My boat ride back to the village is pleasant. The shroud-like mist and cold rain of morning had been burned away by a warm sun, Brighid’s promise, the certainty of Spring. Amergin’s Hill is just in sight when I hear an unnatural rustling through the riverside reeds. Turning in my oars, I stand up within my boat, the Dragonsilver, hoping to catch that puckish hawk-girl in the act.

I draw the Mistilteinn – the sword forged by my kinsman Weyland – and I gently graze the sides of the reeds to disturb what might be hiding beyond. I expect to see that dirty face and mane of twigs and resin, but I find something I certainly do not expect.

Two mortal figures shoot from the reeds like cats and land just as gracefully within the boat – one on either side of me. In less than a moment’s time I discern that they are two men. They're dressed in rich, colorful tartans and boast lavish gold torcs and matching brooches. Their moustaches are very well-sculpted, and I would think them kings if it weren’t for the fact that their swords are drawn and they are attacking me! I defend myself well enough, clashing against their blades, each in turn.

I finally leap from the boat, through the reeds, and onto the soft ground. Meeting me there are four more men, each one just as solidly built and richly dressed as the first two, and they are all armed as well. I have fought and prevailed when the odds were against me, but I am now without helmet or shield – unlike my opponents – so I feel somewhat at a disadvantage.

My agility works for me this day, as I dodge sword stroke and spear thrust with leaping, stooping, spurts of speed and other feats of dexterity. As my mother would say, “Imperviousness is a great gift... for those who allow themselves to get hit.”

I am mindful of my sword blows; my moves are purely defensive. I do not know who my assailants are, and I’d be wise not to damage them, lest I find myself before the brehons. But the attackers are not villains. Each warrior that I disarm steps away and observes. I am being tested! I find myself at the center of a circle these Six Kings of the Riverside have formed around me.

Finally, a seventh warrior emerges from the thicket nearby. This one is no stranger to me – it’s Felann Baoisgne! The Rigfennidh of the Coirí Filíochta, the Cauldrons of Poetry! His men pick up their shields from the ground and sheathe their swords in their belts. “Amlaidh, abú!” Felann cries, throwing me a spear. I catch it, looking at the smiling fennidh warriors surrounding me. They echo their lord’s cry. “You have proven worthy to join my fían, Amleth.” Felann circles his men, shaking their hands and patting their shoulders with admiration, all the while addressing me. “Your duty to the Niafer is dissolved for the moment, and your loyalty is due to none but myself and King Cormac. You are now an outlaw, and yet you are the law. Our purpose is to scout these woods of Midhe and Laigin until the rogues behind the abduction and murder of the Brigantes family have been discovered and apprehended. At that time your obligation will be fulfilled, and you may return to the Niafer.” The Rigfennidh takes a moment to bestow a blessing on the spear I’m given. I am reminded of the gifting and oath-taking ceremonies of my people back in Angeln. “And now,” Felann continues, “shall we collect our champion – the one who wields the sword of Dunn Seannachaidh?”