Eamon's Tales:

The Many Kings

The last night of his stay in Barleytown, a brace of Norlanders walked into the inn. Eamon's conversation immediately ceased; the locals he was speaking to had seen enough of the foreigners' harsh actions to be wary of their words in their presence.

For some reason, this angered the old storyteller. No care for the repercussions that would surely befall him for his brashness, Eamon deserted the light-hearted folk tale he had been in the midst of and turned instead to a legend of power and hope, one sure to ignite a patriotic flame in the villagers' hearts.

"Listen closely, lads, I've a tale of yer forefathers for ye that'll shame yer weasel-hearted selves." The barkeep's brows knit in worry; the men near Eamon glowered at him darkly, feathers ruffled. "There was a time once before that these bastardly nomads set out to conquer this land."

"Eamon," cautioned the flour-stained baker to his left.

"Hold yer tongue, man! That time came not long after Anuk had returned to his father's home. On Midsummer's Eve, his lady Brighid appeared before him in her guise of crone. She warned him of the threat coming after Samhain. 'Unite the land, beloved. You must lead them to victory as High King, or the land will surely perish.'

"Trona was a land divided then. The many clans were woven in a net of wars and treaties, and long had it been since they were as brothers and sisters from the sea to the haunted marshlands. Each clan had a king, and some clans bowed to the most powerful king nearby, but the last High King had been killed when war broke out among the Scáths decades before.

"Anuk was wary. The many kings would not come together peacefully. But he believed the Goddess' words, and surely her people would obey her ruling.

"Right away, the son of the prince sent riders to each of the high kings and to the kings of the solitary clans, asking them to come together before a fortnight had passed, as Brighid had declared it must be so. And with some persuasion all appeared in Teremun's palace home by the end of the allotted two weeks.

"Convincing the warriors was another matter. When they heard his foreboding prophecies, the Scáths laughed them off; what did this desert-man know of their forest-loving gods? When he persisted, the scoffing men angered. Their fighting nature surfaced and weapons were drawn. But before the fight could begin, a solemn child stepped forward as though out of the very shadows. She spoke, and out of her mouth came words that crackled like fire and raged like the wind, sparkled with the light of both her mother's and ancestral mother's magic.

"'An enemy comes. The men of the north will ravage this land. They outnumber your clans greatly, for their tribes fight together. Scáth will be no more. Brighid my mother, mother of the land, gives you the way to overcome them. Follow the man Anuk, make him your king. Scáth and Delkadi will in Trona be one. Stand together and the men of the north have no chance.' And the many kings heard, surrendering to the eerie voice and trusting their land to Anuk, all but one clan, whose king turned against Brighid and in favor of the Dagda, King of Faeries. They took to the forest and abandoned their people.

"When the nomads came, Anuk and his motley kingdom were ready. To prove himself a true king of Scáths, Anuk led the ruthless men to battle as their women sat combing out their hair and casting fire and rock into the enemy's camp, calling up storms among the foreign raiders. Trona's army was unbeatable; many men were slaughtered.

"Awed by the strength they saw, the men of the north fled to their homeland, never to return in force again.

"Until now."