The Sword of Light - Chapter 1

Still warm, Ferin thought as he pulled his hand away from where it hovered over fresh hart scat. He had been tracking the animal for hours as it fled through the woods, trying to lose him by doubling back and running in circles.

The buck did not know that these woods belonged to Ferin and that he knew them best.

Hoof prints bit deep into the soft soil of the forest floor, marking the path to his prize. Ferin straightened and notched an arrow to his bow. Cool morning mist beaded the hair of his arms and beard as he stalked forward with the careful step of a huntertoe-heel, toe-heel. His footfalls were all but silent on the grassy path.

The forest air was thick with the smell of cold and morning and earth. The last traces of night-fog clung to the edges of the wood in fading shadows where they masked roots and broken things that would snap and crack underfoot. Sunlight streamed through the canopy in shafts of golden light to burn through the haze like hot irons through snow. Light and dark danced through the staggered columns of birch, ash, and alder giving the world around him an ethereal serenity. Woodnote played near and far, rising and falling at the whim of the forest. It was a song meant for only the truest of hunters. Other men have tried to hear the song of the forest, men who had sat as still and as silent as stones for days at a time, waiting and listening, and still could not hear it. Other men, like Ferin, could hear only the barest bones of the song that echoed in the call of birds and other animals; but the truest hunters knew the song of the forest in the lilting keen of the wind through the trees, in the sylvan whispers that crept through the underbrush, in something that no mortal man could put words to. It was something that had to be felt to be known. There was a power to these woodsa terrain which could never be tamed, whose mysteries and magics could only be earned, never given.

Ferin was not an adept hunter. Not in the way of his bond-brother, Rowan, or even in the way of his blood-brother, Faolan. Standing at nine and ten hands tall, Ferin, son of Feilim of the Hundred Fights, son of Fionn MacR, was a burly, hirsute man with the look of a wildling about him. Barrel-chested and broad of shoulder, his form was that of athletes and warriors. A long, thick mane of coiled locks the red of autumn leaves was bound in a tail behind his head. His cool, pale flesh was dotted with brown freckles as the night sky by a wash of stars; they covered him from head to toe and played across the rugged landscape of his face. He was possessed of a strong, wide jaw that was hidden behind a short red beard. His lips were full and set in what seemed a permanent cocksure grin. His broad nose was crooked from where it had been brokentwiceduring wrestling matches with his brothers. Amber eyes peered out from a hooded, hawkish brow, searching the wood for clues as to where his prey had gone.

Ferin had seen twenty winters, and yet he had yet to win any titles. It was customary among the people of the Loch Coill that when a man or woman had done a great deed, that it be immortalized in woad-ink upon their bodies. Feilim, Ferin’s father, bore one hundred tattoosone for each man he had bested in combat. Ferin’s body bore only freckles.

He had resolved to change that.

As Ferin set forth from his home in the grey predawn, he clad himself in the hunter’s garbsimple and light clothes void of iron to quiet his stride, a bow, taught and ready in his hands, his waist weighed down by a deer-skin quiver on his left flank, and a sturdy hand-axe on his right, a hunting spear, nearly twenty hands from haft to head was tied across his back, and a dagger rested comfortably in his boot. He was determined that the day would be his, leaving little to chance. He had risen before the other men of Loch Coillcertainly before his wife, Ceridwynand had gone into the forest as the sun was only just cresting the far hills to the East. He had gone to the sacred grove of his people and made an offering of flame and blood to the sun god, Dagda, and said a brief supplication to the spirit of the forest, Nudd, that they might bless him that day and bestow upon him the glory he sought. If it was to happen, Ferin prayed it was today.

At last, Ferin caught sight of his prize as it stopped to eata hart of ten, easily two and ten hands high from hoof to shoulder with a deep rufescent pelage and a crown of white antlers stained red and black at the tips and along shallow groves. Scars drew lines across his face and flank like rivers down a mountainside. This hart was not a timid adolescent, but an old and mighty warrior.

The hart lowered his head to eat.

Ferin raised his bow.

Gradually, silently, he pulled back on the bowstring, feeling the tension building in the weapon as surely as it did in the air around him. He took aim and let his breath leave him slowly, concentrating on the pulsing of his heart that he might lose his arrow between beats.

Now, he thought, you are mine.

Suddenly the hart brought his head up, alert, ears twitching madly. Ferin clenched his jaw, prickling to see if the buck would flee again, but the animal’s wild eyes were not trained on him. They looked off into the dense wood with an awareness that belonged only to the beasts of the Earth. The hart’s ears stopped twitching for a moment so that he stood still as stone, watching, waiting. Ferin’s lips parted and brows knit together in trepidation.

The hart took flight with a swift kick of his legs and bounded off into the bowels of the wood once more. Ferin lowered his bow and swore softly. He was about to begin tracking his quarry once more when he caught sight of what had spooked the stagthree balls of brownish-yellow fur came galumphing through the forest, bumping into one another and everything else as they frolicked and made their way to where the hart had been grazing just heartbeats before.

Bear cubs.

Ferin’s stomach turned to water. Where there are cubs, there would certainly be a mother. He swore again, hissing between his teeth, and made to flee. Instead was met with rage made manifest.

The mother bear barrelled toward hima hulking, mad beast with feral, bloodshot eyes and long, yellow teeth slick with spittle. Ferin had little time to reacttoo little to fire a shot from his bow with any accuracy. Any hunter worth his salt knew that running from a mad bear only meant he would die tired. Instinctively, he dropped his bow and collapsed onto his stomach, tucking his knees to his chest and covering the back of his neck with his hands, shielding his ribs as best he could.

A force like a battering ram struck Ferin in the side. Pain reverberated through his body like the echo of a drum beat. Claws bit hard into his arm, ribs, and leg, tearing clothes and flesh as easily as if they were brittle autumn leaves. He rolled across the forest floor like a stone kicked by a child. He hit a tree, hard. His arms and legs were flung wide. The breath left his lungs in a sudden rush leaving him gasping and prostrate.

A cold panic began to eat at the corners of his mind. It stole the warmth from his belly and made his extremities go numb. He blinked, trying to gather his wits about him.

The bear raged mere feet away. His bow was lost, his arrows scattered. An ash tree blocked his escape. The spear at his back was too difficult to use within such close quarters. He didn’t have the leverage for his axe. His dagger was useless.

The bear roared onto her hind legs, a colossal animal towering six hands above even Ferin’s massive height. The force of her roar was like the rumble of thunder overhead, the world-shuddering cry of an angry Goddess. Ferin’s eyes went wide with fear, his jaw slack.

I may die here

The realization pierced him as surely as though it had been a blade made of ice. The world around him slowed, dreamlike. All he could do was watch in silent horror as the bear began to fall forward, teeth and claws ready to rip and tear, to bite and kill.

Ferin inhaled. In the span of a heartbeat, of a lifetime, a morbid appreciation overcame him. An admiration at the terrible beauty of the bear, at the mighty weapons of her body, at the ferocity with which she protected her young, at the raw power of her.

He did not fear death. This would be a good death, an honourable one, to be felled by the might of a creature such as this. Was this not the final death of kings who had lived into old age and venerability? Who, at the end of their days, donned arms and armour and went to meet their death in battle with creatures such as these?

This would be a good death, Ferin decided.

In his final moments, he thought of his wife, Ceridwyn. It was not a conscious decision, but if he were to die with thoughts of another in his mind, he was glad it was her. Memories blinked from one to the nextmemories of waking to her smile, of her breath on his ear, of the shape of her lips when she cried his name; memories of the touch of her hair, her hand, of the way her eyes fluttered when she cried, how they sparkled when she laughed. Everything that was Ceridwyn came pounding toward him through years of memoriesher touch, her voice, her smell, her presence.

Then, everything within him cried out at onceNO!

Ferin exhaled. His body moved seemingly of its own accord, rolling out of the way of the bear’s crushing blow and wrenching the spear from his back in a single, fluid motion so that he came up onto his feet gripping the weapon. The bear rounded on him with another roar. Ferin roared in turn, thrusting the spear forward. The pandurate blade bit deep into the bear’s shoulder. Thunder and rage vibrated the air around Ferin, crashing into him and through him as the bear roared, more rage than pain. She wrenched violently to one side. The spear snapped between her jaws as easily as if it were a brittle twig.

Ferin backpedalled, swearing, and dropped the useless haft. He reached for the axe at his waist, only to have his hand come away empty. Frantically, his searched the forest floor, searching for the tell-tale glint of iron.

He saw ithis axe laying on the ground just behind the bear’s left flank. The bear lunged forward, yellow teeth flashing. Ferin’s body moved without him telling it to. He was already halfway into a tumbling roll before he even realized he had leapt. He came up behind the bear and snatched up his axe. The bear rounded on him, too fast for Ferin, and swiped a massive paw. Ferin tried to dodge backwards but was too slow. Sharp pain opened his face. He staggered backwards, nearly losing his footing.

A howl of rage and fear and desperation came stampeding out of himbubbling up from the pit of his stomach, chafing his throat, and emanating through the forest. With that howl, Ferin brought his axe down into the meat of the bear’s skull with all his strength behind it. Bright red blood burst from the animal’s head like rain falling skyward.

It was not enough.

The bear lunged at Ferin, jowls coming away from teeth in a nasty snarl, but Ferin raised his axe once more and brought it downthis time with both handsinto the bear’s skull.

And again.

And again.

And again, until at last the beast lay dead at his feet. Ferin stood over his fallen opponent, chest heaving as he panted, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He couldn’t catch his breath. His face felt hot, eyes blurredwhether by blood or tears, he knew not. Every inch of him trembled with effort, arms and face pink and red from the blood that rushed beneath his flesh. He felt sick.

Blood covered his clothes, spattered his face and beard where it dripped down onto the forest floor and soaked into the hungry earth. The coppery stench of it permeated the air, mingling strangely with the fresh smells of the trees, and the pungent smell of sweat that covered Ferin’s body.

He had won.

He had fought the bear and won.

He had won the Great Hunt.

Ferin held out his arms and threw back his head, his whole body arching as he cried out a wordless, primal howl of victory. He felt like something wild and untamed; like something powerful and immortal. He felt infinite.

With that scream, the thrill of battle was expelled from him. A wave of dizziness overtook him. The world swirled as though dancing. His legs buckled suddenly, and he fell to his knees beside the bear. He could hear himself laughing. His shoulders sagged with fatigue. His wounds took on new agonies, refusing to be ignored any longer.

“Ferin?” he heard his name being called in the distance. He looked up. The edges of his vision were blurred and grey, but he could still make out the figures of four men coming towards him through the trees. His bond-brother, Rowan, was there suddenly, kneeling beside him as though he had always been there. His expression was a mixture of worry, disbelief, and awe. Ferin found himself smirking as he leaned on his bond-brother for support.

“I won.”