Bec Read Free Page A

newcomers from the neighboring villages in our tuath. Many of those who lived nearby were forced out of their homes and fled here for safety. There are twenty-two huts now, and although the walls of the rath were extended outward during the spring, we weren’t able to expand by much.
    The use of magic has wearied me and left me hungry. I don’t have much power, nothing like what Banba had. The sun helps but it’s not enough. I need food and drink. But not coirm. That would make me dizzy and sick. Milk with honey stirred in it will give me strength.
    Goll’s sitting close to the milk pails. He looks down-hearted. He’s scratching the skin over his blind right eye. Goll was king of this whole tuath years ago, the most powerful man in the region, with command of all the local forts. There was even talk that he might become king of the province — our land is divided into four great sectors, each ruled by the most powerful of kings. None of our local leaders had ever held command of the province. It was an exciting prospect. Goll had the support of every king in our tuath and many in the neighboring regions. Then he lost his eye in a fight and had to step down. He’s not bitter. He never talks of what might have been. This was his fate and he accepts it.
    But Goll’s in a gloomy mood this morning. He hates making mistakes. Feeling sorry for the old warrior, I sit beside him and ask if he wants some milk.
    “No, Little One,” he says with a weak smile.
    “It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him. “It was a lucky strike by the Fomorii.”
    Goll grunts. That should be the end of it, except Connla is standing nearby, a mug of coirm in his hands, boasting of the demon he hit with his spear. He hears my comment and laughs. “That wasn’t luck! Goll’s a rusty old goat!”
    Goll stiffens and glares at Connla. Eighteen years old, unmarried, Connla’s one of the handsomest men in the tuath, tall and lean, with carefully braided hair, a mustache, no beard, fashionable tattoos. His cloak is fastened with a beautiful gold pin, and pieces of fine jewelry are stitched into it all over. Unlike most of the men, who wear belted tunics, he favors knee-length trousers. He was the first man in the rath to wear them, although several have followed his lead. His boots are made from the finest leather, laced artistically with horsehair thongs. He looks more like a king than his father does, and when Conn dies he’ll be one of the favorites to replace him. Most of the young women in the tuath desire him for his looks and prospects. But he’s no great warrior. Everyone knows Connla’s an average fighter. And far from the bravest.
    “At least I was there to make a mistake,” Goll growls. “Where were you, Connla — combing your hair, perhaps?”
    “I was in the thick of the fighting,” Connla insists. “I struck a demon. I think I killed it.”
    “Aye,” Goll sneers. “You hit it with a spear. In the back. While it was running away.” He claps slowly. “A most courageous deed.”
    Connla hisses. His hand goes for a spear. Goll snatches for his axe.
    “Enough!” Conn barks. He’s been keeping an eye on the pair. He always seems to be on hand when Connla’s at the point of getting into trouble. The king steps forward, scowling. “Isn’t it bad enough that we have to fight demons every night, without battling among ourselves too?”
    “He questioned my courage,” Connla whines.
    “And you called him an old goat,” Conn retorts. “Now shake hands and forget it. We don’t have time for quarrels. Be men, not children.”
    Goll sighs and extends a hand. Connla takes it, but his face is twisted and he shakes quickly, then returns to the small group of men who are always huddled close around him. As they leave, he starts to tell them again about the demon he speared and how he’s certain the blow was fatal, boasting of his great skill and courage.
    Later. The gate of the rath is open. The cows and sheep have been led out to