Prologue
Ireland, 1500s
“He stands three heads above other men. His strength is that of a dozen warriors. With his claymore in hand he enters every battle without fear, devastating his enemies with a single blow and leaving in his wake death and destruction.”
The wind whistled around the stone and thatched-roof cottage, sounding as if someone cried out in fright, and interrupting the telling of the tale. The children who sat gathered at the storyteller’s feet shivered, and their eyes grew wide. The young girl nestled on the big, burly man’s lap snuggled closer to his warmth and the protection of his thick arms.
When the wind ceased its anguished cries, Patrick Cullen continued, raising a beefy hand. “His hands possess the might of one hundred men and his weapon of choice—fear.” He stopped and looked cautiously around the single-room cottage, causing the children to follow his glance, their small bodies tense, wondering, Was he near? Then he once again settled into telling the tale. “It is told that to face him in battle means certain death. No one has seen his face, for he wears a black helmet designed and crafted especially for him. It conceals all but his eyes, mouth and jaw. Men shiver and women weep in his presence, for he shows mercy to none.”
The big man held firm to the young girl in his arm and leaned forward, his deep voice a husky whisper. “Kings fear him, the Lord rejects him and the devil wants nothing to do with him.”
He leaned back in his wooden chair and continued to captivate his young audience. “It is told that he lives far north, where the winters turn bitter cold and no one dares trespass on his land. Those brave enough to seek his help pay a dear price, for he does nothing out of the kindness of his heart—but he is always victorious. He has a legion of men that follow him, follow him because they owe him their souls.”
Several mouths dropped open, and the children huddled closer to those beside them.
The man pounded the arm of his chair with a beefy fist. “Some insist he is a myth, others think he is a ghost, but he has forever been called—” He paused for a moment, and the children waited anxiously and fearfully, their breaths caught in their throats. The big man glanced at each child, then announced in a deep booming voice, “The Legend!”
Silence struck the room, and even the crackle of the fire in the hearth quieted in reverence.
John, a brave lad, spoke up though his voice trembled. “We live north and our winters are cold. Does that mean”—he stopped and swallowed hard, afraid to speak the name, so he whispered—“the Legend lives nearby?”
The man rubbed his chin slowly, and the children waited in anxious anticipation. “Could be the Legend lives not far from us.”
Reena snuggled closer in her father’s huge, warm arms. Her deep blue eyes rounded in fright as he continued to speak of the Legend. His booming voice filled the small cottage along with the warmth of the stone hearth, though shivers were common among the children when Patrick was in the thick of his storytelling.
Patrick rubbed at the stubble of gray whiskers on his thick chin. “Could be,” he nodded slowly, “that the Legend hears all and knows that we speak of him.”
Another young lad leaned forward and tapped Patrick’s leg.
“Whisper,” the tiny lad said with a finger to his lips.
Patrick nodded again, keeping his smile concealed. “A good point, but I fear he would hear us anyway. He hears and sees much.” He looked out at the anticipating sea of young faces. “I know, for I have seen the Legend with my own eyes.”
A round of gasps rushed around the room then settled, all the children eager to hear more.
“On one of my journeys I came upon a group of warriors sitting around a campfire. They looked battle worn and seemed frightened of their own shadows, jumping at the barest sound and casting anxious glances at the surrounding darkness.
“They bid me to join them as though my presence would make a difference to their safety. I did so though with a bit of reluctance, their fears contagious. I sat with them, shared their meal and waited, for what I did not know.”
“The Legend,” said Reena’s best friend, Brigid.
“Shh,” admonished John. “You speak his name too loud.”
In a solemn tone Patrick agreed with the young lass. “Ah, it was the Legend they feared, for they had recently battled with him and his warriors, and it was said that no enemy was left untouched when faced by the Legend and his legion of warriors. They told me of the battle and how in the end the Legend was left standing alone on the battlefield, dozens of dead and dying men at his feet. And while victory was his, he did not stop until every last enemy was captured, which meant the Legend was coming for them.”