Morrighan's Champion

Guardians of the Grove

  Morrighan’s Champion

  Copyright 2013 C. S. Fanning

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  Note: While many places and characters within this work are or were real, this is a work of fantasy. Ideas and concepts from a variety of cultures and time periods have been fused into a story that is pure fantasy. I hope you enjoy – C.S. Fanning

  Of Pigs and Potatoes

  The hamlet of Bretharc was the most boring place in all the lands. At least that was the opinion of Aeden and his friends. Potatoes and pigs were the sum total of Bretharc’s contribution to the world and Aeden hated them both. Tales of the warriors of old filled his head during the evenings as much as the days were filled with work. The drudgery of his life was almost more than he could bear and living out his days as a pig farmer was a fate he was determined to escape at any cost.

  His closest friends and he had planned for the past year to leave the small village on their Nameday. The Nameday was always held at midsummer or thereabouts when the Druid of the region passed through the villages. Those youth who had seen thirteen summers would be honored at a ceremony where the druid presided, and given a “quest” that once completed meant that they were considered adults and the responsibilities and rewards, such as there were, of adulthood. Calling it a “quest” was the laughable thing to Aeden’s way of thinking, on last year’s Nameday the boys that were coming of age had been assigned the task of capturing the feral pigs that were pillaging the potato fields, which was not Aeden’s idea of a quest, not by a long way.

  Now Faolan was the only one going. Riordan and Quinn were both planning to leave, but their path would lead them to places that Aeden and Faolan could not follow. They were to be apprenticed to the old Druid Liam, and would spend the next several years following the old man; learning the ways of these mystical priests. Aeden was jealous and he knew it; yet still he knew he wasn’t meant for such pursuits. Books, poetry, and years of study were no more appealing to him than pig farming.

  No matter how much he didn’t like his friend’s apprenticeship, the village was abuzz with excitement. No one could have imagined that a boy from Bretharc would become a pupil of the druids, much less two upon a single Nameday. Many believed this to be a sign of a grand future for the village. Aeden just thought of it as losing half of his friends in a single day. Faolan was loyal and Aeden knew he would follow him anywhere, but it grieved them both thinking that tomorrow might be the last time they ever saw Riordan and Quinn.

  They met that evening as they oft did in the fields along the stream where they had played since early childhood. All four of the boys were far more solemn than they were accustomed to being. Aeden and Faolan listened with deepening sadness as their friends spoke with thinly veiled excitement about learning the histories and songs of the people of Eire as they travelled as well as learning, if they proved talented enough, the deeper mysteries of divination and magic. No one in the village had actually seen magic performed but everyone knew that the druids were taught such things.

  Faolan was quickly caught up in the excitement, for the moment forgetting his glumness at being excluded. Aeden was not so easily cheered and if anything his mood worsened as his doubts about the future overpowered his resolve to enjoy this last evening with his friends.

  Riordan approached him at one point. “Aeden, don’t be sad, I am confident that we shall meet again” he had said quietly so that the others would not hear.

  “Perhaps, but not here, for after tomorrow you and I shall both be gone from this place, never to return” Aeden responded, trying to control the melancholy that had begun to pervade his thoughts.

  Riordan, whose father was virtually an elder of the village, was the last of seven sons to reach manhood. He had always been gifted in ways that none in the village could fathom. Riordan knew things that only became apparent in hindsight to others, and his gifts were so well accepted that already some in the village asked him questions about planting or the weather as though he were already an ovate in the druid order. Still, Riordan himself never gave much thought to his gifts and had never let them go to his head, which explained why so many people loved him.

  Aeden knew her couldn’t keep brooding and ruin this night with his friends or he would regret it forever. When he looked up at Riordan, he was surprised to find his friend holding forth an oil cloth wrapped object in both hands.

  “Something to remember me by my friend” Riordan said.

  Aeden’s mind raced through memories of the years growing up here playing in the fields. They had often played at being warriors like in the old stories of the kings soldiers; using carved slats they had stolen from Riordan’s father as swords. Riordan’s father was the carter of the village, so it was never too difficult to make off with a stave or slat for their games.

  Aeden smiled for the first time that evening, thinking that while he might no longer have the time to play childish games he would always be able to remember the good times he had enjoyed with his friends.

  As Riordan placed the object in his hands, he knew that he had been wrong about what the cloth had kept hidden. There was no practice weapon or toy within this cloth. It weighed far too much for that. Whatever was contained within was made of metal; something extremely rare and valuable in the agrarian society of Bretharc. Whatever it was it was more than some token reminder of their boyhood games.

  As he slowly unwrapped the cloth, his eyes shown with growing astonishment at the engraved blade that was slowly revealed in the fading light of the evening, Aeden knew that this was no hunting blade or skinning tool. What he held in his hand was a real weapon. The ornate designs on the blade suggested that the maker had thought to make this blade as beautiful as it was functional for the edge was true and sharper than anything that Aeden had ever held.

  “Where did you come by this?” Aeden had to know.

  “It was given to me by my father, with instruction to pass it on to you. He said that when he came here after being injured in the last war, he had known that someday one of the young men of this village would have need of this blade, and he believes that you are that young man” Riordan told him. “He said he could tell that you would never be able to appreciate the peace of our village, nor be content with raising pigs or potatoes.”

  “That is a King’s Guard blade” Quinn interjected in astonishment as he noticed the weapon in Aeden’s hand. Riordan was known for seeing into the heart of things, but Quinn was the natural genius of the village. Quinn knew everything about everything, and it was no surprise that he recognized the weapon in Aeden’s hands.

  Aeden didn’t know many of the histories and songs of Bretharc, but the songs of Valor and Honor were not at all unknown to him. “Your father was a member of the King’s Guard?” he asked, still admiring the shining blade in his hands.

  “My father always told me stories of his adventures, but I thought them nothing more than stories until I found this last year. When I touched it I just knew that all the stories were true. I told my father that I saw you needing such a weapon. I think it worried him, but he didn’t question me on the matter” Riordan said.

  “I should imagine it did” Quinn chimed in, “we haven’t had a war in Eire in years; not in a generation in fact.”

  Finally unwrapping the blade
fully, Aeden held it out in a basic guard. It was very heavy despite the balance and Aeden wondered how well he could use it. He had always been the best among them when they sparred with staves, but never had the staves weighed so much. It was obvious from their looks that Quinn and Faolan both desired greatly to hold the blade themselves, and Aeden reluctantly relented, letting each hold and admire the fine blade in turn.

  After they parted company for the evening, Aeden stopped by the tanner’s, taking a piece of stiff leather and once home used it to fashion a scabbard. It was simple, even crude, but it made carrying the blade a great deal easier which would prove most beneficial on the trek he foresaw taking. When the scabbard was done, he packed a knapsack with some bread and cheese, throwing in a large hunk of the dried pork his father had stashed before stowing the lot beneath his small cot and lying down to futilely attempt to sleep.

  Nameday

  When the morning sun broke over the mountains to the east, Aeden had already been at his chores for hours. Most days he was so caught up in the monotony of his tasks that he didn’t even notice the rising of the sun, but just as the light spilled across the land he heard a call that could only herald the