The Boy Runners and the Deargbeithíoch

By Gil Hardwick

In this young adult neopagan supernatural fantasy rewrite of Edmund Spenser’s Elizabethan poem 'The Faerie Queene', nine young Irish boys in 11th Century Leinster were made precocious through elven magic, and trained as message runners.

Six of the boys were captured as pixies and held in iron cages to be tormented and tortured to death by a ravaging crowd driven to frenzy by a fey terror, leaving three survivors to recapture the blatant Deargbeithíoch, the Dread Beast of 1,000 tongues.

Not all goes to plan. They keep making mistakes. If they fail in their sworn task they are doomed to eternal servitude to the fell sprite Oilill Sceolan, known as Al-il, errant page to Artegal and Caelia, high king and queen of the ancient Tuatha Dé Danann, in their throne room beneath the great towering rock, Sídhe Creig.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gilbert J Hardwick
• Release date: Feb 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9780987298768

Gil Hardwick

As an anthropologist, novelist and writer Gil Hardwick is a gifted author. Over many years working as a field ethnographer in the vast Australian inland he has met real characters and had real-life adventures, bringing his personalities and his plots to vibrant life. Writing from life, he neither shies away from real social issues and at times confronting dilemmas.

Book preview

Chapter One

Iollan pulled the woollen cloak tighter around his shoulders as he loped along. It was still cold in early morning, even now in mid-Spring, just following Bealtaine; bird-song keeping him alert with small rustling and scraping in the undergrowth telling him without being asked there was nothing thereabouts out of the ordinary.

The track was muddy so he skipped from one side to the other keeping his leather soft-sole brôgs as clean as he could, keeping to the grass except where dirty water splashed up from a shallow puddle, until a way down the track a boar badger bolted suddenly and he stopped, gazing intently about. He heard or rather felt a dull thud and ducked behind a copse of hazel, where he went to ground and lay still.

Horses passed by and he glanced sideways slightly to count them, and note their riders. As quiet came again he snuffed the air and sat up, then stood and poked his head out. He wasn't worried especially that they'd probably seen his small footprints; they were in no hurry and he was a boy plainly keeping out of their way, so they rode on by. But he was already late.

He was mildly annoyed that his cloak was now wet from the dew, as well as his brôgs and the short legs of his truibhas. He picked up his own footprints and kept along the same track until, breathing steadily, he topped a rise and with a quick glance backward slipped off into the wood. As he arrived finally at the round stone hut in a small clearing he called softly before entering, then stripping off his wet gear spread everything before the fire to stand about in his loose shirt, warming himself.

Caoimhin was standing in a tub being bathed by old blind Labraid, their seanchaidhe, the story teller. Caoimhin was intelligent and precocious, already on the cusp of youth, where Iollan had been himself last summer except two whole seasons older. Precocious Caoimhin's dark triangle of thatch against the white of his thighs and belly shadowed full cods though his voice hadn't broken quite away from the boyhood treble, rich now in colour whenever he accompanied his mother, the Lady Aalish, on her lute. He was coming of age too soon to be sent out, yet he was cheeky; he spoke too hastily for his own good, and nothing to be done about it.

Caoimhin glanced across at Iollan and grinned shyly. Labraid gave him a swift sharp smack in the ear, sensing his distraction. Involuntarily the naked boy covered himself and ducked while Labraid with a shaky hand poured a big dipper of ice-cold water over him, wiping him down with the other, then taking his arm had him step out dripping onto the mat.

Iollan was slender - Iollan Cael he was called - but Caoimhin too was wispy slim though they called him Nuada - the new one - neither of them gangly but even-limbed, smooth-skinned and swift of foot with fine muscle tone. They'd been raised as runners together, messengers, forever outdoors in all weather and well-fit to the task.

Caoimhin was the last of them, scions of the great clans. Labraid would train them no more. He was dying. Iollan guessed he was using this next trip as pretext to send them away so he could spend his last days solitary and at peace. Aalish would call in and see to his needs until the moment arrived, and then arrange for his proper disposal.

He guessed too that Caoimhin was the last of the many offspring of his old father, Na Nialaigh, who would also die soon and like Labraid become the last of the old generation of honourable men who'd maintained their sworn allegiances, and taken proper care of their hostages and fosterlings through turmoil and strife, teaching them important skills and seeing them well in life, and in that keeping the countryside steady.

What news, Iollan, the old man wanted to know, interrupting his thoughts as Caoimhin came over next to him, companionable and close to the fire to dry himself with a linen tunic that they wore in the house and for sleeping.

"Somerled astir with big warhorses and armour fit for battle, and pack-horses, aosta, he replied. Hired young gallóglaigh from across the water, all of them looking for adventure; heading southwest, I'd say, but much too early in the season. Something's amiss."

Labraid stood staring blindly into the distance. Eventually he nodded and sighed.

Eat your fill then, boys; before you go, he muttered, then more strongly, Pack your bags and take plenty of supplies, you'll need them. Take your bows and a short sword each, and a spare just in case, and a dagger. Keep them hidden under your cloak, and yourselves out of sight.

Auley will meet you under the ridge where the path splits, you know where it is. He may have another with him, perhaps not. You'll see when you get there.

He stood staring off into the distance again before groping for somewhere to sit. Caoimhin set his tunic down from rubbing his body dry and stepped over to take his hand, settling him on the edge of his broad palliasse among the tanned hides covering the hard packed floor. The old man turned back suddenly toward Iollan, staring at him unseeing the way he did, yet seeing everything.

"Who are they, stócach?"

"Brandubh, the Black Raven. He leads. With him are Eareamhoin Boar Friend, and the big Frankishman Galahaut. Lorcan Berserker is with them, and Duhlainn Black Blade; two others who look as if they've come in on ships through the Viking port on Duibhlinn. A bad lot, I'd say."

They've kept to their pact with us, Caoimhin protested, pulling on his truibhas and his shirt over his head. They're rough but they're men of their word, we know them.

Who else, lad? the old man insisted, paying Caoimhin no heed.

Raghallaigh, he's with them, one of us.

Ah, now, is that right? What would that be telling you?

Me? What do I think? I can't say, rightly, except something big, bigger than them and their infighting, away from each other's throats, bigger than all of us. That's what it tells me, at first sight any road. I'd have to go see, take a better look.

Labraid lay down, tired suddenly, and groping again for a blanket pulled it up over himself as if ready to sleep, though the full day lay ahead.

You know what job you have to do then, he said finally. Your next job is to decide how to go about it. Mind you, I won't be here, you'll have to do it yourself.

Chapter Two

Lorcan rode up beside Brandubh from his place in the rear before walking his horse steadily to keep abreast.

What is it? the Raven asked finally, eyes cast ahead.

Those boy prints, Lorcan said quietly, almost to another listener. "They're too fresh and too quick to stop with no boy standing there as we passed by. I went back to look and there they were on the track, started again right after we passed, barely a short leap between the one and t'other. Past the place that way he's a'striding off over our hoof falls in good brôgs; 'tween here and there we're covering his. He's travelling apace, yet, going the other way."

Where did he get to so quick and back on the road again without us seeing him?

A shit scared farm kid keeping out of our way; went to ground, Brandubh grunted, then he ran. What of it?

Nothing of it; not yet, until I know more. Hear tell of trained boy rangers in these parts, message runners; the Ó Nialaigh fosterlings they say, of the old clans, and his own boy I hear, the last one, the skinny little one, the runt he gat with the Lady Aalish. Some say they are fey, run with the pixies.

Why didn't you follow him, then?

"Well I did, didn't I, back over that last ridge. He was still running, pacing himself steady. Of a sudden he's gone again, made me think of it. Farm boys hereabouts go barefoot, too poor for fine running brôgs like that, or truibhas that brush past nothing. They make a mess of the road like their cattle, and stand there dumb like cattle."

Brandubh clamped his mouth shut, and spurring his horse rode dismissively ahead. Lorcan fell back to his place in the rear.

Raghallaigh glanced thoughtfully at him on the way past, tight lipped.

Chapter Three

It was dim under the cap of the tall hill. Iollan felt his way along, relying on his hearing and acute smell in the long grey twilight, keeping his keen eyes for bright day or contrasting night but not this, where he had to grope his way. A cloud mist spilled over the top making things fade, immaterial and indefinite, until finally as the world itself faded entirely away he closed his eyes against it, shutting it out, and went into stealth as he's been taught, as Labraid had insisted they learn first, all of them.

With his feet he felt the ground level off. Here was the fork in the