Deaglan knew next to nothing about warfare. He knew nothing about battles, strategy or tactics. He didn't know how to hold a sword properly, and he certainly didn't know how to swing one. In fact he was sure that if he did try and fight side by side with the other Mac Tuatha, he would only get in the way and cause more death on his side than the other.
What he did know, was that the Fomorian had the Spear of Lug and the Sword of Light. With these two weapons in their possession, their army would be unstoppable. The Tuatha could plan and prepare all they wanted, but it would be for naught if they didn't somehow remove these magical artifacts from the hands of Calor and his brothers.
Deaglan wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a warrior or a soldier. What he was, and this was a result of thousands of years of literal breeding, was a thief. Soldier of no, there was no-one more capable in the city of Falias to steal back the Spear of Lug than he. So that was what he planned to do.
Kaie demanded that she spend the night with Deaglan, citing the fact that she didn't trust him one iota and had to keep an eye on him the whole time. She was right in this assertion.
The two slept in the same bed, with no funny business of course. Even had they wanted to, both would have been far too stressed out and nervous about the following day to even comprehend such a thing. Rather they simply spooned, snuggled, and slept in one another's arms. For Deaglan it would have been the most romantic, and possibly greatest night of his life had he not spent the entire time plotting how the heck he was going to sneak out without Kaie noticing.
As luck had it – Deaglan was really starting to get the hang of this thing called luck – it was early in the morning, around the time he was starting to plan his escape, when Kaie suddenly snorted in her sleep and rolled over to the other side of the bed. He hadn't been expecting it one little bit, so when she did roll over he kind of just froze, half expecting her to wake up in a flurry. But no. Instead she lay there, with her back to him, still in a deep slumber.
Deaglan saw his chance and took it.
He slipped from the bed as quietly as he could. He was so soft on his toes, so careful in his movements that he felt like a ghost drifting through the air. He had never really gotten a hang of his Leprechaun abilities, but something told him that he was utilizing them to their fullest. He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd started jumping up and down and still failed to make a noise.
When he reached the door he creaked it open, inch by inch. It didn't so much as make a sound. And then, with it open, he was about to slip through its crack and into the hall when he paused. He turned back and took a final look at Kaie. Fast asleep, face snuggled into her pillow, she was the epitome of perfect. Never would he have thought that in all of this he would find someone he cared for so deeply, but he had.
Where some might have used this as a reason to give up and not go on, Deaglan saw it as the opposite. Whether he died of lived in his mission was inconsequential. What was important was that in doing so, she might live. That was what being a hero was.
A final look and he slipped through the door and closed it softly behind him. He stared down at the handle when he did, wishing there was some way he could lock it. But he couldn't. Instead he told himself that if he was fast enough, if he hurried, he could have this whole thing done with before she woke. And even if she woke up before hand, by the time she realized what he had done, it would be too late to stop him. At least that was what he hoped.
The streets of Falias were eerily quiet as Deaglan hurried through them. As there was never a cloud in the sky, the streets were well lit by the morning 'sun' or whatever it was that provided light. But even still, the early morning sky had taken on an orange-red color, as if it knew of the upcoming battle and the blood that was about to be spilled. This in turn added to the ominous feel and sent prickles up Deaglan's neck as he walked.
It was as he neared the gates that he began to hear a commotion. It sounded like metal scraping against metal, and boots hurrying along cement, and hundreds, if not thousands, of voices whispering commands to one another. Indeed, as he crested the barbican where the army was just beginning to assemble, he bore witness to the thousands of soldiers crammed into its space, all dressing themselves in armor, preparing for the battle that was to come.
The soldiers of the Tuatha, the Mac Tuatha, could not have looked more different to that of the Fomorian hordes. Where the Mac Fomorian were dressed in dark greys and blacks, the Mac Tuatha were bright and colorful. Blues, reds, oranges, pinks and greens were but some of the colors that he could see. From the shields to the swords to the helmets, everything was bright and dazzling. He was sure there must have been a reason for it, or that perhaps the colors were meant to designate rank, but there was no way for him to tell.
And it wasn't just the colors that separated the Tuatha forces from the Fomorian, but in how well equipped they all were too. Every single soldier that he could see had a chest plate, grieves and tasset of some kind. They all wore matching helmets – pointed things with rounded grill plates that seemed to wrap around the eyes and chin both, and all carried rounded shield no bigger than their torso in size. The weapons were primarily swords, short and straighter than the ones that the Mac Fomorian carried, and those with spears again carried ones that were smaller and more agile in size and design.
It was easy to see that the Mac Tuatha had a more tactical fighting style than the Mac Fomorian: using skill over brute strength. Deaglan hoped it was enough, only to then remind himself that it wasn't going to come to that. Not if he could help it.
It was now that he faced his first problem. Deaglan's plan was to climb the inner-stairwell of the wall to the top of the battlements, and then climb down the other side. He knew of several ladders built into the walls that would allow him to do this and didn't think it was going to be a problem, until now. Surely if one of the soldiers saw him they would stop him? They would order that he go back? Surely, he couldn't just sneak on by.... or could he?
As he edged closer and closer to where the soldiers assembled, he felt an odd sensation breaking out over his skin. It was similar to the prickling he felt when danger was around, only it was softer. It was more akin to someone blowing on his skin, as if they were trying to cool him down. It felt light and welcoming; like he was being lifted by a cloud. Somehow Deaglan just knew in that moment that sneaking past the guards wasn't going to be a problem. And so he did it.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Deaglan strolled into the barbican like it were his right to do so. And as he did, as he felt his skin being 'blown on' like a gust of wind was propelling him forward, not a single soldier took note. Oh sure, the odd one glanced at him, looked up and even made eye contact. But no one seemed to see him, and if they did, they assumed his presence normal.
Not sure if this was luck, or something else at work, Deaglan didn't stop to think, but rather hurried through the barbican and toward the stairwell. He took them two at a time, near leaping on the wall-walk when he reached it. Again, those that lined the wall-walk didn't so much as glance in his direction. Without questioning why this was happening or if it would continue once he reached the opposing forces, he made his way to the edge of the wall, found the ladder he was looking for – built from stone and seeming to jut out from the wall itself – and scurried down its side to the valley below.
The walls of Falias sat on the other side of a dried moat which itself was roughly twenty feet deep and another fifty feet wide. If he had wished it, Deaglan could have climbed down the side of the moat, walked its length and then climbed the other side to the plains where the Fomorian army sat waiting. And maybe this would have been a better option? It certainly would have contributed to the stealthy approach he was trying to take. But he was also feeling rather emboldened by this point, having literally just walked past a throng of soldiers without them so much as glancing at him. So he decided to press his luck.
He crossed the land-bridge that ran over the moat as if it were just another ordinary day, walking its length and heading in the direction of the Fomorian army. Doing so would open him up to the arches on the wall; he would be spotted as clear as day. But as he walked, or more strolled, he felt the same sensation taking over his body, the light puffs of air pushing and seeming to lift him as he went on his way.
What Deaglan began to realize he walked – or at least theorize – was that his Leprechaun gifts were actually linked to his confidence in them. He thought back to his 'training' and how he had been beaten day in and day out; never once feeling confident that he was special in any way. Then he pictured that moment in the lake, where he knew that his luck was going to work simply because it had to.
The open plain that the bridge led onto was another two-hundred-meter walk at the very least. He suspected that the Fomorian force had left this open as a means to give the Tuatha a chance to marshal their own forces. As such, it provided another huge distance that he was forced to cross, out in the open and totally exposed, before finally reaching the Fomorian line.
But he did so, brimming with the same confidence he had all morning.
The Fomorian force was already standing when he reached their edges. They stood ready and waiting, weapons in hand, staring dead ahead at the city of Falias. For a moment Deaglan wondered how they had the energy to do it, assuming they had been in the same position all night. But then he remembered the Spear. No doubt they could remain that way for weeks.
This was Deaglan's first close look at the Mac Fomorian too and when he finally got a good look at the men beneath the armor, he very much felt like turning and fleeing... or rather vomiting on the spot.
They were just so... ugly. It wasn't even that they were terrifying, or ferocious. They were just hideous looking creatures. Where the Mac Tuatha were beautiful in every conceivable facet, the Mac Fomorian were the total opposite. On first appearance they looked human enough, but it was the little differences that made them evidently not so. They were all short and stocky, but not necessary fat. Rather, they had wide shoulders, and short necks and long thick arms that were disproportionate to their size. Some had hunched backs, others had weird shaped chests and stomachs that protruded as if they were swollen.
On top of that, their skin was grey and off yellow, as if they were all suffering from pancreatic cancer. Deaglan could also see boils leaking puss all over their faces, arms, and legs. Most had beady little eyes, snout noses and flat chins. The few he saw smiling – or snarling – had missing teeth, black teeth, and broken teeth. They were an experiment gone wrong, and there were thousands of them.
They stood in clumps, rather than in straight lines. Huge gaps were available in random spots across the lines, and all Deaglan had to do was navigate through these gaps.
He grimaced openly as he reached their front lines, tucking in his shoulders and moving through them. The smell that hit him as he reached them was putrid too. To try and even describe it would be useless as Deaglan had never in his life experienced such an abhorrent odor. His nostrils literally began to burn and as he pressed through them, they damn near exploded off his face, as if trying to escape the smell. He held his breath the best he could, stepping gingerly among the armed forces of the Fomorian lines.
Where the Mac Tuatha soldiers had at least looked his way before turning back to what they were doing, the Mac Fomorian soldiers didn't so much as blink at him. They stared dead ahead, in total silence, waiting. It was like they were robots, waiting to be turned on. Deaglan may as well have been invisible for all the attention they paid him.
But he was still careful not to touch any of them, stepping between the gaps as carefully as he could. They all held weapons, some held up straight, some dangling by their sides. He was careful not to cut himself on these, often forced to drop to his knees, or literally climb over blades as a means to carry on through.
And during this endeavor, he just told himself to remain confident. He told himself that he had to do this, that it was not just for himself, or the world as he knew it, but for Kaie too. He kept this thought pressed to the fore of his mind and it seemed to guide him through.
His destination lay in roughly the center of the Mac Fomorian force. From the city walls he had swept the lines and spotted what he guessed to the be the main Fomorian camp. Where most camps were built on the outskirts of where an army was marshaled, this one was built literally in its center. There was no space between it and the Mac Fomorian that waited for battle. Each tent had literally been erected as if it too were a part of the fighting forces. It was as if they knew that once the battle began there would be no need to retreat. Deaglan had vision of the fight starting and the forces swarming over the tents like locusts.
And the camp wasn't so much a set camp, as a series of large bender tents, scattered through the lines. Each one was the size of one of the keeps within the city of Falias, which was appropriate when considering the size of the monsters that dwelled within. There was no actual order to them either. The closest one to the front lines was probably the smallest. It sat in isolation. Another twenty meters back, through the mob of Mac Fomorian, was the next tent. The third was perhaps only five meters behind that one, and then there were two more to the left. It was chaotic, unorganized and gave Deaglan a pretty good indication as to how the battle was likely to unfold.
The tent he chose to make for based on nothing more than its size. It was the third tent back, and a little to the left; roughly two hundred meters into the Mac Fomorian line. It sat a solid five feet higher than the other tents did, so Deaglan figured that was as good a reason as any to check it out.
To reach it he was forced to walk among the thickest grouping of men yet. Between the second tent and the third, there must have been over one thousand Mac Fomorian, crammed into a space made to fit one hundred. They stood shoulder to shoulder, all staring dead ahead, unmoving, unblinking. If Deaglan didn't know any better he'd almost say they were being used as a wall of sorts and for a moment, he considered actually climbing on their shoulders... but he thought that might have been pushing his luck a little too much.
It was as Deaglan stood back and tried to find a way to walk around the grouping of men without having to skirt the space entirely and double back that a trumpet suddenly sounded. It was quiet at first, barely audible as it came from such a huge distance away. But as the note drew out, it grew louder and louder until it was impossible to ignore.
It was coming from the city of Falias. Another long, drawn out note followed it immediately after. Deaglan turned around, looking back to the beautiful city of the Tuatha. When he did, his stomach sank to the floor. The portcullis gates were opening. The Mac Tuatha soldiers were marching through it. The battle was about to begin.
The announcement of the oncoming battle created the first instance of movement among the soldiers. Where they had been standing as stiff as corpses up until that point, they suddenly began to move. They all seemed to stand a little straighter, pull their weapons in a little tighter, ready themselves to move forward and get their first taste of blood.
Further to this point, the door flap of the fourth tent back, erected roughly twenty meters behind the tent that Deaglan was headed for, was suddenly thrown open. Emerging from inside of it was one of the Fomorian giants. Where the soldiers were hideous to look at, this giant was grotesque. He had no neck, one eye and a hunched back that defied logic. He also stood well over twenty feet in height and towered over the other soldiers as if they were children.
He was the first, but soon others began to emerge from their tents. Two, three, four and five giants stepped out from their camps, weapons in hand, hunger in their eyes as they looked forward to the city of Falias. They were all eager for battle, and as the trumpets continued to sound, some even let go raucous screams of triumph.
Deaglan pulled his stare from these hideous beings, looking back to his destination, the third tent. It remained still, unopened. He knew that wouldn't be the case for much longer so, ignoring the soldiers beginning to move around him, and trying his best to not listen to the noises made by the giants as they pushed toward the front lines, he acted.
As the Mac Fomorian soldiers readied to marshal, he slipped between them and headed for the opening flaps of the largest of the tents.
His skin crawled as he reached its entrance. Although he wasn't sure if this was on account of the obvious danger that was to come, or the fact that the tent was made from what looked to be human skin. At the opening, he chose not to touch it, but rather just kick it open and step inside.
And he was in.
The sound of the trumpets was silenced the moment he stepped into the tent. Indeed, it was as if he had been transported into another world entirely. There was no noise at all, no indication of a battle about to take place outside. Total silence.
The inside of the tent was about as simple as could be – obviously not built for permanence. There was a single cot built for a man of Deaglan's size. There was a wash basin, a table with a map spread across it and some candlelit braziers skirting the walls for light. And there was the Spear of Lug.
It stood alone at the back of the tent, leaning against the wall as if it were any other weapon. Unguarded and there for the taking.
Deaglan licked his lips at the sight of it. He felt his pulse quicken. This was it. This was the moment. Without hesitation, he took another step into the tent, toward the Spear and --
"What are you doing?"
Deaglan froze where he stood. He had become so used to not being seen that he didn't even stop to check if the tent was occupied. Less than halfway across the tent, hand literally stretched out as if about to grab the Spear, he slowly turned around.
He recognized the owner of the voice immediately as Calor, the leader of the Fomorian. Only this time he wasn't a giant as he had been before. Rather he was normal in size, at least relatively speaking. He was still a big man, at least six foot in height with shoulders so broad they looked like they would be able to support the weight of a horse. But he was no giant.
He wore a pair of yellow breeches and no shirt. Sitting on a simple stool, watching Deaglan with a curious expression, he had the Sword of Light rested across his knees. Although the light pouring from it wasn't as blinding as it had been the other day, it still glimmered slightly. In his hands was a grey stone that he was using to sharpen the sword, running it across the length of the blade.
He didn't move to stop Deaglan. Rather, he remained seated, watching the Leprechaun with intense curiosity. No doubt Deaglan was the last person he expected to see inside of his tent, if anyone at all.
"I'm going out on a limb here and guessing you can see me?" Deaglan grimaced. His eyes flicked back to the Spear. If he could grab it he could probably duck underneath the tent and disappear among the mass of soldiers before Calor could so much as move.
"Should I not be able to?" Calor asked. Still smirking, he remained seated, sword still across his lap. He could not have appeared less put out by Deaglan's sudden appearance.
"It would help," Deaglan offered. He took a step backwards, in the direction of the Spear.
"Is that how you made it to my tent?" He spoke softly, almost courteously. He was charming in a similar way to Mac Germait. The two men could almost be brothers.
"Something like that." Another step.
"Please, don't," Calor said as Deaglan lifted his foot to move again. "I know who you are." He stood, dropping the stone but keeping the Sword in his hand. "You're the Leprechaun."
"I prefer to go by Deaglan." His eyes flicked from the Sword to the Spear. He could still make it... maybe.
"I suppose I should be thanking you?" Calor chuckled. "For getting me the Spear, that is. I could have never done it without you. It really will go a long way to making my victory that little bit easier."
"Don't worry about it." He waved him off as he turned his body slightly, ready to run for it.
"I'll tell you what?" Calor held the Sword in front of him, as if admiring its beauty. He barely even payed Deaglan any attention. "I'm willing to forgive you for breaking into my tent and trying to steal back the Spear of Lug. Willing, because of how impressed I am. It takes guts to do that, and bravery beyond what any of those Tuatha cowards could even posses. Let me guess, when you came back to the city, they scolded you for losing the Spear. Am I right?"
"Ah," Deaglan didn't want to tell him he was correct. Instead he looked to the Spear again.
"Figures," Calor shook his head as if in disappointment. "And I'm sure that they never actually asked you to collect the Spear did they. They would have told you -- don't try and deny it. I know Mac Germait like the back of my hand. He lives in a world were he is always right and everyone else is wrong. It's a black and white space that leaves little room for interpretation."
Deaglan didn't answer. Mac Germait was trying to persuade him, to charm him. But why?
"That's all about to change. I'm willing to make a deal with you too, Leprechaun. If you swear yourself over to me, right here and now, then once the city falls, I won't kill you. On the contrary, I'll reward you."
"How's that?" He risked another step. This time Calor said nothing.
"You're the last of your kind. I'm sure you know by now what the Tuatha did to the rest of you? Killed you all like common street cats. I am nowhere near as savage, I assure you. Join me and my kin and you will live like a king. You will have gold, women, anything you desire."
The sword was by his side and he eyed Deaglan with a hunger that Deaglan recognized all to well. He had been used enough in the past to know when someone else intended on using him. He was charming to be sure. But Deaglan was through being charmed.
"Can I maybe think about it?" His eyes flicked again to the Spear. It was now or never.
"I don't think so --"
And Deaglan ran.
Or at least he meant to. What happened was... well it was rather hard to describe. He moved at his normal speed, feeling as if he was simply sprinting. But as he ran, he noticed the world seem to slow around him. How he knew it had done this, he wasn't sure. But he made for the Spear and wrapped his hand around the grip before Calor had so much as finished speaking. Before he had even finished the same word he had started.
And then everything went back to normal.
"Huh." Deaglan looked at Spear, then down at his own feet and then across the tent at Calor.
The Fomorian was perhaps even more surprised than Deaglan, gaping at him with wide open eyes and a dropped mouth.
"That was unexpected." Deaglan wrapped his hand around the shaft of the Spear and plucked it from its position. He then offered the still stunned Fomorian a pleasant smile, turned and ran for the tent exit.
As hoped, the exact same thing happened again. He looked across at Calor as he ran, the Fomorian's eyes barely able to keep up as made across the tent's length. By the time he reached the exit and pulled up, Calor was still looking at where Deaglan had just been.
"This was fun," Deaglan said with a cheeky smile. "But I've got to... yeah," and he ducked through the tent flaps, ignoring the scream of Calor that followed.
Anarchy was what greeted him once he was outside. Pure, untapped chaos the likes of which Deaglan could not have imagined.
The battle had already begun. From where he stood, he could see the front lines engaging, two great forces of men pushing against one another in an attempt to force the other back. There was screaming, shouting, yelling, cries of both joy and anguish coming from every direction. There were the sounds of metal on metal, boots stamping along the ground and every other noise imaginable. It was, as mentioned, total chaos.
And it wasn't just the soldiers either. Among the throng, and nearer where the battle was joined at the front lines, Deaglan could see the distinct signs of Aos Si involved in the melee. To the far right, on the wings, there was a grey mist so thick that it cloaked everyone in sigh. It seemed to cut that section of the battle off from those that were separate from the mist, surely transporting them to that same space Deaglan had already experienced.
Just ahead, no further than ten meters away, Deaglan could see what looked like a dog the size of a bull, chained around the neck and being led by five soldiers. Its skin was black scales and its spin stuck from its back like razor blades. It snapped and pulled at its chain, desperate to get closer to the battle. He casts his eyes wider and saw at least a dozen more of these animals, all making their way to the front.
A chilling screech rattled through the air right above where Deaglan stood as an Ellen Trechend circled the battle field. It made for the walls of the city, only to be greeted by a blitz of arrows and javelins. The arrows did nothing, bouncing off its hide like water on oil. But one of the javelins struck, driving itself through the Ellen Trechend's wing span. The three headed dragon let go a horrifying screech before turning tail and fleeing.
Deaglan could see the Fomorian giants too. They were spread across the front line, standing out because of their size and the destruction they were wreaking. Some had swords, others just simple clubs. They swung them like madmen, with little care for who they struck. Bodies flew in the air around them like ragdolls. Mac Loran suddenly charged one of the giants. Although he was less than half the giants size, he leaped in the air and struck his blade down at the giant's neck. The giant moved to block it and was literally sent flying back through the air as he did so.
"Leprechaun!" The scream came from inside the tent. It was so ferocious and loud that it nearly lifted the tent from its foundations.
Deaglan suddenly remembered what it was that he was doing. The Spear was still clutched in his hands. He had to get it to the front lines, to Mac Germait. He didn't know how it worked, but he sensed that as the battle drew on, the power of the Spear would become more relevant.
It didn't take Deaglan long to realize that his power to not be seen had fully faded, as had the temporary burst of speed he had been gifted inside the tent. He was now just a man, running through the battle, hoping to not get killed in the process.
As the battle was taking place in the direction that he was headed, most of the soldiers around Deaglan ignored him. A few snarled as he pushed through them, some even took swipes at him with their weapons, but none seemed to realize the significance of who he was and what he held.
He dared a glance behind him, back at the tent. He couldn't see Calor. He picked up his pace, or tried to. He had to duck around the soldiers, all surging forward as a means to get closer to where the fighting was happening. He had to run around others, or literally squeeze between them. This seemed to annoy them the most as some literally shoved him forward in anger, as if mad that he was trying to meet battle before them.
But he didn't let that worry him. He was going to make it. The front line was one hundred meters away. He pushed and shoved. Now it was ninety. He ducked under the lazy swing of a very ugly soldier that wasn't wearing a helmet – he was totally bald with huge scars that dripped blood across his head. Eighty meters.
Deaglan dared another glance over his shoulder. He couldn't see Calor anywhere. He was going to make it!
A shadow in the sky caught his eye. It reared up, covering everything beneath as it grew bigger and bigger in size. It was Calor. He had transformed back to his giant self and was literally leaping through the air, jumping over his men in an effort to reach Deaglan. Each time he landed, he squashed his own men into the dust as if they were nothing. Then he would jump again, near flying through the air as he did.
His final bound had him flying over the top of Deaglan and landing square in front of him, less than five feet away. As he landed, the soldiers in the space failed to scramble out of the way. They were driven into the ground, their backs and legs breaking under the weight of Calor's mass as if they were twigs.
Deaglan pulled up just in time. He scrambled backwards. Calor lifted his leg and drove his foot square into Deaglan's chest. Deaglan lifted the shaft of the Spear just as he did, blocking the foot from breaking his ribs, but failing to stop it from sending him flying backwards into the crowd.
His body connected with a group of soldiers, sending them all tumbling to the ground. If they had any plans of retaliating, these were quickly squashed by the sight of Calor again leaping in a single bound toward them. Instead they spread out and scurried away, content to leave Deaglan to their master.
Deaglan was a little slower than he would have liked in getting up. The impact from the foot and the fall both had him reeling as he struggled to stand. He half expected Calor to strike him down while he was on his knees, but instead the god waited for him to stand.
"Foolish," Calor muttered as he circled Deaglan. The throng of men had well and truly cleared now, creating a circle for the two to face off in. Calor walked its edges, looking down at Deaglan with contempt. "You could have lived, but you chose death. And why? For the Tuatha who hate you so? I don't understand."
Deaglan coughed up blood as he got to his feet. He kept the Spear clutched firmly in his hands. "Stupid me, right?" He attempted a chuckle, holding the Spear point forward as if to protect himself.
The sight would have looked ridiculous to anyone watching. Calor stood at twenty feet in height, looking down on Deaglan as if he were an ant. The Spear was a toothpick, useless in the hands of a warrior, let alone Deaglan's.
"Stupid? No. Just misguided." Calor reached onto his back and unsheathed the Sword of Light. The act of doing so was terrific. Light seemed to pour from the blade; erupt from it even. Deaglan was forced to shield his eyes, lest he become blinded himself. When he did finally pull his hand away, Calor was back to his normal size. That of a man.
"A fair fight?" Deaglan said. He stabbed at Calor who stood too far out of reach for it to have any effect. "It's about time."
"Not quite." Calor smirked. He then held the blade to his mouth and whispered into it, "Deaglan Gallagher."
There were two battles happening now. The one on the front lines between the Mat Tuatha and the Mac Fomorian. Who was winning, Deaglan didn't know and didn't care, for he was embroiled in the second battle. This was one between he and Calor.
A hushed murmur of anticipation and fear swept through those watching as Deaglan's name was sound into the blade. It seemed to reverberate through them like an earthquake.
And then Calor struck.
Deaglan saw it coming.
Again, he couldn't explain how it happened. There was no sensation taking over his body as had happened when he felt danger approach, or when he wished to remain hidden. There was no balloon swelling inside him as when luck was on his side. Rather everything just slowed down to a crawl as if it were totally normal. Calor came for him, fury written across his demented face as he swung the blade at Deaglan. But it was slow, as if he were purposefully doing it. The blade was brought back behind his shoulders, then it came down at Deaglan, aimed right for his head. Deaglan frowned as he watched it, tilted his head and stared as if unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
When the blade came within reach, he simply knocked it out of the way with the tip of his Spear. The act of doing so made Calor trip and stumble as he fell forward and then struggled to regain his balance.
And then everything returned to normal.
A shocked murmur and a gasp of disbelief broke out among those who were watching, none able to comprehend what they were seeing. Even Calor looked unable to believe it... although this very quickly morphed to rage as he let go a scream and again attacked Deaglan.
It was similar again to the last time, with Calor's speed slowing to a crawl as he swung at Deaglan again and again. This time the act of knocking back the blade and dodging didn't trip Calor up, and it didn't return everything to normal. Rather it continued, uninterrupted as Calor tried and failed to slay Deaglan.
Calor would swing and dance and stab as he moved on Deaglan. And Deaglan would easily dodge, and parry and block. It was as simple as swatting away a fly, or the annoying prods of a child. There was no skill required, just a firm hand.
But as Deaglan continued to dodge the attacks of Calor, as he knocked the blade back and side stepped the Fomorian with ease, he noticed something happening. Slowly but surely, Calor was getting faster and faster. But just Calor. Deaglan could tell that everything else around him was still moving at a crawl. It was as if the god was fighting the effects of whatever it was that Deaglan was doing. His movements became quicker. His blows became harder to dodge. The expression on his face, the anger and rage, slowly morphed to triumph as if he realized what he was doing.
And then he struck.
Deaglan saw the blow coming. As he dodged out of the way of a head high swing, Calor somehow managed to change directions mid-movement. He turned on his heel, brought the blade back at his waist and then drove it forward toward Deaglan's chest. Deaglan went to move, but was too slow. And it wasn't that he was stuck, or paralyzed in the moment, but that he had suddenly been forced to move at the same speed that Calor had been.
No fighter, no warrior, barely a hero, all Deaglan could do was watch, wide eyed as the tip of the Sword of Light made for his chest.
But then something else happened. It was subtle, and over so quickly that Deaglan almost didn't notice it. It was just as the tip of the blade was about to drive itself through his chest and kill him, that he felt that unmistakable swelling within his body. It built itself up to bursting point in less than an instant and then exploded just as quickly, just as the tip of the sword reached Deaglan's chest.
When the Sword did strike him, rather than driving itself through his chest and killing him, it struck his necklace, still dangling around his neck. It literally stabbed into the solid metal of his 'pot of gold' and when it did a reverberation sounded off the blow and a seismic force like an explosion without the carnage erupted off of the necklace.
The force of the explosion threw Deaglan and Calor back, as if a giant hand had grabbed them both by the back of the collar and yanked them with all its force. They flew through the air, both crashing into the dirt.
The world seemed to shake around Deaglan as he rolled. His chest felt as if he had been struck by a hammer and his necklace burned so hot it felt as if it was searing into his skin. He tried to push himself to his feet, his knees trembling as they struggled to hold him.
Calor was in a similar state, some ten feet away. He too struggled to stand, pushing himself up only to fall again. He used to Sword like a staff, leveraging his weight onto it as he stood. And even that took a great amount of effort. Surely the god had never felt so weakened in his life.
The Spear lay between the two men, but Calor didn't seem too concerned by it. He only had eyes for Deaglan. His body still shook as he smiled a menacing smile at Deaglan. He pointed the Sword at Deaglan's chest. He chuckled and he took a step toward the now totally exposed Deaglan. He seemed to know exactly what Deaglan now knew: that he was out of options. He had no weapon, his bag of tricks was empty and he was fresh out of luck.
It was just Deaglan, Calor and the Sword.
Calor took another step forward, seeming to drag his feet as he did. And then he took another. Deaglan took one back and then another. He eyed the Spear, wondering if it was worth going for it. He was further away from it then Calor and knew that if he did try, Calor would simply lop the head off his shoulders. So he took a third step back. Unfortunately the Mac Fomorian watching had created a tight right among themselves and when Deaglan reached them, they pushed him forward, laughing as they did so.
"It's over," Calor chuckled. He stood up straighter, his energy coming back to him.
"It is," Deaglan agreed simply. He was about to die, and yet he wasn't scared. Instead he was disappointed, in himself more than anything. He had not only failed himself, but he had failed the Tuatha, the city of Falias and most importantly, Kaie.
Calor laughed as if he knew what Deaglan was thinking. He brought his Sword back to finally finish the job. Deaglan did what he had done in so many training session and stood up straight, his hands by his side, ready to take the final blow. And then, from nowhere, Kaie appeared.
She pushed her way through the masses, stumbling into the middle of the circle.
"Kaie!" Deaglan exclaimed.
She ignored him. She faced off with Calor. He frowned, obviously having no idea what an unarmed girl could possibly do. She opened her mouth, his eyes widened in realization, but, before he had a chance to do anything else, she screamed.
To Deaglan the scream sounded perfectly normal. It was high pitched, kind of irritating, but nothing out of the ordinary. To those around him though, and that included Calor, it was as if they were made from glass and she was trying to break it with her scream.
The soldiers in the immediate vicinity collapsed within a second of her screaming. Those a little further away took a few moments more, most trying to block their ears before succumbing to the sound and passing out. Calor was a little more resistant.
He dropped the Sword without thought, shoving his hands over his ears as he did. He fell to his knees, grimacing in pain as he continued to press his hands against his ears and shield out the noise. He screamed too, although it was more one of agony than anything. He then fell onto his elbows, still blocking his ears. His body trembled, it swayed, it weakened. It was all he could so to not pass out entirely.
And as for Kaie? She continued to wail. Deaglan watched on as her face turned from red to purple. He grew concerned as veins began to pulsate on her neck and forehead. When she too stumbled forward, falling onto her hands and screaming at the ground, he remembered what Mac Culit had said about Banshee's dying if they were pressed to hard. But what was too hard? Her entire body began to shake. He had seen her do this one other time, bit not to such an intensity, not to so many.
Thousands of bodies surrounding where she screamed now lay on the ground. It looked like a field of dead, running fifty meters in every direction. Even beyond where the bodies lay, her scream was having obvious effects as the soldiers slowed down, some falling, others stumbling. A giant Fomorian within range had dropped his weapon entirely, blocking his ears and roaring into the air.
And as for Calor? He held out for as long as he could, but eventually he succumbed to the wail of the Banshee and with a final shout of 'no!' he collapsed face first in the dirt. The moment he did, Kaie stopped screaming and she too fell face. Out cold.
The first thing Deaglan did was scoop up the Spear. It was on the way to Kaie, so he simply flicked it up with his foot, caught it in mid-air and ran to her. He dropped to his knees when he reached her, and turned her over, fully expecting her to be passed out, but ultimately fine. Just like the last time. It had to be just like the last time.
Only it wasn't.
"Kaie..." he said in a panic. Her face was blue, her body was cold. "Kaie!" He pressed his head to her chest, listening for a heartbeat. There was none. "Kaie!" He felt for a pulse, again finding nothing. "No, no, no, no!" He had no idea what he was doing, but he tried breathing into her mouth, thumping on her chest, doing anything he could to try and... to try and what? Bring her back from the dead?
He focused as best he could, trying to dig down and find that luck he had used so many times recently. He tried to harness it, you use it. But there was nothing. He again tried to breathe into her mouth. He again beat on her chest. But nothing.
She was dead.
"Kaie!" he screamed in her face. "Kaie!" He howled into the sky. "Kaie!"
There was nothing he could do. Nothing.
He trembled as he held her in his arms. He kissed her lips as if that might do something. But they weren't the lips he knew. They were cold, dry, dead. He cried without remorse or care. All the luck in the world and there was nothing he could do.
He could have held her for hours, for the rest of time. But he was brought back to the moment on account of the battle that was still taking place around him. The screaming and shouting was back in full effect. The sounds of metal on metal. The stench of death. Although there was a huge space of passed out bodies surrounding him, the main battle was still in full flight on the front line.
The Spear lay next to him. The Sword a little way from that. With reluctance, with great hesitation, he slowly let go of Kaie's body, placing it softly on the ground. He then picked up the Sword of Light and sheathed it in his pants – he did this by piercing a hole in his jeans pocket. He then collected the Spear. Next he went to pick up Kaie again, only he couldn't. With the Spear in his hand, and the Sword sticking from his pants, he couldn't possibly carry Kaie too.
Behind him, the Mac Fomorian army were tramping over their passed out comrades; there were thousands of them, all making their way closer and closer to the front lines. They would be at Deaglan in less than a minute.
In front of him, less than one hundred meters away, was the front line. He could now see Mac Germait in the thick of battle. His weapon was a sword that turned into a whip as he used it. It would lash out and strike down four or five Mac Fomorian before shortening and going stiff just in time for him to slash it at an oncoming foe. He fought as if it were a dance, beautiful and mesmerizing. And no doubt, with the aid of the Spear and Sword of Light, he could finish the battle even faster.
There were already hundreds dead, maybe even thousands. The city of Falias stood in the distance. Behind those walls were even more innocents, alive at the moment, hoping that they would be, come the end of the day. Their lives rested not only in the Tuatha hands, but in Deaglan's. It was with that knowledge, that he did the only thing he could. Again, he was forced to be the hero.
He left Kaie's body where it lay. He picked up the Spear and he carried it toward the front lines. He made right for Mac Germait, not even caring if the enemy saw him. Again, they didn't seem to notice him, allowing him to walk among them as if he weren't there. When he reached the front of the battle, he called out to Mac Germait who could not have looked more surprised to see him.
Deaglan then pulled out the Sword of Light and dropped it at his feet. He then threw down the Spear as well. And then, without a word, without even looking at Mac Germait and basking in the praise that he was sure to receive, he continued on his way, pushing through the battle, past the Mac Tuatha forces and back toward the city.
When he reached the walls, he climbed the same ladder he had used earlier in the day; a veritable lifetime ago now. He climbed over the battlements and back into the city. He walked the empty streets up to the castle. There, he made his way to his bedroom in the tallest tower, he closed the door behind him, fell onto his bed and cried.
He could still hear the battle happening outside; the screams and shouts drifting over the city and up into his window. Surely the tide was now turning? With the Spear and Sword both, and with such a huge chunk of the Fomorian forces out cold, the battle must nearly be won? But really he didn't give a damn. He wouldn't have cared if the Fomorian did win and they stormed the castle and slew him where he lay.
He had won the day, but lost in the end. Kaie was dead. That was all he cared about and that was why he cried.