Under cloak and hood, I am well disguised as a spearman of the dark Fraoch. Our leader splits from the Cath Milidh to meet his sacred herd where Morna and Cumhaill clash. Nine of Dobhar's retinue follow after us, making us a formidable military unit. I have no formal combat training, but my experience with sling, tooth and nail is second to none. With a hawk's keen vision, I trust my hand with a spear, and I am anxious to use it. With the head spearman in the lead, five of us widen the gap between cow and Cumhaill - a division originally cut by our fierce Morna allies. Between them and our own shields, we spearmen pass through unscathed, with the faery cows lowing in confusion behind us.

Taking a tuft of coarse golden hair in my fist, I pull myself up, onto the back of the bull, my spear held high over my head. My hood falls away to reveal my woad-smeared face and long mane of russet hair. I screech my hawk-cry; the song of barbed beak and talon! Steering the bull northward, I dig my bare heels into his haunches, and he grunts a reluctant song of submission. The song is new to him, for he has never been conquered by one of my sex. Still, he sings it with beautiful, enthusiastic humiliation, pounding across the grassland with sinewy strength and speed. His faery wives dutifully follow him, protected on all sides by an entourage of Niafer warriors.

There are Cumhaill ahead who will no doubt meet us with sword and spear. Let them come! My spear is hungry for their blood! I shall return home laughing, with the Cumhaill war chief's head impaled upon its point!