Warrior of the Three Moons: Book I of the God Wars of Ithir

By J. Michael Robertson

In an age long past the Gods walked the land and warred among themselves in the great war men named the God Wars. In that terrible time the Dark God was locked away in the Otherworld of Tir na Scil, the Land of Eternal Shadow, by the Gods of Light, the Shining Ones. Now he again reaches out to touch the world in search of an ancient weapon forged by the Smith God. If he finds it the Long Night will fall forever over the lands of men.

Waiting in his room to be summoned to the Hall of Mirrors to receive his penance for violating the Goddess Danus Sanctuary, Ciarn, a young Celtae warrior, is enveloped in a golden light and given a perilous questjourney across the Forbidden Lands, the realms of the Dark Gods powerful Psians, the Ring Lords, and find the Sunspear before it falls into the hands of the Shadow. In the crucible of the Forbidden Lands Ciarn learns the true price of being a Psianthe constant struggle he must wage against his Darksoul each time he opens a vortex to his Psi, the vast psionic power of the inner mind. If his Darksoul escapes into his conscious mind, he will become a creature of the Dark God.

Book I of The God wars of Ithir, Warrior of the Three Moons begins the great quest to claim the Sunspear by Ciarn and his companions: The one-eyed Battle Druidess, Scthach, The mysterious Red Druid, Oisn, who teaches Ciarn to use his psionic powers, and the tiny Sean Priestess, Rillsong, who lays claim to his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452078076

J. Michael Robertson

J. Michael Robertson is a retired U.S. Air Force officer and a part-time senior communications systems engineer with MITRE Corporation. He holds a bachelor’s degree in mathematics from The Citadel and an MBA from Farleigh Dickinson University. A member of the South Carolina Writer’s Workshop and New Hampshire Writer’s Project, he is a student of ancient military civilizations and mythology—particularly the Romans, Celts, and Anglo-Saxons. His participation in historical re-enactments of ancient Scottish battles has given him insight into the fighting techniques of the Highland Scots. This knowledge is woven into his fiction and is reflected in the meticulous detail and vivid battle scenes peppered throughout Warrior of the Three Moons, his first published novel and the sequel, Sunspear. In addition to writing fiction, he also writes poetry. The Flowers of Culloden was published in the Clan Annual of Clan Donnachaidh in Scotland. His current novel, “Daughter of the Spear,” is Book III of the Series; The God Wars of Ithir. The Author is married and the father of two adult children. He and his wife, Jo, reside in their home on South Carolina’s scenic Charleston Harbor.

Book preview

Dedication

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Warrior of the Three Moons is dedicated to those long-suffering souls who put up with me for the eight years of its creation.

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To Jo

The Light of my life, who had to live with me.

To Jim Robertson

Who kept my nose to the grind stone.

To Ellen and John

The poets in my life who taught me to paint with words.

To Beth, Kathleen, Lucy, Michael, Sue, and Cherie

Writers in their own right who found the time to give me tons of support.

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Cover Art by Jennifer L. R. Reed

Contents

Chapter 1. The Flight Of The Wood Elf

Chapter 2. Confrontations

Chapter 3. Man-Day

Chapter 4. Scáthach’s Secret

Chapter 5. A Voice In The Light

Chapter 6. The Ard Fáinne

Chapter 7. Destiny’s Path

Chapter 8. Rise A Warrior

Chapter 9. Battle Druidess

Chapter 10. A Gift Of Farewell

Chapter 11. A Dance Of Spears

Chapter 12. The Shame Of A Thousand Years

Chapter 13. A Dream Of Passage

Chapter 14. Rillsong

Chapter 15. Plans Within Plans

Chapter 16. Troll Hound

Chapter 17. Wolfbrother

Chapter 18. Dark Dream

Chapter 19. The Stone Of Tears

Chapter 20. The Quest Begins

Chapter 21. Into The Forbidden Lands

Chapter 22. The Horse Clans

Chapter 23. Women’s Business

Chapter 24. The Gleaning

Chapter 25. Shadow Priest

Chapter 26. The Turning

Chapter 27. One Cup Of Wine

Chapter 28. Breaking The Thirteenth Circle

Chapter 29. Warrior Of The Three Moons

Glossary

The People In Warrior Of The Three Moons

The Long Night

Let not your vigilance falter,

O Children of the Sun,

For the Long Night falls anew.

Your watch is never done.

Long foretold, it comes again,

An age to make your courage swoon.

The Legions of the Dark will march

Beneath a blood-red moon.

What will be your fate that day?

Who will live when all the taunts

Now proud upon your boasting tongues

Turn to cries of fear?

Will you grovel in the dust,

Frightened eyes staring wide,

When the Dark God comes for you

With a swift and dreadful stride?

Be steadfast, else the shield wall crumbles.

If your courage slips away,

The lurid light of burning towns

Will herald a dark and desolate day;

The Highlands that you cherish

Will be crowned with smoke and flame;

And Éirinn’s famous glory become

A phantom, wind-blown name.

Heed, then, the prophecy from the age

When Éirinn’s Clans fought beside the Gods

To wrest the Shadow’s mighty grip

From this green and sacred land.

The Long Night shall fall again,

To turn the Highlands red with light;

The shield walls of the Sun shall face,

Once more, the Children of the Night.

Let not your vigilance falter,

O Children of the Sun,

For while the Winds of Darkness blow,

Your watch is never done.

Be steadfast; hold your courage tight.

Its testing will be soon,

When Shadow Legions march again

Beneath a blood-red moon.

by J Michael Robertson

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Creation

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In the time before memories, before the beginning of all things, there was Uá, The Singularity, The Source of All. Alone, complete within Itself, Uá, who is neither god nor goddess, but both, floated in the cold emptiness of the Great Dark. Eons passed and then The Source of All turned outward. Looking into the curved mirror of time and space, Uá saw Its radiant reflection and fell in love with Itself. And it came to pass that Uá drew forth the reflection, naming Her Isis, the Mother of all.

Isis, gazing upon the beauty of Uá, was filled with rapture and gave birth to a rain of bright and dark spirits. And lo did Isis separate the Light from the Darkness. The spirits of Light She named Khem Rá, the Lords of Light, and those of Darkness She named Khem Úru, the Lords of Shadow. With their naming came strife, for the Children of Isis battled mightily among themselves in a bitter war of ascendancy between Light and Shadow.

Yet Uá’s joy in the Children of Isis was such that Its ecstasy burst forth in the Amhrán Mór, the Great Song of all that was, all that is, and all that ever shall be. With the Amhrán Mór came motion, waves of cosmic energy that rushed outward to become all the spheres of stars and worlds in the universe. Reaching the ends of the cosmos, the Amhrán Mór was reflected back toward the center of creation in a diminishing echo until, in a final burst of celestial harmony, it gave birth to the lesser children on a small world in a far distant galaxy at the edge of the universe.

Uá, sensing the Amhrán Mór’s ending, longed to know the children created by that last glorious refrain. For eons The Source searched the vastness of the universe, but It did not know where to look. Saddened by Uá’s longing, Isis called the greatest of the Khem to Her, giving unto them the task of finding the lesser children. Long did they search until at last they came to the world of the Children of the Song. Thus did the Gods come to Ithir, bringing with them the war that had been waged between the Light and Shadow since the beginning of time.

Chapter 1

The Flight Of The Wood Elf

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"Dream-fair, beside dream waters, it stands alone.

A winged thought of Lugh laid its corner stone.

A desire of his heart raised its walls on high,

And set its crystal windows to flaunt the sky."

The Shadow House of Lugh - Anonymous, Ireland, 8th Century

The Wheel of the Year has turned four thousand times since the Gods defeated their brother, the Khem Úru, the Dark God, in the God Wars. A thousand years have passed since the Battle Druid Cuhulain, the last Warrior of the Three Moons, was slain at the Raven Stone. In that desperate time the mythical Sunspear forged in the God Age by the Smith God, Goibhniu was lost to the sight of men. Now the Dark God again reaches out to touch the world. With his stirring, the Long Night begins to fall over Éirinn, sacred land of the Celtae.

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The boy crept stealthily to the edge of the thicket of maple and hemlock lining the riverbank. He cast a quick look up and down the fast moving Erináen and then scrambled down to the shoal of pebbles below. This trip, with the help of old Angus MacRaibh, a traveling tinker, he had sneaked a sword, bow case, and horn bow out of Sky Stone. By leaving before morn had chimed and hiding in Angus’ wagon, he had eluded the young Ainnir who had begun shadowing his every waking moment.

Born in the month of the Willow Moon, he was named after Ciarán of the Long Spear, a long dead hero of the Éireanni, his mother’s people. Left to his own devices, which was seldom, he devoted himself to becoming a great warrior like Long Spear. Tall, with broad shoulders and narrow waist, he was nearing the size of the man he would become and had to stoop to enter the cave the Erináen had carved into its bank. Straightening, he felt along the shelf of rock until he found the glow lamp and lifted its shutter. When his eyes had adjusted to the light, he turned the hourglass sitting beside it. Then smugly congratulating himself, he wrapped sword, bow case and horn bow in oiled cloth and placed them on a ledge. He quickly inspected the clothing, mail shirt, short sword, belt knife, and other items that he had stored in the cave before winter had frozen the land. He breathed a sigh of relief. Sulis, Goddess of rivers and lakes, had favored him. The river’s spring flood had not risen to the rock shelves carved in the cave’s walls.

Finishing his inspection, he glanced at the hour glass. More than half the sand remained in the upper globe. If he hurried, he could finish the raft he needed to ferry his equipment across the Erináen when the time came. He took a pouch of leather thongs from a ledge and went to the pile of four-span-long poles stacked by the cave wall. Selecting four stout ones, he carefully lashed them to the cross members of the small raft. When it was finished, he leaned it against the wall next to the entrance. After making sure everything was securely wrapped, he shuttered the glow lamp and crawled out onto the stony beach.

Rain spattered into the stones, forcing him to pull up the hood of his cloak. Pushing a lock of raven-black hair from his eyes, he looked at the sky. The storm that had come during the night had settled in the Erináen’s broad valley, cloaking the early morning in grays and silvers. Ostara, the festival marking the beginning of spring lay a month in the past, but the wind swirling through the trees was cold, as though the Frost Giants, who ruled the eternal winter of the Cairngorm’s high peaks, were reluctant to give up their hold on the land. He shivered and picked up a hemlock branch lying by the entrance. Slowly backing up the path, he brushed away all signs that he had been here.

He paused at the top, his breath clouding the chill air in little puffs. Northward across the Erináen, the Coill mór Dubh rose ridge behind ridge of gray and green into the morning until it faded, featureless and shadowy, into the deep curtain of rain. In another month, if things happened as he thought they would, he would have to survive there. Stories told by the bards said that the Black Forest was the land of Sean. He pulled his woolen bratt close against the rain. The Faeryfolk, if they existed, were a problem for the future. He had a more immediate challenge to overcome.

Up river Sky Stone, Clan Donnachaidh’s great hold stood like a sentinel at the tip of its peninsula. Even here, two leagues away, the massive pillar of white granite was impressive. Legend held that Llew, Lord of the Morning, had raised the oval shaped monolith in the God Age when he walked among men, and battled the Dark God in the War of the Gods. It was not until after the Raven Wars that the Stone, long abandoned by the God, became the Clan Hold of the Donnachaidh, a Highland Clan of the Scotti.

Cold rain stung his face, driving him from his musing. Quit woolgathering, he muttered. The Ainnir are hunting you by now. He had not forgotten the promise they had made the last time they had caught him outside the Clan Hold. Bond servants do not come and go as they please, Wood Elf, Kiara, his foster sister had said. If you leave the Stone again without a woman’s permission, my battle sisters will give your rump a welting, and bring you back tied to a carrying pole in nothing but your skin. It was a warning he could not heed, even if he wanted to. He had to have his trail kit stored in the cave before the festival of Beltaine.

He slipped into the woods, taking care not to break the tightly curled fronds of giant male ferns pushing their way up through the dense pack of leaves and needles covering the forest floor. In another fortnight the ground would be covered with the waist-high ferns that thrived in the gloom beneath the forest’s thick canopy. He paused to let his eyes adjust and took a deep breath. The moist air smelled of growing things and the pungent tang of cedar and pine. Moving silently over the leafy carpet, he came to the large, dark pool of snow-melt and rain that lay between the road and his cave. The mating songs of wood frogs and spring peepers quieted in advance of his footfall, only to start up again as soon as he passed. Avoiding soft ground where he would leave tracks, his thoughts turned to getting back into the Stone. Free of winter’s grasp, the Caer Isca road was crowded with merchants and craftsmen eager to sell or trade their goods at Stonehaven’s market. If the Gods favored him, he would be able to slip through the Sword Gate masked by the throng of early arrivals waiting to get in.

He was almost to the road when his warrior’s sixth sense set off alarms in his head. The only warning that Ainnir were in the woods was a brief flicker of movement in the trees ahead. He dove under a hemlock’s drooping branches and went still. Dressed in the dark-grey trousers and tunic he wore in the Stone’s training Yard, he blended with the shadows. He held his breath as two battle maids flitted past, silent as woods wraiths. A faint scent of lilac wafted into his hiding place to mix with the loamy smell of damp earth and decaying needles. Inhaling slowly, he forced himself to patience and waited. He had almost convinced himself that it was safe to leave when they were suddenly back. Stopping only a few spans away, they paused to drink from their flasks.

I think Sián mistook where he left the road, one said in a low voice.

She does not make mistakes like that, Eadith, the other answered. He is around here somewhere, and we will find him. There was a soft giggle. Do not worry, sister. You will get your reward.

"My reward? What are you blathering about, Nimue?"

There was another giggle. You will get to see him air clad when we catch him.

Nimue! Eadith’s voice was scandalized. You are worse than a flatland wanton.

Aye, sister. Watching him dance the swords makes me feel like one at times.

They caught a fit of giggles and moved off, leaving Ciarán blushing beneath the hemlock. Going to the road and intermingling with merchants and travelers was no longer possible. A few minutes later, he was stealthily making his way through the forest. As he walked, his mind drifted back to the day six years ago when he had carried out the foolish quest to sneak into the Women’s Quarter and bring out a prize. The Women’s Quarter was a place of mystery. Laws old when the Gods walked the living world forbade warriors, or any man for that matter, to enter unescorted. Even his father, the Clan Chief, had to be escorted by a maitrun when he went there. He had asked everyone from bondservants to the Yardmaster why men could not enter without permission. The answer was always the same—women’s business. Whatever the reason, violators were severely punished. For his law-breaking, the Geal Fáinne had placed him in bondage to the women of Sky Stone for six years.

That was not the only law he had broken that storm-filled night. He had entered Danu’s sacred grove on top of the Stone, a place no male was allowed to go—ever. From there he had gained entrance into the rooms below using the huge vent shafts connected to every hearth in the Stone. It had not been a woman’s apartment he had slipped into, but the sanctuary of the Goddess Danu. There in the huge chamber hollowed out of the rock beneath the Moon Temple, he had found the Staff of Virgins. To a boy of eleven name days, the oaken staff seemed unimportant compared to the glittering gold and silver implements of ritual stored in the alcove. How was I to know its importance in the rite used to raise girls to womanhood? he muttered.

The night she had captured him trying to return the staff, Máironwy ni Pádraigín, the High Priestess of Danu at Holy Rood, had told him he would know the penance for his transgression against the Goddess on his seventeenth name day. That was why the battle maids were shadowing his every waking moment. His man day—the day he would be deemed a man and given his punishment for desecrating Danu’s Sanctuary, was a week away. The maidens, led by Kiara, were making sure he did not run away. As if I would do anything so dishonorable, he snorted indignantly. My mother already thinks I am without honor for what I did as a reckless child. I will not shame her by running from Danu’s retribution.

The ululating war cry of the Ainnir echoed through the forest. Idiot! he murmured. Woolgathering with that lot hunting you will get your neck in a captive’s knot before you can blink. Even with his attention focused on the forest around him, it took all of his skill in woodcraft to evade them. Mid-morning found him concealed in a Rowan grove at the top of a low hill overlooking a wide meadow. Beyond it lay the moat and the thirty-span high Dragon Wall that ran across the southern end of the peninsula. The great massif of Sky Stone towered a thousand spans into the sky behind the wall. A league away, the Caer Isca road was crowded with merchants and travelers afoot and on horseback, seeking entrance.

His gaze swept the field of knee-high yellow oat lying between him and the gate. Nothing moved, but a battle maid could make herself invisible on a slate floor. As he watched, a dozen of them rose from the grass a hundred paces to his left and trotted into the woods. His eyes narrowed when he saw the long switches in their hands. Then two more groups got to their feet and disappeared into the forest. If he had run for the gate from here, he would have blundered right into them—and a beating.

Rolling slowly onto his back, he stared into the woods, trying to see through the mist that had risen there. There was no movement or sound; the birds and squirrels had gone quiet. A gust of wind tugged at his bratt, bringing with it the smell of burning wood from Stonehaven’s chimneys. Cold drops shaken from the rowan spattered into the bushes around him, pulling his eyes to the low clouds scudding overhead. The patter in the rowan became a roar as another rain squall swept over his hill. Hopefully the heavy rain would make the Ainnir think more about staying dry instead of catching him.

A ram’s horn bleated in the woods. It was answered by others coming from the right and from the river on his left. There was a moment’s silence and then a chorus of wild ululating war cries echoed in the hills behind him. He quelled an urge to make a run for the gate. Easy, boyo. They know you are on the river side of the road and are trying to scare you into the open. He had no doubt that there were more Ainnir hidden in the yellow oat. Those who had gone into the forest had let him see them on purpose to make him careless. Just as all the caterwauling coming from the woods was meant to panic him into running. Wolves after a stag, he muttered.

To his right, a thick stand of trees jutted into the field. He would make his dash for sanctuary from there and set off along the hill, making sure he stayed below its crest. Reaching a point above the trees, he scuttled down the hill into the thick underbrush at its foot. Using the heavy rain to mask his movement, he crept toward the meadow. A quiver of movement in a stand of Hawthorn froze him into stillness. He stared at the spot. A crouching Ainnir slowly materialized. Had she not moved, he would not have seen her. How many were with her? As his eyes adjusted to the pattern of the trees he found four more.

He pulled his belt knife from its sheath and cut a limb from a Maple sapling. A mirthless smile touched his lips. Rumps were going to feel a switch’s kiss this morning, but it was not going to be his. He was almost to the kneeling battle maids when one of them turned and saw him. Before she could give warning, he bolted past them, leaving startled yelps of pain in his wake. Their confusion was short-lived. He burst from the trees with the Ainnir in full cry behind him.

After him, sisters! A silver mark to the one who brings the Wood Elf down.

He grimaced. It was Kiara. A horn sounded three sharp trills. A score of Ainnir rose up from the grass near the river and ran along the moat to cut him off. More ran up the road. A chorus of war cries came from behind him. He spared a glance over his shoulder and almost ended up on his face. A hundred more were running across the field in pursuit, waving switches over their heads. Keep your eyes on those to your front, lack-wit. They are the threat. He picked up his pace.

People were gathering on top of the wall, staring through the crenels to see what the ruckus was about. Ainnir, no doubt, come to watch the Wood Elf run down and carried into the Stone tied to a carrying pole. Anger seeped into him. "Hurt them!" a voice whispered from within. Startled by the alien thought, he formed the Flowing Burn, letting the soothing waters of the mind stilling carry his anger away until only cold resolve was left.

A shout came from the Ainnir. He lengthened his stride, feeling as though he could run forever. Why are there were none between me and the bridge? he wondered aloud. Kiara would not be that careless. The words were hardly out of his mouth when half a dozen leaped up from the yellow oat twenty paces in front of him. Cheered on by their battle sisters, they came at him in a bunch. There was no time to avoid them. He put a shoulder into the first one, sending her flying into the battle maid behind her. At the same time he shoved another into two more. They went down in a yelling heap of flailing arms and legs. Then he was past them, sprinting for the bridge—and sanctuary.

He reached the road thirty paces ahead of those running up it. Merchants and travelers gaped as he darted between wagons and pack horses waiting to cross the moat. Gone was the clean smell of the forest. The dank air he sucked into his burning lungs smelled of algae-covered stone, the pungent odor of horse droppings, and a hundred other smells coming from wagons and packs.

A chorus of battle cries from the pursuing Ainnir, turned the ordered entry onto the bridge into chaos. Drivers cursed, fighting to bring startled horses, neighing and rearing in their harness, under control. Before anyone could do anything, a new element was added to the confusion. A brace of shaggy deerhounds, on some adventure of their own, came loping out of the rain and flung themselves into the fray, barking and snapping in mock battle. The road before the drawbridge became a melee of people trying to avoid the lashing hooves of frightened pack horses bolting in every direction. Merchants’ guards and travelers collided with Ainnir, ending up in tangled heaps. The morning air was soon filled with imaginative oaths and curses.

Darting through the chaos, Ciarán sprinted across the bridge and between the towering battlements guarding the approach to the inner gate. Any enemy that managed to get past the moat and outer portcullis would find themselves in the killing field of the barbican’s narrow confines. Ahead, his way was blocked by members of the watch who were questioning merchants and travelers about their business in Sky Stone. He had forgotten about that. Getting by them would not be easy. They all wore the torcs of blooded warriors.

Movement on the battlements above caught his attention. Stone masons were using a treadwheel crane to lift heavy granite blocks from a wagon to repair some of the merlons in the barbican wall. The wagon was forcing traffic to the right side of the roadway. It offered his only chance of getting by the gate watch. He raced up the wooden ramp leading to its bed, past gaping laborers and leaped over the heads of the surprised Ainnir. He hit the ground in a shoulder roll and came up running. Without a backward glance, he fled beneath the inner portcullis followed by shouts of Stop! Behind him the barbican erupted in bedlam as the pursuing battle maids tried to force their way through the gate. Putting his head down, he joined a merchant’s plodding string of packhorses, hoping to be inconspicuous. A few more paces and he would be through the gate leading into the fields that lay beyond the Dragon Wall.

You there! Wood Elf! Come here! a woman’s voice commanded.

He turned and found himself under the impassive gaze of a tall battle maid standing on the porch of the barracks built into the Sword Gate’s wall. Ruggedly handsome, she was broad shouldered with muscular arms. He swallowed when he saw who she was. Among the Ainnir, Cyrdwa ranked second only to Ceridwen, Sky Stone’s Yardmaster. She was also one of the most famous, having led the war host that had defeated the Róimhán Legate Cassius in a battle on the Drava River. Six thousand warriors of Legio XXII Valoria Victrix, along with their eagle standard, had been captured and brought to Sky Stone. Before taunting throngs of women and children atop the Dragon wall, they were forced to march air clad beneath an arch made of oxen yokes, signifying their subservience. After that humiliation, they had been harried back to the frontier with the Róimhán Province of Noricum. It was a disgrace neither the Legion nor Róimh had forgotten. There was still a huge bounty on Cyrdwa’s head.

Ciarán sighed and went to her. He halted just beyond her reach; a prudent thing to do when facing an angry woman—or so his father had once told him. From the look in the Cathú’s gray eyes, he was glad she was not holding a stick in her hand. He touched his forehead with his right hand in a sign of respect. Morning’s greeting, Cathú, he said in a meek voice over the din coming through the portcullis.

I must truly have the Gods’ favor to be blessed with your presence, Wood Elf. Her lilting voice seemed out of place with her masculine body. She looked into the gate and then spoke to the Treoraí standing next to her. Tiernan, go and get things moving again. And tell them to quiet down before I take the flat of my spear to their rumps. She speared him with an iron hard stare. I am sure that the merchants’ whose wagons lie overturned, and those trying to recapture their pack horses, are thankful for having been welcomed to the Stone by you. Not to mention the travelers who have to wait in the rain until the wagons are righted.

Ciarán stood mute. There was nothing he could say. He was responsible for the chaos on the road. I have curám, Cathú, he said humbly.

You say so? she said in a dry voice, staring past him.

He followed her glance. The forecourt was filling with battle maids; all watching him like cats that have discovered a crippled bird in their yard.

We will take charge of him, Cathú, Kiara said, pushing her way to the front of the gathering battle maids.

Will you now? Cyrdwa said, taking them in with a flat look. And why does the Chieftain’s son need two Céad of Ainnir to hold his leading strings, Kiara?

Ciarán rolled his eyes at her insinuation that he was still a child. His face hardened into a look of grim determination. He would not allow them to switch him like one, not with his man day only a week away.

He must be taught that bond servants do not ignore forbiddings placed on them, Kiara went on, fixing him with a cool stare. He was told that he would be switched and brought back tied to a carrying pole if he left the Stone without permission.

Is this true, Wood Elf?

Yes, Cathú, Ciarán mumbled, wishing he was anywhere, but here. But I am not outside the Stone. They did not catch… She arched a brow, silencing his protest.

Go and stand with them, Wood Elf.

Another burst of rain swept over the forecourt, the large drops glittering like jewels in the light of the glow lamps as they slanted down from the dark sky. With a wistful look at the archway in the rear wall, he went and stood by Kiara. He could feel their eyes boring into his back and wondered if it was possible to sweat inside one’s skin.

Three huge wagons, twenty spans long and with wheels as tall as a man, rumbled by. The drivers and the dozen mounted guards gave them all less than friendly looks. Their bright blue paint, and the exotic aromas coming from the hundreds of flasks of sweet smelling water they carried, made them the property of Meirin ni Evegren, the scent merchant. Their passage through the forecourt brought excited murmurs from the Ainnir. More wagons, pack trains, and travelers followed Meirin’s wagons. No one was smiling.

Several warriors getting ready to go on watch came out of the barracks to join Cyrdwa on the porch. She ignored them, studying the rain-soaked group before her. I should send the lot of you to Laoghaire, she said over the clatter of iron-shod hooves and the grinding rumble of wagon wheels on the paving stones. Perhaps mucking out the cavalry wing’s stables for a month can keep you out of mischief.

But, Cathú, Kiara began. We only…

Stormed the road, screaming like banshees, Cyrdwa finished for her. Did none of you think about what that might do to horses untrained for battle? Well? she snapped, when no one spoke.

No, Cathú, several voices murmured behind Ciarán.

Aye, you did not think and turned the morning watch into a shambles. The Hearth Mistress will not thank you for filling her audience chamber with merchants claiming loss or damage to their goods. She let them consider that for a moment and then said, I give the Wood Elf into your charge, Kiara.

That is not fair, Cathú, Ciarán blurted. I was not caught out…

Do you deny that you broke a forbidding?

No, Cathú, but I…

Will keep your tongue behind your teeth until I am finished, Cyrdwa said in a cool voice at the edge of patience. Kiara will escort you to the Seanascal’s work chamber. There, you and she will tell Alwyndha what happened. I will leave the penance for this morning’s mischief to her. The rest of you will listen while I explain why the Wood Elf was able to elude you. Then you will report to your Treoraís for penance.

Raising hands to foreheads, Ciarán and Kiara joined the stream of people moving through the forecourt. When they were out of the gatehouse and on the road to the Wolf Gate, Kiara punched his arm. You cause nothing but trouble. My sisters will not forget your disobedience.

He ignored her and moved onto the grassy verge beside the road, lengthening his stride so she almost had to break into a trot to keep up.

Why did you disobey the forbidding? She grabbed his arm and jerked him to a halt. Where did you go?

I had a task to attend to, Ciarán said, shrugging free and starting up the road again.

Do not turn your back on me, boy, Kiara hissed, stamping her foot. She wanted to be calm, womanly, but he made her feel childish and angry. Every time she was near him she felt ripped in two. Half of her wanted to take him back into her heart while the other half wanted to keep making him pay for turning her world upside down six years ago.

Ciarán sighed and faced her. She was standing, straight as a spear, a switch in her right hand. Chin in the air, she was giving him a haughty look as though she were a High Queen instead of the daughter of one. Well, he could be just as arrogant. Raising himself to his full height, he folded his arms across his chest and stared down his nose at her. It is raining, and I am cold. You can scold me while we walk.

Answer me or I will give you a switching, she said in an imperious tone. Six years of bondage to the Women of Sky Stone had taught him nothing of humility. Someone had to teach him to be humble, and she was just the one to do it.

Your rump will be the one wearing stripes if you try, little sister, he said, giving her an ominous look. It was an empty threat, but she did not know it. He looked past her and grimaced. The Ainnir who had been chasing him were pouring out of the gatehouse. Let be, Kiara. I am thinking that it would be wise if we got to Alwyndha before Cyrdwa decides to send a runner to her. Now come on before we catch a chill. Her mouth tightened and then relaxed. Her green eyes studied him thoughtfully for a moment.

All right, but do not think this is ended, she said, suddenly not wanting to fight with him this morning. It was time to start preparing him for the day she placed her hand-woven belt of marriage knots at his feet. She looked over her shoulder at her approaching battle sisters. Come on, she said, stepping past him. Some of my sisters would punish you for your defiance and worry about Cyrdwa later.

Ciarán gaped, wondering if his ears deceived him. She had just spent two hours leading two hundred Ainnir harrying him through field and forest. Now she was telling him she did not want those who had chased him to catch up for fear that they would mete out the punishment she had threatened him with. You are right, uncle, he murmured, striding after her lithe form. The man has not been born who can understand them. He wanted to talk, but she seemed lost in thought. He contented himself with being near her and not getting scolded for some perceived failing or given a meaningless task.

Kiara pulled up her hood to ward off the rain, and her hand grazed the finely crafted gold wolf’s head broach that held her cloak together. It had been a gift from Caitríona on the day her first moon blood had flowed and she had been welcomed into the sisterhood of women. Memories of another broach and its loss that dreadful day in the Yard six years ago flooded into her.

He is here, Kiara, Meaghan whispered. What will you say to him? Can you still be his Shield Sister after what he has done?

Kiara grimaced. The Geal Fáinne had told her to put aside a child’s ways and take up the mantle of womanhood, but she did not know how. She sent a prayer to Danu to guide her. Taking a breath, she turned to face him—and blinked. He was smiling. How did he dare smile after what he had done? She was not smiling. The Hearth Mistress was not smiling. Her Heartmother had fled the morning meal in tears. The Chieftain’s Quarter was like a place in mourning. The anger she had held in check since learning what he had done erupted before she could stop it. She wanted to beat him senseless, but if she tried that, he would just use his strength to overpower her. So she attacked with a weapon he could not defend against. How do you dare smile at me, Ciarán ap Eóin? she shouted. You are without honor, so what do you…

I am not honorless, Kiara, he answered calmly, which only fanned her wrath into hotter flame.

Say no more, her inner voice cautioned. Be quiet and hear me! she said, ignoring the voice. The Hearth Mistress named you honorless in the Hall of Mirrors, and before all here, so I too name you. She saw the wounds she gave him in his eyes as her denouncement slammed into him, but she was not done. As our mother cast you from her heart so do I cast you from mine.

Kiara do not do this, he said faintly.

Before she could think, she pulled the silver wolf’s head broach he had given her as a welcoming gift the night she had arrived at Sky Stone from her belt pouch. You are not worthy to be my shield brother, she said, throwing it into the dirt at his feet. From this day you walk without my spear to guard your back, honorless one. The sight of a lone tear coursing its way down his cheek drowned her anger in a flood of her own. Sobbing, she fled from the Yard.

A sudden gust of wind pelted Kiara with cold drops of rain, drawing her out of her reverie in time to hear Ciarán grumble about the weather. She glanced at him, her face hidden in the shadow of her hood. Did he still have the broach? It had been his fifth name day gift and his most prized possession. But he had given it to her as a welcoming gift on the night she had arrived at the Stone, alone and frightened, to begin her fosterage. She had lost count of the times she had wished to have it and her unthinking words back. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but in the six years of his penance a wall had grown up between them. A wall of her making that she did not know how to breach and one he no longer tried to reach over. She walked beside him in the rain, mute and miserable.

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Eóin stood at the broad window in the solar gazing out over Sky Stone’s interior bowl. Glow-lamps, lighting the galleries cut into the near vertical face, glimmered softly through the rain. He was savoring the quiet after the morning meal with his large, boisterous family. His brother, Caerwyn had put in a rare appearance, regaling them with tales of battles against Sebukar and Shadow Troll raiders, which had made the meal less noisy than usual. Unlike the great room, the solar was peaceful with only Caitríona and him in it. It was a favorite time of his; a restful interlude before getting to the task of being the Clan Chief of a large and powerful Highland clan.

He glanced at the oaken table he used as a work desk, grimacing at the neatly penned sheets of paípéar Mórdhan, his chief scribe, had left. Each sheet held a petition from outlying villages and towns throughout the Clan Donnachaidh tuath: a herd bull for Dun Cornaill, a new bridge on the Siur road, a dispute over hunting rights between Kilrae and Gailimh… He sighed. From the stack’s thickness, the Clan Elders had been busy. It was going to be a long day in the council chamber before they got them all resolved.

The Stone’s bowl was lit by flickering blue light followed by the distant rumble of thunder. One storm was past, but another tempest was building, and this one had nothing to do with the weather. He turned from the window to gaze at the woman standing before the finely crafted marble hearth. At seventy five name days, she was still a youth in the long life spans the Gods had granted their human children. Tall, she was dressed in a rich blue robe of fine wool. Not the garish blue of one new to the braid, but the regal blue of a winter sky. Her long copper hair was unbound, falling in shimmering waves down her back. Even after giving him seven children, she had the narrow waist and high breasts of a maiden. Desire stirred within him.

She turned and gave him a flat stare with wide blue eyes that could turn so dark as to appear bottomless, eyes that mirrored her every mood of coolness or warmth, tenderness or anger. At the moment, they were hot, angry eyes. His amorous thought fled. He was very glad he was not in his youngest son’s boots. Few things put Caitríona into a temper, but the innumerable ways Ciarán seemed to find to get into trouble was chief among them. If Cyrdwa’s arm-waving messenger was any indication, this had to be one of his more imaginative efforts.

Caitríona gave her husband an appraising look. He was big, but not bulky, with broad shoulders and a lean vigor that gave strength to a face that would be considered pretty on another man. His bronze hair was cut short except for the three thin Chieftain’s braids hanging in front of each ear. Do you know what your son did, Eóin?

Eóin kept his tongue behind his teeth. He had no idea what the boy had done. Only that it had happened at the Sword Gate and involved a group of Ainnir and some merchants. He had managed to learn that much before a look from Caití had banished him to the window.

Well, do you? she asked again, marching up to him and pinning him against the table. Taking a breath, she went on without giving him a chance to speak. No? Then I will tell you. Your son ignored a forbidding placed on him by the Ainnir. And, she said, jabbing his chest with her finger, in doing so turned the Caer Isca road and the barbican into muddy chaos. No doubt I will spend the day sorting through the grievances of angry merchants because of it. She jabbed him again.

You say so? How, did he do that? he asked, leaning back in a futile attempt to escape her dagger-like finger.

Ignoring his question, she gave him a tight-eyed look. Can you not teach your son responsibility, husband?

She had him between the wall and the spear. There was only one way out. Pushing away from the table, he captured her hands before she could poke him again. He is in bondage to the women of the Stone. You have made it quite clear that they and the Ainnir are responsible for his behavior.

She gave him a rueful look. Yes, and they have made a dog’s meal of it. He involved Kiara, she finished, as if that was the ultimate sin.

Why does that not surprise me? he murmured. As children, his son and foster daughter caused enough mischief for a dozen children by themselves; together they had been mayhem in a sack waiting to be loosed. Now, even though Kiara wore a woman’s braids and Ciarán was approaching manhood, they were still quite adept at creating havoc among the mere mortals who had to live with them. He waited for her to tell him what they had done.

Your son left the Stone without permission this morning. Kiara led a party of Ainnir to bring him back. When he tried to get back in, it was as though Hel’s demons had been loosed. Two merchant wagons were overturned in the mayhem. To make matters worse, packhorses from at least three pack trains broke free and scattered to the winds. If that were not enough, he got past the watch by using a mason’s wagon to launch himself in a salmon leap over their heads.

Eóin burst into rich, deep laughter and pulled her to him. That must have been a sight to behold.

Caitríona tried to hold her anger, but his laughter was infectious. She giggled into his broad chest. Aye, Cyrdwa said he came storming up to the road with Kiara and her battle sisters in hot pursuit, shrieking like banshees. She took a breath and added, It did not help when Conan’s hounds joined the fray.

What penance will you give them? he asked. It was safe to broach that subject now that she was laughing.

She shrugged eloquently. Alwyndha will decide their punishment since she will have to deal with the merchants’ complaints. Reluctantly removing his hands from her waist, she glanced at the stack of petitions. It would seem that we both have much to do before we go to our blankets this day.

He watched her walk away, absently twirling the end of his moustache. The amorous thoughts were back. He gave the petitions a sour look and sat down.

Chapter 2

Confrontations

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The afternoon sun beat down on the hard packed earth of Sky Stone’s battle training yard. The air was filled with dust and the smell of hundreds of warriors and Ainnir working the forms of sword, ax, and spear. Ciarán paced impatiently, waiting to begin his penance for the trouble he had caused at the Sword Gate. Alwyndha had simply turned him over to Scáthach who had given him the task of teaching her newest and youngest pupils the fighting techniques of the short spear and targe. He grimaced. The spear was not his favorite weapon nor did he have the skill with it that he did with the sword.

Ciarán gazed around the Stone’s bowl while he waited for his would-be warriors to return from the armorer’s paddock. An oval, two leagues in length and one league wide, its vastness never failed to awe him. It was easy to believe the legends that said Llew, Lord of the Morning, had carved it from a mountain that had stood here. Who but a God could build something this colossal so perfect? Over the centuries, the smooth interior walls had become lined with galleries and balconies that opened into living areas carved into the rock.

Tuathal, Master of the Arborist Guild, seemed determined to fill every square span of land with plants. Only the large commons surrounding the pillar stone, Loch Sulis, the small spring-fed lake, and the Yard, were free of plants. The rest of the bowl’s floor was filled with gardens of corn, beans, potatoes, and melons. Groves of apple, pear, and plum trees formed a band a hundred paces wide along the base of the Stone’s inner wall. More groves bordered the stream that flowed from the lake through the narrow chasm that was the only entrance into the Stone’s interior. The Master Arborist had even tried to plant fruit trees on the Stone’s summit, but Aodhán, the High Druid, and Rhiana, the First Priestess of Danu, had forbidden it. The only trees allowed to grow on the Stones summit were the Oak groves of Danu and Llew. They had appeased Tuathal by allowing him to grow flax and oats instead.

Ciarán stared at the paddock entrance, willing his young students to return. They were taking their own good time. Not before time, he muttered as they began straggling back with their wooden spears and wicker targes. Are the targe and spear too heavy for you? he asked when they had gathered around him. They shrugged or mumbled answers too low to hear, just as he had done seven years ago. Never lie to your instructor. Of course they are heavy. They weigh as much as real ones. Learn to fight with these and a real short-spear will feel like it is made of grass. He did not bother to tell them that the practice weapons used by the older students and warriors weighed twice as much as real ones. Who can tell me why you must always wear your battle helms in the Yard? No one answered. The helm increases your weight and changes your balance. If you learn to fight without wearing it, you will have to learn all over again when you do. He gave them a stern look. Always wear your helm to the Yard.

Three sharp blasts from the Yardmaster’s horn signaled the start of the training period. The Yard was instantly filled with shouts and the din of wood striking wood. Ciarán led them to an area where rows of thick Oak posts had been sunk into the ground. Today I will teach you the basic stone form of the targe and spear called the push and thrust. It is a defensive form hard learned from our wars with the Róimháns. If you have questions, ask. He gave them a stern look. Only fools are afraid to ask for help. Now, are you ready to learn? They shifted their feet, darting quick glances at one another. Well? Are you?

Yes, Wood Elf, they chorused.

Very well. Now pay attention. You have two weapons, he said, pointing to his short spear and targe leaning against one of the posts. Both are important. Without your targe to protect you, your spear will be useless—because you will be dead. But, your targe is not just for protection. It is also a weapon. This, he picked the shield up and pointed to the eight inch spike screwed into the boss, can be used to attack your enemy. He paused to let that sink in before going on. But before you learn the forms, you must learn how to stand. It is…

We already know how to stand, a thick set, red-headed boy interrupted. Several others grinned and mumbled their agreement.

You say so? Ciarán said, remembering his own impatience at that age. What is your name?

Duald ap Hern.

His eyebrow arched upward at the name. The cocky wet-ear was the son of Hern, the Cathú of his father’s Fíanna, and Cyrdwa. Very well, Duald, show us the correct stance.

Duald gave his companions a smug look and walked to an arm’s length from Ciarán. He had hardly gotten his targe and spear into a defensive position when Ciarán’s hand shot out, striking his targe. Duald staggered back, lost his balance, and hit the ground with a grunt. The most important thing you will learn today is how to stand because a downed warrior is a dead warrior, he said, helping the boy to his feet. Face me in a single line, and place your feet at the width of your shoulders. Bring your left foot slightly forward, and slide your right foot backward and position it in a line perpendicular to your left foot. Now bend your knees a little, and put your weight on the balls of your feet. He demonstrated the stance.

They gave him skeptical looks as they imitated him awkwardly. It feels strange, Duald said, undaunted by his earlier embarrassment.

Aye, Duald, it feels unnatural now, but you will grow accustomed to it. I want all of you to practice until you can do it in your sleep. He spent the next few minutes going to each of them and correcting their stances. Remember—never have your feet parallel beneath you when you are facing an enemy. The Róimháns are very good at this kind of fighting and know how to use their shields to knock you over. If you lose your feet in battle, you will quickly find yourself crossing the Bridge of Swords.

Ciarán slipped his left arm through the straps of a wicker training targe. When the enemy closes, it is important to strike the first blow to check his momentum like this. He pushed off his right foot and extended his shield arm, driving the targe into the Oak stake with a loud thud. Just as quickly, he dropped back into the spear stance. He showed them several more times and then said, Stand before your foe. When they were all standing in front of a post he checked their stances again. The enemy is upon you! he shouted. Strike now! Break his charge! Smash him back!

They thrust their wicker targes against the Oak stakes with a shout. Good. You did that well. Remember it is step, thrust, and retreat. Do it again, and this time strike with confidence. As one, they drove their targes into their wooden enemies. Pull your targe back quickly after you strike. Step, thrust, retreat! Attack your enemy! Keep your targe vertical when you pull it back. That is better. Again! Good! Again! Again! All right, rest.

They rested their targes on the ground to catch their breaths. Get those targes up! he bellowed. I said to rest, not offer yourselves up for sacrifice to Battle Raven. They flinched, jerking their shields up. Never lower your targe until the last enemy is dead, captured, or has fled. He made them hold their shields up until their arms began to shake. Ground your targe. They hesitated as though he was laying a trap for them and then slowly lowered their shields.

The short spear is the bond-mate of your targe; never part them. He bent down and picked up the gleaming short spear without taking his eyes off them. If you drop your spear, pick it up without lowering your head. Never take your eyes off the enemy. He straightened. Drop your spears. Now pick them up. The first one who lowers their eyes will cuddle Scáthach’s rock, he threatened, remembering the innumerable times he had stood arm outstretched with the hated stone nestled in his palm.

Well done, he said when they had imitated him. He held the spear out toward them, admiring its razor-edged two-span head, one span wire-wrapped haft and steel hand guard. The short spear. Made of good Celtae steel, it is the finest weapon of its kind, and in the hands of battle tested Ainnir—one of the deadliest.

He let his gaze sweep over them. How is the short spear used? he asked and then answered his question. It is a thrusting weapon. Thrust quickly and deeply into your enemy, and withdraw just as fast. It is not a sword. Never slash with it unless you and your opponent are alone. When you raise your arm for a slashing stroke, you expose vulnerable parts of your body to attack. Let your enemy slash. You keep your spear low—no higher than your hip—with the blade parallel to the ground or angled slightly upward.

He showed them how; striking the post with his targe and then driving his spear into the center of the stake. Strike with your targe and then thrust with your spear. Go for the belly, not the chest, there is too much bone there. The armpit of an opponent who raises his sword to slash is a good spot to strike. The face and throat are also good targets if your foe is not too tall, like the Róimháns.

He gave them another stern look and shouted, Up shields, close with the enemy. Strike a blow for the Donnachaidh. He watched as they struck the posts with their targes and then drove the knobbed tip of their spears into their wooden guts. Well done, but do not forget to step back quickly. Otherwise, your foe will pull you down when he falls. Do it again. He walked among them, using his spear to adjust the position of theirs, and chanting, Step, strike, thrust, withdraw! He repeated the cadence over and over, accompanied by grunts of exertion and the thud of wood-on-wood as they attacked their immortal oaken enemies. Finally he yelled, Retreat and rest. He nodded his head in satisfaction as they stepped back, careful to keep their targes up, and their eyes on the posts.

You have done well, but not well enough. He walked through their ranks, checking each of his warrior’s weapons. In the inner landscape of his mind, he no longer saw children but a disciplined Céad of battle-hardened warriors, and he was their Treoraí. Up shields! Look to your front! The Róimháns are about to charge. They tensed and leveled their spears. Here they come! Hit them hard! Step, strike, thrust, withdraw!

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The cheers of on-looking warriors filled Kiara with exhilaration. She had just done what few of her battle sisters, including blooded Ainnir, could boast of—score a touch on Scáthach with the short spear. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ciarán come into the Yard and her heart beat a little faster. In the six years of his penance, he had grown tall and broad of shoulder. Where other boys his age were still awkward, he only seemed to get more graceful. To her he was the most beautiful creature in the living world—and the most vexing. Late to the Yard as usual, he had not seen her small triumph over the Blademaster, which made it less in her eyes. Well, what she had done once she could do again. This time the villain would see it.

She dropped her training spear into a defensive form of stone. As soon as Scáthach said, begin, she attacked instead of defending as she usually did. Stone, air, water, fire, and return to stone. Scáthach nodded her approval, even though she easily turned the attack aside. Elated by the praise Kiara made another pass, avoided a trap laid for her, turning aside the Blademaster’s deft water form counter stroke