One of the few constants among the hundreds of Gaelic clans that inhabited the island of Éire was that they fought amongst themselves almost as much for sport, as for gain. Aryn had been the first to spot the Roman fleet as it approached the eastern shore of the island, but he felt neither obligation, nor allegiance towards any of the clans who inhabited the Emerald Isle, as most had shunned him all of his life. Aryn wasn’t quite a pariah, but even members of his own family often felt distinctively uncomfortable around him, even as a child. Not that he’d been mischievous or misbehaved... quite the contrary. Aryn had always been pleasant, and extremely well behaved — possibly a bit too well behaved, when compared to the rowdy, boisterous conduct considered a “normal” for boys among the Celtae clans.
Even his chosen weapon... a hunting weapon, made him an object of derision among his people. Gaelic warriors invariably preferred close, hand to hand, and ideally, one-on-one, individual combat. Thus, swords, axes, and spears were the main weapons the Celtae used. They saw killing an enemy from afar as cowardly, thus bows and other ranged weapons were primarily just used for hunting, so their use was rare, even in wartime. Aryn thought that refusing to kill enemies from afar was just stupid.
Aryn had always been unnaturally gifted with a bow. At the age of seven, Aryn had taken his little half-size children’s bow on his first real hunting expedition with his father, his grandfather and six of his grandfather’s brothers. His great-uncle, walking the far end of the line, scared up a quail that took flight directly away from Aryn’s relatives. A few of the men got off shots that missed, but several seconds after the last arrow was fired, the madly flapping bird suddenly veered towards the ground. The men cheered heartily at the nearly impossible long-range shot, but when they reached the kill, all were stunned to see that it was an undersized child’s arrow that pierced the quail’s breast.
Aryn had been at the far end of the line, over 200 yards from where the bird fell. All of the men immediately tried testing Aryn’s half-size bow, but none managed to launch an arrow even half that distance, even with a longer, full-length adult arrow. Aryn had done the impossible, and the adults eyed him with grave reservation, sharing fearful whispers amongst themselves, all the way home. Never again was Aryn invited to accompany the men of his family on another hunting trip.
Aryn Finnegan, of the clan Ó Fionnagáin had been unusually beautiful as a babe — notably different from the moment of his birth. Aryn had entered the world with an incredible amount of coal-black hair that extended down to the middle of his back, and eyes the color of a bright blue sky. It was the striking contrast between the sheer blackness of his hair and brilliance of his eyes that marked him as unusual.
All of the males of his father’s line for generations all shared the trait of red or blond hair. Some thought him a changeling, but that talk faded as Aryn continued healthy well past the age that a true changeling would have sickened and died. Others called him “an old soul,” as except for pitch, he never really spoke like a child. Few were the times that he spouted nonsensical mouthings, just to get attention. Aryn rarely spoke unless prompted, but when he did, his conversation displayed incredible wisdom and maturity, far beyond his years. Many considered him to be unnatural. Inexplicable things happened around Aryn... or didn’t, as the case may be.
Even as a babe Aryn hadn’t cried and fussed like most newborns, contentedly cooing, gurgling and laughing for the gods only knew what reason. It wasn’t surprising that folks thought the baby odd — after all, even his own mother couldn’t see the pixies who danced in the air above the baby’s face, and kept him continually entertained.
* * * *
END
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Synopsis
Prologue
Chapter-1
Chapter-2
Chapter-3
Chapter-4
Chapter-5
Chapter-6
Chapter-7
Chapter-8
Chapter-9
Chapter-10
Chapter-11
Chapter-12
Chapter-13
Chapter-14
Chapter-15
Chapter-16
Chapter-17
Chapter-18
Chapter-19
Chapter-20
Chapter-21
Chapter-22
Chapter-23
Chapter-24
Chapter-25
Chapter-26
Chapter-27
Chapter-28
Chapter-29
Chapter-30
Chapter-31
Chapter-32
Chapter-33
Epilogue
Author’s Afterward
An excerpt from Gibson Michaels’
Wrath of an Angry God: A Military Space Opera (The Sentience Trilogy Book 3) Page 40
