“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.

“See you there,” asked CuRuada, “I see a man at the fording place.  What mischief might he be at here at the West gate of Ulster?”

“Not hard to learn,” shouted Felmid, “and with a whoop, he set the team to racing, the chariot leaping down the fall to the Ash Ring.”

“This is like to be trouble,” said Fionn to Conall.

“How could it be other?” said Conall, his face set hard and grim.  “Let us go quickly lest that youth leads all these others to death.” Nodding Fionn set the whip to their team and they started down behind CuRuada and the other two chariots.

The young men of the boys troop of Ulster rode down to the banks of the fording place of the White Dash shouting their battle crys and displaying their martial abilities.  As they went, at their head both in order and in ferocity, was CuRuada.  He it was who rode the chariot pole between the team and displayed his spear throwing skills and his spear catching skills as they went.

Felmid drew up at the edge of the water with the left side of the chariot to the man standing across the fording place at the edge of the pool of the Ash Circle.  CuRuada leaped from the chariot and stood in the waters edge facing the man who calmly leaned on his spear with his sheild resting under his hand.  “Who are you that stand at the West Gate of Ulster?” He shouted across the way.  But the man made no answer nor any move save to spit casually into the river at his feet.

“Hey you!  Speak or I’ll come and remove you from the way and your head from your shoulders,” shouted CuRuada.

“A mighty boast for an Ulster brat.  Aren’t you from the famous boys troop that play well at hurley and prance around patting each other on the back?” The thick armed man in mail that looked like the scales of a fish laughed low in his throat, but there was no humor in his eyes and he made no more move save to taunt, ”Any idiot but an Ulster idiot would see that I’m not standing at the West gate of Ulster at all.  You can be glad of that.  I’m standing here, guarding the East gate of the Tenth part of Airgialla.  Go on home to your nursemaids Ulster boys you’ve not the stomach for this, nor any fur on your balls either I’ll warrant.

Rinnchu stepped from his chariot and called, “Who’s the idiot?  Everyone knows that there are but nine parts of Airgialla and that it lays South of Ulster, not to the West.”

“Is that so?  Don’t look now, soft-headed Ulster welp, we are surrounding you!”  The man at the ford laughed a nasty laugh, “Are there any men at all among you?  I thought I might have to call for help, but I only see a pack of boys.” The man shaded his eyes and made a show of scanning the ridgeline, “Did you bring your mothers?  I’d like to meet them, seeing all you pretty boys.”

This taunt brought all the boys but Conall and Fionn out of their chariots and hot to fight, throwing insults back across the White Dash.  The man ponderously slipped his arm into the straps of his heavy sheild and made ready his spear, “Very well, I know you Ulster bleaters are going to want to rush me all at once, since any idiot knows that a fair fight in Ulster is ten ‘gainst one.  I’ll probably need my sheild.  Right, well come on boys, come get your whipping.”

“Hold up!” cried Conall, “don’t you know who that is? That’s Fer Ulli, the champion of the Airgialla.”

“I know him for a fact,” said Fionn, “He’s the one that  Concubar forced their king to excile when we defeated them and took the king captive.  Only Fer Ulli and the sons of Nechtan were not defeated, they only withdrew when we compelled their king to send them away.  I was there, he killed many many good men.  His armor is impenetrable and he is a demon with that spear of his.”

“What are you chatting about girls?  Come now Ulsterlings, my spear is thirsty.”  Then the man began to wade into the stream, “Uh oh, now you’ve done it, here comes the bear at the precious West gate of Ulster.  What will the boys troop do?”

“I claim this combat.  I will face this mocker.” Thus saying CuRuada charged into the ford.”

“Tell me your name boy!” Shouted Fer Ulli, “I like to keep track of all the Ulster boys I kill.”

“You’ll have no name from me but CuRuada.  I can say my true name to the King alone.  You are little better than filth so you’ll have to do with that.”

“Red haired hound?  Little fox is more like it.  You came a long way to die little fox.”

“You talk too much.  I’m going to let all the air out of you.”

“Defend yourself if you can little fox.  I’ll make you famous.”

“You’ll never know the tenth part of my fame.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“You’ll not know anything beyond today.”

Thoroughly disgusted with Cathbad, Concubar could not bear to sit on his throne and think.  He did not wish to wait for Cathbad and the Brehon to return and berate him anew, so he rose from his throne and walked out to the hurley pitch to have another look at the Little Fellow, Son.

He saw Fergus standing above the pitch and chuckling to himself.  “What is so amusing Fergus?  Please tell me, I could do with some good humor after that horrible wizard Cathbad.” said the king.

“Well,” said Fergus, “Having beaten the boys and sending them away with their tails between their legs, the Little Fellow is playing with the hounds.  They’re not much for the rules, but they are very entertaining.”

“Playing the hounds?  I thought I told you to make sure the boy came to no harm?”  Concubar looked down on the field and saw nothing but a mass of writhing dog flesh in a scrum in the middle of the pitch, “Are you mad?  I don’t even see him in all that.  Have they eaten him?”

“No, the lad is too good with that cam.  Add to that the dogs seem to love him.”

“Are you sure?  I don’t even see him.”

“See there?  He’s the red haired hound in the middle.”

“Cu Ruada you say?” The king tugged his whiskers in thought, “Now that’s a fine name for the boy.”

“CuRuada?” Fergus nodded, “aye, I think it would serve.”

“The lad is good with the cam.  Let’s see what he can do with the sword.  Take him to the field and see how he is with shield and spear and . . .  Well, you know the training of the boys.  I think you may need to train him to be careful of his mates, so at first would you see to him alone Fergus?  I don’t need a lot of angry Red Branch Warriors bellowing about Cu Ruada’s  mistreatment of their sons and too we must consider Fand and Muirthemne.  The boy must come to no harm.”

“Well, if they’d complain about that, they should know they were better served to take a switch to any boy who would complain about being bested by that little hound.”

All the same, you see to the boy.  Let me know what you learn of CuRuada’s skill.

These fragments of the lore of Tir na Nua are presented raw, first draft, and unedited. I apologize for their original condition. However, my first priority is to capture sketches, so to speak, of the people and places of Tir na Nua. I have promised Free Celtic Fiction and before I can shape these sketches into more polished works I need to write these drafts. I share them, as they are, while I try to find the time to improve them. — LSO

 Read the beginning of this story: the Red Son of Concubar

the Coming of CuRuada the Red Son of Concubar

Nine days after Concubar’s tryst with the deer woman of the wood, the king was feasting in his great hall with his Red Branch warriors.  They would not leave off asking him about the woman and what was said between them.  Some of his men felt that it was good fortune and some were worried it was ill, but Concubar wished only that he could find the woman again.  How can I, Concubar thought, when I don’t even know her name?

Cathbad the, chief druid of Ulster, came into the hall in distress, “My lord Concubar, there is trouble on the hurley pitch.  The boys troop has cornered another boy and are beating him to death.”

Concubar sighed, “Boys will be boys, must I truly drag them from their prey?  What is this other boy to me?  Perhaps the troop has good cause.  Did you think of that Cathbad?”

“As to who the boy is, I can not say, but his cloak marks him as a prince and the broach upon it says he is the son of a king,”  said Cathbad, “And if you would know who he might be to you you’d best stop them soon or there will be no finding it out until the king, who is his father comes looking for his son.  I doubt he will be pleased.”

So the king rose from his couch and went to the hurley pitch with haste, all his warriors with him.  Now a king among the Gael must rule by right of a choosing.  He must be strong in body, perfect, and strong in voice so that his commands will be heard and obeyed. 

Concubar was without peer and his commands were always followed, so powerful was his voice.  So Concubar shouted with his commanding voice, “See here, stop beating that boy,”  said Concubar.

Even his command would not stop the boys.  So shocking was this that Concubar said not another word, but began to pull the boys off one at a time and throw them to his warriors, who’s sons they were.  When Concubar reached the bottom of the scrum he found Donall, the son of the champion, Cormac, and a little fellow with hair like flame of fire.

“Leave off you two! What is the meaning of this?”  shouted Concubar, and finally the boys stopped their struggles.  “What mischief are you all up to Donall?”

Donal answered, “This little fellow came and said that he wanted to play at hurley with us.  Nobody can play with the boy’s troop unless he be worthy, so we asked his name, but this little fellow would not say it, he claimed he was bound by his gesa not to give his name except to the king.”

Another boy piped up, “He wouldn’t say, so we told him he couldn’t play.  Then he stole our sliotar and carried it off to the goal.”

“Liar, I stole nothing, I only wanted to play.” said the little fellow.

“. . . so when he put the sliotar in the goal we confronted him.  Without permission and giving his name he should not play at hurley with the boys troop.” said Donall

“I have as much right as anyone here.” shouted the little fellow.

All the boys started to yell at that and curse him. “After that he attacked us.” said Donall

“Another lie! You pushed me down first.” howled the little red-haired boy.

“This one little boy attacked you?  All of you?” Asked the king.

“He is a demon or worse! He broke Felmid’s arm and who knows what else?” said Donall.

“This little fellow?” asked Concubar again, and the boys troop was shamed to silence.

Concubar set the two boys down.  He looked around at the boys, many of which had woundings and some who sat on the ground nursing broken bones, and the king wondered, who could this child be?

Concubar turned to the little fellow. “So boy, what is your name?”  he asked not unkindly.  He looked sternly in the boys face, but he found no fear there at all.

“I told them and I’ll tell you or anyone else, I can tell my name to none but the king, it is a gesa on me.”  Then it was that Concubar saw that the cloak he wore was outsized for one so small for it was a man’s cloak, a king’s cloak, indeed Concubar saw that it was his cloak pinned with his broach and on the childs hand was his ring.

This is most of a draft of the first chapter of my Niall Nine Hostages novel.  Notably it is a hurling match and it is for the hurling and not because there will be more of this novel offered that I present it.

Niall, eldest son of the Ard Ri, hurtled toward the goal with the sliotar balance on the end of his hurley.  Half the boys shouted with exhilaration; half howled their distress as they struggled to mount a defense in front of the H-frame goal.  A knot of boys formed up, waving their hurleys menacingly, ready to block the intruder’s drive.  Behind Niall, a howling mob closed in.  At the last moment, Niall spun away from the center of the field, still balancing the ball on his stick.  Niall grinned over his shoulder and his pursuers knew that they had been tricked.

Niall, skidding to a stop, shook his red hair out of his eyes and laughed.  He hurled the sliotar just over the outstretched hurleys of his opponents.  “Fynn!” he shouted over the cries of consternation from the defense, “Take it!”

A lanky boy with a worried look ran toward the bouncing pass with a determined set to his jaw.  Fynn Vyrrn saw nothing but the ball.  He was so determined that he did not see the larger boy, named Cenid, preparing to take him out instead of competing for the ball. Niall saw the danger, but too late, and yelled a useless warning, “Fynn!”

Fynn never saw Cenid coming as his eyes followed the path of his shot, nor did the shouted warning have an effect.  Cenid caught the running hurler about chest high and drove Fynn into the ground with his hurley.  Fynn dropped like a stone, the impact slamming his head and shoulders to the turf with a thud that brought gasps from other players.  Fynn came to rest in a crumpled ball.

A wicked grin split Cenid’s face, but he leered not at Fynn but at his older brother, Niall.  The thick-waisted lad, the second son of the Ard Ri, the high king, was easily the tallest of all the hurlers.  Satisfied that Niall had seen his intent, Canid turned his attentions back to the ball, but it was too late, already other offensive players had reached the sliotar.

A small brown-haired boy scooped up the ball with his hurley, catching it in his left hand.

“Seamus!” cried the older boys, waving their sticks in supplication.

Seamus, the quick-tongued youngest son of the king, scowled and pointedly ignored their calls for him to pass.  Three quick steps toward the goal and he slapped the ball in the air.  With all his strength the small boy swung two handed at the ball driving it at the goal with a loud crack.

A defense-man took the shot hard off his chest.  As brave as the boy was to face the first shot, he was not near brave enough nor fast enough to stop the avalanche of players all pounding after the ball.  The defender fell under the onrushing players and came up bloodied.  With a loud shout the sliotar skidded through the goal posts.

“Three!”  They called and “Seven!”

The hapless defense-man hurried after the ball, wiping the blood from his nose onto the bratt which was wrapped around his waist and pinned at one shoulder.  the scorers jogged back toward the center of the field cheering and squabbling about who had actually scored the goal.

The bloodied boy tossed the ball in the air, watching it with a practiced eye.  With a grunt he sent it soaring past the middle of the field.  The game resumed in earnest.  Nobody but Niall seemed to notice Fynn beginning to stir on the ground.  Niall made note of the movement and tuned back to the game.  The ball was surrounded on all sides by a press of boys and never traveled far before striking a leg or hurley.

The smaller lads hovered around the central melee of chopping an cursing boys.  When the sliotar came loose the nearest boy batted it toward his goal.  Every boy knew that if he hesitated he would be quickly mauled by the other players.  If he was quick, he might try to pass the ball with practiced swings or kicks. When given a moment to attempt it, a boy might try to scoop the ridged ball onto his hurley and carry it there or even flip it into a hand for more control.

Few of the younger boys tried this tactic. Everyone seemed to swing at the sliotar with their sticks whether it rested on the ground, flew through the air, or was being held in an unfortunate hand.  So eager were the boys that it did not seem materially important whether or not the lad holding the ball was on their team or not.

A few of the boys were older and a lot more accomplished than their mates.  Two stood out far above he rest, one for his size and brutality and the other for his speed and skill.  Where Cenid went, he pushed the smaller boys away with shoves, kicks, and even an occasional reckless strike with his hurley.  Stifled tears followed close behind Cenid, the Ard Ri’s second oldest son.

Niall, the elder by less than a year and shorter by nearly a foot, made up for his stature with his wits, his skill, and his ferocity.  No collisions impeded his rapid dashes unless a shoulder sent an opponent stumbling unbalanced but unhurt.

Niall moved like the wind.  Slicing in, Niall tapped the sliotar free from the knot of boys with a well aimed poke from his hurley.  Laughing with glee he easily scooped up the ball with his carved ash stick, his ears full of the cursing and the consternation of his fellows.  Niall snatched the ball from the air and took two quick steps away from the other combatants.  He looked for a teammate down the field in scoring position, but all his team seemed tangled in the cluster of struggling hurlers behind him.

Decision brought instant action, Niall lifted the hurley to his shoulder as he took another step and slapped the ball into the air with an open palm.  The sliotar hovered in the air a moment and then began to fall to the green, but Niall, his hurley gripped tightly in both hands now, was well prepared for his shot.

A moan went up from the boys who were unfortunate enough to be on the other team.  Though smaller than most of the other boys Niall was powerful and above all intense.  With practiced efficiency he drove the ball over the goal in a high arching shot that brought a sigh of admiration from his team-mates.

“Hah!” crowed Seamus.  The scrappy brown-haired boy nudging the large, now red faced, Cenid, “Niall is going to beat you again.”

“Shut up Seamus!” Cenid placed his hand over the smaller boy’s face and shoved him back onto the pitch as he strode through the press of players toward Niall, “You carried that ball and threw it.  I saw it!”  Cenid’s eyes narrowed and he stabbed his hurley at Niall’s chest.  “You always cheat.  How else could someone so small and puny beat me?”

Seamus had dusted himself off and followed, the mischief that danced behind his eyes would not let him resist the urge to take another poke at his older brother, “Perhaps if you had something other than moss in your head you’d be smarter than the sliotar, Cenid…”

Cenid rounded on the smaller boy, charging with his heavy ash hurley raised and a murderous gleam in his eyes. Seamus cowered, seeing the glint and fearing a beating.  Other boys seemed to melt away from Seamus, where he stood.  The hurley fell toward Seamus in a blur too quick, the youngest prince couldn’t even cover his head with his arms.  Inches short of the small boy’s head, another hurley shot out to catch Cenid’s and knock it aside.  The ferocious impact shattered the hurley that Niall held and sent Cenid stumbling past Seamus.  Seamus scrambled behind his protector.

“You owe me a hurley Cenid,” quipped Niall as he examined the broken stick before casually tossing it away, “and you almost owed me a new brother. You would have killed him if you’d hit him.”

“Mind your own affairs Niall or I swear I’ll give you worse than I’d ever give Seamus,” growled Cenid.

Niall frowned and strode closer to the taller Cenid, “I thought I explained my interest in this, not that I need an one to keep you from killing someone on a whim,” Said Niall.

“He had it coming brother, and I’m sick of your interfering too.” Cenid crouched with his hurley held like a weapon before him, “What makes you think you can command me?  And what makes you think you can stop me?”

Niall chuckled humorlessly and stepped even closer to Cenid, ready to fight, but bare handed, “Age, experience, intelligence, and the fact that I just did it.”

Cenid roared and lifted the hurley for a killing stroke.  Long before he could strike, Niall seized the haft of the hurley and pulled it down and away from Cenid as he whirled inside the arch with an elbow raised.  Pulled off balance Cenid could do nothing to avoid the elbow that sent him sprawling without his hurley.

Seamus snickered, but a look from Niall silenced him. “Hurling is over for today, off with you all.” Niall shouted loudly enough for all the players to hear him, but to his smaller brother he spoke softly aside, “That goes double for you Seamus.” Niall turned back to Cenid where he crouched on the ground, red faced.

“I’ll make you pay Niall,” Cenid hissed.

Niall ignored his threat. “Cenid, you owe me a hurley,” He said examining the finely carved and decorated hurley that he had taken from Cenid, “this used one will do.  Keep your wits about you and learn from your mistakes Cenid.  I’m not your worst enemy.  You should know I’m no enemy at all. Your worst enemy is yourself.”