The hall of Aidhne smelled of peat smoke and damp wool. Thin light poured through narrow slits, catching upon iron rivets and glistening in puddles on the flagstones; remnants of last night's storm, which had battered the fortress like a siege.
King Conchobar mac Murchadha sat upon his seat of oak and carved boar tusk, his gray cloak heavy across his shoulders, brow furrowed as he listened to the breathless messenger who knelt on the rushes before him.
"...burned, my king. Athenry is nothing now but char and ruin. The Norse came upon it by the river, like carrion crows upon a lamb. They bore casks of some witch's fire that clung to stone and water alike. It melted the walls from beneath. The High King Maél... he is taken."
Gasps spread among the gathered chieftains. A steward crossed himself in trembling haste. A bard clutched his harp to his chest, as if to still his own heart.
