Island of the Star Lords

by James L. Ferrell

  The flight to Ireland had been uneventful. He had slept for most of the overnight trip, having been awakened only once by a flight attendant when dinner was served. After arriving at Shannon Airport and clearing customs, he obtained a roadmap and rented a car. The Emerald Rental Car agent had not even asked to see his driver's license. He continued to be amazed at the lack of security in 1950's airports.

  Voyles had been clever in thinking out the details of his escape and selecting this particular year to carry out the first part of his plan. The thought made him reflect on the welfare of his friend. He spent a few seconds absently wondering if he had made it back to Apache Point without incident; however, his concern for Voyles was fleeting, and his mind quickly returned to more important issues.

  It was just after 9:00 a.m. when he left the airport and drove to Galway City. There, he spent an hour shopping in a grocery store for the food supplies he would require: canned goods, dry beans, saltine crackers sealed in foil, chocolate bars, matches, and first aid items. He obtained a large backpack, binoculars, thermal blanket, canteen, flashlight, small skillet, eating utensils, pushbutton spark igniter, and fifty feet of cord at the dry goods emporium next door. As protection against inclement weather, he also bought a water-repellent bushman's hat with a wide brim, similar to those worn by safari guides in Africa. The last item, one he had found essential from experience, was an eight-by-eight foot canvas tarp with grommets along the edges. He paid the clerk, and after filling the canteen at a water cooler, left the store.

  It was short work to pack the items into the car, after which he set out on Highway N 84 to the location of Leahy's proposed transport point. The drive took less than an hour. After parking the car on the side of the road, he removed the items he had purchased and placed them a few feet away. Lough Corrib was to the west, with open land to the east. It was almost noon, a good time for the transport.

  After placing the supplies and dry goods inside the pack, he put it on and took the pager out of his pocket. The tiny LED's were dim in the noon sun but still readable. He set them to 150703302, six days prior to Leahy's expected arrival. He tilted his head back and gazed into the blue sky. A few white clouds floated above a small mountain to the north. He watched for a moment as the wind pushed them into different shapes then pressed his thumb against the pager's Lexan window.

  He was unconcerned as to what the locals might witness when the stellarite beam struck the location. If anyone saw the flash, they would probably mark it off as a supernatural event sponsored by the fairy folk, and a new tale would begin. Ten seconds later, the man was gone. Only the abandoned car remained to mark his passing.

  He staggered and almost fell as the Chronocom deposited him on unfamiliar ground. Drizzle falling from a leaden sky contributed to the slipperiness of the grass. He took a couple of minutes to survey his surroundings, noting a number of differences from those in the twenty-first century. Of particular interest was a narrow valley to the east with a dense forest over most of its length. It looked like a secure place to make camp and wait out the rain. He tightened the pack straps, pulled the hat tight against his head and started out.

  As he walked, he remembered a previous assignment he had been given in an Irish time period about fifty years earlier than this one. He had been a new recruit at Apache Point then, long before his tenure as Director of Middle East Studies. As he recalled, the main fort and village of the Fir Bolg at that time was located about fifteen miles southeast of his current location. He remembered them to be a friendly people, not hostile to strangers who approached with an open, non-aggressive manner.

  At that time, they were just emerging from the barbarian stage of their evolution, and had begun to work with ores. His team had spent several weeks with them, and he had learned enough of their language to be able to communicate with them on a moderate level. It was not a perfect situation for what he planned, but he would learn to handle more complex activities as they arose.

  The walk passed quickly. Fifteen minutes later he was standing just inside the tree line. The overcast sky made the interior seem dark and forbidding. Even so, he could not risk being seen by anyone until he was ready. He made his way a hundred yards further into the woods and shucked off the pack. The dense upper foliage was tight enough to force the drizzle off the leaves and cascade it toward the ends of the branches like a giant umbrella.

  He opened the pack and removed the tarp and rope. He made support lines by wrapping the rope shoulder-high around four close-together trees to form a small rectangle. Next he cut the balance of the rope into four short pieces, which he threaded through the tarp's grommet holes, and tied them to the support lines. It created a shelter resembling a small trampoline. It was a simple matter to find a thick piece of limb to prop under the tarp as a center pole. Satisfied that his sanctuary was rainproof, he gathered some dry branches and built a small fire just outside one edge of the tarp. He then walked back to the tree line and scanned the area with his binoculars.

  His camp was far enough into the woods to prevent anyone from seeing it from the outside, yet close enough to see the green flash when Leahy's team materialized. He smiled and nodded satisfaction. It would be several days before they arrived, giving him ample time to carry out the next phase of his plan. He walked back to his campsite and spread the thermal blanket on the ground under the tarp. The thick mat of dry leaves beneath the blanket created a sense of well-being. He took a can of beans-and-wieners from the pack. Using the hunting knife to cut out the top, he settled down to supper. In the morning he would start off toward the Fir Bolg fort, but he needed a good night's rest first.

  Somewhere in the distance he heard the howling of wolves but paid it no attention. If they came near his camp it would be their misfortune. After finishing his meal he took out his revolver, rolled up in the blanket, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 9

  Fir Bolg

  Eochaid, King of the Fir Bolg, was worried about the way the war was progressing. His men had been fighting and losing against the Tuatha de Danann for two days now. Even though they had won the first battle and taken the heads of many enemy soldiers, they had suffered the worst of it. Losses on both sides were severe, and now a third fight was imminent. Eochaid feared the outcome.

  His men were ready, and their spirits were high, but the inevitable loomed over him like a funeral pall. For the last two days the corpses of both sides had littered the great plain of Moytura like dead leaves in winter, and the coming day was poignant with promises of more.

  He placed his shaggy head between his hands and dug his fingertips into his scalp. For his race, he was a big man. His hair was dark, his beard full, still in his powerful years, wise and fair when dealing with his people. But he knew that he could not save them from the impending disaster. So far, the Tuatha had fought them with ordinary swords, shields and spears, the same weapons that his own warriors used. But that might change without warning. For some reason they had not yet used the Swords of Light.

  He had seen what these witch-swords could do, and paled when he thought of the carnage they could reap against the Fir Bolg. His thoughts returned to the day when the Tuatha had first arrived in Erin. Frantic messengers had come to Tara, telling of a mystical people who had landed in the north, near Leitrium. According to the reports, the newcomers had emerged from a dense fog in silver chariots that flew through the air. At first he had doubted the stories, thinking that these new people were but another tribe that had come from beyond the sea to establish a foothold on the island. Then his trepidation began to grow as he recalled having foreseen in a dream the coming of a powerful new invader.

  He had sent his champion, Sreng, to meet the Tuatha and learn their intentions. Sreng had learned that this god-like race intended to occupy at least half of the island, benevolently leaving the rest to the Fir Bolg. On the surface the proposal had seemed a fair and adequate division of the land, but Eochaid perceived that if he surrendered to this demand, more encroachments would
follow until the invaders engulfed the entire island.

  Later, he had personally journeyed to the stronghold of the Tuatha to consult with their king, Nuada. It was the first time he had seen one of the newcomers in person, and could now believe why his emissaries had thought them to be gods. Their stronghold consisted of huge domes made of material harder than stone. Strange chariots made of the same substance but not intended to be pulled by horses, sat about the meeting area.

  Their king, like his warriors and women, was tall, pale-skinned, silver-haired and attired in shimmering white clothing. He had been polite and gracious, providing Eochaid and his retinue with food and drink while they talked inside one of the domed structures where the bite of cold did not reach. The air was warm and pleasant, and cushioned divans of a strange and beautiful weave were scattered about.

  Amazing boxes of silver and black that twinkled with tiny red, green, and orange fires sat along the walls. Occasionally he heard voices speaking a strange tongue coming from some of the boxes. Eochaid was overwhelmed with the grandeur of the Tuatha fort and fearful of the things he did not understand. He had anticipated a language barrier but was astonished when he found that Nuada was fluent in the speech of the Fir Bolg. It had given him hope, but after they had talked for several hours, nothing had been resolved. It appeared that his journey had been in vain.

  When they were again outside the great dome, and he was preparing to depart, Nuada had stopped him and said, "Before you go, Eochaid, I have something to show you."

  Followed by their attendants, they walked a short distance to a stand of large oak trees. Nuada nodded to one of his aides, who removed a metal wand from a belt holster. He made an adjustment to the device then pointed it at one of the trees. Eochaid heard a soft hiss, and a burst of violet light leaped from the end of the wand. Thunder boomed as the light struck the tree in the center of its trunk. Where there had been solid oak, there was now a hole large enough for a man to stick his arm through. Eochaid's mouth fell open, and he took a step backward.

  Nuada nodded again. This time the violet light cut the mighty oak completely in half. There was a loud thud as the two parts of the trunk slammed back together. Then the upper half twisted and crashed to the ground, leaving a tall stump where seconds before there had been a whole tree.

  Eochaid's courage had threatened to abandon him. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to flee from these wizards. He had stood for a long moment staring at the fallen tree, its branches still quivering from the impact with the ground. At last he had turned and given Nuada a penetrating look. Their eyes had met and held for a few long seconds. Then, without speaking further, he turned and walked away with his retinue. No one tried to stop them.

  Now, the greatest battle of the war was at hand. Eochaid stood and looked around his quarters. His sword, spear, and shield lay close to the doorway, ready at a moment's notice. He picked up the shield and inspected it. Dents and deep scars were prominent across its surface. He prayed to all the gods that it would protect him once more against his enemies. As he stood contemplating a strategy to use, a peal of thunder broke across the land. He listened intently, eyebrows knitted into a dark line. Then, as though heralding the arrival of death, a warning horn blared out the battle alert. Eochaid grabbed his weapons and charged out the door.

  Kasdan woke just before dawn. The rain had stopped and the skies had cleared during the night. After taking care of his toiletries, he built a fire and opened a can of chicken soup, which he heated in his skillet. When the soup was hot, he crumpled a package of saltines into it and proceeded to eat ravenously. While he was consuming the food, he mentally recounted the steps he would take today. His primary target, Matt Leahy, would not arrive in this time period for several days, ample time to set in motion the events that would lead to his death.

  He had failed in his first attempt to kill Leahy in the New Mexico desert through the services of a professional assassin. The bumbling fool had wound up getting himself killed instead. This time there would be no mistakes. He would do the job personally, but was aware that he would be at a disadvantage against Leahy and his two companions. All three were armed with modern weapons and wore L-suits, impervious to cutting and stabbing weapons. In fact, nothing short of a powerful rifle bullet could penetrate the fabric. Without help, anything he attempted might result in disaster. They would have him outnumbered three-to-one, his only protection the thin clothing he wore. Therefore, he would have to enlist the help of the locals in bringing his strategy to fruition.

  Refreshed by food and sleep, he sat near the little fire and checked the revolver. It was dry, clean, and fully operational. It would play a large part in his plan when he reached the Fir Bolg fort. He removed a box of ammunition from the pack and put all the bullets in his front pocket. It was still fairly dark in the forest, but sunlight was beginning to spread across the open field outside the trees. Placing the weapon in its belt holster, he proceeded to break camp.

  After taking down the tarp, he folded the blanket and placed both items inside some nearby bushes against the chance of someone accidentally stumbling across his campsite. He put out the fire with water from his canteen and carefully buried the wet ashes beneath the leaves. Satisfied that nothing remained that might indicate someone had spent the night here, he put on his pack and walked out of the forest.

  The sun was above the horizon, scattering its rays across an azure sky. He smiled and took a deep breath of cool air. Coining an old adage, he spread his arms and said aloud, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood!" While the saying would have been appropriate for someone of a gentler nature, its bright meaning was lost in the recesses of his dark mind. Though he possessed the ability to say such things, they were completely without meaning to him. He was always puzzled when others appeared to derive pleasure from what he considered to be superficial nonsense.

  Taking a bearing on the sun, he cinched up the pack and started off in a southeasterly direction. The grassy sod felt firm beneath his feet, and as he walked, he began to summon memories of the days he had spent in his previous visit to this time period. The mission of that expedition had been to either verify or debunk some of the Irish folklore handed down through the ages. But the primary focus was ascertaining how many races actually lived on the island and to acquire linguistic data that would enable subsequent teams to compile more complex information. Faces of people and places that he had known flashed through his mind in a kaleidoscope of shifting images.

  By that time in history the Fir Bolg had learned to tan animal skins, enabling them to wear leggings and shirts made of leather. Intricate designs often decorated their clothing. Spirals, circles, gemstones, and religious images were sometimes stitched along sleeves and legs. They were also beginning to experiment with ores. This led to the production of copper and iron, which they shaped into weapons and utensils.

  From a human aspect, they were a handsome people, the women often beautiful in a philistine way. For the most part, the men wore beards and shoulder-length hair, giving them a fierce appearance. However, their external look was mostly superficial. His team had found them to be a friendly, accommodating people when not threatened. Of course the individuals he knew then were probably long dead, or at least very old. The life expectancy in ancient times was less than forty, and his memories were of men and women who had lived many years ago.

  Time passes quickly when the mind is occupied, so Kasdan was surprised when he topped a low hill and came within sight of the fort. It was still in the same place as it had been fifty years ago, but new walls had been added. It also occupied a much greater portion of land than it had then. He shucked off the pack and retrieved his binoculars.

  Even though some of the ancients referred to their strongholds and villages as 'forts,' the walls were usually only about six feet high. They were nothing like Hadrian's Wall, built by the Romans across the middle of Britain in a much later era to hold back the savages of the north. These walls were not designed to wit
hstand a siege by enemy troops, but only to provide a safety margin between the villagers and any hostile men or animals.

  He scanned the area with the binoculars, but except for a few sentries placed at wide intervals along the inside perimeter, he saw nothing of importance. Thin columns of smoke from cooking fires rose through the thatched roofs of structures inside the walls. From the extent of the land it occupied, he estimated the population of the town at about twenty thousand. Several hundred yards off to his right was a wooden gate with a lone sentry standing on the other side. The man was not looking in his direction.

  Kasdan shifted the revolver around to a position just inside the front flap of his coat. He removed it from its holster, pointed it skyward, and fired a shot. In the stillness of the morning, the sound rolled across the land like a thunderclap. It was the first step in his plan, and it achieved the desired effect: The sentry, startled by the sudden noise, ducked down behind the wall. He did not reappear for a long moment and then only the top of his head and eyes became visible. Kasdan smiled, holstered the weapon and started toward the gate at a casual pace. Finally seeing the newcomer for the first time, the sentry placed a curved horn to his lips and blew a long, shrill signal. Within seconds the sound was repeated from locations throughout the fort.

  Kasdan walked up to the gate and said in a commanding voice, "I want to see your king!" He was standing eye-to-eye with the sentry, only ten feet away.