His Father’s Son Kevin R. Joyce The rotting jaws of the dead man’s skull laid open to the grey sky above, stretched in a lifeless scream as his hollow sockets watched the gathering clouds darken what was earlier a clear autumn afternoon. His rusting plate armor and tattered leather gauntlets proved to all who traveled along the Slighe Mhór that he had been a warrior in life. For this was why the knight had stopped where the dead man lay. Sir Roibeárd buried the nameless man-at-arms and said a prayer over his grave, not allowing such indignity to befall him be he friend or foe. The rain was finally unleashed, turning the Great Highway to muck and slowing the Lord of Connaught to a trot as he headed west again upon his horse. He didn’t mind it, for the crisp Irish air that filled his lungs had never tasted better. As he gazed out at the lush fields of his homeland the stonewalled highway snaked across, his thoughts drifted once again to her. To Niamh. To the sheen of her chestnut hair on a warm summer’s day. To promises made before calls to war in distant lands when youth and hearts were still full and wanting. A bolt of lightning cracked the sky behind the rolling hills to the north, thoughts of the Princess replaced with finding shelter. He broke the horse into a gallop, drops of rain stinging his sun battered face. He ran the whetstone down the blade of his long sword again and again, steel shimmering in the glow of the cook-fire as a calm, starlit sky shone above. The crackling embers made the thicket of oak trees feel warm and welcoming after the storm had passed, drying his rain-soaked cloak along with the dark locks of hair that fell down to his shoulders. With the end of his journey finally at hand, he found himself dreading what was meant to be his triumphant return. Since boyhood he had feared the day when his mettle would be tested for all to witness against his father’s legacy. And what of the Princess? Had her love for him faded like so many things cherished in those brighter days gone by? Lost in thought, he placed the whetstone on the ground beside him when the loud snap of a tree branch echoed out from the darkness. Scanning the veil of shadows surrounding him, the knight had only stood and raised his sword when he felt the first arrow pierce his flesh and bury itself deep into his chest. The second arrow burst from beyond the trees and flew into his abdomen, the blinding pain bringing him to his knees. Lung and stomach punctured, he had almost gotten back on his feet when he heard a bowstring loose followed by a third arrow zipping through the air behind him, slamming between his shoulder blades. Feeling the life within him spilling from his wounds, he watched as a ghostly archer stepped out from behind a tree and into the light of his cook fire, notching another arrow while a pair of hooded bowmen stood alongside him. “You’re a fool to have returned, Roibeárd.,” spoke a voice so familiar it was almost comforting. “Proof I’ve always been the clever one.” The tallest of the three assassins stepped forward and removed his mud-stained hood, revealing a mane of golden hair and pale set of blue eyes concealed beneath. “Uilliam…” gasped the knight, choking on his own blood. “Say no more, brother. Death has come for you this night.” he replied. “God knows how much this pains me. Alas, my hand is forced. Father was too old and you are too weak to rule. You left for the Holy Land, abandoning me to watch in disgust as our decrepit patriarch put our house’s position at risk time and time again. Believe me when I say his death was a mercy, brother, as is this. Nightshade liberated his soul from needless suffering as steel shall liberate yours.” His brother’s words held no meaning, for all Roibeárd could hear over his death rattle was the lilt of Niamh’s voice calling out to him from afar. “Do you hear me, dear brother? The dogs of war have been loosed upon these lands and I alone possess the strength to keep them! I am Father’s rightful heir, not you!”
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