The Army of Ulster was afflicted, a curse brought on by angering the gods. Not a man could stand and fight the invasion of King Ailill’s Army. Not a man, but a warrior-boy of 17 who had yet to grow his beard.
His eyes were dark, his expression sullen, youthful, and beardless; yet he'd fought and always won! As he strode out to meet the army of the enemy single-handed, they cried out: "They send us a boy without a beard! How can his severed beardless head grace the spires of any of our chariots?"
Undaunted, he fought like a man possessed, for three days and nights until the evening sky blackened on the fourth day. Weak from hunger and blood loss, the Hound of Ulster, tethered himself to a rock, so as to not fall before the army of his enemies. Singlehandedly he fought them all, absorbing their spears and arrows, smiting them with spear and sword; lashing with fang and shield.
Hanging from his rock, black blood pouring from 1,000 wounds... they dare not come any closer, not knowing if the warrior still lived. A morrigan perched on his shoulder and ripped a chunk of his flesh with its black beak. Seeing the bloody morsel go down the raven’s gullet and knowing he was dead, the warlords came forward and fought for the right to take his head. While they fought, the army from Ulster came forward, in his last battle he had held off the enemy long enough for the men to recover and rout them. Not long enough for King Ailill to claim his skull as a trophy.
"His beardless head will hang from the hilt of my sword. A truer Warrior was never born nor ever shown himself before this day"
Written by: Mike Searson