Mahoun Beithir

"There weren't always dragons in the valley. But when they came their arrival was fast and brutal.

Born of fire and lightning with a taste for destruction, the dragons rained down their fury upon the thatched covered homes of the huddling Clansmen and their families without mercy. In a single, terrifying moment, everything was ablaze.

Chaos ran amuck in a cacophony of wails, as the courage of all but the bravest of warriors was broken and splintered; much like the shield wall which they fumbled frantically in vain to form under a blanket of thick, choking smoke. Many never made it from their beds, but those who did rallied, spurred on by the blood curdling screams of their loved ones retreating through the burning heather, like mice in a storm.

Hell was unleashed that day in a deafening nightmare of roars and battle cries, as the desperate clansmen fought for their lives and those of their fleeing children. The brave warrior's arrows and spears rained down on the dreaded beasts like hail on the mountain, yet dragon scales; as hard as any metal, deflected even the best placed efforts of our finest warriors. Again and again we charged, with hearts of fire of our own, but still it was no use.

Fathers and sons turned to ash and crumbled at each other's side, as cries to:

"HOLD THE LINE!!"

Were quickly overcome by the roaring heat and deafening flames.

Then… silence.

Not even the crows escaped to reap the rewards of the slaughter that day, nor did the Wolf. No howls greeted the full Moon that night, only fire and ash. It was as if the creator himself, reborn on earth, reached up to kiss the Moon with his fiery embrace as she gazed down in horror at the destruction unleashed.

"I would fight at your side father! I'd stab the monster straight in its black heart and I wouldn't be afraid!"

Exploded the young boy, his excited face expressing a flurry of emotions as he leapt to his feet, stabbing the air with his fists as if engaged in mortal combat with an invisible dragon.

"Aye that you would son! You're a brave wee lad, but not even the bravest of warriors were unshaken that day."

Smiling at his son with admiration twinkling in his blue, fire lit eyes, the man added another log of dead wood to the flames. He gazes off into the dark forest surrounding their camp, it was quiet and still and the man wanted to keep it that way.

"What happened next father? How did we win?"

The young boy, having climbed up onto the fallen tree he was just leaning against, is now fighting off multiple invisible foes with a stick as he shuffles up and down the rotten trunk; drunk on the tales of dragons.

"Shush! Come down lad, before you fall and tell the whole forest of our presence."

Unfortunately the man's warning arrived too late as if by some bewitched interference, the boy suddenly lost his balance and crashed to the floor, barely missing the roaring fire.

The man, whose trance-like observation of the dark forest had him creating strange shapes and figures in the blackness; shapes which shifted and changed appearance the more he stared at them, became annoyed at his son's noisy distraction which had suddenly shattered his shadowy illusions.

"What in the name of the Gods are you doing? Do you want to go home empty handed? What do I keep telling you?"

Shouted the boy's father as best as he could in a whispery hushed tone, all the time listening for evidence that his son's foolery was noticed by others who might be visiting the forest. On this occasion it seems they are lucky, the forest remains quiet and undisturbed.

"I know, I know, quietness is key. Sorry father."

Interrupted the boy, a little winded and embarrassed. He dusts himself down and returns to where he was previously sitting by the fire, eager to hear his father talk more about the history of their people.

"Precisely, quietness is key. I know it's exciting coming out here on your first proper hunt, but it will be your last if you don't heed my words. The forest is not a safe place my boy."

"Ok father I will listen to you I promise, now please, tell me more about the dragons will you?"

Sensing his son's sheepish subservience, the man edges closer to the fire and stokes its embers with a stick. As its light bathes his bearded face with an orange glow; which dances in his eyes like the exotic women of the eastern lands, he continues with his story.

"Few escaped the first Dragon attacks, our people just weren't prepared for such a foe. Those who did survive, fled south in a caravan of horses and wagons, all bearing the charred reminders and melted limbs of their horrific encounter with the fire breathing monsters. At first, shock gripped the people in a screaming silence. Only their eyes spoke of the horror which they had witnessed. However, it was not long before those silenced voices, paralysed by a fear that only those who have survived a dragon attack can testify to, began to speak. Quickly their words smothered hope and drowned courage. Soon a panic possessed the hearts of the people of Scotland as if dragons' fire itself was fuelling its spread. Facts turned to fiction and many began claiming that the apocalypse had come to pass, beseeching all those around them to pray for their sins believing that the Gods were our only hope of salvation. Luckily there still existed some, who were not so easily broken by mysticism. Within a week, all the Clans had gathered at Perth to hold council. It was there that a strategy for revenge was imagined. The mighty power of these monsters, too awesome, too unbalanced compared with the world around them which burned day and night at their whim, meant they had to be defeated. So new weapons were forged and new tactics adopted, old rivalries put aside and new alliances made. United the Clansmen formed an army the likes of which had never been seen before or since and they marched north to fight to the sound of a thousand bagpipes playing!"

"Woo!! Yay!! Bagpipes!! I love Bagpipes!"

Screamed the young boy, once again leaping to his feet, this time dancing around and pretending to play the raucous instrument himself. His howling impression echoed through the still forest, pricking the ears of something in the darkness which doesn't call the woods it's home.

"Aye son , so do I, so do I."

Cheered the man, as warm pride and love for his son radiated from his heart with a warmth almost greater than the flames in front of them.

"Ok ok shush now! We'll never have any luck tonight if you dinnae pipe down!!"

He pulled his son closer to him as if he was about to reveal a great secret to him.

His father smelt like smoke and whisky, but the boy didn't care. The weight of his father's heavy arm around his shoulders made him feel safe and loved.

"I bet you dinnae ken why bagpipes are so important to us Scotsmen, do you boy?"

Whispered the man in his son's ear. The young boy paused, searching his fathers weathered face for any clue which might help him answer the question. Yet his father simply smiled and waited patiently for a response.

"I don't know. Is it because they're…traditional?"

Replied the boy awkwardly after some hesitation, expecting some ridicule from his father. Yet the man seemed impressed with the accuracy of his son's vague answer, ruffling the curly red hair on the boy's head in approval.

"Wow, not a bad guess at all my boy, but why? Why are they traditional? That's the interesting part. I'll give you a clue. There's nothing that a dragon hates more than the sound of bagpipes, yet some people say that only a fool would play them when a dragon is nearby. Why do you think that is?"

Once again the boy paused, the difficulty of the question clear by his heavy frown. After much tongue poking and head scratching, he blurts out a half considered reply.

"Um, because they're too loud and it hurts the dragon's ears?

"Aye their loud! It would have been so loud my boy!! If only we could hear it now! A thousand bagpipers playing a thousand pipes! It would be magical!"

For a moment the man became closer in age to his son than ever before, as the pair of them both grinned in wonder at the prospect of such an immense sound.

"I think Angus Mclean must be descended from Dragons in that case, as he's always complaining that the bagpipes are too loud."

Replied the boy sincerely, as if an epiphany had just struck him that his friend Angus might possibly be related to a dragon. His Father, a little taken back by his son's strange comment, replied:

"No, Angus is just a wet cabbage son. You'd do better by not being friends with him."

Before the boy could retort in defence of his sound sensitive friend, his father took a swig of whisky and added another log to the crackling flames. Clearing his throat, he continued with the tale.

"You see, dragons aren't scared of bagpipes, it doesn't kill them. They don't bleed when they hear them, nor do they run away never to be seen again, in fact quite the opposite. It makes them very, very, angry.

"Do you know what is even more dangerous than a dragon, son?"

Asked the man rhetorically, with a slight slur to his words and a wild look in his eyes. His shadowy silhouette stretched out high above him, casting its darkness on the fire lit canopy above them like a mighty dragon spreading its wings.

"I'll tell you. An angry dragon that's what."

He paused for a moment, to allow the not so shocking revelation to sink in and to take another drink of whisky. Whether it was a chill in the air or just all the talk of dragons, the boy suddenly felt a coldness run down his spine.

"Quick to enrage and easy to taunt, their anger was our best ally. Consumed and confused by it, the dragons could be surrounded by a ring of bagpipers and brought down using giant nets held fast by every arm still bearing strength. The ropes making up the giant nets, were soaked in the waters of Scotland herself. They were her last hope of dousing the unholy flames which longed to see her burn to ruin."

Taking another mouthful of whisky, the man spits it onto the fire to create sudden fireball, a little bit of theatre to accompany his story. Yet rather than making his son jump with surprise, the boy remained focused on the story, eager to know the outcome as if he was there himself.

"How many men would be holding the nets father?"

Asked the boy anxiously, clinging to his father's every word. His white knuckled hands tightly gripping his knees as if he was there himself with those brave warriors and their mighty nets.

"Hundreds son, thousands. As many as could do so. All of them, those fierce sons of Scotland, dug their heels deep into the scorched earth and pulled hard with all their might in the face of certain death. After all, where do you think the tug-o-war originates from? Here's a wee fact for you, all of the Highland Games were born out of the Dragon Wars. Every year we honour our brave ancestors, who literally pulled for their lives, by competing in the games and proving we're worthy of bearing their names."

"Wow!! I had no idea, Father! Well I'm ready to prove myself. I'll compete in the games next year and I'll win. I won't let you down Father!"

Boasted the young boy, puffing out his chest with pride for his heritage.

"Haha I know you wouldn't, son. You remind me so much of myself at your age, always wanting to run before wiping my arse".

Joked the man referring to his son's eagerness to grow up. Yet the boy took his father's comment a little more literally.

"I can wipe my arse, look I can show you if you don't believe me."

Squatting down into his kilt the young boy proceeds to reach around underneath his backside in an attempt to demonstrate his aptitude at arse wiping.

"What are you doing boy? Dinnae you dare do a jobby in front of me! You're not a dog!"

The man, springing into action faster than his whisky filled legs can carry him, trips and stumbles over his kilt in an attempt to discipline his son. Before he's able to steady himself, he falls over, landing face first into a bramble bush covered with sharp thorns.

"OUCH!! MY NOSE!!"

The man's painful cry bounced off the surrounding trees like a ricocheting bullet, rattling the dark silence of the forest like an explosion.

Rushing to his Father's aid, the young boy heaves his father out of the thorn bush with an almighty tug which sends both of them falling to floor once again. Sitting there, looking at his father's bleeding face covered in thorns, the boy tenses up in anticipation of his father's wrath. Yet it didn't come.

"HA HA HA HA"

Laughed the man, much to the young boy's surprise and relief. Within moments, both father and son were laughing so uncontrollably that tears of joy were running down their cheeks.

Their merriment rang out across the never ending darkness like a ship's bell warning the night of its intention. But unbeknownst to the joyful duo, their happiness wasn't reflected in the many eyes now watching them from the shadows.

Finally their laughing subsides and they both return to warming themselves by the fire, content in the knowledge that they're evening will be well remembered. Little did they know, just how true that would be.

"Now where was I? Ah yes. So once a dragon has been pulled to the ground the difficult task of dispatching it becomes obvious. The only weak spot on a dragon's entire body is a small scale located on the back of its head. However in battle, the dragon never retreats as its armour is thick and tough. Because of this, most men are burned alive before ever catching a glimpse of its weakness. That was until we used a thousand pipers and those mighty nets with sheer weight of numbers pulling down on them, to gain the upper hand. That's when things got a whole lot more dangerous as well. It was at this stage of the attack with hundreds already dead; the burned husks of melted men crunching and giving way underfoot like rotting trees on the forest floor, that the fastest men still standing, would climb the nets towards the dragons head which still roared with the ferocity of a great thunderstorm. As they climbed, a hope raged like fire in the heart of each man. The hope of being the one who has songs written about them for being the brave warrior who slayed the beast and saved his people. So up and up the nets they climbed, these brave Scotsman with knives clenched between their teeth and they're hands gripping for dear life, up and up they climbed. For it's a long way up to the dragons head my boy. This was the most dangerous stage of all, for if too many men stopped pulling on the nets and started climbing them, then our deadly grip on the flailing monster became too weak to hold, and the dragon would break loose dooming us all. Many brave men got so close, but the wriggling, squirming beasts would not make it easy for us. One by one men were thrown from the nets, falling like rain back to the ground and crushing many of their brothers on impact. It seemed almost hopeless, yet still they climbed, leaving behind their fellow clansmen holding the nets screaming:

"HEAVE LADS! PULL FOR YOUR LIVES!"

"It was at this moment that a young warrior called Hamish McDouglas would prove his mettle. Men who witnessed it, said they'd never seen a man move so fast. With a mighty axe slung over his shoulder, Hamish climbed the net, its weakened slack like a ships' rigging being blasted by a hurricane; flapping violently and almost throwing him off many times. Yet Mother Scotland was with him that day and held him tight in her breast. He reached the Dragon's head and plunged his axe deep in the beasts' skull. Again and again he slammed down his blade, every blow a strike of revenge for each of his fallen brothers. He kept smashing in the beast's head long after it was dead and its yellow eyes had rolled back into its skull. The nets and the bagpipes had worked and victory was ours along with the knowledge of how to defeat the dragons again."

"What happens next Father? Don't stop, I want to hear more about Hamish!"

The young boy, his eyes as wide as dinner plates, stared in wonderous awe at the fire in front him, swearing for a moment that he could see a great battle taking place amongst the flickering flames.

"Haha ok, ok. Patience laddy, I'm getting to it."

Chuckled his father remembering how excited he was the first time he had been told about the legend of Hamish McDouglas.

"So one by one all the dragons were hunted down and slain by brave bearded Scotsmen! Men like Hamish McDouglas!

Hamish had a talent for dragon slaying. In his hand he carried a mighty axe, its blade made from a metal found in the heart of a falling star that had crashed into the land many years ago. This rare rock was blacker than darkness itself and sharp enough to cleave even the hardest boulder in two. It was well up to the task of butchering dragons and had already proven its worth more than once. However, it was the vengeance that Hamish held in his heart, which would prove to be the far greater weapon. When the dragons fell, their monstrous bodies, bound with rope and rocks, were cast into the deepest lochs in Scotland in the hope that their dark, cold tombs may keep them there forever. After many campaigns, costing many lives, Scotland was almost free. Only one dragon remained, a monster known as Mahoun Beithir, which in Gaelic means:

Devil Serpent."

"Mahoun Beithir was the largest and most feared of all the dragons, responsible for the murders of hundreds of men, women and children, including Hamish's father Malcolm. Ever since that day of fire and death, Hamish swore he'd have his revenge and so he will. Mahoun Beithir made its nest on the edge of a Loch, far to the north, in a place most wild and dangerous. Sat on a pile of regurgitated bones, you could smell its lair long before you ever set eyes on it. The putrid scent of decaying people and livestock was so strong it almost curdled the air it wafted on. So disgusting was the stench, that even the hardest of stomachs could not get close without spilling their contents. You can't fight well if you're throwing up everywhere son, trust me. So Hamish and his men took unbelievably painful measures to ensure that they could get the job done. One after another the brave men willingly accepted a red hot poker up each of their nostrils; to destroy their sense of smell and increase their chances of victory. Although excruciating, all of them contested that it was still second to the pain they carried in their hearts, from losing their loved ones to dragon's fire. The hardened warriors set off on their long journey, through rugged, unforgiving terrain, marching deep into the freezing wilds of Scotland. Gorse and granite were their only shelter as they climbed higher towards their destiny and its fiery embrace. Despite the harsh conditions, all of the warriors made it to their final camping spot before the attack; a cave, who's jagged entrance looked like the open mouth of the mountain itself. The men took refuge inside its dark, dripping chambers, only half a day's hike from the distant loch and the evil creature which had made it its home. Despite previous evenings being filled with song and story, the warriors last night was quiet and tense; the sound of sharpening blades replacing the echoes of merriment now smothered under a veil of fear. None could sleep that night, none they say except Hamish, who lay snoring on the cold cave floor, as comfortable as if he was sleeping soundly in his own bed at home. This was all about to change though, for lingering in the darkness outside the cave's entrance was the great monster itself, Mahoun Beithir had found them first. The beast's salivating intent pooled in great slimy puddles which dripped from its mouth onto the rock; splatting to the ground like cow pats raining from the sky. It was this unnatural sound which first alerted the resting warriors to the impending attack, although some insisted it was just water running off the mountain. Either way, they were all about to discover that their once safe cave was about to become their tomb. At first there was an eerie silence, so loud in its emptiness, that all those who knew how to listen could hear it screaming: something's wrong!"

The man paused for dramatic effect and to allow the silence of the forest around them to play a character in the story.

SNAP!

Yet for some reason, it did not play its part as it was written.

SNAP! SNAP!

The very close sound of breaking twigs and crunching leaves underfoot, causes the man to suddenly stand up, all of his senses focused in the direction of the approaching sound.

"What is it father?"

Asked the boy with a grin on his face, not believing that this sudden anxious display was anything more than his Father's theatrical storytelling. Yet the man did not reply, at least not with words. Drawing his sword from its scabbard with a harmonic ping indicating its razor-like sharpness, he continues to stare into the blackness all around them.

"Who's there? Come out of the shadows you coward!"

Barked the man, hoping to scare away any potential threat lingering just out of focus on the edge of the fire light. At first, nothing happened, but in an instant that nothingness was shattered into fragments of whizzing darts like sharp needles flying out of the darkness.

"AAHH!!"

The man is hit multiple times, from every angle. The poison coated tips, now deep in his skin, willingly offer up their incapacitating contents; forcing him to drop to his knees. He screams in pain as one dart penetrates his eye, before a net lands on top of him with a weight so great it buckles him to the ground. Looking up at his son with the last ounce of his faculties, the man whispers:

"I LOVE YOU…RUN."

As the poison coursing through his veins takes hold, the man loses consciousness leaving his terrified son all alone to face whatever is about to come out of the darkness. The boy stared, frozen in horror as four figures emerged from the shadows, all bearing unusual silhouettes unlike any creatures he had ever seen before. As they stepped closer into the fire's warm glow, their unnaturalness revealed itself to be strange helmets, armour and weapons; dark and bonelike in their appearance, with an almost metallic sheen which glistened in the firelight. These mysterious objects were carried by equally mysterious creatures; looking like they used to be men but a resemblance lost long ago to years of strange practices and dark magic. These wild and terrible forms were hard for the boy to determine as green skin markings covered any part of their bodies not hidden by the many unusual items which they carried. Even their eyes, although human in size and shape, were different and terrifying to look at. He could feel them all over him, hungry at the sight of his terror, hungry for fresh meat. One of them, who appears to be the leader, steps forward. A couple of human skulls dangle from a belt around its waist and it carries a spear fashioned with a giant tooth for a spike; the tooth of some giant, terrifying creature. The boy draws his small dagger, which by comparison looks about as deadly as a spoon and somehow musters the courage to stammer:

"GET BACK! STAY BACK!"

The creature pauses, not out of fear but out of pleasure, its eyes dilating with excitement. Like a Lion playing with its prey before consuming it, the monster was enjoying the boy's fear and the energy it radiated. It's face contorts into a horrifying smile revealing a mouth adorned with teeth filed down to points as sharp as knives. Inside this chamber of spears emerged a tongue resembling two serpents, writhing like they had minds of their own; which the creature used to torment the boy in his final moments. Bearing witness to this terrifying scene was almost enough to stop the boy's heart as shock drained the blood from his body. He looks over at his Father's lifeless body with silent tears rolling down his face. Terror has stolen his voice, reducing his cries for help to a mere whisper, one that no one could hear. Whilst fear begs him to run, love for his Father holds him in his place, reluctant to leave his fathers body with these monsters and their ungodly desires. The creature, now literally salivating at the sight of the boy's tears, almost struggles to snap out of its frenzied heckle. Licking its lips it steps towards the boy who takes one last look over at his father before turning and running off into the dark forest as fast as his small feet could carry him.