I sat at the warriors' table, drinking and dreaming, until it all became a dream. Or perhaps it was all a dream from which I awoke.

The stale air of the smoky hall stealthily closed its clutches on me until I was forced to choose between drowning in my drinking bowl or staggering outside for a few deep breaths before the next round. At first my legs refused to obey. Once on my feet I stumbled stupidly around, trying to find the doors. It became a quest for life and light. Polite inquiries met mocking laughter. I was spun around and pushed this way and that way, whirling in wretched imitation of the childrens' game of blind-man. It was by chance, not by purpose, to discover the way out. My searching hands struck against the doors so unexpectedly that I fell out of the Great Hall and face first into a half-frozen mud puddle.

The sudden slap of ice was rude arousal from a mead-sodden stupor. Thawing but still cold. Imbolg weather. How long has it been since I returned from the Bog of Ailinn and the Summer of Revenge?

Someone roars out my name. Hastily and with as much dignity as I can summon, I rise, slip, fall, and rise again.

The magnificent horse and rider are cloaked in swirling white mist. A sword raised in challenge flashes through the fog. The warrior is dressed in richest chieftain's battle array, edged with gold. Bronze beads sparkle on his long coppery braids. I lurch towards him and fall again, on my knees, before the restless hooves of the red stallion. Looking up in awe, I am eye to eye with an unforgettable, undying blaze of war-lust.

"Dobhar!"

He lowers his sword so that the tip rests between my eyebrows. "Stand and fight!" he bellows.

I would not wish to fight Dobhar under the best of circumstances. These are the worst. I don't even know what has become of my sword. I think I left it in the Great Hall. A rush of humiliation burns through me. I lift my arms in a gesture of surrender.

"Cousin! The battle is won. It is over. The Rian is safely brought home and the Laigin lads are put to flight for another season, as well as the renegades of Magh Croimor," I babble on, amazed that I am talking to a man who has been dead for nearly two summers.

Dobhar and his beloved stallion Dearg ripple and shimmer. His shield glares down at me, casting a glamour-glow eerie enough to match the faraway thunder of his voice. "The battle was not won! The Rian is home, nevermore to leave Inver Colpa. She carries a child. A son."

I struggle to grasp the meaning of this. "What say you, Dobhar?"

He pulls back his sword and plays at whisking the lethal blade very near to my ears, my beard, my throat, without touching. It whistles a merry tune as he stonily replies. "Not your son. It's by the druid. She'll be dead soon enough now." The blade comes to rest just above my nose. "Fight me!" he insists.

"Why should I?" I argue, blood warming. "You're dead. Why should I believe anything you say?"

"Fight me!" he insists. My hand opens and my own sword falls out of nowhere into my grasp. I swing to test my balance. Months of sitting and sopping up mead have weakened my arm.

"Come down off your horse and fight fairly then, if you must," I sigh and take a stance. I am fighting a ghost. Either he will take me to the summerlands with him or my sword will banish him back to the world beyond the grave.

Dobhar chuckles and dismounts. Dearg prances to one side to wait and watch, ever the perfect battle-steed. When Dobhar's boots touch ground, his face darkens to a deep brown. Furrows and creases line his cheeks and brow. The sinews of his bare arms stand out like gnarls of oak bark.

"Cut me down, I dare you!" he roars. "With one felling blow, cut me down! I am the stag of your forest, I am the champion of the red blade, I am Arddam Dossa!"

"I am a spear of holly, a noble chariot! I will cut you down with one blow, as Cuchulainn cut down the oak, and then I will leap over you as Fearghus leaped the split tree!"

Boastings done, we set to the task. With both hands on the hilt of my sword, I throw all my strength into one mighty stroke and hew Dobhar down.

The invincible oaken door of the Great Hall shattered. Out of the vast silence that followed, the angry wail of a newborn infant drifted, circled, and took root in the world. I left the sword in the heart of oak and fled into the forest, raving mad.