Iamerge stepped out into the day and closed the guesthouse door behind him.  He was more than a little disappointed that Rhuary UiBirlinn was nowhere to be seen.  Another opportunity squandered, he thought.

Nothing to be done about it.  I’ve things to do anyway.  Iamerge headed for the refectory.  The wounded men were waking, and along with herbal remedies to deal with their pain would be a their need for food. 

Fortunately, the monks had done a good job supplying that need after a bumpy start.  At first, they counted up mouths and imagined they need only supply that much more, but the monks of the Biblious Monastery kept themselves on very short rations.  Wounded men needed much more, not just to feed them what they were accustomed, but also more to fuel their recuperation.

Iamerge had benefited from this realization.  It was a benefit of being with the wounded that he was fed like one.  The monks were unstintingly generous as soon as they realized their error.  Iamerge expected that there would be ample food waiting for him in the Refectory.

In a community without doors one hears things.  It wasn’t long before Iamerge began to hear urgent words.  It seemed that the meeting between Gospels and UiBirlinn had moved indoors and the refectory had become the conference room.

It was awkward, but Iamerge decided he might best be served by hovering near the door while the conversation continued.  It was not difficult to hear Rhaury UiBirlinn, “This hill of yours is indefensible as it now stands. . .” Perhaps my opportunity is not gone, Iamerge thought.

“We do not need to defend it, this place is the Lord’s,” said a voice that Iamerge guessed was the new abbot.

“Master UiBirlinn, you needn’t worry about us.  Our lives are in God’s hands.  If we die we gain reward, if it is for Christ’s sake.  Every man of us is commited to it.”  That seemed to be from Gospels.

“What madness is this?  If you mean to commit suicide, go find the monsters.  I am sure they will oblige, but do not provide the meal that brings them to my gates.”

“We do not wish death. . .” began Gospels, but the new abbot spoke louder.

“For a chance at martyrdom we would indeed count ourselves blessed, every man of us.  We do our duty before the Lord, and if He will offer us this cup of martyrdom then how can we refuse?”

“You are mad then.  These are not devils to tempt you, they are monsters who will eat you.  If you think defeat at their hands will be some honor, you go to them, but you will do nothing but feed them.  You will gain no honor, at least nothing that I would call honor.” Iamerge thought about stepping in, but then UiBirlinn continued, “Is the cow honored to be roasted, or the hog blessed bacon to be?”

“It is not that,” spoke Gospels, “ just, all things, even something that might seem senseless or tragic, can be made into good by our Lord.”

“That would be some trick, that.  The lot of you killed and consumed and that to the good?  Will you sour in their bellies and so bring them down?  Wear thee hemlock and nightshade as you go, for eat you they will.”

“Pardon us Master UiBirlinn.  We take your point, I think, but you do not know our Lord.”  Gospels had a way of speaking that could silence you with a whisper, his very softness seemed to make his words more potent, “At one time we had plans for a tower.  It was to house our bells, famously, the very ones for which the town is named.  Perhaps we should consider making a tower to hold us safe as well as to house the bells.”

“It seems to me too late for that sort of effort. . .”

“Indeed, it was half a century ago that the plan was abandoned Gospels.”

“True, and yet our guesthouse is the foundation of that tower and the bells rest in vaults beneath it.  If God provides this extremity, perhaps he can provide the stone masons and crafters to make us a tower now that we need one.”

“Do you imagine that it could be so, brother Gospels?”

“Give glory to God brother abbot.  His timing is not man’s timing nor are His thought my thought.  Still, I have long wanted to see those bells installed, and if God will have a fortress, perhaps he will provide it and home for my bells as well.”

“If you find stone-masons then you’ve found a rare thing.  I need such myself.  I plan to raise a wall above the current palisade, but at low tide an army could walk around the fortifications near the water.  I need to extend the wall into the bay or perhaps build a wall across the dockside and fortify the wharf.  Either way I’ll need stone work if it is to be done right.”

“Are you going in?” The question from behind nearly made Iamerge jump out of his skin.  Iamerge whirled to find brother Corinthians behind him.

“I hadn’t yet decided,” he managed, but Corinthians seemed unaffected by his eavesdropping and he calmed.

“They ran me out, or rather invited themselves in and started all that and I felt the call else-where.” Corinthians smiled, “I expect you’re looking for the victuals for the wounded and the pain mendicants.” a look like concern drifted across the old man’s face, “What do you imagine they are on about anyhow?”

Not wanting to reveal what he overheard Iamerge said, “God only knows”

Corinthians beamed, “Surely that is true. He does.”  Being reminded of Providence seemed good enough for Corinthians.  God knew and so he had no need to concern himself.  “Wait here, I’ll get you what you need and be back in a few moments.  Corinthians patted Iamerge on the way by and slipped in to the refectory.

Again I’ve let my chance pass, Iamerge thought.  With nothing to do but wait, he let his attention drift back to the conversation within.

With the day fast dying and a down hill trail, Lugh focused on keeping up.  There were plenty of sites to see, little ponds, forests, flower filled meadows, all bathed in sunset richness of color, and of course, Oatie.

Oatie would spring off the trail whenever she saw firewood.  Lugh’s burden grew as he struggled to keep up with her and balance the load while she kept adding dry stick after stick.  It wasn’t too long and she stopped by a little meandering stream.  The place was the remains of a silted in pool caused by an avalanche long ago.  The grass was lush and the ground, soft and forgiving.  Lugh lay his firewood next to where Oatie had dropped her’s.  She was already returning with some rocks and a few more trips had a hearth of stones laid with a fire merrily burning and the stars shining above them.

Oatie seemed accustomed to making camp and Lugh had no objection to letting her do the lion’s share.  Soon there was something cooking in both their pots.  Lugh lay on the thick grass and wondered if he could remain awake long enough for dinner.  The smell was enticing, but the deepening night, and the long day’s hike was a powerful sedative.  Lugh found himself dosing as Oatie tended the camp.

Oatie stirring up the fire and pulling the pots from the coals woke Lugh from his light slumber, “Hey there sleepy-head.  You need to eat.  We have another long walk tomorrow.” 

Lugh groaned and rolled onto his belly.  Oatie was fussing with the fire on the other side of the pit.  The light made her skin look golden and her hair glowed like fire itself.  Lugh shook off his torpor, “Hey, if there’s food to eat, I’ll eat it.”

“Well, come and get it.  The least you can do is come this far since I made it,” Oatie chided, but smiled as he approached, “I guess you aren’t used to hiking that hard.”

“I guess not.”  I do my share of walking, especially of late.  Truth is, I had to leave some fine horses when I came North. . .” Lugh realized he didn’t really want to broach the subject of his expulsion from his previous accommodations.  He was surprised by his embarrassment, he flushed hot, but the heat of the dancing flames served to cover his blush.  “What have you made?  It smells wonderful, better than anything I make on the road.”

Oatie beamed at his compliment, conveniently diverted from the sore subject of his infidelities.  “Taste and see,” she said, holding out a spoonful for him to sample.”

“That’s amazing.  What is it?  It’s delicious, how did you learn to cook so well?”

She was proud, but a little sad too as she explained, “When my mother died it was just me and Father.  My father was a hopeless cook, so I learned for survival reasons.  Do you really like it?”

Lugh nodded emphatically and reached for the pot. She playfully slapped his hands away.  “There’s enough for both of us.  Just wait a moment.”

Oatie hot handed a round loaf of fresh bread out of one of the pots and broke it in half.  One half of the loaf went on each pot lid. 

Lugh gasped, “Fresh bread? From a camp pot? How did you. . .”

Oatie playfully stuffed a small chunk of sweet warm bread in his mouth and Lugh was busy savoring it for a moment. “You don’t have anything else to work with and you learn, I guess.  Truth is I don’t usually bother, but I felt like showing off a little.”  Oatie laddled out hot stew into the bread bowls and there was quiet around the fire as they enjoyed the warm food.

“I will take up my arms today,”  shouted CuRuada.  He pushed through the press of his boy’s troop brothers.  Man and boy alike stepped aside as he charged to the fore.  There was a heat on him, a heroe’s light that many would remember, CuRuada was not tall, nor thickly muscled, nor had he any beard, but he was, that day, a man, and none could stand in his way.

King Concubar drew himself up proudly, “Do you know the words of the Chief Druid’s vision?  The one who takes up arms today will die young.”

“I heard the words, not that they mean anything to me,” said CuRuada, “If I had planned not to take up my arms before hearing them they would lead me to this same decision.  I am a warrior, I am a man, better to be remembered for great deeds than to live a long life.  Better fame and a name then to die in bed with no teeth.  I will take up my arms today.”

Concubar beamed with pride, “So speaks a man.”

“Then you are a fool,” hissed the old druid.  he turned his back on king and assembly and walked off with the other druids.

Concubar embraced his son, any who saw might have guessed it, but he was the king facing a war with dire consequences, CuRuada had showed the bravery all his men would need.  Perhaps they all were looking to their own courage, they did not know it save Fergus.  Concubar called to the assembly, “Let us go to the armory of the Red Branch Warriors, there are men here who would take up their arms!” So saying they all went up to the great hall of the Red Branch.

CuRuada took from the many assembled death dealing spears one thick and strong, too heavy for him, one might have thought, but as he plied it in a most spectacular, hero-like, wonderously martial way it shattered in his hands.  “Here, have a go with this spear,”  Said Fergus, as he passed his massive, sharp bladed, wound-gouging, monsterous, five pronged spear. So the lad plied it and found it fit for him.

Next CuRuada took in hand one of the fine swords among those that awaited a warrior in the great armory of Ulster.  Then he worked his feats, his strikings and his thrustings upon the training butts of the Red Branch and too soon the sword was warped and its hilt crumbling in the fist of CuRuada until it was destroyed.  Then King Concubar offered his own long slashing, high hilted, razor sharp, magnificently glittering sword to the boy.  CuRuada took it in hand and with brilliance, his hero light plain for all to see, he showed his great skill and found that the great sword of the King of Ulster was fit for his hand.

Then CuRuada made to take down one of the shields from the wall of the great hall of the Red Branch Warriors, but the King, Concubar, cried, “Leave off lad, none of these will stand your rough use, I think.”  With a wave he had brought out a strong, bronze banded and painted sheild of ash and oak wood, strong was the boss of iron in the midst of the shield and also it was studded with iron as well.  Upon the face of it was emblazoned a red hound chasing a great red deer stag with red branching antlers.  “This I had in mind to give you soon, but today it is proper, you are the hound of Ulster now and not the little fellow we called you when first you came.”

Indeed he was not the same boy.  Though he was shorter than his fellows, CuRuada had grown from the boy he was into a man of strength at least.  With thoughts of war, perhaps there was no-one who remembered that he’d been with them less than a month.

CuRuada moved to the chariots that sat outside the feasting hall of the Red Branch.  Before he could test them, Concubar said, “Please CuRuada, will you leave us with but one chariot?  Leave off those others.  You shall have my chariot and my favorite team as well.”

Several of the other lads of the Boys Troop including Conall, the son of the champion, took up their arms that day.  Even Felmid, the lad who’s arm had not fully mended, though he could not hold a sword was swept up in the furvor, “I may not be able to hold a sword, but I can drive as well as any of you with just one arm.  I’ll be the Hound’s charioteer.  The king’s horses don’t much need the goad anyhow.” 

And so it was that Felmid proved his worth to drive Concubar’s own chariot with his best team and with him went CuRuada who astounded the assembly with his feats as Felmid drove magnificently in sweeping turns and slashing dashes with CuRuada howling his warcry running up and down on the tongue of the chariot and casting spears with deadly accuracy.

As so often happens, folk would remember this day as a bright shining, vigorous, heroic, magnificent, and awe-inspiringly brilliant day that all later days paled in comparison too, and its brilliance would make the dark days that fatefully followed from it all the more bleak by comparison.

Oatie was moving quickly up the hill.  The exuberance of youth.  No respect for elders, thought Lugh.  He was about to ask her what the rush was when she stopped, looking out from where she stood.  Lugh saw that it was the top of the ridge and he saw that she was gazing out over the landscape below.

“I love this view,” Oatie said.

It was beautiful, the land laid out in green and blue, a patchwork of wilderness.  Perhaps more to a Norfolk like Oatie who might think, there’s where I planted those trees, hey look there is my field of wildflowers.  “I see what you mean.  You can see for miles up here.”

She looked at him and smiled, “Know what you don’t see?”

He scanned the land laid out before him.  It was beautiful, there were lakes, hills crowned with trees, swaths of color, but it was a puzzle to him what she meant.  He looked back the way they came, searching for some idea.  Strangely, but not really, the Norfolk intended, but still, it was surprising that the world seemed as empty behind them as before, “I can’t even see the sidhe from here.”

She laughed again, “That’s it!” Without another word Oatie Moss began to march down the path, whistling as she went.

Lugh paused to look around a bit more and to ponder.  He hadn’t pegged Oatie as being anti-social.  Perhaps she had her reasons.  Lugh, for his part, was accustomed to solitary periods.  Fleeing for one’s life makes it preferable, but Lugh thought he mostly liked to be around people.  Whatever, his current company had improved.  He thought, It seems that Oatie might not actually hate me at all, but rather she might have suffered the oppression of the thick human soup that was life in the sidhe. 

Lugh started after Oatie.  Not for the first time, he wondered why he found her so intriguing.  Then she turned and smiled at him and there was no more reason to think.

Scota and Teutates fought side by side.  Wave after wave of Lyr’s raiders broke against their shields and were thrown back by spear and sword.  There were always more who came, pounding relentlessly like the sea.

“Too many,” panted Teutates, “They are like the endless coils of a snake.”

“We can beat him,” Scota cried, “Shut up and just keep fighting.”

“No, this is Lyr’s doing, but we could kill all his armies and not stop him.” Tuetates caught a heavy blow with his shield and casually stabbed the frenzied axeman in the unprotected thigh. The man howled in pain and rage, rearing back for another savage blow.  Teutates ducked past the man and drove his short sword through the man’s back and into his heart, his return stroke hamstrung another warrior.

Moira dispatched the stumbling cripple with a quick thrust through the man’s throat, “So we run?” The bitter contempt in Scota’s voice made Teutates shiver.”

“Not that,” Teutates pulled a spear from a corpse and hurled it through a skinny raider with a ridiculous horned helmet and a sword, “We waste our strength on Lyr’s coils,” Teutates pointed his bloody sword toward the cluster of sheilds and spears on a small rise around the standard of their brother, Lyr, the lord Balor to his raiders, “There is the head!”

“Cut it off and the serpent dies.  The bloody head is the thing,” Scota gathered like a storm cloud.

She was beautiful in her rage, but all Teutates said was, “I love you Ota,” his words were lost in the battle noise.  Louder he commanded, “Organize our guard into the kind of spear-point that can reach that standard, I’ll get with our commanders to thin our way.”  He did not look to see if she would do her part, he knew her.

The forces opposing Balor were hard pressed, but a line was formed and a broad push launched at Balor’s spear bristled hill.  A thin line of reserves was withheld and Teutates and Scota, with their guard, prepared to exploit their enemies lack of discipline from a tight packed wedge formed up behind the screen.  The push seemed to threaten to reach even to Lyr himself before it was thrown back.  With a nod from Teutates the recall was sounded and the assault seem to dissolve in disarray.

Teutates watched as the rabble around Balor’s command began to pursue what seemed to be their opponents fleeing after one last attempt.  Satisfied that all was well he ordered the charge and the war horns sounded the charge.

Beside him Scota screamed, “Crush the Head!” and as one they drove toward their brother Lyr’s battle standard, the bloody flag of Balor of the Fomor, with black murder in their hearts.

Their hand picked warriors surged after.  It was a hero’s charge, enemies fell to the left and right.  Their narrow wedge thrust into the confused Fomor ranks, bringing destruction.  Teutates’ powerful sword arm wrought death on the right while Scota’s brilliant sword work killed foes to the left, hundreds fell.  Nothing survived between them and Lyr’s shield wall, nor did it stand before the two gods of the Gael, but their guard was slaughtered behind them.

It only took a moment to see they’re success was a trap.  Swords pressed them on all sides.  They fought on, grimly taking wound after wound until Teutates fell unconscious and Scota’s sword slipped from her bloody hand.  She collapsed to the ground next to her husband and expected quick death.

It did not come for her.  “Good,” Boomed a commanding voice, “I wanted to have a word with you sister.”  Scota looked up to see a hulking shape that seemed to squat on a sort of mobile dais.  With a wave from lord Balor, who was her brother Lyr, the press of soldiery stepped back, “You’re looking lovely Scota.”

“I’ve looked better,” murmured Scota, “But you, Lyr, look like a hideous bloated toad.”  There were gasps all around.  Scota wiped the sweat from her face, replacing it with a smear of blood from her arm.

Lyr chuckled, unconcerned, “You see?  This is how we gods converse, one big happy family.”

Scota laughed without humor but made no more comment.

“I always admired you Scota. . .”

This she couldn’t let pass, “I’d rather die than let you touch me.”

“I do what I like,” said Balor without heat.

“Not to me . . .”

Balor shrugged his thick shoulders and chided, “I think you know better than that.  I can do to you whatever I wish.  Question is, do you want to live sweet sister?”

“I told you, I would rather die than sleep with you Lyr.”

Lyr laughed derisively, “You flatter yourself, it’s not your (body) I want.  I like your violence.”  Lyr rose and stepped off his dais.  He was very nearly seven feet tall, thickly muscled and massive.  Only a bloated paunch hanging at his waist spoiled the martial effect.  He hefted a huge double bitted battle-axe one handed, and with ease.  “Choose Scota, life or death, it’s up to you, sister.”  Lyr was a far larger man than Scota remembered, he’d not stopped growing in his over 200 years. “Killing you both just leaves me with two less headaches.” Lyr stepped closer, menacing, swinging his great axe.

Scota glanced around her feet, desperate to find her sword.  She looked up to see Lyr smirking, obviously reading her, but not caring.  Their eyes locked, but Lyr’s smirk didn’t change.  What was she missing? Did he want to kill her himself?

Lyr’s eyes flicked away and he nodded. A soldier with a spear, standing out from the general press, raised his spear and drove it into Teutates’ chest.  It must have killed him instantly because even the man twisting and wrenching the spear free of her husband’s body didn’t illicit any response from Teutates.

“No!” Scota heard herself scream.  Lyr’s laughter lent everything a nightmarish quality.  Scota threw herself across Teutates body.  His eyes were staring sightless and his jaw was slack.  Scota’s hand closed around the hilt of a sword.  As quick as thought and before the spear-man could bring his bloody spear to bear Scota shoved the sword into the man’s guts.  She leaned against the man, taking pleasure in watching the light go out of his eyes, before shoving his corpse back and off her sword.

Lyr seemed to find this extra measure of death even funnier.

Scota turned on Lyr, but made no move.  Balor, god of the Fomor, stood casually with his axe resting on his shoulder, “I never liked him,” said Lyr.

For a moment, Scota thought he meant the spear-man she had just killed, but Balor was looking at Teutates body, “Why did you kill him?”

“Because I do what I like,” Lyr stared at her a moment, during her perhaps, “It seems to me you’ve chosen life, wise.” Lyr nodded to the other body on the ground, “The man you just killed was the captain of one of my elite battalions.”

“Do you expect . . .”

“Shut-up Scota, I am the lord Balor and not even a goddess may interrupt.” Lyr shouted her down.  Lyr spoke loud enough for all to hear. “There is a price for raising your hand against a god, even if your are obeying the orders of another.  In this case death.”  Then to Scota, “You killed my captain, so I’m making you captain, his battalion is yours.”  Without another word Balor turned and walked to his dais.

“You’re mad!” Scota shouted, baffled.

Balor sat his seat and with a wave he was raised onto the shoulders of his bearers. “Use them wisely, sweet sister.”  The heavy platform turned slowly away so Balor had plenty of time to call back over his shoulder to where Scota stood stunned. “Your second is one of my sons.  I got him on some whore.  What was your mother’s name boy?”

“The lady Angelata Morel my lord.” called a handsome young man.

“Meet your second, Andalyr.  Andy, my sister Scota goddess of the Gael,” Balor chuckled to himself, amused by his wit or simply mad, “He’s half a god himself, so don’t kill him.  He’ll be of use to you.”

With blaring trumpets and shouted orders, Balor left the field.  Scota was left on the little hill with two dead bodies, and her five hundred.