“We will arrive at the southern border of Mag Bregh by midafternoon. Their scouts will have seen us, and their army will be waiting. We’ll be lucky to reach the Hill of Tara. Sitric and Morda will lead the charge, as they are entirely cavalry. The Fianna will follow on foot. We will lose, almost certainly, but we will fight until Brian calls for retreat. If you make it that long, you will have proven your bravery and will be afénnidin all but oath.”
“And what of Baeth’s planned betrayal,” Finn hissed under breath, shooting a glare toward the bastard.
“We expect it, and have additional men guarding the king, but we don’t have enough information to do much else. All the men are to keep watch for signs of treachery.”
Finn didn’t like that answer, but he knew Cormac must feel similarly. After all, their fearless leader had a strong fosterage bond with Brian. He and Broccan, more than any of them, would be invested in protecting the king.
Cormac took his leave, moving to the next warrior to have a similar conversation, and Finn once more observed the men who had come with Laigin and Dyflin. Turning around, he noticed for the first time that Dallan’s cousin, Baeth, rode on the Fianna’s flank, watching Sitric and Dallan. A contingent of around twenty or so men rode with him, set visibly apart from the rest of the Laigin forces.
Had Dallan noticed him yet? Finn thought not, as his friend hadn’t looked behind them at all. Dallan had known he would be here, knew he plotted treachery, yet seemed amazingly unconcerned over it.
“He’ll get over it, eventually.” Diarmid’s low statement interrupted his thoughts. “If we all survive the battle, that is.”
“Is there aught I can do?” Finn asked, hoping Diarmid knew something he didn’t. “Anything to make it up to him?”
Diarmid shook his head. “Just give him some time. He’ll come ’round’.”
“How are your nerves?” Finn changed the subject, no longer able to stomach a conversation of his ruined friendship.
Diarmid grinned. “Unwavering, as always.”
Before Finn could reply, Brian held up a fist, calling for a halt. In front of him to the left, Sitric mounted and rode to join the King of Mumhain. Baeth followed close on his heels.
Finn looked up and saw that as he spoke with Diarmid they’d at last come in sight of the ancient seat of the High Kings of Éire: Tara. An unsettling feeling descended upon Finn as he stood before it, recalling how hundreds of years earlier the Fianna, led by Finn mac Cumhail, had suffered their greatest defeat in this very spot. Surely, that did not bode well for today’s battle. Finn couldn’t help but wonder if that legend had been part of Brian’s planning of this trial.
It stood upon an enormous hill, wider than Caiseal and taller than Cenn Cora, its wooden palisade high enough to obscure the buildings that lay within.
At the base of the grass-covered hill, an army several-hundred-strong awaited them.
The hollow clang of spear hitting shield rang across the valley as the men of Mide taunted the invaders. With no ceremony whatsoever, Brian signaled the charge.
He had been so busy worrying over Dallan and Eva and talking with Cormac and Diarmid that Finn hadn’t given the battle much consideration. Until the moment he drew steel and charged headlong into it.
Heart pounding, determination shooting like lightning through his veins, Finn ran.
Dallan before him.
Diarmid and Conan beside him.
Sitric so far ahead that only his red cloak remained visible, flapping like a harbinger of death behind him. The horsemen of Laigin and Dyflin pierced the lines of Mide from either side, pinching them into a tighter formation and surrounding them from three sides against the hill.
Finn followed Dallan straight into the front line, ignoring the whooshing in his ears as his sword fell for the first time.
He’d fought before, aye, but never in a true battle. At this moment, it was best to forget that fact.
He cut down men as he waded deeper into the fray. One. Two. Three men down, a fourth quick to follow. In a brief moment of respite, he turned to check on his friends.
Diarmid and Conan battled back-to-back, as did Cormac and Broccan. Dallan spun in circles, defending himself on all sides.
“Stubborn bastard,” Finn muttered, sprinting to help his friend. If Dallan kept up that pace, he’d tire too quickly.
Panting hard, Dallan nodded to Finn in acknowledgement before turning to fight the next spearman. Back-to-back they fought, wave after wave of warriors crashing against their skillful defense.
All thought fled Finn. He slashed. He blocked. He sidestepped. His sword became an extension of his being, the only thing keeping him from a gruesome death. His body moved with the memory of years of practice, preparing him for this moment.
After slaying his opponent innumerable, Finn looked up, letting his head fall back as the sun beat down on his sweat-covered brow. He couldn’t take much more before exhaustion overcame his resolve. At least he’d been able to help Dallan before they both tired.
Shouting across the field drew his attention. A group of riders had broken away from the battle, turning tail and galloping back toward the king and his guard. Squinting, Finn realized with horror that Baeth led the retreat.
