Howls From the Dark Ages by Christopher Buehlman & Solomon Forse

Author:Christopher Buehlman & Solomon Forse
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HOWL Society Press
Published: 2022-05-10T04:00:00+00:00

Just over here and see the next artifact. Now this is a classy little goblet, made of gold and engraved with such delicate skill. This item was found in Scotland, can you imagine what manner of lord may have used this to celebrate with? Or was it used in a time of mourning and despair? Do you think the lord’s cup runneth over, Dear Visitor, and if so—with what?

The Lady of Leer Castle

Christopher O’Halloran

“The devil can have the Scots, the English, and every other bastard with a boat,” roared a large woman. The MacMahon mercenary pounded the haft of her axe on the oak table stretching along the hall. “Ireland belongs to the Irish, and I don’t give a damn if our ancestors shagged the same women!”

The soldiers at Domnall’s table gave a rousing cheer, bumped chests, and clapped shoulders fondly. Their tunics—uniform in their brown stains—made one undulating, joyous mass. Some of the brown was mead, but more was dried blood. Of their friends, yes, but of their foes in greater quantities.

The mercenaries from Clan MacMahon were brutal and effective. Hired by Clan Canain to defend the territories to the north of Leer Castle from Edward Bruce and his ‘liberating’ Scottish army, they fought for the promise of moderate wealth and a feast cooked with such rare spices as pepper, saffron, and ginger. Meats roasted in honey, tenderized with vinegar.

The scent of sweat and blood filled the hall. A modest fire crackled in the hearth, but the heat of the packed bodies did more than enough to turn the air stifling.

Domnall turned away smiling. His brother sat at the head table, glowering as usual. The man had cleared his home of invaders. What would it take to finally put a smile on his face?

When Domnall turned back to engage with his men, he caught Breccan watching him.

“How long is your brother going to keep us waiting?” Breccan asked. “My guts are in upheaval, and I’d like to see if these dilled veal balls are as satisfying as you claim.”

As brother of the chief, Domnall Ó Canain wasn’t required to fight alongside the soldiers, but he had made quick friends with the freckled mercenary Breccan and was loathe to see him off. Growing up in Leer Castle, Domnall knew how to fight—had been taught at his father’s heavy hand. Staying behind would provide him safety, but what else?

Nothing beautiful came from safety.

“Hunger is the greatest spice, my friend,” answered Domnall. He couldn’t help but beam at Breccan. Domnall’s affinity for the MacMahon mercenaries had grown strong over their trials, but Breccan shone like a midnight torch—and kindled in him the fires of a hundred. Something about his green eyes, his fair, freckled skin. His light brown hair falling to his shoulders.

There was a leaf caught in his locks. Domnall nearly mentioned it but held his tongue. It introduced a delicacy to the man who had sliced his way from one end of a glen to the other.

“Friend?” asked Breccan, smiling. His eyebrow lifted.

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