a seat big enough for two or three persons across the back, and the sides cut low in front to allow for entrance. The vehicle was ornamented with nail-heads and other trim in gold, and a pair of scythe-blades jutted from the hubs.
The driver was a tall, thin freckled man, with red hair trailing from under his golden fillet down over his shoulders. He wore a green kilt and over that a deerskin cloak with arm-holes at elbow length.
The chariot sped straight toward Shea and his companions, who dodged away from the scythes round the edge of the boulder. At the last minute the charioteer reined to a walk and shouted, «Be off with you if you would keep the heads on your shoulders!»
«Why?» asked Shea.
«Because himself has a rage on. It is tearing up trees and casting boulders he is, and a bad hour it will be for anyone who meets him the day.»
«Who is himself?» said Shea, almost at the same time as Brodsky said, «Who the hell are you?»
The charioteer pulled up with an expression of astonishment on his face. «I am Laeg mac Riangabra, and who would himself be but Ulster ’s hound, the glory of Ireland, Cuchulainn the mighty? He is after killing his only son and has worked himself into a rage. Ara! It is runing the countryside he is, and the sight of you Fomorians would make him the wilder.»
The charioteer cracked his whip, and the horses raced off over the hill, the flying clods dappling the sky. In the direction from which he had come, a good-sized sapling with dangling roots rose against the horizon and fell back.
«Come on!» said Shea, grabbing Belphebe’s hand and starting down the slope after the chariot.
«Hey!» said Brodsky, tagging after them. «Come on back and pal up with this ghee. He’s the number one hero of Ireland.»
Another rock bounced on the sward and from the distance a kind of howling was audible.
«I’ve heard of him,» said Shea, «and if you want to, we can drop in on him later, but I think that right now is a poor time for calls. He isn’t in apally mood.»
Belphebe said, «You name him hero, and yet you say he has slain his own son. How can this be?»
Brodsky said, «It was a bum rap. This Cuchulainn got his girlfriend Aoife pregnant way back when and then gave her the air, see? So she’s sore at him, see? So when the kid grows up, she sends him to Cuchulainn under a geas.»
«A moment,» said Belphebe. «What would this geas be?»
«A taboo,» said Shea.
Brodsky said, «It’s a hell of a lot more than that. You got one these geasa on you and you can’t do the thing it’s against even if it was to save you from the hot seat. So like I was saying this young ghee, his name is Conla, but he has this geas on him not to tell his name or that of his father to anyone. So when Aoife sends him to Cuchulainn, the big shot challenges the kid and then knocks him off. It ain’t good.»
«A tale to mourn, indeed,» said Belphebe. «How are you so wise in these matters, Master Pete? Are you of this race?»
«I only wisht I was,» said Brodsky fervently. «It would do me a lot of good on the force. But I ain’t, so I dope it this way, see? I’ll study this Irish stuff till I know more about it than anybody. And then I got innarested, see?»
They were well down the slope now, the grass dragging at their feet, approaching the impassive sheep.
Belphebe said, «I trust we shall come soon to where there are people. My bones protest I have not dined.»
«Listen,» said Brodsky, «This is Ireland, the best country in the world. If you want to feed your face, just knock off one of them sheep. It’s on the house. They run the pitch that way.»
«We have neither knife nor fire,» said Belphebe.
«I think we can make out on the fire deal with the metal we have on us and a piece of flint,» said Shea. «And if we have a sheep killed and a fire going, I’ll bet it won’t be long before somebody shows up with a knife to share our supper. Anyway, it’s worth a try.»
He walked over to a big tree and picked up a length of dead branch that lay near the base. By standing on it and heaving, he broke it somewhat raggedly in half, handing one end to Brodsky. The resulting cudgels did not look especially efficient, but they could be made to do.
«Now,» said Shea, «if we hide behind that boulder, Belphebe can circle around and drive the flock toward us.»
«Would you be stealing our sheep now, darlings?» said a deep male voice.
Shea look around. Out of nowhere, a group of men had appeared, standing on the slope above them. There were five of them, in kilts or trews, with mantles of deerskin or wolfhide fastened around their necks. One of them carried a brassbound club, one a clumsy-looking sword, and the other three, spears.
Before Shea could say anything, the one with the club said, «The heads of the men will look fine in the hall, now. But I will have the woman first.»
«Run!» cried Shea, and took his own advice. The five ran after them.
Belphebe, being unencumbered, soon took the lead. Shea clung to his club, hating to have nothing to hit back with if he were run down. A glance backward showed that Brodsky had either dropped his or thrown it at the pursuers without effect.
«Shea!» yelled the detective. «Go on — they got me!»
They had not, as a matter of fact, but it was clear they soon would. Shea paused, turned, snatched up a stone about the size of a baseball, and threw it past Brodsky’s head at the pursuers. The spearman-target ducked, and they came on, spreading out in a crescent to surround their prey.
«I — can’t — run no more,» panted Brodsky.
«Go on.»
«Like hell,» said Shea. «We can’t go back without you. Let’s both take the guy with the club.»
The stones arched through the air simultaneously. The clubman ducked, but not far enough; one missile caught his leather cap and sent him sprawling to the grass.
The others whooped and closed in with the evident intention of skewering and carving, when a terrific racket made everyone pause on tiptoe. Down the slope came the chariot that had passed Shea and his group before. The tall, red-haired charioteer was standing in the front, yelling something like «Ulluullu» while balancing in the back was a smaller, rather dark man.
The chariot bounded and slewed toward them. Before Shea could take in the whole action, one of the hub- head scythes caught a spearman, shearing off both legs neatly, just below the knee. The man fell, shrieking, and at the same instant the small man drew back his arm and threw a javelin right through the body of another.
«It is himself!» cried one of them, and the survivors turned to run.
The small dark fellow spoke to the charioteer, who pulled up his horses. Cuchulainn leaped down from the vehicle, took a sling from his belt and whirled it around his head. The stone struck one of the men in the back of the neck, and down he went. As the man fell, Cuchulainn wound up a second time. Shea thought this one would miss for sure, as the man was now a hundred yards away and going farther fast. But the missile hit him in the head, and he pitched on his face.
«Get out the head bag and fetch me the trophies, dear,» said Cuchulainn.
II
Laeg Rummaged in the rear of the chariot and produced a large bag and a heavy sword, with which he went calmly to work. Belphebe had turned back, as the rescuer came toward the three. Shea saw a smallish man with curly black hair, not older than himself; heavy black eyebrows and onlya faint fuzz on his cheeks to compare with the heavy beards of the defunct five. He was not only an extremely handsome man; there was also a powerful play of musculature under his loose outer garment. The hero’s face bore an expression of settled and brooding melancholy, and he was dressed in a long-sleeved white cloak embroidered with gold thread, over a red
