by Jules Watson
The first thing she saw was a small white hand clutching at Fraech’s leg, and a glimpse of tumbled red hair. Finn.
Maeve lifted her head a moment before Finn’s cry brought her to her feet. Upright, Maeve spun about to follow Finn’s gaze, looking out over the crowd of men.
Ferdia.
The Ulaid hero wove a careful path through the milling warriors, who took one glance at his face and peeled back. Each step of Ferdia’s was deliberate, as if he focused hard on it. He had dug up clean tunic and trews, and his horn armor encased him from breast to groin, the cream and brown plates polished to a shine. He wore Fergus’s helmet, the brow-guard casting his face into shadow.
The only glimpse of the man Maeve knew were his brown hands—one about his sword-hilt, one his shield grip—and his dark curls stirring in the wind. The Red Branch band was prominent about his arm, a braid of bronze that met in two spear-points.
Behind him a Laigin man drove Ailill’s chariot, which bristled with Galeóin spears and the banners of Mumu and Connacht.
Maeve parted her cracked lips. What could anyone have said to move him now?
At that moment Finn took a few steps from Fraech’s horse, her fingers uncurling toward Ferdia as he passed. He did not acknowledge her, plunging down the slope.
Finn’s pinched face was drained of color as horror dawned in her eyes.
The sky spun above Cúchulainn where he lay on the damp grass. Stream-water dripped down his cheeks, cooling in the breeze. Across the water, the Connacht war-band sounded like a swarm of bees.
He knew he must get up.
But he had been fighting for nearly two days, and was afraid if the Source possessed him for too long it might consume him altogether. He did not know what would happen if he let the silver flame roar through when neither Ferdia nor Emer were there to bring him back. He supposed his spirit would keep expanding, rushing outward to join the Source all around him. That would mean his death, though, and he would not be here to defend the Ulaid from Maeve’s army.
No earthly vessel could hold the blaze of Source continuously, which is why he quenched it after every fight. As a great wave peaks in majesty and then crashes, so he must let the Source lift him, surge through him, and then be cast adrift as it sank away.
In the aftermath, the weariness bore him down.
Cúchulainn put an arm across his eyes, pretending the sun glinted on dew and not spear-tips and swords. His array of cuts and bruises stung to varying degrees depending on their depth. There were slices from swords and grazes from lucky spear-throws. A few sling-stones had cracked his jaw and shin. One giant had caught him across the shoulder with an oak club. Someone had even heated his sword before charging. The weal of that throbbed on the Hound’s forearm. His ribs ached where someone had landed a kick during one of the war-feats.
The swarming of the Connacht bees grew louder.
Footsteps crunched on the other stream-bank. There was the creak of wheels and whinnies of horses. His throbbing pains pinned him down. He must get up. A moment, his body whispered. One moment to sink into the earth, to rest.
No. His mind was unyielding. That moment of nothing must be enough. For once there was no one to keep watch over him.
Taking a breath, Cúchulainn sat up, blinded by the flash of the spears, shields, and bronze rings that hung on the stakes all around. Though the tendons behind his knees screamed, he did not stumble, turning his back on his enemy. He would have to look into his face soon enough.
Cúchulainn reached for weapons without looking: an array of daggers shoved through the loops on his belt, like wolf teeth; short spears tossed into his back-carrier; a helmet pressed onto his itching scalp. Patting his scabbard, he tugged on his mail-shirt, easing the jerkin beneath. The glint of his Red Branch armband caught his eye, and Cúchulainn touched it.
Red Branch. Red Branch.
He had yelled that war-cry many times, but that had been with Ferdia at his side, and Naisi, Illan, and Fiacra. Then they had howled it out. Now, he did not have the heart to even whisper it.
Cúchulainn spun and strode across the grass. Come, he beckoned the Source. He could be weary no longer. Fill me. Come. He closed his eyes, summoning a silver flood. By the time he reached the stream-bank, his shoulders had expanded once more and his body hummed, taking the pain away.
His challenger had not charged over the river or thrown anything. He stood with a long shield raised up to his eyes, obscuring his face. A chariot sat behind him: so he would indulge in the war-feats.
An ache of loneliness rose from nowhere, surprising the Hound. He craved someone worthy, someone to join with him in that blaze of Source for an ecstatic moment before one of them died.
Cúchulainn stared and squinted, mind adrift on the Source. That helmet … did it bear wings along the side? A man too small for Fergus … someone had taken Fergus’s helm.
The warrior planted his legs wide, and Cúchulainn swore he saw the gleam of horn. He blinked, going blank. His armor … someone had donned Ferdia’s armor.
“Give me your name.” Cúchulainn knew his voice was not as strong as it should be.
The challenger did not answer. Instead, he nudged up his helmet and stepped forward, lowering the shield. The sunlight at last fell upon his exposed face.
The Source drained from Cúchulainn in a rush, and he staggered at the force of an invisible blow.
CHAPTER 35
Ferdia dropped his shield and strode up to the stream, the bank churned into mud, the torn grass slick with blood.
There, separated by the shallow rill, he and Cúchulainn studied each other as Skatha had drilled into them long ago in Alba. Cúchulainn heard her hoarse voice. See if the muscles of your enemies tremble from strain, if they are uneven, revealing old injuries and weaknesses. Look for them favoring certain limbs. Mark slumped shoulders, slackness, weariness, or defeat.
Ah, Ferdia.
Cúchulainn marked his friend’s sickly pallor. Ferdia had no injuries or weak muscles, but his fire and grace were dimmed, his shoulders drooping. It was when he met Ferdia’s eyes, however, that Cúchulainn discovered the depths of that emptiness, for there was no end to it. “You do not look good,” he blurted. If he did not know better, he would say Ferdia was rotted by ale.
Ferdia’s smile was bleak. He tugged a flask from his belt and poured it out. “Water,” he croaked. “Now, anyway.”
Cúchulainn’s throat ached. “You were the last man I expected to see at Connacht’s heel.” It came out wrathful.
Ferdia flinched. “Fergus knew Maeve would not kill us, that she sought revenge on Conor.” He swayed on the spot. “They want to unseat the king, not harm the Ulaid.”
“Is that what you tell yourself at night?”
Ferdia’s eyes flashed and he drew himself up. “My honor makes me stand with those who oppose Conor.” He swallowed, staring Cúchulainn down. “And I would not lose the only brothers I have left.”
First blows had been exchanged.
Cúchulainn took in Ferdia’s hollowed face and haunted eyes, and something rushed up and he uncurled his hand. “My brother, you do not belong with the she-wolf of Connacht, or whoever else she has bought. You belong on this side with me and the Ulaid. Lay down your weapons and cross the water.”
Ferdia gasped and turned his jaw, gripping the hilt of a dagger in his belt. “I will not defend that murdering traitor again. The people of the Ulaid will not be harmed—”
“You cannot believe that! Maeve will want to rule us all!”
Something darker crossed Ferdia’s face. “I once served a king I thought just—a man I bled for—and he took everything I loved. No ruler could be worse than that.”
Cúchulainn’s frustration boiled over. “You were once a man of sense.”
“I was bound by sense.” Ferdia plucked his dagger from its scabbard as he flung out his hand. “Always quiet, watching, waiting. Always second to you. So why can’t I be the unyielding one now, the pure one?”
“You were not second,” Cúchulainn said quietly. “You watched, and guarded, only to lessen my burden. We lead the Red Branch together, for the Ulaid. I could not do it without you: we are as strong as each other.”
“Strong?” Ferdia stalked along the river, his face a taut mask. He whipped out his sword, so he bore a blade in each hand. Cúchulainn knew then he was not in his right mind. “If I was strong, Hound of Cullen, I would have walked away from everyone with head high—Maeve, Cormac, Fergus …” He faltered. “I would not have rotted myself with drink and lain with women in a stupor—”
“Ferdia …”
“I know what they all think!” Ferdia’s eyes were wild, the borrowed helmet trapping greasy tendrils of dark hair around his face. “It is what everyone has always thought—I can only ever be your shadow.”
“No! You are the brother of my soul. You fight by my side. We are twins in all but blood.”
Ferdia bared his teeth. “But I am the only failure, for here I am ruined and useless, and there you are, defending a kingdom.”
Cúchulainn’s breast burned. “I could do with your help.”
“And be known as an oath-breaker forever?”
“For the sake of all the gods!” Cúchulainn stormed, pacing a furrow in the soft mud. He saw the ripple of his outburst pass over the men up the slope. “Put down your weapons, and join me.”
“It will be said I come to your heel, and have no mind of my own. That I am a coward.”
“Hang what anyone thinks, Ferdia!”
Ferdia’s toes were almost in the rushing water, for he had been unconsciously edging ever closer to Cúchulainn. All of a sudden, though, he spread his arms in an embrace, both hands ending in blades. “If we are equal, Cú, then lay your weapons down and come to me. If you love me, as you say.”
Cúchulainn’s muscles tensed from feet to head. “If I do that, these warriors will march past me and lay waste to the Ulaid.” He withdrew his own sword and slashed at the ferns as he swung past. His gaze darted over the grassed slope above the lake and he thought he glimpsed a banner of red hair. His hackles rose and he growled and swung back. “Many eyes are trained upon me. If I show any uncertainty, the warriors will rush me and the way will be open for Connacht to destroy our people.”
Ferdia stabbed his sword into the mud, the hilt wavering. “Prove that you will humble yourself, put your love for me first for once. I asked you to do it the day we left Conor, but you would not be foresworn, not the great Champion of the Ulaid. So you can cling to your honor but I am not allowed mine?”
Cúchulainn’s heart twisted. “Do not let the lies of others part us.”
“Surrender, then.”
Cúchulainn came to a halt, his breath gusting. “We can surrender to each other.”
“So we will stand aside from this fight, and you will no longer defend this pass or that traitor who calls himself King?”
Cúchulainn hesitated.
“Ha!” Ferdia’s grin was savage. He kicked someone’s discarded helmet into the bracken. “After all you’ve won, Cú, you cannot have the last thing sung of you that you failed to beat Connacht, that you gave up and let enemy warriors trample Ulaid soil.”
“Why do you do this?”
“Because this is what you ask of me—that my name be scorned as the weak one, the oath-breaker, the traitor.” Ferdia’s mouth crumpled, his cheeks haggard. “That I be the dark so you can be light!”
It was a gush of bile, and Cúchulainn’s hand instinctively shielded his heart.
Ferdia realized what he’d said and staggered back. Then he laughed. “See? I am not noble like you. But I will remain strong until my last breath, at least.” He brought his heels together, sword over his heart. “I will fight you, brother of my soul.”
“No!” Cúchulainn cried, and threw his blade with such rage it carved a gulley in the turf. “I will not.”
“Then I will cross this river and jab this blade at your guts until you do.” Ferdia tilted his helmet with his sword-hilt. “So … the war-feats. Chariots first, I thought.”
Cúchulainn’s relief poured over him. If they started with distance battle-feats, he might be able to disarm or disable Ferdia. He bowed a heavy head. “As you will it.”
His friend saluted and made his way back to the chariot. Cúchulainn watched that long, lean lope, the familiar tense line of Ferdia’s shoulders. Always guarded.
“Go with love,” Cúchulainn whispered, but only the stream heard it.
The Connacht war-band watched Cúchulainn and Ferdia pull off their boots to go barefoot, then approach their chariots. The warriors realized the spectacle that would ensue and rushed closer, fighting for better vantage points.
At a signal from Ferdia, the Connacht battle drums began to beat, soon joined by the blare of bronze trumpets. The noise whipped up the audience and they broke into cheers. Leaping into Ailill’s chariot, Ferdia urged his horses along the grassy slope, walking them in time with the sway of hundreds of fists, and bare knuckles striking hide.
Cúchulainn watched Ferdia lean his head back, breathing deeply as he braced himself with the reins. The Hound had no drummers and pipers. Instead, he began to strike his sword-hilt on one of the shields tied to the posts. Each blow resonated through his body, drawing the Source up until it surged in time with the swing of his arm.
Cúchulainn heard the jingle of Ferdia’s horse-bits and his eyes flew open. Ferdia’s stallions had broken into a trot, shaking their manes. The music took on a wilder edge.
Cúchulainn ran for his own horses, and a moment later he was driving his chariot around. Mirroring each other, he and Ferdia raced the teams, scything matching ruts in the turf on either side of the stream.
The rawhide platform beneath Cúchulainn’s feet was suspended on a net of ropes from its arched sides, keeping him level. The pole of polished wood caught the sun, the rein-rings gleaming with coral, enamel, and bronze. The crowd of men screeched as one.
Cúchulainn’s blood coursed with them, and Ferdia also loosed a great shout of release. For a moment they could forget they fought at all.
The chariot-feats were a song, with verses they both knew. First the turns grew tighter, wheels spraying up mud. Then they set the horses toward the slopes, at the last moment skewing the chariots around on one wheel-rim.
Cúchulainn crouched low, feet wedged against the wicker arches, coaxing his horses with a delicate touch despite the juddering of the chariot. The thrill of the near-miss made him laugh. He glanced at Ferdia, seeing the same glee on his friend’s face.
They picked up speed toward the lake, flinging the chariots into another loop. Ferdia reached for the spears in their carriers. Now it came. Cúchulainn also plucked a spear, and as the chariots streamed back over flatter ground, they both dropped their reins and ran a herringbone with bare feet, up the poles between the racing horses.
The watching warriors screamed with delight.
The chariots yawed from side to side, bumping over stones. The horses reached out their necks, manes streaming. The drums and horns reached a climax along with the cheering of the crazed spectators. Cúchulainn and Ferdia leaped onto the yokes of the galloping horses, feet splayed, and with twin shouts went to fling their spears.
Aflame with Source, Cúchulainn sensed the unusual angle of Ferdia’s throw before his friend even loosed the lance. Ferdia had tilted it to fly high—it was not aimed at his body.
Cúchulainn adjusted his own lance to the same arc, releasing it. As they dashed back along the pole, leaping into the driver’s seat, the spears smacked into each other over the stream and fell in the water. Once more they hauled the horses about just before being dashed to pieces against the hill.
The audience all came to their feet, roaring and waving their arms.
When they slowed the panting horses, Ferdia’s eyes were blazing once more, his chest heaving. He saluted to Cúchulainn with a shorter lance, and Cúchulainn grinned.
The chariot-f
eats went on until they were both pouring with sweat, the horses foam-flecked. Spears littered the riverbanks. Some throws would have seemed near-misses to the warriors, soaring close to Cúchulainn’s head or Ferdia’s shoulder.
Cúchulainn, however, knew that neither he nor Ferdia were aiming for each other’s flesh. It buys us time, was his fervent thought. Time for Ferdia to collapse, for Maeve to surrender, for the Red Branch to shake off their illness and join him.
The sun sank lower. Cúchulainn’s clothes were dark with sweat and his hair dripped.
At last they ran out of chariot-feats. He and Ferdia dismounted from the battered carts, the sides scratched, the ropes frayed. The audience grew hushed.
The two approached the opposite banks of the stream and squatted where it pooled in a hollow. They drank, spat out sweat, and drank again. The fighting must have drawn the Source into Ferdia, washing away some of the ale-rot. For Ferdia never took his eyes from Cúchulainn, and the silver blaze there pierced the Hound’s heart.
Ferdia stood with a slight wince. “The thunder-feat,” he croaked. “On horseback.”
Cúchulainn nodded. Horse-feats. Good.
Ferdia got a fresh mount from Maeve’s camp. Cúchulainn only had the Gray of Macha or the Black of Sainglu. He unharnessed them, pulling off the yoke-pads of fleece and rubbing down their sweaty backs. He gave them a long drink, smoothing the gray’s neck. “A little rest, brother, is all I can give.” He rode the gray into battle the night Naisi and his brothers died. He was the steadiest with Cúchulainn on his back.
The gray raised his dripping muzzle and leaned his forehead on Cúchulainn’s chest.
Ferdia shouted at Maeve’s warriors, and men scrambled to stake rows of spears and tie shields to them, making targets like those of Cúchulainn’s. The Hound spent his time moving his own stakes on his side of the stream so they formed not an avenue, but a wall.
Astride their horses, they took turns galloping along the stream-banks, whirling leather slings of stones over their heads. The whirring slings gave off the sound of distant thunder, and each released stone hit their opponent’s shield with a crack like lightning.
