The Second Battle of Mag Tuired

Seven years had passed since Nuada lost his hand in the First Battle of Mag Tuired, and during that time, dark clouds had gathered over Ireland. Because of his maiming, Nuada could no longer serve as king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, for their laws demanded that their ruler be physically perfect. In his place, they had chosen Bres the Beautiful, whose mother was of their people but whose father was Elathan, a king of the Fomorians.

At first, Bres seemed a wise choice. He was handsome beyond compare, eloquent in speech, and skilled in the arts of war and peace. But as time passed, his true nature began to reveal itself. The blood of the Fomorians ran strong in his veins, and with it came their love of oppression and their hunger for tribute.

Under Bres’s rule, the Tuatha Dé Danann found themselves reduced to servants in their own land. The great warriors who had conquered Ireland were forced to labor like common peasants. The Dagda, the Good God himself, was made to dig ditches and build fortresses. Ogma the Strong was sent to gather firewood like a thrall. Even the poets and druids were denied their proper honor and given scanty rations that barely kept them alive.

Worst of all, Bres imposed crushing tributes upon his people to send to his Fomorian kin. Every year, the cream of Ireland’s cattle, the finest of its grain, and the best of its crafted goods were shipped across the sea to the dark realm of the Fomorians, leaving the Tuatha Dé Danann impoverished.

But it was an insult to poetry that finally sparked rebellion. When the great poet Cairpre came to Bres’s court, he was given a tiny, dark chamber without fire or proper furnishings, and served only a few dry cakes and a cup of water. In revenge for this shameful treatment, Cairpre composed the first satirical poem ever heard in Ireland:

“Without food quickly served, Without a cow’s milk whereon a calf can grow, Without a dwelling fit for a man under the gloomy night, Without the wealth to entertain a bardic company— Let such be the condition of Bres forever!”

The power of this satire was so great that it raised blisters on Bres’s face, marking him as unfit to rule. Faced with rebellion from his own people and shamed by the poet’s words, Bres fled Ireland to seek help from his father’s people, the Fomorians.

With Bres gone, the question arose of who should rule the Tuatha Dé Danann. During the years of oppression, the god Dian Cécht had crafted a new hand of silver for Nuada, so skillfully made that it moved and felt like living flesh. But before Nuada could reclaim his throne, his own son Miach had gone further, using greater magic to restore Nuada’s original hand completely, growing it back joint by joint, sinew by sinew, until it was as good as before.

Yet even as Nuada prepared to reclaim his kingship, another claimant appeared. A young man came to the gates of Tara, more beautiful and terrible than any being they had ever seen. His face shone like the sun, his hair blazed like burnished gold, and he carried weapons that sang with their own power.

“I am Lugh Lámhfhada,” he announced to the gatekeeper, “Lugh of the Long Arm, son of Cian of the Tuatha Dé Danann and Ethniu of the Fomorians. I have come to claim my place among you.”

The gatekeeper, following custom, asked what skills Lugh possessed, for none could enter Tara who did not have an art that was needed.

“I am a wright,” said Lugh.

“We have a wright already,” replied the gatekeeper.

“I am a smith.”

“We have a smith.”

“I am a champion and warrior.”

“We have warriors in plenty.”

“I am a poet and storyteller.”

“We have poets.”

“I am a sorcerer and druid.”

“We have sorcerers.”

“I am a physician.”

“Dian Cécht is already our healer.”

“I am a cupbearer.”

“We have nine cupbearers.”

“I am a brazier, skilled in metalwork.”

“We have a brazier.”

Lugh smiled, and his smile was like lightning before thunder. “Go then to your king, and ask him this: Has he any one man who possesses all these skills at once? For if he has not, then I am the man you need.”

When this message was brought to Nuada, he immediately ordered that Lugh be admitted and given the seat of honor. For thirteen days, the Tuatha Dé Danann tested Lugh in every art and skill, and in each one he proved superior to their greatest masters. At the end of this time, Nuada stepped down from his throne.

“You shall be our war-leader,” Nuada declared, “for it is clear that the gods themselves have sent you to us in this dark hour.”

And none too soon, for word came that Bres had reached the land of the Fomorians and was gathering a terrible army to retake Ireland. The Fomorians were the ancient enemies of all order and beauty, beings of chaos and destruction who ruled the dark places beneath the sea and beyond the world’s edge. Their king was Balor of the Evil Eye, whose grandfather had been foretold that he would be killed by his own grandson. When Balor’s daughter Ethniu gave birth to triplets, he ordered them drowned, but one escaped – the child who would grow up to be Lugh.

The Fomorian host that assembled under Balor’s banner was a nightmare made manifest. There was Cethlenn the Prophet, Balor’s wife, whose visions had foretold this very war. There was Conand the Destroyer, whose fortress of glass had never been taken. There was Domnu of the Deep Waters, whose voice could drown armies. And with them came creatures so horrible that mortal eyes could barely look upon them – beings with one eye, one arm, one leg, monsters whose very presence blighted the land.

When Lugh learned that this army was crossing the sea toward Ireland, he called a great council of all the Tuatha Dé Danann. In the hall at Tara, the gods of Ireland gathered to hear their new leader’s plans.

“The enemy comes with greater numbers than we can match,” Lugh told them, “but we have advantages they lack. We have the righteousness of our cause, for we fight to defend our home. We have unity, for we stand as one people. And we have skills and magic they cannot match.”

He turned to each of the great ones in turn. “Goibniu the Smith, can you forge weapons for our warriors?”

“I can,” replied the divine craftsman. “I will make spears that never miss their mark and swords that never break. Every weapon I forge in the next three days will have its own deadly magic.”

“Credne the Brazier, what will you provide?”

“Rivets for the spears, hilts for the swords, and bosses for the shields. My work will hold fast though the world itself should shake.”

“Luchtaine the Carpenter?”

“Spear-shafts and shield-boards. Every shaft will be straight and true, every shield light but strong.”

“Dian Cécht, god of healing?”

“I will make a well of healing,” promised the physician. “Any warrior wounded in battle who is placed in its waters will emerge whole and hale, ready to fight again.”

“And you, Dagda? What is your part in this?”

The Good God stepped forward, his massive club in his hands. “I will seek out the enemy before the battle and destroy their power by stealth and cunning. Their druids will find their magic turned against them.”

For three days and nights, the Tuatha Dé Danann prepared for war. Sparks flew from Goibniu’s forge as he crafted weapons of supernatural power. Dian Cécht prepared his healing well with herbs and incantations that could restore even the dying to perfect health. The Morrígan, the phantom queen, flew over the Fomorian host in the form of a crow, sowing confusion and fear in their ranks.

When the armies met on the plain of Mag Tuired, the sight was terrible to behold. On one side stood the Tuatha Dé Danann, radiant as stars, their weapons gleaming with inner light. On the other side writhed the Fomorian host, a tide of darkness that seemed to devour the very air around it.

Balor of the Evil Eye rode at the head of his army, a giant so massive that it took four men to lift each of his eyelids. When his eye was fully opened, nothing that it looked upon could survive – armies would fall dead, cities would crumble to dust, and the very earth would crack and burn.

The battle began at dawn with single combats between champions. But as the day wore on, the fighting became general, with both armies locked in a struggle that shook the foundations of the world. The clash of weapons was like thunder, the war-cries of the warriors like the roaring of storms, and the magic unleashed by both sides caused the very sky to change color.

For a time, the battle seemed to favor the Fomorians. Their numbers were greater, and their chaotic magic was difficult to counter. Balor’s evil eye swept across the battlefield, killing hundreds with each glance. The Tuatha Dé Danann began to give ground, despite their courage and skill.

But then Lugh made his move. He had been waiting for this moment, when his grandfather’s eye was fully opened and focused on the main battle. Using all his skill and supernatural speed, Lugh ran along the flank of the armies until he was positioned behind Balor’s great bulk.

“Balor!” he shouted across the din of battle. “Turn and face me! Your grandson has come to claim his inheritance!”

The giant Fomorian turned, his terrible eye seeking this new challenger. But as the eye began to open, Lugh acted. With his divine sling, he hurled a stone with such force and accuracy that it struck Balor’s eye just as the lid was lifting. The stone passed through the eye and out the back of Balor’s skull, and the Evil Eye’s deadly gaze fell instead upon the Fomorian army behind him.

Wherever that gaze touched, the Fomorians died. Whole battalions crumbled to dust, and the dark magic that had sustained their army began to unravel. Balor himself toppled backward like a falling mountain, his death-scream echoing across the plain.

With their greatest champion slain and their ranks devastated by his own evil eye, the Fomorians broke and fled. Some escaped to their dark realm beneath the sea, while others were driven to the very edges of the world. Their power over Ireland was broken forever, and the Tuatha Dé Danann stood victorious.

But the cost had been terrible. The plain of Mag Tuired was littered with the dead from both armies, and even the healing well of Dian Cécht could not restore all who had fallen. The Morrígan walked among the corpses, singing the death-songs of heroes and prophesying that this would be the last great battle of the gods.

Lugh stood over the body of his grandfather, feeling no joy in his victory. “The prophecy is fulfilled,” he said to Nuada, who had fought bravely despite his years. “But what is gained when grandson must slay grandfather, and light must destroy darkness so completely?”

“Balance,” replied Nuada wisely. “The Fomorians were not evil because they were our enemies, but because they sought to drag all things into chaos and ruin. There must be darkness in the world, but it must not be allowed to consume the light. There must be change and challenge, but not utter destruction.”

From that day forward, the Tuatha Dé Danann ruled Ireland in an age of peace and plenty. The Fomorians still existed in the deep places and the far reaches, but they no longer threatened to overwhelm creation itself. And Lugh, now called Lugh the Victorious, became the greatest of all the gods of Ireland, honored as the master of every skill and the defender of order against chaos.

The Second Battle of Mag Tuired became the most celebrated of all Irish myths, the story of how light triumphed over darkness and how courage and skill could overcome even the most terrible enemies. And in the telling of it through the generations, the people of Ireland remembered that every victory has its price, and that the greatest heroes are those who fight not for glory but to protect what they love.