Horns of the Hunter: Tales of Luah Fáil Book 1

by Frank Dorrian

  Náith drew a scalding breath, lungs full of the stink of burnt stone and pitch. He could see Sreng’s heaving torso about the edge of his rock, a slice of the smouldering wound in the Fomonán King’s chest. Boiling air whipped about it, its frenzy streaked red with sparks. Nothing for it. The fight had just started and Náith was already out of ideas. Try and make it through the heat and tear the thing’s heart from its bastard chest. He kissed his sword. And pray I live.

  Náith leapt from cover, forgot the pain as he charged Sreng, his roar shuddering from the passage walls. The Fomonán King planted its feet to meet his charge, its mountainous chest swelling as it gathered strength. Its eye followed Náith, empty of its foul light, the vortex of its pupil a twisting, deathly black maw. He had but scant moments before that light reawakened, before Sreng could turn the wrath of his stare upon him once more.

  The beast’s eye glanced suddenly aside. ‘What is this? Another wasted life? Bring me your fury, worms!’

  Something slammed into Náith’s gut, lifted him from his feet and snatched every breath from his lungs. He crashed to his knees, white sparks spraying across his sight as the Fomonán King’s laughter rumbled through the mountain. A shadow slipped from the rocks at Náith’s side, racing toward Sreng on swift feet, a dark crown of antlers splayed upon its head.

  ‘Luw!’ Náith croaked, stumbling forward only to collapse back to his knees and suck down a shrieking breath. What the fuck was that spear-polishing dandy-boy doing here? A sudden, dreadful forboding joined the pain in Náith’s gut. He staggered to his feet, tried to holler a warning but fell back to his knees sputtering, watching helplessly as he curled around his pain.

  ‘Forest sprite!’ Sreng roared, it great eye swivelling to followed Luw’s darting path. A glow awakened in its depths, a growing mass of swirling fire, its power mustering. ‘I will burn your woods and piss upon their cold ashes!’

  Sreng’s eye unleashed another blast of light. Náith rolled breathlessly to the side, spattered by broken rock as it gouged another rent through the passageway. The Fomonán King bellowed its frustration, swinging the beam to try to catch Luw’s dancing shadow as the Hunter skipped and leapt across the fallen, melted rocks. Sreng swept its ruinous stare high, tried to snatch Luw from the air, but the nimble little bastard twisted around it and fell back to the earth amid a hail of blasted stone, darting toward the giant again.

  Sreng’s power flickered and faded as though it was spent, the beast’s shoulders heaving, the air cloying with the sparks of its furnace-lung. Luw’s spear glinted as he closed the distance. Sreng roared and swung a fist to crush the Hunter into the ground. Stone exploded about it, shrapnel spraying the passageway. A shard zipped past Náith’s face as he squinted through the blow’s dust cloud, opening a thin cut across one cheek. The Fomonán King’s laughter came slow, callous, the yellow orb of its eye raking the ground for signs of Luw.

  ‘Pathetic,’ Sreng panted, chuckling through its exhaustion. ‘Is this all that the forest insects have to offer? Your woods will be kindling for the cookfires of my children, worm, and they shall –’

  Luw’s spear cut a bright line through the gloom and plunged into the Fomonán King’s eye. It burst through the back of the demonkin’s skull, a thin ribbon of ochre blood following its falling path. Sreng howled, its eye falling dark. It reared, jerked, its arm trapped in the hole it had punched through the mountain, blood spilling from its pierced eye. Náith covered his ears as a skull-crushing howl tore through the passageway, light and flame bursting from the Fomonán King’s head, its mantle blazing with the sun’s fury. In a final flash, the flames burnt out, leaving a cloud of fading sparks spiralling about Sreng. The fire of its mantle was dead, its eye coal-black and lifeless as its skin began to peel and flake like ash. It lurched, toppled forward, and crashed down atop its trapped arm, shaking the mountain one final time.

  Náith, still twisted about his pain, coughed as the dust reached him. The Fomonán King’s slack face was turned toward him across the passageway, already decaying as its power leeched back into the earth. Náith’s mouth ran dry, his stomach falling hollow. His future lay decaying before him, ran through by the Hunter’s spear. ‘Fuck…’ He thumped his head against the ground. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

  Footsteps quieted him. Luw came gliding through the shroud of dust, a shadow slipping into flesh. The Hunter flicked Fomonán blood from the blade of his spear, ribbons of dust trailing from his antlers. Náith groped weakly for his sword, a rock, anything he could use to smash this spear-polisher’s fucking face right in, and found nothing. He rolled onto his knees, prepared to fight but still clutching at his winded gut, choking back a rancid urge to spew.

  Luw drew near, his fawn’s stare fixed pointedly ahead as he made to pass by. Náith’s rage boiled over the pain, straightened his back. Few things were worse than being ignored by a cunt like him.

  ‘Just walk past without a fucking word, will you?’ Náith croaked. Luw halted, his sharp face turning toward him. Something vicious lay behind those faun’s eyes of his, knocking Náith off-kilter for a heartbeat. ‘Do you know what you’ve just done to me, spear-shiner?’

  Luw’s spear was at his throat before he could so much as flinch. ‘Saved your life, braggart.’ He tilted Náith’s head back with the edge of the blade. It bit through the skin, a warm trickle running down his throat. ‘It takes speed to overcome the flame. You and Aodhamar never did have the brains to realise that Sreng’s power lay within its eye, not its heart.’ The Hunter’s eyes glistened, lips twitching just a fraction. Enjoying himself, the ferrety little bastard. ‘Now watch your dream die before you.’

  ‘Dream?’ Náith snarled. ‘Is that why? You condemn me to a life of shame for that fucking elk?’

  The corner of Luw’s mouth lifted just a fraction. Náith lurched to his feet with a growl and let the skinny fucker’s spear score a line down his neck. The toe of Luw’s boot slammed into his gut. Something snapped within, brought crimson pain shooting through Náith’s body and dropped him back to his knees, heaving like a drunkard full of gutrot.

  The Hunter’s boots scuffed stone, leaving Náith doubled about his agony, staring at the blackened ground between his knees. He found the breath to scream between heaves. ‘You petty bastard!’ His voice echoed from the empty passageway as Sreng’s flesh peeled and crumbled like ash from its monstrous corpse, the first cracks spreading through its bones. The decaying countenance of his failure, and the promise of his own barren, disgraceful end. Aodhamar would know he had failed. The prick always knew. There would be no escaping it. Náith would have cried, would have bawled like a child, had the hate left room for anything else.

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you for this, Luw! I’ll drag you into Ancu’s arms myself!’

  Chapter 7

  A Warning

  ‘So… it is a Hunter that finally kills Sreng the Everburning.’

  Luw shifted on his knees as Aodhamar’s flaming stare crawled over him. It felt like being singed by a candleflame. He shuddered, risking a glance up at the Enkindled upon his throne of gold. Aodhamar’s silver beard spilled over the fist his chin rested upon, his long, silver hair spilling down a golden shoulder. He took Nuankin gaudiness to excess, so much gold hung from his sinuous frame it almost hurt to look at him. Then again, in this place, everywhere Luw turned his eyes hurt to look upon. Gold upon gold and shining marble. So unnecessary. He missed the forest.

  ‘Stand, Luw of the Southern Forest,’ Aodhamar barked, ‘I would look upon the face of the one who rid me of my oldest foe.’

  Luw stood, immediately aware of how the rich-looking men lurking between the columns of the hall set to snickering and whispering about him. He glimpsed a few sly gestures mimicking his antlers. It meant something of cuckoldry to the Nuankin, for whatever reason, but he let the irritation pass, for Aodhamar’s burning eyes scoured him.

  Gaudy and exuberant as the Enkindled was, there was power behind this one. Terrible power. How much Earthblood ha
d the man imbibed, for the flames of his Earthbond to spill ceaselessly from his very eyes? It was sickening. But it bore no thought. Luw had always known the Enkindled King for what he was. A devouring monster wearing the skin of a Nuankin.

  ‘That was quite the throw, Hunter,’ the Enkindled spoke, something like a smile twitching his cheek. A grey finger traced the shape of the eye upon his crown. ‘You outdid even some of my own.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Luw muttered. He’d heard of Aodhamar’s powers of Sight, the rarest of all gifts bestowed by the Earthblood. The man’s stare made him feel stripped to the bone. ‘Is this why you summoned me here?’

  Luw drew back with a hiss as a great lump of meat suddenly stepped from beside the throne, roaring like a whipped ox. ‘You will address the Enkindled King of Ardas Machad as His Enkindled Majesty, sprite!’

  ‘Enough, Turlach.’ Aodhamar waved the lump back, a scowl on its dour face. ‘And quite correct.’ He spread his sinewy hands. ‘Such a display of power and favour done unto me deserves a reward. Let it never be said the Enkindled is not generous to his subjects.’

  Luw swallowed a growl, the hair on his neck bristling like a hound’s. A subject? His fists clenched at Aodhamar’s audacity. He was a Hunter, not some grovelling Nuankin pig, and he answered to none but the earth and the forest. Ardas Machad and its crown were nothing to him. A quill was scratching furiously over parchment somewhere near the throne, a scribe trying to keep up with Aodhamar’s dispensing of wisdom, and almost every eye in the hall was turned toward Luw. He fought back a snarl at the Enkindle King’s insult and kept silent. The court of the Enkindled King was not the place to lose his temper.

  ‘Tell me, Luw, Hunter of the Southern Forest,’ Aodhamar declared, his voice resonating from the golden walls. ‘What is it you desire for killing Sreng? Gold? Land? My warband would welcome you amongst their number.’

  One of the men between the columns snorted at that. Luw shook his head. ‘I’ve no lust for such things, Your Enkindled Majesty.’ A few gasps echoed down the hall, tongues clicking. Aodhamar’s head tilted.

  ‘All men want something, Hunter. Name it. You have my gratitude.’

  Luw’s head shook again, sly laughter prickling in his ears. ‘I… the forest. My home. It diminishes every year beneath the axes of your men, and the animals flee your poachers. Please… leave it be. Or soon it will all be gone.’

  Aodhamar sat back in his throne while his court whispered, a hand upon his chin. ‘Those woods are on my land, Hunter. They are necessary forage and fuel for my warriors. I march soon to bring war on Crofan Tarbeard, he is one of the few fools in the south who resist me still. Our path to Iarma will take us past the forest. My men will expect hunting. They will expect wood for their fires.’

  ‘I understand, Your Enkindled Majesty,’ said Luw, ‘but you asked me what I want for killing Sreng. That is it. Please leave my home be.’

  The Enkindled King was silent for a moment, the flames in his eyes rippling about his crown. Men were laughing, some hissing outrage at the audacity of his request. Aodhamar’s hand cut the air and silenced them.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘my men will not touch your forest for forage or fuel when we march against Tarbeard. I will have other arrangements made for supply, at my own expense. Let it never be said that I am unfair to those who serve me well.’

  An empty promise if ever there was one. The quill was scratching again, no doubt writing of the Enkindled King’s grand benevolence. Luw kept his face expressionless, bundled his anger up within.

  ‘And so reward and favour is dispensed!’ Aodhamar declared, fingers steepled before him. ‘Let it be recorded that Luw the Hunter, of the Southern Forest, is honoured in the sight of the Enkindled, a friend to his court and welcome at his hearth.’

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  ‘Thank you, Your Enkindled Majesty,’ Luw said, bowing stiffly. Aodhamar nodded.

  ‘And now, a warning for you.’

  Luw blinked, mouth hanging open. A warning?

  ‘You trouble me, sprite,’ barked Aodhamar. ‘Greatly.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘That flower-sniffing nymph you lay with.’

  ‘I lay with no –‘

  ‘Síle.’ The flames of Aodhamar’s eyes narrowed. He tapped the eye upon his crown pointedly. ‘I know of your feud with Náith, Hunter, do not think to lie to my face. I have killed men for less.’ His head shook slowly. ‘Bitter are the seeds that one plants. Stay away from her. She is not worth blood. Too much has already been spilled in her name.’

  Was this why he had been brought here? To be scolded like a child over the woman he loved? Had loved. No. Still loved, despite her cruel words, as foolish as that might have made him. But… no. Now was not the time at all. Luw thrust the thought aside and let silence be his answer, his face burning wicked as a forge-coal. Aodhamar seemed to either take it for assent, or simply did not care as he nodded and waved a dismissing hand. ‘Go.’

  Luw turned wordlessly on his heel, shouts and jeers chased him through the hall’s golden doors. The Enkindled’s burning stare stalked his every step.

  Chapter 8

  Exile

  It was strange, Náith found, to go from being so utterly sure upon his path, to facing the haunting enormity of his failure in but a heartbeat. Like spilling from his bed into a nest of vipers, still holding on to a dream as life was bled from him.

  He peered down the dewy hillside overlooking Crath Crógadh. The Flame’s ugliness rose upon its hill in the north, golden and foul beneath an iron-grey sky. The day was young but already morose, swollen with misery’s assurance. Náith sighed, cradling his sword against his shoulder as he stood, shivering against the chill that sharpened the air. The cold nipped at every wound and hurt taken upon Crath Gulfáil as he made his descent toward the Enkindled’s seat of power. Sharp needles danced beneath the scabs of half-healed wounds, like fragmented memories of the utter disaster his quest had been.

  Of how that bastard Luw had ruined everything.

  Náith made his way slowly into the town, the Flame watching him approach. We tore apart the old world, you and I, Náith thought, returning its stare, and put something worse in its place. Together, they had crushed the bloody ambitions of the southern kings and had broken old Ulmóna’s power. But in place of a swarm of biting insects, they had crowned a ravening beast that cast its shadow over all Luah Fáil. A beast that cared nothing for the laws of old Nuan, nor for friendship and brotherhood. Only gold. Only power. Only Earthblood.

  Náith turned his face to the ground, watched his boots squelched through mud and the earth alone knew what else. He was in no rush for this.

  There was no fanfare waiting for Náith in Crath Crógadh. No flocks of awestruck children. No chanting of his vaulted name. Only sour looks and sidelong glances greeted him along those bitter, filthy streets. Aodhamar’s warriors turned their faces away as he found their stares, heard their snickering at the sight of their master’s once-champion so battered and shuffling.

  They knew, of course. How could they not? Aodhamar’s Sight raked this land like a Sluadh’s claw, and his court was ever a bed of whispering snakes and chittering rats.

  The climb up to the gates of the Flame was a long one. Náith could hear the laughter on the walls, feel the stares and knives of Aodhamar’s men. The very windows of the homes and hovels below felt as though they leered at him. He kept his head down.

  The gates rumbled as he gave them three heavy thuds with the pommel of his sword. Náith barely noticed them swing open, his gaze fixed upon the footprints in the mud.

  ‘Well, look who it is, boys.’

  Sour-Face’s sneering tone drew Náith’s attention. The prick stood at the head of an even greater line of guardsmen than had greeted him last time. Despite the cocksucker’s grin, there was a wariness behind Sour-Face’s eyes. A public beating will do that to a man – put an instinctual fear in him – especially opportunistic bullying shits like Sour-Face.

/>   Náith still couldn’t summon a laugh at the memory of their last meeting, and Sour-Face seemed to take it as encouragement. ‘What was your name again?’ he snickered, stroking a chin that was hairless as a maiden’s arse. ‘Nab? Nub? Neth? I can’t seem to recall. They never mention you around here anymore.’ His grin grew dangerous, the men at his back chuckling mindlessly.

  ‘Náith. Here to report to His Enkindled Majesty,’ he said to the ground.

  ‘Never heard of you,’ Sour-Face sniped, grin widening. It fell away in an instant. ‘Your sword, No-Name.’

  Náith offered it without complaint. ‘Give me that thing.’ Sour-Face snatched it from him. ‘She needs a man’s touch, don’t forget, No-Name.’ He let laughter roll through the worms at his back, waving a pair forward as it died. ‘Put some chains on this murdering fuckwit and take him to the Enkindled.’

  The first man that laid hands on him got butted and hit the ground with his nose smashed into his face. Náith stepped over him and shouldered past the other. ‘Rest of you little fanny-boys are welcome to try me,’ he snapped as the warriors bared steel and bows. Sour-Face waved them back with a growl, sharp teeth bared. ‘I know the way,’ Náith spat, stepping onto the slope and leaving them behind.

  The groans of the one with the smashed nose chased after him, tweaking the corner of Náith’s mouth. Landing a good headbutt never failed to cheer him up.

  ‘Let the criminal, Náith, step forth, and face the judgement of His Enkindled Majesty!’

  Aodhamar’s herald retreated into his sycophant’s nook. Náith sighed, stepped forward onto the marble floor of Aodhamar’s court, trying to ignore the whispers and chuckling of the jewelled shadows between the columns. He kept his eyes on his former friend, sitting before him upon that glittering throne of his, chin resting upon scarred knuckles.

  Aodhamar’s burning eyes considered Náith as he halted ten paces from his glittering seat. Their flames narrowed. ‘Kneel.’ The command was not loud, yet it was irresistible all the same. Náith found himself unwittingly on his knees, facing his reflection in the floor. He could see it there, pooling in the hollows of his eyes. Defeat. It glared back at him, burrowing through him like fleshworms. He averted his gaze to his knees, unable to face the shame. Aodhamar’s stare lay like a lump of iron upon his shoulders, shifting across his wounds as if assigning worth to each one. Silence hung after that command, pooling between the columns, in the air, thick with the Enkindled King’s anger.