Horns of the Hunter: Tales of Luah Fáil Book 1

by Frank Dorrian

  Naught but quiet in the dying echo of his voice, the bellowing of his lungs in his breast, corpses drifting, languid and uncaring. A breeze like cold breath tickled the back of Náith’s neck then, as he thought to lower his sword’s burning weight. He cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting horror, expecting evil, and was slapped by a sudden gale that spun him about. He cried out, covered his face, eyes streaming. A howl rose as wind tore through the knotted limbs of the dead, snatching at Náith’s skin with cold razors.

  He staggered, raised his shield against the wind’s bite, squinting through the blur of stung eyes. Its fury ebbed, its howl swelling to a roar. He could see it, the ravaging gale that spun around him, encircling the clearing. The leaking corpse-ichor was caught upon it, black shreds spinning about him in a tearing wall that blotted out the pit beyond, brief snatches of glistening flesh all that Náith could see.

  Do you seek my mercy, little one?

  It was a hiss that crept through the storm’s raging. Dry and dead as the inside of a warrior’s grave mound. Náith spun with a growl, thinking it behind him, finding nothing but the storm-wall and its billowing filth. No. There was movement as he turned. A glimpse of something – half-seen, half-formed – the striding of long legs, the sway of shoulders just past the tangle of flesh-sculptures, a carrion bird circling a dying beast.

  Do you wish to go into the cold and the quiet?

  On his left. Náith turned, shield raised. Something glittered through the storm, tiny pinpricks of light, pale blue stars like cold eyes, twinkling as they watched him, hovering in a void.

  ‘Ancu!’ Náith roared over the storm. ‘Cease your coward’s magicks and stand before me with honour!’

  For a heartbeat, those eyes shone brighter. They moved – something else moved – a shimmer beyond the storm-veil, a disruption in the air, like the sun’s heat above stone. It seemed… man-shaped, as it moved into the storm’s rending wall. The ichor stuck, clung to it, congealed as it came, like a spider’s web gathering dew and taking a shape of its own making. Black, oozing, towering – it stepped through the storm towards Náith. He backed off as long arms unfurled from its corrupted chest, dripping claws flexing at their ends. It was a walking mound of putrescent discharge, black as the charred flesh lining the pit. A sheet of ichor sloughed from a blank head, unveiling its face – a featureless plate of bone, save for its leering eyeholes, and the cold stars that burned in unknowable depths.

  Náith stepped back again as the reins slipped upon his fear, the savagery of the storm nipping at his back. The thing’s dripping head cocked, the light of its eyes moving to Náith’s sword. A low grumble ran through the earth, the very air seeming to shake and bend before it quietened. Náith bit down, forced his fear back to the shadows where it belonged.

  ‘Are you Ancu?’ he called out. The creature’s head straightened.

  Is that what you call me, little one? it whispered. I have no name.

  ‘I am Cu Náith! Greatest warrior of Luah Fáil! And I have come to take your head today, Ancu!’ Náith banged sword on shield, the sound lending his soul a touch of iron as it pushed back the raging of Ancu’s storm. ‘I am death!’ he roared. ‘True death! And you are a pretender to my throne!’ Sword met shield again. ‘Face me, Ancu!’

  I cannot die.

  It stepped toward him, growing taller as it came, trails of black ichor lingering in the air behind it, new threads slithering to bolster it from the orifices of the corpses it trod upon. It towered at twice Náith’s height as it halted mere steps away, its pale face looking down on him.

  What is this, child? Ancu’s oozing knees bent, its dripping form bearing down on him, a father glaring into the face of an unruly infant. Has she sent another one to try and claim him back from me?

  Another one?

  The coldness of Ancu’s stare speared Náith, his heart falling through dark waves. What had that mad bitch, Béchu, said? He wasn’t the first one Síle had sent looking for Ancu. His lip quivered as he tried to ignore confusion’s wretched little burr, digging itself into the flesh of reason. Had she sent him here to die? Used him in some game of hers, as if he were some throwaway fucking nonny-boy? It couldn’t be. He’d have expected such treachery, such callousness, from Aodhamar. But not Síle. Not his true-heart. Fury bled through the cold cracks of doubt.

  The dead belong to me and no other, little one, Ancu was hissing, the living have no claim to them, and their words have no meaning in this land. Leave, now, for you are –

  Náith plunged his sword into Ancu’s eye with a roar, its cross-guard slamming into the edges of the eyehole, a fountain of black slime drenching his arm. Ancu fell silent, its other eye shimmering as it regarded him past the blade. It suddenly felt such a foolish thing to have done.

  As you wish, Cu Náith.

  Ancu slid back off the blade, its pierced eye reawakening beneath a shower of ichor. It reared, the ceaseless discharge of its body running quicker – swelling, changing, bloating into something utterly monstrous. A beast’s earth-shaking roar silenced the storm, and a final blast of dead, stinking air buffeted Náith, whipping his hair across his face and ice across his soul. He caught a glimpse of a long, slithering neck through its veil and bolted, dashing between the monstrosity’s bowed legs.

  The storm was gone, and Náith hurtled into the twisted masses of the dead, Ancu’s bellowing streaking after him. He threw himself into the shadows between two flesh sculptures, into a nest of clutching, scorched hands, heart striking hammers against his ribs. The earth shook beneath his arse, another roar blitzing the Death Pit through the stomping of vast feet, and a whisper grazed Náith’s ear.

  You cannot hide from me, little one. I am death, and this land is my very flesh.

  Náith leapt forward into a roll, as a massive, dripping claw slammed into the sculptures he’d hidden between, engulfing them in black filth. Náith broke into a sprint the moment his feet hit the ground, darting between dead limbs and twisted giants. He dared a glance behind, saw a mass of black corruption towering over their heads, a serpent’s neck following his path, a black maw lined with countless pale fangs.

  Náith dived behind another flesh-sculpture, its torso exploding a moment later as a black tendril burst through it and lanced the ground a bare foot to his left. You wish to face me, then come with your blade and your fury, Cu Náith!

  The tendril coiled about the sculpture, ripping it from its corpse-foundations like a scab from a festering wound, exposing a layer of orange, stinking flesh beneath it. Náith leapt to the side as Ancu hissed and slammed it down where he had stood, spraying him with charred skin and rotting meat. He spat a mouthful of it out, stomped his fear silent, and sprang towards Ancu’s revolting shape, crouched over the Death Pit on all fours like a beast.

  An insectile arm shot out as Náith tore across the pit and narrowed the distance, Ancu’s claws bursting into a tangle of dark, whipping tendrils. Náith darted to the side as the first struck and shredded the ground, leapt the next as it looped about and kicked off from a third that tried to plunge into him from the side. Ancu swept a claw out to snatch him from the air. Náith’s sword fell, cleaved through its wrist and severed it, splattering the death-god’s massive, bone-white face with black ichor.

  Náith hit the ground as Ancu reared and snarled with the sound of grinding bones, the stump of its arm spraying filth. He charged, slipping beneath a counter-swing that tore terrible rents through the ground, ripped withered bodies free and scattered them through the air. He sprinted between the death-god’s rear legs, spinning through a cut without stopping, his blade shearing through Ancu’s ankle. Black slime fountained from it as if he’d slashed an artery, and Náith burst through its veil, leaping as Ancu roared and toppled backward.

  Náith landed among the forest of dead limbs and dead sculptures in the shadow of Ancu’s colossus. Behind him, the death-god crashed to the ground and burst into a wave of black rot. He forced his way through the tangled dead, slipping between the
reaching arms of misshapen, clambering monstrosities, until their web of wasted claws ensnared him.

  You will go no further, little one.

  Náith growled, flesh and bone snapping as he twisted, turning to stare back at the death-god in time to see it rise above the pit on a serpentine body. The pale plate of its face raked the briar patch of limbs he was caught in, a claw raised high. With a shriek, its terrible arm fell, the blow shaking the earth as it struck a hundred paces from where Náith lay tangled, tearing knots of bodies up like rooted sods of earth and scattering them in a foul plume.

  Your life is wasted here, child, Ancu hissed. Another blow, closer than the last, gouged more bodies up from the pit, spraying them in pieces. Your sword cannot hurt me. Your wards will not stop me. She will never have him back. Ancu’s claws ploughed into the ground a score of paces each side of Náith, a jolt of dread plunging his stomach into his guts. The dead belong to me, the death god roared. Tárchan belongs to me!

  Tárchan?

  Ancu’s claws swept toward each other like a beast’s jaws snapping shut before he could make sense of those words, tearing stinking gouges through the ground. Náith’s legs heaved, sent him sprawling forward through the death-god’s hands the instant before they collided, ichor and shredded body parts lashing his back. He crashed down with a grunt, picked himself up and thrust high, blindly, his sword sinking into Ancu’s glistening underbelly. The death-god’s form burst apart, falling like foul, black rain, and drenching Náith, its putrid weight smashing him into the ground.

  There is no hope here for the broken-hearted. I will not let Tárchan go.

  Náith fought to stand, blinded and choked by Ancu’s discharge, mouth filled with the taste of mouldering graves and ancient, dead meat. It clung to him like oil, snatching his feet out from beneath him. He thrashed, blinded, the pit but a blur of pain and movement. A cold fist seized Náith by the back of his jerkin and hauled him from the ground, talons piercing the leather to scrape at his flesh. It flung him across the pit, sent him spinning and bouncing over its corpse-carpet, a white flash bringing stillness as he crashed into something solid.

  Stay down, little one, and I will grant you mercy.

  Pain blazing through his back, Náith rolled onto his palms and shook the blur from his eyes. A corpse-sculpture loomed over him, its shin dented and weeping where he’d slammed into it. Footsteps nearby, the squelch and pop of bloated flesh. Náith spat blood mingled with black shite and lifted his head toward the sound. Ancu was crossing the pit toward him, man-shaped once more, gangling and repulsive.

  Snatching up his fallen sword, Náith pushed himself to his feet. Blood dripping from his dark brow, lips peeled in a snarl, he beat the fist of his shield arm against his breast. The power of his bellow halted Ancu’s advance, its glittering eyes studying him.

  ‘I am Cu Náith! Once-Champion of the Enkindled King! Slayer of Luw’s Hound! And I accept no mercy from man, beast or fucking death-god!’

  Ancu thrust its right arm out to the side in answer. Corrupted flesh writhed, its claws lengthening as they melded and fused into something yet more cruel. Sinking back into a fighting stance, the death-god readied the black, curved blade it had wrought of its forearm, filth dripping from it as though daubed with poison. This song is at an end, it whispered.

  The distance vanished in the space between heartbeats as Ancu leapt, its blade falling. Náith slipped to the side, lifting his shield against a wave of orange decay as the death-god’s blade chopped through the corpse-carpet, bodies bursting into reeking pulp. Ancu turned without a moment’s pause, leaping into a spinning, backhand slash, rot and filth spraying. Náith caught it on his shield, but Ancu’s strength was monstrous. The rim buckled under the blow, cracks shooting through the topmost boards. His answering thrust gouged a ragged hole through Ancu’s gut that closed the moment the blade slid free, ichor flowing to fill the void.

  The death-god’s claw swiped at his neck in the split-second opening after Náith’s counter. He stepped back, black talons grazing his chest and slamming into the rim of his shield. They snapped shut about it, crushing boards and bending iron. Ancu hauled him into the air to dangle from the clinging straps of the shield, its blade-arm pulling back to run him through.

  Náith swung himself to the right as Ancu stabbed at him, twisting about its wretched blade to bring his own down through the wrist of the hand clutching him. The hand exploded into a stinging black mist, dropping Náith in a heap at the death-god’s feet. Ancu stabbed down as he rolled to the side, skewering the corpse he’d landed atop and prising it from the ground with a hiss. Náith scrabbled away, flinging the splinters of his shield off his arm and turning to see Ancu heave the skewered remains at him. Náith swung, blade and corpse colliding, the body bursting into stinking orange chunks.

  Ancu leapt through the rot-cloud before Náith could right his stance, a frigid claw slamming into his shoulder, tearing his sword from his hands. It bore him down to the ground, their combined weight smashing the bodies beneath them into pulp. Náith kicked out, stomped Ancu’s leg away and tripped it before its raised blade could strike. He squirmed beneath the death-god’s weight, beneath the hideous feel of its running flesh, dragging himself toward where his sword protruded from a corpse’s spine.

  Náith cried out as Ancu’s claw slammed down on the back of his shoulder, its liquid form shifting upon him to pin him to the ground. Its claw dissolved, reformed knotted in his hair and yanked back his head, the edge of its black blade scraping like ice over the bulge of his throat. Its horrid weight held Náith fast, a rat in a hound’s jaws.

  Look above us, Ancu whispered. Náith’s eyes lifted to the dark sky, to the drifting dead and churning black clouds. If only you could see the sky behind these clouds, little one… you would know terror and weep. You would gouge out your own eyes and thank the pain for its mercy. He felt its empty face loom beside his ear, sending a ripple of horror through him. I will not let her unleash such a travesty again. Tárchan is dead. Tárchan is mine.

  Náith thought he saw something beyond the clouds then, as the death-god whispered. The faintest flickering of light – there, then gone – only its unnaturalness, its wrongness, lingering.

  I was there that day, Ancu hissed, I walked among the dead and the dying as the living waged war, summoned by Tárchan’s harvest. I grew fat on their screams as I watched him burn the earth with fire and lightning. I touched his dead heart when he fell upon the spear of Nuan the Coldhanded, and I felt the storm that boiled within – the power that branded these Death Pits upon the world. I will not allow Tárchan’s wrath to scar the earth as it has done before. She will not have him.

  Ancu’s blade bit the flesh of Náith’s neck, sharp as any sword of iron, cold as ice in the cracks of mountains. He closed his eyes, braced himself for the searing kiss that would herald the slow, choking terror of a slit throat. Béchu had been right; there was only death here for him – a foe no blade or might could conquer. His first and final loss, the horror of that should have struck a tinder to mindless, cowardly wailing – and very nearly did – but something cold rode over it, jabbing Náith’s tongue into action.

  ‘Wait! Wait!’

  Ancu paused, moved the blade a bare inch from his throat. He could feel clinging ichor where it had touched his skin, searing like a healer’s vitriol. Do you have last words to offer, little one? Speak them. You have an eternity of quiet to embrace.

  ‘Let me go!’ Náith cried, hating the fear that shaped his voice. The ground rumbled with a bouncing rhythm, the blade moving back to his throat. He could have sworn it was laughing at him. ‘Let me go, and I’ll bring her to you! A trade!’

  Ancu’s blade halted again, nipping at his skin. Its clawed fist tightened in his hair, his scalp ready to rip loose. I do not make deals, little one.

  ‘It’s not a deal,’ Náith croaked, ‘it’s what we both want. She never told me why she sent me here, she never said anything about saving someone else. She lied to m
e. No one lies to Cu Náith, and I will not die for her! Take her! Síle and Tárchan. Yours forever.’

  Ancu went still, a little bead of its black ooze running through Náith’s hair, down his cheek. It prickled like shattered glass on his skin. It was tempted, he could feel it etched through the silence, as though the air slithered over itself like a swarm of gnawers after a lump of marrow. This thing – death given form – it feared Tárchan, it feared Síle.

  Ancu’s blade moved aside. In the corner of his eye, Náith saw it ripple, split, long claws flexing and dripping as they shrank back down to match the hand knotted in his hair. Its weight shifted, the coldness of its face passing to and fro over the back of Náith’s skull, as if it were scrutinising his every thought.

  You… are different than the rest. It sat back, let go of his ooze-matted hair and stood. I shall have Tárchan’s lover as well, and this world will be spared from their –

  Náith flipped onto his back, a kick splattering the death-god’s leg across the corpse-ground. Ancu roared, wobbled on its remaining leg, its claws bursting from its fingers into the length of swords. Náith was already on his feet though, and he barrelled into the death-god before it could strike. He hooked his arms about its cold, oozing waist and spun, heaving it over his shoulder into the ground. It writhed like a snake as he mounted it, hideous claws slicing red paths through the flesh of his arms, his fists hammering its head into the corpse-ground.

  The pit rumbled with that bouncing rhythm again, the filth shaping Ancu’s head splattering as it was flattened. It was laughing – even as the clawing of its sword-talons slowed and its struggles ebbed, it was fucking laughing at him. Náith ignored the pain, ignored the blood running down his sides, his back. He kept punching, his knuckles splitting against Ancu’s faceplate, dark blood smeared through black ichor. Through the rumbling, through his own roaring, he could hear it whispering.

  We… are but the ashes of a cold, old fire…