Page 5 of Rise of the Morrigan

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Sétanta gripped hisspear 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, theycelebratedtheir 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 somethingelse. 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...

What was happening? His heart was beating so hard he feared it might tear itself out of his chest. Then he felt his bones crack and expand, his skin tightened. Rage consumed him—a fury beyond his control.

And whatever consumed him drove him beneath the waters... as if someone... or something else had possessed his body. His eyes open wide, even beneath the water, he felt his hand reach and catch something...

Everything was still a blur.

There was a struggle.

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