The Last Legend

By K. Writerly

The wilds of 14th century Ireland is no place for a boy alone.

When Kellan mac Couhlan’s father dies, he loses the only person he has ever believed in. Grief consumes him. But then, he hears the story of Bowen Blair. She is courageous, strong, good and true. She is the last of Ireland’s legendary warriors, the Fianna. Her existence proves that myths he had thought long dead are real. Young Kellan has found his heroine.

As time passes, Kellan’s obsession with Bowen Blair grows until news of her latest adventure - a grisly murder - tests the very foundations of his trust. He embarks on a quest to understand this enigmatic woman who is a savior, a fighter, and a killer. Who is Bowen Blair? Are the stories true? What is fiction and what is fact? And, most importantly, is Kellan ready for the truth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. Writerly
• Release date: Mar 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458060440

K. Writerly

K. Writerly lives with her husband in Japan where she teaches English to adult learners. She writes historical fiction and supernatural suspense novels. She also writes children's books.

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by K. Writerly

Copyright © 2011 by K. Writerly

Smashwords Edition

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The Last Legend is available in print.

http://kwriterly.com

Cover illustration and design by Crista Rowe

http://cristarowe.com

Editorial services provided by Amanda Irwin

. . .

For my mom,

who has always

listened to my stories.

Map of 14th Century Ireland and Spain

Map Features: Erin (Ireland), Gaillimh (Galway), Dún Geanainn (Dungannon), Dunlough (a fictional fortress), Aragon (Northeastern Spain), Zaragoza, Huesca, Las Nebiñas (a fictional vineyard on the Ebro River), Gijon (of the Kingdom of Castile), and Avignon (in the Second Kingdom of Burgundy)

Foreword

The Past. Sometimes it is far stranger than the universes of pure fantasy generated by creative minds. The past is the birthplace of myths and legends, of morals and values. It is both a pathway in progress and the foundation of modern life. It is vulnerable to interpretation and yet utterly unchangeable. In order to experience a fictional story based in a time long ago, both the author and the audience must attempt to understand the people who lived then.

But are people really so different from century to century? Perhaps not. They are hardly static, however. And the people who existed in medieval times – our own ancestors – are strange and foreign to us now. Thus, any endeavor to present their plight, which has brought us to this moment in human history, must be approached with care. To that end, allow me to introduce the people of fourteenth century Ireland.

The History

In the fourteenth century, Ireland, called Erin by its native inhabitants, the Gaels, was considered a territory of the king of England. One might assume that, as a territory, Ireland suffered under an oppressive sovereign. Research, however, indicates otherwise. England’s attention, it seemed, was everywhere except Ireland. In the early 1300s, England faced Scotland’s battle for independence. And the period of time spanning the mid 1300s through the mid 1400s would become known as The Hundred Years’ War due to the numerous skirmishes between England and France. In fact, the only sizable foreign presence in Ireland at the time was the Normans.

During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the Normans – nobles appointed by and loyal to the Duke of Normandy – immigrated to Ireland at the invitation of England’s king. Although they had no guarantees that they would receive royal assistance in retaining the lands which they had forcibly taken from the Irish kings, much of Ireland was claimed by these foreign invaders. The Irish princes and kings had been forced out of their lands, but they had not been defeated. Over the next two hundred years, small but formidable rebellions rose against the Normans, initiating a period of chaos.

Then a rebellion formed in 1315. Shortly after Scotland’s declaration of independence from England in 1314, Robert Bruce, King of Scotland, was invited by the Irish kings to take the throne of Ireland. In order to do this, Bruce sent his brother, Edward, to Ireland to conduct a military conquest which would demand the loyalty of the Normans, many of whom may have already integrated into the native Irish culture. The high kings of Ireland, dispossessed of their titles and lands by the Normans, had thought that the campaign would be simple. However, years of hard winters, dry summers, and extreme illness embittered the people against Bruce’s army, which they saw as the cause of all of their woes. Thus, in 1317, Bruce withdrew to Scotland and Ireland was left to flounder along on her own.

The Irish kings were still in exile, hiding in the mountainous regions and instigating small rebellions against the foreigners who had seized their estates from them. Only in the Northern-most reaches of Ireland did the native Irish still hold their lands. One such estate, in the most northwestern corner of the island, was Tír Eóghain.

In the fourteenth century, Ireland was divided up into several smaller states, each managed by a different clan or family or Norman lord. Tír Eóghain was controlled by various sub-divisions of the Ó Néill family. In the 1300s, Norman lords had at least one foothold in Northern Ireland; a massive seaside fortress called Carrickfergus was built in the northeast, in a small region called Ulster. Tír Eóghain, which was immediately west of Ulster, was considered undeveloped country and was a tempting prize for anyone who had the resources to take it.

All during the Middle Ages, Tír Eóghain was repeatedly invaded by men who had been given the property by the king of England on the condition that they could seize it from the current inhabitants. Although the invaders tried, and built many castles in their wake, Tír Eóghain remained one of the last unconquered regions of Ireland.

The Legend

Poverty, disease, and natural disasters devastated the people of early fourteenth century Ireland. Livestock and agriculture failed year after year to provide a plentiful yield. Travelers to Ireland during this time consistently wrote about the inability of the native people to feed and clothe themselves and their families. The future looked bleak. During the darkest, most hopeless moments of life, there is always one place people turn to for comfort: the past. When seeking reassurance regarding an uncertain future, we think of better days, golden days, legends. One of the uplifting tales to be passed back and forth before an Irish hearth was that of the Fianna.

The Fianna were elite fighters, professional soldiers. Some literature describes them as well-read, and well-educated defenders of their respective tuaths, or homelands. They had a love of nature and all things humorous. They were superb huntsmen and formidable warriors who fought for the preservation of their country and were cheered on by the common people.

Still, there is something dark and enigmatic about the Fianna. In an account of the trials one must pass before being accepted into the fianship of a tuath, the tasks seem so extreme, so superhuman that only a legend could possibly succeed. And the Fianna are, of course, only a legend. But then again, do legends and myths not have some basis in reality?

Chapter 1

Winter, 1326, Tír Eóghain, Erin

He is alone in this familiar place, the place of his birth and life. The hearth – now cold – whispers to him of memories that he fears he will forget, of tales that he must not leave behind. He has no wish to leave, but he knows he must. He is too young to live alone in this wilderness.

She is waiting. He can feel his aunt’s presence as she hovers on the threshold of the house. She watches him as he kneels here, in front of his da’s hearth. She will take him away from these familiar surroundings and sudden pain. This is – and has always been – his home and he is only just beginning to become accustomed to the pain of being alone, left behind, abandoned. It frightens him to think of the world beyond, of stepping out into it. The journey she insists they must make will not be easy. There may very well be more pain beyond this threshold, and he will not have the comfort of his home to ease it. Where she will take him will be new, but it will not make him happy, nor will it make him forget. It will not banish the void in his heart where warmth and gentleness and hope had once lived.

She calls his name. He does not turn. This moment of pain could last forever. He wants it to last forever. It is powerful, seductive, consuming. It lives in him even though he has been like the dead for days.

Kellan, she says again and he knows that she will not be ignored. His sigh echoes and then becomes lost in the silence.

Slowly, he turns. His exhausted gaze passes briefly over the figure in the doorway before turning back to the shadowed hearth.

He had glimpsed compassion in her eyes plainly, but he does not welcome any distractions from his torment. He wishes she would leave him be – he wishes any and all would leave him be, would let him get on with the arduous and unending task of balancing his heartache against his every breath – but he also knows that it is an impossible wish. And his da would surely be disappointed in him for such selfishness.

Undaunted by his determined silence, she asks him, How many Christians are there in Erin, lad?

He is surprised by this question and doesn’t think to refuse it his attention. Nearly all of Erin, Aunt Mora, he replies with a frown, wondering at her odd inquiry.

And was your da a man of faith?

His scowl deepens. Of course.

His aunt, his da’s elder sister, nods. And what do the Christians believe? What becomes of the faithful after their mortal death?

He understands her questions now, and he is disappointed with his revelation. He had expected something more, although he is not sure exactly what he had been waiting to hear. He murmurs woodenly, The faithful will be with God.

Is that so bad then? That your da’s with God?

Kellan lets out a breath, resenting her efforts to chase away his pain. No.

His answer is automatic; he is not convinced that his da would prefer the company of God to that of this hearth, lit with a cheerful flame, and his son’s attentive ears.

Despite the sullen response, she continues, Then he’s not really gone, then. Is he, lad?

Kellan makes no reply. He can hear her shifting from one foot to the other in the doorway. The susurrus murmur of fabric as she pulls her wool cloak tighter around her remarks on the winter chill. Kellan’s own breath freezes in the air.

He sits in silence beside the hearth, contemplating the ash and soot. He tells himself he does not notice how his aunt stomps her feet and rubs her arms. It is winter and it is cold, yes, but he knows that is not the all of it; his aunt has a business in the port city of Gaillimh. And although Kellan does not know much about ports or cities or businesses, he remembers his da saying that shops do not manage themselves.

He sighs. He knows they must be on their way eventually, but he is not ready to go, to leave, to walk away, to turn his back on his da’s house.

He is stubborn, but so – it seems – is his aunt.

You can still hear him, Kellan, she tells him softly.

These words capture his attention. He stops himself from looking up, but he cannot prevent his heart from straining against his chest, reaching for that promise, hoping to make it so. If only she would tell him how…!

Perhaps she senses this desperate need because she continues, All you have to do is listen. Try it now, Kellan. What do you hear?

What does he hear? Kellan turns toward his soul and listens to the roar of pain in his blood. It sounds like the way his heart pumps after a long run. It sounds like the puffs of breath dragged in and out after a battle to the top of a mountain. It sounds like every ancient, legendary victory that had ever been unveiled in his da’s voice. He hears the roar of battle. He hears the song of moonlight. And then he hears the ballad of the Fianna themselves, the greatest warriors of Erin.

Inside of him, the spirits of his da’s beloved heroes surge with his blood – battling, screaming, racing across the night as they fight invaders, outlaws, and injustice. He listens to the passion of Erin’s champions. And he listens to their deaths. Without a voice to give them life, they fade into nothing. There is only the rush of Kellan’s blood, his fleeting memories, and the echo of firelight.

He tells his waiting caretaker, Nothing.

She is silent for a long minute. She does not press him for what he so stubbornly omits. It will not always be so, she advises.

He watches as she turns to go. They have a long journey ahead. He knows that they must begin now. He discovers resistance – stiffness – in his own body when he stands. The cold, he guesses, is the cause. Strange, he still does not feel it. He feels only pain. He hears only the steady drumbeat of battle and blood inside of him. He smells only the lingering essence of peat smoke. These are the only things he takes with him as he leaves his da’s hearth.

* * *

Gaillimh is unveiled slowly at night. Only the occasional flicker of firelight can be glimpsed through open doors and untreated cracks in the ramshackle, sea and wind weathered buildings. Kellan has never seen a city. Once, he would have been excited at the prospect of visiting a place like Gaillimh. Once, his da had told him of cities he had seen. Once, Kellan had wanted nothing more than to know the world beyond the clan lands, the tuath. Now he has his wish, but at a price. Now he does not particularly care to see any city, especially this one.

He knows his aunt worries about him, but she leaves him to his silence. He is relieved. In the silence, there is nothing to distract him from his pain. The pain is everything to him. She cannot – must not – take it away. Without the pain he is empty, a mere memory of his da’s passing upon the earth. He clings to it as his da should have clung to life

Kellan will not fail as his da had.

The nag begins to gallop awkwardly in her harness. The cart beneath them creaks and shudders along the rutted road. His aunt concentrates on driving. Kellan refuses to glance at the world around him. His eyes are unfocused. He is listening to the silent roar inside of him. Like the roar of a torrential downpour, it is unstoppable; it is the one enduring noise in the world which causes all else to fade away in its presence. For a time, Kellan fades with it. His passage though the intermittently lit darkness is measured by the sound of hoof beats, by the feel of aching heartbeats, by the slow drag of each numbing breath.

And then, suddenly, Kellan realizes that the cart has stopped; they have arrived. He glances over his shoulder and finds his aunt engaged in conversation with the stable worker of this small, muddy yard. To his right a large, brown building looms. It has a graying thatched roof and, under the eaves, a collection of branches have been hung over the door. Kellan stares blankly at it, uncomprehending. For a moment, he remains on the cold, hard seat, idly debating leaving the cart, but then the door to the place opens. A man walks out, his gait unsteady. Kellan at last understands: this place is an inn, a tavern, and the branches – his da had once told him – mean that they are serving ale. The door is still slightly ajar and the firelight within looks warm. Kellan slides down from the cart, unnoticed.

The door to the inn gives way beneath his hands easily. The heat of the fire steals over him. He remembers this warmth. He is drawn to it. Kellan ignores the rest of the tavern and all the people therein. There are tables and benches but he avoids them neatly. His empty stomach throbs hollowly as aromas from the cook-shop in the far back entice him but he does not deviate from his destination. He sees only the fire, remembers only his da, hears only the songs of the Fianna. He wants that again. Just for one moment more. Perhaps, if he moves close enough…

He jumps when a hand grips his shoulder. A woman leans over him, her expression unhappy.

"Are you dumb, lad? I said, ‘Out with you!’"

Kellan is too startled to reply. In the silence that follows, another voice interjects. It’s all right, Imag. He’s with me.

The woman glances up. Are you saving this loitering child out of the goodness of your heart, Ó Néill?

Ó Néill assures her, I know this lad.

Humph! the woman snorts but releases his shoulder and then bustles away.

He studies the stranger who had spoken for him. Ó Néill is a big man. His hair is red, the brightest red that Kellan has ever seen, and his round face is nearly swallowed up by his beard. Ó Néill has kind eyes, Kellan thinks, but he does not recognize him.

You’re da’s Couhlan mac Trian, aye?

Kellan nods.

You don’t remember me, Ó Néill says, seeing Kellan’s unmoved expression. Well, you were just a wee lad then. How is your da? Does he still spin his stories about the Fianna?

A long moment passes before Kellan can nod his head again. It feels odd, acting as if his da could spin his tales at this very moment. Odd, but… nice. And besides, perhaps he can still spin stories. Perhaps he is doing that very thing right now! Kellan does not know what the dead can and cannot do.

Ó Néill grins. That’s good to hear. Your da spins the best tales. Are all of them still about the Fianna?

Kellan nods.

As I thought, the man muses with a whiskery smile. When he was a lad, that’s all he ever spoke of, becoming the next great fian. Of course, after he met your mam, that was that.

Kellan can imagine his da’s youthful enthusiasm even though he cannot imagine him as a young boy. He asks, Why did he give up? Surely, if anyone had ever had the heart to become a great warrior, it would have been his da.

The large man shrugs. Dreams change, he replies in a light tone.

The very thought of dreams changing terrifies Kellan, although he does not know why.

However, Ó Néill continues, I don’t think he really missed the training. Your da loved the idea of being a warrior. But, truth be told, if he’d been taken into the fianship, he would have been a surly beast, indeed.

Kellan frowns. What is this about his da actually training to be one of the Fianna? Could it be true that his da had nearly become legendary himself, had sparred with the greatest band of warriors to ever walk Erin’s green hills? Kellan has never heard anything like this before! In fact, his da had always spoken of the great Fianna of the past, of their battles against monsters, their daring rescues and championing of maidens, and their unwavering loyalty to the high kings… But all of that had happened long, long ago! Couhlan mac Trian had never mentioned, in any of his tales, that the fianship still exists!

Kellan struggles with his voice. Finally, he manages to put the words together.

My da was training to be a fian?

Both of Ó Néill’s bushy, red brows arch upward in surprise.

"Of course! Well, back when there were fian in Erin… They’re gone now. Dead from battle or betrayal… all with the exception of one."

Kellan boggles. The very thought that these legendary warriors might be real… that his own da might have known them, run beside them…!

Frowning, Ó Néill confirms, Your da never told you that? Oh, lad, those times make for some of your da’s best stories. I’m sure he’ll tell you one if you ask him.

Kellan is overwhelmed with frustration. There will be no more of his da’s stories. He seats himself on the bench across from Ó Néill and forcibly composes himself. He says, Would you tell me one now?

You’ve got to wait a bit for your da? Ó Néill asks.

Kellan tries not to think of the long years that stretch out before him, vacant of the sound of his da’s beloved voice. He nods.

Ó Néill leans back a bit, considering. After a long moment, he declares, All right, Kellan mac Couhlan. But I’ll not tell you one of your da’s adventures. That I’ll leave to him!

Before Kellan can protest, the man sets down his mug, leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, I’ll tell you the tale of Bowen Blair, the last fian. The sparkle in his eyes and the confidential murmur dispel Kellan’s disappointment. Before his very eyes, Ó Néill transforms from weary traveler to bard. A shiver races through Kellan; he has seen this change countless times before, in his da.

Ó Néill begins: "She was born into a land of exile. Her kin, loyal to the ruling chieftains of Connacht, had fled with the coming invaders. Before the relentless advance of the Normans there had been no option with the exception of retreat. Even her grand-da – ‘The Blair’ as he was called – who was an experienced warrior had neither the men nor the weapons to defend his home. The Blair and his kin drifted without a tuath.

It was shortly after this that The Blair, his son, Uilliam, and Uilliam’s young wife, Éadaoin, came to Tír Eóghain. In exchange for membership with the Ó Néill clan, The Blair swore his loyalty to Tír Eóghain, pledging to keep the Ó Néills, their people, and their lands safe from all enemies. It was then and there, that Bowen Eóghanaigh inghean Uilliamh was born…

. . .

A shadow whispers through the forest. It is not yet dawn, but this shadow is darker than the night itself, faster than the wind, quieter than the moon. It sweeps through the world with a vengeance. Above it, the wind trickles through the winter-stripped boughs. Beneath it, there is no wind. Nothing disturbs the damp leaves and prickly twigs. It runs, races, rolls beneath fallen limbs, and leaps fluidly over rocks.

The shadow breathes yet the sound of it is barely discernible in the quiet. Everything in the wilderness stills and silences as it listens for the rhythmic sound.

On and on, the shadow travels. Relentless. Tireless.

Timeless.

This shadow racing through the forests of Erin has existed long before language. Long before politics and civilization. Long before storytellers. This shadow is the warrior: the warrior to oppose kings, to battle demons, to rescue nations.

The warrior – the shadow – is Erin.

The wind is stronger now and the world, drawing ever dawnward, is brightening. Illumination looms over the darkness. Threatens.

As if this very thought has crossed the shadow’s mind, its breathing falters. In that moment, the shadow ceases to exist. The creature that had raced effortlessly though the dark stumbles in the light. A miscalculation sends the figure sprawling beneath the limbs looming over its path, skidding over rock, earth, and sticks, decimating the perfect silence.

The world holds its breath, waits, and watches for the aftermath.

The figure, small and weary, pushes itself up from the forest floor. It does not shake itself. It does not mewl or cry or fuss. It takes care to pick the bits of dirt and rock from its abraded flesh. But it says nothing.

Finally, it turns its gaze upward.

A figure crouches before it, an older man. His face is stern, but his eyes are kind. He reaches forward and attempts to pull the sticks and leaves from the matted braids. He says, You cannot both think and run, Bowen.

She replies with a nod.

There is silence, a moment during which he might be wishing he could tell her that she is too young for this training. He might like to tell her that the life she pursues is no life at all, but he says nothing. Perhaps because he knows he cannot dissuade her.

She has the gift. She is his granddaughter. He could not be prouder.

This is a bad wound, he says, removing his water skin from under the folds of the tartan secured over his left shoulder. As he cleans the bloody scrape, he tells her, Do not run tomorrow. Or the day after until this is healed.

She watches him with her dark, fathomless eyes. If I do not run, she tells him quietly, how will I ever be a fian?

He pauses at her words. Does she know what she says? Does she truly understand that to be a fian, is to be the racing shadow, the soul of Erin? He does not ask her these things. Instead, he gives her a sharp look. He says only, Indeed.

He has many questions for her. Many questions he does not dare ask a child who is only six winters old. He is silent not because he believes she is too young to understand. He is silent because he believes she already does.

. . .

She is running.

The Fianna are close behind her. Pulses race; soft breaths echo; running feet reverberate in the night. She can sense the coiling of their muscles as they prepare to strike at her in the darkness. Attack is imminent, but she does not care. She does not even contemplate the possibility of pain. She remembers nothing before this moment.

She is running.

No thoughts of past or future, of arms or