Little Things

“Hurry it up.” Deagan offered Brenna a hand.

Eoghan kicked it aside. “You,” he said.

“Could use a hand.” She cast him a pointed look.

“You turned my son into a monster,” Eoghan said.

Ciaran blinked. “Da. A little help here, please?”

“Technically, he’s only half monster, and if he is, well, you married her,” Brenna said. She pulled herself up onto the grass. “Most people don’t hold with calling gods ‘monsters’, though.”

“Ceri was --”

“The goddess of the living fire,” Brenna said. She offered Ciaran a hand. “Turns out your son has learnt to use it a little differently.”

At Eoghan's Feet

Ciaran hung back, waited till Eoghan, Odran and Dolan had a head start. Then he turned and looked at the swarming monsters clambering over the bodies of their fallen comrades. Brenna pulled up beside him, sword dripping with gore and blood.

“Do it,” she said.

Ciaran flung a hand toward the bodies, and as one,they burst into flame, formed a wall of fire. Some of the men couldn’t stop charging in time and ran into the heat, began to scream.

Brenna grabbed his hand and took off running.

They reached the cliff and scrambled up - right to Eoghan’s feet.

And, And, And...

One moment Ciaran was barely hanging onto his sword, desperate to keep his grip on it as he parried one blow, then another, from gigantic greatsword wielded by a man who was more bear than human. The next moment, he was dancing, and his sword was literally on fire, and around him, men were dropping and screaming.

But there were too many of them, and Brenna and Niamh were shouting, Retreat, fall back, for the hills!

And Dolan was shouting back, No! We have to hold the line! Our wives and children!


And then Brenna looked at Ciaran, and he knew.

This Moment

Impossible. She couldn’t have been strong enough to withstand such a blow. But then she pushed, and the man staggered backward. Another man swung at her, and she stabbed him, pushed her sword clean through him, planted a foot against his chest and kicked to free her sword, and then she was on the next man.

Deagan and Malachy leapt into the fray. Niamh’s archers swung their bows wildly, stabbing with loose arrows. Dolan and Eoghan joined the battle, and then Ciaran remembered that he had a sword. He had been preparing for this moment for months.

Block. Trap. Strike.

Meeting

“Now,” Brenna said, “might be a good time for some faster magic.”

One of the enemies lifted a giant bow, and Ciaran stood paralyzed by the bloodlust in those ice-green eyes. The enemy fired. Eoghan shouted. So did Dolan. Ciaran couldn’t move.

And then Brenna was in front of him, clutching the arrow in one hand.

“Or not,” she said. Then she threw back her head and screeched, the sound just like the one her massive black bird made before it dove from the sky. She swung her sword up, and it met the metal of a giant axe.

Once, Twice, Thrice

For a moment, Ciaran thought that total destruction was imminent, that the dragonboats would explode and fall apart in the water, but then there was an unholy scrape and lurch as, one by one, they shot up onto the sand. Men spilled over the sides, men too massive to be human. Some turned to douse the fires, but the rest swarmed toward the ragged band of farmers and druids.

Niamh’s archers loosed another volley of arrows, and a rank of enemies dropped. One man unstrapped a massive axe from his back and swung it once, twice, thrice. Then he charged.

Screaming

“Are you mad?” Ciaran asked, but then all along the row of archers, arrowheads burst into flame.

“Witch!” Dolan cried, and Eoghan leveled his spade at her.

Brenna looked at them coolly, and Ciaran thought he saw something like power glimmer in her golden eyes. “You’ll want something faster than my brand of witchcraft once those men make it ashore.” And then she caught Ciaran’s gaze, and he knew. He swallowed hard, darted a glance at his father.

Niamh said, “Fire.”

Arrows zipped through the air like a rain of falling stars. Prows burst alight. And then there was screaming.

Ready

The fishermen cast her contemptuous looks.

“Now’s not the time for infighting,” Niamh began, and another fisherman spat at her,

“You should be with the other women. Where it’s safe.”

“If we don’t stay here,” Brenna said, “soon nowhere will be safe.”

The ships loomed bigger and faster on the horizon. Ciaran thought he could see teeth painted onto the sharp prows.

Niamh called out to the archers. “Ready your line!”

They nocked arrows and poised to fire. Brenna lowered her head and bit into her own wrist. Blood flowed, and she used it to draw on her own skin.

Of War

Ciaran skidded to a halt beside Brenna, gave his sword a few practice swings.

“Right. What’s the plan?”

Eoghan gaped at him. “Where did you get that sword?”

“Er...” Ciaran darted a glance at his father nervously. “It was a --”

“Necessary precaution,” Odran said. “Don’t want the lad dying before he’s useful, aye?”

“We’re just peat farmers,” Eoghan said. “How can any of us possibly be useful in this fight?”

“We’ve sent our Padraig to the next village for reinforcements,” one of the fishermen said.

“I doubt they’ll get here in time,” Brenna said.

“What do you know of war?”

Doomed or Not

“What are you doing here?”

“We were involved in a dastardly ritual when the sight of the dragon-boats disrupted our vile magic,” Niamh said dryly.

Eoghan twitched.

“Though you may hate us,” Deagan said, “this country is ours as much as it is yours, and we’ll defend it to our deaths.”

“Aye,” Eoghan said. “The village men are coming as well.”

About fifty men came careening across the sands, Ciaran loping at the head of them. Most were armed with fishing spears or farming implements.

“We’re doomed,” Malachy said.

“No,” Odran said, turning sightless eyes toward Ciaran, “we’re not.”

Incoming

Brenna hissed orders across the line. Deagan and Malachy had control of two flanks while Niamh badgered the archers into place. Odran loomed beside her, massive staff in hand. Blind and old though he may have been, he was the most seasoned warrior of them all - save Brenna herself.

“How many are there?” a man asked, panting heavily.

Brenna spun, brought up her sword. Eoghan stood in the moonlight before her. Ciaran had inherited his mother’s gifts, but he’d inherited his father’s face.

“At least thirty men per ship,” Brenna said.

Eoghan stared at the blue on her skin. “You.”

What Was Coming

“Where did you get that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ciaran said. “There’s a whole army of them. They’re going to be here at any moment. We have to send the women, children and aged ito hide, and then we have to fight.”

Eoghan scooped up his massive, sharp-edged spade. “You’re faster - run to the next farm, raise the cry. I’ll head for the shore.”

“There are already people down there,” Ciaran said. “I’ll head for Bain’s farm if you go to Dolan’s - it’s closer.”

“Run swiftly.”

Eoghan followed Ciaran to the door, and he swore when he saw what was coming.

From the Sea

Ciaran loped across the field toward home. He knew Eoghan would have a fit upon learning his son’s midnight absence, but a reprimand was no matter in the face of attack from --

Ciaran cast a glance across the wide seas. The longships sliced through the water toward the shore like so many arrows coming to pierce the land. Down on the sand, Brenna’s band of warriors looked pathetic and tiny in comparison.

Eoghan came awake when Ciaran flung open the front door.

“Da, rouse the village - raiders are coming! From the sea!”

Eoghan blinked. “What?” Then he saw Ciaran’s sword.

Get Started

Ciaran gripped his sword. “What are we going to do? There’s too many of them. You and I couldn’t possibly stop them alone -”

“Go, wake your father, and help him light the watch fires,” Brenna said. “We’ll handle the rest.”

“Who’s we?” Ciaran demanded.

Brenna nodded toward the shore, and then Ciaran saw them, a motley crew of men and women armed with swords, spears, shields, bows and arrows, all stripped to the waist and painted blue, bedecked with gold. Brenna shrugged off her cloak, drew her sword, and started toward the edge of the cliff.

“Go. We’ll get started.”

Where the Sky is White

They raced toward the shore, prows decorated with skulls of beasts with horns like Ciaran had never seen. Massive sails whipped in the wind, and hundreds of oars, like the legs of insects that prowled the grass, dipped rhythmically in the water, as if the boats were beasts and the oars were their legs running.

“Who are they? Where are they from? Why are they here?” he asked. He was terrified.

By contrast, Brenna looked resigned and almost...sad. “They are the hammer of Thor. They’re from the north where the sky is white, and they’re here for your land.”

Longships

“Come with me,” Brenna said. She took up her sword, so Ciaran took his up too, doused the fire with a stray thought as he followed her through the trees, toward the shore.

“We going to train down on the beach? But Da might see,” Ciaran said.

Brenna shook her head. “Just look.” She paused, high up on the point overlooking the northern sea. “Can you see it?”

Ciaran squinted, but all he could see was the darkness where sea met sky. “See what?”

“You’ll see it. Just wait.”

And they waited, and waited, and then Ciaran saw them.

Longships.

Good Time

Brenna stared up at him, golden eyes bright, and then she swallowed hard.

“Well done,” she said, and she smiled.

Ciaran stared at her mouth.

She blinked at him. “Ciaran?”

“Right. Er...thanks.” He set the sword aside, offered her a hand up. She dusted herself off, and for the first time, Ciaran was distracted by the gleam of perspiration at her collarbone.

“You did well,” Brenna said. “In good time, too.”

Ciaran cocked his head to one side. “Good time for what? You mentioned, before, that danger was coming, but in all these months I’ve seen none of it.”

Finally, Unforgettable

After several months, Ciaran began to hold his own. At least, he thought he was - he couldn’t tell if Brenna was going easy on him or if he really was just that good. On random nights he would creep through the woods, get a fire going with a hand gesture and a thought, and then Brenna would appear, sword at the ready. Sometimes she ambushed him; sometimes she bowed to him; sometimes she made him kneel and breathe and listen to the rhythm of his own heart.

The day he finally made her surrender - sword to her throat - was unforgettable.

Spare Moments

The first duel was the worst. Ciaran had heard of the warrior women who painted themselves blue and screamed down the walls of enemy cities, but he had thought, as had the other lads in the village, that they were just stories. He’d seen grizzled warriors in the village, taking on a huntsman or woodsman for money, and they were fierce fighters, strong and fast.

Brenna...moved like wind and water, every motion smooth, almost as if she was dancing and the sword was her partner...or part of her.

But Ciaran trained hard, in every spare moment he had.

Promises Kept

As Ciaran watched, she sketched a symbol, uttered a foreign sound, and then, to his surprise, she drew a needle from the hem of her sleeve, pricked her own finger, and splashed blood through the air.

Water swirled from nowhere and soundly doused the fire, bringing it back to a low, spluttering flame in the circle of stones.

“Well,” she said, “apparently you have the natural talent. Now you just need some refinement.”

“Can I do that?” Ciaran asked. “Summon water as I summon fire?”

“That was no Druid trick,” Brenna said. “Bring your sword, lad. I promised a duel.”

Drawing on Air

What started as a simple hearth blaze spiraled higher and higher, stretching toward the sky. Ciaran, who had always been just a little bit afraid of fire, jumped when the logs crackled and popped. Sparks danced in the air, and some of the showered down the sides of the column of fire that was slowly winding upward. They landed on the ground, and to Ciaran’s horror, one of Brenna’s blankets caught fire.

All he could do was emit a terrified squeak.

Brenna paused. “What’s wrong?” She blinked when she saw the blaze, and she reached out, drew in the air.

Blossom

Ciaran gazed up at Brenna, confirming that he’d heard properly. She just smiled at him and made her blade sing through the air.

A strange thrill rose in Ciaran’s chest. He was doing something...bad. That he knew. He was breaking rules by starting a fire, going against his father’s lifelong restriction, but at least now he knew why his father had the rule - he was afraid of what Ciaran could do.

But if he learned from Brenna, he would be able to control his talent, his father’s fears would be unfounded.

Ciaran stretched forth one hand, and fire blossomed.

Train You

Ciaran was confused. Brenna looked amused.

“What did you do now?”

“I..don’t know.”

Brenna rose up, gave her sword a few practice swings. “See if you can light it again.”

Ciaran stared at the blackened logs. “How?”

“The same way you did it last night, I reckon.”

Ciaran turned his stare on her.

Brenna twirled her sword, making it sing through the air. “I said I’d train you, didn’t I?”

“But I thought - with a sword --”

“A sword isn’t a person’s only weapon. Now...light the fire. When it’s lit, then you can do me the honor of duel.”

Out

Ciaran stared. “How did you do that?” he asked. The fire had started too quickly to be normal - he’d seen no spark of flint and tinder; she’d had nothing in her hands when she knelt.

Brenna glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “I’ve learned a few things, here and there. The Holy Men have their ways.”

And suddenly Ciaran knew - he was one of the Holy Men. He could start fires with his mind, just like Brenna, and his father knew it, which was why he’d turned Brenna away, and --

He reached for the fire, and it went out.

And Then They Blazed

Ciaran paused in unwrapping his sword. All day he was sure he’d imagined starting a fire without more than a thought, because no one would ever ask him to start a fire, but here she was, asking him to do it again.

“I can’t light a fire,” he said. “Da won’t let me.”

Brenna blinked at him, unwrapping her own sword. “What? I saw you last night - you lit one just fine.”

Ciaran shook his head.

Brenna shrugged. “Aye, if you’re going to be odd. I’ll do it, then.” She knelt, tossed logs into the ring, and then they blazed.

Fire and Started

She killed people and wielded a sword; she was well past the marrying age and yet showed no signs of having a husband or children of her own.

“Did your parents approve of your path in life?”

She cast him an unreadable look. “My parents died, and then my path was re-set.”

They broke through a cluster of shrubbery and then they were standing in a clearing. A ring of stones marked a spot for a fire, and several blankets and bowls marked Brenna’s habitation. Maybe she lived somewhere different every night.

“Light a fire and let’s get started.”

Blotting Out the Stars

Brenna veered away from the cliffs and beach, instead heading across the vast expanse of grass - toward the woods. Where the druids lived.

“I thought we were training,” Ciaran said.

“We are,” Brenna said. “Just not out where everyone can see. D’you want old Aoife to tell your Da you’ve been consorting with one of the armed guards of the Holy Men?”

When she put it like that...Ciaran blinked. “You’re an armed guard? So you defend the Holy Men?”

“And kill them, as necessary.” Brenna led him into the trees where they became thicker, darker, blotting out the stars.

Training Time

Ciaran came awake sharply, and for one moment he thought he’d heard his mother’s voice. Then he realized there was a demon hovering over him, and it was staring at him with bright golden eyes. A human hand clamped over his mouth before he could scream.

“Sh! You don’t want to wake your father, now do you?”

Ciaran’s racing heart started to slow. It was Brenna.

She eased her hand off of his mouth, and then she beckoned, headed for the open window. Ciaran scooped up the sword she’d given him - hidden beside his pallet - and followed.

Time to train.

Defeat and Bed

No, he definitely hadn’t imagined it. Ciaran shook his fist at the kindling and thought so hard he was afraid that vein in his forehead might burst. But the kindling just lay there.

He sighed and sat back, rubbed his eyes. He had no idea how long he’d sat there, and it was likely almost time to get up, and Da would come looking for him, and he couldn’t be caught trying to light things on fire.

Ciaran stood up. As an afterthought, he scattered the kindling with his foot so Da wouldn’t suspect. Then, defeated, he went to bed.

Light

He knelt behind the shed, the pile of kindling before him, and stretched out one hand. Then he closed his eyes and thought as hard as he could.

Light!

Nothing.

Ciaran opened one eye.

Light!

Not a spark.

He reached out and poked the kindling experimentally. It was dry enough, wasn’t it? And he was doing exactly what he’d been doing in Brenna’s cave, right?

Come on, light! he thought.

Not even a puff of smoke.

Ciaran waved his hand fiercely at the kindling. Light already!

No reaction from the kindling.

Ciaran sat back, miffed. Maybe he’d just imagined it?

Wouldn't It?

The only thing Ciaran was interested in trying again was lighting a fire by thinking about it. He’d actually done it, hadn’t he? But he accepted the sword from Brenna and ducked out of her cave, hurried along the beach. On the way, he paused and scooped up some driftwood, and as he crossed the grass he scooped up some twigs for kindling as well.

While his father slept, he could experiment. Because that would make sense, wouldn’t it? His father forbidding him from ever starting a fire because he could it with his mind.

Ciaran settled in to experiment.