Chapter Three
The last time Conan laid eyes on Ath Luain, he’d been a lad of seven summers, journeying south to foster with Brian alongside his older brother.
As they approached the ford on the River Sionainn, the town looked larger than he’d remembered, though there was no great keep to cast shadows upon it like Caiseal or Cenn Cora.
New buildings flooded the town like the river in spring, spilling across both shorelines and dragging freshly-dug roads along with them.
The causeway came into sight as they crested the final hill on the path to the ford.
Apparently, Teague hadn’t lied about the bridge.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a liar.
Dallan let out a low whistle. “That’s one heck of a bridge. It’s going to be a beast to light.”
He wasn’t wrong, either. Large enough to accommodate a cart and built of thick wooden timbers and planks, it stretched easily over half a mile to the western shore. They would need a suspiciously large quantity of oil and tinder to ignite it.
Illadan shot Dallan a look of warning. “Can you not hold your tongue in public?”
“I’d hardly call this ‘public.’” Dallan gestured with both arms to the verdant fields and woodlands that blanketed the land as far as they could see.
“He’s right. There’s no one for miles,” Conan jumped in, defending his friend. Not that Illadan wasn’t his friend also, but he was much closer to Dallan and Finn.
Illadan frowned, but didn’t argue. He spent more time with Cormac and Broccan, both of whom had traveled with Brian to deal with the other kings.
“And it looks like your brother was right,” Ardál pointed out.
He’d ridden much of the journey in his customary silence, scouting ahead and keeping to himself.
Ardál’s dark locks fell tamer than most of the other Fianna, in juxtaposition to his preference for the uninhabited wilds of the countryside.
“Maybe,” Conan grumbled, his good mood gone. The last thing he wanted to think about was his villain of a brother. At least he had two good ones to compensate him for. “But just because the bridge is here, doesn’t mean you should trust him.”
“It won’t be here for long,” Dallan grinned, his eyes glittering with mischief.
Illadan pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding Conan of a parent surrounded by misbehaving children—which wasn’t terribly far from the truth of their relationship with the Fianna’s leaders.
Most of the warriors had a knack for trouble, especially where women were concerned. “We stick to the plan,” he ground out.
The plan, of course, being to pose as a band of traveling bards, as all of them were trained in poetry and Finn had trained as an actual bard before joining the Fianna.
They would arrive a few days before Brian and his army, settle into an inn somewhere nearby, then scout the bridge and decide on the best plan of attack.
They’d brought a supply of oil and tinder, but seeing the bridge looming large on the horizon, Conan doubted they carried enough.
The most important part of the plan was that they needed to remain undiscovered. Brian’s entire revenge ploy depended on him not being culpable in the bridge’s destruction. As best they could manage, it needed to look like an accident.
Whilst hotly debating the best placement of the tinder, they reached the outskirts of Ath Luain and were forced to cease their plotting aloud.
Flooded muddy streets, reminiscent of the bogs of Dyflin, made Conan glad of his horse.
The buildings on the eastern shore of the Sionainn had multiplied in the years since he’d left for Mumhain.
A veritable town had sprung where before there’d been just the smithy and the butcher.
One of the first buildings they passed was a large, rectangular wooden inn, built in the newer style that felt so different to the traditional roundhouse.
A sign, carved into a wide plank and painted the yellow-green of birch leaves, showed a line drawing of a man lying down, clearly indicating the offer of respite.
Beside it, stables stank of wet hay and horses.
“Let’s secure a room, then we can have a look around.” Illadan dismounted, moving in the direction of the inn.
Dallan and Finn followed him. Conan stayed outside with Ardál to guard the horses.
A handsome couple of middling years perched atop a merchant’s cart, pulled their mare to a halt beside the men.
The man leaned down, his voice pitched away from the building. “You lookin’ for a room?”
“Aye,” Conan replied, uncertain what the man was after.
“The Hart’s Rest is the only place to stay worth the coin.” He tilted his head toward the bridge at the far side of the smattering of buildings. “Cross the river. It’s at the far western edge of town. You can’t miss it. Tell the girls Nolan sent you and they’ll take care of you.”
“What of this place?”
The man frowned at the building behind Conan. “I’d not stay there.”
Conan nodded in thanks as Nolan gave the reins a good snap, setting his cart back into motion. “There must be some competition between them,” he mused aloud to Ardál.
Ardál shrugged. “Or he really likes the other place.”
Illadan, Finn, and Dallan returned from inside. Tension surrounded them like a cloud.
“There’s no one there,” Illadan grumbled, sounding more like Broccan than himself.
“I heard there’s another hostelry on the far side of town,” Conan offered.
Illadan mounted his horse, still grim. “Let’s go.”
The decision made, they started across the causeway. The structure was sturdy and well-crafted, which would only make their work more difficult. And, perhaps most concerning, several buildings sat in close proximity. Even the market square was within sight. They’d have to plan carefully.
As Nolan had promised, a giant roundhouse lay in the last row of buildings. A sign hung above the door, a deep green border surrounding a white hart. But the building and the sign and even the road beyond disappeared from thought as the door flew open and a furious man stumbled through it.
He looked of an age with Conan, handsome but for the scowl on his beet-red face, with cropped ash brown hair and a slim build. Conan disliked him instantly.
The man opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a gorgeous woman using oaths so colorful he couldn’t suppress a shocked laugh.
“Do. Not. Ever come here again,” she seethed, “or the next time you’ll walk out a eunuch.”
“I think I’m in love,” Conan laughed.
Not only could she put obnoxious men in their place and swear like his grandfather, she was stunning.
Hair as dark as coal fell loose from a wide plait that lay over her shoulder.
Two sapphire eyes leveled a challenge at the man from her oval face.
And, as though that weren’t enough to get his attention, she wore trews and a sword.
This was no simpering lass. She was a woman—a woman Conan was now very interested in.
“That can’t be one of the ‘girls’ Nolan mentioned,” Finn laughed.
The red-faced man lunged at her, throwing a punch that she narrowly dodged. Inside the inn, another woman screamed.
Conan swore, charging to intervene. He felt Illadan on his heels as he sprinted the last leg of the path up to the inn. Finn and Dallan moved past the brawl to check on the woman inside. Ardál disappeared from sight.
Before Conan reached them, the woman threw a god-awful attempt at a punch instead of reaching for the sword hanging from her waist. Noble of her, but far less effective.
The man charged her again, but this time Conan caught his fist. Shoving hard, he propelled the man several steps backward.
“Get out of my way!” the man roared. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“If you don’t have a damned good reason for attacking this woman, it most certainly does concern me,” Conan growled.
The woman shot past him, fists flying at the man. “Go back to your own inn and leave my sister alone!”
Conan’s pulse rose so fast he could hear it in his ears. His own inn. This must be the missing innkeeper. He’d been here harassing these women instead of minding his own business. It seemed Conan’s instant dislike of the man hadn’t been far from the mark.
She slammed her shoulder into the man’s stomach. The force drove him back down the path a commendable distance before he landed another blow. His elbows dug into her back, forcing her to stand and face him.
This was getting out of hand. Conan grabbed the woman’s arms, bracing her against him so that she couldn’t continue the fight. Illadan grabbed the man.
“Alright,” Conan shouted over their continued bickering, “now will someone please tell me what is going on here?”