Comharra was on fire.
Lorcan slowed to a stop at the edge of the field just outside the tiny village’s wooden walls. Only two hundred fae called Comharra home but theirs had been a bustling, happy, lively place for as long as he could remember.
Every Saturday, the green was crowded with market stalls. Many of the villagers hocked their wares to those who lived in nearby hamlets and smaller villages. Selma, who lived three cottages down, baked bread so delicious that fae would travel hours for the hope of purchasing a single loaf. She always sold out by midday. Jeffrey, the blacksmith, crafted the finest of steel. And old Aoiffe sold pottery good enough for kings.
And now, flames consumed it all.
“Mother,” he whispered as his wide eyes turned toward the cluster of cottages at the other end of the village. Several were on fire. Most had broken doors, gently swaying on their hinges. Windows had been smashed. Bodies littered the ground.
His tiny heart could barely stand the terror of it all.
“Lorcan, son!” A tall, golden male slid into view. His eyebrows were pinched in concern. Decked out in centuries-old, faded leather, he was a wizened old male that Lorcan knew well. Cadman, father of the local butcher, was one of the oldest fae Lorcan had ever met. At two hundred and fifty, he had seen so much more than almost anyone else. The Fall had stolen his magic, same as everyone else, but he still clung to life like a stubborn fingernail.
“Come, son.” Cadman motioned Lorcan forward as he knelt on one knee so that they now saw eye-to-eye. “The fires will burn through the grass quickly, consuming us all. We must make haste to the sea.”
Tears sprung into Lorcan’s eyes, already burning from the smoke. “I need to find Mother.”
“Son.” Cadman sighed and shook his head. “We must go now.”
Lorcan felt his face crumple as he stumbled back. “I have to go find my mother. I cannot leave without her.”
He twisted away from Cadman and raced into the burning village. Cadman shouted from behind him, but his words got lost in the roar of the flames. Lorcan did not care. He had to find his mother. She was here somewhere. She could be trapped. He wouldn’t leave without her.
Lorcan ignored the burning Adhradh and the tavern that had already been burnt to a crisp. Ash and dust filled the air, and Lorcan’s lungs squeezed tight from the smoke.
As he ran, he passed bloodied bodies that looked as though they had been cleaved in two by a great axe. He did not stop to think about it. He ran for the little cottage at the edge of the village, a terrified hope in his heart.
At long last, he found home. The small, white-stone cottage had avoided most of the flames, but the door had been ripped off and tossed halfway down the street. Again, Lorcan did not dare think what that might mean. He wanted to believe his mother had avoided the danger. She would be inside, waiting for him, her brilliant smile lighting up those tawny eyes.
“Lorcan,” came a whisper from the dark, still cottage. It was not the voice of his mother.
Quietly, he stepped through the door. Shadows pulsed all around him. Theirs was a small two-room home, much like most cottages in their village. One room for living, where they cooked, ate, laughed, and played games. And one room for sleeping, where they each had a small cot pressed up against the dull brown walls.
“Mother?” Lorcan called out as he stared into the quiet darkness of their living quarters. His heart trembled in fear at her absence, but of course, she would not be in there. It was Beltane. She would be at the feast. The feast that was on fire.
But still, he felt her presence here.
He tiptoed across the floor, his heart as loud as the drumbeats of the Fomorians. Droplets of blood shone on the floor, highlighted by the glow of the twin moons that slanted light through the windows.
Lorcan swallowed hard.
He reached the archway that led into the sleeping quarters. Every single part of him quivered in fear. He did not want to look inside. He did not want to know what he would find there.
But he had no other choice. Mother needed him.
He sucked in a lungful of smoky air and poked his head inside the room. All at once, the world crashed down on his head. Blood painted the walls. A frail body curled on the floor, eyes wide, breath still. Horror drenched every inch of her face.
Lorcan roared as he collapsed beside her broken body, and his innocent childhood came to a sudden, brutal end.
His mother was dead.
2
Ten Years Later
Lorcan sat in the village hall, staring down at his meagre plate. For this year’s Beltane feast, he’d managed to rustle up a single loaf of bread, and he’d traded their leftover wheat for some potatoes from a nearby village. A small roast duck was the only meat on offer, and between twelve it wouldn’t go far.
It was the best Beltane feast they’d had in years.
“May the Dadga be merciful on us this night,” Cadman muttered wearily as he stood at the head of the table, carving the duck. Lorcan lifted his chin, giving the old fae a grim smile. Their eyes caught, and memories of that night passed between them like battle scars that had never fully healed.
Only a handful of villagers had survived the attack, Cadman being one of them. He had chased young Lorcan to the cottages and found him screaming on the floor, drenched in his mother’s blood. Lorcan could barely remember the rest of the night after that. He knew he’d refused to flee to the sea, even when Cadman had begged. In the end, the old male had stayed behind to protect him.
Ten years, Lorcan thought. Ten years, and nothing had improved. Half of the survivors had up and left, fearful that their village would come under attack again. No one else had seen the Fomorians. They did not realize what had destroyed Comharra and that there was nothing to fear anymore. The Fomorians had already burned this godforsaken place. They had no reason to strike again.
Now, Comharra was no longer the bustling market that it had once been. Selma had died in the attack, and no one had wanted to bake bread ever since. Jeffrey had survived and still sold his blades, but he scared off his potential customers most of the time. Regardless, most fae did not dare step foot anywhere near the place. It was cursed, they said. Lorcan couldn’t argue with that.
The fae of Comharra had never fully recovered. The stench of death was impossible to wash away.
A fork clattered onto a plate. Lorcan glanced up from his meal to find Aoiffe shivering in her chair, her long grey hair hanging like a curtain around her frail face. She hadn’t eaten a bite of her food. “It feels wrong feasting like this. Celebrating. Have you all really forgotten how they died?”
Lorcan ground his teeth. “Not a single one of us has forgotten.”
Ten years, and the pain was as fresh as a loaf of poor Selma’s newly-baked bread.
“Beltane is to remember them,” Cadman said gravely.
“For us,” she countered, furrowing her brows. “But what of the rest of the realm? They’re all laughing and drinking and revelling the hours away. They don’t care what happened here. The royal family, they never even came.” She let out a bitter laugh and gestured at the table. “Look at our feast. It’s a mockery of of us all.”
Lorcan let out a heavy sigh. He could not say that he had not thought these very things, but now was not the time to air grievances. Now was the time to honor the memories of the dead. His mother had always believed in Beltane, in the promise it brought to the rest of the year. She would be watching them, from her place inside the Court of Death. He did not want to let her down.