Shadow Rising

                                                                                    Prologue


                                                                                    1574 A.D.




Caius Pray pulled the lapels of his black coat together, fastening it tight against the crisp early-morning breeze. The Irish autumn was cooler than he imagined. He stood on the docks of Dundalk, savouring the smell of whiskey, tar and the peculiar odours of goods and people coming and going. His captain-general, Van, marched towards him along the pier, followed closely by the portly Lord William Blythe and his plump young son, Henry.
“Our English delegate reports a fine batch of potential slaves, my lord,” Van bellowed, allowing a smile to crease his fine-chiselled Japanese features.
“That is indeed music to my ears,” replied Pray. “I’m sure you must be gagging to tell me the good news yourself, Blythe.”
William Blythe forced a smile in return, revealing a jagged set of yellow teeth.
“You have certainly arrived at the most opportune time, Lord Pray. Walter Devereux, Queen Elizabeth’s loyal aide, has finally killed Brian O’Neill. The Irish peasantry are ripe for the picking.”

This was indeed good news, but there was something unsettling in the smile that snaked its way across Blythe’s fleshy face.
“What are you hiding from me, Blythe? Is there still opposition to be had?”
Blythe glanced between Pray and Van, “Nothing my men and Irish sympathisers can't handle.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. What opposition remains?”
“Scotsmen - Gallowglass to be exact."
Pray had heard of the Gallowglass. Fierce, skilled and large Scottish warriors of mixed Gaelic and Scandinavian heritage, they were known for their fearlessness and brutal efficiency. With great swords and axes they could decimate a cavalry charge and still have energy to face an onslaught of foot soldiers.
“How many do we expect to face as opposition? I did not bring enough men to combat a large force of Gallowglass, Blythe."
Blythe fidgeted with his small hands. “We will keep them separated, my friend. My men will strike in individual raids before their leader, MacDonnell, has a chance to rally them.”
Pray nodded, carefully examining Blythe and searching for any sign of deception or incompetence. He loathed the small man, and questioned his military prowess, but he was ruthless and efficient, and had capable military men at his disposal.
“And his men - do any of them stand out as threats above the others? I have seen many battles, and am always wary of those with a reputation.”
“Alastair Nevin,” Blythe hissed, narrowing his bulbous eyes. 
“So Lord Blythe has himself a nemesis.” Pray smiled.
“He is MacDonnell’s lapdog and the self-imposed vigilante of Louth. He has foiled my plans in the past, and I want nothing more than to run him in myself.”
“You may well get that chance, but it begs the question...why haven't you done so already?”
“I am saving him until last…him, and his degenerate family," replied Blythe, squinting once more.
Pray nodded, a part of him curious to see the man for himself.
“I will not deny you your personal vengeance. But remember, Blythe...my mission takes precedence above all else.” Pray held Blythe's gaze until the smaller man was forced to lower his eyes.
“That will be all, Blythe. My men and I will join you at your estate within the hour.”
“Certainly, Lord Pray.” Blythe bowed, pulling at his son's chemise to mimic his forced gesture of obedience. With that they turned and waddled along the pier, flanked by a small contingent of guards.
“I do not trust him, my Lord,” Van remarked, in his steady, serious tone.
“Nor do I, my friend, but Blythe is too well connected to the English nobility. He has ensured  the full cooperation of British ships stationed in these waters. The Irish are indeed powerless, and with the rich supply of slaves on offer, we will have the hoard of Caucasian slaves we need.” He turned and clasped his shorter aide on his muscular shoulder. “Besides, I'm curious to see how the gorbellied slug rides a horse.” Both men chuckled as they strode towards the town of Dundalk. Today was shaping to be a fine day in the history of Pray’s growing empire.










                                                                                                  Chapter One






Ronan's chest heaved as he darted between the trees. Thick branches flicked against his cheeks, leaving morning dew to mingle with his sweat. The smell of pine and mud filled his aching lungs. Horseman closed on his position, shaking the ground beneath him.
“You can't run forever, maggot!” One of Blythe’s Irish turncoats shouted from mere feet away. Ronan dashed towards a pile of felled trees, launching as far into them as his tired legs could carry him. He landed on a wet log and skid into branches protruding through the nearby thicket, his thighs thudding into a sharp bough. A fierce cry escaped his lips as he stumbled to his knees. Keep running, you idiot. He clenched his teeth and sprang to his feet, before leaping from the wood pile onto a patch of wild flowers nearby. He cursed his love for Aisha, and how it made him reckless. Three horsemen turned to face him on the woodpile, giving him precious time to cross the open space. The trees in this forest cluster were too dense and too littered with debris to allow horses to follow him. He smiled as he disappeared into the undergrowth.

Did Blythe see my face? Ronan had defied his father's command to never again trespass on the Blythe estate. If Blythe had recognised Ronan, the consequences would be dire. Even if Blythe chose not to exact retribution on Ronan or his family, Ronan's father would likely discover the truth - and this terrified Ronan as much as the ever-present fear of an English attack. But Ronan loved Aisha, and not even the fear of death could keep him away from her. He walked through dew-laden grass on one of Angus MacDonnell's fields, straining his senses for anything out of the ordinary. A pleasing, salt-tinged breeze caressed his pale cheeks. He stared towards the eastern horizon. The gently rolling waves of Dundalk Bay were visible beyond the fields of rolling farmland and scattered age-old forests.

Most of the farmlands north of the nearby township of Dundalk belonged to former Gallowglass. Since the thirteenth century, the Gallowglass had proved pivotal in the outcome of many of the regional conflicts. Outside active military service, these influential warriors found work as bodyguards for Irish lords. Ronan's father had lived this life of danger and prestige before being granted a tract of land to call his own. Born Alastair Nevin, he made a name for himself as one of the notable champions of the O'Neill clan. But the influx of Gallowglass had not gone unnoticed. The fear of a Franco-Scottish invasion launched from Ireland forced England to take the offensive. Following the failed Desmond Rebellions three years earlier, seven hundred Gallowglass were executed on Queen Elizabeth's orders. Though his compatriots assured him otherwise, Alastair believed it only a matter of time before other Gallowglass suffered a similar fate. The Nevin family lived with the ever-present threat of an English attack looming over them.

At the foot of the steep grassy hill Ronan now descended, a makeshift archery range and a series of padded training dummies poked through the low-lying mist. For the past four years, Ronan had honed his martial skills here. The sons of every Gallowglass within fifty miles trained here, under the patronage of the esteemed Angus MacDonnell. Angus had commanded Alastair, along with three hundred other Gallowglass, for over twenty years. Besides martial training, Angus provided education for the sons and daughters of his former Gallowglass. English, Latin, mathematics and science had become a daily routine. Though Alastair prepared his children for conflict, he hoped they would avoid a life touched by conflict and misery by the grace of education.

Ronan came to a halt opposite a training dummy, staring into the lifeless 'eyes' one of the Gallowglass boys had drawn with a lump of charcoal. Who were the riders I saw with Blythe? He fired a straight punch to the throat of the tattered dummy, delighting as the dummy shuddered under the impact. Morning dew coated its sack-cloth covering, leaving his knuckles with a cool, wet sheen. As he had made his escape from the Blythe manor earlier that morning, his luck deserted him when spotted by an approaching column of horsemen. Blythe, ostentatious as ever in his bright colours, had been visible even in the twilight. But it was the horsemen clad in black that had sent a shiver of fear through Ronan. They rode in a military formation, well equipped for battle, and even Blythe paled in significance. Ronan struck the dummy once more, before setting off for home.

I have to stop this. I can't keep seeing Aisha and not expect consequences. As he neared the western boundary of his family's modest tract of land, Ronan found it increasingly difficult to bury his guilt. Their times together were too fleeting since Aisha's mother passed away almost a year to the day. The daughter of a revered Gallowglass and a former Persian slave, Aisha had lost both her parents in under two years. Her father, Michael McCabe, had once served under Alastair's command. A brilliant and accomplished warrior, Michael had perished while holding a bridge crossing against an English cavalry charge. His former Gallowglass comrades had taken it upon themselves to support his widow and daughter as best they could. But faced with overwhelming debts, Aisha's mother, Fatima, had been reduced to a servant on William Blythe's estate. True to his form, Blythe had purchased and plundered the outstanding debts of every non-English inhabitant within a hundred miles of Dundalk. The McCabe debt, owing to Michael's failed trading venture to the Far East, was considerable. Aisha and her mother had been reduced to a status of near slavery. Fatima had taken to drinking, distancing herself from those she had once held dear. On a winter evening eight months prior, she had inexplicably wandered out into the snow and perished, clutching a piece of her husband's armour. Ronan was now all Aisha had left in this world.

As he emerged from a thin line of trees to the north of his family's cottage, Ronan paused for a moment to watch for any stirrings. It was still very early, but his family would wake soon to begin their morning routine. A distinctive snap of undergrowth sounded somewhere behind him. Ronan ducked, turning as he did to face the source of the sound. There, fifteen feet behind him on the other side of the tree line, stood his travelling companion, Clover. More akin to a horse than a dog, Clover stood more than half as tall as Ronan. He often wandered in from Aengus MacDonnell’s farmstead in search of Ronan and his siblings, and usually succeeded in charming his way into sampling portions of their breakfast. But there was something different in Clover’s whines today; something unsettling. Thick drool surrounded Clover’s shaggy mouth, and he walked towards Ronan with a heavy limp. There, on the Wolfhound’s right leg, was a deep, gaping wound. Dark blood ran the length of Clover's fawn-coloured limb. Blythe...you sick bastard.

                                                                        * *

“Da! Da!” Ronan's father always slept light, and the agitation in Ronan’s voice shook the Nevin family from their beds. Ronan stood with his back to the open doorway, making it appear as though he had just stepped outside. Alastair stumbled through the oak doorway. His glassy stare fell on Ronan, and then to Clover, furling his brows upon noticing Clover’s injury.
“Is it a bullet, Da?”
“I believe so, but he'll live,” replied Alastair, kneeling to inspect Clover's wound. By this time the rest of the Nevin clan had assembled around the wounded beast. Cliona, Liam’s twin, and the voice of reason for the Nevin siblings, smothered Clover with sounds of sympathy. She stood next to her mother, her deep blue eyes fixed in horror at the open wound.
“He’ll be ok, he’s the pride of Louth and a tough beast, to be sure,” said her mother, Molly, as she cradled Clover's muzzle.
“It’s got to be a boar, I mean look at the way the wound curls inwards,” said Sean, the eldest. He stood with a triumphant pose, shifting his strong square-jaw back and forth, which, along with his deep set blue eyes and blond wavy hair, he shared with his father. Tall for his age, he exploited his physicality at every opportunity, thrusting out his chest and folding his arms in a sign of dominance.
“How about we put this to a wager,” said Liam, mimicking his older brother’s stance while shifting his thinner jaw from side to side. “The loser wears one of Cliona’s dresses for a week.” Though not as thick-set as Sean, Liam was nonetheless a gifted athlete. Tall, slender, with bright emerald eyes and mop of dark hair, he was a favourite amongst the local village girls.
“Not while I’m still breathing, donkey legs,” replied Cliona, turning to chastise Liam with hands on her well-shaped hips. “Though, I dare say you'd look a treat, what with those legs of yours.”
“This is the work of Blythe, to be sure," Liam continued. "He ran out of things to shoot, and Clover happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
“Let’s not jump to conclusions, boys,” said Alastair. “We can’t be sure who did this. But it looks like you’re right with the bullet theory, Liam.” Liam glanced at Sean, wearing a triumphant smile.

Ronan knelt while holding Clover‘s head, his hands running through the rough and wiry hair around the great hound’s neck.
“If Blythe is arrogant enough to shoot Clover, it can only be a matter of time before he tries something even more brazen,” he said.
“I doubt it was deliberate, son,” replied Alastair, rifling through a sack containing rope and an assortment of small implements.“You know how Clover likes to join in when Blythe goes on his hunts...after all, he’s only English.” Ronan forced a chuckle in reply, but he knew his father better than to believe such an innocent explanation. And if his father knew of the soldiers massing at the Blythe estate, a contingency plan would be in full swing at this very moment. A bitter truth ate at Ronan's insides. I have to come clean and give the Gallowglass ample preparation time.

Alastair found a spot on the grass not far from the shed, and gently lay Clover out.
“We’ll leave you lot to your grisly business,” said Molly, pursing her lips at the thought of what was yet to come. “There’ll be fresh bread and honey waiting for you when you’re done.”
Ronan watched as his father brought rope and other odds and ends from of the small hut. “Take this and hammer it hard into the ground, Sean, and you do the same on the other side, Liam.”
“Hang in there, boy. This will do you good,” said Ronan, comforting his shaggy companion. Alastair took an ample length of rope and tied it in a series of knots over Clover, before securing each end around the stakes. He then seized a pair of clamps and sterilised them in the dancing flames of a nearby fire pit.
“Ok boys, this is it,” he said, turning to where his boys sat huddled around Clover. “Just remember it’s for his own good.” The Nevin boys stood and gave their father space, too nervous to mutter a word. Alastair ran a large hand over the hound’s course hair, before pushing the clamps with a steady hand into the open wound. Clover convulsed under his restraints. The clamps were inserted to a depth of six inches, before Alastair opened them slightly, hoping to get a look at the lodged bullet. Clover was lucky. The great Wolfhound thrashed violently as the cool morning air filled his open wound. Alastair's large, bushy brows furled in concentration as he gripped the mangled bullet within the grasp of his clamps. The dirt surrounding Clover's large, open jaws was covered in drool. His large frame stiffened as Alastair withdrew the bullet. The boys stared in shocked silence, watching as the bullet was held aloft. Blood ran freely from the open wound. A dagger lay on the edge of the fire, its blade glowing red. Within seconds of removing the bullet, Alastair plucked the dagger from the flames and placed it along the length of the wound. Clover reared once more in agony, the pong of searing hair and flesh filling the air. For ten long seconds the blade remained in place. Finally, Alastair removed the dagger, revealing a scarred and deep red wound two inches across.

The boys crowded around Clover, and Ronan was the first to speak, “So what happens now, Da?”
“We bandage him, and try to keep him from moving too much until he has had time to heal.” Alastair unfurled a bundle of previously-boiled clothing, wrapping them tight around Clover’s raw leg.
“Well, boys, let’s see how he goes standing on his own feet,” he said, using his immense strength to hold Clover in place as he realised the last knot. The  Wolfhound sprang to his feet, struggling to regain his composure. “Keep an eye on him, boys, he might try to remove those bandages.”
“We will, Da,” said Liam.
“Can we take him with us to the hill, Da?” asked Ronan. “We’ll be sure to go real slow.”
“I suppose so, but don’t go any further. We'll leave for the MacDonnell estate when I'm finished eating.”
“Ok, Da.” Ronan paused for a moment, a pang of guilt weighing heavy in his chest.

“What is it, Ronan?” Alastair furled his brows, seeing the concern on his son’s face.
“Just that I’m worried. I can’t help think that Blythe shot Clover deliberately...and I don't want anything to happen to Aisha.” Alastair crossed his arms, alarmed at the mere mention of Aisha’s name.
“Not even Blythe is foolish enough to take on the Gallowglass alone. He knows that Aisha is protected by the Gallowglass. When we head to MacDonnell’s later you’ll see that everything is indeed under control.”
“Yes, Da,” replied Ronan, still not convinced of the truth in his father’s reassurance.
“And Ronan,” Alastair boomed, turning Ronan in his steps. “Under no circumstances are you to go near the Blythe Estate.”

Ronan nodded, forcing himself to utter the words that followed. “I won’t, Da.” With that his father disappeared inside the cottage, leaving Ronan alone to weigh his options. Ronan glanced back to where his brothers and Cliona climbed the nearby hill. He heard his parents talking inside, and stooped in closer to get a better vantage point by the window. They both stood in the kitchen; his mother with her arms crossed, attempting to pry information from his father.
“You know damn well that Aengus will use this as an excuse to start trouble.”
Alastair ran a large hand through his lock of blond hair. “Trust me,” he said. “I’m won't break my promise, but I must know if we’re in danger.”
“I know you, and I know MacDonnell, and I don’t want you drawn into another battle.”
“If the English do intend to attack, then I will get us farther south...you have my word.” Molly moved closer to her husband and embraced him, his reassurance enough to placate her fears.

The sound of an approaching horseman cut short the moment of intimacy. "Wait here," said Alastair, disappearing through the front door. Ronan followed around the western edge of the cottage and crouched behind a pile of freshly cut firewood.
"Are you certain of this?" Alastair's voice was uncharacteristically anxious. Ronan held his breath.
"I wish there was some doubt in this, my friend; Devereux murdered O'Neill." Suddenly, the fear of having his earlier exploits discovered no longer mattered to Ronan. Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex, led the plantation of Northern Ireland. Be it farm or town, no one was spared when Devereux’s troops attacked. Leading Devereux’s charge in the north and east of Ireland was his cousin, William Blythe. The joint forces under Brian O’Neill had kept the English at bay, but now with his death, any form of organised Irish threat disappeared with him. The defence of north-eastern Ireland now lay solely with the Gallowglass.
"There can be little doubt Blythe intends to move on us." Ronan recognised the voice as being that of Rob McElroy, one of the junior officers to have served under Alastair. "Ships have been arriving since before first light, and a small cavalry contingent was seen making its way to the Blythe estate."
"I'll have my family sent south of here," replied Alastair. "I assume our comrades are doing the same?"
"Indeed. MacDonnell plans to lure Blythe's forces into battle at Ravensdale forest."
"Good. The high ground and narrow fields will nullify Blythe's cavalry numbers. Inform MacDonnell that I'll join him within the hour. Sean will be with me."
"Yes, sir." McElroy's hefty Shire turned and galloped along the south west path, leaving a trailing cloud of dust. Ronan waited in silence for the inevitable exchange between his parents. The front door opened, creaking in the silence. Molly's voice was low and tinged with sorrow, "I know, I heard. Do you what you must... we're with you until the end."

Ronan powered his lean legs up the gently rising, tree bordered hill that lay a mile from the cottage. It was a favourite location for the Nevin children, and offered  views of both the homestead, and the nearby coastline of Dundalk Bay. The homestead itself was positioned on a small hill, surrounded by a low-lying valley, stretching north to south for three miles before meeting forest on either side. It was an idyllic setting; an abundance of fertile farmland nestled between a series of rolling hills and age-old forests.

Ronan reached the top of the hill just as his siblings were dividing the bread. “Ok, Cliona,” said Liam, sitting by his older sister. “I’ll just lie on this here patch of grass, and you can feed me bread to your heart's content.”
“If it meant keeping you quiet for five minutes, I’d give it serious consideration,” replied Cliona, raising a dark eyebrow. “But I think we’ll give your share to Clover, instead.”
“I’m sure Liam’s share of the bread is just what Clover needs to recover his strength,” Sean quipped, stretching out on the soft grass and running his fingers through the shaggy hair on Clover’s neck. Cliona held a piece of bread out for Liam, waiting until her brother’s hand was almost within reach, before feeding it to Clover. “Very nice, sis,” said Sean, giving an appreciative wink.
“I wonder how long it will be before MacDonnell gathers the Gallowglass,” Sean continued, glancing at their homestead.“We know he won’t wait for Blythe to make the first move, it’s not the way the old battle master works.”
Ronan sat on the soft grass, chewing with extreme satisfaction on a chunk of warm bread. “For once in your life you're right, Sean," he said. "O'Neill is dead, and Blythe has reinforcements pouring in from the docks. You and Da are set to join MacDonnell and the other Gallowglass...they're striking first against the English.”
A period of silence followed. "So that explains the horseman we saw..." said Liam, breaking the painful silence. "And don't tell me you're thinking of doing something stupid, Badger." Each of the Nevin children had a nickname or two they had acquired at some point. Ronan’s more common pet name was a sign of his peculiar appearance. With the same raven black hair and deep blue eyes of his mother, Ronan’s features were striking, to say the least. But it was two white patches of hair that set him apart from his siblings.

"Aisha's in danger," replied Ronan, seizing the remaining bread before his brothers recovered from their momentary shock. "I'm all she has left, and I'll not leave her to be the play thing of that sadistic worm."
“Da will kill you," said Sean, shaking his head.
“That’s if Blythe’s cronies didn’t kill you first,” snapped Cliona, standing and dusting the crumbs from her dress. “Aisha's like a sister to me, and you know how much Ma adores her. Do you think Aisha wants you endangering yourself, and us, by sneaking over there? I'm sure Da has a plan to help her, but as always, you think you know better. I’ve had enough of male stupidity for one morning.” She stormed off towards the cabin, leaving the Nevin boys to finish eating the last of the bread. Ronan glanced at his brothers. He gulped hard at the thought of what he knew he must do next.