“The Reds dressed in their full battle array. Every one had his cloak wrapped around him, for it was cold out on the water. With some difficulty they launched their barge and poled it across the pond toward Mochaomhóg’s hill, where the smoke from the Greens’ fire was rising in a plume, conveniently blocking the view. The sound of carousing masked the splash, splash of the little boat’s passage. They landed. Two warriors paused to secure the barge; the others advanced through the rat’s tunnel, the nest full of ratlings, the upper passages of the creature’s den. They went in single file, which was all the cramped space allowed. The two who had tied up the boat hastened to catch up with their fellows, but before they reached the exit a small form came falling back down, a dagger in his heart. A second fell on top, his red uniform stained redder still. A third . . . a fourth . . . One by one, every warrior who had gone up in that first advance was thrust back down the tunnel dead or dying. ‘Retreat,’ whispered one of the two survivors to the other. They fled down the tunnel, threw themselves onto the barge and poled it frantically away. It came to one of them, at least, that someone must have told the enemy they were coming. Someone had prepared a welcome for them: a welcome in blood.

“Once the sorry tale was heard by the Red clan, folk began to eye one another with suspicion. Who was the traitor? One man accused another because his grandmother had once eaten a pod of beans. A third said a fourth must be the guilty man, since he had once admired the emerald eyes of a certain young lady. It was plain the matter would continue to cause bitter division until it was settled.

“The wise woman of the clan called everyone together. ‘Take off your cloaks,’ she said. ‘Lay them on the ground.’

“Nobody had any idea why the crone would ask such a thing, but they obeyed her as they always did, since she had never been proven wrong in many, many years of sorting out their disputes. Not only the two survivors of the rout but every other man there present laid his cloak down, till there was a blanket of many reds on the forest floor. The old woman paced, examining each cloak minutely. Most of the men had rowan crosses sewn inside their garments, for this is a potent charm against death in battle. It was these the crone seemed to be looking at. As she went through the cloaks, one of the two battle survivors began to look very uneasy. Once or twice he tried to pick up his cloak, pleading that he was cold after that passage over the pond, and the old woman stopped him. ‘I am not done yet,’ she said.”