Brothers in Arms Reunited
An Eachann and Connor Adventure
After making a heinous sacrifice to find and save his best friend, Connor finds himself left with one fleeting opportunity to prevent a wretched fate befalling Eachann and the land.
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A Daughter Who Never Was
Witnessing his friend expire, elderly and frail before his own eyes, Connor resolves to find a way to the time before Eachann’s fateful battle. The cost, however, is one that even a hardy warrior like him would shudder at—especially one indebted to a brother at arms such as his best friend.
Connor spurred the horse on, and the beast grunted in response but kept on. Connor clutched. A beam glinted off the river, gleaming like a silvery snake down in the valley as he crested a hill. Connor pressed harder over the last slope of the hill. The blast of wind from the speedy descent hammered Connor. His blood buzzed through his limbs; his heart forced it with fervor.
As the ground leveled, the bank of the river came into Connor’s sight; in the dawn, two shadowed shapes, one much larger than the other, clashed by the water. The giantish shade sprouted a pair of horns from its brow, curling like a ram’s, adding more height to its fifteen-foot frame; its hand reached out with spindly fingers tipped with needle-like nails. The smaller figure traversed around the swiping talons, seldom striking with his own blade that glinted in the gloaming. He staggered by the edge of the river; one foot slid into the current. The giant swung down as its diminutive quarry raised his shield overhead. Wooden splinters flew out from the slash, and a shout echoed from the harried fighter.
“Harder beast!” Connor roared in the horse’s twitching ears. “Run until you reach the river!”
Connor readied himself before the horse reached the strand. He loosened his grip on the beast’s neck, maintaining his balance while he sat upright. As the giant reared its claws for another blow, Connor bellowed a wordless oath; his guttural cry rippled from the iron cauldron of his belly, shook the cords in his neck, and left his teeth vibrating as it flew off his lolling tongue. The giant looked over its shoulder. A white crescent—greyed in light of the nascent day—slid on the face of the smaller shade. Eachann MacLeod was joyous.
The young Gael pulled himself out of the river as the giant looked round; he skirted about the ogre, towards Connor and the horse as they flew closer. A wash of deep blue lit the air, revealing the features of the land with the present creatures upon it. The giant, plainly the Fomorian Neglachd, cast his gaze upon the lads—two pinpricks of purple fire blazed in the black hollows of his beast-like grey skull. His lower jaw jutted forth, with teeth like an angler’s piercing the black gums; a set of gills opened and closed on his neck; grey stony skin stretched over his warped frame, with rocky growths protruding from the length of his spine; webbed feet with three toes tipped by jagged nails churned the sod; with each movement, a spray of water flew from his limbs in a mist that glittered many colors in the approaching light.
Connor leapt off the horse, steering it towards the direct north away from Neglachd—though its base instinct of preservation caused it to veer away from the monster. His feet slammed hard on the sod, he kept running to keep upright. Eachann dashed to his friend, a trace of a smile still on his lips. Connor presented the great cloth and unraveled it, retrieving Scían Tethrach from its folds. Eachann opened his mouth as he reached Connor, but the Fir Bolg interrupted him by thrusting the hilt of the wicked dirk to its rightful owner.
“Take this and kill the beast so we can go home!” said Connor.
They parted from each other just as Neglachd charged and kicked at them. With his miss, he scooped a shallow trench in the earth. In his flight, Eachann dropped his sword and shield, then shucked off his right shoe and the leather about Scían Tethrach; he briefly beheld the barbs as they emerged in the dim hour. Neglachd whipped his head towards his primary target and growled, his gills flared out, making his neck and head appear larger. The Fomorian’s foe dropped his smile, but to no more than a neutral line at the middle of his mouth. He drew in a long breath, filling his lungs and surging a wave of energy through his limbs. Connor flanked Neglachd with Eachann, but his lack of weapons signaled to Eachann there would be a slim chance of him entering the battle. However, the Fer Bolg assured the Gael of his craftiness when he wrenched a large stone twice the size of his head from a slope leading down to the riverbank. Black dirt speckled his face and shoulders as he lifted it over his head; he gave another guttural shout at Neglachd before vaulting the stone. It shot upward and struck the base of the Fomorian’s spine. Neglachd twisted his trunk to reach for Connor.
With his enemy faced away, Eachann charged, lowering Scían Tethrach as he neared Neglachd. Eachann came to the Fomorian’s legs and aimed the tip of Sgian Tethra at the naked grey thigh of his foe. Quickly, he propped the butt of the dirk between the fork of his toes and kicked as Neglachd realized he was beset. But the monster could not save himself from the onslaught of Eachann’s weapon; the barbed blade tore through his flesh, and thirty barbs shot from Scían Tethrach and raked around the bones of Neglachd, scoring them down to the marrow. He collapsed with a faltering roar. As he lay in the sod, the barbs wove their way through his organs and gripped his heart. Neglachd glowered at Eachann, his eyes small and burning with hatred as he lunged for the Gael but seized up. His desperate pursuit cut short by an audible squelch from within him—Scían Tethrach’s barbs crushed his heart.
Eachann released his breath in a single sigh as he watched Neglachd; the barbs slithering beneath his skin were the only things about him that moved. Connor approached, catching Eachann’s attention and at once the Gael’s smile returned.
“It’s taken you ages to get here, Thunder-brains.” Eachann ran up to Connor and moved his hand to slap him on the shoulder. Connor lunged at his friend and embraced him, forcing a choked shout from the Gael’s throat.
“Easy, Connor!” Eachann laughed. “That Fomorian tossed me about enough.” He embraced Connor in turn, but frowned after it seemed they embraced for long enough and the Fir Bolg persisted. Connor inhaled and sighed long and hard, slowly easing his arms off Eachann.
The lads released and gazed into each other’s eyes; Connor’s were red-ringed and light tracks beginning at the corners trailed through the grime on his sharp cheeks; Eachann’s met his friend’s and a light haze trickled into his vision—the cause of which he could not explain.
He turned and pointed at Neglachd. “Let’s get my knife out of him.”
***
The lads bore Neglachd’s head by the horns to the feet of Maine. They spoke to no one on their way through the dun, even in reply to the loudest praises. Neglachd’s purple eyes were dim and rolled back in their sockets as the gory stump of the neck squelched against the stone floor. Maine beheld the grisly trophy, mouth agape; his daughter at his side placed her sights on Eachann, who now proudly donned his great cloth, wrapped about his waist and secured in a sash across his chest. Connor caught a glimpse of the face of Maine’s daughter, but looked away, seeing a pale resemblance of Saorla in her.
“O Maine son of Lí,” Eachann proclaimed, “with my best friend, Connor Ua Sreng, I Eachann MacLeod, have slain the Fomorian Neglachd; no more will this terror out of the deep bleed and starve your people.”
Close by, Maine’s bard silently mouthed as he observed the scene before him, repeating the shapes of Eachann’s words as they came from the hero’s mouth.
Maine rose and spoke, “O Eachann, your feat and service to my people will be remembered. Tonight we will feast, tomorrow you will marry my daughter, and the next days will be decided by the gods.”
Connor stepped forward. “Honor is in us for your hospitality, but we are not meant to be here; I fear we must leave after your feast, O Maine.”
Maine’s exuberance faded at once. “What is this? Who are you to deny the hand of my daughter to the slayer of Neglachd, O Fer Bolg? Yes, I see neither blade nor shield in your grip, so it must have been Eachann alone who killed the Fomorian.”
Eachann moved forward himself. “I concur with my friend; we will remain for your feast, O generous Maine, and though your daughter is fair, we must take our leave on the morrow to where we came from.”
Maine sighed. “Very well, it is your life.”
Eachann and Connor were led by slaves to secluded quarters and drawn baths. Once they were cleaned and redressed, they entered in the hall of the dun as a large oaken table was lain out; platters of meat, game, and fish, bowls of stew, and cups of mead and wine were placed on its surface. At the head of the table sat Maine and his daughter with Eachann and Connor beside them. The portions were doled out, with the Champion’s Portion—the largest—being heaped before Eachann. Without hesitation, Eachann took half of everything from his own plate and gave it to Connor.
With wide eyes upon him, Eachann rose and stated his reason, “It is only beside Connor that I stand well and whole before you all this night, and Neglachd lies dead and mangled. By his journey here, we both stand before you.”
And a harrowing journey at that, Connor thought as he stared at his share of the Champion’s Portion, but no particular feeling of hunger gnawed at him. When the feast resumed, he picked at his share but found himself drinking a bit more than eating. Before the haze of alcohol completely clouded his mind and sight, someone tapped palpably upon his shoulder. Connor snapped towards his harasser to see the fighter who lent him the horse—he bore the Fer Bolg’s club.
Startled by Connor’s sharp turn, the fighter composed himself and surrendered the club. “Here it is, as agreed upon.”
Connor accepted his weapon and looked it over; the stain of Saorla’s blood and her hair were gone. “Thank you for cleaning it.”
The fighter frowned. “Cleaning it? I give it to you as you gave it to me.”
Connor opened his mouth to retort, but the fighter’s gaze went somewhere else, and he left. Running his fingers along the grain of the club, Connor’s drink-addled mind fixated on the enigma of the club’s cleanliness. Where did it go? he wondered. His eyes wandered over towards Eachann, who merrily partook in the feast, having destroyed most of his portion, and conversed between gulps of mead. At the corner of the table’s head, Maine’s daughter cast her gaze at the table, her hands placed in her lap and her mouth in a line bending downwards at the corners.
He will not miss one he never sired. The words of the druid echoed in Connor’s memory. So there will be no Saorla, Connor thought as he returned his gaze to the club.
***
Once more, Eachann and Connor stood in the cave before the druid. Tallow candles and bundles of peat laced with herbs placed throughout cast pulsing orange glows and shadows about the walls and floor. A slave stood bound and gagged between the lads and the druid; the magic-user held his hands up, palms faced outward. He inhaled slowly while the slave took quick staccato gasps through the gag in his mouth. The lads swapped glances between the druid and the poor man before them in the silence.
“Now.” The druid’s order seemed to force Connor’s hand to move; he struck savagely at the back of the slave’s head. His broken breathing ended at once as he collapsed, his shadow lengthening out from under him.
“Between the shadow, now!” the druid shouted. The lads moved at the same time around the slave, and stepped between his shadow and the orange glow within the cave. Once more the vile vignettes came to their eyes and ears and nostrils, touched their flesh, and stirred their souls with discomfort. Both of them landed in a lightless version of the cave with screams issuing from their throats. They ceased once they willed their eyes open; the druid now sat as a moldering skeleton in the corner; their gear lay in their respective sides of the cave. The moonbeam faded away, but a bit of warm yellow light glowed from the mouth of the cave.
The lads gathered their stuff and headed towards the exit. At the threshold, they paused and beheld the land before them; the dun of Maine no longer stood upon the hill it once did, now consumed by earth and moss. A slight mist hung in the wind, remnants of the storm from the night before.
Eachann took a sharp breath and stepped forward, but Connor caught his shoulder. “Eachann…”
“Yes?” Eachann looked his friend in the eyes.
“When you vanished from the cave…” Connor tried to shake the memories of his taxing trip to that doomed share of time as he continued, “I wasn’t sure what I’d become if you were gone from my side.”
Eachann smiled. “Nor did I, friend.”
They descended the brae, their destined course due north.
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“Brothers in Arms Reunited” © Ethan Sabatella 2025 – Current Year, All Rights Reserved. Reprinting or replication of this work in its entirety in any form (written, audiovisual, etc.) without express permission of the author is prohibited. Excerpts may be used for review or promotional purposes with credit and acknowledgement of the author. This piece cannot be used for training of Artificial Intelligence programs.