by S L Farrell
“If your staff doesn’t know how to act around Gram, then perhaps you should have sent one of them to fetch me and stayed there yourself to teach them, Máister,” she answered teasingly. She tilted her head impishly even though she knew the man wasn’t looking at her. “Or were you hoping to catch a glimpse as I came out of the water?”
Máister Kirwan sputtered once from behind the rocks, then sniffed. “You flatter yourself needlessly. Get dressed, child, or I’ll mention to Jenna that you go swimming with the seals without permission,” he said, though she could hear the amusement in his voice.
“And perhaps I’ll mention that you refer to the Banrion in public by her given name,” she answered with a laugh. She shrugged on her red léine and white clóca: the uniform of an acolyte of the Order of Inishfeirm. “I’m ready, Máister. You don’t need to hide any longer.”
Máister Kirwan stepped out from behind the rocks. His bald head was protected by the hood of his clóca. In the shadows cast by the rolled cloth, she could see his thin mouth pursed under the strands of a gray-white beard, but his dark eyes glittered kindly. He leaned on a staff of oak, and Snarl—one of the Clochs Mór, the great stones of magic—lay atop the white cloth of his léine. “Come on, then, Bantiarna Geraghty,” he said. “Before your gram causes all the bráthairs and siúrs to go into apoplexy or my bones freeze up entirely.”
He turned his back and started toward the long trail up the steep flanks of Inishfeirm to the White Keep, but Sevei suddenly gave a gasp. She stopped, putting her hand to her forehead. “What’s the matter, Sevei?” Máister Kirwan asked, but she couldn’t answer him through the welter of images flooding her vision.
An awful creature, scaled and horrible . . . the stench of carrion . . . her beloved twin brother Kayne’s face, mouth open in mingled pain and fury . . . He was close, closer than he’d been in so long, but . . .
“It’s Kayne,” she answered finally. She clutched her side as if something had struck her, groaning. “Something’s happening to him . . .”
The wind was cold in the Mountains of the Finger, and snow swirled down from low gray clouds shredded by the rocky peaks surrounding them. Kayne shivered in his furs, glowering as his da, Owaine Geraghty, raised his hand. The riders—now only a few hundred, though they’d ridden away a year ago with over a thousand mounted troops—halted. They were at a crossroads, the town of Ceangail nearby. “What’s the matter?” Kayne asked his da, bringing his horse Gainmheach up alongside his da’s dappled stallion.
“Nothing,” Owaine replied. “I thought we should rest the horses for a moment.”
“So close to the town, Da?”
His da’s eyes narrowed at the question. For a moment Kayne thought that he wouldn’t answer—Kayne knew he wouldn’t have, if their positions had been reversed and Kayne had been the one giving the orders. He would expect his orders to be obeyed, unquestioned and immediately. But, of course, Da sighed and answered. “We have time to get there yet today, Kayne. Why risk hurting one of the animals? Besides, we should check the wagons before we start the descent into Ceangail. The road’s rough and we don’t want to lose one or hurt any of the injured.”
Owaine’s voice was calm enough, but Kayne could see Harik MacCathaill—as Owaine’s Hand the person responsible for the discipline of the gardai—scowl openly at Kayne for daring to demand a reason. The gardai nearest them looked carefully away. Most of them knew the tension that existed between Kayne and Owaine, a tension which had only become worse over the last year. The campaign had begun badly before they even left Dún Laoghaire: there was to have been an army five or perhaps even ten thousand strong riding from the Tuatha into Céile Mhór and ready to lend succor to the besieged lands of Thane Aeric MagWolfagdh, but the usual squabbles and disagreements had broken out; the Rí Connachta had been openly irritated upon learning that Owaine would lead the expedition. “The man’s no more than a common tuathánach, no matter what titles the Mad Holder may have bestowed on him,” he was reputed to have said. Not much more than a third of the hoped-for number had finally assembled, mostly from Dún Laoghaire itself along with a full squadron of clansfolk sent from Inish Thuaidh. Tuath Infochla had sent nearly its full allotment, but there were few from Tuath Airgialla, Tuath Connachta or Tuath Locha Léin, and none at all from Tuath Gabair or Tuath Éoganacht. The only Cloch Mór among the group had been Owaine’s own, and there were few clochsmion.
The Thane of Céile Mhór had been hard-pressed to conceal his severe disappointment upon their arrival. And over the year, with few exceptions, the battles with the Arruk had not gone well.
Some of the gardai had witnessed the heated confrontation between Kayne and Owaine after the battle at Lough Scáthán. The memory of that day still burned in Kayne’s mind like witchfire. If he had been wielding Blaze, his da’s Cloch Mór, then the Arruk would have regretted their decision to attack the hill held by Thane MagWolfagdh. Kayne would have ignored the Thane’s orders to remain in position on the flank; he would have disdained the signal to retreat. No, he would have moved the gardai of the Tuatha forward in support and driven the foul Arruk back into the deep, shimmering waters of the lough.
There would have been no ignominious rout, had that been done. Thane MagWolfagdh might still be alive and sitting on the throne of Céile Mhór in Concordia and not that incompetent, ungrateful first cousin of his. The slow advance of the Arruk might have been halted for a time. They might have been going home heroes rather than as simply a troop of weary, tired soldiers whose tour of duty was thankfully over.
Owaine, to Kayne’s mind, had proved to be a cautious and too-obedient general, a careful one who loved and protected his troops too much. The cautious and obedient and careful are rarely heroes, Kayne had long ago decided. He wondered when Da had changed. After all, he’d heard many times the story of how nearsighted Owaine Geraghty had left Inishfeirm, alone and unarmed, in pursuit of the woman who would become both Kayne’s mam and the Banrion Ard of all the Tuatha. At one time in his life, apparently, Owaine had been as reckless and impulsive as Kayne, uncaring of risks to himself.
No longer.
Kayne heaved a sigh as cold as the lines of snow whipping around the horses’ hooves. He’s too cautious to even get out of this weather without first checking the wagons . . . “Fine,” he said to his da and started to turn Gainmheach. But the wind shifted slightly, blowing for a moment from the northwest. They all smelled it in the same moment, the soldiers’ weary heads lifting: woodsmoke, and with it a bitter tang they all remembered too well. “Da?” Kayne said.
Owaine shook his head. “No, son. It can’t be,” he insisted, but his face creased to match the landscape around them.
“It is,” Kayne persisted. “You know it is. The Mother knows none of us can forget that stench.”
Owaine grimaced. “Leave the wagons here,” he called out. “Those who can ride, come with me.” He led the gardai along the stony, ill-marked road: around a barren outcropping, up a steep slope to where they could look down through the gray-white haze of the flurries into the valley where the town of Ceangail lay. But Ceangail was obscured behind a screen of black smoke.
Several buildings within the walls of Ceangail burned.
Riding next to his da, Kayne could see the corded muscles on Owaine’s neck, the flare of color on his cheeks, and the narrowing of his dark eyes. Owaine rose up in his stirrups, glaring down into the steep-sided valley. The figures they saw besieging the walls were all too familiar, as were the cries that echoed from the green-wrapped slopes around them.
Arruk. Here in Talamh an Ghlas. Here in our own lands.
“How in the Mother’s name did they come to be here?” Owaine asked the wind, staring.
“That doesn’t matter, Da . . .” Kayne began impatiently, but Owaine glared warningly at him and turned to his Hand.
“How many are there, Harik?” he asked. “I think we should come at them from two sides so we can cut off their lines of retreat. We don’t want any of
them escaping to—”
“Da!” Kayne shouted. “The town burns while you’re sitting here talking. We have to ride!” He wheeled Gainmheach around and shouted to the others. “Ride!” Without waiting to see if anyone followed, Kayne plunged downward recklessly, Gainmheach’s hooves skidding on the frozen ground. “Go, Gainmheach!” He dug his heels into the stallion’s sides.
He risked a glance back.
“Go!” he heard Owaine say belatedly. As one, the riders stirred on the crest of the mountain road. Like a dark avalanche, they spilled downward with Kayne at the fore. The sound was enormous: hooves pounded the rock-strewn, wet earth like it was a vast drum; hoarse battle cries shrilled like the calls of fierce banshees; the air shivered with the high ring of armor and sword. Kayne held desperately to Gainmheach, urging the horse into a desperate downhill gallop as much from fear of being overtaken by the thunder behind him as from an urgency to reach the smoldering buildings ahead.
He’d worry afterward about what Da would say. Now, he only wanted to kill. He wanted revenge for the far too many dead they’d left behind, buried in foreign barrows. He wanted retribution for the Arruk’s temerity in entering his land. His.
At nineteen, even after a year’s experience, the onset of a battle was still exciting to Kayne, and he held the young person’s belief that he was invincible. Scars he had, aye, but they were minor and he was, if anything, proud of what they represented. He wore them with honor. In the past several months he had seen death and grave injuries, had seen it happen to friends and foe alike, but Kayne had no sense that anything like that could happen to him. The son of the beloved Healer Ard never learned to fear injury; over the years, his mam had healed the broken bones he’d sustained in play, and he’d seen her call on the power of the mage-lights and bring back soldiers whose souls were already half in the grasp of the Black Haunts, restoring them to health. The men in the wagon, those too wounded to ride or walk, held onto life with the hope that the Healer Ard would aid them in the same way, once they were back in Dún Laoghaire.
Kayne didn’t fear battles. He only feared losing them.
The cold wind threw Kayne’s long, braided hair behind him and made him squint. He reached the foot of the mountain; the slope gentled as Gainmheach vaulted a scree of fallen rock and pounded over the soft, thick turf of the valley. The shouting of the gardai, tinged with a shared outrage, rose louder as they approached Ceangail. After the long campaign in Céile Mhór, the soldiers with them were—like Kayne—furious to find the Arruk within their borders. Kayne heard his da’s voice, directing two of the squadrons to wheel left and attack from the flank.
Kayne wanted only direct confrontation. He was close enough to see their ugly faces now as the Arruk turned from their attack on the walls of Ceangail to peer at the charging riders. They howled, waving the huge, long pole weapons they called “jaka.” He could see at least one of the Arruk mages—the Svarti—among them, raising his spell-stick. Kayne reached for his sword, pulling it loose from the scabbard lashed to his pack. He waved it high, screaming the caointeoireacht na cogadh—the terrifying war cry of the Inishlanders that Da had once taught him.
Kayne smelled the Arruk waiting in ambush before he actually saw it—a strong whiff of rotting meat and musk. Almost before the scent could register, the creature sprang up from a weed-choked hillock to Kayne’s right as he galloped past: scaled skin in mottled yellow and brown, a snouted face with its spinal crest flared and erect. The Arruk’s muscular legs—articulated backward like those of a goat—bent, then straightened as the creature launched itself at Kayne. Clawed hands grasped for him, missing Kayne but finding the rump of his horse. Gainmheach screamed in pain as the talons ripped long furrows in its flesh before digging firmly into muscle. The Arruk was flung sideways as the horse reared, falling, and Kayne went down with it, his breath leaving him as he hit the ground. Somehow he managed to keep his grip on his sword and pushed the point into the ground to help him rise. He nearly went down again when he took a breath—he’d slammed his ribs against rocks hidden in the grass. He forced himself to ignore the pain and stay upright, crouching and wheeling in a slow circle with his sword out as he looked for the Arruk. “Gainmheach! Here!” he called to his horse, but though Gainmheach had stopped several paces away, it only shook its mane and pawed the ground with its front hooves, its eyes and nostrils wide with fright and pain.
The Arruk rose up from the ground between Kayne and the horse. It was weaponless and young, but that hardly lessened the danger. Kayne had seen an Arruk disembowel a sword-bearing gardai in boiled leather armor with a single, ferocious kick. This one was clothed in a loin-rag with its tribal crest on the right hip, and on the left were three slashes of bright color: green, blue, and yellow—the sign of an Arruk mage, though this one must have been an apprentice, too young to be a full Svarti. It crouched down and snatched up a spell-stick lying in the grass.
Kayne scowled; if the spell-stick still had slow magic stored within it, then Kayne was dead.
The rest of the riders had swept on past, Kayne’s da with them; he could hear—faintly—the shouting voices and the clash of steel as the line hit the Arruk attacking the village, and the smell and haze of woodsmoke was heavy around them. Bloody light flashed in the sky: Owaine’s Cloch Mór, Blaze, raining fire down on the enemy.
Late, as usual. You should have used the cloch sooner, Da . . .
The Arruk snarled, its lipless snout curling over snaggled teeth. Kayne waved the tip of his sword in its direction. “Run away or make your move,” he said to the creature, even though he knew it was unlikely the Arruk understand Daoine. “Kapasti!” he added in the Arruk’s own tongue: Castrated coward, one of the few Arruk words he knew. The insult was enough: the Arruk howled, but he didn’t lift the spell-stick and unleash magic; instead, he charged. Kayne screamed his own defiance and swung his blade.
The Arruk’s attack was the same Kayne had witnessed a hundred times over the last year, one that Kayne himself could admire: direct and heedless of the creature’s own safety. Kayne’s stroke chopped deeply into the Arruk’s neck and left shoulder, slicing down to bone, but the Arruk snarled and slashed at Kayne with its right hand even as Kayne—grunting with the effort—yanked his sword away from where it had caught in bone and scale. Kayne half stumbled, narrowly avoiding the Arruk’s following kick. Thick blood drooled down the Arruk’s chest and its left arm hung limp and useless. It snarled again and blood frothed in its mouth. It took a step toward Kayne, slashing again with its right hand, but the intended blow came nowhere near Kayne and the creature’s deep-set eyes had gone cloudy. It took another step and went down on its knees, hissing at Kayne and speaking a phrase in its own language.
From the sound, it was almost certainly an insult.
The Arruk considered capture to be worse than death; the few wounded ones the Daoine forces had managed to take alive had refused food, water, or the ministrations of the healers and simply waited for their wounds to fester and kill them. From the soldiers of Céile Mhór, who had dealt with the advance of the Arruck for two decades, Kayne had learned that the Arruk themselves did not take prisoners or hold them for ransom as did the Daoine—any Daoine found wounded and still alive on the battlefield was always summarily executed.
The soldiers of Céile Mhór no longer took Arruk prisoners either. Kayne stepped carefully around the kneeling Arruk until he stood to one side. The head followed him, glaring, and the right hand was curled, the claws extended in defiance. Kayne brought his sword back once more; a moment later the Arruk’s head rolled across the grass.
“If you’d stayed with me, Kayne, this wouldn’t have happened. What you did was foolish.”
Kayne leaned on his sword, panting and trying to ignore the pounding ache in his side as his da jumped from his horse and hurried over to Kayne. Owaine’s Cloch Mór swung bright on his chest, and the clóca underneath was spattered with blood. He smelled of the Arruk.
Kayne ignored the rebuke. “T
he town?” he asked.
“The town will survive; the fires are already mostly out. A few houses burned and some townsfolk dead, but it could have been far worse. Our return was well-timed.” The spark of anger faded in his dark brown eyes as he looked at Kayne. “Are you all right, son?”
“Aye,” Kayne said, then groaned as he tried to straighten. “I think so. The damned thing took me off my horse and I probably cracked a few ribs. The rest of the Arruk . . . ?”
“There were only three double-hands of Arruk or so—considering how far they are from the current frontier, this must have been a group sent out to scout new territory. None of them will be reporting back.” Owaine sighed and muscles jumped in his lean face along the jaw. “One of them was a Svarti with slow magic, and we lost Padraic O’Calhain and Harkin O Floinn. Here, on our own soil, where we thought we were finally safe. I was afraid . . . I was afraid we’d lost you as well, but I couldn’t take the time to find you . . .”
You shouldn’t be afraid, Da. You’re the commander. You shouldn’t think of fear at all . . .
Kayne’s mouth pulled down in a frown. “Sorry, Da,” Kayne said. “This one was waiting in the grass and surprised me.”
Owaine glanced down at the body. “Young one. Mage marked, too. Probably sent back to recover his spells for the final assault. Lucky for both of us that he never got the chance to finish, eh?” Owaine took a step toward his son and embraced Kayne, pulling him close. Kayne kept his arms at his side and a moment later, Owaine stepped back. “Thank the Mother,” he husked. “I don’t know how I could tell your mam if you’d been lost.”
Is that why you’ve been so cautious, because I’m with you? That’s not what I want, Da. That’s not the way you should be. “I’m not afraid to die in battle, Da. If that’s the Mother-Creator’s will, nothing any of us can do will stop it from happening. I’d prefer to die with my sword blooded and as many of the enemy dead as I can manage.”
