A Prelude to War Part One: (Omnibus) by Cladáin Micheál

Author:Cladáin, Micheál
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PerchedCrowPress
Published: 2024-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

Traitor’s Surrender

Fergus watched Conall ride up Slíghe Chualann. He could not tear his eyes away from the sack holding Ingcél’s head. The pirate had left swathes of dead behind him but had been killed without hardship. It seemed to be a dream of the Sidhe, the way he had been dispatched, unreal in its ease.

When Conall topped the rise and was lost to sight, Fergus called to the Red Branch warriors, “You heard him in the hostel, quick as you can. The sooner we send them to Donn, the sooner we can go.”

“You think Donn would take the likes of them, Fergus?” one of the nearest warriors asked with a guffaw.

“No, probably not, but you know what I mean. The sooner, the better.”

And so the murder began.

It was a thankless task, but each of the six hundred riders knew it was necessary. If they allowed the reaver’s crew to escape, they would only return under the leadership of another pirate, whether one-eyed or two. It did not matter. It would be as inevitable as death and the interference of the Elder Council.

The Red Branch warriors drew their knives and entered the hostel. The snores of the rebels were loud and seemed in unison. Fergus shook his head and smiled to himself. Fighting men seemed always to act in the same way. After a battle, a woman, when available, mead and sleep. Not that Ingcél’s pirates had fought a battle. They ran rather than face the wrath of the Red Branch. Or maybe Ingcél ran, and his crew followed. Whatever the truth, they had drunk themselves into a sleep so deep that the arrival of six hundred mounted men had not woken them.

There was no resistance from the Britons as they died. However, cutting thirty throats and piling the bodies in the center of the common room took time, so it was already the middle of the afternoon by the time the task was finished.

“Leave the bodies inside, burn the hostel, then ride for Temuir,” Fergus ordered.

“We need to wash first, Fergus,” Gul said, a warrior who had fought beside Fergus since he joined the Red Branch.

The man was covered in blood from his hands up to his armpits. Blood was splashed over his tunic and in his hair and beard. Fergus nodded. It would not be seemly to ride through the Chualann Mountains like apostles of the Red God.

“All right. Wash in the river. But do it quickly.”

“River’s dry,” Gul said, shaking his head.

“Up behind the dam. If we are quick enough, we might be able to catch Conall.”

The sun was falling out of the afternoon sky by the time the warband finally mounted and rode out of the vale of Glencree. Despite the lateness, Fergus hoped to make it to Átha Clíath, where they could rest in the settlement and continue to Temuir at first light. Anything to make the following day’s ride shorter and get his warriors in front of a fire with a haunch and a flagon. The riders’ mood was somber as they rode through the darkening forest.

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