The Legacy of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
A Duchy of Leinster AAR.
CHAPTER 1. The Gods’ Treasures
1.1 The Fir Bolgs
Following the trail of the beast was harder and harder every mile they rode. The horses were almost exhausted after one day and one night, but their foe was escaping. Diarmat considered for one moment the possibility of giving up. Then he remembered the cottage.
Three children, literaly reduced to pieces, half devoured, in a pool of blood. Their parents could not protect them, both had part of the neck torn apart by powerful claws. The baby, poor thing, was the worst corpse. The eyes removed, the chest partly eaten, till the heart.
Diarmat’s only companion in this mad hunt was the old Faelan, his ancient body hard as iron, his will undeniable. It was him who convinced Diarmat not to go and fetch guards, huntsmen or just some peasants to accompany them. The trail is still fresh, he stated plainly, looking at the huge wolf-like prints outside the devastated house, but if we wait even a few minutes, we will never catch him. So they went, and Diarmat hoped no great turmoil would come from that. After all, he was riding in the countryside of his vassal, the King of Osraige, when all began; it was far from Leinster and his wife was not expecting his return that night. She wouldn’t worry. If we come back alive, at least.
Faelan slowed the pace of his horse, approaching a forest. Guessing from the coldness of the air, Diarmat decided that it would be dawn in less than two hours. His hands, gripping the reins, were badly aching, he had not been riding for so long since the Munster campaign twenty years before. Twenty! He was younger than Faelan of half a score years, but still he had celebrated his seventieth birthday the last winter. He was an age really few men could reach.
I think he stopped nearby to rest, maybe along a river, said Faelan. He dismounted and unsheathed his longsword. From here we should go on foot. And say our prayers, just in case. Do you recognize this forest?
Diarmat realized they had reached the borders of his vassal’s dominion and the forest already belonged to the Kingdom of Connacht. Of course they should not trespass. But the words of the old Faelan sounded somewhat odd, and even more disquieting was his hard look. He knew something about the beast, that was sure. Diarmat slowly dismounted and started to feel worried. He had never been a great warrior and did not know how two old men could ever confront the dreadful, murderous beast. Passing an hand on his chest, he prayed the Lord to spare his heart. And maybe even the neck. And all the rest, if you have time. Amen.
Everything was silent around them, but the merry sound of the spring. The water was refreshing, and a little of light was showing in the sky. Dawn was close, now. And luckily, the forest was less dark and thick than what Diarmat had expected. But everything was still. Everything was too quite. I think, said Diarmat, we were just one or two minutes late. Look how fresh are the prints, it has just run away! But Faelan did not look at the trail, he kept still, eyes closed. Then he whispered, He is not running away, he is closing his trap on us. Prepare your blade, Diarmat. Prepare yourself.
Diarmat looked around in dismay realizing that the hunters had become the prey. A kind of cold fear overwhelmed him, then he saw some kind of shape moving almost outside his area of vision. Suddenly his heart was beating furiously. His hands were almost shaking. Never he had felt so powerless, not on the field of battle, not in the complexities and poisons of politics. But here... A shadow moved, too quickly to be seen, then vanished. But something was looking at him, Diarmat knew. And then he realized, and with the realization he felt utterly paralyzed by panic. The two of them were old, but their foe was older, and more wicked.
Two eyes of fire burned in front of him.
Diarmat tried to move, stumbled, was on earth. The beast was a few feet distant and could easily leap on him. Then Faelan interposed, raising his sword with both hands, and looking at the great wolf. Faelan, the ancient eighty-one years old warrior, the greatest soldier of his generation. The wolf was on him, attacking him, and then fell. The old one had moved quickly, the blade arching in the air, cutting the chest of the beast.
Then Diarmat closed his eyes, thanking the Lord. When he opened them again, Faelan was on the beast, that was severely wounded. With all his strength he hit the wolf, and than he hit it again, and again. The howls of suffering were terrible.
When Diarmat went close, the beast, even with a dozen of deadly wounds, was still alive. And raging, powerless. A though beast, he said to Faelan, And I owe you my life. However, it was not the old warrior the one who answered. The beast could barely move its fiery eyes, most of its body cut and smashed. But when they moved to look at Diarmat, he felt again paralyzed and scared. It is you, a voice said in his mind, you that call yourself Diarmat, King of Leinster. You are the beast, and all your kind. You have infested all the world, but soon this will change...
Almost fainting, Diarmat put hand at the golden cross he had at his neck. You are a demon, son of Satan, creature of sin! May the Lord... But he was interrupted by his companion. Stop this non-sense. Look at the wounds, do you see? They are healing. At this speed he will be dangerous again in less then an hour, and my bones are tired. And I bet the “Lord” is not going to be very useful. He sighed. For ancient desease, ancient cure.
Faelan put his hand to the neck, but as Diarmat had observed for all his life, he never wore a cross, only a tiny bag. According to his father, he was still pagan, or maybe a worshipper of the Devil, but he never took those words seriously. Moreover, a great soldier was more valuable than a pious man. My grandsire, said Faelan slowly, who was your grandsire’s gransire, was a great man. Cinaed. Cinaed, the last High Druid of Ireland.
What do you mean? He was not an heretic, cried Diarmat, our family has embraced the Christ since the time of Saint Patrick! For one moment he almost forgot the great beast at his feet, and the danger for his life. The honour of his family and his immortal soul were at the stake.
Then, replied Faelan, see if you can do this with that cross of yours. He took from his bag a small talisman, with the shape of a bronze sword. Than, slowly, he touched with it the head of the wounded beast and whispered words in a language Diarmat could not understand. There was a terrible howl of pain, and the fire in the wolf’s eye was extinguished. The wounds that were healing opened again, and blood flowed on the ground.
Ancient being, said Faelan to the beast, you will regenerate no more. Now you will die, but unfortunately for you, your body is strong. Death will come slowly. He paused for a moment. I can show you mercy. But you must answer me in earnest. So I ask you, by the Claiomh Solais, that this talisman represents and was the bane of your people, why have you trespassed the border of the country that was given to you? Why have you broken the ancient pact with the Gods?
The beast was clearly suffering, and fear was in his now mortal eyes. Diarmat heard again the voice in his head: I was ordered to bring chaos and mayhem. Faelan looked puzzled for a moment. Who ordered you?
The voice in the mind revealed the utmost fear and reverence. The Fomorians. They have returned. And I conjure here their assist... With a quick slash of the sword, Faelan beheaded the beast.
Diarmat put an hand on Faelan shoulder. I beg your pardon for my religious hysteria. I couldn’t imagine... He gave a quick look at the corpse. After the beast had died, it quickly changed. It had no more the shape of a wolf, but now it was painfully similar to a naked man. Or a kind of caricature of man, deformed and ugly. What was it?
Faelan slowly answered. A children of the old times. One of the Fir Bolgs.
Moreover, beware: my focus is on the fiction, so no attept to world conquest - or at least, so I think now. 
