I awake in a bed of soft, mossy earth to find Scathach clothed, standing over me. In her hands she holds my bundled trews and cloak, which she impatiently throws at me. "Hurry, Fibh-boy," she commands, striding back toward the dún. "The feast begins at dusk!"

Great torches have already been lit around the environs of her island. I dress quickly and follow the Queen of War to her broch. The lime-washed, stone tower is capped with timber and reed, and two blazing sconces illuminate either side of the entrance. We are the first to arrive, with the exception of the steward, a handful of handmaidens, Scathach's cup-bearer and several spear-wielding guards. At the centre of the broch is a spacious, circular dining hall. At the centre of the dining hall is a firepit, set newly ablaze by two maids.

Scathach utters something loudly in a strange tongue, and the servants all salute me, respectfully. A wizened, old fellow approaches me slowly, carrying my sword, which he places gently into my hands. The Shadowy One disappears into one of the other rooms, and I take an insignificant seat at the feasting board. When Scathach returns, she is accompanied by two others. Another strange command she utters, and the house attendants all salute once again. To her right is a woad-smeared, scowling warrior with broad shoulders and a thick neck. His gait is bold and pretentious, and even the slight sway of his arms cause his sinews to ripple, threatening to break his taut, leathern skin. He regards me as though I were a blemish on the wall behind me. He parades through the feasting hall for show, taking long strides, before being woo'd away by a nearby maid and her jugs of mead. Scathach's other companion is quite different. Statuesque, like the Shadowy One, the young woman looks to be a few years younger. She is dressed in finery uncharacteristic of a handmaiden, and her bearing and posture are well-cultivated. A noble visitor, perhaps? Unlike the blustery blue-skin, this one takes favourable notice of me and approaches.

"And how long will you be staying with us, then," the pretty young maid asks, sidling up to me, on the bench.

A bold lass, to be sure! These girls of the Western Isles are quite unlike those of Din Eidyn. I have never been very skilled with words, but I feel comfortable around this one. "I should very much like to stay for a year and a day, under Scathach's tutelage, but consider me your guest as long as you'll have me, Lady." Her laugh is spritely and her eyes sparkle, but she is too wise to blush. Two cups of mead are placed on the table before us, and I quickly take mine in hand, about to drink. "If you don't mind my asking, Lady, what are you called?"

"I am Uathach, daughter of Scathach." At these words, the mead spurts from my lips and I absently slam the cup to the board.... "Her daughter?" ...upon Uathach's fair and slender hand.

She yelps out, flinching in reaction. She instinctively puts the hurt finger to her lips, as I apologise for my mindless gesture. Waving off my apology, she insists that she is not badly hurt. But my folly has not gone overlooked.

Across the room, the woad-smeared behemoth tosses his mead into the fire and points at me, forcefully. "You! Drust of the Cruithni! You have entered Dunsgaith, unwelcome, and dishonoured Scathach's daughter in her own house! Cochar Cruibne, War Hound, challenges you to a duel for Uathach's honour!"

"It was an accident, I assure you," I attempt to end the feud before it begins. "But if he will not hear reason, let him come forward. Who is this thick ox who calls himself Cochar Cruibne?"

The blue dolmen scowls fiercely at me, with slitted eyes. "I am." Before I can consider my next folly, I am thrown backward as Cochar Cruibne's axe splits the table before us in half. I draw the Claidheamh Mor, snipping off a few of Cochar's braids with a series of rapid strokes. The ox backs off, readying his axe for another swing. I take that time to run past him and lead him out of the broch. I know better than to make war in the house of my host. Cochar Cruibne charges after me, unleashing an unintelligible scream. The axe swoops past me, but I avoid its thirsty blade. My mantle isn't so lucky. I get in a few swings of the sword, meeting only his axe. For his size, he is surprisingly fast!

I continue to back into the narrows, the water lapping up at my knees. We circle one another, blades swirling and clashing, and then I back the War Hound into the sea. When the water is at my shoulders, I see Cochar disappears below the waves. He means to attack me underwater! I think to myself. I back off quickly, slashing at the water before me with the Claidheamh Mor. Finally the War Hound's head bobs up and down, his arms flailing helplessly. "I can't swim!" the hulking warrior cries between gulps of saltwater. A ruse? No, he has lost his axe. After spearing the Claidheamh Mor into the beach behind me, I throw my arm forward and clasp his brawny forearm. I pull him toward the shore until his feet find the earth. Scathach and Uathach meet us there with torches. Accompanying them are servants, with warm, dry blankets. Cochar Cruibne shivers under his blanket, his wrath and pride extinguished.