The Fate of the Children of Tuireann

In the days when Lugh Lámhfhada ruled as champion of the Tuatha Dé Danann, there came a time when the seeds of old hatred bore bitter fruit. This is the tale of how vengeance, once awakened, can destroy not only the guilty but the innocent, and how even the gods themselves are subject to the inexorable laws of fate.

The trouble began with an ancient rivalry between two great families of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Cian, the father of Lugh, belonged to one clan, while Tuireann the Strong belonged to another. No one could remember how the feud had started – some said it began over a woman, others over a slight to honor, and still others claimed it dated back to a dispute over cattle. But whatever its origin, the hatred between the two houses had grown with each generation, poisoning the hearts of their children.

Tuireann had three sons who were mighty warriors among the Tuatha Dé Danann: Brian the Bold, Iuchar the Swift, and Iucharba the Strong. These three were renowned throughout Ireland for their courage in battle and their skill with weapons, but they had inherited their father’s hatred for Cian and all his lineage.

When Lugh became the champion of their people and leader in the war against the Fomorians, the sons of Tuireann found it bitter to serve under the son of their enemy. They obeyed him in battle, for honor demanded it, but their hearts burned with resentment.

One day, as the threat of Fomorian invasion grew, Lugh sent messengers throughout Ireland to gather allies for the coming war. Cian was chosen to travel to the northern kingdoms, where the fierce warriors of Ulster might be persuaded to join the Tuatha Dé Danann in their fight.

Cian set out alone, riding across the rolling hills of Meath in the early morning mist. He was a handsome man in his middle years, tall and straight, with the bearing of one born to nobility. But he was also wise in the ways of magic, and he carried with him a crane-skin bag filled with treasures and tokens of power.

As he rode across the Plain of Muirthemne, Cian saw three warriors approaching from the south. Even at a distance, he recognized the sons of Tuireann by their weapons and their bearing. His heart sank, for he was alone and they were three, and he knew well the hatred they bore him.

Thinking quickly, Cian used his druidic powers to transform himself into a pig and hid among a herd of swine that was feeding nearby. But Brian, the eldest and cleverest of Tuireann’s sons, was also skilled in magic. He immediately recognized that one of the pigs was not what it seemed.

“Brothers,” Brian called to Iuchar and Iucharba, “do you see anything strange about that herd of swine?”

The two younger brothers peered at the pigs but saw nothing unusual. “They look like ordinary pigs to us,” said Iuchar.

“Look more carefully,” Brian insisted. “One of these pigs is actually our enemy Cian, who has used shape-changing magic to hide from us.”

When his brothers still could not detect the deception, Brian struck each of them with a druid wand, giving them the power to see through magical disguises. Immediately, they spotted Cian among the pigs.

“So,” said Iucharba grimly, “the son of Dianann thinks to escape us by taking the form of a beast. Let us see how well his magic protects him.”

The three brothers attacked the disguised Cian with their spears. But even in pig form, Cian was a powerful warrior. He charged at them with his tusks, goring Iuchar in the leg before Brian’s spear found its mark.

As he lay dying, Cian resumed his true form and looked up at his killers with eyes that held no fear, only a terrible sadness.

“You have made a grievous error, sons of Tuireann,” he said, his voice growing weak. “You think you have slain merely Cian, but you have murdered the father of Lugh Lámhfhada, the champion of our people. When my son learns of this deed, his vengeance will be swift and terrible.”

“Better we had never been born than to let you live to oppose us further,” replied Brian coldly.

“Perhaps,” Cian whispered. “But know this – though you have taken my life, my death will cost you more dearly than my life ever could. The eric you will pay for this crime will lead you to the ends of the earth and beyond.”

With those words, Cian died. The brothers buried his body beneath a pile of stones and rode away, thinking they had covered their crime. But the earth itself cried out in protest, and the stones above Cian’s grave could not rest quiet.

When Lugh came looking for his father and found the disturbed earth and restless stones, he knew immediately that murder had been done. Using his divine powers, he commanded the stones to reveal what had happened, and they told him the whole tale of treachery and violence.

Lugh’s rage was terrible to behold. His face blazed like the sun at midday, and his eyes flashed with lightning. He called upon the powers of truth and justice to bring the murderers before him, and the sons of Tuireann found themselves compelled to appear at the court of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

“Sons of Tuireann,” Lugh said, his voice like the rumble of thunder before a storm, “you stand accused of the murder of Cian my father. What have you to say in your defense?”

Brian, as the eldest, spoke for his brothers. “We do not deny the killing, but it was done in fair fight. Your father took the form of a pig to escape us, and we slew him as we would any enemy.”

“Fair fight?” Lugh’s laughter was harsh as winter wind. “Three against one, armed warriors against a messenger on a peaceful mission? But let that pass. You admit the crime, and now the eric must be paid.”

The eric was the blood-price, the compensation that must be paid for a murder under the ancient laws. Usually, it consisted of cattle or gold or land, but Lugh had other plans for the sons of Tuireann.

“This is the eric I demand,” Lugh declared. “You must bring me three apples from the Garden of the Sun, which grows in the eastern world. You must bring me the pig-skin of Tuis, King of Greece, which heals any wound and cures any disease. You must bring me the poisoned spear of Pisear, King of Persia, which never misses its target and slays any foe. You must bring me the two horses and chariot of Dobar, King of Sicily, which can travel equally well on land or sea. You must bring me the seven pigs of Easal, King of the Golden Pillars, which can be killed and eaten one day and come alive again the next. You must bring me the hound whelp of the King of Ioruaidhe, which is swifter than the wind and braver than any warrior. And finally, you must give three shouts upon the hill of Mochaen in the north of Lochlann, which is guarded by Mochaen and his sons, who are under geasa never to let any man give those shouts.”

The sons of Tuireann listened to this impossible list with growing despair. Each item was a treasure beyond price, guarded by powerful kings in distant lands. But the laws of honor compelled them to attempt the quest, no matter how hopeless it seemed.

“We accept the eric,” Brian said formally. “We will bring you these treasures or die in the attempt.”

“See that you do,” Lugh replied. “And know this – I have put a spell upon this eric. You will find no rest until it is completed, and you will age not a day until you have succeeded or failed utterly.”

The three brothers took their leave and began their impossible quest. They borrowed the magical boat of Manannán mac Lir, the sea god, which could travel to any destination its owner desired. Their first stop was the Garden of the Sun in the eastern world.

The Garden was guarded by a host of warriors, but the sons of Tuireann had inherited their father’s skill in battle. Fighting with desperate courage, they carved their way through the defenders and seized the three golden apples. But each apple was worth a kingdom, and they had to fight every step of the way out of the garden.

From there they traveled to Greece, where they disguised themselves as poets and gained entry to the court of King Tuis. When they revealed their true purpose and demanded his pig-skin, the king’s warriors fell upon them. But the sons of Tuireann were mighty in battle, and they slew the king and took his magical pig-skin, though they themselves were sorely wounded.

The pig-skin healed their wounds, and they continued their quest to Persia, where they won the poisoned spear of King Pisear through single combat. Then to Sicily, where they took the horses and chariot of King Dobar after a terrible battle on both land and sea.

In the land of the Golden Pillars, they convinced King Easal to give them his seven pigs willingly, for he admired their courage and saw that they were under a terrible compulsion. The King of Ioruaidhe also gave them his hound whelp, recognizing the doom that was upon them.

But by now, months had passed, and the brothers were exhausted despite the magic that prevented them from aging. Their quest had taken them to the ends of the earth, and they had fought battles that would have been impossible for ordinary mortals. Yet one task remained – the most dangerous of all.

The hill of Mochaen in Lochlann was guarded by Mochaen and his three sons, warriors of supernatural strength who were under geasa never to allow any man to give three shouts from their hill. As the sons of Tuireann approached, Mochaen came out to meet them.

“Turn back, strangers,” he called. “No man may give shouts from this hill while I live to prevent it.”

“We are the sons of Tuireann,” Brian replied, “and we are under eric to give three shouts from this very hill. Stand aside, or we must fight you.”

“Then fight we must,” said Mochaen grimly, “for I too am under geasa, and I cannot allow you to succeed.”

The battle that followed was the most terrible of all their conflicts. Mochaen and his sons were giants among warriors, and they fought with the fury of men defending their sacred honor. But the sons of Tuireann had grown mighty in their quest, tempered by impossible challenges and impossible victories.

In the end, Brian slew Mochaen in single combat, while Iuchar and Iucharba overcame his sons. But they had paid a terrible price. All three brothers were mortally wounded, their life-blood flowing out onto the foreign soil.

With their last strength, they climbed to the top of the hill and gave the three shouts that their eric demanded. Then, gathering their treasures, they sailed for Ireland in Manannán’s boat, racing against death itself.

They reached the shores of Ireland just as the sun was setting, and with their final breath, they laid all the treasures at Lugh’s feet. “The eric is paid,” Brian whispered. “Our honor is satisfied.”

Lugh looked down at the dying heroes and felt a moment of pity. They had accomplished the impossible, bringing him treasures beyond imagination. But his father’s blood still cried out for justice, and his heart was hard.

“The eric is not yet complete,” he said coldly. “You have brought me all I demanded save one thing – the three shouts upon the hill of Mochaen. I do not hear them echoing here.”

“We gave the shouts,” gasped Iuchar. “Ask the wind that carried them, ask the earth that heard them. The eric is complete.”

But Lugh turned away, and the sons of Tuireann died there on the beach, their quest completed but their doom fulfilled. Their father Tuireann found them there and wept over their bodies, cursing the feud that had destroyed two generations of heroes.

“See what hatred has wrought,” he cried to Lugh. “Your father is avenged, but at what cost? Three of the bravest warriors of the Tuatha Dé Danann are dead, and for what? An old grudge that none can even remember the cause of.”

For the first time since his father’s death, Lugh felt the weight of what he had done. The sons of Tuireann had died heroically, accomplishing deeds that would be sung of until the end of time. They had paid the eric in full, but their payment had been their lives.

“Let this be a lesson to all who hear this tale,” Lugh said heavily. “Vengeance may satisfy justice, but it brings no joy to the living. My father is avenged, but I would trade all these treasures to have him alive again, and these three heroes with him.”

The treasures of the eric became part of Lugh’s power and helped him in many battles to come. But the price paid for them was remembered as well, and the Fate of the Children of Tuireann became one of the Three Sorrowful Tales of Ireland, a reminder that even the gods are subject to the terrible arithmetic of justice, where all debts must be paid and all accounts balanced, no matter what the cost to the living.