Tárchan’s mulling growl rolled over Náith, the sound of shattering earth. His head swung toward the west. The Hill of Tán. The storm I unleashed upon Nuan and his slaves. I can feel it there. It still burns. Even with all his leech-mages, Nuan could not unmake that.
‘Yes! Yes!’
Tárchan growled his assent, shaking the mountain. Then I will summon it, and let its wrath strengthen me. Now fly, my treasure. The storm hungers. I will not taste freedom just to find you are lost to it. We will ride together again, my love.
The Hill of Tán. Náith’s skin crawled, realisation trampling awestruck terror. The ancient place where Tárchan had fallen – Gólga.
Náith turned away, sat back against the crag and turned his eyes to the black sky. Aodhamar had been right. This truly was the end. Tárchan risen, the storm of Gólga unleashed upon Luah Fáil once again. ‘What a fool I was to ignore you, my friend,’ Náith muttered to the winds. He already envied the swift mercy of the Enkindled’s ending. No doubt he’d wish for the same before this was through.
A glare in the sky cut through the fog of his misery. A falling star, wreathed in golden flame. For a numb heartbeat, Náith’s eyes followed its glittering arc, turning in the air, a crescent scythe as it streaked toward the mountain.
‘Shit.’
Instinct made Náith roll to the side a moment before it struck the ridge and belched molten rock skyward atop a pillar of flame. A shadow was moving within it, a figure rising from knee and fist. Aodhamar stepped through the fire, ribbons of flame trailing from his golden robes.
‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘if only you had heeded my warning, Cu Náith.’ The Enkindled’s burning eyes were fixed upon Tárchan, the storm winds whipping their pale trails toward the Stormheart.
‘I never did like you telling me what to do.’ Náith found his feet, rubbing at a bleeding elbow. He shook his head, disbelief numbing him. Aodhamar was alive – alive! He thought to embrace him, all pretence suddenly meaningless at this dark hour, and yet the sight of him kept Náith where he was. Aodhamar was consumed utterly by fire. Flames ran along the Enkindled King’s flesh, curled from his skin as though his body had become naught but kindling for the inferno trapped within. Sparks trailed and spat from his whipping hair and golden robes, and a terrible heat poured from him like a forge’s glowing maw. He was on the very cusp of becoming fire itself.
‘The face of Ancu suits you, brother,’ Aodhamar said, noticing how he stared. ‘You alone have done more to earn it than any other. Be proud while you can. You did something even I could not. A shame it’s led us here. Much heartbreak could have been spared this day if you had but listened to me.’
Aodhamar thrust his hand to the side, and Srengbolga blazed into being.
Náith shook himself, cut a glance at Tárchan, crouched upon the peak like a spider. ‘Did that fall cost you your wits? I saw what that thing did at Gólga, Aodhamar! Run!’
Aodhamar nodded slowly, his gaze not flinching from Tárchan. ‘The Hill of Tán was a disaster for Nuan, no matter his claims of victory. Gólga stands testament to that, as you have seen.’ He took a step forward. ‘There will be no escaping the storm Tárchan brings. He must be burnt from existence before he escapes that prison. Watch, if you will. Fight, if you’ve the stomach for a glorious ending. But there is little you can do here, Cu Náith. Run, my friend.’
A roar blasted the mountainside. Náith stumbled beneath it, clutching at the ridge before he was flung to the mercy of the storm. Even Aodhamar stepped back, Srengbolga raised against Tárchan’s fury.
Who are you, that dares come before me with bared blade and the ancient fire in their blood?
Síle moved before the beast’s glare, fists clenched, the light of the Earthbond flickering in her wild eyes. ‘The Sons of Nuan,’ she sneered, ‘thieving usurpers! They’ve come to take you from me again!’
Aodhamar moved calmly through the storm-blasted rocks, Srengbolga at his side, the mountain trembling to Tárchan’s low growl. ‘I am Aodhamar,’ his voice rang out, ‘son of Sulcháin, Enkindled King of Ardas Machad. And I am here to kill you, Tárchan Stormheart.’
Tárchan’s laughter beat mountain and sky with an iron fist. He reared against the peak, dragged himself taller, his claws coiling about charred stone that cracked and crumbled in his grip. Run along, child. I am Lord of All Storms, and I fear no pompous, unworthy cinder like you. You are not fit even to be ash beneath my hearth. Be gone!
Srengbolga turned in Aodhamar’s hand, the Enkindled King sinking into his guard. ‘When I am done here today, Tárchan, I will burn your very name from the tongues of men.’
Tárchan roared, the lightning of his body flaring. An arc lashed out, whipping across the stones where Aodhamar stood, but the Enkindled King was already airborne, his golden robes trailing fire as he descended upon the Stormheart’s ridge. Síle swept a fist skyward, a hedge of stone spikes bursting forth from the ridge around her to skewer the Enkindled King. Srengbolga turned, spitting red flame as stone shattered and Aodhamar slammed into the ridge in a burning plume, fragments spraying. Síle went flying back beneath the impact in a shower of pulverised rock, her shriek silenced as she landed in a limp heap.
Tárchan howled, blue lightning raining down from his claws. Srengbolga cut a red circle over Aodhamar’s head, its blade swallowing every jagged bolt. He darted forward, arm outstretched toward the Stormheart. A ring of spitting blue energy burst from it, slammed into his chest and barrelled him back down over the ridge, Tárchan’s laughter following him.
Náith cursed and leapt back into the storm, staggering up the slope toward Aodhamar’s crumpled form. But, as Tárchan loomed over the storm-charred ridge, a blazing fist falling to crush the Enkindled King, Aodhamar kicked into the air, turning back over himself. Srengbolga swept up from beneath him, cleaving through Tárchan’s wrist in a crescent of fire.
Tárchan reared, snarling, his claw reforming in a vicious torrent of lightning as Aodhamar landed on the ridge before him. Again, he reached for the Stormheart, his hand a black shadow within a gauntlet of flame. A thin shriek sounded as Síle tore from the shadows and crashed into Aodhamar’s flank, snatching him to the ground. Aodhamar rolled with her, landing on his knees and launching her over his shoulder. Síle landed on all fours at the ridge’s edge, teeth bared as Aodhamar spun back to his feet, Srengbolga whipping about him, red flame and blue spark exploding as its shattered another bolt from Tárchan.
Síle loosed a wounded scream, the Earthbond blazing in her eyes as fierce as the flames of Aodhamar’s own. Her fingers crushed stone, sinking into the mountain. The ridge shattered beneath Aodhamar’s feet, slabs of stone erupting from the rubble and slamming down onto the Enkindled King until his fallen form was buried beneath their jagged mound. ‘Kill him, my love!’ Síle shrieked. ‘Kill him!’
Tárchan’s claw crackled and lashed Moírdhan’s peak, shifting form as it was raised, its arcing talons merging into a blistering wedge that fell with the roar of thunder. It struck the stone mound and exploded in a cloud of fire, lightning and molten stone, sending Tárchan reeling back against the peak with a howl.
Aodhamar surged from the carnage in a terrifying burst of speed, a beast wreathed in fire and lightning as he streaked toward Síle. His burning fist took her by the throat and held her dangling a foot from the ground. Rage bled from Síle’s face, a powerless fear taking its place. Náith shed a coat of blasted stone as he stood against the storm, the lurking fear that had stalked him taking form upon Tárchan’s ridge. No matter her lies – no matter her betrayal – he couldn’t watch her die. He lurched toward them, scrabbling and slipping over piled rubble.
‘Aodhamar! No!’
Aráne!
Aodhamar heaved Síle six feet in the air.
A pallid silence fell as Náith sprinted toward Síle, the horror of that moment running slow – a single heartbeat, drawn out just long enough for him to witness every facet of his failure.
Tárchan unleashed a wa
ve of scourging power as Síle fell upon Srengbolga’s blade. Náith saw it punch through her – its length slipping silver through her gut, sliding red from her spine, her flesh blackening about it – all done in less than a heartbeat.
Náith leapt to the side, threw himself behind a scorched crag and screamed as the broken edge of Tárchan’s lightning-wave sheared skin from his back. Aodhamar went flying back down the mountainside in a golden tangle, and Síle’s body hit the stones beside Náith, her dead eyes upon him. Steam, smoke – it leaked from her open mouth, from the charred wound in her belly, drawn toward the Stormheart’s maelstrom.
‘Síle…’ Náith’s hand quested toward her. Numb. Hollow.
Aráne! Aráne! Aráne!
Tárchan’s body spewed sparks as he threw himself against Moírdhan’s peaks, howling, maddened. He surged, growing vast, even more terrible as his claws gouged rock, tearing chunks from the mountain that crashed down its slopes. The air rang and screamed with sorrow, his pain bleeding into reality itself.
Aráne! They’ve taken my Aráne! Nuan! Nuan, where are you, you bastard coward? Your children will suffer for this! They will burn! I will scour every last one of your rats from this land!
Thunder growled over Tárchan’s roaring, and distant forks of lightning blistered the north-western sky, growing as they snaked and stabbed toward Moírdhan’s peak. The storm from Gólga, sweeping in with its black fury, already joining with the fringes of the Stormheart’s turmoil.
‘Síle!’
Náith spun as the wailing of her name came from behind. Lightning tore white and relentless through the black sky, throwing Luw’s crouched form into shadow.
Chapter 27
Horns of the Hunter
‘Síle!’
Luw fell to his knees, the strength drifting from Maebhara’s blade engulfed by the black chasm yawning in the deepest pits of him. She was gone. She was dead. Cast aside in ruin, a fallen monument to his weakness. The sight of her body ripped the very soul out of him, scattered the last few bones of his world upon a braying shore.
‘Fuck me… you don’t know how to die, do you, dandy-boy?’
Náith’s voice pulled Luw’s burning eyes away from the broken corpse of his love. The warrior was pressed to the face of a storm-scoured crag, the skin along his arms and shoulders blistered and peeling in forked trails. The runes upon Bann’s skull glowed with blood-red flame, even its wards unable to spare Náith from the storm’s wrath. The false mask of Ancu he wore boasted cracks and scars, dark blood seeping through them down its beaten face. The eyes that lurked behind it were dimmed almost to nothing, swallowed by the mask’s shadows. Coldness spread through Luw, poison creeping outward from his heart.
‘You did this.’ He stood, maimed hand clutched tight to him, Maebhara’s flickering blade raised in the other. Náith glanced at Síle’s body, shook his head, eyeing the spear blade.
‘Never. Drop that thing, Luw, I –’
‘This is your fault!’ Luw snarled. He limped toward him, broken ankle grinding as his foot slipped and twisted over loose stone. He bit back the pain, Maebhara feeding him splinters of strength. ‘Your fault!’
Cold venom pulled at Luw’s limbs, dragged him upright and swung the spear’s blade as he stumbled toward Náith. The warrior’s foot snapped out, took him in the bicep and spun him round with a shriek. He crashed to his knees – every break, fracture and wound blazing back into virulent life as Maebhara shot from his numb hand. He grasped futilely at her, and watched limply as she bounced end over end down the mountainside, her golden runes dimming until she was taken by darkness. Luw sagged, the pain she’d spared him flooding back through every fibre. Another little piece of him gone, destroyed by the warrior’s ire.
‘You can’t be serious,’ Náith roared. ‘Have you seen what’s above us? She’s dead, Luw! It’s over! Pick what’s left of yourself up and get out of here!’
Luw raised his face from the blasted stones, the storm catching the tears that fell through Ancu’s eyeholes. No. He looked back at Náith, stood eyeing the shrieking atrocity above them. It’s never over.
The warrior turned with a raised fist at the sound of Luw’s charge, a look of mute shock in his eyes. Luw ducked, a left hook clipping his back as Náith’s swing went high. Head lowered, he sprang forth with all the wrath of a buck gone to war, and sank his horns into the warrior’s gut.
Luw’s charge drove Náith back onto the crag, shock jolting down his spine as antler struck stone. Náith squirmed, grunted, gripped him by the base of the horns and tried to shove him away. Luw’s legs fought back, horns grinding against the crag as he lifted the warrior from his feet. Náith screamed as they sank deeper, a hot wave of blood splattering over Luw’s head. They tore through the warrior’s insides and gouged out his stomach, his immense weight dragged him further down upon them.
And then – agony. Náith’s arm came hammering down upon his left antler, snapping it just above the root. Luw crashed to his knees, howling as Náith fell with him. With a wet schluck, the warrior ripped the broken horn from his stomach and rammed it between Luw’s ribs.
*
The Hunter slumped backward with a gasp, twisting away from the antler plunged through his side, kicking like an arrowstuck deer.
Náith’s strength failed him, bled cold over his thighs. He slid down the crag, hands staunching his torn gut. A glance told him all he needed to know. Pale curls of intestine, bulging through the torn mess of his stomach, sheets of blood filming them, welling black between his fingers. He couldn’t feel the pain yet, only creeping numbness. Too soon for that. Like the patient spider, it would wait for the shock to pass before it took a bite out of him. He’d seen it all too many times before.
What a fool I’ve been.
He lifted his eyes to the black sky. White fangs lanced the clouds ceaselessly on all sides, raking the earth like the devouring breath of ancient serpents. Rivers of flame shimmered in their wake, their glare throwing the land below the Sisters into blackness. Luah Fáil burned.
Gólga has come for us at last, Náith mused, watching the lightning tear great chunks from the earth. They drifted skyward against the lightning’s jagged palisade, breaking apart as the storm claimed them, just as the ash and ichor of Gólga had. The ending that Nuan the Coldhanded once held back from his people, now unfolding as Tárchan shrieked and cursed upon the mountaintop. Náith couldn’t summon the energy to look upon the ancient beast. Better just to sit here and let that ending take him in its flames, before the witless agony of shredded guts robbed him of dignity.
I will burn them, Nuan! I will burn them all! Every last one! Oh, my Aráne! Aráne! I will sweep your children from this earth, Nuan! I will devour them all and leave this land a grave!
Tárchan’s raging faded into the storm’s chaos as another flame came cutting through the sky. ‘Aodhamar…’ Náith watched it fall, the Enkindled King a rippling shadow at its heart. It streaked overhead, leaving a fading trail that defied the storm’s hunger. He slumped to the side, dragged himself around the edge of his crag and watched Aodhamar crash down before Tárchan in a twisting cloud of golden fire. Ducking beneath a stray arc’s lashing, Aodhamar sprang toward the Stormheart, thrusting his arm out to the side. Flames coating it once more, he rammed his fist into the Stormheart’s spinning shield of lightning.
It would be you that ends this. Náith huffed. It was always you, old friend.
He’d expected – no – wanted Tárchan’s wrath to come screaming down upon the Enkindled King. But Tárchan was consumed, raging incoherently, his voice now but the mindless roar of thunder. He had swollen to so vast a size that he was spread across the sky – his jagged, shifting form becoming one with the storm from Gólga. Even through the chaos engulfing Moírdhan, Náith could still see Srengbolga’s blade, Síle’s blood boiling upon it, hear the crunch of her body as it hit stone. The sorrow stuck him worse than Luw’s horns.
That sorrow bade his eyes to find her, crumpled and
unmoving upon the slope. Náith’s heart shattered again. For all the deceit she had wrought upon him, all the heartache, the sight still tore at him. He couldn’t find the grit to hate her – only to wish he had the strength to go to her, to whisper forgiveness while the world died in fire and lightning about them. He could see that prick Luw, pathetically dragging himself toward her with the one hand left to him. It galled him, but the pain chose that moment to crash through the shock’s numbness, spilling him on his side to cry out and clutch at his wounds.
Bile and blood on his tongue, on his hands, Náith forced his eyes open against the acid pain in his gut and found Aodhamar upon the ridge. He hoped the avaricious fucker suffered for his victory.
Pain warped Aodhamar’s face – the fist clutching the Stormheart smothered by its hideous light. Lightning writhed about the flames upon his arm, snaking along it to enmesh his torso. His mouth opened in a cry whose agony was lost to the maelstrom, convulsing as he hauled on the Stormheart. The shield burst – detonated – spilling a wave of lightning out across the ridge. Aodhamar fell back, his golden robes in smouldering tatters, the flesh beneath steaming, smoking. The Stormheart sat in his hand, a stolen sun, the limb behind it shrivelled almost to bone.
He did it.
Náith swallowed the agony and dragged himself closer. Didn’t need to look back to know he left pieces of himself behind. Aodhamar sat up, lightning blasting the ridge about him, its thrashing power drawn and made yet more terrible by the gem in his ravaged fist. It burned white and hateful, casting the Enkindled King’s face skeletal as he stared into it.
‘Do it, Aodhamar!’ Náith choked, curling about the ruin of his gut. ‘Destroy it, you soulless fucking bastard!’
The storm raged on unbroken, the Enkindled King silent upon the ridge. Náith forced his head to rise upon a shuddering neck. Aodhamar still stared at the blazing stone, long hair whipping upon the storm winds circling Moírdhan like a hedge of snapping blades. His lips were moving, whispering. Something was wrong. Their eyes met for a horrid instant, and dread pulled Náith to his knees.
Horns of the Hunter: Tales of Luah Fáil Book 1 Page 22
