Prologue & Blood Bonds
--- Prologue ---
Hakon Skadi, warlord and son of a Norvegr Jarl, ripped his
sword across his latest opponent’s gut. A moment later, the
startled Celtic warrior was collapsing, his sword slipping from
his fingers as he crumpled to the ground, slowly dying as he
bled out. With no other opponent ready to challenge him, the
Norvegr warlord smiled in pleasure as he watched his warriors
dispatch the remaining Gaelic fighters facing them. He took a
particular delight in watching those white-haired warriors who
had joined him in his exile, knowing they would be stalwarts in
his goal to dominate a section of his newly adopted homeland.
Covered in blood, his warriors taunted the locals as they cut
down the Celts they faced, who lived south and west of his
Norvegr compatriots on their Isle of Erin.
Hakon and his warriors had ripped through the local Celt
defenses at their latest stop as they traveled up the Shannon
River, using their greater steeds to their advantage. Yet they had
not found the ideal spot to build a fort to defend. He insisted
his warriors leave enough of their rivals alive to tell the story of
each assault on the Gaelic Clans of Erin, each successful and
bloody assault that sent the cream of their warrior class to the
otherworld. Enough to let the rumor spread that a new warlord
had come to this green land and would not be easily displaced.
Let them throw their lives away.
He had searched for a spot to establish a fort for months while
battling locals along the way up the River Shannon. Still, the
lowlands on the ribbon of water had not yet revealed a suitable
place to establish his presence as a new overlord in this strange
green land. Finally, however, rumor had it there was a place
upriver at the intersection of three powerful kingdoms where
he might be able to settle.
Runa, his völva, had foreseen where he sought; she was rarely
wrong. While far from her Gods, she remained an essential
resource in his quest to carve out a place for himself while in
exile in this land. If he could establish himself in this strange
new country, he would undoubtedly draw additional warriors
from his crowded ancestral lands. With these other resources and
their worship of their Asgardian Gods, Runa’s powers would
grow much more potent. And, in turn, sap the strength of the
local Celtic Gods. Power was more than having muscle—he had
to utilize every available resource to ensure victory.
Lost in his thoughts, Hakon nearly missed a Celtic warrior
who had broken through the lines and charged him with a sword
drawn back and ready to take off his head. Instead, he spun left
and let his blade flash out as the Celt overreached his mark, and
his exquisite timing allowed him to slice through the back of
the wild warrior’s neck as he passed. Blood sprayed as the Celt
tumbled dead to the ground, his head nearly severed.
As the battle drew to a close, Hakon Skadi and his warriors
showed how capable they were of dismantling their local rivals in
power. But, before long, he would begin dismantling more than
just opposing warriors—soon, he would rip at the very fabric
of this land that the Celts held dear. Those he would come to
rule would wish for his death a thousand times over, as would
the Tuatha Gods of the land called Erin.
---
Lugh rode before his army of Tuatha Dé Danann warriors
wearing a grim expression of determination. With his glistening,
golden hair streaming behind him, he rode his great white steed,
Énbarr of the Flowing Mane, who had been gifted to him by the
Sea God, Manannán Mac Lir. His stallion carried him faster than
the swiftest wind, able to cross over land or sea without missing
a heartbeat or a stride. With Ćroí Dàn, the Heart of Destiny,
pressed against his chest, held there by a golden chain, the Sun
God lifted his magical sword, Claimh Solais, high over his head
and linked it with the heroic magic of the Heart of Destiny.
The combined power of the Sword of Light and Ćroí Dàn
lit the sky ablaze with a rose-colored hue. It provided his host
of warriors a path through the darkness woven by the mages
of his enemy, casting magic that gave his warriors the courage
to ride against the demons arrayed across the field in front of
them. Over each shoulder was slung Lann Dàn, two long, diamond-
bladed weapons with oak hafts that cast balefire into the
demon’s ranks, their power drawn to the dark magic flowing
through the demi-giants.
The Sun God rode before staggering defenses of the foul
Fomorians and drove his frontal assault into their ranks without
mercy. He let Gae Assal fly, his magical spear seeking out the
misshapen, magic-twisted creatures created by the dark mage king
Balor. They held the enemy front lines, each standing
eight to ten feet tall and swinging massive clubs studded with
iron spikes. Yet Gae Assal dodged their swipes to deflect it, and
it impaled first one, then another, and another until five of the
dark, foul monsters had fallen. Then, with his shining armor
blinding his opponents as if they had gazed directly at the sun,
the spear slapped back into Lugh’s hand. Taking a moment to
pick out his spear’s next target, he cast it again.
Seeing that a sea of enemy warriors was collapsing nearer on
his left, Lugh let his treasured sword, Claimh Solais, swing first
to one side and then the other to clear a path, lightning flowing
from its tip. Like Lann Dàn, the great blade was created by Badb
Catha, also known as the Mórrígan, the Goddess of War. She
had endowed it with the same potent Tuatha magic, and with
it in his hand, he seized the void, the urghabháil an neamhní,
and dealt out death like white-hot rain, cleaving even the most
heavily armored of his opponents from head to heart.
Around him, the battle cries of his fellow warriors joined
their cheers with the dying screams of the Fomorians. After
countless years of fighting, years of throwing men and magic at
each other, Lugh knew victory was close this time. As the Sword
of Light sizzled, he drew his golden spear back to his free hand
again by simply calling to it with his mind. As Gae Assal leaped
across the battlefield, taking Fomorian demi-giants in the back
and out through their guts along the way before slapping back
into his hand, he rallied his Tuatha warriors once more, leading
them away to regroup for one final charge.
The Fomorian leaders, watching the destruction of their
mightiest fighters, knew of but a single recourse to save the day.
And so they wheeled out their monstrous, misshapen mage-king,
the cursed Balor of the Baleful Eye. He had not always been this
way, but a powerful Fomorian sorcerer had caught him trying
to steal a spell and cursed his eye. After that, the prince who
became king was slowly corrupted, body and soul, by the foul
magic of the sorcerer. Balor was now no more than a wretched
soul turned into a demon, a demon who wanted to see everyone
who opposed him dead, and his baleful eye possessed the power
to carry out those desires.
The king’s attendants pulled open his huge, malevolent eye,
causing nearly a thousand Tuatha warriors to wither and die
under one sweep of the dark gaze of its corrupt magical power.
Such was its allure that few could resist looking at the darkness
spewing from the Fomorian mage-king’s eye. Even Balor’s warriors
on the battlefield were lost, but it was the price they had
to pay for stopping the Tuatha.
Sensing what would happen if he did change course, Lugh
called out to his men to break off their assault and let his fleetfooted
horse carry him away from the king’s foul gaze. He watched in
horror, his army’s front line crumpling under his grandfather’s
wicked gaze, and his brave warriors were suddenly
just mounds of dead bodies. Then, unable to hold the evil eye
open any longer, the attendants to the Fomorian mage-king let
the massive lid sag shut.
Fury burned in Lugh over what Balor had done to his warriors,
and without thinking of the danger, he sent his steed Énbarr
speeding back toward the battlefield, back toward the cursed
mage-king, a protective shield of magic springing to life around
him. As the Fomorians struggled to pull Balor’s eye open once
more, Lugh set his enchanted sling, his cloich tabaill, swinging
around his head. Through the darkness, it pulled sunlight
through the clouds, parting them to form a rainbow, and Lugh’s
combined magics drew that rainbow from the sky, creating it
into a sharp-faceted crystal, commonly called a tathlum. His
magic-imbued stone, made of light, dazzled the Fomorians as
he let it fly. Then, after years of battle, Lugh’s aim was true, and
it drove Balor’s baleful eye into the back of his skull. The king
died instantly, and with that death, Lugh finally pushed the
Fomorian followers from the land of Erin.
---
Lugh pulled his attention away from Lia Dàn. He could
not remember how many times he had allowed the Stone of
Destiny to draw him into the past, to relive that battle and live
in those memories as if he were there. How many years had it
been? Indeed, a few thousand. But now, time mattered little to
one such as Lugh, for he was a God. The people of Erin called
him the Sun God, an endearment of which he was rather fond.
The fleeting thoughts faded as the Stone of Destiny reclaimed
his attention. In it could be seen the past, his days of glory, the
battles he had fought, the victories he had won for Erin and the
Tuatha. He had been the focal point in the final defeat of the
Fomorians. Accepting that role had been hard initially because
his mother was of Fomorian blood, and King Balor of the Baleful
Eye was his grandfather. Nonetheless, his father’s Tuathan blood
sang in his veins, and knowing how twisted his grandfather had
become made it easier to crush that part of his family. He held
no remorse about the day he killed his foul grandsire, for the
corrupt Balor had deserved to die.
As Lugh let go of the past, the Lia Dàn drifted to scenes
of other battles, battles yet to come. The Stone of Destiny also
held portents of the future. As it had many times before, its
depths revealed yet more invaders coming to his land. This
time, though, he could not be there to lead his mighty Tuatha
warriors to save Erin. From the otherworld Tuatha city of Falias,
he could only touch the land of Erin in a limited way. No, these
were threats that the fierce fighters of the Gaelic Clans of Erin
would have to deal with alone, and he had faith they would live
up to the challenge.
The Gods of the Tuatha Dé Danann had held sway over Erin
for millennia. With Lugh’s help—for which efforts he had been
transformed from Hero of Erin to the Sun God by the All-Father
God and Mother Goddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann—they
had defeated the Fomorians and subjugated the Fir Bolg. While
most of the Gods of these vanquished peoples withered and died
because few were left to worship them, the costs to the Tuatha
Dé Danann had also been high. It had taken great works of magic
to attain victory, magic that had cost the Tuatha their vitality
and virility. Over the ages, their numbers dwindled.
When the Gaels came to Erin from the mainland region
called Galicia, the Tuatha, as rulers of the land, were eventually
supplanted. The old Gods, led by the All-Father known as Dagda
and the Mother Goddess Danu, had survived this setback because
the Gaels took to worshipping them. At that time, the Gods
created otherworld spaces for the magical Tuatha Dé Danann
people to live in the underhalls, places often referred to as the
fairie realm, giving them pathways of light to their original island
homes of Falias, Findias, Gorias, and Murias. It left the Gaels to
settle over the entire length and breadth of the land called Erin.
The Mother Goddess Danu approached the Sun God and
pulled his attention from the Stone of Destiny, its Gaelic name
being Lia Dàn. Lugh could not help noting that her radiance
was as bright as ever. The Mother of his beloved Erin sat quietly
next to him, asking, “Will that crystal ever lose its luster?”
“Not as long as it continues to show me those glorious battles
I once fought.”
Danu smiled at that, for they had often bantered over his
addiction to the mystical power of Lia Dàn. Then the expression
faded, and she said softly, “I am more concerned about what’s
to come. Centuries have passed, and Erin has enjoyed a time of
relative peace. Aye, the Gaelic clans war among themselves, but
our shores remain mostly untouched. Even the Romans barely
took enough notice of our emerald isle for trading, something
Alba cannot claim. I would say the same thing about the Saxons.”
Lugh frowned, unsure of what the Mother Goddess was
trying to say. “Are you concerned about the Romans or Saxons?
The former’s influence in Alba is on the wane, but the latter has
established a hold in eastern Alba. Celts in the north remain
strong in keeping faith with their old Gods, but many of these
invaders seem to be bringing their Christian God and his martyred
son Jesu with them from the mainland as the Romans did.”
“It’s not a few followers of another God who concerns me,”
Danu replied, her tone almost derisive. “Many Gods have come
and gone over our time, and since these Christians do not believe
in magic, I am not alarmed about such fools. They will soon be
unimportant, and our Aos Dána will prove as much in time.”
Lugh countered, saying, “I have felt the old Gods of Alba
weakening, and now these followers of the One God have come
to Tara, the heart of Erin.”
“They are only a handful, and even those in Tara do not see
them as conquerors,” Danu maintained. “Our Gaels will never
desert us. Yet, as the Book of Invasions foretold, more than raiders
are coming to Erin, and I saw one who just arrived.”
Lugh frowned, asking Danu, “Do you know something I do
not? Have you seen something that I missed? I also use Lia Dàn
to search out invaders who will come from beyond the Ninth
Wave, but there are so many stretched out on the river of time
I’m unsure which of them to be concerned with. Since the Stone
of Destiny has a different view of time, we could easily focus on
the wrong invader.”
“I saw in the Stone an arc on Erin’s wheel of time, where the
white-haired warlord who recently brought his longboats up
the River Shannon will eventually draw hordes of his kind to
our land like the Saxons went to Alba. I looked across the water
and found he comes from Norvegr, a land squeezed between the
Celtic Gauls, the Slavs, and the Germanic tribes, with nowhere
to go except to sea. They follow the Gods of Asgard.”
“Along with others, I saw these white-haired ones as well,”
Lugh said as he finally rose and left Lia Dàn to the Mother
Goddess of Erin. She caressed it while he asked, “If you think
he is just a vanguard of another wave, what do you propose?
As you’ve often reminded me, your Leabhar Námhaid Steach
foretells that as long as the people worship you, the land will
produce Heroes who will rise to meet any invasion. Am I not
proof of that? Did the Book of Invasions not foretell my coming?
Did not your land produce me? Did not Ćroí Dàn choose me to
lead the Tuatha in victory over the Fomorians and the Fir Bolg?”
“Yes, but—”
“But what? Is this invader different?”
“Something tells me he is,” Danu mused, unsure how to
explain her concerns about this white-haired warlord. Her dour
expression didn’t mar the finely etched features of her face as
it would have with most, but it was enough to tell Lugh she
took this invader more seriously than any other in the previous
thousand years.
Setting the Stone of Destiny back on the white marble pillar
on which it usually rested, the Mother Goddess continued, saying,
“It is something in the sight when I touch the wheel of time which
says—be vigilant. If they displace enough of our Gaels, we’ll
have a new set of Gods, a mighty collection of their Asgardian
Gods, to contend with. Lia Dàn confirmed this when it showed
me that to remove this white-haired lord from the land, a Hero
like you, one bound by the blood of both sides, will be needed.
“We must look beyond the Ard-Rì and his spawn, especially
since our High King, Niall Noígiallach, often looks abroad for
excitement and conquests,” Danu continued, her gaze drawn
back to Lia Dàn as if it would tell her something, something
she had missed.
“This new white-haired warlord only arrived recently. How
could such a Hero already exist among the Gael?”
Danu shrugged. “There are several with the potential, but
they are very young. Some have not been born yet and are still
in their mothers’ wombs. I cannot say which will blossom and
bear fruit, only that one must, or Erin will die under a wave of
white-haired warriors like the foul wretch who recently came
across the sea, bringing his new Asgardian Gods with him.
Something tells me the Blades and Stone Destiny will be needed
to keep our land of Gaels safe. And likely our Heart.”
“Are you suggesting we help one of these babes blossom into
our Hero, into Erin’s Hero?”
“I know there is little we can do directly,” Danu said with a
sigh as she rose, her expression relaxing somewhat. She led the
Sun God away, adding, “However, seeds planted in fertile soil can
be watered and nurtured. It should be enough for Erin’s wheel
of time to shape the destiny of one of our hopefuls to become
Erin’s Hero, and that might just rid us of these new invaders
before they draw more of their ilk to them.”
“And if we are needed to help these seeds directly?”
“While our time on the other side of the veil is limited, we
can tend to our garden, Lugh.”
“As you tended to me?” the Sun God said lightly, and at that,
Danu finally smiled.
---
Once the Gods Lugh and Danu had left Lia Dàn behind,
the Stone of Destiny swirled into life independently. Images
rolled within its glassy surface, images that played out the many
invasions yet to come to the land of Erin. Some were violent,
others deceptively dangerous, despite the apparent peaceful
intent. The one centered on the white-haired invader revealed
that he was more than four hundred years ahead of his fellow
Norvegr warriors, warriors who would eventually be called
Vikings. And that the two Gods’ attempt to stop this young
white-haired warlord would entwine them in a desperate act
by a single young woman, an action that would affect the very
fabric of time.
The most potent Tuatha Dé Danann Gods did not yet know
that not only would the Blades and Stone of Destiny be needed,
but the Heart of Destiny as well. All three would be required
to invoke the most powerful magic ever created by the Tuatha
Dé Danann. Only this would keep the land of Erin and their
faithful Gaels from slipping away from them.
--- Chapter: Blood Bonds ---
Breanna Ban Morna rolled to her left to avoid her opponent’s
sword stroke, the soft green grass of the glen cradling her
shoulders for the briefest moment. Calm filled her despite her
vulnerability, for she could see her rival’s countermove in her
mind before he had even started his arm in motion. Beanna
had seized the void, a state of mind between the material world
and the Tuatha realm, what the Aos Dána called urghabháil
an neamhní.
She was suddenly on one knee, the sinews of her arm and
shoulder muscles snapping tight like drawn bowstrings, bracing
her frame for his next strike. With her left arm raised over
her head, her hand holding her weapon nearly where the iron
joined the wood, Breanna caught her adversary’s blade on her
crossguard and drove in with her other blade.
As quickly as his body had been within range, he managed
to leap clear of her thrust. His fierce expression made it clear he
wanted to crush her in their dance among the blades; the slight
upturn at the corners of his mouth added a taunting touch.
Confidence, she decided, was sometimes not enough. Being
one with her blades, one with the ground at her feet, and even
inside her opponent’s mind—seizing the void, now that could
bring victory.
Letting her mind slip into the void once more, where she
was just an extension of her surroundings, she knew what his
counter would be again a second before he did. Spinning to her
right as she rose, Breanna blocked his roundhouse slash with the
weapon in her slightly weaker right hand. His strength and height
proved the advantage when their blades locked, and he pushed
her over backward. Breanna let the motion flow over her, rolling
to the ground like water poured from a bucket. Her challenger,
thinking she would continue to counter with outside blocks,
had followed his last move with an overhead swing.
Breanna anticipated his reaction again, and, to her opponent’s
surprise, she came up with her long blades crossed. She caught
his heavy two-handed sword in the axis of her blades and swept
the other’s blade down and away. As her attacker lost his balance,
Breanna promptly brought the black oak haft of the long blade
in her left hand around and struck him on the side of the head.
Then, she sprang clear of any possible retaliation in the same
motion. Her blade would have sliced through his throat if he
had been a genuine opponent.
The young man with whom she was sparring went down, his
arms and legs sprawling ungracefully as his sword slipped from
his hand. Confidently and with some bravado, Breanna whirled
both long blades a few times before letting the smooth wooden
hafts slap against the boiled leather vambraces strapped on her
forearms. Then, finally, she released the void, as there would be
no counterstrike from Fergal Mac Conall today.
“Cum air do làimh!” one of those watching cried.
Breanna Ban Morna stood down as commanded, letting the
tension pour out as she calmed her pounding heart and heaving
chest, hardly having even noticed the effort she had worked up
during their dual. She wondered if maybe the void had shielded
her from detecting her body’s strains.
Dressed in a light green tunic and darker green leggings,
Breanna looked down, taking in her grass-stained clothing, and
took stock of her body, pleased to see not so much as a scratch.
Wiping her brow, she rolled her shoulders and then turned to
her chief, letting the smallest of smiles slip, one born of ultimate
satisfaction.
Their band of young men and women were in awe of her talent,
and they thumped their spears against their shields and cheered
in approval. Except for Eoin Mac Cairbre, few had bested Fergal
Mac Conal, certainly never with long blades against a heavy twohanded
sword. He was their best warrior, having earned his gold
Celtic Knot arm ring before most had even gained a silver, and
Breanna had only taken what seemed like a few minutes to put
him on the ground. The males would have gladly cut off their
braids to move with such speed and grace, with such intuition.
In that moment of triumph, Breanna was transformed, as
if something out of a bard’s tale, the sun bursting through the
morning mist while they fought, capturing her shimmering white
hair tied back with her beaded green Connemara marble-laced
thong into a ponytail. Some were murmuring that she rivaled
Connachta’s mystical Maeve, a female warrior who had built the
mighty stronghold known as Cruachan of the Enchantments
and led many battles against Cú Chulainn, the Hound of Ulaida.
Others disagreed, saying Maeve was no match, for she had
personally never defeated Ulaida’s greatest warrior and guardian of
the great Dun Emain Macha. A better choice would be Macha of
the Golden Hair, the first female warlord of Ulaida. Before Rory
the Red had founded his original Red Branch at the fort named
after her, she’d been a great warrior woman known throughout
the land, and most now thought Macha had transcended to be
a Tuatha demi-Goddess.
Breanna Ban Morna sighed explosively, breaking the spell her
fellow warriors had been weaving over her victory. Her impressions
of the match were slightly different, her aching muscles
and sweat-covered body telling her that their comórtas had taken
much longer. Certainly not something for the bards to spin a
tale over. Still, she held her head high, ensuring her shoulders
were straight. There was no mistaking the firm set of her jaw
nor the coolness of her expression despite her accomplishment.
As her blue-eyed gaze swept over their band of young warriors,
Breanna’s finely arched, pale eyebrows and sharply lined face
did not belie the elation she felt within.
Pulling loose the beaded tie passed down by her grandmother
that held back her long white hair—she did not like it braided as
many of her fellow warriors did—Breanna pointed to the warrior
she had knocked to the ground and said, “Help him. Fergal and
I might not agree often, but he at least deserves to have his head
looked after. Go fetch one of the Aos Dána apprentices.”
Breanna’s cousin, Toal, was the first to move to Fergal’s
side. The young redheaded lad had always admired the older
warrior, following him like a hound’s whelp, so the frown that
fell over his boyish face surprised no one as they watched him
survey the damage. Another lad took off at a run for their dun
as commanded.
As Breanna turned away, their appointed chief said, “Well,
Bre, you’ve proven you’re the best and bravest of us, and it was
clear you seized the void at will. Probably even better than I ever
have, and likely better than anyone I’ve ever seen. You’re now
my champion, the Red Branch Champion. I think it’s time you
help Fergal and me train these children who would be warriors
of our dun.”
Breanna did not respond to his demand as she wiped the
sweat from her brow again, her usually pale skin still flushed
from her efforts. Instead, she watched two other boys several
years younger than herself step forward to help Toal get Eoin’s
barely conscious cousin into a sitting position. Fergal groaned
when they lifted his shoulders off the ground, and then he hissed
at Toal sharply as he pushed aside the muddy red, almost brown
hair that covered the bump on his head.
Breanna sighed, relieved she had accomplished her goal
without seriously injuring him; they couldn’t afford to lose him.
That much was clear. It was doubtful Fergal thought likewise of
her. Given they had already had this conversation many times,
she turned to her chief as she wrapped her beaded thong around
her neck to keep it safe and said in a clipped voice with a sharp,
narrowed glare, “Eoin, not this again.”
“Are you questioning me?” he countered and stepped toward
her, cocking his head defiantly. His newly braided bright red
beard and plaited hair made him a fierce-looking warrior, and
his muscular frame was as imposing as ever. While Breanna was
tall for a young woman, he was a bit more than a head taller than
her. When she did not answer, Eoin added, “If so, I will challenge
you myself. Best me in combat, and you’ll have to accept the role
of Red Branch Chief. That will leave you with no other choice.”
Breanna’s bright blue eyes went wide, the flecks of red within
her irises dancing like sparks thrown by greenwood when burned.
The nostrils of her thin nose flared as she said hotly, “No! As I
have said before, it’s not my place to teach, and I don’t take kindly
to your attempts to force me. Creating another Red Branch was
your idea. You claim lineage to Ulaidian’s Clan Mórdha, back
to Conal Cearnach himself, despite Dun Arrogh supposedly
falling under the Ard-Rì’s protection as part of Mide. Forming
a fían might have been more appropriate for our dun, with you
as our Ceann-buidhne. That would have allowed you to join the
High King’s army and request protection.
“Since you did not, Eoin Mac Cairbre, this is yours and your
cousin’s responsibility. But know that I’ll do what I must when
I have to. I’ll be your champion, but no more. I have another
charge that I have always focused on, and you know it!”
Eoin took a step back, surprised as much by her angry retort
as her comments about their Red Branch; a fían was for Fir Bolg
clans—not true Gaelic! With noble Ulaidain blood running in
his veins, the thought of bowing to a Connachta-spawned king
as a buidhne was appalling. Then he recovered his wits and said
sneeringly, “Come, girl, you’ve seen seventeen summers, now
turned seventeen! Any warrior here would give a finger for the
honor of leading our Red Branch.”
“Well, that shows you I’m not just any warrior, nor just any
woman, you oaf!” Breanna shot back as she buried her long
blades in the earth only inches from his leather-thonged feet.
She hesitated momentarily, letting her jaw jut out slightly,
then turned on her heels and stomped away. Her streaming,
stark-white hair sharply contrasted the surrounding green of
the forest she was marching toward. Silence settled over the
glen, except for the song of a few wrens or yellowhammers, with
none of the others willing to step into the hornet’s nest their
chief had stirred up.
“The Red Branch needs you to be strong,” Eoin called after
her. When she kept walking and did not reply, he cast his gaze on
those watching the exchange and barked, “Dawdlin’ about isn’t
going to stop Hakon’s Dreadriders. Go find something to do!”
“Like what?” one of the younger lads rejoined smartly. “Challenge
one of them to a duel like I’m Breanna? If she can kick
Fergal’s arse like that, a Dreadrider would kill me in a heartbeat.”
Despite earning the gold Celtic Knot tier of their warrior class,
which should have commanded their loyalty, Eoin knew his grip
on this band of young fighters was tenuous, for he was only a
few years older than they were. Even though many considered
him to be Dun Arrogh’s chief, their Ceann-cinnidh, he was, at
times, still just another boy with whom they had shared their
childhoods. He had to be strong for them to accept his leadership—
something they had seen little of from the elders of their
fort since the Dreadlord had killed their former Ceann-cinnidh
and began his rule.
Eoin took a threatening step toward the boy, and then he
remembered that one of the Aos Dána had once said words
could be as powerful as blades. Maybe using a druid’s wisdom
approach was best used here. Instead of striking the lad, as he had
intended to do, he said fiercely, “The old Red Branch warriors of
the Clan Ulaid were never foolish. They attacked when the odds
were in their favor and were brave when the odds were not. We
will challenge the Dreadriders in our own time. Until then, we
have weapons to make and food to be harvested and gathered.
“At the very least, you can gather rushes and peat for the
dun or fetch water. Set yourselves about those tasks for your
impertinence. Remember, the Dreadlord benefits when we bicker
and appear divided, allowing that dubhchaile to continue his
ungodly rule. When we follow that path, it weakens our Gods
and strengthens his Gods.”
With that, Eoin pulled Breanna’s long blades from the earth
and turned after her with a swirl of his multicolored cloak, a
cloak that proclaimed he was of royal Celtic blood. His followers
said no more, knowing all too well the truth of his words.
The Dreadlord had kept them divided, kept them weak. Many
of their fathers and older brothers had either died at the Dreadriders’
hands or were now hostages—sometimes called daor
aicme, even though they might once have been freeborn—to
the white-haired invader.
Hakon Skadi had come to their land like a thief in the night,
stealing what had been theirs before they knew it. His ways had
been different and had caught them off-guard. What cost them
most in battle was that they had used chariots and footmen,
and Hakon’s Dreadriders had attacked riding upon giant steeds.
While Dun Arrogh’s warriors occasionally rode their hill-bred
horses, especially when pulling chariots, they were no match for
his warhorses. While outnumbered, the Dreadlord’s warriors
carried the day with that one advantage.
Because their small dun lay between the major Ulaida, Laigin,
and Connachta clans, no one came to their aid to keep them free
and saor aicme. The provincial kings—and even the Ard-Rì in
Mide—viewed the Dreadlord of Garm as a small buffer between
rival clans. In the seventeen years since usurping control of
their land, the Dreadlord had been careful not to engage those
powerful clans in outright battle, especially those most in the
High King’s favor in Mide. He never posed a significant threat
by keeping to small cattle raids. Only those living within the
narrow strip of the territory he claimed suffered.
And so the Clan Mórdha’s Red Branch warriors began to
slip away to do as Eoin Mac Cairbre bade them, to do what they
could to stop Hakon Skadi, the Dreadlord of Garm. Their chief
could only wish that the elders of Dun Arrogh would stand with
him and proclaim him as their new Ceann-cinnidh.
Eoin found his new champion sitting on a fallen log just
inside the tree line of the woods. She had just finished unlacing
the vambraces from her arms and set them aside. She crossed her
arms tightly over her blossoming chest to emphasize she was still
mad at him. Sitting next to her, he stuck her blades in the ground
at her leather-thonged feet and said softly, “You forgot these.”
Breanna only nodded and continued staring at the small,
now sun-filled meadow dotted with buttercups, where she had
just defeated Eoin’s cousin. They had taken to calling it their
Grove of Instruction, just like Ulaida’s old warriors of the original
Red Branch used to do at Emain Macha many hundreds
of years before. It was where their heroes taught the art of war
to their children. Save for Eoin, Fergal was considered the best
warrior in their offshoot Red Branch band. Because Eoin was
their chief and forbidden to fight in single combat, Fergal Mac
Conall had been named their champion.
Now, Breanna Ban Morna was their Red Branch Champion.
And unlike others who sought to use arms like those wielded by
the Dreadlord, she chose long blades. They were traditional in
her clan, though many had given over to short swords, and some
even to long ones, over the past few decades. As ancient weapons,
long blades typically had tapered eighteen-inch copper, bronze,
or iron blades and three-foot-long ash or oak hafts roughly two
inches in diameter. A short crossguard lay where the metal blades
and handle joined to protect the wielder’s hands.
Breanna had the fortune of possessing iron-wrought long
blades, a set that had once belonged to her father. Before that,
her grandmother Cahira had used them in battle many times;
they had passed to Nevan, as his wife Morna chose not to take
the warrior’s path as Cahira had. Given that many generations
of Clan Dálaigh warriors had grasped the old blades in battle
and training, the black oak hafts had worn smooth.
Unable to take the silence, Eoin heaved a breath forcefully as
he ran a hand through his bright red curly hair. “Bre, I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have pushed so hard back there, especially in front
of the others. It’s just that you fought so brilliantly. You were
like a warrior touched by the Gods. And Fergal and I could use
an extra hand.”
“Few want to train with the long blades,” Breanna countered
dryly, though she couldn’t help blushing at his compliment on
her developing skills. It seemed that, lately, she had been fighting
with a confidence few could match, and her ability to anticipate
an opponent’s moves in battle when she could seize the void
was growing sharper daily. With that thought, Breanna leaned
forward to retighten the leather straps wound in a crisscross
pattern from the feet to her knees, adding, “You know I won’t
bother with other weapons. Especially longswords like the one
wielded by the Dreadlord.”
“His Dreadriders make effective use of such blades, just like
the Red Branch once did.”
Breanna shrugged, unwilling to argue the point further.
Long blades were lithe and quick and suited her fighting style
well, with four edges she could dance and dazzle with when she
was in motion. Instead, she let the Grove’s peacefulness settle
over them.
Fergal, the oldest of their band, was now sitting up and
rubbing the side of his head. The sight made Breanna want to
laugh, but she suppressed the urge as she watched him struggle
to reach his feet. Only Fergal and Toal remained in the empty
clearing, their fellow members of the Red Branch having slipped
away into the woods to do as Eoin had commanded.
Spears, arrows, and bows were always in demand. Breanna’s
uncle, the smith in their small dun, often let her young warrior
friends help make spears and arrowheads from the bits of molten
bronze, copper, or iron leftover from his sword-making efforts
for the Dreadlord of Garm. But, unfortunately, it seemed as if
they all tarried in some way or another for that brooding lord.
Something she would change, Breanna assured herself, though
she was not yet sure how to rid their land of his foul stench.
“Only a few days until Samhain,” Eoin injected, trying to
make small talk. “Won’t be many more warm days like this
until spring—nothing to look forward to except rain, sleet, and
wind. Listening to Cahir prattle on about what it means for a
Celt to wear the warrior’s arm ring is not how I want to spend
the winter. Yet, I suppose our younger ones need such guidance.
Maybe we can help them work on their urghabháil an neamhní
skills. That’s something even Fergal needs help with.”
“Aye,” was all Breanna would offer, as though she did not
hear his comment about their bard. Samhain, time of the spirits,
she thought. And with that, she wondered what her father had
been like, wondered where his essence—his anam—wandered.
Breanna had never known him, something the Dreadlord had
made sure of before she was born. Her uncle was the only clan
member who tried to provide a semblance of a father figure for
her, and at that, Kyras always had his own family and worked
hard to tend to it, leaving little time for her.
An older woman appeared on the far side of the meadow. Her
green robe and red tunic signified she was an Ollamh, a healer
among the Aos Dána. Around her pranced a young girl dressed
in a simple brown shift. The druid hobbled along unsteadily on
her walking stick, occasionally shooing the girl away from her.
She took a long while to cross even half of the small glen with
such a short gait. The Ollamh stopped briefly to examine Fergal,
and she barked a demand to know what had happened.
Breanna’s cousin, Toal, who was still helping the former
champion, made a motion and pointed in their new champion’s
direction. The old hag chortled at the plight of their dun’s
bravest warrior and reached into her pouch. She gave him an herb
of some kind and moved on, leaving her young assistant to help
the warrior. Even from a distance, Eoin and Breanna could see
the fire rising in Fergal’s face, but they knew he would not say
anything; one did not insult an Ollamh.
“It’s Ulicia,” Eoin commented. “Wonder what brings her
out here? The druids usually only send an apprentice when we
have a minor injury.”
“Let’s find out,” Breanna suggested as she leaped up. Then,
grabbing her long blades, Eoin’s new champion slipped them
into the harness on her back. She let her dark brown leather
vambraces slide over the blades, then marched across the meadow
toward their healer.
