The smoke from the funeral pyre rose into the winter-blue sky, taking with it the mortal remains of the High King. Flurries of wind blew in from the sea and sent grains of sand flying up the beach, before fanning the flames and bearing the stink of burning wood and flesh to the funeral party. Foremost amongst the mourners were Conor and Diarmuid, sons of the High King and kings in their own right. Just behind them stood Bé Chuille, the bandrúi to the late High King. They stood as close to the pyre as they dared, watching the flames consume the High King's corpse.

"Now there is but one matter to be settled," Conor said to his brother.

Diarmuid nodded in response. "Aye. Who is to be the next High King. It would have been easier if father had named one or the other as his heir."

"But he did not."

The two kings stared at each other: Conor, thin as a whip and cunning as a fox; Diarmuid, a man who could wrestle a bull and wield the Gáe Bulg.

"Would you consent to a contest of wits?" Conor asked.

"No more than you would to a trial of strength," Diarmuid replied.

Bé Chuille's reedy voice came from behind them. "And if you fight, the kingdom shall be riven for a thousand years." The bandrúi bowed respectfully to the brothers.

Conor glanced at the woman. "And what would you have us do? Would you have a kingdom without a king?"

"Or would you have us share the throne?" Diarmuid asked. "No doubt with you to watch over us as our nursemaid?"

Bé Chuille resisted the urge to slap the two men for their impudence. It would gain her nothing. Instead, she kept her voice level and her expression neutral. "A kingdom without a king is nothing. And one divided will soon be beset both from within and without. Perhaps you should settle this with a game?"

"A game? Are you mad, woman?" Diarmuid pointed at his brother. "That hands the kingdom to him! I - !"

"Quiet!" Conor and Diarmuid flinched at the steel in Bé Chuille's voice. She softened her tone. "You could play each other at the game of kings, the game of fidchell."

"How?" Conor swept his arms, the gesture encompassing the beach and all that stood on it. "Unless someone here has brought a board and pieces with them, we cannot play here."

Bé Chuille stamped her foot. "The sand shall be our board. And warriors shall be your pieces. And you," she pointed at the brothers, "shall be the kings."

"It is still a game," Diarmuid snarled. He glared at the bandrúi. "And that gives the advantage to my brother."

"Not when the pieces fight with sword and spear."

The two kings stood in silence, contemplating Bé Chuille's plan. Conor spoke first. "Aye. It seems a fair challenge to me. A test of both mind and body."

Diarmuid nodded. "We shall see which one is sharper, then - my spear or your wits." He turned to Bé Chuille. "Very well. In which case, I shall attack."

Conor shrugged. "Very well. Then I shall defend." He smiled wryly. "It seems we are agreed on this, brother."

It did not take long to lay out the board for the game of fidchell. First, an area of sand as big as a hundred cowhides was cleared. Then lines were drawn to mark out the board. Meanwhile, Conor and Diarmuid went amongst their supporters, selecting the best of the warriors they had. Both knew that any lack of skill in the game on their part would be made up by the skill in arms of their men. Then, when all was ready, Bé Chuille's voice rang out above the surf: "We shall play!"

The two brothers led their men onto the board. Conor and his eight men took up their position at the centre, while Diarmuid and his fifteen lined up on each side.

"Shall we, brother?" Diarmuid called out.

""Your move," Conor responded.

And the game began.

Diarmuid began by moving his warriors to the centre of the board, hoping to press his brother's forces. Conor responded cautiously. With only eight men to protect him, he had to be wary of every move his brother made. Meanwhile, the mourners watched the men move around the board and whispered amongst themselves, discussing the strengths (and weaknesses) of the players. More than once, Bé Chuille had to hiss at the spectators, admonishing them to respect the game and be quiet.

The first to fall was Fionn, an impetuous young man in the service of Diarmuid. A blow to the shoulder broke his shield arm and left him vulnerable to the killing stroke. Diarmuid glared across the board at his brother. "Is this how it is to be?"

Conor laughed. "And would you have spared me, had it been my shield split by your sword?"

The game continued. Conor and Diarmuid played their men like the kings they were. They were aware that their pawns were not pieces of carved bone, but were men of flesh and blood. However, they cared only for the endgame and who would be the High King. Despite Conor's superior fidchell skills, the lesser number of warriors on his side soon told and he was forced to retreat them, to give them more time to recover from the constant harrying by his brother. He became nervous, his attention flitting between protecting his men and protecting himself.

Diarmuid continued to press his advantage. He attacked relentlessly, wearing down Conor and his forces with constant assaults. His quick moves confounded Conor's more considered game. Twice he came close to defeating his brother with a pawn swiftly moved behind him, but Conor survived these - just!

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across beach, the once smooth sand became raddled with blood and the signs of battle. The dead and those unable to fight were dragged from the fidchell board and placed to one side. Conor kept retreating until he was confined to a corner of the board - and still his brother advanced, grinding flesh and bone in the mortar of the game. Then, with Conor's force reduced to a third of what he had begun with, Diarmuid strode forth from behind his guard. He was still strong and fresh, despite having been blooded in the day's battle.

"You have fought bravely," he declared. "And that I respect. I do not wish to have the crows feast on the bodies of men who would be willing to stand in my army. Those who wish to do so may leave the field. They will be welcome to feast in my hall."

The eldest of Conor's remaining men shook his head. "King Diarmuid - we must refuse. We are Conor's men, sworn to his service. If we abandon him, we will be forever shamed. If we were to join you, who would ever trust us by their side?"

"Aye," said Diarmuid sadly. "I understand." He clapped one of his men on the shoulder. "Give this man the death of a warrior. He deserves no less for his courage and loyalty."

Diarmuid's swordsman lifted his weapon and - "Stop!" Conor cried. He went down on one knee. "Brother, too many have died to settle this argument. I shall yield the game and release my men from their oaths. Reward them with their lives."

"And I shall be High King?" Diarmuid asked suspiciously. He sensed trickery, but was not sure what it was that Conor was planning.

"For as long as you live, brother."

"I accept." Diarmuid strode towards his brother. "But what is to be done with you, Conor? I do not want to kill you, but to let you live would be to have a fox amongst my hens."

"You should do what I would do," Conor said, staring into his brother's eyes.

"And what is that?"

Conor's hand moved swiftly, bringing his sword up and under his brother's armour, into his stomach and through his heart. Diarmuid tried to protest, but his strength failed him and he sank to the ground, his body lifeless.

Diarmuid's men stood for a moment, unsure what to do. Then, as one, they walked forward, their weapons drawn to revenge their king. However, Bé Chuille put herself between them and Conor. "Stop! Conor is now the High King!"

One of Diarmuid's men raised his sword to the bandrúi. "He broke his word! He surrendered, then used the truce to betray his own brother!"

Bé Chuille slapped the warrior twice across the face, setting his ears ringing and his head spinning. "Fool! It is only the victory that matters. Think. What kind of a king would leave himself unguarded? What sort of a man would risk all for a moment of glory? Is that the kind of man who should be High King?"

She stepped back and offered her hand to Conor to help him to his feet. "And have you learnt your lesson?" she whispered to him.

"I have." Conor rested on Bé Chuille's shoulder for a moment, weary from his exertions. "Being the High King is harder than a game of fidchell."