Padraig stopped. “I made a vow that I would protect the weak and innocent, even if it costs me my life.”
“No, please!” said the king, grovelling at the captain’s feet. “I don’t want to die alone; I don’t want to die alone!”
His voice dropped to a whimper, and tears filled his eyes.
“She told me that I’d die alone.”
Chapter 1:
Mourning
Morrígan rose as they carried her mother’s coffin into the chapel. She did not look as it passed.
She turned her attention to the stained-glass window behind the altar: a depiction of the birth of King Móráin to the Lady Meadhbh and Lord Seletoth. The figures wore cloaks of bright green and red, now shining emerald and ruby as the sunset spilled light into the hall. The new-born baby was gleaming and golden, holding an axe in one hand and a shield in the other.
If our ancestors claimed this land from the Simians using magic, then what use were an axe and a shield?
The mourners returned to their seats, and Morrígan followed suit, shivering as a frigid sea breeze rolled through the chapel. She wore a loose-fitting tunic with large sleeves, fastened by a grey belt woven with intricate, interlocking patterns. Two wooden pins held her jet-black hair in a braid, though not nearly as neat as usual.
She always did a better job at keeping it tidy than I could.
Sorrow crept forwards from the back of her mind, but Morrígan fought it with clenched fists and gritted teeth.
From the altar, Daithí the Blessed cleared his throat. The old druid served as a stark reminder that this was indeed a funeral, and Morrígan’s mother was, in fact, dead.
Dead.
Looking for another distraction, she turned her attention away from the stained-glass window, now focusing on the facial features of the druid. Thick grey curls framed a blemished red face, bloated from decades of indulging on wine and ale.
He often drank at The Bear with father...
Morrígan shook her head as the image of the killing field flashed before her; the troll, the corpses, her father galloping away on horseback, and her mother lying dead in the morning mist.
As the old druid spoke, he caught Morrígan’s gaze and smiled. His blue eyes sparkled in the dusk’s golden light, peering out behind his nose, round and bulbous ...
Just like a troll’s.
There was no avoiding it. Her mother was dead, her father was gone, and she was alone.
“We thank the King, the Lady, and the Lord for giving us life so we can live to love one another.” Daithí spoke with a hollow monotone, rolling through each syllable as if he didn’t care for the words themselves. “This gift is ephemeral, so we must fill our days with as much love as we can. That’s how Aoife Ní Branna lived. She filled her life with the love she shared with her family, her friends, and her neighbours. Today we pray that she’ll continue to do so, in the Plains of Tierna Meall for eternity.”
Nothing was said about the others who had died that day, but Morrígan counted them off in her head.
The mountain troll had killed two of the five strange travellers before it reached the farm, but Morrígan couldn’t remember what they looked like. The other three had attempted to fight it right before her eyes. The first was crushed inside his own armour, dying as valiantly as he had fought. Another, a woman dressed in white, was bludgeoned to a pulp by the beast’s bare fist. Only the third, a Pyromancer, had survived, but he lost his arm in the struggle. The sound of tearing flesh and bone was still fresh in Morrígan’s ears.
And then, Mother...
She pulled her mind away from that memory, trying to recall the faces of the strangers as the druid droned on.
Where did they come from? Why did they bring a troll here to Roseán?
Morrígan pictured the trio travelling together across the Glenn and found herself almost smiling at the thought.
A warrior, a mage, and a healer: just like in the stories.
Closing her eyes, Morrígan imagined what it would be like to leave Roseán with formidable allies, searching for fame and fortune. She pictured herself returning someday to a hero’s welcome, with all the same faces and places unchanged since she left. The bards would sing of her adventures, and she’d be remembered for generations.
But who will sing about those who died today?
A hand touched her gently on the shoulder. “Morry, it’s time to leave now; the service is over.”
Morrígan reluctantly returned to reality. Daithí the Blessed had finished his sermon, and the other mourners slowly filed out of the chapel. Only her uncle, Yarlaith the White, remained.
A lump formed in Morrígan’s throat as she caught sight of her mother’s coffin, left alone on the altar. She wanted to ask about what would happen next—whether there’d be a wake or a burial ceremony—but those questions brought grief, and Morrígan was desperate to talk about something else. Anything else.
“How’s the Pyromancer holding up?”
“Ah,” said Yarlaith, his brow furrowed as if caught off-guard. He fidgeted with the collar of his healer’s robes; its white cloth was grey, like the few wisps of hair left on his head. “The mage is doing... well. It’s a miracle he survived, but there’s nothing divine about the pain he’s in right now. He’s lost a lot of blood, and I doubt I’ll be able to save his arm ... but he’ll live. More importantly, Morry, how are you doing?”
“Fine,” she mumbled, hoping Yarlaith wouldn’t pry any further. They made their way out into the chapel gardens in silence.
The flowers were slowly dying with winter on the way, but their colour still shone along the path. The road from the chapel twisted and turned downhill towards Roseán’s town centre, lined by tall trees with leaves of autumn gold and brown. The Harvest Moon would be in just a few more weeks, but the thought was bittersweet.
Mother always loved the festivities more than anyone ...
No, she would not dwell on it. She needed to be brave. She needed to be strong. At fourteen years she was almost a woman grown, and only widows and children cried. Not mages, or knights, or adventurers.
