Son of Air & Darkness Volume I of Tales of the Dearg-Sidhe

By S. P. Hendrick

Dubhghall is a mighty warrior, trained by Scathach herself. What is more, he has been made immortal by the Morrigan, who has taught him to feast on the blood of his enemies. And because he is the grandson of Lugh, no fire nor light can harm him.

But in this time of Roman rule, the Britons cry out for justice, and Dubhghall must decide whether to answer their call when he finds himself caught between the soldiers of Rome and the warriors of Boudicca.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pendraig Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781936922154

Book preview

Son of Air and Darkness

Volume I of Tales of the Dearg-Sidhe

by S.P. Hendrick

First Edition Copyright 2010

SmashWords Edition 2012

By Pendraig Publishing

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except brief quotation in a review.

Cover Design & Interior Images, Typeset & Layout: By Jo-Ann Byers-Mierzwicki

Cover Image Artist Keith Ward

Pendraig Publishing

Los Angeles, CA 91040

www.PendraigPublishing.com

ISBN: 978-1-936922-12-3

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

More Great Books by S.P. Hendrick

Other Fiction Novels from Pendraig Publishing

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Dedication

I saw a young man one early afternoon at the Renaissance Festival of Kings in Hanford, California, tall, thin, somewhere in his twenties by the look of him. His hair was black, long, pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. The white ruffled shirt and great kilt in the Royal Stewart tartan gave him an undeniably romantic appearance, and when he smiled at me I could not help but notice the fangs. Right there, in broad daylight, he stood, smiling, transfixing me with his blue eyes. Slowly he moved in around behind me, almost purring as he put his arm around my waist. I tilted my head slightly as he nuzzled my neck, and then I felt the most erotic sensation of my life.

He bit me, right there, on the neck, and I nearly swooned from the mixture of pain and pleasure. He repeated the procedure three times during the day, never breaking the skin, but drawing me deep into the world of imagination.

I never knew his real name, although someone said it was Bill.

No, I said. He is a Scottish vampire, out in the daytime. His name is Dubhghall. Now why is he out in the daytime, and what is his story?

To that young man this book is dedicated, and to Phil, without whose enthusiasm and knowledge of Roman Britain I could never have written this.

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Chapter One

I drew my first breath with my mother’s last, as the red fountain which gushed from her side ceased its flow. The sword thrust which had cut short her life had likewise severed the cord which had bound me to her, and as my grandmother Scathach struggled to keep me from following my mother back into that world from whence I had just arrived, my uncle Cett hurried in pursuit of the assassin.

It seemed unlikely that a woman only one moon short of delivering her own child could escape my uncle, a warrior so fleet of foot he’d been overcome only once, but Aoife had also trained at my grandmother’s fortress, Dun Skaith. She was not only swift, but filled with uncommon wiles and cunning, and, it had even been rumoured, the power to cast a glamour upon her adversaries. My father alone had been her conqueror, and the child she carried was to be my only brother, Connlai. Perhaps it was for his sake the Gods decreed she should make good her escape.

It was often in my childhood that Scathach told me the story of my birth, of how she had cut her own wrist and added her blood to that which had covered me, in supplication to the Morrigan to let me live. I heard again and again of how the sky had grown dark upon that prayer as my body and my life had been consecrated to Her, the Goddess of Battle, Death, Sorcery and their mysteries. The Raven had settled upon the branch of the blackthorn tree before us and Scathach had known then that the bargain had been struck; I would live and be under protection of the Goddess, but I was Hers from that moment on, Hers to ask of whatever She would.

Other stories I heard also, of my lineage. My mother, Uathach, had been no warrior but a priestess of the Lady Whom now I served. My father Cuchulainn, perhaps the greatest warrior ever known in Uliad, had returned from his training at Dun Skaith to the Court of Conchobhar mac Nessa, unaware that he had sown two seeds upon Scathach’s island. Like my mother I was dark, though the grey-blue eyes which matched the mood and colour of the sea were the mark of the Sidhe blood I carried within my veins, the blood of my father and his father, Lugh of the Long Hand. Dubhghall mac Cu, I had been named, and the only geasa put upon me were to serve my Lady with all my might, and never to leave Scathach’s island while my father lived.

As I came of age I saw the latter prohibition to be a terrible burden, for I had trained all my life to make war, and could have split a man in two with my spear in the time it takes a crow to caw but once, yet upon this island there was no battle, no war from which to gain my glory. Other men’s sons and grandsons sallied forth and returned with heads, tales of bravado, even gold, while I stared out to sea from the tower of Dun Skaith and awaited my call to a destiny befitting one who served the Morrigan.

It was, however, on a day of peace that my life began to change forever. A clamour arose from the gatehouse of the keep. A young man, about my age and stature, had arrived from the landward side, demanding his right to an audience with Scathach. Such a commotion he caused that day, making his demands and refusing to state so much as his name to any but Scathach herself, and she would be told only if she did not ask it.

A storm was upon her face as she looked across the chasm which separated Dun Skaith from the rest of the island. The tide was well away, and the rocks were jagged and cruel between the land upon which the young man stood and her position above the gate. Her long grey hair rode upon the wind about her face and shoulders, and her stern visage gave her the appearance of the formidable adversary she could be. She motioned me to her side and looked first at the young man and then back at me.

You claim to have business with me, boy?

She hurled the insult at him. He took no notice.

I have.

Only the whistle of the wind and the splash of the waves upon the rocks gave sound as she studied first his face, then mine.

I see. And you will not or cannot speak of it if challenged.

Cannot.

And for the same reason you cannot reveal your name when asked.

You have the whole of it.

No, boy, but I shall have. You are under a geas, and I respect that. Now why would you be under a geas if you were not important in your own right, or the son of someone of worth? Are you permitted to tell me this much? Do I know your family?

He looked relieved.

Yes, and yes, though I may not speak their names if asked. Both my mother and father were in your training, as it is in my desire to be.

My grandmother suddenly stiffened, colour draining from her face until it all but matched the white tunic she wore.

Aoife had a son, she whispered.

It was a thought supposed to have been shared with only the Gods and the wind, so softly did she say it, and yet I heard, and the red rage filled me as I thought of my mother, by Aoife’s hand and jealousy slain. And as the rage boiled within me I heard the wind whisper as through my hair it played...

"Patience, it said with an unearthly voice. Patience. He is not the enemy."

...and I remembered the words of Scathach, that Aoife’s child was also my father’s, and the rage faded as love for my brother sprang up within me.

If Aoife and Cuchulainn had a son, what would he be called? she asked in a manner circumventing the prohibition.

Connlai, he replied, his smile the echo of my own.

Then welcome to Dun Skaith, young Connlai. You are right welcome here.

For a moment I believed she expected him to enter her fortress in the same manner as our father had done nineteen years before, the Salmon leap across the gorge and into our midst, but she signalled Domnall and Caoimhin to lower the bridge and watched almost absently as he crossed over into Dun Skaith.

There was something in her manner, as if she were torn by the same memories as came to me, yet she would not and did not give them voice, but strained at a smile until it manifested. Only fourteen, save for Scathach, Connlai, and myself were present that day, for Cett had taken the others to hunt boar in the north of our island. I wondered what he would say upon his return to the son of his sister’s slayer. Perhaps that was the thought behind Scathach’s impenetrable countenance as she embraced him with a measure of joy, yet I could see that within that joy another emotion lay cloaked.

"He is not the enemy."

The words repeated within me in a voice that was not my own. Perhaps my grandmother heard it too, for her mood seemed to soften as the young man took my hand in friendship. He was my double, yet my opposite; my darkness was the shadow of his fairness, yet within him I felt even in that first touch something missing, some spark, some deeper meaning to his soul.

He was my age, seventeen, yet he was but a boy, no matter the words he spoke or the stance he took. His mother was a warrior, and her fondest wish was for his path to run as hers. Yet what had she been thinking to send him here, here where he could be taken hostage for her crimes? Was it arrogance or atonement? Scathach could have slain him at the gate, yet held her hand and welcomed him. Perhaps it was again Aoife’s cunning, for she knew my grandmother’s affection for our father and must be certain she would accept his other son as a fosterling. But why? What did she expect in return?

No matter; I had a brother.

He did not know the whole story, of course, not then. It was only after Cett’s return, when my uncle came from his mother’s chamber after a long and too-quiet discussion, that the tale was told to him in full. Such had been Cett’s only demand for the sake of Uathach’s honour, and my brother was deeply troubled by what he heard, yet he borrowed Cett’s harp and set forth another story, the one which had been told him as a child. It spoke of a fair warrior maiden, seduced and abandoned by the son of a warrior God, left pregnant and cast out because her condition had rendered her no use in battle.

I could see Scathach’s anger grow as she listened, burning within her with more heat than the fire around which we were gathered.

Ridiculous! she proclaimed at last. I bore three children, a son and daughter now dead, whose names I shall not speak lest it disturb their sleep, and Cett. All the while I trained my warriors, fought at their sides, until my time was upon me to bring those babes forth. I would never have cast out a woman because she was with child.

He did not touch the harp, nor speak of the matter again, but spent each hour of wakefulness practising with spear, with sword, with knife, and with an anger in his pale blue eyes, anger for all, it seemed, but me.

We worked well together for that year we had together, and his skills grew almost to match my own. We took turns with the chariot, one driving while the other practised at targets. We made trips together into the interior of the island in search of game, slept in the open beneath the stars, and talked of the romantic adventures we would have when our training had ended and we would sojourn forth into the world.

A year and a day passed as we learned and grew, and Scathach decided the time had arrived for our vision quest. For three days and nights we fasted, taking only water, and we kept our bodies as busy as we could to help us ignore the growlings of our bellies. The second day was easier than the first, though we tired quickly and slept much of the time. By the third night our bodies were light upon us and our minds lighter still.

It was Beltaine Eve, a time that is not a time, when the veil between the worlds is as thin as at Samhain, and the Sidhe walk freely among men, the attributes of their Godhood revealed to whom they will. It was a propitious time for the vision quest for that reason alone, and we were eager on that chilly night to walk the paths of spirit. Connlai and I sat naked and transfixed in the moonbright evening beside the blazing bonfire. Scathach’s knife shimmered silver, then red with death as she slit the throat of the young white bull which had been raised solely for such a sacrifice. His blood was caught in a basin of copper, and I watched in fascination as it streamed forth hot and dark, strong at first in its flow, and with each pulsation I felt my own body throb in counterpoint. The surge ebbed at last as the animal fell to his knees, then toppled, breathless and still to the ground below.

I marvelled at my grandmother, strong enough in her elder years to hold a bull with one hand while she dealt its deathblow with the other. Was she indeed fully human, or as the legends of the islanders hinted, herself of the blood of the Sidhe as was my father’s father? Truly, the island folk had spoken of her in that manner, and their word, Sith was merely the local variant of the same word used in my father’s tongue, or so Domnall had said.

These and other thoughts raced through my head as she divided the steaming blood into two bowls and gave one to each of us to drink. Connlai took his nervously, his face betraying his disgust at the idea, but I set my own determination to the task and found it not at all unpleasant. The liquid was hot and slightly metallic upon the tongue, slightly salty. The initial taste was unexpected to be sure, but it did not revolt me at all; to the contrary, I found it quite to my liking, and as I drank I found my thirst for it increasing. It was heady, intoxicating to the heightened senses of one who had been without sustenance for three days. It was invigourating, refreshing, as if the strength and life of that young bull were coursing through my veins, and I eagerly drained the bowl of that savoury liqueur.

Somewhere upon the battlements a raven gave voice and Scathach ceased flaying the bull to search out with her eyes the source of the bird’s call. Even the moonlight did not betray the shadowy witness, yet within my head I thought I heard the amused chuckle of a woman, and the phrase "well done."

Connlai had to force the liquid down his throat, and, as he revealed to me the next day, it took all his force of will to keep it from coming up again, yet by that force of will he had done his duty, and by the blood of that bull as well as the blood of our father he was my brother.

After she relieved us of our bowls, my grandmother wrapped our naked bodies in the still bloody hide of the bull and bade us gorge ourselves upon his raw flesh. Some of it we were able to eat, but our stomachs had shrivelled from the fast and the blood alone had filled us. What we did not eat was heaped upon the fire which consumed the sacrifice greedily, for only warriors upon their vision quest might partake of that consecrated meat. As the flames partook of their feast we watched their red and golden dance, our sated bodies heavy as our spirits were light, and strong with the blood of the bull, and all around us soon faded as the fire filled our sight and the visions began.

It seemed as if I passed through that wall of flame, untouched and unharmed, for all about me was bright and warm, and my grandfather Lugh greeted me in a tunic of red and gold which flowed around Him like silk, but which was itself the very substance of the flame. He wore a torc of gold about his neck and wrist braces of the same, yet it was an unearthly metal of which they were made. I felt His burning touch upon my shoulders as He acknowledged me as His grandson, and promised upon His burning spear that neither flame nor light of sun would ever be my foe, for by the blood I carried I held power over them both.

Then the fire was gone and so was He, and the cold night took me in its blackness as the raven call came back and my ears rang with mocking laughter. A woman’s voice, the same voice as before, spoke once again within me.

"Yes, you are of His blood, but you are not His. The light will not blind you, yet in darkness shall you walk, and learn to love the night. Mine you have been from your birth, and I shall not renounce that claim upon you."

The laughter did not die out as the voice faded, and I slipped into a dream. Once again I tasted the blood of the bull, revelled in it, bathed in it, but it was not Scathach who slew it but I, as I sank my teeth into its neck and drank at the fountain of its life. How long the dream lasted from that point, or what transpired thereafter I cannot say, for the redness of the blood became the red dawn and the laughter became the calling of the seabirds which hovered each morning above Dun Skaith in search of food.

Connlai slept peacefully at my side, but it appeared to me that Scathach had slept not at all, for she still stirred the ashes of the fire. All night she had stoked the fire, keeping it ablaze as both a pyre for the bull and a beacon for our wandering spirits. The only traces of the bull were a few fragments of bone the fire had not consumed, and the stiff raw hide which had covered Connlai and myself.

Scathach did not ask what I had seen; perhaps she had witnessed a vision of her own.

Connlai stirred at last, raising himself upon one elbow and looking first at me, then at Scathach, as if afraid to verbalise his thoughts. Finally, after a long sigh which sounded like the rending of his soul, he wiped the edge of his eyes with the back of his free hand.

I must leave this place before the moon grows dark, he said as he tried to regain a hold upon his emotions, I must make my way to Uliad and seek out my father.

He shot a quick glance in my direction.

Our father, I mean. I will be standing upon a hill in a grove of trees, and I will see him below me, repairing the wheel of his chariot. I will know him at once. Come with me Dubhghall; we can find him together.

He may not!

Scathach’s voice was as sharp as her blade, and I saw even in the rosy light of morning that she had paled at the thought.

I tried to grin, but it was forced. I don’t know if Connlai realised the effort I made to keep my true emotions from showing.

She is right, my brother. You have your geasa; I have mine. I may not leave this island while our father lives. If you find him, tell him about me and that I would love to call him ‘Father’ to his face. Perhaps you can bring him back here with you. I am certain he would be welcome.

Scathach nodded.

Yes. He and his friend Ferdiad were my two best warriors, and your father saved the life of Cett and his brother. I have never had a quarrel with either of them, and would love to see their faces again before these eyes grow dim.

The mood seemed to brighten somewhat at the prospect, yet Connlai was still loathe to take his leave of us three days later when he had arranged passage. It was on the twilight tide that he set forth upon the waves for Uliad, and before he sailed I clasped him as close to me as would any brother, and as the eldest of the two, tousled his golden hair for good measure as I bade him good venture.

I think within my heart I knew then it would be the last time in this life our paths would ever cross.

The war between Uliad and Connachta had filled and emptied the fields of battle a dozen times, and the hoodie crows and ravens grew fat upon the flesh of heroes. Conversation between Scathach’s small island and Erin grew less and less frequent, and