Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  Most of the boys looked confused, but they immediately focused on the young swordsman. All except Breann, who just looked at Eoghan with those wise, knowing eyes. Eoghan still felt the boy’s gaze as he strode away. Orders or not, he was letting them down, betraying their trust.

  Eoghan found his way to the steps of Carraigmór, passing groups of boys heading to the armory, falling behind other groups already armed and making their way to their posts. He frowned. Where were the men? Shouldn’t he be seeing someone over the age of fifteen?

  And why was the air already heavy with the scent of wood smoke? Had the cookhouse fires been lit early in honor of their abrupt awakening?

  He shook his head. It was surreal seeing the peaceful city mobilize under the starlit sky, illuminated only by the orange flare of torches. At least he could see the glow of the rising sun on the far horizon, a sign that dawn was only a few minutes away.

  He took the steps up to Carraigmór as rapidly as he dared, slowing in places where the water seeped from the mountain. At the top, the brother on duty waved him in. “Master Liam is on his balcony.”

  Eoghan nodded. Watching the dispersion of his men, no doubt. He wove through Carraigmór’s stone corridors, upward to Liam’s study, then out onto one of the narrow granite terraces. The Ceannaire stood at the railing, motionless.

  “You called for me?”

  Liam didn’t turn. “I did. Come.”

  Eoghan moved to his master’s side, smoke assailing his nostrils. He followed Liam’s gaze to the east. That was not the glow of sunrise he had seen. It was fire.

  “They’re burning our cover!” Eoghan’s heart lodged in his throat. “The sentries—”

  “Recalled last night.”

  “You knew?”

  “I suspected. It’s what I would do. Much of our strength is our ability to strike unexpectedly. If the druid burns the forest, we lose our advantage.”

  Eoghan stared at the far edge of Seanrós, the billowing smoke lending a hazy orange glow to the horizon. The destruction of those ancient trees made him ill. Even if Ard Dhaimhin remained standing, the barrier that had allowed them to remain separate would be gone.

  “What now?” Despair tinged Eoghan’s voice. “Wait until they burn the forest to ashes and face them in the city?”

  “They think they’ve hemmed us in, but they have given themselves nowhere to go.”

  So that was why the city had seemed so empty. Liam must have sent them behind enemy lines to take Niall’s forces by surprise.

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “I’ve seen what I need to know to save as many lives as I can. There will be fighting, men lost, no matter what. But we can make the price so dear that Niall will never be able to hold the city.”

  Kill so many of them that there’s not enough left to hold it, he means.

  Eoghan had seen blood shed, had let it himself. But by the end of this battle, the city would drown in it.

  Eoghan paced a triangle from the balcony to the corridor to Liam’s study as the sky lightened to a smoky orange dawn. The Ceannaire sat at his desk fully armed, sifting through a stack of tablets.

  The city was under siege, and he was worried about reports?

  Liam glanced at him. “Calm yourself, Eoghan. What is to be will be. Worrying will not change the outcome.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve seen what’s to come.”

  “You think that’s easier, do you?” Liam leaned back in his chair. “Believe me, I’d rather not know what I do now.”

  Eoghan stopped his pacing, struck again by the uneasy feeling that the Ceannaire had seen his own demise. “Might Comdiu be showing you what’s to come so you can change it?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. Not for me.” Liam nodded his head toward the chair. “Sit. We still have matters to discuss.”

  Eoghan lowered himself to the chair.

  “Regardless of what happens here in the coming days, Niall will not be defeated, not completely. That I have seen. Conor told you of the harp?”

  Slowly, Eoghan nodded. “Aye.”

  “It still exists. It must.” Liam’s gaze took on a faraway look, as if he were seeing something beyond this room. “Someone must rebuild the wards. That is what you are to be spared for.”

  “But I can’t rebuild the wards. I haven’t the gift.”

  “But Conor does. And Meallachán. And likely others about whom we don’t know.”

  “So, I’m supposed to find this harp—somewhere in Seare, which is in enemy hands—and then find someone who can use it?”

  Liam gave him a spare smile. “Aye.”

  Eoghan wiped his hands across his face. That easy. Comdiu, I need Your wisdom. I haven’t a clue where to begin.

  Liam stood abruptly and jerked his head toward the window. “It’s time now.”

  Eoghan rushed to the window. The flames were gone, replaced by billowing white smoke as if the entire forest had been doused by an ocean of water. From between the spindly, charred-black remains of massive trees, lines of men emerged.

  Ard Dhaimhin was under attack.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Hold steady, men.”

  Riordan crouched in cover on the rocky hillside, the same rock into which the fortress had been carved. The fire raged more fiercely than any natural fire, consuming acres of trees as if driven by some unseen wind. And then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

  The sorcery prickled his skin.

  Now, as the first group emerged from the tree line, he could feel the magic rolling from them like steam from the surface of hot springs. One mind, a thousand evil tentacles to do its bidding. Cut one off and a hundred more sprang up in its place.

  “Ready,” Riordan called, and hundreds of bowstrings drew taut, their arrows nocked. A few more steps and their attackers would be in range.

  “Loose!”

  The archers let the arrows fly, a dark cloud that moved across the sky and then fell upon attackers in eerie silence. The men kept coming, trampling the dead and injured.

  “Next volley. Loose!”

  The second volley had the same effect as the first: no shields raised, no return fire.

  They kept coming.

  A sick sense of inevitability crept into Riordan’s gut as the archers prepared for the third volley. As they released their arrows once more, the hush suddenly broke with a shout and the clash of metal.

  Riordan cast his glance to the east side of the village, where the enemy swarmed from the trees, swords drawn. The Fíréin céads moved methodically to meet them, and across the lake, the first of their men fell.

  “Quickly now.” Liam ushered Eoghan down the corridor to the Hall of Prophecies, their footsteps sharp in the stillness. He spoke the words of entry, which lodged no better in Eoghan’s mind than before, and the door swung open.

  Eoghan stepped into the passageway and turned to face the Ceannaire. “Master Liam, there must be another way. I can’t sit idly by—”

  “This is how it must be, for the good of Ard Dhaimhin, for the good of Seare.” Liam reached out and clasped Eoghan’s forearm, then pulled him close into a tight embrace. “Go with Comdiu, my son. You have made me proud.”

  Then he shut the door.

  Eoghan stared at the back of the door for several moments, his heart beating in his ears.

  Protect him, Comdiu. I beg You. Watch over our brothers. Bring them through safely.

  Comdiu did not reply.

  Eoghan sighed and began the slow descent to the chamber beneath the fortress.

  The soft light intensified for a moment when he entered the Hall of Prophecies. He paced the edges of the chamber, looking over the scrolls, folios, and parchments without seeing them. He had no idea how long he walked the perimeter of the room, praying a wordless litany and pushing down the fear that threatened to choke him.

  Then, as if directed by a hand outside him, he paused before one particular cubbyhole. Hand shaking, he removed the scroll from it
s spot and unrolled it.

  The Kinslayer shall rise, the Adversary looming treacherous over the bleeding land. Day shall be night, and the mist, unbound, shall wreak evil upon the sons of men.

  In that hour alone, the son of Daimhin shall come; wielding the sword and the song, he shall stand against the Kinslayer, binding the power of the sidhe and, for a time, bringing peace.

  Eoghan sank back against the wall of shelving, stunned.

  The sword and the song.

  Did that mean their battle against the druid would be won by both steel and magic? Led by one who possessed skills with both? Would the one who defeated this foe in such a way again rule over Seare?

  Eoghan lowered the parchment to his lap, suddenly weak. He should have seen it all along. How blind had he been?

  Conor was to be their salvation after all, the one to end the age of the brotherhood and usher in a new era of peace for Seare.

  His apprentice. His best friend. The High King.

  Who was now far out of their reach.

  Liam strode away from the Hall of Prophecies, his confident steps at odds with his inner turmoil. Eoghan was angry. Humiliated. Worried.

  But at least he’d be safe.

  In the main hall, Liam passed the brothers whose sole purpose was to defend the fortress against breach. Not that breaching it would be an easy task. There was only one way in, from a narrow balcony through a narrower doorway at the top of three hundred four stairs flanked by a sheer drop-off to the lake below. No, he was not concerned with Carraigmór being taken by force.

  Liam stepped out the front door onto that same balcony. It was guarded by a handful of brothers, while more archers perched on the heights. The sounds of fighting drifted to him, and he moved to the arrow slit in the enclosure’s wall to peer down at the battle. Enemy warriors swarmed the city, falling to the Fíréin as soon as they raised weapons. Already he could see the bodies of the combatants, far more invaders than Fíréin, but they kept coming. Plumes of smoke billowed from fires: the thatched roofs of cottages, fields the brotherhood had not been able to defend against flaming arrows.

  And in the midst of it all walked Niall in his new body, untouched as if enclosed in a bubble, a sword on his back rather than in his hand. The sorcerer’s magic drew Liam’s attention like a signal fire. Niall looked his way. He knew Liam was there. And he was coming for him.

  Liam pushed himself through the barrier of warriors and started for the steps.

  “Sir!” one of the brothers said. “You must stay in the fortress, where it’s safe!”

  Liam fixed the brother with a steely stare, and the man lowered his eyes. The brother meant well. It was his duty to keep him safe, something he couldn’t do if the Ceannaire exposed himself. But it was not safety Liam was after.

  Despite himself, his heart thudded in his chest. It had been years since Liam had felt true fear. It sparked along every nerve, hummed in his blood. He traversed the slippery staircase, slowing on the final steps. Niall crossed the last bit of open space and waited for him, his arms clasped behind his back.

  “We finally meet.” Niall looked him over as if they were not enemies but lords meeting at court. “Your reputation has made me anxious to see you face to face.”

  “And you, Niall. We may not have met, but you left your mark on the brotherhood. Before you betrayed us to follow the Adversary, that is.”

  Niall cocked his head, a slight smile lifting his lips. The new host was handsome, young, obviously accustomed to fighting. The sorcerer’s mannerisms, on the other hand, didn’t suit the image. They were old, calculating. The combination struck Liam as unnatural.

  “Dispensing with the pleasantries already? And here I thought we could have a civil discussion, one leader to another.”

  Liam looked around at the still-raging battle, its sounds muted as if heard from a distance. So he was inside Niall’s protective bubble. No help would be coming for him. Not that Liam sought help. He knew how this would end. He had seen how it must.

  “There is nothing to discuss,” he said finally. “You come as an invader, killing my men, destroying our livelihood. There will be no peace between us.”

  “I would say your men are doing most of the killing.” As if to punctuate the druid’s words, a boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen, fell at their feet, his eyes gazing sightlessly to the sky, red spreading across his chest. Untrained and barely armed, he hadn’t stood a chance against the Fíréin brother who felled him.

  “This can all end if you say the word. I don’t want the city. I don’t want the throne. I only want the sword.”

  The sword? He could only be referring to Daimhin’s sword, the oath-binding sword. What did he want with such a relic? Regardless, Liam would never give in to his demands. “You shall never have the sword.”

  “I feared you would say that.” Niall lifted a hand, and the cottage nearest them went up in a column of blue flame. “I will take apart your city, bit by bit, until I get what I want. You want to protect your men, your way of life? There is only one way.” He looked farther afield, and the timbered roof of the bathhouse roared with fire. “This costs me nothing, Liam. I will destroy your city around you. How do you think you will support these men without your fields? Your animals? Your lake?”

  Liam followed Niall’s gaze. Steam poured in a shimmering cloud from the water, bubbles breaking the surface like a giant cauldron. Within seconds, dead fish began bobbing to the top.

  “Why do you want the sword?” Liam asked, buying time while he thought.

  Niall shook his head. “No. I won’t make your decision that easy. Give me what I want or your way of life is gone. The age of the brotherhood is over.”

  The age of the brotherhood is already over. Liam reached over his shoulder and drew his sword from the sheath on his back. “Let us see if you remember your training, Niall.”

  The sorcerer chuckled but made no move to draw his own weapon. “I confess, I’ve wanted to try this body against you. After a century of living within old men and fools, it’s pleasant to be young again. Fit. Keondric was quite the warrior, up until the time that I killed him. Then he was just another fool.”

  If Niall would not fight, that would make Liam’s job that much easier. Lightning fast, he struck at the sorcerer. His sword caught in midair, an inch from Niall’s neck.

  The sorcerer lifted an eyebrow. “Most unworthy of you, Liam, to strike an unarmed man.”

  Liam pulled back the sword and thrust it toward Niall’s body, jolting to a stop as if he’d tried to pierce a stone wall.

  “You see now how you can never win.” Niall crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you never wonder why I left the brotherhood? Why I sought the power of the one you call the Adversary?”

  “Because you were weak,” Liam growled. “Corruptible.”

  “I was weak. But not in the way you mean. Gracious Comdiu, in all his wisdom, chose to give us his most useless gifts. Prophecy? Music? Sight?” Niall laughed, a tinge of bitterness in the sound. “Suited for weak-minded men who want to stay safely locked away behind strong walls. No way to defend themselves against the spirits who wished to claim the island for themselves. Ah, but you haven’t read Daimhin’s accounts of those days, have you? There’s a reason I destroyed them. Back then, the sidhe roamed freely. Terrorized indiscriminately. Turned men to their vicious appetites.”

  “And now you have freed them.”

  “Aye. I have freed them. But they are under my command. That is where the real power lies. Not in your passive, weak Balian magic. Not in the pathetic little parlor tricks you like to call gifts. I control the elements, the spirits, all that we see before us.”

  “No,” Liam said. “Your magic controls you. And when the Adversary no longer has use for you, he will devour you.”

  “I am not going to convince you to join me, I see. I had hoped . . .” Niall shook his head. “Never mind. Your incessant whining would become tiresome. This is your last chance, Liam, Ceannaire of the F
íréin brotherhood. Give me the sword.”

  The command in the words wrapped itself around Liam’s will, and the smallest part of himself stretched to answer: Aye, I will give you the sword. He forced it down and sheathed his blade.

  Niall smiled. “Aye. That’s right. Do not resist me. Give me the sword, and the rest of your men shall live. The brotherhood can be what it once was, and you can be ruler of your own little kingdom.”

  The seductive power of the druid’s words wormed into Liam’s heart, urging him to give in. He could not beat him. He could do only one thing to save his men.

  Liam eased his dagger from his waist.

  “Where have you hidden it? The Hall of Prophecies?” He peered into Liam’s eyes and must have seen the truth there. “Good. I would have done the same thing. It’s the only truly secure place in the entire fortress. Even I have not mastered the magic that made it, though I have long tried.”

  “What do you want it for?” Liam stared into Niall’s eyes as if mesmerized.

  “Do not concern yourself with that. I have said that Ard Dhaimhin will remain safe, and so it shall.” His eyes flicked to the dagger, and the satisfaction slipped from his expression. “You have already seen you cannot touch me. And I can feel the desire in you. For what I offer. For power. For the strength to rule.”

  “Aye,” Liam said quietly. “Even I feel the pull of your magic. But this is not meant for you.”

  In one swift movement, Liam turned the weapon on himself and plunged the blade between his ribs into his heart. Pain like he’d never known burst through him, radiating through his limbs, stealing his breath, his strength. He sank on suddenly numb legs to the ground.

  “No!” Niall howled. “You stupid, small-minded man!”

  Liam couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. The life ebbed from him along with the blood that soaked the front of his tunic and ran to the ground. The world slipped sideways, growing increasingly dim but for one sharp pinprick of light in his vision.

  Forgive me, my Lord. I am coming to You.