For Fyar waiting had always been the worst part of war.

He had assumed the horsemen's army would reach the mountain in a day, two at most. So he was surprised when a third day passed with no sign of them.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, they arrived.

He had been anticipating at least some kind of sneak attack, but apparently the encroaching army and its commanders saw no need, for they marched right up the mountain side and set up a quick bivouak in the saddle, just out of bow range.

Are they mocking me?

Fyar counted them from the shadow of the cave entrance. Twenty groups of fifty men. A thousand total.

I suppose they have the numbers to feel confident.

As Jalintu had predicted they were infantry, though some hundred horses accompanied the army to carry armor and supplies.

At noon two contingents, a hundred men in total broke off and started to march up the mountain. At their head a man with a feathered plume dancing from the top of his spike pointed helmet strode, a white cloth held in one hand.

Fyar's goats, which up until then had continued grazing, indifferent to the gathering army, scattered at last. Stubborn Thymonos was the last to go, trotting after the others only when the army was near upon him.

The hundred men stopped halfway between his cave and the saddle, and their leader waved the white cloth above his head, visible in the bright sun.

"They want to talk, eh?" Fyar pondered, standing and checking the straps of his armor. "Well, I might as well show myself."

Taking his spear he stepped out into the bright sunshine.

From the thin slit in his helmet he watched as the front line of men drew back slightly at his approach. He knew he looked an imposing figure, his armor shining, huge spear across one shoulder, at least a head and a half bigger than even the largest of them. His arms were covered in thick greaves, as were his legs. Only his feet were bare, his toes curling around rocks and into the dirt as he walked.

"Peace be to the lord of this mountain," the man holding the white cloth began as Fyar stopped before him. "We have come to-"

"You do not look like you have come for peace," Fyar interrupted. "I am not giving you the girl, so give up and leave before sundown or prepare for battle."

The man lowered the white cloth, smiling nastily. "I am glad you said that. My men would hate to return home without a fight."

Fyar grinned. "Then why wait? Let us start now."

And lowering his spear, he charged.

The men scattered like leaves. Armed with only swords, they were not prepared for his surprise charge, their weapons still sheathed. The herdsman's charge knocked several to the ground, skewering one unfortunate man in the upper thigh. His scream shocked the others to action.

Not bothering to withdraw his weapon, Fyar whirled.

His spear knocked several more men down as he turned. The men wore armor, but it was minimal, a simple vest of chainmail, and Fyar heard the crunch of breaking bones as his spear slammed into many of them.

Some soldiers managed to draw their swords. They charged at him as he brought his huge shield up, near as big as the men are tall. Metal clashed and the shield vibrated on his arm as their swords skid across it, dancing over the bronze binding.

And so it begins.

It takes but a minute for the two contingents to break apart and reform into a ring around him. A whirlwind of swords, all pointed at its heart, where he stood.

"How will we fight if you are so far away?" he taunted.

It is then that he noticed a movement in the remaining troops, still stationed down in the saddle. The contingents have formed up, he assumed to charge, but now they split apart, revealing a small group of men at their middle armed with bows. Except the bows do not stand vertical, like a bow should. They are horizontal, and it takes two men to draw each back, fixing it upon what looks like a hook and a trigger for easier fire before placing the arrow on the track in between.

What are those? Fyar wondered. Too large for crossbows, too small for catapults. It makes no matter, they are out of range-

A man standing to the side of the strange bowmen lowered his hand, and the bows fired.

Fyar raised up his shield. The arrows fired from the bows thudded into it with enough force to send his feet sliding back in the dirt. He dug in, leaning into his shield as the arrows continued to fly at him, one ricocheting off the greaves on his legs with a vibrating force that shook his whole leg.

Fyar looked down just as a shaft thudded into the dirt near his feat. Looking at the thickness of it, he saw it was more like a bolt than a shaft, and with a jolt Fyar realized it was likely strong enough to pierce his armor, should the head hit right.

I am at a disadvantage.

Turning towards his cave, he started to make his way back uphill. As if anticipating his retreat, the men gathered there, swords out, prepared to beat him back.

Fyar smiled. All their eyes were on him. They did not look at the ground.

Feeling the earth beneath his feet, he breathed deeply.

The tremors in the mountain began slowly, then sped up, till the world was shaking from side to side, rocking, swaying every which way. Some men dropped their weapons or shields, while others fled altogether. Rock fell, shaken loose from their places on the mountain, and began to roll down the slope, straight toward the saddle and the waiting army. Crying out, the men scattered, formations breaking. The men manning the big bows were in disarray, the hail of bolts ceasing as they struggled to keep their weapons steady.

Too easy, Fyar thought.

He turned back toward his cave, preparing to sprint back up the hill.

But as suddenly as it began the shaking stopped.

What?

A whistle of wing and like a bludgeon, a bolt thudded into his left shoulder, piercing through the armor, followed by another and another.

Fyar glanced back down the mountain, more startled by the quickness that the bowmen managed to regather with then the pain of the arrows in his back. They had already collected themselves, as had the army, and were preparing to fire again.

It is as though they knew the shaking would stop.

Once more he tried to channel his power through his feet into the ground, but nothing came from it. It was as though his connection to the mountain had been switched off entirely.

What has happened?

Fyar turned. Abandoning his spear and shield he drew his sword and began to charge up the mountain.

I must make cover before they reload-

A bolt thudded squarely into his right thigh, causing his armor to splinter and fragment around it.

Fyar stumbled.

The men were on him in an instant. Swords thrummed against his armor, beating him, ringing, clanging. The cacophony was near as painful as the blows, and Fyar lashed out, driving them backward.

But more came, and more, till he could fight them off no longer.

He fell to the ground, again channeling his power into the earth. Again the shaking started, the quaking of the mountain mixing with the sounds of mens' screams in the air. Fyar tried to pull himself up, to drag himself to his cave. If he could just get there, he could hold the men off with arrows long enough to take more of them out.

And if that failed, he could lead them down, into the mountain, and bring it down upon all of them.

But before he could go farther, just as before, the shaking suddenly stopped.

As soon as the earth quieted the men fell on him once more, hacking at armor, stabbing at the slivers of his exposed flesh, until all Fyar could think about was the pain.

"Hold his sword arm!"

Several soldiers obeyed, pulling his arm tight, while more held him down. Another stood by with his sword raised.

Fyar recalled suddenly, another day, another man, standing behind him, sword raised and glinting in the sun-

Whoosh.

An arrow sung through the air, thudding into the man with the raised sword's throat.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

The sound of more arrows, but Fyar could see none of it. Slowly, his vision faded to black.

*~*~*~*~*~*

When the herdsman opened his eyes again it was the ceiling of his own bed chamber that greeted him.

He spent a moment studying the tapestry on the wall opposite him. It was an image of a landscape, with rolling hills covered with grapevines and golden wheat, and in the distance a turquoise blue sea. He had to barter with a trader to get the dye for the colors, and dye and weave wool shorn from only white goats to make it. It had taken him near a decade.

Why did I spend so much time on such a thing?

He was alive, and now all he could think of was feeling the sun on his skin, and seeing the face of the woman he loved smile.

"You're awake."

Fyar turned.

Beside his bed a man sat. His hair had been tawny brown, but had blended with the silver into something lighter. A neat beard was on his chin, and his dress was simple, a plain brown tunic cloak and trousers with simple calf boots. Yet Fyar instantly knew the man held authority, from the posture of his shoulders and the calm way he regarded the giant before him.

The man inclined his head. "I am called Sei'lach. I am Ceann Cindh of my tribe, and a chieftain of the great Celtae Alliance. I greet thee."

Fyar nodded in return. "I am..."

He hesitated. Fyar was a name Jalintu had given him, and he was reluctant to use it with anyone else. And his own name was so long forgotten, he did not want to use it once more.

"... lord of this mountain," he finished at last. "What happened, where is Jalintu?"

The Sei'lach's eyebrow raised. "Jalintu? You mean my banrih?"

Fyar frowned, unfamiliar with the term. "Yes, the white haired woman. She is your kinsman, is she not? Is she well? She was not hurt, was she?"

The silver bearded man regarded him curiously. "No, she was not hurt. She was most concerned about you, and has been at your side day and night. She left only recently, and bade me watch over you till you woke."

"I see," said Fyar, pushing back the covers and turning to stand. "I must go to her."

The man called Sei'lach chuckled. "You will do no such thing, or banrih will have my head." He motioned Fyar to stop and lie back, ignoring the far larger man's glare. "I fear her far more than I fear you. She will return shortly, trust me."

Reluctantly Fyar lay back. His back twinged, and he winced, recalling the arrows that had been in it.

"You and your men arrived just in time," he said, massaging a shoulder. "I thank you for that."

The older man chuckled. "You need not thank me. It was my banrih who demanded we return immediately to this mountain. She led the attack herself."

Fyar blushed, imagined Jalintu's beautiful eyes lit in warlike wrath. He could see it easily. "Still, I thank you for acquiescing to her request, or I would not be here like this. I owe you a debt."

Once more the bearded man regarded him strangely, and Fyar could not help feel that there was something he was missing.

"It is good you have woken soon," Sei'lach continued. "We must leave quickly, to avoid the horsemen that will follow. If you are well enough, we will leave today."

Fyar blinks, startled. He had not thought of leaving the mountain after the battle. He had not thought to survive the battle.

The sound of footsteps in the kitchen interrupted them, and then a hand reached out and drew the skin that hung across the doorway aside.

Jalintu stepped through, followed by several other men, dressed as Sei'lach was. They flanked her, spreading out behind her as soldiers would a general. Or a king.

Fyar's eyes widened. "Jalintu?"

Jalintu's lips curved in a smile on seeing him, but she made no move toward him. She had changed into the same woven brown tunic and trousers as Seilach and his men, but over her shoulders was thrown a rich fur mantle, and on her waist a thick belt studded with bronze had been added.

From the belt hung twin axes, blades glinting in the light from the lanterns.

"I have heard of your tribe. They say your chieftain wields dual axes, and is a whirl on the battlefield. Just like the bird that names your tribe."

Fyar's eyes widened further in realization.

Suddenly everything made sense. The horsemen's desperate need to reclaim her. Her inability to milk goats, or do other basic chores. Her skill with a bow, and knowledge of battle strategy. Her foresight. Her quickness, her aptitude.

The air of confidence she displayed, the elegance, even when doing something as simple as brushing knots from the tangle of a goat's hair. How could he have not noticed it before? She was, Jalintu was...

Beside his bed Sei'lach stood, and bowed to the woman before them, before turning back to Fyar.

"Let me introduce you properly," the older chieftain said. "This is Eun'geal, Chieftain of the Jalintu tribe, and Banrih of the Celtae Alliance. Our queen."

*~*~*~*~*~*

ONC word count: 22337