What would you do if you didnât want to fulfill a prophecy?
Brigid Callahan is anything but ordinary. At sixteen, sheâs burdened with a fate she never asked for: to defeat the one-eyed giant Balor as foretold in an ancient prophecy. But she'd rather deal with teenage troubles than train endlessly for battle with her guardians CĂș Chulainn and Fionn Mac Cumhaill.
CĂș and Fionn donât see it that way.
Thatâs fine, because Brigid Callahanâs got a plan, the Egyptian God of Chaos on her side, and more than a few tricks up her sleeve. She is not going to spend the rest of her life training to defeat some giant thatâs probably never going to pop back up.
Itâs been over 2000 years since he was last seen. Heâs definitely dead.
Right?
Join Brigid Callahan on an exhilarating adventure as she attempts to defy prophecies, challenge fate, and write her own future. Will she evade destinyâs grasp? Or will she embrace her role in shaping the future of her world?
What would you do if you didnât want to fulfill a prophecy?
Brigid Callahan is anything but ordinary. At sixteen, sheâs burdened with a fate she never asked for: to defeat the one-eyed giant Balor as foretold in an ancient prophecy. But she'd rather deal with teenage troubles than train endlessly for battle with her guardians CĂș Chulainn and Fionn Mac Cumhaill.
CĂș and Fionn donât see it that way.
Thatâs fine, because Brigid Callahanâs got a plan, the Egyptian God of Chaos on her side, and more than a few tricks up her sleeve. She is not going to spend the rest of her life training to defeat some giant thatâs probably never going to pop back up.
Itâs been over 2000 years since he was last seen. Heâs definitely dead.
Right?
Join Brigid Callahan on an exhilarating adventure as she attempts to defy prophecies, challenge fate, and write her own future. Will she evade destinyâs grasp? Or will she embrace her role in shaping the future of her world?
The enemy chained to the standing stone appeared youthful, almost innocent. Beardless and with a head of thick black hair. Long and tangled from the battle he had just fought, pushing forward to hide those gray eyes that had been fearsome and wild during their fight. Lugaid liked to think those strange eyes had slipped closed now, no longer able to see his enemies. Giving him one fewer advantage over them.Â
A messenger stood on the periphery. Watching. Staring. Waiting. Only he did not look at the man chained to the standing stone. Instead, he looked at Lugaid.Â
The wind blew harsh across Lugaidâs face. The cold crept in on his ears, nose, and fingertips until they began to hurt with the chill. The sky turned gray, threatening to rain, though it had not yet made good on its promise. They should have finished this by now. This battle should have been over and done with. He should have struck the killing blow.Â
Fate and destiny did not care about âshouldsâ. Only what was written.Â
The messenger, growing impatient with the lack of action on Lugaidâs part, cleared his throat and stepped towards the feared military commander. âQueen Medb demands you bring her his head. Why have you not completed this task yet? Heâs dead. Be done with it.âÂ
Lugaid narrowed his eyes. Though CĂș Chulainn had not moved for several days, he did not believe he was dead yet. That stubborn dog had tricks up his sleeve. He would not risk it until he was sure.Â
âIâll cut off his head when heâs dead,â Lugaid responded.Â
The man looked towards the standing stone. âHe looks pretty dead to me. Not a man alive who could survive those wounds.âÂ
âYouâre a fool. Heâs no ordinary man. Do you know who his father is?âÂ
The messenger shook his head.Â
âLugh. A Tuatha DĂ© Danann and Fomorian. His great-grandfather, the one-eyed giant, Balor. He may look like a man, but he is not. This is the same man who went up against Queen Medbâs army by himself, fighting through poisoned spears and underhanded attacks. Who managed to push us back and keep us at bay until backup could arrive. He may look dead to you, but I will not step near his body until Iâm certain all life has left him and he is nothing but a husk. A corpse.âÂ
The entire time Lugaid spoke, he did not take his eyes from CĂș Chulainnâs form. He strained his vision to see if Chulainnâs shoulders would rise and fall with breath. If his fingers would twitch. If he would swallow or lick his lips. Some indication he lived. Even people playing dead couldnât stop all involuntary movement. Eventually, heâd give something away.
The messenger looked to CĂș Chulainn, then back to Lugaid, disbelief evident on his face. âHe bleeds like us. He is a man like us, regardless of his lineage.âÂ
âI will not cut off his head until I am certain,â Lugaid reiterated.Â
This messenger must have been a sheltered whelp. One who had not seen the bloodthirsty throes of battle nor the warp spasm form of CĂș Chulainn that proved he was a monster and not an ordinary man. Even as Lugaid stood cowardly out of CĂș Chulainnâs reach, his men did not grumble or complain about having to wait. They had seen the monster. They had suffered at his hands. They had lost brothers to his bloodlust. They would not risk it until certain this monster was dead.Â
âQueen Medb doesnât want to wait much longer. How long have you been out here anyway? A week? A month? How much longer will you wait? Until his flesh rots from the bone and flies lay maggots in his eye sockets?âÂ
Truthfully, Lugaid did not know anymore. The days bled together. The sun never fully set, and the sky never fully lightened or darkened to indicate a passage of time. He wondered if it was some of CĂș Chulainnâs faerie magic; playing tricks on his mind until he went mad. Perhaps that was the game CĂș Chulainn was playing. Lugaid only knew the gray sky, the green grass, the gray standing stone, and the body chained to it.Â
âIâll be out here as long as I need to be. I will not tell you again. Itâs dangerous to go near him until heâs dead. So long as he has a weapon in his hands, I will not go near him to check. If maggots are laid in his eyes and the flesh rots from his bones, we can be sure heâs dead. Until then, I will wait.âÂ
The messenger rolled his eyes. âI shall go and garner favor with the queen. If you lot are too scared of a corpse to rid his head from his body, I shall do so instead.â He pulled out his sword and started making his way to CĂș Chulainn.Â
âShould we stop him?â one of Lugaidâs loyal soldiers asked.
Lugaid smirked and shook his head. âIf he wants to be brave, let him be brave. If he wants to ignore my warnings and my expertise on the matter, let him ignore them. If Queen Medb thinks CĂș Chulainn is no longer a threat, let this be proof he is. We can send her messengerâs head back in a box if needed.â
The men around him snickered, a few egging the messenger on. The messenger took a few measured steps towards the body but faltered, hesitating as he grew closer.Â
âCome now, boy,â Lugaid called, âYou were here to prove us all yellow-bellied cowards. Show us how a real man acts.âÂ
The tell-tale sound of a raven echoed on the wind.
âStop!â Lugaid cried.Â
The messenger flinched and skittered back from CĂș Chulainnâs form. Â
For a moment, no one spoke.Â
Clear as day, the raven sounded again. Lugaid grinned when a flock joined them.Â
âThe Badb, she comes. She shall tell us his fate.âÂ
The calls of the ravens grew louder. Cacophonous. Echoing through the bluffs until their calls became thunderous in Lugaidâs ears, drowning out the howls of the wind. The swirl of ravens above them grew in size. First, there were ten. Then twenty. Then fifty. Then a hundred. Then too many to count. Swirling into a vortex that darkened the sky with their feathers blotting out the gray of the clouds.Â
One descended from the sky and landed on CĂș Chulainnâs shoulders. That was proof enough for him. He was certain the Badb did not land on living menâs shoulders. She had predicted their fate. The battle would be his and Queen Medb would smile down favorably upon him and his defeat of the fearsome CĂș Chulainn.Â
Lugaid smirked and pushed past the messenger. âNow we can cut off his head.âÂ
He gripped his sword tightly in his hand and marched towards the body. As he did so, the raven sounded once more and flew off. With it, the swirling flock above disappeared. The wind returned. The gray sky became visible again. The shadow left.Â
âWait.â The messenger jogged after him. âYou donât get to cut off his head now that heâs dead. You were being a coward earlier. He was likely dead when I went to cut it off.âÂ
âYou should have been quicker to prove yourself.â
âProve myself? I have nothing to prove. Not when you were the coward. If anyone has the right to cut off his head and put an end to this battle, it should be me.âÂ
Lugaid whirled around, sword raised, and pressed into the messengerâs throat. Hard enough that a bead of blood leaked from the skin. âI would watch your tongue. I have no qualms about testing this swordâs sharpness on your neck before fulfilling Queen Medbâs request. She doesnât care about lowly messengers like you. I doubt sheâll notice youâre gone.âÂ
Those loyal to Lugaid pulled out their weapons and aimed them at the messenger. They knew better than anyone the danger CĂș Chulainn posed and did not need to scoff at Lugaidâs insistence on caution. Perhaps it was cowardly to wait until the Badb landed on CĂș Chulainnâs shoulder before cutting his head off, but heâd rather be a coward and alive than a hero and dead. After all, people heralded CĂș Chulainn as a hero. Look where it got him. Chained to a standing stone, utterly defeated in battle.Â
The messenger, the traitor, swallowed and did not argue any further. He glared, though. A fierce glare that almost made Lugaid relent. If the idiot wanted to be high and mighty by cutting the head off, so be it. Â
He did not let himself be seduced by these thoughts.Â
In the end, the messenger would only use the act to garner favor with Queen Medb while slandering Lugaidâs good name. Lugaid had been the one to land the killing blow. He should be the one to cut off his head.Â
Mind made up and satisfied he would not be argued with anymore, Lugaid turned and continued towards the standing stone.Â
âThe raven may not have been for CĂș Chulainn, you know.âÂ
Lugaid froze and turned. âWhat?âÂ
âThe Badb foretells death. Why would it confirm a death that has already occurred?â
âAre you threatening me, boy?â Lugaid growled.Â
The messenger shook his head. âIâm only saying itâs foolish to assume the Morriganâs intentions by a single raven landing on a shoulder. For all we know, she said you were about to die, not that CĂș Chulainn already died.â
Despite denying that he was threatening Lugaid, with the way his arms were crossed and his eyes flashed with defiance, he may as well have been. Regardless, his words werenât untrue. The gods worked in mysterious ways, and their intentions were not always clear, nor the purposes they served. He might have misread the Badbâs message.Â
He glanced back towards CĂș Chulainnâs body. He couldnât back down now, though. The man was right. Queen Medb would be angry if he didnât come back with CĂș Chulainnâs head soon. He had already tried her patience by waiting for as long as he did. And he had already started his trek to cut off the head. His men had understood the need for patience before, but the longer this went on, the less they would trust him. The less they would respect him. If he backed off now, based on the words of some wet-behind-the-ears, pampered messenger, he might push their respect too far and lose it completely. He didnât want that.Â
He turned and headed back towards the stone, chin jutting out and head held high. Unlike the messenger, his steps did not slow and falter the closer he got to the stone. If anything, he went faster. Quicker. Wanting to get this whole mess over with as soon as possible.Â
âI hear the Morrigan werenât too happy with CĂș Chulainn in the first place. They have no reason to want me dead. Iâll take my chances in divining the meaning of the Badb. The manâs dead. Has been for some time. The Badb has proven that.âÂ
He stood face-to-face with his enemy. Funny how human he seemed now. Lugaid had seen him on the battlefield, a monster of sinew and claws ripping through men like they were leaves. And when he wasnât in his monstrous form, the GĂĄe Bulg ripped through them as efficiently. Thorny vines burst forth from their bodies in a tangled mass of blood, skin, and organs. How untouchable he had seemed. How godlike.Â
And now he stood before him, just a boy. Barely taller than Lugaid himself. The sword held loosely in his hands, and the chains held his body upright. His knees were bent, his legs no longer supporting him. And his head bowed forward to hide his face.Â
âItâs dangerous to assume you know what fate has in store for you,â the messenger said.Â
Lugaid tightened his grip on his sword. If CĂș Chulainn was alive, he would have made a move by now. No man could hold their breath for this long. No man could stand this still with the injuries he had sustained. Not even a monster like CĂș Chulainn.Â
Satisfied, Lugaid raised his sword to cut off his head.Â
CĂș Chulainnâs body burst into a blinding blue light. The force caused Lugaidâs sword to fall from his hands. His hand was cut from his body. He let out a scream and jerked back as chaos descended around him. His men trampled each other to get away from the monster.Â
It proved Lugaidâs point, though.Â
CĂș Chulainn would not rest until he had the final blow.Â
****
CĂș couldnât feel his body. He couldnât tell where his arms or legs or head were in relation to anything. He couldnât tell if he had arms or legs or a head. The past few hours (days, weeks, months, years) had been a blur of blood and guts. The stench of blood and soil mixed on the battlefield as men were ripped apart limb from limb. Stabbed. Beaten. Trampled. Torn apart. Tossed aside by enemies and allies alike.Â
He gagged. Strange, considering he didnât feel like he had a throat with which to gag. He gagged nonetheless. And while he couldnât feel his arms or his body, he could feel the weight of Ferdiad. Of his battle brother dying by CĂșâs hand. The GĂĄe Bulg. His weapon. Thrown as a last resort when he would not see reason.Â
He was supposed to gain this glory? The prophecy promised him this glorious life?Â
Where was the glory in slaughtering your friend? Your brother? What part of that act was meant to be praised and sung about in songs until the end of time?Â
Nowhere.Â
It did not exist.
He had been lied to.Â
A short life he did lead but a glorious one he did not. Instead, the stench of blood enveloped him. His hair was stained dark with it. His fingernails were caked in it. Until he resembled his monstrous form more than his human one.Â
The warp spasm rippled in the back of his mind. Much like a cat arching its back and hissing, hair standing on end. It wanted to be let out. It wanted to tear things apart with its claws. It wanted more blood. More death. More destruction. CĂș shoved that monster as far back in his mind as it would go. Locking it behind cages and walls. It didnât work. The monster would break out eventually. It always did.Â
Right now, though, he had more important things to deal with. Mainly, figuring out what had happened. Where he was, and if he was missing his limbs. He remembered Ferdiadâs body in his arms, gasping and choking on his last breaths as CĂș held him, not knowing if he deserved even that. He had lost time next, falling into a trance. When he had awoken, the battlefield had been torn to shreds. Queen Medbâs men had started retreating. The mass of limbs and bodies piled around him proved he had lost control. The warp spasm, seeing a weakness in his grief, had forced its way to the front of his mind and had taken control. And in its control, he had slaughtered an army.Â
Not the entire, army though. Lugaid still stood, sword in hand, ready to die as he faced CĂș. CĂș didnât want to face him. He wanted to run home and grieve his fallen brothers. Lugaid didnât give him a choice.Â
They fought. CĂș didnât have the anger in him to fight well. He didnât have the strength. With each swing of Lugaidâs sword, it became clearer that this would be his final battle. He made peace with that.Â
âIâm dead, then?â he asked the nothingness. Though he did not speak with his mouth, his words echoed around him.Â
âYes,â another voice answered.Â
His father, Lugh, stood before him. He looked just as CĂș had seen him after healing from the poisoned spears. Fair and tall with a head of curly yellow hair. He had a green mantel wrapped around him and a brooch of white silver in the mantle over his breast. His own clothes, rich and soft, put CĂșâs battle-worn clothes to shame. His rough, brown tunic. His ripped and frayed and bloodied mantel. His shoes were soaked with the fluids of battle. Lugh was a king standing before a filthy peasant. Not a king standing before a glorious warrior.Â
âFather? So, I did not survive Lugaidâs assault,â CĂș said.Â
The longer this went on, the more pieces came back to him. He remembered the battle. He remembered the one-on-one fights he had been forced to participate in to keep Queen Medb from overtaking the castle. He remembered the burn of their poisoned spears as they had tried to bring him down. He remembered the death of the children, who had fought while he healed. He remembered Ferdiad, what he had said. What he had done. How he would not listen to reason no matter how much CĂș had begged him to stop this madness and abandon Queen Medb. He remembered acting on instinct, grabbing the GĂĄe Bulg and kicking it with all his might at Ferdiad. The horror as he realized what he had done. Treating his brother as if he were nothing more than an ordinary enemy. Subjecting him to a painful death.Â
The warp spasm had tried to break out and take over CĂș, but he managed to keep the monster at bay long enough to hold Ferdiad as he died. He wanted to see what he had done. He wanted it burned into his mind. He wanted to make sure he never forgot.Â
âWhat happens now? Am I to be judged for my sins?â CĂș asked. He imagined them stretching out from shore to shore. He was supposed to lead a glorious life. Instead, he led a life of sin and murder.Â
Lugh stepped forward to stand next to him. It wasnât fair; even in death he towered over CĂș. He had hoped they would be equals on this plain of existence. His father had led a glorious life. From killing Balor and defeating the Fomorians, to fighting monster after monster to protect his people. He was a man of glory. How disappointed he must be in his own son.Â
âSadly,â Lugh said, his face grim, âI would love to let you rest, but there is a problem.âÂ
CĂș couldnât help but perk up a bit upon hearing this. Perhaps he had been a bit too rash in assuming this would be the end of his story. Perhaps his glory was waiting for him. Perhaps he could live the life that was prophesied to him at the beginning. Â
âBalor has not been welcomed into any halls of the dead. Osiris. Hades. Amokye. ScĂĄthach. Aita. Iâve asked them all. And none have seen Balor or have judged him.âÂ
CĂș couldnât hide his disbelief. âYou killed Balor, though. That was what the prophecy said youâd do. How could he not be in the halls of the dead? Perhaps the Fomorians go somewhere else when they die.âÂ
Lugh shook his head. âDeath works differently. We all end up at the same place, even if they have different names. All are connected. The death gods all know one another and share the burden of shepherding souls to the next plane of existence. We only knew he did not pass when ScĂĄthach never found him and started asking around. We learned the disturbing truth.âÂ
âBut the prophecy!â CĂș said. âProphecies are rarely wrong.âÂ
âIndeed, but they can be misread,â Lugh pointed out.
âHow can you misread something as specific as âhis grandson will slay himâ?â CĂș asked.Â
Lugh gave him a wry smile. âI never saw the prophecy. No one wrote it down. How can we be sure it said âgrandsonâ? Perhaps it said a descendent of your grandson. Or one of your great-grandchildren,â Lugh pointed out. He sighed. âI donât know how he managed to survive, but he did. Thankfully, his eye and his glass have been separated from him. But he is dangerous, and he will be looking for them. Lir has started patrolling the waters to see if any Fomorian strongholds remain that might be holding Balor until he is strong enough to attack again.âÂ
âWhy are you telling me all of this? Iâm dead,â CĂș asked.Â
Lugh smiled at him, soft and warm. âYou now have an important job.âÂ
A shiver of excitement ran down CĂșâs spine. This, this is what he had been waiting for. A chance to prove himself. A chance to live the prophecy. A chance to be glorious and heroic. One couldnât get more heroic than fighting an evil giant.Â
He nodded, knowing what he must do. âI will make you proud, father. I will join in Lirâs hunt for Balor, fight him, and defeat him for good.âÂ
Lughâs posture stiffened. He touched his fingers to his lips and turned away. âYou are not the one the prophecy spoke about, my son. Your story is already done. Youâve fought your battles and didnât survive them. The glory to your name has already been written.âÂ
The excitement that had been building in his gut, the burn in his muscles for a good fight, the fire in his soul that promised praise, doused in ice-cold water.Â
âI can fight him, though! I am good enough,â he argued. âI have the GĂĄe Bulg with me. Balor will be no match for my skills as a warrior. I defeated Queen Medbâs army single-handedly. I can do this.âÂ
Lugh shook his head. âItâs not about whether or not you are good enough. Itâs about the timing. Your time has ended. Itâs time for another to step forth.âÂ
âWhy tell me this? Why bring this up if Iâm of no use?â CĂș demanded.
âWho said you were of no use?â Lugh asked. Out of his pocket (or somewhere, space seemed to work a bit differently here) he pulled out two items. âYour job now is to find descendants and train them. As ScĂĄthach trained you. Another will come along eventually to help you out should Balor not appear in the next few years. From what we can gather, itâs unclear when heâll be coming back.âÂ
âThatâs a lot of descendants,â CĂș mumbled.Â
Lugh chuckled. âYou wonât have to train all of them. Youâll know which ones are champions based on the faerie blood that runs through their veins. Iâm giving you these two items to keep safe as well. First is Balorâs eye. If he is alive, this will enable him the power to create terrible destruction. Next, his glass. The eye alone is dangerous, but if he manages to get ahold of his glass, that can both hold open his eyelid without his attendants and allow him greater range at which to use his eye. Guard these items with your life.âÂ
CĂș reluctantly took the items in his hand and slipped them into his own pockets.Â
âThat should keep him weak enough so we can kill him.âÂ
CĂș nodded. The icy sting of defeat settled in his gut. That was it. He had suffered so much, had been through so much pain, and had killed his best friend, all so this could be the end of his story. Not even the one to fight Balor. The one to train the champion. In theory, he didnât mind the role. ScĂĄthach had been a great source of knowledge in his own training. In practiceâŠ
Was he not good enough? He was a descendant of Lugh and therefore Balor. Why shouldnât the prophecy be about him? Why did he suffer and sacrifice so much if, in the end, only pain remained?Â
âI believe Ibic has a son who has enough faerie blood in him to qualify for the role of champion,â Lugh continued. âI suggest you get to training. We donât know when Balor will pop up. And ScĂĄthach says you can reach out to her if you need advice on how to teach.âÂ
CĂș scoffed. âI wonât be needing any lesson plans. Iâm more than capable of teaching Ibicâs son. I will bring glory to our name, Father.âÂ
âThank you.â Lugh smiled.
CĂș blinked, and he was back in the overworld. Looking around, it didnât seem much different than when he had left. It didnât seem like much time had passed.Â
Someone screamed. He turned to see Lugaid had a chunk missing from his side as Conall stood over him with a sword. He cut the manâs head off and put it on a stone. Lugaidâs blood melted the stone and sank right through it. On a tree, a raven landed, staring at CĂș.Â
He turned to leave Conall to his duty. He wasnât sure if he was technically alive or not. He wished Lugh had taken the time to explain his current existence. He didnât want to be seen as a demon wearing CĂș Chulainnâs skin. Besides, his story was done. That much was made clear. He could no longer meet back up with his battle brothers or swap war stories like before. He had a job to do.Â
He had to find Ibicâs son and start training him. Perhaps he should call ScĂĄthach for some advice. Or this was a waste of time, and Balor had died, and some death god failed to report it.Â
CĂș spotted the GĂĄe Bulg on the ground and picked it up. He didnât want that last part to be true. He had lost his one last chance to be a part of something glorious.
Brigid Callahan is special: at sixteen, she's been training all her life with her legendary guardians CĂș Chulainn and Fionn Mac Cumhaill so she may be ready to defeat the one-eyed giant Balor as foretold by an ancient prophecy. That is if Balor ever does show up during her lifetime. Brigid would much rather do normal teenage things since Balor is probably dead anyway and so, with Set the Egyptian God of Chaos by her side, she enacts a cunning plan to free herself from destiny's grasp. Surely nothing bad can happen in the meantime... right?
The Epic of Brigid Callahan is a light-hearted and refreshing take on the reluctant hero trope. As one of the few remaining people with fae blood, Brigid has dedicated all her life so far to training to defeat Balor and yet, she is only a typical teenager seeking to find her place in the world and to understand who she is beyond what others tell her. The themes of identity, belonging and family blend beautifully with the high-stakes action plot. Brigid is a charming protagonist, full of wit and cunning, determined not to appear fragile in front of her mythological guardians. Even though some of her interactions with her guardians appeared slightly repetitive after a while, she embarked on a deeply satisfying growth arc right up to its conclusion.
The world of this book is rich in characters drawn from different mythological traditions - blending Celtic, Egyptian, Greek, Norse, and many more - providing a vivid mosaic of side characters even though in some cases this felt a bit more like name-dropping than building fully fleshed-out characters. The initial set-up could also have been tidied up slightly to make the introduction a little less confusing, particularly for readers who might not be overly familiar with the lore. Balor is also a fairly typical villain seeking world domination and could have benefited from a slightly more complex characterisation. Still, he plays his role well in all his evilness.
With action aplenty, humour, and heart, The Epic of Brigid Callahan is a deeply entertaining novel perfect for both its YA audience and young-at-heart adults.