EóGAN I

  With a smile on his lips, Eógan watched as his cousins and cousins of cousins approached the grassy hilltop. He sat perched atop the Eagle stone, with his legs dangling and stared across the field at its sister, the Serpent stone.

  The wide circular clearing between the twin megaliths was warm to the touch and the grass never grew above knee height. Legend had it that a monstrous beast slept deep below. It was rare to see his people, the True Folk, gather in large numbers; such a congregation had not occurred since they united to battle the Giantkin, who had arrived in massive longships from the frigid north.

  Eógan’s ancestors had been the first to inhabit this land: living in harmony with the natural world. Centuries later a wave of colonizers arrived, a people known as the Gaídel. At first there was conflict between the True Folk and the Gaídel: both groups suffered and balance was forgotten. When times were the darkest, a hero named Lonceta emerged. Through her wisdom and ferocity she was able to unite Eógan’s people, leading the land back to balance.

  Lonceta spoke to the Gaídel King for ten days and ten nights. Finally a truce was struck to divide the western side of the land where the True Folk lived, from the east where the Gaídel built villages and woodenfortresses. As long as each people respected the sovereignty of the other, there was no conflict between them.

  An icy wind blew down from the dales and made Eógan’s woolen outer layer dance, revealing intricate and colorful markings on his skin. The True Folk bonded with animal spirits and bore tattoos that honored them, which imbued the host with much of the creature’s power. The serpent etched into Eógan’s left forearm uncoiled and emanated from his skin spectrally: testing the air nervously with a forked tongue, before flattening back into place.

  Old grievances were ritually addressed as estranged family and foes reunited. No blood was spilled on the wide flat of the summit, for as told by the elders, no blood could ever be spilled on this sacred site. Such a defilement could awaken the nightmare that slept beneath.

  Eógan admired his mother, who was dressed resplendently in furs. As always, she stood with her back straight, able to command attention and respect without uttering a word. His mother’s name was Aife, it was also known that she was the goddess Lonceta reborn. Those who had lost their way would mistakenly call her “King” or “Queen”, but to those who watch with eyes clear and guard that which must be hidden, she was “Mother.”

  Falcons pirouetted overhead, diving dramatically, making trails of blue woad vapor. Small pouches of powdered dye had been attached to their talons and now they painted the sky. Dogs loped about in packs under the watchful eyes of the hunters and warriors. “

  You should show the Eagle stone more respect than the dirty soles of your feet,” a voice called up to Eógan. Looking down, he saw Mael staring up at him with pursed lips. She was a childhood companion of his, despite being several seasons older than Eógan. She had recently joined a hunting pack and Eógan was eager to do the same.

  “My legs were starting to fall asleep anyways,” Eógan replied snidely, while Mael rolled her eyes. Eógan flipped backwards from the top of the tall Menhir and landed softly on his bare feet. “Ta da!” he exclaimed as Mael snorted.

  All at once there was complete silence, even from the animals. Eógan’s mother threw back her wolf-head hood and raised a hand to the sky. Even the wind stilled as she made her way to the center of the clearing between the standing stones. The eyes of her people were locked in rapt attention as they lined the circumference of the field.

  “We gather not in joy, but in sorrow,” Aife said in a whisper that carried across the open expanse like a winter wind: those in attendance shivered in unison. “The land sickens as poisons seep into its lochs, as trees are butchered, and the bones of the land ache as they are formed into mockeries of mountains. We have been visited by those from the east before, but the land has not spoken to me in such fear. The invaders adorned in metal will break the balance of the land, they seek to undo what has given us all life.”

  As a sea of somber faces watched Aife, one voice called out in response. “What should we do, Mother? How can we protect our kin?” Modwenna said as her long tangled white hair whipped in the wind. She was a shaman to Eógan’s people and cherished by all.

  “We join as one pack and we fight!” Aife responded and bared her teeth in a feral grin. Laughter and piercing war cries erupted around her as the smiling men and women stepped within the border of the wide circle and hefted their weapons to the darkening sky.

  ———

  Torchlight flickered and illuminated the outer pickets of the encampment of Jotman invaders. Cinoch smiled wolfishly, revealing red gums and brown teeth. The large warrior then cuffed Eógan roughly on the head. “You will be blooded yet pup, no more creeping about like grubs beneath a stone.” His breath was foul, it stank like that of a predator: raw meat and decay.

  Eógan’s mother Aife had called the clans together and united them into a war-band. Eógan was shocked when he was assigned to a raiding party led by Cinoch, he had assumed that he would remain by his mother’s side. The only familiar face known to him was Mael. They were joined by dozens of other warriors and Eógan could see that many of them had already begun disrobing for battle, carefully folding their simple clothes and tucking them away in the hollows of trees, or in the cracks between stones.

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  The True Folk fought naked, depending on skill and their animal spirits for protection. Cowards fought adorned in armor or carrying shields. The night air was crisp and the wind blustered, the pitiful screams of their enemies would be heard for miles.

  Eógan's people lived on the western side of this land, where it was untamed and still hallowed. The Hill of the Sleeper, where his mother had summoned the clans, was near a coastline of sheer cliffs dropping off into the sea, as far west as the world went.

  Eógan’s raiding party had started heading east when the moon’s face blessed them with her full attention. After crossing the bogs and lochs where the land was generous enough to shelter his people, they passed through the dense forest that marked the border between the True Folk and those who had lost their way. They slept while the sun rose high in the sky and traveled under the watchful moon, skirting the villages and the occasional walled fort of the Gaídel as they made their way far to the south and east.

  At first they shared the occasional meal with other raiding parties, but it had been many nights since they encountered other True Folk. Aife had shared her vision of wolves hunting in packs, each individual playing a role in distracting their prey before uniting to bring down their kill. The raiding parties were tasked with traveling deeply into the land the invaders defiled and striking as sudden as an adder.

  The moon’s face was turned slightly away, granting the True Folk warriors a veil of darkness, ideal for skullduggery.

  Eógan slipped off his woolen garments and folded the plaid with care, revealing the full extent of the markings on his skin. The snake coiled around his left arm rose up and extended her forked tongue, while her mate tightened around his right forearm, eager for battle. The female serpent tasted the air and sensed that there were many men in this encampment, as well as a few women and children. Geometric patterns swirled on his chest and thighs, while the owl guarding his heart studied a watchman making rounds on the outer perimeter of the invaders’ camp, making Eógan’s eyes keen in the night. The stag on his left knee cocked its antlers from side to side, as both he and his mate, the doe on Eógan’s right knee, were ready to run with unparalleled swiftness.

  All of the other warriors were similarly decorated in tattoos, each adorned uniquely with the spirits that guided them into adulthood.

  Cinoch walked directly through the other naked warriors and stopped, forming the point of the spear. The large bull on his chest flared its nostrils, breath steaming in the night, impatient for battle. The rest formed behind him in a wedge, placing the most inexperienced warriors like Eógan to the rear, both to keep them out of the way and to protect them.

  Cinoch threw his head back and roared at the moon. His blood-family, Drest and Ronnat, quickly joined him. Their howls warbled in and out of harmony with Cinoch’s baritone. Down the line the others answered the war-cry, each adding their own tone. With a piercing crescendo, they stopped in unison.

  In the eerie still that followed, even the crickets were silent.

  The encampment came alive with noise and motion. The True Folk feared no one, especially not those who cowered beneath clothes made of metal. Eógan looked forward to shepherding these lost children back to the womb, where they could be reborn and innocent once more.

  ———

  As the wedge shaped formation of True Folk charged towards the picket line of the invaders’ encampment, those in the wings broke off and flared out into a loose line. A wild smile lit across Mael’s face as she ran alongside Eógan. She pointed past the warriors defending the perimeter towards the rest of the camp, where the vast majority of the fighting forces were desperately trying to don their armor.

  At the same moment Cinoch and his warriors crashed into the line of armored soldiers, the True Folk keeping pace in the flanks bounded up and over the line of shields and spears. The sliver of a moon reflected off of the strange metal hats these tall foreigners wore as they craned their heads back in desperation and watched their assailants vault over their defensive line.

  With a crunch of bone and metal, Cinoch shouldered through their shield wall, sending men flying left and right. The claws of the lion covering Drest’s left side raked those made vulnerable by Cinoch’s charge, fending off any who dared try to close their ranks.

  Meanwhile, Ronnat decapitated a man with her sword as the wolf on her right arm disemboweled another, dragging entrails as she danced past.

  By the time Eógan reached the press, the thin shield wall was in disarray, punctured from within and behind. Many of the invaders broke and ran, but a handful drew together, interlocking their teardrop shaped shields, brave enough to embrace their fate.

  Mael eagerly took chase of the Jotman fleeing from the shattered shield wall. Suddenly the bass percussion of horse hooves shook the ground and Eógan wheeled to find heavily armored warriors bearing down upon them with long spearlike weapons couched under their arms.

  Many of the skirmishers ceased to chase down fleeing invaders or those who were still desperately trying to don their metal clothes, but a few were caught between the charging cavalry and the rest of the True Folk.

  Eógan watched Mael attempt to whirl out of the way, but she was impaled by a passing rider. The long spear was brought down by the weight of her body and caught in the ground, where it was abandoned. Mael’s eyes were wide in surprise as she hung limply, her hands briefly finding the shaft of the weapon before her movements stilled. The tusked boar that covered Mael’s back, bellowed mournfully and threatened all who neared her body.

  Eógan’s heart ached at the loss of such a dear companion, deepening his hatred of these invaders.

  Cinoch stepped away from Ronnat and roared a challenge at the rider who had slain Mael. The warrior cocked his ornate metal helm and drew a sword as he led his horse away from the rest of the cavalry, circling Cinoch. The rest of the True Folk scattered into a skirmish-line, nimble on their feet and bracing for the Jotman’s charge.

  Several of the horses reared up onto their hind legs at the sight of the snakes, bears and eagles that adorned and protected the True Folk, but the majority of the mounted warriors maintained control of their mounts as they bore down upon Eógan and his raiding party.