Horns of the Hunter: Tales of Luah Fáil Book 1

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘And you, Cu Náith, have placed his heart in the hands of that twisted, life-giving deceiver.’ Aodhamar’s hand whipped out across the hearth, the flames dying in a gust of red sparks, gloom rushing to take its place once more. ‘The lives lost will rest solely upon your head.’

  Náith squinted, staring at the cinders’ ebbing glow, uncomfortable pieces melding within. ‘She can’t possibly mean to… to resurrect Tárchan? Only Fomonán parasites defile the dead.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the Enkindled shrugged. ‘I don’t know what she intends, or if it will work. But Tárchan’s heart is born of a power that still blights this earth. If it is awakened, if it is unleashed, it will be an ending like no other for our people. None will survive. You know this, Cu Náith, you and I have both seen the truth of it in Gólga – what scars the sky there is more than mere lightning. I will not stand idle and let her loose the Stormheart upon Luah Fáil.’

  I want to see a storm, she’d said.

  ‘Síle…’ Náith buried his face in his hands, the death-god’s words trailing over his shoulders like a tattered grave shroud. I will not let Tárchan go… she will not have him.

  Síle… what have you done? He clawed at the mask of Ancu welded to his face, at the guilt that crawled like swarming beetles beneath. What have I done?

  ‘I must find her, Náith,’ said Aodhamar. He was still staring at the ashes of Síle’s hearth, his burning eyes unblinking. ‘Help me, old friend.’

  ‘Use your precious Sight,’ snapped Náith.

  ‘Would that I could,’ Aodhamar huffed, ‘that seed-planting witch has wreathed her Earthbond tight about herself. It’s like digging through a bed of thorns trying to find her – press too hard into it and I am like to blind myself. Foolish of me to underestimate that one. She spent so many generations healing our people, I thought Nuan’s schemes had her caged. Not in a hundred lifetimes did I think she would find one capable of conquering Ancu.’ He looked at Náith, something almost meek in the way his eyes flickered. ‘Can you think of anything – any place she might have mentioned to you? A place of importance? Sentiment, maybe?’

  ‘None,’ Náith rumbled, slouching elbow upon knee. It rankled to think just how little he’d truly known her. How stupid he’d been. Yet… even if he’d known where she had gone… he didn’t have the heart to betray her. Not to Aodhamar. Not to anyone.

  The Enkindled King laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. ‘Help me find her,’ he uttered, ‘none know her mind so well as you.’ Náith snorted at that, and Aodhamar’s face grew grave. ‘Please. You’ve seen the evil that lurks over Gólga, what Tárchan’s wrath did to that land. Do not let her unleash it upon us again, none alive have the strength of old Nuan to hold back the Stormheart.’

  Náith bit his tongue, looked up at his old friend. Aodhamar had changed since he had last seen him in Iarma. Strands of fire twisted beneath his pale skin, crept subtly over the tips of hair and beard like the glowing edge of parchment put to the flame, drifting in and out of being as though his very blood was alight. Crofan Tarbeard was dead then, and Aodhamar, it seemed, was another gutful of Earthblood closer to becoming fire itself.

  ‘Help me,’ the Enkindled said again. ‘Do this, and your exile will be forgotten, your honour restored. You will bear arms as my champion once more and lead my warriors across Luah Fáil.’

  This mess is mine to fix, Náith realised. No other’s. The weight of that realisation sank its blunt teeth through him, filling him with a worthlessness that tore and snatched at his heart. All those years spent fighting at Aodhamar’s side, warring against the southern kings and their butchery. And now, he had handed Síle the means to slaughter them all.

  His stupidity swelled into the silence like a malformed shadow, trying to swallow every scrap she’d left of him. How fucking blind he’d been, chasing the ghost of a love that had never existed – not for her, at least. He almost twisted about that thought, curled and withered upon its flame, its jagged edges scraping at his insides. But he was Cu Náith, and never would it be said that his sorrow showed for even a moment, or that he quailed in the face of a grim end.

  ‘Shove your rewards up your smouldering arse,’ Náith spat, shrugging off Aodhamar’s hand as he stood. ‘I don’t need your bribery.’ He clapped a fist to his chest, making oddments rattle upon their shelves. ‘I am Cu Náith, and I will take no rest until I have found Síle.’

  A knowing, annoying grin spread across the Enkindled King’s face, as if he’d been waiting for that very answer. He stood, robes flowing like liquid gold, and clasped Náith’s arm. ‘Then you and I will stand as brothers, one last time.’

  Náith snorted. ‘We will see.’

  Raised voices came drifting about the open front door, shattering their camaraderie. Aodhamar swept away without a word, the door slamming beneath his stride. Náith went after him, blinking as he stepped into weak daylight. A handful of the Enkindled’s warriors were gathered at the northern end of Síle’s garden, pointing fearfully at something beyond the dark line of the Southern Forest.

  Náith stopped, staring with mouth agape, their panic fading to a distant buzz. The forest was dead. The trees clawed black at the sickly, sulphurous haze that wreathed them, their branches splayed like shrivelled fingers. It had been as virile and verdant as ever, the morning that Síle had ruined his face… surely such a thing could not happen so swiftly?

  How long was I out? Náith rubbed at a lingering ache in his temple, the stiffness in his limbs suddenly sinister.

  ‘A storm!’ a warrior called through the babble. ‘A storm upon the Sisters!’

  Náith’s attention was snatched back, and he forced his way through the warriors’ throng to stand beside Aodhamar. The two stared northward together, over the splintered forest canopy, to where dark clouds gathered over the distant peaks of the Sisters. There was a foulness to them, as though the eye found something repulsive in their depths even so many miles away. Pale lightning pulsed through the clouds, throbbing like a swollen, poisoned vein before the murk swallowed it.

  ‘It seems as though the Spearmaiden has lit us a beacon,’ said Aodhamar, turning away and gripping one of the warriors by the shoulder. ‘Gather the men! We march for the Sisters immediately!’

  Náith lingered a moment longer as Aodhamar’s warriors filed out of the garden, his gaze fixed upon the storm upon the horizon. The clouds were turning unnaturally, spiralling inward over the Sisters’ peaks in a black vortex. How long had he been out, for her to reach the Sisters already?

  Long enough to give herself a head start, he realised, the stiffness of his back seeming to double upon itself. You know I’m coming for you, true-heart. He caught sight of Aodhamar’s gilded form below, moving through the knots of his men. And I am not alone.

  Náith turned away, jogging after the Enkindled’s warband across the trampled flowerbeds of Síle’s garden.

  Chapter 23

  Faces of Death

  The warband departed before Náith even reached the rearguard, tearing apart the tender rows of Síle’s garden and crashing straight through its boundary wall. Náith fought the stiffness in his legs and sprinted alongside the column, toward where Aodhamar tore across the land like a golden flame. One of the men thrust an arm out as Náith drew near, his sword belt dangling from his fist. He took it with a grunt of thanks, casting a glance behind as he joined Aodhamar at the band’s head.

  One hundred stone-faced Nuankin warriors with sword, spear and bow bristling at shoulder and hip as they cut northward, making straight for the Southern Forest. It had been a long, long time since he had marched with such numbers. Almost a conquering force, enough to make even the greatest of the southern kings pray their lands would go unnoticed.

  It should have filled him with pride – a last chance to march out in Aodhamar’s warband. But there was no crueller jest of fate, that he should march with a mask-shredded face, intent on bringing his true-heart to heel before the Enkindled King.

  Náith kicke
d the thought aside, put his head down, and ran. There would be time yet to stop Aodhamar’s ire being loosed upon Síle. Less, to stop her bringing Tárchan’s wrath down upon them all.

  The warband tore through the gentler slopes beyond Síle’s home and plunged through the Southern Forest’s dead border. A stinking miasma slapped Náith in the face, hit the back of his throat and made him wretch. The warriors behind coughed and hacked, spat to the side as they ran – even Aodhamar grunted at the reek. The forest was consumed by rot – its trees, its glades and gullies – all were disgorging black filth or crumbling. It was as if a wave of disease had been unleashed upon the place.

  Or death, Náith thought, reminded of Ancu’s form as he eyed one roiling black pool. He pressed on with a shiver.

  The warband burst through the deep of the forest’s corruption, a blunt spearhead smashing dead trees into clouds of drifting ash and churning the putrid earth. The Sisters loomed grimmer as they neared the forest’s edge, their storm a black stain bleeding into the scorched sky. They would reach their feet before evening fell, if the warband’s pace held. A jagged bolt stabbed through the storm clouds. Náith bit down, forced his legs to swiftness against the protests of stiff muscles and took a rise in the land at a sprint, leaving Aodhamar and his men straggling behind.

  I am coming, true-heart.

  A shadow dropped from the trees into his path. Náith turned on his side, boots tearing a furrow through the earth as he halted, belching a cloud of choking, ashen dust about him. He staggered, went down to his knees coughing and waving it away. A score of paces ahead, a figure rose through the cloying shroud. Steel glimmered through the murk, the crowning points of antlers.

  ‘Get out of my fucking way, spear-stroker.’ Náith’s sword cleared its scabbard. ‘I’ve no time for this feud today!’

  His blade lowered though, as Luw stepped through the murk between them – skin and antler bone-grey with clinging ash. Pale flames ran along the blade of the Hunter’s spear. He wore Ancu’s face.

  *

  Luw’s breath caught behind his mask of bone as the warrior’s sword lowered. The face of Ancu stared back at him through a veil of dust-bleached hair. Luw blinked, smothering his confusion as a swarm of Nuankin thugs appeared at Náith’s back, swords flaring and bows creaking. The Enkindled King himself strode forth from among them to stand at the warrior’s shoulder, his ever-burning eyes flaring indignantly. ‘What is the meaning of this, Hunter?’ Aodhamar barked. ‘Step aside!’

  Luw ignored him and swept Maebhara’s point accusingly across their ranks. ‘You Nuankin reavers are trespassing in my forest.’

  ‘I told you I’ve no time for this!’ Náith spat before Aodhamar could answer. He slipped into his fighting stance, sword laid along his pudgy forearm. A wretched image cast itself across Luw’s mind, of how Ancu had come hissing and screeching for him with its dripping blades. How could he be wearing its face?

  ‘What is this trickery, braggart?’ He jabbed Maebhara at the warrior’s mask.

  ‘No tricks here, spear-swallower,’ Náith hissed, ‘move, or I will crush you just as I crushed Ancu.’

  It can’t be. Doubt pricked the back of Luw’s mind, the death-god’s whispers lapping at his ears again. How else could he be wearing its face?

  ‘This forest grows upon my land, sprite,’ Aodhamar spoke, stepping closer through Luw’s moment of silence. ‘Move, now, before I forget my oaths to you.’

  Luw snorted, shook himself and raised Maebhara again. ‘You must think me slow-witted. I know why you scavengers of misery intrude upon my home! I will let no harm come to my dear Síle – not from tyrants.’ The spear’s point drifted toward Náith. ‘And not from butchers!’

  The flames of Aodhamar’s eyes flared furiously as his Nuankin throng jeered, spat and offered the threats of their blades, their bluster shaking the trees. ‘We’ve been deceived, Luw,’ Náith called. ‘We’ve been fools! Síle means to burn us all! She must be stopped! Aid us, or move aside!’

  ‘I have been a fool,’ Luw agreed. ‘I should have put my arrow through your bastard’s heart when you slaughtered the King of Elk, and spared myself the misery your shadow spreads. But no more.’

  ‘This is not about us, Luw!’

  ‘She is mine, warrior.’ Luw took a step toward him, a bellowing chorus of outrage bursting from the Nuankin ranks, blades clanging.

  ‘She is Tárchan Stormheart’s!’

  ‘Tárchan is dead,’ Luw sneered, ‘and my spear has cast Ancu back into the Otherworld. Síle is mine.’

  ‘She has his heart, you fucking fool!’ Aodhamar roared, its force shredding a wave of dead trees. Luw noticed it then, through the falling cloud of ashen grit. The hound’s skull that rode Náith’s shoulder, painted with warding runes.

  ‘Bann…’ Maebhara lowered, almost slipped from his numb hand, her blade biting dead earth.

  Náith’s sword lowered in kind, the warrior cautiously breaking stance, a hand waving the horde at his back to silence. ‘There will be time enough for this another day, spear-gobbler,’ he uttered. ‘I never forget a grudge.’

  ‘Stand down, sprite,’ Aodhamar growled. ‘Final warning. Let us pass, or you will burn –’

  ‘Fucking bastard!’

  Ash and dust billowed as Maebhara cleaved the earth behind Luw’s lunge, her blade flashing skyward in a dark spray. Blades met. Sparks flew. The chime of clashing iron shrieking through the dead forest, a shockwave scattering a veil of dirt in a broad circle about them.

  ‘Kill him!’

  Bowstrings answered Aodhamar’s command, Nuankin voices roaring as rage took Luw, snatching him down into its red, screaming depths. He spun away from Náith, an arrow scraping a burning furrow along his back, another searing along his thigh. He barely felt it, knocking aside the answering slash of Náith’s sword. He turned, slammed Maebhara’s stave into the gut of the Nuankin thug that tried to flank him, turning back to sweep her blade down the face of another. Bows creaked, snapped, and Luw stepped off, spinning Maebhara in a silver wheel before him. Arrows shattered against her haft, pelting the ground where he’d stood, the staggered warrior pitching into his warband feathered like a winterfowl.

  Flames suddenly flickered between the Nuankins’ shuffling ranks. Luw dived to the side behind a sagging tree, rolling clear of it at the first snarl of flung fire. The tree burst into stinking chunks, spraying Luw with steaming filth. He turned as a roar sounded behind him, rising and slashing high with Maebhara, her blade checking the fall of Náith’s sword. The warrior closed the distance, twisting his weapon about to hook its cross-guard about Maebhara’s haft, its blade perilously close to Luw’s neck and their weapons bound tight.

  ‘Go!’ Náith snarled at Aodhamar over his shoulder, the Enkindled King’s hands full of pallid flames. ‘This is my feud! I will find you at the Sisters!’

  Luw grunted, feet slipping in loose earth beneath the warrior’s abysmal strength. He saw Aodhamar nod and sweep away in a glittering blur, the ground rumbling as the Nuankin departed after their golden tyrant. He gave Náith a sneer through the gap between spear and sword. ‘Just us now, braggart.’

  ‘It was always just you and me, dandy-boy.’ Náith hauled on his sword, dragging Luw close enough behind his spear so that he could smell the old-meat musk of the warrior’s breath. ‘But now is not the time.’

  Náith turned suddenly, sword twisting as he moved, dragging Luw to the ground in a cloud of rot-spores and dust. Luw rose, snarling as he tore after Náith’s fleeing silhouette. Maebhara’s fire filled him, her blessing of speed shredding the distance between them. The warrior cast a confused glance over his shoulder, stopping suddenly and turning into a vicious cut. Luw leapt over the blow, twisting his body about the blade, landing behind Náith and rising immediately to check the warrior’s second strike.

  Luw kicked Náith back and shot into the opening, attacking relentlessly – a maddened, shrieking beast, swinging Maebhara wildly, her blade wreathing them both in sil
ver fire. Náith was taken off guard, staggering away behind his turning sword as he fought off the savagery of Luw’s assault. The forest fell to pieces about them – the impact of their blades scattering crumbling trees to the wind, bursting those bloated and corrupted by the Earthblood’s theft.

  ‘Stop, Luw!’ Náith cried, slipping about a ruthless thrust of Maebhara. His monstrous sword whipped about to shatter her stave, but she turned in Luw’s hands, her butt slapping the flat of the blade and knocking the warrior off to the side. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing! Let me go!’

  Luw laughed as he rolled beneath Náith’s clumsy slash, leaping high to stab at his exposed neck. ‘You had no mercy for Bann,’ he snarled, landing and sweeping her butt about at Náith’s skull. ‘You had none for me when you left my life a ruin!’

  Náith caught a rising, backhand blow upon his sword, finding his stance as their blades were bound, grinding iron spitting red sparks. ‘You thrust yourself into mine like a leech, you spear-polishing rat!’ He heaved, threw Luw back from him in a wave of ash and dry rot. Luw turned in the air, landing on hand and foot in a low sprawl. Náith’s silhouette vanished through the gritty cloud, a black blur streaking toward the storm-wracked Sisters upon the northern horizon. Luw snarled, Maebhara held to the side as he tore after the warrior.

  *

  Náith ploughed through the dead forest, chest burning, his feet carrying him more swiftly than all the winds of Luah Fáil. That fool Luw had lost his mind, and there was no time to share the dance of blades with an idiot such as him. The storm was deepening over the Sisters, a bleak mantle of seething cloud that refused the sun and drank the sky.