The Fomorian fled into the darkness of the bushes, and my sister and I followed. 

It had been a long chase through the hills of mist, and the scratch of hawthorn, as we pursued the bloody-handed slayer of our father. But the end grew near. I could smell it. 

We drew nigh to a gate of the Overworld, where our realm overlapped with that of the sons of Mil. In olden days, visitors sometimes arrived from the sunlit lands. Alas for the hunt and the feast, for those times of merriment were no more. Nor did we ourselves venture forth as we once did. Our race had drawn apart from theirs.

The bushes cleared, and we spied our foe, a hideous scion of a people both foul and dreadful. It was even as our bards sang, when the tale of Mag Tuired was recited before our feasting kings. The Fomorians were ever-treacherous, their power set against ours. Father’s head hung from this one’s belt, dripping dark blood upon the earth.

My sharp-eyed sister flung her spear, and dashed towards the Fomorian. The iron of her short sword promised vengeance for our folk and grim death for our enemy. I followed in her wake, my sword drawn likewise.

The foe cried out. He twisted away from the flying spear at the last moment, so the blade only bit the blue edge of his cloak. My sister snarled at the miss, one she had not known for many a hunt.

And yet, even with all the Fomorian’s brute strength and shimmering magic, our onset proved too much for him. 

A dagger gleamed in his hand, slicing loose the booty. The head tumbled to the ground. Father’s eyes stared back at me. 

The distraction of grief lasted but a heartbeat.

Long enough.

Before my sister could regain the spear, and thrust the weapon deep into his belly, the Fomorian slipped through her grasp, and away into the Overworld.

***

Our keening ran long and loud over the hills.

At last, my sister bent, and lifted the head. 

“Truly, father,” she said. “We shall bury you in the sacred earth of home.”

“And the Fomorian?” I asked.

“Shall not have his prize.”

“But he has his life.”

“Aye, and that is a sore wound indeed. But I am our father’s eldest child, and the ancient ways mean I must now return and bury him.”

“Then I shall hunt his slayer in the Overworld. Alone.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Alone, Little Brother? You bear the name of a mighty king of old, but as a warrior you stand yet untested. The sons of Mil are strange, by all accounts.”

“Then let them test me. I am no fool with a blade.”

“Aye, that is so.”

She handed me her spear. Long Thorn was its name.

“Take this with you into the Overworld. Slay the Fomorian, and bring back his head. With that accomplished, you shall rise high in the esteem of our people. But if you should fail…”

“I shall not fail.”

My sister smiled.

“Very well, Little Brother. But be quick about it, and dally not with the maidens of the Milesians as you dally with the women of our lands. We shall sit and drink mead together upon your return.”

***

Clutching Long Thorn, I fared forth into the realm of the sons of Mil. Through the darkness and mists that lie between, and back to the green grass our folk knew long ago.

***

There was grass, yes. Green as the emerald brooch I wore upon my breast. And yet it was also a thing of quiet horror, for the grass lay flat and even, far beyond the handiwork of any scythe, with nary a cow nor bull in sight. The sons of Mil, so it is sung, had long measured wealth by their cattle-herds, and yet as I walked the paths of the Overworld, I saw the songs no longer spoke true.

The thatched halls of mud and timber were gone too. In their place stood buildings of a peculiar grey stone, or if they were of timber, the wood was painted. Such drab and forlorn hues, and yet each dwelling stood far larger than I had ever imagined.

Then there were the chariots.

I knew them at once. They belonged to more than the king’s warriors, for there were so many. But they were adorned not with gold or bronze, and never once did I see a single horse. No cattle, no horses… were these indeed the sons of Mil who had sailed to our shores with iron and fire? Who had bested our most powerful glamours and magics to claim the Overworld for their own?

By the Dagda, I could not even smell the dung.

“Where are their herds?” I murmured. “Has a terrible plague befallen them? Have their enemies raided, and carried off their prized bulls?”

A strange raid indeed, in a land where every last man had his own chariot.

Then I saw the folk themselves. These Milesians were not the survivors of a terrible raid, nor sufferers of the Fomorian yoke. They were well-fed and free of infirmity, creatures of a time of plenty. Comfortable, and cheerful, none wore golden rings upon their arms or carried blades at their hips. 

Their women wore breeches, like my sister, but none were warriors as she was. Nor did they pay me more than a glance, though I knew myself fairer and more comely than any of their menfolk. 

I might have gutted these Milesians in a moment had I wished. Where were their warriors? Or were they each under the protection of a druid’s unseen charm?

The children were clad most oddly of all. Some wore cream-white sheets over their bodies, or had painted their skins red or blue as if for war, or had placed goat-horns upon their heads. Round balls of fruit the colour of bronze lay in much abundance, each as large as a man’s head. 

I knew not the name of the festival, but I guessed at its purpose. Even in this world without herd or blade, where chariots stood everywhere, and where the king’s warriors were nowhere to be seen, there must remain traditions that had survived the slow wearing of time. The druids did their work, and through such garb and ritual, the sons of Mil might yet ward off the fell spirits of the night.

Was I a spirit of their night? Perchance I was, along with my entire race. But the Fomorian, wherever he lurked, most certainly was.

I recalled my oath to my sister, and gripped Long Thorn all the tighter.

I must find and slay our foe.

***

A band of painted children gathered before an open doorway, bags in hand and excited squawks upon their lips. The woman of the house dispensed gifts from a bowl, and sent them on their way.

No sooner had they disappeared across the grass than I strode up to the door, and bowed low.

“Greetings, my lady. Have you seen a Fomorian warrior?”

The wife was heavier than the women of our folk, grey-haired, and clad in strange garb, with a pointed black hat upon her head. She frowned at me, and slammed the door with the force of a mighty wind.

Had I violated some custom of her people? I had shown all due deference, and yet she had shunned me, to my face. I stood puzzled, yet also relieved my sister was not here to see my shame. 

I felt a tug at the hem of my cloak.

I swept around, Long Thorn at the ready.

But this was no foe, much less the Fomorian. This was a short creature, plump in the stomach, and clad all in brightest red. A curly beard grew upon the chin. I knew it at once. A leprechaun, a craftsman of shoes. This one was adorned with gold.

He stared up at me, eyes wide. I slowly withdrew the spear-tip from his throat.

“Pardon, good sir.” The accent was thick, as if he had not spoken our tongue for many a year. “I was passing by, and overheard your words on the doorstep. By chance, are you of the Tuatha Dé Danann?”

“Aye. I am of that race. Nuada I am, though I am young and have yet to prove myself worthy of such a kingly name. What of it?”

The leprechaun shifted on his feet.

“You were speaking Old Irish.”

I frowned.

“I speak the tongue my people share with the sons of Mil.”

“Not any more, good sir. Or at least the sons of Mil – the humans one might say – now speak rather differently. I daresay I am the only creature for many miles who could converse with you.”

“There is one other.”

“Quite.” The leprechaun licked his lips. “Fancy a drink?”

“I am in the Overworld to slay a foe, and avenge my father. Mead might wait.”

“I have much to tell you.”

“Then tell it.”

“Not without a drink. Believe me, you’ll need it.”

I was no closer to finding the Fomorian. Tidings of the Overworld would do no harm.

“Very well.”

“Then follow me. Oh, and Brian’s the name.”

***

The leprechaun led me into a feast hall. Smoke rose from a blazing fire, and men drank and boasted at the tables. It was familiar, and yet not. There was no bard doling out satires, no king presiding over his mightiest warriors. No gold, save that worn by the leprechaun and myself.

My little companion approached a stout man in an apron. The apron-wearer wiped down a wooden bench with a cloth.

Brian said something in an unknown tongue. The stout man grinned, and lifted him onto the bench. Then the Milesian saw me, and his face curdled like milk.

He made a sharp enquiry of Brian. The two had a lengthy talk. The only word I could catch was ‘Halloween.’

“Halloween?” I asked.

“Samhain,” said the leprechaun hurriedly.

The stout man in the apron was studying my spear. He waved his hand. 

Brian turned to me, sighing.

“He wishes to know if your weapon is real.”

“Aye,” I said. “Long Thorn has drunk much blood in her time, even back to the battles of Mag Tuired. Nor am I without sword and dagger.”

“Any chance you could leave the weapons outside?”

“Not while the Fomorian walks free beneath the sky. Not while men breathe who might yet do me harm. And even were I utterly safe… I would sooner die than surrender Long Thorn.”

Brian pursed his lips. 

He said something to the stout man in the gentle manner of a lullaby, then reached for his leather purse, and poured a small heap of gold upon the bench.

Clink.

***

We sat together in a corner. My back to the wall, I looked over at the other men in the feast hall. They gave us a wide berth. That was all to the good, though I would not have minded some of those laughing maidens perched upon my knee.

The drinking-horns were of clear glass – the Overworld in its madness had turned jewelry into vessels – and the ale ran black as night, with foam like the sea. All told, it was not unpleasant.

Brian sipped at a drink near as large as himself.

“I told him you were with me,” he said. “Please do not cause trouble.”

“I do not cause trouble. I was raised to end it.”

“Quite. But here is the thing, Nuada. The humans have moved on from my time, let alone yours. You and I, well, we are fairies to them now.”

“Fairies?”

“Yes. Fairies. The Good Neighbours. The Fair Folk. Half-forgotten oddities that haunt the green mounds of windswept paddocks and curse the cows of superstitious grandmothers. Most people no longer believe we exist, and those who do often just place us in stories to quench the thirst of their own fancies.”

I sat up.

“So they do have cows!”

“Not here in the city, they don’t. And speaking of that: here in the city they don’t see you as a proud warrior. They see you as a babbling madman who has taken Halloween – sorry, Samhain – a bit too seriously. Any other night, and they would have sent the police after you. People don’t carry real spears and swords now.”

“I wondered greatly at that. How do they protect themselves? How do they defeat their foes, and raid their herds for glory?”

“No-one steals cows for glory anymore. The thieves go into politics instead.”

I drank deep of the ale.

“And they call themselves men. Small wonder none dare visit our realm.”

“It’s not that they don’t dare. It’s that they don’t believe in fairies. Or in much else, to be honest. Theirs is a time without enchantment, where myth and legend live only in the careful deadness of fiction, and where belief and wonder have left the waking world. Samhain is an excuse for children to dress up and get treats, and adults to dress up and get drunk. As if they need an excuse for that.”

“The Fomorian would shred them.”

“No doubt. But be careful, Nuada. The humans no longer believe, but they have grown canny and clever. They have their own ways, and you can’t very well hunt your quarry from a prison cell or a mental ward. But I see you have finished your Guinness. Another, or shall we go looking for your Fomorian?”

I wiped foam from my lips.

“Another, if you please. And tell me more of the ways of the Overworld. The more I learn of the sons of Mil, the better I shall fare in my quest.”

***

The sorrows of my father’s slaying were lightened, for now, and I left the feast hall in good spirits, singing old war-songs of the Tuatha Dé Danann. I daresay the Overworld had not heard a such thing for many long years. Beside me walked Brian the leprechaun, quieter than I, but grinning from ear to ear. The little fellow had promised me aid when we found the Fomorian, and while he was not my sister, I doubted not that his wily ways would tip the scales.

We passed under those columns of fire Brian called streetlights. Beneath them stood a band of men clutching small slabs to their breasts. Each were as engrossed in their work as any craftsman.

“Phones,” said Brian. “They all have phones these days. Can’t know a thing without them, these humans.”  

I was about to ask more when one of the Milesians pointed his phone at me. It burned with a short and sudden flame of light.

Even the long feast of ale could not dull my warrior instincts. With a swift motion I knocked the slab from his hand. Long Thorn was at his throat.

“What is this dark magic, Overworlder?”

Had I not met Brian, doubtless I would have slain the creature, and left the headless corpse as a warning to the others. But the leprechaun had spoken of the lack of malice behind these weaponless folk, so I restrained myself.

The Milesian yelped, and stumbled back. Others of his kind stood staring, fear writ upon their faces.

Beside me, Brian cursed.

“Run,” he said. “They will call the police.”

“The police?” My heart leapt. “The ones who can still fight? My blade will yet sing this night, and in the frenzy of battle I might prove the worthiness of my name.”

Brian swore once more.

“Listen, you fool. They will think you’re a terrorist.”

“A terrorist?”

“You can thank your lucky stars this isn’t Belfast. But we need to hide. Now.”

Then he was off like the wind. I had no choice but to follow.

***

The chariots on the road roared their horns. Everywhere, there were shouts in the strange tongue of the Overworld.

I cared not.

One chariot blazed with blue and red fire, and Brian suddenly stopped.

 “The police,” he said. “Whatever you do, do not fight them.”

“Why not?”

“They will call for others, with guns. If they can’t take you alive, they’ll have to kill you.”

I weighed Long Thorn in my hands.

“It might yet be a glorious death. When they take my head, it shall be over many a fallen body.”

Brian slapped his forehead.

“The days of glory are over, Nuada. Can you not see?”

“The sons of Mil deem us fairies. Folk of the mounds. It is time they remembered us as warriors of old. Thus, the bards of the feast halls shall again sing of us as we truly are.”

“No bards. No feast halls. Only the television news talking of a mad spearman on Halloween.” The leprechaun grew shrill. “Think, Nuada. Will dying like a dog in the street achieve your quest? You spoke to me of the Fomorian, the one who slew your father. He is still out there!”

I frowned.

“Aye, he is, and my father’s blood yet calls out for vengeance.”

“Then do not fight the police. Swear an oath to obey their every command, and I swear to help you escape afterwards. Otherwise, I wash my hands of you and your quest.”

I stared down at the little man. He meant every word. His face had flushed as red as his garb.

“Very well, I so swear.”

No sooner had I spoken than Milesians in blue approached. The fabled police, the war-band of the Overworld. To my surprise, they too bore no swords or spears, and yet Brian’s words of mysterious guns rang in my head. I eyed the men with caution.

One of them – a big man with much black and grey hair on his upper lip – stepped forward. He barked out something in the Overworld tongue.

“He wants you to place your weapons on the ground, and raise your hands,” said Brian.

“My weapons?”

“All of them.”

“I would sooner die than surrender Long Thorn.”

Brian smiled. There was a twinkle in his eye.

“Would you sooner die an oath-breaker to a friend?”

“How do you mean?”

“You swore to me that you would obey all the police commands. They command you to give up your weapons. Including your spear. Your oath compels you.”

“You are a cunning fox, Brian. I should have stabbed you when we first met.”

“Quite. But an oath is an oath, and yours was freely sworn.”

Cursing all leprechauns and their accursed wiles, I drew out my sword and dagger, and placed them on the ground before me. Then, slowly and reverently, I lowered even Long Thorn.

I raised my hands high.

“Forgive me, sister,” I said. “I have failed.”

***

The police placed iron rings around my wrists, and herded me into the waiting darkness of the chariot.

***

A grey room of stone awaited, with iron bars and a long wooden bench. These police sought to hold me prisoner, in a place so dead I smelt the dung of neither man nor beast.

Even without weaponry, I knew I possessed strength enough to bodily overthrow the two men behind me, and to thus flee into the night. But to do so would have rendered me an oath-breaker, and none is so accursed as the betrayer of his sacred oath. I was a failure to my race and to my kin, but I was no traitor to my word.

And even now hope burned within my breast.

The cunning leprechaun had sworn to aid me in his turn – the price for which he had bought my acquiescence. As I saw, I merely had to wait, until freedom came through Brian’s sly hand.

A key turned in the lock, and the police said something more in their strange language. Then I sat alone, deprived of weapons, with only my thoughts for company.

Or so I fancied.

For through the walls, I suddenly heard singing. But it was not the song of the police or these new Milesians. 

It was a song in my own tongue. The Old Irish, Brian had called it.

Had another of the Tuatha Dé Danann ventured into the Overworld this Samhain night, when the veil between the realms grows thin?

My heart leapt, and I called out in gladness.

The singing stopped, and there was only grim laughter.

“Ah,” said a voice. “What a fine pair of fools we make. For it is I, the Fomorian, slayer of your father, who now keeps you company.”

I leapt to my feet, hand instinctively reaching for my absent blade.

“Curse you, Fomorian, and all your kind. I shall claim your head soon enough.”

“Not while walls of stone and gates of iron keep us apart. You have been caught and trapped by the Overworlders, even as I.”

“Your shimmering magics could not evade them?”

“My shimmering magics no longer work in this realm. Truly, the Overworld is dead to enchantment.”

“But not dead to my spear.”

“You do not have your spear. You have nothing.”

Curse him, he spoke true. The Fomorian went on.

“Do you not see? It matters not if one is of the Tuatha Dé Danann or of the Fomorian race. This is not our world any longer.”

“The leprechaun said we have become fairies in the eyes of men. The People of the Mounds, both rustic and forgotten.”

“Aye. To think the great feud between our races has come to this. From Lugh and Balor to a pair of hapless prisoners in the clutches of the Milesians.”

“If your people had not been so cruel and treacherous, we might have resisted.”

More laughter from my foe.

“Fomorians are only cruel and treacherous in the lies of your bards.”

“Is it a lie, then, that you slew my father and carried off his head?”

“No lie. Nor is it a lie that your father slew three of my brothers.”

“Aye, one after another, in fair combat at the ford in the river. Your brothers were skulking on our lands.”

“Stolen lands. But enough of this squabble. Our time has passed, and with it the cause for hatred. You have no spear, and I have no magic. Yet we have our voices, and we have each other. We might pass the night in storytelling and song, instead of pointless argument. What say you, Nuada of the Tuatha Dé Danann?”

“Very well,” I said. “We shall trade songs until the sparrows chirp at the coming dawn.”

***

Few of my folk had heard bardic tales from a Fomorian, I would wager. My sister had not. If my father had, he never spoke of it. Perhaps not since the infant Lugh played beside the fire with his mother had our two races seen the like.

The Fomorian sang to me of the windswept sea, boisterous and fierce with spray and foam. I sang to him of the green fields, of the toil of men, and of the lips of fair maidens.

We both sang of war.

The red swords of heroes and the ancient treasures of our kind: that which had passed from the Overworld forever, never to return.

Thus did two lost fairies spend the night of Samhain.

***

I had just ended the tale of the Dagda’s staff when I heard a new sound. A turning of keys, and a muttered cursing. 

“Brian!”

The bearded little leprechaun had indeed fulfilled his part of the oath, though it had taken him almost the entire night. I peered through the iron bars, into the way of bright ceiling-flame. 

“Here!”

Brian carried Long Thorn upon his shoulder: an odd sight, but welcome. My sword and dagger too were there, resting beside the outer door.

When he let me out, I lifted the fellow up, and embraced him.

“Not so tight!” Brian gasped. “You’re choking me!”

The Fomorian laughed. 

Replacing the leprechaun on the floor, I turned. Further along the way, my foe stared back through iron bars.

“Ah, Nuada. You have your spear again. That shifts the game indeed.”

***

I told Brian of the meeting of the two prisoners, and of our night of song. The leprechaun scratched his chin.

“Maybe best if you leave the creature for the humans. Less blood if they deal with him. Safer too.”

“No,” said the Fomorian. “You cannot be so cruel. Take my head instead, and remember my strength in your tales.”

“Aye,” I said. “You have dwelt too long in the Overworld, Brian.”

The leprechaun shrugged.

“As you wish.”

I laughed grimly.

“It is not a matter of wishes, my friend. It is a matter far greater than that. I am Nuada of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and that is enough.”

Even as I spoke, I heard a fresh sound. The chatter of sparrows. That which heralded the coming of the dawn. I knew then it was time.

The key turned in a lock once more, and I strode forth to destiny.

***

I emerged with a bloodied Long Thorn in one hand, and the Fomorian’s head in the other.

The deed was done. I had fulfilled my oath to my sister, and avenged my father. But no smile crossed my lips.

Brian stared at me, wide-eyed and pale-faced.

“Goodness gracious. That was a lot of blood.”

“It was a battle,” I said.

“Aye, that it was.”

***

Brian’s charms wore off with the dawn, and it was all we could do to flee the place, ere the police rose to confront us once more.

No doubt many a Milesian, awake in the coolness of early morning, saw a strange sight as we ran through the streets of the city. But fortune favoured us, and I again reached the gate between the realms with no real peril.

***

“I must bid you farewell, Brian the leprechaun.”

“For now,” said Brian. “For now. Next time you come back, I’ll have a pint or three waiting with your name on them. Hopefully, it will be a bit quieter…”

I shook my head.

“I shall not come back. The Fomorian spoke true. As did you, if I only had the ears to hear. The Overworld is not our place, and has not been for years beyond count.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean you can’t visit now and again, for old time’s sake. I manage well enough among the humans, and if you keep your head down, so can you.”

“Living on faded memories, ones that wear ever-thinner with the passing of the seasons? The Tuatha Dé Danann deserve better, and so do the Fomorians. You are a creature of wit and cleverness, Brian, and those sly enchantments yet cast their spell upon the sons of Mil. But I am a different sort of fairy.”

“Aye. That is true enough. Farewell, Nuada.”

“Farewell.”

I patted his shoulder. Then with the Fomorian’s head in my grasp, I stepped back through the gate. 

[Daniel Stride has a lifelong love of literature in general and speculative fiction in particular. He writes both short stories and poetry; his first novel, steampunk-flavoured dark fantasy Wise Phuul, was published in November 2016 by small UK press Inspired Quill, and a sequel, Old Phuul is due out in the near future. His short fiction has appeared in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, The Lesbian Historical Motif Podcast, and SpecFicNZ anthology Te Korero Ahi Ka. He has enormous fondness for chocolate, cats, and the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, and can be found blogging at https://phuulishfellow.wordpress.com/. Daniel lives in Dunedin, New Zealand.]