The screams brought Eithne back to consciousness.
She had no recollection of where she was or how she had come to be there. Not at first. But as the screams continued, and the stench of death and destruction grabbed her by the throat, she remembered standing atop the gatehouse watching for her son’s return. Opening her eyes, a flash of pain made her close them more tightly. She took several deep breaths to take the edge off the pain. Slowly, it dulled to an incessant throb, but she kept her eyes closed and tried to remember how she came to be lying on her back.
“I was waiting for Ruirech,” she whispered, as the memory returned. “Always waiting for my boy to come home. Uselessly waiting.”
And it had been a fruitless dream. She’d been standing in the gatehouse when, instead of Ruirech, an army of monsters had arrived on the edge of the clearing: the long-awaited, much-feared Fomorii host—Balor’s fist. The largest of them, mounted on a black stallion, easily sixteen hands high, wore a mask, which glinted in the morning sun, clearly visible despite the black cowl he wore with the hood up.
“I hope Ruirech doesn’t return here,” she had said to no one as she watched the horde surround the settlement.
The thought of her son returning to find his dreams crushed by a Fomor army had brought tears to her eyes, which she scuffed away just as the sheriff, Abartach, arrived beside her, doing up the straps of his boiled-leather cuirass. With a false smile, Eithne had said the leader looked more like an affected druid than the commander of a horde of monsters.
“So, it finally happens,” the sheriff replied. She’d seen the resignation in his eyes. Despite being a lawman, he knew enough of war to know there was no way out.
“Aye. Ruirech always said it would.”
“Do you think the stories about torture are true?”
“I don’t know, Abartach. Try not to think about it.” The sheriff nodded and said no more. The last words she’d heard were about rumours of torture, and it made her shudder.
Where is he now? she wondered. The speculation didn’t last, because she knew where he would be: dead or dying with the rest of the settlement’s people. As a mother and the Chief in her son’s absence, Eithne had dreaded the moment, especially with the inevitability of its arrival. The battle’s outcome was also inevitable. Those in the settlement were simple country folk forced out of their homes by the Usurper’s decree, whereas the armoured monstrosities were born soldiers. Eithne had heard many disagreements around the Fomorii host, but one area where all agreed was their mastery of violence.
Now, she recalled ordering Abartach to ring the bell in the gatehouse tower, and feeling a sudden pang of guilt for the people who came running to its summons, knowing that all of them: farmers, women and children, young and old, would soon die. Forest Haven had been safe only as long as its location remained a secret.
She now recalled that when the battle began, she heard the thump of the engines releasing their stones, followed by a crack directly above her, and nothing more until the smoke and screams had dragged her back to life, lying on her back.
Finally opening her eyes again, Eithne found the pain now bearable. The clear sky and intermittent wispy clouds hinted at a quickly approaching spring. “Not a good time to die,” she said, before trying to sit up. It was hopeless. Someone had bound her to something by her wrists, forehead, and ankles. Her arms were level with her shoulders, and she thought, judging by the lumpy pain in her back, she was tied to a wooden cross.
She remembered Abartach’s last words and shuddered again.
During the expulsions, when Balor gave their lands to his monsters, many had reported seeing bodies hanging from crosses. Mutilated bodies.
They mean to torture me to find Ruirech’s location, she realised. It didn’t matter because, regardless of how much pain they put her through, she had no idea where her son was. All she knew was that he’d left in the company of a witch and a Tuatha warrior. She’d warned him not to get mixed up with their type, but he had laughed it off, hugged her, and suggested she watch for his return. She now regretted scolding him and saying she wouldn’t waste her time waiting for the return of a fool.
“Danu protect my son from this,” she said, before saying, “He might already be dead.”
“Everyone dies,” a voice boomed from somewhere out of sight.
“Show yourself, Monster,” Eithne hissed.
After a short delay, a golden mask blocked her view of the blue skies. Dark shadows cast by the black cowl made the metal appear multihued. Despite the shadows, it looked to be pure gold. The smoothness of the perfectly formed features made her suck in a hissed breath. What should be beautiful was instead cold and ugly. She didn’t doubt the contours fit exactly to the face beneath, making her wonder why the warrior wore it. She had heard of those hiding disfigurement behind such a mask, but thought the hint of feral, devilish eyes was more a gauge of internal corruption. This mask wasn’t meant to cover battle or accident damage, but to add to the aura of malice emanating from its wearer.
“You are Eithne. Is it true that you rule here?” The same detached voice asked from behind the facade. The question made her think someone had betrayed them. How else would Gold Mask know who she was, let alone her position?
“Who told you that?” she asked. There was no response, just the staring, unblinking, malevolent eyes. The wait dragged on until she felt compelled to fill the vacuum.
“I don’t know anything,” she said, almost a whisper.
“I have no interest in your knowledge, or a lack of same.”
“So, what do you want from me?” Eithne pleaded.
“Nothing,” boomed from the golden face, before it moved out of sight. “Sharvan Gold Mask has a gift for you.”
Am I supposed to recognise the name? she wondered.
As she listened to his movement, Eithne tried to see what he was doing, but it was hopeless. Her forehead was firmly fastened to the cross, and she had no line of sight that didn’t include blue skies and wispy clouds. When she heard a ripping and felt her flesh exposed to the coolness of early spring, causing little bumps of chicken flesh, she whimpered slightly. Courage was not for her. Ruirech would frown and tell her to show her lineage, but the lineage was his. She was not directly descended from High King Eterscel; she was nothing more than the lowly daughter of a merchant of high standing, and merchants had no call for bravery. Oh, they took risks with money and trade, but how could that compare to suffering the pain of torture?
Danu let me be strong.
The pressure of ice-cold metal quickly joined the chicken bumps on her belly. Slowly, the pressure increased until she felt a pain lance into her. It was a level of pain she’d never thought she would experience, and it kept getting worse.
She screamed.
Through her turmoil, she heard a chuckle boom from somewhere out of sight and screamed again.
“Welcome to Sharvan Gold Mask’s gift,” her assailant’s detached voice boomed. Through the fog of her pain, she realised the speaking of his epithet aloud was not for her benefit, but for his. Sharvan Gold Mask probably didn’t bother speaking to anyone else; he was wholly caught up in his world behind a mask.
None of it mattered, though, because screaming until overwhelmed by the sheer agony, Eithne fell into a darkness from which she would never arise.
