The Firbolg Wars

By Rick Palinski

The Firbolg Wars is a Celtic story quest of a young man in search of himself and a kingship. After the death of his father, David embarks on a journey to confront the evil that has invaded his homeland. With his friends and companions, David crosses the country fighting the evil Firbolg creatures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 25, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469750750

Rick Palinski

The author lives with his wife in a Tudor house, surrounded by an English country garden. He spends his time working in the garden and riding his horse at White Fox Farm in central New York.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Richard Palinski

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

PROLOGUE

The storm had raged for nine days and trees that had stood for a hundred years lay uprooted and broken, clogging the few game trails through the dense forest. The solstice month had started uncommonly fair and some thought a mild winter was coming, but those more skilled in woodcraft read the signs differently. The squirrels had worked more feverishly this fall, and the elk seemed to have put on extra weight that helped the cooking pots, but warned the wary of a hard winter to come. Then a week before solstice when the great hunt was about to begin for the black elk stag to be cooked for the Holly feast the winds began to change towards the north. Snow started that night and began piling up so that by morning the men had to break paths for the women to gather fuel for the day’s cooking fires. The hunt was postponed for game would be lying low for the storm to pass. But each day the storm seemed to gather in intensity piling drift upon drift until everyone tucked in and prepared to wait it out. The poorer villages were surviving now on winter stores rather than cooking the harvest best for the Holly feast.

On that cold December day, if a man had stood on the hill where the river broke to the sea he would have seen a small storm battered ship, masts broken, and traces of sail caught in tangled ruin on the deck. The ship had caught the inbound tide and driven by the winds and the waves it was thrust up onto the beach.

Joseph, the captain called out. You have to finish the task. Leave us.

The old man staggered over to where the captain lay, his leg crushed by a fallen mast. They had come so far on their journey. He had willingly given up all of his earthly treasures to fund this one desperate venture. And now it was so close to finish. Nodding to the captain he crawled over the side and dropped to the ice covered beach. After a time he lurched to his feet. Stumbling from fatigue he made his way across the storm blasted dunes, and up the hill. As he entered the sea brambles, fragile with a crystal coating of ice, the bundle he clutched to his breast caught on the thorns. The soiled purple cloth wrapped about the bundle pulled away just for an instant and the gray sea-colored light glinted from the hilt of a sword. It appeared to be an ordinary sword that any foot soldier might carry to battle, older and cruder than what a lord might carry, but the manner in which he cradled it gave the appearance of a treasure of far greater worth. Continuing his climb he made his way into the stand of bramble oak twisted and gnarled by the winds. About him among the oaks were a jumble of oblong rocks suggesting a foundation from a building of some size whose purpose was long lost. Hauling rocks and digging with his hands he broke through the snow and ice to the white sand about the roots of the tallest oak. There he dug a hole as deep as his arms could reach and carefully laid the bundle into its grave. Pushing back the sand and snow and piling sea bleached rocks to make a cairn, he knelt quietly, head bowed. After a time he took up the bundle that had contained the sword for something lay hidden in the folds of cloth. Bending over he pushed aside the cloth and lifted a cup into the air, gold as the sun. For just an instant his weariness left him. He recalled his youth in a distant country and the hopes and dreams of a new king who would free his people. The air held a sense of spring rather than the death of winter. He pondered it for a moment then bent and wrapped it back in the cloth. After some time he stumbled off, limping into the trees.

CHAPTER 1

David! Where are you going in such a hurry, shouted Maitlen the cook’s helper as David stuffed his mouth with another piece of warm bread.

To the armory yard! David called back. It’s the first hour and father and Bailey will be practicing shortly.

David ran from the kitchen across the yard with Cameron his wolfhound trotting behind. The storm from the night before had broken just hours before dawn. Paths were cleared through the snow so the regular movement in the Keep would not be hindered. The air was biting after the warmth of the kitchens and David pulled his robe tighter about him. As he approached the yard he had to push and squeeze his way to a place on the wall where the vantage was good. A training area had been cleared of snow, but it uncovered a rough icy casing over the cobblestones. The footing would be treacherous, but Bailey always pushed the boys to train in all conditions. Battle he said doesn’t always wait for fair weather.

You’re late, said Cunnel, the first son of Acton the Sergeant at Arms of the Keep’s Guardians. They’re about to begin.

At the first hour each day except feast days and Sabbath, David’s father Arawn came to the armory yard, and he and Bailey would draw practice swords and thrust and slash until the second hour. Each day there was something to learn in watching these two masters. One day the battle took the form of the stork with each poised motionless one moment and thrusting with ferocious speed the next. Another day it seemed like two tigers fought. Each session worked through one of the eight forms of fighting developed by the holtans over the generations of fighting to keep their homeland safe. Although the sessions were not required by the Sergeant for training purposes, none of the boys in the keep who held aspirations for one day joining the Guardians would think of missing these sessions.

I was late rising this morning. Father had let me sit in conference to hear the reports from the Chief of the Northern Holtan Guardians. Trouble comes from the north as they say.

They always began the sessions with some stretching which worked through the eight forms precise in each movement. Then each would choose a practice sword. The two had stripped to their breeches despite the cold. Arawn favored the long sword sometimes accompanied by the short thrusting sword of the old legions; while Bailey choose the two handed sword. Soon the sweat glistened, highlighting the sculpturing of each muscle and tendon. Bailey was larger with arms bulging, but each blow from the heavy two handed sword was either deflected with what seemed the merest touch of Arawn’s longer, slenderer sword; or crashed with a grunt into the ground with his opponent no longer where he was seconds before. But Bailey was a swordsman too. No one else in the guard could stand before his onslaught. It was said that Bailey had fought with Arawn in the synod wars in the far north long years past. But he wouldn’t talk about those times. He’d only been at the Keep since last winter when he appeared at the gate, half-frozen; wild eyed and terrible to behold. It was at high table, on the Holly feast day. The elk stag, which Arawn himself had taken on the hunt in the high peaks, had just been brought in steaming from the kitchens to much cheering when the main doors swung open. The gatekeepers had sent a message directly to Arawn. Delivered by the Sergeant at Arms himself the message was the armband Bailey always wore. It was an iron band, worn and ancient. When Arawn saw it he ran from the table shouting for the gates to be opened. Arawn welcomed him in, brought him into the great hall and sat him next to him. Bailey heaped his plate, and stuffed food and meade for an hour. Then without saying a word Bailey got up grumbling and walked out. He was later found in the armory asleep on a pile of straw. Over the next week Arawn was seen in the armory alone with Bailey talking quietly or arguing fiercely. It seemed that they would nearly come to blows as they shouted at each other using name places only heard in children’s tales. Abruptly the arguments ceased. The castle settled back into a routine. Never again would Bailey be seen at high table, always taking his meals with the Guardians at the front gate.

**********

Bethel Holt is located in the southwest corner of the island kingdom of Avalon along the coast of the Westerly Sea. It is a shireland of mild summers when the winds blow warm from the south, and fierce cold winters when the wind shifts and pulls ice and snow from the northern mountain range. The small fields carved out of the thick forest are rich and well tended. And until recently the mountains to the north provided some protection from the intruders as well as news of happenings in the wider kingdom. Lately there had been rumors of farmsteads along the mountain foot being ravaged by bands of marauders, and stranger tales of Firbolgs seen by charcoal burners in the deepest northern forest. But tales from the north are usually taken with a chug of meade and a wink, knowing from where the tale came. Also out of the mountains flowed the Anadyr River, which coursed south and then forked at Sedgemoor. The main course continuing south to the sea at the shireseat of Bethel Holt from which the province gained its name. The lesser course hooked east and flowed across the great plain towards Cairness, finally joining the River Usk below the capital on its journey to the sea.

Bethel Holt is a town and from it comes the name of the province. The town is a fortified shipping port straddling the banks of the Anadyr River where it meets the Great Western Sea. But legends told by parents around the fireplace on a cold winter night tell of its beginnings. Several lifetimes before its current inhabitants, a small hosp stood on the hillock where the Keep now stands overlooking the river and the sea. Tumbled blocks of stone showed the outlines of a building foundation. It was a tower, built by the ancient Faege into the roots of the earth older than any tale. It was said to be a power source, one of the eight gateways in Avalon into which the Faege left this world as the magics of oak and holly weakened. Power was said to still flow from some source in the earth linking with the other gateways, the most powerful of which was at Cairness. The River was called Faege Flow when woodsmen hunted the area and found just a tumble of rocks.

It was now called the Keep simply because it was the traditional home of the lord of the province. It certainly wasn’t a castle like the grand castle of King Silvanus at Cairness. But so few from Bethel Holt had ever been to Cairness they couldn’t begin to imagine a building any bigger or grander than the Keep. Six generations back it was the fortified tower of the war lord Garth, who built it to hold sway over both the coast and the river traffic coming down from the mountains when trade had just begun to prosper from the ores from the mines. But there where already foundations of stone on the site from far earlier times. From the tower on the hill a great hall was added when the river had been tamed, and gold flowed as well as iron from the mines. Then more proper living accommodations, stables, an armory and the shops and kitchens necessary to keep the growing fortress functioning. Now it’s slow progression of owners, and their growing wealth; coupled with the varying demands for protection resulted in a blend of building techniques and purposes. The main tower of Garth first caught your eye with its imposing ramparts and arrow ports. But it was the great hall which was most talked about. As you walked through the main gate and climbed the steps to the hall you faced two large oak doors with the symbol of the oak leaf carved on each. Swinging open the doors and entering there was a double row of thick oak tables running the length of the hall with two fireplaces on each long wall. At the far end stood the raised high table where the high lord and his guests sat. Oak beams supported the roof high above, and along each beam hung the horns of black elk stag taken on Holly feast day for the main feast of the solstice.

Bethel Holt is one of the five provinces of Avalon. Several provinces are made up of small shires many of which are more like small kingdoms, each with a lord who can trace his ancestry back a very few generations to a tribal chief or warlord. Other shires have evolved from the tribal chief only in name, and that just recently with the Great Gathering when King Silvanus called forth the chiefs, and then conquered or cajoled the hesitant to meld a kingdom, a country from the petty strife of the past. Bethel Holt was neither conquered nor cajoled. When the call came from Silvanus for the Great Gathering the Holtans as they called themselves sent forth from their forests and fields a band of their finest warriors. All were master hunters, expert with the long bow and woodcraft. And each wore a broadsword at their side or doublestrapped to their backs. It was a Holtan who had found the rich vein of ore in the high peaks. And it was Holtans who forged the purest steel and held the secret of plying layer upon layer of steel, each parchment thin, one upon the other to form the strongest, keenest blades in the kingdom.

Arawn had answered the call from the King long years ago. As a young lord he left home with his companions to join the Great Gathering. And battles they had fought, with honors won, and friends lost. His hair was graying now, and his beard was frosted and full. He was tanned, burnt more likely. Brown from the sun, wind and rain. Even in mid winter he looked stained by life in the wild. And scarred by that life. Not just the sword scars on his arms and shoulders. Not just the arrow wound he’d gotten rescuing the miller’s son last spring. But scarred inside with the wound showing only in his eyes when you catch him looking off at the horizon, just before he notices you watching and breaks into a smile. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes hiding what haunted him moments before. But most noticeable about him if you really paid attention was his grace in movement. He didn’t walk like other men. There was a coursing flow like the great cat on the stalk, muscles rippling with the movement.

Swordsmanship was an art in Bethel Holt. It started as sport for the boys from the earliest age, between the chores of the hunt and the fields, to take up practice swords and build the muscle and sinew of the sword-master. It was sport played with deadly earnest to tune strength and speed, grace and endurance. To turn the killing arts to a dance of precision. The boys watched the training until the second hour, and although it was as daring and instructive as always their minds kept drifting to the trouble from the north. As the group broke up to go about their chores there was pensiveness in the air.

Cunnel, did you see the size of Maxim’s horse? David questioned as the boys took the stairs two at a time down to the kitchens. It has to be sixteen hands and shaggy as a bear. When he and the Guardians rode up to the gates during the storm last night I thought Bailey was going to unleash the dogs on them. You could barely see in the snow and Bailey lets no one in after sunset.

For the second year in a row Holly feast had been interrupted with visitors from the north. The previous year Bailey himself had arrived in the middle of high feast. This year Lord Bron’s sergeant, Maxim had ridden for two straight days to give his liege Lord Bron and Lord Arawn himself the news of an attack on his holdings in the north.

Father wouldn’t let the message be delivered until after the meal. He said the Holly feast was sacred and shouldn’t be disturbed for bad tidings. After the elk had been served, and the Holly candle had burned itself out they all went up to Father’s study to hear the report. Father asked me to attend him, so I was able to hear everything, David explained to Cunnel.

Cunnel had missed the feast. On Holly feast the apprenticed Guardians relieved those on duty so that their elders could partake of the meal. Cunnel and several others shared their meal with Bailey in the wardroom at the main gate. Whereas David had heard the discussion, Cunnel had seen what seemed a snow spectre appear at the gate and demand entrance.

Cunnel, there’s been an awful slaughter up north. When Maxim told the story Arawn had to restrain Bron from leaving that moment to return to Hwit. ‘This is my responsibility! Those are my people,’ he kept roaring! Finally Mother came in and brought mulled wine for everyone and told them it made no sense to leave in the middle of a storm. Nothing could be done until the storm broke.

Someone has killed everyone in North Riding. Remember that’s that little village we visited last summer when we went fishing with Grandfather. Everyone, killed! Everyone!

CHAPTER 2

The realm of Silvanus was mighty as the king himself was mighty. But as you all know, the king is no mightier than the sons that stand before him; for as the king ages it is the duty of the princes to wage battles to retain the realm, and for the eldest prince to assume the throne at the death of their father. Silvanus had no sons. His wife had been beautiful and loved by Silvanus as only a great king could love, but she bore no sons to continue the line. Seeing herself as having failed her King in what she felt was her duty, the Queen had died a sad death.

So we find Silvanus with battles of glory behind him, and a childless life before him, with no son to pass onto the evergreen diadem of royalty, and the ancient oak staff of kingship.

And it was for this reason that on the first quarterday of the new year heralds set forth from the palace city of Cairness to proclaim to all the faithful that his regality Gwri Priden Giefan Lif Silvanus, king of all Avalon, would name as eldest prince, and sole heir to the throne, he who possessed the three virtues of humility, reverence, and discerning.

**********

It’s been a hard ride, Bailey called out to Arawn over the drone of the rain and splash of the horses’ hooves.

They’d been riding for three days through the mountain passes down the forest paths from the northern frontier of Bethel Holt towards the coast. Arawn had been silent and brooding for much of the trip. And although the weather was warmer than when they’d set out, it was off-weather, not feeling quite right for the season. From bitter cold to a cold rain when the land should be sunk deep in winter snow sent niggling feelings up the back of his neck. But the warnings from the Northern Guardians after Holly Feast had been too dark not to be investigated in person. The burned out cottages couldn’t be ignored. But the remains of the slaughter, innocent subjects, not armed soldiers, were worse than he’d expected.

I’m getting too old for this my friend, Arawn called out in answer to his companion. Together they had faced death in many battles and their dreams where often not pleasant. But to stake every man, woman, and child in a village was a dreadful message. But from whom? There was always some scuffle going on in the northern reaches. A slight given to some self-important villager or a squabble with an ore miner over drinks might lead to a couple of cracked heads, but nothing the Guardians couldn’t quickly deal with. Even the occasional probing maneuver through the mountain passes from Scunthorpe shire might lead to a couple weeks of fighting, but that would be with the Guardians, his military force in the area, not innocent subjects.

That night around the campfire there was no conversation as each sunk into his own thoughts. Staring into the fire and using the centering techniques taught to him be Lailoken, Arawn began to cast his mind back to a similar ride sixteen years before. It was after the Great Gathering, and although the grand picture of a united kingdom with peaceful relations between the individual shires was tempting there were some who would fight against change regardless of the high purpose. Those stiff-necked chiefs had to be convinced, usually in the only terms they understood. As a result Arawn had been at arms since he left Bethel Holt years before at the first call from his king. There had been trouble in the north as there always seemed to be. Wagner, the last son of mad Lugar had sent a force over the passes into Bethel Holt to pillage the weak and bribe the disgruntled. It seemed the ore mines would always be too tempting a prize for Lugar and his heirs. If they only spent as much effort searching out their side of the Andizhan mountain range as they did harassing Bethel Holt they would most likely strike an ore vein they could work at in peace. But the ways of war chiefs change slowly. Bron, Arawn’s father-in-law had sent word from Hwit that the mines were threatened. So the call went out and Arawn led a contingent of elite Guardians north. He was hesitant in leaving. Katelyn, his wife, daughter of the fisher Bron of Hwit, was with child, due to bear with the new moon. But duty was clear. Only after facing and dispensing with Wagner in battle did the ragtag remnants of the attacking force make its way back over the passes to Scunthorpe. But the fighting through the winter forests had been slow going and the new moon had come and gone. The roadways where clogged with snow and messages from Bethel Holt would be slow in arriving. With peace established at least until spring and no word from Katelyn, he set off for the coast along with Bron and a formal retinue. The journey was ploddingly slow with pack horses and ladies in waiting. Where Arawn desired to give his steed the reins and fly through the drifted snow; instead they were breaking paths for the wider carts and litters.

Finally with the smell of the sea in the air Arawn broke from the group and galloped ahead. As he approached the Keep he saw, flying from the highest tower, a flag fringed with gold emblazoned with an oak leaf in its center. The sign of an heir.

Katelyn of the golden hair, daughter of the fisher Bron of Hwit had borne a son to Arawn on the eve of the new moon, and all the shire was called to make merry, for such was the way of these people.

The feast was held on the seventh day after the child’s birth with Grandfather Bron bringing fish from his stores, and wine from his cellar, and a golden cup of surpassing beauty and ancient lineage to pass on in praise of the boy. Many were the gifts and good wishes given that day for the times were hard, and the births were few. A chance to drink and celebrate, especially for the birth of a son was eagerly met with. Any could come who desired, and even mad old Lailoken came dressed in bark, and presented a gift of three hawthorns, and a prophesy of greatness for the boy.

David he was called, David Ian, son of Arawn the hunter, heir to the legend of Bron who had drunk from the golden horn. Strong and healthy was the child, and the revelers feasted as if there were no end to the victuals for indeed the board had been laid by Bron himself, and none went hungry that day.

But that was almost 16 years ago, and times had changed. On the one hand the realm of Silvanus had fulfilled the dream of so many by uniting the kingdom. But with it the world had become much more complex. The infighting and hidden agendas at Court; the Bards conniving against the Ovates and everyone plotting against the Old Ones. It had been years since Arawn had been at Court despite the King’s annual invitation to attend Holly Feast. Each year something seemed to come up that required his attention in Bethel Holt. And though each year the excuses where a little weaker, each year his dread of being at Court increased.

Things had certainly changed. That battle sixteen years ago had a purpose behind it however stiff-necked the thinking had been behind the assault. But this time it was slaughter without cause. Nothing had been taken; no cattle, no hostages. There appeared to be no broader objective. No reason whatsoever to take lives in such a manner.

Bron was now back at Hwit, and he would double the Guardians working the border patrols. There was a watchfulness in the air. There was a thickness building. Arawn sensed rather than saw the darkness gathering about the shire. Game had been scarce, and the tree and rock carried messages of a gathering gloom, a message just at the tail end of the senses. Something was in the wind, and Arawn drew into his own thoughts as he pondered the meaning of the signs.

As day broke, Bailey and Arawn arose to quickly break fast. Both were anxious to be on the road and hasten their return to Bethel Holt. This in itself was strange to Arawn. He was a man of the woods. At home by himself days on end in the ancient forests. His purpose, known to a few was in keeping with the ancients, a bond of faith to protect the land from the evils, which too often claim a soul and direct it against others. His way was one of strength in pursuing a life, which led down many paths dark, and threatening. To be anxious while on the trail, was unsettling to him. And he’d survived too often by not ignoring the signs about him.

**********

We have a guest, Bailey said very off-handedly to Arawn.

I know, he picked us up at sunrise. Last night I kept awakening with the thought that we were being watched, but there seemed no true sign,Arawn quietly answered.I still haven’t determined who our quest might be, have you?

No, Bailey said. Yesterday I thought I caught a glimpse of something as we forded that stream. But it wasn’t a rider so I thought nothing further of it. What do you propose?

At the rise up ahead, take my horse’s reins and continue on. I’ll drop by the wayside. There seems to be enough brush for me to remain hidden and see what we have, said Arawn.

Be careful my friend, warned Bailey.

As they climbed the ridge, Bailey eased his horse over next to Arawn’s. Just after cresting the ridge, and out of sight of any pursuit, Arawn dropped to the roadside and scuttled into the shrubs. Bailey continued down the road and quickly was out of sight around a bend.

Arawn crouched waiting. As the moments passed an unreasoning dread built in his mind. Fear shimmered to the surface of his mind, as he knew that no horseman would make that noise, and its scent would not be so strong. But scent of what then?

Just as the question struck him, the answer came shuffling over the ridge. Nose to the ground, tusks rank with slobber, the largest boar Arawn had ever seen trotted along in pursuit of its prey. Black as the darkest night, it carried about it an aura of shadows, of shifting light like the play of the wind through the trees at midnight. As the boar came even with Arawn in his place of hiding, it stopped to try to figure the mixing of the scent trail.

Arawn stood, drawing his sword in a single fluid move. The boar never hesitated, but pulled its lips back as if in a terrible grimace, and charged, nostrils flaring. Incredibly fast for its size the boar was on Arawn in an instant. But an instant was all Arawn needed. Still standing in the brush, Arawn had no room for a defensive maneuver. Instead, he took the position of the crane, there one instant and not there the next. He eased to the side as the boar charged by and drove his sword up to the hilt in his flank. The move cost him a raking gouge in his thigh from a ten-inch tusk, as his sword was pulled from his hand. The boar’s charge carried him beyond Arawn and further into the brush.

Arawn took the moments respite to hobble into the road and draw his dagger, a meager weapon to use on a beast that just took three feet of steel in the ribs and never slowed in his charge. Poised ready, he heard the beast turn grunting in the brush and begin a return attack back to the roadside. Crashing into view, blood streaming from his mouth and running down his back at the point the sword protruded, the boar ran unflinchingly at Arawn.

There was no grace to the defense. There was no set move in the eight positions of battle to aid him. There was only strength and determination to face his foe and kill or be killed. Attacking low, Arawn put his shoulder into the beast, rearing him back and stabbing again and again into his chest. The tusks gouged at his back, the front hoofs dug into his chest. With the weight of the beast nearly crushing him, the grunting became a gurgling, and finally Arawn collapsed with the dead weight upon him.

The entire scene, one of such bravery the Bards could make a song of the struggle, took only seconds. And it took just that long for Bailey to turn the horses and come back up the road. Sensing something terribly wrong, he’d come galloping back leading Arawn’s riderless horse.

Arawn! Arawn! Bailey screamed as he leaped from his horse. Time slowed for Bailey. In an instant he saw, but could not register the awful size of the beast. Blood was streaming from the pile of twisted limbs. Arawn was buried under the massive creature he had just killed and perhaps he had died with the effort. The blood was running in rivulets to the roadside, and a leaf floated on the red tide.

First to get this monster off you lord, Bailey spoke to himself as he pulled a rope from his saddlebags and made it fast to the saddle. Hope this rope is strong enough. Never seen a beast the likes of this one. It isn’t natural. I’ll get you out. Just hang on!

Putting the rope around the two tusks, Bailey led his horse at a right angle to the carnage. Wide eyed with fear of the beast, with the smell of blood in its nostrils, the horse strained, and slowly, aided by the lubrication of blood and gore, the beast slid off of Arawn.

Unconscious, covered with both the beast’s blood as well as his own, Arawn lay in the road. As Bailey tended him there hung about the area an aura of dread, a bleakness like looking over a battlefield littered with the dead. Bailey knew the skills of the old campaigner in treating wounds, but as he worked on Arawn the sense of eeriness increased until he found himself looking over his shoulder as if someone where watching. The wound in Arawn’s thigh was deep, and it was mixed with blood from the beast; blood so dark it was almost black. He washed it as best he could with water from his traveling kit. After sprinkling some powdered herbs into the wound