He dropped bowl and spoon, chunks splashing as he whipped the ladle from its pot and moved on the runner. The boy screamed, fell on his arse and scrabbled down the hillside, a rope of gravy splashing his back as Náith swung the ladle at him. ‘That’s it! Fuck off back to mama, dandy-boy!’ The lad was soon a speck between the eastern mounds.
Náith gave the runner a last grimace and turned back to his dinner, chucking the ladle back in the pot with a plop. He dropped down on the bench, its boards creaking beneath his weight, and stared out at the lands around his home. He could feel that prick, Aodhamar, watching him in the east, sat on his glittering throne at Crath Crógadh. Surrounded by his arsekissers and fawners, no doubt.
‘Fuck.’ Náith sucked a string of turnip from between his front teeth, spat it on the stones of his cookfire. ‘I’m having my dinner first, you bloodsucking arsehole.’
When the Enkindled King called, men answered. Náith was no exception.
Aodhamar’s hall rose upon the horizon, a golden thorn atop the Hill of Crath. The Flame of Crath Crógadh, they’d taken to calling it. Ah, but what a sight it was! Tall as a mountain, ugly as a poxed wench’s arse and a thousand times as wide. Aodhamar’s taste for gold and grandeur had grown almost as great as his lust for blood and bent knees. Náith thought the hall looked like a lump of shit raised upon a plinth as he approached, as though the town in its shadow was worshipping a sacred turd.
He was roaring with laughter at the thought as he slowed his run to a jog and passed through the outlying buildings of Crath Crógadh. The smell of the place hit him immediately, the reek of weeks-old latrine pits that wafted from the open gutters and trenches festering at every roadside. Eyewatering. Dirty faces watched him pass, the impoverished masses that grubbed in the shit and sludge of the town’s outskirts. Náith’s lip curled as he looked upon them, his mirth withering. They were a sour sight for cynical eyes, the bitter shades of fucking glorious days. So many years spent fighting, so much blood spilled in the hope of a better world than the one the southern kings thrust upon them. To come full circle was what Old Machad’s people found as their reward. A life spent grovelling and begging for scraps in the shadow of a gilded bastard, he thought.
‘Hail, Náith!’ one man cried as he shot past, thrusting a war spear in the air. One of the nameless lapdogs in Aodhamar’s employ. Probably here to keep the locals in their place rather than guard town boundaries. Náith ignored him and spat a mouthful of the town’s rancid taste into the gutter.
‘It’s Náith! Look! Look!’ A group of children poured from a shit-filled alley between slouching houses and flowed after him. They called and chanted his name, giggling as he let them catch up. ‘Show us how fast you are, Náith! Show us!’
Náith laughed heartily and broke into a sprint – house, thatch and wall shuddering beneath the thunder of his feet. He left the children behind in a stride, plunging into Crath Crógadh to their whooping cheers and shrieking favour, making for the hall atop the Hill of Crath.
The gates to Aodhamar’s high hall stood closed as Náith reached them. Even with half the town chanting his name in the streets below, the guards atop the gatehouse still waited for him to announce himself. ‘I am Náith! Greatest warrior in all Luah Fáil!’ he called. ‘Here to speak with Aodhamar himself! Open these gates, you gawping nonny-boys!’
A thick-chested guard, seemingly in charge, motioned to one of the others before casting a rueful glance at the crowd below. He was a sour-faced bastard, possessed of a jealous sneer and lacking the proper respect his name commanded; so Náith turned, acknowledged the crowd’s favour with a brief show of his palm, stirring them to a fever pitch. His name was soon thundering from hillside, and the stocky fellow turned away with an ugly grimace. Náith smiled to himself, wallowing in his impertinence. There was a rattle and thud as the bar was lifted from the gates. They swung inward on stout hinges.
‘Stay where you are,’ a voice barked. A line of warriors waited for him beyond it on the defensive slope, iron blades flaring in the sun. The sour-faced fucker from the gatehouse was at their fore, his expression dark as he waved a pair of nameless wretches forward. ‘Your sword,’ he snapped, ‘none may bear arms in the Flame of Crath Crógadh.’
Náith cocked an eyebrow, stepped back with a hand on its hilt. The pair paused, slid halfway into duelling stances and seemed to think better of it, sharing nervous looks. Not a sack between them. ‘No hay-stroking cattle-fondler handles this blade,’ Náith snarled. ‘Since when did the mighty Aodhamar start fearing a sharp edge?’
‘The Enkindled’s will is not ours to question,’ the sour-faced one sneered. ‘The sword.’ Bowstrings creaked above. A hedge of arrows sparked in the sun.
Náith considered them, bit his tongue. The town was still chanting his name. He matched stares with Sour-Face. ‘Far be it from me to shit on Aodhamar’s doorstep.’ He unbuckled his sword belt, launched it at Sour-Face between those two dithering fanny-boys. The prick snatched it out of the air, curled his pale lip as he looked it over. ‘You take care of her,’ Náith warned, ‘it’s rare I let a woman touch that weapon. Try to act like a man while she’s in your hand.’
One of the lickspittles stifled a laugh, falling quiet at a look from Sour-Face. Náith gave the crowd below one last wave before he shouldered past the two cowards in his way. He barged past Sour-Face and his line of cock-ticklers, making sure he thudded into the arsehole’s shoulder on the way. He allowed himself a smirk as the prick staggered and snapped, ‘Shut the fucking gates!’ at his gawping louts. ‘You two! Escort duty! Go! Make sure he hasn’t stowed another blade on him!’
The gates slammed shut, drowning out the town’s cheering. ‘Touch me, and I’ll feed you each other’s fingers,’ Náith warned the two sackless dribblers that came trotting after him. They kept their hands to themselves, following after him as he marched up the defensive slope and onto the stone-strewn path to Aodhamar’s repugnant hall.
The Flame of Crath Crógadh rose before him, a singularly repulsive piece of architecture. It was a towering, pointed thing, plated in rich metals so that it resembled a golden briar thorn thrust through black earth. Something in its crafting, some hidden sorcery or trick of its architects, made the hall’s peak seem to waver and ripple as it was approached, as though it truly were ablaze. It was supposed to be a beacon of hope for the people of Ardas Machad, the brazen flame of their future. It was nothing but an obscenity wrought in plundered gold.
A peculiar sight waited for Náith beneath the hall’s majesty. The earthen walls were lined with warriors, more warriors than were needed to guard a place so high and fortified as this. The Flame was as much hillfort as it was hall and palace. Spear and sword flashed in the sun as Náith walked, stony faces huddling as men whispered together of his presence. A dour atmosphere hung over the place almost visibly, like the haze over a particularly ripe pile of shit. Náith pursed his lips and passed into the shadow of the Flame’s gilded doors.
‘Step forth, Náith, and kneel before His Enkindled Majesty! Aodhamar! King of Ardas Machad!’
The herald minced away to stand beside the throne, and Náith’s boots clacked over a marble floor as he made his way across the court’s glittering expanse. Draped in robes of shimmering gold, silver hair spilling down a broad shoulder, the Enkindled King’s stare followed his approach. Pallid flames consumed Aodhamar’s eyes, as ever they did, writhing like marsh ghosts in his skull, the sorcery in his blood unwilling to be constrained by mere flesh.
Ten paces short of Aodhamar’s golden throne, Náith cut a simpering bow – just flowery enough to let all watching know he mocked them – and knelt, face down to the floor as was proper. He could see himself reflected in the polished marble and smirked at his own foolishness.
Silence hung for longer than was comfortable, made the shifting feet and clearing throats among the columns awkward and jarring. Náith held back a frown. He could feel Aodhamar’s burning eyes scraping over him, prickling bug-legs nipping at hi
s skin. Something about such silences always bothered him, and the bastard knew it, knew he’d burst like a bag of water and fill the void. ‘Bit of a chilly welcome in your halls as of late, Your Enkindledness,’ Náith said, lifting his head to peer about the shimmering court.
Pop. There went the bag.
Aodhamar’s silver brow lifted the barest fraction of an inch. A whisper of distaste ran through the courtiers huddled between the columns in their finery and foppery, dainty hands screening mouths that uttered contempt.
‘I hear you killed Mag Cáitha,’ Aodhamar bellowed, his voice echoing a dozen times greater than it had right to from the carved, golden walls. Náith winced at its volume, wondering for a moment if this garish shithole of a chamber had been crafted for just such a purpose – to make Aodhamar seem that much grander.
‘That I did,’ Náith declared, standing and wiggling his finger in a ringing ear. A horrified gasp ran through the hall, set it simmering like a pan of stew. ‘And I kicked his head from the Southern Heartlands into the Western Glens while I was at it.’ He flexed an arm.
‘Kneel before the Enkindled King!’ A great lump of a man stepped toward him, accusing finger shaking and face contorted with rage. Náith cast a brief look over him. A towering meathead festooned with muscles that twitched and bunched like a Geath’s. A bodyguard, probably chosen for his intimidating aesthetic. Náith almost clucked his tongue that a warrior such as Aodhamar would have chosen his guardian so poorly, but the Enkindled waved the man back into place beside the throne.
‘Mag Cáitha was my servant,’ Aodhamar thundered, ‘my warrior. My vassal. Why would you do such a thing?’
‘Because he was an arsehole. And I laid with his woman. Twice.’ Náith planted his fists on his hips, cocking a suggestive eyebrow at the courtiers snarling at him on both sides. ‘And for that he challenged me to a duel. Which I won,’ he added, as the courtiers’ outrage pounded the golden walls. The pale flames of Aodhamar’s eyes suddenly roared, wreathing the spear-like arches of his tall crown, a raised hand bringing swift silence.
Náith growled to himself as he looked upon the burning face of his former comrade. He had not been so… utterly sorcerous last time their paths had crossed. How much of the Earthblood had Aodhamar consumed, to be so overflowing with its power? What had he done? What more could he have possibly done?
‘Is this why you summoned me, old friend?’ Náith said, pushing the thought aside. It had been many years since Aodhamar had been the man he’d once known. ‘Am I to be punished for winning a duel?’ Another moment’s silence crawled over Náith with nipping spiderlegs, its weight growing with every shitty little step.
‘Sreng has returned.’
A ripple of terrified muttering circled the court, fop and dandy alike pressing the backs of delicate hands to their troubled foreheads. ‘Truly?’ said Náith, raking them all with a disparaging eye and wishing he had the demon’s legendary killing stare. ‘The Fomonán King lives?’
Aodhamar’s head dipped its assent. ‘It seems the beast survived the Battle of Sá Tailteann.’
You failed to kill him, you mean, thought Náith.
As though he heard Náith’s thoughts, the flames of Aodhamar’s eyes burned brighter, white suns blazing above bared teeth. ‘Do not think I have not looked into the face of my own shortcomings, Náith, son of Dáithan.’ The entire hall blazed with the flames of Aodhamar’s eyes, the walls shimmering as if molten. Courtiers whimpered, fell back and cringed away from their Enkindled King. ‘My spear tore a mortal wound through Sreng’s heart at that battle. Yet not a moon’s half-turn ago did a young boy enter my court, speaking of fire pouring from the far peaks of Crath Gulfáil, of demons dancing against the skyline, chanting the bastard’s name!’
Náith opened his mouth, but Aodhamar shot to his feet. ‘And what was a young lad doing on those forsaken crags, you ask? He was following a flying fucking head! Mag Cáitha’s head!’
‘Then you’re welcome for the warning,’ Náith quipped, cutting a bow.
Aodhamar swept out his hand, and in a blaze of fire and fitful cries, his war spear appeared in his hand. The very weapon that had ripped Sreng’s heart in two. Srengbolga, a ruthless thing, forged by the hands of Ogmodh the Smith. The Enkindled lowered its broad point toward Náith, the runes along its edges lit as if with some inner flame. ‘You will take your covetous hide to Crath Gulfáil. You will slay Sreng and rid me of the beast’s curse at last. I lost much, fighting that creature and its squealing horde in the Age of Embers. Do this, and I will forgive your murder of honoured Mag Cáitha.’
Náith snorted. ‘So I must risk my life against the Fomonán King, because the Enkindled One no longer recognises the Blood Law of Nuan?’
‘You will risk your life against Sreng because I am your Enkindled King and you are but an insubordinate once-champion who forgets his place!’
Náith’s tongue scraped the back of his teeth, a virulent rebuke lurking just behind them. It almost spilled through, but Aodhamar’s raving silenced him again.
‘I am due to bring war upon that southern bog-dredger and his army of eel-fishers, Crofan Tarbeard. I will not leave my kingdom’s western reaches open to Sreng and his Fomonán demonkin! Go. Redeem yourself, Náith. Or you will find this court grows colder for you than winter upon the Sisters’ peaks. This is your quest. Your penance. So be it witnessed and understood by this court.’
Aodhamar slammed Srengbolga’s butt twice upon his golden dais, and the weapon rippled with flame, vanishing from his hand. Smoothing cloth of gold robes, he sat back upon his throne, the inferno of his eyes shrinking down to a mere smouldering. ‘Go,’ he bade.
Náith turned away without a bow, mouth running numb as he ground his teeth. Tittering came from the walls, between the columns. Someone boohooed at him and earned themselves a widespread cackle. It must have been euphoric for these soft-palmed court dandy-boys, to watch him sent away from his master’s hall like a whipped hound. Náith’s fists were shaking, but he could throw no punches here, offer no challenges to these worms – not without Aodhamar turning either Srengbolga or one of his stolen magicks upon him. Every voice was another lash across his back, stoking his rage until Náith was sure it could have melted this gilded shit-pot and drowned the fucking lot of them. How glorious a sight that would have been. Drowning the Enkindled King in a boiling lake of the gold he lusted after.
‘Náith.’
Aodhamar’s voice pulled him from savage fantasy. Náith stopped but kept his back to Aodhamar, regarded him over his shoulder. ‘A thing I wish to know… is it true you killed the King of Elk?’ Aodhamar called, drumming his fingers upon a golden arm rest. Náith’s lip quivered furiously. He forced his tongue to comply.
‘Cut its head off, right under that spear-stroker Luw’s nose. Outhunted the Hunter himself.’ He flexed an arm half-heartedly for the watching courtiers. Never would these worms say that Náith did not boast of his many accomplishments. ‘What of it?’
Aodhamar stroked his beard, a rope of braided silver down his gold-laden chest. ‘A shame. There was much power in its blood, I am told. I assume nothing remains of it?’
‘Not a thing,’ snapped Náith.
‘Wasteful. Very wasteful. But not unexpected, coming from you. Such beasts are few, now, and precious. You should have brought it to me or sent word of your hunt. I would have seen to it that the proper rituals for the blood extraction were followed. I would have rewarded you.’
‘You’ve already drunk enough Earthblood to see you through an age, Aodhamar,’ said Náith. ‘I remember a time when you fought to deny men such power. We all know the madness it can bring.’
A heartbeat’s silence followed, Aodhamar’s stare was a hot iron on the side of his face. ‘Remind me why I tolerate your existence, Náith,’ the Enkindled said.
‘I’ve arms that can crush mountains, and a cock that can split the sea!’
Náith flexed both hulking arms, kissed his biceps, and clicked his heels as
he marched out of the hall, the outrage of Aodhamar’s arsekissers tearing after him.
Outside, he strode furiously across the stinking courtyard, ignoring the stares and whispers of the men patrolling the Flame’s walls. He made his way toward the gatehouse, where a knot of warriors stood around that gurning prick, Sour-Face. He was in their gawp-mouthed midst, waving Náith’s sword about, moving through unskilled strokes like a street-mummer who’d watched a few sparring sessions. The look on his face was more terror than sour though, when Náith barged through their ring and sank a fist into his gut. The sword went spinning high as Sour-Face went down, and Náith plucked it from the air, shouldering the blade.
‘I told you she needs a man’s touch, fanny-boy,’ he snarled. Sour-Face gave no answer but drew a shrieking breath and clawed feebly at Náith’s boot. Náith shook off his weakling’s fingers and snatched his sword belt from about Sour-Face’s waist, a boot rolling him into the shins of his churls. He stormed through the other side of their circle, making for the swiftly-opening gates, standing taller than he had done since arriving.
There really was nothing quite like landing a good punch to lift the spirits.
Chapter 6
Sreng the Everburning
Ah, but there had been a time they’d been friends, once. No. Something greater. War-brothers. Back before the cliffs of Nal Nemue, that was, when Aodhamar had sucked the Earthblood from the Báin Gorta’s heart. Dark days, those, ones spent in the shadow of old King Dál’s death but studded with bright memories of comradeship and the shared tragedies of war that bind men as brothers. A no-name warlord of the spear and his champion of the sword, turning the tide against those ambitious bastard-kings of the Heartlands and the south. The stuff of fucking ballads.
Those bonds seemed not so sacred as they once had, though, as the shadow of Crath Gulfáil loomed across the western skyline, growing with every mile that Náith put between him and Aodhamar. He gave its jagged, black line a frown. Its bleak ridges were like broken teeth grinding against the sky’s bruised flesh. A malignant sight, marking the end of a four-day journey through the majesty of Ardas Machad’s western glens. Náith had once ran the length of Luah Fáil in less than half a day. He could have been here in a handful of hours, had he wanted, but he was in no rush to see this done. It was said the old Nuankin hero, Crath Bloodsinger, died fighting here. Run through by the spear of the ancient warlord, Tárchan Stormheart, when the earth was shattered by the sorceries of his bitch-queen, Aráne the Spearmaiden. These broken crags were the dark memory of that ancient battle, a cursed place that drank the blood of honoured, named men. Náith had no doubt that this quest was intended to be a death sentence.
Horns of the Hunter: Tales of Luah Fáil Book 1 Page 4