Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #18 September 2015 | Page 65

had picked up another wound, on his bicep, that bled
freely.
He had never faced an opponent that was this
fast before. The man was like smoke, curling around
the sword thrusts he made. Slone’s blood boiled; it
was a failing that had on one or two occasions led
to trouble. Usually in a fight, he was calm. He heard
someone roaring as he charged the man in plaid, he
only realised it was him when the sword that sliced
through his ribs made him stop. As he toppled he
looked towards the young man whose hopes and fears
had rested upon him. He shook his head as his eyes
dimmed, hoping to communicate something, but his
mind fled before he could think what it was.
***
Padraig turned away from the spectacle of the
wolf bringing down the bear of a man that was, until
today, the undefeated champion of the Green Salmon.

He didn’t want to watch the man die. He’d seen that,
although Slone didn’t seem to know it, he was outmatched. He watched his father’s reaction instead.
Phelan wore the expression he usually did
when thinking hard and fast. There was a susurrus of
indrawn breath around him, and his father winced.
Beyond him he watched Ceowulf visibly deflate,
shoulder slumping somewhat, his expression of hope
turning to despair. The soldiers on both sides rattled
spear and sword against shield. Applause for the winner, an accompaniment for the soul of the fallen.

Phelan glanced at him and shook his head
once. “I must meet with Maelgwyn. Find Andarta.”
Phelan stalked off onto the killing field, a step
behind the Brehon.
Padraig was shocked that he’d forgotten about
the warrior woman. He searched the crowd for her

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