In balance of this life....this death The Longest Night 'Warriors to me!!' The shout echoed in the sudden silence that had followed the King's speech, all around the celts had cheered the words of heroism from their newly crowned Lord, words to inspire those that tomorrow morning would fight and die by his command. Now came the serious task, the planning, the preparing- the waiting, always the worst time for a warrior, the time when fate cruelly gives you every chance to remember your life, and what you may throw away tomorrow, when every second is both precious and yet a torture also, for though these times seem sweet, they are only so for they may be your last. Warlord Robbie paced along the line, all the warriors stood proudly, awaiting the words of the burly chieftain- for King Angus may lead the people, but it was this man, aptly known as The Boar, after his spirit totem, who would lead the charges, call the strikes and rouse the men to warlike ferocity. So it was now, stomping along the line as if the ground itself had offended him, glaring at all present, yet they all knew that Robbie was fiercely proud of his warriors, and if he treat them harshly, he treat himself none the easier. 'Right then lads, you all heard Angus, and his fightin' talk- nice words, the boy's no shy of a fight, I'll grant him that- But.....' He paused, scratching his head as if searching for lice, or searching for words, before carrying on. 'But Angus is a Year King, like Tam was til- well, till the Goddess called him back' 'Y'mean till Morgan cut his bloody heart out with a dagger' called one from the crowd. 'Aye, same thing really, ritual sacrifice and all- but anyhow, Angus has only got a year to live, before he too is called back' 'Stabbed ' 'Aye, stabbed-but the point I'm makin' is, he doesn't have to live the rest of his life crippled by a foeman's blade, or die with his whole life ahead of him.- All of you here are young un's yet, not one of you more than thirty summers, think when you fight tomorrow, but don't hesitate, he that hesitates is lost- don't throw yourself away- I know the druids talk of reincarnation, but a stab from a sword bloody well hurts!' 'So what are you saying Robbie?' came a voice from down the line. The burly chieftain sighed, 'All I'm saying is, you're a good bunch of lads an' lasses, don't none of you throw yourselves away tomorrow- at least not without making it count....And now-' a gleam came into his eye and he threw his arms wide, 'Let's drink !' The assembled warriors cheered and milled about, in search of liquid bliss. One however was somewhat detached from this, he strolled over to Robbie, who was helping himself to a jar of something potent. The warchief looked up questioningly-' Gabriel?'' The taller warrior paused, then sat himself down on the log beside Robbie, he drew in breath- then spoke-' I've got a bad feelin' about tomorrow Robbie, it's like what you were saying, I want to live, I'm no coward'' 'None would say you are- ye're the Kings Champion for the Goddess' sake, you've crossed blades with more men than a dog has fleas- but I can see it's not your courage you're lacking....is it?'' Gabriel shook his head slowly 'Fear I can handle, but I'm not scared, It's just....I'm so sure that I'll fall tomorrow, and it's stupid, but what the hell do you do with your last night on earth?'' Robbie stared at him as if Gabriel had proposed he eat a mountain, 'Why.., why you drink lad, and forget tomorrow- but you aren't going to die, Oh sure it's a mighty foe we have before us tomorrow- but we've seen worse, we've won against worse odds before' Gabriel nodded, taking a deep swig from the jar that Robbie proffered 'Yeah, but it's like something Morgan told me once' 'Oh aye, and what did his cleverness have to say' 'He said that you can win as many fights to the death as you like, as long as you don't lose the last one you fight.' Robbie laughed 'Oh that's good, that's him that is, all over- moody sod, Look Gabriel, go and find him, he's on his own time now, the King doesn't need advising on how to drink.......Or maybe that's not entirely true but you get the picture- maybe a druid will be able to knock some sense into you- and besides, you're bringing me down- I'm not going to die tomorrow' 'You're not?' 'Nah, I'm bloody invincible me' The warlord posed dramatically, then belched loudly, ruining the image somewhat. Gabriel stood, shaking his head, and stalked off to find Morgan, the King's advisor. It was not an overly hard search, the druid was sat in a circle of others around the fire, between the warriors and druid's celebrations before the battle there was little difference- the ale passed as just as frequently, the songs were just so loud and raucous. Gabriel spotted the druid in his wildly coloured fur cloak, sat on a barrel beside his bodyguard the hulking Fomori Jaw'is- both appeared equally the worse for alcohol. Gabriel manoevered his way past the revellers and deposited himself on the barrel by Morgan, who turned with a grin on his face and offered Gabriel something out of a flask. Being a Fir Cruthen warrior Gabriel took a hefty slug without even sniffing it or asking what it contained, as he was wiping his mouth with his sleeve the druid spoke in a low voice, different from his louder tones he had been using earlier, when he had spoke by the King's side, telling them of the foe. 'What bothers you Gabriel?' 'I don't know, Robbie said for me to speak with you' 'Ahh, cheers then to that big loony- and here's me trying to drink myself to hell' 'So am I going to-' 'For the Goddess' sake don't ask me that- do you think it would make you happy for the telling of it or me happy for having to tell you? eh? People never think do they?' 'I'll take that as a yes' 'Take it how you bloody want look you, ahh, walk with me a moment Gabriel' The thin druid rose, shaking his head gently at his bodyguard when the bestial creature rose- the Fomori grunted and sat again. Gabriel followed him as he walked to the seat on the hill, near a huge bowl formed in the ground, where previously the King had spoke to his people. 'So you're afraid of dying?' 'Yes, No- I ....' 'You don't know, do you?' 'No' Morgan chuckled, 'Well you wouldn't know, would you- most people don't tend to make a habit of dying- you sort of get it right first time or not at all' He stopped laughing and his face clouded over, as if deep in pained thought Gabriel spoke up, 'I am not scared but I don't want to die, I feel sure I'm going to, please Morgan, be a friend-set my mind at rest, tell me it's pre battle nerves, tell me it's just a mood I'm in, but for the love of the Goddess Badb, tell me something' The druid sighed, his shoulders slumped and his eyes avoided Gabriel, when he spoke his voice was flat, dull of any inflection that was Morgan. 'Gabriel MacNulty, of the Clan MacNulty, you have less than one day on this earth left, the morrow you will be hacked down by four opponents, standing at your side at the time will be the Stag, the man who strikes the final blow will be wearing a red warhelm, and you will die a hero and your remains be buried in full ceremony before one moon has passed at the MacNulty groves in Caledonia'' Silence reigned, the druid was breathing heavily facing away from Gabriel, who was stunned, his mind felt like a mere passenger to his body, racing away with thoughts of pain and sorrow. He grabbed the druids shoulder, as if to speak, but Morgan whirled away from him- 'Don't you touch me!, Do you think I enjoyed that? You are my friend by the Goddess, and you made me tell you that! Why, my own hand may as well be the one that kills you tomorrow, the way you're looking at me now, for the rest of your time you will link me with your death- think you I want that on my soul? Yesterday I had to kill King Tam, my friend- as a ritual sacrifice, so the new Year King could be crowned, tonight I kill you, my friend, with words as deadly as any blade' 'I-I' Gabriel started, but was cut of by the shaman's fury 'Enough, leave me be, you die tomorrow, but I have to live with this the rest of my days' Gabriel turned from the druid and walked back to the camp, cloaked in darkness, silence- and worst of all, his own thoughts. Rabbie was still on the log when he got back, and a host of the others gathered round him, Jimmy MacLaw, Rodney Half-Orc and many others, Gabriel walked over and sat himself down in the circle, Duncan MacCullen moving over for him and handing him a flask of spirits, which Gabriel eagerly drank from, his mind still racing. 'Well then lads' started Robbie 'Lets open the tally- who's gonna kill the most foemen tomorrow?' A clamour of warriors each professed their skill in battle and how they should win the wager, Robbie laughed and waved his hands for quiet. 'Now, now lads, whoever wins gets this.' He held aloft a finely crafted torc, bronze- with precious stones set in the ends, clearly masterful work, gasps from the gathered warriors was testimony enough to the skill it's creator had possessed. 'This Torc was last worn by Cynredd ap Morcai, warrior champion of the Cymric people, Whoever gets the most confirmed kills tomorrow, gets the torc' The assembled warriors were impressed by their chief's genorosity, especially as the tides of alcoholic benevolence had well and truly kicked in. There was a theory that alcoholic consumption was bad for a warrior the night before a battle- but then, that theory was expounded by a druid- and what do they know? It was later in the evening, and no more were the warriors on their own, but now all were mingled, fellowship and mutual courage bolstering spirits against the dark. Dark indeed, for tomorrow's foe was the Nything, a horrific force of anti-magick, anti-life, and his forces were legion, cultists mainly, yet ones who fought with a desperate fanatacism. All the races of the world had come to fight here, The Fir Cruthen themselves were joined by the Wolf people of Norsca, a fierce seafaring viking race, also the Lions of Albion and the Gryphons, both feudal societies of chivalric ideal. The Teutonic Viper people with their militant church to their chief god Khoreg were also present in the host, as well as the nomadic travellers, also the Jhereg peoples, a nation of darker creatures, Drow elves and Beastman, their motives were unclear, yet here they were, bringing the common foe to ground, prepared to stand and fall by their brethren. All around the glades could be heard revellry from the various peoples as they prepared each in their own way for what tomorrow would bring. Gabriel staggered back to the crude tent he had erected here, much the worse for wear for alcohol, before he reached it he stumbled and fell, lying facing the stars, his mind whirling. The night air was warm, and his intoxication prevented him from standing again, he slowly drifted to sleep, lulled by the breeze and the stars. It was the last night of his life.
	The Shortest Day 'ENEMY SIGHTED!' The cry rang out, snapping all who heard it to atention, the Fir Cruthen were on the right flank, and had ranged far ahead of the restof the factions, too far perhaps, but Celtic warlust once aroused, is an impossible beast to force back, and so the wave of woaded figures poured forth, swords glinting, bards singing, druids howling, spitting and evoking savage magicks to strengthen their warriors and bring death to the foe, Gabriel watching, found it too easy to believe, watching the druids- that madness was a prerequisite for shamanic power. Rabbie strode ahead, leading the warriors in a marching song 'Well ah was drunk last night, ah was drunk the night before,' 'An' tonight we're gonna get drunk like we've never been drunk before,' 'Victorious, Victorious, We havnae had a pint between the load o' us,' 'Glory be to Badb, there ain't no fuckin' more o' us, Fer we are the fine Fir Cruthen' Gabriel sang along with the others, bellowing it out as a chant of defiance against the foe, he could hear that all present had joined in- bards were bellowing as raucously as warriors- and druids were howling at the tops of their lungs, truly it was a terrifying cacophony, he could see that the Viper people were being careful and staying well away from the roaring celtic mass, as often the Fir Cruthen would work themselves into a state of anger and fury, whirling off into a fight with scant thought of tactic or strategy, sometimes they were as dangerous to friend as to enemy, and the prudent Vipers knew this. The enemy ahead were within arrow range now, and a few shafts did reach out, though to little effect. Like all others, Gabriel felt the fury building up in him, and staring ahead he saw Morgan praying for his people, the druid seemed almost bowed by the psychic energy generated by his people's fury, and his hair stood from his arms as he slowly raised them, issuing thanks to the Fir Cruthen's hungry Goddess, Badb- and then he dropped his arms. ''CHARGE!'' It was the King's voice but the people's wish, they flew towards the foe, as sure as the arrows launched just earlier, yet much deadlier, behind them the Wolves moved up and way back the Vipers formed a methodical shieldwall, slowly moving towards the fight...too slowly. Streams of light energy and sounds that made the ears ache announced the fact that the druids were unleashing their magickal assault, many powers were cancelled out by the enemy's own wizards, yet many more found their mark and many were the cries that heralded the attack. But a second after the druidic attack occured, the warriors, Gabriel included, hit the foe. Up close there was no time for introspection- as Robbie had said, he who hesitates, is lost, Gabriel felt his sword bite into a man, and then he was past, the push and shove of battle carrying him away, beneath his feet something was clutching at him, and he felt a fiery pain in his leg, glancing there he saw a downed cultist- with a snapped off spearhead in his chest, was frantically trying to stab him with a broken sword blade, caring not that he sliced his own fingers with each frenzied stab. Gabriel gave a roar of annoyance and speared his blade down, carving into the man's shoulder, the enemy shrieked once, then lay still- but Gabriel could feel the wetness run down his leg, and a dull pain that flared up when he put weight on his leg. His arm with the sword was thrust down, pressed to his side by the crush of bodies that swayed as the fight progressed- this was the close in fight- where axes and claymores were useless, but the dagger was king. Gabriel roared with impotent rage as a cultist with a huge machete aimed a wicked blow at his head, insinctively ducking he saw the cultist be whipped backwards as if in the jaws of a giant animal, this was not so far from the truth, a huge spearhead had blossomed from his ribcage, and he was borne aloft by the strength of the Stag, the primal avatar of the God of the Wild Hunt- Cernunnos. The Stag had some minor godly powers, and never before had he looked more like the God who was his patron, blood streaked his features, and his arms and chest were crisscrossed with cuts. He hefted the Nything cultist on his spear and roared his defiance, fanged canine teeth lending a horribly feral air to the elf that he was before the God chose him. Gabriel roared again, in exultation and rage, then the words of the druid cut into his reverie- 'Gabriel MacNulty, of the Clan MacNulty, you have less than one day on this earth left, the morrow you will be hacked down by four opponents, standing at your side at the time will be the Stag. He stopped roaring, and moved from the press, which had alleviated somewhat, the battle was now at the stage where the two lines faced each other, with a killing ground of three feet between them, here and there some would-be hero would attempt to force a breach, but inevitably fall, pierced by spears and swords. Overhead the magicks of Nything and Fir Cruthen alike arced into targets, yet more sparingly- as though the shamans were as mentally exhausted as the warriors themselves. Gabriel felt a tug on his cloak and whirled round, sword raised, but is was only Isla Mac Roth- one of the Fir Cruthen's healing druids, she gestured at Gabriel's leg, where the pain now brought a stab with every step. Kneeling she placed a hand on either side of his torn calf, a few inches away from the skin- and chanted a hymn to her Goddess, Arianrhod, the lady of peace and healing. As incongrous as such a thing may seem on a battlefield- the lady of peace heard her prayer, and Gabriel watched in morbid fascination as the blood stopped flowing from his calf, scabbed over, and as Isla pulled it off, revealed fresh unbroken skin, his pain had completely gone and his leg felt warm. He spoke his thanks but doubted whether she heard- her face was drawn and pale, and he could guess that she was close to magickal exhaustion- a symptom she shared with many of the druids, all of whom were fatigued by the cost their magick asked of them. She pointed quickly, a panicked gesture, and he whirled around to see a Nything cultist bearing down upon the pair of them, great sword upraised, his armour was grey, with a magnificent scarlet helm , Gabriel again paused- The man who strikes the final blow will be wearing a red warhelm, and you will die But he who hesitates is lost.... His hands raked across the ground and he clawed a hanful of dirt which he threw at the cultist's face, as an instinctive reaction the Nything man threw up an arm to block the ineffectual clod of earth- allowing Gabriel the time to slam his sword into the man's chest- his victim bending double over the blade, before tumbling to the floor, his helm falling into the mud. 'But-I...' Gabriel exclaimed The man who strikes the final blow will be wearing a red warhelm, and you will die 'He's dead!' he exclaimed with joy, 'I have cheated fate- I will live!' He charged to the front line again, In time for the horrid announcement... Morgan was shouting at Angus, the King had been injured- and was bleeding from his arm, shaking his head dully. ''It's up I say, we have no more magick left, the druids are dropping like flies from mental exhaustion, we have no healing- half of our bloody warhost is down and we can't get them back up!' As he spoke Gabriel could see the druid's arm was smashed, and hung limply by his side, no more spell casting or sword wielding for a time, the wound looked bad- likely broken. He couldn't resist himself, he grabbed the druid's cloak ''I'm alive- you were wrong, the one with the red helm died, I'm going to live'' Morgan looked at him for a moment, his eyes unfocussed, then spoke softly ''let go Gabriel, just let go'' Gabriel released his cloak- confused at this. At this point the cry of alarm went up. ''Behind us!!'' A breach had formed, the Nything cultist's poured through the gap between the Fir Cruthen and the Wolves, a horrid outpouring of hatefulness. They quickly arrayed themselves behind the celts. From the corner of his eye Gabriel noticed the charging Wolves, ever the good allies- rushing to plug the gap and aid their celtic brethren- but too late, too late. Angus glared around, ''Right, we're surrounded, we have no magick, no healing, there's only one thing we can do....'' Silence reigned as the triumphant Nything cultists encircled the celts. ''CHAAAAAARRRGE!'' All raced forward, Gabriel included, readying his sword, ''This is the way, eh?'' intoned the feral tones of the Stag beside him, Gabriel grinned back, then turned to see the enemy, The enemy. He watched in unspeakable dread as a hulking cultist stripped the dead foeman he had killed earlier, fastening the red warhelm upon his head, and knew his death was upon him, 'Gabriel MacNulty, of the Clan MacNulty, you have less than one day on this earth left, the morrow you will be hacked down by four opponents, standing at your side at the time will be the Stag, the man who strikes the final blow will be wearing a red warhelm, and you will die a hero and your remains be buried in full ceremony before one moon has passed at the MacNulty groves in Caledonia' His footsteps didn't falter, not a step, beside him the Stag ran on, spear levelled you will die He thought of the tales of heroes he had listened to from his father when he was a child 'Da' Da', was the hero ever scared?' 'Aye, wee one, the hero gets scared too, but the hero carried on' 'Ah wanna be a hero when ah grow up Da' 'Ye will Gabriel, ye will' Gabriel was scared But he carried on, as all heroes do. 'FIR CRUTHEN!!!!!' he yelled as he leapt at the outnumbering foe.
	To the living we owe respect...To the dead, we owe only the truth Morgan stood, watching the children carry the sacks, it was harsh work for them, some as young as six, and they were carrying...heavy loads, heavier than they could know, still they laughed and joked like children. So many sacks, he thought, rubbing his eyes, determined to shed no tears, Sweet Badb No!- Tam, Gabriel, Jaw'is, Gwydion, Stormcrow, Paddy- Gods no, half our host, half our bloody warhost He rubbed his eyes again, no tears now, and leant against a tree, cradling his smashed arm, he looked at the innocence of the children- with envy. I have become old he thought, when did that happen? He knew the answer, indirectly, was it after the first corpse, or the tenth, was it the hundredth? I am thirty years of age, he thought bitterly, and I call them children. He stopped as two of the boys started sparring with branches, childlike sword blows in the land where no one dies. 'Get loading the sacks' he said, biting back a more savage retort. One of the boys hustled to it, but the other looked defiantly at the High Druid, and spoke- ''Lifting sacks 'ain't warrior work Wise Father, ah'm goin' to be a warrior'' Morgan fought the urge to clip the child for his impertinance, instead he fought for calm and answered softly, ''Do you know what's in the sacks boy?'' The child shrugged ''Grain, or cloth maybe'' Morgan shook his head grimly- ''What is your name boy?'' ''Waidd...Waidd Mac Roth'' ''Open the sack Waidd'' The boy knelt and cut open the sack with a small knife, he gasped, and tried to run, but the wiry druid gripped his shoulder like iron, he tried to turn his head to look away, but could not. ''Carrying sacks is warrior's work Waidd, when those sacks hold the mortal remains of our warriors'' ''Who...Who was he?'' ''He was a warrior Waidd, his name was Gabriel MacNulty'' ''Was he a hero?'' ''He was a hero Waidd, they were all heroes'' Waidd looked at the sacks on the ground that he and the others had spent all morning carrying- his eyes widened,''so many'' he whispered in a small voice, and started to weep. Morgan nodded and turned from the children, walking back to his people ''So many'' he gasped, and still no tears came.......