Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3)

by S L Farrell

  As the Kralj’s Svarti, Ennis’ litter had a place of honor next to that of Kurhv Kralj in the center of the army, with the Arruk soldiers spread out in a wide, irregular crescent on either side of them, two of the Mairki on either side, the twin horns facing forward. They moved ahead at an eager lope now, the litter bearers running to keep up. By mid-morning, they came within sight of the Céile Mhór force. A valley lay between them, laid out with stone fences in squares of farmed land, a wide stream bordered by trees looping through the center toward its meeting with a long lake to their east.

  “Are you ready, Ennis Svarti?” Cima asked from alongside Ennis’ litter. He helped Ennis down from the litter as Kurhv Kralj also descended from his, and handed Ennis his spell-stick. Kurhv Kralj looked down at Ennis, and he could see the bloodlust in the Arruk’s face.

  “Now,” Kurhv Kralj told him. “Now is when we are most alive, when we confront death itself.”

  Kurhv Kralj gestured, and the Arruk crescent surmounted the ridge and descended into the valley toward the waiting enemy.

  Ennis could see the horses of the Riocha officers on the opposite ridge and their sky-blue banners set with a stylized dire wolf waving in the wind. More troops, he knew, waited just beyond the crest to descend into the fray once the clochs were unleashed and the cavalry made their initial charge—that was how Kayne had said it always happened: first the clochs and a barrage of arrows, then the horse-mounted troops, then finally the foot soldiers: the ficheall of the Daoine.

  But if the Thane’s troops included Clochs Mór, they were silent. The ranks of mounted soldiers loomed above the advancing Arruk like a dark, billowing thunderhead on the horizon.

  The storm broke in an instant.

  The riders gave a loud cry as one, and arrows darkened the sky like a monstrous flock of deadly birds. A curtain of shafts arced down into the center of the Arruk force, and Ennis heard the strange clatter of iron arrowheads against the hard scales of the Arruk. A few of the Arruk went down, but for the most part the arrows bounced or broke, or penetrated lightly. “Fool!” Gyl Svarti grunted inside. “The other Svarti wait for you to act, Ennis. They wonder why you wait . . .” Another wave of arrows followed the first, and this time Ennis raised his spell-stick and spoke a word, and the arrows burst into quick flame to let a pattering drizzle of glowing arrowheads fall to the ground short of the Arruk. The Arruk let out a massed howl that raised the hairs on the back of Ennis’ neck.

  The howl was answered by another cry from the Daoine, and now the horses came thundering down the slope toward the Arruk, toward the center of the crescent and Kurhv Kralj and Ennis. “Now!” Cima said to Ennis, the word echoed by Gyl Svarti in his head, and Ennis raised his spell-stick. To either side of him, he saw the Svarti do the same. In his other hand, Ennis took Treoraí’s Heart, and he opened it as well.

  He spoke the release word.

  From the other Svarti, a pulse of light radiated out, and where each of the lines met the onrushing cavalry, a hand or less of horses went down and men cried out. But as the spell left Ennis’ spell-stick it fused with mage-energy emanating from the Heart. A burst of crackling lightnings snapped and snarled over the heads of the Arruk in front of him and slammed into the center of the onrushing Daoine. The earth erupted with a roar there, sending broken horses and broken men flying backward just as they were about to crash into the front ranks of the Arruk. The fury of the blast seemed to halt the motion and sound of the battle for a moment: there was a silence filled with the remembered thunder, and the Daoine horsemen pulled up the reins of their horses, their spears held in shocked hands. A pall of dust and smoke spread, and through it Ennis could see the faces of the Daoine: filled with a new terror.

  In the silence and stillness, Gyl shouted with glee in Ennis’ head and Isibéal laughed. Far inside, his mam wailed with the others.

  Then the stasis broke as Kurhv Kralj, a stride away from Ennis, gave a roar of triumph, and the Arruk all around Ennis echoed him. Cima howled with them, slapping Ennis on the back. The Daoine took up the broken charge, and the Arruk surged forward, eager to meet them.

  Steel met steel. The long jaka of the Arruk began to flash among the spears and swords of the Daoine. Ennis was pushed forward by those behind as Kurhv Kralj charged forward with the rest, Cima at his side. Ennis could smell an odd coppery scent, and he realized it was the odor of blood and adrenaline. Men yelled; Arruk howled, and even the horses screamed as they were taken down. Through the chaos, Ennis caught a glimpse of a flood of leather-clad men rushing down the hillside into the battle, the sun glinting from rings of metal on the armor and from their helms. The banner of Céile Mhór fluttered among them.

  Ennis looked for the blue ghosts and could not find them. Wait! he wanted to shout. I don’t know what to do . . .

  And there was no time for thought anymore, only for survival.

  . . . A horseman in blue broke through the ring of Arruk around them. Ennis saw nothing of him but the shape, outlined against the sky: deadly strikes from the hooves of his rearing warhorse took down an Arruk near Kurhv Kralj, and the soldier grunted audibly as his spear jabbed into another Arruk. The spear was torn from his hand as the second Arruk fell, and the man pulled a long sword from its scabbard. The Daoine saw Kurhv Kralj then, noticing the insignia of the Kralj on his chest, and the man yanked hard on the reins of his foam-mouthed, glaring-eyed mount, kicking its lathered sides so that it plunged toward the Kralj like the hull of a great ship through a resisting surf. Kurhv Kralj saw him at the same time and raised his jaka in defiance. The first sword strike struck Kurhv Kralj’s weapon and hacked the staff in two, the metal head sailing away. Under the helm-shadowed face, Ennis saw the Daoine’s mouth open in a grim laugh, and the sword blade whistled as he drew it back, ready to strike. But he noticed Ennis then, and under the rim of the helm, his eyes widened in surprise. Ennis could almost hear the man’s astonishment— a Daoine child? Here?—but the hesitation was fatal. Kurhv Kralj leaped, weaponless, and his clawed hand ripped the man from his saddle and bore him down. An impossible gout of blood sprayed from the side of the man’s neck, splattering over both Kurhv Kralj and Ennis’ right arm. Ennis touched the stain, marveling at its heat . . .

  . . . The charge of the foot soldiers hit them, a blow that staggered and halted the rushing Arruk line, the shock wave traveling back so that Kurhv Kralj, Ennis, and Cima, moving forward with the others, were momentarily crushed. Ennis, far shorter, was nearly trampled underneath until Cima lifted him, placing him on his shoulder as his da had once done. Ennis rode Cima, his legs hugging the Arruk’s muscular neck, his hand clutching the spell stick and Treoraí’s Heart.

  “Way!” Cima shouted in the Arruk tongue. “Make way for Kurhv Kralj and Ennis Svarti! Make way!” The Arruk in front obeyed as best they could, the unengaged Arruk sliding aside to reveal a chaotic landscape where men fought Arruk, where already-slain bodies lay like red-stained stones, where he saw people vibrantly alive one moment and horribly dead the next, where wounded Daoine and Arruck alike moaned and screamed. The terror and fright truly struck Ennis then, and atop Cima’s shoulders he began to cry. It was then that Ennis knew why Da had never wanted to speak about war. . . .

  Weeping, Ennis felt the danger too late. A new flight of arrows whistled overhead, arcing down like falcons stooping to strike. Feathers bloomed in his sight and there was sudden, terrible pain in his shoulder as Treoraí’s Heart slipped from his hand. The impact sent him tumbling backward off Cima’s shoulders, the spell-stick clattering to the ground. Ennis lay on the grass stunned, looking up at sky and flailing arms. He felt with his left hand where the arrow’s shaft had buried itself in his shoulder; his hands came away sticky with blood and he nearly fainted. He sobbed in mingled pain and fright. “Ennis Svarti!” he heard Cima shout, and the Arruk’s face appeared above him. He glanced at the arrow. “You must ignore it,” he told Ennis. “Here!” He was holding the spell-stick, and Ennis reached out with his left hand to take it as Cima re
ached down and plucked him up again. The movement sent white-hot shafts of agony through his body, and Ennis screamed, but Cima paid no attention, placing Ennis on his shoulders again. A red-hued glass seemed to have been placed over Ennis’ eyes; he saw the landscape as if the sun itself had turned bloody.

  There were no blue ghosts here. No pattern. This was not a dance he could follow.

  “Look!” Cima shouted, pointing. The horns of the Arruk army had not been able to close around the Daoine force, as more of the men came down from the heights. The entire Arruk line was engulfed. From his vantage, Ennis could see the Svarti howling their spells and the jaka of the Arruk thrashing as if trying to scythe down a field of wheat. In the scarlet chaos, finally, there were sapphire forms moving and patterns forming.

  In them, Ennis saw Kurhv Kralj’s death, Cima’s death, and his own. He saw the vision to which he had once clung slipping away from him, and he saw what he must do if he wanted to keep the future he’d once glimpsed.

  “No!” he shouted, and the blue ghost that was his future self glanced back to him forlornly. The apparition nodded. “Aye . . .” its lips mouthed. “Aye . . .” Isibéal spoke in his head. “Aye . . .” echoed Gyl, Ata, and Unnisha, Daighi and Brett, Artol and all the crewmates of his ship, Haughey and Brina, Noz Ruka and Grozan Kralj. Everyone but his mam . . . “Aye . . .”

  “No,” Ennis answered, but this time it was only a choking whisper, lost against their insistence. The roar of the battle came back to him, louder than the blue ghosts and the dead ones in his head, and he forced his scarred right hand to move, to find Treoraí’s Heart on its chain again. Ennis gasped as he touched the cloch, the power leaping from the stone and surging through him. He raised the spell-stick; the blue ghost of his future smiled and he saw the pattern that he must lock himself to. In front of him, the Daoine were crashing through the thinning ranks of the Arruk. Kurhv Kralj was surrounded, flailing desperately as three Daoine circled him and another nocked arrow to bow, the taut gut string creaking as he pulled it back.

  Ennis let himself fall into the blue ghost. It screamed; he screamed with it. He let the mage-energy pour from Treoraí’s Heart and through the spell-stick, taking each of the spells he’d stored so carefully there and strengthening it, adding power to each of them.

  The stick glowed like a new sun, banishing the blood. Shadows, as dark as night and as sharp as honed blades, rushed outward in a widening arc from the bright fury that was Ennnis. Where the light touched, Daoine soldiers were torn away from the combat and tossed backward like so many straw dolls and slammed down to earth. The destruction rippled out in a semicircular wave from Ennis, accompanied by the scream that was amplified through Treoraí’s Heart. When it stopped, a breath later that seemed to last half a stripe or more, Kurhv Kralj gave a howl of triumph that was taken up by the entire Arruk army. The few of the Céile Mhór attackers who were yet standing gaped toward Ennis. He knew they saw him: a fey child straddling an Arruk, holding a cloch na thintrí and a staff that burned.

  The Céile Mhór army had been shattered in the center, and Kurhv Kralj urged them forward to close around the now-sundered Daoine forces. The Daoine turned and fled back the way they’d come and the Arruk pursued them, screaming their bloodlust.

  Cima, bearing Ennis, started to follow, but Ennis was spent. Blood had soaked the front of his ragged léine, and the scars of the mage-lights burned on his arm. In his mage-sight, the blue ghost reeled atop Cima and fell.

  Ennis, grateful, fell with it into oblivion.

  45

  Meetings and Offers

  DEATH, HE WOULD HAVE thought, was supposed to be quiet and peaceful. That’s how his mam described it once when he’d asked. But this death was noisy with hisses and growls and a snarling chatter in words he couldn’t understand. It was all annoying enough that he forced his eyes open, blinking into unrelenting and utterly normal sunlight.

  Ennis saw little but sky, but as he lifted his head slightly he saw Cima, straddling Ennis’ prone body with his jaka lifted threateningly toward Daj Svarti, who was standing near Ennis’ right side. Cima’s voice was raised as he argued with Daj Svarti. As Ennis blinked again, Daj Svarti leaned over toward Ennis, reaching for the spell-stick that lay across his body or perhaps for Treoraí’s Heart on its chain. Cima hissed and his weapon swept forward. The curved blade of the jaka would have taken off Daj Svarti’s hand had the Arruk not snatched it back. The mage growled and lifted his own spell-stick, the corners of his mouth flecked with spittle and his eyes snared in red veins. Tiny lightnings crawled around the head of the spell-stick as Cima shouted defiantly back at Daj Svarti, raising his jaka again.

  “No!” Ennis shouted. The word was a squeak, and was followed immediately by a painful cry as he tried to sit up. His right arm refused to hold his weight and collapsed under him; he fell back to the ground. Ennis reached for his shoulder with his left hand; his hand found the broken shaft of an arrow, coming away sticky with blood. Staring at his gore-stained fingers, Ennis nearly succumbed to the darkness again. “No,” he thought he heard a voice say, but he didn’t know whose it was. “You can’t show weakness here. Find the pattern. The dance of your blue ghosts . . .”

  . . . the dance . . . Aye, they were there when Ennis brushed Treoraí’s Heart with his good hand. He found the familiar blue ghost, locked himself to it . . .

  Ennis bit his lower lip, rolling to his left so he could sit. Cima was still arguing with Daj Svarti. The Arruk mage glared at Ennis and growled again, like a dog competing for food under the table at Dún Laoghaire. The lightnings faded from the knob of his spell-stick and he went stalking off. Cima let his jaka fall to the ground and turned to Ennis.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t wake quickly enough,” he said in his heavily-accented Daoine. “Daj Svarti saw you fall and wanted to claim the mage-stone, but I wouldn’t let him take it . . .” As Cima spoke, he helped Ennis to his feet. Ennis couldn’t keep the tears from filling his eyes with the searing pain that went through his shoulder then, but the blue ghost would not let him cry.

  “Thank you, Cima,” he said. The thought of Daj Svarti taking Treoraí’s Heart from him made Ennis feel sick. His shoulder throbbed in time to his racing heartbeat and he could feel warm blood tricking down his right side. The sharp smell of it—both Daoine and Arruk—filled the air, overpowering even the reek of the Arruk. The valley was muddied and scarred, the turf torn to expose the black earth underneath. All around him, Arruk strode carefully among the crumbled mounds of the fallen. They weren’t all dead: some moaned and twitched, while other lay terribly still. Somewhere close by, a Céile Mhór garda was screaming in agony—a long, shrieking wail, a pause for breath, then the wail again, over and over, until the endless scream went suddenly, jarringly silent. Ennis could see that the Arruk soldiers were prodding the wounded with the butt of their jaka. If the body was Daoine and it moved, they quickly reversed the pole arm so that the blade was down, and thrust the edge savagely into the body. If the wounded was Arruk and rose, they would move on; if the Arruk couldn’t rise on his own, though, they were dispatched as the Daoine had been.

  Ennis realized that this was exactly what would have happened to him had Cima not been with him. The gorge rose in his throat and even the blue ghost could not hold it back. Ennis’ stomach convulsed and he bent over as he retched, vomiting harshly. The bile burned in his throat. After the spasms passed, he spat and wiped his mouth with his muddy, blood-spattered sleeve. Cima watched, head tilted curiously. “Better now?” he asked.

  Ennis nodded. The blue ghost was moving and he followed it, standing erect again. The blue ghost ignored the tearing in his shoulder as the embedded arrow dug into muscles with the motion, and so Ennis did the same, though he wanted to moan and cry. “Where is Kurhv Kralj?” he and the blue ghost asked. “I need to speak with him.”

  Cima pointed to a rise several strides away, where the banner of the Kralj fluttered. Ennis started to walk toward the Kralj, unable to stop the ga
sp that came as the first footstep jarred his shoulder. He leaned heavily on the spell-stick, a child walking like a withered old man. Cima walked beside him, an arm around Ennis’ waist in support. As they approached, Kurhv Kralj saw them and turned from the huddle of Mairki and their Svarti around him, Daj Svarti among them. Daj Svarti would not look at Ennis, but Kurhv Kralj’s face was full of what seemed to be genuine relief. “Ennis Svarti!” the Kralj cried aloud as Cima translated for Ennis. “I saw you fall, and I hoped you weren’t so badly hurt that we would need to send you to Cudak.”

  You saw me fall and you didn’t even come to see how badly I was hurt, or protect me from Daj Svarti? Ennis remembered once falling off a pony at Dún Laoghaire, and how Da and Mam had rushed over to him immediately, worried and frantic. “Even the Kralj can’t show weakness,” Gyl Svarti’s voice whispered to him. “Especially the Kralj . . .”

  “The battle’s over?” he asked Kurhv Kralj in halting, poor Arruk, and the Arruk bared his teeth in satisfaction.

  “The Perakli who are still alive are running away like the sheep that they are, but they left half of their soldiers here,” Kurhv Kralj answered, and opened his mouth wide to roar once at the sky. The Mairki and Svarti around him did the same—Daj Svarti doing so belatedly—and their combined howl of triumph was echoed around the field. “It was your power that broke them, Ennis Svarti,” Kurhv Kralj said. “They couldn’t stand before you.”