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The Transformation of Gwri by Arcie Emm Bealtaine --------- Fires heralded the end of the season of dark, welcoming the season of light. Fires lit by Con the Druid, using logs from the nine sacred trees carried by the nine chosen men of the farming village of Begagha. Fires between which the cattle had been driven to their summer pastures, and through which the people, old or young, weak or hale, had walked or been carried. Fires which provided spark to hearth and home. Brilliant fires of fortune. Brilliant fires of health. Brilliant fires of prosperity. The fires of Bealtaine. As the flames leapt to chase away the dark, so too did the songs and dance of the merry making villagers. But as the flames sunk low, the villagers began to leave the hill top. First babes in arms and toddlers in hands of grandmothers, followed by older children shooed away by mother and father, then couples hand in hand in all directions, like the rays from the sun they would welcome in the morning. With only embers left, few remained on the hill besides the old men and the drunkards, the first reminiscing quietly, the second snoring loudly. Only Con and his apprentice, Eoghann, paid attention to the two fires while they chanted the ancient chants. Their duty kept them awake and aware, more deeply aware than at any other time of the year. Hence it was a feeling, as much as the first signs of the sun's nimbus forming on the horizon, which told Con that Bealtaine Eve was ending. As had been the case for a number of years, he begrudged the loss of the night's peace, knowing that daybreak would replace it with joyful mayhem. Gesturing Eoghann to his side, Con said, "Eoghann, you will lead the festivities today, I'll take the coals from the sacred fires and spread them amongst the fields." "Master?" the apprentice asked, barely concealed excitement in his voice. "It is a festival for the young and you are more than ready. While I, I would experience solitude a little longer." "Thank you, Master. I will not disappoint." "I know you won't, Eoghann. Now go, the people will soon begin to gather the boughs and flowers with which to decorate the village." "Yes, Master." As the young man hurried off, brimming with enthusiasm, Con took a moment before heaving himself first to knees and then to feet. Stretching, he chased away some of the age that had crept into his bones during the night. A hunk of bread and pitcher of small beer, left over from the previous night, served to break his fast, while watching the sun creep over the horizon, into the sky, to start to a new season. The time was right, so he scooped coals from the left fire into one clay pot and coals from the right fire into another. Ensuring his actions had stirred the coals to expose red embers, which would provide the passing villagers with the sparks needed to relight the fires in their own homes, Con used a yoke to lift the pots to rest upon his shoulders. All morning, he walked amongst the fields, casting coals in all directions. It reminded him of his days when he had been the apprentice and for a time a spring came to Con's step. But by the time he had blessed the last field, he felt the miles walked and the sleepless night. Deciding to delay return to his people, the druid took a drink from a nearby creek and lay upon it`s bank to rest. When he awoke, Con saw the sun had traveled through much of its afternoon's journey. Laying still for a moment longer, he listened to the growl of his belly compete with the songs of the birds. When the sounds of hunger won the contest, the druid decided his time for solitude was over. Struggling to his feet, Con again lifted the yoke, now with its empty pots, to his shoulders. Then putting one foot before the other, he began the trek home to Begagha. Passing the pasture lands, into which Sloan and Tanguy, the grandsons of old Weylyn, had driven the village`s cattle the night before, he looked for, but did not see either them or their charges. Reasoning that the cattle were at the stream, beyond the pasture's hill, Con continued onwards. However, the smell of smoke, made him question his reasoning. Unlike the clean smell of the Bealtaine fires, it seemed heavier, cloying, almost sickly. Con did not need to see its source to know what burned. Dropping the yoke and wishing good luck to the out-of-sight cow herders, he trotted forward, his legs protesting but willing to be so used, once more. Then his eyes confirmed what his nose had already told him. Begagha burned. He paused, not in cowardice, for the only invaders who remained were the ravens and crows flitting about the village, but in guilt. He knew that in shirking his duty, during the day`s rite of fortune, he had brought misfortune upon his people. With heavy heart he plodded the final steps to the village and encountered the first victims. Kentigem the Headman and Weylyn the Wolf, both of whom had quit reaving to become farmers, yet died with sword, not plow, in hand. With them were all the other stout men of Begagha. Even Eoghann, staff in hand, had ended his days attempting to stem the raiders' advance. Moving from hut to hut, Con found no signs of life, except for missing faces. Unsurprised to see Cinnia, the day's Queen, and her maidens missing, all lovely girls, he wondered why Berta, the wife of Kentigem, was taken. Last seen, heavy with child, seeking to ease birth by circling the Bealtaine fires, she had left the festivities along with the grandmothers guiding babes and toddlers. The raiders would have no reason to take her. He wondered if she had not been absent, for she would find the festivities wearisome. She may have sought peace, just as had he. If so, Con knew where to look. Often, when he searched for herbs and plants, he found her at a quiet glen not far from the village. Hope leant his footsteps speed as he headed in that direction. "Con. Con!" Spotting Nareene, Berta's maidservant, he hurried to her near the edge of the trees and asked, "Nareene, where is Berta?" "Oh, Con, she needs you. We came here for the quiet, but when we heard the shouts from the village and it was all I could to stop the Lady from returning. But it was too late, the commotion caused the baby to come early." "And you left her alone?" "Oh, no, her mother is with her. Keelin was waiting at the glen when we arrived." Usually the minstrel made Con nervous, but now he was glad she was near. "Lead me to them, Nareene." They were too late. When they arrived, they saw a cloaked figure laying upon the ground, which caused Con to bow his head and Nareene to let forth a keen of sorrow. "Quiet, woman, before you bring down the crows of Brarn upon our heads. Here, take this to occupy your mind." Their eyes were drawn from the unmoving figure to the woman who stood above, clad in dun coloured leathers and holding the swaddled figure of a babe. Seeing this, Nareene rushed forward to take the baby from the older woman, cooing to comfort herself as much as it. Her burden removed, Keelin gazed at Con and said, "I had not expected you to be still with us, Druid." "I should not be. But I shirked my duties, preferring the quiet of the fields, rather than the merriment of the village." "I did not accuse, Druid. In fact I am gladdened to see that you have escaped the noose of Brarn the Reaver and his crows." "Brarn?" Keelin looked towards her harp bag, but did not move towards it. Still, a minstrel must tell a story as a minstrel will. Brarn`s Geis ------------- After the first Battle of Mag Tured, Nuada, the King of Tuatha D? Danann, was removed from his throne. Physical perfection, having been lost when the Fir Bolg champion, Sreng, had, with a mighty swing of his sword, sliced through Nuada's shield and wrist. On his throne was placed Eochu Bres, son of ?riu and the Fomorian, Prince Elatha. A poor choice, for Bres identified with his father's people, subjecting the battle diminished numbers of D? Danann to tribute and slavery. However, his reign was short, for the leech Dian Cecht grew a silver hand for the maimed ex-king, which allowed Nuada of the Silver Hand to regain his throne. Deposed, Bres fled to the protection of the Formorians, whose thumb still rested upon their cousins and would until the coming of Lug, also of mixed birth. Now Bres and Lug were not the only children to be born both of Fomorian and D? Danann. Unlike them, most were not born into greatness, many were born into poverty and despair. Often the unwanted and unnamed get of foreman upon slave woman. They were the lowest of the low, but when Lug called forth all Tuatha D? Danann to join him in overthrowing their oppressors, few of the half-bloods did not heed the call. Arriving in Mag Aurfolaig, on Samhain, they found that the host still scorned them. But the leaders, who knew how much greater were the numbers of Fomorian over the numbers of D? Danann, ignored that each was unblooded and ill-prepared, instead they welcomed the half-bloods. Clad only in rags for armour, Lug sent them to Goibniu the smith, Luchta the wright, and Crecht the artisan to each have made three spears to throw, one to thrust, and a shield to fend off those of others. But upon reaching the three craftsmen, Goibniu asked, "Hast thou ever cast a spear?" Each of the half-bloods answered, "No." And Luchta asked, "Hast thou ever thrust a spear?" Again, each of half-bloods answered, "No." And Crecht asked, "Hast thou ever wielded a shield of protection?" For a third time, each of half-bloods answered, "No." At this, all three craftsmen, in one voice, asked, "What weapons dost thou know?" The half-bloods were chagrined, for their lives had been those of beasts of labor. Finally the eldest stepped forward, with half of his fellows, and said, "We have wielded axe to fell more trees than there are stars in the sky." Then the largest stepped forward, with the second half, and said, "We have wielded hammer against mountains, seizing gold and silver and copper from their greedy grasp." Hearing this, Goibniu went to his fires and forged the heads of great axes and monstrous hammers. During this time Luchta carved long shafts of sturdy yew. These they took to Crecht, who made the rivets and cleaved the makings of Goibniu to the makings of Luchta. And so the half-bloods were armed. But arms did not make them ready for battle against the hauberked and helmed warriors of the Formorians. Though the half-bloods proved ferocious and fearless, not a single escaped being struck down in the first day of battle. More than half would never rise. The rest, no matter how fiercely wounded, were carried and dropped into Slane, the well into which Dian Cecht and his family sang their spells of healing, making each of the wounded whole and able to face their enemy on the next day. So the mold was cast for each day of the Second Battle of Mag Tured. The numbers of the half-bloods shrunk, but those who were left grew quickly in skill. Deadly became the slash of axe and brutal became the swing of hammer. In the end, after Lug had slain his grandfather and the Formorians were sent fleeing to the seas, only six were left. Three who wielded axe and three who bore hammer. Champions all, but with battle ended, none had a home to which they could return. The oldest, who had become their leader, sought a lord to welcome them into his hold. Again and again he was rebuffed, until he came before Morrigu, the new wife of the Dagda, who saw the anger lurking beneath the surface of her petitioner. It matched her own. Thus she said to him. "Find me, you and yours, upon the shores to the East and I will offer you position and place." There they waited, until Morrigu found them, after having spread word of the mighty battle to every corner of Eire. When she did arrive, Morrigu appeared upon a black boat, with three oars to a side, and into whose prow was carved a raven's head. Grounding the boat, she approached them in her terrible splendor, causing the six to settle upon knees before her. At this Morrigu said, "I cannot take your oaths if I do not know your names." The leader answered, "We have no names. Neither our fathers nor mothers wanted us." Morrigu said, "I will be your mother and give you names." The oldest shall be Brarn, leader to his brethren. The largest shall be Maccus, lethal in his might. The fairest shall be Fiacre, fierce in a fight. The darkest shall be Dewain, bringer of my doom. The smallest shall be Calum, strongly shall he cleave. And the last shall be Brasil, in the end the bravest. Hearing this, Morrigu's sons said, "We accept, Mother." Brarn, as was his right, said for all. "What would you have of us, Mother?" Morrigu's gaze swept across her sons, then settled upon Brarn. To him she said: From Samhain 'til Bealtaine, during the Season of Death, Thou shall roam across the oceans, Punishing those who kept us in chains. From Bealtaine 'til Samhain, during the Season of Life, Thou shall take as thy queen. She who is fairest on Bealtaine's eve. As a reaver, no man shall stand before you. As a lover, no man shall stand beside you. Brarn bowed his head in agreement. Gesturing towards his brothers, they took up their packs and axe or hammer, then as one they boarded D?oltas. Pushing away from land, they began to row, nobody except their mother, Morrigu, watching or caring where they went. The Fostering of Gwri ---------------------- Gwri wandered far from Mullinglas, needing time on his own to think. To decide amongst his many choices what profession he would follow. Maybe the path of the warrior, taught by Sloan and Tanguy, who had escaped the massacre of Begagha. Or he could follow Con the druid or Einon the smith or Leigh the healer or Edna the potter or... He had shown skill at many things, but none felt right. Often he wished to learn about everything, even if it meant becoming master of nothing. Yet no matter how far he walked, the decision grew no closer. Nor did he find a faerie to provide an answer. Thus, as nightfall approached, Gwri turned for home, still undecided. Nearing Mullinglas, Gwri spotted a figure on the road ahead, whose harp case identified her as his Grandmother Keelin. Of all his teachers, she never pressured Gwri to follow her trade and become a minstrel. Instead, she expected Gwri to kill the reaver Brarn. The need for his death consumed her. When she had searched, Keelin found the tracks of whoever destroyed Begagha came from nowhere and disappeared to the same place. This convinced here that the reavers came from T?r na n"g. Always there after, as she traveled the roads as a minstrel, she sought information that could help bring about her vengeance. Her vengeance, but not Gwri's. He did not feel the need to avenge his family, since to him, his family were Nareene, Con, the brothers, and Keelin. Nor did he think the idea of revenge, against some faerie lord, realistic. So he avoided her. Cutting through the woods, heading for Con's hut. Greeting him, Con said, "Your grandmother's returned. There will be a gathering for her to tell all the news of land." "Aye, I saw her approach." "And did not greet her? Don't look so innocent. I know your feelings about what she wants from you. Can't say I blame you." "I would be the grandson she wished. But what she wants from me..." "...is as silly as many of the songs she sings. Still, you will be at the fire. Let's hope the audience will bring about her best behavior." Though Gwri shared that wish, too often had his grandmother embarrassed him to expect it to be true. So, even while Keelin spoke of deaths and births, marriages and conflicts, he worried. She even made it through the news, without delving into her favourite topic, then she sang some popular songs and told some requested stories. When she paused, looking from face to face, seeking yet not receiving another request, Gwri knew what she would next sing. He recognized the chords she played. A song of her own making, which brought no smile to any face. Yet all stayed to listen as she sang the Raid of Begagha, which she had meshed together with the story of Brarn the Half-blood. They waited to hear if new verses had been added, signifying additional information Keelin had learned about her enemy, during her wanderings. But the minstrel sang a song unchanged, but she continued to slowly strum at her harp, her gaze upon her grandson. Once, then twice, then again, it appeared as if she would speak. Yet each time she reconsidered, until finally, almost against her will, she put down the harp. This signaled the end. People stood and stretched, offered their good eves and went their separate ways. Gwri wished to join them, but manners kept him while his grandmother stowed her harp in its case, to walk her home. Though with her frequent absences, he felt the house belonged to him and Nareene, with Keelin being their guest. But Keelin did not hurry to leave the fire. Seeing his questioning look, Keelin said, "I know many think I am mad. Sometimes I think so myself. For what else but madness would drive someone to ignore all else in her pursuit for revenge against some imaginary foe?" Even though he agreed, Gwri said, "No, Grandmother, everybody understands why the quest is so important to you." "But not to you?" "No. It isn't." He said, voicing an admission always hidden from her. "Do you not care about your parents?" "I don't know them as my parents. Their only role in my life are as names in your songs, no different than Lug or C? Chulainn. Maybe if their lives were as important as their deaths, they would matter more. Instead, it seems their fate was to die, not to be my parents." Keelin thought to argue, but the truth of Gwri's words struck her silent. Then wide-eyed in dismay, she quietly asked, "Have I truly diminished their memories in such a way?" "Grandmother..." "Did I never tell you of your father's boisterous cheer nor your mother's joy, despite her pain, when she first saw you whole?" "No." "No? Divine Cairbre, was I truly such a greedy old woman? Miserly hording happiness, while sharing only grief? I have. Oh, Gwri, I am so very sorry. I would tell you all about your mother, my beautiful Berta, and of your father, her ferocious Kentigem." Long into the night Keelin shared cherished memories with her grandson. And for the first time, his parents came alive in his mind. For his grandmother spoke about their lives and he learned they were worth missing. When Keelin grew quiet, they sat together in silence beneath the moon and the stars. After a time, Gwri said, "Thank you." "I apologize for not sharing this with you sooner. And for the mistake I almost made earlier tonight." "Grandmother?" "I had planned to chastise you, before all, for not seeking vengeance upon your parent's slayers. I hoped to embarrass you, to lessen you in the eyes of your friends, to pressure you into joining my quest." "It would not have worked." Gwri said, a hint of anger underlying his calm response to the unfulfilled betrayal. "Aye, when I looked at you, comfortably seated amongst the others, I knew that everyone now saw me as the outsider. They would have sided with you." "Maybe." "No, I am sure and it would have driven a wedge between me and the village. I could not chance that. You, everybody in Mullinglas, are my escape from my madness. On the road, my desire for revenge upon Brarn burns so fiercely that I fear it will boil over. But here, though it simmers, I can let my mind wander." "Then why did you even consider it?" "Because I have finally learned how to extract my vengeance. And I need your help." Fintan Mac Gabhann --------------------- It took five days before Gwri could leave Mullinglas along with Con, Sloan, and Tanguy, riding four of the brothers' horses. Amongst those who watched the foursome leave was Keelin, whose emotions warred between satisfaction and frustration. Satisfaction that her grandson finally took interest in her revenge, but frustration that his friends separated her from him when it finally happened. Yet she could not ask for more. Gwri had taken her statement, about knowing how to get revenge, with less grace than he had her admitted plan to shame him. All that had been mended between them had instantly been rent anew. He refused to talk anymore that night, nor during the next day. Instead she had found herself approached by Con, who Gwri trusted above all others, asking her what she had learned. Keelin told him of a tinker, who spoke of a smith named Fintan Mac Gabhann, who sought help to kill Brarn the Reaver. Con had listened to Keelin's tale and left, giving no impression if he believed or not. It had led to a restless evening, as she wondered what her grandson thought, for she did not doubt that the druid had gone directly from her to Gwri. Fortunately, Gwri had not forced her to endure a second sleepless night, approaching her to say that he, along with his friends, would go alone to speak to this Mac Gabhann. To judge the truth without her hopes clouding what he said. So the four rode far to North, to Slieve Gullion, seeking Poolrua, the home of Mac Gabhann. They easily found the mountain, but it took three more days before they found a narrow path, leading towards where they had learned their quarry could be found. On the trail they spotted a man, grey-haired yet walking robustly towards them and who, when close enough to be heard without shouting, said, "Well met strangers. What brings you to this dreary place?" The three younger men of Mullinglas looked towards Con to answer. He said, "We seek the smith, Fintan Mac Gabhann." "You do? And why would you seek such a reprobate?" "We heard that he holds grievance with Brarn the Reaver, as do we." "Do you indeed? I will take you to him." Following, each on foot and leading his horse, they soon arrived upon a plateau with a hut and stable nestled against the side of the mountain. Stripping gear from their horses, they made the beasts comfortable and entered the hut, into which the man had already passed. Unsurprisingly, they found him alone. Taking offered seats around the table, Con once more spoke for all. "I take it that you are Fintan Mac Gabhann?" "Aye, though call me Fin, less of a mouthful. And who would the four of you be?" Introducing himself and his companions, Con found himself telling Fin what had brought them North. He spoke of Begagha and their dead. He explained Keelin's quest. And he described their decision to find him. Not until he finished speaking did Con realize how strange it seemed for him to be so open with a stranger. Trying to regain initiative, Con asked, "Keelin heard that you could help us?" "Personally, I have had no dealings with this Brarn. Instead my knowledge comes from my, I guess you could call him my patron, who had a run in with the reaver and knows how to end Brarn's terror." "Who is your patron?" "The Goban Saor." Seeing the disbelief on their faces, Fin only smiled, and said, "You find that hard to believe, do you? Would you believe that all you need to kill Brarn, Morrigu's son, is a comb, a stone, a piece of linen, a belt, two tears, and some eggs." Snorting, Gwri said, "Doubtless, much like those items Lug demanded as eiric for his father, these are more than they first appear." "But of course. Do you wish to hear more?" "I don't," Tanguy said. "Me neither," Sloan agreed. "I don't believe in this Brarn of Keelin's, now I'm to believe the Gabon Saor is involved?" But Con, who sensed something in the smith, said, "I would hear." Looking mainly at Gwri, Fin recited. Comb of Gold; The thief will need to be bold, if he'd steal the liquid ore and pour it in its mold. Fallen stone; Sailing in the dark, all alone. Defeating spirits and cold, to take hold and bring it home. Linen gift; Harvest stalks, then cast adrift, crush and weave into a swath, craft the cloth to hide your shift. Woven belt; Foul betrayal will be felt. Servitude will then result, 'til vanity's fault is dealt. Dragon's tears; To ignore the breath that sears and obtain the beast's reward, the bard conquer all death's fears. Phoenix eggs; On his knees Aengus did beg and for the sake of kinship 'pon friendship he would renege. Finished, he said, "As a poet, my patron makes a better brewer." Then Fin stood, moved to the back wall to sweep aside a hanging blanket and show an opening. Beckoning them to follow, he ducked inside. The companions found a tunnel bored into the side of the mountain, a red glow lighting the way deeper. Looking at the others in curiosity, they joined their host as he walked down the tunnel, feeling heat waft up to greet them. Then they entered a large cavern where Fin stopped near a massive anvil, which sat beside a pool of bubbling red fire. Yet the eyes of the visitors were drawn to the magnificent trees, amongst which birds fluttered, around the cavern's perimeter. Not recognizing their type, Con, who knew all trees in the land, moved to the nearest and touched it, jerking his hand back to say, "It's metal." "Aye, as are the birds." Wide eyed, Con looked closer at what he had assumed to be a wren, perched in the tree. Reaching forth a finger he felt not the soft plumage he expected, instead the metal edge of a feather scratched at his finger as the bird startled into flight. "How?" "My patron has taught me many wonderful things. And some not so wondrous." Sloan first to slap at his neck, as if stung by an flea, then Con and Tanguy mimicked him. Too late, for each slid to the floor as if dead. Leaning over Tanguy, who fell nearest to him, Gwri found the warrior breathed, but seemed in the deepest of sleep. Shooting an angry glance at the smith, he asked, "What have you done?" "Your friends sleep the long sleep of the fae now, Gwri." "Wake them." "Why then would you help the Goban Saor?" Gwri did not answer. Seeing his friends drop, followed by this pronouncement, had caused him to turn and run back the way in which they had come. Grabbing his pack from the table, he had rushed outside into the dark and saddled his tired mount, before leading it to the path upon which they had arrived. He had only one goal, to seek help for his friends, but after a time he thought the trail longer than remembered. Not believing his own perception, Gwri continued onward. Even when that perception turned into undeniable reality, he kept walking. Only when his horse resisted going forward did he stop. Frustrated he turned to look back, only to see a single light that he came from the still visible hut. Tempting his horse to follow him once more, Gwri returned towards the plateau. Having stabled the horse, Gwri entered the hut and found the smith asleep. Spotting his chance, the young man pulled out his knife. Slowly, quietly, he crept across the floor, planning to take the man by surprise and force him to waken his friends. And though no creaks sounded from the floorboards, he still heard Fin speak. "It won't work, Gwri. Sleep now, in the morning you will be better able to consider your options." Fin proved right, Gwri found sleep welcome and woke refreshed. Breaking his fast from his captor's shelves, he looked outside for the man. Not seeing him, Gwri guessed him at his forge. With opportunity to escape, he took it, ignoring the horses. Long did he walk that day, but he never reached the end of the trail. Again he returned to the hut and slept. Each of the next nine days Gwri attempted escape. He tried with each of the horses, then all of them. He tried to ride and he tried to climb the rocks, ignoring the trail. But each night found him upon the same mat. On the tenth morning he began once more, then stopped. Bowing his head in defeat, he returned inside and found the smith sitting at the table. Gwri asked, "Why me? Con is wiser and either of the brothers are better suited to survive an adventure." "The tasks require a younger man." "Or one who more readily bides to your wishes?" "That doesn't hurt." "Are you the Goban Saor?" "How could you mistake a humble smith for such as he?" In accepting the non-answer, Gwri accepted all. "Very well, what do you need of me?" "The answer to that is simple. As told in the poem, you need to bring me a golden comb, a fallen stone, a linen gift, a woven belt, two dragon tears, and a phoenix's eggs." "And how am I to acquire these items?" "Now that is much less simple." Comb of Gold --------------- Waking the morning after accepting his fate, Gwri found Mac Gabhann bustling about the hut. Watching with distrustful eyes, he saw Fin carrying his own pack to the table. Gwri asked, "How do you sabotage me now, smith?" "No sabotage. Since you act for my patron, I seek to assure your success. Look here, will these not serve you better than your own." Rising from his blankets, Gwri moved to the table where lay a sword, spear, shield, and helm. Even before he picked each up, he sensed they were of a quality better than those Einon had made for him in Mullinglas. His hand reached towards the shimmering sword, tempted, but he forced himself to jerk it away, to instead take a hunk of bread. "Take them, Gwri, they're yours." "What will you require in payment?" "Only what you have already agreed to do." Gwri finished the bread before he studied each, confirming with touch what his eyes had already seen. Worthy of a lord. Sighing in acceptance, he took the tooled leather sword belt and wrapped it around his waist. Sliding the sword into its sheath, he settled the helm upon his head, strapped the shield and pack to his back, and lifted the spear. "Is there any reason for me to delay?" "No, I have prepared all you need." "You have no more advice other than the poem?" "The poem and the knowledge that the path will take you where you need to go." With a nod of his head, but no good bye, Gwri left the hut. Ignoring the stables and the horses, Gwri set foot upon the path. Almost immediately he found a turn that had not existed during his attempts at escape and knew this time he would be free of its grasp. Momentarily, he wondered if he should ignore his promise, to again seek escape, but when he remembered his slumbering friends and the powers of Fintan Mac Gabhann, or more likely his patron, he decided to keep his word. No sooner had he decided this, then the trail came to an end. However, an end unlike the beginning he remembered, instead he looked out upon a vast, unknown forest. Fin proved correct, the trail's magic of the trail, or more likely the Goban Saor's magic, guided Gwri's steps to where he needed to travel. Unfairly he cursed his grandmother, for getting him into this predicament, but he cast aside all thoughts of blame. Rather he look over the endless forest, wondering where to find a comb of gold. Until, in the distance, he spotted a mound thrusting above the trees. In this direction he marched. A journey that proved longer than initially expected. Nightfall barely found him the outskirts of the woods and anxious about being so. The trees grew larger than any he had ever seen and the animal spoor seemed of a size to match. Nervously he decided to forego a fire, instead he climbed a tree and tied himself upon a branch against its trunk. An uncomfortable night, but when awoken by the snuffling of a beast at the tree's base, he felt grateful for the perch. The next day found him moving carefully, particularly after he spotted a giant bear drinking from a stream. In fact, every beast he saw, from rabbit too deer was larger than normal, making him wonder if he had crossed into T?r na n"g. Not until the fifth morning did he approach his destination, though still Gwri did not grow careless. Thus he scrambled down, beside a tree, at the sound of loud buzzing. Laying there, he looked about, trying to identify the source of the sound. He saw a bee, almost the size of his shield floated amongst the trees. Throughout the day, he ducked for cover whenever he heard that sound. Well he did, for later on, while crouched beside another tree, the buzzing grew louder. Fearfully he stayed in place, as the sound of snapping branches and hoof prints heralded a running deer, fleeing not from bear or wolf, but a swarm of the bees. Gwri was spared the sight of its demise, for it ran with great heart, until he heard the unmistakable sound of its death shriek. The deer served enough to feed the insects, for no longer did he hear them as he moved toward his destination. Reaching it, late in the day, he crept to the forest's edge to look at the mound, a tunnel bored into its side from which bees fluttered in and out. Apparently it served them as their hive. In that moment, Gwri knew his prize would be found inside, guarded by hundreds, if not thousands, of the giant bees. Indeed he would have to be bold to steal the ore from inside. Better still, he needed to be smart. Thus he spent the rest of the afternoon, hidden away, watching. In many ways the hive seemed no different from any other. Only their size was strange and the workers returning with bloodied hunks of meat. Unsure how to proceed, Gwri retreated into the woods, found a tree for sleep and returned, in the cool morning, before they stirred from their hive. While he watched, he hatched a plan in his mind. Only after the sun sunk and the workers returned to their hive did Gwri enter the clearing. Quietly he made for the entrance, where he listened, but heard nothing. Satisfied, he scoured woods, gathered dry dead fall, and piled it near the entrance. Long into the night he worked, the light from the nearly full moon guiding his steps, still he did light it before retreating to his previous night's camp. At his post the next day, Gwri felt pleased to see the bees ignore his construction. Anxious though he was, Gwri again did not light the fire on that calm night, wanting the wind to blow towards the tunnel. Therefore, he added more timber to his pyre. Sleeping late, he spent the next day scraping moss from trees. He also killed every bee he saw, his spear's thrust proving deadly to the insects. As the wind grew throughout the day, he anxiously waited for the evening, while trying to hold his boldness fast. Finally he decided to light the tinder. In a short order the dry wood took the flame, smoke billowing towards the hole in the side of the mound. Slowly he added more logs until the fire's heat made it difficult to approach it. Lastly he threw the gathered moss on the fire, turning the smoke acrid. It was time. Gwri wrapped a soaked cloth around his face to cover nose and mouth. Thrusting a prepared torch into the fire, he held it in his left hand, thrusting above the shield strapped to that arm. With sword drawn, he entered the tunnel. Despite his mask, the smoke almost overwhelmed, causing the flames of his torch to flicker strangely against the ceiling and walls. In that light he noticed pick marks, proving the tunnel had once been mined, hopefully a gold mine not emptied of all its wealth. Gwri continued forward, until the flames from his fire disappeared in the distance. Penetrating deep into the earth, he spotted the first guard, fluttering erratically towards him. Without thought, Gwri took three steps and slashed it in two. Then he saw it, blocking him from going any deeper. From side to side, floor to ceiling, stood a wall of honey comb, solid except for a hole in the middle, through which came a distant angry buzz. Frustrated that he had found no vein of gold, he almost turned back. Dismissing the cowardly thought, Gwri thrust his sword into its sheath and unhooked the pick-axe from his pack. Hefting it, to measure its weight, he slammed it forward into the wall, which caused a large chunk to break away, falling upon the floor. Again and again he struck, into the fragile yet thick wall or at the curious bees, which came through the hole. It proved slow going, despite how the pick damaged the barrier. Light headed from the smoke and tiring work, he lowered his arm in rest. Unsuccessfully he brushed sleeve across his face in an attempt to remove the reddish tinged honey splattered across his face. Somewhat rested, he again swing the pick-axe against the wall. Soon, he swung it as often against bees as at the wall, he worried about failing before he finished a single verse of the poem. That thought made Gwri think about the verse and his assumption he needed to find gold ore, melt it down, and pour it into the mold, which Fin had placed inside his pack. Now he wondered. Why would he not take any ore to Poolrua? How could he turn nuggets into molten ore in the middle of a forest? Suddenly a new thought forced itself through the fog in his brain. Dropping his shield, he dragged the pack from his back and scrounged inside until he found a cup and the mold for the golden comb, to two blocks of wood wrapped together with cord and bored through on one end into which liquid could be poured. Killing another bee, to add to the pile heaping upon the ground, Gwri grasped a chunk of honey comb and squeezed so its contents dripped into his cup. Another piece met the same fate, then three more before the cup was full, ready to pour into the mold. While he refilled the cup, he noticed he breathed easier and his eyes teared less.. Frantically Gwri worked to fill the mold before the angry bees shook off the hold of the smoke. Nervous looks towards the hole in the combs made him slow to react when the mold overflowed. Two more combs me their doom before he used the waxen mess to seal the liquid in. He placed the mold into his pack, which he shouldered into, before he picked up his shield and torch. Almost immediately, another bug came through the hole. He thrust the torch forward, its fibrous hairs instantly starting afire. Watching it writhe in agony, he thrust once more, this time at the wall of honey comb. Multiple strikes caused the wall to burst into flame. The smell of singed eyebrows temporarily overpowered by the sweet smell of burning honey, as Gwri ran towards the entrance. Again smoke enveloped him, this time from the attacking flames that consumed the wall. Finally he reached the outside, gasped for air, then turned to look at the opening. Waiting. Nothing came. Nothing except the smoke. Gwri crept into the forest's edge to watch. He waited until the first rays of sunlight appeared above the trees. Even when the light of the sun drove away the shadows of the trees, long after the workers normally left their tunnel, none appeared. Not then, not when the sun rose to its apex. Satisfied, Gwri left the clearing and began to walk. First to a nearby stream, where he failed to remove the sticky mess from himself and his gear. Then on towards the mountain. Tired, he did not get far, before climbing into a tree to sleep. Yet he awoke early. Continued his trek. As he walked, his worry about the predators was pushed aside by the worry he had made a mistake. Should he have returned to the caves, to seek once more for gold, instead of walking away with a mold full of honey? Should he have searched for nuggets from the forest's streams, instead of bracing the bees? But when he reached Slieve Gullion and spotted the trail, he began to hope his idea proved correct. Relieved that home, or at least a home, was near, his pace quickened. It lead him toward the plateau upon which Mac Gabhann's hut stood. Inside, Gwri passed through the blanketed opening into a tunnel, which now seemed more welcoming after that in the mound. The sound of the hammer upon anvil, drew him to Fin, in the cavern where slept his friends. Each laid upon newly cut reeds and covered in his own blanket. "So I take it you found it?" Fin asked, turning from his task. Not answering, Gwri dropped his sticky pack and reached inside for the mold. This he placed upon Fin's anvil. Peering first at it, then at Gwri, Fin grinned. "Well done, lad, well done." While the smith examined the treasure, Gwri sought the metal trough against the wall and ducked his head beneath the warm water. Repeated dunks softened the honey caked spikes into which his hair had been shaped, allowing his scalp to shed the itch it had endured. Looking towards the smith, he saw the man throw the wooden mold into the bubbling pool. As it burst into flame, Gwri surged upright, his hair shedding a spray of water, and shouted in anger. Fin ignored him. Instead he used long handled tongs to take something from the pool and drop it into a bucket of water. Waiting for the burst of steam to diminish, he reached inside. Gwri saw Fin hold up a red tinged, honey coloured comb. The glow from the pool flickering through its transparent form. "Is it what you needed?" Gwri asked. "Close enough." "What's it for?" "Ehhh? I guess it's to comb hair." "What! That's all? After all I've been through?" Gwri said, outraged by the unfairness. Somewhat abashed, Fin said, "It does seem underwhelming." "Bah, you may as well give it to me. Maybe it will help me get this honey out of my hair." Catching the thrown comb, he stared at it angrily, seeing little difference between it and any other comb, before drawing it through matted hair. Yet instead of catching, yanking at snags, it glided through unhindered. Grateful he finally felt clean, Gwri continued his long strokes. "Oh, that's what it does," Fin said. Gwri did not answer. Instead he looked, wide eyed, at the hunk of hair through which he had run the comb, so much thicker and longer than ever before. Fallen Stone ------------- Frowning into a piece of polished metal, Gwri studied the curse of the comb. Though his mother, in their brief time together, had named him for the shock of yellow hair on his head, time had turned it into a dirty brown. No longer, now it hung to his waist and a shone a fiery gold. Fin tried to ease his mind with stories of Lug's golden hair, but Gwri would not be appeased, thinking Niamh a worthier comparison. Thus, he had taken a knife and lopped it off. However, later that eve, while relaxing after a meal, he found himself absentmindedly running the comb through his hair, restoring the golden mane. No matter how often he cut it, at some point he would find comb in hand, undoing the knife's slice. Finally he had given up, letting it hang down his back, tied in place with a leather thong. Meanwhile Gwri prepared for the next verse. Cleaning and repairing gear, he tried to extract clues from Fin. "My guesses are probably the same as yours, Gwri. The fallen stone is probably a sky stone. But where to find it? Well I suspect you need to follow the path." Gwri's guesses matched Fin's. Thus one morning he walked along the path, following it as it soon curved towards the North. This journey lasted much longer than that to the forest and the slight incline caused his legs to ache as he climbed into the cold. Prepared by the verse, he added another tunic and then his coat. In time he found himself in a snow covered expanse, the path drawing a straight, black line to the North. Onwards he walked, his pack growing lighter as he emptied it of the clothes needed to stay warm. Rarely stopping, for that made him feel the cold even worse, he worried about the night. He saw no shelter on the horizon nor anything with which to start a fire. So he walked, dreading the arrival of a dark that never came. On and on, until he did not want to continue. Yet he forced himself to take another step and then another. Wrapped in his woolen blanket, head bowed to shelter his face from the wind, he grew weak. Fearfully Gwri looked upwards, seeking anything in the barren lands. Weary steps stumbled at what he spotted. Ahead, stood a stone fence, circling a pasture in which cattle grazed. Almost he thought he dreamt, until his steps brought him against a gate where the path intersected the wall. Reaching for the latch, Gwri hesitated. Who would he find in this seeming paradise, surrounded by nothing? Assuredly someone with powers beyond the norm. And how would they take his arrival? He decided it did not matter, since he could not turn back. He had come too far and when he looked to his rear, the path no longer existed. He needed to stop, to rest. Therefore, he opened the gate and stepped onto grass. From the winter cold into summer warmth. As the cattle curiously lowed their greetings, Gwri moved towards a small hut, seeing smoke arise from a hole in the thatched roof. Nearing it, he spotted a dock and a boat, both seemingly frozen into ice. He realized he had reached the Sea, though one not of water. Looking out over the frozen sea, Gwri momentarily forgot the hut. Thus he spun in surprise when a voice said, "Greetings stranger, what brings you to my farm?" Unsure who to expect, Gwri saw a farm wife, probably of an age with Nareene. Confused, he answered, "My name is Gwri, Goodwife. I ask shelter for the night." "But why are you here?" "I seek a sky stone." She snorted and said, "Which one of them set your foot on that trail?" Something in that disdainful snort told Gwri he faced no normal woman, as if he had not already suspected. "The Goban Saor, Ma'am." "Of course. I should have known, particularly after finding his clever toy beside my dock. Well come inside and we'll talk. And call me Ann." First inclination led him to doubt she could be who he guessed. But when he thought about this fertile farm in the middle of winter, cattle in its pasture, and suspected she truly was Anu. With this understanding, Gwri meekly followed her and sat where directed. While she prepared a meal, he told his story. "You've been ill prepared for such a journey, young Gwri. Yet the rescue of your friends is a worthy goal, as is the end of Brarn. I would offer help, if you would accept?" "Willingly, Ann. I have no idea where I am going, how to get there, or what to do if I arrive. The Goban Saor picked poorly in choosing me as his tool." "As always, he assuredly has his reasons, convoluted though they probably would be to understand. So be assured that he believes you have a chance to succeed, another reason why it is worth my time to assist. First you must prepare for the cold, which makes the winter around my home seem as summer. Eat." That proved to be a common command during the following days, as Ann prepared him for the journey. Days separated by sleep and work rather than light and dark. And whenever he returned from his tasks, she would have waiting a meal of potatoes, onions, and beef. So often and so much did she feed him, that his girth grew until it seemed his footsteps plodded with a thump similar to that of the cattle. Each day, Ann sent Gwri out to work on one of two main tasks. Mainly he gathered rations. Bags of vegetables from Ann's gardens or sides of beef, harvested from the unshrinking herd of cattle. Or chunks of ice, cut from the frozen sea, to melt for drink. All of which he stored in the hold of the Goban Saor's boat, Sg?th. As Ann had said, the boat was a clever creation, sitting upon skis so as not to be frozen into the ice and equipped with an ever burning stove, within its comfortable cabin, to make the months worth of rations he gathered edible or drinkable. On the boat he also found iron traps, which made his second task possible. Hunting the giant snow bears that prowled the ice. From their carcasses, he obtained thick fur pelts, which he sewed together so fur faced out from either side. These two sided pelts he sewed into pants, shirt, long coat, gloves, hat, and boots. Thus clothed, he barely felt the bitter cold. Ann also helped him prepare his mind. She told him the loneliness and darkness would be his greatest enemy. That they would prey on his thoughts, attempting to break down the walls of his mind's fortress to let in the demons. For they would not be ravening beasts, seeking to him tear apart, instead they would be wraiths trying to drive him mad, to make him forget his task, to tempt him into joining them in their endless prison of despair. In order to combat this, Ann had him learn to distract himself with the songs and lays taught by his Grandmother. Presented with a worn old harp, similar to Keelin's even to its sound, she told Gwri to play, to sing, while she went about her chores. If he turned his head at a loud noise or responded to a comment, she chastised him. Repeated practice brought an end to these admonishments. A final defense came not from Ann, but from the Goban Saor. Again, aboard the Sg?th, Gwri found a featureless bronze mask, polished to a mirrored sheen, which comfortably molded to his face, due to a soft leather lining. Ann speculated it would reflect a demon's visage back upon itself, confusing it. And while she doubted the effectiveness of the mask, she agreed that any help was worth accepting. By the time he boarded the Sg?th to begin his journey North, few would recognize Gwri. Faceless behind the mask and massive like the bears in whose furs he now clothed himself. As the boat glided Northwards, requiring no assistance from its passenger, Gwri found himself surrounded by emptiness. The very nothingness proved oppressive when all he had to combat this oppression was his stories and songs. Only in sleep or while eating did he allow himself silence. Silence he cherished. Yet he did not cheat, for Ann had told him to sing, so sing he did. Only once did he forget her warnings. Uncounted, endless days after setting sail, he climbed above deck to survey the horizon. What he saw struck him dumb, for the boat slid towards a wall of darkness. Not like approaching night, instead it seemed as if the brightest of day and the darkest of night had been sundered in twain at that very spot. Unsure what approached, he armed himself and returned to deck to wait. Doubting his ability to combat whatever lurked in the dark, he loudly sang battle hymns, trying to rally his nerve. And then it was dark. And Gwri was still alone. How long he stood on deck, waiting, he did not know. For time in the dark held no more meaning than it had in the light. Finally he lowered his shield, spear, and voice to look about the boat. He could see nothing, but time had emblazoned his surroundings upon his mind's eye. So with the horizon hidden, he returned to his cabin. There he sat until his body told him to sleep, accepting the dark, though comforted by the warm glow of the Sg?th's stove. The light to which his awakening sight slowly adjusted, until he could see. What he saw caused him to yell his fright, before immediately he launched into song, specifically the Raid of Begagha. Where his scream caused the ghostly figures to open their mouths and add their dreadful cacophony, the song calmed them while it distracted him. Instead they just stared. Waited. With the return of his wits, Gwri realized these were the demons for which he had prepared. Momentarily their prior wailing made him think of the feared Ban Sidhe, until he saw some appeared male. They also seemed to have a patience not associated with those harbingers of death. All through all the time he stayed awake they hovered, never allowing a moment between songs without starting to shriek. Each bite of food, each drink to soothe his raw throat, resulted in the return of the horrific sound. Not until he felt too exhausted to care did he fall asleep, slumped in the chair that had served as battleground during that long, dark day. Only to have it start again when he awoke. Day following upon day. Slowly Gwri found himself able to look upon the demons with tempered fear, as they did not attack. With time he could distinguish individuals, wondering who they had been in life or if they had ever lived. Many would pass through the cabin once, never to be seen again, but the four became regular visitors. One who appeared to have been middle aged man, with tangled brown hair falling to his shoulders, seemed to be attracted to the music, often drumming silently along with his fingers. The next two, an old man and an old woman, were drawn to the Sg?th`s stove, causing Gwri to wonder if they felt its warmth. Last, was a beautiful young woman, yet she frightened him most. The others kept their distance, but she drifted close. While he now usually murmured his songs under breath, her presence found him in full voice. Yet she ignored that, until she hovered within an arm's length. Gwri's voice did not tremble as his terror fermented beneath his calm nor did he flinch in fear, as she lifted an arm. Yet she did not strike, instead her hand slowly rose to touch her own face. Confused, Gwri suddenly remembered his mirrored mask. He suspected that she looked not at him, instead she looked at herself. Again and again her vanity drew her to him until he hardly noticed her hovering form. Over time, Gwri almost thought of these four as his companions, taking comfort in their presence. So while others who floated through were horrible to look upon, victims of vicious wounds or death's rot, he welcomed the four. Instead a new worry took hold. His food supply, once abundant, had shrunk nearly in half. Not having begun the return trip, Gwri cut his meals in half. Now he fought a battle of willpower with his appetite, grown immense during his time with Ann. Often he gave in, until time allowed him to conquer his cravings. Still, barely a third of his supplies were left when, one day, he realized the boat had stopped. Pulling on his coat, mittens, and hat, Gwri took his weapons and a torch with him as climbed above deck. There he found the Sg?th against the shore, a blizzard obscuring most everything beyond the light. However, one area remained free of the storm. The path from Fin's cabin had reappeared. Unsure how far it would be before he reached his destination, Gwri decided to scout forward a short distance. Climbing down from the boat, onto the ice, he felt unsteady, for the sway that had grown natural did not exist upon the ice. Taking hold of the boat, he waited until the ice felt solid under his feet, then carefully he walked to shore and stepped onto the path. With the storm howling to either side, Gwri moved forward, almost immediately coming to a stop. He had expected numerous ends to this journey. A temple to some unknown deity. A mythical beast to overcome. Yet a crater, its edges blackened against the snow, holding a grey rock, had never came to mind. It pleased him in a way that little had, since leaving Mullinglas. In this happiness, Gwri knelt to lift the stone, but found it frozen in place. So with his dagger, he dug around the edges until it moved and he could lift it free of the earth's grip. The size of a human's head, Gwri found it heavier than expected. Confirmation that he held his prize came when he climbed aboard the boat and the Sg?th glided away from the island, traveling in a great arc before heading back in the direction from which he had come. Gwri's days varied little from those during his outward journey, though no more did his ghostly visitors appear, not even the regular four. All he could do was to wait for the trip to end and worry about his shrinking supplies. That grew to be all he thought about, as even his meals left him hungry. Constantly he found himself in the hold counting, stacking, sorting, and parceling provisions out for meals. Meals he held off from eating, for as long as possible. By the time the Sg?th slid back into the light, Gwri's clothes had grown baggy. By the time he reached the shore, his food long gone, he appeared a shadow of his former massive self. To his dismay, Ann's farm no longer appeared to exist. Only the trail. Hungrily, Gwri hitched drooping pants with a length of rope, ensured his prize was tucked away inside his pack, and began his next journey. If his journey to the sea had seemed difficult, he learned how wrong he had been. Physically weak and unused to the solid ground, he shuffled along from the very beginning. Only the hope of reaching Fin's allowed him to keep moving. Thus, never had Gwri seen a more welcome sight than the plateau with its stable and hut. Where once he could not wait to escape, now his shuffle became a shambling jog as approached. Fin, sitting at his table eating a meal, looked at him, frowned, and asked, "Who be you, barging into my home like this?" Hardly noticing the man, his gaze focussed on the food, Gwri said, "Fin, I've got it. What's the matter? It's me, Gwri." "Gwri?" Fin asked, in a hushed tone. Remembering, Gwri reached to take off his mask, but could not find its straps. With a sinking feeling, he gently touched a petite nose, then full lips. A gesture strikingly similar seen so many times, just out of his reach, by the female wraith. Understanding -------------- High above Fin's cabin rose a cliff face, one that Gwri had climbed too during his aborted attempts to escape. Desperate thoughts had brought him to it once more. During that prior attempt at escape, one method he had not considered. Now, looking out over the cliff, he knew it still was not an option. Even with so little control left of his life, Gwri knew there was too much and too many people he liked, to give up the chance to not experience them again, whenever, if ever, the Goban Saor's capricious plan came to fruition. A plan which he suspected he now understood. One totally in keeping with the mythical smith's reputation as a trickster, who solved problems in a manner unconsidered by anyone else. He felt the plan depended on the geis placed upon Brarn by his adoptive mother Morrigu. From Samhain 'til Bealtaine, during the Season of Death, Thou shall roam across the oceans, Punishing those who kept us in chains. From Bealtaine 'til Samhain, during the Season of Life, Thou shall take as thy queen. She who is fairest on Beltaine's eve. As a reaver, no man shall stand before you. As a lover, no man shall stand beside you. Of particular interest was the final line, which could hold the key to the reaver's defeat. Could Brarn only be killed by a man during the Season of Life, when he would surely shelter himself away from all except his queen of the year? And if only she would be with Brarn when he could be defeated, how could the Goban Saor set the killer beside the reaver? It seemed like a task that could only be performed by the greatest of craftsmen, to replace the loveliest of the yearly Bealtaine's queens with the man who would do the killing? The Goban Saor apparently thought himself that craftsman. Unfortunately for Gwri, he appeared to be the ingot that the smith attempted to mold. First his hair, now long and gold. Then his face, shaped to mimic that of a beautiful ghost. And there still remained four more verses. Gwri looked upon the only escape left, then turned, and began the decent to the cabin. There he found a relieved Fin, who he ignored. Instead, Gwri finished his preparations to once more leave. However, before he left, Fin spoke. "You'll need to want to survive the fire, Gwri. For even the finest of smith will toss aside a bar with impurities." As he accepted the prison of the path, Gwri thought about the warning and wondered once more if Fin actually was the Goban Saor? If so, should he place more weight upon that warning? Likely not, the words held a truth no matter from whom they came. He knew he would try as hard as possible to succeed, even if the final destination appeared so bleak. He could do no less. Not if he wanted to save Con, Sloan, and Tanguy. Not if he wanted to offer the needed comfort to his grandmother, Keelin. Not if he wanted to be true to himself. Therefore he could not, would not, intentionally sabotage this twisted journey which he traveled. If he survived to its end, he could decided upon his next step. Linen Gift ---------- Wrapped in his thoughts, Gwri let the path lead him to wherever it wished. Not until he heard the sound of birds and smelled the nearby fields of flax did he notice his surroundings. Looking about, he found himself in land similar to that in which he had grown. Fighting a surge of home sickness, particularly when he spotted a village on the horizon, Gwri guessed this journey would be short. A village and its inhabitants, made Gwri nervous about his strange appearance. From the neck up, he appeared a young maiden, yet his body did not match, even if recent starvation had left him a shadow of himself. So he wore a robe, complete with hood, similar to Con's. He could only hope the villagers would allow him his privacy. However, as he walked closer, Gwri wondered if anybody was about to question his appearance. Despite carts in the fields and scythes laying beside rows of freshly cut flax, he saw nobody. The reason for this became apparent as he approached the village, when the sound of shouting and the clash of metal against metal came to his ears. Dropping everything but his weapons and shield, Gwri rushed forward. He struggled through a hedge, which yanked at his fluttering robe, he found himself in a village, hauntingly similar to Mullinglas. The sounds provided a direction in which to run, until he saw a solid wall, unlike the hedge that had blocked his entrance, which had an open gate before which battle raged. Ignoring the startled shout of a villager who spotted his appearance, Gwri lifted a spear and threw it into the chest of a man with the head of a pig. His second spear followed close behind to strike another with that of a fox. Gwri's doubted not that these were his foe, dressed for war unlike most of the villagers. Stories told of such creatures being in the employ of the Fomorians, possibly even a twisted branch of Fomorian. Nothing good was ever said of these man-beasts, only their cruelty was remembered. Hurling himself behind his spears, Gwri felt thrilled by the simplicity in fighting against an obvious foe. Unlike the previous two adventures, this was something for which he had prepared, trained to fight by the Grandsons of Weylan. And though his actual fighting experience consisted only of fisticuffs, Gwri's rage at his situation and the surprise of his attack allowed his skills to blossom. Unhesitatingly he cut down pig-face, who stared unbelieving at the spear stuck in his side. With a shout he fell upon another fox-headed foe. Barely did the fox block the blow of Gwri's sword. A feat owing much to the reflexes that allowed him to immediately counter with a thrust of his own. Almost this poem came to an end, but the depravations of his last journey had left Gwri with a quickness unknown to his previous self. Thus he interposed his shield in time. Again and again each blade darted towards an opponent, only to meet metal of sword or hide covered wood of shield. As quick as the other, Gwri found that in losing much of his mass, the loss had not sapped him of his strength. Instead it had been tempered into wiry sinew, which allowed him to beat his opponent backwards. Yet the fight ended due to a rock, thrown by a villager, which missed all who fought, but lay on the smooth ground waiting to trip the fox. Unconcerned with chivalry, Gwri took the opportunity presented and thrust towards the stumbling enemy. As the red wave surged from the fox's neck, a shout of victory came unbidden to Gwri's throat. Empowered, he turned to assist a defender, fighting a desperate defense against two more pig-men, killing the first while the embattled villager took the opportunity to finish the other. Hardly noticing the woman he saved, Gwri turned to see another defender collapse before a brute with the head of a bear. Unhesitatingly he leapt forward, the woman following behind. Almost like hounds baiting an true bear the two leapt forward and back, swords flicking out to sting and enrage the raging beast. Angered he attacked with a two- headed axe, forgetting all concept of defense. Dodging aside at the onrush, Gwri saw the bear slow before sinking to the ground, his hamstrings cut by the woman to whom he had presented his back.