Kenneth C. Flint - Gods of Eire 02 - Champions of the Sidhe

CHAMPIONS OF THE SIDHE

A Bantam Book I December 1984

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BOOK I

BRES RETURNS

REBELLION

THE TOWER OF Glass thrust up from the sea like a blade of ice, chill and

deadly.

The planes of its four sides were formed of glass panels, level upon level,

joined by a web of lines so fine that at a distance each wall became a single

sheet of shining material. Like enormous mirrors they reflected the ocean and

the sky about with a cold, detached precision. In the slanting rays of the

dawn sun, the eastern face was a painful glare of blue-white diamond light. It

made the Tower seem all the more starkly alien, alone in that soft, sunflecked

expanse of level sea.

The soaring structure was set firmly in a base of smooth grey stone. And this

foundation was itself imbedded deeply in an island of jagged rock barely

larger than the Tower itself

The base, like the glass walls above, was devoid of openings, save at one

point. On the southern side, a knobby elbow of the island thrust into the sea,

forming a sizeable cove. Here, massive quays of the same smooth stone

stretched far out into the waters of the cove. And here, in a line along the

foundation wall, a dozen immense, square openings with heavy doors of a dull

grey metal gave access to the Tower's interior.

At the quays, a score of slender ships of a curiously smooth black metal were

tied. Men in close-fitting uniforms of silver-grey worked busily upon one of

them, preparing it for sea and for the arrival of a special passenger.

A flat, hollow tone, like the repeated note on some great horn, began to sound

echoingly across the quays. It brought the attention of the working men to the

base of the Tower. There, with a piercing, metallic squeal, one of the metal

doors began to lift.

It rose slowly, as if with an effort, accompanied by a tremendous clattering.

Beyond the growing opening only the blackness of the Towers interior was

revealed.

4CHAMPIONS OF THE SIDHE

When the door had risen haliway, it clanged abruptly to a stop. From the

darkness appeared a double column of men, clad in similar grey uniforms, but

wearing helmets—smooth, rounded skullcaps of bright silver—and carrying

strange devices, like thick spears of metal tipped with balls of silver

instead of points.

Twenty soldiers emerged from the Tower, moving in a brisk, high-stepping

march. As the last moved onto the quay, they halted and the two lines executed

sharp turns to face one another. They stood straight and exactly dressed and

motionless, like chiseled granite figures lining some temple corridor.

The men on the ship had now ceased their work to watch with open curiosity the

figure who walked from the shadowed depths of the Tower and down the aisle of

soldiers.

He was, indeed, a figure worthy of note. His appearance was in sharp contrast

with the men he strode arrogantly between. His dress was colorful, barbaric in

this stark setting. A blood-red cloak was slung across his shoulders, fastened

at his throat with an elaborate brooch of gold. Beneath it was visible a tunic

of bright green richly embroidered in gold thread. A heavy belt at his waist

supported a silver-fitted scabbard and a long-sword whose wide hilt was set

with glinting jewels.

The garb was a complement to the striking nature of the man himself. Tall and

wide of body, he was well muscled with no signs of extra weight. He carried

himself with the unconscious easy grace of a warrior in full fighting trim.

His hair was dark and very coarse, rolling back from his forehead in thick

waves. His features were handsome but broad and crudely chiseled. The dark

eyes were set deeply behind heavy brows and took in the preparations at the

ship with sharp interest.

He strode down purposefully to the ship and stopped by its gangway. A

uniformed man directing the work there moved to greet him. Several black bands

encircling his lower sleeve were all that announced he ranked far above the

rest.

"We sail in a few moments, High-King Bres," he announced to the brightly

dressed arrival. "The tide is nearly at its peak." "Very well, Captain," said

the other in a voice edged with irritation. "I'll go aboard."

He went up the gangway but paused to look up toward the top of the Tower that

loomed so far above him. Theret a wider band of glass marked the structure's

highest level. As distant as it was, he was certain that he could detect the

dark shape of the

BRES RETURNS 5

one who watched. He was even certain that he could feel the heat of that

damned eye.

He was right. From far above, an eye was trained upon him. The crimson blaze

of the single, fiery pupil was shuttered by its metal lid to a mere thread of

ruby light as it stared down at the ship below, and at the tiny figure

climbing into it.

The face in which the eye was set was really no face at all. It was a rounded

surface of burnished black, featureless except for the heavy lid that hung

before the eye like a visor on a helmet. The head itself was no more than a

barrel of metal, fixed to a short, thick neck that rose from massive, squared

shoulders.

The whole being was enormous, three times the height and girth of a normal

man, all armored in the same smooth metal, fully jointed in the arms and legs,

with hands like metal gauntlets. Standing there at the window, motionless, it

might have been a lifeless object, like the ships below, save for the power of

that eye.

And then a voice addressed it.

"Do you believe Bres can succeed in Eire alone, Commander Balor?" it asked,

its tone hesitant.

There was no immediate response. Then, with an agonizing slowness and a faint,

grating sound of metal on metal, the vast head began to move. It pivoted

around on the neck, bringing the crimson eye from the window to those in the

room.

The room was vast, befitting its main occupant. Three stories high, its outer

wall was all glass, giving a view of the sea around the Tower to the distant

horizon. Against the bright background of the dawn sky, the giant figure

seemed all the more dark, all the more ominous to the three men who stood

before it.

The narrow beam of light from the single eye played over them. All wore the

grey uniform. The many bands on the sleeves of each spoke of their exalted

rank. The eye shifted from one to another, finally fixing on the center one.

From the figure a voice sounded, a deep and hollow and clanging sound, like a

great gong echoing from the depths of some cavern of iron.

"It is necessary for him to succeed, Sital Salmhor. If he is unable to

organize our occupying forces in Eire and crush this foolish uprising soon, it

may spread to all the de Danann settlements."

6CHAMPIONS OF THE SIDHE

Sital Salmhor stared up at the figure. As often before, he wondered if there

was a living being there, behind that armored front. He steeled himself for

another question.

"But shouldn't we send some support to him? Send some forces from the Tower?

That would insure a victory."

"No!" the being thundered. "No forces from this Tower will be involved. Bres

has the power to crush them if he acts quickly. And, remember, it is his own

kingship over Eire that j he must regain." *

The offending officer held himself rigidly under the heat of the flaming eye.

But the torture was short. The giant head turned slowly back toward the

windows, the gaze of the eye shifting down toward the ship again.

It had put to sea by now and was gliding out past the sheltering peninsula. It

moved along quite steadily, although no sail was up. But as it left the cove

and the winds caught it, a field of brilliant white blossomed around its mast

and it picked up speed quickly, soaring away with the grace of a great bird.

Until the ship faded into the haze of the southern horizon, the crimson eye

stayed fixed upon its course.

The woman was thrown from the doorway of the house and staggered, falling

heavily onto her knees in the muddy courtyard of the ringfort. A roar of

coarse laughter went up from the circle of monstrous beings who watched.

They were vaguely like men, with men's shape and stature, but they were

disfigured in ways so horrible that they seemed more like insane parodies of

men.

No two of them were deformed alike. In many the limbs were twisted, distorted

to resemble the claws of birds, the paws of beasts, even the fins offish. In

some the limbs were missing altogether, replaced by crude appendages of metal

and

wood.

More grotesque were the faces that were, indeed, a mockery of anything human,

And here, again, many of the deformities looked like the product of some

obscene coupling of men and

animals.

All were dressed as warriors, in ragged tunics and cloaks, and heavily armed

with spears, swords, and leather shields.

The frightened woman looked up at them in horror as she pulled herself from

the mud and stumbled away to join a huddled group of others penned against the

earthen wall of the ringfort by the menacing band.

BRES RETURNS 7

From within the round, wattle-sided house, a figure emerged. His head appeared

to have been split from the top of the skull to the bridge of the nose by some

massive wound that had healed to leave a deep trench ridged by thick scar

tissue on either side. On both sides of the gap, the ba)d skull bulged up as

if two heads had tried to form. Goggling eyes were set far out atop each

bulging cheek like those of a frog. The mouth was tiny, shaped in a high bow,

with a deep cleft that ran up into the wide, single nostril of the flat nose.

With obvious enjoyment he watched the frightened woman stumble away. He strode

out into the center of the compound and looked around him at the ringfort's

interior.

It was a small enclosure. The wrapping earthen bank with its crowning ring of

upright stakes embraced only four of the round, thatched homes. It was clearly

a very poor settlement, and its two-score inhabitants were near starvation.

The warrior looked them over appraisingly. There were a few scrawny men, some

worn and haggard women, and a few wretched brats with swollen bellies who

peeped out fearfully from the shelter of their mothers' bodies.

"Phaw!" he exclaimed disgustedly. "What a sorry catch we've got here. No food

among 'em. No shiny little bits for us. And none of these women are worth our

time. Seems a waste of effort even to kill them."

"There's no need to kill us," one of the captive men said pleadingly, moving

forward from the group. He was a tall man with a lean face that had once been

handsome. But years of hardship had ravaged him, and years of oppression had

left him without pride. He begged for the salvation of his people. "Please, My

Chieftain! We've never caused the Fomor any trouble. We've always paid our

tribute to you."

"And I suppose you're not fallin' in with those rebels at Tara?" the Fomor

leader said, smiling skeptically.

"Rebels?" the man repeated blankly. "No. We know nothing about a rebellion.

Please, believe me!"

"Captain!" called a dog-faced warrior, coming out of one of the huts. He held

up a battered sword in a thick paw. "Look here! We found these in a souterrain

under this house!"

"A hidden escape tunnel?" the captain said, and turned a baleful look upon the

hapless man. "And weapons?"

"They're for our defense from animals," the man tried desperately to explain.

"We have to have something. The bears—" "Bears!" the captain spat out

contemptuously. He took a

8

CHAMPIONS OF THE SIDHE

swift step forward and swung out with a sudden blow of his fist that caught

the man on the side of his head, dropping him heavily to the muddy earth.

"The bears will be eatin' of all your bony carcasses this day," the captain

promised. He drew a heavy longsword from its sheath and lifted it to strike.

From the huddled group a wail of terror went up. A young boy pushed forward. A

woman tried to stop him but he tore away and flew upon the warrior, grabbing

his sword arm to drag it down.

Angrily the captain shook the attacker off and the boy was flung down into the

mud beside the man.

"Filthy whelp!" the captain grated and lifted the sword again. "Now you'll be

first!"

"I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd not do that," said a voice behind him.

II

THE CHAMPIONS

SURPRISED BY IT, the captain whirled about. Just inside the gateway through

the outer wall a new figure now stood.

In dress, he seemed a warrior. He wore a simple tunic of white with a cloak of

brilliant green. At his hip was sheathed a sword whose hilts were richly

worked in gold and set with glinting stones. Still, in looks he seemed more of

a boy. His body, while tall and well muscled, had the slenderness and

suppleness of youth. The face was boyish, too, lean and boldly featured in

chin and nose, with clear blue eyes sparkling behind high arching brows of

pale gold. His fair hair swept back in thick casual waves.

He was altogether a fine and pleasant-looking young man, and he smiled on the

monstrous clan before him in a most innocent and engaging way.

"Just who are you?" the captain demanded harshly, eyeing the newcomer

suspiciously.

BRES RETURNS 9

"My name is Lugh Lamfada," he stated in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Lugh Lamfada?" the Fomor officer repeated with some surprise. "The one that

they call Champion of the Sidhe? But, you are just a boy!"

"That may be," the other said lightly. "Still I am here to give help to these

people."

"You're going to help them?" the captain asked, smiling. He seemed vastly

amused at the idea.

"I want you to take your warriors away from here and leave these people

alone," the young warrior went on. "I'm asking you in a friendly way now, for

I've no wish to see you come to harm, unless you allow me no other choice."

Now the captain laughed outright, joined by the others in a harsh chorus of

derisive laughter.

'And are you challenging us, boy?" he asked, stepping toward Lugh. "You,

alone?"

"I didn't say that I was alone."

"No, he surely didn't say that!" another voice sang out brightly.

The Fomor turned again to face this new voice. It came from a very strange

individual now perched precariously atop the logs of the ringfort's palisade.

He was a loose-jointed and gangly sort of fellow dressed in the baggy, striped

clothes of a clown. A tattered and filthy brown cloak was draped in heavy

folds about him and battered leather shoes flapped on his enormous feet. He

had a tangled mass of straggling yellow hair and beard that couldn't mask a

sharp jut of nose and a wide, idiotic grin. He was casually juggling three

small apples and swinging back and forth on the posts. His movements were so

awkward that it seemed certain he would topple from his seat at any moment.

"Gilla Decaire is my name," he said in a breezy way. "And I'm pleased to meet

you all, so I am. Even for so short a time of livin' as you're likely to

have." He nodded toward the opposite side of the fort. "Now, would you be

wantin' to meet another friend?"

From across the courtyard there came a splintering crash. Once more the Fomor

were forced to wheel about. Directly opposite the clown, three of the logs

that formed the palisade had suddenly shivered and then toppled back, sheared

off at

10

CHAMPIONS OF THE SIDHE

their base. Through the created opening stepped another man, the wide space

barely adequate to allow passage of his body. For he was a gigantic being,

tall as well as broad. With a great barrel chest and thick, sinewy arms and

legs, he was like an ancient tree that has survived centuries of storm to

become the stronger, if more battered and gnarled. His round, weathered face

was cheery, red-cheeked, his eyes aglow with pleasure, his wide mouth smiling.

In broad hands he hefted the immense, gleaming battle-ax with which he had

severed the three logs in a single blow.

"It is the Dagda!" cried one of the Fomor warriors. "My Captain, he is one of

the de Danann's greatest champions!"

The others of the band seemed equally impressed, but their officer examined

the newest arrival skeptically.

"So, this is the famous Dagda!" he said. "He's much older, and much fatter,

than I expected." He looked from the champion to the other challengers, now

forming a triangle about his men. "And is that all of you? Just you three?"

A Fomor warrior in the group behind the captain raised his spear suddenly to

make a cast at Lugh. But from the sky swooped a large black form.

It drove straight into the face of the man with a harsh cry and a flutter of

broad wings. The amazed Fomor saw it was a raven, larger than a hawk. It tore

savagely at the warrior, great talons gripping his hands while a gleaming,

sharp beak jabbed at his face. Helpless to fight it off, he flailed wildly,

then dropped his spear and staggered back. The bird pulled away and left him

to retreat, hands pressed to a face streaming with blood. It glided to the

back of the courtyard, opposite Lugh, and settled lightly to the ground.

As the raven touched the earth, a strange glow arose from it, as if the sleek

blue-black feathers had turned suddenly to silver flame. The glow grew

quickly, swallowing up the form, then rose in a column taller than a man. It

flared, then faded away, shrinking back to reveal a new form now, a tall and

slender form wrapped in a clinging cloak of deepest black.

The face of a woman showed above the cloak, high-browed, hollow-cheeked, and

pointed-chinned. Black hair was pulled back and tightly braided at the nape of

the neck, giving the head an even harsher look, like the raven's skull. Dark

eyes glinted like polished biack stones from deep behind the brows, fixing on

the Fomor with the hungry look a raptor has for its helpless prey. The thin

mouth smiled, and the fine, sharp

BRES RETURNS

11

teeth parted as if ready for the taste of a victims flesh. The arms unfolded,

lifting from a gaunt, almost skeletal frame. The limbs revealed by the

warrior's tunic that she wore were lank and wiry, like knotted cord. At each

bony hip hung a sheathed longsword.

"Our number is four," the one called Lugh quietly announced.

"It is the Morrigan!" another of the Fomor gasped, voice touched with awe. The

name and carnivorous reputation of this de Dannan warrior was well known to

them. She was one of the few for whom the cruel beings had any fear. The Fomor

officer was stili quite unimpressed. "The Morrigan too," he said carelessly.

He looked back toward Lugh. "So, is that it, then? Or are some more of your

little band going to be leaping at us from somewhere?" The young warrior shook

his head. "No more." "Too bad," the captain said with mock regret. Then the

tiny mouth turned upward in a cruel smile. "But it's enough. We'll earn a fine

reward for killing such a group of rebel champions." "Leave this place now,"

Lugh told him. He drew his sword in a swift, single move. The blade glowed

brightly and an aura of power from it seemed to envelop the young warrior. The

boyish manner fell away and his voice turned deadly cold. "This weapon is

called the Answerer. Leave here or, from now on, it will do my speaking for

me."

The captain looked from the bright weapon to the suddenly determined face. He

hesitated, feeling a faint, chill ripple of fear wash through him.

But he shook it off Years of casual brutality had taught him that these weak

and cowardly de Dananns had no chance of standing up against the Fomor power.

He laughed again.

"Boy," he said in a blustering voice, "in a moment your sword will be hanging

at my side!" He turned and shouted the order to his men. "AH right, attack

them now!"

Lugh and his companions made no move to meet the attack.

This forced the Fomor to divide and charge four different ways.

The captain, easily the most skilled fighter of the group,

drove forward to engage Lugh himself. He struck with his full

power, expecting to finish the overconfident youth quickly. He

was astonished to find his opponent swinging his own weapon

in a lightning move that parried the sword thrust easily. He

redoubled his effort, realizing he faced a trained adversary.

Gilla the Clown downed one of his own charging Fomor with

12

CHAMPIONS OF THE SIDHE

BRES RETURNS

13

the throw of an apple, driving the hard sphere into his victims eye. He then

dropped from the wall to the yard with an agility surprising to the Fomor,

landing in a fighting position, sword in hand, to face three more attackers.

The giant Dagda waded into the five men who swarmed upon him. The great ax

flew about him like a scythe cutting through a field of grain, slashing

through the Fomor with a force they could do nothing to defend themselves

against. Not far away the raven-woman shrieked her harsh battle cry and flew

against three more with both swords. Her flashing weapons were like tearing

claws, and it seemed to them that a flock of blood-hungry crows were upon

them.

The battle was brief and bloody. The inhabitants of the ring-fort watched the

fighting with growing amazement and jubila- ^ tion as the four wreaked

devastation on the Fomor band.

Finally, Lugh pressed the captain back across the compound, teasing him now,

nicking him here and there to drive ; him like a stubborn bull. The maddened

officer made a desper- ; ate thrust. He found his weapon knocked from his hand

and a bright, sharp blade pressed to his throat.

Lugh smiled and poked out with his sword. The captain tumbled backward into

some of the deepest mud in the yard. Now the Fomor's recent captives laughed.

>

"Now, Captain," Lugh said, "look around at your warriors."

He did. There were only three left alive, and two of them were wounded. The

rest were sprawled lifeless in the mud.

"Tell them to surrender. Quickly!" the young warrior demanded. There was no

compromise in his voice now. Only deadly earnestness. The captain obeyed.

The Fomor warriors were quickly disarmed and directed out of the gateway. Then

Lugh turned back to the fallen officer. -

"Now you, Captain. Crawl out of here like the vermin that you are. Go and tell

your fellows that if any of you come near this fort or any of the Tuatha de

Dananns again, you will surely i die!"

The captain began to crawl. Lugh gave him a slap across the rump with the flat

of his sword to urge him along. The terrified Fomor slithered through the

muddy yard with astonishing speed and disappeared out the gateway.

Lugh walked to the de Danann man and boy who had watched the battle from their

own seats in the mud, afraid to move. He sheathed his sword and hefd out a

hand to each.

"And you, get up from that mud," he told them forcefully.?

"Stand up like men." Each took a hand and he pulled them erect. "It's time the

de Danann people did that again."

The man stared at the young warrior before him, and then around at the rest of

their saviors, still somewhat dumbfounded at the suddenness of their rescue.

"By all the Powers, you have saved us," he said weakly, as if he had just

accepted the truth of it. "But how did you come here?"

"We've been traveling the countryside, trying to tell every settlement of the

rising against the Fomor," Lugh said.

"Then there has been a rising?" the man asked. "That captain spoke of it."

"There has, that's certain," the Dagda assured him, moving up beside Lugh. "We

seized Tara only days ago, drove out the Fomor garrison and deposed Bres."

"The High-King?" The man gasped in shock.

"Yes, but let's not speak of it right now," said Lugh. He had been examining

the ringforts inhabitants. "Your people look badly used and nearly starved.

See to them and get them some food. Then we can talk."

"We've no food left," the man told him sorrowfully. "We were poor enough to

start, and these Fomor raiding parties have taken what we had these past few

days, That's why this last band was so cruel."

Cilia Decaire crossed the yard to them.

"I think we can take care of that ourselves, so I do!" he said cheerfully. He

reached into the voluminous cloak and yanked out a tremendous leg of mutton.

This he tossed lightly to the man who gaped in wonder. "Here. This'll start

things niceiy. And, here!" He reached in again, this time hauling forth a skin

bulging with liquid and a fat, round loaf of bread. "Some nice ale here," he

announced, passing it over to the man and tossing the bread to the boy.

The youngster stared wide-eyed at the loaf that filled his arms, then in awe

at the marvelous cloak.

"Lost a whole lamb inside there once," the clown told him with a broad wink.

I believe you," the boy said with great seriousness.

Five, six, seven, eight apples spun in a circle, flying at a dizzying speed

high above Giila's head as he juggled for an enthralled audience of children.

The clown was willingly entertaining them, bringing smiles

14

CHAMPIONS OF THE SIDHE

to faces so long marked by fear and pinched by hunger. So eager for his

diverting tricks were they that, even though they were nearly starved, the

food lay forgotten on their plates as they watched and laughed.

Cilia ended his performance at last by throwing the apples, one by one, to

each child.

"Enough for now," he said. He held up his hands at their disappointed cries,

promising, "I'll do more later, but only if you eat up all of that food!"

They fell to the task with a will, and he moved away from them, toward the

rest of the company.

The children were grouped at one side of the circular room. The adults sat at

low tables set around a central hearth. This was the largest of the ringfort's

houses, the one used as a meeting hall for the inhabitants. It was a barren

place, stripped of all the fine de Danann ornamentation. A tiny fire was the

only spot of cheer.

As Gilla joined them, the Dagda was just concluding his account of the recent

uprising at Tara. His booming voice and colorful speech made it a most

gripping tale.

"And the people of Tara joined together to defeat the Fomor garrison," he was

saying. "Under Nuada they are now organizing an army at Tara to challenge the

rest of the Fomor in Eire and drive them all out."

"So Nuada has become our High-King once again," said the leader. "I cannot

believe that Bres has finally been deposed."

"It was Lugh here who discovered that Bres was in league with the Fomor to

destroy us, that he was half-Fomor himself!" the Dagda said proudly, clapping

a massive hand to Lughs shoulder. "Why, it was even his work that saw Nuada

restored." He leaned across the table toward the other man to add

emphatically: "I tell you, Febal, he is truly the one that the Prophecy said

would come one day to lead us to freedom from the Fomor."

Kenneth C. Flint - Gods of Eire 02 - Champions of the Sidhe

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