Legend of the Black Isles

Faermon knew his army vastly outnumbered Christian's but the Dane exercised restraint in order to avoid a punishing battle on the ground of Christian's choosing. With every passing day Faermon grew more confident in his ultimate success when he could, at last, meet his enemy on the field of battle.

Still moving westward Faermon knew Christian and the army of Baile Atha Cliath would soon run into the ocean and so he pressed his pursuit. After four punishing days of march Faermon and his army approached Galway on the western shores of Eire. Here Faermon expected the final battle to take place.

Faermon sent his advance scouts to cover the heights surrounding the city. The scout's orders were clear: take no man alive. The dawn of the battle was upon the Danes and the Danish king was taking few chances with his enemy. The main body stormed the city's center capturing anyone of importance to plead for their lives before Faermon's council.

A woman who claimed to be the wife of the mayor was brought forward and pressed to her knees before the Danish king. The woman wept and begged to be spared promising to reveal any and all secrets she might possess.

Faermon questioned the woman at length to discover the army Christian had set sail in every available coracle in the land. The trap had been sprung and Faermon and his flagging army returned to Baile Atha Cliath once again.

The city lay as empty as when they arrived. Those tending the boats had been subject to steady but small actions leading to the loss of only a couple of boats when the enemy fired flaming arrows into their encampment before melting back into the hills.

It was then, that Faermon knew of Christian's intent. The ships were loaded with full haste and the sorely fatigued army raced back to their homeland in hopes of catching Christian and his men before they could lay waste to their homes and escape into the vast North Sea.

Sailing without rest, and already bone weary from seven days of forced march across the countryside of Eire, several more of the overloaded long boats floundered in the surf but Faermon would nary slow his return to rescue those at the mercy of the frigid seas. Onward he pressed until they could see their homeland mountains rising up above the black waters.

Curling fingers of smoke rose up from where their homes had once stood. Christian had beat the Danes across the wide sea and had laid waste to the Viking's homeland. Faermon rushed ashore to find the women and children all dead--with all available men in service to his expedition on Baile Atha Cliath none were left to defend those left behind--neatly stacked like so much cord wood. Atop the pile was the remains of Faermon's own two sons slashed open from gizzard to gullet. One lone pitiful woman remained alive, wounded, hands tied to a wagon's wheel so the crows and ravens could pick out her eyes at their leisure.

The woman wept as she told her story. Christian had arrived and slaughtered everyone save her so that she could give Faermon his message. It was a challenge. The woman howled out the words.

Christian and his guard would await Faermon and the best men he could assemble for a battle to the death. The place was an island that rose up from the sea to the northeast. An island born of the angry seas spewing out fire, sulfur, steam, and sand as black as the night sky. It would present itself across Faermon's bow and the two forces could settle their scores harming no one but themselves letting the seas reclaim that island and the dead after they had finished.

The king Faermon went mad they say. He called out to his exhausted warriors to find this man Christian and fight him to the death. He would lead them in this quest to kill Christian and his army if that island lay at the ends of the earth he bellowed. Only a few of the remaining soldiers could carry on. Most begged to stay behind to rebuild what they had once held so dearly.

A core of Faermon's bravest filled the king's long boat, most only wishing to die in battle rather than suffer the indignity of their losses: wives and children all dead and homes burnt to the ground.

The long boat pushed off in search of Christian and the island of which he spoke. Faermon was heard bellowing at his men to row for their women now dead, to row for their sons who lay beside them, to row to that island were the murderous Irishman waited to die by their hands. A fierce storm arose as they put out of the bay and into the raging North Sea. The onshore survivors watched the low hanging clouds and swirling mist of the maelstrom envelope the boat until only the cries of the mad king could still be heard as he urged his men to row.

No man after saw Faermon nor Christian and lived to tell his story. No abandoned long boats or coracles were noted in that season or several season after. As for the island: many such islands raise up their inky black heads above the crashing waves only to disappear against the seas' unremitting anger. The cities of the Danes were rebuilt as was Baile Atha Cliath but neither remembered much of the king Faermon nor the man called Christian and his fairest of brides, young Brigid of Dubh-linn.

But many sailors tell tales about these mysterious black isles that hiss, spit out glowing rocks, stink of sulfur, and stink of death. When the seas grow restless and the clouds descend to embrace the dark waters it has been declared by many a sane man on the ocean that coracles can be spotted rushing towards these isles with a long boat in close pursuit and mad man coaxing the men on the oars to row. To row! To row!