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Heroes ofLightand Shadow

For Trish, Caelan and Caoimhe – my biggest supporters

CONOR FORREST lives somewhere in Co Kildare, Ireland (he can’t be more specific, as the Fomorians are very keen to ‘talk’ to him). His grandfather, a gifted storyteller who had a knack for creating tall tales of all

sorts, passed on the bug for writing (and history) – for which there is no cure.

Conor worked for more than a decade scribbling for a variety of publications, including six years as a reporter for the Kildare Nationalist newspaper. Heroes

of Light and Shadow is his first novel (and hopefully not the last).

Heroes ofLightand Shadow

First published 2026 by The O’Brien Press Ltd, 12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, D06 HD27, Ireland. Tel: +353 1 4923333; E-mail: books@obrien.ie; Website: obrien.ie The O’Brien Press is a member of Publishing Ireland. ISBN: 978-1-78849-591-2 Text © Conor Forrest 2026 The moral rights of the author have been asserted. Editing, design and layout © The O’Brien Press 2026 Cover and text design by Emma Byrne Cover illustration by Alice Maria Power The moral right of the cover illustrator has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including for text and data mining, training artificial intelligence systems, photocopying, recording or in any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. All the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 87654321 30 29 28 27 26 To the best of our knowledge, this book complies in full with the requirements of the General Product Safety Regulation (GPSR). For further information and help with any safety queries, please contact us at productsafety@obrien.ie. Printed and bound by Nørhaven Paperback A/S, Denmark. Published in

The O’Brien Press received financial assistance from the Arts Council to publish this title

Pain and treachery are unknown,

So too are grief, mourning and death, Disease and infirmity …

The young do not grow old at all.

One

wenty-three minutes before encountering the axe-wielding

raider, Oisin Ryan stood before a towering wall, trying to figure out how to sneak into the museum beyond.

In his defence, it wasn’t the easiest task. The wall was at least

twice his height and the padlock on the iron gates to his right

refused to give way, even after a fair shaking. He wondered if his quest would be foiled at the very first step. He wondered if he should have brought a ladder.

Oisin shivered as a cold March wind blew through the narrow

street. He was trying to rub some warmth into his spindly arms when the nearby tram stop caught his eye. It was empty, the sol-

itary light above the metal bench flickering like something from a horror movie, casting shadows that danced across the tracks.

Oisin checked his watch, then clambered onto the overflow-

ing bin beside the glass shelter. With some difficulty, he hauled

himself onto the roof. Panting, he slowly got to his feet, trying not to look down or fall off. From here, he could see much more

of the vast stone building that stood beyond. Inside the wall, the ground sloped upwards, covered in a sea of bark and islands 7

of shrubbery. Oisin took a step closer to the edge of the roof, trying to gauge the jump.

Or, the voice inside his head suggested, you could act like a

normal person and call the police and go home.

Oisin knew that listening to voices in your head isn’t recom-

mended, but it had a point. An hour ago, he had been safe and warm in his bedroom, waiting for his mum to get home from

work. Now he was standing on a metal tram-stop roof, in the

cold and dark, trying to sneak into a museum for reasons that didn’t entirely make sense when he thought about them.

Don’t you want to know what they’re up to? another internal

voice countered. Aren’t you even a little bit curious?

Oisin was curious. The three men he had seen inside the huge

stone building earlier that day had sent shivers along his spine, but part of him was aching to know what they were up to. The part that, admittedly, regularly got him into trouble. *** Twelve hours earlier

Oisin was staring at a plain but clearly very old amulet in a glass case, the rest of his school tour scattered throughout the

museum, when three men appeared behind him with barely a sound. Two of them towered above Oisin and the third was a

little shorter, muscles bulging underneath a shirt begging for an extra size. Glancing around, something about them made 8

him immediately nervous. Mainly it was their eyes. The pupils

were large and black, with just a sliver of white around the edges. Like vampires’ eyes. He wondered if they had some sort of medical condition.

‘We will see this now,’ the shorter man declared in a deep

voice. The accent was strange, a mixture of Irish and something else entirely. He pushed Oisin aside.

An hour later, a ragged stream of schoolchildren wound its way

down the hill towards the museum’s gates. Their harried history teacher oversaw the procession, glaring at everyone in a silent

promise of retribution. Oisin was at the end of the queue when he spotted the men again, standing near the gateway. They shuffled restlessly, as though barely containing their own energy, like

dogs on a leash. The shorter one puffed on a cigarette, pungent blue smoke wafting into the air. Oisin hesitated, then ducked into a nearby doorway, straining to catch their conversation.

‘It must be the key,’ he heard one of them say in a gruff tone.

The man spoke like he was chewing gravel. ‘How can it not be?’

‘There is no picture,’ another replied. ‘We must be sure before

we take it to him. I have been shot enough for one week. I don’t know why he must give me all his anger.’

The short man dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed

it into the faded tarmac with the heel of his heavy boot. ‘It is the

key, there is no doubt. It is exactly as described. Well, almost. We will come back tonight. Midnight. It will not be difficult, not with our man.’

As they walked away, Oisin released the breath he hadn’t

even realised he was holding. His heart was thumping. Were they thieves? They had to be. Why else would they talk about

coming back at midnight? As the three men strode out onto the street, Oisin wondered what they were planning. Perhaps

they were trying to steal that amulet. Something so old had to be worth a lot of money, he figured. He had to tell somebody.

Oisin hurried back up the hill, skidding to a halt in front of a

fat, middle-aged security man in a white shirt. The guard raised a stern eyebrow.

‘What d’you think you’re playing at? There’s no running

or horseplay allowed around here, young man,’ he huffed. He glanced at Oisin’s faded grey school uniform. ‘Are you with that awful school group? You lot have been a right handful

today. I’m not paid enough for that sort of nonsense, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

Oisin ignored him. ‘I think somebody’s going to try to steal

that amulet in the long hall,’ he said breathlessly, pointing over at the building. ‘You know the one that’s 4,000 years

old? There were three men in there looking at it, and I heard

them talking just now about coming back tonight to take it. Midnight, they said.’

The security guard folded his arms, the weathered skin around

his eyes creasing as they narrowed. ‘I suppose you think that’s funny, do you? Go on, clear off.’ He sidestepped Oisin, muttering about kids and time-wasting.

Oisin was a little taken aback, then jogged after him. ‘Wait a

minute, I’m not joking,’ he protested. ‘There were three of them, two tall men and a shorter one. They were dressed completely in

black and they had strange accents and … I know this sounds crazy, but they looked like vampires.’

The security guard harrumphed. ‘Listen, I’ve heard that kind

of nonsensical story before, you kids thinking it’s funny to send

me on a wild goose chase. If you don’t get out of my sight, right now, I’ll call the police and have you removed. Understand?’

‘Oisin? Come on, the tram’s arriving.’ His teacher, Mr Fox,

stood at the gate, beckoning for him to come.

‘Go on,’ the guard muttered. ‘I’ve had enough of kids for

one week.’

*** Standing atop the glass shelter, indignation coursed through

Oisin’s veins. Mr Fox hadn’t believed him either when he tried to explain what he’d seen. His teacher seemed to think that Oisin’s imagination was getting the better of him again.

‘You spend far too much time buried in those fantasy books,’

Mr Fox had said with a shake of his head. ‘This is the real world, Mr Ryan. You need to realise that.’

Oisin wondered what his favourite characters would do in his

shoes. Captain America would march right into the museum, head first into danger, and save the day. Oisin reckoned if he had 11

access to some super-soldier serum, he’d feel a lot more confident about this whole scenario. He took a deep breath and pictured himself being interviewed on the news, having foiled a major

robbery all by himself, the only person who’d taken it seriously. Quite a few people would be feeling stupid then, he thought with some satisfaction.

There was a thin gap between the tram shelter and the brick

wall and Oisin stepped across it and onto the smooth, flat wall cap. Steadying himself, he took a deep breath and launched him-

self forward, landing in a bush. The air in his lungs was forced

out and he gasped as he rolled onto the ground. ‘That went well,’ he wheezed, gingerly feeling around for any broken bones.

As he wiped dirt from his hands and knees, Oisin saw a flash

of light from inside the building and froze, his heart suddenly pounding. He checked his watch. Five minutes to midnight.

The light had come from the top floor. He stayed where he was

for a minute, but there were no further signs of life. A squealing tram passed by on the tracks outside the wall, throwing light into the sky. Then a deep silence descended again.

Moving – or so he imagined – with the grace and silence of

Black Panther, Oisin jogged towards the museum’s towering left wing, trying to keep to the shadows. He stopped at the

edge of a manicured lawn and took cover behind a large sign. Across the green in the museum building, a light flashed again

somewhere on the second floor and was doused just as quick.

Half a minute later, another beam appeared on the floor below. 12

Perhaps it was just a security guard. He wouldn’t know until he took a closer look.

Oisin crept across the grass, crouching low. The moon

was out in full force, a huge, pale circle looming large in the

night sky. If anyone looked out, they would spot him easily. He reached a tall, ground-floor window and stopped, hugging the wall as he stole a peek inside. The museum looked eerie at night, drenched in shadow. In the far corner of the room, he spotted a woman in a white shirt, slumped against a wall. He stiffened. The guard’s chin rested on her chest and her left leg stuck out at an awkward angle.

A dark shape flitted past his eyeline and he stifled a gasp.

A figure in black appeared in front of the glass. Oisin stood as

still as he could, not even daring to breathe. Seconds passed like

hours and after what felt like an eternity, his lungs screaming for air, he heard a floorboard creak inside. Turning his head towards

the window ever so slightly, he breathed a sigh of relief when he

realised that whoever was inside had moved away. A faint briny odour lingered in the air, as though the sea was nearby.

Oisin could feel his heart thumping like crazy, the beat seem-

ing to echo across the wide-open space. He slowly shifted until

he could see more of the long hall. Three figures inside were standing in front of the same case that had held their attention earlier that day.

Hugging the brickwork, Oisin moved down the length of the

wing, stopping beside the window at the end of the block. Now 13

he could see the entire room. For the first time, he spotted the axe in the grip of one of the intruders. He swallowed hard. It was

a wicked-looking weapon, with a curved blade on one side and

a nasty spike on the other, mounted on a long wooden handle. What the hell were museum robbers doing with an axe like that? As he watched, the owner of the axe heaved it into the air and

smashed the case, sending glass shards raining across the hall. And then there was silence. No alarms. No shouting. Nothing.

One of the men chuckled. He hunkered down and sifted

through the debris, removed the amulet and stowed it inside his jacket. As he stood, a shaft of moonlight cut across his face

and Oisin gasped. The man’s features had suddenly become

beastlike: leathery, greenish-grey skin; a flat nose and small, pointed ears; and, most notable of all, thick horns that protruded from his forehead and spiralled like a ram’s.

‘I’m losing my mind,’ Oisin mumbled. ‘So that’s what it

feels like.’

Oisin decided he was in way over his head. His hands shook

as he pulled his phone out, keeping it under his jacket to hide the screen light. He dialled 999.

‘I need help,’ he whispered when it connected, glancing at the

window above his head to make sure he hadn’t been spotted. ‘I’m outside the National Museum in Dublin. There’s three men here ‒ they broke in, they’re stealing something. There’s a secu-

rity guard injured, and one of them has a battleaxe. Can you come quickly please?’

‘Okay, don’t worry, we’re sending help,’ a woman responded in

a cool tone, though he could hear frantic pecking on a keyboard

in the background. ‘Did you say that one of them has a battleaxe?’ ‘Yep. A battleaxe. I don’t know why. Maybe he’s an axe mur-

derer, I haven’t asked yet. Actually, I don’t plan on asking him at all.’

There was another noise from inside the museum, a shout.

Oisin popped his head up again as a second security guard ran into the room. The man’s eyes widened as he spotted the broken glass case, then the three strange men, and finally the axe. The

axe caught his attention most of all and he backed away, raising his arms. The black walkie-talkie in his hand crackled and he dropped it. It hit the ground and shattered, parts skittering across the floorboards.

Oisin looked on in horror as the axe swung again, but this

time, instead of glass flying through the air, it was blood and

gristle. The security guard’s head landed with a thump near Oisin’s window and he suddenly felt light-headed, bile rising in his throat. The man with the axe cheered, one fist in the air. ‘Ten points to me,’ he growled, and the others grinned.

‘I was right,’ Oisin hissed into his phone, which shook against

his ear. ‘He is an axe murderer. He just killed someone. Cut his head off. Chopped it right off, with his axe.’

A numbness was creeping over Oisin’s body. He could hear

sharp muttering on the other end of the line. The woman tried to keep her voice even.

‘Don’t worry, help is on the way. Can you stay on the line?

What’s your name? How old are you?’

Nothing would have tempted Oisin to hang up. ‘Don’t worry,

I’m staying on the line.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Oisin. Oisin Ryan. I’m twelve. This was a really bad idea.’

The woman’s voice came through again. ‘Okay, Oisin, hang in

there,’ she said. ‘Do you have some place to hide?’

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. ‘I’m outside.

They’re inside. I’m going to keep it that way.’

As the sounds of ransacking continued, Oisin realised he

could hear sirens echoing in the night. The men inside the room paused, looking towards the window. Flashing blue lights began to light up nearby streets. One of the men muttered

something in a harsh language Oisin couldn’t understand, deep and dark, more like a growl than actual words. It sent shivers down his spine.

The woman on the phone was still talking, but he couldn’t

focus on what she was saying. He considered making a run for

it, but his legs wouldn’t move. And then there were footsteps, moving closer and closer. Oisin’s heart was pounding so fast it seemed to be warming itself up for an escape attempt. His brain

was screaming at his legs now, urging them to stand up and start running, but he was rooted to the spot.

Above his head, glass shattered. Something silver flashed

through the air and Oisin yelped, ducking and rolling away. Pain shot along his neck, and he cried out. 16

Outside the walls, flashing lights illuminated the darkness,

wailing sirens amplified by the narrow streets. An urgent shout

came from behind the window and the man with the axe disappeared.

Oisin’s eyelids flickered, his hand rising to his neck as he got

to his feet and staggered across the grass. Something warm was trickling along his fingers. He could hear muffled voices calling

his name from somewhere close by, but he couldn’t see anyone. Tyres screeched and boots crunched on gravel. And then everything went black.

Two

ec stared at the thin wooden box, the size of a large enve-

lope, not quite sure what to make of it. The tip-off they’d received

had been quite vague, but she’d expected weapons or stolen goods. This was something else.

Inside was a square of blank parchment, faded with age and

sitting on soft, green cloth. There was nothing particularly

remarkable about it, but somehow it still stood out. She wondered why anyone would go to the trouble of smuggling some

old paper into the country. Wouldn’t it be easier to just stick it in the post?

Bec glanced over her shoulder. A man with a stout timber staff

strapped across his back was crouched nearby, rifling through the contents of a nearby crate and tossing small brown packages across the ground. ‘Come and have a look at this, Tadhg,’ she called out.

He strolled over and raised an eyebrow. ‘Looks like a bit of

paper to me,’ he said. ‘Do you think it might be something more?’ Bec shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Why bother hiding it if

there’s nothing special about it? Why put it in a box like this? Worth a closer look, I’d say.’

‘Let them figure it out at the Mill,’ Tadhg grunted. ‘Have you

checked everybody?’

‘Almost. Nothing of interest. Just Farrell left now.’

Bec walked back inside the warehouse. Motionless people were

sprawled across the wide-open space, lying among the remains of wooden crates. In one corner, a van had been split in two. It

was surrounded by shards of metal and plastic, its alarm quietly bemoaning its death. Frank ‘The Butcher’ Farrell was trussed up

over by the office, his chin resting on his chest, eyes closed. He

was surprisingly ordinary-looking, considering his nickname. Everybody expected a fat, middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and a couple of scars and tattoos, but Farrell looked like a regular businessman, in a charcoal suit, with a nice haircut and a distinct lack of gold jewellery.

Bec knelt beside him. Her hands hovered over his temple and

the man’s eyelids began to flicker. Her own eyes closed. After a minute, she shook her head. ‘He’s clean,’ she called out. ‘He’s

never met them. Never seen that bit of parchment either. My guess is it was snuck in by some low-level grunt paid to look the other way.’

In the distance, sirens blared as the police sped towards the

area. An anonymous phone call had promised them The Butcher

and enough evidence to put him in jail for a considerable length

of time. It could be a hoax, but The Butcher was a big enough

fish – it was well worth wasting a little time on the off-chance it was genuine.

They paused to watch the show from the shadow of a nearby

rooftop, Tadhg munching on a leftover packet of crisps he’d

discovered in his coat. Flashing blue lights dotted the roadway as every officer in a twenty-mile radius found some excuse to

come and help. Helping consisted mainly of standing around with hands in pockets and cracking jokes.

Bec felt her phone buzz. Her face was briefly illuminated as

she read the text, then plunged back into darkness when she stuffed the phone in her pocket. ‘Come on,’ she said, turning from the well-lit circus. ‘We’ve got some digging to do.’

Three

hen Oisin woke up, he was lying in total darkness. He

tried to move, but his entire body was stiff. His fingers twitched a little, but nothing else was cooperating.

It took a few minutes – or maybe hours – until his eyes began

to get used to the blackness. He shifted again, his arms feeling as though he was moving them with a remote control from miles away. He kept going, moving and twisting until he was tingling

all over from pins and needles. He tried to speak, to call out, but

all he could manage was a muffled groan that grated against his throat like sandpaper.

When the tingling had faded, Oisin swallowed and tried to

sit up. His forehead cracked against something solid and he fell back, moaning as pain shot through his head. He felt the sudden

urge to vomit. Trying to ignore the throbbing ache, he felt around

the darkness with his hands. There was something cold and hard all around him, blocking him in. His knees knocked against it

when he tried to raise them. No matter how hard he strained and pushed, it wouldn’t move.

The ground underneath his body felt soft, like a smooth,

silky sheet. As he tried to turn over, his hand brushed against 21

something small and hard. He managed to pick it up with

two fingers. It felt like some sort of necklace with beads. He frowned in the dark. He didn’t own a necklace.

Memories floated through Oisin’s mind like wisps of cloud.

He remembered shouts and glass shattering. And the museum. Why had he been at the museum? Those men, his brain reminded him. I did say we should have gone home.

In a rush, it came flooding back. His heart pumping. Climb-

ing the walls at night, peeking through the windows. The man

with the axe and the beheaded guard. Curved horns and greengrey skin. And they had come for him too. He remembered the

window shattering, an axe swinging and blood dripping from his

fingers. Sirens echoing in the distance and voices calling his name. Then it hit him and, somehow, he knew exactly where he was. His coffin.

For a single, solitary moment, Oisin didn’t panic, his brain still

catching up. And then he started to roar, a parched, crackling

shout that filled the cramped box. He shook from side to side, pounding against the coffin’s walls, pushing his knees against the roof in desperation. It took him even longer to realise that he was

wasting his energy, that coffin lids are locked from the outside, and that even if he did manage to get out, he’d probably have to tunnel through six feet of earth.

His voice broke and the screaming petered out as he flopped

against the silken base, exhausted. All he wanted to do was

scream, but with a momentous effort he forced himself to think, 22

clenching his fists and biting his lip as he fought the wild panic that threatened to sweep over him like a tsunami.

That took a few more minutes of silent screaming, but even-

tually Oisin managed to stop. Air would be in very short supply

down here, his brain reminded him, so he would have to use it

wisely. No more screaming or heavy breathing. He had to be calm. Had to be. Otherwise, he might never get out of this box.

Oisin pushed everything to the back of his mind and tried to

concentrate on his breathing. He slowed it as much as he could,

pulling the air in towards his feet and slowly pushing it out again, shutting out the swirling thoughts. It was like trying not to think about dinner when you’re hungry. All you do is think about food

even more. ‘Great,’ he rasped. Tears pricked his eyes. ‘Now I’m hungry too.’

It was hard to judge how much time was passing down here

in the dark. It felt like days since he’d woken up, but for all Oisin knew it had been just an hour or two. He couldn’t feel his watch on his wrist, and they hadn’t buried him with a phone. He

searched his pockets again, hoping that he might have missed something. Nothing.

Exhausted, Oisin drifted into a fractured sleep, dreaming a

strange dream. He was standing on a hill underneath a blue sky and a warm sun. Below, muffled thumps echoed across a bloody

battlefield, as sweaty men with red faces tried their very best to

kill each other in all sorts of horrible ways. There was a lot of yelling and screaming, not to mention blood and guts. 23

The men standing behind Oisin were silent as he stared out

across the chaos, trying to look commanding and leader-like. Long, lank locks of brown hair hung over his eyes, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and across his nose. His shield

and sword were heavy, and his arms already ached. But he couldn’t drop them. He had a feeling that might look bad.

The hill levelled out right as it met the battle, morphing from

grass into rock and then sand. Beyond was the sea, where dozens of

ships were anchored. Thousands of people were battling for their lives. Many of the warriors were fighting barefoot, running across the rough ground and the rocks, oblivious to the sharp edges.

‘Men,’ Oisin thundered as he drew his sword. ‘These invaders

have, well, invaded our land. And we won’t stand for it!’ The warriors agreed quite strongly with this. They cheered, banging their

weapons against their wooden shields. ‘Our coastal brothers have called for aid, and we will answer! Let these invaders know the meaning of their mistake!’

The warriors agreed again and they thumped louder and

louder, raising axes, spears and swords. Oisin turned back to the

battle and hefted his own blade high in the air, catching the light of the sun.

A low thud rang out, and the sun darkened. Many of the

warriors stopped their fighting, weapons hanging by their sides. Another thud echoed, louder this time. Muttering spread across

the battlefield, followed by a sound like thunder rumbling over the sea.

‘Charge!’ Oisin cried out. He burst forward, sprinting down

the hill. His sandals snagged on a briar halfway down and he

tumbled, the world inverting before it disappeared into darkness. Oisin woke with a start and he sat up, cracking his head against

the roof of the coffin again. For a few moments, he couldn’t hear

anything over the sound of his own curses. Feeling lightheaded, he turned on his side and retched.

And then he heard the thud again, followed by what sounded

like someone’s voice, far away. He couldn’t make out the words, but it was definitely a voice. Oisin’s pulse quickened, and he began to bang on the coffin’s walls and roof, trying to catch their

attention. ‘Help!’ he bellowed as loud as he could. ‘I’m down here, help! I’m not dead!’

There was another sound now, harsher, sharp and metallic. A

shovel tearing through the earth. His heart was beating faster and

faster. The police were coming for him, they had to be. Someone, somewhere realised they had made a terrible mistake and buried the wrong person. There’d be plenty of time for shouting and

lawsuits later on. Right this minute, Oisin just wanted to get out of the ground.

It took the diggers what seemed an eternity to reach the coffin.

As they pushed through the final few inches of dirt, the shovel

struck its roof with a harsh thud. Oisin half-closed his eyes as creaking sounds filled his eardrums. The lid was prised open and

there was a loud crack as the bolts came loose and split the wood. Fresh, wonderful air flooded his prison. 25

Oisin sat up, gasping, one hand raised to shield his eyes from

the harsh light of a torch. His neck was stiff, but he forced his head up towards his rescuers. Two figures were standing at

the edge of Oisin’s grave, several feet above his head. A third

crouched at the foot of the coffin, the man’s three-piece suit at odds with the shovel he grasped in a gloved hand. His hair was

dark and tousled, with fresh clumps of dirt resting in the tangles. He had a toothy grin that Oisin thought looked familiar

and, strangely, he didn’t seem surprised to see that Oisin was still alive. The man brushed some dirt from his jacket and then stuck out his free hand.

‘It’s good to finally meet you, Oisin,’ he said with a smile. ‘My

name is Fionn. I believe I’m your uncle.’