The twilight gave an ethereal effect amongst the smoke of the funeral pyres. Around him, many lay dead and mortally injured. Others were in various degrees of absolute exhaustion, but the battle had been won.

When the evening sun still glared on the field, Conn had watched the Morrighan gloat as she fed on the bodies of the dead warriors. He had stood resolute, his eyes unwavering, even when, cawing loudly, she had delved her beak into the flesh of his comrades. It was unimportant now. His comrades had died a man's death and their souls had passed over to the other side. They were lucky. They had met their ancestors and moved on, ready for a new life, a new challenge.

The men were already calling him Conn Ced-catchach, Conn of the hundred battles. Had it really been that many? Probably not, but right now it felt like it. Certainly the bards would say so.

The air stank with the burning bodies and he suddenly became aware of how much his eyes stung. Looking about himself, he saw his son, Briuin. He swallowed; his throat was hoarse from shouting in the heat of battle, and yes, probably from the stench of death too. As he looked at his son he reflected, was this the end, or was it a new beginning? And if so, then the start of what he wondered...

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