The howl of a lonely wolf echoed  across the plain.

Eochaid the Unsleeping did not look up from the thin moorfowl he was roasting over his bracken fire.   Wolves were a constant and no longer unwelcome companion in his long wanderings.   It had been another story when he still had his horses, but that was long ago.   Now he had taken up the habit of leaving scraps from his kill where the wolves could find them, and as if in tacit thanks they kept him company from a distance.   More than once it had been they who had alerted him to the approach of a foe, helping give rise to the tale that he never slept.

He tested the doneness of the fowl with a twig.   Finding the meat as tender as he was willing to wait for – which was not saying much - he removed it from the fire, blew on it vigorously a few times, then took a tentative bite.   The first one scalded his tongue with the dripping of the still bloody juice, eliciting a fruity expletive, but he swallowed that one quickly despite the metallic taste of the blood and continued with barely a pause.

Outlaws expected no luxuries.

In fact the bird, stringy and undercooked as it was, was something of a treat after days living on berries and raw bulrushes.   Ordinarily, the world of mankind he had left intruded infrequently enough that he had the time to hunt as he wished; but a few days ago he had been roused from his sleep by the sounds of horses, men and chariots splashing across the ford not far from where he had lain among the bracken.   The lack of hounds had told him they had not come to hunt him again, as before, but for war.  Nevertheless, their advance scouts almost caught him later that day, forcing him to move and keep moving.    Thus this first meal of meat occupied nearly his full attention this night.

Thus it was a while before he realized that the wolf-song had been replaced by wailing – a high unearthly keening that could only come from the throat of –

Suddenly he was fully alert.   The remains of the fowl were dropped into the fire and replaced in his hands with spear and shield before he could think.    A quick motion of the foot drove dirt into what embers remained, quickly extinguishing them, then he knelt, presenting as low a profile as possible while eye and ear quested into the night.

Now he saw that the quality of the moonlight had changed; brighter than he had ever seen it before, it shone as though through a silvered haze that alternately brought the landscape into striking clarity then made it waver like a water-image through which  a pebble had been cast.   Again the keening floated in the night wind, raising the hairs at the back of his neck.   Clad in wisps of gossamer grey that prevented her outline from being seen clearly, a pale woman glided from out of a stand of oak and across the plain, her face in her hands as she wept.    As if in a dream, he found his limbs frozen, his mouth held shut.

Before he knew it she was upon him.

Only when she actually threatened to walk right through him was he finally able to find his tongue.   "Who are you, and for whom do you weep, woman?" he husked with dry mouth.

"Woe, o woe," she wailed, "for Eochaid of the Bronze Spear lies dead!"

A cold hand seized the outlaw’s heart.  "And who was this Eochaid of the Bronze Spear?"

"He was the son of Muirchetach the Horseman, a great warrior, and once the King’s Champion.   Woe, o woe!"

"And how did he die?"

"In battle, at the Plain of the Lone Oak, defending his king."

"You lie, woman!"  the outlaw shouted, shaking his spear at her.   "You lie, for Eochaid of the Bronze Spear, Eochaid the King’s Champion, is no more!   I am Eochaid mac Muirchetach, the outlaw.  I have no king!   I have no tribe!  But I am still alive, damn your eyes!   Look at me!  Am I not solid, of flesh and blood, and warm with living breath?   Look at me, woman, and say I am alive!"

But the eldritch moonlight had dimmed, and Eochaid the Unsleeping was shouting at empty air.

***
The war-chariots of Ynys Eiluin thundered across the green plains of Ardmor in three long columns, leaving nothing behind them standing.

At every holding in their path, the beast-helmed warriors of the Isle of Mist swarmed forward in antlike numbers, ignoring slung stones and hard-flung spears to close in with the defenders with their thirsty swords.   Against those who somehow escaped their blades, they loosed their hounds.   The army of Ynys Eiluin was taking no prisoners, not even children.

Morna ni Grainne halted her car before one such dun whose inhabitants, like so many others, had decided to make a fruitless stand.   She would make an example of this one, she decided, tired already of having to battle her way through the land that was hers by right.

Before she could issue any orders, however, the chariot of one of her generals skidded to a stop right beside hers.    "My lady!   We have called upon the warriors of the dun to surrender, but their chieftain claims the right of comlainn.   By your leave, I would like to accept the challenge as your champion."

Her whip licked out with a sharp crack, leaving an angry red line across the general’s face.   "Fool!   We have no time to waste upon such genteel games!   Demand their surrender once more, and if they remain stiff-necked, come back to me."   She motioned to the closed, curtained wagons that followed close behind her chariot.

"Our night-born allies are thirsty …"

***
Ferdiad mac Grainne reined in his foaming team with a practiced hand.

Obedient to his touch, yet too full of spirit to just halt, the horses reared in majestic curvettes, the curved horns on their chanfrons slicing the air like swords.  A roar of approval rose from the massed ranks of Ardmorian warriors, kern and chariot-chieftain alike, at their king’s display.   Ferdiad raised his right hand high, accepting their acclaim with the grace demanded of a king, but only through an iron self-control did he keep his true emotions from showing.

The host gathered before him made a brave show, drawing eye and ear with the glint of sun on steel. There were ordered companies in color-coded cloaks, the scythe-wheeled chariots of the chiefs ranged beneath their horsetail standards,  and more fighters coming in every minute even as the massed pipers skirled the heart-stirring summons to war.   He had led them before, and knew their habits, their strengths and weaknesses, like he knew the heft of his own sword.    Always, before, they had been victorious, keeping all invaders at bay while reaping great treasure from their enemies whenever they had taken the offensive.

But against this enemy from across the sea, they could not win.

Ah, Morna, sister mine, I would have given you the crown you wanted just to keep this from happening. But the bargains you made on that isle of the damned makes yielding to you unthinkable. I think I understand now why my own son turned against me while I was under your spell.  His blood is on your hands as much as mine.  May our mother forgive us, for if you do not destroy me tomorrow, be sure I shall destroy you.

He squared his shoulders.   Time now to speak to his warriors, to inspire them with the courage he feared he had already lost.

***

It was past noon by the time Eochaid made it to the hilltop cairn, only to find he was not alone.

They were all there, those of them that had survived that day of madness – was it so long ago?   There was grey in their locks and beards, and lines beneath their eyes he did not remember, but they were still the same – Lorcan the Beautiful with his sardonic grin, Caeltach Eagle-tamer with his talon-scarred arms, Cairbre and Aengus and the two Nechtans, Murchaid and Donal and even Sabia the She-wolf, her beautiful smile not hiding the cold battle-fury always lurking behind her golden eyes.   Only their charioteers were not there.

It was the She-wolf who greeted him first, in her usual direct way.   "You got her summons, eh?"

He understood immediately.   "The Weeping One, aye."   A shadow of pain crossed his face.   "You too?"

Wordless nods.

"All of you?"

More nods.

Eochaid closed his eyes to hide the sudden tears coming all unbidden.   "It seems we are fated, then, and all at once."

"From the moment we cast our lot with Breccan and his rebellion, we were already fated," Cairbre the druid said.   "It was only a matter of time.   Circles always close."

"It will be good to see the end of it in the same company," Nechtan Beg declared solemnly.   Ever at his heels, silent Nechtan Mor nodded assent.

Lorcan suddenly grinned again.  "So, Eochaid, is this where you hid your arms, too?"

Eochaid nodded.   "I could think of no place more fitting.   Perhaps Cairbre is right – the circle will always close.   Now, help me.   I don’t think I can lift the doorstone alone like I did when I hid the Bronze Spear and my armor inside."

"Don’t take too long," Aengus the merry trickster advised with a glint in his eye.   "There’s a surprise I’ll be wanting you to see when you’re ready to come down from this hill."

Eochaid turned an eloquently raised eyebrow to the most roguish of his old band.   Then he heard the whicker of horses, many horses, and there was no hiding the amazement on his face.

"I forgot to mention," Aengus grinned, "that somebody expected us to gather here.   At the foot of the hill, when we arrived, were seven chariots, complete with matched teams, and saddled horses for the rest of us. Not to mention throwing-spears and slingstones aplenty in each car."

"Those were not left there by accident, I wager," Lorcan said tightly.    He left unspoken the unthinkable; meddling by the sidhe.

"Oh, I’m sure of it," Aengus laughed airily.   "Not a single thing of iron on any of those chariots or horses, neither nail nor yoke-ring nor bit nor buckle, and every mother-loving animal a shining pearly white."

"It is but a loan," Cairbre pronounced.   "There is a task for us to fulfill."

Eochaid began to feel the old familiar rush beginning.   At last, a fight that meant more than living yet another unchanging day, a fight after which there could be an end to running and sleeping on wet heather under the uncaring skies …   "I thank the Shining Ones, then.   We can make good use of their gift."

He laid a palm reverently on the granite doorstone of the cairn.

Rest easy, Breccan mac Ferdiad.   We go to finish what you began.

***