Aryn watched in frustration as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, but still that damnable wind kept up, unabated. Just as he had about decided to abandon his perch and search out another that didn’t try to throw him like an unbroken horse…
POP!
There beside him appeared a white-haired sylph he’d never seen before. She was about twice as large as Rhoslyn, dressed in a white diaphanous gown, having silvery, nearly transparent, butterfly wings with steaks of light-blue in them, and a pattern of medium blue spots. Looking closely, Aryn could just make out that her hair wasn’t totally white, but also had faint streaks of light blue in it. Sylphs were air-faeries who generally inhabited the high reaches of mountainous areas, and were generally what humans envisioned when thinking about the fae.
“You must be Aryn Ó Fionnagáin,” said the sylph, as she looked him up and down, critically. “My name is Eupnea. Rhoslyn, the pixie, told me that I’d find you up a tree here.”
“Nice to meet you, Eupnea. Can you calm this damned wind, please?”
Eupnea’s facial expression changed in a flash, from mild annoyance to a thundercloud.
“Damned wind? — You dare to curse the wind to the face of an air-faerie?”
“No! — Wait, don’t go… please.”
The sylph looked at him with the same disgust he might have shown to a slug. “Rhoslyn told me that you sometimes suffered from a lack of decorum. She didn’t mention that you have the manners of swine.”
“My manners were quite good enough for Queen Úna,” Aryn replied, indignantly.
“You’ve met, Úna?”
“And her husband, Finvarra.”
Eupnea looked startled at that revelation. “I’m surprised you survived an encounter with one of the old gods. They are not known for showing tolerance to discourteous mortals.”
“I almost didn’t… survive it, that is.”
Eupnea snorted. “I don’t doubt it. Perhaps you should learn some tact when dealing with faeries, before someone actually turns you into something more vile than your own behavior.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I’ve just been swinging around in the top of this tree for so long, it’s made me a bit grumpy.”
“Rhoslyn requested that I come here to help you. I normally don’t have anything to do with mortals, for as an air-faerie, I am a subject of King Paralda and Queen Vayu, not Queen Úna.”
“Yet, are not both of them subservient to the demi-goddess, Kyla, daughter of Finvarra and Úna?”
“That is above my station. I do not concern myself with the doings of royalty or gods.”
“But, Rhoslyn did send you here to help me, right?”
Eupnea rolled her eyes, but finally said, “Rhoslyn will owe me a boon for this. What is it you require, human?”
“Can you calm this wind… please?”
With a mere wave of Eupnea’s hand, the brisk wind died abruptly. “What else?”
Aryn sighed with relief, as his unruly seat settled beneath him. “Nothing else… that’s all I needed. Thank you.”
“That’s all? You sent Rhoslyn to fetch me, just to calm the wind here? Why?”
“I need to kill Romans.”
“What are Romans?”
Aryn pointed toward the Roman camp, where beached galleys continued unloading troops and horses. Tents were being erected and supplies stacked near field-kitchens and mobile smithies. Legionaries were back to digging their defensive trenches across the entire mouth of the Drumanagh peninsula. Officers were shouting unintelligible orders, which the men obeyed promptly, with unerring dispatch — quite unlike the chronic arguments and bickering so common within the Celtae tribes of Aryn’s people.
“Those invaders coming in from the sea are Romans.”
Eupnea gawked at the unusual spectacle before her. “So many…”
“Yes, now excuse me while I get back to killing some of them.”
The sylph snorted audibly and said, “What can one man do against an entire army?”
“I can annoy them and slow their progress. Watch.”
Aryn loosed a quick volley of four arrows in rapid succession, the last in flight before the first struck home. Four soldiers digging in the trench closest to Aryn’s treetop perch toppled in progression and their comrades dropped onto their bellies into the trench, scanning the edge of the forest in search of additional threats. Legionaries digging the second trench also dropped to the ground, but when no further arrows were forthcoming, the centurion in charge goaded his men into resuming their task. Little further digging was accomplished after Aryn’s next arrow killed a man, working in the third trench.
Eupnea noticed that Aryn’s quiver was now half empty. “You have more arrows hidden nearby?”
“No, I’ll have to return to my cave to get more after these run out. I figure I can keep them pinned down until dark and then go back to get more.”
“You can navigate this forest in the dark?”
“Easily. I live here.”
The sylph crossed her arms and tapped one tooth in concentration, as if in deep thought. “Would a storm help to delay them, until you can return?”
“Most assuredly, but why would you volunteer to help me in this? Úna will surely send Kyla to rally the fae against these invaders, but you said yourself, sylphs answer to different rulers.”
“If these invaders of yours truly represent a threat to our island, King Paralda and Queen Vayu will not wish to be seen as slacking in aiding the land’s defense.”
“I thought you said that you didn’t concern yourself with the doings of royalty,” Aryn said with a grin.
“Don’t be throwing my own words back into my face, human!” Eupnea snapped. “It certainly wouldn’t hurt my standing if I acted proactively in this, and besides… frustrating those mortals sounds like fun.”
“Ah, now that I can believe!” Aryn laughed softly.
Ignoring his amused smirk, she continued. “I’ll go fetch Aral and return here.”
“Who is Aral?”
“Aral is an air elemental. He is far more powerful, but much less intelligent than a sylph. Whatever small storm I can create, he can enlarge into a gale of truly monstrous proportions.”
“Go then, with my thanks, little sylph. I will be in your debt for any additional delay that you and Aral can impose upon these invaders, giving the clans more time to gather their war bands together.”
Eupnea gave Aryn another probing look and said, “Aye, and it’s good that you realize that. Perhaps there is hope for you after all, mortal. Farewell.” And with that, she was gone in an eye blink.
Aryn continued annoying the Romans the rest of the afternoon, methodically picking them off one-by-one, while hidden amongst the trees of the forest bordering the Roman landing site. In the twilight, just before dark, he watched with satisfaction as his last arrow buried itself in the right eye of a Roman centurion. With his last arrow spent, Aryn looked sadly down at his now empty quiver. He could now only watch as the Romans continued disembarking from their ships. Their largest and grandest ship hadn’t come all the way to the mainland, but unloaded on the isle of Reachrainn, just offshore.
That must be where their leaders are setting up camp… cowards.
Aryn felt his way down from the top of the tree he had occupied for most of the afternoon and stood silently in the semi-dark at its base, listening for any sounds that might reveal the locations of the Roman soldiers sent into the forest after him. Navigating by dead reckoning and the meager light of a quarter-moon, he maneuvered among the trees as silently as any nocturnal predator on the prowl. Darting from tree to tree, he paused at each one, to allow his faint shadow to blend in with the thousands of others all around him. Full dark eventually revealed thousands of stars overhead, glistening in all their majestic glory through holes in the forest canopy overhead.
Finally nearing the blind that he had hastily built for his horse earlier, he distinctly heard the soft snap of a fallen twig, just ahead. Aryn froze ag
ainst a tree, listening intently for any additional signs of whoever, or whatever was so near to him. One of the Roman legionaries hunting for the elusive archer had evidently wandered a bit too far away from his fellows — and just a little too close to where Aryn’s horse was hidden. Eventually the Roman soldier crept by, oblivious to his crouching presence. Aryn easily slipped in behind him and cut the invader’s throat with his sharp bronze dagger. Without a sound, Aryn lowered the body to the ground and stripped it of armor, weapons and anything else that might be of value to the merchants among his people.
Aryn greeted Frisky, his strawberry-roan stallion with a pat on the nose, and one of the carrots he kept in a saddlebag for just that purpose. After allowing his horse to take the carrot and then nuzzle his hand for more, Aryn stowed the Roman armor into a large sack he had with him. He then tucked the short sword into his belt and tied the shield over his horse’s rump. He mounted and wondered if he would receive enough in trade for all this Roman gear, to make hauling it all home worth the effort. He then negotiated the maze of twisting turns he’d installed at the entrance to the blind.
Aryn needed more arrows, and that required him to return to the hidden cave that served as his primary residence. Now mounted, Aryn quickly outdistanced the Romans, who were still stumbling about the forest on foot, looking for him. Aryn reminisced within himself, as he rode back toward his cave — something he was always wont to do whenever the stark beauty of the surrounding virgin forest entranced him.
His roan had an uncanny ability to retrace its steps, so there was little guidance necessary. Frisky always seemed to know his way back to the hay and oats stored in that cave. Memories flooded back to Aryn, as his mind emptied. Both good and bad… these memories simply came back to him, seemingly of their own accord.
Aryn lived alone in the forest, which provided him with almost everything he needed. He had just finished trading some of his forest bounty to merchants in the coastal village of Loughshinny, just north of the Roman landing site, when he first saw the square, striped sails of low-slung ships bearing banks of oars protruding along their sides. Galleys… Warships. Traders had brought word of Roman legions subjugating the Gaelic tribes of Britannia, so everyone on the island knew what to watch for. Any other Celtae would have scurried back to sound the alarm, so the local clan warlords could gather their warriors to repel the invasion — but Aryn merely hid his horse.
One of the few constants among the hundreds of Gaelic clans that inhabited the island of Éire was that they fought amongst themselves almost as much for sport, as for gain. Aryn had been the first to spot the Roman fleet as it approached the eastern shore of the island, but he felt neither obligation, nor allegiance towards any of the clans who inhabited the Emerald Isle, as most had shunned him all of his life. Aryn wasn’t quite a pariah, but even members of his own family often felt distinctively uncomfortable around him, even as a child. Not that he’d been mischievous or misbehaved… quite the contrary. Aryn had always been pleasant, and extremely well behaved — possibly a bit too well behaved, when compared to the rowdy, boisterous conduct considered a “normal” for boys among the Celtae clans.
Even his chosen weapon… a hunting weapon, made him an object of derision among his people. Gaelic warriors invariably preferred close, hand to hand, and ideally, one-on-one, individual combat. Thus, swords, axes, and spears were the main weapons the Celtae used. They saw killing an enemy from afar as cowardly, thus bows and other ranged weapons were primarily just used for hunting, so their use was rare, even in wartime. Aryn thought that refusing to kill enemies from afar was just stupid.
Aryn had always been unnaturally gifted with a bow. At the age of seven, Aryn had taken his little half-size children’s bow on his first real hunting expedition with his father, his grandfather and six of his grandfather’s brothers. His great-uncle, walking the far end of the line, scared up a quail that took flight directly away from Aryn’s relatives. A few of the men got off shots that missed, but several seconds after the last arrow was fired, the madly flapping bird suddenly veered towards the ground. The men cheered heartily at the nearly impossible long-range shot, but when they reached the kill, all were stunned to see that it was an undersized child’s arrow that pierced the quail’s breast.
Aryn had been at the far end of the line, over 200 yards from where the bird fell. All of the men immediately tried testing Aryn’s half-size bow, but none managed to launch an arrow even half that distance, even with a longer, full-length adult arrow. Aryn had done the impossible, and the adults eyed him with grave reservation, sharing fearful whispers amongst themselves, all the way home. Never again was Aryn invited to accompany the men of his family on another hunting trip.
Aryn Finnegan, of the clan Ó Fionnagáin had been unusually beautiful as a babe — notably different from the moment of his birth. Aryn had entered the world with an incredible amount of coal-black hair that extended down to the middle of his back, and eyes the color of a bright blue sky. It was the striking contrast between the sheer blackness of his hair and brilliance of his eyes that marked him as unusual.
All of the males of his father’s line for generations all shared the trait of red or blond hair. Some thought him a changeling, but that talk faded as Aryn continued healthy well past the age that a true changeling would have sickened and died. Others called him “an old soul,” as except for pitch, he never really spoke like a child. Few were the times that he spouted nonsensical mouthings, just to get attention. Aryn rarely spoke unless prompted, but when he did, his conversation displayed incredible wisdom and maturity, far beyond his years. Many considered him to be unnatural. Inexplicable things happened around Aryn… or didn’t, as the case may be.
Even as a babe Aryn hadn’t cried and fussed like most newborns, contentedly cooing, gurgling and laughing for the gods only knew what reason. It wasn’t surprising that folks thought the baby odd — after all, even his own mother couldn’t see the pixies who danced in the air above the baby’s face, and kept him continually entertained.
* * * *
END
Wrath of an Angry God: A Military Space Opera Page 40