Prologue - Black Betrayal - Writers Forum

crackpotkate · 10-19-2005, 06:50 AM

This is the prologue to the first of a trilogy of novels I'm working on. Based on early Irish celtic myth circa. 320 AD. It's only the second draft so has creases that need ironing...not least my appalling grammatical errors which are prolific throughout! Anyway, see what you think.

PROLOGUE
The essence of true love is sacrifice, to sacrifice oneself for love is the ultimate gift; to take such a gift for granted is wicked beyond reason.

320 AD Ireland. Kingdom of Leinster.

Morgan landed heavily on his knees and as he struggled to his feet, he called for Goll his brother. The cawing of crows was becoming louder, so loud that he could barely hear anything else. As his pupils contracted in the sunlight his jaw dropped in horror. Directly before him stood a man, at least he thought it was a man, but his face, oh his face. He was like a demon, or monster from the songs of the elders. Strange symbols had been painted on his skin, Ogham symbols, druidic writing and grotesque pictures in black, blue and red. Morgan’s eyes searched for appeasement, but there was none. Circling around the boy were eight more demonic forms all naked but for the colors staining their flesh. In their hands some held twisted branches, others carried animals, one decrepit form he thought might be a woman, was swaying with the glossy white skull of what looked like a small child clasped in her gnarly hand. He wailed in terror, where was Goll? Was he alive? Of course he was alive, Goll was invincible, and he would save his young charge, wouldn’t he? He couldn’t see him or hear him, just crows. Millions of crows. The boy buried his head in his hands and cried bitterly, he should have know something was amiss when his older brother woke him so very early – a hunt. His first hunt…

It was damp. Autumn had stretched her long brown arms into the Kingdom of Leinster and the ancient trees in the forest of Slieve Bloom shook with the chill, loosening more red, gold and brown leaves to fall, swaying gently, on soft currents of air to the forest floor. A thin mist of rain fell softly through near naked boughs soaking everything it touched.
As he pushed through the dense woodland, Morgan felt yet another freezing drip of rain plop onto the back of his head; it trickled down his neck and he shivered involuntarily. His black hair was so wet that it clung to his scalp forming dark oily looking snakes. His breath came in short bursts and his chest burnt with the effort of continuous running. Morgan glanced up and squinted. How long until dawn? Not long. The sky had changed from the deep blue black of night to a pallid grey and he had already heard the call of crows in the highest branches.
If only he knew where he was going it would have made the adventure less tiresome. His calves had hardened into tight balls of muscle and with each weary footfall his legs became heavier. Morgan had little need for physical exertion, he did not harbour the common ambition to become the best warrior of the clan he contented himself with study, song and poetry. But this morning, his six year old body had carried him further than he had ever thought imaginable. The wooden Dun Keep he called home had been left behind an hour ago and this was without doubt the furthest he had ever been from home. So deep were they within the trunks of elm, oak, beech and hazel that the dark had an ethereal quality, he felt sure that this was where the faerie folk, the mysterious sidh dwelt conjuring up their mischief, luring innocent Irish men to a grisly death.
Finally he felt he could go no further. As the first racking sob escaped his lips, he fell.
“Get up Morgan!” a large, strong hand pulled him to his feet, and he tried in vain to stop crying. His legs were wobbling and he found he couldn’t stand unaided; again he fell heavily to the leaf carpeted ground.
“I said,” two hands now yanked him up, roughly pulling him by the shoulders of his shirt, “get up, and stay up, and stop cryin’, that’ll get you nowhere...here...” A drinking bladder was thrust at his chest and he put it greedily to his lips, he drank too deep and coughed violently, bringing bile to his throat.
“Where are we going?” he spluttered, “You said we were going on a hunt. My first hunt, you said, we haven’t slain a thing yet and we’ve been out for hours. Why couldn’t we ride? And you left the dogs behind…and I don’t even have a bow...” Morgan gasped for breath, his voice the whine of an infant.
His companion chuckled and snatched the drinking vessel from Morgan’s grasp. He lifted the bladder above his mouth, and let the cool liquid run into his open maul and out over his bearded chin. He cleared his throat and spat a large green ball of mucus onto the forest floor beside Morgan’s feet.
“We are hunting, though not for the most common of prey. A more sophisticated method is required. This is a hunt partaken by only the most ambitious of men little brother. It is the hunt for success, prosperity…and power...” Morgan was being pushed slowly towards two large birch trees, the natural entrance to a glade within the forest.
“I don’t understand Goll?” Morgan wiped the tears from his face leaving dirty smudges across his pale face and turned to look quizzically at his older brother. “If this is all about Clan leadership, why couldn’t we have done it at home? Without all the running…” His bottom lip jutted out, and he tried with all his might not to let the tears return, he looked to Goll hoping for some distorted sign of affection. None came.
Their mother had died soon after Morgan’s birth and their father just last spring, leaving Goll in the sole charge of a brother eighteen years his junior. He was a true warrior of Eire, respected and feared by the whole Clan and with their cousin, the old King of Leinster close to death; Goll Mac Morna was the most likely candidate for the throne. Morgan was proud to be the closest relative of the next Clan Morna leader and despite his brother’s constant rebukes, ridicule and tendency for violence, he loved him.
Goll smiled briefly at his brother, “No more running boy...” He looked long and hard at the lad and a sense of unease started to softly blow the hairs on Morgan’s neck to standing. There was a brooding silence between the two, but Goll’s gaze did not falter. After what seemed like an age, he laid his hand heavily on Morgan’s shoulder.
“Turn around,” They now stood squarely under the two birch trees, branches interlocked in an organic lovers embrace enticing the brothers through into another world. Morgan turned to the clearing and was temporarily blinded; he squinted against the dawn he had thought would never arrive and ssuddenly he was shoved hard into a waking nightmare where faeries, giants and the dead walked with the living.

Morgan continued to turn about; he searched desperately for a means of escape, and his brother, his guardian.
“Goll!” the child screamed, it was high pitched girl-like and another bone of contention with his brother.
“Goll! Goll!” He stumbled from this way to that, but these people, these demons, were closing in around him. The crows were so loud it hurt his ears, but when he looked to the skies he could see none. He felt the softest brush of a feather on his forearm and he swung around to face the culprit. It was indeed a crow, but it was long dead. It hung stiffly from a vine tied around its curled talons and was being swung in a huge circle. With each swing the bird’s wings opened like a black cape and a strange whooping filled the air. It was mesmerizing, like some grotesque circus act it held him and the boy could not tear his eyes from the macabre dance. Morgan fell to his knees, pushing his knuckles against his eyes screaming and crying.
Then above the carrion screams he heard the sound of salvation, his brother’s voice quiet but not out of reach.
“Brother! Help me!” he begged. His yearnings were met with silence and before Morgan could muster another shrill plea, Goll spoke,
“You are here, my brother, to do the greatest of deeds; on you I have bestowed the mightiest honor.” Goll spoke calmly and without emotion. “These people around you are the druidic order of the Dagda, and they will make your offering as painless and quick as possible.”
Still Morgan could not see him, he searched frantically through the small gaps between Druids, then caught sight of the birch archway. Goll stood some distance back, with an expression that was a mixture of both fear and disgust.
“Your sacrifice will ensure my succession, what you do today will benefit the whole of Clan Morna for tens of winters to come. This is not just for me Morgan, what you do, you do for Leinster, and your ascension to the Dagda’s halls will endow this Kingdom with its greatest asset…Me. A strong and able King, a King who will make Leinster the most powerful of all the five Kingdoms of Eire. Thank you my brother…wait for me in Dagda’s halls Morgan and in time I shall join you.”
“Goll! No! No! Please... I don’t want to....please....” It was too late; Morgan watched the red-haired man he had adored, walk confidently away. Goll did not look back, he did not pause, he cleared his throat, spat, and started to run.
Morgan whimpered like a whipped dog and as the grotesque figures of the Druids surrounded him, the crows were louder than ever.

Elvenswordsman · 10-20-2005, 04:11 PM

The cawing of crows was becoming louder,

Was=were

I'm too tired to read!

ThatSmokingGuy · 10-21-2005, 10:03 AM

I'm not so much into fantasy stuff, mostly because it's filled with horrible cliches all the time, but I really liked this. The writing is good. Very good, and you yourself - the author - is quite invisible behind the story.

crackpotkate · 10-22-2005, 10:31 AM

Thanks for reading guys. Not sure I'd label this as fantasy; it's more our own mythic history tortured and turned into a more linear format. Erm, now I've made it sound really boring. NO! It's fantasy, course it is. ahem...

crackpotkate · 01-09-2006, 04:20 AM

CHAPTER ONE

To the gates of Tara

330 AD. City of Tara, seat of the High King of Eire.

Conaire heaved a huge sigh as he crossed his chamber and avoided his favorite hound that gamboled stupidly at his feet, pushing his wet nose into the new King’s palm.
“Not today my boy”, he sat heavily on his bed which caused a puff of dust to dance in the sunlight before it landed lightly on the dog’s upturned face.
The dog blinked his large amber eyes at his master and continued to nuzzle Conaire’s hand. The King affectionately scratched under the animal’s ear and exhaled loudly.
“Now you know I’d much rather be out hunting, but today,” he pushed the dog away and began to pull on his boots, “today, there are more pressing matters to deal with, ‘Kingly’ matters.”
Conaire stood and crossed to the window, he looked down on an ever increasing crowd, peasants and serfs mainly. Clan leaders had started to arrive the day before and today the Five would arrive before this evenings feast. The hound was now pawing impatiently at Conaire’s leg and the High King smiled,
“C’mon then, let’s break our fast before the castle is overrun with hungry hordes of Druids, Fianna, Kings and consorts eh?” Laughing he tapped his thigh as he strode out of his chamber and his dog fell into well disciplined step beside him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

This morning had proved to be the most testing of two days travel. Trenmor, as leader of the High Kings militia ‘the Fianna’ had known that today would be troublesome, it had worried him for more than a moon cycle.
The old High King Conn had been staid, unyielding and pompous and he had earned his title ‘Conn of the Hundred Battles’ for no small reason. His reign had been won in a bloody war where he slew the previous High King; Cahir Mor of Leinster. But Conn had been a good ruler and Trenmor had served as his most trusted warrior for over half his life.
He had left three daughters and a young son in his stead. The eldest girl Sarad, was married to Conaire, a capable warrior much revered by his peers. The crown had been in dispute for an uncommonly short period before Conaire accepted the mantle of ruler over all Eire, as was so voted by the Druids and high ranking personages of Ireland.
Only two of the five subsidiary Kings had disputed his ascension, but the voting was anonymous so the identity of Conaire's adversaries remained a mystery. But spite and ill intention are difficult traits to hide; particularly from the Fianna.
As Trenmor brushed down his horse under the glare of a dawning sun, gnawing casually on a strip of venison he felt the sting of a knife point at his throat. He paused to swallow his mouthful, and calmly pushed the blade from his jugular turning to face the blade’s owner.
“Spit it out.” His attacker demanded. Trenmor raised his eyebrows in query, but the small wiry man continued his demand
“Spit out the meat brigand…or I’ll cut it from your gullet.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Trenmor, his lips curling in distaste.
Despite his reputation, Trenmor was a peace loving man and it was only when he could not charm a foe into lowering his weapon that he resorted to violence.
“I can’t spit out what I’ve already swallowed now, can I?” He was testing this man now,
“Or do you intend to slice me from the belly up?” Trenmor turned to continue grooming his mount.
The small man grasped Trenmor’s arm and tugged roughly, pulling the larger man back round so their faces were just inches from each other.
He spat out his words with undisguised malice, “No, I shan’t slice you, I’ll let the King do that…to you and your stinking band of thieves.”
“Thieves? Surely you can’t be meaning this well turned out group of poets and scholars?” Trenmor roared with unprovoked laughter and grinning pointed at Seamus, his most trusted friend, who was being held firmly against a tree by a huge man-at-arms, a giant forearm crushing his windpipe.
Seamus’s eyes flipped a skyward arc, and then he winked mischievously at his leader.
“I should explain,” Trenmor sighed and started a well rehearsed monologue, the bewilderment obvious on the faces of their accusers.
“I am Trenmor, peace-keeper assigned by KingConn as leader of the Fianna, marshals of these lands and the whole of Erainn.” He waited for some form of response but was met only by blank expressions and sniggers. He bristled, and clearing his throat he continued.
“As Fianna, we are granted the right to hunt where and when the need takes us as reward for keeping these lands clear of ‘brigands’, ‘boggats’, ‘giants’ and any other nasties the Gods choose to send. As well as protecting this island's shores from hordes of amorous invaders who would love to spread your wife’s legs. Oh, and I believe they’re also quite partial to Leinster venison.” Trenmor’s would-be executioner stared at him, distrust written all over his face.
“The Fianna are in Tara” he said slowly “for the inauguration of King Conaire, you are not Fianna. Did we not sneak upon you while you broke your fast and saw to your horses? Ha! Even I myself, held a dagger to your throat Trenmor, if you are the Fianna, then Ireland is indeed in much peril!” He laughed coldly,
“So it seems we are lucky that we were not ‘boggats’ or ‘giants’ for we would surely be dead! Though it seems the Fianna did little to help our last King avoid assassination…so perhaps you are indeed the impressive marshals of Eire...”
Now all of his companions laughed along with him. Trenmor did not appreciate the humour, the might of the Fianna had indeed been brought into dispute after the death of Conn, and it had been just such brigands as these who had been responsible for his untimely demise.
“Your situation may seem more serious when the Goll Mac Morna has done with you Fianna, so come…” he pushed Trenmor around so that he could tie his wrists and as he did so he noticed the bigger man gravely shaking his head,
“I know big man, but each dog has its day, and today is yours…for dyin’” he smirked.
“But you tell me Little man should your King not be at the inauguration himself, the Five Kings are all to be present before the stone of Fal can cry out the true King of King’s name before all the Druids of Eire?” Trenmor enquired.
“The Goll Mac Morna bows to no man and no other King, he is the mightiest of all men and he shall go to Tara when he sees fit, not on the whim of a castle whelp and his little group of ‘witch men’. Let me assure you that if Mac Morna governed the whole of this Isle, there would be no threat from the sea, land or skies that would…”
He stopped abruptly as two powerful looking figures rode into the clearing, one was a man in his thirties, red-haired, bearded and battle scarred, the other wore a grey hooded cloak, the hood pulled so far forward that the face was hidden completely in shadow. Both were seated on massive mounts, horses bred for war.

(Please forgive the page layout - I'm short of time for editing online...)