EóGAN III

  Of the initial war party, only thirteen remained standing, including Ronnat, Cinoch, and Eógan. Standing was perhaps a generous description, all of the True Folk were injured to some degree and were tending to their wounds in a creek that ran past the Jotman camp. Despite being the most gravely wounded, Cinoch was not bathing with the others; the hulking man stood in the midst of the carnage from the battle, watching as the horse plowed the field with the Jotman leader dragging behind it. The heavily armored man had lost his helm at some point in his journey. After initially protesting about his plight, he had fallen silent and still. Despite bleeding heavily from multiple punctures and slashes, Cinoch was content to watch the Jotman’s misfortune. Ronnat padded softly over to Eógan and gingerly sat down by his side. Her flowing red hair was matted with blood, a dark green poultice was pressed into her neck to staunch the bleeding. “You are blooded and a pup no more Eógan. You fought reasonably well.” That cheered him, eliciting a laugh.

  “I appreciate the compliment Ronnat, you fought as fiercely as your wolf!”

  “Remember that it is important to honor the aspects of the animals who chose you, fight as they would and you will never be alone.” Eógan reflected upon the twin serpents on his forearms, the owl across his heart, and the pair of deer upon his legs.

  “Have you ever seen a spirit abandon anyone?” he asked with a bit of trepidation.

  “I have lad, be true to yourself and your spirits, their company is a gift. You must find guardians that best reflect who you are, do not let them determine your nature.” The wolf on her shoulder sniffed the air, yawned and licked away blood from one of the many slashes on Ronnat’s arm. She rose to retrieve her clothing, the pale light from the crescent moon illuminated her lithe form and the many scars that crisscrossed it. The raven on her back spread its wings, craned its neck and whispered something into her ear. Eógan finished cleaning his cuts and scrapes in the cool clear water and dressed himself. He heard the shrill cries of a horse as metal groaned and clattered. Looking over at the battlefield, Eógan watched as Cinoch held the frightened horse with one hand and untangled the knight from the stirrups twisted around the greaves on his legs. Cinoch tenderly handled the horse and soothed it, before tossing the leader of the Jotman into a crumpled heap. The man’s head lolled from side to side and he began groaning softly. Cinoch crouched over him and roared.

  The Jotman leader weakly raised an arm, yet the integrity of his limbs seemed to have been compromised, he failed to lift it far off of the muddy ground. He grimaced andpulled his lips back in a bloody smile, most of his teeth were now missing. As the True Folk began to congregate around the Jotman, Ronnat took the reins of the horse from Cinoch. She removed the straps and saddle before releasing the beast with an affectionate pat. The Jotman spoke slowly, with obvious difficulty, in a language that Eógan could not comprehend. Unlike the lilting cadence of the True Tongue, the Jotman spoke in clipped and harsh syllables. Cinoch turned towards Ronnat and asked, “You speak some of their tongue, yes?” She nodded back to him and the raven on her back began to mimic a word the Jotman had repeated over and over.

  “Osmond, Osmond!” the raven echoed. Ronnat stilled the bird.

  “The Jotman is insistent that someone named Osmond will track us down and enact revenge on his behalf,” Ronnat translated. The Jotman leader continued to speak, now addressing Ronnat instead of Cinoch. She responded in a harsh tone towards the Jotman and he laughed before he spoke again at length. When he finished the Jotman clenched his jaw in defiance, but was not able to mask the pain he was in. Ronnat translated his statements for the war party, “He wasted breath by making it clear that the Jotman have little respect for women on the field of battle. I told him to fuck himself with the corpse of his mother.” Cinoch kicked the man over onto his stomach and drove his face into the muck. “The Jotman was also proud of the fact that his men distracted us long enough to save their women and children from facing our savagery. They escaped during the battle.”

  “Tell him that those who do not wish to fight are of no concern to us,” Cinoch grumbled. “And ask him how he wants to die.” Ronnat had a brief exchange with the Jotman.

  “He says that wished he had been bested in combat and not unhorsed by a dirty trick Cin.” Ronnat eyed the Jotman briefly. “He also wished unfortunate things upon your mate, suggesting that she is a milk cow.” The bull on Cinoch’s chest flared its nostrils as he hefted his battle-axe.

  “May your soul never feel warmth,” the war leader said with fury as his weapon cleaved the man’s head off. It rolled unevenly to a stop on the muddy field. “I hope to meet this Osmond in battle, perhaps he will be less disappointing than these lot.”

  ———

  Despite Cinoch’s protestations, he let the remaining members of the raiding party tend to his numerous wounds. Soon after, the True Folk took to the nearby forest to follow the trail of the Jotman who had fled during the battle. The True Folk crept through the woods in a ragged line, while Eógan and Ronnat scouted ahead. It was not quite dawn and the moon would soon leave the sky. Their leader spoke true and the bulk of the tracks seemed not belong to warriors, the panic in their flight was clear. After Eógan and Ronnat reported this to Cinoch, he addressed the raiding party, “We will follow the Jotman and harry whoever seeks to protect them, before returning to join the rest of the war band.” It was clear that the battle had taken its toll on the massive man, he struggled to keep pace with the rest of them, but refused to admit any weakness. Ronnat left Eógan’s side to support her mate. Even without the aid of his owl’s nocturnal eyes, Eógan had no trouble following the path of those who had fled from the Jotman’s camp. Belongings were strewn to either side of the road that wound to the east through the woods and the ground was well trod with fresh footprints.

  Several hours from the site of the battle, a road bisected the one that Cinoch’s raiding party had been following. The footsteps of the non-combatants continued off to the northeast, where they were met by countless horse hoofprints coming in from the opposite direction. The hoofprints were large and had sunk deeply into the mud of the road, suggesting that armored warriors were riding them. At the junction of roads sat a weathered sign, several entries were freshly painted additions. Eógan could speak some Gaídel, but could not read their script. Ronnat made her way over and studied it carefully. “To the northwest is the Gaídel town of Gallowye,” she said as she pointed to the oldest part of the sign, she then gestured to the newer portions, “To the northeast is a Jotman stronghold and to the east is something they call an abbey.” Eógan studied the foot and hoofprints once more. It was clear that all the warriors had traveled from the Jotman stronghold and towards the Gaídel town. Cinoch lumbered up to their position. “Cin, those who fled the camp we attacked have gone this way,” Ronnat said as she pointed to the road leading to the Jotman stronghold. “Yet their warriors have traveled to a nearby Gaídel town. Which should we pursue?”

  The massive man scratched at his hip and turned towards the road to the northwest. “We will follow their warriors, but must keep our distance. Should we have an opportunity to inconvenience them, we will take it. Otherwise we will count their numbers and return to the war band.” Cinoch mussed Eógan’s hair and cuffed him lightly. “Do you miss your mum yet pup?”

  “Not as much as yours!” Eógan retorted with a smile.

  Cinoch’s eyes narrowed briefly before he burst into a hearty laugh. “The pup is barely blooded and thinks to be a wolf! Come, let us find our foes before the sun rises.” The raiding party moved through the woods on either side of the road, following the hoofprints to the northwest.

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  The road crested a rise and the forest abruptly ended at the stumps of felled trees. The trail they were following continued across a valley before disappearing behind a copse of trees. Eógan conveyed this to the rest of his raiding party and crept silently towards the clearing in the predawn light. There was an eerie calm. While they had traveled, the woods had been alive with the sounds of life, now they were eerily still. When he reached the edge of the woods, Eógan’s stomach emptied. The stench of the dead was unbearable, worse than that of the carnage from the battle earlier in the night. Blood ran in browning streaks down the trunks of trees as Gaídel women and children dangled brokenly, cruelly pinned by wooden stakes. Triangular wooden fetishes danced and spun in the gentle breeze. At the far end of the field, a Gaídel town smoldered, burnt down to embers. Eógan was overwhelmed by the savagery that surrounded him and sank to his knees.

  The rest of Eógan’s companions trickled in to his position. Each was repulsed in turn and struck speechless. They prayed for the spirits of the fallen until Eógan pierced the silence and asked, “Why would a woods witch do something so horrible?” He pointed up to the wooden fetishes dangling from the branches above.

  Ronnat put a hand on his shoulder and shook her head. “This is not the work of a witch child, though one named Lady Galdr does protect these woods.” Eógan winced as Ronnat reached up to a Devil trap hanging from a bough and stilled its rotation. “You see now? These are forgeries made to fool others into thinking that Lady Galdr was responsible.” Taking a closer look, Eógan could see how the wooden frame lacked the care and skill necessary to trap a demon, it was an obvious imitation. After the True Folk removed the stakes driven through the corpses of the women and children, allowing their spirits to find peace, more evidence of deceit became clear. The wooden stakes had been blackened by fire and were carved from the body of an ancient tree; a woods witch would never violate her forest in such a manner. As Eógan held one of the bloodied spikes in his hand examining it, the first arrow struck.

  A volley hissed by, feathering trees and True Folk alike. Eógan felt the rush of wind as an arrow lodged into the ground by his feet and another thudded into the trunk of the tree in front of him. Ronnat cursed as her wolf guardian managed to snatch two arrows out of the air, but missed the one that punctured her thigh. Others fell on all sides and Cinoch was beginning to look more like a porcupine than a man. He remained unfazed and stared down the low hill, onto the open field below. Archers had emerged from the closest trees on the far side and held their long curved bows. Surprisingly, they were not nocking another volley of arrows. From around the stand of trees, a well organized formation of mounted Jotman approached, their colorful banners whipped in the wind. The force was considerably larger than that which the True Folk had faced at the Jotman camp. The recently risen sun glinted off of armor and weapons alike. The earth drummed as dozens and dozens of armored riders galloped towards them, while voices could be heard shouting from the road that the True Folk had followed through the forest.

  At the front of the Jotman’s cavalry rode a man adorned in resplendent armor, his metal hands held aloft a massive great sword. Something in the pommel caught the early morning light as he slung it over his shoulder into a sheaf and refracted a bright red that was visible even from a distance. Cinoch roared as he drew his massive axe. The blood from his wounds steamed in the cold morning air as he shrugged off his garments. The battered remnants of the raiding party, began to undress and added their bestial cries to Cinoch’s. The commitment to an honorable death was unspoken. The Jotman forces, which vastly outnumbered them, did not appear to be perturbed by the True Folk’s war-cries. Eógan’s knees began to tremble. The twin snakes on his arms coiled ready to strike, as the animal avatars on his companions bristled and hungered for combat. Cinoch lumbered down the hill, picking up momentum and charging directly into the opposing forces. A handful of True Folk kept pace with their leader. As Ronnat limped down the slope with an arrow through her leg, Eógan stayed close to her and trotted halfheartedly. He justified this by wanting to aid the hobbled warrior, but knew in his heart that it was mostly out of fear.

  The thumping of Eógan’s blood in his temples deafened him to all other sounds. The imposing warrior at the head of the Jotman cavalry raised a metallic fist and the formation around him broke off into symmetrical wedges, fanning out to the flanks. He bore down upon Cinoch alone and couched the long spear he wielded under one arm as he raised a shield painted with the face of a one-eyed Giantkin with the other. The spectral bull lowered its head in a charge, imbuing Cinoch with supernatural power and momentum. At the moment before impact, the mounted rider pulled up on his reins and the horse jumped, sailing over Cinoch and his bull as they dove low, aiming for the animal’s legs. In that same moment, the long spear’s point buried itself in Cinoch’s shoulder and was released. The Jotman with the fearsome shield galloped past Cinoch, who now lay laboring in the knee high grass. With a rasp, he drew his great sword and turned to face Cinoch. The scarlet gem flared once again in the light of dawn. The riders at his back flowed smoothly around both of them and intercepted the True Folk trying to keep pace with Cinoch. Their charge left Eógan’s companions broken, animal spirits mourning their fallen hosts.

  Eógan stopped in his tracks, his mouth hung open as he watched the Jotman leader raise his gauntlets, clutching that terrible blade, high above his head. Cinoch’s death was obscured by the mounted riders bearing down upon Ronnat and him, but the bellow of agony from the bull was unmistakable. Ronnat had tears streaming down her face, yet her resolve was grim and unbreakable. She continued past where Eógan had stopped and faced the approaching forces alone. Eógan felt panic rising and threw a glance back at the tree line. Jotman on foot were making their way down the hill. As Ronnat screamed in defiance, Eógan turned and ran. The deer on his legs granted him a swiftness that carried him back towards the crest of the rise and the bloodstained trees. Ronnat’s wolf snarled and there was a rending tear of tooth on metal, before he heard her die. He was too ashamed to witness her final moments. Eógan was also not clear of danger. The swords and spears of the Jotman on foot were leveled at him. He was now caught between two forces.

  Eógan relied purely on instinct. Everything slowed to a stop as he danced with nimbleness and grace. The blows of the Jotman trying to intercept him were almost laughably slow and foreshown. Eógan easily sidestepped and outmaneuvered them, bounding agilely as his foes were encumbered with their armor and heavy boots. Survival was all that mattered. His direct approach also caught the Jotman by surprise, they had fanned out in a thin line to contain him. Further adding to the confusion, Eógan threw his short sword at the warrior in front of him, before tumbling through the man’s legs. Another Jotman thrust down with his spear, Eógan dodged it by twisting to the side. His momentum carried him forward and he used it to spring to his feet. As a sword arced towards his face, he dropped back to the ground on one hand, tucked into his shoulder and propelled himself forward in another roll. Once he was through that cluster of Jotman, he quickly left their forces in the distance. The mounted riders were unable to pursue through the dense vegetation and reined their horses back in frustration. The spectral deer moved with unparalleled grace and thrived in this habitat. As Eógan ran and abandoned his kin, the snakes on his forearms began to hiss a warning, but he did not slow. They reared back in unison and plunged their fangs into his wrists, he felt their venom burning through his veins and numbing his steps. Both serpents unwound fully and released from his skin, dissipating into the air. Eógan ran drunkenly, his lungs were on fire.

  ———

  Eógan must have fallen at some point, he could not remember when or where. He writhed in agony as the snakes’ neurotoxins slowly killed him. He could not see or hear as he thrashed about, the world was an out of focus grey that was rapidly darkening. He deserved this, he should have died with his companions. He was haunted by echoes of Cinoch and Ronnat’s death cries and now saw their faces hovering about him, distorted and judging him for his cowardice. Eógan had failed his people and now welcomed death. As the world desaturated in color and closed to a pinpoint aperture, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, walked slowly towards him. Her steps were measured, her skin radiant, and her clothing a burst of color in the void of grayscale that surrounded her. She smiled at Eógan and it broke his heart. He did not see her lips move, but he could hear the song of her voice in his head. “Bring the young maiden in black to me, you will find her at the altar atop the hill. You need her help as much as she needs yours.” She bent down and kissed his wrists, one at a time, then spat out the snakes’ venom into a small vial.

  “You must be Lady Galdr,” Eógan croaked weakly, remembering the woods witch that Ronnat had named.

  “Hush now dearie. Rest.” The witch smiled at him sweetly and passed a delicate hand over his face.

  Eógan awoke naked and alone, his head rested upon a tree. Through its boughs he could see a large hill and upon its summit a massive Jotman structure was under construction. Mist danced and twisted around him.