Horns of the Hunter: Tales of Luah Fáil Book 1

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘So, Sreng is dead,’ Aodhamar spoke at last, his dire voice magnified by whatever sorcery was hidden in the hall’s construction. ‘And yet still you have failed me, Náith.’

  He could have spat back a dozen or more times Aodhamar had failed him, had betrayed his trust and sullied their friendship. How, standing there and then awaiting judgement in that gilded court, was he to shit on every moment they had called each other friend. Brother. Yet Náith stayed quiet on those thoughts, as they fought their skirmish at the back of his mind.

  ‘I have,’ he said.

  Aodhamar’s grumbling shook the polished floor, the poison whispering of his courtiers cloying between the columns. ‘You are but a series of disappointments to me, Náith,’ said Aodhamar. ‘Too often have you flouted my laws, insulted me and fallen back on the favour I lavish on you from our days of war. I gave you a final chance to redeem your standing, your name in this court, and you failed. There is no atonement for one such as you, and I will tolerate you no more.’

  A cold hand dragged Náith’s heart down into his writhing guts. Cheers rang out through the hall, glittering fists punching palms, throttling brittle air. Náith kept himself still, clenched his teeth and kept the horror from bleeding through. Aodhamar stood and swept out his hand. Srengbolga flared into existence. He thudded its butt upon his dais, its thunder bringing the quiet once more. The Enkindled lowered its blade toward Náith, its edge gleaming gold.

  ‘Náith, son of Dáithan, let it be known and recorded that this court deems you guilty of the murder of my warrior servant, Mag Cáitha.’

  Aodhamar’s dainty arsekissers whistled, hollered, the hall bouncing with their acclaim. Náith straightened his back, suffered their spite, summoning what pride was left to him to meet Aodhamar’s stare. ‘As you wish, old friend,’ he said, ‘then speak my sentence and be done with this farce.’

  Aodhamar’s eyes poured flame, pale tongues wreathing his tall crown. The eye engraved at its fore glared from among them, the symbol of his powers of Sight. Something in its shape was as hateful as Aodhamar’s own stare.

  ‘Do not test me further, Náith! You are lucky I am still able to celebrate Sreng’s death, lucky that I know you took wounds in the trying!’ The Enkindled bared his teeth. The light of the Earthblood bled faintly through them like a glow through the cracks of embers. ‘In honour of our friendship, in honour of the blood we shed and spilled together, I let you keep your life today, Náith. But you are exiled from this court and the Kingdom of Ardas Machad as a murderer of honourable men. You will find no place among my warriors when I march on Tarbeard’s lands, you will find no hearth here to warm you, and no lord to call treasure-giver. You are an exile, a stranger in these lands. Be gone! Never return! Lest I turn the wrath of Srengbolga upon you and forget that we were once brothers!’

  Exile.

  The weight of that word pounded against Náith’s skull with every burning thump of his heart. He almost sagged beneath it, lay down and let it crush him. The courtiers were roaring, screaming their approval and demanding his blood, their voices melding into one ugly squall. They were wild, feral, drunk on punishment. Men will ever take a base, cruel pleasure in the fall of the lofty, of the named. And for the fall of the Enkindled’s once-champion – the mighty Náith, reduced to a disgraced vagrant – they frothed like starved hounds at a scrap of flesh.

  Náith forced himself to stand against their lashing tongues. He was a warrior, a lord of war, and he would not been seen as less. Not by squirming leeches such as these. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘I won’t kneel to one that names me friend and exile in the same breath. I have no loyalty to give a man that ignores the Blood Law of Nuan so he might call me murderer.’ His accusation set a wave of outrage crashing about the hall. Men were calling for his death and torture, competing with one another to give voice to the most gruesome and imaginative of endings. Aodhamar stared coldly, Srengbolga trembling in his hand as its butt was rested.

  Náith turned away, making for the gold-plated doors. ‘I did not dismiss you, Náith!’ Aodhamar roared, his fawners falling silent. ‘I have words for you yet, exile, and you will not leave my hall until they are said!’

  Stout men moved to block Náith’s way. For a moment, he considered punching his way through them, leaving a trail of battered little nonny-boys behind him as he left the Enkindled’s glittering hall. He spared Aodhamar a glance over his shoulder. There was nothing more to say, no words that could change what had just happened, but the exuberant bastard seemed intent on shoving one last knife in his back.

  ‘This feud of yours with the forest creature, Luw, the Hunter,’ Aodhamar snarled, ‘it… deeply concerns me. It is to end, immediately.’

  Náith snorted. ‘End? I’ve only just started with that spear-fondling little prick.’

  ‘It is to end!’ Aodhamar barked, spear-butt ringing from the dais. ‘He is the slayer of Sreng, victorious where both you and I failed, and honoured in my sight. You will cease this fools’ quarrel before there is more blood on your hands.’

  Náith turned back toward his once-lord, his Enkindled King, breathing slow. ‘No.’

  A gasp ran through the hall, flaring into the babbling outrage of the overly-privileged faced with rebellion from one so utterly beneath them. Náith took a step toward Aodhamar’s throne, pushing through their contempt and the Enkindled’s burning glare.

  ‘The words of a king have no meaning to an exile,’ Náith uttered, ‘and I will not heed the word of a man who turns his back on the one he called brother. My sword will send Luw screaming into Ancu’s arms. It has been sworn, and the blood runs deep through this feud.’

  The flames of Aodhamar’s eyes burned brighter, making a pale skull of his grey face. ‘You were always a fool, Náith. But feuding over a woman… I thought even you had more sense than to spill blood over such a thing.’ He lowered Srengbolga again to offer the threat of its blade. ‘You will forget this feud with the Hunter and end your affair with that seed-growing witch. A dark heart grows in that one. You do not see how she nurtures with the one hand and reaps with the other. This will end, Náith, before it costs you more than just your braggard’s honour. This is my final command as your king.’

  Náith spat at the foot of Aodhamar’s throne. He couldn’t stop himself. The mention of Síle stirred something black and hateful in his breast, made his jaw clench, lips trembling about bared teeth. There was no outrage from the Enkindled’s fawners, no voice given to the insult he’d just dealt – it was too grave a thing for any to dare stir at such a moment. Aodhamar’s eyes lingered on the blob, white flames trailing. Something of sorrow lurked in them, even through the Earthblood’s immolation.

  Srengbolga vanished in a swirl of red fire, Aodhamar’s hand falling back to his side. There was the tiniest twitch of the Enkindled’s fingers before he turned away. The hulking guardian beside the throne came lumbering toward Náith with a roar and a raised fist. Náith’s uppercut lifted him from the marble floor, sent him crashing back down to it spitting blood and teeth. Too late, he heard the clatter of booted feet behind him. He spun, knuckles cracking a stubbled jaw, he dropped one lurking fucker as another shot in from the side and rammed his fist into Náith’s liver.

  He was aware of hitting the floor, that he couldn’t breathe, that the bastard had caught him in the exact same spot as the haft of Luw’s spear. But Aodhamar’s hall fell away in pieces, beneath the swarm of booted feet stomping all over him.

  Chapter 9

  Rejection

  Rain fell hard. Cold vengeance upon the last days of sunshine and joy. It pissed from his hood as Náith pulled his knees up to his aching chest, staring out over Crath Crógadh. The Flame rose from a sea of rain-mist, a wedge of gold shoved through its grey blanket. Náith’s mouth still tasted of blood from the beating Aodhamar’s men had dealt him, his tongue probing a long cut on the inside of one cheek. His side and back were worse, though. The pricks had thrown him down the Hill of Crath into the shit-filled mo
at with his sword. He’d hit every rock and bump on the way down, torn open every burn, scrape and cut he’d taken fighting Sreng and its Fomonán horde.

  It was not the injuries that bothered him, though, for he was Náith, and only dandy-boys let their hurts trouble them. No. The Enkindled’s words, they… lingered. Haunted him, whirring about his mind like carrion birds above a dying cow.

  You do not see how she nurtures with the one hand and reaps with the other.

  What was that supposed to mean? It was a riddle, and riddles were for simpering fops and silk-clad dainty-boys. It almost angered him as much as the slight against Síle and that arrogant bastard’s command that he not see her. Ridiculous. She was a good woman. She was pure of heart and…

  ‘She fucked that spear-stroker,’ Náith grumbled to himself, resting his aching forehead on aching forearms. The thought prickled like a briar thorn stuck through the sole of a shoe. He’d never been jealous before. Not when it came to a woman. And yet with Síle… the thought of her with anyone else gouged something vital from him. He’d longed for her, all those years they’d been apart. And yet, now…

  Náith found few things more irritating than not knowing something that should lay in plain sight. Almost knowing was one of them. Almost knowing, only to find that sliver of knowledge is but a glimpse of something you’d rather not know at all… worse again.

  He had to see her. Nothing else would settle him.

  Náith stood, turned south, and cast one last look at Crath Crógadh. The town still bustled beneath its veil of rain, unconcerned with the troubles of one man. A scaffold was climbing slowly skyward on the eastern side, thin black bones protruding from the mist. A temple was being built there, the rumours said, so all could pay tribute to Aodhamar and his rise as the Enkindled King of Ardas Machad.

  Exile seemed only right from a kingdom like this, where a man could drink the Earthblood from the bodies of beasts and conquered foes and find in it the gall to style himself a god. Náith had no place here. He never had.

  He clung to that thought as he made his way into the south to seek Síle’s comfort again, his body aching and heart leaden.

  Ah, Síle. Never would a treasure such as her grace this miserable earth again, not in a thousand lifetimes. She danced through the rain pounding her garden as Náith approached. Her laughter was sweet music through its sodden growl. Her face was turned to the iron sky, arms spread wide, wet hair whipping like a thread plucked from the night’s tapestry.

  Náith ached for her, as he watched Síle cut those twirling, barefooted patterns across the lawns and flowerbeds of her home. Rain glittered, running down her skin, shimmering about her with a silver light. Her black eyes were suddenly upon him, holding him with a cold regard, her dance at an end.

  He almost flinched back from that stare of hers but managed to find the presence of mind to lower his hood and wave a greeting over the garden wall. Síle’s chin raised slightly. Recognition. Disdain, maybe. Not what he’d hoped for by any stretch. She made no move toward him.

  Náith licked rain from his lips, swung a leg over the wall and went to her. Síle’s gaze followed him across her rain-dewed lawn, her expression not changing for one moment, even as Náith gave her the smile he saved for her alone. She stared blankly at him, rain pouring from her chin. He craved her warmth, her embrace, to soothe the wounds of his exile and battered body, but there was nothing, and it froze him down to the marrow.

  ‘Síle,’ said Náith, ‘I have missed you, my heart.’ He pushed a strand of hair from her face, hoping for the comfort of her smile. Síle’s eyes narrowed, took in the scabbing burns, bruises and jagged cuts across his face and hands. Náith felt his face fall. ‘What’s the matter, dear-heart?’

  ‘You’ve been fighting again. You stink of Fomonán,’ she said, and pushed away the hand that cupped her cheek.

  ‘I have,’ Náith conceded, glancing at his hand. Her rejection bit at his skin like hoarfrost. ‘I have been in the west, climbing Crath Gulfáil. I was sent to kill Sreng.’

  ‘And you failed,’ Síle sniped. ‘I hear Luw’s spear is the only reason you’re still breathing.’

  The rain seemed to run straight through Náith as those words left her mouth, ice crystallising at his very core. Síle backed a step away from him, as though he were a pot of oil about to take to the flame. ‘Aye,’ Náith hissed through grinding teeth. ‘That spear-toucher slew the Fomonán King.’

  Síle’s black eyes twitched, took in his rain-lashed form from dripping head to sodden boots. ‘There are whispers, these last few days,’ she said, ‘among the sick that have come to me from Crath Crógadh, seeking healing. Is it true what they’re saying? That the Enkindled King exiled you for your failure?’

  Her words were razors, colder and keener yet than the rain that slashed at Náith’s skin, than all the blades he had suffered in his years of war. All warmth and radiance was gone from her, and in their absence, confusion wound its strangling bonds about Náith’s heart. Why did she seek to hurt him so?

  ‘Not for that.’

  ‘Then for what?’ Her head turned behind a curtain of black hair, swinging heavy and wet beside one cheek. So hawkish was her look that Náith, for the first time he could remember, felt himself withdraw from her.

  ‘For many things,’ he muttered, pushing his own sopping hair back from his face. ‘Aodhamar and I are not the brothers we once were. Power makes strangers of comrades, it would seem.’

  ‘Or perhaps a lifetime of insufferable arrogance has finally taken something from you.’

  Náith stepped close before he could stop himself, towered over her, his anger the mist that coils from ice. Síle shrank back from him, from his shaking fists, into the shade of a fruit tree. Her dark eyes poured scorn upon him from behind her hair. Náith shook himself, wiped rain from his brow, a loathsome shame thawing him.

  ‘My love… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you… I would never –’

  ‘But you did.’ The shadows deepened across Síle’s face. ‘What did you come here for, Náith?’

  ‘For you, my treasure.’ He made to reach for her, but the stone in her gaze made his hand fall back to his side.

  ‘Did you think you could just show your face and I would fall into your arms and spread my legs?’

  ‘No, never, my heart. But I have missed you, and things have been… troublesome. I –’

  ‘So you come to me looking for comfort again?’ Síle snorted, a cruel sneer spreading. ‘I have none left to give you. Get gone from here, exile. I don’t want some vagrant scratching at my door looking for shelter and scraps.’ Those words cut so deep, the pain they left took a heartbeat to make itself known. Náith’s mouth worked numbly, his mind scattered, trying to find something to say that would mend the situation. But Síle’s roar was monstrous, sent thought, feeling and soul fleeing before it. ‘Go!’

  Náith found himself back at the gate of her garden wall, unable to recall the moment he’d turned away from her, the seconds before his realisation lost, smothered by the scream still resonating between his ears. Fear was in him, his heart quivering against its venom. He blinked, looking back along the path to where Síle watched him beneath the laden boughs of her tree. She was a patch of darkness among its shadows, made faint by the veil of rain between them. He could still feel her glare, her repulsion willing him away.

  Náith turned away again, stepping through the gate and onto the road beyond, her rejection riding his shoulders like a suckling, blood-gorged leech. Aodhamar’s warning echoed between the racket of its gnawing, its siphoning of his self-worth. The Enkindled King had been right. This had been a mistake.

  A dozen strides along the road, the Southern Forest’s dark canopy caught Náith’s eye, glowering black and ugly against the sky. He paused, Aodhamar’s command rattling through the misery Síle had woven for him. A fork of pale lightning dusted the treetops white, its thunderclap batting aside the rain’s hiss. A thumb traced the pommel of the sword beneath
his cloak, as Náith’s thoughts ran darkly.

  Chapter 10

  Loss

  The days were long gone, Luw reckoned, when Aodhamar might have looked upon the forests of Luah Fáil as a thing to treasure and protect. He was a mindless warlord, now, a creature of fire and spears that hungered for war and gold. And Earthblood. He cared nothing for the once-mighty forests and their looming twilight. They were fuel for the last days of his wars, game to feed his slavering brutes.

  Yet it seemed, as Luw watched Aodhamar’s latest procession of sword and spear-lugging arseholes, that the Enkindled King was keeping his promise to leave the Southern Forest unmolested.

  ‘For now, at least,’ Luw muttered. He had little faith in the words of one so consumed by Earthblood. He crouched lower as one warrior’s head turned toward his hiding place among the undergrowth. The sun flared from the blade resting upon the lout’s shoulder, tugging a low growl from Bann, his muzzle poking through the tangle of a thorn bush. ‘Shush, boy!’

  A huge number of Nuankin warriors marched south, three hundred, at least. Tall and broad bastards all of them, between twelve and fifteen feet of grey, blue-tattooed muscle apiece. Aodhamar himself marched at their head, golden robes billowing, his eyes trailing flame. The earth shuddered, both from the pounding of so many savage feet, and the horrendous thrumming of Aodhamar’s Earthbond. It seemed to shift and bend with his very presence, beneath every step he took, snapping back into place as the Enkindled moved on. The forest, too, felt as if it shook fitfully, only easing as the last of the Enkindled’s warriors vanished between the gentle folds of the Heartlands.