NOTES
Though I'm billing this as a "virtual second season" and using a number of the abandoned concepts for the original second season, it is important to know that this is my take on a second season. So there will be differences from the original concepts. Also, with Vincent Walsh reportedly departing the series, the character of Angus was set to be replaced by a character named Liam. I'm ignoring that because this is my fantasy second season and Angus is mah boi!
The original show vaguely drew upon the Ulster Cycle. I'm expanding that out into the Fenian Cycle and the Mythological Cycle. But like the show, it's going to be quite fast and loose. I'm also adding several of my own concepts into the mix and being a historical combat nerd will be attempting to make use of that knowledge as well.
And yes, the original show was 50 episodes. But I'm just one person with an actual life to live, so... 15.
Finally, my first forays into the fandom, Hedge Knight and Law of the Land, may be useful to have read as I'll be referencing some of those events, which are supposed to take place during the original series itself. I'm to try my best to explain what plot points needs explaining, so it won't be strictly necessary, just very nice of you. :-)
Chapter One: Tor Mor
Summer was slowly settling in over the island. Trees had blossomed and leafed out. Bees were buzzing around the flowers. Crops planted in the spring were just starting to poke out of the ground in delicate green shoots. And in Kells, for the first time in generations, there was no war with Temra.
The promised hundred lifetimes of peace had come, at last.
Standing atop the battlements of Kells Castle, eyes closed and enjoying the summer breeze, Rohan let the past year fall away for a few minutes. He felt utterly at peace, still marveling at all he and the other Mystic Knights had accomplished. The end of war in Kells was something that he had never dared to dream would come. The kingdom had been at war for his entire lifetime. He had grown up never knowing what it was like not to have the threat of an attack on the horizon. The entire way of life in the village where he had grown up, Emain Macha, just outside the castle, had been centered around defense and the need to flee to safety suddenly.
For the past few nights, he had slept more soundly than he could remember having slept before, as if a weight that had been there his entire life was now lifted. Even as celebrations lasted long into the night for more than a week, Rohan of Kells, known to many as the warrior Draganta, felt more rested than he ever had in his life.
Feeling a presence approach, Rohan shook himself out of his reveries to find Princess Deirdre approaching, clad in a fetching teal gown of wool. She settled in next to him to enjoy the view from atop the castle wall and gave him a smile.
"I still can't believe it's over," he said to her, "the war, Maeve... all of it."
"I know what you mean," Deirdre agreed, "what a year it's been. Absolutely everything is different, now." Lightly, she rested a hand on top of his.
That was newest of all! Rohan had had a boyish crush on the princess for years. And why not? Deirdre was beautiful, kind, and wise, yet also a very capable warrior with the sturdy will to back it up. But in all of those years, he had never imagined that she might return those feelings. He had never dared! She was royalty and he a commoner orphan! It was the kind of story you only heard about in tales and songs. Honestly, he found that he wasn't quite sure how to proceed. But that was all right, since she seemed to be of like mind. If they decided to move forward, they would eventually have to begin courting officially. But for now, shared glances and quiet moments together and the knowing smiles of those around them were enough.
"My father is planning an official celebration," Deirdre went on, "you'll come, of course?"
"Of course," Rohan agreed, "everyone worked hard for this day to come. They deserve to make merry."
"And you, as well," Deirdre stated, "we never would have gotten here without the Warrior Draganta."
Rohan gave a modest smile and shook his head a little. "I may have been someone to rally behind," he said, "but it was still the people of Kells who achieved this."
With a grin, Deirdre stepped back, placing her hands on her hips. "Has anyone ever told you that you're terrible at taking a compliment?"
"You," Rohan answered with a laugh, "just yesterday."
"Ah, so you do remember," she said in jest, giving a light swat to his shoulder and retaking her place looking out over the battlements. "Is that Ivar over there?" she asked, her tone changing abruptly. "He looks... dour."
Rohan's gaze followed where she indicated, moving down over the open field below them to a tree some distance from the castle. Sure enough, the southern prince was settled beneath its shade, staring off into the distance with a conflicted look.
"He does, at that," Rohan allowed, pushing off from the battlements and standing at full height, "maybe we should go see what's bothering him."
"Good idea," Deirdre agreed.
Rohan was about to lead the way down the stairs from the battlements, but paused. Feeling a little bold, he offered a hand out to the princess to escort her down. She gave a smile and took it and together they went down, through the castle yard, and out the main gate. By the time they were walking over the field toward Ivar and his tree, she had outright taken hold of his arm.
The Mystic Knight of Water had his back to the tree trunk, one leg stretched out and the other bent up to provide a place for his elbow to perch. Absently, he was picking at the little yellow petals of a dandelion, a troubled and far away look on his face. He didn't even take note of their approach.
"You seem introspective, my friend," Rohan greeted, finally getting Ivar's attention, "is there something the matter?"
Together, as if it had been planned, Rohan and Deirdre each took one side of their friend and sat down with him, shoulder-to-shoulder.
"We could see the dark cloud over your head from the castle wall," Deirdre put in.
Ivar tossed aside the dandelion he had been picking at and looked left and right from face to face, then gave a sigh.
"Everyone is so happy right now," Ivar said, "I didn't want to spoil it with my own troubles."
"You're thinking of the chalice again," Rohan stated, sobering in realization.
Ivar gave a nod. "Maeve may be gone and the war with Temra over," he elaborated, "but my own quest is not yet finished. I am still bound by my oath to retrieve the chalice. And now Nemain has it and I've no idea where to find her."
"That's a problem we'll solve together," Deirdre assured him, "you're not alone in this."
"Deirdre's right," Rohan agreed, earnestly, "when we met, I promised to help you see the chalice returned in exchange for helping Kells. That oath binds me as much as yours does you."
"And the rest of the Mystic Knights," Deirdre added, "Kells owes you a great debt. Besides, you're our friend, Ivar. Your quest is ours."
Ivar gave a nod, as if to reassure himself, then looked from Rohan to Deirdre with a faint smile. "Thank you, my friends," he said, "that is indeed a comfort. And I suppose my people wouldn't begrudge me a few days of happiness for all that we have achieved."
Rohan clapped a hand on to Ivar's shoulder, jovially. "If your people are anything like you, I'm sure they wouldn't."
"Perhaps one day I will take you all to meet them," said Ivar, "my father would welcome you with such merriment as you have not seen. I could show you how we celebrate victory in Persis!"
"Speaking of which," Deirdre put in, "we've our own celebration to see to."
Rohan hummed in agreement and gave a nod. "I just hope Angus gets back from taking Maeve to exile in time to join in," he said, getting to his feet. The others followed suit, Ivar offering a hand to Deirdre to assist. "They must be almost to Tor Mor by now."
"I just hope Maeve isn't giving Angus any trouble," Deirdre stated as they all began to walk toward the castle together.
"Ah, I wouldn't worry," Rohan dismissed, "Maeve's power is gone, now. I'd be more worried about Angus giving her trouble."
A wail of terror echoed out across the rolling waves of the sea. Falling toward them at a terrible speed, a figure in black and purple flailed her arms and kicked her legs, almost as if she could make herself fly if she just willed it hard enough. She was only moments from hitting the water when a great, red dragon swooped down and snatched her from mid-air, one arm in each of its great claws.
Catching her breath and realizing that she wasn't about to plummet into the ocean after all, the former Queen Maeve of Temra twisted around in the dragon's grasp as best she could to scowl up at the dragon's rider.
"You maniac! How dare you!" she raged.
"It's pretty easy, actually," Angus said, grinning down at her, "it's something like this."
With a tug at the dragon's neck and a nudge of his heels, Angus set Pyre, the Fire Dragon of Dare, into an overhead loop, tossing the hapless captive into the air. Maeve catapulted aloft with a scream and began to fall again. As Pyre looped around, he flew under her, catching her on his back to land squarely in the saddle behind Angus. She clung on for dear life.
"You are insane!" she growled.
"Ah, it's just a bit of fun!" Angus dismissed with a chuckle.
"Not for me, it isn't!" Maeve scolded.
"Well, you're not the one I need to amuse, are ye?" Angus shot back, a touch of gleeful venom in his voice.
"The indignity of it!" Maeve continued to rant. "By rights, Rohan should have been the one to take me to Tor Mor! He's my son! You are just a thieving street rat."
"Why?" Angus bit. "So you can sweet talk your way out of this? Not a chance. That was exactly why I was so quick to volunteer and the King agreed. You're never going to get the chance to manipulate Rohan again, if I have anything to say about it. I certainly wasn't eager to spend quality time with you, tha's for sure."
"Who says that you have anything to say about it?" Maeve snarled in his ear.
"You wanna go for another tumble?" Angus cracked. "'Cause I can make it happen, you know!"
Startled and not even bothering to try to hide it, Maeve grasped on to his back a little tighter. "Impertinent commoner," she muttered.
"Yeah, well, this impertinent commoner kicked your butt all the way to Temra and back," Angus countered, "so stuff it!"
Maeve gave a growl of frustration, but had no more to say.
Far behind them, the coast line of the island was fading into the horizon. Ahead, the first glimpse of Tor Mor could be seen, its rocky shores jutting out of the turbulent ocean water.
Somehow, even the defeat of Maeve did not clear the endless clouds that always seemed to hang over Castle Connachta, where she had made her home for years. Whether it was by some foul magic or just a curse that hung over Temra and its royal line, none could say. But even so, the normally dour castle seemed even more so this day.
Gliding on silent, black wings, a raven swooped in near the castle and circled. Its eyes took in the state of things with a cold calculation. Gone were most of the soldiers who had guarded the gates which now stood open and unattended. The inner yard was a scatter of straw and broken wood and tipped-over barrels, looking for all the world as through it had been ransacked.
Deftly, with a chill cry, the raven spiraled back upward and slipped through a window to land in an empty and dark corridor. Once safely on the stone floor, its form began to wrinkle and shift, tendrils of magenta magic drawing it upward and changing its shape until a tall woman dressed in a burgundy gown had taken its place. She held a staff with a stylized raven skull at its top and a gold filet circled her head, set with a blood red stone.
Nemain was returned to Temra at last. Here, this day, she would take her rightful place as the kingdom's ruler, now that Maeve the Pretender was gone. There was still Kells to deal with, of course. But that hardly seemed to be an obstacle. With a smirk, she considered the silver chalice that was in her hand, pondering the alliance she had made with the fey who used it as a gateway. Mider was a cunning one. Maeve, in her arrogance, had thought that she could out-think the dark fairy. And in the end that had been a part of her undoing. Mider had always been the one with the power in that alliance. But Nemain would have a much more equitable relationship with him.
As silently as she had glided in on raven's wings, Nemain moved through the corridor and made her way to the throne hall. She heard raised voices as she approached; two men arguing.
"But my lord, almost all of the men have scattered," one was pleading, "to attempt to mount an attack upon Kells, against the Mystic Knights, as we are right now would be folly!"
"We must rescue the queen!" replied another voice, more insistent. Nemain recognized the haughty, gravely tones of Maeve's captain, Torc. "And _you_ will get the men to return or I will have your head on a spit!"
Ah, Torc; loyal to the losing side to the last, mainly because it was the only one that would have him. And as foolish and stubborn as a man could be. Still, the soldiers who remained in Temra seemed ready and willing to follow him. So perhaps he could be of some use. All Nemain needed to do was show him where power lied and he would change his tune.
Yes, Maeve had had her time and had squandered it. Now, it was the time of Queen Nemain.
Angus looked down at the ground far below as Pyre turned into a spiral to descend. The edges of Tor Mor were rocky and jagged, the waves of the sea crashing upon them in salty sprays. The island itself was largely bare, but for a tall grass the covered most of the ground. Grey clouds hung in the sky above like a wretched miasma of oppression, seeming not to move even in the wind. In the distance, on the seaward side of the island, rocky towers thrust into the air like those of a castle long abandoned and crumbling.
Flapping his wings and pushing aside the long grasses, Pyre swooped in and came to a landing, turning his snout up into the wind and giving a sniff. He shifted restlessly at whatever he smelled and it took Angus a moment to get the dragon back under control.
And then they sat there for a long moment in silence before Angus shot a glare to the passenger riding behind him.
"Well, get off already," he snapped at her.
"Here?" Maeve asked with incredulity. "And just what am I supposed to do then?"
"Not my problem," Angus shot back, "I'm just here to let you off, then I go home."
Maeve directed an angry snarl to him and then swung her leg over and slid down off the dragon's back. "So, you're just going to leave me here, with no food, no shelter?"
"Tha's the general idea of exile, yeah," Angus replied, flippantly, "I'm not exactly going to leave ya' with creature comforts, am I?"
"Have you no decency?"
"No, just ask anyone who knows me."
Maeve gave another indignant growl. "Well, breeding will tell," Maeve snarled, "I always knew you were a scoundrel and a n'er-do-well. But I must say, Angus, I never thought you cruel."
"You'd be the expert on that," Angus groused, his gaze settling back down on her again. He had to admit, though; she looked damn pathetic. "Oh, sweet Lugh," he moaned, rolling his eyes and then sliding off of Pyre's back to join her on the ground, though he knew this was almost certainly some sort of a ploy. Still, Pyre was the only safe way off of Tor Mor and there was no way that he was going to allow Maeve to ride him without Angus forcing the issue. So, he pointed toward the distant towers of stone far off. "That way," he ordered, "let's go."
"Where are we going?" Maeve demanded.
"To find shelter," Angus replied, sounding none too keep on the idea, "shut up and get moving."
Maeve drew herself up imperiously, casting one more glare his direction before turning and heading that direction. Shaking his head in disbelief, Angus followed a few steps behind. Still agitated by whatever he was smelling on the wind, Pyre tromped along behind them both, keen eyes ever moving.
They marched in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, the only sounds the blowing wind and the rustle of grasses beneath their feet. Every once in a while, Pyre would pause, growl up at the clouds above in obvious displeasure, then move on.
"I suppose, in spite of your insolence, I should thank you," Maeve finally allowed, "if not for you, my son might be the man he is today."
"Oh please, don't act like you have any reason to be proud about it," Angus countered.
"But I do," Maeve countered and surprisingly, she actually looked genuine for a change, "he grew strong and determined. A testament to his bloodline."
"You tried to kill him!" Angus shouted. "Not to mention all the rest of us."
Maeve gave a smirk. "Yet, I failed," she said, "proof that my own flesh and blood is the most powerful person on the entire island. What mother wouldn't be proud of her son for such an achievement?"
Angus whirled around to her and stabbed a finger at her. "You're no mother to him," he snarled, "never were, never will be."
"Oh, remember a lot about your own mother, do you?" Maeve sneered.
"Don't," Angus spat, then turned away to continue on their way.
"Oh, I heard all about it. From... your uncle, he turned out to be, wasn't he?"
"I said, don't!" Angus yelled back at her, getting right into her face, fuming.
Gingerly, Maeve reached out and tapped the pewter pendant that hung from a strip of leather around his neck, wrought in the shape of a Celtic hammer with ancient runes emblazoned upon its surface. "Taken to wearing it, I see," she purred with malice, "so desperate to cling to a legacy as weak as a family who couldn't even protect you from their own. Pathetic. You understand that you are likely the very last of that wretched remnant of a dead people."
"Tha's none of your concern," Angus muttered, his teeth grinding as he looked at her darkly.
Maeve gave a smirk and was about to reply. But before she could, Pyre suddenly gave a loud roar and spat fire into the air, rearing back in alarm. Startled, both Angus and Maeve spun around to look. Angus scurried over to the dragon's side, previous ire forgotten for the moment as he scrambled to calm him.
"What's gotten into you?" he shouted over the dragon's roaring, his hands held up in front of him in a desperately placating gesture. "Easy now!"
Pyre continued to spit fire into the air, wings flapping frantically. Swiftly, he twisted around and jumped up to the sky, taking to wing and knocking Angus back with the wind from his wings.
"Oi, where are you going?!" Angus called after the dragon as Pyre began to fly into the distance, clearly agitated. "Great!" He turned back to an equally baffled Maeve. "Now look what your trickery's done." However that anger faded as he turned and caught sight of the plains stretched out behind the deposed queen. A dark line of figures was rapidly approaching, kicking up considerable dust as they came. Worse, a great shadow rose into the sky, growing ever larger as it outpaced the line. A massive boulder bore down upon them as if it had been flung by a giant's arm.
Angus pulled his mace from his shoulder, setting it spinning and readying a boulder of his own to intercept it. But just as he finished a single spin, the rock suddenly burst into a putrid green flame. Angus' eyes went wide and he abandoned his original idea, choosing instead to dive out of the way, taking Maeve with him as he went.
When the boulder struck the ground it was with a force that seemed to make the whole world shake. Angus found himself flung from his feet as the shockwave of the impact threw them both. All around, the grasses began to catch fire, burning the same sickly green flame. Smoke billowed up around them, obscuring their vision and making them cough.
"You could have left me there to be hit, you know," Maeve shouted.
"Just a reflex," Angus coughed back, "believe me!" Still, even snapping at each other, they struggled onward through the smoke together, looking for fresh air to breathe. Sensing which way the wind was blowing, they headed into it, the faster to escape the choking smoke. Finally, they burst through the last wall of smoke and skidded to a halt at what greeted them.
The distant figures from before had caught up with their rocky vanguard and now closed in on both of them in a ring, weapons pointed at them menacingly. And quite the menacing sight they were indeed.
At least ten feet tall, dressed in rough skins and furs, their skin almost grey in pallor. They growled down at Angus and Maeve with jagged and broken teeth, glaring with eyes that seemed to be yellowed with some sort of disease. Angus readied his mace, but thought better of it when a spear was thrust at his throat, the point just stopping at his skin.
"Try it, Human scum," the giant spat down at him, breath wafting over Angus in an almost toxic cloud, "it would be my pleasure." Several more weapons moved in on both Angus and Maeve.
Even if he could have called his mystic armor, Angus knew he was out-matched by the stinking brutes. So, with a glare up at them, he did the only thing he could.
He dropped his mace and held out both hands in surrender.
Deirdre wasn't sure when Rohan had slipped back up to the castle wall to brood over the parapets once again, but as she figured she would she found him there, staring out at the sky, his fingers idly working at his finger nails and cleaning dirt out from under them. He was watching expectantly, as if waiting for something to appear over the horizon.
The princess had grown familiar with Rohan's habits over the past year. When Cathbad had first taken him under his wing, she had thought that he was rather odd and immature, always daydreaming. But since it had been discovered that he was the warrior Draganta, she noted that his thoughts had seemed somehow deeper. And right now, he looked downright worried. She knew there was only one thing that could be bothering him.
Rohan and Angus were an odd pair, to be certain. The former was gentle and a dreamer, always playing the hero, as if he had known he was destined for something more. On the other hand, the latter was rude, crass, and didn't hesitate to act with pragmatism. Yet they both tempered each other in a way. Angus brought Rohan back down to Earth and Rohan brought out the altruist in Angus. And when they were separated, their world simply wasn't right, as if neither one knew how to act without the other. Apart, they both worried endlessly over the other.
Deirdre supposed she shouldn't be surprised by that. They had both only had each other for years. Since taking up the Mystic Armor, their circle had grown, to be sure; Ivar, Cathbad, Aideen, even the King and Deirdre herself would have rushed to their aid with the merest hint of trouble. But there was always a feeling that the rest of them were somehow intruding upon the two-person de facto family, at times. And without exception, they both always had an uncanny sense for when the other was getting into trouble.
So, with a shake of her head and a sigh, the princess wandered up the stair and came next to him for the second time that day.
"You know you have nothing to worry about," she said, "Maeve's magic is spent. And Angus isn't likely to fall for any of her tricks."
"With Pyre's speed, he should have been back by now," Rohan asserted.
"He's probably just taking your dragon on a treasure hunt, while he has him," Deirdre said, "I'm sure they'll be back any moment and he'll have some tale or another to spin."
"Maybe," Rohan allowed, "or maybe he's found trouble."
"What sort of trouble could he get into dropping one person off on a deserted island?"
"You've met Angus, right?"
Deirdre didn't really have a retort to that. The former thief had a special talent for conjuring up difficulties. She could only shrug at Rohan in response.
Rohan gave a sigh of frustration. "I knew I should have been the one to take Maeve to Tor Mor," he complained, "or at least I should have gone with them. Ahhh, I'll never understand why Angus was so quick to volunteer for it. I've never seen him take on a task so eagerly."
"Isn't it obvious?" she scoffed. "He wanted to spare you the burden. He knew it wouldn't be easy for you, so he took it off your shoulders."
"Yes, yes, I know," Rohan admitted, reluctantly, "to keep Maeve from having an influence on me. I still think you're all overestimating how much influence she has on me."
"Can you honestly say that, or is it your pride speaking?" she challenged. He gave her a sour look in response, so she pressed on. "Angus knows you better than anyone. Can you honestly think of another reason he would be so quick to volunteer for the task, if not worry that Maeve would sway you?"
Rohan's shoulders fell as he reconsidered. He looked away from her with a roll of his eyes. "I suppose I do have a certain... lack of perspective, since I found out she's my mother," he admitted, "I don't know why it matters. It doesn't change anything she's done. In fact, it makes it worse, in some ways. It's just... confusing, that's all."
"And that is why Angus went, instead," Deirdre said, "he doesn't have that confusion." Spotting a distant figure on the horizon, she leaned over and nudged his shoulder. "But it's all moot now. Look." She gestured up to the distant winged silhouette steadily gliding toward them. "Here they come. Just as I said."
Rohan looked up, relief washing over his features as he spotted Pyre in the distance. The two of them watched his approach together for several moments. But then, Rohan's demeanor changed and he once again grew tense.
"Something's not right," he said, "Pyre's flying like he has no rider. And he's coming straight for us instead of heading for his cave." He pushed away from the parapet and made for the stairs. "C'mon," he said.
They made their way out to the field near the castle as the dragon swooped in low, making a circle. Sure enough, there was no rider on his back. Pyre let out a loud roar, spitting fire.
"Pyre!" Rohan called up to him as he frantically circled. "What's happened? Come down to me!"
The dragon seemed to see him for the first time and circled once more before diving to the ground and coming in to land only feet away from Rohan and Deirdre, his eyes wild and agitated. Rohan approached him cautiously, making soothing sounds.
"There now, easy," he cooed as he placed a hand on the side of Pyre's head. Slowly the great beast calmed. The two of them locked eyes for a long moment and seemed to somehow communicate without words. "Where's Angus?" Rohan asked urgently.
In response, Pyre whipped around to face the direction from which he had come, then looked back at Rohan, expectantly.
"He wants me to go with him," Rohan told Deirdre, already making to clamber on to the dragon's back, "something's gone wrong. Angus must be in trouble."
"Shouldn't Ivar and I go along with you?"
"No time," Rohan said, "whatever's happened has Pyre frightened. I need to get there quickly. Tell the king and Cathbad what's happened. I'll be back as soon as I find Angus." With that, Pyre spread his wings once more and took to the air with a gust.
"But I don't know what's happened!" Deirdre protested as they flew off. "Rohan!" But her pleas didn't reach either dragon or knight as they sped off into the sky. Throwing up her hands, she turned and ran back to the castle to find the others.
The distant, rocky crags of Tor Mor grew in Angus' vision quickly as he and Maeve were pressed onward by their rather ungracious escort. The giants were keeping them at a brutal pace, unwilling to make any sort of concessions to their captives' smaller stature. Angus was no stranger to running at need, but several hours of the pace had left him utterly exhausted. His only consolation what that Maeve seemed worse off. He couldn't help but take a little bit of perverse pleasure in that.
Still, Angus knew his best bet was to watch and listen and wait for an opportunity. Whether it included Maeve really was of no concern to him, but he didn't discount her working with him if need be. If anything Maeve could be counted on to want to save her own skin, first and foremost. For the moment, they had a common enemy.
But more of his attention was on the giants poking and prodding them along. He overheard them speaking of some sort of fortress that they were heading for, though Angus could see no sign of one in the direction they were traveling. The rocky walls of the island's seaward edge grew closer and closer with no hint of any sort of settlement at all. Above, the grey clouds thickened as if a storm was brewing, angry and roiling. It was almost as if it was anchored to the stone points ahead of them. The closer they got to the rocks, the more unease Angus felt.
Finally, a rough gate came into view as they rounded an outcropping of rock. Mostly stone, it was bound up with rusting scraps of iron and crisscrossed with dangling chains that had long since seen better days. The leader of their escort came forward as they approached, turning the butt end of his spear toward an odd little socket and thrust it inside. He turned it and there was a loud, reverberating shift of some mechanism within. Slowly, the gate ground open, scraping the ground in well-worn, arc-shaped furrows as if they had been digging that particular piece of ground for ages untold.
Angus and Maeve were shoved through the gate and found themselves thrust into a rough-hewn yard bounded on all sides by stone. Here and there along the walls were openings into tunnels and canyons that wound off and out of sight. All about, more of the giants went about as if they were doing the business of simple townsfolk. But they were all quite a bit louder than any townsfolk Angus had ever seen; angrier, too. Several of the giants seemed to be arguing amongst themselves, even breaking out into scuffles here and there. Though the air milled about with all the close activity, it still seemed to hang over them with an oppressive stench.
A rough hand pushed Angus from behind with more force that was strictly necessary, forcing him onward through the cacophony. He grimaced with it, feeling a growing ache where his back had been the target of similar urgings all afternoon. He cast a glare back toward the offending giant and received a growl and a poke from a spear in return.
Their escort brought them toward the back end of the yard where a large, dark gash in the rock yawned open. Torches lit the darkened cavern passage beyond, leading to an ancient crudely-carved façade closed off by a patched-together gate of rotting wood. Their escort thrust open the gate and pushed them through into a cavernous hall lit with bonfires and sputtering torches, all giving off a putrid black smoke that pooled somewhere in the cavern ceiling above. Somehow, it smelled even worse in here than it had outside. All about, more the giants stood at attention, armored and armed similarly to their escort. Seeing the procession through the hall, they sneered down at Angus and Maeve. One or two even spat their direction as they passed.
At the head of the cavern, upon a grey stone, a seat fashioned of rock was settled into a place of authority. Old furs and skins were draped over its sides. And sitting upon it, looking up with a surprised distain, was the largest of the giants that Angus had seen yet. Eyes red and piercing stared at them from behind a frame of scraggly black tangles of hair. An iron circlet with deep hammer marks in its surface rested just above his brow, a center panel covering his forehead and emblazoned with a demonic eye in a brown-red paint that Angus couldn't help but think was dried blood.
With a final, merciless shove, Angus and Maeve were thrust toward the figure in the throne and forced to their knees. As if their size difference wasn't already apparent, the figure rose from his seat with a growl.
"What is this?" he demanded of their escort, voice booming and echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "Humans on Tor Mor?"
"Lord Balor," the leader of their escort said, "we found them near the beach. A dragon brought them, but it was frightened off."
"Interesting," the big one purred, stepping down from his dais to come nearer to them. He bent low over them in order to get a closer look, the greasy locks of hair swinging close to their faces. He gave a loud, wet-sounding sniff. Angus got a whiff of the giant's breath and had to suppress a gag. "You both smell of magic," he rumbled. "From where do you hail, Humans?"
Angus couldn't help but exchange an uncertain glance with Maeve, somewhat surprised to find that she was doing the same. They both looked back to the giant and said nothing.
With an impatient growl, the giant king stood back up to his full height. "Speak!" he roared. "Or the Fomorians will tear you both in two!" When they both still said nothing, Balor raged, grabbing Maeve with one giant, dirty hand and lifting her from the ground. She gave a shriek. "Speak, or I will crush this one to jelly!" he shouted at Angus.
"Have at it," Angus replied with a scoff, "she's no friend of mine."
Balor narrowed his eyes down at Angus. "Really?" he said, then he looked back to Maeve, holding her at his eye level. "What say you to this, woman?"
Maeve's nose wrinkled at he brought her close. She pressed against his hand, as if trying to push as far away from it as she could while still being held. "He speaks the truth," she bit out, "I was brought here as his prisoner."
"This one was carrying this," the leader of the escort said with disdain, tossing Angus' mace to the ground in front of them.
Balor eyed the weapon for a moment before setting Maeve back on the ground. He bent down to pick up the mace but he gave a growling, rattling cry as his hand shied away from it, as if it had burned him. "This is a mystic weapon," he roared in anger, "forged by the Tuatha de Dannan! Are you of Kells, then?"
"What of it?" Angus shot back.
"Certainly not!' Maeve snapped at the same time, as if offended.
"Which is it?" Balor raged at them. "Are you from the island of Kells or aren't you?"
"Island of Kells?" Angus asked incredulously. "The island's called Eire. Kells is a part of it. Just how long have you people been here?"
For her part, however, Maeve's mouth curled up into a faint, sly smile. Something seemed to have dawned on her and Angus did not like the look in her eye. She gave him an imperious look, then turned to look up at Balor.
"Lord Balor, was it?" she asked. "And you are the Fomorians? The same Fomorians of legend, who once ruled the entire island."
"Before the Tuatha de Dannan and those wretched Kellsmen drove us away," Balor seethed.
"If you are enemies of Kells, then you are no enemy of mine," Maeve said.
"You dirty, rotten-" Angus shouted, beginning to climb to his feet. However, he was interrupted by the leader of their escort back-handing him back to the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs.
"Silence, filth!" demanded the soldier.
"The island has been split between two kingdoms for generations," Maeve went on, barely sparing a glance back at Angus, "and I am Maeve, the rightful ruler of Temra, sworn enemy of Kells and their king, Conchobar. Which gives us an enemy in common."
"So, the Humans fight each other, now, eh?" Balor mused, making his way back to his seat. "How amusing."
"Perhaps," Maeve allowed, "but it offers both of us a new opportunity. I daresay, it seems as though it shifts your outlook, somewhat. And, you could use someone to bring you up to speed, I'm sure."
Seeing red, Angus tried to get to his feet again, ready to wipe the smug look off of Maeve's face. But a giant hand clamped down on his shoulder again, painfully forcing him back to his knees.
"Intriguing," said Balor, leaning back in his seat and putting a hand to his chin in thought, "indeed, this could change our fortunes, at last. I would hear more, Maeve of Temra." Then he turned and his eyes fell on Angus again. "The Kellsman you will take from my sight until I decide how best to do away with him." Almost absently, he waved a dismissing hand to the guards.
Angus was about to direct a few more choice words to Maeve, but it dissolved into a cry as both his arms were wrenched up. Two of the giants pulled him to his feet and pushed him roughly in the direction of another, darker door that led away into some dank and uncomfortable-looking catacomb beneath the stone hills.
King Fin Varra of Tir Na Nog was not partial to leaving his domain. In general, it was far too dangerous for the king of the fairies to risk being found by a mortal. If a mortal of the wrong persuasion were to capture him and use his power, there was no telling what sort of havoc could be wrought. So, he only left his underground kingdom when the need was greatest and in the utmost secrecy. But it certainly didn't mean he liked it in the least.
Today was one of those days when the need was great enough to risk it. The vision of destruction he had received abruptly during the celebrations of the end of the war with Temra had rattled him, substantially. A darkness was coming for Kells and Tir Na Nog that would make the Temra war look pleasant by comparison. In point of fact, the darkness he sensed seemed to endanger Temra itself as well, meaning that whatever was coming was serious enough to threaten the entire island. If there was to be any chance of turning it back, preparations would need to be made and quickly.
Concealed in an enchanted cloak that made him invisible to most eyes, and without escort to garner attention, Fin Varra went out from the ring of fairy stones that marked the entrance to Tir Na Nog and set out upon a long trek through the woods and over the hills of Kells to the Mountains of Gloom.
Fin Varra disliked leaving Tir Na Nog, but the aptly named Mountains of Gloom were a place that a being of joy simply did not belong. A ragged river ran down the mountains, over tumbled rocks and bare scrub. A grey mist hovered over the mountains at all times. The trek was hard, even for a fairy and Fin Varra's tiny feet ached by the time he found his way to a secluded cave entrance on the eastern side of the mountains, just near a ford in the river.
After a moment to catch his breath, Fin Varra steeled himself and entered the dark cave, emerging into a hot lair of torch-lit and soot-leaden surroundings. Various tools and shining new weapons were scattered about in the disarray that comes of a constant state of creation. Most of the heat in the place was radiating from a large furnace that was aglow with an eldritch fire. An enchanted bellows blew air to stoke the fire in gasping puffs. And standing at the anvil, tongs holding a piece of metal in one hand and a large hammer in the other, was the ancient fairy-smith Goibniu. Sparks jumped from the piece of metal as his hammer struck, landing in the dirt nearby and flickering out.
Most of the Faire Folk lived up to that name. But Goibniu did not fit into that mold. In fact, Fin Varra mused, between his ego and his pot-belly it was amazing that he fit into anything at all. Fin Varra was portly himself, but Goibniu made him look positively fit. The smith was caked in soot and dirt and tiny burn marks prickled all his clothing, even the tattered old leather apron that covered his ample belly.
The smith finished a round of hammering on his piece and inspected it for a moment before setting it back into the coals to heat once again.
"A second visitor within the same month!" Goibniu said, keeping his back to Fin Varra and his eyes on his work for the moment. "I didn't think you would ever deign to dirty your hands with an honest day's work, Fin Varra. What could be so urgent that the vaunted king of Tir Na Nog should come all the way to this humble forge?"
"Urgent does not begin to describe it, Goibniu," Fin Varra answered, sourly, "the darkness that is coming threatens all, including you in your secret forge. Spare me your trickster's jests and speak to me."
Goibniu turned half way around and looked at Fin Varra from behind the mask of black tattoos on his face, arching an eyebrow in irritation.
"You do not command here, fairy king," he snapped, "like all others, you are entitled only to request the help of the ancient smith. And I have already helped your pet mortal Draganta in recent days. What more would you have of me?"
Fin Varra drew himself up in that way he so often did when he wanted to cow someone. It was reflex, mostly, but it gave him some extra determination when dealing with such a maddening individual. "I would have you get your head out of your arse and listen for a moment!"
The smith turned the rest of the way around and slowly stalked over to come only a few inches from the fairy king with a scowl that would turn even a magical being to stone. He stared Fin Varra down for a long moment, before finally bursting into a raucous laugh, leaning his head back and and belly jiggling.
"Has anyone ever told you that you look preposterous when you're being serious?" Goibniu cackled. After a moment he finally calmed down and idly returned to the piece he had set in the coals. He removed it momentarily and checked it, then put it back. "All right, Fin Varra, what is so dire that it brought you to my door? What darkness has you this rattled, hmm? You say it threatens the entire island?"
"The nature of it has not yet been revealed to me," Fin Varra replied, "but I have foreseen that Kells will be the first to fall to it if they are not strong enough to turn it back. And as Kells goes so goes the island, as is foretold. The Mystic Knights will be in need of more strength to stand against it."
"Draganta has already been given the multiples of power," Goibniu stated, "there is no more I can do to give him any more power. If he must be stronger, he must gain that strength from himself, now."
"Yes," Fin Varra agreed, "there is little more that Rohan can gain that he will not gain from himself. But the other Mystic Knights will be in need of the multiples of power, as well."
"That's all well and good," Goibniu protested, "but you know full well that I cannot simply give them that power. The Battle Fury must be forged by the combination of the might of the man and strength of his spirit. It is not simply a magical potion of strength. They must earn it."
"Indeed they must," said Fin Varra, "and I would not have you give such power to anyone who does not prove worthy. But you rarely take interest in the lives of mortals, even though we both know full well that you are capable of doing so."
"I will not go to them," the smith growled.
"Nor should you go abroad if this darkness is as dangerous as I foresee it to be," said the fairy king, "but the Mystic Knights are very likely to be facing tests the equal of your own in the near future. I would have you keep watch on them for these trials. If they prove worthy, I ask that you grant them the multiples of power as you have done for Draganta."
"That is a fair request," Goibniu agreed, "I will do this, though it takes my attention from my work. But for all our sakes, I hope that these mortals you have chosen to be the Mystic Knights of the Elements are worthy of it, as you say they are."
"I am certain of it," Fin Varra affirmed.
"Then they will have their tests. Now, as you've just increased my work load, you had best be flitting off back to that shining court of yours." He once again turned back to the piece that was resting in the coals and pulled it out, taking up his hammer once again, he brought the piece to his anvil and made some cursory strikes.
Seeing that the conversation was apparently over, Fin Varra turned back toward the cavern entrance and made to depart.
"By the way," Goibniu added, pausing his strikes again, "have you told the Knights of the Elements and the Knight of Forest of the others, yet? If this darkness is as dire as you say, we may be needing more of them. Perhaps even all of them."
"Pray the day never comes that we need all of them," Fin Varra stated, "you know what that would mean."
"A war that would scar the very earth itself," Goibniu mused, "I fear it may only be a matter of time."
"As do I," Fin Varra agreed, before continuing on his way.
Behind him, the ring of metal on metal sounded as Goibniu's hammer struck over and over and over again.
Rohan had known that Tor Mor was a rather bleak place. Still, he was a little unprepared for the extent of it. There were no trees, no real landmarks. Just the rocky crags in the distance and an otherwise endless expanse of long grasses waving in the wind off the sea. The air smelled of sea salt and somehow seemed colder than the air inland.
Pyre seemed to remember where he was supposed to be going, so Rohan largely left their course in the dragon's claws. Nonetheless, he had Pyre make a few looping passes over the inland coastline, hoping to catch some glimpse or some sign of his friend. But with the exception of some seals sunning themselves on some rocks just off the island's edge, there seemed to be no life at all to be seen.
The afternoon was growing late and Rohan knew he only had a few more hours of daylight. After that, even in the barren landscape, searching for Angus would be a fool's errand. Whatever trouble his friend was in, Rohan wanted him out of it before then, for Angus' sake as well as his own peace of mind.
At length, Pyre brought him to a particular patch of land and began to circle, agitated. Rohan looked down to the ground below and saw a blackened patch of grass, as if it had been burned. A faint smoke still rose from the center of the patch and there Rohan could see a boulder, bearing scorch marks of its own, plowed into the dirt as if it had fallen at a great speed from a great height.
Eventually, Pyre put down and Rohan slid off the dragon's back to inspect the burnt area and the boulder more closely. A new scent came to his nose as he approached, bitter and acidic, making his nose wrinkle. The closer he got to the boulder, the stronger it got. Finally, running a finger over one of the blackened patches on the boulder, Rohan found a sticky resin coating it. Sure enough it was the source of the smell.
"Pitch?" Rohan realized. "Like it's being used as a siege weapon. What would pitch be doing on a boulder all the way out here on a deserted island?"
The boulder had left a significant gash in the ground where it had struck and Rohan figured that it pointed back in the direction from which it had apparently been tossed. He followed the line, but there was nothing but empty grassland and the rocks of the seaward shore far beyond.
Standing amidst the burnt grasses, Rohan gave a sigh of frustration, kicking at one of the smaller pieces of rock and sending it flying. Pyre seemed to sense his distress. Bending his head low, he nuzzled Rohan in the shoulder. Idly, Rohan reached up to give the dragon a good scratching right between the horns.
"Oh, Angus, where can you be?" he asked of the open air.
"They took him."
The voice startled Rohan and he spun on his heel, drawing the Sword of Kells in one swift move as he did. Next to him, Pyre gave a low growl.
Several paces away, a woman stood looking at him from large, deep brown eyes. Her face was framed by a wild tangle of long, black hair that tumbled over her shoulders, almost down to her waist. The dark grey tunic she wore came to her knees, cinched at the waist with a rough band of grey-green weave tied on one hip. Over her shoulder she had a satchel made of furs and skins patched together, stuffed tightly as if she were on a journey. She simply stood there, looking at Rohan, not making any threatening moves. When it became apparent that she was not threatening him in any way, Rohan slowly lowered his sword.
"What?" he asked, confused.
"Your friend," she elaborated, "the one with the dark hair, who came here on the dragon before, with the woman."
"You've seen him, then?" Rohan demanded, taking an urgent step her direction.
Her eyes went a little wide and she took a step back from him, as if ready to bolt, clutching at her satchel protectively. Rohan stopped in his tracks, holding up a calming hand and waited until she was ready to speak again.
Seeing that he was not coming any closer, the woman relaxed a little.
"Who took him?" Rohan asked.
"The Fomorians," she replied, "they live on Tor Mor, still. They took your friend and the woman as prisoners."
"The Fomorians?" Rohan asked, incredulously. "But they're a legend."
"All legends come from a long-forgotten truth," she stated, "my people watch them and ensure that they remain here, as we have done for a thousand years. We did not expect someone to come here from Kells. Our watch is upon Tor Mor, not Eire itself. We did not see them coming until they were almost here already. Why have you and he come to this place?"
"My friend was tasked with taking the woman, Maeve of Temra, to exile," said Rohan, "for her crimes against Kells and Tir Na Nog. We had thought this island abandoned."
"Then you are from Kells? And your friend as well?"
"Yes," Rohan confirmed.
"If the Fomorians learn this is so, he is in great danger," she lamented, "they blame Kells for their defeat long ago and will lash out at anyone who hails from that kingdom."
"Well, then I need to find him, quickly," Rohan urged, "do you know where they took him?"
"The Tower of Conand," she said, glancing over his shoulder, "their fortress is hidden among the rocky crags in its shadow."
Rohan turned took look behind him. In the distance, a large, natural tower of stone thrust into the air above a range of high, rocky hills.
"And what can you tell me of this fort-" Rohan began to ask as he turned back around to continue his conversation, but he stopped short in confusion. The space among the burnt grass where the woman had been was empty, leaving only the flat and ashen ground and the distant horizon.
Quickly, Rohan spun around, looking in all directions, but there was no sign that the woman had ever been there at all. The ground where she had been standing wasn't left with so much as a dimple. He felt as though he had just awoken from a daydream and even began to wonder if the woman had been real.
He turned again and looked to the distant spire of stone once more. Vision or not, he had a direction. And for some reason, it seemed like he could trust the information.
As dungeons go, this one was by far the most spacious that Angus had ever been in; nearly twice the size of the ones in Kells Castle. Of course, the guard was twice the size, too. Angus couldn't help but think of which of the giants he had seen outside might have been a previous inhabitant of the cell. Whoever it had been, they had left behind a gooey pile of... well, Angus didn't want to think about it. Whatever it was stunk to wake the dead.
Evidently these Fomorians didn't think Angus was much of a threat. The giant that had been set to guarding the dungeon beneath Balor's fortress had only bothered with the job for about fifteen minutes before he sat himself down on an over-sized chair and promptly fell asleep. The snores emanating from him practically shook the walls.
Inattentive guard? Check. Noise to cover a getaway? Check. This was just too easy. Sweet Lugh, they hadn't even bothered to search him. He still had his lock picks tucked into the side of his bracer.
The only sticking point was the lock. The Fomorians hadn't bothered with making it convenient for normal-sized folk. Consequently, it was at least two feet above Angus' head. He'd never had to pick a lock above his head before. He wasn't sure that he could get the right angle on the tumblers. He could try it, of course. But as a savvy thief, Angus knew that picking a lock had to be done quickly and confidently, lest someone happen by to catch him in the act. He needed something to stand on, to get a boost.
Angus cast his gaze about the cell, hindered somewhat by the low light in the place. There were no stones large enough, no pieces of furniture, not even so much as a bucket. The only thing that might be of use gave Angus something of a shudder to think about, but there wasn't much for it. Swallowing back his distaste, Angus looked down at the two-foot giant's skull that was nestled among a pile of bones in the cell's corner. It looked fairly sturdy - these guys apparently had very thick skulls, which explained quite a bit - and fairly clean, as far as long-forgotten bones go.
"Well, dunno what you were in for, friend," Angus muttered down at the skull, "but, uh... just don't mind me."
Observing the Fomorian guard sawing logs just outside the cell, Angus timed shoving the skull toward the door with the giant's snores. As he had hoped, the sound covered up the scrape of the skull across the stone floor quite nicely. In only about five rumbles, he had the skull next to the door, just under the lock.
Quietly as he could, Angus scrambled up on top of the skull - once again trying desperately not to think about it - and eased his lock picks out of his bracer. The keyhole, too, was over-sized for a human, so it was no effort at all to get them to slide into place and in short order he felt the click of the tumblers engaging and the lock coming open.
"Heh, child's play," he crowed to himself, quietly, then stepped back down from the skull - no sir! Still not thinking about it! - and tucked his picks back in their place.
Next up was the cell door. It looked heavy, but he didn't need to get it to open very far in order to slip through. Once again making use of the guard's snoring, he swung it open. There was a light squeal from the hinges. For a moment, Angus paused, listening carefully for any indications that anyone had heard or that the guard was waking up. But there was no movement and the guard slept on. Angus was able to get the door open just enough to squeeze through and in short order he was in the dungeon corridor.
He had made a special point of keeping track of the direction back to the dungeon entrance as he had been brought in. He was fairly confident that he would be able to find his way back out again without too much trouble. He had even made note of a few hiding places along the way, just in case.
As he tip-toed past the sleeping guard, he began to ponder his next big problem. While they hadn't searched him before tossing him in the cell, they had been smart enough to take his mace. There was no way he could leave it behind. Sure, leaving a powerful mystic weapon in the hands of bad guys was what you might call a bad idea. But, more to the point, Angus knew he would never live it down. Fin Varra's wrath alone would mean he would never be able to go back to Kells. And he liked Kells, thank you very much.
The last time he had seen his mace had been upon reaching the first level underground, just above where he was presently. Before shuffling him off into the corridors and to the cell, the Fomorians had brought him to a sort of ante-chamber where they kept supplies and... other things. He would need to start there.
Surprisingly, he didn't run into any other guards on his way. There weren't even any in the supply room when he got there. The poor unlucky slob who was asleep outside the cell was apparently the one who had drawn the short straw while the others were off doing Dagda-knows-what. But, Angus wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
In another stroke of luck - or really, the guards' complete ineptitude - it didn't take Angus long at all to find his mace. The place where he had last seen it was where it had stayed. The mace was haphazardly tossed into a corner among some other, more giant-sized weapons of cruder make.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Angus mused, reaching for the weapon, "I'm starting to think this is too good to be true!" He slung it over a shoulder and then moved on.
Angus knew that he couldn't really continue on where he had been taken from there. If he followed the same path back any further, he would end up back in that monstrous mockery of a throne hall. It was simply too busy for him to go unnoticed. He would need to find another way to the surface from here. He briefly wondered if he should try to do something about Maeve, but quickly realized that it was a fool's errand. He would need the other Mystic Knights and the Kells army to take on that lot. The best thing he could do is escape and bring word back to Kells.
Moving through the dark and unpleasant underground tunnels of the fortress took some time. At a few points, he had to scramble for a hiding place as one of the Fomorians happened by. But his skill at stealth and his relatively small size compared to them made it fairly easy. As best he was able, he moved toward the seaward shore, knowing that eventually he would hit the end of the island. There was likely to be a way to the surface on that side of the fortress. He found himself creeping upward in short order and finally emerging out the side of the mountain on a platform that had been hewn into the stone of a natural tower overlooking the sea. Away to his left he could see the mainland in the distance. The air smelled considerably more pleasant up here and he took a moment to simply breathe it in.
Glancing about, he began to asses his options again. Looking over the ledge, he found a rather significant drop to the water below. Sticking out of the pounding waves were jagged teeth of rock. Jumping for the water there would end very badly, so down was out. And unless Pyre miraculously appeared, up was not an option, either.
"Left or right?" he mused.
A narrow path led both directions and didn't give any indication which would be the better option. They both wound around the rock and out of sight. As he looked around in both directions, trying to make a choice, he spotted a wooden structure on a pier of rock that was facing the sea. By the look of the long arm pointing toward the sky, it appeared to be a catapult of some kind. Thinking back to the grasslands, he remembered the boulder that came down upon them just before the Fomorians captured them. That was probably where it was launched from. The thing had an impressive range.
And then he got an utterly mad idea; the kind of idea that good friends generally tried to talk you out of. Or, at least, Rohan would have, anyway. Angus could practically hear the Mystic Knight of Fire in his mind, telling him that he was insane. But, he had never listened to imaginary voices in his head telling him to be sensible before. Why start now?
He took the path to the left, hoping that it would lead to the catapult in some way. Sure enough, the path wound up to the platform where it was perched.
It was like no catapult that Angus had ever seen before and he took a long few moments to sneak about figuring it out. At the end of the throwing arm, a rope dangled. Its end sat under the cocked throwing arm with what looked like a sling big enough for a very large payload. It certainly was large enough to hold one of the boulders that was sitting in a pile nearby, next to a trough of what smelled like pitch. The way the throwing arm was cocked, it looked like the sling would be pulled up after it when it was released, throwing the payload like a stone from the end of a rope. He was certainly familiar with that action.
Eventually, he found two controls built into the mechanism. One was obviously the release for the throwing arm. The other was a wheel that looked like it was scavenged from a sailing vessel once upon a time. He gave the wheel a cursory push and found the entire structure turned just a little bit. Apparently, this was how it was aimed. He would only need to turn the thing about a quarter turn to get it pointed toward the sea. But it was likely to make noise, so he would need to do that as quickly as possible after he had prepared everything else.
Suddenly, as it actually became plausible, the prospect of what he was considering didn't seem quite the brilliant idea it had a while ago. But he had to admit he didn't have any other ideas that wouldn't get him stomped under the rather smelly heel of a giant. So, the catapult-thing it was.
Locating another length of rope nearby, likely a replacement in case the one on the throwing arm broke, he tied one end of it to the trigger lever and ran the other end so that it rested just near the sling. He made sure the sling itself was spread out well to allow him to get into it quickly. But after that, the only thing left was to aim the weapon.
Weapon. Right. It wouldn't do to lose hold of his mace in the water. Angus wound the chain around his left arm and tucked the handle under the winds so as to lock it in place.
With no other preparations needed, the time had come to aim the thing. Steeling himself, Angus braced his feet on the ground and heaved on the wheel. With a rattle of wooden gears that sounded positively cacophonous to his ears after the hour or so of quiet that had surrounded him, the catapult-thing turned. Knowing that time was now of the essence, he continued turning the wheel as fast as he could manage, the thing even giving a very substantial squeal at one point. Once it was pointed the right direction, he didn't even bother to look around to see if he had been spotted. Odds were good that he had been, so why waste time?
He rushed over to the sling and sat down in it, curling his legs up under him and hunching down as tightly as he could, making himself into an awkward ball. Then, taking hold of the rope he had tied to the trigger and squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he pulled the rope and heard the clack of the mechanism release.
The ground was yanked out from under him with surprising force as the sling wrapped around him and lifted him into the air. His stomach lurched and he couldn't keep a yelp from escaping as he was flung upward into the air, released by the sling while he was still on the rising part of the arc. He tumbled as the water sped by beneath him and then he descended toward the chop of the sea. As the water rushed at him, he had just enough time to regret his choices just before he impacted into its surface and everything went dark.
Rohan was loathe to get too close to the spire of rock that had been identified to him as the Tower of Conand. After seeing the aftermath of a flaming boulder that had apparently been launched from a great distance and which had been menacing enough to frighten Pyre all the way back to Kells, he didn't want to end up the target of a similar attack. Figuring that those in the fortress wouldn't be watching for trouble from the sea, he circled around, flying Pyre around to the seaward side of the island. Back and forth he scanned the rocky coastline but did not see any sign of a fortress hidden there. If the Fomorians were there, it was little wonder how they had gone unnoticed for so long.
After four loops back and forth, he decided that there was little choice but to glide in closer to get a better look.
"All right, Pyre," he said, giving the back of the dragon's neck an affectionate pat, "keep on your toes in case any surprises come our way."
The Dragon gave a snort of understanding, then Rohan turned him in the direction of the Tower of Conand, drifting in closer at an angle. He watched the peaks and plateaus carefully for any sign of civilization. Finally, as his vision cleared a row of teeth-like rocks, some sort of an open courtyard came into view. He could see many figures within the hidden fortress, milling about.
"By Dagda, they're gigantic!" he exclaimed, turning Pyre aside as soon as he got a good look and retreated back. "That has to be it, he mused, that must be where Angus was taken. If we're going in there, I'll need my armor." He began reaching for the Sword of Kells on his back, but was halted by a most startling occurrence.
Draganta, wait! a voice whispered in his mind. There is no need. The Mystic Knight of Earth is no longer there. He has left. Do not risk it. Look to the sea.
"The sea?" he asked the open air, then glanced down to the waves below. At first he saw nothing of note and was about to disregard the voice in his head as some sort of wishful thinking or another vision. But then, the first one had borne fruit. Rohan took a second look.
There, among the chop, a dark figure jumped in and out of the water, seeming to circle just below him. From its direction a sort of barking honk reached his ears. Flying in lower, Pyre skimmed the surface of the ocean nearby so that Rohan could get a better look. As they neared, the figure stopped jumping in and out of the water and Rohan spotted the head of a seal bobbing on the waves, still barking up at him.
"A seal? That's strange," he said. He turned Pyre into a turn and circled once more, watching the creature's reaction. It turned and began to head toward mainland Kells, then paused to look back at him and barked again. "I think it wants us to follow," he realized.
Rohan weighed his options quickly. Attack the fortress and hopefully rescue his friend in a daring and likely fatal assault, or follow - of all things - a seal toward the mainland on a flimsy gut reaction that seemed outlandish. Finally, he decided that it was worth following the seal to see what it wanted. If nothing came of it, he could always return.
"All right, I'll go with you!" he called down to the seal. He received another bark in response and then the seal was off, tearing through the water at impressive speed, making for Kells, bounding in an out of the water so that Rohan could still see it periodically.
The shore of mainland Kells came upon them quickly and the seal turned a little to the side, making its way a little bit eastward. Soon, it began to circle just a little way from the shore line. Rohan looked about and was beginning to think he had followed a fantasy just as he spotted a form on the shoreline, laying on the beach just out of the water and looking decidedly human.
"I don't believe it!" Rohan exclaimed, bringing Pyre into a dive for the beach. They landed about twenty feet from the figure and Rohan slid off the dragon's back, making for the unmoving form and recognizing the familiar shock of dark hair, red shirt, and leather vest of his best friend.
"Angus!" he called, skidding to a stop in the sand and dropping down next to him.
Angus was soaked through and shivering, weakly coughing up the last dregs of water from his lungs. His mace was tightly wound around his arm and his lips looked a little blue. His eyes cracked open at Rohan's touch and Rohan helped him to roll over and sit up a bit. Angus leaned over and heaved one last great cough, spitting water into the sand.
"I've got you, my friend," Rohan said, making certain he didn't face-plant back in the sand and holding him up by the shoulders.
"What are you doing here?" Angus breathed out between shivers, his eyes still half-lidded.
"Pyre came back to the castle without you," Rohan said, "I figured you got yourself into trouble, again."
With a care belying his inherent ferocity, the dragon padded forward at the mention of his name, sniffing at Angus' head and then giving it a nudge. Angus reached a hand for the snout and gave Pyre an affectionate rub.
"Good dragon," he said.
"You're soaked and freezing," Rohan said, shifting to put one of Angus' arms over his shoulder. He hauled his shivering friend to his feet and Angus' legs seemed about to wobble under him for a moment. "Let's get you warmed up. I've got a campfire with your name on it."
"Sweet Lugh, fire sounds nice," Angus replied somewhat dreamily.
Rohan was about to start moving them both inland toward a nearby stand of trees that would shield them from view and where they could find some wood for a fire. But something made him look back to the water once again. There, sitting on a rock in the light of the setting sun, he saw the seal looking back at them. Its eyes seemed to meet his for a moment, then it turned and jumped back into the water, disappearing into the chop.
Rohan pondered the creature for a moment, but the shivering of his friend brought his attention back around. He shook off his confusion and began making his way toward the trees.
Winning Torc over had been a simple matter. The man was an opportunist to the core, with a long history of changing sides based on the way the wind blew. He had betrayed Kells long ago and Nemain found that his loyalty to Maeve had been just as tenuous. Certainly, it would mean that she would need to keep a close eye on him, but for now, Torc definitely had his uses.
Primarily at that moment, his use was to gather the dregs of the Temra army to her side. To that end, Nemain had sent him forth from Connachta with what had remained of the castle guard to ride out and find the pockets of deserters. As the new Queen of Temra, Nemain was offering them amnesty if they simply returned to their duties forthwith.
This left her essentially alone in Connachta, which was how she preferred it for the moment. It wouldn't do for her underlings to know all of her plans. After all, trust was a difficult thing when working with traitors and deserters. The only real trust she could place in them was to trust in their self-interest. She could use that well enough, but there were things for which she needed someone upon whom she could rely unquestionably.
Standing in the center of the dark throne hall, Nemain breathed in and called upon the magic that flowed through her. Lifting her staff, she focused it until a dark mist swirled and coalesced.
"Tethra, messenger of the battlefield, I summon you," she incanted.
The dark mist solidified and took shape until a raven was perched atop her staff. It tilted its head toward her and she smiled affectionately and rubbed the feathers on the top of its head. It gave a soft, appreciative caw.
"Return to my island," she instructed, "and bring word to my most trusted warrior. It is time that he returned to my side and joined me here."
The raven let out a loud call and jumped from her staff, taking to wing and flying out the nearest window. Nemain watched it depart and then wandered to the Temra throne to sit contentedly.
Everything was taking shape.
King Conchobar stood at the window of the throne hall in the castle at Emain Macha, looking out at the castle yard below. It was alight with a bonfire and a cacophony of song and cheer rattled up at him, bouncing off the stone of castle walls. He gave a sigh and turned away from the mirth, regretfully.
"These giants concern me greatly," he said to the assemblage gathered around the table.
Rohan and Angus sat along one side, the former somewhat hovering over the latter with protective concern. Angus was making faces as he downed a steaming cup of tea between sniffles. Over their shoulders stood the Druid Cathbad, carefully watching to make certain the Knight of Earth was downing the concoction. Deidre and Ivar sat on the other side of the table, alternately pondering the situation and keeping an eye on their friend.
"If these Fomorians were already hostile toward Kells, then Maeve stirring them up can only mean trouble," the king continued.
"And I brought her right to 'em," Angus lamented, miserably, before giving a sneeze, "There's no telling what she'll get them to do. I shoulda tried to catch her again and bring her back."
"No, you made the right decision," Cathbad stated, "the Fomorians of legend are ruthless and powerful. Even a Mystic Knight would be no match for their King, let alone a fortress full of them."
"How have they managed to go all this time unnoticed?" Ivar asked. "One would think an island full of giants would be hard to miss."
"No one from the island of Eire has set foot upon Tor Mor for generations," Conchobar said, "and every indication was that it was completely uninhabited."
"Their fortress was hidden very well," Rohan added, "nestled in the rocks, I practically had to fly directly over it to find it, even with some idea of where to look."
"And that's another thing," Deirdre said, "how certain are you of what you saw, Rohan? The woman and the voice in your mind?"
"Hardly at all," Rohan admitted with a shake of his head, "if those visions hadn't turned out to bear fruit, I might have thought I were going mad."
"And you never saw this woman, Angus?" Deirdre asked.
"No," Angus replied, "if I had seen someone like that on a supposedly deserted island, I'd remember, believe me." He sneezed again.
"And you don't remember making it back to shore?" Ivar asked.
Angus shook his head. "After I went flying it was just... blue sky, dark water, blue sky, dark water, and then..." He stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. "Next thing I know, Rohan's shaking me awake on the beach."
"Given what you were up against, it is a lucky thing that you were able to make it back to Kells at all," Cathbad mused, motioning to the cup of tea in front of Angus and coaxing him to drink more of it, despite the annoyed look the young man gave him.
"Indeed," Conchobar agreed, "it would seem Kells' troubles are not yet over. We've clearly not seen the last of Maeve."
"So much for a hundred lifetimes of peace," Rohan bemoaned, "are we never to have a moment of calm?"
An uncomfortable silence settled over them all as they all desperately searched for an answer to the question. But it seemed that there was none. And so the question was relegated to rhetoric as they all contemplated the new problems the kingdom now faced.