Song of Ireland by Juilene Osborne-McKnight

Author:Juilene Osborne-McKnight
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2012-06-07T04:00:00+00:00

The Plain of Mag Tuiread shimmered into view, morning sunlight pouring down among the stones.

“So we come to battle here again,” said Eriu. She was curled on the floor at Airmid’s feet, resting on a pillow, her back against the chair in which the Ancient sat.

The Ancient tousled her curls. “Always here, girl. You know that history repeats; it is as true for us as for every culture we have ever known.”

The Fomorian horde was gathered at the far side of the field, among them ten ancient, shrunken men dressed in the garb of much younger warriors. None of the other Fomor stood near them, as if they bore a disease that all could catch.

“So,” said Airmid. “They paid the price for entering Tara.”

“Rather for departing from it,” said Eriu softly.

The giant Balor stood at the head of the Fomorian army. He bristled with war armor, a huge two-horned helmet on his head, a giant war ax in his right hand. He was all hair and beard, black like some ancient animal. He had removed the patch from his eye and the cloudy blue-gray orb appeared luminous and large, terrifying in the morning light.

Beside him was Bres, dressed in the war garb of the Fomorians.

“False king,” he called out now, taunting Nuada. “A damaged man of the Danu. Ask to see his arm, Balor.”

Nuada said nothing. Slowly, almost gently, he removed the silver gauntlet from his hand. He held up his arm, whole in the light. He clenched and unclenched his fingers.

“You betrayed us,” he said. “I treated you ever as a brother.” Though his voice was soft, it carried across the field. He replaced the silver gauntlet, pulling it on like a glove.

“No brother to those who did not want me.”

“Bres is ours!” cried Balor.

“Bought and paid for!” cried Dagda. “What did it take, little halfling? Wine, women, treasure?”

Bres had the good grace to lower his eyes.

Dagda stepped from behind Nuada, his own arm clad in silver. The Danu ranged up beside the two, holding their Light Spears. “Know this, men of the north!” Dagda cried. “This day we will defeat you. This day you will sail to the north from whence you came. For a thousand years hence, you will whisper of the little people of the Danu. You will fear to return among us. This day you will return our people to us!”

“Do you mean these?” cried Balor. More than a dozen Fomorian warriors stepped forward. Each held a leash in his hand, dragging at its end a Danu captive. Men, women, children, some of them so small that they did not reach even to the knees of their Fomorian captors. The Fomor held the little people before them, using them as human shields.

An uneasy shifting moved through the Danu.

“Come, Nuada Argetlamh!” called Bres. “Unleash your weapons now.”

“We will hit them,” Nuada whispered to Bres. “What course now, Brother?”

Suddenly there was a blast of sound and light from the rear of the Fomor company, followed by an unearthly scream of pain.

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