Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3)

by S L Farrell

  The clochmion burned underneath her léine and she had to resist the urge to grasp at it. The feel of the wind lifting leathery wings, the smell of people wafting upward, seeking, seeking . . . “Why would they be here at all?”

  She heard more than saw Parlan sigh. “Ballynakill is part of Tuath Infochla still, and my Donal was just there and asking too many questions, perhaps. Or worse, he may have brought them here deliberately.” He turned to her then, and his face was crumpled with guilt. “I’m sorry, Bantiarna,” he said. “I’m sorry that it’s one of my own family who has done this.”

  “You don’t know that,” she told him, but they both knew. They knew even as they saw the ship nudge up to the quay in the village below and tiny forms of the gardai swarm down the plank that was extended. A wedge of light emerged from the inn; a few minutes later, a line of torches swayed outward from the village.

  Toward them.

  The dog barked once, then more urgently. “Run,” Parlan urged her. He pointed to the rising flank of the island behind them. “Up there, along the sea cliff, there are caves and hollows where they might not find you.”

  “I don’t need the caves,” Sevei told him. “All I need is to find the water . . .” A shadow swept over the moon. Sevei shivered; the clochmion screamed in her mind.

  “Then go!” Parlan nearly shouted.

  She could not. If Donal had indeed been the one to send word to the gardai, then they also knew that Parlan was sheltering her; if she wasn’t here, they would take out their frustration on him when they couldn’t find her. She might escape, but he would not.

  A shrill, thin cry came from above. Dragoncaller screamed with it in her mind.

  She brought it out, closed her hand around the facets.

  She felt the other mind, high above, felt the compulsion the cloch put upon it. Reluctantly, the beast banked on its great, widespread wings, hearing the leathery skin between the flightbones snap in the changing wind. It brought the wings into its body, allowing itself to plummet down, down to the hard earth, down to the imperious, irresistible call of the stone.

  Blackness covered the stars. Wings shuddered above, their beating sending hurricane gusts down at them. The creature landed in the field just below them and its great horned-and-scaled head craned upward on its long neck; its tail flashed red in the moonlight. The dog yelped and fled for the house. Parlan uttered a curse and made a motion with his hands as if warding off a spirit.

  Low dragon-voice rumbled in the air and in Sevei’s mind. “Soft-flesh,” it said, the words growling in its own tongue while in her head Dragoncaller took the voice and transformed it so that she could understand. “We meet once more.” Kekeri . . . Sevei remembered the name. Kekeri the Bloodtail, of the Earc Tine . . . Sevei could sense the amusement in the dragon’s mind and also the intellect behind it; at the same time, she felt her own mind opening to the beast: through Dragoncaller, they were open to each other. The energy poured from the clochmion; Sevei could feel it draining away, more quickly than she thought. “Ah,” Kekeri crooned. Its breath was like a burned charnel pit. “They’re the worry . . .”

  Its head snaked back, looking down to the line of torches. Claws raked the earth into furrows, the wings beat, the wind nearly knocking Sevei down and sending Parlan staggering back with his hands before his face. “No!” Sevei shouted at it, but it only laughed.

  “This is what you want,” Kekeri answered. “This is why I was sent . . .” and with the word she had an impression of someone else behind the words.

  “Sent?” Sevei asked, but the dragon had already pushed off the ground on its muscular hind legs, sending one of the stone walls crashing down and gliding away. “Wait . . .”

  It was gone. “It spoke to you? You understand dragon-speech?” Parlan was saying, but Sevei could only shake her head at him, still clutching Dragoncaller and feeling its energy being sucked toward the creature. A few breaths later, the night was sundered by light: a ragged gout of blue-and-yellow flame, an eruption that flared and died like thick, slow lightning. A moment later, they heard the screams, thin and high in the night air, and saw the dragon rise and fall, its tail lashing, the talons of its legs extended. It rose again, and Sevei saw the broken forms of soldiers tumble from the sky as it opened its claws. Kekeri stooped and rushed over the remaining soldiers, belching fire and death. Wings thrummed even as the last of the screams trailed off. A few breaths of time, that was all, and it was over.

  In the cold moonlight, the beast descended again. “Those you feared are gone,” Kekeri said in her head, though she knew Parlan heard only the snarls and grumbles of its own language

  “I didn’t ask you to kill them,” Sevei raged at the dragon. “That’s not what I wanted.”

  “Isn’t it?” Kekeri snorted, as if chuckling, sending heated air over them. “Then it’s good I know your mind better than you do.”

  “You know nothing.”

  Another snort. “You soft-flesh ones are so arrogant and blind. You think the world exists only for you. Well, I tell you that there are more things in the vast lands than you can imagine, beings for whom your petty concerns mean nothing. And yet, you don’t realize . . .” The dragon stopped, and Sevei again had the sense of something else behind the words, an unspoken sadness that was washed quickly away in scorn. “Look at you,” it growled, “grovel ing in the dirt, cowering in fear. Why, a single blow from my tail would rip that old soft-flesh next to you in half.” The dragon rose up slightly on its hind legs, the wings flaring out and the scarlet tail lashing to keep the dragon balanced. “Your clochmion is empty,” Kekeri said. “You can hold me no longer.”

  Sevei felt the power within Dragoncaller flow from the stone even as the dragon spoke, leaving behind only a trace of energy, far too little to control Kekeri any longer. The dragon’s jeweled eyes glinted in moonlight as it regarded her and she felt its satisfaction at being unfettered by the cloch, and its hunger.

  “Parlan!” Sevei shouted. “Run! Now!”

  The dragon’s wings pulsed once, and again. Kekeri pounced, great stones scattering like tiny pebbles under its feet. Sevei was already scrambling away, not knowing where she could run. There was nothing here that the dragon could not destroy in a moment. It gave her no chance. She felt the rush of air as it arrowed toward her, saw the great claws open on the hind legs just before it struck her, a stunning blow that sent the breath from her and made new stars flare in her sight.

  The dragon rose into the night sky with Sevei clutched in its talons.

  22

  The Battle of Ceangail Valley

  THE ARMY FROM AIRGIALLA was spread out in a long double line on the High Road a few miles from Ceangail, the Riocha among them riding at the head of the column, the baggage train of supply wagons and soldiers wounded in the battle at the Narrows creaking well to the rear. The column had placed outriders ahead to scout out the road and send back word of any forces marshaled against them. To feed horses and men, raiding parties were deployed to plunder any of the farms or villages they passed as they moved deeper into the Finger.

  The Airgiallaians were riding down from the spines of the mountains into the high valley where Ceangail sat. The High Road here was bordered on either side by flanking, steep slopes covered with greenery and striped with rushing white streams hurrying down to meet the small river that gave Ceangail its water supply, and Mal Mac Baoill gestured to the Hands to take advantage of the open space: two squadrons moving out on either side with their archers as flanking units, lancers on their horses and archers at the vanguard, the remaining mounted gardai and the infantry massed behind the vanguard in the middle, with their pikes ready against a mounted attack from the enemy, a small force sent as rearguard to protect the baggage train.

  The tactics were the same Kayne had witnessed with his da’s troops, as well as those of the Thane of Céile Mhór in the fight against the Arruk. The formation performed well on open ground and where the gardai were facing another force trained in the sa
me general methods of warfare.

  It wasn’t necessarily a tactic that worked in the Finger or against the clansfolk.

  Mac Baoill, with Winter gleaming against the red of his clóca, raised his hand as six riders in the colors of Airgialla approached them from the direction of Ceangail, which the outriders had been surveying. Mac Baoill called to them, his breath steaming in the cold early morning air. “What news? Have you seen the rest of the Banrion Ard’s gardai?”

  The outriders stopped abruptly several paces away from Mac Baoill, who leaned forward on his mount, peering quizzically at the silent riders.

  He saw the bows they carried even as the nearest of the outriders threw her coat down, revealing the plain clothing of a clanswoman and a head of long, dark hair: even as the first arrows sang death; even as more arrows darkened the sky from either side of the slopes; even as a horde of clansfolk rushed toward the invaders from hidden places near the road.

  As Harik also rose, screaming the caointeoireacht na cogadh with his men as they pulled swords from scabbards and attacked on foot.

  As Kayne, from well above the scene, pulled his da’s Cloch Mór from under his clóca and took it in his hand, hoping he would be strong enough to handle its power without training.

  This wasn’t battle as Kayne had experienced it in Céile Mhór. The Arruk moved like a well-disciplined plague on the land, burning and laying waste to any habitations they found and foraging from the herds of sheep and cows they captured, leaving behind them an empty plain of death. They asked for no mercy from their opponents and gave none in return. There, after a few days of open maneuvering for position by each of the armies, the horrifying masses of the Arruk would advance hissing and spitting their challenge at the waiting troops of the Thane arrayed before them, their war drums would begin to beat and the battle would commence: sword against jaka; clochs against the wild, erratic slow magic of the Arruk Svarti, their mages; the mounted forces of the Daoine smashing deep into the Arruk, who were all on foot. The Thane’s armies and the armies of the Tuatha didn’t engage in deception and ambush, but the Fingerlanders certainly did.

  “You can have your honor and rules of engagement if you like,” Laird O’Blathmhaic had answered when Kayne and Harik had protested the plan of the clan-lairds to ambush the Airgiallaians as they advanced toward Ceangail. “We don’t have that luxury. Not if we want to live.”

  When Kayne had looked over the ragtag collection of clansfolk that had assembled for the attack—men and woman, old and young—he understood. The council had named Rodhlann O Morchoe, a middle-aged marriage-son of Banlaird MacCanna, to lead the Fingerlander fighters, and it was obvious from his bearing that he had training as a gardai, but the Fingerlanders were a motley bunch with erratic discipline. There were the five double-hands of Kayne’s own gardai to add, but the Airgiallaians still outnumbered them easily two to one.

  Yet they nearly evened the odds in those first few seconds, the Airgiallaian soldiers toppling from their horses or falling to their knees as Rodhlann directed the storm of arrows that hit their surprised flanks. A few hands of men to the rear of the main battle line broke and fled toward the baggage train as the clansfolk rushed out toward them.

  The barrage of arrows and the surprising ferocity of the ambush alone might have been enough, if Mac Baoill and Winter had not been with them.

  “Rodhlann will make certain that our arrows take out Mal Mac Baoill before he can use his damned cloch,” Laird O’Blathmhaic had declared confidently. “Even a cloch can fall to surprise. And if not . . .” He’d shrugged. “Then you get to seek your revenge,” he’d said to Kayne.

  But Mac Baoill had managed to open his cloch despite the surprise of the attack, and the arrows had not found him: Winter sent a cold wall of blue ice rushing over the false outriders—Séarlait at the head of them—sweeping away the arrows the Fingerlanders had launched at the tiarna and sending their horses whinnying backward. Spears formed of frost struck around them; two of the riders were torn from their mounts and one of the horses went down with a terrible cry. As Kayne watched, closing his fingers around Blaze, the mage-ice formed again in front of Mac Baoill. He saw the man stare at Séarlait, saw him scowl and wave his hand, saw the ice begin to coalesce around her in a great, crushing block. “No!” Kayne shouted as he opened Blaze, the red-hued energy of the Cloch Mór filling his mind and overlaying his vision as he sent a fireball hurtling outward.

  Fire shattered ice. Séarlait fell from her horse, but Kayne saw her stagger back up. He sent another fireball toward Mac Baoill, but now the tiarna realized that a rival Cloch Mór had entered the battle. Almost contemptuously, Mac Baoill turned his horse away from the false outriders and rode back to the vanguard; in his head, Kayne felt a shifting of attention in his suddenly-doubled vision as Mac Baoill found him in the waves of cloch-energy. Directing the energy within Blaze was more than Kayne had expected, even after practicing with the cloch the last few days: the fireball that arced toward Mac Baoill was weak and unfocused and poorly aimed; the tiarna deflected it with a wall of arctic frost and the red fury struck earth frighteningly near Séarlait: Kayne heard a scream from one of the clansfolk—a man’s voice, not Séarlait’s. Then the bitter cold wrapped around him, the deadly chill of it making Kayne gasp in pain, a wall of blue cold gripping his chest. He shouted, his voice a vapor torn away and lost as he grasped with his mind for the power within Blaze. He could barely handle the force of the captured mage-lights; they burned at him as if he were handling molten lava with his own hands, but it was at least warmth within the frozen air around him and he threw it wildly in Mac Baoill’s direction.

  The Mother-Creator was with him; he saw a fireball explode at the feet of the tiarna’s horse just as he was about to vanish within the milling vanguard. His stallion reared in fright and pain. The cold wall around Kayne vanished and he managed a grateful breath before more ice slammed into him like a fist, throwing him backward. The impact loosened Blaze from his grasp. For a moment Kayne saw only with his eyes: the swirling chaos of the battle and the cries of mingled rage and pain. Even with Mac Baoill’s Cloch Mór engaged with Kayne, the battle was still far too even. Rodhlann was screaming at the Fingerlanders; the gardai who had begun to retreat had stopped and were returning. Kayne saw as many gardai in Airgiallaian colors as clansfolk, and he knew that what might be an evenly matched battle otherwise would turn into a rout for Airgialla if the fury of Winter was turned against the Fingerlanders.

  Mac Baoill was rising to his feet many strides away, his high forehead bloody under the shock of black hair, but with Winter still in his hand. As Kayne fumbled for Blaze, dangling on its chain, the ice formed around him again, crushing down on him, the cold burning his flesh. Kayne screamed with the pain of the assault against his already broken ribs and injured legs. He couldn’t find his own cloch, and Mac Baoill was striding through the fray toward him, pushing everyone aside with fingers of blue ice, his ruddy and thin face a furious mask. Kayne could see that the false outriders nearest Mac Baoill were either dead or engaged in the struggle. And Séarlait; Mac Baoill passed her, her body draped over the gutted corpse of her horse, her bow still grasped in an unmoving hand. Mac Baoill’s attention was focused on Kayne; Kayne could see it in his mage-vision: the two were locked together; there was nothing else around them for Mac Baoill, the battle constricting to their own duel.

  Kayne knew what the man intended: Mac Baoill would kill Kayne, then shift his attention to the others. When that happened, the battle would be lost. Kayne could feel the man’s strength, his skill, his concentration all now focused on Kayne. . . .

  In the moment of that realization, Kayne heard Mac Baoill grunt and saw his eyes widen in shock. The ice melted around Kayne. As the man turned, Kayne glimpsed an arrow protruding from the folds of his clóca; another feathered shaft struck Mac Baoill in the throat even as he turned his head to look to his right, to where—from behind her downed horse, a bloodied Séarlait knelt with her bow in her hand. Mac Ba
oill gave a strangled cry; Winter dropped from his hand.

  She watched him fall, and Kayne glimpsed a strange, sorrowful pleasure in her face. She had little chance to celebrate; two gardai had also seen Mac Baoill fall, and they rushed toward Séarlait with notched and stained weapons raised high as Séarlait belatedly plucked another arrow from the quiver on her back.

  Kayne found the heavy weight of Blaze; there was still power within it, and he let himself touch it with his mind, to shape and hold the energy for an instant. The fireball rushed away from Kayne and enveloped Séarlait’s attackers; he heard them scream, saw them fall blackened and dead to the ground even as his mind tore at Blaze again, taking the mage-energy and hurling it at a squadron of gardai in red and white. The fireball exploded in their midst: men ran with their clothing aflame, dropping their weapons as the mage-fire blistered and charred their flesh. With the explosion, loud even in the midst of the battle, the other gardai realized that their commander and his Cloch Mór had been lost. The mood of the battle shifted as Kayne emptied the cloch and Rodhlann and the clansfolk and Harik with his men pressed into the remaining gardai. The battle rapidly became a bloody slaughter.

  Perhaps three or four double-hands of Airgiallaians managed to escape, turning their backs on the battle and running up the High Road toward the mountains and Airgialla. The clansfolk jeered at the gardai as they fled, waving red-stained weapons in the air.

  Kayne watched only for a moment. He went to Séarlait, standing and staring down at the corpse of Mac Baoill. Deliberately, she spat on the man’s body. “Séarlait, are you all right?”

  A shrug. Blood had smeared across her face, but the long scratch on her forehead hadn’t cut deep, and most of the blood on her appeared to be from her horse. She was still holding her bow. “I saw you on the ground, you with your horse. I thought you were dead, I thought I’d lost . . . we’d lost . . .” He stopped, the memory of that feeling sweeping back over him, surprising him with its intensity. “We would have had no victory here without you,” he told her.