The battlefield is hushed and shadowed by gathering ravens. The Cumhaill are huddled solemnly around their leader. The Morna, after a final bristling of spears, ride off at a dignified lope to disappear over the green hills. At the edge of the bloodstained clearing, something catches my eye. The mewing of a hawk sets me into motion.

In the clutter of underbrush that rims the glen, I find the Rian's handmaiden, the one called Mwirren, struggling to break her bonds. After the Morna snatched her from astride our prize bull, her moment of glory was cut short. Did they intend to take her hostage? Or was she simply cast aside? It is no matter now, the raid is ended. One slice of my speartip and she is free again. She appears unharmed, thank the gods!

"Come home with us and join the celebration," I reply to her unanswered question.