The contest took place on the high plains of an emerald world, where the winds tore at the grass.
Garuda descended like a golden comet. The King of Birds was massive, his wingspan blotting out the sun, his claws sharp enough to crush diamonds. He screeched—a sound that shattered glass miles away—and the wind from his wings flattened the hills.
Lugh stood his ground. He was human-sized, clad in bronze and wool, but his stature was undeniable. He was the Samildánach—the master of all arts. He held a sling in one hand and a spear in the other.
"You cast a long shadow, Bird King," Lugh shouted over the gale. "But shadows do not frighten the dawn."
The Sky Terror
Garuda didn't land. He banked, pulling g-forces that would liquify a mortal, and unleashed a hurricane. The Sunlit Updraught tore topsoil from the earth, hurling boulders at the Celtic god.
Lugh was not just a warrior; he was a sorcerer. He chanted a rhythm, tapping his foot, and the earth rose up to form a shield wall. The stones shattered against his barrier, but the force slid him backwards.
Garuda saw the opening. He folded his wings and dove—a streak of living bronze aiming to snatch Lugh from the earth.
Lugh spun his sling. Snap.
A tathlum—a concrete-hard sling stone—shot upward. It struck Garuda’s breastplate with the sound of a gong. The giant bird flinched, veering off course, but the impact only bruised his pride.
"Is that your best?" Garuda boomed, circling back. "I wrestle Nagas larger than your rivers!"
The Inescapable Spear
Garuda unleashed his magic now. He glowed with solar radiance, blinding to behold. He moved so fast he became a blur, attacking from three directions at once.
Lugh was bleeding. His bronze armor was rent by talons; his shield was splintered. He could not match Garuda’s speed. No one could.
But Lugh did not need to be faster. He needed to be accurate.
He dropped the sling. He raised the Spear of Assal.
"Find him," Lugh whispered.
He hurled the spear.
Garuda saw the projectile coming. It moved slower than him. He laughed, banking left, ascending into the stratosphere. He flew between the clouds, weaving a complex pattern to shake the weapon.
He looked back. The spear was still there. Turning as he turned. Climbing as he climbed.
Garuda dove. The spear dove. He flew into the eye of a storm. The spear followed, glowing with a red, hungry light.
There was no trick, no maneuver, no speed that could shake a weapon forged to guarantee victory.
Garuda realized too late that he was fighting a concept, not an object. He flared his wings to block, turning to face his pursuer.
The spear struck. It pierced the golden plumage, the divine muscle, and pinned the King of Birds against a thunderhead.
Garuda roared in pain, his flight broken. He tumbled from the sky, shrinking back to a manageable size as he fell, crashing into the field before Lugh.
The Celtic god walked over, breathing hard, and pulled his spear from the earth next to the fallen avian.
"Skill," Lugh said, offering a hand to the battered deity. "Not speed."