A Fading Sun

by Stephen Leigh

  A breath. Two. Three.

  Slowly, she felt this interior world fading, and when she opened her eyes again, she was in the temple once more. Greum was still holding her hands, but their anamacha had moved away, now appearing like the taibhsean Voada had shepherded to the sun-path and their rest in Tirnanog. Greum’s fingers relaxed, and she pulled her hands away from him quickly. He smiled under his beard at that. “For a first time, you did well,” he said. “I’ve had many that I had to pull back myself. Do you need to sit?”

  Voada realized that she was exhausted, as if she’d been involved in some tremendous physical activity for several stripes of the candle. Her legs felt weak. She did sit, letting herself slide to the floor of the temple. Greum’s own face showed traces of the same weariness, and he sat with her again, saying nothing until she spoke. “I never had to do that before to cast a spell.”

  “And how impressive were those spells you cast?” Greum asked. When Voada didn’t answer, his smile widened. “I thought so. Ceiteag … well, she’s a good and kind menach, but as a draoi, she wasn’t one of my better students. Perhaps that was my fault—I pushed her hard, and she resented that. She treated you too gently, the way she wanted to have been taught herself.”

  “Perhaps if you had been a better teacher, Ceanndraoi Greum, Ceiteag would have become a better draoi.”

  If he took offense, Voada saw no indication on his face. “Perhaps. It’s common enough for a student to blame the teacher for their failure to learn. But you should know this. Draoi have little to do with the power of the spells they cast; that comes mostly from the anamacha, who draws the power from Magh da Chèo. Some are more powerful than others; some are weak.”

  “And mine?”

  “Yours?” He laughed, a bitter sound. “Yours is hardly what I’d call weak.”

  “Because of the Moonshadow?”

  Greum shook his head. “Not entirely. But … Do you know the story of Leagsaidh Moonshadow?”

  Voada could only shake her head. “I’ve heard the name, but that’s all.”

  Greum sighed. “Listen, then …”

  “Leagsaidh Moonshadow was the Eldest,” Greum said, “the First Draoi. She was Leagsaidh of Clan Mac Cába then, the wife of the clan àrd, and she was said to be comely enough, with auburn hair that the summer sun would touch with gold and eyes the color of a deep sky late in the day. Clan Mac Cába was from the southwestern shores of Albann Deas, near where the town of Darande is now.

  “That was long ago, in the time when the White Ships arrived from the farthest south and their bloodthirsty people spilled out to ravage Cateni towns and villages, killing everyone who stood in their path. That included Leagsaidh’s husband and family and most of their clan. In the diaspora that followed, when many of the clans went north across the River Meadham and into the mountains where no people lived, Leagsaidh led the remnants of her clan north to Onglse. It was she who found the circle of blackstones, already in place and waiting—erected there, she always claimed, by Elia and the demigods.

  “It’s said that when Leagsaidh touched the central stone—which is now the altar that you see in front of you, Voada—a presence trapped in the stone leapt out: the Moonshadow. The Moonshadow was the source-anamacha, the first being to bring a Cateni into Magh da Chèo, the guide who would show Leagsaidh how to use the power there, and the Mother of all the anamacha to come.

  “Being first, being the only, Leagsaidh became the most powerful of the draoi as well.

  “And eventually, wielding that power would drive her mad.

  “As Ceiteag undoubtedly warned you, Voada, using any anamacha can be dangerous to a draoi. You’ve just barely begun to understand that. Just think of how it must have been for Leagsaidh, with no one to guide her and whose anamacha contained a demigod, its fierce power burning in her mind, a presence wild and difficult rising constantly within her. I find it amazing that she was able to remain sane for as long as she did.

  “But she did. For the next several years, others came to Onglse who had the ability to draw their own anamacha from the blackstone—drawn, perhaps, by Leagsaidh unlocking it—though none of these new anamacha were comparable in power to Leagsaidh’s own. Yet she helped guide the new draoi so they could use these other, weaker demigods.

  “When it seemed all the anamacha that the blackstone contained had been freed, Leagsaidh Moonshadow led her draoi followers southward once more as their ceanndraoi—to war. To wipe those of the White Ships from Albann. All the tales of that time say that the war was both terrible and long, though it’s impossible to know whether those stories are true or simply fanciful, grand legends. What we do know is that the spells of the new draoi slowly pushed the enemy back and back, and where Leagsaidh Moonshadow walked, none could stand against her. But the power she held was already tearing at her, consuming her more with each passing moon, and she was becoming more irrational and difficult to deal with even as her ability to wield spells grew.

  “In the final battle with those of the White Ships on Ìseal Head—the same place where, long years later, the Mundoa would first come to Albann—the people of the White Ships surrendered the field, but the Moonshadow fought on, wanting to kill them to the last and refusing to listen to those who counseled her to stop.

  “In the end, she turned against her own draoi and warriors when they tried to interfere.

  “They killed her, because she left them no choice. Because she was insane with power. Because she could no longer be reasoned with, and she considered anyone who stood against her to be an enemy.

  “That was Leagsaidh Moonshadow. That is who is hidden deep within your anamacha. And that is who you must be careful to never bring forth.

  “But,” Greum finished, “the story of the Moonshadow’s life ended ages ago, and the older the soul, the more difficult it is to find and to use. You haven’t met the Moonshadow yet. No, those presences you’ve felt were the most recent of the draoi inside—Iomhar, perhaps, and those before him who had the anamacha you now hold—but not the Moonshadow. Had it been her …” His shoulders lifted and fell again under his tunic. “I would have pulled you back here immediately. You would not have survived her touch, Voada. Not yet. Maybe never.”

  She took that in, nodding gravely. “What I just did … will I have to do this every time?”

  “If you want to be more than some sad bog draoi that people come to for herbs and spells to make their livestock breed, yes. You need to know how to open yourself fully and how to best use the souls within your anamacha for what they can give you.”

  “Then show me.” Voada felt the anger and grief surging up in her. She wanted this, wanted to have the power Greum hinted at. Wanted to use it. Orla, Hakan, I’ve not forgotten you or abandoned you. I will come back. Soon. I promise. Soon.

  “Not today,” Greum said, as if answering her internal thoughts. “We both need to rest and recover first. Come to me here tomorrow at midday, and we’ll begin.” His dark gaze bored into her. “And I’ll push you far harder than I ever did with Ceiteag, Voada. I’ll push you because there’s so little time. I’ll push you because that’s the only way to see if you’ll shatter under the pressure.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Greum chuckled at that. “Oh, you will, despite everything you think right now. You’ll hate me for what I’ll do, but you’ll be a draoi who can make the Mundoa tremble.” He paused a moment and laboriously rose to his feet. “Or you will if you don’t break in the process, friend of Savas,” he added.

  14

  A Challenge Offered

  ALTAN’S SLOWLY HEALING BROKEN leg throbbed under the wrappings and splint. It was also raining, which didn’t help his mood, but then it seemed as if it had been raining and storming every day since they’d established their tenuous hold on Onglse. The rain was decidedly unnatural, in his opinion, a product of draoi spells. Certainly no one, not even the Cateni, would voluntarily live in a place that was constantly being drenched.

  Water dr
ipped from every surface in the ruined fort they held, flowed in rivulets that carved increasingly deep ruts in the sandy earth, cascaded in rippling sheets over moss-covered stone walls, flowed down the slope through the encampment to the sea, where it seemed the clouds picked up the moisture once more, only to toss it down at them again.

  The sky wept for the Mundoa. The sky wept for all the dead. The sky wept for Lucian.

  It had been nearly a moon now that they’d been on this accursed island. They’d buried their fallen here, including poor Lucian. They’d survived attacks by draoi (with little help from their own impotent sihirki) and repulsed waves of assaults by Cateni troops from the surrounding forts. Altan had been unable to gain more ground than what he’d taken in those first days, but the Cateni had also been unable to force him to retreat from the island. The two sides had settled into an uneasy stalemate, a situation that Altan found supremely frustrating, an attitude undoubtedly shared by Greum Red-Hand on the other side.

  “I will take this island,” Altan said, realizing belatedly that he’d spoken aloud. But the fervor burned in him. He’d sent runners back to the Great-Voice in Trusa with the request that more troops and resources be sent to him now that they had established a supply route and a hold on Onglse itself, even though Altan’s more rational side argued that they’d already left the south dangerously undefended. The Great-Voice evidently didn’t share Altan’s unspoken misgivings, for in the last hand of days, more ships had arrived with fresh troops, supplies, and military equipment.

  He would take this island. He’d take it because it was here that Lucian would rest forever, and he would not allow that to be Cateni soil. It was a promise that he’d made to Lucian’s memory.

  “Commander Savas?” Sub-Commander Ilkur’s voice intruded on Altan’s reverie. “There’s movement from the fort to the east.”

  “I’ll come look,” Altan answered. Grimacing, he swung his bad leg off the improvised stool that propped it up and reached for his crutch. Ilkur slid Altan’s oiled cloak over his shoulders. Placing the crutch under his arm, he followed stiff-legged after Ilkur, awkwardly and slowly climbing the crumbling stone steps that led to the fort’s battlements. Several of the Mundoan archers were gathered there, looking out through the rain over the ridgeline of the low hills and eastward to where the next hill-fort stood, grayed with distance and indistinct through the weather. There were men moving along the ridgeline, but Altan couldn’t easily see how many there were or what threat they represented.

  “Your eyes are better than mine, especially in this accursed weather,” he said to one of the archers. “What do you see?”

  “A group of about three double hands of warriors, Commander, with two war chariots in front.”

  “Draoi?”

  “None that I can see, sir, though they could easily be hidden in the rear.”

  “There’s been nothing seen to the west or approaching from the interior?” Altan asked Ilkur.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then we wait. I want men at the interior gate, ready to defend the fort at need, and archers on all the walls, just in case this is a feint or diversion. I think I know what they want; I saw it with Tamar One-Eye a long time ago. If I’m right, they won’t be getting what they’re after.”

  As Ilkur relayed orders from the wall, men scurried to their places. Altan continued to watch the slow advance from the east. The group was making no attempt at stealth; they were shouting and calling, their voices faint through the mist and fog at first, then growing louder as they came nearer. Their jeers and insults were in Cateni; Altan understood some of what was being said, though he doubted most of the men around him could, but their tone was clear enough. The group of men halted just out of easy bowshot of the walls, where the wooded ridgeline flattened to a cleared glade. One of the war chariots rumbled forward, the driver racing up and down in front of the Cateni troops, the blue-adorned warrior rider behind him brandishing his spear toward the wall. Altan heard the nearest archers’ bowstrings being pulled back, ready to release on command. “Archers! Hold!” he said to them, lifting his hand, and the bowstrings relaxed.

  The rider in the chariot was shouting in heavily accented Mundoan now, his words clear and ringing in the morning. The man had a long scar down one side of his face, his bare chest was slathered in the thick sky-colored clay that the clans used to paint themselves, and he was wearing no armor beyond leather pants. “I give challenge!” he cried. “I am the Ceannàrd Maol Iosa, and I command the warriors of the clans here on Onglse. I have already sent hands of Mundoa as blood-slaves to serve our dead fighters in Tirnanog. I am the champion of the Cateni. Send out your own champion, if you dare, Savas! Let me send him into the afterlife as the chief blood-slave. Or are Mundoa just cowards like those weaklings who command them, who would rather hide behind walls than fight, who cower like children under the storms our draoi send them?”

  At the final insult, the man spat on the ground between himself and the walls of the fort. In response, the Cateni ranked behind him clashed spears on the stony ground or against their long, iron-wrapped hexagonal shields. They began a slow chant: “Come out! Come out! Come out!”

  “Sir?” asked Ilkur.

  “Do nothing,” Altan said. Then he raised his voice so that the men gathered in the courtyard below could also hear him. “Do nothing,” he repeated. “I will cut down any man who makes to step from his post to respond to this man before he has the chance to draw sword. I don’t care what this fool Maol Iosa says or does; we will not give him what he wants. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the responses, but Altan could sense an uneasiness in their answers. Ceannàrd Iosa continued to shout and bray, his war chariot digging ruts in the muddy ground as he hurled a barrage of insults toward the fort.

  But Altan knew that the Cateni had to have seen the arrival of the new ships and men; they had watched the encampment growing on the slope below the fort Altan held. They knew that soon enough, the Mundoa would leave this fort and advance. Altan crutched to the wall. He called down, his voice matching the roar of the Cateni. “Maol Iosa,” he shouted, “I am Altan Savas, and I command the Mundoa.”

  The driver brought Iosa’s war chariot to a halt in front of Altan, the twin gray horses yoked to the chariot rearing up. “Then come down, Altan Savas, and we’ll fight,” the man responded, his bearded and scarred face uplifted. “You in your chariot and me in mine. Let us settle this conflict between us honorably and waste no more lives.”

  That brought back the memory that had haunted Altan every night since the fort had been taken: Lucian dead in front of him with Bella and Ardis torn open nearby. Altan closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, banishing the interior sight. He wondered, if Lucian had still been alive and their warhorses in his chariot harness, if he would have been able to resist the temptation that Iosa represented. He shifted his weight on the crutch, his leg protesting the movement. “I’ll show you that our gods are greater than yours,” the Cateni continued ranting below him, “and after your blood has been spilled on this ground, your soldiers can slink back across the River Meadham and know that you’ll never threaten Onglse and Bàn Cill again.”

  Altan laughed, theatrically and derisively; that silenced the man. “The ceannàrd is a stupid fool if he thinks a war is won by a single man’s efforts. Wars are won by many soldiers, whose fate it is to risk their lives. Wars are won by superior strategies, by superior resources, by superior numbers. I have all of those.”

  Iosa roared in defiance. “So Commander Savas is nothing more than a frightened child, hiding behind his soldiers and his walls.”

  “Commander Savas is someone who wins battles for his emperor. Nothing more. And nothing less. As I will win this one. I give you fair warning, Ceannàrd Iosa. You should retreat now.”

  Iosa spat again. “Cateni do not retreat.”

  “Then you tell me that Cateni are fools,” Altan answered. He turned to Ilkur, standing at his left. “What do you t
hink? Can our archers hit that man?”

  Ilkur glanced over the battlements at Iosa and his chariot, gauging the distance. He grinned. “I think so, sir,” the man said.

  “Then let’s see if he can outrun arrows.”

  “Archers!” Ilkur called immediately. “Nock, draw, and loose!”

  Iosa evidently heard the command also—he touched the arm of his driver, who pulled hard on the reins of the warhorses, slapping them down hard. The chariot canted over on one wheel as the horses broke into a gallop, and a storm of arrows rose into the gloomy rain and fell again toward the fleeing chariot. Iosa lifted a shield from the rail, holding it over himself and the driver. Most of the arrows fell into the mud behind the racing war chariot as it hurried back to the group of Cateni warriors, but Altan saw several plunge into the wooden shield like the bristles of a hedgehog.

  “Hold!” Ilkur called before a second volley could be released. “He’s out of range again, sir.”

  The ceannàrd’s driver drew up the horse at the edge of the clearing, and Iosa threw down the shield. One arrow had found his calf, piercing his leggings; Iosa plucked it out and brandished the bloody arrow toward the fort and Altan.

  “Coward!” The single word was faint through the drumming of the rain.

  “I’ll meet you on the field soon enough,” Altan shouted back at the man, “and we’ll see who’s the coward then.”

  Jeers in Cateni answered him.

  With that, Altan stepped back from the battlement. “Have watchers placed here in case,” he told Ilkur. “But I don’t think we have to worry about them for the moment. I’d like you and all the sub-commanders to come see me in my rooms tomorrow morning. I’m as tired of sitting here as Iosa and Greum Red-Hand are.”

  The hand of sub-commanders gathered around the table in what had become Altan’s office in the fort: a former stable that had managed to escape significant damage in the hail of furious draoi attacks that had followed the first few days of the Mundoa’s occupation of the fortress. The table itself had once been the door of the granary, now set on crude trestles. The walls had severe cracks, and moisture ran down the massive stones, as if the room wept at their presence. The five men—Ilkur, Musa, Haidar, Cumhur, and Volkan—straightened and rose as Altan entered the room. He’d abandoned the crutch against the advice of his archiater, though his leg was still heavily wrapped and splinted. He forced himself to walk as normally as possible despite the pain as he waved them back into their seats.