Abhainn Mór: April 2008

27 August 2007

1166
(Updated and Completed - 27 August 2007)Springtime came early to An Ómaigh in what the elves call year 1166 of the Age of Empire. Winter had been hard but brief, and the welcome buds on the elms and maples heralded better times. Great stores of salted pork, turnips and fruit preserves remained from a bountiful fall and the specter of winter suffering faded with the warming winds. Most still had bags of the delicious black seeds that grew in the bogs and swamps around Ráth Tuaidh and An Tearmann to the north. The trout were active and game was plentiful in all of Ros Eidhneach. The warming of earth and sky distracted no one from the omnipresent dangers of storm, plague and attack, but the promise of a generous spring and plentiful summer was cause for celebration.Few eagerly greeted the greening of the trees more than Fionnán mac Cian. One of Tribe Conall’s warrior sons, Fionnán lived further from the dun and closer to the deep wilds and the druids’ grove at Uinseanach. He had become an able if unremarkable swordsman and could throw the tathlum with accuracy. He was not the quickest with his blade, and could not be considered the greatest of the Conall youth, but Fionnán was exceptional in one important regard. His endurance was impressive to even the hardened warriors. Treasured in normal times, tenacity and resistance would soon have higher value than any other attribute.In those early days of spring, precious few feared what might follow, and Fionnán was no exception. It was enough at the moment for the biting cold to fade and his foot patrol toward the sparse woodlands and grasses of Magh Rua to be a pleasure rather than a chore. That morning he met with two trusted friends, themselves warriors of greater stature though not of greater age. Ailín mac Ruán, Fionnán’s dearest friend, was a powerful young swordsman with lightning reflexes. While his red hair and blue eyes were common characteristics of the Éireannach, his sharp mind and lethally honed body were exceptional even for a race noted for its strength and beauty. The other companion was Cathal mac Owen, a raven-haired youth who was a grandson of a now-deceased clan chief. The youngest of the three, he had nonetheless earned the right to be called warrior, a desire that drives virtually all Éireannach youth from the warrior class. These three swords would set out among the trees and fields of western Ros Eidhneach, intending to cross the ambiguous border with the Magh Rua and then return in a more southerly arc. Fionnán silently hoped they’d encounter a herd of great-elk, or perhaps a lone bull mammoth. They could cure and carry as much of the flesh as possible, after feasting for a couple of days. The Éireannach never feared a clash of arms, even if it meant certain death, but one generally did not think of such things before a routine look-see. While an attack on even a small mammoth could easily turn fatal, life was brutally short enough without having some pleasure – however simple – to anticipate. In Fionnán’s case it was a slice of mammoth or great-elk flesh, its winter fat still thick, hissing and blackening over a birch log fire.The three were similarly armed. Each carried a broadsword, the weapon of choice for those who must travel light. Fionnán carried a tathlum, as did Cathal. All three also wielded boar-spears, both for the procurement of sustenance and use in combat if the need arose. The Éireannach rarely used armor even in battle, and it would have been unheard of for the three to dress in anything but rugged clothing. Each carried a few bundles of dried berries and meat, walnuts and turnip chips, but they expected to procure most of their food from the wilds around them. The sky that morning was mostly clear, a stark contrast to the recent grays and snowy whites that hung heavy over An Ómaigh. It was a perfect time to head out into the brush, to make certain everything was as peaceful over the horizon as it was within. None anticipated contact let alone combat; the fomorians would be tending to matters of their own, the malaise of winter that invited sharp conflict now mostly-faded. The same rang true for the hiéaneach, as well as the orcs of the region. A troll or a dragon might contest such optimism but the likelihood of encountering either of those terrors so deep in the heart of nowhere did not merit any but a meager concern. The warriors’ light packs of leather and rope now held the bare essentials, their weapons were razor sharp and immaculate, and their spirits soared with the rising of the sun. Fionnán mac Cian, Ailín mac Ruán, and Cathal mac Owen, after some trivial discussion and a few laughs, struck out from their meeting-spot and into the vibrant wilds of Ros Eidhneach. Thus began a very typical excursion on a very typical spring day.The path to Magh Rua granted at least one of Fionnán’s wishes; during the third day of the journey, the threesome encountered and slew a woodland buffalo. Its flesh, together with wintercress leaves, made for a most welcome meal. The three stayed until the next morn, feasting and practicing swordplay. Then they were off again, toward the Magh Rua. Soon the thick growth began to thin and little fields appeared among the trees. Fionnán and his companions wisely skirted the openings. The grasses were not yet long and three Éireannach in the open might tempt an orc or fomorian hunting party to become more belligerent. That caution was soon to pay off.Ailín mac Ruán spotted them first, in one of the larger fields, their numbers stretching into the forest and possibly beyond. They were orcs and it appeared that they were about to march. Shocked at such a sight, Ailín asked the others what they made of it. Certainly these were no local orcs. They wore a strange armor and an even stranger symbol. They were forming a battle formation, with archers to the rear and several horsemen flanking the mass. It was then that eagle-eyed Ailín noticed something that gave him grave concern. Those were no normal horses, not the sleek mounts of scouts, or even the tough-as-stone steeds commonly bred and used by orc war riders. These creatures were black as coal, with red eyes and leg hair that moved when there was no wind. Cathal whispered to the other two. They must return at once. The lightly armored force would travel swiftly, and could easily fall upon An Ómaigh with little warning. There would be black magick and all manner of deviltry. The joyful, almost lazy walk in the wilderness had suddenly become a race against death. Fionnán mac Cian, Ailín mac Ruán, and Cathal mac Owen departed as stealthily as they could, and began the mad flight back to An Ómaigh.As the three young warriors dashed toward their home dun, the possibility that An Ómaigh might not bear the coming storm was not lost on them. Perhaps this sudden and terrifying enemy would attack Ráth Tuaidh to the north, or even Baile an Mhuileann. There simply was no time to warn the others, and they could not risk dividing their tiny number. If an ambush awaited, word would not reach An Ómaigh. If two stayed to fight, to sell their lives for the third, then he could still fly home and raise the alarm. Silently, Ailín mac Ruán, and Cathal mac Owen both independently decided that the survivor would be Fionnán mac Cian; his uncommon endurance would without doubt carry him to the very walls of the dun. Onward they ran, madly with caution abandoned, as caution had become a poisonous luxury that would bring fatal delay. The three crashed through brushes without time to tend bloody scratches. They splashed the clear waters of trout brooks that mocked their thirst. For three days they flew, pausing only for some necessity and then with at least one continuing the urgent race. Finally, through fog and brief shower did they see a welcome sight. The thickening forest, a sign of home, gave them hope that they could ill-afford to indulge. The young Éireannach pushed on as before, with resilient Fionnán ever widening the distance from his brothers in arms.It was an exhausting and harrowing journey, three youthful men-at-arms followed by an unseen specter hard on their heels. Or so they supposed. Arriving first at An Ómaigh, Fionnán hastened to give warning and took momentary respite upon seeing several warriors, the great warrior and dragon-slayer Nevan mac Gearóid included, hurrying off to gather their lethal brethren. Through the wood came Ailín and also Cathal, who vocally expressed his concerns for Ráth Tuaidh and Baile an Mhuileann. This he also told Fiach mac Aodhán, a powerful young warrior and probably future member of the Fianna, and Fiach offered to make the long and hard ride to Baile an Mhuileann. Ráth Tuaidh was strong, he said, and could withstand a sudden attack; less so Baile an Mhuileann. As the handsome, blue-eyed Fiach mounted his beautiful white steed, Ailín, Cathal and Fionnán could finally afford to feel relief. There was not yet time for the three young warriors to feel the pain and brutal weariness of three days’ flight.Riders went out to the homes and crannog among the lush forests near An Ómaigh. Many farmers and herdsman would soon begin appearing with their families. Time passed, and early reports indicated no sign of the enemy. Cathal became nervous and mentioned to the others his concern that the men would think them fools or tricksters, and such a blow to their standing would lead to dire consequences. This he did not need to tell Ailín, who looked at the ground and kicked stones in frustration and anxiety. Only Fionnán remained dauntless. If they do not believe, he told his two brothers-in-arms, we must stand alone to repel the attack. This briefly raised the others’ spirits, but then Nevan mac Gearóid approached from around the east rampart of the dun. Ailín and Cathal felt a strong anguish and stood frozen; still resolute, Fionnán nonetheless sensed a tightening in his chest.Nevan mac Gearóid slew an orm six years before; it was an emerald-green beast that came from the shadowy wilds of Ros Eidhneach to depredate the cows and pigs of An Ómaigh. In the course of its dining on the Éireannach bounty it had ambushed and slain a herdsman and his son. It was Nevan mac Gearóid who cornered and killed the young dragon, but not before suffering some burns from its noxious breath and a deep bite wound on his left leg. His slight limp was a reminder of the contest. All of An Ómaigh, indeed most of the Éireannach of Ros Eidhneach greatly respected the still-youthful Nevan, and none wished to incur his ill will. That was exactly what Ailín, Cathal and Fionnán wanted most to avoid.Nevan approached Fionnán after assessing the three, and stared at him with his deep, piercing gray eyes.“I know your father young Fionnán. I fought by his side at Baile na Mona. Tell me, young Fionnán, what did you see on the Magh Rua?”Nevan greatly reassured Fionnán with this question; instead of chastising the lad he mentioned the boy’s father, a man of many battles himself, and proceeded to ask for his account of events. This was an honor and it stunned Ailín and Cathal. Without hesitation Fionnán explained to Nevan the alarming events of the day. An army of orcs was gathering, foreigners from up north or out west apparently, but this was not a cause for undue alarm. Orcs often assembled on the Magh Rua to do battle with one another. Then Fionnán told Nevan about the horses, the black demonic beasts with burning red eyes and hair that moved of its own accord, like black flame. Nevan cast a piercing gaze deep into Fionnán green eyes and saw the sincerity of the young warrior. He turned his head from Fionnán without turning his body, and yelled out to the warriors up on the lower face of the hill-fort.“Prepare for battle. An orc army is running up the Ros Eidhneach,” he turned his head to look upon Dáire mac Caolán, who stood above, “and be expecting áibhirseoireacht.”There was a silence atop the ramparts of the hill-fort. Áibhirseoireacht, the ways and wickedness of the demon, would be a troubling prospect to say the least. Once a solitary demon terrorized Tara itself each and every year at Samhain, and the Fianna were powerless to prevent it. It took the greatest of heroes Fionn mac Cumhaill to slay the beast. The realization, shocking as it was, did not for long steal the thoughts of an Éireannach warrior, and Dáire mac Caolán sprung into action. He ran along the east rampart, informing each warrior he met of the grim possibility.The warmth of the day began to wane as the march of time ground to a crawl. No monstrosity crashed through brush and sapling, no volley of arrows swarmed from the wood. There was a quiet on the meandering spring wind that bore no hint of steel or footfall. The Éireannach men waited for their veiled adversaries as the last light of day faded into the western sky. The absence of conflict proved nothing, as orcs were notorious for night attacks, taking advantage of their ability to see in even the dimmest of light. As dusk marched toward dawn, however, it became apparent that An Ómaigh was not the target, at least not for now.As the sun crept into the morning sky, a bit of grumbling arose among the older veterans. One mumbled loud enough for the three youngsters to overhear: “Nothin’ but a foragin’ party did these fools see.” Ailín was troubled most. He nervously kicked the ground, wishing nothing more than to head out again into the wilds, away from An Ómaigh, orcs and demons be damned. Fionnán mac Cian showed no sign of agitation. He wished to advance into the unknown, as it was a perilous prospect to lose track of the enemy that he knew was out there. His continued resilience was not infectious, as many of the other warriors departed to partake of breakfasts that tempted with their pleasing smells. Ailín looked around and, upon finding that the others were no longer glaring with displeasure, began to ease away. Cathal turned his back to the woods and he too began to take small steps toward the dun. These small gestures became greater in moments, and Ailín and Cathal were soon walking away from Fionnán.Once the two had left their determined friend behind, the great warrior Nevan mac Gearóid came down from the outer rampart and once more approached Fionnán. Young Fionnán did not know what to expect, although he knew that he must try to convince Nevan of the legitimacy of his concerns. It turned out there was no need.“They are young and fools, Fionnán son of Cian, but they will not abandon you when the fire comes to An Ómaigh. And come it shall. The enticements of the flesh have drawn them among the others, the promise of full bellies and sweet ale. But their reward will be a bit of a browbeating and it will do them no harm. Come with me, young Fionnán, I too welcome the prospect of ale.”Fionnán was stunned. Instead of a thorough tongue-lashing, or even worse, he was asked to share ale with the greatest hero in An Ómaigh. His mind had no thought of wondering why, so great was the surprise. He obediently followed Nevan for a few steps, but in the end could go no further without a thorough viewing of the wood line. Nevan stopped and turned back toward Fionnán. “No need to trouble yourself, Owl of An Ómaigh. We shan’t go far.”Thus Fionnán mac Cian received his first title, and from a hero no less. He had very little time to enjoy the moment. Nevan led him to his stallion Siocúil. From a sack nearby the horse the great warrior produced a dark brown, beautifully embroidered water skin. He took a deep draught from the skin, and then handed it to Fionnán. Unhesitating, Fionnán took hold of the skin and raised it to his lips. The smell that greeted his senses was at once amazing and exotic, yet somehow it whispered of a familiarity, if not his own then an intimacy between this ale and the very soul of his people. Fionnán slowly drank of the liquid and, without needing explanation, knew immediately of its identity.As long as he lived his many years, Fionnán mac Cian would never forget that first taste of heather ale. Although his father had been a warrior of some reputation, his son could never remember Cian drinking fraoch; certainly he must have, but the occasion was rare or singular, and his son was never permitted to partake of the hero’s brew. Those who knew its secrets would sooner die than share them with the unworthy. History was replete with examples of such sacrifice. Now Fionnán was among the warriors and heroes who knew the enticing aroma and magnificent taste of that greatest of brews.Nevan noticed the young warrior’s exhilaration and he smiled, remembering perhaps his first taste of fraoch. It was highly unusual for a warrior of Nevan’s stature to give a mere boy a draught of heather ale, but Nevan knew more than he had revealed. Even more, the inner voices, the Earth itself speaking to his soul, told him that by the end of his days Fionnán would deserve this ale more than any other son of An Ómaigh. Nevan did not ask his younger companion about the fragrant ale he had just enjoyed. Instead his air changed, and he looked sharply into Fionnán’s eyes. He spoke, his words laced with deadly seriousness.“I have spoken to the druid Conlaoch, after Aodhán mac Séin’s wake. He spoke of ill things, desperation, a time of smoke and flame and fruit rotting on the earth*. I believe he has seen our future, Fionnán son of Cian. I believe the vision in his briars to be your own.”Fionnán was stunned. The ale had not weakened his concern over the devil-army, but he never thought the events of the last days would carry such terrible meaning. He looked up at Nevan, uncertainty and alarm on his face.“Fionnán son of Cian, no more words do I have for you or myself, and now we must rest. The morrow’s morning will dawn on a different An Ómaigh. We will not see the change, but we shall come to know it, and I believe that many of us, Fionnán son of Cian, will not live its passing.”With those words, Nevan mac Gearóid stood and approached a shaded rampart of the hill-fort. He lay himself down for a rest, leaning against the stone wall so that ants might not enter his ears. Before drifting off to sleep, he motioned to Fionnán. Fionnán mac Cian tread softly to the stone and grass near Nevan, but unlike the great warrior he could not find sleep, not until much turning of the sun and sky. And what slumber he found was fitful and unpleasant.The sun sat lazy in the mid-afternoon sky when Nevan tapped on the wood poles of the shady-spot. Fionnán jumped quickly to attention, his hand swiftly finding the hilt of his broadsword. Nevan hesitated a moment, allowing the real to dispel the fantastic from the wakening young warrior. Then he spoke.“We’ll be settin’ out, Fionnán, Owl of An Ómaigh, and we’ll be needin’ those eyes of yours. I trust they’re up to the task?”Fionnán nodded and leapt to his feet. His stomach was empty and he tried to ignore it; though he said not a word, his want must not have been lost on Nevan, for the warrior spoke again.“There’s some smoked salmon on a line over by Deaglán mac Aillil, I told them to save you a piece.” Nevan began hand-feeding long grass to Siocúil, “Make haste, and ready your horse, Fionnán son of Cian. We’ll be ridin’ hard, perhaps even through the night.”His belly as full as he dare make it before a long ride and inevitable fight, Fionnán readied Dúghorm his horse, brought up to him by Conchubhar mac Owen. Fionnán had not seen Ailín or Cathal since the early morning, but he had not time to seek them out. Nevan and several other warriors were keen for the ride. Fionnán, a horseman since youth, mounted Dúghorm in a quick leap and rushed to join the others. In an instant they were off, charging into the copses of birch and maple.From An Ómaigh to the further banks of the Abhainn Faolchú they traveled, ever alert for their curious foe. The afternoon faded into night, and after a brief and well guarded rest, the warriors edged just north of west in their long sweep of the thinning woodland. Fionnán, finally feeling the recent days of flight and apprehension, became deeply troubled. He never once doubted his vision, but this was quite the extravagant – and unfortunate – waste of time and energy should the foe remain as nebulous as he had become. He knew that Ailín and Cathal were back in An Ómaigh, perhaps too tired to join them. Just possibly there was another reason, but Fionnán did not desire to ask why.Around mid-sun on the second day of riding, Dáire mac Caolán crested a small hillock near the Magh Rua, just north and east of the spot where Fionnán, Ailín and Cathal had their encounter. He backed up his steed and signaled to the others. Nevan mac Gearóid rode up to him and the two conversed; then Nevan returned to the group. Fionnán listened with diligence. There was a group of perhaps twenty orcs up ahead, bearing strange markings and armed for war. Nevan looked at Fionnán and informed the warriors that this was a relatively small group, without horses or any sign of black witchcraft, but warned that áibhirseoireacht could make itself felt at any time. Only much later could he feel a bittersweet relief that he, Fionnán son of Cian, had been justified. Now there was a fight to be had, and Nevan intended to bring it about swiftly.Fionnán would never forget his first battle. As he walked up over the knoll with Nevan, Dáire, Conchubhar and the others he could smell the strong scent of the emerging flora, a smell that still returned to him decades later. His mind recalled every detail of the gentle westerly wind, the solid oak shaft of his spear, the armored orcs below. They too carried spears, and big metal shields. The orcs seemed oblivious to the approaching Éireannach but that would not last forever; Nevan commanded his warriors to crouch low in the grass and hurry toward the left flank of the enemy. Although Fionnán did not know it, only Oisín mac Flannan remained with the horses. As Fionnán and his brothers-in-arms approached the orcs, Éamon mac Cormac, his brother Aodhán mac Cormac and Lorcán mac Aonghus were riding around the exposed rear of the enemy.Surprise was achieved as Nevan lept up and cast his spear. Its tip burrowed deep into the throat of one of the orcs, who reflexively batted at the shaft and then fell to the ground. Conchubhar and Dáire flung their spears at two other targets, with Conchubhar striking true while an astute orc managed to bat away Dáire’s spear. Fionnán rose up and readied his throw, taking aim on a gaunt orc to the right of Dáire’s target, and let fly his war spear. His aim was flawless; the orc, momentarily distracted by Dáire’s failed attack, tried too late to raise his shield. Fionnán’s spear pierced the orc’s right eye, slicing through his flesh and into his brain. He sprawled upon the ground, dead before silent.The orcs’ overall response was competent; this was no rabble. They quickly fell into a defensive position which nullified all but one of the final four spear attacks, with only Fiachra mac Darragh – a cousin of Nevan – striking home. As the orcs attempted to guard each other’s flanks, the Éireannach drew their broadswords and charged into close battle. Fionnán’s heart raced; never before had he squared off with an able opponent when the stakes were ultimate. He felt the first whisper of the raw power of the Earth, the power of his mighty people, and it excited him. He slashed furiously at his opponent, who parried the blows with his shield but could not long stave the fury of an Éireannach. An ancient seed bloomed in Fionnán’s soul and his face took on a grim look. The orc attempted to strike back with his short spear and this was his undoing; for a mere moment he lost track of Fionnán’s strikes, and the young warrior cleaved the orc’s face. Stunned, he was doomed. The next slash opened his throat and he fell dying upon the grass.Fionnán turned momentarily to assess the battle. Rapidly the enemy, once twenty, had fallen to nine; each Éireannach had claimed a foe. The other orcs, those to the left of the original group, whirled around and formed a defensive circle. Ruán mac Naoise began taunting them, goading them to break ranks and engage in personal battle. They would have none of it. All the while Nevan was silent and determined. Fionnán waited, sword ready, for something to break the stalemate.Three tathlum came from the line of woods opposite Fionnán and the other Éireannach. Lorcán mac Aonghus and the two brothers had arrived and their harassing attack – which knocked one orc senseless – distracted them enough for the great warrior Nevan mac Gearóid to seize the initiative. His broadsword crashed down on one orc-spear, splintering it, and then rose to slash open the face of its surprised master. Fionnán charged forward and engaged an orc beside Nevan; the orc anticipated this and very nearly stabbed Fionnán with his spear. Fionnán took no regard and violently battered his opponent. The orc beside him attempted to skewer Fionnán but was immediately set upon by Fiachra mac Darragh, who thrust his sword into the exposed left underarm of the orc. Conchubhar mac Owen attacked an orc who, it seems, was not distracted; nor was his partner to the left. The orcs were not nearly as skilled as the Éireannach, but they were fiercely determined and would not break. Battered heavily, the orc managed a short thrust that caught Conchubhar in the upper left breast. Although a nasty wound that soon bled profusely, it did not stop Conchubhar, who retaliated with a killing blow and a second that knocked the spear from the dead orc’s ally. Dáire mac Caolán came to Conchubhar’s aid, making short work of the unarmed orc. Dónall mac Dónall, who had been a rear guard earlier in the battle, found time to cast a tathlum and strike yet another of the dwindling enemy force. His stunned target was quickly dispatched by Ruán mac Naoise. Four remained, with one unconscious from the tathlum thrown by Lorcán mac Aonghus. The three still conscious rapidly fell back to the wood line, hoping to use it as a barrier. They were terribly mistaken; when they approached, Lorcán mac Aonghus and the brothers Aodhán and Éamon mac Cormac fell upon them, quickly slaying the final conscious orcs and ending the lopsided conflict. A sword thrust by Nevan sealed the fate of the final benumbed enemy.As the three foes backed away to their fate, Fionnán the “Owl of An Ómaigh” examined the battlefield and beyond, searching for signs of enemy reinforcement. What he saw would haunt him his entire life, though at the time he could not know what it was. The battlefield was mostly high grass and brush, embraced by two arms of thinning trees that almost made a complete circle around the scene of the conflict. Beyond the gap in the two arms, to the west, one could see the grassland and occasional copses of the Magh Rua. It was through that gap that Fionnán saw The Beast.At first he thought it a fire, some signal flame lit by an orc sentry, or perhaps a desperate attempt to start a grassfire. But the blackness, the movement of what he took to be smoke, the change in form was unnatural and could belong to no earthly flame. Fionnán, transfixed by the sight, watched as it flared up in a rhythmic pulse. It seemed to jump from one spot to another, disappearing entirely at times, and then reappearing and boiling silently in place. Fionnán realized that the grass below the thing was unburned as it hovered just above ground level. He opened his mouth to speak, to warn the others, when suddenly the thing vanished. Fionnán blinked hard and then, feeling the nearby presence of another warrior, turned toward his companion. Fiachra mac Darragh must have seen it too; he stood silent, staring in the direction of the thing. Fiachra noticed that Fionnán was now looking at him and he averted his gaze to Fionnán’s eyes. Neither said a word. It would not be until the triumphant warriors set out for home, with several orc-head prizes hanging from their steeds, that Nevan noticed a reticence from the two. Upon asking Fionnán of the source of his ill-ease, the young warrior explained what he had seen.Nevan slowed his horse but did not look to Fionnán. Instead he glanced skyward, peering beyond the here and now.“These will be hard times, Fionnán son of Cian. We must feel the joy of today’s victory; we may not know such joy for some time.”The small but formidable host of Éireannach warriors rode back to An Ómaigh, with none of the urgency of the past days. Conchubhar’s wound was tended to and he was his usual boisterous self. Even Fiachra let go of his troubles enough to converse blithley with the brothers mac Cormac. Still they were cautious; the horses shrouded in black flame, and the other things Fionnán could only hint at, were still unaccounted for. As for the Owl of An Ómaigh, uncertainty reigned in his young mind, though the battle had come and gone and the day was won. For that at least Fionnán son of Cian could feel relief if not outright joy. For a precious moment he allowed his mind to stray, and the thought of a roasting boar awaiting their return brought a smile to his face.Nameless at the time, the Battle of Roschoill had indeed been a victory for the peoples of the light. A mere skirmish, it was never intended to happen; the real contest was unfurling across the Magh Rua, among the broken hills and tortuous gullies of the Cnoic Seamlais, where the full brunt and horror of heavy force, demonic and unclean servants, and the dreaded áibhirseoireacht were arrayed against a recalcitrant orc tribe and their chief with the strange name.The first battle was over, the first sparks of colliding steel cast to the sky, the first splash of blood fallen upon the grass. So many more would follow, as the days turned to seasons, seasons to brutal years. Of Fionnán mac Cian, Ailín mac Ruán, and Cathal mac Owen, Deaglán mac Aillil, Fiach mac Aodhán and the druid Conlaoch, Conchubhar mac Owen, Dáire mac Caolán, , the brothers Éamon and Aodhán mac Cormac, Lorcán mac Aonghus and Oisín mac Flannan and the hero Nevan mac Gearóid, none save Fionnán son of Cian would see the last of it.The War of Irons had begun.______________________________*A grave sign indeed; “fruit rotting on the earth” is a premonition that there will be few mouths to eat the fruit, and even fewer to collect it.
Posted by David H. at 9:05 AM
11 April 2007

Elenar
After all these many years, what still strikes me most about the War of Irons was the seriousness, equal among all the races. From the naturally belligerent to the less so, we all wanted it to end. This was no mischief, no strife. It was a terror, a constant horror and revulsion. The hiéaneach, the elves, the Aratani*, fomorians, the living trees and the White Orcs, none ever joked or made light of anything about that war. Our triumphs were quiet, our tragedies the same. And there was the weariness. I think many of the survivors eventually succumbed to it. Brother Niall mac Cormac was robbed of many good years because of that relentless war.I remember the end; alone among those who still walk Ennor** I witnessed the fall of the beast. The horde seemed endless and we knew our only purpose was to buy time for the boy Mhór. One of the enemy snarled at me and charged. I met him with my blade and slew him forthwith. My body felt the strain of constant combat and in fury and defiance I looked towards the beast itself. It had risen ever higher and this sickened me. Its shadow was growing; the beast was preparing to strike and it cut deep to realize the demon was about to murder so many of our dear Brothers. Then I was frozen by time, a witness to the event that unfolded before mine own eyes. The beast hesitated for a moment, distracted by someone or something to its right. Only a moment in time, somehow an eternity. I saw the tiny sliver take flight, determined and true. It struck the beast, and the demon’s shadow ran upward and then on itself in turns. A piercing scream froze us all; not a sword struck, no arrow flew. The boiling, writhing shadow collapsed to the earth. I thought it would make a run and swallow the lot of us. But a conflagration burned upward, at the air itself, and it fell to the rear, where it shattered and singed the grass. Then it was gone.*The faerie word for Éireannach**Ennor is the faerie word for An Domhan
Posted by David H. at 10:34 AM
08 April 2007

Into the New Ages
He was ancient and felt every day of his long and painful years. Once, he was king, the greatest and most terrifying king, the only king who ever ruled supreme over all An Domhan. Once all knew his name, but feared to speak it in all but the most hushed of voices, lest the great and mighty one overhear somehow. Once his heraldry adorned the shields of all the world: Gaul and Lochlann, Inis Siocáin, Dunailinne and Tuileoricnoc, the great south and the far west, even the savage Korkoveni among the forlorn rocks of a forgotten realm. That was all gone now, a seed cast into the unfeeling wind, as was his dear daughter whose face he could no longer remember. That last seed may have caught the wind, he thought, but not before his own hands had foolishly tossed it skyward. He had slept for so long and a great part of him grieved the loss of the blind peace of death. There was nothing to be done about that now; life had returned and he had awoken, an ancient legend back in the flesh, and one must live the life one is given.The old king knew no one in this world. His half-brother, the source of such joy and comfort, he who should have been king – a truth not lost to the ancient one – had fallen in the most celebrated battle in Éireannach and faerie history. That battle now existed as a glorious legend that hinted more of fantasy than event, though it had indeed been real. It was during that battle that the old king fell into slumber. Why he had returned, when he neither deserved nor desired to, was a mystery. He looked upon his huge hands and rubbed them together, then he rubbed his eyes, the one of light and loss and somber hope, and the other, of writhing desolation. The lights of the rotting wharves glowed and flickered before him. This would be his home now, this stagnant and brutal city unlike any place in all An Domhan. He remembered the cityport, and how he came to be its king. It was a vile and wicked place to him. So long ago he had come to this shore, and upon demonstrating his power, he just as soon departed. Not once more in his long reign would he visit the decayed metropolis with its dark secrets. After all the years of war and death, and the long quiet of night, it would be his self-inflicted punishment, for lives crushed and chances cast aside, to live in that sprawling mass of inhabited ruin and ruined inhabitants. They would sense the coming of his great power but would not know his name. He would not make them any wiser, not if he could ever help it. The ancient one had not come to reclaim any throne, or wield the scepter of a lord. Like his beloved daughter Eithne, that Balor was no more.
Posted by David H. at 2:59 AM
06 April 2007

Abhainn Rúnda*
It was around one hundred years ago that those gifted with the second sight began sensing the disturbing eddy. Weak, transient, occasionally absent for long periods – years even – still there was no denying its existence. The banfháidh, both faerie and Éireannach, as well as the vates were first to notice the dark disturbance, and it troubled them greatly. Soon the other faeries felt its presence. Gradually the unwelcome little current revealed a face of sorts. There was a sunrise, and the waning stars of night; some even saw the planets in the heavens. But all was wrong. The sun was black as death, as were the stars that should have been sprinkles of light. White, not of purity but of pestilence, replaced the early morning reds and blues. Thus the phenomenon became known as the Sickly Dawn. Unease and inexplicable dread accompanied any manifestation of the eddy. Whatever lie at its heart could not be known. Although it continued its evil swirl deep in the flow of the Abhainn Rúnda, nothing had come of it for over a century, and though it did not fade it usually only troubled those who sought for it or who were unfortunate enough to reach into that particular run of the Secret River.Daragh mac Eoin could hear Abhainn Rúnda and knew well the Sickly Dawn. Long ago trained to become a druid and a vate, he had not forsaken the old ways even after his ascension to master alchemist of legendary ability. Daragh pondered the meaning of the eddy, comparing his own observations with the more detailed visions of the banfháidh. This left him greatly perturbed. When the black demon Menolokhion came to An Domhan a great wave reverberated throughout the Abhainn Rúnda, which would eventually reveal his weakness and lead to his doom. Until that day, however, life was brutal and short, and losses enormous. Some had felt the demon's arrival many years before the fact, but the disturbance was unclear and, tragically, ignored by most others. Daragh was determined not to repeat that grievous error. The Sickly Dawn might be yet another harbinger. That a small eddy, noticed over a hundred years ago, could leave such an unforgettable image was frightening indeed. Banfháidh and vates, depending on their skill or their blessing, could often see exact events and unmistakable images. The flow was a powerful ally if observed correctly. Occasionally there would come an evil so great that a whisper would echo in the Abhainn Rúnda despite the enemy's every effort to cloak its footfalls. Often such whispers were highly symbolic. But old habits died hard, and most who even knew of the Sickly Dawn hoped that it had resolved itself, or would soon do so. After all, a century had passed without other signs.Daragh was not one of them. He sought long and hard for any other eddies that might betray the identity of the monster in the shadows. Nothing could convince him otherwise; he knew the depths of the Abhainn Rúnda would reveal the face of the interloper and he knew that its face would be horrifying beyond words. It was a face that must nonetheless be confronted. Daragh found sympathetic ears among the elves and sidhe. He tirelessly prepared for the war that must come, and urged the resurrection of the old Alliance of Light, dormant since the end of the War of Irons and the fall of Menolokhion. Daragh knew not what the races of the light, Éireannach, sidhe and others, would eventually face, but he was certain the enemy would be dark and terrible. He had learned the horrors of the War of Irons, and read of the touch of the demon. He spent much time at the Hall of Martyrs in Sernilassë, and consulted with Elenar, lord of the elves. The timeless Daragh understood that no ill current in the Abhainn Rúnda came by accident. A lethal flame was in the forest, one that might explode in an instant and burn black all that it touched.*Inspired by Chapter 12, “The Secret River,” from Tales From Watership Down, by Richard Adams.
Posted by David H. at 7:43 PM
05 April 2007

Sliabh Creatach

(c) 2005 Daniel P. Duran
Posted by David H. at 10:54 AM
26 March 2007

The Battle of Cnoc Craobh
Among the first of the Fianna to approach the opening into the fields was Duach mac Lughaidh. Through the gently waving leaves he could see a formation of archers beyond the tree line and arching slightly to the right. He could see the rear of the Rómhánach army just ahead of the archers, but he could not see the body of their forces. Those he did see were plentiful as locusts in the grass. The armored and heavily armed Rómhánach soldiers would quickly turn on the few Fianna, who would have no hope of fighting through their lines and uniting with the other Fianna among the Éireannach warriors. That made no difference to any of them. If those archers managed a volley into the Éireannach advance, many brothers in arms would fall, and many others would suffer dangerous wounds before they could engage the Rómhánach legionnaires. A well-placed flurry of arrows could easily determine the fate of the battle; even condemn the dun of Clonakilty. The few Fianna knew they must prevent that possibility. When Duach, Brión and the other Fianna reached the opening, they burst through in full flight. Their rage was righteous and unforgiving. With swords, gae bolga and axes drawn they charged the unarmored bowmen.Not surprising, Ailill mac Goibniu was the first to reach a target. With battleaxe slashing, the young Fianna painted the earth with the uneasy archer’s lifeblood. The other Fianna pressed on behind the archers’ positions, forcing them toward the Rómhánach lines, which made a ranged attack by the larger force a perilous prospect, lest they kill their own bowmen. Brión cleaved one archer with his greatsword, and quickly dispatched another who attempted to flee. Duach, who had used his gae bolga as a thrusting blade in the wood, cast the lethal weapon toward one of the few archers who showed spirit. As the Rómhánach readied an arrow for a desperation shot, the bellows spear plowed into his left shoulder and through his chest, killing him in an instant. Duach did not have time to recover the weapon before another archer attacked him with a dagger. The attempt was admirable but hopeless; the lethal Fianna warrior knocked down his assailant and, unleashing his broadsword, slashed away the archer’s life.The unexpected assault by the Fianna had stunned the Rómhánach into inaction, but the effect was beginning to wear off. Each of the Éireannach elite knew that there would be a rear guard, and the movement of brush in the forest indicated their stirring. From the forest boundary came a second surge, this one Rómhánach, and much larger than the Fianna’s. Almost half of the tiny Fianna detachment continued the relentless assault on the archers, committed to giving their lives in the effort, while fifty or so, including Brión mac Séin and Duach mac Lughaidh, turned to face the new menace. The first Rómhánach to reach the Fianna were members of the 7th Cohort, 2nd Galatian Legion, and they were very well armed and armored. Hopelessly outnumbered, Brión and his heroes hoped to give a good account of themselves and perhaps even tilt the battle, ever so slightly, so that the Éireannach could win the day and drive the barbaric invader from the lands of Dunailinne. There was no way they could have known the full effect of their fearless attack, or how far it would sway fate, but as always when brave men face impossible odds there is a price to be paid.The first fatality suffered by the Fianna was Ronan mac Fionnán, a strong young warrior from Tribe Bodhna who had just become a Fianna the year before. Struck by a pilum which terribly hindered his movement, Ronan was killed by two legionnaires, but not before wounding one of his attackers. Duach saw the death-blow to Ronan’s head, and watched his brother-in-arms spin and fall to the ground, the fire in his hazel eyes extinguished. Duach tore into the killers with his broadsword. He mortally struck the wounded one before the other could attack. Duach felt the searing sting of a razor-sharp blade across his left side. This further enraged the Fianna, and rather than succumb to the pain, he ferociously beat his foe until the Rómhánach moved no more. Brión battered the helmed head of another legionnaire and yelled something to the other Fianna, but Duach could not understand in the din of battle. From somewhere came a shower of pila and Brión was struck twice. The Rómhánach feared him so that they kept their distance and he had time to pull out the pilum that remained in his flesh. But a misfortunate strike by another pilum claimed the second Fianna to fall, Caolán mac Ruarc of Tribe Iverni. Already wounded by spatha and an arrow, the javelin blow to his upper spine took what was left of his life. Other archers, beyond the reach of Ailill mac Goibniu and the others, had closed the distance and began firing almost point-blank into the Fianna. This resulted in several wounded legionnaires, but the archers seemed ill-disposed for concern. Duach took an arrow in his left arm. The pain was relentless but it could not cloud his mind. Expertly he parried a legionnaire’s attack and then pressed his own. Several rapid slashes and thrusts bested the armored enemy and cut him down. Since most of the archers within the grasp of the Fianna were either dead or incapacitated, the rear of the Rómhánach pressed toward the Galatian rear guard, hoping to smash the remaining Fianna as a mighty wave against unmovable cliffs. Ailill mac Goibniu, further to the right and ahead of all the other Fianna, caught the first crushing blow of the left flank phalanx and fell beneath their advance. His life essence soaked his thick red hair and darkened his lifeless white face. The right flank phalanx, armed with halberds, advanced like some whirling demon made of wood shafts and razor blades. His back to them as he fought members of the rear guard, an already wounded Diarmaid mac Oisín caught one of the halberd blades down on his right shoulder. The ghastly wound, rent flesh and broken bones, forced him to drop his sword as his arm fell lifeless to his side. Diarmaid tried to turn to them, drawing a knife with his left hand, but was hacked to pieces before he could complete his futile gesture. With Diarmaid’s death rose the great tide of extinction; there were now too few Fianna to give the others room for engagement. Now they would be enveloped by the Rómhánach mass. Duach knew this, he had probably realized it before emerging from the forest, and perhaps some part of him knew when the little petrel greeted him that morning. There would be no surrender; the Éireannach would not even entertain the thought. They would continue fighting until the last hollow rattle of sword-on-armor died out as an echo among the ancient trees.Duach mac Lughaidh of Clan Mac Donough, Tribe Bascna, born in Feridun near Dun Kinealy, met the elf-maiden Nimarawen among the willows and fire-red maples of Arongolodh, and the two were soon as one. Love and marriage among the Éireannach and the fey was not unknown; several warriors had taken elf or even high sidhe brides, and it was not especially rare for a seaside or lakeside dweller to wed a moruadh. While the incredible beauty of the noble faeries could not be surpassed, many among the Éireannach women were their match, and most Éireannach men preferred the company of a fellow human. Others, however, felt a mighty attraction to the faerie and these often found mates among their races. As a good faerie such as an elf or moruadh would be turned away by wickedness and vice, it was a great boon to a man’s reputation, or enoch, when such a beautiful female being would bond forever to him. But that same marriage would ironically block his utmost progress, making it more difficult for such a warrior to become clan chief, and even more so tribal king, as other influential warriors would bear grudge for not wedding one of their daughters. In most cases this mattered little. Some did not strive to be king, while others had become so mighty that none denied their ascension. Duach never thought of such things. He loved his wife and served the Fianna and the Éireannach people. Soon came the birth of his first child, a son. Iustig grew slowly, as was normal for elves and half-elves, and Duach knew he would never see his son a man. But he would fight for the world that would welcome him and the people who would embrace him as he grew strong and proud. One pleasant day, when the winds of war were blowing up from Laighin, Duach gently kissed his wife on her head and felt her long black hair in his fingers. He embraced little Iustig and told them both how he loved them so. Nimarawen smiled as her tears rolled down her milk-white cheeks. In a few days Duach would arrive in Laighin, not far from Clonakilty, and together with the Fianna he would meet the hated Rómhánach in battle. As he departed he thought of the battle to come, perhaps the greatest of his gifts to Iustig the man.The Éireannach forces arrived for war just that morning, and the Ard Rí prepared to lead them to battle. The majority of the Fianna flanked him. A large contingent of Craobh Dearg, from Tribes Morna and Manana, hurled insults and gestures toward the enemy. Some were painted with woad and fresh deer blood. While Morna was a mortal enemy of Bascna, and had become antagonistic to the Fianna, the Rómhánach enemy tempered old antipathies and united even the most estranged of brothers. The spearmen of Tribes Bodhna and Iverni sized up their enemy while warriors of Rathcrogna, with their knowledge of spell-casters, scanned their lines for sign of wizards. If one emerged their gae bolga would greet him. Then in unison they began to move. The rising of emotion was igniting a battle-rage, especially among the Craobh Dearg; the Rómhánach in this army were too young to recognize that fateful sign. Still, with the Rómhánach metal armor and lethal weapons, the outcome of the battle was far from decided. Many Éireannach would not live to see the night sky, and a pyrrhic victory might bring more Rómhánach invaders. Then fate intervened, and the full value of Duach’s gift presented itself. The rapidly advancing Éireannach, expecting a blizzard of pila and arrows, instead were greeted with a strange sight. Much of the Rómhánach force was turning to meet some unknown foe to their left. When the first rain of pila arrived, it was no wave of death, but a drizzle of uncertainty. Whatever was occurring to the Rómhánach was creating a lightly guarded flank out of a once-solid wall. The Éireannach rushed headlong and hungry at the unraveling weakness, with insatiable desire to annihilate. Three steps from contact, the vanguard of Craobh Dearg witnessed Rómhánach still turning toward the deep wood, toward a phantom army that must surely follow the brazen attack of the 90 Fianna.The Battle of Cnoc Craobh decimated the Rómhánach expeditionary force and marked the end of their most recent incursion into Dunailinne. When the fierce mass of Éireannach warriors crashed into the wavering legionnaires the once-orderly Rómhánach army strained and broke. At that point, their only hope for salvation was the heavy Galatian cavalry. Salvation was not to be. The thundering horsemen encountered a powerful ambush as they rode around the rear of the Éireannach, and were lucky to make the battlefield. They managed but one feeble charge before dissipating against the swords and pikes of the proud sons of Dagda. The rout was now complete, with the fate of the Rómhánach written in the myriad broken swords, shattered pila and cloven shields that surrounded their deceased masters.While the clash of metal and groans of the dying faded into the earth, and brothers-in-arms set aside their elation and triumph to search for their beloved fellows, the source of the Rómhánach confusion and ultimate downfall soon became clear to the Éireannach heroes. The great battle had brought tremendous victory; yet there was a price as well. Ard Rí Conn mac Óengus suffered a horrifying wound to his face, and even druid magic would not remove all trace of disfigurement. By the next summer he would bid his brothers and sisters farewell, and offer himself to the good earth with sword and pyre. Several warriors from the main force had tasted supreme glory, and did not rise. Four terribly wounded Fianna still lived near what was the left-rear of the enemy army. Though near death, they were still holding their weapons and defending six fallen brothers. The Fianna were members of a small detatchment under Brión mac Séin, Captain of all Fianna. Further still, deep in the Rómhánach position, where the lines of battle arrived only after the Rómhánach took flight in terror, was the true source of victory discovered. Ninety Fianna, each worth more than the entire Rómhánach army, gave themselves to the triumph and received eternity as their reward. Clonakilty was saved. The ways of the Éireannach would live and thrive. The Ninety had purchased that guarantee with their lives. Brión mac Séin had been among the final two to fall, together with a wiry Fianna from Feridun, a son of Tribe Bascna, Clan Mac Donough. His blue eyes, their flame departed for other shores, stared unblinking through chestnut strands of hair at the warriors who approached his lifeless form. One warrior had been a life-long friend of the fallen hero, and knew well his young son Iustig. He took it upon himself to inform the wife and kin of the dead Fianna.Nimarawen stood silent as the fires consumed the body her husband had left behind. She was last to depart from the funeral spot, not far from Dun Kinealy, in sight of the glimmering Abhainn Breallain. For many years she would remain at the crannog with Iustig, her only child, until he was grown and began making a life for himself. Then she left for Arongolodh. Although Nimarawen would come and visit each of Iustig’s children, she would always return to her ancient elven home, awaiting the day of her own departure and joyous reunion with Duach mac Lughaidh in the ever after of Tír na nÓg. Many years later, at the funeral pyre of her son, she knew her wait was nearly over. The time had come to make the final trip to Sernilasse, where the white ship to other shores awaited.
Posted by David H. at 10:47 AM
19 March 2007

The Battle in the Wood
The one-hundred Fianna were ready as the vanguard of the cavalry turmae came through the trees. The first turma was allowed to proceed through the Fianna line; they would be dealt with in time, and an attack on the center and rear would force the first to fight through the Fianna or march around the battlefield. This made escape less likely. Once the final Rómhánach soldier came within range of the deadly Fianna, the time had come for bloodletting. Almost in unison they let fly, tathlums and spears flung mightily into the Rómhánach ranks. Men fell from horses, some dead before striking the ground. The Fianna warriors were on them in an instant. Many, stunned or injured from the fall, were cut down before they knew what had transpired. A fountain of blood gushed from one dying Rómhánach, his throat sliced by Brión’s greatsword. Duach charged his enemy before the tathlum, cast by Connla mac Fearghas, even struck; this allowed him to plunge the ferocious blades of the gae bolga into his enemy’s chest. The razor edges killed the Rómhánach instantly and ripped out bone, flesh and muscle as the spear exited his body. The ambush was becoming a massacre.The Rómhánach not felled in the initial assault dismounted and attempted as best they could to defend themselves. Surprised, now outnumbered, lightly armored and far less skilled than the Fianna, they stood no chance. The first phases of the battle were over quickly; the Fianna emerged without loss or significant injury. The remnants of the Rómhánach turmae, realizing that something had befallen their comrades, hesitated a moment. Their commander was more decisive than most of the Rómhánach political officers, and the hesitation did not last. He decided to turn back and aid his brethren if possible. Knowing the overall scope of his mission, he detached three of his fastest cavalrymen to race back to the Rómhánach army and report the presence of an Éireannach force of unknown size east north east of their main positions. He worried that the force was attempting a flanking maneuver. Although that was not the original goal of the Fianna detachment, their reconnaissance-in-force would soon become a flank attack once the current battle ended. The Rómhánach cavalry commander would buy time for his runners to alert the main force.Brión mac Séin expected at least some of the passing Rómhánach to return to the battlefield, and when they could be heard approaching on foot the Fianna were again well prepared. The cavalry had dismounted in advance of their enemy and cautiously approach. Ominous to them was the lack of sound, for it indicated that the battle had not gone well for the others. Worse, most of the dead were archers; to a man the vanguard was armed with pila. They advanced toward the killing zone, expecting to encounter a powerful enemy force, and ready to die for the glory of their empire. What they did not know what that a much smaller force, only ten Fianna, waited for them. Ten of the Éireannach’s finest were more than enough to deal with 30 Rómhánach, but at this point it wasn’t even necessary. By dismounting and approaching in a deliberate, and slow, manner, the Rómhánach could not possibly hinder the flight of the other 90 Fianna, who were at that moment rushing toward the unsuspecting rear of the Rómhánach main force. The wide detour taken by the three Rómhánach riders would make the arrival of them and the Fianna a more or less simultaneous event.A relatively clear swath of the Coill an Cuileainn was the holding position of the main Rómhánach force when the Battle of Cnoc Craobh began. The Rómhánach refused to be strung out and forced to do battle in the wood itself, which greatly favored the individual talents of the Éireannach. They stubbornly clung to their position in the fields, sending out cavalry raids that were intolerable to the Éireannach and would goad the proud people to engage the Rómhánach on their terms. This sanguine tactic worked, and the Éireannach forces arrived and prepared for battle at the opposite end of the fields. While the Éireannach engaged in their pre-battle rituals, with bards and fellow warriors alike lifting the spirits of the whole, the deadly Rómhánach long bowmen awaited the charge of the Éireannach at the rear of the Rómhánach lines, just to the left-rear because of a small quirk in the topography of the fields. The final archer to the left occasionally glanced into the thick wood. He no doubt attributed his apprehension to pre-battle anticipation, and nothing more. He was unwise to doubt his instincts.
Posted by David H. at 11:36 AM

The Petrel
Duach mac Lughaidh woke with the first rays of light. Years of rigorous training and unyielding discipline had honed his organism such that a brief mental preparation before nightfall would ensure a timely awakening. There would be a battle that day. Two great armies would meet but only one would triumph, and even victory would be tempered by tragedy. For the Éireannach, defeat was not acceptable, regardless of the cost. Duach knew this well and he knew the Fianna would be a major factor in the final decision. He thought of the coming storm as he rose to a sitting position. Then Duach looked over at his weapons, the gae bolga and the broadsword, both within reach. A strange sight greeted him. Perched atop the bellows spear was a tiny storm petrel, evidently untroubled by the presence of a man so close to its fragile little body. At first Duach thought it injured; normally no one saw a storm petrel inland from the ocean. Perhaps a storm had blown it inland. But he soon reconsidered. Although the petrel did not alter its position, the way it moved its head to watch his every gesture indicated alertness unaffected by injury. The episode became unsettling. Duach stared into the little bird’s face, and the petrel never ceased peering into his eyes. It was not a condemnatory or aggressive stare. Rather, it was almost sympathetic, hinting of sorrow. It was then that Duach realized the gravity of this sign. Any sighting of a petrel inland from the sea was an ominous omen indeed. Such harbingers of ill were usually general, but this one came with a specific message, for one specific person. Duach slowly reached for the gae bolga, lifting it gently as he rose to his feet. The petrel remained on the blade, not moving until Duach lowered the weapon toward his side. The storm petrel took brief flight, alighting in the gnarled oak closest to the warrior. There it sat, staring, unperturbed and undistracted. Duach looked down at the sword and took it up as well. Then he turned away from the little messenger, and struck out toward the agreed meeting-spot. Once, before leaving behind the petrel, he looked back at the tree. There was the little winged herald, still silently staring at a man not long for the world.
Posted by David H. at 8:25 AM
13 March 2007

Duach mac Lughaidh
Duach mac Lughaidh knew this would be his final battle. He was resigned to the fact; and although he had known since dawn, he still arrived early at the meeting-spot. Duach lamented not seeing his wife again, or his son Iustig. But he was a Fianna and an Éireannach. He would not surrender to any fear of death, for he alone had the power to earn life eternal, or to cast his name into the pits of disgrace. He hoped the others would carry the day and that his last moments would be ones of terror for the interlopers. His only true concern was for his kin, his people and their ways. If the treacherous invader could better the Fianna then Clonakilty would be in peril.The captain of the Fianna arrived almost as soon as Duach. Brión mac Séin was a righteous if greatly intimidating warrior, having risen up through the ranks of the terrifying Scuab Gabhaidh, the “Terrible Broom”, the unit of the Fianna renowned for its ferocity as well as its greatest historical member – Oscar son of Oisin, son of Fionn mac Cumhail. Brión was a giant of a man, both mentally and physically, and even his mighty greatsword seemed too small for such a warrior. He looked at Duach and nodded in approval. Any Éireannach warrior would be supremely proud of such a gesture and Duach was no exception. Looking upon Brión, Duach no longer felt the hollow pain of apprehension. Worry was a fool’s game and he had been silly to doubt; the Rómhánach would never triumph over his beautiful people. The Éireannach would fight them to the last. As the others arrived, Duach began to anticipate the coming paroxysm, even though his death was assured. Since this was to be his last day among the living, Duach mac Lughaidh thought, he would do his best to give the Rómhánach long pause before committing any more of their mischief.A false rumor that the Ard Rí Conn mac Óengus had fallen and the Éireannach were in disarray had encouraged the Rómhánach. This had prompted their governors to launch an attack, first by naval bombardment of Murthemney and Lusca, and then by landing two legions in Laighin, not far from Clonakilty. One of the legions was from the far south; the other, a much more skilled and dangerous unit, had its origins in Galatia. The Galatians would have several pila each, as well as a razor-sharp gladius and a pugio. Soldiers from both legions would wear banded metal armor and helmets. Accompanying both was cavalry; in the case of the Galatians both heavy and light, the latter for reconnaissance. If the Rómhánach could triumph at Clonakilty, the east of Laighin might fall under their might, providing a powerful base of operations for further attacks into Dunailinne. They knew that their every step would be contested; what they did not know was that the very much alive Ard Rí, warriors from each of the tribes – including several Craobh Dearg, and most unfortunate for the invaders, the Fianna, the mighty and fearless protectors of the Éireannach world, would be waiting for them. On the fine Beltane day, in the year the Rómhánach call AE1737, the Galatian light cavalry was scouting the wooded territory southwest of Clonakilty. The Fianna would be in a perfect position to ambush.The light cavalry of the 2nd Galatian Legion was a well-trained group. Although not elite like the heavies, the light cavalry was tough and knowledgeable, and sufficiently armed for combat. Each soldier carried a spatha; about half had pila while the others were archers wielding deadly shortbows. Four turmae of cavalry – 128 men total – stealthily rode through the Coill an Cuilinn. Their goal was to discover the location of enemy forces, and to avoid combat with any but the weakest group of Éireannach. After successfully completing that mission, the light cavalry would be unleashed on raids deep into Éireannach lands. They would kill farmers and herdsmen around Clonakilty, slaughter livestock and set fire to anything that would burn. Also, they would snipe at any warrior they might encounter, if possible using arrows dipped in poison. The archers generally carried a box of resin spiked with extracts of autumn crocus, deadly nightshade, monkshood, or foxglove.Of the 4000 men of the Fianna, one hundred stood in the way of the approaching cavalry. These included the Captain of the Fianna, Brión mac Séin, as well as the warrior Duach mac Lughaidh. The previous evening their detachment struck out on a reconnaissance-in-force mission, hoping not only to find some Rómhánach but to kill the intruders as well. One of their numbers, the amazingly fleet-footed Ailill mac Goibniu, encountered the Rómhánach cavalry encampment during the night, and he returned with the news the next morning as the Fianna were gathering in the wood. The Rómhánach were too far away to surprise in their camp, but would most likely ride north, and the Fianna would be ready for their arrival. Wasting no time, the Éireannach prepared for battle. They checked their immaculate weapons: gae bolga and boar spears, greatswords and broadswords, tathlum and knives. Most put on woad paint; others took positions on the periphery for detection and protective purposes. Duach held his lethal gae bolga spear. The enemy might claim him, but they would also taste the sting of its many sharp blades.
Posted by David H. at 2:15 PM
12 March 2007

Sliabh Bladhma

(from http://pdphoto.org/)
Posted by David H. at 8:48 PM
10 March 2007

Ultan
Since the untimely death of his beloved fiancé, Ultan had taken an oath of celibacy, and swore he would love no other woman. Now almost ten years had passed. Ten years he tended the garden beneath the great oaks and chestnuts. Ten years he furthered his understanding of the magical arts and honed his already impressive talents of divination. Ten years he walked the long, wearisome road to becoming an ovate. The mysteries of ogham were his intimate companions. The sound of the burning buckthorn and the movement of the heavens conversed with him. He could bring down shafts of lightning from the skies and char the very bodies of his enemies with internal flames. His words could kill, but they could also bless the smallest of babes, and draw poison from the most infected of wounds. Such were the druids of the higher circles; no one more welcome during a plague, no one more feared by peasants and slaves. Even the hardest of warriors, those who stared death in the face and laughed, those who bore wounds from dragon flame and fomorian axes, stilled their tongues in respect as the druid walked past. When Ultan became ovate, the very earth and trees themselves would be his brothers in arms, and in his forlorn grove he would reign supreme, a living symbol of hope and terror.The midday sun bore down on Ultan’s shaved head as he gently pulled the dandelions from around the wineberry vines. Fall had come and the juicy red fruits would be a memory until the next summer. Ten years ago, almost to the day, he had lost his good friend, the druid Fachtna. And he had lost her. Ultan paused in his work and stared into the grass. A bumblebee bounced along, looking for clover flowers. The moment ended, Ultan returned to the task that life had given him. There weren’t many of the persistent little weeds left, but each tiny sliver of root would ensure more work by the next full moon, and Ultan was methodical and thorough. Dandelions certainly had their place, in the strong wine and spring salads. But this patch was reserved for the wineberries, who were not to be disturbed. Ultan felt the beating sun and picked up his wide-brim hat. The heat in the skies was the dying hand of summer stretching one last time. A cold and pitiless winter was coming, and it would be unwise to wish away the last inconvenient rays. Ultan was still very much a young man, but wise beyond his years, and hardened by the things he had seen and the things he could not.It wasn’t long after he finished his chore that the news came to his ears. For a few moments Ultan was silent, shocked, as if she had come back to him and then was lost again. He felt an eruption of rage, anger and sadness. He asked of the culprit and found no comfort in the answer. A horse was ready; one of the brown mares brought from Tara, and Ultan wasted no time in mounting her. He drove her forward without the slightest pause, startling Donall mac Daragh who had brought the ill news. The two galloped as fast and as hard as their steeds would take them. Any hesitation would cut the last thread of hope, and only a gossamer remained for Iustig mac Duach. The father of Rhiannon and the warrior Amren lay at death’s door, poisoned by a coward with death angels meant for the son. Ultan thought of his love as he sped away from Tlachtga. The past he wished to bury had come back with a vengeance. His dusty robes whipped angrily from the mare’s momentum while his hands, still dirty from the dandelion roots, tightly squeezed the reins.
Posted by David H. at 6:09 PM

Image Test - Moruadh
A moruadh; the true mermaid - an angel ofthe faerie world and the opposite of the kelpie,the siren and the horrid nuckalavee.(background from http://www.freefoto.com/index.jsp)
Posted by David H. at 1:53 AM
09 March 2007

The Return
Even after Naoise came to his senses it was difficult for Iustig to help him to the shore. The seeming end of the battle allowed Iustig’s body to feel the pain of the kelpie’s first blow, and Naoise was much worse off. Ribs were broken, muscles were bruised and skin was torn. Fortunately Naoise was a man of might; a lesser person would have surely perished. Water faeries were notoriously strong, even the fair moruadh. Much of their strength came from the realities of their watery environment. But most also possessed a supernatural augmentation, and kelpie were among the most powerful. Naoise’s survival was testimony to his resilience. Iustig knew, however, that right now neither would survive another battle with the kelpie and that they must move away from the riverside. Painfully for Iustig, and excruciatingly for Naoise, the two forced their battered bodies through the cut of the brook and back toward the woodland. Iustig knew they could not make home by morning, and suggested they find a spot to spend the night. A fire would not be necessary and the two could rest inconspicuously among the stones and mosses. Naoise agreed with his friend and the two eventually came upon a little glen not far from their original observation point. A wind blew through the night as the cold front picked up speed. Iustig was not pleased with the sign. He hoped to make home by the time a storm broke. As Naoise lay bruised and hurting, Iustig gripped Tairne na fianna. Naoise’s axe lay between the two, but Iustig feared it would be of little use to its stricken master. Later in the evening the wind turned gently cool and Iustig fell asleep.Fortunately for the two, the only storm to hit Feridun was a weak one, and its occasional rumbling woke Iustig early the next morning. Although learned in healing arts, he knew not the ways of magic and had done what he could for his friend the night before. Naoise groaned as Iustig checked him for life, and he opened his eyes. To Iustig’s relief, Naoise spoke, affirming his desire to return to the river and finish the work. Iustig smiled and told him to sit tight as the storm passed. The cooling rain was reinvigorating, and barely after its passing Naoise forced himself to his feet. Since the kelpie had turned tail and fled, said Naoise, there was no point in remaining near the river. It was time to go home. Iustig both welcomed and dreaded Naoise’s words. He knew that the kelpie would make no more appearances that day, or the next, perhaps even a long while after. It was possible that the beast had left for good, but Iustig doubted it. He didn’t doubt his desire to go home, to tell the others that the kelpie was wounded but not slain and to be vigilant. But for Naoise to openly express what neither would allow from their mouths was not a good sign. Naoise was in a very bad way.The return was long and painful for both warriors. Iustig knew Naoise was in terrible pain, but the brave Éireannach tried his best to suppress any visible suffering. Iustig set mental goals for the two, and quietly celebrated the meeting of each one. He also noted how each was more difficult to make than the last, and began to think they would spend another night in the woods. Then a great blessing was visited upon them; Iustig heard a horse approaching, and he drew Tairne na fianna, lest the rider be an orc or Morna raider. It turned out to be fellow warrior and Clan Mac Donough member Ailin mac Flannan. Upon seeing the two, Ailin pulled up his dark brown steed and shouted a greeting. Immediately he realized that both Iustig and Naoise were injured and in pain, but that Iustig could still ride and fight if necessary. Like most of the Éireannach, Ailin would not deny two injured warriors the use of his horse, and he told the two to ride back to Naoise’s crannog. Iustig thanked him for such gracious hospitality, and without hesitation the two helped Naoise onto the horse. Iustig took the reigns and rode off, while Ailin followed on foot, his gae bolga resting across his shoulder.Naoise recovered quickly, considering the nature of his injuries, some of which were internal. Herbal concoctions sped along his recuperation as did an elixir provided not long before by the druids. Iustig was his old self in no time, although at night Branwen was careful not to aggravate his many bruises. She was pregnant again, and although very early in the pregnancy she already knew. When Naoise was almost healed Aoibhe gave birth to their first child, the girl Eimhear. Naoise was never so proud. When Iustig and Branwen went to visit the newborn, the two announced that Branwen was expecting. She would eventually give birth to a son, one gifted in the war-arts as well as blessed with faerie magic from his father’s ancestry. That son would carry the name Amren mac Iustig, the Blooded Stag, he who would face the Beast of Crann Maela.As the days of summer began to wane and Naoise and Iustig again practiced their art, apprehension over the kelpie began to weaken among the Feridun folk. Both Iustig and Naoise tried their best to keep the threat alive in the minds of others, but with a winter not far away and life demanding to go on, the two met with little success. Soon even they would have to throw aside their concerns about the kelpie. Another, much more familiar enemy was about to threaten the lives of Feridun’s people.
Posted by David H. at 10:36 AM
05 March 2007

Beast of Rath Bheagain
The evening thunderstorm had chased away the oppressive humidity of the past few days, and dawn brought a pleasant blue sky that reinvigorated both Iustig and Naoise. There was much to be done. First they must warn their friends and relations to shun the Rhiamarch and, when possible, the Abhainn Breallain. Without prey the kelpie would creep closer to Dun Kinealy. It was possible the beast would grow impatient and depart, but Iustig knew a thing or two about evil faeries and their persistence. It would not have surprised him a bit if the kelpie seemed to disappear, only to strike again when the opportunity arose. This he told Naoise, and all he knew of kelpies, and he warned him that the fight would be vicious and uncertain. He informed Naoise that more than two warriors would not be effective, as the kelpie would flee and hide, or more likely would not make an appearance at all. The problem was that even two battle-seasoned warriors such as themselves would be in great peril should they confront a kelpie. But there was no other alternative, and for the Éireannach to tolerate the presence of such a foul beast would be nothing less than surrender. The Éireannach would die a thousand times over before surrendering.That night the two slept long and well. The next day would be the first of the hunt, and they would need all of their wits and strength. Iustig woke early the next morn and ate a hearty breakfast of blood sausage and honeyed walnuts. He took his wife Branwen by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. She knew before he spoke of the gravity, and danger, of his mission. He turned to look upon his young daughter, five-year-old Rhiannon. Her piercing blue eyes looked knowingly into his. He smiled and touched her long red mane, took a long look back at his wife and his two smaller daughters, and stepped into the courtyard of the rath. His eldest child, Alun mac Iustig, was oiling the blade of his father’s sword, while the eldest daughter Essylt tossed breadcrumbs to the chickens. Iustig noticed Alun holding out the sword, Tairne na fianna – the Deer’s Nail – and turned to look upon his son. He smiled and relieved Alun of his burden, sheathing the lethal broadsword as he quietly set off from his home. Arriving at his horse Speirling, Iustig paused for a moment to don the tartan of Clan Mac Donough. And then he was off, galloping toward Naoise’s crannog.Naoise was waiting by the trail outside of his crannog when Iustig arrived. He greeted his friend and held Speirling as Iustig dismounted. The black stallion would remain at the crannog while the two warriors traveled on foot to the Rhiamarch. Speed was not necessary, and in any case the deadly game could not be forced. Their woodland journey would allow time to reaffirm necessary strategies. Naoise brought his spear as well as his fearsome axe, as they had agreed, and both were armed with sharp knives. Iustig looked at the axe fastened to Naoise’s belt, an axe whose blade he had seen singing and slicing several times before. Would the kelpie approach within its lethal arc? Iustig had his doubts, but it might well save them should they force the beast close. Iustig knew the axe had a magick in it, as did Tairne na fianna, but instead of the speed of the Deer’s Nail, Collach-feir (the Boar-shear) opened great tears in armor and hide, and cleaved great chasms in flesh. The two blades were up to the task; Iustig hoped their masters were as well.The two warriors methodically made their way to the meeting of the Rhiamarch and the Abhainn Breallain, the scene of the most recent crime. There was no one in sight. Birds chirped and a big carp splashed at the surface. Although still tolerable, the mid-day sun wasn’t its friendly self of the day before, as the humidity has risen a bit and the air was thickening again. From their perch above the leeward bank of the Rhiamarch the two prepared for a long vigil. Time was not on their side, but success demanded patience and neither could bear the thought of the killer escaping with his crimes. So every disturbance was watched with great concentration, every sound heard with wide-open ears, each sudden hush noted with even greater attention. When hunger gnawed at their faculties, the two shared a speechless meal of dried salmon and smoked cheese, chosen for the silence of their consumption. As the day crept onward, the heat rose and thick mare’s tails danced across the sky. Still there was no trace of any unnatural visitation. At least the folk were shunning the dangerous river. As the sun began to set, Iustig permitted himself one thought of home and his family, of a cool cup of ale, and lamented the long days of waiting that would follow.Soon the sun would be dim enough to look upon. The cirrus were giving way to their thicker brethren, signaling the approach of a cold front. The fish won’t be biting tomorrow, thought Iustig. Then he felt Naoise touch his shoulder, and he turned his head to see Naoise pointing and staring toward the stretch of the river away from the Abhainn Breallain. Iustig followed his finger down to the river. It was no monstrosity that greeted his gaze, but a man. Even at a distance Iustig could see that the man was powerful and young, and wore no clothing. His long black hair clung to his wet body as he carelessly walked the shore. There was no need to rehearse their roles in this; Iustig crept out of the hillside copse with Naoise behind. Naoise held tight to the spear; Iustig gripped the tathlum that would soon take flight.Naoise was a rock-hard warrior who had mastered stealth. Although Iustig was half-elven, and therefore possessed innate talents for silence in movement, Naoise was every bit his equal. If Naoise had not married Aoibhe, he would have tried for the Fianna; there was little doubt he would have succeeded. But he was smitten by her, and didn’t wish to be away from his soon-to-be-born first child. Iustig remembered when Naoise met Aoibhe, who was distantly related to Iustig’s father, the Éireannach Duach mac Lughaidh, who long ago wed the elf maiden Nimarawen. It was during one Lughnasadh feast, just after Naoise told a group of aspiring young warriors the history of the scar across his right cheek. Iustig was present when that scar came about; like the great majority of Éireannach, Naoise refused to embellish the story, no matter how enthusiastic the audience. Aoibhe was seventeen at the time, a budding golden-haired beauty, and it was humorous to see such a hardened warrior like Naoise at a loss for words. She saw past his stumbling to the man behind, and within a year and a half they were wed.Instinctively, Iustig chose a spot where the two might force the kelpie into combat. There was a lower area between the hills, the gift of an ancient brook that would offer enough cover for an ambush, but not enough to hinder the approach. When the two arrived at the site, the kelpie was not far away; it seemed oblivious and this somewhat troubled Iustig. They had already discussed the plan of attack: Iustig would step out and assault the kelpie with the tathlum. If he missed, the kelpie might flee into the waters, which would be the worst possible outcome. It was absolutely essential that he strike and temporarily stagger the beast. Then Naoise would charge with the spear. Immediately to his rear-right would be Iustig, the Tairne na fianna ready to strike. If all went well, Iustig would be able to hobble the beast while Naoise drew Collach-feir and finished it off. The kelpie continued its leisurely pace along the bank. Iustig felt his heart beating. The anticipation before the battle was always far, far worse than the conflict itself.Iustig’s first ever battle flashed in his mind. Some type of imp, perhaps an evil faerie or a weak grainolc, was spooking and scratching cattle during the night. Iustig, an adolescent at the time, caught the imp during a nocturnal patrol and was surprised to see it fight rather than flee. It danced around and Iustig could not seem to strike it. This apparently emboldened the devil, who launched upon Iustig, thereupon making a fatal mistake. As it scratched at the half-elf’s face, Iustig gripped it hard and flung it to the stony ground. There, wounded, it lost its dexterity and was an easy target for the sword thrust that quickly followed. Iustig still remembered its death cry, a piercing wail that terrified him for many nights after.The kelpie entered within range of the tathlum. As if practicing, Iustig mechanically whirled the lethal stones and cast them toward the enemy. As soon as they left his hand he felt Naoise surge forward. Iustig grabbed the hilt of Tairne na fianna. The tathlum worked wonderfully, catching the kelpie completely by surprise and crashing full-force into his head. Stunned, the kelpie fell to one knee. Iustig drew the sword and, just to the right rear of Naoise, charged the deadly foe. Naoise arrived as the kelpie regained its senses and threw a stare in their direction. The sharp spear pierced the kelpie in the left side of its chest, a deep wound to be sure, but it did not make a sound. Just before Iustig could arrive and strike, the kelpie grabbed the shaft of the spear and ripped it from Naoise’s hands. Naoise went for the Collach-feir as Iustig made his first slash, opening flesh on the left side of the beast. Then, with speed that made its every motion blur, the kelpie swung the shaft of the spear at Iustig. Iustig was forced to jump away from the monster, lest his ribs be crushed by the force of the swipe. Naoise had drawn his axe and lunged toward the kelpie, but his strike only managed a minor surface cut. The kelpie, still silent and in human form, backed toward the water. It attempted to turn around the spear, but Naoise snapped it with Collach-feir, and Iustig, profiting from the moment, cut hard and deep into the kelpie’s left arm. His return stroke further sliced into the same wound. Since the kelpie seemed more concerned with Naoise’s axe, Iustig was more than happy to batter the beast. Then a powerful blow befell Iustig, and he was knocked off of his feet, landing not far from the tathlum. With no time to wonder what had happened, he fought to come to his feet, succeeding as soon as he possibly could. The sight that greeted him was not pleasant. Apparently the kelpie had begun its transformation to its true form. It had struck Iustig with its still-forming serpentine abdomen. The speed and force had been unexpectedly great, and now that it was fully formed, such a blow could easily prove fatal. Naoise had backed off in his attacks, placing himself between the monstrosity and the battered Iustig. The kelpie seized the initiative and, with the powerful jaws and razor teeth of its horse-like head it snapped loudly at Naoise. Iustig grabbed Tairne na fianna from the ground and yelled out to Naoise to be cautious. The kelpie came very close to clamping its maw on Naoise, but in missing paid a heavy price; Collach-feir slashed into the right side of its neck, leaving a wound so great that both warriors were shocked the beast did not fall. Still betraying no emotion or sound, the kelpie retaliated, striking Naoise with its tail just as Iustig launched an attack on its left. Iustig successfully cut into the beast, but Naoise bore a terrible blow that lifted him and cast him into the Rhiamarch. As if ignoring Iustig’s repeated slashing into its own flesh, the kelpie lunged toward the water. Suddenly Iustig was gripped by anxiety; if the kelpie submerged in the water before Naoise could escape, his friend would surely perish. Thinking quickly, Iustig leapt for the tathlum, leaving Tairne na fianna to lay in the sandy soil. He rose to his feet and began twirling the stones. He could see Naoise shaking his head and limping in the waist-deep water. Iustig cried out, urging him to hurry, but to no avail. Naoise must have been out of his head from the blow. Iustig let fly the tathlum, which struck the kelpie just before it could dive into deeper water. The strike must have been more powerful than it looked or sounded, as the monster paused for a moment and shook from the blow. Iustig charged the water, no time to draw a weapon, and it seemed an eternity until he reached his stricken friend. By this time Naoise just stood there, clearly disoriented and badly hurt; he was quite close to the shore now, but it would take Iustig some time to move him. Iustig prepared for the worst; he drew his hunting knife and waited for the kelpie. They stood little chance, but he would not leave his brother-in-arms to die, not while he still drew breath. Defiantly Iustig stared out at the river for the deadly enemy. The waters were still and all was silent. A few gnats swirled in the crimson rays of the setting sun.
Posted by David H. at 10:58 AM
03 March 2007

Kelpie
Above all else, Iustig would remember its silence. Aside from the thrashing in the dark water, the snapping of teeth, it made no sound, no attempt to speak or even roar against those who had come to take its bestial life. Its stare was without emotion of any kind. There was no humanity or even hatred that might reveal its alien motivations. It was simply a relentless killer without the slightest rhyme or reason for its cold malevolence.Not far from Dun Kinealy, near the rain-swelled Abhainn Breallain, young Muireann of Clan Mac Danann set out for blackberries and went missing. She had a level head on her shoulders and probably would not have risked a swim in the dangerous waters. But there was no sign of fomorians or trolls, no word of a red cap or any other potential culprit, and her disappearance seemed the result of ill luck. Such things happened with sad regularity and for a time it seemed to have been nothing more sinister than fate. Blind fate would soon be questioned, however. As Imbolc was giving way to the hot sun of Beltaine, and beautiful Li ban disappeared not far from the Rhiamarch, warriors began prowling to the north and northwest of the dun. There were two sharp battles with fomorian hunting parties, with blood spilled on both sides, but when the druid Caolan of Tlachtga came in he told them of the futility of their actions. Such foolhardy attacks would not punish the killer, he said, and would surely inflame a war with the fomorians. This Tribe Bascna could not afford, with all the Morna mischief of late. Caolan had come with dried buckthorn branches and these he burned. The smoke and the flames and the cracking of wood spoke in a language that only the druids and banfaith could hear. The dying branches whispered to him: no fomorian killed Muireann, nor Li ban. The murderer was far more sinister. From then on, warriors hunted in groups, lest they too fall victim, but even into the hot days they had no luck.What would soon be called the Beast of Rath Bheagain claimed its third victim shortly before Bonfire Night on Midsummer. Fionnuala daughter of the warrior Brian mac Ruarc, betrothed of Gabhan mac Fionn of the Clan Mac Donough, disappeared not far from Dun Kinealy itself, and right under the noses of her father and brother Niall. As the two swordsmen practiced their art, she left their sight for a short ride in the crisp morning air. This was not far from where the Abhainn Breallain meets the Rhiamarch. Soon the two warriors heard a heavy splash and then all was quiet; when they arrived at the bank, there was no trace of Fionnuala save ripples on the water. Her horse wandered the shore unscathed and seemingly unperturbed. In despair Niall threw himself into the river, but could find no trace of his sister or her predator. Eventually the two were forced to renounce any hope of rescue, and with heavy hearts made the trip back to Brian’s manor. Along the way they met skilled hunter and lethal warrior Naoise mac Fionntan. Brian, at wit’s end and visibly shaken, managed to tell Naoise of the tragedy that had befallen his daughter. Naoise, a distant relative of Brian and Fionnuala, openly accepted a geis of vengeance.Warriors from many clans increased the hunt, scouring the banks of the lower Rhiamarch all the way to the Sionainn, but to no avail. Naoise began his own quest with great forbearance. If the Beast of Rath Bheagain was to fall, it would require tenacity and cunning. Quietly he hoped that the young and the brash would give up the search; complacency had probably cost Fionnuala her life, and it could turn around and condemn the very one who had killed her. But there was no chance of flushing the monstrosity while so many inexperienced warriors crashed about the reeds and brambles. So Naoise spent the days becoming familiar with every bend, every eddy in the great Rhiamarch and the lesser Abhainn Breallain. For this quest he desired the partnership of one of his dearest and most trustworthy friends, the half-elven warrior Iustig mac Duach.The sun was no more than a red shadow when Iustig met Naoise at Naoise’s crannog. The two would have no rest that night, their discussions and mental preparations lasting until the break of dawn and failing to pause even as a nocturnal thunderstorm flashed and groaned. During the second cup of heather ale, as a strong breeze announced the coming storm, Iustig conjectured about the identity of the killer. Not an aughisky; it wasn’t their way to behave in this manner, quietly stalking and slaying maidens. Each of the victims was familiar with the dangers of the water horse and knew to shun him. And surely someone would have seen an Aughisky; just as many had seen the most recent one to travel through the lands of Feridun. Nor was it a burach-bhadi. No horses had gone missing, no lifeless corpses, drained of blood, had littered the waters. A burach-bhadi could take even a strong man, but such a vicious monster would have left signs of its depredations and could not have resisted Fionnuala’s horse, for the burach-bhadi craves horse blood and flesh even more than human. Iustig finished his ale, and looked hard into Naoise’s eyes. Methodically he had come to his conclusion and calmly he made his declaration.“Kelpie.”
Posted by David H. at 5:59 PM

Amren's Loss
The womenfolk of Clan Mac Donough keened the soft lamentation as the warriors, cousins and friends, and some mostly unknown faces, stared in solemnity at the little wooden cairn. The wake was over with the coming dawn; unlike the wakes of so many dearly departed, there was no gaiety whatsoever, no celebration of the joy of life to temper the pain. The deed, both foul and cowardly, had robbed Mac Donough of any possible easing of the loss. Tradition was kept, as it always was and always must be, but the feast was quiet and the liquor could not loosen lips so tight. The druid Ultan had prayed through the night and kept the wicked spirits away; now his chanting was done, and there remained but the immolation. Soon a dolmen would join the many others down from Dun Kinealy, but on the windy and cold Lugnasadh day none could think of such things. All contemplation was on loss, pain, anger and vengeance. A sharp breeze blew as the women fell silent. Ultan stood forlorn for a moment, cold and alien in his elk skull mask, majestic and frightening in his demeanor. Though his emotionless voice had not changed through the night, the bereaved clan knew a rage seethed in his soul. After a while, Ultan turned away from his stare, and plunged the torch into the small, dying fire. He pulled it away once it roared to life, and slowly made the short walk to the cairn. Arriving, the druid lightly touched the flammable oil glistening on the lower braces, and the long flames took flight. They quickly licked and embraced the body of the fallen warrior that lay upon the wooden frame. Iustig had made the long journey home.Amren stared at the burning mass. The pipes began to play a haunting and powerful tune in honor of the fallen, but Amren could not hear their sweet notes. In an extraordinary moment, old Naoise mac Fionntan broke into tears. This was the nature of the loss. Not one thought questioned old Naoise’s strength, he who fought over ten score battles in his long, hard life; he who killed the Beast of Granard. Old Naoise wept for his childhood friend and compatriot in several of those battles. Donall mac Daragh, a cousin of Amren, did not weep. His piercing blue eyes and long, pale face were too frozen in fury to allow emotion. The wind that whipped his long red hair also pulled at the flames of the pyre, so much that the cairn became an angry inferno.
Posted by David H. at 1:56 PM

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Victor Fornast 1827
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Big Sweeney
Technology on Efate does not remain solely the possession of the cities; it always finds a way to escape the mean streets, soaring far above the wilds and broken rocks, where it rains its magic upon far-away nowheres. Since the discovery of the world, since the coming of Solomani settlers far from home and the raising of great urban blocks it had always been that way. Some worlds languish, some thrive; Efate always sort of roars and bull-rushes ahead. She was first in the Regina Subsector with a world-wide, ultra-high-tech internet; first in the Spinward Marches with shipyards capable of building three battleships at the same time. One could injure oneself in the deepest wilderness of Efate – and there are such depths not far from any city – and thanks to a hand-held global positioning beacon rescue would be minutes away. Thanks to state-of-the-art medical technology, complete recovery from almost any wound is the norm rather than the exception.Such easily available mechanical miracles do affect some; the less capable often become reckless and, in defiance of complete organ and limb regeneration, manage to kill themselves spectacularly. But on the whole humanity has not changed. Good men and good women still long for each other far more than for some gadget. Strong men still hold their heads high among the robotics and the gravity-manipulating machines. And brave men still rise greater than the stars that long ago they conquered. And, although diseases and injury and the wear of years themselves wane in face of such technologies, they do not relent; the movement of the hour hand might be delayed, perhaps frozen for a while, but not forever and not without a price. Time is still most patient, and men still grow old.Franklin David Sweeney woke earlier than usual on the morning of his 81st birthday. It had not been a good night’s sleep. Long into the previous night he lay awake in bed, his mind held captive by his loss. Six years previous a stroke took away his wife. Just two years ago one of his three remaining children, his only daughter, was killed in an industrial accident at Hammond Chemical. It could not be said that those losses did not trouble him; yet he had accepted their reality and had moved on with life. There was one loss, however, that he could not let go. The pain that cost him the most sleep was the loss of his youngest son Pádraig, killed in action on Hrunting in the Occupied Sword Worlds. Exactly twenty years ago, to the day, Big Sweeney learned of his son’s death. The timing of the news of his death, ever hand-in-hand with the haunting vision of his son’s face transformed each of the last twenty birthdays from a celebration of life to a day of quiet mourning. This one would be no different.Hot sausages and coffee brought Big Sweeney around to the necessities of the day. He still needed a filter gasket for his g-truck, birthday or not. Breakfast over he wasted no time getting to the business of the day. Before leaving his one-bedroom cottage Big Sweeney put on his overcoat and his filter mask, then his hat, and finally he shoved his weapon – these days a 20mm chemical laser pistol – into its usual place inside his coat. Each time he left it was more or less the same; 81 years and nothing had changed after all.It wasn’t far to Whelan’s Supply. Of course it wasn’t far to anywhere in Hathaway; quite a difference from Bethlehem Cartier where Big Sweeney lived most of his life, and where he became a legend. The still-living legend tipped his hat to Mrs. Burns, his neighbor from across the lane, and wondered to himself whether her tomato garden would be as rich this year as it had been the last two. Probably not, he thought, three years in a row is asking a bit much. Nothing lasts forever.Mark Whelan knew it was Big Sweeney even before the outside of the entry port began cycling. He didn’t need to look up from his desktop display. He had noticed the time just before the bell for the outer door went off: 0800 local time. Big Sweeney said he’d be there at eight and he was, just like always. Whelan stood up as Big Sweeney entered the foyer of the parts store. He shook Big Sweeney’s hand and though Sweeney had just turned eighty-two his grip was still firm.“I got your filter gasket right here.” Whelan produced a box from under the counter. “Six credits Big Sweeney. If you change your mind about installin’ it let me know, won’t be any charge if you can wait until after work hours.”Big Sweeney laid the money on the counter. “No, Mark. I’ll take care of it.” Sweeney looked at the young son of his longtime friend Axel Whelan. He was the image of his father from a time long gone; tall, somewhat wiry, with ruddy brown hair much more subdued than the fire red that used to color Big Sweeney’s.“OK Big Sweeney. Hey, I meant to ask last time, you want us to take care of that dent in your truck?”“No, there’s a reason I keep it that way. I’m a sentimental old fool you know; your dad could tell you that.”Mark Whelan smiled. It was bittersweet.Big Sweeney’s old Astrodyne 1261 G-Truck did not have a dented collision guard when he obtained it as payment from a debtor*. Seven years later it acquired that particular feature, one it has sported ever since. Back then Franklin Sweeney had fire red hair; he also had an ursine body and fists of stone. In Bethlehem Cartier, where money is always a luxury rather than a certainty, everyone has something going on the side. For some that something is gambling or loaning what money they can scrape together – with rather steep interest rates. For big men like Franklin David Sweeny, it meant enforcement. Big Sweeney’s best friend was Bowen Walsh, a fellow worker at Bartikun Products and a common playmate and fellow rough-houser in the days of Sweeney’s childhood. Walsh made ends meet with some small-scale bookmaking and an occasional loan or two. Big Sweeney made ends meet by making sure that luckless gamblers and desperate debtors met their end of the bargain. Often his mere presence, cold and unmovable, would prompt the otherwise unwilling to make payment. Occasionally, especially before his reputation became known, it would require a little blood. Rarely did Big Sweeney seriously harm anyone; most knew he would have without hesitation and this fear greatly limited the number of such cases. There were exceptions, however.*This same debtor, a used g-vehicle dealer as well as a compulsive gambler, would pay off a debt to Martin Walsh – Bowen’s brother – in a similar manner; by presenting Martin with a General Products Model HM1000 g-truck.The summer of 1355 was what some might say “par for the course”. Gambling, although omnipresent, was not remarkable; as always, for each high-roller blessed by fortune were several having to explain to wives and families exactly what had happened to the week’s pay. Needless to say, bars all through Crown City were usually open 24 hours a day. In fact, there were honest-to-God turf wars over building, even room ownership, anything that might be turned into a tavern or pub. To own a bar in Crown City, even relatively poor Bethlehem Cartier, was to have one’s troubles washed away in sweet liquor.Big Sweeney was strange among his friends in his choice of drink. True, he was always up for a shot of Wallock or Onions’, and he had a particular affinity for dark beer. But the first request he would make, regardless of the bar, was for a high glass of Stony Cembra pine liquor. Many didn’t have it, and though its absence never sent Big Sweeney away, its dearth caused his mood to cool considerably.Donovan’s Bar not far from Bartikun Product’s main factory never seemed to run dry of Stony Cembra. Not surprisingly, it was one of Big Sweeney’s favorite stomping grounds. He spent so many evenings there that each one melted into what seemed like one long visit. A few visits did stand out, however, like the time Tom Hogan got so drunk he came out of his stoic shell to sing Johnny Jump Up and reveal that his singing voice was much stronger than his tolerance of drink. Or when Andy Barry came in for a round, two weeks ahead of the doctor’s rehabilitation target, and used his re-grown right arm to pour everyone a shot of Onions’ whiskey. He didn’t lose a drop.None of those recollections, cherished whether joyous or solemn, could eclipse the memory of an event Sweeney would have wished to forget. It was the day 101-1355. Sweeney was at Donovan’s, savoring a glass of the usual pine liquor and waiting for Bowen Walsh to drop by. It was Fiday and they had just been paid. Sweeney and Bowen’s brother Martin were nursing their drinks in anticipation of Bowen’s arrival. Then, and only then, could the drinking get serious. Big Sweeney didn’t agree with Bowen going off into the cartier alone, especially on payday, but Bowen insisted on buying an indoor parking pass for his mother before the other hotel workers grabbed all of them. Her birthday was rapidly approaching and although mundane it would be a treasured gift. Sweeney would have liked to have accompanied him but had business of his own, something that seemed vital at the time but the exact details of which have been obliterated by the events of that evening.“Why do you drink that French shit?”Sweeney was deep in thought when Martin interrupted him.“Hmmf.” Sweeney took a short sip. “Street cretin like you doesn’t know jack about good drink.”After 53 years Big Sweeney remembered Martin’s face as if he were staring at a snapshot. Martin had that tough-guy look on his face, with a faked outrage that made Sweeney laugh. They were stirring up and when Bowen finally arrived an unforgettable evening of cards, liquor and laughs would commence.Jay Sheridan, one of Bowen Walsh’s youngest work mates and a local boy known well to Big Sweeney, came rushing through the inner door as soon as the cycle permitted him entry. He stopped at Sweeney and Martin’s table, his mouth agape and seemingly unable to speak.Big Sweeney looked up at him. He glanced casually at the boy, expecting some tale of woe appropriate for a teenage heart, but the look on Sheridan’s face did not indicate something quite so frivolous. Sweeney lost his grin and became anxious in spite of the Stony Cembra.“What’s happened?”“Big Sweeney, Mr. Walsh has been stabbed.”Sweeney felt the blood rush from his face. “How bad?” “Where?” He asked both questions in rapid succession.“It’s bad, Big Sweeney. He’s been taken to Saint Mirin’s.”Martin Walsh shot a look of blind rage at Sweeney; his anger was not directed at his friend, but knowing the significance of this development he could not contain it.“Thank you Jay. Go tell your father.” Sweeney touched the boy on the arm, which brought the messenger some relief. Big Sweeney did not need to tell Martin that it was time to go. Saint Mirin’s, the hospital reserved for victims of the worst of accidents, was a distance away and neither had driven to the bar. As he fixed his filter mask and opened the inner door Sweeney couldn’t help but think about Andy Barry. His arm had been severed and destroyed at Bartikun and he wasn’t taken to Saint Mirin’s.Viewed from the south, Saint Mirin’s Hospital was almost hidden by the sprawling Bartikun industrial complex. It still is to this day. Closer, the hospital reveals its true size. In 1355, there were three hundred side entry ports for grav vehicles as well as roof landing space for a further one hundred emergency vehicles. Saint Mirin’s contains the best trauma and burn centers in all of Bethlehem Cartier, a fact that has not changed in the last hundred years. The facilities at Bartikun could handle most workplace accidents, including loss of limb and severe burns on up to 50% of the body. Truly horrendous accidents, those not immediately fatal, would be stabilized as well as possible and sent at high speed to Saint Mirin’s. All of Bethlehem Cartier and part of southern Downport sent their most graphic victims to Saint Mirin’s.For a stabbing victim to end up at Saint Mirin’s meant that the unfortunate had been stabbed deep in the brain, upper spinal cord or directly into the heart. It meant that without massive artificial medical assistance and the type of rapid tissue repair that only a huge facility like Saint Mirins’ could immediately provide, the victim was guaranteed to die. Even with the almost “magical” technology available to the citizenry of Efate, such wounds could easily mean death. No one ever took odds or even guessed at an outcome when Saint Mirin’s was involved. There was simply no way to know if the reaper would be cheated out of an otherwise certain victory.It took an eternity wrapped in seven minutes for the commercial grav carrier to arrive at the Grattan Street North Station. The inner door opened after Sweeney entered his account number and accepted the charges for Martin Walsh as well. Early night on a payday ensured that the vehicle was empty. Big Sweeney and Martin Walsh sat in the front right seats; there was no need to fear the empty seats behind. Big Sweeney paged the driver.“Saint Mirin’s.”There was a silent pause, and then the g-carrier lifted off. The diamond glass windows to the outside world were the only way that the two could be sure of take-off. Through those windows one could see the lights of Bethlehem Cartier, from the soft welcoming glow of Donovan’s to the intimidating yellow pulsing of the Bartikun complex as the unlucky night shift began a long and weary night of work. Neither of the troubled passengers gave the slightest glance. Nor did either of them speak a word.Arriving at St. Mirin’s East, Big Sweeney and Martin Walsh exited the g-carrier without a word spoken. As he approached the east entrance of the huge hospital structure, Big Sweeney felt a difficulty in swallowing. He had been stabbed before, twice, and once had been bludgeoned across the face with an army surplus field shovel. He began to think of how much he preferred those old battles to being at this place.The east entry of St. Mirin’s was – and remains – an airlock portal large enough to fit ten grav carrier vehicles side by side. It was built so that small sections could open, permitting entry to those on foot, although if necessary the entire outer and inner sections could open simultaneously. Big Sweeney and Martin Walsh easily passed outer security and entered the hospital through the nearest section of the major east entrance. Walsh was the first to approach the registration and information center, where he inquired about the status of his brother. Unlike some hospitals in Bethlehem Cartier, particularly Bartikun’s on-site facility, the assistants at St. Mirin’s actually seemed to give a damn about the shocked and downhearted visitors who desperately sought information, any ray of hope on which to grasp.Big Sweeney heard the answer at the same time as Martin Walsh. Walsh stared at the young assistant for a moment, perhaps out of disbelief. Big Sweeney managed to keep his thoughts to himself; it was just as well, for there was basically one, and it was not for public consideration. Bowen Walsh had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest and throat; twice the blade entered his heart. If the attacker had not been interrupted by a passer-by, if that same person had not immediately summoned help, Bowen would already be dead. As it was, the outlook was uncertain. The young office assistant withheld nothing as giving false hope would have been a lie. It was more likely than not, he informed the two, that Bowen Walsh would die.Big Sweeney kept returning to his thought, now a creed. “I will find the fucker who did this. I don’t care how long it takes.”Bowen Walsh did not die. He was made of the same stern stuff as his ancestors had been since the days of their great kings and druids so many millennia ago. He missed four weeks of work as he lived in an intensive care suit, until a new heart could be grown from his tissues. It was touch-and-go at first. His brain had been deprived of oxygen and had suffered some damage. This was repaired, but while flesh can be replaced, memories cannot be recreated. Fortunately Bowen Walsh did not lose any but the most superficial of recollections. There was one lingering effect, strangely enough; Bowen had always loved raw Puniculum onions* which he often ate while drinking beer. After the stabbing he could no longer stand them.*Puniculum onions are not from the Terran onion family at all, but taste remarkably similar. The Puniculum plant is native to Efate and is cultivated there and on several other worlds in the Spinward Marches. The edible portion is the tuber, a long, bright pink root. The other difference between Puniculum roots and Terran onions is the latter’s propensity for causing gas.Big Sweeney, Martin Walsh, Axel Whelan, David Donovan and many of his patrons, Tom Hogan and Jay Sheridan’s father Brian and numerous others who worked at Bartikun Heavy Industries Halios Complex donated monies to help pay for Bowen’s huge medical bills. The ordeal completely wiped him out. Big Sweeney and Martin Walsh spent what they could find in their own savings. Both Sweeney and Martin Walsh set about recovering all the monies they, Bowen and Axel Whelan had loaned out or were owed in gambling debts. The monies were collected without incident. In each case the three showed up together, with Sweeney holding a fireman’s axe made of bonded superdense material, and Walsh and Whelan holding shotguns across their shoulders.Bowen Walsh returned to work at Bartikun, and the three continued their Fiveday ritual as if there had been no interruption. In time even the horrors of that night began to fade, and became less and less a living memory. Bowen quickly replaced his stolen wallet and identification cards, but he could not replace the engraved cross necklace that his late grandmother had given him. There were other changes as well, some superficial, some dramatic. Bowen Walsh forever quit his bookkeeping, although he did still loan out smaller sums of cash. Martin Walsh expanded his bookkeeping on sports events, easily eclipsing his younger brother even in his heyday. He also became less trusting and more likely to strike a first blow. Big Sweeney did not seem to change at all. He did not cease his own pursuits nor did he undergo some extraordinary metamorphosis. It seemed, in fact, that the survival of his lifelong friend was enough to close this bloody and very nearly tragic chapter in the life of Bethlehem Cartier’s closest families.The façade was a good one. Lurking deep under the surface remained the promise. Big Sweeney never let it show, and none suspected its existence after four years. There was no doubt that Martin Walsh deeply desired to find his brother’s attacker, but after four years he had more or less given up, and grudgingly moved on. Not so Big Sweeney; patiently he waited for his prey to stumble. Many eyes and ears lurked in the dark labyrinth of Bethlehem Cartier, most of them allied with the Walsh’s and Sweeney’s. Others hid in far away places, beyond the borders of Bethlehem, even outside of Crown City. In 1359, one of those eyes, an old family friend who became owner of a small pawn shop in Cradlerock Cartier, called Big Sweeney with the news that he so desired. A twenty-something-year-old girl had just pawned the engraved necklace worn by Bowen Walsh on the night of the attack. The pawn shop owner, Brian Hughes, managed to spy her g-car’s call number before she left: E-TAN-350-240, Efate Tanoliu 350-240. She might as well have waited for Sweeney at the pawn shop. Once he determined the exact location of domicile, Big Sweeney would easily find her in Crown City.Efate is a place of few laws and fewer enforced. One that is at least nominally enforced is the vehicle identification code. While this code is useful in apprehending perpetrators of major crimes, the only type of interest to the Efate government, it is more important to Efate Close Orbit and Airspace Command. As is usual on worlds with a myriad of antigravity vehicles dashing through the skies, COAC tracks airborne vehicles via their transponders; these small beacons broadcast position as well as identity. That identity is the vehicle identification code, or call number. With a flight volume even half that of Efate it is almost impossible to track every moving vehicle simultaneously, and the system is mostly for safety (anti-collision) rather than law enforcement. Still, almost every vehicle sold on Efate will have its own unique call number. While the girl from Tanoliu quite likely turned off her transponder or had removed it entirely, the vehicle still displayed its call number, as is the law. Big Sweeney wasn’t interested in her transponder, even if he could have tracked it. His family’s eyes and ears would now turn to vehicle codes.It didn’t take long, only seven weeks, for Big Sweeney to locate the girl’s domicile. More accurately, it was Axel Whelan’s cousin Billy Joe Regan who positively identified the black Collins “Morgane” grav car. Regan, working for Icaria Motors in Shankill, spied the vehicle one day while leaving work. He followed it with the help of his g-truck’s radar all the way to Riverside Cartier, east of Tanoliu. From a distance he observed where the vehicle swooped in to land. The girl must have been renting an apartment along Cantrell Street. She seemed to be alone, but that conclusion was uncertain, being based upon a limited observation. Regan waited until the girl exited her g-car and walked toward the apartment complexes on the south side of Cantrell. Then he swooped in, counting on his truck and sudden slowdown at door level to fool any observers into believing him to be a lost deliveryman. He slowed to a crawl, and once he relocated the girl as she approached an up-stair, he stopped. She rose to the top of three floors and rather quickly disappeared into the second door port from the right. Having seen all that he could hope to see, Billy Joe Regan juiced up the thrusters of his truck and took flight.Big Sweeney did not tell Martin Walsh about the breakthrough. Ordinarily he would have desired for Martin to be present when things might get hairy, but this touched too deep and there might be a need for a cold patience that Sweeney didn’t think Martin capable of in this particular situation. They would need to convince this girl that cooperation was in her best interest, without terrifying her to the point of incoherence or desperation. Inside, the Bethlehem gang would have been fine with beating it out of whoever could direct them toward the perpetrator. Their emotions would be running high. Overt brutality would not work in this case, and Sweeney knew that his partner would have to have the right disposition. Axel Whelan was perfect for the task.Axel was not originally from Bethlehem, his birthplace actually in the south of Kilroot, but his father was a son of Celtic Bethlehem and, after layoffs at the Rightman tool factory, baby Axel and his family went back to Bethlehem and Bartikun. Axel was aloof, even icy to those unfamiliar or unimportant to him, yet he was a brother to Sweeney and the Walsh boys. His nerves were iron and his aim lethal. He had proven his mettle in combat, as had Sweeney. In the fall of 1350, during an altercation with the Somerville Street Gang from Downport, Axel gunned down three of the thugs while Sweeney took out one and both Martin and Bowen Walsh scored a deuce apiece. Thirty-one came to terrorize Bethlehem Cartier; six escaped back across McAllister Way. Even Tiny Tim Galligan drew blood that day. By the time Efate Security arrived there was nothing but bodies to haul away.When the time arrived, Sweeney and Axel Whelan left for Riverside. They took Sweeney’s Astrodyne 1261. Flying to Riverside by way of Rockbarton, Sweeney took a moment to gaze upon the roofs of the latter’s homes, each surrounded by a small patch that often included a few trees and tall limestalks*. At that height, one could see the sparkling River Ceres that separated Riverside – and North Crown City – from Raymond in the south. There would be enough ugliness today without focusing on the deeds at hand.*The limestalk, another plant native to Efate, has edible parts but is of poor culinary quality (due to excessive bitterness). However, it grows up to 30 meters in height and is covered in light green flowers that smell of lime, making it a common ornamental “tree”.Riverside is a long, snaking cartier that includes the easternmost portion of North Crown City. As the cartier winds along the Ceres, away from the heart of the city, it becomes progressively less industrialized and, unsurprisingly, more exclusive. The person of interest to Big Sweeney and Axel Whelan lived in the west-central part of Riverside, meaning that she was not a girl of high wealth. This they already knew; otherwise, she would not have pawned a stolen necklace for a handful of credits.Traveling at 240 kilometers per hour, the two arrived near Cantrell Street. The black Morgane sat in the open port alongside the three-story flat. Big Sweeney circled a few times, looking for a proper landing spot, and then swooped in for a landing across the row of homes, four structures down, in a burned spot apparently used for touchdown by a small spacecraft. He and Axel hopped out of the g-truck’s cab almost as soon as the four landing feet hit ground. Sweeney did not lock down the vehicle. They would not be gone for long, not long enough for a thief to hack a dusty delivery truck empty of merchandise.It was a short walk to the girl’s door. These low-cost apartment complexes did not have high security but after a quick visual inspection it became evident that there was an occupied guardhouse located down one structure from this apartment building (positioned up against the front of the middle building of three such apartment complexes and impossible to see in a high-level fly-over). Sweeney was unperturbed. He glanced a final time toward the guardhouse and then spoke to Axel.“Let’s take care of this.”Those words spoken, Sweeney turned down the lane toward the apartment complex. Axel Whelan turned around and walked toward the cross street, back toward the truck. He did not question Sweeney, knowing himself that acting suspicious or uncertain would be the surest way to attract attention. Neither was visibly armed, but both were of course; Whelan with a 10mm snub pistol, Sweeney with a 9mm revolver. As Whelan casually strolled around the corner, Sweeney stepped on the up-stair and walked it to the third floor.A red Astrodyne 1261 came in shakily and unsteady, its driver perhaps unaccustomed to piloting such a vehicle, or adversely affected by inebriation. After-purchase engineering or some defect must have disabled the autocontrol defaults; no grav vehicle should have behaved in that manner. The driver did slow his vehicle near ground level, but not enough to prevent a rather hard collision into the back of a black Collins “Morgane” g-car sitting in an open-air parking square. The truck was undamaged, but the lighter frame of the car no doubt suffered some rending and damage to its internal systems was a certainty.The Morgane must have been equipped with a silent alarm. The owner, a girl in her early twenties, not unattractive but quite thin and looking more than a little hardened, cycled the inner door of her apartment’s airlock, no doubt ready to charge out of the outer door and give the errant driver a piece of her mind. She managed a step out of the entrance, her gaze fixed on the parking square below, before a big hand grabbed her t-shirt and slammed her against the wall to the right of the airlock. This came as an utter shock and all she could do was look in surprise and anger at her assailant, initially not noticing the revolver aimed squarely at her chest. Around his filter mask she could see a stony face and two calm blue eyes. These were the eyes of a killer. She lost some of her body tension, if only to prevent him from doing the deed right there at the top of the sliding stair. Apparently she was accustomed to such types, as many in her situation would have reacted by struggling or screaming out loud and sealing their fate.The girl was not wearing a filter mask, apparently intending to scream a bit at the errant driver and then return inside. As Whelan pulled back on the Astrodyne truck, Sweeney motioned with his head toward the airlock. He then spun her around with his left hand, never taking the revolver from its position. The girl obediently opened the outer door and the two entered the inner lock. As the airlock cycled and the inner door opened, Whelan must have been ascending the up-stair.Still holding the revolver on the girl, Big Sweeney told her sit down upon her bed. Sweeney noticed that the apartment was austere, with a lack of furniture, yet was dark and did have several places where one could hide a weapon. By not removing his mask, he sent her a mixed signal. Either he would kill her outright, or he simply wished to hide his identity. By telling her to sit it was clear that an interrogation would ensue. She might survive this encounter if she could satisfy his inquisition.Sweeney didn’t have to wait long for Whelan to reach the outer door. Sweeney stood and motioned with the revolver for the girl to allow Whelan to enter. This she did, and it did not appear to upset her. Why would Sweeney bring in his partner if all he intended to do was kill her?Having opened the outer door and begun the cycle, she returned to the bed and sat down. Sweeney began to sense a lessening of her fear. Whether that trend continued would depend upon how she answered a few simple questions. Before Whelan could completely enter the room, Sweeney began the questioning.“You pawned a necklace with one of our crosses on it. Who gave it to you?”The girl looked at him. Sweeney was more attentive of her expressions than her words. She did not avoid his eyes and appeared confrontational. She angrily brushed the long pink hair from over her right eye.“Some asshole was selling used jewelry over in Tesla. I though I could get more for it up here.”Sweeney stood silently over her. He spoke to Whelan, never taking his eyes from her.“She’s useless. Fuck this bitch, I’m tired. We’ll keep looking. Go start up the truck.”Her eyes got wide. “Wait, wait. I didn’t say who.”“I’m sure you don’t know his name, what the fuck, did he tell you his turn-ons too?”“No. I mean, yeah I know him, he was my boyfriend.”“He’s the asshole selling jewelry?”“Yeah, he’s an asshole alright.”“What’s your name?”“Valeria.”“What’s his?”“Aram. He lives in Tesla, like I said.”“You didn’t say he lived there. Address?”She hesitated a moment. “It’s on 3rd.”“Go check this out. I’ll keep Valeria here company while you’re gone. I don’t think she’s shitting us, but I don’t care to be made a fool.” Sweeney knew she was lying.Whelan went to the airlock. Valeria bent to the side to watch him.“What’s the code?” Sweeney’s voice was cold. Valeria hesitated. “I said, what’s the code?”She looked into his eyes and then at the revolver. “Wait, wait, wait. Look, alright…” Her voice wavered a bit and she looked down, putting her hand on her head. “He doesn’t live there, but what the fuck do you expect, to send you off to kill my ex? Alright, he lives in Tanoliu.”Sweeney sighed angrily and asked again, “Address?”“Two Forty Eight Four.”“Name?”Valeria hesitated. Sweeney did not insist, he simply observed. Finally, she mumbled a name, “Ja-Mal Zidigur.”Sweeney didn’t say a word. Whelan turned and stepped back to the airlock. Valeria looked over his skinny frame and might have thought of making a move, if only Sweeney hadn’t been there. Against Axel Whelan that would have been a fatal mistake. Sweeney kept his cold stare on the girl, and without having to ask she relinquished the code. Whelan left. Now there was nothing to do but wait.Valeria looked down; for the rest of Sweeney’s stay she would not look into his eyes. It was clear to Sweeney that she was desperately thinking about her next course of action, and finding none of the options satisfactory, sat still on the edge of the bed.Time crept forward. Big Sweeney never took his stare off of Valeria who sat silently, looking down at the sheets. She took in agitated, short breaths. Although he was the one standing, it was Valeria who felt the acute anxiety that accompanied every slow tick of the clock. Sweeney thought about this girl before him. She was not unpleasing to the eye, although her build was too thin for Sweeney’s tastes. She had not yet been destroyed by the drug habit she no doubt had acquired but the nasty chemical pleasure had already begun to sap her vitality. Her hair was long and pink; whether by artificial dye or genetic alteration Sweeney could not tell. Nor did he care. It was mostly to while the time and to be sure he kept an eye on her that he even considered her physical being.Valeria was startled when Whelan pushed the arrival notice on the outer door, triggering the inner buzzer. Sweeney did not move.“Go to the door and see who it is. If it’s my friend let him in.”The girl rose from the bed and slowly walked to the inner door. She looked at the security monitor near the entrance. Although there was an expandable security screen on the small communicator on her bed and she normally would have checked that one for visitor identification, Sweeney obviously did not trust her to tell the truth. He kept his eyes on her face. If it was not Whelan, she might try to bolt inside the cycling space. If she did he would shoot her down before she could shove the unsuspecting entrant out of the way. The ephemeral look of dismay on her face indicated that it was indeed Axel Whelan.As the cycle began and before the inner door opened, Valeria returned to the bed and sat in the same position as before. Whelan did not enter the apartment, instead remaining inside the cycle chamber, the presence of his foot triggering the obstruction sensor and keeping the inner door from closing.Sweeney did not take his eyes off of Valeria. “Are we on then?”“Yes.” Whelan was unemotional in his simple response.Sweeney’s eyes narrowed. Whelan had obviously seen Zidigur, and he must have met the description of Bowen’s assailant.“Where’s the truck?”“Around the corner. Don’t want anyone to get nosy.”“Good.”“I’ll come over the top and get you in front.”Big Sweeney nodded in approval. Whelan opened the outer door as the inner began to close. Sweeney waited about two minutes before walking sideways to the door. He entered the code for the door, having kept it in the front of his mind since she had told him earlier. There was an emergency override, but in some homes and apartments those triggered an alarm at the local security force operations center. Notoriously slow in responding, SecFor Efate occasionally did arrive on time and when you dealt with them you dealt with plasma guns and itchy fingers. Such a possibility didn’t interest Big Sweeney.For the first time since seeing her in person, Sweeney turned his back on Valeria. This seeming lapse ended in an instant. The inner door opened but Sweeney did not rush forward into the cycle. In one flowing, circular movement, Sweeney turned away from the door and back toward Valeria, his arm and leg motion synchronized. In the process of a complete turn that ended with him facing the open inner door, Sweeney’s arm raised and he shot Valeria in the forehead. Sure of his aim and the result, there was no need to slow his arc and verify. As Sweeney stepped into the cycling chamber, his back toward the inner apartment and the girl he had just killed, he had but one thought in his mind.“No one’s going to warn you, Mr. Zidigur.”Sweeney walked out of the outer door and toward the up/down-stair. His revolver was inside his coat, with his right hand still on its grip. He did not look over at the guard house as he went down the inactive stair. As he approached the bottom, Axel Whelan came over the apartment complex and landed the g-truck in front of the building, near the rent Morgane g-car. Sweeney walked around the front of the truck, showing his desire to drive; Whelan raised enough to step over to the right passenger seat. Neither said a word as Sweeney climbed into the cab.The flight to Tanoliu from west-central Riverside was over in minutes. The g-truck’s computer homed in on Allworthy Way, near 2-48-4, the small, nondescript home of Ja-Mal Zidigur. Sweeney made a first pass, and upon seeing that no one was presently outside, looked for a sufficient landing spot. There was a small factory diner that was closed on Sixdays, and its empty parking lot provided an excellent view of the front of 2-48-4. Sweeney landed the Astrodyne 1250 in the far left corner of the lot. Although easily visible to Zidigur, Sweeney bet on his target not considering a parked g-truck out of the ordinary. Without visual enhancements he could not clearly see either Sweeney or Axel Whelan. Now they would await the appearance of Mr. Zidigur who, based on the presence of the silver BTI-250 that Whelan saw him getting out of, was probably inside the home.Ordinarily in such circumstances minutes turn to hours. For Big Sweeney this was not the case. He’d been in this situation before; four times to be exact. Once it resulted in a major street brawl and Sweeney’s lone arrest and brief incarceration. He was fourteen at the time and would learn not to linger. He also witnessed first hand the power of the Efate Security Force. When one of the brawlers drew a pistol in a rash display of anger, SecFor shot him down in an instant. Sweeney considered himself fortunate that they did not open fire on the group. In that case, the heavy gunners would have hit them with plasma splatter. Most if not all would have perished in the horrible immolation. The violent death of their companion and the overwhelming power that stared down at them froze the entire group, and instead of twenty charred bodies there remained one needle-shredded corpse and two valuable lessons for the surviving young ruffians.Forty-nine minutes after Sweeney and Whelan arrived, the outer door of the air cycle entrance of Zidigur’s house began to open. Neither Big Sweeney nor Axel Whelan showed any sign of excitement. Then Ja-Mal Zidigur made his appearance. There was nothing significant to his dress, nor did he appear agitated or visibly armed. He turned back to the entrance port, entered some locking code and then began walking out to the street and his parking space. Whelan pulled his automatic shotgun from the cab floor up onto his lap. Sweeney energized the lifters and quietly the g-truck rose a few centimeters from the pavement. He did not retract the landing feet.Up until then, no vehicles had passed at low level. Almost as if by premonition, a crew of SecFor Efate, cruising in an armored personnel carrier, chose that moment to do a slow fly-by of Allworthy Way. Sweeney instinctively powered up the engine as he put the Astrodyne truck back on the pavement. SecFor passed by without incident and the menacing vehicle went about its way, probably on to Tesla, in 1359 the site of an increasingly violent strike.Whelan spoke, “Did you see that?”Sweeney nodded. As SecFor passed by, it was not only Sweeney who felt apprehension. Ja-Mal Zidigur had slipped to the back of his g-car, where he crouched down as if he were accessing the rear cargo hold. Even though he wore a mask, he turned his head away from the cleared parking lane. With the APC gone, he stood up and, after a look-around, pulled out a small computer/communicator. He began checking something, perhaps his phone messages or the status of his bank account. His back was now toward the diner; his body stood at the rear corner of his car.“Hold on,” Sweeney said to Whelan.The grav truck, its lifters still energized, swooped upward and forward. In a flash Sweeney hit the landing gear retraction and then wrapped his left hand on the control wheel. Now both hands were keeping the truck on its straight path. As the grav truck accelerated forward Sweeney and Whelan braced for a collision. Before the landing feet could fully retract the inevitable collision took place.The internal compensators attempted to equalize the force suddenly introduced upon the Astrodyne truck. Although somewhat successful, they could not achieve the impossible, and both Sweeney and Whelan strained sharply against their safety belts. Neither was injured by the collision, nor was the vehicle damaged to any significant degree. In fact the only visible scar was a smallish dent to the front collision guard.Ja-Mal Zidigur was not so fortunate. His back toward the approaching behemoth, he had no time to avoid its collision bar. His right leg was caught between the truck front and the rear corner of his car, and it was completely crushed. Momentarily he stood there, fixed by the two immovable objects, until Sweeney backed the g-truck away from the battered car. Zidigur fell to the ground; it was then that the pain and realization hit him and he howled in intense agony.Axel Whelan leapt from the right side of the cab. Sweeney saw him curve around the front of the g-truck. He could not see Zidigur on the ground, having remained very close in case Whelan needed to beat a hasty retreat. As it turned out, this was not necessary. Sweeney watched Whelan raise the automatic shotgun to shoulder level. He heard the muffled first blast, and saw blood shoot up from Zidigur’s obscured body. Whelan took one step forward and again pulled the trigger. This second shot, close range and undoubtedly to the face, scattered more blood and bits of filter mask. Whelan turned and bounded back to the cab. He stepped inside and then pulled down the right side door without saying a word. Sweeney backed until he could see Zidigur lying in a growing pool of his own blood. There was little left of his face or throat.That night Martin Walsh detected something different in Sweeney’s demeanor. He’d been gone all day on “business” and now was too quiet for Big Sweeney. Martin waited until the second Stony Cembra before questioning his friend.“What the hell’s with you, Sweeney?”“Can’t a soul be tired after a week of work?”“Good Lord. I think that French shit is finally getting to you.” Walsh knew better. Sweeney had taken care of the “business” that had been preoccupying him. He would never tell either Martin or Bowen what had occurred, what he had done. Martin was too much of a loose cannon to be there when Zidigur went down and he didn’t want his friend to resent not being there. Bowen Walsh had already moved on. Now, finally, so could Big Sweeney.Sweeney hesitated for a moment. There were so many stories to tell, and no one to really tell them to. Bowen was gone, and now Martin; soon, Axel. He didn’t need to complicate Mark Whelan’s future with tales from the past.“Tell your father Big Sweeney said hello.” Mark nodded. The same bittersweet smile painted his face. Sweeney knew that Axel wouldn’t remember him. He doesn’t remember anyone anymore.The walk back to Big Sweeney’s home took longer than normal, even with the customary pause to touch the leaves of a silver maple tree. It took effort to enter the key code for entry. Sweeney did not look forward to the long hours of reminiscence that awaited him in that quiet place.Entering the home, Sweeney heard an uncommon noise. The audible notification of an incoming call began sounding on his personal communicator. Without activating the hologram visual screen he answered the call. It was Billy Joe Regan calling to wish Sweeney a happy birthday. Sweeney thanked him and figured that, after a little small talk, the call would then come to an end. But Regan asked an interesting question during the course of the banter.“Roland Walsh, is that Bowen’s son?”“Yeah.” Sweeney figured Regan knew about the trial and Roland’s imprisonment. He wasn’t in any mood to relate the details. He did not have to. In fact Regan already did know.“He’s back from Plaven. Got back a few weeks ago.”An old smile came to Sweeney’s face, one from the days of Donovan’s and Stony Cembra.“So,” Big Sweeney thought to himself, “Renny’s back.”
Posted by David H. at 4:23 PM
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Imperium Restored
The Emperors and Empresses of the Restored Third Imperium (Regency)Regents and Years Reigning (Imperial Reckoning)Norris Aella Aledon 1116-1157Seldrian Aledon 1157-1190Caranda Aledon Alkhalikoi 1190-1229Efisel Aledon Alkhalikoi 1229-1265Cleon Aledon Alkhalikoi 1265-1269Isalon Aledon Alkhalikoi 1269-1274Emperors/Empresses and Years Reigning:Isalon Aledon Alkhalikoi 1274-1296Maredon Alkhalikoi Mirdashun 1296-1314Devolon Mirdashun 1317-1356Norrian Esnulish 1356-1368Carenza Esnulish Marduk 1368-1377Varian Esnulish Marduk 1377-1379Arabella Aledon 1379-1392Mirasan Aledon Zirakun 1392-
Posted by David H. at 8:44 PM
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Books and Stories of Interest
"Frost and Fire" by Ray Bradbury (short story)*
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke*
Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky (Аркадий и Борис Стругацкий)*
Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein*
Who Goes There? by John W. Campbell

Films and Television Shows of Interest
Alien (1979)*
Aliens (1986)*
Apollo 13 (1995)*
Babylon 5 (television show)*
Blade Runner (1982)*
Firefly (television show)*
Mad Max (1979)*
Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985)
Predator (1987)
Serenity (2005)*
Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan (1982)*
Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)
Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (2003)*
The Road Warrior (1981)*
The Terminator (1984)
The Thing (1982)

Note
Items denoted by an asterisk are of particular relevance.

Roland Walsh strolls down a narrow walkway through Exeter, on his way to the heart of Silent Town. He will make a short visit to Rustband, but then he’ll travel to the old cartier of McKenna, with its once-proud factories and offices now low-rent apartments and sleazy bars. With every step Roland feels the presence of his gauss pistol on his left hip, concealed by his jacket. The sun sets on another day on Efate, a deep red like blood, perhaps a sign of things to come.

A proud and excited Dakko Dzueren dresses in his finest ceremonial uniform. He carefully places his cap atop his head, ensuring a symmetrical resting place between his ears. Before leaving his quarters he shoulders his immaculate gauss rifle. Today he graduates OCS, and becomes an officer in the Suedzuk Nation’s Special Attack Force. Not six days ago was his 22nd birthday, yet he has already seen ten years of training. He yearns to bring glory to the Suedzuki and the Roth Thokken elders. They alone foresaw the coming of the Virus, and enabled the Suedzuk to protect themselves. They alone taught the Suedzuk vargr to be cohesive and to thrive. The glory age has come, and soon it will be time to show their ways to the other vargr brethren. At first they will resist, but Dakko Dzueren will help break that resistance to the true path. Soon there will be a time for war and Dakko knows he will make the elders proud.

Antarean sniper Meara Flanagan crawls through the thick vegetation to her vantage point on Arkalan Ridge, to the south of the Mikharun Massif and the Cauldron shield volcano. The sky is lit with flashes from an eruption column, but Lieutenant Flanagan’s sharp gaze is not drawn to the pyrotechnic display. She peers into the scope of her fusion sniper weapon, patiently observing the shadows and vegetation color patterns of the forest below the volcano. As she painstakingly surveys the lush forest, she notices a slight distortion among the sap-nettles and blue ferns. Her gloved right index finger increases pressure on the trigger.

Eingzhous Djeng closes his portable computer, the one he will leave behind on Regina. He has caused enough pain to his family with his presence. Through no fault of his own, he has become a pariah, a source of difficulty and financial loss to his siblings and relations. They have stood by him, each and every one, but he cannot bear to see them suffer. He has just finished his goodbye message and lays the computer conspicuously on his bed. They will find it the next morning. Eingzhous finishes a bowl of cold ale, and then walks out the door and down the steps to Gardiner Beach. From there he will travel to the main starport of beautiful Regina, where a passenger-cargo ship awaits. In his pocket is a one-way ticket to Efate. There he will plot a new course with his life, and will begin by meeting with his old friend and former commander Renny.

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Victor Fornast 1827
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
A Message of Dissatisfaction
(Updated 31 May 2007)Kosmo could make one forget that Efate is home to ten billion souls, or that she is the industrial and technological giant of the Regina Subsector. Regina might be the diamond in the crown, but without Efate there was no gold to hold it atop the head, no miner to bring it from the dark recesses, no jeweler to cut its facets. Mighty cities like Crown City, Jellicoe and Port Siding send high-tech products to every corner of the Restored Third Imperium and each of the powerful megacorporations make their presence widely known with huge office and manufacturing complexes. Still, there was and are many rural and wilderness locations on Efate and unchanging little specks like Kosmo are an ever-present reminder.Roland piloted his green and black LSP Model 1340 g-car into a mostly-empty landing lot near the Schuman Industries warehouses in Kosmo. He hadn’t eaten in a day and was sick of the supplements and processed rubbish he was used to consuming while on a mission. He’d grown weary of M-Rats in the military, and swallowed enough supplements for three lifetimes while in prison. His task permitted a brief layover at Kosmo and he saw no harm in actually enjoying a meal for once. Why live among such cutting-edge technology if one cannot partake of simpler pleasures? Roland donned his filter mask and stepped out from the cockpit of his car.There was a warm and pleasant wind that spring day, with a few puffs of cumulus that foretold good weather. It wasn’t quite so warm to preclude a jacket and Roland put his on before securing the cockpit door. The bottom of his dark green jacket caught behind his holster and the handle of his gauss pistol, and he was careful to pull it down over the two. He took his left hand across his short brown and silver-flecked hair, adjusted his mask, and walked on toward the center of the ten-structure town. As he walked he glanced over at the hydro-station to his right, and at the filtration unit on its roof. Roland shook his head at the sight; those old-model units were long gone from the cities, even the towns. Like Kosmo it was suitable for a museum.There is one restaurant in Kosmo, a smallish establishment that serves typical Efate cuisine as well as some ethnic Joe food in an attempt to attract clients on their way to the MSY or the city of Prague. Roland entered the place, and after waiting for the entrance port to cycle, removed his mask and stepped into the restaurant proper. The interior was mostly a deep brown wood, with each seat offering a holovid for ordering and in the chance that a patron might wish some news, or to escape with a film or music. Roland chose the seat with its back to the outside wall, and the left against the restroom partition. He placed his order on the vid – beef liver and kidney in a thick sauce – and after a short wait received his meal. While he ate, he cleared his mind of any distractions save the tastes and smells of the food. For a man unaccustomed to finer and more pleasant experiences this decent meal became memorable. But like any good meal it was over quickly and Roland was soon back at the landing lot. Inside the car, he checked the IGS positioning system to be sure of his route and ran a quick diagnostic of the operating systems. The Model 1340 was a 67 year old design; this example was 44.The flight to Moncton and the MSY (Moncton Storage Yard) is a pleasant trip over some of the least inhabited areas of Efate; one reason the yards are located among the sea of wilderness is to prevent vandalism and theft. As far as towns go, Moncton is a rival to Kosmo, but without any antiquated filter units or decent restaurants. Most of the inhabitants are security personnel and a few administrators for the vast storage facility which dwarfs the tiny town, rendering it almost non-existent to the casual glance. Virtually all visitors are delivery personnel who pick up lots and carry them to orbiting freighters. Occasionally a freelance merchant captain will drop by to see if any old cargo is for sale. Some lots sit for so long that companies declare them surplus and sell to the highest bidder, which usually is the first guy with cash.Roland Walsh was neither a merchant nor a delivery agent. Upon arriving at Moncton he cruised over the town and the eastern reach of the yards, careful not to linger over the huge bins of cargo, lest the security personnel think him of interest. None of the three landing lots outside of the yard were empty, so Roland touched down in a little clearing just to the southeast of Moncton. It was a beautiful spot, with orange fornulea flowers blooming along the edge of the woods. These reminded him of the e-letter backgrounds with scenes from Norris and Fadden. Roland noticed a line of cinnamon-trees and momentarily pulled off his mask to smell their aroma. They seemed to be everywhere on Efate, yet he never tired of their scent. Unhurried, Roland put on his jacket, being careful that the bottom did not get caught again.Moncton is arranged in a rectangle, with walkways between each structure and a small open landing-lot in the middle. Five of the structures are home to the various security, technical and administration personnel from the MSY. There is one emergency clinic, one chain-restaurant and three bars; Moncton has its priorities, after all. There are two hotels, one sharing a building with rental apartments and one of the bars. The other sat at the northern end of the rectangle. This building interested Roland but any possible investigation would have to wait at least until evening. There was another matter to take care of, something that needed verified before his task in Moncton could come to a resolution.Roland walked up to the bar to the left of the landing-lot. Though he had never before set foot in the bar, or in Moncton for that matter, he was sure of his decision to enter. As written across the front entrance port, this was the Marker-7, named after the beacon tower that came down when the yard was built. Roland entered and, once through the air cycle, removed his mask and had a seat at the bar. Two security personnel sat at a table near the entrance, their boisterous tone indicating that their work day had come to a close. Roland noticed the “MSY” on their uniforms. These two were local boys, probably from Farmsboro, no doubt recruited by the generic security company that watched over the less interesting lots at the yard. The two carried laser pistol sidearms in belt holsters and both sat with their backs to the entrance and the outside window. They had been drinking heavily, but even without the liquid handicap Roland questioned their ability to burn a target.A third patron was sitting against the right wall, turned in his booth so that his right could freely move under the table, and his left was against the cushioned rear partition of the cube. He was having a whiskey but didn’t seem at all dulled by its embrace. Obviously in his late 30’s or early 40’s, his red hair was thinning and his lean face showed a history of hard times. Based on his clothing he must have been some form of administrator or wealthy traveler. Roland immediately read a less bureaucratic, far more belligerent past from the man’s body language. Mentally he created a hypothetical scenario in which a firefight began, right then and there. Even if the two security guards got the drop on him, even if the bartender drew a gun, the most important first shot Roland could fire would be into the stranger against the right wall.The bartender stepped up to Roland’s section of the bar, and his question ended Roland’s amusing mind game. He was a large fellow, mid 20’s, probably serving as both bartender and bouncer, should that service ever be needed in this insignificant place. The only trouble he might be accustomed to would be unruly guards, and they’d be too terrified of getting fired to cause any but the lowest level of annoyance. He did appear accustomed to strangers passing through and his demeanor was cordial.“What would you like, sir?” the bartender asked Roland.Roland neither read the list of drinks on the wall nor brought one up on the holovid at the bar. He scanned the other postings for anything of interest, and looked at the bottles behind the clear plastic case. His decision made, he turned his attention to the bartender.“A shot of Wallock.” The bartender poured a little glass of clear whiskey. Roland nodded and thanked the bartender, then downed the shot. He placed three credits on the bar, stood up and left. Roland walked past the street window toward the Hotel Moncton to the north, then cut between two buildings and headed for the storage yard. There was a grove of trees and brush between Moncton and the eastern entrance to the yard. On the path among the trees Roland stepped off of the pathway and into the grass and weeds. He eventually made his way back to the field of orange fornulea where his g-car rested. He would have to wait two hours; from the “happy hours” posted in the bar, Roland knew exactly when the next shift ended. That was Calvin Roan’s shift and he would no doubt head straight to the Marker-7.Time crawled onward, and eventually the moment arrived. Roland retraced his steps through the copse of trees and returned to the Marker-7. The place was filling up with security personnel as well as three administrators. The interesting man had left. Roland did not sit at the bar, instead occupying the booth to the left of the one where the interesting man was sitting, and further from the window. He placed his order – another shot of Wallock – and occasionally glanced at the other patrons. Roan was not present, but there was no cause for alarm. The shift had barely ended and the drinks hadn’t yet raised the voices and laughter of the other guards.About the time the bartender served Roland his drink, Calvin Roan strode in through the air cycling portal. Roland recognized him immediately, though they had never met. His uniform bore the symbol of General Products Security; Roan was no amateur MSY-Sec* worker. Even had he not seen Roan’s personal files, Roland would have immediately sensed a more serious, more dangerous air about the man. His brown hair was thinning but he was still young, and in excellent physical condition. His round face possessed a boyish friendliness that contrasted the sharpness of his clear hazel eyes. Roland knew that Roan had been an Imperial Marine, and had seen one tour of combat duty in the Occupied Sword Worlds. He watched Roan walk up to the bar, verbally command a cold beer, and then sit at the table exactly opposite Roland’s. Roland smiled a little when he saw this; Roan had probably correctly assessed him when he passed by to the bar.(*Disparagingly called "Missy-Sec" by other, more professional security personnel.)When the drunken MSY-Sec guards reached their chaotic crescendo Roland seized the opportunity to approach Roan. Roan watched him approach and smiled with confidence. Roland liked this, and also respected Roan’s demeanor. The guard wasn’t full of shit after all; at that instant, Roland’s little mind game picked up again. Since the interesting man had left, now it would be Roan who would be his first target, should the hypothetical become reality. Roland sat at the booth on the seat opposite Calvin Roan.Roan was first to speak. “Now that we’ve discussed the weather, I’m going to make a wild-ass assumption. I'm givin' my ten-day notice tomorrow.”“Must be nice,” replied Roland. “Take a look.”Roan slowly pulled out a computer unit from his left hip pocket. Roland noticed that he made no sudden movement, which was smart. As good as he no doubt was, it was extremely unlikely that Roan could outdraw Roland Walsh.Calvin Roan pulled up his information, shot an eye over the little screen without expanding it out, then closed the unit and put it away. Roland detected a slightly surprised glimmer in Roan’s eyes.Roan took a long drink of his beer before speaking. He did not lean forward to whisper, nor did he change his voice. This pleased Roland; the noise of the patrons made their words inaudible and a laid-back posture would not arouse the interest of the bartender or the other drinkers.“Here it is. Bashaw’s in 55 at the Moncton, but seein' him there's not advisable. He’s here for a few days, and he’s real pissed about it. Seems there’s a lot he wants and, coincidentally,” Roan rolled his eyes, “it’s about to be sold, first come first serve. But he has to wait to make it look legit. Anyway, he brought a whore with him, and he’s been bangin’ her just outside the southwest angle in sight of the cargo he wants. Trouble is, it’ll go down in daylight, so you’ll have to be fast. During my shift is the best time. And before you do it, check out the patrol. If you see any guards, make sure they’re MSY. And if anyone sees you, bug out. Blow. We don’t want friendly casualties. You or us.” Roan hesitated a moment, waiting for any objections. When he saw there were none he finished. “Hope that’s worth your time.”Roland nodded. “Yes it is.” Roan stretched back into the soft seat cover of the booth. He brought up the holovid on the table and ordered another beer. Roland observed the crowd as he stood up, and then walked to the exit portal. The man who he wished to meet, “Bashaw”, was in reality Derrik Lang. Lang was a sleazy bookie who wanted a bigger role in the underworld and had with a modicum of success consolidated several other bookies and loan sharks under his control. Unlike wiser criminals, Lang allowed his initial success to grow into an invulnerability complex and this predictably led to heavy-handed extortion from local businesses. He was the boss of the now-deceased enforcer Htaohel and had recently expanded his extortion racket into Exeter. On the way he stepped on several toes, and provoked a rather high level of anger. Some of the aforementioned toes belonged to Winston Zhukovic, the last of the Witch Hunters. Winston’s friend Roland Walsh had come to personally deliver a message of dissatisfaction to the would-be Mafioso.It would be a long night in the cockpit of the Model 1340, but Roland was used to long nights in uncomfortable surroundings. He had been a spec warrior with over 16 years of combat experience. All of those years he spent in the Occupied Sword Worlds, Gram to be specific. Gram – widely known as the worst possible assignment in the worst possible war – had taught Roland well about strength, loyalty and perseverance. Gram had also taught him about pain, the likes of which he hadn’t thought possible, pain both physical and spiritual. Back at the clearing Roland climbed into his g-car, but not before enjoying a final waft of the cinnamon-trees.After a long while the patient orange sun of Efate became blood red, and began fading to the dark of night. It was nothing like the angry sun of Gram, almost seventy light years distant and always burning in the corners of Roland’s mind. The yellow-white light of that demonic furnace was like a powerful beacon shining upon a fugitive, just before the crack of the hunter’s killing shot. Every second of every day was the same, the hunters and the fugitives – often interchangeable – rushing to make that first strike. The Nippers hated them, but as long as Kong was in charge, the Imperials were just as likely to be hunters as fugitives. But then he was sent away, and the filthy bureaucrats took control. More precisely, they lost control. For Roland Walsh, and an ever-increasing host of others, the scars from that change would never heal.There was no forgetting 055-1391. On that day a young Roland Walsh first set foot on Gram. He knew the dangers of the atmosphere, how volcanic degassing created a generally unhealthy, and occasionally dangerous concentration of carbon monoxide. He knew that Gram was a relatively warm world, with some regions heavily populated, but he also knew that most of Gram had various degrees of wilderness and wasteland. His training told him that the enemy would lurk in those wastelands. He mustn't let his guard down in the towns and cities, however; the Nippers would also wage effective urban warfare. Although the instructors never mentioned the attitudes of the natives, an omission that both puzzled and troubled the young soldier, there were ample rumors about their untrustworthiness and outright treachery. Even Gram's untainted seas could be an enemy; there was a lethal hydrozoa that grew among the submerged rocks and grasses, and although no one could seriously believe it, some said it preferred stinging Imperials to natives.As a member of the 11th Special Operations Group, Lance Corporal Roland Walsh would not be stationed in Anglachel, home to the main starport of Gram as well as its largest city. Declared a “safe” zone, Anglachel was anything but, and in later years the bureaucrats would abandon the palace they had built in Hollyrow and reside in the lavish orbital station constructed and transported specifically for their comfort. But 1391 was still one of the “good years”, if any year on Gram or any other occupied Sword World could ever be called “good”. Kong was still ComPacFor-Gram, the war was still in the hands of the military men, and although there would be no love from the Nippers, there would at least be a grudging respect. After the Massacre of the Innocents it was all any Imperial could hope for.It was on that day that Roland met Lt. Col. Aden Fitzwilliam, commanding officer of the 11th SOG, the “Death Angels.” Fitzwilliam was originally from Jewell, but hadn’t seen that world in almost twelve years. He was a soldier’s commander, much like Kong, and as long as both ran the show a warrior would at least have the full support of the command. Years later Roland would find out how much that means, and how much they had lost when Kong and Fitzwilliam left the stage. Lt. Col. Fitzwilliam accompanied his men on almost every one of their extremely hazardous missions, his personal leadership saving them on many occasions, particularly on his last mission before finally going home. Roland was tempted to travel to Jewell and invite his former commander for a round of drinks, but he knew better. Fitzwilliam probably knew the truth, but others did not, and it would be detrimental to the retired colonel’s reputation to be seen with the likes of Roland Walsh. Roland would never visit such hardship on a person he respected.The bright sun of Gram pounded the Imperial Navy landing facility as the 11th SOG ship’s boat landed. Ormal the Nippers call Gram’s star, named after a lamp in an ancient Terran story, much as every damned light or mountain or slag heap in the Sword Worlds seems to be. Ormal is a powerful, relatively young star, a yellow-white F8V, and it is somewhat surprising that Gram is already a Terra-like world. Eventually the hyperactive volcanism on Gram will settle into a pattern similar to Terra and the carbon monoxide problems will become a historical footnote. That day is yet to come. On 055-1391, after ten days of particularly vigorous eruptive activity, the warning level was red and Roland was ordered to wear his filter mask at all times while out of doors. He knew that he and his compatriots would quickly depart Anglachel, boarding an Imperial Marine-model Grav APC, and a short distance from the ship’s boat it awaited. As he walked to the hovering vehicle he noticed in his peripheral vision a row of other APCs to his left. A quick glance turned into a stare as the sight made his scalp tingle. These were old Astrins, emblazoned with the sunburst and rapiers of the New Worlds forces. At least, they must have been, because he could still see the symbol on four of the six. The once-proud blazons of the other two had been burned away by plasma or fusion fire. Each of them bore the deep scars of heavy combat, and although Roland had no way of knowing who held the day, these six could not be counted among the victors. They were hulked machines awaiting evacuation for repair and rehabilitation on Adabicci. Roland's attention returned to the undamaged APC as he kept walking. Just before entering the grav carrier, he looked back in time to see two inspectors, one standing near the final machine on the right, the other emerging from the side of a badly burned APC. As he climbed from the wreck he shouted to his coworker, just loud enough over the din to be audible.“There’s still flesh in this one! Those fuckin’ assholes didn’t scrub it!”Roland broke his trance and glanced down at the instrument panel. He reached to his right and set the wake-up alarm. Most likely he didn’t require its services, but Roland Walsh was always thorough. Task complete, Roland decided to suppress further memories and concerns, and in minutes he drifted off to sleep.The morning sky was bright but unsettled, with clouds increasing to the west and a mackerel sky foretelling a rainy evening. As he expected, Roland woke just before the tone of the alarm. He looked outside the windows and, once he was reasonably convinced that he was alone, took a drink from a bottle of pomegranate soda he had bought back in Crown City. There was a little disinfectant unit in the rear storage, and he removed a towel from inside. His face refreshed, Roland was wide awake, and after donning his filter mask he grabbed a small bag from the rear storage and departed the g-car. Outside, he put on his green jacket and began his trip to the MSY.This time Roland would not pass through Moncton. While traveling back to his g-car the day before, he observed the terrain to the south. It was relatively thick woodland and would easily mask his approach. Once at the southwest angle of the storage yard things might get more complicated. The forest was cut back to prevent thieves and vandals from approaching too close. There was no doubt an observation tower; Roland imagined there’d be a guard there. He may have to wait. He may even miss this opportunity, having to return without delivering the message. No matter; someday soon Mr. Lang would know what it meant to upset Roland Walsh.Derrik Lang did not disappoint Roland; his silver-and-gold colored grav car, a custom Arshirum “Velorum-5”, sat about 20 meters out from the southwest wall of the MSY, within the perimeter anticipated by Roland and about 30 meters from the wood’s edge. The front and side windows were darkened, and the rear was probably the same. That was meaningless to Roland. His message could be delivered through tinted windows and metal frames. He looked over the MSY; indeed there was a guard tower, but no other signs of life among the huge metal crates. Roland emerged from the wood and walked toward Lang’s g-car. If Lang saw him, he might flee. While on Gram Roland had witnessed many scrubbed missions; he had learned to be patient and never doubted that he would meet Derrik Lang again. It was possible that Lang would panic and open fire. Roland actually desired this. He knew enough about Derrik Lang, “Bashaw”, and with or without his thugs the petty crime boss did not impress Roland.When Roland was about 10 meters from the g-car, the left door hatch hissed and with a soft click began to open. Roland instinctively dove to the short grass and rolled to his left, drawing his gauss pistol as he did so. If Lang was emerging to do combat, Roland would use the body of Lang’s own car against him. If Lang had not seen him, but was exiting for some other reason, Roland would be shielded from view by the Velorum-5. Roland lay flat against the grass, staring across the hood of the g-car, his gun trained upward toward the left side of the vehicle. Thus far there was no interruption from the MSY; if there were guards in the tower, they did not betray their presence. Perhaps Roan was one of them.Lang soon solved the mystery of his exiting the g-car. The crime boss was large and muscular, at 45 years of age he was still physically very powerful. His long black hair was too youthful and thick to be genetically natural; if he could afford a Velorum-5 he could easily pay for genetic hair treatment. Lang closed the hatch and took a few steps out from the car. He wasn’t wearing a filter mask, which told Roland that he had no intention of spending much time out of the vehicle. That or he wanted to get high, which Roland doubted. Lang took a few steps out from the g-car, away from Roland. He was wearing boxer shorts and a white sleeveless shirt. There was no gun to be seen. Roland stood up into a crouching position, his gun trained on Lang, and he crept first toward the car, then toward Lang. He stopped when Lang stretched and brought his hands down in front of him. It was possible that Lang had a body pistol concealed in his shorts. Roland increased pressure on his trigger. The reason for Lang's movement was less menacing, however; it became obvious when a stream of urine shot down to the earth.Roland seized the moment and charged forward. If there were thugs inside the car, they would no doubt come to their master’s aid, but Roland wasn’t concerned with that at the moment. Once he dealt with Lang, anyone exiting the car would do so at their own peril. About 5 meters from Lang, Roland stopped and stood up. The minor criminal continued urinating. It was then that Roland delivered his message.The high-explosive armor piercing needle that entered the back of Lang’s head exploded inside his skull. The front and middle of his head disintegrated in a spray of brain matter, shattered bone and genetically-enhanced hair. His lifeless corpse fell to its knees then keeled over into the grass. Roland spent no time examining his foe; he immediately turned back toward the g-car. There was no movement from within. Roland hazarded a quick look at the MSY. There was no one present to witness the death of Derrik Lang, nor did any sign of life come from the tower. Roland was not satisfied that the deed was done however. One of Lang’s associates, even the whore, could be inside the car, waiting for Roland to leave. Then they would attack, perhaps striking him with the prow of the grav vehicle. Roland approached the car, walking in an arc toward the rear.At the rear of the car he removed a small black object. There were three small recessed buttons on the flat, box-shaped device, and he pressed them in a meaningful sequence before sliding off a rear panel and applying the now-adhesive bottom onto the rear of the Velorum-5. Roland backed away from the g-car, looked once more toward the MSY, and unfastened his left jacket pocket. As he turned to step away, he put his left hand into the pocket and placed his fingers around a small remote control.He hadn’t taken two steps when the door began to open again. Roland turned toward the car and stepped to his left, the gauss pistol aimed toward his anonymous enemy. Roland withdrew his left hand from his pocket and reinforced the pistol. In any case, he was too close to safely detonate the bomb. When the door flung open, it was no thug or bodyguard emerging to do battle; he could see the terrified face of a girl inside the g-car. She stared at him, her face wincing and her hands held up toward the roof. Carefully, Roland Walsh approached the frightened girl, constantly aware that she might be considering something rash. When he arrived close to her he looked into her shallow green eyes. A primitive animal panic greeted him. She looked up into his steel-gray gaze. Her lips trembled and for a moment it seemed she would wither away. This whore, Lang’s whore, was not physically unattractive; she was blonde, possibly from birth, in her early twenties, and her lingerie revealed a toned, feminine body. But the fact that she laid with that creature, for money or power or a thrill, made her utterly repulsive. She reminded Roland a little of the younger of his two sisters, the one long gone. Never taking either his eye or his gun off of her, Roland reached back and removed the little black bomb from the rear of the g-car.Inside the Section 12 guardhouse a young MSY-Sec rookie was reading an h-book when his ears caught a muffled popping sound. He instinctively looked up at the superior officer standing in front of the south-facing window. The officer, a powerfully-built ex-Imperial Marine with a boyish face, did not turn to look out of the window. Instead, he continued sipping his coffee as he perused a list of football scores.“Mr. Roan. Mr Roan?”The officer glanced up at the boy. “Hmm?” It was more a statement than a question.“Sir, there was a popping sound…”The General Securities veteran replied, “It’s just ‘22481,” he gestured toward the window, “some shit from Forboldn we’ll never get rid of. Their metal bolts can’t take the strain”There was a pause, and the MSY-Sec guard went back to reading. A second pop startled him again, and he briefly looked at Roan before glancing down toward the window. Roan never diverted his eyes from the little computer’s holoscreen. The veteran’s nonchalance reassured the novice, and he returned to his mystery novel.After a brief stop at his apartment in the Cinnamon Park cartier of Crown City, a quick shower and a change of clothes, Roland set out on foot for the grav bus station on the corner of Gavin and Childs*. The bus was full of workers heading across the River Ceres to Tesla. Although Roland did debark in that ancient cartier, Tesla and its converted apartment buildings was not his final destination. He took the Stewart Street footway parallel to the west, and into the heart of Exeter, home to some of the most advanced electronics of the entire Restored Third Imperium. The strange Silent Town subdivision of Exeter was also home to Winston Zhukovic, the last of the Witch Hunters and close personal friend of Roland Walsh.(*Not streets in the low-tech sense of the word; these are named footpath demarcations between two cartiers – boroughs if you will – in this case, between Cinnamon Park and Tanoliu.)_________________Kong: Lt. General Ben Kongvorr, Imperial Marines (ret.); a vargr from Porozlo.ComPacFor-Gram: Commander, Pacification Force – GramNipper: Imperial slang for a Sword Worlds guerrilla.Massacre of the Innocents: Incident that took place on Gram / Sword Worlds, on 206-1385. In the tiny town of Slavica, on the southernmost continent of Erdin (a particularly hostile place for Imperial forces), a patrolling Imperial Army unit (from Tanoose) came under sniper fire, which claimed the life of an infantry major. In retaliation, the Imperials forced local civilians into the center of the town, ostensibly to search them for weapons. Instead, the Imperials opened fire, killing over 300 men, women and children. Called the Battle of Slavica by the Imperials, the Sword Worlders refer to it as the Massacre of Slavica or the Massacre of the Innocents. The uproar from this battle put pressure on Mora, and eventually led to the sacking of ComPacFor Lt. General Shukar Arshuzan and the court-martial of the senior officer responsible. Moran hesitation and the subsequent acquittal of the senior officer further enraged the Sword Worlders and estranged many Imperials and New Worlders (settlers to the occupied Sword Worlds). Into this seething cauldron came Lt. General Ben Kongvorr, who from 1386-1398 exceeded all expectations in furthering the rational goals of the occupation, but who clashed repeatedly with Mora and the bureaucrats, and eventually was forced to resign. “Kong” was perhaps the last hope for some sort of victory in the occupied Sword Worlds; that hope, and all the gains from his tireless labors, are now long gone.
Posted by David H. at 6:54 AM
Friday, April 27, 2007
403
Aleem Shimish was gone, his body incinerated in the heavy burst of plasma and the subsequent ferocity of the tower fire. The body of Andrea Scopoli lay on the tarmac, bathed in the glow of the fires and surrounded by the blood flowing from his shattered head. Renny saw Sligo rewrapping his wounded arm. The combat environment suit didn’t faze the ACR round. He noticed his commander’s glance and gave the ancient thumbs-up of optimism. Combat mission 403 might be logged as a success in some bureaucrat’s e-book but Renny knew better. Once this battle was verifiably completed he would feel the anger and pain of the loss. He would feel the outrage over the murder of his brothers, not by the Nippers, but by the desk humpers.After 402 battles, some relatively minor (if that can be said of any deadly circumstance) and some truly apocalyptic, no commander worth his salt can feel any relief until every soldier debarks from each grav APC back at the Wasp Nest. And since Renny still stood in the flickering shadows of a chewed-up spaceport that just 30 minutes ago was subject to a whirlwind of gunfire, he could permit no lessening of anxiety. The forest around was no longer silent. Insects crept from tiny shelters and began to chirp. The ubiquitous thistle-frogs started whooping again. If the Nippers haven’t bugged out, they were lying low for a reason. Just maybe the bark of the plasma bazooka startled them a bit.Renny did not then know that the Sword Worlds fighters had indeed departed the battlefield. The charred wreck of Spaceport Avery had not changed hands in spite of massive failures of the high command. Time now ground to a veritable halt. The battle had nearly exhausted all ammunition; A.J. Hesling suggested scrounging for more Nipper ACRs. Renny queried Damian Udeanu about the promised cavalry relief force. There followed a pause that rendered his explanation unnecessary. Finally he spoke.“Commander…Commander the orbital cavalry are not coming. ComSubsec Gram says we’re to hold until morning.”The sad, frustrating dream now takes its final, malevolent turn.Renny gnashed his teeth. The sickening, heavy feeling welled up in his stomach. In his mind dear Andrea Scopoli talks about his home Lunion, just three days ago and still on this side of the inseparable chasm. Suddenly a giant unseen fist slammed Renny’s body to the hard ground with a force unlike any his shaken bones had ever felt. It was so powerful that he no longer felt anything. Not content to torture his flesh, the force also robbed him of his ears. It will be days before he can hear again. One thought echoes in the captain’s rattled mind, just a single outcry. So long as he lives, the commander must lead his brothers. With immense effort Renny rolled onto his back and twist his head toward the warriors on the left flank.The grav bike so recently used for shelter by Mother Hubbard was burning; he lay alongside, either wounded or dead. A small brushfire burned around Steve Gilbert’s sniper nest. Renny could not see him, but he desperately tried to crawl to his brother-in-arms. If he is unconscious, thought Renny, he may burn alive. Then Renny realized that he could not move, nor could he hear or even cry out. He could only stare in anguish. The thought of everyone dying briefly poisoned his reeling mind.At first it was a gnawing in his back. Within minutes, a fire deep inside his body ignited his bones and muscles and the once consuming numbness became steady agony. A fierce voice in Renny’s soul yelled back at the pain, a voice that demanded an attempt to save his fellow soldiers. He desperately, and unsuccessfully, attempted to crawl toward Hubbard and Gilbert. Movement from just around the vehicle hangar fixed his gaze. Ted Ruumshik and Ozfael Zelruts charged forward, Ted hopping in the grass toward Gilbert, and Ozzy blazing toward Hubbard. The first spark of joy rose in Renny’s tortured mind as Hubbard waved his hand. Then Renny realized that Hubbard was gesturing in his commander’s direction. No doubt he was suffering mightily, but with all his strength urged his savior toward his fallen leader. Ozzy quickly altered course toward his commander, who lay broken on the tarmac. It was then that Renny realized the depth of his wounds. He felt his own blood washing his tattered flesh. He looked up into the approaching face of Ozfael Zelruts. If he could have, he would have told Ozzy to go back to Hubbard.The scar of losing Shimish, Scopoli and Gilbert would have forever haunted Renny’s dreams. Although he was unaware at the time, the death of Steve Gilbert occurred almost exactly at the moment of his own ghastly wounding. The force of an exploding submunition tore away most of his head. Another submunition had targeted Mirdag Nulukin. Although far more fortunate than Gilbert, Mirdag lost his right eye in the explosion. Of course, Renny’s feverish mind still hoped beyond hope that only he and Hubbard were injured. Lying there in extremis, staring up into the nearby face of Ozzy, there was nothing more than hope. But no amount of pain or numbness could soften the horror that was about to transpire.There was no noise. Renny heard no scream. The ground shook with the explosion of a submunition not far from Gilbert’s nest. This Renny caught with his peripheral vision. This was the one that killed Ted, the man who saved over one hundred soldiers during his 386 missions with the 11th SOG. The thump stopped Ozfael in his tracks. He quickly twisted his body to look back toward Ted. His momentum carried him two steps closer to Renny. And then he was ripped apart.Blood, fragments of bone and splattered fur blew through his rent flesh and doused Renny’s immovable body. At least two fragments of the submunition, as well as a bone fragment from Zelruts’ spine, tore open his right cheek and forehead. Several more thumps rattled him and brought Renny closer to losing his emotions than he had ever been up to that point. He knew his brothers were dying, shredded by the horrible little beasts. Perhaps the Nippers gambled and threw some arty your way. But this was not their modus operandi; they would never risk heavy artillery on a burnt spaceport defended by fifteen spec warriors. The helplessness strangled his soul. Renny tried to cry out, to warn someone, anyone. His mouth, bloody with his own and Ozzy’s life fluid, could only hiss.Finally, mercifully, Renny lost consciousness. Perhaps he too was dying; if so, it would not come so peacefully. He was forced awake by vomit in his mouth. Renny agonizingly rolled on his side, then onto his stomach. Tilting his head, he looked to the left, consciously avoiding looking toward Zelruts, Ted and Hubbard. He was sure Hubbard was dead by now. And the sight of mangled Ozfael would bring him to tears.Fire seemed to be everywhere. Perhaps he would burn to death, unable to escape the heat. Renny’s mind could not seem to grasp reality. He faded again, only to awaken on his back. How he managed to roll he had no idea. Staring at the night sky, Renny fully expected the face of a Nipper to appear, followed by a full pardon, the only way that a Nipper would care to release an Imperial. But nothing greeted him, no muzzle, no flash in the dark that would end his torment. For what seemed an eternity he stared, occasionally startled by a flicker of flame light. An odd thought crossed his mind. Although he could not hear, he was sure the frogs were whooping again.Renny felt a hand upon his shoulder, but no face of death in his vision. It was Eingzhous. The blazing rage in his eyes dwarfed the flames that reflected there. He spoke something two or three times, and must have realized that Renny could not hear. He then did something unseen by Renny that eased the captain’s pain. No longer troubled by the agony, Renny passed out, and remained unconscious for several hours.
Posted by David H. at 9:27 AM
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Egyrn Subsector
II. Egyrn Subsector (Note: UWP is presented in pre-modified format)0902 Walei E7B4776-7 Fl 711Cs K3V M5V0909 Pa’an E649333-4 NiLoC1 A513Zc F3V M0Vref only (E649433-6 Z NiLoC1 R613Zh F3V M0V)1005 Gorgon E690264-6 DeLoNiEx R604Bs K3V1106 Belgard A671521-B M NiLoCp 102Bs K8V DA far companion1110 Velscur X674479-4 Ni 602Na F9V1201 Kaldamar E745325- 8 NiLo 603Cs F4V1202 Nabeth D52667A-9 S Ni 123Cs M4V1209 985-373 X775000-0 BaLoNi 020Na G6V M3V1305 Gollere D774756-8 Ag 720Na F5V1307 Ganulph X400000-0 BaLoNiVa R011Im M3Vactual X644000-0 BaLoNiPo R011Im K3V1308 Eleson E541100-A NiPoLo 923Bs F8V M2V1402 Selshor X4Ai500-1 NiPo Iceworld R913Na F6V M0V1410 Goria E522474-7 NiPo A800Na K0V1502 Carben X5555A9-2 AgNi R214Na K6V M9V1601 Ashley’s Rock D100220-6 I NiLoVa 114Na K0IV1602 T’yana D768752-9 S AgRi 200Cs G4V M2V1605 Vior X500000-0 BaLoVa 001Na M4V1608 Braudel X643300-3 LoNiPo R103Na K4VSubsector Notes:1. Selshor is usually noted on astromaps as X4A0500-1; however, the world is almost completely covered by ice (the only ice-free areas are zones of active volcanism). Refueling from the planet’s surface is strictly prohibited, and for all intents and purposes the hydrographic (free water) code is “0”. The inhabitants of this world are a bizarre alien race that has at times been dangerous.2. The RTI maintains a small naval supply base in the Ashley’s Rock system. This is located on an airless moon of the far gas giant and was built without the knowledge or consent of the population of the main world.3. With the coming of Virus, terrible tensions with the Zhodani, and the more or less forgotten status of the Outrim “Void”, the world 985-373 is a forlorn paradise. A private survey was completed in 1404 by the armed tramp liner/cargo ship Marion’s Star, a common denizen of the Egyrn and Pax Rulin subsectors (based out of Glisten, she hasn’t been there in over 65 years) and some indigenous biological samples were catalogued. This included several examples of the relatively common anagathic-producing rodent known from Vior and native to Bilke (0110 Trojan Reach).4. In 1366 the RTI declared the Ganulph system to be Imperial property and immediately announced that access would be strictly denied. A patrol of the red zone system is energetically maintained.5. Although Braudel is classified a red zone, it is not a dangerous world and most informed travelers in the outrim area know that there is no red zone patrol of the system. When encountered insystem, Imperial naval vessels have not interfered with landings on the world. Marion’s Star (see above) makes irregular stops here and contact with the natives is common.6. The terribly regressed colony on Vior died out circa 1320 / AD 5836 when the CO2 processor became saturated and, essentially, gassed them. The underground areas are to this day (1405/AD5921) NOT vacuum but are poisonous (CO2). The rodent scavenger with anagathic properties likewise disappeared from Vior, but was not native there; it has been rediscovered on 985-373 and Bilke (0110 TR), its probable homeworld.7. NOTE: Unknown to the RTI – The Zhodani have built a naval base in the Pa’an system (a system of 12 worlds) which includes mobile repair and overhaul facilities. High technology is accessible by natives but their own abilities are at TL6 although this will no doubt rise rapidly. It is possible that the Zhodani will upgrade the base to become a major facility. This dangerous world should be a red zone; the Zhodani will attempt to destroy any foreign ship that enters the system.
Posted by David H. at 6:31 PM
Pax Rulin Subsector
I. Pax Rulin Subsector (Note: UWP information is presented in pre-modified format)1801 Candia D4006A9-7 NaNiVa 803Im M2V M7V1810 Kydde D644874-6 S 304Cs F2V1906 Bantral C886589-A AgNiD:2 703Cs F5V2002 Kryslion C683AA9-D N Hi 720Im F6V2008 Orsasch D441364-9 M LoNiPoO:2108 423SF G1V2102 Cyan A6699A9-F B Hi 210Im F6V M7V2105 Berengaria A666644-C A AgNiRi 904Im F7V2108 Senlis A671633-B M Ni 710SF G6V2202 Doradon A400355-F A LoNiVa 500Im F3V2203 Perrior A633986-F N HiNaPoAn 430Im G2V2204 Pax Rulin A402530-F N IcNiVa 113Im M8III2304 Rhysk E413773-7 IcNa R713Im M1V M4V2306 Caraz D111959-C N HiIcInNa A222Im F7V M5V2309 Magen C543653-A M NiPo 102SF F9V2402 Thant CAC058A-C De A803Im A4V2405 Alexin A000420-F N AsLoNi 530Im F5VSubsector Notes:1. Pax Rulin is the site of a major shipbuilding facility and is HQ of the 1201st Reserve Fleet (Task Force Viper).2. Much of the infrastructure of the 1201st Fleet is located at Naval Strategic Reserve - Trojan Reach Alpha, located in the Caraz system. The activated ships are based out of Pax Rulin et al. Caraz itself is subject to very heavy navy activity and large sections of the system are strictly off limits.
Posted by David H. at 6:29 PM
Test Post
First post - testing the template.This internet page is dedicated to the science fiction game Traveller, in particular the Traveller: The New Era system. The subject matter will be specific to the 1400s campaign setting, including both technical information and stories, as well as general game information.
Posted by David H. at 11:31 AM
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Roland Walsh strolls down a narrow walkway through Exeter, on his way to the heart of Silent Town. He will make a short visit to Rustband, but then he’ll travel to the old cartier of McKenna, with its once-proud factories and offices now low-rent apartments and sleazy bars. With every step Roland feels the presence of his gauss pistol on his left hip, concealed by his jacket. The sun sets on another day on Efate, a deep red like blood, perhaps a sign of things to come.

A proud and excited Dakko Dzueren dresses in his finest ceremonial uniform. He carefully places his cap atop his head, ensuring a symmetrical resting place between his ears. Before leaving his quarters he shoulders his immaculate gauss rifle. Today he graduates OCS, and becomes an officer in the Suedzuk Nation’s Special Attack Force. Not six days ago was his 22nd birthday, yet he has already seen ten years of training. He yearns to bring glory to the Suedzuki and the Roth Thokken elders. They alone foresaw the coming of the Virus, and enabled the Suedzuk to protect themselves. They alone taught the Suedzuk vargr to be cohesive and to thrive. The glory age has come, and soon it will be time to show their ways to the other vargr brethren. At first they will resist, but Dakko Dzueren will help break that resistance to the true path. Soon there will be a time for war and Dakko knows he will make the elders proud.

Antarean sniper Meara Flanagan crawls through the thick vegetation to her vantage point on Arkalan Ridge, to the south of the Mikharun Massif and the Cauldron shield volcano. The sky is lit with flashes from an eruption column, but Lieutenant Flanagan’s sharp gaze is not drawn to the pyrotechnic display. She peers into the scope of her fusion sniper weapon, patiently observing the shadows and vegetation color patterns of the forest below the volcano. As she painstakingly surveys the lush forest, she notices a slight distortion among the sap-nettles and blue ferns. Her gloved right index finger increases pressure on the trigger.

Eingzhous Djeng closes his portable computer, the one he will leave behind on Regina. He has caused enough pain to his family with his presence. Through no fault of his own, he has become a pariah, a source of difficulty and financial loss to his siblings and relations. They have stood by him, each and every one, but he cannot bear to see them suffer. He has just finished his goodbye message and lays the computer conspicuously on his bed. They will find it the next morning. Eingzhous finishes a bowl of cold ale, and then walks out the door and down the steps to Gardiner Beach. From there he will travel to the main starport of beautiful Regina, where a passenger-cargo ship awaits. In his pocket is a one-way ticket to Efate. There he will plot a new course with his life, and will begin by meeting with his old friend and former commander Renny.

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Ultan
Image Test - Moruadh
The Return
Beast of Rath Bheagain
Kelpie
Amren's Loss

Relevant Media
A Dictionary of Irish Mythology by Peter Berresford Ellis
Appalachian Ghost Stories and Other Tales by James Gay Jones
Celtic Myths and Legends by T.W. Rolleston
English - Irish Dictionary by Tomás de Bhaldraithe
Foclóir Gaeilge-Béarla by Niall Ó Dónaill
Tales from Watership Down by Richard Adams
The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, and Ted Nasmith
The Telltale Lilac Bush by Ruth Ann Musick
"The Music of Erich Zann" by H.P. Lovecraft

Abhainn Mór
Abhainn Mór is a series of fictional stories based primarily upon Celtic myth and legend, with an emphasis on Irish mythology.

Victor Fornast 1827

Abhainn Mór

26.4.08

Banners - Part I

25.4.08

Abhainn Mór and Victor Fornast 1827 Archives

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