Gates of Eden: Starter Library

by Theophilus Monroe

  For many warriors, it takes many years of battle before the weariness sets in. For Cú Chulainn, he'd grown tired of battle the first time his blade struck another man's flesh. A warrior wasn't what he wanted to be. But he was what he was.

  And the moment he allowed himself an evening off patrol, a single night to enjoy a woman. But she wasn't just any woman. She was one of the most enchanting women he'd ever seen.

  And she was familiar. Her touch. Her voice. Even her appearance. Why couldn't he place her? Perhaps he'd only dreamed of her...

  And while he was with her, Queen Mebd's soldiers stole Donn Cúailnge and overtook Ulster. But he wasn't fighting for Ulster. He was fighting for her.

  No, not the mysterious creature whom he knew the night before. He was fighting for his wife...

  If only I'd listened to her... if only I'd left Ulster with her long ago...

  Cú Chulainn dipped his rag into the water again. As he brought it to his chest he looked up and saw a beautiful woman—nude, but her body draped in vines of blossoms. He'd been tempted once. He wasn't about to fall for yet another woman's seductions. Her hair was dark, falling over her shoulders, barely covering her breasts. She was nearly as beautiful as the woman he'd known the night before. Beautiful enough that any other man might have found her irresistible.

  Cú Chulainn quickly stepped ashore.

  "Pardon me, miss? This is no place for a maiden."

  The young woman cocked her head and with wide eyes examined the young warrior. "Cú Chulainn, do you not find me beautiful?"

  Cú Chulainn scratched his head. Of course he did. Not that the woman didn't recognize him—he was the mighty Cú Chulainn! But a woman whose narrow hips suggested she be a maiden, but who approaches a man unclothed, was an undeniable source of curiosity. Most maidens exhibited more modesty than this one.

  "Your beauty is not in question," Cú Chulainn responded. "But this is a river tainted with blood. This is a place of battle. It is no place for a maiden."

  The young woman narrowed her eyes. It was not an uncommon view that women have no place in battle. Why should this maiden take offense at the notion? "A man such as you whose life is dominated by war could use some balance. A woman's hand at your side, one that might touch you gently, even as others raise their blades against you. And one who might fight beside you."

  Cú Chulainn smirked. A woman, fight beside the great Cú Chulainn? There were only a few with the skill—the warrior women of Scotland—but such women were not typically found in these parts. And after his last experience with such a woman, he wasn't of a mind to fight beside another one. Not after what she'd done...

  "There is one woman's touch I desire. It was on account of my desire for such... balance... that the Queen seized the Bull and thereafter all of Ulster. This is my battle to fight, maiden. I have no use for you as a lover and even less use for a companion in battle."

  Again, the young woman narrowed her eyes. "You do not imagine a woman capable of battle?"

  "No offense, maiden," Cú Chulainn said. "But war is not suitable for men, much less women. I would not wish the curse of battle on anyone."

  The young woman laughed. She approached Cú Chulainn and took his hand in hers. With the sweep of her leg and a flick of her wrist, Cú Chulainn found himself on his back, the maiden on top of him, with a blade pressed to his throat. Cú Chulainn had no idea where she'd drawn it from being that she was naked. But never in as many cycles he'd lived had he been so easily bested—not by another warrior, and certainly not by a woman.

  "You must be a witch!" Cú Chulainn shouted.

  The woman laughed. "A witch? I am so much more than that, young hero. But you have rejected my offer—an offer that might have been your salvation. For that reason, I tell you, the time will soon come when you will fall in battle. Your blood will be evermore a curse on the land—for it will be the blood of a warrior who spurned the invitation of the Morrigan."

  A black cloud of smoke surrounded the woman. A black crow flew out of the cloud—and when the smoke dissipated the woman was gone.

  Cú Chulainn returned to his feet. How many times had the Morrigan interfered in his affairs before? He hoped this time would be the last. But to propose she become his lover? Cú Chulainn thrust his blade into the ground in anger. To spurn a goddess... he'd be cursed! But to accept the advances of the phantom queen, the wife of the Dagda? He'd never escape the good god's wrath. He was damned either way.

  "Cú Chulainn, hero of Ulster!" a man's voice spoke.

  Cú Chulainn gripped his broadsword by the hilt and pulled his blade from the ground. Eventually, Cú Chulainn thought, Mebd's final champion will fall. Cursed by the Morrigan, or not, I will see this through.

  Cú Chulainn's thoughts drifted to the woman from the night before. Was she even human? He couldn't recall ever having met her before, yet she seemed familiar. The woman's whose touch, whose desire, had coursed through his body like electricity. The one for whom his lusts had distracted him for only a night, a night that allowed Mebd to make her move. A steep price to pay for a single night of passion with the creature, the woman, whom he'd desired... But for Cú Chulainn, she was worth it.

  PART I:

  Babd ◈ Sétanta

  1

  FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  "He did something with her," Babd said, her hands firmly on her hips. Her two sisters—Macha and Anand—had dismissed Babd's worries before. Not the first time the triplets' mother had taken a week's retreat to visit family. Her marriage to their father was a strategic one, meant to unite the clans and consolidate their father's power. Now, Fionn MacCumhail was the undisputed chief of the Fianna.

  But mother had been gone for almost a whole cycle. This time was different. She never spent more than a week with family.

  Macha, Babd's darker haired sister, sighed. "What do you think he did to her?"

  Anand shook her head. Her hair was a lighter hue of brown than Macha's. Anand was Fionn's favorite—a fact that had always perturbed Babd. "Father wouldn't harm mother. If he did, the clans would rise against him."

  Babd sighed. "But why wouldn't he tell us where she is?"

  Anand shrugged. "You know father. He will not show weakness. Perhaps thy had a tiff and his pride is wounded. She'll be back soon enough."

  Babd shook her head. She wasn't surprised that Anand was the first to defend him. Fionn wasn't exactly a loving father. Not abusive. Just cold and distant. Always consumed with matters of war and power. If he wasn't leading the clan's warriors against some kind of enemy he was locked alone in his study, planning for war and drinking himself dumb. That was why he'd gravitated to Anand. She was the intellectual one—gifted in matters of knowledge and reason. He valued her. More than once, Anand claimed, father had emerged victorious in battle only because he'd followed her strategies. He prized Macha, too, though for different reasons. She was strikingly beautiful—a daughter he presumed might one day be given in marriage to forge a strong alliance.

  Anand and Macha were useful...

  But Babd was good for little more than housework. She was the plain daughter. Not ugly, but of average beauty. Not dumb, but competent of wit. While the girls were triplets, they looked nothing alike. Macha and Anand were uniquely gifted. But what was Babd's talent? Her mother had always told her that some of the greatest gifts one might possess are discovered with age. And what their father lacked in affection for Babd her mother had in abundance. While her mother would never admit Babd was her favorite the two had an undeniable bond. They understood one another. Neither Macha nor Anand had such a connection with their mother. Babd just sensed that something was wrong. Something awful had happened. She didn't know what. But she felt it.

  Babd pulled Macha aside. Anand, supposedly more intelligent than the other two, too often lacked common sense. Until she saw the proof, evidence of some kind, that father had done something nefarious to their mother, she wouldn't so much as consider the possibility. But Macha—she was at least open to c
onsidering it.

  "If we confront him together," Babd said. "He'll have to at least tell us something."

  Macha took a deep breath. "Will he? Or will he chastise us for questioning him at all?"

  "The worst he'll do is assign me more housework. He won't do anything to you."

  Macha shook her head. "He does not favor me, you know. The only reason he doesn't assign me any tasks is that he is frightened I might be injured, or worse, disfigured in some way that I might not be as desirable, as valuable..."

  Babd nodded. She knew as much—didn't mean she didn't resent the fact that the bulk of the housework nonetheless fell on her. "As if cleaning the stalls is going to somehow tarnish your beauty?"

  "Perhaps he's worried I'll take a kick from a horse," Macha said through a chuckle, "It happens, you know."

  "Only if you're dumb enough to work behind the horse and spook it in some way. But I suppose you're right. Since you've never even cleaned the stalls you wouldn't know. So, better not let you clean the stalls at all."

  Macha shrugged. "Not like I'm exactly eager to steal the chore from you."

  Babd grabbed Macha's hand and guided her semi-reluctant sister toward their father's study. Babd wasn't about to barge in on her father alone. She hoped having Macha with her might tame the tongue lashing she was sure to receive for disturbing him. Fionn didn't treat his daughters equally—but he pretended to whenever any two or more of the sisters were together. Babd wasn't going to avoid his wrath. But, perhaps, with Macha beside her, he'd delay punishing her at the moment and, if she was lucky, he'd forget he ever intended to at all. As little thought he seemed to give the girls at all it wasn't an unlikely possibility.

  Babd pressed open her father's study door. Macha lingered behind. Fionn's study was more like a war room than what one would normally call a study. It consisted of two separate rooms—the first room full of maps approximating battlefields. All battles Fionn had won. Anand memorized the details of each one, how many lives were lost, and what each victory meant for Fionn and the Fianna. To Babd, though, they all looked the same. All drawn in charcoal. Lines and arrows indicating the movements of troops.

  The main room was where Fionn would meet with his highest ranking warriors to discuss strategies before a battle. The other room was Fionn's workroom. Probably where he drew up these war maps to begin with.

  But now, there was a golden glow emanating from the room.

  "What is that?" Macha whispered.

  Babd shook her head. She didn't have a clue. "A candle, perhaps?"

  "Seems too bright for that..."

  Babd nodded. Macha was right, but what else emanated so much light? Babd carefully pulled away the bottom corner of the curtain that separated the back room where her father was from the larger room where she and her sister stood. She felt her heart flutter. If she was caught...

  Babd gasped. The light was pouring from what appeared to be a brown leather bag. Not a large bag. It couldn't hold more than a few apples, perhaps. But when her father reached into it and retrieved a long sword, glowing with the same energies that poured from the bag itself, she had to bit her lip to prevent herself from shrieking. How was it possible for a large sword to fit within such a small bag?

  "Macha... that bag dad has been carrying around with him. Ever since he came back... came back without mom..."

  "What about it, Babd?"

  "It's enchanted somehow. Dad pulled a sword from it, there's no way... from a bag that size?"

  Macha tilted her head. "Are you sure it came from the bag? I mean, perhaps you saw it wrong?"

  Babd shook her head. "He pulled it from that little bag and it was glowing with some kind of magic. The same magic glow was coming out of the bag!"

  A look of sheer terror fell on Macha's face. Babd furrowed her brow. But her confusion lasted only a moment.

  "What are you two doing here!" Fionn's voice boomed, as both of his daughters cowered.

  Babd shielded her face, afraid he might strike her. Wouldn't be the first time.

  "Daddy!" Macha said. "It was her idea! Babd... she said you were up to something. Something with mom... she wanted to come to ask.."

  "Come ask me what, Babd?" Fionn asked.

  "She's never been gone with family this long, I was just afraid something bad..."

  Fionn bit his lip. For a moment Babd thought she saw her father's usually impenetrable demeanor soften. Was that a tear in his eye? Something bad had happened... but what?

  Fionn turned away for a moment. Was he choking down his tears? Babd had never once seen her father cry. Warriors don't cry. At least they don't let anyone see it if they do.

  "Father," Babd said, softening her tone. "What happened to mom?"

  Her father's shoulders rise and fall. He was taking a deep breath—something he often did when he was trying to calm his temper. Fionn turned and looked back at her. His eyes were watery, but he wouldn't allow his tears to fall. "Your mother won't be back."

  Tears welled up in Macha's eyes. "Is mom dead?"

  Fionn shook his head. "Not dead. Just... changed..."

  "Changed how?" Babd asked.

  Fionn shook his head. "There are forces in this world too strong for girls of your age to comprehend. Perhaps when you are older..."

  "Dad," Babd said. "I can take it. What happened!"

  "I told you," Fionn said, raising his voice. "Not until you're older. Now unless you want to spend your week scrubbing the cellars, you'll both go back to your room and never speak of this matter again."

  2

  SÉTANTA GRIPPED HIS spear tightly as he ran through the forest, dodging tree branches and hopping over large stones in his path. Sétanta was one of the best hunters in the land, but he took no pleasure from the hunt. Most men were addicted to the thrill of the chase... of the kill. But Sétanta wasn't like other men. In fact, he was barely a man at all. Most of the boys he'd grown up with weren't. But hair had started to appear on Sétanta's scrotum earlier than expected. With its appearance, he had come of age.

  Despite his youth, Sétanta was adept as the most experienced hunters in Ulster. Most would say he was gifted. But Sétanta lacked a taste for his talent. Given the choice, he would prefer to study with the bards—to tell tales, sing songs, and please the crowds. But such tasks were for men slight or frail of frame, lacking the gifts Sétanta possessed. For him, his prowess was no gift at all. It was a curse.

  Still, people expected a feast—and Sétanta was tasked to capture the hog.

  Sétana dashed briskly through the forest. But hunting a boar took more than speed, strength, or agility. It required strategy. The boar was fast, but Sétanta only had to chase it to the river's edge. He'd have the hog cornered. He'd used this tactic dozens of times before. It always worked.

  Boars weren't smart enough to learn from one another's mistakes. Do boars communicate at all? If they do, Sétanta figured, they couldn't discuss much. They weren't the brightest creatures in Albion's forests and groves.

  Any conversation they had would be quite boar-ing.

  Sétanta giggled to himself as he had the thought. No one else would find the joke particularly funny. But he didn't care. He found himself amusing—which was all that really mattered.

  Not to mention, no matter his physical gifts, Sétanta wanted nothing more than to become a bard. If he convinced his mother to allow him to join a troop he'd be trained in the art of the story, of poetics, of music. He'd learn how to command an audience with humorous tales and his wit. Even his boar-ing joke, he imagined, if told on the lips of an accomplished bard might win over an audience. A skilled bard enthralled his audiences with even the dullest of tales while a novice lost his crowds with the greatest legends.

  Despite Sétanta's golden tongue—he'd often won over small crowds with tales—it was his gift as a hunter, and a potential warrior, that the people of Ulster celebrated. Why tell tales, most thought, if one had the chance to inspire them? While the people would always appreciate an entertaining
bard, they celebrated their warriors.

  As his mind drifted into the realm of unrealized dreams, Sétanta nearly lost sight of the boar as it darted through the thicket.

  Grabbing his spear with one hand and lifting it over his head the young hunter charged after the boar. Just a little further...

  As the boar charged out of the thicket and neared the river bank it dug its hooves into the ground. Sétanta had just enough time before the hog changed directions and took off another direction.

  He threw his spear.

  A perfect hit, right through the heart.

  Head over hooves, the boar tumbled into the river.

  The hog's blood stained the water as the current started to carry it away.

  Fortunately, it was a slow-moving river. Sétanta might have to get a little wet—but after a successful hunt, a dip in the water would be refreshing.

  Sétanta lept into the river and kicked his legs hard—it was much easier to swim with the current than against it.

  Just as Sétanta reached for the hog, barely grabbing one of its hooves, a blue glow appeared in the stream.

  Seconds later, two arms—the texture of tree back and covered in moss—took hold of the hog and pulled it under.

  "No!" Sétanta shouted. He recognized the creature—a Fomorian, a notorious people who came from the seas. Man-like in shape, but something else. He'd never encountered one himself but he'd heard more than his share of bardic tales of their kind. Most of the stories told of them coming from the seas, the oceans, but apparently, they weren't as partial to saltwater as he'd assumed.

  Sétanta screamed. He'd be damned before he allowed anyone—much less a Fomorian—to steal his kill.

  And if he showed up in Ulster without a hog, without something for the feast...

  Taking a deep breath, Sétanta dove beneath the waters. A burning sensation filled his chest.

  Kicking his way back to the surface, he gasped for air. Everything turned into a blur...