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  The chariot delivered Donall Ruad Mac Roibeaird to the dolman just as the evening sun touched the horizon. He stepped carefully off the back, and accepted his shield and spear from the charioteer. They spoke no words, merely looked into each other's faces, then Donall Ruad turned towards the dolman as the chariot pulled away.

  He would not need it again; he knew he would not return. Whether anyone would come looking for him in the morning was of little importance, because he would be dead and, he hoped, past caring. His only concern was the location and the task; his only worry was whether he could accomplish what he came to do. As an honorable warrior, he feared failure more than death, but he also feared that he may not truly die.

  A freezing wind gusted, biting his exposed skin and chilling his elderly bones. It was late autumn in Erin, ten days past Samhain, and already the mountains were covered with snow. He tried to wrap his cloak closer around him, but his fingers were too cold from lack of blood while their joints ached maddeningly. He stroked his thick, bushy, gray moustache in an absent manner, then reached up to scratch an itch on his balding, wrinkled scalp under his helmet. As he lowered his hands, he looked at them, and grimaced at the sight of their gnarled fingers, and the loose, parchment-white skin covered in dull brown spots, with blue veins running like ridges along their backs. Not for the first time he reflected on the tribulations of growing old and decrepit, when he should have died on a field of battle in honorable combat. But he had not fought for over thirty years.

  Still, there was no sense in dwelling on what should have been. He had to concentrate on the present situation. The revenant would rise from its grave under the dolman as soon as the sun had fully set. It would emerge from the rock monument and summon its army of walking dead from their tombs and graves. Each night its reach lengthened, allowing it to raise more dead from farther afield. Each night its army ravaged the countryside, as its soldiers killed many dozens, swelling its bloated ranks even more. Warbands sent to crush its forces were themselves massacred, and became its minions the following night. Nothing seemed able to stop its relentless march, and once it conquered the whole of Erin, Donall Ruad held out no hope that the ocean would contain it.

  Only he could stop it, because only he knew where its tomb lay, and only he knew its weakness. Yet he doubted he could accomplish his mission. He was past sixty. His joints ached all over his body, not just his hands; his spine felt as if it had fused solid and his legs were so weak they could not bear his weight for long. Nor could his shoulders any longer carry the shirt of chain mail he wore, or his left arm his shield. And his right could no longer heft his long, slashing sword above his waist. On top of all that he was sick, with a pain in his gut that burned like fire and oft times raged so fiercely he could only double over in agony until it passed.

  Yet greater than any of that was his sorrowful heart, for he had come to destroy the person he loved most in all the world, the companion of his bosom, Somhairle Duhb O Nollaig. And he did not believe he could bring himself to do it.

  Donall Ruad first met Somhairle Duhb when they were both young men. He had just come of age and had journeyed north from his family's holdings in the province of Mamu to Rath Cruachain, the capital of the province of Connachta, in hopes of joining a warband so that he might earn glory and booty. Connachta was at war with its neighbor, the province of Ulaid, and that seemed to him a better opportunity than trying closer to home. Nor was he disappointed: after only a couple of days the king's youngest son inducted him into his band, the same day as Samhairle Duhb.

  Donall was called 'the Red' for his copper hair and fiery temper, whereas Somhairle was named 'the Black' for his raven hair, morbid mirth, and equally morbid melancholia. Despite these differences, they found they had much in common. Thus, it wasn't long before the other members of the band started calling them "na Cuplai", or The Twins, because they were never separated. They fought together as if they were a single man, riding the same chariot into battle and fighting the same opponents. They ate as one man, sported and caroused as one man, and lived as one man, even sharing the same bed. Nor did the others fail to notice that they shared the same mutual affection. While all the other members shared relations with each other, that shared by the Twins was stronger and more passionate, based as it was on true devotion. As their love for each other grew, they became closer than brothers, closer even than husband and wife. It was as if they possessed separate halves of the same soul, now made one by their companionship.

  They remained with the warband for two years, gaining glory and booty, which they shared as they did everything else. Then Connachta and Ulaid made peace and the warbands disbanded. Many of the warriors elected to stay in Connachta to make lives for themselves there, but Donall Ruad returned home to his family holdings, and Somhairle Duhb accompanied him. They had by that time grown so close they confided their deepest secrets to each other. What Donall confided to Somhairle no one knows, but Somhairle revealed that he had been fathered by a Fomorian who had captured and raped his mother. That was why he had been named after his maternal grandfather, to hide the secret of his parentage. Donall could sympathize. The Fomorians were demons from the elder days long before the Gaels took Erin for themselves. Though they were mostly gone, a few still haunted the wild places where no man would live, or slept in the deepest recesses of the ancient passage tombs that dotted the island.

  The Twins soon settled into the life of members of Erin's aristocratic warrior elite. Though they no longer lived as closely as they had done before, they still raided and fought together, and most times slept together. Eventually they both took wives and started families to continue their lines, so their trysts grew less frequent, but if anything their relationship grew stronger. To cement it with what they thought was an unbreakable bond, they each placed a geis on the other, that if one should be fated to fall in battle, the other would die with him. In turn they swore their respective families to oaths that they should be buried together in the same grave, so that they might never be parted.

  As the years went by, the Twins prospered. They grew rich on cattle, treasure, and bondmaids seized in raids on their neighboring clans and tribes. More important, their mighty personal prestige made them leaders of Donall's clan, and brought them to the attention of the king of Donall's tribe. They became his most stalwart warriors and he sought their advice on questions no one else could answer. The people revered them as great heroes, with standing equal to the mighty men of legend. And it seemed to Donall and Somhairle that it would always be so until the end of their days.

  In the summer of Donall's thirty-sixth year an enemy tribe sent an army north to seize land for the benefit of their overlords. Donall's tribe, reinforced by its overlords, sent its forces south to meet the invaders. The Twins accompanied them, leading their clan's warriors, but Donall became delayed at the Ruachtach River, and Somhairle went ahead of him. Early the next morning, as he made the crossing, a mist swirled in out of nothing, and on the far shore he saw a cyclopean figure standing in the water. As he came closer, he saw it was a giantess, with long, orange-red hair, wearing a simple white gown.

  His gut froze as he recognized her: Badbh the Washer, the second of the three aspects of the Morrigan, the goddess of war, who washed the clothes of the warriors fated to die. And indeed, in her enormous hands she held a bloodstained tunic, which she soaked and massaged as she tried to remove the gore. Donall grew sick as he recognized the garment, but it was not his own. It resembled the new shirt he had presented to Somhairle the same day they started out to meet their enemies. The Badbh raised her head and stared at him, and he knew in his heart that his bosom companion would die that very day.

  A thick curtain of mist obscured his vision, and when it dissipated the giantess had vanished. Once he reached the shore, he ran as fast as he could force himself, heedless to his own safety. When he reached the plain, it felt as if his heart would burst, but he did not pause to rest. The battle had begun, and he could see Somhairle in the t
hick of it, surrounded by half a dozen of the enemy. He fought ferociously, but without his other half to guard his back, he was as disadvantaged as a man who had lost his right arm.

  Gulping air, Donall threw himself into the melee and pushed himself towards his comrade. Oblivious to his exhaustion, he fought like a madman, hewing bodies left and right, cutting down anyone who got in his way, friend and foe alike. He carved a bloody path through the horde of men, and came to within a dozen feet of his goal. Then a spear pierced Somhairle in the stomach and emerge out his back. As he faltered, swords hacked at his flesh, and he fell to his knees. One warrior poised himself in front of the stricken man and sliced his throat with his dirk. In a spray of blood, Somhairle fell backwards and lay still.

  Roaring like a rabid bear, Donall leapt at the murderers even as they stooped to carry off the body for a trophy. Taken by surprise, they fell in rapid succession to his swinging sword, without a single chance to defend themselves. When they lay dead at his feet, Donall stood over them, gasping for breath, and he felt his fury drain from him like