This is an excerpt (the first few pages) from my novel ‘Liath Luachra: The Grey One’ – the first book in the ‘Irish Woman Warrior Series’. A novel, dealing with the adventures of a traumatised young woman warrior trying to survive in a misogynistic 1^st century Ireland, it’s a bit darker than my other works and attempts to give a more realistic account of the early stories from the ancient Irish narratives.

Although Liath Luachra is a very little-known character in the Fenian narrartives (one or two vague mentions at most), I’ve been somewhat bemused to see how, over the years since first publishing the book, the character is now being portrayed. On the internet and social media these days, you’ll find several individuals authoritatively declaring that Liath Luachra was a famous Irish warrior (incorrect) and a famous 1st century Irish lesbian (it’s not even certain the character was female). I guess, the truth is that people will invent whatever they want to in order to fulfil some need of their own.

Liath Luachra: The Grey One is probably our most popular book of all time but the entire series is now free from the shackles of Amazon exclusivity. You can currently find all the books at the Irish Imbas Shop (link in the comments below) or on Amazon. Thye’ll appear on Kobo shortly and possibly on Apple Books in a few days.

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Liath Luachra, the Grey One of Luachair, watched the raiders slip in before dawn. Blurred figures barely distinguishable against the shaded grey background of the surrounding forest, they slid through the grass at the edge of the clearing like wolves on the hunt.

Wolves.

She considered that for a moment. It seemed … apt. This particular band of raiders styled themselves in the manner of a wolf pack to the point of naming themselves Na Madraí Allta – The Wild Dogs. Their leader, a big man with black hair and a distinctive black beard, even went so far as to insist on being called An Mactíre Dubh – The Black Wolf.

As she watched, the Grey One chewed quietly on a stale slice of oat bread. The texture of the loaf was tough and leathery, and she could feel pieces of the original kernel when she crushed it between her molars. Her belly twinged. She hadn’t eaten since noon the previous day and her stomach, flat at the best of times, had recessed even further into her torso. Fortunately, the morsels she was chewing would keep the worst of the craving at bay, hold the hunger weakness off until she had a chance to eat again.

Or didn’t need to eat again.

With that depressing reflection, she resumed her scrutiny of the raiders. Sprawled on her belly, she was lying in the treeline on the forested southern crest of a high, U-shaped ridge. The ridge formed a natural enclosure around a wide clearing and from that height she had an unobstructed, if murky, view of the little settlement situated directly below. In all, the settlement consisted of three rectangular thatched buildings and a number of lean-tos lying off to the side. The larger buildings formed a rough semicircle around a well-established fire pit located at the centre. Low flames cast a dull orange glow onto the mud and straw-daubed walls.

A herd of about fifteen cattle milled about the buildings and out around the pasture in the rest of the clearing. A squat figure was silhouetted against the fire. A sentry for the cattle, he’d proven unforgivably lax in his responsibilities. Overly confident in the security offered by the settlement’s relative proximity to the Uí Bairrche stronghold and the natural concealment of the encircling ridge, he’d simply left the cattle to fend for themselves and retired to the fire to doze.

‘One, two, three, four.’ A pause. ‘Five, six … shit!’ Another pause. ‘One, two … three.’

The Grey One turned a sideways glance to Canann an Súil – Canann the Eye – who’d paused in his counting to scratch an itch through the thick fistful of whiskers enveloping his chin. Foiled by the bushiness of his facial growth, he settled for a quiet curse instead. The Grey One made no comment. Something of a simpleton, Canann was one of the least effective members of their fian – war party. He rarely said anything worth listening to and was beside her uniquely because of his exceptional night vision. Canann, it was claimed, could make out the contours of a pig’s arsehole at the end of a deep mine shaft. There was no pig to be found anywhere for any great distance – except, perhaps, in the settlement below – but that claim would be sufficiently tested by his ability to identify how many raiders they faced.

‘By The Great Father’s testicles, shut your gob, Canann.’ An infuriated whisper, laden with venom, this time originating from her left.

The Grey One frowned as she considered the darkness beside her. Bressal Binnbhéalach – Bressal SweetTongue – of the Uí Loinge, was usually the most articulate and self-disciplined of individuals. Almost completely obscured by the shadow beneath the forest canopy, she struggled to make him out.

‘Calm, Bressal. They approach from the northern gap. They’re too far away to hear us.’

‘They’ll hear us if that cretin doesn’t stop counting out loud.’

The Grey One left the discussion at that. As rígfénnid – leader of the fian – Bressal could demand what he liked of its various members. For the most part a reasonable man, his current belligerence belied an intelligent mind and a superior facility when it came to sheer rat cunning. Despite his intellect however, she’d noticed a recurring pattern of abominable hostility over the course of the current season. Usually just before a fight.

It was the tension of course. Bressal was no fool. It was he, after all, who’d organised this particular action, who’d conceived and developed the plan for taking down the raiders. Now unfortunately, just prior to the battle, his behaviour was becoming a dangerous liability.

Liath Luachra reached across and placed a hand on his. The slim man’s forearm was greasy with nervous sweat, the skin about his wrist warm and slimy. She forced herself to hold it there for a moment or two. As a general rule she avoided close physical contact with others and particularly with Bressal for the man had been seeking her caress for almost two years. Over that time, she’d done everything in her power to discourage such interest but right now he needed to be distracted.

As she anticipated, he started at her touch and with the shock of that contact she sensed the tension gush out of him. The leaves crackled softly as he shifted his weight and she pulled her hand back before he could interpret it for something more than it was or, worse, respond in kind. To prevent any further interaction, she turned away to face Canann. The keen-sighted buffoon was still counting but at least he’d reduced his voice to a muted whisper.

‘Nine, ten, eleven … eleven, twelve.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Twelve,’ he declared suddenly but with obvious satisfaction. ‘There are twelve men, Liath Luachra. Twelve men.’

‘Are there twelve men or is it that you can only count to twelve?’

A momentary silence passed between them.

‘There are twelve men,’ he insisted, an aggrieved tone to his voice.

‘Good, Canann. Good. She tossed him the compliment thoughtlessly, much as she’d toss an unwanted bone to a hungry dog. Despite the fact he was more than twice her age, the warrior lapped the praise up like an excited puppy, moaning softly and nodding to himself as though in confirmation of his count.

Ignoring both men, Liath Luachra turned her focus back to the approaching raiders. She didn’t have Canann’s keen eyesight but she still managed to catch glimpses of movement in the moonlight as the raiders spread out from the clearing’s northern entrance and formed a rough arc along the treeline on either side. When they were ready, they’d swarm out around the settlement in that formation. For the moment however, they seemed happy enough just to sit and observe.
The guard should have been waiting at the entrance. Not warming himself by the fire.

That simple negligence irritated her, which was unusual. Few things roused the Grey One’s emotions one way or the other but acts of carelessness in a combat situation occasionally worked their way under her skin to provoke a stir of anger. She frowned, placating this uncharacteristic indignation with the knowledge that the guard would probably be the first to die. For the settlement below however, she felt no particular sense of sympathy, no empathy. By ignoring the most fundamental of responsibilities, they’d brought the consequences on themselves.

Crawling forwards, she edged out of the enclosing shadows until she could look down on the base of the ridge where the other fénnid – the other members of the fian – were concealed. Like the raiders, the settlement’s inhabitants were unaware of their presence, an instruction from Mical Strong Arm who’d also shown them the secret route up from the far side of the steep ridge. Her fian were spread out down there, having formed a similar half-circle sometime after nightfall.
My fian.

She felt a momentary twinge of frustration at that. Bressal’s fian, she corrected herself. Na Cinéaltaí of the Uí Loinge. Even their name – The Kindly Ones – bore Bressal’s typically caustic sense of humour.

Raising her head again, she looked across the clearing to the trees where the incoming force was assembled.

Twelve raiders.

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The book was available on Amazon uniquely but it will b...

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