“Defend yourself if you can little fox.  I’ll make you famous,” shouted Fer Ulli, Champion of the Airgialla.

“You’ll never know the tenth part of my fame,” said CuRuada hefting his spear in an overhand grip and limbering his shield arm.

“Oh? Why is that?” scoffed Fer Ulli wading through the ford.

“You’ll not know anything beyond today.” CuRuada crouched as the big man came splashing toward him.

Fer Ulli drove his heavy headed spear hard toward CuRuada’s legs, hoping to wound him, but CuRuada knocked it away easily even as his spear dug a furrow in Fer Ulli’s shield.  The two men traded blows, each catching and diverting the other’s blows as they churned the water of the ford to brown mud.

Fer Ulli was the older of the two by far, so as the battle continued, and he could not get his spear past the boy’s shield to wound him, the shrewd champion attacked less and sought to conserve his strength for an opening.  Using his bulk he worked CuRuada into a deeper place in the ford, hampering his movements.  Fer Ulli feinted weakly with his spear and CuRuada struck it aside with more power than was needed.  Fer Ulli seemed to follow that weak jab, staggering and exposing his side.  CuRuada lunged and his spearhead grated along the rings of the champion’s mail.  Suddenly CuRuada was reeling from a shield edge smashed against his head on the way to striking his arm and carrying away his spear with his balance.

Fer Ulli pressed his advantage, thrusting again and again, but CuRuada’s momentary unbalance was gone.  Now with his short sword in hand, CuRuada began to press the older man.  Fer Ulli should have had an advantage in range with his spear, but CuRuada, angered now, seemed able to slip past Fer Ulli’s guard at will and his sword cuts were telling.

Worse yet, as Fer Ulli’s strength ebbed with each cut, flowing away like his blood on the river, CuRuada seemed to strengthen and his anger seemed to grow. 

To look on him now was a fearsome thing.  Where Fer Ulli had struck the young man was a deep bruise that had nearly closed his eye, but around the purple his face was almost as dark a red as the purple of the bruise.  While one eye squinted the other gaped wide with madness.  The boys hair stood on end like his name sake, and he now moved with animal quickness.

Gasping, Fer Ulli tried his best to defend himself.  CuRuada’s attacks seemed more like the maddened onslaught of a rabid animal than a warrior.  Then, for a moment, CuRuada seemed to slip and Fer Ulli tried to gather the last of his reserves.  He let his shield drop low and reared back to attempt a fight finishing thrust.  Too late, for CuRuada was already erupting from the water.  The feat was the Salmon Leap and last thing Fer Ulli ever saw was the arching body of his nemesis above him before the edge of CuRuada’s shield tore his shoulder from it’s socket and his sword found its way down beside his neck, through muscle and bone to find his heart.

This is a project that doesn’t begin and end with my writing fiction.  I plan to involve my daughter and perhaps my son in writing these stories.  Perhaps I’ll be able to learn to appeal to a different audience through this process.  I haven’t intended to write children’s stories even if some of my writing has come off childish.  Now, perhaps, it can be intentional.

***

Aivi was in her place, her secret place, her private place.  There was no quiet in her house, her little brother, Ro saw to that.  Here in the little cave by the little stream, Aivi could get a little peace. 

“Aivi!” came the call on the wind.  It was mother and she sounded angry.  Aivi, for her part, wanted nothing to do with angry mothers.  She hunkered down a little more and planned on returning later than she might have otherwise.  She took up her flute and played low and soft so that sounds from without were masked, but her secrets weren’t revealed.  Sometimes girls just needed a break.  Mother should understand that.

So it was a great surprise, as she played in her little cave, when there were shadows at her cave door, her mother stepped in with Ro held by his elbow.  Realization that she was discovered was replaced with anger that mother had betrayed her privacy and brought her little brother, replaced at last by cold fear.  Aivi expected to see anger on her mother’s face, but instead there was only fear.

“Aivi, stay here with Ro.  Hide.  There are soldiers coming.  Father is gathering things that we will need to survive in the forest.  Don’t come back to the house no matter what happens.” And then she was gone and her brother, Ro, remained staring at her with big frightened eyes.

***

So, the scene is set.  A girl who is a little rebellious.  A younger brother who is not her best friend, to put it kindly.  Trouble on the horizon like nothing she has faced before.  In this story I imagine that Aivi is at least 13, and probably a little more.  Because girls mature faster than boys in general, I imagine that Ro is perhaps only 2 years separated from his sister but probably seems younger. 

They live next to the forest, but it has never been their home.  They are the children of farmers so that the woods are a place to visit, but they are not highly schooled in forest craft, it will be a strange new world and very threatening.

I believe this story will be told with reference to the children’s past interactions with their parents, but at least at the beginning here they will be alone.  I hope this situation will not provide yet another “kids do better without their folks” fodder, that isn’t my intention, quite the reverse.  So I will try, in my writing, to avoid that.  –  LSO

Fergus and the King, Concubar, were at a game of Ard Fidchell when the chief druid of the Ulster came upon them, “It is not my wish to anger you, my lord, but there are matters to discuss relating to the games of Macha and too, the taking of arms of some of our young warriors, most notably sons of your Red Branch warriors.”

Concubar frowned, “Though you say it is not your wish to anger me, why is it that you are so adept at doing so? 

“It is just that last time we spoke there was tension. . .”

“Tension?  I remember it differently.  As I recall it, I threw you out.  I do not wish to hear you on the subject of Fand or of the boy.  Now, if you can avoid those topics, then there need not be any fear or you, Cathbad, saying, ‘I do not wish to BUTs’.  So, bring me news or council and let there be no buts about it.”

“As you say, my lord.” Cathbad began again, “The celestial bodies are in particularily good alignment for the games of Macha and always this has been an opportune time for our young men to take up arms.  As part of the latter we druids expect to read augures of a sacrificed bull. That is I will read the entrails . . .”

“This is not news.  You do this each year.” said Fergus.

“Even so, yes, and usually a bull has already been provided . . .”

Concubar nudged Fergus, “Did you know it isn’t the Druid’s bull that pays the blood price each year for their augures.  Cathbad begs a bull of me.”

“Oh!” supplied Fergus.  Cathbad reddened.

“Well then, chief druid, you know where my kine are, pick the one you want.”  Concubar made a show of turning back to the game board and ignoring his druid.  He winked at Fergus and then seemed to notice that Cathbad hadn’t left, “Is there anything else?”

Cathbad gathered his dignity, “I have seen the boy at arms practice.  I do not think it wise, but it is not my place to say so.  It has only been a very few days, but . . .”  Concubar was preparing to interrupt, but Cathbad plunged on, “He was a boy the day he came, but the little fellow he was he is no more.  Curuada, Son, is as near to a man now as makes no difference.”

Concubar glanced at Fergus, “Is that so? It has only been a few days.”

Fergus looked confused, “He is no taller.  Not even a hint of a beard. . .”

“He is a man.  Surely the way he swings the prince’s sword tells you that.  What child could hold it at all?”

“As I told you, CuRuada is unrivaled among your warriors. . .”

Cathbad saw his opening, “He will take up arms this year unless you do something.  Surely you see how dangerous it would be for him to do so.”

Fergus looked confused, Concubar vexed said, “If he is a man then why not?”

Cathbad gaped, “Have you forgotten?  He is not human . . .”

“HE is my son!”

“And if he dies who’s son will he be?” yelled Cathbad, “Who can pay the price for that death?  Who will ask it?  I say we will all pay for such a death,” and without asking leave Cathbad strode away.

“It is not my custom to let it be known who I might be,” said Lugh, “or who I might not be.  You seem quite certain of yourself.  Let’s assume you are correct and, assuming it, go forward quietly.”

“So you admit. . .”

“If asked, I am Finn, as you can see.  But I will not have it said that Oatey is a liar.  She is guiltless.”

“She is NOT guiltless, nor is she guiless.” Huffed the Norfolk, “What that girl is, beyond doubt, is trouble.”

Lugh laughed at that, and then laughed the louder when the man turned purple with pent anger, “Indeed, it’s good to know that on at least that we agree.”

The man glanced around conspiratorially, “So you see our dilemma.  There is no doubting her power, or her popularity among the young and, might I add, the foolish.  This can only lead to trouble.  Trouble bigger than one fourteen foot giant I should think as well.”

“Are you the girl’s father?” asked Lugh.

“NO!” barked the man, then quieter, “No, her parents are gone, both of them.”

“. . . and you want me to steer the girl.  Away from giants?  Away from here?”

The man seemed to ooze slime as he smiled at Lugh, “You and I are men of the world, Finn, if you like.  Surely one so experienced can guide her away from these troubling matters and leave our folk in peace.”

“What of these giants?  Isn’t this a service she supplies?  I can only imagine what a creature like that monster would have done if she had not lured it to its death.  She claims that these giants can be shrewd, that they have allies.”

“Aye, that she pretends to be one of these Giant wives to lure them, she says.  You know a woman is the wife to one man, but what if this giant was not her mate?  Fine, she lures him to his death.  What if she is the wife of a far worse giant?  Maybe she has roused him already and uses us to kill off his rivals.  What if she betrays us?  The giants sleep until she rouses them.  Let them sleep I say.  Let them sleep and we will all live a more peaceful life.

“I see, I will think on this, but how much I will not say.  Can I take seriously this, whispered in my ear by a man I’ve never before met, nor even know his name?”

“As you say, Finn.” said the Norfolk, ”Then I will tell you, my name is Martel Jones, Chief of the Oakwood Sidhe, and First Speaker of the Conclave of Elders.”

. . . The old skald, Barnen, was no friend, but Hunter couldn’t grudge the man his spot by the fire.  It had been a hard Winter, only recently did its icy grip show signs of loosening, and the days nearing Imbolc already.  Hunter had sung when asked despite the venomous glances of the wizened old teller.  The story of the Magic Lady had held them rapt a time or two as well, but folk in general and Rig himself pumped him for news of parts beyond their little sphere.  He embroidered the news of the lands he had travelled into a rich tapestry, but nothing caught their attention like the news of the burned out village.

Truth to tell, Hunter had avoided the subject for fear that this Rig had had a hand in it, but too many ales and familiarity had caused him to let down his guard.  On the topic of turmoil and war he had dropped the news as an aside, “You know what I mean. . .” He’d blathered, “like those poor folk on the other side of the mountain, all of them killed and their village burned to the ground.”

There was shocked silence, for indeed nobody but Hunter did know it.  Anger followed and women weeping.  The entire scene turned from eventide ease to pointed interrogation.

Barnen the Skald was the only one the least bit happy.  It seemed there was much back and forth and everyone related to someone over the mountain, but no more and Hunter Wilde had borne the news and told it too late.

There was nothing for it but to go with a scouting party, a fact finding effort, to see what had befallen their kin.  Hunter knew the way of these things, he was the outsider, in their fear and pain and the desire for revenge could easily fall on him.  so he went, trying to seem concerned and likemindedly all for revenge while ignoring the dirty looks and the sharpening of knives.

It was a long walk and Hunter made himself useful and free by ranging ahead and bringing down fresh meat for the party.  Slowly the questioning around the fire became less accusatory.  Hunter had known their folk, had planned to spend Winter with them, had taken care of them in death as best he could.  He could name many of them though he confessed he had tried not to remember names as he buried the dead who had not been treated kindly.

They drew some of these details from Hunter and anger flared again, but now it was not aimed at him.  that relief was soon overshadowed by their approach to the place full of so many nightmarish memories.

The village was nothing but blackened timbers sticking up through the snow, lonely and forlorn.  Hunter showed the place he’d laid the villagers.  Then the grim work of learning what had befallen the villagers began so that they might be avenged.

When he had come upon the tragedy, Hunter had worried first about burying the villagers to protect them from Winter scavengers.  He had come late to the massacre, snow already hiding some of the carnage so that as they tried to make sense of the horror they came upon bodies, bodies torn by scavengers at times, but at others frozen in icy snow, as they were, by the rictus of death.

Horrific wounds marked the folk.  Many seemed mauled as if by animals, but as they ranged out from the buildings they found weapons, sharp edged stones embedded in mauls, short stone tipped spears, bone hafted obsidian knives, and here and there something man made and innocent as a rusty kitchen knife turned into something vicious.  Many of the weapons had fetishes attached to them made of bone and human hair.

The mood at camp was somber and watchful.  Clearly a war party of some strength had fallen on the village.  They were savages, without the use of metal, but they were accomplished killers and well organized if the totality of slaughter was any indication.  The deaths in the village had been brutal, but relatively quick.  Not so those who seemed to have escaped or even fought back.  In the woods there were bodies of people who had suffered cruel and intentionally long deaths.

The night was long, but few could console themselves in sleep.  Everyone knew there would be more grizzly finds on the morrow.  The watch did not need to be reminded to keep themselves from dozing.  It was fairly clear that where their kin had been slaughtered was now enemy territory.

Finally the sun rose, blood red, tinging the world with anger as the men gathered themselves for another depressing day of finding the dead.

There was a foreboding, a sense of dread, as they approached a rocky gorge.  They were not surprised to find a body on the ice rimed rocks below.  It was a surprise that for once nobody was related to the corpse.  With ropes and much clamoring and hauling they brought the dead thing up.

The body was not human, at least not in the way any of them would recognise humanity.  It was obviously one of the raiders, they found brutal stone tipped weapons like those they found in the villagers.  The creature, though slightly shorter than the men of the party, was heavier, with a savage visage, powerfully muscled, and perhaps most alarming of all, it was female.

There was a clear trail along the top of the cliff.  Hunter felt the foreboding worst of all from that direction.  Now that they knew their enemy a bit better they all clinched their weapons tighter and looked around furtively, fearing ambush around every tree.

Hunter led them, step by step, into the dark foreboding wood.  There was no breeze to stir the Winter dead branches that clawed toward the sky.  “Do you smell it?” Hunter murmured as much to himself as those with him.  there was a stink in the still air, a stench of sulfur and corruption.

The land rose until they topped a rise, the stench smote them in the face.  Moss hung trees formed a dark tunnel down into the sheltered copse.

“I’ll not go there,” a man’s quavering voice suggested he might not stand either, and there were murmurs of agreement.