Children of Lir

By K.L. Bone

On the shores of ancient Ireland, a noble knight wins the heart of a faerie princess. 

But will his love be enough to save her from a wicked curse? 

 

When Lord Deiric saves the life of a drowning swan, little does he know the creature is more than it first appears. Cursed to take the form of swans, the children of Lir are bound to the frigid waters of an Irish strait. Only under the light of a full moon can they temporarily regain human forms.

 

One stormy night, Fiana and her brothers appear at Deiric's keep and the golden-haired beauty quickly captures his heart. As romance blossoms under silver moonlight, Deiric vows to save his newfound love from the sorcery that holds her within its merciless grasp. 

 

To free her, Deiric chooses to face a series of trials. The path is treacherous, spanning both the mortal and faerie realms, and is fraught with dangers Deiric never imagined. 

 

Can Deiric complete his quest in time to free Fiana from her enchantment? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.L. Bone
• Release date: Feb 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223983316

Book preview

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Children of Lir

A Twisted Fairytale

By:

K.L. Bone

Children of Lir Copyright © 2022 by Kristin L. Bone

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Cover Art © 2021 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

First Edition: August 2022

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chapter I

Battle of Sióg

Ancient Ireland

The clang of swords echoed across the blood-stained field. What had hours prior been a serene valley of chirping birds and green grass now stood covered in crimson-soaked mud and the screams of dying men.

Two men locked eyes. Lord Deiric’s sword hung heavy in his hand, slick with blood. Across the field of battle, a nameless opponent raised his sword, let out an angry wail, and charged. Side-stepping the intended attack, Deiric’s opponent’s heavy armor caused the man to topple forward, exposing a patch of skin between his helmet and breastplate. Twisting, Deiric swung his blade down, the sharp edge slicing into the man’s vulnerable flesh. Blood flowed freely from the gaping wound in his neck, adding to the thick red blood already covering Deiric’s hands. The beaten foe staggered and collapsed with a dull thud.

A flash of silver glinted in Deiric’s peripheral vision as another sword was swung in his direction. Deiric jumped right, escaping the intended blow. He straightened, bringing his blade up in time to block a second strike, the two metal swords clanging as the man bared down upon him. Grunting, Deiric used his weight to push the other man back, causing both to stumble. Deiric adjusted his grip, the hilt slippery in his blood-drenched hands. Sweat poured down his face, threatening to obscure his vision as he awaited his opponents next move.

A bellow echoed across the field as another soldier fell. The man Deiric faced turned, creating an opening. Deiric leapt forward, swinging his blade in a wide arc. The man parried, blocking the motion before it would have struck and penetrated his left side.

Deiric pulled his blade back and swung a second time, throwing his weight into the stroke. The man blocked, but his sword quavered from the brute force. Deiric swung a third time, aiming high. At the last second, he struck down.

This time his opponent was too slow.

Deiric’s blade sliced through the man’s upper leg.

As his opponent fell, Deiric pressed his advantage, swiping his blade down upon the injured man. His opponent’s blade fell to the ground from the force. With his enemy disarmed, Deiric kicked loose the man’s helmet and placed both hands on his blade’s hilt. With a downward thrust, Deiric plunged his blade through his opponent’s carotid, with a spray of arterial blood.

Heart pounding, he turned, but seeing no immediate foes, he raised his arm, wiping at his brow, clearing it of sweat and blood enough to clear his vision. He scanned the field seeking additional combatants when a hand touched his shoulder.

He whirled, swiping his blade as he turned.

Whoa! A man yelled in alarm, jumping away from the blade’s reach.

Séamus! Deiric exclaimed.

The man in question lifted his hands, palms up and fingers spread. Fight’s over, Séamus stated. The battle has been won.

Heart thundering, Deiric turned his head left to right. Bodies were sprawled across the field. Some curled in fetal positions, whimpering through wheezing breaths. Others lay still, life having already left their mortal forms.

It’s over, Séamus said again before placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. You fought well.

Lowering his sword, Deiric rolled his shoulders, stiff from battle and the weight of his armor. Noting the gathering on the valley’s east side, he moved to join them, but had only taken a few when a hand when a hand grasped his ankle.

Alarmed, Deiric cast his gaze down. The hand touching him was covered with a mixture of red splotches and dark fluids. Yanking his foot away, he stumbled, tripping over yet another body. The man who had grasped him appeared to be attempting to speak, but only managed a gruff gurgle, bubbles forming from a mixture of blood and spittle upon his lips. Another moan turned Deiric’s attention behind him. The man lay face up, desperately clutching the innards spilling from his stomach.

Please, this one whimpered. "maraigh mé."

Staring at the suffering man, Deiric’s stomach churned as he realized the pleading man was actually a boy—a lad who could not have seen more than 13 winters.

"Maraigh mé," the boy again pleaded.

Heart sinking, Deiric drew a breath. The act proved a mistake as the rank scents of piss and shit rose from freshly slaughtered corpses mixed with the coppery fragrance of blood. Trying to ignore the foul stench, he raised his sword, heavier now that the rush of battle had worn off. Holding it high, he caught the brown eyes of the man at his feet, who gave a slight nod. Bringing down his arm, Deiric swung his blade toward the man’s neck, severing his head.

Turning away from the decapitated corpse, Deiric looked at the man who had grasped his ankle, and swallowed hard, repeated the merciful death blow. A third man whimpered bloody gasps through shattered ribs, his eyes pleading for the same release, which Deiric granted. Dying moans and gurgled pleas blended into an endless chorus as he walked through the field, his heart hammering painfully. To kill in the heat of battle, to save his own life or that of a fellow knight, he understood. But this felt like slaughter, whatever mercy it might bring.

Deiric, Séamus’s voice reached him through a ceaseless drone of moans and dying gasps.

Deiric raised his blade again, bringing it down, only this time his sword clashed against metal.

Raising his gaze, Deiric found Séamus standing beside him, the elder man’s weapon against his own.

Enough, Séamus spoke firmly.

They can’t be saved, Deiric stated. As brutal it seems, it’s even more barbaric to let them suffer.

I agree, Séamus lowered his blade, side-stepping a fallen soldier to move a hand to his friend’s shoulder. But you’ve done enough, Deiric. You’ve done enough.

Drawing a series of short breaths, Deiric nodded and allowed Séamus to lead him off the blood stained field.

Chapter II

Sruth na Maoilé

2 Years Later

Rising from the pelts, Lord Deiric struggled toward the bed’s edge. When his feet touched the floor, he drew a deep breath and attempted to clear his mind. He had fought in numerous battles over the years, yet the Battle of Sióg haunted his nights. His Lord, Fergus, had planned the attack well. Yet their gathered intelligence had significantly underestimated the enemy forces as the two armies gathered across the field of battle. It had not been until they had entered the fray, that they had realized the truth. The majority of those they faced were naught more than children, some as young as twelve winters, wielding blades they could barely raise, yet were nevertheless lethal.

Standing, Deiric grabbed a heavy cloak. Wrapping the garment around his broad frame, Deiric walked toward the stone balcony of his large manor, pushing open a heavy wooden door which kept out the worst of the night’s cold.

Overlooking the Sea of Moyle, others had been surprised when Deiric had claimed the land beside the north channel as his reward for bravery in battle. Sickened with horrors from which the prize was gifted, Deiric had refused the more central, bustling lands offered to him.

Here, the ice-laden winds blew off the North Channel which separated Ireland from its sister island of Scotland. He enjoyed his self-imposed solitude, able to hide his torments from prying eyes.

Stepping farther onto the balcony, he placed his hands on the wide, stone rail. A half moon provided limited light between sparse clouds in a night sky. Gazing out at a distant sea, a cold wind nipped the hem of his cloak and created rippling across the water, silver crests rising to shimmer against dark waves. Drawing a breath of cold air, he allowed the biting wind to push back his troubled memories and the dreams which personified them. He stood there for quite some quite, before taking a deep breath and turning to re-enter the keep. 

As he reached the door, a low-pitched cry caused him to turn. The noise had been faint, carried by the wind. Yet as Deiric scanned the area, he heard nothing.

Deciding it must have been a whisper in the wind, Deiric shook his head. Walking back to his chambers, he stepped inside and closed the heavy wooden door.

He never heard the second cry.

Chapter III

Sruth na Maoilé

Waking later than intended from his restless night, Deiric dressed in a heavy wool shirt and a thick, fur-lined cloak. Though a titled man, Deiric kept only modest staff, consisting of a few maids, stablehands, and his men-at-arms. Never married, his only family was his sister, Ella, who occupied the dwelling with her daughter.

As he entered the dining hall, he spied his niece, Sophia. Her brown hair cascaded down her back, tied in a pair of twin braids with a ribbon matching her blue dress. Flashing a dimpled smile, the eleven-year old grinned.

I thought you’d never wake, Uncle!

Did I miss much? He asked.

A boat! She exclaimed.

A boat?

Sophia nodded. "It went down the channel headed toward Dubh Linn, at least, that’s where  Mistress Molly said they were heading."

Did the men stop?

Sophia shook her head. "They dinna