The Son of Caelryck

By Michael Joens

The Son of Caelryck is the third book in the Twilight of the Gods trilogy. The story opens with Aeryck awaiting the arrival of his uncle Finn from Erie, his only living blood relative and key to his father’s and mother’s identity. The voyage from Erie to Britain, however, is threatened by Irish pirates, and Aeryck’s fears may once again come true.

The Gaulish druid Boadix and his demonic obsession to rid Britain of Christianity introduce Mórrígan, a wickedly beautiful Celtic goddess and consort of the Dagda who is determined to kill Aeryck, the son of Caelryck. By killing Aeryck, the Little Bear of Celtic prophecy, Boadix and Mórrígan hope to prevent the uniting of Pictish clans under the banner of Christ and the building of the church in Loch na Huric.

Aeryck, Terryll, and Dagmere, along with the chieftain Brynwald and his allies, stand against Mórrígan, her demonic wolves, and the powerful chieftain of Old Glenlouden, Drom Bonaan-Bolg. The odds against Aeryck and his fellows are overwhelming. However, with the help of Hauwka and the white wolf and the faith and prayers of the stalwart monks of Erie, there is hope.

The Son of Caelryck is a story that reveals that in all earthly conflicts, the battle is the Lord’s, and the gates of hell, as relentless as it is cruel, cannot prevail against Christ building his Church. The story ends in a climactic battle between the forces of righteousness and evil with a satisfying resolution in the lives of the most unlikely characters, demonstrating the power of God’s infinite love and grace in the face of Christ.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669816324

Michael Joens

Michael Joens is the author of nine novels and three children’s books. After serving a tour of duty in the Marine Corps, he graduated from Bible college in 1977 with a BA in English literature. Since then he has worked in the animation industry as a writer, animator, storyboard artist, producer, and director for studios such as Hanna-Barbera, Filmation, Marvel Productions, and DreamWorks, as well as producing and directing commercials for Hasbro, Milton Bradley, Kenner, and McDonald’s through his own company, The Stillwater Production Co. He currently resides in Montana with his wife Cathy. By Michael Joens The Crimson Tapestry (Book 1 Twilight of the Gods) The Shadows of Eden (Book 2 Twilight of the Gods) The Dawn of Mercy Triumph of the Soul An Animated Death in Burbank Blood Reins Angels Descending Last Ride to Stillwater The Son of Caelryck (Book 3 Twilight of the Gods) Theo’s Tales of Little Overhill by Michael Joens The Good Rat The Proud Chicken Belfry’s Christmas Gift

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Copyright © 2022 by Michael Joens.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

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Rev. date: 03/28/2022

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Part 1   On to Bowness

1.     Plans of the Heart

2.     Comings and Goings

3.     Of Druids and Pirates

4.     Bowness

5.     A Little Tryst

6.     Deadly Encounter

Part 2   The Land of Picts and Scots

7.     To the North

8.     An Interlude of Wolves

9.     Onward!

10.   Fiona

11.   The Beguiling

12.   Devilry Afoot

13.   Consort of the Dagda

14.   An Unsettling Riddle

15.   Enemy Warriors

16.   The Heart of Brynwald

17.   What Manner of Devilry

18.   A Brutal Scene

19.   More than a Bear

20.   Old Enemies

21.   Graywacke Quarry

Part 3   The Gates of Hell

22.   Drom Bonaan-Bolg

23.   Unholy Sacrifice

24.   Into the Darkness

25.   Joyful Arrival

26.   Hauwka

27.   The Gates of Hell

28.   Devil Woman

29.   The Dovecote

30.   Terryll’s Tale

31.   Olaf

32.   The Blessing

33.   Preparations

34.   The Anointing

35.   War Council

36.   Strategy for Defense

37.   The Rift

38.   Gathering of Forces

39.   Like Father like Son

40.   A Threefold Cord

41.   Reconciliation

42.   Interlude of Wolves

43.   Portentous Overture

44.   Behind the Curtain

Part 4   The Battle of Loch na Huric

45.   Prelude to War

46.   Short Reconnoiter

47.   Night Skirmish

48.   Schisms in the Ranks

49.   The Southern Feint

50.   The Northern Feint

51.   The Battle of Loch na Huric

52.   The Mórrígan

53.   Burials and Nuptials

54.   Final Farewells

55.   The End of Things

Dedication

For Curtis Correll—my father-in-law, who is a truly

generous man and an exemplary servant of Christ.

Acknowledgments

I WOULD LIKE TO thank Rick Harding, my longtime friend, whose freewill edits and suggestions helped me see the forest for the trees which helped to improve the book. And many thanks to Cathy for helping where needed and for her amazing patience. And finally, many thanks to Len Hart, whose son Ethan named his boy Caelryck after the character in my books and put the wind in my sails to finish this book.

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PART 1

ON TO BOWNESS

1

Plans of the Heart

T HE IRISH LONGBOATS cut through the edge of the fog like scimitars. There were six of them, a score or more fighting men in each boat. The captain of the lead vessel, the Cú Cullain’s Blade, watched the distant Abrota sailing to the lee of the Isle of Mann. A diagonal scar jagged across his painted face, ending at the nub of a missing ear. The corner of his mouth twisted into a grim smile. She’s a beauty.

That she is, Tiarnach, said the mate.

Steady as she goes, the captain called to the two files of oarsmen.

Oengus the mate, a thin, balding man with sinewy muscles and reddish curls floating about his red ears leaned over the tiller with a squint in his wicked black eyes. See how she rides low in the water. He grinned, showing a filthy rake of teeth. Aye, but she’ll net a tidy sum!

The Abrota, a merchantman sailing now on a northeasterly course toward the Isle of Whithorn, had put out of Eire that morning with the tide. According to Tiarnach’s spies, its holds were stacked with amphoras of olive oil and barrels of wine from Brittany, spices from the near East, bolts of Indian silk, and if his intelligence was correct, she was carrying an oaken chest filled with gold, enough to fit a large contingent of soldiers.

That she will, the captain said, thinking of yet another treasure aboard.

Is it true that Finn MacLlewald is aboard? the mate asked as if reading his mind.

Aye, Oengus, and I’m told he carries the sword. The captain’s brow darkened with black lust. I will have it.

Oengus spat over the starboard gunwale. Should I steer a course for her?

Nay, but we’ll keep shadowing her just inside the fog ’til the current favors our design. Then we’ll take her. Signal the others.

As you say, Tiernach.

The mate signaled to the five longboats trailing off their port beam like a rope of shark’s teeth.

Finn tried to remember her face, the playful lilt in her voice as she sang a song or told a joke. She was good at telling jokes and always made him laugh. She made others laugh, too, of course. It was her way. But he could not see her face or the bright cobalt eyes that he remembered had turned heads, neither could he hear the laughing twinkle in her elfin voice that evoked images of the little people. He could only feel the ache in his chest that time had not taken away.

You are thinking of Aeryck, my love? his wife Genevieve asked.

It was a voice on the wind, disembodied, an erratic flight of sounds that quickly took wing. Finn was blinking through the spray at the northern landmass, off the starboard bow—the land of Picts and Scots—darkly shrouded now in the great moving mists of the early morning after the rain. The sea was dark and turbulent, like liquid iron, a forbidding sea and an unforgiving land. He remembered her telling him of her new life as she prepared to leave her home, kissing his cheek as she boarded the ship that was bound for the Isle of Whithorn. It was the last time he saw her. She would be close to forty now, he calculated, five years his junior. He felt the pulse of the ache, the incessant drummer of the dirge that would never leave him.

Your nephew Aeryck, the voice said, slender fingers tickling his arm.

Finn MacLlewald looked at his wife. "I’m sorry, Jenny. Did you say something? Aeryck?"

He’s all you’ve talked about these past several months. Were you thinking of him?

Of Aeryck? No.

Who then, my love? She smiled. Should I be jealous?

At that moment a lance of sunlight pierced an aperture in the clouds, showing the streaks of gray in her once thick hair, hair the color of a chestnut filly, so thick it would break combs, showing the lines of age that carved at the beauty of her eyes and mouth. She was a bit heavier now, her hair thinner, and yet he loved her more deeply than he did the barefoot maiden he had chased in the green hills of Ireland when love was an untamed colt. I was thinking of my sister, he said, Rebecca.

Genevieve was looking down at her hands at the red knuckles of her once smooth fingers.

Finn looked again to seaward, the wind and spray matting iron-gray hair across his heavy brow. Northern Britain was a dark-gray vagueness to the east, rising at the mouth of the Solway Firth, still miles away. This is the view she would have seen when she made the crossing with young Caelryck.

Seventeen years is a long time.

Aye. He put his blacksmith’s hands on the gunwale of the big Byzantine merchantman, feeling the smooth wet texture of wood beneath his callused fingers, the push and heave of the deck through his thick legs as the ranks of oarsmen and square mainsail pulled the deepwater keel through the petulant Irish Sea. The smell of the sea filled his nostrils, clung to his face. He hated it. He hated ships. He was a lover of the earth, of molten metal, of the smell of burning coke, white-hot in the forge as he turned a shapeless bar of iron with hammer and tongs.

I miss her, Jenny, he said with heaviness in his voice. Until this moment, I did not realize how much.

We will see her son.

Aye, my nephew. He started to say something, but the words caught in his throat. He listened abstractedly to the rhythm of the oars, his fingers moving idly through the graying black hairs on his proud bare chest. The fingers probed the knurled ends of the silver torc around his neck, holding his finest scarlet cape in place, felt the woolen nap of his tartan trousers. At last, he said, I’m a little frightened.

Frightened?

He made a noise in the back of his throat, shrugged his muscled shoulders. I cannot explain it.

Perhaps it is the traveling. It has been a rough crossing. She laughed. And you are no lover of the sea. She looked up at the skies that were breaking apart and moving to the south. I do hope that was the last of it. She turned her head to the bank of fog to the northwest and frowned.

Finn followed her gaze. What is it? Do you see something?

She shook her head, a self-deprecating smile curling at the corners of her mouth. Nothing. I thought I caught a glimpse of a sail along the edge of that fog. Silly, isn’t it? All that talk of pirates before we left. Look, here comes Brother Rupert.

A smallish man, wearing the worn brown birrus of a Roman monk, his rust-colored tonsure whipped by the wind, approached from astern. He stepped slowly, looking down at his sandaled feet as if counting his steps, his hand guiding along the gunwale. He lost his footing as the ship rolled on her beam but steadied himself, catching the gunwale with both hands.

He sidestepped over to Finn, stood stiffly braced beside him. He glanced out to sea at the shoulder of land that was beginning to define itself as a coastline of rocks and wind-blasted hills. God be praised, he said with an airy flutter, we are drawing near to the Isle of Whithorn I see. Little comfort to Brother Gildas, I’m afraid.

Finn looked aft. Brother Gildas was leaning over the side, his face pale, fixed, as he stared grimly at the rise and fall of the foamy swells.

I trust he will bless the church’s foundation with greater heart, Brother Rupert said.

And less stomach, Finn added.

Brother Rupert chuckled weakly.

Finn looked up at the gulls white against the slate-hard gloominess of the sky, climbing and dipping in the northeasterly wind as if in counterpoint to the movement of the ship.

I quite agree with Patrick, Brother Rupert reflected. This church that we build in Loch na Huric is an important one. The light of Christ will at last shine in a land of darkness.

A darkness that has been there many centuries, I’m afraid.

Aye, Finn, but how the darkness flees in the light of a steady torch.

Yes, Genevieve said with enthusiasm. And God be praised for the souls of Brynwald and Dunnald and Oswald. We are told that through much opposition they have remained steadfast.

Aye, wife, that they have.

Finn felt a sense of foreboding as he looked at the forbidding land in the north. Still, Brynwald has many enemies, he said. Enemies who would shipwreck his faith.

Brother Rupert smiled wryly. Let us not speak of shipwreck until we are safely aground.

Well-spoken, brother.

"A sail! one of the crewmen shouted. Off the port beam!"

Five more to windward! another added.

Finn followed the man’s point. At first he saw only a dark shape in the bank of mists and then, shade upon shade, saw that there were six square-sailed longboats of Irish design. Their hulls were wide and shallow drafted with the oars from their port bulwarks raised over the swells as they made toward them on an intercepting course. Even at the distance Finn could see that there were scores of well-armed men in the boats, several of whom stood battle-ready before their masts.

Pirates! the captain shouted. To arms, men!

The crew positioned themselves along the port gunwale. Others found vantage points amid the rigging with their bows.

I make a hundred or better, Captain, one of the bowmen shouted.

They’ll take us! another shouted.

Aye, that they will, mannie, the captain scowled. He knew that with the longboats’ shallower drafts and sails they were faster and could tack better into the wind to gain position. There was no outrunning them. Ship oars, he shouted. Helmsman, let the wind take her. Make ready your bows, lads!

Finn watched the longboats closing. Chips of light glinted off battle accouterments, wicked eye hollows mocking beneath iron helms. There would be a fight. He counted forty crewmen along the bulwark of the Abrota, each bearing sword and ax. They were stout mariners from Erie and battle-tested, according to the captain who made forty-one. The bowmen added another eleven.

Finn drew his sword from its scabbard. A flash of silver swept over the blade, revealing the fine engraving along its length, the tablets of stone at its base, the delicate filigree and scallops of a master engraver covering pommel and haft that had been a gift to him from Caelryck, many years past.

Dear God, help us, Genevieve cried.

Aye, Jenny, pray. ’Tis our only hope. Finn’s thumb played over the sword haft, feeling the engraved relief of the bear’s head and wreath. Go below now.

I will stay by your side, my love.

Nay, but I shall worry for you. Brother Rupert—

Come, wife, the monk said, taking her elbow.

She clasped her husband’s arm. I’ll not leave you, Finn. If you fall, then I will fall at your side.

Troth, woman!

A group of Britons, Picts, and Irish monks were waiting at the quay at Alauna for the arrival of the merchantman Abrota. It had just rained and the cobbles gleamed in dappled light. The ship was late.

Aeryck and Dagmere stood at the point of the quay where the Abrota would dock. I am frightened, Dag, Aeryck said, his thumb idly stroking the bear wreath on the haft of his sword. Once before I waited for my uncle Finn to arrive from Erie and he didn’t show. Look at my hand, it’s trembling.

Yes, but there is a chill in the air, Dagmere said. See, my hand is trembling too. She clung to his arm, felt his muscles tensing. Isn’t it wonderful, my love? And such a beautiful day, now that the rains have passed.

Aeryck watched the swells lapping the rocks of the quay. Men were unloading barrels of wine from a large merchantman that had arrived from Gaul that morning. The captain had seen no pirates but had heard of an increase in raids along the coast over the past month. Young Britons had been taken to be sold into slavery. Girls had been raped and likewise, taken captive. Those who were not taken were slain and their villages put to the torch.

Such are the risks that we merchants take, the captain had said soberly. We fortify against the devils, but alas, it is as though hell has unleashed a new fury of wickedness.

The news had been unsettling to Aeryck. Such violence had ebbed and flowed along the coasts of Britain for decades. This was nothing new. The departure of the Romans in AD 410 had left a power vacuum that was quickly filled by savage bands of Picts and Scots in the north by Angles, Saxons, and Jutes in the south and east, the latter making their way northward. And with a surge of violence by Irish pirates, would there be any end to the killing? Would his beloved homeland ever know peace?

Dagmere laid her head against his thick shoulder. It will be wonderful to have your uncle and Genevieve attend the wedding, she said, wrapping her arms around him. She giggled for no apparent reason. Can you believe that we are actually going to be married, Aeryck? Sometimes I think our love happened to two other people.

"It did happen to two other people, he said, still watching the men unloading the ship. You’re not forgetting your brother and Gwyneth, are you?"

Aren’t they lovely together?

Hauwka does not think so.

Dagmere scoffed. How can you know what a bear thinks?

Anyone with eyes can see how he mopes around as though he’s lost his two best friends.

You and your bear—she frowned—let Hauwka find his own mate and not be such a killjoy. Do you wish that you’d gone hunting with Terryll this morning?

He’s where he wants to be. I’m here with you.

She squeezed him in a renewed burst of emotion. I am happy, my love. So very happy. We will have many children.

Oh?

A tribe of children and each one as handsome as you.

The wind was in her face, washing it clean and bright and showing all the beauty of her features, the slightly turned-up nose with a light peppering of freckles over it, the dark flecks in her blue, almost violet eyes set in wonderfully high cheekbones that were a gift from her mother.

Better that the daughters look like you, he said.

She combed her fingers through his hair, curling a strand behind his ear. Give me at least one with your golden locks, a son who will carry your name and look as proud and handsome in his blue cape.

He watched the steam rising off the horses’ backs from the rain as the men lashed barrels to the cart, his mind once again adrift somewhere over the Irish Sea.

Are you happy, Aeryck?

He did not answer her question.

He watched as a fishing boat pushed slowly toward the mouth of the firth, the fishermen sorting their catch into baskets and tossing scraps over the side to the delight of the gulls. He was fingering the bronze medallion around his neck, the image of the bear wreath engraved on it, a twin to the one on the hilt of his sword. He turned it in his fingers, feeling the cool heft of it and remembering the day when his father had given it to him before going off to battle.

He sighed, wishing that his father was still alive.

Aeryck breathed in the saline tartness of the sea and let out a sigh. He wished now that he had gone to Erie as he’d planned a few months earlier. He and Dagmere would be there now with his uncle Finn and with the clan of the MacLlewalds, his mother’s kin. Finn was a living, tangible link to a family he had never known to a mother who had died giving birth to him. Finn would tell him stories that would yield flesh and bone to the ghosts of his dreams. He would tell of Caelryck, his father, a metalsmith from Glenryth who had died in battle against the Saxons on the Hill of Badonsward. Then he’d gotten word that Finn and Genevieve were coming with a delegation of monks to bless the church’s foundation in Loch na Huric, and he agreed to wait. He would not be at ease until Finn was safely landed.

He felt Dagmere’s fingers against his bare chest, scratching at his thoughts. What is troubling you, Aeryck? she asked.

He looked at her. Troubling?

We have been pledged to marry now for several months. As you say, we are almost an old married couple, so you cannot hide your thoughts from me. Something is troubling you.

I am afraid of happiness, he said. Happiness is capricious. It greets you with a smile, but hidden in the folds of its sleeve is a dagger.

She frowned. Has life been so cruel?

I do not trust it. He looked at the thick auburn hair blowing off her shoulders and smiled. But should I die today, I would die a happy man. You have made me so. In this we have cheated it, haven’t we?

All this talk of dying. She squeezed him. I will show you that happiness is real. I am a good teacher. I will show you that God is good and that he has blessed us and will bless us tomorrow and all tomorrows with many sons and daughters.

Aeryck smiled. He looked back out to sea at the clouds moving over the water, the smile drifting from his face.

The bowmen aboard the Abrota loosed a spray of arrows at the lead longboat as it closed within bowshot. High, arcing trajectories felled two men and wounded a third. The rest of the shafts thudded harmlessly into the rigging and bulkheads. They quickly loosed a second volley but struck only a wall of upraised shields with a pattering of iron and wood.

The other longboats closed on the merchantman like wolves attacking the heels of a great bull. They were off their beam to windward and the pirates, their torsos and faces painted with hellish designs, hurled grappling hooks that bit into the timbered bulkhead and drew their boats alongside.

Crewmen aboard the Abrota cut the ropes with axes, the bowmen loosing volley after volley into the midst of the invaders. Pirates fell in each boat. Two of the boats were swamped by the swell of the Abrota, the men diving into the open sea. A third closed to touch the hull of the merchantman, iron claws holding fast. Pirates clambered over the gunwales onto the aft deck of the Abrota with a stunning roar, followed by a thunderous clash of swords and battle-axes. At once the screams of men pierced the air as blades cut deep into bone and flesh.

Finn caught the blade of a long-haired brute, breaking it in two. Shock registered on the pirate’s face, then pain as Finn ran him through. He whirled in time to parry the thrust of another broadsword, ringing off the blade then, stepping sideways to thrust his blade through the pirate’s chest. The man dropped to his knees, his eyes registering disbelief. Finn brought his blade down in a slicing arc and finished him. It was the first time he had used the sword in battle, and for a fleeting moment, he marveled at its flexibility and strength, its lightness. Caelryck had certainly been a master metalsmith.

He looked toward the bow and saw the monks praying fervently with upraised hands. Genevieve was standing beside them, gazing intently across the fray at Finn, her face small and frightened. Finn regretted not kissing her goodbye.

The chaos of battle reigned aft. Men from both ships fell screaming, plunging overboard into the deep. Dying men groped about the bloody deck. Dead men gaped at irrelevant objects. Pirates from the other boats shinnied over the port gunwale, several cut down by a volley of arrows.

In the confusion Finn could not assess how the battle was faring. Blades flashed, axes fell, and men shrieked beneath the blades. For all their fierceness and numbers, the pirates were sloppy fighters, probably not used to meeting a ship of well-armed fighting men. They swung their blades wildly.

The captain of the Abrota was busy holding off two pirates, and Finn rushed astern to help. He ran his sword through one, felt the tip of a blade crease his own left flank, and whirled to face his assailant.

The pirate was a stout, long-armed devil with a diagonal scar across his painted face. His black eyes, peering beneath a heavy brow, brightened lustfully as a bit of light played along the surface of Finn’s sword. ’Tis a wondrous blade ye have, mannie.

Aye, ’tis, deffil. Come and take it then.

That I will.

The pirate lunged forward. Finn feinted left, drove the point of his blade at the pirate’s torso, and opened his side. The man reeled in horror. Finn was about to finish him when a burst of light exploded behind his eyes. He felt the deck give way beneath his feet, his knees buckling as darkness flooded his vision and then the sudden jolt of the wooden deck. Lying in shock, he heard a cry like the plaintive screech of a gull, drawing a veil of black nothingness over his consciousness.

FI-I-I-inn!

2

Comings and Goings

T ERRYLL MOVED IN the shadows at the edge of a yellow glade ringed with yew, spruce, and firs. It was late summer. Beneath his feet, the ground was soft and springy moist from the previous night’s rain, muting his moccasin footfalls. Birdsong filtered through the glade. The air was thick and heavy with pollen in which bees droned lazily over grottos of wildflowers. Grasshopper wings glowed in the morning sun as they lifted from the glade. Trout rose to take those that fell into the mountain streams. There was a light breeze from the west with a hint of the sea in the young hunter’s face, filling his nostrils with the cool, damp smell of the forest.

The stag was grazing among the trees upwind about a hundred yards from his position, its velveted antlers rim-lit in shafts of golden light, its coat a thick reddish-brown. He was a magnificent animal that would provide meat for the feast in the great hall of Bowness that evening. Terryll had spent the better part of the morning stalking the beast and was finally within bowshot.

He nocked an arrow silently, slowly raising his longbow. The stag started and peered across the glade. Terryll froze. The stag was gazing in his direction, its ears perked. Terryll knew that his scent had not alerted the animal.

The stag looked away at a point in the trees across the southern portion of the glade, its tail flicking nervously. Terryll drew back on the arrow, its beech shaft whispering along the yew flank of the longbow. He held his breath as he sighted, the tip of the broad head elevated a hand’s