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Two men of the bodyguard followed behind Flann.
                  “My Lord,” Flann said with a quick bow. “They are laying in wait still, but I see signs they are preparing to leave. Ten men in all.”
                  Máel Sechnaill nodded. “How are they armed?”
                  “Swords, axes, spears and shields. Two have mail.”
                  “Very well.” Máel turned to the bodyguard. “They are abandoning their watch, but they may give us answers still. We follow Flann mac Conaing. Be quick. They’re better armed than us. Let the ones wearing mail live.”
                  Máel Sechnaill drew his sword - like the mail, it was the province of the elite - and headed after Flann. It had been a year or more since he had carried his sword into combat. It was many years since he had fought in a nameless little skirmish such as this, but this fight was different. The men they were hunting did not belong to some pathetic band of thieves, out stealing cattle. They were a threat to Tara, and the kingdom of Brega itself, and Máel Sechnaill could afford no failure.
                  The Irishmen moved silent though the dark, the mud sucking at their soft leather shoes. Rain dripped from the edge of Máel’s helmet and he blinked and wiped his face. To his left, Máel could see the high ground on which ran the road from the kingdom of Leinster, south of the River Liffey, to Tara. It was along that road that any delegation from Leinster would have to travel.
                  Flann mac Conaing held up his arm, crouched low, headed off to his right, gesturing for the other guardsmen to go to the left. Máel Sechnaill followed behind the guardsmen, crouching like Flann, his joints protesting the damp and the awkward position. But for all the discomfort, he reveled in the stealth of the attack. This is what they could do, the Irish, move unseen through the dark. Their enemies were bears, powerful and blundering, but they were foxes, swift and cunning.
                  They slipped over the road, nearly crawling, the mud splattering in their faces, half tumbled down the bank on the other side. A thicket of coarse brush grew along the road, good coverage, which is why the enemy had chosen that spot.
                  The guardsmen led the way, and a moment later Máel Sechnaill could see them, the watchers crouched by the road forty feet away, their eyes looking south. Máel stepped up. He would take the lead now. With gestures he spread the guardsmen out until they formed a line, spears held at waist height. “Stand ready,” he said, softly.
                  Máel turned and faced the enemy, adjusted the grip on his sword. He could feel his heart pounding, the blood coursing through him. The aches and soreness were gone - he was no longer a fifty-year-old king, but a young prince, vital and strong, fearless, bold.
                  He raised the sword, took a step forward and another and the bodyguard moved in unison with him. He was slowed by the mud, but not too much. He felt a battle cry build in his throat. He was twenty feet from the enemy before they realized something was amiss. Dark shapes turned to meet them, revealing white faces - in the muted light Máel could see expressions of shock and surprise. The battle cry flew from his mouth, a long, keening wail, and at his side the bodyguard shouted as well.
                  The Irish rolled into the enemy with a momentum that could not be checked. To his left Máel saw one of the watchers stand, a huge man with ax raised, shouting in his Norse tongue, but before he could even swing the ax he was skewered on the end of an Irish spear.
                  Another loomed in front of him. Máel Sechnaill had a glimpse of a thick yellow beard, helmet, mail. He parried a sword thrust, lunged, felt the tip of his sword scrape on