Chapter Twenty-Five
They had left Cruachan Aí at dawn, riding through the mists that slithered over the land.
It would take the entire day to reach Binn Ghulbain, and to a man none wanted to be in Aodh’s territory any longer than necessary.
Most of the warriors riding alongside Broccan wanted nothing more than to return to their families in Cenn Cora.
Illadan left a newborn babe to travel to Ath Luain.
Finn’s wife would be delivering their first child any day now, and here he was, riding in the opposite direction.
Dallan, Diarmid, and Cormac were all newly wed.
Broccan would wager his life’s earnings they’d rather be back with their new brides than extending this mission by an entire turning of the moon.
That his companions had made the blood oath in the first place was a testament to their honor. He’d not ask them to keep searching with him, not most of them anyway.
Conan would volunteer when he learned of Broccan’s intentions. Hell, Alannah probably would join right alongside him.
And Ardál was enigmatic as ever. Broccan had commanded men for the past six years. He generally read them well enough by necessity—he needed to know who he could trust and who needed more guidance, who needed a firm hand and who collapsed under pressure.
But Ardál he couldn’t figure out. He was quieter than Cormac, who was notorious for his reticence.
The son of Brian’s royal huntsman, Ardál’s greatest skill lay in tracking, and he was more lethal than most with a spear.
He didn’t spend his leisure time with any of the other men.
Not often, anyway. Broccan had never seen him with a woman, which had made him wonder if perhaps Ardál, too, had lost someone dear to him. The man was a complete mystery.
Broccan had seen just about enough of Aodh over the past year to last for the next ten.
First, Aodh had burned Thurles to the ground and captured Princess Cara.
Even though he’d been acquitted of any punishment and his life spared by Brian and the Fianna, Broccan felt no love lost for the king of Ailech.
Then, of course, he’d been raiding into Midhe and Connachta.
Again, Broccan wasn’t allied to either kingdom, but he got the feeling that Aodh took too much pleasure in his mischief.
“You seem more brooding than usual,” Conan prodded as the ground fell away beneath their horses’ hooves. The farmsteads north of Lough Ree slowly gave way to rocky hills and crags, the mountains a strip of deep blue along the horizon.
Broccan glared at him. He knew perfectly well the reason for Broccan’s dark mood.
“They’ll be just fine,” Conan assured him.
“He’s right,” Cormac chimed in, slowing his horse to ride along Broccan’s left. “Take out another stone, friend. They’re safe in Cruachan Aí, and you can’t live the rest of your life waiting for the next disaster.”
“We could make a new rule,” Conan suggested with a grin Broccan didn’t like the look of at all. “If I’m worried over their safety, then you can be, too.”
“I can worry as much as I damn well please,” Broccan grumbled. His friends meant well. And perhaps one day, many months from now, he would listen. But today, he would worry.
The sun hung in the west as they reached the mountain.
Binn Ghulbain stood sentinel over the flat, rocky plains.
In the tales of old, the ancient Fianna warriors used it as a hunting ground.
Blue-gray stones ran in vertical wrinkles beneath its flat top.
Long before they reached the foot of the mountain, Aodh’s outriders met them, escorting them back to Aodh’s encampment.
The steep northern slope was unbreachable, but the southern slope offered a gentle climb that even the horses could manage.
It took less than an hour to scale the mountain and reach the king’s camp perched atop it.
From that height, Broccan could see the great, sprawling ocean spewing angrily to the west.
The outriders led the Fianna to a giant, three-sectioned tent in the center of the camp.
Broccan heard Aodh greet Illadan as he entered, his smooth voice grating on Broccan’s nerves.
“Well, well, well,” the young king purred.
“Should I be concerned that my enemy’s best warriors appear at my doorstep come nightfall? ”
Aodh’s tent was fitted for a king, and Broccan expected no less of a man who’d taken the throne of one of the largest kingdoms in éire at the age of nineteen.
Furs covered the edges of the makeshift palace, a large trestle table with benches occupied the center.
Golden braziers cast ample light, even with no windows to let in the sun.
“Sit, please.” Aodh gestured to the benches on either side of the trestle table, then turned to a lanky, dark-haired man standing by the entry to the tent. “Gille, some ale for our guests.”
Gille wasted no time setting out goblets of ale before each of the eight Fianna warriors, who’d taken seats at the table. Broccan sat on the far end of one of the benches beside Cormac. Aodh took the chair at the head of the table, the side farthest from Broccan.
Broccan took a long drink of the ale while he waited for Illadan to start talking. As their leader, the odious task of dealing with Aodh fell to Illadan.
“What brings you back to my table so soon?” Aodh asked, looking toward Cormac, who had been here with Brian only a few weeks ago. “Did Brian have a change of heart?”
“We aren’t here for Brian,” Illadan answered, drawing Aodh’s gaze. “We’ve come to negotiate for two hostages on behalf of friends of ours.”
Aodh nodded, sitting back in his chair. “Which two?”
“Ossian and Osgar,” Illadan said. “They were fighting your men north of Lough Ree and haven’t been seen since.”
“If they were anywhere near Lough Ree, I’m not the one you need to be bargaining with,” Aodh sighed. “Tethba has them, if they’re lucky.”
“What?” Broccan growled. “That makes no sense. Why would men of Midhe capture men of Connachta? They’ve been allies for decades.”
Aodh leaned forward, his forearms on the table. “Normally I wouldn’t be keen to share information that might be to my disadvantage. But you spared my life when you came for Cara, so I owe you a debt. I will pay it now.”