THE WARRIOR OF WARRIORS
Hafna son of Hafnel gasped as he hit the ground. He tried to rise, but a heavy foot pressed down on his back. "Y'not go'n no-whurr," a gruff voice like a dog's growl snarled, "Else I kill 'oo, gottut?"
Hafna moaned in reply, weakly clawing at the ground with his left hand as if by doing so he could somehow crawl away from his current situation. His other hand was broken, its fingers bent at odd, unnatural angles. It was not his fault that this was happening; after all, he had never hurt anybody, or did any man wrong. He was just walking past.
Hafna was a plain man in most respects; a Western Gaelian, about five feet in height, he had brown hair and a beard, with gentle blue eyes. He wore a modest tunic and breeches, along with a travelling cloak and a small pack. As a minstrel, he carried a set of pipes also, along with just enough food and money to get by.
And now it seemed that what little he did have was about to be taken from him. And if he was unlucky, then his life would soon follow.
Hafna had been strolling through the woods when suddenly he noticed a rustling in the bushes nearby. Curious, he had bent down and extended his hand to see just what had caused the small movement, when suddenly a large, hairy claw had shot out. The massive paw enveloped his own hand, and squeezed with the strength of iron. Hafna had screamed like a woman in the presence of a spider, pulling his arm back in a desperate bid to free his mangled hand. The claw held fast, however, until emerged a short, muscular being with rusty, hair-ridden skin. Its ugly head bore a huge set of fangs, two twisting horns and a mess of black hair, identifying the being immediately as a wildman.
Before Hafna could do anything, however, the beast had let go of his hand and punched him in the gut. The poor, winded minstrel had staggered back only to recieve a kick in the rump from another wildman who had emerged from behind him, which sent the man to the ground. And now there he lay, at the mercy of the dangerous duo of robbers.
It was not long, however, before they were joined by another wildman. This one was somewhat taller than his fellows, standing four and a half feet while they only stood four apiece. His horns, as well, were like the prongs of an elk, and he carried a dirty, rusted - but still very sharp - sword, which he pressed against Hafna's cheek, drawing a jewel of blood. "Yer hoo-marn, hunh?" the wildman leader snarled, "No like hoo-marn."
One of the other wildmen had now started to rummage through Hafna's pack, chucking things around randomly. He popped a bit of dried meat into his mouth, then chewed idly as he returned to the task at hand. "No' much val'bles 'ere," the creature grunted, swallowing and burping loudly before finding Hafna's pipes. "Whut dis?"
"Dose blowey-t'ings," the one with his foot on Hafna's back replied sagely, "Mark dis'n as min-stroll." The creature seemed proud to have pronounced such a long word.
The first wildman grunted, confusion twisting lines across his already ugly features. "Whut min-stroll?" he asked.
"Der min-stroll hoo-marn whut singey an' blowey sticks," the second explained, smug now that he was in a position of unshared knowledge, "Maybe c'n sing u' song?"
The leader snorted. "Don' like hoo-marn singin'," he growled, pressing his blade harder into Hafna's cheek and making the man gasp, "Wanna kill 'stead."
"Ne'er heard hoo-marn singin'," the first wildman grumbled, "Whut sound like?"
"How 'bout dis?" the second said reasonably, "We let der min-stroll sing, an' if we like we set free. If we dorn't..."
"We kill 'im." The wildmen's leader had never been one to leave anything up to the imagination.
"If you wish this minstrel to play for you," a new voice from somewhere along the path interjected, "Then I should hope you are willing to pay his fee."
Hafna and the wildmen looked up to see a figure standing in the middle of the path ahead. He was a fairly plain man; a shirt, breeches, leather boots, a hooded cloak, and a sword dangling from his belt. All of these things, however, were mere parts of the background compared to the other aspects of his person. The man stood with such bearing as to make a king look humble, spoke with a voice that could inspire all the armies in the world with but a word. His face, although not particularily handsome or, for that matter, ugly, bore a look of such confidence, such determination, such will, that one look could make a goddess fall to her knees and make a pledge of love everlasting. For a while, man and wildmen alike stood in awe of his sheer unbelieveability.
It was the wildman leader, however, who broke the chance. "'Nuther hoo-marn," he growled, "No like hoo-marn. You run fast 'way now, or I kill!"
The man smiled, placing his hands on his hips. "Are you sure that such is truly your intention?" he asked, striding forward.
"Um, yeah'r," the wildman chief growled, taking a step backwards and holding his blade up defensively. "Go 'way now, real quick. Else you dead. Yeah."
"And I suppose that you gave this poor, helpless minstrel the same choice?" the cmile had not disappear from the man's face as he spoke, "Or do you only give such to armed men?" He drew his blade in one casual movement, causing the wildmen to all cringe in fear. The man stopped in his tracks, however, holding his blade up in the air. For an eternal moment, everything was still.
And then he dropped the blade.
"And now that I am unarmed," he said, strolling leisurely forward once again, "I wonder what you intend to do with me, hm?"
The wildman chief looked from one companion to the other, then held his blade out to threaten the man, who was, by now, but an arm's length away. "I warn you," he growled, although his jowls trembled with fear as he did so, "Go 'way...or...yer...dead..."
The man kept smiling. "Very well." he said.
There was a sudden blur of movement, and the next thing they knew the wildman leader was standing stark still, howling in pain and and staring in horror at his own blade, which protruded from his chest. The other two wildmen gave their own frightened howls and fled like cowards into the woods, lest they share their leader's fate.
The man sighed as he kicked the wildman's bleeding body to the ground, then bent over to help Hafna up. "Are you injured?" he asked, then looked at the man's hand. "I shall assume so, then." he muttered before taking the minstrel's fingers in his own mighty hands and squeezing. Hafna shrieked in pain, then look at his right hand once again. It was as good as new.
Still smiling, the savior went to retrieve his blade. "It would not do for a minstrel to be unable to use his fingers," he explained, sheathing his sword and walking back to the piper. "Those wildmen scattered your possessions about quite messily,though; allow me to help you retrieve them."
Before Hafna knew it, all of his possessions were back in his pack and he was walking down the road beside the man who had save him. It was then that he said, "I thank you, sir, for all that you have done for me. But I must know, what is your name? You saved my life, placing me in your debt."
The man stopped in his tracks, his smile disappearing as he looked Hafna straight in the eye. "You are sure of this?" he asked. Hafna nodded, and the man's smile returned.
"That is good, friend minstrel," he said, "I see that you have honour, something respectable in any man. Very well; my names is Conchobor, Warrior of Warriors. You have heard of me?"
"Who hasn't?" Hafna gasped, "You are the most famous hero of all the legends! He who has rallied a thousand armies, he who has slain a horde of every race that calls man its foe, he who knows not death nor fear of it! And you are this man of legend? The greatest of heroes? The Warrior of Warriors? The man above all other men?" He fell to his knees and bowed. "I am your servant, great Conchobor!"
Conchobor chuckled, pulling Hafna to his feet. "That's enough of that," he smiled, "Whether you believe it or not, I am quite used to people saying such things. For some reason, no man has ever even questioned me as to whether or not I have spoken truth of my identity, nor shown even the slightest hint of thinking that I may tell a lie. At first I blamed pure gullibility, but I soon grew accustomed to such treatment."
As they continued walking, Hafna said, "If you wish for anything from me, anything at all, my hero, then I shall do all that is in my power to do it."
Conchobor clapped Hafna companionably on the shoulder. "If you've wish to fulfill your self-made debt," he said, "Then merely travel with me for a while longer; there is something that I wish to show you."
"Certainly," Hafna responded, "But what is this thing that you wish to show me."
Conchobor gave no reply. Rather, he looked up through the arbors high above and into the sky. "The sun has almost reached the end of the West," he noted, "We'll have to make camp soon."
* * * * *
Not another word did the pair exchange until they had found a small grove off the road to rest in for the night. A babbling stream bubbled nearby, adding soothing music to the mild, gentle atmosphere. Fireflies danced and flitted about playfully, giving the air around a warm, cheery glow. Conchobor said nothing but kept smiling calmly as he made the fire, and the two sat on opposite sides of it, eating a dinner of dried meat and bread. It was then that Hafna breeched the subject again; "What exactly was it that you wished to show me, Warrior of Warriors?"
Conchobor leaned back against a nearby tree, still smiling. "You shall know it when I have shown it to you," he said, "But in the meantime, we shall both need our rest. Good night, friend minstrel." With that he closed his eyes and seemed instantly to fall asleep.
Hafna lay back against another nearby tree and pondered the man's words. Such a reclusive attitude would have infuriated him coming from another man, but somehow it was different with Conchobor. There was just something unexplainable about the man, something that made a person like him instantly. Hafna paid nary a thought to that fact that Conchobor had never even asked his name; perhaps it was just that aspect about him that made such facts inconsequencial. He did not know what it was, but maybe it would become clear with time...
Hafna sighed contentedly, laying back and letting the dancing lights of the fireflies dazzle his tired, bleary vision. Just on the edge of slumber, his lids sagging so heavily that they almost dropped, Hafna fancied he could see something crawl out of the nearby stream. Some spirit or sprite, perchance? Or maybe it was a faery or other creature of the lakes, who knew? Perhaps it was all but a dream...
The still, calm air was split by a resounding battle-cry, and soon Hafna was wide awake, staring with shock as Conchobor, the crier, charged at the thing with his blade a-swing. The creature of the water, as it turned out, was none of the things that the minstrel had guessed it would be, but a monstrous creature. Covered in sick green scales, the thing had a horse's head, webbed claws, large fangs and glowing green eyes. It was a third taller than the Warrior of Warriors, yet still he attacked it, swinging his blade at the beast's head. The monster jumped back, making a sound between a whinny and a croak, then swung out with its right claw. Conchobor jumped back just in time to avoid the swing, then thrust forward, aiming for the creature's heart. The being jumped to the right, this time swinging its left claw as it did so. Conchobor ducked under the flailing limb, turned around and stabbed into the creature's undefended back.
The monster gave its whinnying croak as it fell to its knees, green blood oozing from its fang-filled maw as it tried to turn its head around and gnash at its killer. Conchobor, however, drew his blade and swung it, cutting the beast's ugly head from its shoulders. Blood fountained from the foul being's neck as its headless body hit the ground, leaving Conchobor standing over it with heaving shoulders. His smile seemed now to be a thing of the past; now his face was hard and serious as he walked over to Hafna.
"Are you alright, friend minstrel?" he asked.
Hafna nodded, rising shakily to his feet. "Wha-wha-wha..." he stammered, "What was that thing?"
"It was a kelpie," Conchobor explained, easing the man back down, "A dastardly creature, a demon who murders innocents for its food. They like women and children in particular, and live underwater. Still," he regarded the brook, which babbled just as cheerfully as it had when they had found this grove, "This stream is a bit shallow for these beasts' liking. This kelpie was sent here, and I should think that I know by whom."
"You mean that you know?" Hafna asked, "So who did send this monster at us?"
Conchobor's smile returned, although it came with a subtle edge this time. "I should sleep now, friend minstrel," he said, returning to the tree that he himself had been leaning against, "We are safe now that the kelpie is dead, and the road tomorrow is long indeed. And as to your questions, all shall be answered by sunrise of the next day." And with that his eyes closed once again, although this time Conchobor's smile faded as sleep took grip of him.
Still on edge by this night's events, Hafna settled back down and tried to gain hold of the sleep that had been so close in his grasp before the kelpie had appeared. Conchobor was still a mystery to him, and may be forever. Hafna had heard tales of the dangers the man had faced down in his life, and while such sounded glorious in the epics and poems, real danger was never to be scoffed at.
Whatever Conchobor had in store for him, Hafna had the feeling that he was not going to like it. Even so, the man had told him of his respect for honour, and how could he dare disappoint this Warrior of Warroirs, this Man of Men? He would see this through, come hell or high winter. He just hoped that he would live to sing about it some time later.
* * * * *
The two men walked all the next day, surrounded by stone silence. Eventually trees gave way to grassy fields as they journeyed onwards, neither saying a word. Sometimes Hafna looked to his side at Conchobor, whose eyes seemed ever fixed on the road ahead. The man's expression remained in neutral the entire trip, something that left Hafna just a bit unsettled.
Still, not for a wink did Hafna even consider leaving the other's side. He had made a promise, one that he fully intended to honour.
Then, late in the evening, when the sun was beginning to set in the Western horizon, a shadow seemed to fall across the fields around. Both men stopped dead in their tracks as the shadow drew clower, revealing itself to be not a massive shadow but a horde of hundreds, maybe thousands, of unnatural creatures.
Mechanically, Conchobor drew his sword and handed it to Hafna. "You take it for now," he ordered, "You may need it."
"What?" Hafna asked, "What is the..."
Conchobor pointed stiffly at the advancing army. "That," he explained, "Is a horde of lesser demons, no doubt sent by the one who sent the kelpie at us last night. For me," he started to march towards them, both hands balled up into fists, "They are but a hindrance."
"But Conchobor," Hafna argued, "This is madness! Surely even you cannot defeat such a number alone! You..."
Conchobor stopped and glared sternly over his shoulder. "Stay back if you value your life," he commanded.
Hafna could only watch as the dark tide swarmed around the hero, their black bodies obscurring him from view. The sounds of shrieking and fighting filled the air, until Conchabor seemed to slowly but steadily levitate from the midst of the swarm, fighting the demons tooth and nail as he did so. It was not long before Hafna realized that the man was standing on a steadily growing pile of dead bodies, and for a stunned moment could only watch as the man fought, grabbing weapons from his enemies and using them to add more and more demons to the ones who already lay beneath his feet.
The demons, however, were relentless and single-minded in their attack; they charged up the hill of bodies at Conchobor, each seeking to rend the life from the hero's body. To Hafna, who stood fearfully to the side of all this, it would not be long before the great man tired and succumbed to the sheer number of foes that assailed him.
Something had to be done, but what could a single man possibly do?
Hafna looked at the worn and beaten blade in his hand. "You can do your best," a voice from somewhere whispered. It took Hafna a little while to realize that it was his own, but when he did he looked back at the brave, fighting figure of Conchobor.
Grim determination now blazing in his eyes, Hafna took the blade in both hands, let out a wild battle-cry, and charged forward.
The first demon Hafna came across died without knowing what had hit it. Another turned about just in time to block a blow from Hafna's blade. Before it could attack, however, the minstrel had struck again, knocking the demon's weapon down so that another hack could open its skull. He then turned to another demon, whose attention he seemed to have caught.
The demon shrieked as it charged, swinging its axe. Hafna dodged to the side, swinging his blade into the creature's back as it charged past. Another couple of demons turned to him, each swinging its weapon. Hafna blocked, then struck. One of the demons blocked while the other charged at him, stabbing with its long dagger. Hafna swung his own sword, beating back the latest attack, then stabbed the other demon in the shoulder. Pulling free, he then jumped back as yet another three demons joined the fray, each swinging madly at him with their weapons.
Hafna fought furiously to repel them, grabbing the sword from the next demon he killed and using it in his other hand; although he was right handed, he figured that using a weapon in his left hand could do no harm. He fought and fought, killing a demon every so often but mostly just frantically beating back their weapons as more and more crowded around the man.
The minstrel, however, was unaccustomed to both battle and any exercise greater than walking or playing an instrument. His arms burned as he forced himself to swing wildly, not caring whether he killed the demons or merely warded them back, just that he was still alive and fighting. He was frightened now of death that seemed imminent; gone from him was the spur of courage that had driven him to such madness in the first place. How could he have gotten himself into this...how...
Something hit him on the back of the head, and Hafna succumbed to numb oblivion.
* * * * *
Hafna awoke early the next morning, so early that the dawn had barely begun to stain the sky blood-red. He tried to get up, but instead fell back with a gasp of agony; his entire body burned! Painfully raising a single hand, he saw that his entire arm was covered in bandages, seemingly torn from brown wool...
"And so the hero awakens," came a familiar voice to his right. Turning his head weakly to the side, Hafna saw the Warrior of Warriors lying in the field beside him, casual and relaxed.
"You took quite a beating there," Conchobor said conversationally, "I came just in time to save you, and even then I had to tear up my entire shirt and cloak to bandage your wounds. You do have courage, something anyone can respect." The two fell into uncomfortable silence for a while. Then Conchabor asked, "So, did you pass?"
"Pass what?" Hafna asked wearily.
"Your own test of manhood," Conchobor answered, "You know damned well of what I speak."
"Um," Hafna's thoughts were still a bit muddled, but his head was clearing somewhat. "Did I?"
"Did you what?" Conchobor grinned, "Become a man? Is that what you're asking? Well, I shall tell you that in my opinion, no, you did not become a man there. In fact, in my opinion, you were a man long before you met me."
Seeing the confused look on Hafna's face, Conchobor sighed, looking up into the sky as he continued. "You know, friend minstrel, when you become as well-travelled as I, seen as many people, done as many things, you find out that there are many opinions as to what really makes a man a man. Some say it comes to you at a certain age. Others that you gain your manhood by right of combat. Others believe that proof of qualities like courage, strength, determination and suchlike are what make a man a man. Still others believe that you can only be a man by having a woman, or otherwise by forcing her into the dirt like a dog. Now tell me, what really makes a man a man?"
"I do not know," Hafna admitted, "You are the Warrior of Warriors, Man of Men. What do you say?"
Conchobor chuckled. "None of them," he replied, "Plenty of cowardly, vicious people can claim that they lived to a certain age, thus making them men. Anybody can fight and win with a bit of luck, or if their opponent is weaker than they. Qualities like courage and so on are plenty respectable, but plenty of men are still men without either having or needing to prove such attributes. I of all people know that women make enjoyable company, but merely having one does not make you a man. Gods know that beating them down does not make you a man; if you trod all over people just because they are weaker or of a different gender, then that only proves you to be a coward and a bully."
Hafna lay in silence for a while, digesting this new wisdom. "I see," he murmered finally, "So, if none of these things make a man a man, then what does?"
"It is the goodness of your heart," Conchobor said, placing his hand over his heart for emphasis, "You could be as old as the mountains, as battle-scarred as my own blade, as strong and brave and determined as a god, with a thousand wives who you beat and tread on a regular basis, but none of it counts for anything if you've no goodness in your heart. Especially the last bit." He added with emphasis.
Hafna nodded in understanding. "I suppose it helps to have a certain set of organs too, eh?" he gave chuckled.
Conchobor grinned widely, then burst out laughing. Hafna did likewise, until the sun rose over two figures prostrate in their merriment. When the two men rose, wiping tears of laughter from their eyes, Hafna looked around blearily. The field was littered with demon corpses, with the great pile standing out like a hill in the middle of it all. There seemed, however, to be something - or someone - standing on the top of it...
Conchobor's eyes grew suddenly grim as he beheld what Hafna had. "It's him." he growled.
The two approached the pile of slain demons until they could clearly see who stood on top of it. It was an old man, garbed in flowing white robes with a long, ivory beard to match. A golden sickle hung from his belt, and he leaned on a knobby old staff. The man was obviously a druid, but what he was doing here was anybody's guess.
"At last we meet, Meisceadhra, Druid of Druids," Conchobor's voice boomed across the fields.
"What?" Hafna asked, looking up at the man, "You mean that this is truly Meisceadhra, the most powerful druid in all the world? Raiser of Mountains, Churner of Seas..."
"Friend of the Flame, Rider of Wind, Creater and Destroyer of Life," Meiscreadhra smiled down at them, "My reputation preceeds me, I see; surely you have heard of my many exploits..."
"Each and every one a fabrication," Conchobor spat contemptuously, "I know how you really rose to your fame; by mongering for foes, causing disastors only to prevent them when enough eyes were watching, summoning hordes of demons like the ones you sent at us to ravage lands so you could come in at the last moment and play the hero by making them disappear...I know your games, druid. I saw it all when you linked your mind to mine to issue your challenge; you are lower than the dirt under my boot."
Meisceadhra twitched at this insult, but rallied magnificently. "Deluded you are indeed," he grinned, "But I shall still have no pity upon you. You accepted my challenge, to match the Warrior of Warriors against the Druid of Druids, and now that you have done so I shall crush you like the dirt beneath my boot." He burst out, laughing raucously as dark clouds churned across the sky, gradually blocking out the sun.
"I sincerely doubt that," Conchobor said, "But before we engage in battle, I must let one thing be known. This man," he referred to Hafna, "is a minstrel, and is here only to record the outcome of this battle. Whatever you do to me, you must let him go free, that he may tell the world of the deeds that are done this day."
Meisceadhra nodded respectfully, raising his hand in oath. "Not a hair shall be singed from his head by my magic," he solemnly swore, then grinned. "Besides, it would be a shame to let my greatest victory ever slip by without the world's notice, would it not?"
Conchobor spat in disgust, drawing his blade. "Let's just see this over with," he snarled, then began to climb up the pile.
Meisceadhra laughed, holding out his hands with fingers splayed. From the end of each came a grew a giant snake, all hissing as they slithered down towards the hero. Conchobor, however, hacked the head from each one before continuing his ascent.
Sighing with boredom, the Druid of Druids twirled his finger, creating a cloud of sharp, icy crystals, then flung it down at Conchobor. The Warrior of Warriors, however, just climbed straight through it without a second thought.
Now the druid was starting to become annoyed. Chanting several magic words, he sent a great gale at the man, hoping to blow him into the earth itself. Conchobor, however, did not even slow his pace.
Crying out with frustration, the Druid of Druids blasted the man with an assortment of deadly spells. Shards of ice and hail rained from the sky, lightning lept from Meisceadhra's fingertips, demons leapt from holes in the ground to his aid, fire streaked across the air, and many more dangerous spells all concentrated upon the Warrior of Warriors, who took it all in his stride as he continued the climb.
Then, finally, when the mighty man had reached the top of the pile, Meisceadhra found that he would have to fight hand-to-hand. Shifting through a variety of frightening shapes while at the same time bombarding the warrior with more and more destructive spells, the Druid of Druid battled the Warrior of Warriors. And all the while, Hafna watched in awe and horror as the battle continued atop the mountain of dead demons, a storm of magic almost blocking both fighters from view. In the end, however, he knew that there could be only one victor.
Personally, Hafna hoped that it would be Conchobor who emerged alive.
And then suddenly the storm of magic began to dissipate, until all that was left atop the pile of dead demons was the Warrior of Warriors, who roared and swung his weapon in anger. He stumbled down to the bottom of the pile, cursing and swearing all the way, and then stood before Hafna, heaving with rage.
"What happened?" the minstrel asked.
"That coward," raged Conchobore, "He blew himself away on the wind, the fiend!"
"What is wrong with that?" Hafna asked, "You have won then! He was too much a coward to finish the duel, and the world shall remember it forever because of my song!"
"That does not matter," the Warrior of Warriors growled, "What matters is that the monster still lives! And I think I know just where he is!" With that the man started running as fast as he could.
"Conchobor! Wait!" Hafna cried as he chased the man, "He's not worth it! Let him go! Please! Wait!" But the Warrior of Warriors was much too fast; soon he was completely out of sight, and Hafna's burning limbs forced him to slow to a steady walk.
Hafna travelled all the rest of the day and far into the night until his feet could carry him no further. He collapsed on the ground in the darkness, vaguely aware of the sounds of "Chop...chop...chop...CRASH..." somewhere nearby.
* * * * *
Hafna awoke late that day at the doorstep of a forest of oaks. Or, at least, what had once been a forest of oaks. Many had now been completely cut down, as if by some sword-wielding maniac. Hafna journeyed a while into the forest, then stopped and stared.
Conchobor was there, hacking madly at all of the oak trees. Sweat slicked his entire powerful form, but still he attacked the trees with a vengeance, cleaving most asunder with but a few blows. He did not even notice as the shocked minstrel approached, and did not even look up as the man spoke.
"Conchobor," Hafna asked, "What are you doing? Have you gone mad? Why have you done all of this?"
"Meisceadhra," the Warrior of Warriors snarled without pausing, "That son of a bitch is here somewhere!"
"But why do you attack the trees?" Hafna asked, "Surely he cannot be one of them?"
"Indeed," Conchobor snarled, hacking down yet another tree and turning to another, "But he can use illusion to make himelf look like one."
Hafna paused as Conchobor continued chopping, at a total loss for words. Then he said, "Conchobor, I think that you have taken this too far. He is a coward, and he cannot hide forever. But right now you must rest!"
"I need no rest," the Warrior of Warriors grunted, doubling the speed of his assault on the trees.
"Yes you do," Hafna persisted, "You may be a real man, and a great one at that, but you are still but a man, and all men have their limits." He placed a hand on the man's sweat-slick shoulder. "Conchobor..."
It was then that the mighty warrior swung around with an animalistic growl, swinging his hand. Hafna fell back, his lip split and the tang of blood filling his mouth. At first Conchobor stood, staring with shock and disbelief at what he had just done. Then, grunting angrily, he turned back to the trees with redoubled vigour.
Hafna slowly sat up, wiping the blood from his lip with his sleeve. He felt no anger or resentment towards the man, only pity, only concern. He wished that there was something he could do to help, but alas there was not. This was a lesson that the Man of Men had to learn for himself.
And for his part, Hafna had still sworn to record the outcome. So he would stay as well.
* * * * *
Late that evening, Conchobor had hewn down the second to last tree. Heaving and panting with exhaustion, he almost collapsed into Hafna's waiting arms. "You have done enough," Hafna told him soothingly, "If he were here, then you'd have killed the man already. Face it; he is gone and you need a rest."
The Warrior of Warriors laughed half-heartedly. "But see," he said, "There is one more tree left. It is that cowardly dog, I know it! And he is weak, too; else he'd have made his escape long ago!"
"But Conchobor," Hafna argued, "You stand upon death's doorstep! You have proven your strength a thousand times over already, and a thousand times more just now! At least rest a moment!"
"I will not," Conchobor heaved, "This is not a test of strength, this is something that needs to be done! If I allow Meisceadhra to escape now, then I have doomed many! This is something that I have to do!"
Then, before Hafna could stop him, Conchobor roared and charged at the last tree, bringing his sword about in a final, mighty swing. The oak's image rippled, then faded, leaving only the stunned figure of Meisceadhra, Druid of Druids, standing there.
As Hafna watched, the druid's head fell off and rolled across the ground.
After a moment, two bodies hit the ground at the same time; the headless corpse of Meisceadhra, and the body of Conchobor. Hafna hurried to his friend's side, cradling the exhausted hero in his arms. Conchobor was in a poorly state indeed, though; his breathing was erratic, his pulse was pounding, his entire body was red. Even the greatest man in the world has his limits, and this was proof.
"Conchobor," Hafna said to him, "Conchobor, please, stay with me, please...don't die, Conchobor, please, don't..."
Conchobor gasped, his body jerking violently. Hafna shut his eyes and shuddered; the man's nervous system was already shutting down. The warrior, however, spoke again. "M...minstrel...friend," he said shakily, "I...thank you...should have...listened...you were right...all...along..."
And so Conchobor, Warrior of Warriors, Man of Men, then breathed his last and fell still. Hafna, still holding his body, broke down weeping over his friend's dead body. Even the greatest man in the world was just a man when you came right down to it; if only Conchobor had realized this before his end.
* * * * *
The song of the battle between Conchobor and Meisceadhra soon spread far and wide, growing in the telling as it did. It was said that somebody who had been purposefully left out of the story had taken the brain of the Druid of Druids, mixed it with lime and turned it into a rock-hard ball, a priceless trophy which had found its way to the mighty city of Rachairn in the Northlands. Some say that it had been made for the vast power surely held by the mind of such a powerful magician, yet still others preferred to think of it as a monument to the achievements of the greatest man in the world, and proof that all men, no matter how weak or mighty, are still only men in the end.
Whichever reason was the right one is still unkown. That is, unknown by all save one.
And this one was a simple man - but a real man none the less - named Hafna.
THE END.