“You will lend me yours,” said Fiachra.
Conachúr stared on the fierce circle that surrounded him. He stared at Iollann, who stood with his back to the Red Branch swinging his blade, and he knew that the combat must take place.
“Iollann and I were born on the same night,” said Fiachra. “It is an equal combat.”
Conachúr took off his own battle-coats and gave them to Fiachra. He gave him his shield, the enchanted Aicean, and his green sword.
“Fight, then,” he said, “and remember my teaching. Remember my shield work and my thrust.”
They fought then, but at the first stroke from Iollann the great shield roared; for that virtue was in the Bright-Rim, to roar when the man it covered was struck at, and in answer to its roar the Three Waves of Ireland, the Wave of Tua, the Wave of Clíona, and the Wave of Rury, roared in reply, and thereby all Ireland knew that a king was in danger.
Away in the palace Conall Cearnach sat drinking, listening to some great brawl, as he thought. He heard the roaring of Aicean, and leaped to his feet.
“The king is in danger!” he said.
He seized his weapons and fled from the palace of Macha, and came on the great combat.