The Ban Sidhe

I'm going to try something different for the next few posts. I've been going through my old files over the last couple of days, pulling out things I wrote years ago and hadn't looked at in a long time. I posted a few things from the bad old days, and now I'd like to post something else I've been sitting on for years. A story.

About ten years ago, forlorn about my lack of success getting any of my early work published, I got the idea in my head that one of the ways to make my manuscripts more attractive to publishers was by racking up "credits." I thought that if I was published elsewhere, in magazines or some other small publications, it would look better when I sent a novel-length manuscript out. Many of my idols, Lovecraft, Smith and Howard to name a few, all wrote short stories. In fact most of them wrote stories as their main outlet, not novels.

My luck wasn't so good. I wrote a number of stories, sent them off and earned myself a stack of rejection letters. The stack wasn't too big, but only because people don't really read short fiction the way they used to. There are magazines, but these days the short story is kind of a dying art form. Novels are where the money's at for fiction (or so I'm told.)

In any case, other than an entry in an online story contest (that I lost) I haven't done much with any of my short fiction. Now that I have this little forum though, why not use it for that? Air out some of the old material. If you hate it, just skip over it and come back later. If you like it, let me know and I'll post a few more.

So here we go, a totally free short story for your reading pleasure, in three parts:


THE BAN SIDHE


Dawn bled through the storm clouds. The Ulster fields bathed in crimson.

Morning scents lingered. Rain was in the air. Winds tumbled up from the sea-cliffs, swaying the saplings and the green highland grass. Cold streams whistled through broken crags.

Other noises intruded.

There was a clank. Then a howl. The deep cries of men were not long behind.

They marched out from the shadows of the high rocks, a riot of shouts and prayers. A yawning, wet plain opened to their approach.

It was a brutal throng, a rabble spawned from sunless reaches. Bloodstained saffron cloaks rustled about them, affixed by silver brooches over scaled bronze plate. Spears and swords struck wide shields in deliberate hammering, fueled by invocations to the spirits of war and chaos.

Woad stained their faces nightmare shades of purple and blue. The slather stank.

They loved the odor. It swelled about them as they cheered, mixing with the heat of their breath and their trickling sweat.

Wild hair like the full manes of horses danced across their shoulders, screaming shades of orange and blonde in a rage of Celtic hues.

Two men led the horde. One was silent. The other was singing.

Feargus’ tune was ancient, a sacred song as old as the hills. The assembled knew every verse. They chanted with the Druid. Their voices rose and fell by the motions of his crooked staff.

His pale skin was bare, and though untouched by the etchings of war paint, it was not unspoiled. Human blood streaked down his face and across his chest.

A severed head, the slashed throat still wet and festering, dangled at his side. It was tied to his waist by its own knotted hair. He swung the totem to the lyrics of his battle-dirge, splattering those beside him with drops of congealed blood.

Beside the mystic in his coarse black robes, Ciarin Mac Ruaidhri walked in stark silence. The warrior-king made no calls. He sang no songs.

His eyes focused across the plain, where sparkles of silver-white burned like cold fire in the distance. The matted hair that swept across his face did not faze him, nor did the savage cries around him.

His beard was like the fur of a hound. Across his breast, held fast like a talisman, he clutched a wooden shaft. It was hewn by hand, polished to a sheen, and crowned with a wide blade.
He stopped at the edge of a brook. His men did the same. He turned to face them. He roared.

“Men of Daigh Tuatha! Today we spill blood! Today we take many heads!”

A rally cry echoed through his horde. Arrayed across the far edge of the field, born out of the silver-sparkles in the red-gray light, their enemies gathered on the muddy banks of the River Lhiannan.

There was no pause. No attempt at entreaty.

Ciarin charged. And his men charged behind him. They screamed that the gods of Faerie would smile on his blade.

Against their rush, their foes did the same. In moments, the Ri Tuath and his men swept down against a sea of spears.

Ciarin's sword cut first. It heaved in an arc, splitting the shield of a Bruatta thane, cleaving his chest and his throat. Flesh and bone splinters spat into his face. Steam surged from the wound.
The reek enlivened his arms for a second slash.

Death-stink spilled out beneath the hills of Erin.

The odor crawled over green dales, and through old forests. Every blow, every rotten scream of misery spawned an ill wind. It fouled the air with a cruel stench. Birds choked, chased from the sky. Woodland creatures fled.

But there was one for whom the odor was not vile, and it was she who arose from the mist, called by the gale she was ever-seeking.

It roused her from slumber, filled her with delicious wailing. Every whimper gave her strength. Every lovely hint of anguish. She savored the carnage.

The Ban Sidhe screamed.