Page 13 of Rise of the Morrigan

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A day's journeyon foot—in the direction of the setting sun. That's what Taliesin had said. If the master bard had intended him to make the trip by horseback, he would have said so. Sétanta had to act soon. The sun's place on the horizon shifts throughout the year.

Taliesin's directions would expire if he didn't act quickly. After all, the slightest alteration in his bearings and he'd miss Emain Macha, the clover field where the bardic troop he sought was supposed to gather.

Sétanta quickly gathered his supplies. A new pair of brógs—such ornate shoes were not meant for warriors or hunters. Usually, Sétanta went barefoot or wore thin leather wrappings. He wrapped his feet accordingly in preparation for the journey. But Sétanta was hoping to join a bardic troop. Something fancier, like a pair of brógs, would be necessary. He'd only worn these on occasion, during festivals. If the bards accepted him, his brógs would be standard attire. He packed a knapsack with fruit, jerky, and bread.

Sétanta had his spear. He hoped he wouldn't need it, though his chances were better he would than he wouldn't. A lone traveler was always at high risk of being attacked by thieves.

Not that they'd stand a chance against him—most thieves traveled in bands of twelve or fewer. Lacking any real skills for battle, as most thieves did, Sétanta was certain he could handle any who might cross his path. Even without going into the ríastrad—which he fervently prayed to the gods wouldn't happen—he had the skill to handle a dozen or so thieves alone.

At least the sort of brutes whom he might find in such parts. Not that downing a dozen men would be easy—it wouldn't be for most warriors—but such thieves had no real skill for combat, and Sétanta was better than most warriors.

Sétanta intended to make the journey in haste. As soon as he fixed his bearings on the setting sun.

A felicitous coincidence, Sétanta thought, that the very "cure" for his condition was something he'd always dreamed of pursuing. Ever since he was a young boy... ever since he first heard a bard tell a tale.

His chest tightened. Was he more eager or terrified? Eager to join the bards, of course. But terrified they wouldn't accept him. Frightened, too, that if he didn't leave soon, the ríastrad would return. If what Taliesin had said was true, and Sétanta had no cause to doubt it, he'd harbored enough anger and resentment over the years that he suspected even the slightest disturbance could set him off.

And if the people of Ulster saw him like that... sure, he might kill a few of them. But the legendary warriors of Ulster, those who possessed the ríastrad, were so celebrated he'd never be able to escape the life they'd expect for him. They'd overlook a few bodies, if that's what it took, to have another protector, another warrior with the ríastrad to return Ulster to her days of glory.

If such days ever existed at all... some bards recounted the tales of old as they were, no matter if the facts disrupted the sentimentality of the people. Others, the kind of bards whom Sétanta hoped he'd never become, retold their tales with flourish intended to flatter their audiences. Such bards, in Sétanta's view, did more harm than good.

A worthy tale is one that unsettles its hearers, spurns them to act in such a way to change their lives for the better. Flourished tales might earn a bard quick fame, but they only bolstered the vanity of a people. Sétanta hoped to tell tales that would inspire people to strive toward greatness. Not to delude crass people into believing that they had achieved greatness already.

Of course, Taliesin was the better sort of bard. His tales challengedandinspired. With his golden tongue, the master bard had a way of chastising his hearers without causing offense. Spurning them to action without flattery.

His tales were aspirational, of course. But they also contained just enough chastisement to rouse a sense of pious discontent, the kind that caused enough alarm that people would want to grow and change but not so much it turned people away in anger. If Taliesin recommended the troop at Emain Macha, Sétanta was certain they would be skilled in such a way.

As the sun dropped below the horizon, Sétanta chose a cluster of stars that sat on the night's sky in the place where the sun had set been before to maintain his bearings. He surveyed the forests on either side of his path. With the sun down, the thieves were likely up.

Thieves depended on the element of surprise and superior numbers. Sétanta had the upper hand on both counts. He expected them to attack—nullifying the element of surprise.

And in his case, even twelve-on-one in favor of the thieves would not be an advantage.

A twig snapped somewhere in the distance.

Sétanta gripped his spear and turned. Thatwasn'tan animal. When a deer or a boar steps on a twig there's no hesitancy about it. This wasn't a quick snap. It splintered a little before breaking. Like a nervous foot, lurking in the shadows, attempting without success to go undetected.

Yes, it was a man. A thief.

"Come, thief!" Sétanta demanded. He'd only heard one step. But thieves never traveled alone. Still, what they didn't know he knew he'd use to his advantage. If he called one of them out they'd all likely appear, imagining him too foolish to call out a thief if he thought there were more. "I know you're there."

Ten shadowy figures emerged from the tree line.

"Give us your wares if you hope to live through the night!" one of them demanded.

"Only ten? I expected more." Sétanta chuckled. He wouldn't have to actually kill ten of them. Once he put down a two or three the rest would see his skill and flee. Thieves don't become thieves out of valor or bravery. They're cowards by nature. All they needed was enough cause to believe they might not prevail before they'd retreat again into the forest.

"Boy," one of the thieves said, wagging his finger. "You're barely a man at all. It would be a shame to lose your life before it even began. Turn over your goods and you can be on your way."

"How generous of you," Sétanta said as he widened his stance, ready for a fight. "But I suppose some of you have families to feed. And I begrudge you not for your desperation. But it would be a shame, indeed, if you were to lose your lives tonight."

The ten men all laughed in unison. "He's kinda cute," one of them said to the others. "Can we keep him?"

"If you want my wares, come and get them!" Sétanta declared. "Or do what would be wise and return to your families."

Three of the thieves stood forward from the rest—Sétanta couldn't see most of their features with only moonlight to said his vision, but he saw enough to realize they were the largest three of the bunch.

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