Page 25 of Rise of the Morrigan

"Doubtful," Sétanta shrugged.

"I'll tell you what," King Conchobar said, pulling at the tip of his long, white beard. "No celebrations. Rather, join me as my guest to a meal with Culann."

"Culann the smith?"

Conchobar nodded. "He's but a common man, who performs a common but a noble service. Perhaps if you hear of a common man's hopes and dreams it will offer some perspective to the life for which you're destined to lead."

Sétanta bit his lip. He wasn't exactly thrilled by the idea of having a meal with the local smith. Culann was a kind enough man, no doubt. But Sétanta knew what this was about. If Sétanta saw how a common man's livelihood depends on the valor of a few heroes, people like Sétanta who might rise up to defend Ulster from outside threats, he might find a hero's life is about more than bloodshed. But this wasn't news to Sétanta—he'd told the tales of heroes. He knew why people celebrated them. But a hero still had to live a life by the spear, a spear stained by the blood of men, and rarely enjoyed the life he protected for the likes of men like Culann the smith. Still, Sétanta couldn't deny a single meal with one noble citizen of Ulster was far preferable to the feast Conchobar had planned to otherwise celebrate his return.

"Very well," Sétanta said. "I'll join you for the feast."

"Splendid!" the King exclaimed. "Until then, I have matters of the kingdom to attend to. Meet us at Culann's just after sundown."

Sétanta nodded. "I'll be there."

Sétanta had some time to kill. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of being noticed and recognized. Never before had people paid him much attention at all. But now they knew he had the ríastrad. They knew what he was... or at least what they thought he was. Still, dressed as he was, like the bards of Emain Macha rather than one of Ulster's hunters or warriors, few recognized who he was. Instead, they pegged him as a bard and, as was often the case when a traveling bard showed up in town, he attracted an audience.

So, Sétanta told his favorite tale. It was one most of them knew: theTale of Ceridwen and Taliesin. But they had never heardhimtell it. A good bard could tell a well-known tale a hundred times and still leave his audience clamoring to hear it again. Proper inflection, a good amount of rhetorical flourish, and an array of well-timed gestures were key.

The crowd was so enthralled by Sétanta's every word that he immediately went from one tale into the next.

Before he knew it the sun had set.

Sétanta quickly rose to his feet and brushed some dust from his behind. He'd been sitting on a stone as he told his tales. He'd lost track of time—the thrill of telling tales to the citizens of Ulster, it was different than telling tales to the bards of Emain Macha.

Those bards knew all the stories—they were more inclined to listen that they might critique his performances and advise him how he might improve. To tell tales to a crowd of genuinely eager common folk was far more rewarding. Sétanta took a deep breath, feeling more than satisfied with his experience.

How much time had passed since the sunset? Sétanta had to hurry. Being late to a meal—even one hosted by a common blacksmith—was considered poor manners. He dismissed the small crowd that had gathered around him to the tune of several groans. They wanted to hear more stories. But Sétanta was already late to dinner—how late, exactly, he wasn't quite sure.

Culann lived in a stone house on the outskirts of Ulster. While considered one of the common folk, due to the necessity of a smith to provide spears, blades, and armor to the kingdom's warriors, the blacksmith lived in relative luxury. A wise king, like Conchubar, treated his smiths well. It was one of many reasons, Sétanta imagined, that the king had graced Culann with his presence and why, furthermore, he invited the would-be hero of Ulster to join him.

Sétanta didn't like wearing heavy armor. The way he saw it, greater agility served him better in any conflict than a breastplate or a set of greaves. Such things limited the wearer's movement. Still, Sétanta valued a trustworthy spear. He'd need the blacksmith. Thus, in his mind, joining the king for a meal with the smith was something of a political gesture.

Still, Sétanta's mind was elsewhere as he approached the blacksmith's residence. The look of wonder on the faces of children, not to mention those of grown men and women, as he told his tales. That was what he'd been dreaming of. He got more of a thrill out of that than any sort of battle or hunt.

A loud bark startled Sétanta as he approached Culann's home.

He has a dog?Culann thought to himself. A half-second later a large hound was bounding toward him from the shadows, barking and snarling at him as if he were an intruder.

"Down boy," Sétanta said, trying to remain calm. But it didn't work. The dog growled at him. Sétanta wasn't surprised that the smith had a guard dog. Given his profession, his wares would make a fine bounty for thieves, particularly those looking to acquire weapons. It made sense. But Culann must've been expecting him. If Sétanta really was such a guest of honor, as King Conchobar had said, he imagined that Culann was eagerly anticipating his arrival. Why was his guard dog on the loose?

Sétanta didn't have his spear with him. Not that he wanted to fight the dog, but with his spear, he'd be able to keep the hound at a distance. A few whacks with the blunt end of his spear might also pacify the dog's apparent rage.

Sétanta took a few steps, cautiously, toward the dog. The closer he got to the dog the louder it barked.

"It's okay buddy... shhhh..."

Sétanta slowly lowered his closed fist toward the dog. One should never show an angry animal an open hand. That's how people lost fingers. A dog probably couldn't bite a finger off entirely, but a mangled hand wasn't desirable either.

The dog sniffed at Sétanta fist.

Then it snapped, sinking its jaws into Sétanta's forearm.

"Culann! Get your dog off of me!" Sétanta shouted, unsure if the dog's owner heard him.

Then his chest tightened... it was the same sensation he'd had before... when the Fomorian tried to steal his boar when the bandits confronted him on the road to Emain Macha. The power of the ríastrad was welling up inside his chest. But he didn't lose consciousness. He didn't lose control. He didn't even change shape—not completely. His skin hardened, resisting the dog's bite.

A strength filled his frame. He quickly swung his arm to spare it from the dog's attack.

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