The First Battle of Mag Tuired

In the ancient days when Ireland was young and the mists of time still veiled the land, two great peoples came to claim the emerald isle as their own. First came the Fir Bolg, the Men of Bags, who had learned the arts of war and agriculture during their long exile. They divided Ireland into five provinces and ruled with wisdom and strength for many generations.

But from the northern islands beyond the edge of the world came another race – the Tuatha Dé Danann, the People of the Goddess Danu. These were the shining ones, skilled in magic and druidry, who brought with them four great treasures: the Stone of Destiny that would cry out when the true king sat upon it, the Spear of Lugh that never missed its mark, the Sword of Light that no armor could turn, and the Cauldron of Rebirth that could feed any host and restore the dead to life.

When the Tuatha Dé Danann arrived on the shores of Ireland in their magical ships, they burned their vessels behind them so that there could be no retreat. The smoke from their burning fleet covered the island for three days and three nights, and the Fir Bolg knew that these newcomers had come to stay.

Nuada of the Silver Hand was king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, tall and noble with eyes like winter sky and hair the color of moonlight. He was called Silver Hand not yet for any wound, but for his skill with weapons and his just rule over his people. Beside him stood his greatest warriors: Ogma the Strong, master of eloquence and battle; the Dagda, the Good God whose club could slay nine men with one blow and whose other end could restore them to life; and young Lugh Lámhfhada, the Long-Armed, skilled in every art known to gods and mortals.

When the Fir Bolg learned of these newcomers, their king Eochaid mac Eirc called a great council at Tara. He was a wise ruler, beloved by his people, who had brought peace and prosperity to Ireland during his reign.

“These strangers claim dominion over our land,” Eochaid announced to his assembled warriors. “Yet we have held Ireland for four generations. Our farms are fertile, our herds are fat, and our people are content. Shall we yield what our fathers won with their blood?”

A great shout arose from the Fir Bolg warriors. “Never! We will fight for every field and hill!”

But Eochaid raised his hand for silence. “Before we spill blood, let us try the way of honor. I will send Sreng, my greatest champion, to meet with their representatives. Perhaps this matter can be settled without war.”

Sreng was a giant among men, standing head and shoulders above even the tallest warriors, with arms like tree trunks and a voice like rolling thunder. He was chosen not only for his prowess in battle but for his skill with words and his reputation for fair dealing.

The Tuatha Dé Danann, hearing of this embassy, sent their own champion to meet with Sreng. They chose Bres the Beautiful, son of Elathan of the Fomorians, whose mother was of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Bres was renowned for his comeliness and his silver tongue, though some whispered that his heart was not always as fair as his face.

The two champions met on the plain that would later be called Mag Tuired, the Plain of Pillars, at the border between their territories. They approached each other warily, each impressed by the other’s bearing and equipment.

“Greetings, champion of the strangers,” called Sreng, his massive spear glinting in the sunlight. “I am Sreng of the Fir Bolg, sent by King Eochaid to learn your people’s intentions.”

“And I am Bres of the Tuatha Dé Danann,” replied the handsome warrior, his armor shining like starlight. “We come not as raiders but as the rightful heirs of Ireland, guided here by prophecy and destiny.”

The two warriors examined each other’s weapons with professional interest. Sreng’s spear was thick and heavy, designed for crushing blows, while Bres carried lighter javelins meant for quick, precise strikes. Their shields, too, were different – Sreng’s broad and thick for protection, Bres’s smaller and more maneuverable.

“Your people fight differently than we do,” observed Sreng. “Your weapons are strange to us.”

“As yours are to us,” agreed Bres. “But perhaps this difference need not lead to war. The island is large enough for both our peoples. Let the Tuatha Dé Danann take half of Ireland, and the Fir Bolg keep the other half in peace.”

Sreng shook his great head. “I have no authority to make such bargains. This offer must go to my king.”

When Sreng brought Bres’s proposal back to Eochaid, the Fir Bolg king considered it carefully. But his druids and wise men counseled against it.

“These Tuatha Dé Danann are not mere mortals,” warned his chief druid, Cesard. “They wield powers we do not understand. If we give them half of Ireland now, how long before they claim the rest? Better to fight them while we are still strong and united.”

Eochaid’s heart was heavy with the decision, for he was a man who preferred peace to war. But he knew his duty to his people. “Tell the strangers,” he said to Sreng, “that Ireland has but one throne, and the Fir Bolg will not share it. If they wish to rule this land, they must take it by force of arms.”

When Bres received this answer, he too felt sorrow, for he had hoped to avoid bloodshed. But Nuada and the other leaders of the Tuatha Dé Danann were resolved.

“We did not cross the northern seas and burn our ships to turn back now,” declared Nuada. “If the Fir Bolg will not share Ireland, then we must win it entire. Let them know that we will meet them in battle at the time and place of their choosing.”

Both armies spent long days preparing for the conflict. The Fir Bolg, under their war-leader Sreng, arranged their forces in their traditional manner – dense formations of spearmen with broad shields, supported by slingers and stone-throwers. They were veterans of many battles, steady and disciplined.

The Tuatha Dé Danann, led by Nuada himself, deployed in looser formations that could move quickly across the battlefield. They relied on their superior weapons, their magical knowledge, and individual prowess rather than sheer mass.

As the day of battle dawned, both kings made offerings to their gods and spoke words of encouragement to their warriors. The armies faced each other across the plain of Mag Tuired, banners streaming in the morning wind.

“Men of the Fir Bolg!” called King Eochaid, resplendent in his bronze armor. “Today we fight not for conquest but for our homes! Remember your fathers who won this land, think of your children who will inherit it! Fight with honor, and victory will be ours!”

On the other side, Nuada raised the Sword of Light so that it caught the sun’s rays and blazed like a star. “Children of Danu!” he cried. “This day we claim our destiny! The prophecies have brought us here, and the gods themselves fight beside us! Let courage fill your hearts and victory crown our arms!”

The battle began at dawn and raged throughout the day. The clash of weapons rang across the plain like the hammering of a thousand smiths, and the war-cries of both armies echoed from the surrounding hills.

Sreng and his Fir Bolg warriors fought with the fury of men defending their homeland. Their thick spears punched through the lighter armor of their enemies, and their broad shields turned aside many a blow. Time and again they charged, their battle-line solid as a wall of stone.

But the Tuatha Dé Danann answered with magic and skill. Lugh’s spear flew true to its mark, never missing its target. The Dagda’s great club swept away whole ranks of enemies. Ogma’s sword sang as it cut through armor as easily as cloth.

As the sun reached its zenith, King Nuada found himself face to face with a massive Fir Bolg champion. The warrior’s sword was broad and heavy, wrought with dark magic of his own people. As Nuada raised his shield to ward off a mighty blow, the enemy blade sheared through both shield and armor, severing Nuada’s right hand at the wrist.

The king’s blood flowed onto the earth of Ireland, but he did not cry out or fall back. Instead, he transferred his sword to his left hand and continued fighting, inspiring his warriors with his courage.

“The king bleeds but does not yield!” shouted Lugh, and the Tuatha Dé Danann pressed their attack with renewed vigor.

But the loss of their king’s sword-hand dismayed the Tuatha Dé Danann, while the Fir Bolg, seeing that even the godlike invaders could be wounded, fought with greater heart.

As evening approached, both armies were exhausted. The plain was littered with broken weapons and fallen warriors from both sides. Neither force had gained a decisive advantage, though the field was slightly tilted in favor of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

It was then that King Eochaid himself entered the fray, determined to end the battle with his own sword. Clad in his finest armor and carrying the ancient blade of his fathers, he carved his way through the ranks of the Tuatha Dé Danann like a hero from the old songs.

But his advance brought him within reach of Ogma the Strong, who stood like a pillar of granite in the center of the battlefield. The two champions met in single combat while both armies paused to watch.

Eochaid was skilled and brave, but Ogma was one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, strong beyond mortal measure. Their battle was fierce but brief. Ogma’s sword found its mark, and King Eochaid fell, his noble life ebbing away onto the soil of the land he had ruled so well.

With their king’s death, the heart went out of the Fir Bolg. Though they had fought bravely and inflicted heavy losses on their enemies, they could not match the supernatural powers of the Tuatha Dé Danann. As darkness fell, the survivors gathered around their fallen king and agreed to seek terms.

Sreng, now the leader of his people, approached the victorious Nuada under a banner of truce. The wounded king received him with honor, despite his great pain.

“You have fought with courage,” Nuada said to the giant warrior. “Your king died as a hero should, sword in hand defending his people. What terms do you seek?”

“We ask only for enough land to bury our dead and tend our wounded,” Sreng replied, his voice thick with grief. “After that, the Fir Bolg will trouble the Tuatha Dé Danann no more.”

But Nuada’s heart was moved by the bravery his enemies had shown. “You have proven yourselves warriors worthy of respect,” he declared. “The Fir Bolg may have the province of Connacht as their own, to rule as they see fit. Let there be peace between our peoples from this day forward.”

And so the First Battle of Mag Tuired ended, with the Tuatha Dé Danann as masters of most of Ireland but with honor satisfied on both sides. The Fir Bolg took their wounded and their dead to Connacht, where they settled and lived in peace.

But for Nuada, the victory was bittersweet. Though he had won a kingdom, he had lost his sword-hand, and by the laws of the Tuatha Dé Danann, no man with a physical flaw could be king. He would need to find healing for his wound, or Ireland would need a new ruler.

Yet that is a tale for another day. The First Battle of Mag Tuired was remembered as a conflict where both sides fought with honor, where mercy followed victory, and where the price of kingship was first paid in blood upon the green fields of Ireland.