His partner cackled at that, and the pair of them turned back to gaze at the lake and away from the trader.
Kal started to turn away as well, but the man caught his gaze. “A fair warning is all I can offer you,” he said quietly. “Pray you be wise and take it. I’m packing my canoe and paddling away from here long before nightfall.”
Kal gave him a curt nod, turned, and walked off.
Something about the man’s demeanor continued to play on Kal’s sensibilities—perhaps it was the surety with which Talmadge had made his claim. It took Kal a half-dozen steps to remember that the man was just a trader, not a prophet. In another dozen, he had come within earshot of his house, and he could hear Innevah, complaining loudly to the midwife about her lazy husband who probably went for a swim when he was supposed to be getting her water, and by the gods of the tallest pines, was she parched!
By the time he crossed the threshold, to be greeted as both a savior, with a relieved sigh, and as late, with an accompanying scowl, Kal had already forgotten the trader and his warning.
* * *
True to his word, Talmadge was out of Fasach Crann in short order, paddling his canoe to the northwest along the shore, where lay the remaining three villages with which he hoped to trade. As soon as he was beyond the small harbor that sheltered Fasach Crann, and with the village’s fleet still in sight far out on the lake, Talmadge took out his seeing scope again.
He rolled the item over in his hands reverently, and wistfully, for this was the first thing he had secured when he had left his home those years before, and he had traded most of his worldly possessions at that time for it. It was indeed possessed of magic, the gemstone magic of Honce-the-Bear, with a lens held within a brass ring. Upon that metal ring, opposite each other, were set a pair of quartz gems, the source of the item’s magic power. For those who could bring forth that magic, the clear lens would not distort the image on the other side, as the old Fasach Crann villager had remarked, but would instead fill with a vision—an honest look—at a faraway place.
Talmadge had looked up the mountain the previous day, and had happened upon an Usgar war party. He couldn’t be sure of where they were, but the thickness of the trees about them made Talmadge certain that they weren’t up at their high perch near the mountaintop.
The trader brought the item up before his eyes once more and called upon the magic. The distorted image in the lens clouded over and was soon replaced with a mountain scene, a high outcropping of towering stone.
He willed the magic about and found slopes filled with trees, even a wolf at one point, lumbering about the forest.
But no Usgar deamhain.
Talmadge continued a bit longer, but was already growing weary. Finally, he brought the item to his lap and looked up at the wide and huge Fireach Speuer with his naked eye. Far up the slopes he could see the individual trees, but nothing moving about them would be visible to him, of course, for he was too far.
He glanced back to Fasach Crann and thought of turning about. Perhaps he should go back and impress upon the villagers the need to be alert. Perhaps he could entice those on the shore into their boats, or even call the fishing fleet back in to shore.
But what had he really seen the previous day? Where were the Usgar warriors he had so briefly glimpsed? Were they even on this side of the mountain? For Fireach Speuer was huge and round.
And were they really coming down to attack a village?
“You fool, you’re still on edge because of that idiot Badger,” he scolded himself, and with a last glance at the fleet on the lake, and one in the direction of his favorite village of all, Talmadge turned about and slid his paddle into the water, pressing on.
* * *
Silence preceded them, silence followed them. Their practiced footfalls skimmed the stones, barely setting down, making little sound, little impact. Their smooth run was aided by the green flecks in their crystalline weapons, the magical blessing lifting them, lightening them. These particular green flecks were most common in all the crystals chosen for hunting and war parties because of this very enchantment.
Deamhan footfalls leave no mark
Coming silent, can’no hark
Their figures remained blurred and indistinct, stone-gray clothing invisible against the mountainside, which was still deep in gloom with the early sun not yet climbing above the peaks. In this camouflage, too, the warriors were aided by the magical energy contained within their weapon tips, the crystals having also been selected for a propensity of sparkling diamond chips, which the witches understood to bring forth a wispy darkness, shrouding and blurring the forms of those carrying the blessed item. Indeed, the crystals chosen to tip the spears had been carefully selected, then blessed by the singing of the witches so that the weapons hummed with the song of Usgar. The rituals had made those magical properties of the crystals accessible to the warriors, ready to unleash devastating powers against any who felt the bite of an Usgar spear.
Untiring, the Usgar raiders flowed down the mountain, guided by the first rays of dawn tickling the far side of the long lake.
Usgar was not a large tribe—the seven villages scattered about the banks of Loch Beag were each more populous, some with more than five times the number of Usgar. But the folk down here lived an easier life. They preferred bargain to battle and floating on the water to running over stony jags up and down and along the mountainside, where one misstep could cost a man his life. To the Usgar, then, the lakemen were soft.
And the folk along the shore of Loch Beag did not have the crystals. They did not have the blessing of the Usgar-righinn, who spoke for Usgar, the Crystal God, whose voice filled Usgar weapons with power and deadly magic. The mere sight of a single Usgar warrior would often send a full hunting party of lakemen running.
To the lakemen, the Usgar were gods, or demons.
Even more than the crystal magic, that perception, one rooted in terror, was the greatest advantage of the war parties, Tay Aillig understood.
Tirelessly, the powerful young man led the warriors down the steep slopes of Fireach Speuer, leaping to lower stones, legs bending expertly to absorb the shock of a ten-foot, even twenty-foot, fall—drops that would have shattered his bones if not for the magic in his spear.
The magic had to flow fluidly, and could only do so with the wielder’s full trust in the blessings that had been placed upon the crystal tip of his spear. A veteran of several raids and many hunts, Tay Aillig had that confidence, without the slightest hesitation. Nor did he need to concentrate on the crystalline tip of his spear as so many others, particularly the younger warriors, would. He felt the magic and simply let it flow through him. So his pace continued, even quickened.
* * *
He thought of the last image in his mind of Mairen, the woman upon the pyre, being buried under the kindling she would set ablaze. He had noted the telltale white glow about the Usgar-righinn, her magical shield against the fiery bite.
Even as he thought about it, Tay Aillig’s hand went to his belt, to feel the stone tucked in the pocket inside the waistline. He had thought of grabbing it back then, at the ceremony. With its magical power, or rather, its ability to defeat magic, he might have stripped that shield from Mairen.
She would have cooked in her own conjured flames!
A smile came to his face. Yes, that would have been enjoyable.
He heard the grunts behind him as the two dozen raiders tried to keep pace, but that only widened Tay Aillig’s smile. He had just passed his twentieth year. He basked in the glory of the Coven’s song. He had a special understanding of Usgar, of magic. He was invincible.
If the others were not, that was their failing, not his.
He charged ahead to a rounded boulder that he knew to be the top of a rocky outcropping. Hardly slowing, Tay Aillig went over, dropping fifteen feet to the steeply sloped looser dirt in an acrobatic roll.
And he thought of the ceremony, of Mairen who had so often tormented him, and he grabbed at t
he secret amethyst-crusted sunstone he had tucked away and called upon its power before he even realized his action.
That nearly cost him dearly, he understood, for he was suddenly heavier, bouncing more roughly. He let go of the pocket and he kept rolling, absorbing the shock as he went, hugging close his spear so that the magical green flecks of a stone called malachite would again make him lighter and lessen each impact. He had left the outcropping far behind by the time he was able to stop and regain his footing, that he might properly glance back.
He saw the others coming in a tumbling line, some more gracefully than others, none as smoothly as his own descent. There would be many minor wounds here, he knew, but nothing that should slow his war party while the battle lust coursed through their blood.
Even as Tay Aillig nodded at that thought, though, he heard a cry from the darkness up above, a broken note. Surely it was one of the new warriors, he understood, for the high-pitched shriek sounded like a boy who was barely a man. This was the first war party for four of the raiders, an unusually high number. They were the most likely to die, of course. In the harsh heritage of Usgar, experience had to be earned through the highest of stakes or it was worth nothing at all.
The war party leader blew an angry growl and started back up the slope, following the whispers of several voices, including more than one telling the broken young warrior to be brave and stifle his cries.
When he got to the scene, Tay Aillig waded through the gathered circle of men.
There squirmed the young warrior, Aghmor by name, one leg broken so badly that the bone was sticking out through the skin, one shoulder so far back that it was almost certainly out of its proper joint.
“He was drifting down and he just fell,” one man said.
“Hard,” said another.
“He forgot the blessing!” the first replied.
Tay Aillig wasn’t so certain, but he didn’t speak his concern, surely. For that concern was regarding his own action. With his call to the stone, had he left behind a small residual area of countering magic to defeat any blessing?
Perhaps this young man lying before him, bone sticking through the skin of his leg, had been felled by Tay Aillig’s action.
The twinge of guilt didn’t last, however. The others had come through. Tay Aillig had pressed through the interruption of the magic in his own spear.
This failure was still Aghmor’s failure.
Tay Aillig knelt beside Aghmor and tucked a strip of hide deep into Aghmor’s mouth, muffling his cries. In the predawn light, the veteran could see lots of blood upon the young one’s face, and it seemed like much of it had come from inside of him, and not from superficial cuts.
“Whose spear is strong with warmth?” Tay Aillig asked the others. Though most held the green flecks and the sparkling diamond chips, none of the weapons were identical, with varying hues hidden within each crystal tip, offering magical accents to the blessing of the Coven. Off to the side, a pair of men compared their javelins, nodding, then decided upon the weapon strongest with the warm healing offered by the gray flecks within the crystal, the wedstone. The warrior hustled forward and presented the weapon to Tay Aillig.
The war party leader hugged it close and felt its power, then nodded and gave the gift giver the spear of the broken young Aghmor. He placed the spear strong with the warmth of healing across Aghmor’s chest and pulled the young man’s arms up to hug it.
“You are very hurt,” Tay Aillig said matter-of-factly. “Without this, you will die. With it you may die anyway, if you are not strong enough.” He looked up and around a bit and gave a little laugh. “Even if you are strong enough to gather the healing warmth,” he added with a wicked smile, “out here, bathed in blood in the morning hours … there are hungry wolves and bears, and great cats that will eat you while you still live.”
That brought many nods from the men about the broken young warrior.
“Unless you remain strong enough to fight them off,” Tay Aillig warned.
Poor Aghmor’s eyes opened wide and he shook his head in a desperate plea and began issuing a series of pitiful wails.
Tay Aillig just pressed the spear in tighter, and put his face very close to that of the wounded warrior.
“Are you a boy or a man?” he asked coldly.
Aghmor seemed to relax a bit, his pride forcing him to battle back against the terror.
“The lake is not far,” Tay Aillig explained. “We will pass by this place before the sun has dived into the far waters of the west. If you are strong enough to pull the warmth of healing from the blessed spear, you may live, and we will carry you back to the Coven for care. You will know no shame for your fall. If you are strong enough to live and kill a wolf that comes to feast, then perhaps Aghmor will find glory yet this day.”
“We cannot leave him,” another voice sounded, and the warriors all gasped and Tay Aillig was up to his feet in an instant. He noted the speaker, another of the first-year raiders, and he offered the dark-haired lad a comforting nod as he approached.
“We should bring him back now,” the youngster was saying meekly. “Come back another day—”
He ended flat on his back with the wind blasted out of his lungs, compliments of a sudden and powerful kick from Tay Aillig. Before he had even recovered his wits, the impetuous and foolish young man found the tip of a spear hovering a finger’s breadth from his eye.
That silenced him, certainly, and when he eased into a more submissive pose, Tay Aillig moved the spear aside, reached down, and yanked the young man to his feet with frightening strength.
Over to the side, Aghmor groaned, and looking that way, Tay Aillig began to appreciate the extent of the unfortunate young warrior’s injuries. For Aghmor could hardly hold the spear, let alone find the power to draw any magic from it. Tay Aillig hated the thought of losing a young warrior—the tribe was not large and every able body mattered. But he could see then, particularly when Aghmor began coughing up more blood, that this one would very likely not be alive when they returned.
But perhaps he could find some gain here in this loss, Tay Aillig thought. He turned to the impetuous young man. “What is your name?”
“Brayth.”
“The boy of Imrich,” someone said.
“Imrich?” Tay Aillig asked, sounding somewhat impressed, for that man had gained a fierce reputation.
Brayth straightened his shoulders and seemed to garner some strength from that recognition of his bloodline.
Aghmor groaned and vomited blood once more.
“The wound is mortal,” Tay Aillig told Brayth, and he grabbed the young man’s spear and pulled it and Brayth’s arm out in front, pointing the weapon and the wielder toward Aghmor. “You do it.”
Even in the dim light in the deep shadow of the huddled mountain, Tay Aillig could see the blood drain from the young man’s face. All about, warriors gasped, and one began to argue, but was quickly hushed by the others.
“He will lie in pain throughout the day,” Tay Aillig said when Brayth hesitated. “Would you let your cowardice cause him that terrible death?”
“Imrich,” someone in the back reminded.
Brayth straightened his shoulders again and took up his spear more forcefully as Tay Aillig let go of the shaft. Brayth strode over and flipped the spear, and with only the slightest of hesitation, stabbed it down at poor Aghmor.
Or tried to, for Tay Aillig kicked him again just as he began the killing blow, sending him tumbling aside. Brayth came back to his feet angrily and in clear confusion, and only calmed when others cheered him and called out the name of his father and moved to pat him on the shoulder.
“You would have done it,” Tay Aillig said.
“You lead the war party,” a confused Brayth replied. “You told me to.”
“But Aghmor is your friend, and you would have killed him. What are we without loyalty?”
“I would not see him suffer,” the young man stuttered, and Tay Aillig offered again that wick
ed smile, seeming very pleased at Brayth’s obvious discomfort. “You … you said he would die,” Brayth meekly argued.
Tay Aillig laughed at him, pushed him away, then fell over Aghmor, pressing the healing spear tight against the fallen youth’s chest. “Ignore your pain,” he whispered harshly into Aghmor’s ear. “Defeat your fear. Nothing matters but this blessed weapon. It alone can save you, but only if nothing matters but this blessed weapon.”
The war party leader stood back up and spun on his heel. “We go,” he told the others, and led them away.
Tay Aillig’s dark eyes gleamed as he turned back toward the lake, toward the smoke of the cooking fires of the village directly below. The smoke would be darker soon, and thicker. So much thicker.
And all the villages of Loch Beag would see it and know that the Usgar had come, and they would be afraid. They thought the Usgar godlike.
Tay Aillig felt godlike.
3
THE DARKNESS OF USGAR
“Back for more water?” the old gray-haired man chided Kal when, bucket in hand, he walked past the pair at their usual spot down by the bank.
“Innevah is plump with my child,” Kal said in his own defense. “Her feet are swollen. The cold water—”
“Hire one of the young ones!” the old gray-hair said, waving his arm up to the north along the coast, where a group of children splashed by the lakeshore.
“Aye, just give ’em a wiggly minnow to play with and they’ll haul your buckets all the day,” the other agreed.
But Kal could only smile and shrug. Innevah wanted him to do it, and he understood that this was her way of making him prove to be a worthy partner in this endeavor they had chosen. The water wasn’t actually the point of it all; having him go and get it, without complaint, was.
And Kal didn’t mind, because he was glad to prove his worth to his wonderful partner. Besides, it was a warm day, the sun high overhead, and he didn’t want to stay inside the hut. The cold lake water would be invigorating. He looked to the fishing boats far out on the water and wished he could be there, with Innevah, then reminded himself that the sacrifice this season was worth the prize. They were both young and strong and clever, and their child would be wonderful.
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