. . . 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.

Hunter heard the old skald telling his stories to the children of the tec.  He had noticed that the man liked to test out new material on the young, sharpening it with a few trial tellings to those young ears before he presented it to the tec at large.

Hunter had decided that this was a wise practice and something good he would carry away from an otherwise frosty relationship with Barnen.  Hunter was happy about being back in the warmth of Winter-hold.  He’d gone a bit mad alone in the wild.  Things were good, for the most part, Hunter had one enemy however, and that was Barnen the Skald.

The old man was focused on his audience and didn’t notice Hunter, “OH, the man was fae, no doubt of that, and most likely mad, but he could sing like a bird, play harp even better, and I can confirm what you’ve heard, he talked to the elves.  The children’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“How did yo meet him?” a bold little boy in front asked.

“Oh that?” Why I was telling the Rig a tale in the great hall, it was the black of night and the wind was howling.  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! there was a fierce pounding on the door.

“More and more interesting,” thought Hunter, “he’s turning the children against me having failed with the adults.  Hunter Wilde slipped back into shadow.

Barnen was warming to his tale.  Each time he said boom the children jumped, “Boom, Boom, Boom went the door like a war drum, Old Lars fell off his chair getting to it before it got knocked in.  Lars throws open the portal, Who knocks at portal of Murchadh, says he? The door swings wide and there stands a man, it seemed, twice the size of Bran the champion and white as snow!”

“Hunter Wilde ain’t even as big as Bran” said the boldest child.

“You’re right there, not half as big, but that snow giant in the doorway stepped once, and again, and fell flat on his face! By that time, Lars was back with the axe he’d forgot in his hurry to open the door. But by then there was nothing but a big pile of snow on floor so Lars shrugs and shuts the door.”

There was a buzz among the children, Barnen drew there attention back with a flourish. “It was warm in the Tec, a fire roaring to keep out the chill, so it wasn’t long until the snow melted away and there on the floor. . .”

“Hunter Wilde?” the children chorused.

“Who knew?  There was just a heap of rags.  It was strange, a rag bag walking about, but strange things do happen.  So a couple of slaves were going to pick through it when one thinks he sees a wee animal amongst the sodden rags.  He reaches in and pulls on a tail, but instead of a fox, out comes Hunter Wilde!”

“Was that his beard?” the children laughed.

“No no,” said Barnen, “Hunter Wilde is most likely part elf himself and he can’t grow a proper beard at all, that’s why he wears a fox tail for a moustache.”

“And why he talks to elves?” a big eyed little girl asked.

“Oh no, that’s not why.  Hunter is a strange one sure enough, but he serves a purpose.  He’s too small for a warrior, he’s not so very smart either, but one thing he does do is he takes bad girls and boys with him and he gives them to the elves to teach them manners.  So you better get off to bed or you’ll be liven in the trees and eating flowers and moss.”

“Come on Barnen, tell us more. . .”

Hunter stepped out of the shadows behind the Skald letting his last two footfalls thump hard on the floor, “Who’s hungry for flowers and moss!” he shouted.  The children shrieked and ran for their beds.”

Barnen, the old skald laughed, glancing back at Hunter he said, ”I never liked you Hunter Wilde, I’m glad you’re going, but I expect we’ll be old friends when you’re gone.”

Hunter Wilde was in trouble.  He was young and strong, he had travelled far and wide, but he’d hit a string of bad luck and it was looking like his travelling might be at an end.  He’d lost his horse and now his mule.  The solid little community he had hoped to Winter in was naught but burned beams and ashes.

There were dead too, things too awful to think on, so he buried the dead and most of his trade goods and headed for his last chance.  The snow was deep and fresh which made the going hard.  The Winter was early and strong, he could feel the icy fingers of cold stealing the life from his limbs.  There would be no one to bury him if he didn’t find a fire.

Step after step, each one a fight for life.  Now the wind howled, sure of a kill.  He couldn’t see for the snow and ice blowing into his face.  One more, and one more, keep stepping or die.

Step and step, the wind was less.  Something barred his way.  He pounded at the portal, a door, light, a fire.  Heat and light and the sound of merrymaking smote him like a blow.  Salvation.  He stumbled across the threshold.

He had found the fire of Murchadh, a minor lord in a confederation of such small kings.  However, Murchadh was a man on the make who fully planned to be Rig of a Tuath and maybe Ard Rig, and why not?  Warmed by fire and ale young Hunter was brought.

Murchadh sat a throne, with the furs taken off and the lord not sitting there it might just be a chair, but a throne it was that night.  “Who is it that enters the feasting hall of Murchadh?  Speak if you be friend then welcome.” Murchadh laughed glancing around his inner circle, “If you be enemy then we will have to figure out what to do with you.”

“My name is Hunter,” Hunter drew breath, there were many Wildes who roamed the west, he had no idea what truck this lord may have had with his folk, so he hesitated.

“Your name is Hunter or you are a hunter?” asked the lord.

“Wilde is my name from my mother.  I have never lived near another of that name.”  He added quickly, nobody seemed the least perturbed by his name or his bastardy so he added, “I can hunt, I do as I travel, but I sing better and play.”  Hunter drew his lute out of its case.   

A grumpy looking codger in worn motley spoke up, “We’ve no need of a minstrel, I am bard to lord Murchadh and I have my own harper.”

“Yes, yes, of course Barnen,” Murchadh soothed the skald, “We don’t mean to replace someone so valuable as you.  But this fellow may give you a bit of a well earned rest. . .”

“I need no such. . .”

“Surely not, it isn’t need of which I speak, I only speak of rest that you have earned, that you deserve, dear Barnen.” Turning back to Hunter, Murchadh smiled broadly, “Did you say you travelled?  Perhaps you could tell us of your travels.”

“Indeed I could.  I would be happy to regale you with stories of distant lands and songs from a hundred halls in dozens of kingdoms. . .”

Murchadh glanced over at Barnen who was fuming, “uh, do you compose, say, satire?  Barnen is most adept at satire.”

“No lord Murchadh, I sing mostly ballads and write that sort of thing.” So that was it thought Hunter.  The up and coming lord Murchadh had his every action praised in song and his enemies skewered in satire, but he feared that the poison sword of Barnen’s tongue might turn against him.  Barnen looked smug.

“Welcome to my hall.  Rest for the moment and we will see what can be done to earn your keep later if that is agreeable?

“Yes, most agreeable.”

“Find a seat at my board then, and Barnen, let’s have a tune.”

Hunter found a way to a bowl and a cup and a place near the fire to warm the cold from his bones.

   *   *   *

Hunter Wilde stayed as inconspicuous as could be and still get something to eat and drink.  Several days went by and he gathered no attention at all from Murchadh or any of his inner circle.  Still better, the attention he did garner came from the serving girls.  He became something of a favorite among them and found a better place to rest than the feast hall floor on a couple occasions.

It came as a bit of a surprise when the call came.  Marta elbowed him as he was lost in his own world gently playing his lute at the end of the bench farthest away from the head table.  “That’s you they’re call’n for Handsome.”

It was late and there weren’t many still awake enough to bend an elbow much less listen to him, but Murchadh still sat his throne, his inner circle passed out around him, and no sign of Barnen at all.

“Wake up Hunter Wilde!” Murchadh thundered, “I’ll have that song now, and news of the wide world.” 

The hall, for the most part, slept on, but Hunter played and sang, servers and the temperate few were treated to a few lovely songs of love and loss, of heroes and their deeds and then when even this audience was sent away happy, though eager for more, Murchadh got his news.

“Well lad,” said Murchadh, ”I would love to keep you here for the sing’n and to gather what news I could shake loose that you haven’t passed yet.  But Barnen won’t have it and truth to tell, I’ve more than enough mouths to feed.  This Winter came soon and hard so better than song is meat, not just for me, but for everyone.”

“I could tell that Murchadh was uh, not comfortable with me.”

“Don’t take offense Hunter, I think old Barnen would rather that nobody else sang in the world.  It’s just. . .”

“No no, I expected this when you mentioned satire.”

“You see my position?”

“Indeed,”  Hunter sighed, resigned to what he expected would come.

So we rose up and killed the task masters.  We fled their spears and their chariouts to the south lands, over the Freedom River, thru the great swamp, deep in the dark jungles, beyond the desert waste, to our lands, to our forested hills, to our high plains and tall mountains.

We traded with the Bedouin and the Corn Kings, but we do not allow them to live on our lands.  The sea lords anchor in our harbors but they do not go beyond the quay, these are our lands.  We were equal, but they enslaved us, we were wise in the old knowledge, but they stole our knowledge and sent us to the fields.  Never again will they have power over us.

This is why we kill our enemies.  This is why we do not sell our brothers and sisters to our neighbors.  This is why we do not take slaves or buy slaves or trade with any who do.  For one man to own another is abhorant to us.  We live apart and do not mix our blood with others.  We remember the years of our enslavement and it will never happen again.

Our land is free land.  Our people are free.  So it will ever be.

I’m going to begin to talk about the Celtic legends and lore that I want to be part of my fantasy world. For those not familiar with Celtic legends let me tell you, I know pretty much everything there is to know about the topic (errr, but to those who do know, ummm, uhh, let’s just say I’m putting it out there from memory.)
Because this is such a horribly quick and ill thought out post I will be forced to follow up, refine, and probably retract much of it. Still… …here goes.
I am an Irishman, of that there is no doubt. In fact, my sister having done a little comparative genealogical work (thanks Debbie), I know that I am descended from kings. Notably I am descended from one king in particular who seems, mitochondrially anyhow, to have a lot of descendants. Common to both my father and my mother is one notable person from out of the Celtic past. The O’Neills and the McNeils both spring from the same ancestor, Niall Noigillach. Niall, I’ve been told, means champion, and Noigillach means “of the nine hostages”.
Perhaps the bye name harks back to a king who conquered the nine sub-kings, leaders of minor tuaths around him, but some say Niall, counted as a high king, Ard Rig of all Ireland, came by the name for taking hostages as assurance of support from the 5 parts of Ireland, and four others elsewhere, like France. Intriguing and I’ll have to look into that.
Another legend about this fellow, Niall, is that it was he who captured Patrick and brought him to Ireland the first time as a slave. Indeed, some legends have it that it was Niall’s son Loeigre (sp?) who met Patrick on his return and through a Samhain’s day miracle began the island nation’s conversion to Christianity. Again, this requires study, so I’m putting it out there and checking and confirming later.
Niall is also very notable for the impact he had on the leadership of Ireland. Legend has it that Niall was promised the kingship for generations and the Ui Niall dynasty, or perhaps dynasties is a better way to put it, dominated the high kingship ever after. Often it seems one son of Niall got it by wacking off the head of another, but it traded back and forth until Brian Boru broke the string.
Lest I perpetuate a misconception that I do not hold, let me just say that the true genesis of the Niall clans, the various Ui Niall dynasties, was a later descendant, Niall Glundubh (that is Niall Black Knee) . In fact, Niall Nine Hostages is supposed to be, or is claimed by other clans as a progenitor. I’ll look up some of that stuff too.
It is a rich topic, no doubt, these moldy legends of kings and kingdoms or rather Righs and Tuaths, I have not even mentioned Conn of the Hundred Battles, or Saint Columkill (I think I’m murdering the name) or Tigernmas, or even Niall’s father Eochaid Mugmedon, who seems a fine fellow until you learn that his bye name means something approaching “the enslaver” or something like that. (I like to call him grandpa.)
I think I’ve successfully created something NEW, not good, but perhaps further days will see more care and concentration of effort. For now I give you NEW.
LSO