In the grip of his madness, Conchobar could only think of vengeance. The dire peril of his kingdom in Ulster was pushed far from his mind. Honor required that he repay the Red Girl in kind, for the suffering that was unjustly placed on him. Island after Island, Conchobar would search for the whereabouts of the Red Girl and her Pictish warriors. Each time, Conchobar would hire on more and more men who also had a score to settle with the sea queen.

Grainne was feeling the pressure of Conchobar’s man hunt, the island of Insi Orc was no longer as safe as she liked. The Orcadian chieftains made it quite clear to Grainne that she was to leave the Isle before she brought the wrath of Conchobar upon their heads.

Grainne compensated the Pictish chieftains for the lost of their fine warriors, and the families for the lost of their love ones slain at Emain Macha.

With her ships laden with treasure and goods taken from Ulster, Grainne with her Pictish warriors set sail northwest toward the cluster of islands known to many seafarers as the Islands of the Deoradhains.

Her new base of operation was to be the smallest of the eighteen clustered islands, known only as Insi Daimhin, the Island of Deer.

The journey was to take the sea reavers northward into treacherous waters, and through the domain of the giant Muc’mhara; the behemoth pigs of the cold grey sea. On one or more occasion during their journey, Grainne’s ships were threatened with capsizing when they were aggressively bumped from below.

One ship was lost when a grayish-white Muc’mhara leapt high out of the sea, only to come crashing down upon the men and the deck of the wooden long ship, sinking the sea vessel with its girth and immense weight.

On the second day, a thick sea fog rolled in, swallowing Grainne’s fleet of ships in its cold, misty white maw, leaving the seafarers blind for days. Many of the ships, including Grainne’s the Morrigan’s Revenge, became hopelessly lost in the fog.

Her Pictish warriors; excellent sailors in their own right, could not get a proper bearing with the hanging, thick sea fog. Days later, the situation was made far worst, when the fog was replace by fast moving, low-lying, dark clouds, followed by icy sheets of torrential rain and hailstones, driven by powerful, gale force winds, that easily shredded the Morrigan’s black sail.

Day and night, the cripple long ship was toss about by the angry grey sea; as a child’s toy would be toss about in a wooden tub. Swelling wave after wave would crash upon the ship’s deck, washing away any careless sailor. Numerous sacrifices and prayers were given up to the Gaelic and ancient Pictish gods of the sea, only to have them fall on deaf ears.

With no land in sight, their food and water supply gone, and the gods not answering any of their prayers, all seem lost. For many of the sullen, seafaring warriors of the Morrigan’s Revenge, welcomed death’s open arms, and quench their thirst by suckling on her bosom of hopelessness.

The torrential rains changed to thick stinging snow and ice that clung and coated the ship with an icy sheet. Those who collapse of weakness and weariness froze to death in their sleep.

Everyday Grainne would find two or three men frozen dead in their sleep as the weather became dangerously colder. Grainne no longer prayed to her gods instead, she cursed and spat on them for leading her to this icy realm of doom.

With the remaining survivors upon her ice-coated ship, Grainne, half-dead with weariness, thirst and hunger, had the men build a wind barrier, using the wooden storage boxes, caskets, and the frozen corpses of their fellow warriors to form walls around them. With what remain of the shredded woolen sails, Grainne used to form a tent, to aid in capturing, and holding their warm breaths within.

The sea storm continued for days as the survivors upon the Morrigan’s Revenge stayed huddle tightly within their make shift room, trying to keep each other awake and warm with their bodies. One by one in their physical weaken state, exhaustion finally won out.

Body numb from the freezing air, Grainne curses her gods, she curse the day she made her pact with the Danann Queen of the Phantom Realm. How could the Morrigan allow this to happen? Didn’t she repay her debt to the Morrigan when she killed the giant warrior, Fergus mac Roich? The last thoughts that went through Grainne’s head was her memories of her innocent childhood in the mountains of Connacht, how those times seem so pure and simple to her now. This is not the way a warrior with her talent was to die, Grainne thought to herself, frozen to death on her ship on the grey sea, surrounded by death.

Grainne and the remaining warriors of the Morrigan’s Revenge agreed that they did not want to wait for death, huddling together like cattle waiting for the slaughter. With what strength they could muster together, the warriors propped the corpses of their fellow warriors around the frozen deck, with weapons in hand. At the stern of the long ship, Grainne had her men build a high throne chair out of wine caskets, large wooden chests all covered with expensive bolts of fine silks and colorful wool.

Satisfied with their final life task, Grainne took her place on her throne chair as her warriors seated themselves around her, all filling their hands with their favorite weapons of chose. In their weaken state, it was not long before the brother of death reached out to them, to guide them to his shadowy realm.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...