Short Fiction IV

Safer In The Tomb

The child, still quivering with fear, replies as only a boy would.. Desperate to stop the angry hisses, the snarls of disgust. The child gives up the name he can barely scratch out on a piece of slate. Please. I will guard us. I will take the creature’s place. I can make it better; I can be a better attack-dog than he ever was. I will be Cú Chulainn, the dog of the smith.

Please. 

This he swears. This is his oath. This is his curse.                                       
I shall be the Hound of Ulster.