The Sword and the Song

by C. E. Laureano

  Conor understood. It would have to be enough. The less effort they had to extend on hunting and reconnaissance, the better. And the mountain dwellers certainly knew the region much better than the Fíréin did.

  Besides, with any luck, it would not be much of a battle.

  They reached the rendezvous point almost exactly three weeks after leaving Carraigmór, two days prior to the full moon on which they had agreed to attack. Oenghus’s men sited their camp up a small, rocky path cut into the side of the canyon, where they could watch for the Clanless below and bide their time until the attack. While the other men prepared cold food and checked their weapons, Conor removed the leather harp case from the pack pony and checked the instrument’s frame for any damage that had come about from the pony’s jostling gait. Finding none, he looked to the strings instead and tuned them as quietly as possible.

  “You’re going to play this close to the fortress?” Oenghus asked, his tone doubtful.

  “No. Just preparing.” Conor didn’t elaborate, and the Clanless leader didn’t press, though he must have been confused by the response. When Conor was sure, even through his light touch, that the notes were tuned true, he carefully laid it back in the case and settled down to check his own weapons.

  The rest of the day passed slowly and stretched into night. Despite the men’s discipline, Conor could feel their edginess at being stationary and exposed. Oenghus’s men came and went with offerings of food that could be eaten cold, even if he didn’t know exactly where they had come by it. The Clanless community seemed to be even larger and more widespread than anyone had ever dreamed. Did they owe it all to the use of the runes?

  The moon wasn’t even fully up yet when Conor felt the first touch of unnatural cold. “The sidhe are here,” he murmured to Oenghus.

  “Aye,” the man agreed in a low voice. “They carry with them the chill of the grave.”

  He should have expected it. The sidhe had been watching, waiting for their moment to strike. And now they must know that within earshot of the fortress’s sentries, Conor’s men had little chance to guard against them. Conor had the charm to help keep his mind clear, but his men were still susceptible while the order of silence was in effect. For a moment, he considered drawing the rune on them anyway—consequences be hanged—but something held him back. What if that was the very thing the sidhe wanted them to do? What if the consequences of taking the mark—or smearing or miswriting the mark—were even worse than they thought?

  “I need your men,” he said in a low voice to Oenghus. “All of them, on guard duty tonight. Is that something you’re willing to do?”

  The answering light in the man’s eyes said he followed his thoughts. “Aye. To keep them from disappearing.” Oenghus raised his hand toward one of his men, who immediately approached, and they conversed in low voices before the sentry disappeared. Less than an hour later, eight more men had arrived and stationed themselves at various points around the perimeter. Conor gave Oenghus a nod of thanks.

  The night passed quietly without any incursions from the sidhe. Conor took the first watch and then curled beneath his blanket by the fire. His hand remained on his sword while he fell into a state of half slumber, still too edgy to sleep deeply. Every sound took on an ominous cast, starting him awake. Then sometime near morning, the sound of a scuffle in the brush woke him. He was on his feet, blade in hand, before he’d completely shaken off sleep.

  One of his men—Lachtna, judging from the flash of white-blond hair—struggled beneath two of Oenghus’s warriors. Instantly, Conor rushed to their side, realizing as he did that the men were only restraining him.

  “What’s happening?” Conor whispered fiercely.

  “Trying to leave the camp.” Oenghus arrived beside him. It was clear from Lachtna’s wild-eyed look that he was under the influence of the sidhe. “What do you want done with him? Restrain him until the sidhe decide to release him?”

  If they ever decided to release him. Conor had firsthand knowledge of how hard their influence could be to overcome without something to break that hold. And with the way Lachtna was thrashing and moaning, he would bring the sentries down on them.

  There was only one option left to him. Conor dragged the ivory charm over his head and pressed its rune-carved surface against the back of Lachtna’s neck, the first bit of exposed skin he could find. The warrior thrashed for a moment longer, then went still. When Oenghus’s men released their grip to roll him over, his eyes at last looked clear.

  “What happened?” Lachtna asked, his eyes darting around their grim circle.

  “Deceived by the sidhe,” Conor murmured. “Do you recall what happened?”

  Lachtna shook his head. “No. I was on watch. Then I woke up here on the ground.”

  “Back to your post, then,” Conor said. “We’ve only a few hours until sunrise. Their influence will be diminished then.”

  The men sorted themselves back into their previous posts, but Oenghus held back, his attention still directed toward the charm. “You know something of the runes?”

  “Aye, a little.” Conor returned the necklace to its place beneath his tunic and furs.

  “Yet you don’t protect your men?”

  “We don’t have enough information about them. You may be willing to brand them, but I’m not. And these objects are hard to come by.”

  Oenghus said nothing, but as he trudged away, Conor felt that he had somehow disappointed him, like he was being careless with his men’s lives. Given the nature of the threat, maybe he was. But there was far too much at stake here if he were wrong.

  Morning arrived, and the day passed at a rate akin to slow torture. Men came and went from the traveler party, replacing the ones who had spent the night on watch and once more making Conor wonder how many skilled warriors Oenghus had at his disposal. The Fíréin grew restless, as did the animals, who had been hobbled in the clearing with little fresh grazing for nearly two days now. Conor expected an alarm to be raised at any moment, but the Clanless warriors were true to their assurance that they had effectively replaced the sentries. By now, surely someone would be aware of their presence.

  Unless they were being set up.

  No. He had no reason to believe that Oenghus was going to betray them. The fact they bore runes didn’t automatically make them trustworthy, of course; it just meant they probably weren’t working directly with the druid. Still, he trusted Oenghus’s motivations: they were on the side of the future High King, and they expected to benefit in thanks for their help in the siege on Ard Bealach.

  At last the sun dipped behind the hills and the light slid from white to blue to black. Conor kept a close eye on the moon as it rose from its spot near the edge of the horizon, trying to time how long it would take to reach its zenith, that point when Daigh would make entry from the other tunnel. When he thought it was only perhaps three hours away, Conor signaled for the men to ready themselves.

  Conor turned to Oenghus and grasped his forearm. “Thank you for your help. We are indebted.”

  “Aye, I know. We’ll keep your passage clear while you make your entry, but as soon as you’re in, you’re on your own.”

  “Understood. Thank you. We’re only going as far as Throne Rock, so if you can keep that area open until morning, we’ll be safe.”

  “Aye. Go with Comdiu.”

  They painstakingly made their way back to the pass below, where they proceeded down the rocky path with only moonlight guiding their steps. Conor squinted at their surroundings in the dark, looking for the landmarks that would signal the tunnel’s opening was close and wishing he’d been able to scout ahead. It had been deemed too dangerous, but now he wondered if they wouldn’t be simply wandering around for hours in the dark.

  Then Larkin nudged him in the back and pointed to the dim shape of the rock face ahead and to their left. Indeed, even barely outlined against the night sky, the outcropping appeared to be chair shaped, a throne sized for a giant. According to the map, that meant th
ey were close. The cliff, however, seemed to be a solid chunk of rock without any distinguishing marks. Conor retrieved a wax cloth-wrapped torch from the packhorse and lit the pitch with his knife and flint. When at last the torch flared to life, he walked slowly along the wall of the canyon, illuminating patches of rock in the hope of finding the entrance.

  Then he stopped short as something caught his eye. Not a variation in the stone, exactly—just something different, like the hidden panel that led to the Hall of Prophecies back at Carraigmór. He ran his hand over the area, indistinguishable from the rest of the rock. It was here, he was sure of it. He gestured for them to bring the packhorse near.

  “Are you sure?” Larkin whispered. “If you’re wrong, we could be digging into a solid mountain of stone.”

  “I’m sure.” He handed off the torch, removed a chisel and a small mallet from one of the packs, and began to painstakingly chip the softening rune into the jagged rock wall. He purposely kept it small, the entire thing near the ground and barely wide enough for a man’s shoulders. Even though he trusted Oenghus to keep the area clear, there was no reason to draw attention to the tunnel’s location.

  It took him nearly two hours to carve the rune into the rock wall, only a finger width’s deep, checking against the small scrap of parchment onto which he had copied it. Then he took a different chisel and began to carve it deeper. To his surprise, the rock crumbled away like sand, the marks growing deeper and deeper with almost no effort.

  Finally, he stepped back and looked around at his party, the men’s faces alight with anticipation. “Ready?”

  Slowly, they drew their weapons. Conor took that as an affirmation. He hefted the shovel, drew back the haft, and rammed the blade end through the center of the rune. It bit into the rock as easily as the shifting surface of a sandy beach. A single twist and the whole area crumbled into powder.

  Conor knelt at the opening. It was a tunnel, all right, even if he could only see into blackness, the rock wall a mere eight inches thick. “All right, men. I want you to enter, wait until we have a count, and then fade into shadow.” He hoisted the harp case through the opening first. The bulky instrument would hamper his movements, but it was too integral to the security of the fortress to leave on the outside. Cautiously, he climbed through the hole.

  Spider webs clung to his face, and he swiped them away. Larkin passed him the torch, which he swept in front of him to illuminate the space. If the layers of dust and cobwebs were any indication, these tunnels must have been closed up centuries ago. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. At least he hoped it was gravel. He didn’t look too closely.

  Beside him, quiet footfalls indicated that his men followed. Conor drew his sword, even the hiss of the oiled blade against the sheepskin lining loud in the dense, deep silence. They were far below the mountain here, and if the scale of the map had been accurate, the tunnels wound for miles before they met the catacombs beneath the fortress.

  He paused a few dozen steps in and, no louder than a whisper, said, “Count off.”

  Eleven voices answered, but when he glanced behind him, he saw nothing. Unlike the others, he didn’t fade. The men needed someone to follow, and the torch prevented the illusion from working anyway. He was all too aware that made him the obvious target for the fortress guards’ blades and arrows.

  Conor counted off his paces as he walked, estimating the distance in his head. At map scale, the tunnel hadn’t seemed particularly long. But in person, they might as well have been journeying downward into the center of the earth. As it was, he could feel the weight of the mountain like a physical force, his pulse speeding the closer they got to their destination, his instincts heightened for potential battle.

  They passed the single mile mark without a sign of opposition, then two. He made himself draw in deep breaths and shake off his apprehension. Adrenaline was the enemy in battle. It made one slow, sluggish, uncoordinated. And they needed every sense at its best.

  Too late, those senses prickled at the danger behind him. He whirled just as something slammed into his hand. The torch skittered across the gravel floor, but it didn’t go out. It left just enough light to see the face of the man who threw himself at him and bore him to the ground. Conor’s head banged the earth hard enough to make him see white sparks.

  “Larkin,” Conor wheezed. He raised his forearm to block a strike before it could connect with his face. “What are you doing? Stop. It’s me.”

  But the other man’s fingers closed around his throat, pressing down with a force he hadn’t even known the other man possessed. As he gasped for air, he aimed strikes to Larkin’s throat—what should have been disabling blows—but the man didn’t even flinch, as if he were dreaming . . . or possessed.

  The sidhe. “Help me,” he cried, appealing to the other men, but his voice came from his constricted windpipe weaker than a whisper. Nothing he did even made an impact; Larkin merely absorbed the strikes to the ribs, groin, and head and kept pressing. Conor’s movements grew weaker as his oxygen-depleted body lost strength, and the white sparks in his vision became a snowstorm, blanking out everything but the knowledge of impending death.

  Comdiu, help me. It was his last thought before he disappeared into oblivion.

  Water dripped somewhere in the distance. Drip. Drip. Drip, drip, drip. Conor focused on the sound as consciousness came back in layers, his head pounding with every splash as if it were a gong. From the way his entire body ached, he knew something had happened, but recalling it was as impossible as opening his eyes.

  Or moving his body.

  His heart jumped into his throat before it picked up a furious hammering that only intensified the ache. Why couldn’t he move? Had he been injured? Drugged? Restrained?

  No, it couldn’t be. Not again. His imprisonment with the Sofarende had been enough. He couldn’t bear another round.

  Then he was hit with a more horrifying thought: what if he had never escaped in the first place? What if he were still locked in the goat pen, paralyzed by the herbs he’d been given, while his mind concocted his return to Seare and all that had come after?

  No, that was ridiculous. He forced himself to stay calm, drawing in deep, pained breaths until his heartbeat returned to a slightly more normal rate. He couldn’t move or see, but that didn’t mean he was completely without resources. The damp, cold silence meant he was still beneath Ard Bealach, perhaps somewhere in the catacombs; keeps, no matter how secure, were drafty when above ground. He forced himself to move through his pain and take stock of every sensation. His fingers brushed something rough. Wood, a table perhaps. At least that meant he wasn’t paralyzed. He was merely bound tightly, ropes lashing down his entire body.

  His pulse raced once more. Any way he thought of it, bound to a table in a chamber beneath Ard Bealach could mean only one thing.

  Before panic could make his thinking cloudy again, he forced himself to recall every detail of what had happened before he passed out. He remembered leading the way down the tunnel . . . and after that, nothing. Had they been ambushed or, worse yet, betrayed? Right now, his men could be dead, dying, captured. He couldn’t afford to hope for a rescue.

  Conor flexed his muscles against the ropes, attempting to work some slack into them. It was a futile effort, but when he thought of what Oenghus implied happened in the fortress, it was the only way to keep himself from succumbing to terror.

  Metal scraped somewhere to his right—a key in a lock. The door swung open on creaking hinges, spilling light into the room. He could make out the backlit figure of a man, but no features.

  “Conor Mac Nir. I’ve been looking forward to our reunion.”

  A chill slid over Conor’s skin, a clammy sense of recognition. He knew that voice.

  “Ah, you see your predicament now.” The speaker retrieved a torch from the corridor, which illuminated Conor’s surroundings. Even knowing what was coming, Conor recoiled inwardly.

  Niall. Or rather, Niall wearing Keondric’s body like an
ill-fitting disguise. Conor blinked to clear that impression. His thoughts felt sloppy, muddled, maybe by whatever had knocked him out and stolen his memory. His skull didn’t feel cracked, despite the pounding headache, but he also didn’t feel right. Poison? If they were going to give him a draught, the least they could do was give him something to take away the pain.

  He reeled in his speculations before they could run away from him. Focus. He needed to focus.

  The torch illuminated enough of the room to show it was not a dungeon, nor were there the usual implements of torture laid out beside him. In fact, it seemed he was tied to a trestle table amid stacks of crates and boxes.

  “What do you want from me?” Conor’s throat ached for a reason he couldn’t fathom. Had he been screaming while he was unconscious?

  “I’m not going to torture you for information, if that’s what worries you.” Niall stopped and looked down at him impassively, as if he were having a conversation with a slightly dense stranger. “I can learn that anytime I want.”

  Just keep him talking. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I have my sources of information inside Ard Dhaimhin already.”

  Morrigan? Was he talking about his sister? The mention of Ard Dhaimhin made him remember what should have occurred to him earlier. Aine! Can you hear me? I need help!

  “She can’t hear you.” Niall took his knife from his belt and nudged the opening of Conor’s shirt aside. “Can you see that?”

  He managed to lift his head enough to see a blistered red rune branded into his skin. “The shield. I don’t understand. That makes me immune to your magic. Why would you give that to me?”

  Niall dragged a stool over to Conor’s side, his movements matter-of-fact. “You and I are going to perform some experiments together. I’ve already determined that the rune blocks my powers from working on you and interferes with your ability to communicate with the lovely Lady Aine. But frankly, I’m not sure what else it does or does not allow.”