Kenneth C. Flint - Gods of Eire 03 - Master of the Sidhe UC

Book One

THE BATTLE FOR EIRE

Chapter One THE STRONGHOLD

A hundred torches and a large central fire filled the great hall of Tara with

a ruddy glow. It fluttered nervously in the fretful gusts of autumn wind that

batted at the fortress hill of kings.

The many wavering lights cast multiple shadows of the thick roof pillars

against the outer walls of the immense circular room. They created patterns

that writhed and altered constantly in a grotesque dance whose music was the

keening of the wind itself.

Not many days before, the hall had been the scene of a victory celebration,

filled with the rejoicing people of the Tuatha de Danann. Now, no Bards sang,

no harps played, no ale was passed. The long tables ranged about the fire pit

were empty. The hall of Tara was deserted except for a single group of men

gathered on the dais of the High-King.

Some fifty men were on this royal platform, seated or standing around the

table where the High-King and his champions sat when feasting. They made a

spot of brightness in the gloom of the cavernous space, a grand collection of

colors and textures in the tunics and woolen cloaks, the finely wrought

brooches and sword hilts of the chieftains, the multihued robes and golden

tores of the Druids. All were intent upon the large chart of the island called

Eire spread out upon the planks.

Nuada, High-King of the Tuatha de Danann clans, stood over it. The firelight

painted the strong features of his long face in broad, emphatic strokes of

light and dark, turning his eyes to flames gleaming in the deep shadows behind

his shaggy brows. He indicated locations upon the chart with the slender,

glinting point of his own sword as he spoke, his voice booming hollowly in the

vast space.

"Our rising against the Fomor has succeeded—so far. We've broken their

companies at every place they've tried to

4MASTER OF THE SIDHE

stand." The sword tip touched lightly at several points across the upper third

of the isle. "Now they seem to have given up resistance altogether and are

fleeing toward the north."

He lifted his gaze and cast it around at the circle of stolid faces. The

gathered leaders were of a type with their king, long-featured, intense, tall

and lean of body, golden-haired. And the eyes of all glowed alike with

victory.

"But we mustn't be too ready to believe we've won yet!" he cautioned them

sharply. "Until the Fomor are defeated totally, their last warrior driven from

Eire, we'll not be done with them or properly revenged for the years we lived

as their slaves!"

There were murmurs and nods of agreement at that. None there had not felt the

cruelty of the Fomor, and none underestimated the brutal power of that enemy.

"Our scouts have told us that right now they're gathering," he continued. His

sword point stabbed down into the chart, impaling a spot on the northern

coast. "Here. Their last and largest city in Eire."

He looked to the others again, his voice taking on a grim intensity. "I don't

have to tell you that if they choose to stand against us there, the battle

will be a long and bloody one. There'll be no making peace. The Fomor will

have their backs to the sea and they'll fight with the savageness of the

beasts they are."

One of the warriors exchanged looks with his fellow chieftains, then spoke in

reply.

"My King, our people are ready. They are armed and trained and their full

strength is restored to them. They want nothing more but to finish this war

and have Eire at last!"

The High-King nodded. He had expected nothing else.

"Very well. Then be prepared to march. We have had word from the Fomor that

they will accept a truce and discuss terms of surrender. Lugh Lamfada and our

other comrades have agreed to go to their city and meet with them. But if they

refuse to make terms, we will have to fight."

"I hope our friends survive," said a cunning-looking little Druid who sat

beside the king. "The Fomor are treacherous."

Nuada's expression gave way to a grin at that.

"Findgoll," he replied, "knowing Lugh and his company as we do, I think it's

the survival of the Fomor we should be wondering about."

THE STRONGHOLD 5

The little band strode purposefully down from the last high ridge of hills

toward the Fomor stronghold. It lay far below, at the base of a wide trough of

land that ran to the sea, a square patch of filthy linen dropped on the soft

green plain along the shore.

It was an odd collection of people who now approached this goal, although the

couple who led it did little to create this impression. They seemed a quite

pleasant, harmless sort of pair. The young man was cleanly and boldly

featured, his fair hair swept casually back in a thick wave, while the woman

had an open, guileless face accentuated by large, bright green eyes and a fine

dusting of freckles across her small nose and high cheeks. There was nothing

about them to suggest that he was Lugh Lamfada, Champion of the de Dananns and

she the veteran warrior called Aine.

It was the three who followed them who created the air of strangeness.

One of this trio was the Dagda, most powerful of the de Danann's warriors, He

was an enormous man, with a body hard as bog oak and a face like a rocky cliff

softened and seamed by years of Eire's rain,

Beside him strode Morrigan, another woman, though this was barely discernible.

Her lean body was closely furled in a black cloak, and her glowing blue-black

hair was pulled back tightly, emphasizing the gauntness of her face.

On the Dagda's other side loped the one known as Gilla the Clown. A baggy,

battered cloak of faded stripes billowed around his long, loose-jointed frame.

Outsize shoes flapped loudly on his feet. A tangle of beard and hair masked

all of his face save for his eyes, his nearly constant grin, and the tip of a

long nose that jutted from the growth as if striving desperately for air.

As the five drew nearer to the Fomor city, the patch of linen began to resolve

itself into separate buildings, tiny squares of dirty white set in rows,

dividing the whole area into exact sections. All was shrouded by a thick

yellow-gray haze that hung low above it.

Something swooped suddenly down from the sky and directly at the travelers. In

a flurry of wings it swiftly checked itself and settled to a landing on the

arm Lugh lifted toward it. It was a small falcon, and it ruffled its feathers

in a nervous gesture as it turned a sharp gaze toward the young warrior.

"I've been over it, and I don't like it at all." the birr!

6MASTER OF THE SIDHE

announced in a sharp, uneasy voice. "The look of the place is bad enough. But

the smell!"

This talking bird was in fact a Pooka, one of that extraordinary family of

beings who could assume any shape at will except that of a human.

Lugh had to admit the Pooka was certainly right. Even at this distance the

breeze off the sea managed to waft the awful stench of the city up to them. It

was most reminiscent of something long dead left under a hot sun.

"I don't much like it either, Shaglan," Lugh told the Pooka firmly, "but it's

my feeling that we must do this. We can't let the bloodshed continue if there

is any possibility this can be settled peacefully. If Bres is willing to talk

with us, we have to try convincing him to surrender."

"Well, it's the maddest thing we've ever done," the Dagda growled. "And going

in there without my war-ax, I feel like a naked babe in a wolves' den!"

He wasn't alone in that feeling. None of the party carried sword, spear, ax,

shield, or any other weapon, as a condition of the truce with the Fomor.

The outer limits of the city were just ahead now. The roadway they followed

entered it through a break in a row of close-set square buildings. At their

approach, a group of figures moved into this opening and stopped, blocking the

way.

"Our welcoming party," Lugh commented, examining them with interest. "Who are

they?"

"It's the Serpent's Head Clan," the Dagda supplied. "One of the hardest in the

Fomor companies. Very difficult to

kill."

They were all tall and cylindrical in body, well-muscled, and wiry in build.

The blood relationship was clear in the facial characteristics that had given

them their name. Their heads were flat and broad, nearly without chins or

foreheads. Most were bald. Their eyes protruded from the sides of their heads

and their noses were only thin, moist, pulsing slits above wide, lax mouths.

"A lovely family, they are," Gilla told the Dagda cheerily, drawing only a

glare from his large companion.

As the little band came to a halt, one of this clan moved forward. One side of

his face was covered by a scabrous mass of dead white tissue, leaving him only

one eye. But this protruded so far from his head that he could direct it

forward

THE STRONGHOLD 7

or backward. He lifted a heavy, barbed spear before him and challenged the

arrivals in a low, lisping voice.

"Are you the ones come to see King Bres then?"

"We are," said Lugh.

"Are you unarmed, as agreed?"

"We keep our bargains," the Dagda told him irritably.

The single eye swiveled toward him. "We'll see," the Fomor said. "Let's have a

look."

Reluctantly, Lugh and the Dagda pulled back their cloaks so the clan leader

could peer about for hidden weapons. Gilla the Clown readily lifted the skirts

of his voluminous coat and smiled his most inane smile. The Fomor passed him

over quickly as an obvious lunatic. Morrigan unwrapped her cloak to reveal a

gaunt but sinewy body that the searcher found amusing. He turned to his

companions.

"Look at this one. All bones, she is."

She fixed him with the glittering stare of a raptor spotting prey, but made no

reply.

With Aine, the Fomor suddenly grew much more interested. For she threw back

her coat to expose a woman's form that belied her girlish look. And the short,

belted tunic that she wore did very little to disguise it.

"Well, well!" the Fomor said. "This is better! This one will take a bit more

searchin'."

He started toward her, hands out, saliva dribbling from the corner of his

sagging mouth. Aine stepped back, warning him in sharp tones: "Keep back,

snake, or I'll pop out that only eye of yours!"

He laughed and kept moving forward, but in another instant he was on the

ground, rolling about, screaming, flailing wildly to drive off the attacking

falcon that had launched itself upon him.

"Get it offl Get it offl" he wailed, trying to keep the tearing claws away

from his eye.

"We're here under a truce to see Bres," Lugh told him coldly. "Leave off your

games and take us to him now!"

"I will! I will!" the hapless being promised. "Just get the bird offl"

"Bird!" Lugh said simply, and the falcon instantly broke off its attack and

flapped back to his arm.

The disheveled warrior got up, eyeing the falcon warily.

"All right then," he said sullenly. "Follow me."

They moved after the Fomor, passing the outer line of

8

MASTER OF THE SIDHE

buildings. Beyond it they entered one of the city's main thoroughfares and

found it a scene of confusion and horror.

The street was congested with uncountable milling Fomor. The appearance of the

beings who made up this close-packed mass made the Serpent's Head Clan seem

almost pleasant in comparison. For the Fomor of Eire were a people doomed to

bear the burden of an ancient curse, and its mark was clear upon them. Each

one was touched by it in face or form, and

some in both.

Backs were twisted, shoulders bent, limbs stunted or distorted into gnarled

claws or clublike hooves or webbed fins. Some lacked arms or legs altogether

and made do with crude substitutions of metal and wood.

The faces were of a variety that a human might find in only the deepest and

most perverse of nightmares. The greatest number were victims of malformations

that gave them the look of beings other than man. Sea creatures seemed to

predominate, with an abundance of popping eyes, pulsing gills, and hairless

faces lacking ears or noses. Reptilian characteristics were also much in

evidence in squat, toadlike heads and drooping mouths. And there were some who

simply lacked the essential parts to make up any kind of face, though most of

these wore face coverings to hide what even their own brethren couldn't

stomach.

It was altogether as if some particularly malicious creator had poured their

essences into the cauldron of life with those of whatever loathsome creatures

could be found, given them a vigorous stir, then poured out the resulting

mixture

haphazardly.

Still, for all the terrible nature of their deformities, there was nothing

pitiable about the Fomor, and there was certainly nothing weak. They were hard

and ruthless warriors, heavily armed, more than able to cope with and even use

their handicaps to their advantage: their awful appearance had long served to

intimidate their enemies.

But now, for the first time in their memories, they had met defeat, and it had

sent them all here, to this final refuge. The influx of hundreds of Fomor from

all of Eire had created a situation of overcrowding and disorder. Many

arguments, scuffles, and outright fights with weapons were taking place among

the violent beings. And at one spot a dozen warriors were engaged in a bloody

melee over a pile of booty looted from the once-enslaved de Dananns.

THE STRONGHOLD

9

The dreadful nature of the beings was only intensified by the loathsomeness of

their setting. Lugh and his companions walked a street turned to an open sewer

by refuse, past alleyways clogged with mounds of trash. They breathed a heavy,

smoky air made foul with the odor of rot.

Still, it was clear that there had once been a much different intent for this

city. Each of the structures the band passed was neat, square, and built of a

once-white, once-smooth material. Row upon row of them were laid out in

regular intervals, divided evenly by cross streets forming precise right

angles. Obviously, a systematic and highly disciplined mind had been behind

the creation of such a place. And, just as obviously, that mind had long been

lost to the previous occupants.

The little group of visitors stayed very close together as the escorting

serpent-headed warriors led them inward, past block after block of the

identical buildings. They searched about them constantly for any sign of

trouble, but the Fomor seemed little interested. Beyond casting an angry look

or derisive word at them as they passed, the warriors did nothing to hinder

them. The truce was apparently in effect.

As they moved ever deeper into the heart of the city, a change became evident.

The buildings were becoming progressively larger, stretching upward to two,

three, and finally four stories. Girths increased in proportion until whole

blocks were filled by just a pair.

Their height and their closeness to the avenue created a canyon effect,

casting a deep gloom below. It was an unpleasant reminder to the visitors of

how far they had penetrated the enemy's camp and how vulnerable they were

there. Lugh looked about him at the looming walls and felt a twinge of

misgiving. Had the Dagda been right? Had they finally taken a risk too great,

gone too far?

But then he saw the broad, absurd grin Gilla was directing at him. As so often

before, the peculiar Clown's presence was enough to restore the young

Champion's confidence and renew his zeal for adventure.

Abruptly, the party found itself at its goal. They passed a final block of the

taller buildings and came out into a large open space

It was a square paved with a smooth stone, closed in by the high stone walls

of the surrounding structures. On two sides of it the walls were continuous

and featureless except

10

MASTEB OF THE SIDHE

for rows of timber-shuttered doors along the bases. But in the side directly

opposite the avenue by which the little band entered the square, the opening

of another street was visible.

Lugh and his companions stopped on the edge of this open space and stared

across. Their attention was fixed on a group of Fomor warriors gathered just

inside the mouth of that other street. Especially, it was fixed on one man who

now strode boldly forward from the rest into the square.

All of them knew well enough the face of their old enemy, Bres.

Chapter Two

RUNNING THE MAZE

He walked out a third of the distance into the square and stopped there,

taking up a commanding pose, hands on hips, head up, eyes sweeping arrogantly

across the group facing

him.

' He was tall and strongly built, clad in the colorful garb of a warrior

chieftain. A cloak of brilliant red hung casually about his wide shoulders,

thrown back to reveal a gold-trimmed tunic and the jewel-studded hilt of a

sword. Curling masses of black hair formed a mane about a massive head whose

strong, roughly chiseled features added to his air of toughness,

Once he had been the de Danann's High-King. He had used his power to strip

them of their pride and strength and keep them subservient to the Fomor. Then

Lugh had discovered Bres's secret. He was himself half Fomor in blood and

wholly so in mind. Dethroned by Nuada, driven from Tara by a de Danann

uprising, he had taken control of the Fomor army. He had led it in a war with

a single goal: the annihilation of the entire de Danann race.

So far his plans had been thwarted, but the resilient Bres was not to be

beaten easily, as Lugh and his friends had discovered more than once. His aura

of dominance and power was as strong now as ever before.

RUNNING THE MAZE

11

"He means for you to go out there and meet him," the one-eyed escort told

them, gesturing with his spear. "Go on. You'll be safe there." And he withdrew

into the avenue

Lugh and his friends exchanged questioning looks. The Dagda shrugged.

"Well, they at least can't come upon us by surprise here."

Lugh nodded in agreement. He started forward, the others closing in around

him.

The square was no cleaner than the rest of the city, and the smell of it was

worse. Straw was scattered on the yellow-stained pavement, and the place was

littered with the remains of food and dung, as if it were used for penning

animals.

Like Bres, they moved a third of the way into the area and stopped, forming a

line to face him.

"I hoped you'd be the one to come, Lugh Lamfada," he said with satisfaction.

His voice was surprisingly soft and slow, but carried an intensity that made

each word clear. He cast a disdainful gaze across the others. "But why do you

still travel with such a strange company?" He looked at Morrigan and the

Dagda. "These two aging 'Champions' must be more a burden than a help. After

all these years, they can't have any real powers left."

"There's still enough life in us to see you finished, Bres," the Dagda growled

in reply.

Bres only laughed with scorn at that and turned toward Gilla. "And this absurd

Clown seems as useless. He must be very amusing to you."

"I keep them laughing all the time, that I do," Gilla agreed affably. "But I

can't come close to doing it so well as you, Bres. Why, that time your own

horse threw you in the mud—"

"Enough!" Bres said sharply. His dark eyes flashed the Clown a look of open

hatred. Then he turned from Gilla to Aine and the manner softened.

"Dear Aine," he said, eyeing her affectionately. "Such a lovely and ruthless

woman you are." Regret filled his voice. "Ah, such a fine mate you might have

made to me. You could still leave them, you know. Join me!"

This was more than enough for Lugh. He stepped forward, cutting off Bres's

view of Aine.

12

MASTER OF THE SIDHE

"No more of this, Bres," he said brusquely. "You agreed to meet us. Will you

hear our terms or not?"

"Quick to the point, boy, as usual," Bres said. "All right. Let me hear what

you have to say."

"We have to know what your intentions are," Lugh stated frankly. "We've come

to give you the chance to surrender. If you agree, you and these Fomor can

leave Eire in safety." He paused. "You can save many lives, Bres."

"You're very full of yourself, aren't you?" Bres said derisively. "You've won

a few battles, and now I'm to just let it go, let Eire go? My Eire? You're a

greater fool than I thought

you were!"

"You're the fool, Bres, if you believe you can bring, this sorry lot to fight

again!" the Dagda returned with heat. "They're broken!"

"Are they?" he shot back vehemently. "Well, I have every Fomor warrior left in

Eire gathered here now, ready to face you again. And when I meet the de

Dananns this time, I'll have the force to crush them. That I promise!"

The Dagda shook his head, clearly skeptical. But Lugh felt something else.

Since the first time he had met Bres, he had the odd sensation that he could

understand how the man thought—and right now he was certain Bres meant exactly

what he said.

"There is no more need for fighting, Bres," he reasoned earnestly. "We can

reach some agreement if we try."

"All I'll accept is your destruction and my control of Eire," Bres told him

fiercely, the hot light of fanaticism glowing in his eyes.

"Please, remember that you're half de Danann," Lugh implored, desperately

trying to reach him. "Don't let the Fomor blood control you. I can feel a de

Danann spirit still alive in you. You know I can. You feel it too, Let it take

you."

Like the young Champion, Bres had long felt this sense of oneness, as if

something linked their minds. As their gazes locked, the words of Lugh stirred

something submerged and

nearly lost.

Bres shook his head angrily, breaking off the contact.

"You'll not use that Champion's power of yours to sway me, boy," he sneered.

"The Fomor will is too strong. Your de Dananns are lovers of peace, of beauty,

of the mind. It has made them weak, and it will destroy them yet."

Lugh sighed. He saw there would be no reasoning with

RUNNING THE MAZE

13

Bres in this, and his heart fell. He had hoped that all the dying, all the

fighting and suffering would end here, and his own task would be fulfilled at

last.

But his despair was short-lived. He was still the Champion by his own choice,

and if Bres meant to continue, he would too.

"If you are determined to fight, then our talk is ended," he said with a chill

formality. "We take your answer to Nuada. Good-bye."

He nodded to the others and they turned to start away, but the voice of Bres,

soft, cool, and faintly mocking, stopped them.

"I'm afraid you won't be going to Nuada or anywhere else."

They swung back toward him.

"What do you mean?" the Dagda demanded. "We're under a truce here!"

Bres shook his head in disbelief. "I don't follow your absurd codes. I use

them—to take advantage of simple fools like you!"

From behind them came the sudden shriek of grating metal. They whirled toward

the noise in time to see an iron gate drop down from high above the avenue,

sealing the opening with a grate of heavy bars.

The five trained warriors reacted as one, spinning back to drive at Bres. But

the Fomor leader had anticipated their move and used the distraction to run

for the opening to the far avenue.

The de Danann Champions had covered only half the distance to it when Bres

passed through, and a second gate slipped down, closing the gap with a final

sounding clang.

Bres looked back at them through the close-set metal bars and smiled.

"A trap, you see. This square is actually a yard for exercise." He was taking

great pleasure in explaining. His voice was slow as he savored every word.

"The Fomor, as you know, are afflicted with a terrible curse. Some of them are

so grotesquely deformed by it that they have ceased to be men at all. The

other Fomor, in their benevolence, give these poor creatures a home here, in

these buildings surrounding you." Bres smiled. "And now, you are going to meet

them." He raised his voice. "Open the doors!"

In the walls on either side of the square the row of

14

MASTER OF THE SIDHE

wooden shutters rose, exposing the openings into the structures. At first,

nothing was visible but blackness . . . then, slowly, something began to stir.

Wails, horrible screams as of beings in torment, issued from the holes. And

finally, figures began to emerge into the open.

At first only a few ventured out, testing the air, hesitating, blinking at the

light. Then more followed, faster and faster, until they gushed forth,

spreading out across the square. The band of heroes, hardened as experience

had made them to the Horrible, drew back at what they saw.

The Fomor in the city's streets had often been monsters. But those that

swarmed into view now were far beyond any of them. Bres had certainly not

exaggerated. Few of the things bore even a vague resemblance to human beings.

There were so many that they clambered upon one another as they pushed

forward. All were naked, their misshapen bodies pallid, streaked with their

own filth. Young Lugh could relate them to nothing save the writhing mass

found beneath a suddenly upturned rock.

Some skittered spiderlike on spindly limbs, some crept on shortened stubs or

dragged themselves with whatever appendages they had. The worst were like some

kind of larva, nearly limbless, hairless, soft and waxen white, almost

boneless as they squirmed along the ground. Their faces were like wet clay,

eyes peeping from the sagging, oozing folds, round-mouths sucking constantly.

"They have no minds, really," Bres continued in an easy, conversational style.

"Just a sort °f primitive drive for survival, mostly for food. Oh, did I

mention? The Fomor feed them right here." He glanced up to the sky. "And about

this time of day, I think." He laughed. "I watched them eat once. Revolting

but amazing. They'll eat almost anything!"

By now the creatures had filled the whole outer edge of the square and had

become aware of Lugh and his companions. The countless bizarre faces were

turned toward them. Mewling sounds of hunger arose. The mass began to ooze in

toward them,

The little band moved back to the center of the square as a collar began to

tighten about them.

"Form a defensive ring," Lugh told the others. "Gilla, time for your trick, I

think."

"I thought it just might be," Gilla replied.

He reached into the billowing folds of his coat and pulled

RUNNING THE MAZE

15

forth an object, which he launched through the air toward Lugh. It was a

sheathed longsword and harness. The finely worked silver of its hilt and

scabbard sparkled as it arched across to land in the young Champion's

outstretched hand.

Other weapons followed it from the marvelous cloak of Gilla. Swords went to

Kenneth C. Flint - Gods of Eire 03 - Master of the Sidhe UC

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