Braefar watched the scene, and a terrible sadness filled him. Conn had never looked more magnificent than he did at this moment, whereas his enemies had become, in Brae-far's eyes, small men with small dreams. Braefar had never wanted this. He knew it now. He drew his own sword, determined to rush in and aid his brother. Yet he did not. His legs would not obey him, and he stood, as he had all those years ago when the bear attacked, and did nothing.

Suddenly two of the men rushed in. Connavar swung the Seidh blade in two slashing cuts. Blood sprayed into the air, and the men fell. The other six rushed in, hacking and cutting.

At that moment there was a blast of cold air, and the circle trembled. A bright light shone and a warrior leapt from nowhere. Braefar blinked, his sword falling from his nerveless fingers. This new warrior carried a golden shield of incredible brightness. He rushed at the fighting men, smashing the shield into the face of the first, and cleaving his sword through the ribs of a second.

Braefar looked down at his fallen sword. He wanted to stoop to pick it up, but his legs were trembling, and he feared he would fall if he tried. So he drew his dagger. The sound of sword blades clashing, the screams of dying men, ripped through him and he fell back against a stone column, squeezing shut his eyes, and holding his fists over his ears. He couldn't shut out the sounds, and instead forced his mind to remember happier times, when he and Conn, as children, had played upon the slopes above Three Streams.

The sounds ceased, and Braefar opened his eyes. The new warrior – he saw now it was the bastard, Bane – was standing alongside the king, holding his arm. Connavar's winged helm was lying on the ground close by, dented by a sword blade. There was blood on the king's cheek, dripping to his breastplate. There was more blood upon his left arm. Braefar watched as Connavar loosened his breastplate. Bane pulled it clear. Then the king shrugged out of his mailshirt. Braefar saw two huge bruises on the king's left side, the skin gashed.

The trembling ceased and Braefar tottered forward. Connavar saw him, and his expression changed. Braefar had expected – desired – anger. But there was only sorrow in the king's features.

'Why, Wing?' he asked.

'Why? For all the hurts and humiliations you have piled upon me.'

'What hurts? I love you, Wing. I always have.'

'I know how you have laughed at me all these years. Don't lie to me, Conn. I know.'

'No-one laughed,' said Connavar. 'Not in my presence. Where did you hear such nonsense?' He stepped in towards Braefar. 'Let us put this behind us, Wing,' he said. 'There is a great battle coming . . .' He reached out to his brother.