In The Dragon's Nemeton

A Sword and Sorcery Fantasy Short Story

Before getting into this month's story, I wanted to say how grateful I am for how great of a start my subscribers have helped make this new year. In just the past few weeks, Senchas Claideb has received a huge surge in viewers and new subscribers, which may be in no small part thanks to the dedicated fans of Sword & Sorcery fantasy that have tuned in to read and discuss about this niche subgenre. As of this post, we are only several subscribers away from reaching the 100th benchmark. While I don't want to get solely fixated on the numbers, I'm really appreciative and excited that this project has reached as many people as it has already and hope we can reach many more. Mòran taing (many thanks)!

This month's short story features my S&S heroes Eachann MacLeod and Connor Ua Sreng as they search for treasure upon a feared mountaintop in Scotland. The lads hope to use the wealth to fund their roving, but soon find something ancient and jealous that does not take kindly to looters.

This story combines some things I discussed in my S&S themed articles this past month. If you've kept up with the post, you'll probably be able to spot the influences, so be sure to comment them below after you've read the story!

Eachann and Connor have also appeared on Senchas Claideb in “The Goblin Dreams”, published back in August, and in several stories that can be found elsewhere in my list of publications. They will also be appearing in print again this spring in DMR Books’ anthology Die By the Sword II in my new story “Balefire Beneath the Waves.”

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Eachann and Connor choked on the grey dust stirred by the stinging winds at the summit of Beinn na Beathrach. The lads swept their travel-worn cloaks over their mouths and squinted their eyes as they reached the flat, desolate mountaintop. The lore they had gathered from the small tribe of farmers living in the mountain’s shadow told of a great beast that lived up there and hoarded treasures from bygone days.

“The druids led the ceremonies to placate it,” the tribe’s seanchaí had said. “In the old days, our people had worshipped it as a god, but no longer.”

“Surely there should be more than enough to afford us passage to Orkneyjar,” Eachann had whispered to Connor as they feasted with their hosts.

“Bad cess would be upon us, Eachann, should we trifle with such a thing as what waits upon that mountain.” Connor’s face had sank into a dour masque, his brow beneath his proto-horns furrowed. “Éirinn and Alba are home to creatures older than Norsemen, Gaels, Picts, and the Fir Bolg. Who is to say what age this beast might have come from?”

“Yet the wealth it guards must also come from ages and peoples older than our own. Sooner or later on this journey, the hospitality will not be so abundant in the houses or hearts of the people we meet.”

Connor had relented and, with Eachann, sneaked out from their hosts’ little house in the murky blue darkness preceding the dawn. By the time they reached the summit, the azure and pinkish hues of the sun’s approach crept from the east. Dew glimmered white on the hills lining the horizon like frozen waves beneath the beams.

A henge of tall standing stones ringed the middle of the barren summit. The edifices were in various stages of crumbling to the buffet of undying winds from years immemorial. Connor squinting at the sun peeking over the hills, supposing whatever peoples erected the stones established them to align with some cosmic event. He, however, did not witness any marvel with the sun and shadows between the plinths that dawn, but gave pause as a tiny, dark shape flitted among them.

Eachann shuffled to a halt and turned towards his friend. “What news, Connor?”

“We ought to be wary of the stones.” The Fer Bolg pointed to the henge.

“Aye, druid-stones can hold grim spells.” Eachann seized the hilt of his sword, which bore a curving crossguard like the rim of the moon. Drawing it, he advanced towards the henge, his stormy, grey-eyed gaze sweeping over the summit. Connor shouldered his heavy club, baring his teeth as he followed Eachann. The lads watched the henge from a short distance as the rising beams filled the dim spaces between the stones. Gilt rays glinted upon a small silver chain that shuffled across the dust; soft chirping sounded between the wailing gusts.

“A bird?” Eachann wondered aloud, lowering his sword and approaching the henge.

“Wait!” Connor followed Eachann to the nearest threshold.

The lads paused as they beheld a little bird with speckled, brown feathers and a long, thin, curving beak. The silver chain looped around its thin leg, keeping it naught more than a foot off the ground.

“A poor curlew,” breathed Eachann. Sheathing his blade, he approached the bird and knelt beside the chain. It looked up at him with beady black eyes but did not hop away.

“Eachann, wait,” bade Connor. “Do you not think it strange this is the sole creature to be found on this summit? And why would it be chained here?”

Eachann shrugged, not taking his eyes off the curlew. “I have heard stories of birds and silver chains from the Otherworld, mayhap it could guide us to something most wonderful.” He reached down and ran his fingers across the chain. The curlew remained still as Eachann unlashed the links from its leg. He smiled at the creature as it twittered, then took to the air, vanishing behind the outcroppings.

“Here’s some fine loot to start us off.” Eachann held up the chain, letting the sunlight glance and twinkle off it. Spiraling, vegetal designs engraved upon the links stood dark in contrast to the golden beams reflecting on the silver. Eachann tucked it in the sporran on his belt before rejoining Connor outside the henge.

The lads combed the summit, kicking the dust and gravel and struggling to roll large stones away for any troves they thought might have been hidden beneath them. At last, on an outcropping below the northern edge of the mountaintop, they beheld a large boulder with the weathered engraving like that of a horned serpent’s face, its mouth open in a leering snarl.

“The last place to look in this dust-heap,” said Eachann, moving to one side while Connor remained at the other. Together, the lads heaved, pushing the obstruction away from the earthen wall of the mountain. They coughed as clouds of dust billowed up from their struggle; they pushed with hands, arms, and shoulders until the stone finally broke away from the wall and tumbled off the edge. It landed with resounding booms and cracks on its descent.

The lads waved the dust away from their faces to reveal a large hole running inside the mountain where the boulder once stood. Eachann grinned as he stepped inside the cool, dry tunnel. Connor followed, but turned his gaze skyward as another faint boom sounded—black clouds hovered above the summit. His bones and blood, in tune with the primeval rhythms of the world, sensed an oncoming storm.

“Look, Connor!” cried Eachann.

Connor tore away from the dimming sky and went into the small cave, half-lit by the sun. Eachann knelt before a massive trove of golden furniture, piles of fine silks, weapons and shields encrusted with gems, clay urns painted with scenes of decadence, and jewelry befitting of a king who could rule the world.

“In all my life,” Connor breathed, “never did I dream of a trove such as this!”

Eachann looked back at him, a huge grin and wide eyes taking up most of his fair face. “There’s no way we can carry all of this to Orkneyjar with us, but we know where to find it when we return!” He reached for a broad sword sleeping in a sheathe of ivory and silver.

Before his fingers brushed the treasure, the cave shook as if something slammed into the summit and a peel of thunder blasted the air. Dust rained down from the low ceiling along with chunks of stone and earth. The sunlight streaming into the tunnel dimmed as thick, black clouds blotted it out.

“Macrall!” cussed Eachann, covering his pate. He stood and fled outside with Connor.

A warm wind picked up outside, laced with a sharp, metallic scent like heated copper. The lads dashed up the ledge to the summit, halting in place as they beheld the henge, now entirely shattered. The debris spread across the flat space, dust clouds still hanging heavy in the air.

“It looks as if the hammer of the Storm itself smashed those stones.” Connor ground his teeth, lifting his dark brown eyes towards the sky.

“It will destroy us too if we don’t haul what we can out of here.” Eachann turned, moving back to the trove.

Connor remained, still in awe of the destruction covering the summit. The winds picked up, lifting more dust off the ground, grain by grain. The Fer Bolg’s eyes widened as the gusts unearthed masses of shattered human bones. He understood then, the farmers’ tales of the druids placating the beast of Beinn na Beathrach.

They did so with gold and blood, he realized.

“Eachann!” he shouted, running after the Gael. “We must—”

A roar of thunder tore across the summit, shaking Connor down to his very bones. His gaze too went watery at the sheer might of the blast and he shut his lids to clear his eyes. Once he opened them, a huge, serpentine shape ascended from the southern ridge of the mountain.

Dimming, pale sunbeams struggling through the clouds glinted off the shape’s rippling cobalt scales. Its arrow-shaped head, flanked by a pair of white hot, pupil-less eyes, pointed towards the summit, its gaze alone like a blinding blast of lightning. Veiny patterns of pale red light danced along its sides and wreathed the long, pearly fangs jutting out its slit of a mouth.

Connor threw himself against the wall beside the ledge, quaking uncontrollably as he beheld the creature slithering onto the summit. All his life, he worshipped the primordial Storm as his people did before the coming of their conquerors—the Tribes of Danu and the Gaels—but never had he borne witness to a creature with the raw power of the force he revered. The serpent, as it coiled and slithered around the stones, seemed as a living idol of the thing his people witnessed at the dawn of the world.

A hand clapped Connor’s shoulder, breaking his trance. He snapped his gaze to his side, finding Eachann also enraptured by the beast, but his eyes betrayed more fear than awe.

“Cromm’s crooked head, Connor!” breathed Eachann. “How shall we escape from this plight?”

The lads looked around, seeing naught but the sheer drop over the cliffside inches from their toes. Before either of them could pose another route, scraping and a low rumbling sounded behind them. They turned as the serpent dragged itself across the summit, head low and white eyes ablaze with hungry fire. The pale red arcs of lightning riddling its body crackled loudly amid the thunder of its advance; each hair upon the lads’ bodies stood up on end, their skin itching and tingling, as it drew closer.

“To the trove!” cried Eachann and darted down the ledge. Connor followed, keeping his focus upon the serpent as it slithered parallel with the ledge. With shaking hand, he raised his club, thews coiling to strike the moment the beast’s gleaming azure hide came within reach of his long, corded arm. The serpent, however, directed its course past Connor and reared its upper half in a fluid arch, nose pointed at Eachann as the Gael neared the cave mouth.

“Look out!” Connor threw his other arm out, seizing Eachann by the back of his tunic. The lads stumbled backwards as the serpent shot downwards like an arrow loosed from a bow and shattered the very stone and earth holding up the cave mouth. The ground quaked and chunks of the ledge broke off; a brown dust cloud billowed from the rubble, coating the lads’ throats and stinging their eyes. They scrambled up to the summit as the huge, dark shape of the beast suddenly burst from the heap, shrouded in detritus.

Almost falling to their hands and knees, Eachann and Connor vaulted over some of the stones, scraping their palms but paying no heed to the torn skin as their hearts hammered hard. They stared unblinking at one another, clenching their jaws to stifle coughs that would betray their position.

“We might go back the way we came now,” croaked Connor.

“Once it realizes where we’ve gone it would surely catch us,” hissed Eachann. “It moves and strikes as lightn—”

Connor clapped a hand over Eachann’s mouth as the scraping of scales against gravel sounded. The serpent’s huge head rose up from the ledge, forked tongue flicking through the air. The lads slid themselves against the ground, taking shallow breaths as the serpent moved around the stones. The tingling sensation that betrayed its approach, washed over Eachann and Connor, subsiding once it passed them and they dared to look out from their cover once more.

“Connor, look.” Eachann pointed to a pair of withered, vestigial claws flanking the serpent’s tail dragged across the ground. “The scales upon those feeble legs are worn away and the flesh is tender.”

Indeed, patches of soft, purplish skin encircled the areas above the skeletal extremities.

“As if something bound them together.” Eachann withdrew the silver chain from his sporran and clutched it hard. “Ah! My feelings of mercy led to our plight, Connor. That bird was this beast, trapped and diminished by this chain.”

“Then we might bind it again,” said Connor.

Eachann nodded and handed the chain to his friend. “I will keep its eyes away from you.”

“How could you hope to outrun it?”

“I might not be able to outrun it, but I can dazzle it. Lo, a beam from the sun is breaking through the clouds.” Eachann pointed to a small seam of gilt light flowing out of the massive cloak of darkness washing over the sky. “With my blade, I can make it jump into the beast’s gaze and blind the thing.”

“That feat always feels too risky,” Connor grumbled.

“Just use yours to keep up with it.” Eachann bounded over the ruins and dashed quietly up a low mound of stone rubble, drawing his sword. He held the blade flat beside him, the small stream of sunlight glinting off the polished steel.

With a wordless shout, he drew the serpent’s attention; it whipped its head about and at once, the beam upon Eachann’s sword shot into its left eye. It loosed a garbled hiss as it surged forth, the crimson lightning on its body glowing brighter. Eachann dove off the mound as the beast careened towards him, crashing into the rubble. Its tail whipped violently across the ground, stirring up a huge screen of dust behind it. The Gael’s sonorous laugh rang out through the din, followed by a string of taunts and curses.

Connor swore an oath and vaulted out of his hiding spot. Squinting within the flurry, his keen ears sought the scrape of the great tail upon the ground. His body, however, sensed the tingling of the serpent’s lightning had against his skin and followed it towards his quarry. Suddenly, he felt the sensation barreling towards him and a dark form looming within his diminished sight. Connor leapt in the air, springing as light as a cat despite his bulk and hunched stature. The serpent’s tail swept under the soles of his feet. As he returned groundward, he lunged at the dark, lightning-wreathed length of tail before it slipped his grasp. At once, stinging pain rippled across his body, his gums itched, and the smell of singed hair filled his nostrils. His bones and muscles grew numb, tingling from the pulses of lightning across the serpent’s body. With what strength he could dredge out of his torment, Connor held fast to the tail, groping for its withered lower limbs.

Suddenly, the serpent surged upwards, rising off the ground. Connor clamped himself around its tail, thews tensed. The beast launched above the dust cloud, fangs with lightning dancing across them bared and pointing to the ground. Beneath it, he could see Eachann, a silhouette amid the dust, dashing towards the ruins, but with the speed at which the serpent moved, Connor sensed it would be upon him before he could find cover.

To the ground, the thought echoed singularly in his skull as thunder rumbled quietly above. He twisted against the beast’s thick muscles and bones. Like a bolt from the sky.

With a turn of his body, Connor aimed himself groundward. The serpent made a startled hiss, jerking its head towards its tail to bite the pest upon it. However, the Fer Bolg’s raw strength combined with the serpent’s inelegant turn, sent it hurtling atop the ruins. Bones, scales, and stones cracked as a great booming erupted from the impact. The serpent lay in a heap amid the debris. Connor’s ears rang and a vibration coursed through his whole body, but the sting of the lightning subsided; his muscles relaxed and he slid off the tail, collapsing on his back onto the ground.

Eachann cried out as he sprinted towards Connor and knelt beside him, clutching his shoulder. “Connor!”

Connor clapped Eachann’s hand with the one that held the chain. “Be gentle; that is going to hurt for days.”

Eachann laughed. “You brought it down I suppose we didn’t need the chain after—”

A tremendous jolt shook through the serpent’s body and its head slowly rose from the rubble. Connor spat an oath, pulling himself to his feet and lunging for the beast’s disused legs. He and Eachann encircled the chain above its pitiful talons before its pale eyes opened again. The serpent writhed and hissed as it began to shrink. Its scales dulled and lengthened, softening into feathers. Once, it tried to lunge at the lads, but its head diminished and eyes darkened; its snout elongated into the drooping beak of a curlew. At last, the little bird Eachann had showed mercy for hopped in the dust, chirping angrily.

“Well,” Connor lifted his club, “only one way to put an end to this.” He loomed over the curlew and smote it upon the head, but it simply slipped out from beneath the cudgel. Frowning, Connor struck again, but again the troublesome bird yet endured the blow.

“There must be some charm upon it or the chain that keeps it from dying,” surmised Eachann. His eyes wandered down to the chunks of stone and he grinned, picking one up. “Let’s build for it a nest.”

Connor gave a hissing laugh and picked up a stone as well. Together, he and Eachann piled a cairn over the curlew, its chirping muffled beneath its prison.

The lads went from the summit to the collapsed cave upon the ledge. They dug through the dirt and withdrew a mere fraction of the trove they had witnessed before. However, it was enough so that they both were weighed down by the sheer amount of loot they acquired—several heavy, embroidered cloaks dyed purple and blue, armfuls of swords and scabbards encrusted with carbuncles, chains of gold, silver rings, and fine fur hats. The lads laughed as they hove their haul down the mountain, a swagger in their steps and thanks in their hearts for the warm sun washing over the land.

“What spoils for such an excursion,” Eachann said as he and Connor rounded a bend at the foot of the mountain. “A shame some of it will have to pay for our passage north.”

“We can ease that burden then,” offered a man’s voice, bringing the lads to a halt. They stood, suddenly, before a small crowd of men and women garbed in simple woolen dress—some dyed red, black, yellow, and blay. Most of them toted aged farming implements, a few spears, and several men displayed their dirks near the rings of their belts. The lads recognized each of the faces as folk they had feasted with during their stay in the farmstead below Beinn na Beathrach; the man standing before them, and the one to speak, was the grey-headed seanchaí who told the lads the story of the mountain.

“Why,” Eachann stammered, “good morrow, friends! Connor and I were—”

“So ye’ve taken the beast’s treasure.” The seanchaí tugged his wispy beard, making a tight-lipped smile.

“What we could scrounge up,” muttered Connor. “But the beast itself will be no trouble if you wished to get the rest for yourselves.”

The seanchaí closed his eyes and nodded. “Indeed, but that treasure has been on that mountain since ere any of us were thoughts in our greatest grandfathers’ heads. And Beinn na Beathrach is within our chieftain’s domain and he would likely desire a share of what you both have there; we can bring it to him ourselves.”

Eachann scoffed. “You proclaim yourselves the tax-collectors? Bah! Who among you has such authority?”

“Cathal does!” cried a young farm boy with dark whiskers growing from his chin. He pointed at a huge, broad man standing amidst the crowd. Most of the folks’ heads only came up below his chest. He locked eyes with the lads, giving them a slow, wide grin that spread to both sides of his round, bearded face.

Eachann and Connor looked at each other and sighed. “They are the ones who till the land,” admitted Connor.

“That is fair.” Eachann slowly lowered his armload of weaponry and cloaks to the ground. Connor did the same, bowing his head towards the folk.

Cathal pushed through the crowd and stooped to pick up the bundle before Eachann. Suddenly, the lad sprung, driving his fist into the giant’s chin. Cathal’s teeth crashed against each other and he tottered, falling to his back with a heavy thud.

“Grab what you can, Connor!” Eachann cried, seizing a fine blue cloak from his bundle before dashing northeastward, past his Fer Bolg friend.

Connor stood still, whipping his head between Eachann rushing by, Cathal’s prone form, and the stunned crowd as they slowly turned their eyes from their fallen enforcer to Connor. Gritting his teeth, Connor swept up a green cloak and ran. The tribespeople pursued, clamoring and crying for their shares to be rightly given. Some took up the fine swords the lads left, waving them in the air as they shouted More! More! More!

The lads ran as far as their legs could carry them, until the noise of the mob faded and the people themselves looked as small as ants in the grass as they milled back towards the farmstead. Eachann and Connor caught their breath atop a crag some miles eastward of Beinn na Beathrach. They wrapped their new cloaks around their shoulders and savored the cool metal of their jewelry against their heated skin—however, they lost their hats in the chase.

“I suppose what we have on our backs should be enough to ferry us to Orkneyjar,” said Eachann, admiring the several rings upon his fingers. “Mayhap even enough to get us back.”

Connor fiddled with a silver chain around his neck. “Aye, so long as these don’t bring robbers to us on the way.”

Eachann frowned, rising. “Indeed, it wasn’t for wealth or safety that we set out to the Northern Isles in the first place.”

Connor nodded and went with Eachann through a patch of heather, northwards.

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“In the Dragon’s Nemeton” © Ethan Sabatella 2024 – 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.