This is chapter one of An Seilg (“on shel-leg.” Gaelic for “The Hunted”): An adventure, love story set in ancient lands akin to��Celtic Ireland, full of lost love, pursued hopes, battles, magic, deceit, and survival.��

This is a work in progress, unedited, and straight from my mind to the page. Hence, I cannot even write a synopsis because I myself don’t yet know the entire story. When I write, the characters tell me what is and what will be, not the other way round. So if you desire, plunge into the world of An Seilg and let us see where we’ll be taken…

Pounding hooves crushed skulls into flying fragments while an enraged heart rammed against the bars of a mortal body. Torin was about to die, to join the bones of an ancient battle ground. His skull would rest among the dead unless he could lead the Northmen warriors into the cavernous labyrinths of the Cairns of Saol.

���Saol,��� he growled. The tombs of life.

By calling upon the wretched spirits of murderers and those condemned of evil, he would live. His damned pursuers, however, would look into the divine and unforgiving eyes of the Beisht Kione. A heavy scent of mold, of earthen decay, and growth made his lips curl into a calculating grin. The sky was not dark enough to match the black blood coursing through his heart, but today he would paint the clouds red with sweeping arcs of his axe. His beloved Keyne would hear his savage cries across the seas, and know that under a mantle drenched in death, he would find her again.

���My sweet Keyne,��� he said to his own ears. With nothing but his touch and his voice, he slowed his steed to traverse the rocky terrain. He looked behind at the five horses and their masters galloping across the moor. ���I give you five more worthless lives, and to the crows I give rotting hides.���

With a, ���Hah,��� he urged his horse down the treacherous cliffs, down to the lashing waves and Cairns of Saol. The ocean was a heaving, thrashing mistress this frigid day, scorned by the sun, and Torin was grateful for their discord. It would be easy to sacrifice the men in her suffocating breast. Shale cracked and shattered loose, tumbling hundreds of feet into the waves, as he carefully led his horse down a path that spelled ruin with every step. He inhaled the salty musk of a watery grave awaiting the men now scrambling down the cliff behind him, excited to see their prey so near. A gull screamed, the waves crashed, hooves clattered and scraped, his heart thrummed in anticipation, but he heard only the voice in his head whispering, ���For you, Keyne, I give five more worthless lives.���

All this death, these years of relentless pursuit, for a woman that had been taken from him two long years ago. All this because he loved her like the lus m��r that clung to sea cliffs as he was now. The dainty blooms of what the non-natives called, Foxglove, were just like his Keyne, beautiful but deadly.

First the Legionarii, and now the Northmen, had invaded his ancestral lands and tried to throw her children in chains. But her children fought back. They would not bend knee, nor bow head, nor lay sword at the feet of any would-be lord who mounted Highland soil without tilling her rich lands, or watching their children���s children be born into her sacred arms. This was the land of the Druids, the Celts, the Picts, and now it was the land of the hunted, but the hunted held power unknown to these foreigners.

Torin leapt from his horse���s sweaty back onto the narrow trail as he came to the cave���s maw. The small, ragged beach was still sixty feet below, but a fine mist of spray turned the path slick and dangerous. If the animal didn���t slow the Northmen, the slippery stones certainly would. Torin, however, was a son of the wild, kin to wolf and stag, and the sea spoke to him, guiding his steps. He adjusted the axe strapped to his chest with leather cords, and felt his body tingle with a thousand thorns. If the gods favored him this day, his magic would be strong enough, and the invaders would meet their worst nightmare inside the Cairns of Saol. Torin prayed that he would have the power to call this one favor upon the sea. If not, then he prayed that Keyne would guide more than just his heart.

Shouting and the piercing cries of horses and men meeting an icy, suffocating death, told him that even fewer now followed in his tracks. His laugh echoed while he nimbly danced down the path like the watery reflections undulating around the expansive cave carved from the relentless, caressing touch of the surf. There was only the tiniest of outcropping from the rough walls that led into the cairn���s belly while sloshing blue-green water gurgled below, belying its fathomless depths. One wrong step and the dripping stone teeth would chew the unfortunate into rags of flesh, another sacrifice to quench the cairn���s thirst.

When��he reached his destination, a hidden alcove near the back of the main cave, and a man���s height above the path, he climbed into its sanctuary. While faint rattles of loosened rock, and even fainter voices of agitated men met his trained ears, he began muttering an ancient language only the god���s understood. He had moments before his enemies reached the back of the cave where the path split in two, moments before they possibly discovered his childhood haven. Torin���s tongue twisted faster and faster around the powerful words, commanding yet humble. The Beisht Kione was a creature born in the abyss of oceans and cavities of heartless men. It was incredibly dangerous to call upon such darkness, but he���d done it before, and he would do it now.

A clatter and plop of stone in water silenced his words, and his hands loosened the straps then tightened on the axe handle. The four men could not see him yet, but he could make out their silhouetted forms only strides from his shelter. If the Beisht Kione did not honor his plea, he would at least cleave two, even three, skulls before the last man faced him. Torin had no desire to join the gods before he was able to hold Keyne���s elderly face in his own long lived and loving palms, but then again, perhaps he would be dining in Elysium tonight. The man in front raised his sword, halting the others, and Torin clenched his jaw. Waves lapped against serrated stone, eerily lit from the faint reflected light outside. With a gesture, the leader, then the others, slipped behind an outcropping, and Torin inhaled slowly, calmly. They knew he was here.

Every fiber of his body grew still and cold as the slimy walls enclosing him. As soon as the Northman was within range, he would lunge, flashing iron and brawn. ��For a moment his mind, clear and sharp with the possibility of death, jumped to his first memory of this place. Nine winters old, and he had already killed. He was a murderer, and the Beisht Kione had rumbled from the bottomless pit beneath the crimson smeared waves. The beast had heard his cries that terrible day in the emerald dappled cairn because Torin was more than just a murderer; in his veins ran powerful druidic magic. With slick palms stained with regret and mortal fear, young Torin learned his mother���s secret, and ran from it ever since, until now.

The axe was an extension of muscle, his muscle an extension of the rage within his heart, and his heart an extension of his love for Keyne. A tiny noise whipped his awareness back to the present. One of the men was almost directly below him. Nostrils flaring in preparation, Torin took a silent, deep breath, and tensed to attack, then a wave splashed up, wetting the Northmens��� boots. They didn���t notice the wave���s warning, but Torin���s heart stuttered as his breath caught. Another wave, larger this time, soaked the men���s legs. As one, they leapt away from the edge, pressing their backs to the wall. Their prey, watching just above their heads, grinned.

The cave���s teeth far above all their heads trembled as a low, thunderous moan emanated from the cairn���s throat. Waves were now thrashing higher up the cave walls, and the Northmen began to shout and turn to escape, but that was a futile effort. The Beisht Kione had come.

End of Chapter One

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