Twice Upon A Time (The Celtic Legends Series) Read Online Free Page B

onto Conor’s sleeve as he barreled through the crowd of observers to drive his opponent against the rock wall of the ring-fort. Still Conor slashed, his teeth bared. The iron of his weapon shattered beneath a blow. His opponent slipped and skidded in the mud, ducking the splinters of metal. Conor thrust the edge of his broken sword against his opponent’s pale neck.
    He demanded, “Yield to your better.”
    The fallen warrior huddled against the wall, his breathing harsh. He opened his hands in defeat, and his sword clattered to the ground. The people of the Clan Morna who had paused in their work to wa tch the sparring of their new over-king now stood silently while Conor’s men cheered and sloshed their wooden cups of ale. Conor tossed his broken weapon aside and tested his opponent’s for weight and balance. A rivulet of something hot and wet slid down his face and pooled in the corner of his mouth.
    “Who will spar with me next?” He eyed the surrounding crowd, searching among the artisans, the cattlemen in their bright green woolen cloaks, and the dark Pict slaves in their rags and chains, for the sword-bearing warriors of the Clan Morna. Even the most powerful-looking among them averted their eyes like maidens on their first foray to the Lughnasa fires.
    “You’ll not find another to fight you, Conor of Ulster.” The King of Clan Morna spoke from a stump near the entrance to his hut, flanked by two black-robed priests. His white hair blazed like snow against his purple cloak, and his blue eyes glittered more harshly than the jeweled brooch lodged at his throat. “You’ve bested three of our finest warriors. It’s plain to see why the O’Neill chose such a strong champion. It’s no wonder Connacht and Leinster have lost so much land and cattle to that clan these past years.”
    “Fat, your men are, as lazy as autumn cows.” Conor wiped the new sword on his mud-bespattered tunic, and then hefted it to the ready. “Is there not one among you who is not as weak as a woman?”
    “My men value their swords too highly to challenge you.” The old man gripped the cross hanging around his neck as Conor fixed him with his wild-eyed glare. “You have lived up to your reputation, Conor dochloíte . It’s a small comfort to know that my son died fighting a man as invincible as his own legend.”
    “Had I known on that day when I fought for the O’Neill that your son would be the only worthy opponent in this tribe, I’d have spared his life, just so I’d have some sport when I came to claim Morna as my own.”
    The old man’s shoulders stiffened. “My son’s blood ran with the pride of generations of chieftains. He would not have allowed you to dishonor him in such a way.”
    “Then I would have told the High King to grant me the over-lordship of some other tribe. Your clan was not the only one to fall that day to the O’Neill.” He scanned the gathered warriors of Morna, all immobile but for lowered and thundering brows. There wasn’t one of them Conor feared on the battlefield. He sneered at their striped and checkered cloaks, their dyed eyebrows, and their oiled and frizzed hair. He and his men were as safe here as they were on Tara hill, or home among their own Ulster tribes.
    He shoved his sword in its scabbard. “I rule nothing but a tribe full of women, children, and cowards.”
    He snatched his cloak from the pile of stones and whirled it over his shoulders as he headed out of the enclosure. His footsteps pounded on the wooden bridge, then drove deep imprints into the muddied earth.
    Conor marched up the hill at a pace fast enough to match the thunder of his heart. By the Club of the Dagdá, was there no one in the whole province of Connacht to give him a fight worth the time? It was plain to see why the Clan Morna did not resist when he and his Ulstermen rode over the rise three days ago to claim the overlordship due to him. All the clan’s finest warriors had died proudly, on the