Priestess of the Fire Temple by Ellen Evert Hopman

on the hill
    Nor by the winds of change and storm.
    Ever will I delight
    In the bounding of the deer
    In the badgers of the glen
    Far more than in the promises
    Of the joys of Heaven beyond.
    Imar chuckled at the last line. “You have a way with words, young man. You have certainly captured the essence of our dilemma. How do we Druid prosper in the time of the new religion?”
    Artrach smiled. “There was a time in this land when there were no Druid. Then the Druid gained the ascendancy, and now we are disappearing once more. This is but a tide of nature. Every wave rises and falls back. But it always rises again.
    â€œAt the moment, we are like sparrows that flew from a freezing night into a warm feasting hall and had our fill of food and celebration. Now we are driven back out into the cold night. But like the birds of spring, we will return to the halls of power when the suntides turn. I am sure of this.”
    Bárid, Amlaim, and Imar hardly believed what he said, but the words gave them comfort. They were able to relax into their blankets and fall into a light sleep. Artrach sat with his back to a rock and kept vigil, singing an Ogum of protection over them each time he heard a sound in the night.
    [contents]

10
    F rom the clouds over the dun of Íobar, a funnel of ravens had appeared out of nowhere, circling with purpose over a spot to the south. The king had been standing on the wall all day, trying to discern which side was winning. The ravens would not reveal which side was triumphant, but they never gathered until there was carrion for their feast.
    By evening Íobar knew. A long line of warriors snaked towards the dun wearing victory wreaths on their heads, their harpers before them, singing a song of conquest. But he did not recognize them because they were not his warriors. They were carrying a body on a bier and clashing their shields in challenge, daring any soldiers left in the fort to meet them in battle. Worse, he could finally see his own men, their heads shorn in humiliation and with bound hands and chained feet, surrounded by their captors.
    The battle chief of the enemy’s warriors stood before the gate and bellowed for admittance. He was tall and blond, blood-spattered and grim-faced, and wore a rough victory wreath on his long yellow hair, made of wild leaves from the forest.
    â€œI demand to see the king of Irardacht. I demand my father’s honor price. I demand vengeance for my father’s death!”
    â€œLet him in,” Íobar said to his guards.
    Roin was the prince of a small kingdom just beyond the southern border of Irardacht. He and his father had led their warriors north to test Íobar’s strength and to capture a herd of cattle if they were so lucky. They had accomplished both objectives, but at the last skirmish Roin’s father, Lovic, had been killed by a spear through the heart.
    Ãobar could see that Roin had the battle rage still on him and, worse, that he was grieving for his own blood father. The price would be steep.
    â€œI want a ring of gold for every finger of my father’s hands!” Roin demanded. “My father, the king, will be buried with honor! I want a golden torque and robes of finest fur to cover him with glory on his last journey home. And I want golden armbands and torques for every one of my men. Give me these or your kingdom is forfeit!”
    Inwardly Íobar felt deep relief. The boastful young man was only seeking marks of honor to take back with him when he returned home to his women and his tribes. He was too young and foolish to realize that the high kingship of Irardacht was his for the taking. Íobar was on his knees, with no food for his people, and the arrogant young whelp didn’t even realize it. His father, that old fox Lovic, would never have been so stupid.
    â€œVery well. You will have all you ask for. I will command that my warriors strip their torques, rings, and armbands from their own