They had never seen anything like it.
The clans stood among the Threnari ranks atop the rise, eyes fixed on the impossible-light tearing the sky, a hum like thunder bound in chains, and the scream of the Aether-Lance splitting the gates of the Dazhum fortress.
Connach of Clann Durnach spat into the soil, his voice rough. "Hundred years of raids, and not once have we cracked those gates. Not until today."
Around him, the others watched in silence. Some gripped their spears tighter. Others clenched their teeth. They had grown up hearing the stories: how the gates of the Dazhum stood like the jaws of a god beast, impenetrable, unyielding. For generations, they had struck and vanished, fading back into moor and stone like ghosts. Never a full assault. Never a siege like this.
Never war like this.
But they were Threnari. Warriors bred not in courtly drill but in bloodied moor and long vengeance. And now, fire stirred in their hearts.
As the Blacktide poured through the breach in silent precision, the clans watched, stunned. They moved like executioners, not soldiers, blades flashing, spears puncturing exposed joints, throats, and eyes with horrifying accuracy. It wasn't just slaughter, it was harvest. Dazhum bodies dropped in rows, like wheat reaped by a legion of storm bound reapers.
Connach of Clann Durnach muttered, half in awe, "By fire and earth… they kill without sound."
"They kill with purpose," Aoan added, voice low. "That's no rabble. That's reckoning."
And they admired it, not out of weakness or fear, but recognition. This was not the chaos of raiding. It was war, orchestrated like a brutal song. They saw what was possible. And they burned to be part of it.
Connach raised his blade.
"With me."
And the clans charged.
Their boots slammed into the fractured stones of the ruined gate, past broken braces and burning timbers. The Blacktide had carved the way, but the fight was not yet over. The Dazhum still howled within the keep.
Connach led the way, his shield slamming aside a staggering marine as his clanblade, a long, double edged sword, shorter than a standard longsword, sheared through the man's throat. Behind him came Eorlas of Clann Bréarnach, eyes flicking left and right, spear thrusting fast into gaps beneath iron collars and shoulder joints.
Aoan of Clann Gairloch advanced in steady steps, shield raised, flanking Connach as they broke into the first courtyard. "No order to this," he muttered. "The Blacktide drew their pattern in blood. We must finish it."
Firaen of Clann Naevan kept low, blade in hand, dashing between broken walls and carts. "They fall like wheat," he said breathlessly. "Is it always like this? Is this what real war feels like?"
"This isn't war," said Tuarin of Clann MacTrein, his tone dry. "This is fury with direction. More ordered than I thought they'd be."
Dazhum soldiers scrambled to reform, but too late. The clans pressed in, not in the silent discipline of the Blacktide but with brutal precision of warriors who had known hardship longer than they had known peace.
Shields slammed. Spears thrust.
Throats opened. Eyes pierced. Iron cracked beneath weight and will.
Connach struck a Dazhum officer so hard the man's helm folded inward. "We do not forget," he growled. "They must pay in blood."
Overhead, the stronghold burned. Below, the Threnari carved their vengeance into the walls.
Far to the east, other clans watched from the ridges, the Antlered Gate and the Emberborn, those who had knelt to the Dazhum in generations past. They had their reasons. They had their secrets. But now, the Threnari had none.
They had chosen.
And their choice was war.
After the battle, they gathered their dead.
They burned the bodies with oil and blackthorn. They spoke no rites. Only silence. Then Connach turned to the others.
"It doesn't end here."
It didn't.
They turned south, then east into the moors where the traitor clans held fast behind old walls and coward's oaths. Clann Morghael. Clann Rathven. The Antlered Gate and the Emberborn.
They came without warning.
At the outer crofts of Clann Morghael, they set fire to the grain stores and slaughtered the wardens in their towers. Horns rang through the hills, but no help came. The Threnari moved on through fields and fences, breaking resistance wherever it sparked.
At the clanhold, defenders stood ready behind the wooden palisades. It didn't matter. The Threnari broke through with fire and axe. Gate beams split, and warriors swarmed the halls. Every Morghael fighter was cut down to the last. Those who surrendered were stripped of arms and cast out. None were spared if they had taken coin from the Dazhum.
Rathven proved harder. Their stronghold stood on the southern cliffs, surrounded by ash marked stone and broken ship masts. But the Threnari climbed the rocks at night, knives in hand. They killed sentries quietly. When dawn broke, the gates were already open from within.
The fighting there was savage. Rathven warriors were seasoned killers, armed with coastal forged blades and bone stitched armor. But rage burned deeper in the Threnari. They hacked their way through halls lit by fire and screams.
Connach killed their war chief in the courtyard. Aoan dragged down their banner and left it in the mud.
They burned what remained. Warriors were put down in the field. Those who raised arms were cut apart. Women and children were spared, but only barely. That was the way of life on the island. Blood had to be answered with blood.
And the Threnari had bled for generations.
The fighting lasted a week. By the seventh night, the clans sat again by fire, the sky low and dark over the scorched moors.
They heard word from riders and traders: the fortress gates had been rebuilt. Trade flowed again. No Blacktide troops had entered the Threnari lands. True to their word, the Blacktide had not imposed rule.
Instead, the fortress now housed a hospital.
Silent Hospitallers tended to the wounded and sick. They asked no payment. They used herbs from the moor, and they asked the locals what to harvest, what to dry, what to brew.
And the Blacktide was recruiting.
The fortress also became a naval base. Their ships were already sailing for the next island, preparing to take the war to the Dazhum strongholds further west.
Around the campfire, the Threnari sat in silence.
"So what now?" Tuarin finally asked. "No more wars? No more fights?"
Connach looked up, the fire reflecting in his eyes.
"I'll join the Blacktide tomorrow."
The others said nothing at first.
Then, one by one, they nodded.
Author's Note: Moorfire
They called it Lasair an Mhachaire in the old tongue, moorfire. To the Gaels, it was never just flame. Fire on the high moors meant omens, not warmth. It was the light of the dead, the breath of old gods, or the flickering lure of something not quite of this world.
In the misted uplands of Ériu, fire seen from afar was a warning. It marked the path of raiders or mourners, lit for the fallen, or burned as signal across the clanlands. But there was more to it. In tales passed down through hearth and ruin, the moorfire was also said to come from within the land itself, lit not by hand but by memory, grief, or defiance. A ghostlight born from blood that would not settle.
Some claimed it was the doing of the Sidhe or the trick of wandering spirits. Others swore it appeared only to those with a fate yet unclaimed. Always distant. Always watching. A flame that did not warm yet could not be ignored.
Among the Threnari, the meaning deepened. Moorfire is more than myth. It is what lives in the breath before battle, in the silence after retreat, in the gaze of the outcast who still carries the line. It is not flame but refusal. Not light but memory. It does not belong to temple or throne, only to the dust-walkers and oath-bound who burn from within.
This name was not chosen for fire alone. It was chosen for what fire means to those who refuse to be unmade. Those who do not march from stone halls but from wind and ruin, forged by the land itself.
Moorfire is the beginning. The silent blaze behind the eyes. The glint on a javelin tip before the charge. It is the spirit of the Threnari.