The Fairy Mound Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Rory B. Byrne

  ISBN: 978-1-952134-19-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Secrets of the Past

  Chapter 2: Ancient Bloodline

  Chapter 3: The Father’s Shadow

  Chapter 4: Clan Slora

  Chapter 5: Friend or Foe

  Chapter 6: Abandoned

  Chapter 7: Ghillie Dhu

  Chapter 8: Travelers

  Chapter 9: Shadow Army

  Chapter 10: Odd Man Out

  Chapter 11: Bean Nighe

  Chapter 12: Airman Hillyard

  Chapter 13: Visitors in the Night

  Chapter 14: Glaistig

  Chapter 15: Fire Beasts

  About the Author

  Also by Rory B. Byrne

  Prologue

  120 CE, Caledonia (modern day Scotland) Legio IX Hispana (9 th Legion)

  Quintus Petillius Ceriali coaxed sparks from the fire pit with the end of his sword. The legion looked to him for answers. All Quintus had was more questions and no gods to follow. They had sustained massive casualties following the march northward. The Ninth Legion was a mighty force of the Imperial Roman army. Quintus’ men had shed more blood for the republic than any legion in any province.

  Tasked with the culling of the tribes north of Britannia, Quintus took his prodigious legion over Hadrian’s Wall and marched for nine days in the treacherous, untamed company. One of the legatus—a high-ranking military officer—joked that the Ninth Legion marching for nine days accounted for something.

  Then the first of the attacks came without warning. Warriors north of the defensive fortification were without masters and discipline. The tribes attacked with stone and spear. They fled as soldiers formed lines. They refused to meet as men on the field of battle. The tribes took to the Highlands and used natural formations as guards and barriers. Their defenses proved serviceable, and Quintus’ men succumbed to raiding parties. Some barbarians threw themselves against swords and spears of Roman centurions while others bashed in the heads of the Romans. It was their attack style, lose a few and kill a lot.

  Quintus sat at the fire and nursed his pride.

  “My Lord,” a man said.

  Quintus saw Caesius Nasica standing at attention, waiting for the commander to acknowledge him.

  “Yes, Caesius?”

  “We’ve buried the dead, Sir. We’re tending the wounded,” Caesius said.

  Other ranking Roman centurions moved closer to Quintus’ fire to hear the latest reports. They were once four thousand men strong, but now they had lost at least a thousand men. Some of them lost their lives to thieves in the night, sneaking into the Roman encampments to slit throats or drive spears into the thoracic cavity. It was an area sufficient to penetrate for a quick and quiet death. It was a coward’s fight.

  “We cannot continue this way. We must feed and rest. They come during the day and throw themselves on swords. They steal into the tents at night and kill us in our sleep.” Caesius looked to the other legion commanders. “We cannot stay awake and rest at the same time.”

  “We take turns, Caesius,” Quintus said. “We fortify the tents with centurions posted in a great circle. We put the wounded in the center. We sleep three to a tent, one awake. We switch every four hours. We allow centurions outside the circle to rest and take up posts.”

  “Sir, this is madness. We cannot defend and advance.” It was Lucius Aelianus.

  He wanted Quintus’ command but was not brave enough to take it for himself. He conspired against Quintus and the other commanders. His placement in the legion was from the hand of the emperor, an extension of the Roman family. He was Quintus’ enemy more than the northern tribes.

  “I say we return to the wall. We increase our legion tenfold. We return and burn the mountains to ash.”

  “Sir, something is coming,” a centurion shouted.

  Quintus stood, following the pointing guard. He ran to the head of the troops, followed by the other commanders.

  “Rally the soldiers,” he shouted.

  More centurions formed a line facing the lone figure on the plateau. Even from a distance, Quintus saw the shape of a woman under the flowing white gown.

  “Is she the barbarian’s queen?”

  “She is a witch.”

  Quintus heard the uneasy soldiers’ worried talk. He had no time for gossip that sucked courage from the troops.

  “What does she want?”

  “Parlay?” Lucius suggested. He was a man willing to surrender rather than lose his life in honor of the battle.

  “She does not move.”

  “She is alone.”

  “Archers, Sir?”

  Tactical advantage, nighttime arrows, death from the sky, the legion had many longbow archers waiting for orders.

  “Stand ready,” Quintus said. He glared at Lucius. “If it is parlay, I will seek her surrender. We will not yield to a single tribal wench.” Quintus looked at his second-in-command. He grabbed the man’s gauntlet. “Caesius, take no quarter if I am struck down. I will seek her counsel. We will settle this as warriors.”

  The remaining legion of Roman centurions cheered as Quintus stepped from their formation. In the dark of the Highlands, under the colorless face of the moon, Quintus marched through the long grass to see what made the woman illuminated with a purplish hue. There was no fire that Quintus knew that created such light. It was as if she was a source of radiance.

  The rolling moors Quintus walked on seemed to ripple underfoot. He could not see in the dark. If it was animal and not earth that he walked on, Quintus did not want to see its form.

  There was a scent on the air, a musky animal odor like caged beasts waiting in the jails of the coliseum. Quintus ignored the stench and the soil that moved under his boots.

  Close enough to the mysterious figure, Quintus saw her waiting. Her pallid face and hands under the gossamer gown, she was both angelic and deadly. Quintus saw her eyes, the glowing color of summer iris blooms. She had the countenance of a goddess. Her alluring beauty threatened to bewitch Quintus if he stared too long.

  It took strain in his thighs to climb the steep hillside to reach her level. Quintus stood a few meters from her and marveled at her exquisiteness.

  “You come for my lands,” she said.

 
Most of the Highland accounts from centurion scouts said the barbarians spoke a language that was unique and vastly different from that of the Roman soldiers. Yet, this ethereal woman, tall, with long silky hair that flowed around her head as if underwater—she spoke Latin, just as Quintus.

  “We come to claim this land under the order of the Roman Empire.”

  “You come to die, Quintus Petillius Ceriali,” the lanky woman said. There was no fear behind the delivery.

  “Your soldiers are undisciplined. You are unorganized. You fight out of desperation. We are three thousand strong. We have more legions coming to this very dawn.” It was a lie, but she was one. They were many. “You have my word as commander of the Ninth Legion, tell your men to lay down their arms, and I will spare their lives and yours.”

  She appeared amused. As if the idea of her people subjugated was a joke.

  “You are not in command here, Roman,” she said. It came out of her mouth like an insult. “Look, look at your men.”

  From the plateau, Quintus saw the various fires from the troops. The tents, the soldiers, the movement, they were fighting. The battle silent, there were creatures more substantial than the vicious lions Quintus had seen in the coliseums. The creatures swarmed over the soldiers like ravenous monstrous dogs.

  Other beasts lurked in their midst. Creatures that cast luminescence from their bodies, Quintus saw one rise from the earth and pull three soldiers into their graves. More followed. It was a slaughter. The defenseless wounded screamed silently as they succumbed to teeth and nails. Why could Quintus not hear the battle cries or the rendering of the dead? There was no clash of metal against metal. Swords slashed at the beasts. Quintus saw several of the creatures felled by sword and spear and arrows, yet more came. He had walked through their numbers to reach the woman on the hill. She was in command of a ruthless and powerful force, unlike anything Quintus had seen before. He knew upon her word that it was the last thing he’d see in this world.

  “We only wanted to bring you the ways of the Romans. We want to teach you of our ways and the ways of our gods.”

  She laughed. It was an affront to his dying legion.

  “I am Nicneven. I bow to no man. Your empire has no place in my lands. This is Elphame. You are not welcome here. All shall die.”

  Quintus looked across the black grasses at his fallen legion. More centurions dead, hundreds dying, the creatures feasting on the living and the dead, it was a sight he couldn’t endure. Quintus had a dirk hidden in the folds of his woolen tunic. It was a deadly close-quarter weapon with blackened steel and a carved rosewood grip.

  It came out as he saw the last of his centurions fall. No humans were standing after the creatures slashed and bit their limbs and necks. Quintus used that moment to strike at the woman.

  The queen of Elphame, this Nicneven, she was a woman of substance, flesh, and bone, and Quintus wanted her blood on his hands when he died with his legion.

  Secrets of the Past

  Simon was one of many who worked at the offsite facility in Eskdale, Scotland, not far from Inverness. At the time, Simon fell into a luckless position. It was his skills in reading, deciphering, and understanding Scottish lore that made Brian seek out Simon. Once a thankless professor at Birmingham Metropolitan College, he immediately accepted the post at the remote site in northern Scotland.

  Then, he fell in love. Her name was Phoebe Biel. She was as lovely as heather blossom. She rebuffed Simon’s affections. Phoebe was a woman of principle and devoted to her husband and daughter. Simon was a pushy coworker in her eyes. That’s when he learned to love from afar. The woman had a determined focus that went beyond anything Simon had experienced before.

  “How are you this morning, Phoebe?” he asked. Simon carried two cups of steaming tea with him from the commissary.

  Phoebe wore layers of clothing that helped keep out the creeping chill in the cavern and didn’t look up from the laptop that took all her attention.

  “Hello, Phoebe?” he said again.

  “Oh, sorry,” Phoebe said. She looked up from the computer screen. She removed her glasses and pulled at the spirals of coppery hair around her eyes.

  “Did you spend the night here again?” he asked.

  “What time is it?”

  Simon handed Phoebe the teacup. She accepted it but placed it carefully on the workstation table. Simon saw the framed photograph of her husband and daughter. Phoebe said they had the picture done shortly before she left New York to take a few months in Scotland, working for Equinox Technologies. It wasn’t hard to miss the wedding ring or the fawning over her daughter. Simon sometimes eavesdropped on their video conference calls when Phoebe talked to Harper.

  Simon wanted that kind of love in life. He wanted someone to share stories with and someone who loved him unconditionally. Phoebe, the brilliant American professor, had a Ph.D. in advanced quantum physics. Simon didn’t understand Phoebe’s job, but everything she did, all the input, had to do with his deciphering the ancient Celtic symbols carved in the mosaic floor stones.

  “It’s always so cold in here,” he said. “Did you ever notice how it feels like the floor is chillier than the rest of the place?”

  “Do you have the new batch of symbols for me yet?” she asked.

  Phoebe wasn’t interested in the tea, the small talk, or Simon. She wanted his work because her work depended on what he compiled from the symbols.

  “I will have the next set for you later today,” Simon said.

  She looked crestfallen. Phoebe put her glasses back on and went back to the data-crunching she was doing on the laptop. It was very advanced mathematics, beyond anything Simon comprehended. He knew volumes of the written and oral histories of the Scottish lore. Even the portions of collected works before the British tried taking over Scotland in the late 1600s, early 1700s.

  Simon had Phoebe for as long as he wanted because he took as long or as short as he wanted on the deciphering. If prolonging her time at the facility in Eskdale meant he had more time to be close to her, he’d do everything he could to keep her in Scotland. Keep Phoebe close to him.

  Simon sipped at the tea and looked over the railing to the cavern floor. The platform went around the circular carvings on the floor. It was a work in progress. The facility archeologists had to receive direct authorization from Brian MacIomhair before they exposed more of the ancient carvings. With each section came a whole new set of work details.

  Simon had to decode and decipher the Celtic symbols. Each set of symbols had a collection of meanings. The ancient language didn’t have a cipher key. He had to rely on other historians’ work regarding the meanings. Most symbols had complexities that varied from one end of the vocabulary to the other. It wasn’t an exact science. Sometimes it took hours to arrange a collection of meanings. Those meanings needed a group analysis, and Simon knew no one in the world had his insight and skills when it came to the stone carvings.

  “Simon, is there any way you can give me a little more data? I can’t keep stalling my equations because you’re not providing me with enough information.”

  Her American accent had a northeast flare when Phoebe got irritated. Simon was an expert on languages, syntax, dialects. It came with years of studying. He had a place in the world. Simon was a necessary fixture in the facility. Without him, the rest of the scientists couldn’t work on Phoebe’s expanding quantum entanglement programming.

  “You sound as though you’re upset,” he said. “You know I am working as hard as you. This isn’t like your work, inputting zeros and ones into a machine and letting it compute the answer.”

  Phoebe guffawed and shook her head. “That isn’t even close to what we do, Simon. Look, I get you’re trying your best.” She swiveled in the chair at the workstation to fully face him.

  Simon saw the reddish highlights in Phoebe’s hair under the high intensity LED lights that ill
uminated the chamber to eliminate shadows from the mosaic stones.

  “I work diligently,” he said. Simon didn’t like people questioning his work ethics. He also didn’t like seeing Phoebe upset. Simon certainly didn’t want the woman he loved unconditionally angry with him.

  “I spoke to Brian a few days ago.”

  “Why on Earth—”

  “I think you’re working as best you can, Simon. I think you’re a gifted linguist. But I feel as though you’ve reached your limits.”

  It was as if Phoebe slapped Simon across the face. Her words stung. He nearly dropped the trembling teacup in his hand.

  “Brian’s looking to get someone who can help you shoulder the burden.”

  Simon felt tea slosh onto his thumb. He saw Phoebe watching the liquid drip down the side of the teacup and thud on his shoe. She gave Simon a hurt look.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you, Simon. I need this data. It’s the only way I can finish my work and go home. You understand,” she said.

  Simon didn’t understand. He had no one waiting for him. His apartment at the facility was a small, one-room area where he had a cot. Phoebe left the site every night to spend time with her extended family in the Weatherspoon Guesthouse. It was a refined country establishment and a popular destination for people visiting the Highlands.

  Simon knew everything about Phoebe. Biel was her married name. Her family came from Scotland. She was a nearly pureblood Scot, and it showed in her features and her temper.

  “I can have the additional characters for you,” Simon said. He switched hands to hold the cup and wiped his fingers on his pants. “I wish you’d come to me sooner. I don’t think you needed to involve Brian in this matter.”

  “I think Brian is aware of your progress. It’s slowing the rest of our work. I got the impression that he’s considered additional help for a few weeks now. I didn’t need to give him any incentive.”

  “Phoebe, you speak as if I’m a child. I understand what’s at stake here. We’re not on a grand schedule.”

  “I am, Simon. I need to go home. I have a ten-year-old daughter who’s tired of talking to her mother thousands of miles away. I have classes this coming semester at the college. I haven’t worked at all on the necessary syllabus.” She looked at Simon as if he was a frightened child. “Your work has been detrimental to my progress. I appreciate everything you did. But maybe it’s time to let others help you with the workload.”