The Children of Zzthethpezemos

It was a strange thing, very strange indeed. Black Turlogh Dubh O'Brien found
himself in a land that he knew nothing about. He was without his weapons and
armor. A shallow, but swiftly flowing stream flowed at his feet. When he looked
around there was nothing remarkable for him to see save for a large pile of
heavy stones. Turlogh had no notion of why but he somehow knew that he must
move those stones to the far side of the stream. It was absolutely necessary that
he undertake this task. He did not question this strange compulsion in the
least.

The Gael lifted a stone from the large pile. He grunted and strained with the weight
of the object but otherwise managed very well. With the stone balanced on his
shoulder, the warrior plunged into the icy cold water and struggled to make his way
to the other bank. There he deposited the load and went back for another. Thus
he worked, sweating and cursing at the heat of the day and the chill of the
stream. There were perhaps a hundred of the stones and although it took many hours
of intense labor,
the powerful and determined man eventually moved the great pile entirely.
Well satisfied, the Gael sat down to wipe his brow and revel in the realization of hard
day's work well done. This was not to be however. No sooner than the tired man had
sat down than he stood again. There was absolutely no question that the heavy
stones must be moved again....and back to their original location.

Where this ultimatum came from Turlogh did not know, and he found this new
obligation quite disagreeable. He was near exhaustion but the work must be done...
this was certain. Thus Turlogh forced himself to hoist, yet again, one heavy
stone after another and carry them across the stream which seemed somehow deeper and
swifter than before. He wobbled, perspired in torrents, and strained beneath the
stones that had hardly become lighter. He feared the job could never get finished,
but with the determination of a hero he continued, his hands becoming raw and torn
from handling the rough rock.

Although it seemed at times that the task would force him to his knees, somehow he
at last returned the final stone to its original resting spot. Turlogh dropped to
the ground in utter exhaustion, every muscle in his body throbbed and his
proud shoulders slumped in agonizing pain. Yet no sooner had he left his feet the
great warrior rose again. The stones must be moved anew....and no power on earth
could remove this unhappy duty from the thoroughly beaten down man. Turlogh knelt
by the stream to drink and splash some water on his face. Then immediately afterward
he began again, his expression a permanent grimace that quickly took the aspect of
a tortured mask as the dark Gael heaved a heavy stone onto his sagging shoulders
and stumbled into the freezing water. If only he could stop! But he could not....
it was impossible.

Each trip took much longer now. He was in agonizing pain. Several times he fell
and had to lift the same stone over again. Despite it all, many hours passed and
the task was nearly accomplished. Against all odds he had continued even when
tears rolled down his cheeks from the intense pain in his limbs. He would finish,
he must. That undeniable fact was as real to him as his pain, only more so.

Finally the great axeman transported the last stone across the stream and the
near impossible chore had been completed for the third time without pause. As
Turlogh Dubh O'Brien dropped the final stone in place he already knew what lay
before him. He must move the stones again, back across the stream, and there was
no escaping the hard fact that it must be done. Suddenly the fearsome man of arms
was seized by the realization that he was trapped in a world of sheer
madness. Hopelessly he clawed at his face and chest as if trying to remove a horde
of stinging bees. He shut his eyes and screamed, screamed into the pit of
sheer blackness that surrounded his being on all sides......................................................
hopelessly he fell full into the grip of a hell spawned, stark raging insanity.

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Turlogh wakened with a start. His body shook convulsively and his clothing and
hair were drenched in sweat as if he fallen into the sea. The Dalcassian sprang
up and looked about wildly in every direction. All was quiet and still save for
the gentle rumble of the tide and the snoring of Hroghar Skeld. Theasmina
slumbered peacefully and deeply, worn out from the long difficult day. Turlogh
walked away as to not disturb them with his state of stunned unease. With his
powerful hands he swept the wet hair away from his face and massaged his
pounding temples. "A cursed nightmare!" The worse he'd endured during his
entire life. The one-eyed God of the Norsemen must have held a rare love for one of
the Viking fools they'd slaughtered just yesterday. And he'd sent a demon to drive
the Gael mad while he slept.

Turlogh pondered these things as he walked down the beach a goodly distance from
the others. In quick enough time he calmed again and became the man he
always was.....one to be feared, not one who knew fear. Indeed, he almost smiled at
the irony of falling helpless prey to a mere dream when countless times he'd rushed
to the sound of clashing steel and the screams of men in their death throes. He
swore to forsake any future thoughts of the herb non. Like as nay, the smoke
had brought on the nightmare, he'd never been bothered by such vivid
apparitions before.

The tall Dalcassian fighting man soon forgot the ordeal of the dream altogether.
He stood in the quiet and looked out at the broad expanse of the great seas. A
storm was brewing far out on the watery vastness. He stood and watched it form
and thought of Terrilara. Turlogh missed her terribly, he yearned for the
softness of her abundant flesh and the love he saw in her deep gazes. A fleeting
smile creased his grim features as he remembered little Mayan and wrinkled
old Zzthethpezemos. The warrior had developed more than a fondness for the
gentle folk of peaceful Torn and the amusing old man that led them. Truly, the
tales he could tell!

"O'Brien."

Turlogh spun about. "Who's there?" He answered loudly. Someone had spoke his
name. However, there was no one there beneath the haunting pale moonlit save
Turlogh. Yet he had heard a voice.....a very distinct one....and wholly
unfamiliar. "Who's goes there I say...reveal yourself....I have scarce tolerance
for frivolity...beware then."

Turlogh's hand went to his dagger, foolishly it was the only weapon he'd brought
with him...though he was confident in his ability with the short blade all the
same. Nevermind all that, he could see, or hear...nothing. This agitated
Turlogh, surely he wasn't in fact going mad...first the nightmare and
now.....?

The Gael shrugged his broad shoulders and turned to walk back to where his
companions lay in their repose. He had taken several steps when he heard the
voice again...just behind him this time. "Hold
Gael."

Turlogh turned with the speed of a darting rabbit.....this time he did see someone..
or something. It was a large shadowy figure several yards away. Turlogh drew
the dagger and advanced...his features hard and his cold eyes set in a squint.
Despite his rapid advance the strange person or apparition remained
absolutely motionless...save for a gentle blurring caused apparently by the
wind.

The Gael slowed his step, for discretion might be the better tactic when one
rushes against the unknown. His icy gray eyes strained to penetrate the darkness.
At last the moonlight revealed the form of a man...and what a man! In truth he
was unlike any man the dark warrior had ever seen but in many ways he was also quite
familiar. Firstly, the tall, lithe figure that Turlogh faced was like in most
respects to a Gael! He was dark and tall, with smooth features. His eyes were
deep set and impenetrable in the shadows of night. The strange man was obviously a
warrior, he wore dark chain mesh armor not unlike Turlogh's but fashioned in a very
old pattern. Upon his head was a crested helmet complete with a long strand of
flowing horsehair. The warrior's face was dark and heavily scarred by many
battles giving him a foreboding aspect. Turlogh Dubh O'Brien was not one easily
taken aback by any man based on appearances alone but he admitted to himself this
one time might be the exception.

The dark figure stood tall and unmoving...one scarred hand resting on the hilt of
a long, well made sword. Turlogh's begrudging admiration passed quickly. "Who are
you and how do you know my name....I am thinking you to be a Gael but I am certain
we have never met? What are your intentions strange warrior? If you are following
the path to bloodletting, you'll not find me easy prey.....lightly armed though I
might be."

The odd warrior spoke, his tone distinct and articulate, though tinged with a hint
of fatigue. Although Turlogh had questioned him in Gaelic, there was surprise when
the man answered in an archaic form of the tongue....more like the tongue of the
druid rather than the ordinary Gael. "I am called Cormac Mac Art....or was of
old."

"Then you are a Gael as I suspected." Turlogh answered. "Named after the
great hero....but are you friend or foe. I have many enemies among my
own people...perhaps some madman has sent a ship to find me....if so, I salute
your cleverness at finding me for even I don't know where I am exactly. The last
person I ever expected to find here was another Gael"

Suddenly the strange Gael drew his long sword and slashed at Turlogh, missing by
the narrowest of measures. Black Turlogh struck back just as swiftly, driving
his dagger straight into the chest of the attacker. Shockingly, the thrust met
no resistance...in truth the blade passed cleanly through the body of the strange
Gael with no more result than striking at the wind might produce. Turlogh's eyes
flew open with amazement...impossible. He withdrew beyond the reach of the
stranger's sword, still holding his dagger at the ready realizing all the while
the blade was likely less than useless against this unholy foe.

"Hold Dalcassian." The man calling himself Cormac Mac Art said. "That was simply
a demonstration, I have no wish to waste time exchanging meaningless, misunderstood
words. I suspect that now you know my nature....what you see before you is not flesh
and blood but merely the barest remnant of one that was."

"A ghost! Or a demon." Turlogh muttered...clearly stunned. "But why have you
come?"

"Even I don't know exactly what I am...but the one I was passed from your
world centuries ago..not long after the time the Romans left Britain. I am not
a ghost proper I don't believe, although you can think of me that way if you wish.
You can see me now for two reasons I suspect.....this land on which you stand is the
most mystical place on the face of the earth...by far. And warrior, let it be said
that the blood that once ran in my veins is the same that runs in yours even now,
for you are of my line O'Brien."

Turlogh Dubh of the clan na O'Brien listened in silence...unsure if he could speak
even if he would. The apparition continued, "I was named after that great hero
Cormac Mac Art but in truth I have seen things and fought battles and gone places
that might put even that legendary man to shame. Unlike him I was an outlaw, a
reaver, and a plunderer. Because of a woman I was driven from Errin at a young age
and people spoke my name as much in infamy as admiration. Of all my line you are
perhaps most like me warrior.....beware."

"I sailed the northern seas and beyond, taking what I could where I found it.
My companion is arms was the famous Danish pirate Wulfhere Hausakliufr. Our men were
no better than those Viking dogs you slew, though my hate for their kind was as great
as yours is now perchance."

"I have heard of you...there are many tales still to this day of the another Cormac
Mac Art...the great outlaw and reaver, slayer of Picts, Saxons, and Norsemen
alike." Turlogh commented, finally finding his tongue.

The spirit nodded, seemingly pleased with the acknowledgment. "And your own fame
is considerable Black Turlogh. Clontarf was quite the spectacle...I watched...from
a distance....with many other notables, Gaels, Celts, Saxons, and cursed Norsemen.
But nevermind all that now. I have come a long way to have a word with
you."

"Yes?" Turlogh replied.

"I have come to warn you Turlogh Dubh O'Brien. Only because of this mystical
place is this thing possible. You must leave here at once. Prepare your ship and
sail away at first light. It matters not where you go, just go. If you would, go
back to that woman of yours on the little island named Torn. Far better to find
yourself there in her embrace than what awaits you here on this island of
ancient magic and unknown arts. Go back and find another way to serve your new
king Zzthethpezemos. He is a good man and would not have sent you here had he
known how strangely the fates play their games in this place. Go Turlogh, and may
peace be yours at last."

"But I have made a vow of honor." Turlogh protested. "Nothing would please me
more should I leave this land of rare horrors, yet I would see my mission
fulfilled. Tell me more of the perils that await...if you would....spirit of Cormac
Mac Art.....also know as the Wolf."

A grim smile barely formed on the lips of Cormac before he spoke. "Yes, clearly you
are to much like me...and why not? The spirit that was mine is now yours. I can say
no more, my part in the play is done....beware great warrior!"

The storm far out to sea had gathered in intensity. A blinding streak of
lightening crossed the sky forcing Turlogh to blink. When he opened his eyes again,
the shadowy spirit was gone. "Cormac...Cormac Mac Art...shall we speak some
more?" Turlogh asked loudly, addressing the emptiness all around.

"Goodbye, Turlogh Dubh O'Brien....goodbye and beware!" The voice came from
everywhere and nowhere....and seemingly from a distance. "Cormac!" Shouted the
dark Gael, but there was no answer.

He suddenly felt tired, giving cause for the warrior to sit down. He reflected on
all that had transpired...and the warning most of all. For the first time he had
real doubts as to whether he could accomplish this thing that he'd come here to do.
His eyes became heavy and he allowed them to close for a moment's respite.

Turlogh slept for an hour or perhaps only minutes before he felt someone shaking his
arm gently..."Turlogh, what are you doing out here?" It was the lass. Turlogh
opened his eyes to see the concern in hers. She held his axe. "I wakened
and discovered you gone, I heard voices and went looking for you...it seemed
strange that you would leave without your weapon."

"Yes, it was strange, very strange sweet lass. Let us go back...I feel rested,
and perhaps in need of you."

"Oh, I vow that I have the cure for your sleepwalking my darling!" The girl
said excitedly.

Turlogh gave her one of his rare smiles...."Of that I have little doubt." He said...
all the while wondering if the ghost he'd just seen had perhaps been just
another dream. Like a dream it all seemed distant now.....but a warning was a
warning, whatever the source. He pulled the warm body of the girl close to him
and cupped both her pliant young breasts hungrily. Soon all thoughts save those
of lovemaking flew from his mind.