His weapons had never been swords and spears, after all. His weapons had always been words. He
could cut a man down with insults and build him up with flattery. With words, he could block, parry and riposte, reducing each and every opponent to a quivering, shivering wreck. ‘I have important information for the high generals and the king. Tey said I should just walk in.’ Now the guard looked at him, frowning. ‘Who are you?’ ‘I’m the Hero of Drumree.’ ‘We’re in Drumree,’ said the guard. ‘I know,’ said Fleece. ‘And that’s what they’re going to call me. Stand aside.’ Te guard frowned and did as he was ordered. Fleece entered the tent. It was a magnificent place, bigger than his own house and infinitely more luxurious. At its centre was a large table, at which crowded the high generals, stabbing their fingers at a map and arguing loudly among themselves. Fleece took a moment, absorbing the energy, figuring out the best way to approach. With all the
sharp words and bluster, with all the blame being hurled back and forth, he realised the only way was his favourite way – using huge amounts of baseless confidence. He strode to the table, gripped the sack by its underside and emptied the headpiece on to the map. It rolled to a stop, and the voices died down. Te high generals stared at it, then at Fleece. High General Cairbre was the first to speak. ‘Tat’s …’ Fleece nodded. ‘I took it from the Fomorian king’s head myself, after I killed him.’ Another high general slapped his hands flat on the table, like he needed support to keep from falling. ‘He’s dead? Gricenchos is dead?’ ‘Indeed he is, sir.’ ‘Tat’s … Tat’s … Who are you?’ ‘Corporal Mordha Fleece, of General Tua’s Infantry, at your service.’
