a love of horses and beer. It was not long before they were intent on seeing who could drink the most.

In the early morning hours, the sound of revelling and belching was gradually replaced by grunting, snoring, and farting as sleep gradually overcame the revellers. Finally admitting defeat, Eachdonn stood, nodded to Íar, and staggered to a nearby bed. Pausing briefly to fart, Íar slowly broke off a final slab of bread, wiped the fat from a haunch of boar and sank his teeth into the roasted, pink flesh. He washed the food down with more beer before slumping across the wooden table.

A short time later, as morning arrived, Deaglán awoke to a fragile stomach and pounding headache. With a moan of Shite, he tossed several furs aside and stumbled outside. Muttered curses near the doorway and sounds of retching followed. In contrast, Eachdonn, Íar and Cian, looking none the worse for wear, were already deep in conversation. They chuckled at the young man’s distress.

Young ones! remarked the king. They just can’t keep up.

You can tell he was well brought up. He had the good manners to puke outside, said Cian. The others laughed.

Eachdonn sliced a wedge of cheese with his dagger and refilled his jug with milk. I’ll be frank, Íar. With Conall’s army’s size and the people accompanying it, you’re already bigger than some of the tribes in the far north. The larger tribes to the east and south will either see you as a threat or want to hire your warriors as mercenaries. You may not even get a chance to approach the ones to the northeast. They don’t speak the same language as us and are always eager to fight.

And what of you, My Lord? asked Íar. Do you see us as a threat?

Íar and Cian waited as Eachdonn considered his answer. The king shook his head. You and I share a love of horses, he said. Your king’s gift was well chosen—much better than trying to bribe me with gold.

Glancing at Cian and amused at Deaglán’s wobbly gait, he said, "And I have a kinship with my brothers from the Ulaid. Conall Mac Gabhann is young but discerning. Tell him from Eachdonn Breac, king of Aos an Eich, that he and his people are welcome to travel through our lands.

I look forward to greeting him and his queen at Dùn Athad."

A few weeks later, Íar returned to Ráth na Lairig Éadain bearing gifts for Conall and his queen, Mórrígan. Of more importance, he brought a hand of friendship and permission to land at Ceann an Locha on the eastern shore of the narrow peninsula.

At Eachdonn’s suggestion, they would use the fort at Dùnsgéitheig as a base of operations. With the main army settled, Conall and his Chomhairle—his council of advisers, would travel north to Eachdonn’s primary residence, the fortress of Dùn Athad.

3

DÙNSGÉITHEIG & DÙN ATHAD

Pytheas stood on the deck of the galley and took a deep breath. His nostrils filled with the sweet scent of cedar wood. The calming slap of wavelets against the hull lifted his spirits even higher. The small, swarthy, somewhat overweight Greek merchant chuckled as he saw his cargo embark.

His sharp eyes took in the nervous glances of his passengers, many of whom had never been on a small boat, let alone a galley. He noted that many sported beautiful gold and silver torcs, bracelets and clasps, intricately designed belts and scabbards and finely embroidered and fringed brats.

A narrow strip of cold water separated Ulaid lands from the headland of Cinn Tire. On a rare, cloud-free day, Maol Chinn Tìre was visible from the limestone cliffs that guarded the northeastern shores of Ériu.

The journey would be short, although the strong currents and frequent sea mists that plagued Maol Chinn Tìre were not to be underestimated. A light breeze under the powder-blue sky fluffed Pytheas’ black hair. The seas are calm for me but maybe a little less pleasant for Conall’s people.

The merchant-sailor was well-known to the Ulaid of northern Ériu for his trade in goods. This contract, however, was unusual. His instructions from Ériu’s flame-haired and quick-tempered Ard Rígan—High Queen, Macha Mong Ruad, were clear-cut. Get the bastards off my territory and do it quickly.

He could understand why. Macha had been resoundingly defeated and humbled before her army and nobles by Conall at the battle of Ráth na Lairig Éadain. Although handed over gracelessly, the gold paid for the job would compensate for the monotony of fulfilling the contract.

Pytheas quickly recruited enough ships to do the job. Galley captains happily took the gold as an extra piece of business. Most traded with Southern Albu’s tin mines. Thus, after their final group of passengers disembarked, they would sail south to pick up a load of ore. From there, they would journey to the warmer climates of the Great Sea and their home ports.

The Greek was impressed by Conall’s tribe. No longer were they a loose gathering of itinerants. They were united, a purposeful people protected by an army whose battles against greater odds were already being lauded—even as far as Rome.

Their rí, Conall Mac Gabhann, a hard-muscled, intense young man of barely twenty-four summers, bore battle scars on exposed hands, arms and thighs and in the torment reflected in his grey-blue eyes.

It was a testament to his ability that Conall had brought together and commanded the respect of a diverse group of men and women as advisers. The rogues, warriors and a demi-goddess projected an aura of strength, cunning and dread. They were known to Conall’s people as the Chomhairle—the Council.

There was also Conall’s fiercely loyal caomhnóirí, one hundred elite warriors who seldom strayed far from their leader. They had fought side-by-side with the king in the worst circumstances and were devoted to ensuring his safety.

In planning the journey, Pytheas spent many long evenings with Conall and his haunted yet beautiful, emerald-eyed queen, Mórrígan. Pytheas felt his brain shrink as Conall drew knowledge from him with probing questions about the lands of Cinn Tìre and the Cinn Péinteáilte. Also, the southern territories of Albu and the tribes that surrounded Rome and the Great Sea. Their conversations were often brought to a close only by the frequent headaches that plagued the intense young leader.

As for Mórrígan, her presence made Pytheas uneasy. The intricate paintings and designs permanently etched into her pale skin projected a constant, heady aura of seduction and darkness. He was more than happy that their conversations together were limited.

While satisfied with Íar’s report concerning Eachdonn, Conall was not about to take risks with the well-being of his people. The plan was to land the army at Ceann an Locha and secure the area. Then, the people would disembark and journey to the agreed campsite at Dùnsgéitheig. Conall was more than grateful for the wise heads of his quartermaster, Cian, and the civic leader, Seanán, for managing the logistics of the exodus.

As they were led up the boarding ramp, the snorting of uneasy horses broke Pytheas’ contemplations, and he glanced up. Smiling broadly and bowing with a grand flourish, he regarded Conall, Mórrígan, their daughters, Danu and Brighid and their new son, Tuathal.

"Welcome to my kingdom. Please come aboard."

Conall smiled wanly at the Greek. Pytheas’ assurances that, with a calm sea, the voyage would take at most from dawn to mid-day did little to quell Conall’s rising anxiety. He was not looking forward to the journey but did his best to put on a brave face. Unlike his commanders, whose strategy for coping with the short voyage was to get blind drunk, Conall decided that as king, he should set a better example.

He uttered a slightly annoyed and envious sigh as slurred cheers and shouts of Move along up there! came from Fearghal, his battle commander. They were echoed by Cúscraid, his master of defence, and Brion, the brother of Mórrígan. With a curt nod to the ship’s captain, Conall and his family took their designated places at the prow.

The flat-bottomed bireme lurched as forty pairs of oars dropped into the waters, propelling the ship from the crystal-clear shallows into the deeper, green-blue waters. A flock of ravens took flight on the land and accompanied the galley.

Conall gripped the wooden rail, grimly assuring himself he was just maintaining his balance. Since the warriors were wearing armour, and few could swim, they would have little chance of surviving should any ship sink during the crossing.

Even with a fleet of thirty galleys, it took an entire cycle of the moon to transport the army, its followers, and animals across the narrow neck of water. At each sunrise and until the sunset, Conall stood on the cliffs at Ceann an Locha, watching each galley disgorge its cargo.

The army took precedence, but before long, they too appeared along the cliff top, waiting anxiously for their loved ones to arrive and disembark. By all accounts, the flight was successful, with only two ships lost. Íar, however, was particularly troubled as one contained horses.

The Chomhairle and half of the caomhnóirí took up residence in the cluster of roundhouses within the walls of Dùnsgéitheig. A substantial camp was erected against the fort’s ramparts for the people and the rest of the army.

In the weeks following the landing at Ceann an Locha, faces wore a brave façade. Still, eyes betrayed wistful memories of Ériu—a land that would always be home. The geis laid upon their king by the Aes Sídhe meant it was a land they were unlikely to return to. Matching the melancholy was an unwavering determination to thrive.

Tears flowed around the campfires in the evenings as ballads and tales of Ériu were sung, accompanied by wailing pipes, harps, and the insistent beat of bodhráin. Inevitably, as time passed, fonder and more pleasant reminiscences supplanted darker memories.

Glistening wet in the light rainfall, the stone fortress of Dùn Athad perched atop a teardrop-shaped, moss-covered escarpment. The view from the fort was breathtaking, with clear sightlines far into the distance.

Few could attack Dùn Athad and remain unseen or avoid being sucked into the marshland of A’ Mhòinteach Mhór that surrounded the crag. A wide river curved and coursed westward through the valley toward the sea.

A shimmering rainbow arced across the silver sky as Cúscraid and Conall climbed towards the fortress. The entrance was through a natural gully on the southeastern side, followed by a climb up a terraced hillside. Cúscraid pointed to the ongoing construction of two perimeter defensive lines using stone, wood ramparts, and deep, wide ditches.

Eachdonn must have pissed someone off to prepare fortifications such as these.

Conall, panting with the steep climb, silently regretted volunteering to take his daughter Danu, now five summers old, on his shoulders. Catching his breath, he nodded. Unfriendly neighbours and active warbands. We’ll make the best of the king’s hospitality but remain vigilant. A sharp slap on his head reminded him of his daughter’s competitive nature.

Da! Brighid is catching up. I want to be first to the ráth.

As Conall rolled his eyes at a grinning Cúscraid, he said, It may be a while before we meet or make other friends or allies.

Conall glanced around at a rare sight. The tall, granite-sculpted Fearghal Ruad, his battle commander and mentor, for once without his favoured longsword, was being whipped and urged on by Conall’s other daughter, Brighid. Fearghal’s mock cries of pain and anguish were greeted by giggles from Danu’s dark-haired twin. His jaw set, Conall lengthened his stride.

Like father, like daughter, murmured Cúscraid, shaking his head. He soon found himself abreast of Brion and Áine, who had adopted a much more leisurely pace with their son, Cassán. The boy’s mass of bronze-red curls fought against the cap his mother insisted that he wear.

As they passed through the entrance of Dùn Athad, Cúscraid admired the solid walls that stretched back for ten paces before giving way to the open yard and dwellings. He was eager to learn about their construction. Mongfhionn, the statuesque Sídhe, paused briefly to touch and draw strength from the solid oak gates.

Eachdonn Breac, accompanied by his queen, Ceana, stood before a towering broch at the centre of the fort. His trusted chieftains flanked them. Ceana was a tall woman with high cheekbones brushed pink by the chill wind. Porcelain skin and waist-long tresses of fair hair contrasted with the king’s ruddy, wind-burned complexion and auburn mane. Ceana’s expression was friendly but watchful and alert.

Íar strode forward and bowed gracefully for a man of his bulk, saying, Perhaps I should make the introductions? Eachdonn smiled his assent. My Lord, it pleases me to present my king, Conall Mac Gabhann and his queen Mórrígan Ni Cathasaigh. Conall stretched forth his hand in friendship. His steady gaze held Eachdonn’s as he received a firm grip in response.

A startled gasp escaped from Ceana as Mórrígan slipped her hood back. A hastened apology followed it. Please excuse my rudeness. Your paintings are intricate and beautiful but are often associated with the Cinn Péinteáilte to the east and north. We have not found our neighbours to be overly friendly.

Overly friendly! snorted Eachdonn, "There’s an understatement. At the slightest sign of weakness, that bastard Drostan Ruadh of Aos na Coille—the Forest People, would slaughter us and add this territory to his. The king slapped the rock of the broch, Only solid rock, thick walls and sharp spears preserve the peace in these lands."

A flicker of Ceana’s hazel eyes interrupted the king’s diatribe. But enough of this talk, let’s eat, drink, sing ballads and tell outrageous tales. We can speak of more serious matters over the next few days.

Glancing over Conall’s shoulder, Eachdonn caught sight of the smaller figure of Pytheas. Glad you could take up my invitation. The merchant smiled and bowed. Eachdonn took note of the tall, dark-skinned Spartan, Nikandros and said, Traders such as our friend, Pytheas, are not unknown to us. This dark warrior intrigues me. He then bowed to the Sídhe, who stood beside Fearghal. As do others in yer party.

The skin around Eachdonn’s glinting green eyes crinkled in amusement as he addressed Nikandros. The winters in Ériu are nothing compared to here. In this land, ye’ll freeze yer balls off in that short tunic. Never worry, I’ve excellent wolf pelts ye can choose from.

Nikandros bowed deeply and laughed politely at Eachdonn’s words. Quietly to Fearghal, he said, Should I learn some new swear words for this land?

"Nah, Eachdonn and his people will understand ‘póg mo thoin’—kiss my arse—and the others you have acquired. From what I’ve heard, I doubt we’ll get close enough to the Cinn Péinteáilte for language to matter! Give me back my sword, and let’s fill our bellies with the king’s hospitality. After that climb, I’m starving and thirsty. Íar tells me they brew great beers here."

The following sunrise, dry mouths and sore heads were managed with a simpler repast of oatmeal, bread, hard cheese, honeyed milk, and cool spring water. Plain talking was the order of the day. Eachdonn opened up the conversation as he broke the crust of a loaf of freshly baked bread, savouring its aroma before taking a bite.

Between the wagon trails and trading ships, we’re not isolated and are well informed of news from around this island and Ériu. I know who ye seek. My information is that the Roman is a slave with the Smeared. The last news that reached us was before the winter. If yer quarry is still alive, it speaks well of his survival instinct.

Conall made to speak, but the king held a friendly hand up, Let me continue a wee bit longer. Ceana rolled her eyes. Eachdonn loved to talk. "The Smeared inhabit the furthest reaches of this land, across vast valleys, dense wildwoods and forests, tall mountains permanently covered in ice and snow, and bottomless lochs. The weather is unpredictable. Only the Aos nan Cat, who take