Sunspear

By J. Michael Robertson

A thousand years have passed since the Sunspear, an ancient weapon forged by the Gods, was lost to the sight of men in the last great battle of the Raven Wars. Now, the Dark God again reaches out from the Land of Eternal shadow to touch the world with his evil. The Goddess Danu gives Ciaran, a young Celtae warrior powerful in the Psi, the vast psionic power of the subconscious mind, the quest of finding the Sunspear. If he fails, the Dark Gods Long Night will fall over the world forever.
The quest leads him ever deeper into the Forbidden Lands, perilous realm of the Shadow, where he is pursued by the Dark Gods evil Ring Lords, who also search for the Sunspear. The Ring Lords, however, are not Ciarns only worry. The Dark God sends one of his First Born, a Shadhul mind-slayer, into the world to capture him and bring him to the Stone of Tears where he will either accept the Dark God as his Master or be cast into the Well of Souls. As he strives to elude the Shadow Lords hunters, Ciarn must confront his forbidden love of Danus tiny priestess, RILLSONG. He is further assailed with guilt over his infatuation with the beautiful Shadow Druidess, ISNGEL who captures his beloved foster sister KIARA and gives her to the Ring Lords.
In the Valley of the Gods, he rescues Isngel and her half-Elven Ahati warriors from the deadly, Halfsouled Draugr. Joining forces, they fight their way through hordes of the near-immortal beings to reach the lost city of Gorias where Ciarn claims the Sunspear. Using the ancient weapons god-like power, he destroys the Ring Lords army that pursued him to Gorias, killing thousands of warriors, and laughing as their dying screams fill his ears. Only then does he realize that the greatest evil he has to overcome is not the Dark God, but the darkness that dwells within him. He must both learn to use the enormous power of the Sunspear wisely and keep his Darksoul at bay. If it gains control, he will become a creature of shadow, a Soultaken.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468579598

J. Michael Robertson

J. Michael Robertson is a retired U.S. Air Force officer and a part-time senior communications systems engineer with MITRE Corporation. He holds a bachelor’s degree in mathematics from The Citadel and an MBA from Farleigh Dickinson University. A member of the South Carolina Writer’s Workshop and New Hampshire Writer’s Project, he is a student of ancient military civilizations and mythology—particularly the Romans, Celts, and Anglo-Saxons. His participation in historical re-enactments of ancient Scottish battles has given him insight into the fighting techniques of the Highland Scots. This knowledge is woven into his fiction and is reflected in the meticulous detail and vivid battle scenes peppered throughout Warrior of the Three Moons, his first published novel and the sequel, Sunspear. In addition to writing fiction, he also writes poetry. The Flowers of Culloden was published in the Clan Annual of Clan Donnachaidh in Scotland. His current novel, “Daughter of the Spear,” is Book III of the Series; The God Wars of Ithir. The Author is married and the father of two adult children. He and his wife, Jo, reside in their home on South Carolina’s scenic Charleston Harbor.

Book preview

© 2013 by J. Michael Robertson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/20/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7961-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7960-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7959-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012923455

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1 THE HEALER

Chapter 2 COMPELLING THOUGHTS

Chapter 3 A GAME OF WISDOM

Chapter 4 PENANCE AT CHOBÁ SPRINGS

Chapter 5 THE NIGHT OF THE MIND SLAYER

Chapter 6 SOMEONE TO TRUST

Chapter 7 A LOOSING OF HOUNDS

Chapter 8 A NIGHT IN HJÁRAN NOR

Chapter 9 OF DREAMS AND ILLUSIONS

Chapter 10 TENT SISTERS

Chapter 11 A CONFRONTATION WITH THE SHADOW

Chapter 12 WHAT PRICE HONOR

Chapter 13 A GATHERING AT SHALOTT

Chapter 14 THE EDGE OF DARKNESS

Chapter 15 AN ENEMY SAVED

Chapter 16 A BROKEN FORBIDDING

Chapter 17 SERVANT OF THE FIRST BORN

Chapter 18 UTANGÁRDH

Chapter 19 DRUIDS KEEP

Chapter 20 ALL ROADS LEAD TO DUBHLYNN

Chapter 21 BOAT THIEVES AND A RIVERMAN’S TALE

Chapter 22 A DIVERSION AT KURIN

Chapter 23 THE VALLEY OF THE GODS

Chapter 24 THE PYRAMIDS OF BALOR

Chapter 25 DESPERATE FLIGHT

Chapter 26 SOUL BREAKER

Chapter 27 STRANGE DREAMS AND WOODS WITCHES

Chapter 28 DRAGON HEART PASS

Chapter 29 BAIT FOR A TRAP

Chapter 30 THE GUARDIANS OF GORIAS

Chapter 31 SUNSPEAR

Chapter 32 THE DARKNESS WITHIN

Glossary

The Peoples And Gods Of Ithir

Other books by J. Michael Robertson

Warrior of the Three Moons

Dedication

075642%20121.pdf

Sunspear is dedicated to those long-suffering souls who put up with me for the eight years of its creation.

075642%20121.pdf

To Jo

The Light of my life, who has to live with me.

To Jim Robertson

Who made me show, not tell.

To Ellen and John

The poets in my life who taught me to paint with words.

To Beth, Kathleen, Lucy, Michael, Sue, and Cherie

Writers in their own right who found the time to give me tons of support.

To my hardworking editor, Debbie Sigmon

The Wisdom of punctuation and grammar, she made me explain the unexplainable.

075642%20121.pdf

Cover Art by Patrick David Robertson

The Raven Stone

For a hundred years they fought and bled;

Éirinn’s warriors Cuhulain led.

With swords and spears their bloodied hands,

Held the Long Night from the land.

But in each battle the shield wall was riven.

And back across the steppe they were driven,

Until to Catreath they came at last

And knew their bloody fate was cast.

They prayed to the Gods to heal their pains

And save their children from slavery’s chains.

It was there Cuhulain made his vow

To the Dark God he would not bow.

Then came the day and came the hour

The Shadow fell in all its power.

From blood-red dawn until darkest night

Éirinn’s hero fought with all his might.

One by one his Fíanna fell

But upon their deaths he could not dwell.

The Trollien attacked with ax and spear,

And their hearts he filled with fear.

About him with Goibhniu’s child he laid.

’Twas a fearsome price the Dark hordes paid.

But alas, from his wounds his life strength bled

And soon he would go to a gory bed.

Still his spirit refused to bow.

His body’s weakness he would not allow.

In the gathering darkness now all alone,

He tied himself to the Pillar Stone.

When from this life his soul did retreat,

His shell would face them on its feet.

In the gray of dawn when his flame was dim

Battle Raven called his soul name to him.

And then in the Darkspawn’s angry sight,

A raven by his head did alight.

From the war-darkened sky rode a maiden fair,

Niamh of the Golden Hair.

As his bloodied head sank down to his chest,

The maid of battles gathered him to her breast.

Then upward to the heavens she rose and

Cuhulain and the Sunspear vanished from the land.

His soul was gone, but his upright shell

Held the Dark host under its spell.

When at last they saw he was dead

Blood-red rage overcame their dread.

As they came to rend him with weapons dire

There came from the clouds a column of fire.

Within it, Cuhulain’s corpse did glow.

For the Long Night it was the final blow.

The blue-flamed pyre burned his flesh and bone

Until all that was left—was the Raven Stone.

J. Michael Robertson

In the Month of the Hawthorn Moon

In the Year 2003

A Chronology of Ithir after the Arrival of the Khem Rá

A Note on the dates used in the Chronology. The term, Before the Fall (BF), is used to denote the passage of years, in descending order, from the arrival of the Khem Rá on Ithir to the defeat and imprisonment of the Khem Úru, the Dark God. The term, After the Fall (AF) is used to denote the passage of years, in ascending order, from the defeat of the Dark God to the present.

4000 BF The god-like Khem Rá arrive on Ithir.

3500 BF Meshar-nu Uan, the Khem Rá who is known to her human children as Danu, the Mother Goddess, creates the Tuatha de Danann or Elfárhiin (Elves) from her essence.

3200 BF Shen-nu Uan, a powerful Khem Úru who disguised himself as a Khem Rá reveals his true identity. Among the humans of Ithir he will become known as the Dark God, the Shadow God, the Shadow, etc. They simply name him the Dark God.

3000 BF The Dark God creates his First Born, the Shaádhul and Gorzhul from his essence.

2800 BF The Khem Rá make their presence known to humankind and are deified and worshipped as Gods.

2500 BF Harod Sheol, City of Eternal Night, City of Shadow, is founded at the foot of a great mountain of black stone on the island of Nurh Serágh in the Sha en Rekr, Lake of Shadows.

2000 BF The Dark God completes his great fortress beneath the Meru ab Shau, the Mountain of the Shadow, or Shadow Mount.

1787 BF The Ahati Race is born from unions between Elfárhiin men and women and Gorzhul and Shaádhul.

1642 BF The Trollien (Shadow Troll) Race is born from unions between human women and Gorzhul.

1250 BF The Dark God creates the Sebukar, making them capable of procreation.

1000 BF Holy Rood becomes the principal shrine of Danu, the Mother Goddess and the Temple of the Moon is built on the Tor of Danu.

0992 BF Caer Siddi is built on the Island of Ynys Glán which holds the most sacred of the Druid groves. The College of Druids is built there. A Sun Temple is built by the Shining Ones, the Gods, on the Tor of Cadair Idris.

0960 BF The first Aon Sean Priestesses come to Holy Rood. Holy Rood is closed to men, except for those of the Aon Sean.

0937 BF Ceall mac Ruadh is made Ard Ri of the Celtae by a Great Rite at Holy Rood. He is the last High King of the Celtae for 5000 years.

0908 BF Upon Ceall ap Ruadh’s death, the Druids unite the Celtae tribes into three nations, the Bhreataini, Éireanni, and Scotti, each ruled by a High Queen.

0217 BF The War of the Gods begins.

0150 BF The power of the Psi, the Godgift, is bestowed upon humankind.

0045 BF The Cál Dhúrra, the Sunspear, later called the Shining Spear and the Spear of Cuhulain, is forged in the Hills of Shión by the Smith-God, Goibhniu.

0001 BF The War of the Gods ends with the banishment of the Dark God to Tír na Scáil, the Otherworld, also known as the Land of Eternal Shadow, or the Everdark.

0001 AF The Gods withdraw from the Lands of the Living and are seen no more.

0061 AF The Druidic High Council approves the training of women as warriors and thus is born the Ainnir na Cathú (Maidens of Battle). The Ainnir form their own warrior society, the Sciath na Siúr, Sisters of the Shield.

0123 AF Aon Sean Priestesses from the other three Sidhe come to Holy Rood.

0988 AF The Skull Wars begin, so named because of the huge mounds of severed heads raised by the victors after each battle.

1012 AF The first Ainnir take part in the Battle of Ciroth Tor.

1028 AF The Celtae Druids are defeated at the Battle of Caer Círith or Druids Keep by the Ring Lords led by Úlmaríath Sul.

1033 AF The Celtae are defeated at the Battle of Shúal Ataróth when the Sciath Ruadh, Red Shields, are betrayed by the Elfárhiin, Minláthriél. This defeat leads to the loss of Gorias in 1036 AF.

1036 AF The City of Gorias falls to the armies of the Shadow when Cassair ap Tiarnach, Sword Captain of the Tri-Council’s Fíanna betrays the Dragon Gate to the Harii.

1039 AF The Elfárhiin or Tuatha de Danann (Elves), withdraw from the events of the world.

1066 AF Caer Siddi is sacked by the Shau Asar Isengár nol Vórtiig and her War

Band of Harii and Ahati.

1094 AF The Battle of Dharv Nárok Crossing effectively ends the Skull Wars.

1131 AF The Sisterhood of Druidesses breaks with the Druid leadership at Caer Siddi.

2070 AF The Rune Wars begin.

2188 AF The Draugr come out of the Tróndeag attacking both the forces of the Light and the forces of the Shadow.

2191 AF The Rune Wars end when both the forces of the Light and the forces of the Shadow are brought to a state of exhaustion by their efforts to defeat the Draugr.

2615 AF The Druid revolt led by the Ard Draoi Conán ap Llawynn begins. It is an attempt by the Druids to take over the leadership of the Celtae nations. The Sisterhood opposes Conán.

2621 AF The revolt is put down when the Druids attempt to overthrow the Bhreataini High Queen. Conán disappears after the rebellion is crushed.

2902 AF The Raven Wars, so named because of the huge flocks or ravens that converged on the battlefields, begin.

3078 AF The Raven Wars end with the Battle of Catreath in the Coed Celyddon.

Also known as the Battle of the Stone Rings and the Battle of the Raven Stone. The Red Druid Cuhulain, also known as Cuhulain of the Shining Spear, is killed in this battle.

3438 AF The battle of Turad Nor is fought between the Celtae Horse Clans and the Harii.

4053 AF Eóin ap Ceallachán and Caitríona ni Seónaid are wed.

4112 AF Eóin ap Ceallachán is made Clan Chief of the Donnachaidh in a Great Rite at Holy Rood.

4138 AF Ciarán ap Eóin is born, the seventh and youngest child of Eóin and Caitríona.

4155 AF The Shai Tesh are created by the Dark God and sent into the Living World.

4155 AF Ciarán ap Eóin receives a visitation by the Goddess Danu and begins the quest for the Sunspear.

Sun-Spear-FINAL-Map%20copy---.jpg

Creation

In the time before memories, before the beginning of all things, there was Uá, The One. Alone, complete within Itself, Uá, who is neither God nor Goddess, but both, floated in the cold emptiness of the Great Dark. Eons passed and The One turned outward. Looking into the curved mirror of time and space, Uá saw Its radiant reflection and fell in love with Itself. Using Its infinite power, Uá drew the reflection forth, naming Her Isis, the Mother of All.

Such was Uá’s love for Isis that He created Aaru, the Fields of Light for Her to dwell in. And gazing upon the beauty of Uá, Isis was filled with rapture and gave birth to a rain of bright Spirits.

When the birthing was done Uá said unto Isis, Let them be called the Children of Isis. Unto to each of Isis’ children Uá gave a soul that contained the essence of both Light and Darkness to bring balance to the cosmos. Then did Uá set the children in Aaru to dwell with their Mother.

Uá’s joy in the Children of Isis was such that His ecstasy burst forth in the Amhrán Mor, the Great Song of all that was, all that is, and ever shall be. With the Amhrán Mor came motion, waves of cosmic energy that rushed outward to become all the spheres of stars and worlds in the universe. Reaching the ends of the cosmos, the Amhrán Mor was reflected back toward the center of creation in a diminishing echo until, in a final burst of celestial harmony, it gave birth to the lesser children on a world in a far distant galaxy at the edge of the universe.

But among Isis’ children there were those who chose the essence of Darkness over that of Light. Then did Isis separate the Light from the Darkness. The spirits of Light She named Khem Rá, the Lords of Light, and those of Darkness She named Khem Úru, the Lords of Shadow. And with their naming came strife, for the Children of Isis battled mightily among themselves in a bitter war of ascendancy between Light and Shadow that sundered Aaru.

Uá, sensing the Amhrán Mor’s final harmony, longed to know the beauty of the children created by the Great Song’s last glorious refrain. Ignoring the strife among the Khem Ra and Khem Úru, Uá searched the vastness of the universe, but He did not know where to look.

And it came to pass that Isis, saddened by Uá’s longing, called the greatest of Her Children to Her and commanded them to go forth into the cosmos to find the Children of the Song.

But in their Darkness, the Khem Úru coveted the Children, saying, So shall we go forth and make the Children our own, and they shall exalt the Shadow over the Light.

Then did Isis call the greatest of the Khem Ra to Her, naming her Khatri ab Aánkh, the Seeker of Life. And unto the Khatri, She gave the Tchár Aánkh, the quest to find the Children of the Song, saying, Take not the Khem Úru with you. For I have looked into their souls and only Darkness dwells within them and they would make the Children of the Song servants of the Shadow.

Thus were the Khem Úru denied a place with the Tchár Aánkh. Ever prideful, the Khem Úru were wroth with their Mother, Isis, for denying them their rightful place with the Tchár Aánkh and went to make battle with the Khem Ra whom they blamed for their fall from grace.

And there was war between the Khem Ra and Khem Úru. Long did the Khatri and the Khem Ra battle the Khem Úru before they prevailed. And so were the defeated Khem Úru carried into the presence of Uá.

With great sadness, Uá cast them from the Fields of Light, saying, Get thee from my sight, for thou hast reviled thy Mother and made bitter war upon thy Brothers and Sisters of the Light. Thus were the Khem Úru banished from Aaru.

After banishing the Khem Úru, Uá gave unto the Khatri a great ship, the Ark of the Search, created from His essence and they departed.

Long did the Khem Ra search until; at last, they came to the world of the Children of the Song. And the Children of the Song seeing the great power of the Khem Ra worshipped them as Gods. Thus did the Gods come to Ithir, bringing with them the war they had waged among themselves since the beginning of the cosmos. For secreted among them was a powerful Khem Úru.

Chapter 1

THE HEALER

asas.jpg

Two brightly painted wagons bounced and swayed over the rough, uneven grasslands of the Arhian Steppe on wheels taller than a man. Summer had hardly begun and already the pitiless sun had turned the steppe into a sea of golden grass. The sweet bunch grass rose to the giant Shiiran horses’ shoulders allowing them to snatch bites without having to lower their heads as they plodded along. Ahead the jagged peaks of the Tróndeag Range stabbed into the western sky.

Jórrisael shaded her eyes from the harsh sun. Light was everywhere, a constant like the wind. She shifted uncomfortably on the driver’s bench. Even with the thick cushion, her rump ached as though she sat on the bare boards. Absently, she gazed southward where the land ran away in gentle undulations of brown and gold until it faded into a shadowy haze. The wind rippled the grass into constantly changing patterns of wave-like motion that gave the steppe its name—the sea of grass.

Chobá Springs, the site of last night’s trouble, lay to the south. She grimaced and turned her thoughts to the unconscious warrior lying on a pallet in the second wagon. The rune sign she had found emblazoned on his chest when she had treated his wounds put a chill on her heart. Three moons, a full moon enclosed by two crescents, made him a living death warrant for anyone who helped him.

Oh, and let us not forget the killing of a Ring Lord, she muttered, wiping a thin sheen of perspiration from her brow that had little to do with the midmorning heat. Mother of All, help us! A Warrior of the Three Moons walks the land. Looking skyward, she grumbled, And You have dumped him in my lap.

075642%20121.pdf

A rumble, like distant thunder, forced its way into Ciarán’s awareness as he slowly clawed his way upward through a dreamless dark. The rumble did not fade as it would with a storm, and there were other noises—creaks, rattles, and thumps. It also seemed to heighten the pain in his head, which throbbed, as though a Shadow Troll was beating the inside of his skull with a spiked war-hammer. For a few moments he lay still, trying to focus on piecing together the shards of his life floating in his head.

Ignoring the pain, he cracked his eyes open. A yellow roof swayed in a dizzying motion above him. He raised his head to get a look at his surroundings, escalating his headache into a pounding crescendo. A wave of nausea rolled over him, leaving him in an icy sweat. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on what his ears could tell him. A horse whickered. Recognition came, making his heart thud in alarm. I am in a wagon.

Memories stirred, coming like waves rolling onto a shore, soaking his mind. He had come to the Forbidden Lands on a quest. He had not come alone, but those who had traveled to this land with him were not with him now, of that he was certain. He struggled to draw together the fragmented jumble of events that had led him to end up on a pallet in a stranger’s wagon.

Slowly, the fog clouding his mind began to dissipate. Memories of his brief stay in the dead city of Catreath marched into his thoughts, the Red Druid, Oisín teaching him to use his Psi; Scáthach and Alanna’s capture by the Horse Clans; their journey to the Horse Clan camp through his mind-gate. He grimaced. He had been banished from the Black Lion wagons by the Horse Clan Chieftess. The reason for his banishment was still hazy, but the result had been his decision to make camp in the shadow of Llew’s ruined temple.

Nightwind had sent him a warning of danger and a more puzzling sending about cubs. It had taken him a few moments to realize that the wolf was referring to human children. The giant wolf’s sending, along with knowledge of something called a Gleaning he had coerced from Scáthach had brought him here, wherever here was.

His eyes widened. Light! I can mind speak with dire wolves. Memory of the first time Nightwind had spoken to him flowed into his mind. He had been so startled that he had tripped and ended up on his nose. He chuckled, wincing at the pounding it caused in his head.

Memories of his attack on the Gleaning quelled his mirth. Just thinking about the Ring Lords’ monstrous practice of forcing the Horse Clans to give up children who possessed the Godgift to serve the Dark God made him angry. Each year, dozens of children were taken to be raised and trained to serve the Shadow, never again to be seen by their families.

A feeling of grim satisfaction swept over Ciaran. The wolves, along with the Horse Clan Windswords shadowing the Gleaning, had helped him defeat a Shadow Priest and free the children.

You let the priest escape, he thought bitterly. The man had escaped because he was inexperienced in using his Psi as a weapon. There had been no time for Oisín to teach him the battle talents.

Gods! I killed a Ring Lord! he murmured, as visions of his battle with the Ring Lord Naphtal Sul and the Ring Lord’s death flashed before his mind’s-eye. And more by luck than skill, boyo.

He rolled onto his side. Pain stabbed into his shoulder, and the contents of his belly made another attempt to escape. Gingerly exploring his left shoulder, he found it heavily bandaged. A vision of running between wagons with death bolts striking around him flashed into his mind followed the numbing impact of something striking his shoulder.

A Mhongói arrow, he thought. The searing pain had come later.

He cautiously opened his eyes again. The nausea lurked in the background and his head still throbbed, but he was able to raise it enough to survey his surroundings. He was lying on a pallet against one side of the wagon. Wooden chests and a cupboard filled the other side. A leather bucket sat on the floor next to his head. The wagon lurched, setting his stomach to churning again. He lay back, swallowing rapidly to hold down the gorge rising in his throat. When he had mastered his roiling belly again, the disjointed remembrance of his confrontation with the beautiful Shadow Druidess Iséngáel pushed its way into his thoughts.

Did she really kiss me? He dismissed her with a snort of disgust.

Moving his hand down his stomach, he tried to remember how he got here. But he could recall nothing after riding out of the Shadow Priest’s burning camp past the pyramid of Mhongói heads—a pyramid he had erected. Someone had found him and tended his wound. The question was, who? Then his questing hand found that he was air clad. A feeling of helplessness rolled over him. He formed the núll’s cold, emotionless void and opened a vortex through the barrier-of-between to his Psi, the vast energy of his inner mind—or tried to. Searing pain ripped through his skull, and his mutinous stomach would not be denied. He frantically grabbed the bucket and retched noisily into it. When his sickness passed, he fell back on the pallet with a soft groan.

Ho, Jórrisael! He is awake, a deep male voice called out.

A woman’s voice replied, but Ciarán could not make out what she said.

Donar’s Hammer! I know because he is talking to the bucket, the man muttered and then yelled, Do we stop or not?

The wagon jolted to a stop. You be minding your tongue, Ravenfeeder, the woman said. I be in no mood to put up with your surliness. Haul your bones off that wagon and build a fire. I be needing to heat poultices.

The wagon swayed as the man got down, and their voices faded as they moved away. Exhausted by the attempt to use his Psi, Ciaran drifted into a light sleep. A cool hand placed on his forehead woke him with a start. The oldest woman he had ever seen sat beside the pallet, studying him with piercing blue eyes set in a wrinkled face framed by braided silver hair.

Good, she said. You be awake. Your bandages be needing a change. That be easier if you be sitting.

My head hurts, he croaked.

Aye, henbane be leaving an aching head. You be lucky Thorfinn found you. The arrow the Mhongói put in you be poisoned. Her bracelets clattered softly as she helped him to sit. Removing his bandages, she gently probed the wound. It be healing nicely.

You do not sound overjoyed that I still walk among the living, Ciarán murmured in a plaintive voice. Just talking made his head throb.

You be causing a storm at Chobá Springs, boy. The Kamen Kha-t be wanting your head on a pike for making off with the Dedicated and killing a Ring Lord. Thorfinn says half the Subuteg Fyrd be looking for you. And there be others, Mhongói, Sebukar, even Ahati.

"Kill her! She knows too much," a familiar voice whispered in his mind.

"Out! he snarled silently at the voice. He—they attacked me," he muttered defensively.

Naphtal Sul would no have come to Chobá Springs had you no attacked the Gleaning and taken the Dedicated, she said, fixing him with a hard look. You do no look stupid. Did you think he would no try to find the one who be stealing the Dark God’s Dedicated?

I follow the warrior’s triad, Ciarán ground out the words between clinched teeth. I will not let children be given to the Dark God, if I can prevent it. Those who do nothing to stop such evil have no honor. He shrugged dismissively. Had the Shadow Priest not escaped, the Ring Lord would not have known about the children for days.

Bah! she snorted. Warriors! Harii or Celt, you all be alike. There be nothing between your ears but air. Honor! Bah! You killed a Ring Lord. Those who rule Harod Sheol be tearing this land apart to find his killer. In a milder voice she added, The Dark God rules here and others be paying the price of your honor. Until you be living with the Shadow’s yoke on your neck, do no speak to me of honor.

Ciarán shivered and his eyes became distant at her naming the City of Darkness. He had been to Harod Sheol—pulled there in a dream of the Dark God’s making. Every terrifying detail of that nightmare was burned into his mind. For a moment he relived his terror driven flight through a shattered land chased by enormous glowing eyes surrounded by a billowing darkness that seemed to eat the light

You be alright, boy? a voice asked and someone shook him gently.

He blinked and her aged face came into focus. Ah—yes. It—it is nothing. The words were hardly off his tongue when the gabble of moaning voices demanding that he serve the Dark God filled his ears and he again felt the grasp of the skeletal hands that rose from the ground on his legs. He gasped aloud as the worst part of the nightmare flashed before his mind’s eye: the huge disembodied head hovering over him in Rillsong’s cave telling him that the Shadow could find him through his dreams.

Boy! Jórrisael said in a loud voice. I no be asking you again. What is… ?

I—I was remembering a bad dream, He stammered, interrupting her. He was tempted to tell her about it, but changed his mind. Gods! She will think I am a lack wit if I tell her that the Dark God hunts me. Who are you? he asked instead to change the subject.

She stared at him for a moment, a frown creasing her brow. Ignoring his question, she got up and went to one of the chests with a grace that belied her age. Ciarán watched her through slitted eyes. She was a puzzle. In her bright green skirt topped by a short smock of brilliant yellow, with red knot work designs embroidered across the breast, she stood as straight as a spear. She had, he thought, the slender well-formed body of a much younger woman. That rich, melodious voice certainly did not match her ancient face. Something else about her nagged at him, but like the wind, it eluded his grasp.

I be Jórrisael, a healer.

How did I come to be in your wagon? How long have I been here?

Thorfinn be finding you four nights past, she said over her shoulder. I gave you a tae of Henbane to keep you in a healing sleep after I took the Mhongói arrow from your hide.

Four days! He took a deep breath to subdue a surge of anxiety.

Jórrisael took a leather bag from the chest, poured some of its contents into a cup, and mixed it with water from a pot. Folding her long legs beneath her, she sat down beside him. Drink this. It be good for aching heads.

What is it? he asked, taking the cup and peering at the reddish liquid.

It be a tae brewed from ground red spike thorns. She gave him an amused look. It will no put you to sleep, if that be bothering you.

He took a tentative sip and made a face at its bitterness. She placed her hand on his forehead again, and a chill rippled through him. Amazingly, his head seemed to ease almost immediately. He downed the tae in a single gulp. Maybe it would help the rest of his aches.

Your fever be gone. Now we be needing to get food in you. She went to the rear of the wagon and called, Thorfinn, be that broth ready?

Aye, the man answered. Give me time to put it in a bowl.

A moment later, one of the biggest men Ciarán had ever seen climbed into the wagon, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of broth, a cup, and a platter of bread. Dressed in a tan tunic and trousers tucked into boots that came up to mid-calf, he matched Gruffydd’s size. Raven black hair, braided into a knot on the right side of his head marked him as a Harii warrior.

Gods be good! He is a stripling, Jórrisael, the giant rumbled in a deep voice, Bloodaxe will not thank him for the trouble he brought to the Subuteg lands.

Bloodaxe? Subuteg? Ciarán had heard the word Subuteg before. But before he could remember where, the broth’s aroma made him forget about everything except food.

Give him the tray, you hairy-faced aurochs. Do you be wanting him to faint from hunger? She grimaced. I be forgetting my manners. Yon stone-head be Thorfinn Ravenfeeder, a Thegn of the Carnúteg Harii before Ivaar the Boneless put a price on his head for killing a Mhongói Khaghan.

Blowing through his moustache, Thorfinn gave her a plaintive look. No need to bore the lad with old stories, Jórrisael. He handed Ciarán the tray. What are we going to do with him? The steppe is swarming with all manner of folk looking for the one who attacked the Gleaning. In D’Harinn it was on the tongue of every man in the Prancing Bull. Even old Hengist, the inn keep, was chattering about it like a grass squirrel. And he is no loose-lipped flap-jaw.

Ciarán gave his attention to the broth and bread. His stomach, only an hour before wracked by nausea, was now in the grip of ravenous hunger. He put a spoon-full of the thick soup in his mouth with a shaking hand. It was even more delicious than it smelled. Neither of them spoke as he ate, but they did stare, which made him uncomfortable. He finished the broth and cleaned the bowl with the last piece of bread. Still hungry, he gave Jórrisael a hopeful look.

Her eyes locked on his. What be your name? Why you be in the Forbidden Lands?

Ciarán hid a studying look behind a yawn. The feeling that something about her was not quite right persisted. Jórrisael is not a Harii name. Her wrinkled face was at odds with her eyes, her voice, her movement, and her hands. Her hands! He stared at her sun-browned hands. They are as smooth as a maiden’s. Following his stare, Jórrisael slipped her hands beneath her shawl. When she brought them out again they were wrinkled and covered with age spots. She did not use the Shaping Talent. I would have sensed her Psi if she had.

Do they no teach the young manners in the lands beyond the Cairngorm?

Ciarán’s face reddened. He owed her more than a name. I am called Wood Elf. He could not say why he used the penance name given him by Máironwy. It just popped out.

Wood Elf, she repeated softly. That be a strange name, even for a Celt. How came you by it?

Ciarán exhaled a slow breath. It is a long story. I would not bore you with it.

The corners of her mouth twitched upward in a faint smile that did not reach her eyes. Oh, you will no bore me.

Can I have more broth? he asked. I will tell you the story of my name as I eat.

Jórrisael nodded. Thorfinn disappeared through the flap. She pressed a damp cloth against his eyes. He shivered as another chill rippled through him. When she removed the cloth, his head no longer hurt. You can no use your Psi for a time. The energy of the barrier that shields your mind from your Psionic energy be coming from the body. She jabbed a finger at him. Opening a vortex to your Psi with a wound-weakened body can kill you. Remember that, if nothing else I say does no stop between your ears.

Ciarán frowned. She seemed to know a lot about the Psi for a wandering healer. But she did not have to worry about him trying to use his Psi. The pain that had left him talking to the bucket would keep him from trying that again.

Thorfinn climbed into the wagon carrying another bowl of broth and a platter of roasted grouse. Ciarán attacked the food like a cave bear newly wakened from winter sleep.

Slow down, Lad, Thorfinn rumbled. You eat like a starving wolf.

The wolves! Ciarán could not remember seeing them after leaving the Shadow Priest’s camp. He sensed them nearby. Light! Were any of Slayer’s wolf clan killed in the attack? He would ask Nightwind when he was alone.

Well? Jórrisael asked in a voice edged with impatience.

Aye, my naming. Between mouthfuls, he told them of the terrible night Máironwy had caught him in Danu’s Sanctuary trying to return the Staff of Virgins. He had taken the Staff to prove that he had fulfilled the foolish quest of going into the women’s quarter—a place forbidden to males. Even the Clan Chief, had to be escorted in the women’s quarter by a Matron.

It had happened in his tenth name year, but reliving the story made it seem as though it had happened only yesterday. One of the Ainnir guarding the Sanctuary had heard him break in. Another battle maid had teased her that she was hearing wood elves in the presence of Máironwy, Danu’s High Priestess. Máironwy had given him the penance name of Wood Elf. She had also put him in bondage to the women of Sky Stone for six long years.

When he finished, Jórrisael gave him a wry look. That be an interesting tale, but it no explains the rune sign.

Ciarán unconsciously rubbed Danu’s ancient sign emblazoned over his heart.

{Others come.} An image of many riders moving fast formed in Ciarán’s mind. The picture was too blurred to make out any detail, but they could only be Harii or worse.

Nightwind’s wolf-speak drove out all other thought. {Who comes? How many?} he sent. Foolish questions since wolves did not know numbers, nor could they tell one human tribe from another.

You be pale as a ghost adder, boy, Jórrisael said.

We must leave this place, he blurted. Soultaken are coming.

And how you be knowing that? Jórrisael asked, giving him a searching look.

Ciarán scrubbed his hands through his hair. How do I explain the direwolves? Only a few months ago he would have laughed at anyone who told him they could mind-speak with the giant wolves. A year ago he had believed all Harii were evil, arrogantly secure in what he had been taught about the Forbidden Lands and the peoples who served the Dark God. Now he was not sure of anything except his ignorance. My friends told me.

And who be these friends who speak only to you, Wood Elf?

The direwolves, Thorfinn rumbled. It has to be the wolves. They have been with us since I brought him to the camp.

Her eyes fell on the big warrior. You be keeping secrets from me again, Ravenfeeder? she asked in a voice that held the certainty of danger.

Sky Father’s peace on you, Old Mother. He held his hands in front of him, palms up. I was so busy helping you get that Mhongói arrow out of him that I forgot about them.

Thorfinn speaks the truth, Jórrisael, Ciarán said, to head off an argument. They had to leave. I can mind-speak with wolves. Nightwind told me that warriors are coming here. They are hunting me. Bring me my clothes, and I can be gone before they get here. I would be without honor if I brought the wrath of the Dark God’s servants down on you for something I did.

Mother of All, save me from those who walk against the sun! She jabbed a finger into his chest, pushing him down on the pallet. How far do you be thinking your precious honor be carrying you? You be lucky to ride a wagon length before you be falling off your horse and landing on your thick warrior’s skull. She jabbed him again. You be letting old Jórrisael worry about who be a danger. She got lithely to her feet and shoved Thorfinn toward the entrance. Well! Do your boots be grown to the wagon bed? The boy said we be needing to leave.

Aye, Jórrisael, Thorfinn nodded. We are no more than a league or two from the D’Harinn Road and another four to the village. It will be a better place to receive visitors.

You be getting your bones on that wagon seat instead of flapping your jaw. A few minutes later the wagon was jolting across the steppe.

In spite of Ciarán’s anxiety, a full belly, the rocking motion of the wagons, and a body still recovering from serious wounds made it difficult to keep his eyes open. Just before he drifted into a fitful sleep, he sent a wolf-speak to Nightwind. {Attack others. No kill.}

075642%20121.pdf

Cerdic Ironbeard shaded his pale blue eyes from the sun’s glare and scanned the steppe. Like all Harii, he was a big man, with broad shoulders, but with a waist less narrow than it once was. His hair was more silver than gold now, although he did not consider himself a graybeard. He mopped the sweat from his face. Heat rose from the grass in waves, making the distant hills shimmer and dance. It also made his battle helm feel like his head had been stuffed into a baker’s kiln. Pulling it off, he hung it over a saddle horn.

Two scouts appeared out of the tall, sun-browned grass. Dressed in tunics and trousers of soft tans and browns, they were almost invisible. And not before time. With any luck, the wagon tracks we follow are about to yield a quarry.

His younger warriors, those newly raised to the Fyrd, were grumbling that searching in this direction was a fool’s errand. They made no secret of their desire to search the lands of the Black Lion Horse Clan. Only the Windswords had reason to attack a Gleaning, they said. The warrior maids would not take the Dedicated deeper into Harii lands. They would go south into the Cairngorm, they said. He shook his head. The young boneheads say a lot and know nothing.

Balmora Shire bordered the ranges of the Horse Clans. He made it his business to know as much about them as he could. Anyone seeing the mound of Mhongói heads at Chobá Springs would know that the Horse Clans had not attacked the Gleaning. A Windsword would kill a Mhongói before he could blink, but not with her sword. She would fill him full of arrows and not bother to recover them. She certainly would not take his head. Such was the loathing the Horse Clans had for Mhongói.

He knew the reason for his younglings’ upset. If they continued north, they would not meet any of the fabled Horse Clan warriors. Their imaginations were being fired by the older warriors’ tales of exotic warrior maids with insatiable appetites for men. What those troublemakers omitted from their fanciful tales was that a Windsword was more likely to feather a man’s ribs than she was to take him to her blankets—especially if the man was Harii.

If the young nits want to see a Windsword all they have to do is look at my Shau Asar advisor, he thought, shaking his head. Dressed in her riding leathers, the hilt of her cíatáina sticking up over her left shoulder, Eréngáel was a Windsword right down to her toenails. He had not been happy when Arnbjørn had sent her to him. Hilde, his wife and Chatelaine, had not been pleased either. But Arnbjørn was king, so they had accepted Eréngáel into Balmora Keep.

Hilde treated Eréngáel the same as she did the rest of their daughters. Now the young Shau Asar danced to Hilde’s tune and conspired against him like every other woman in his household. It was not easy being the only man in a holding full of women. What worked for his wife, however, did not work for him. Eréngáel still treated him with the same aloof formality that she had when she first arrived at Balmora Hold.

He gave her a covert glance. She was a fine looking woman; slender, with a refinement of features lacking in the bigger-boned Harii women. Her large green eyes had an innocence about them that could make a man sigh and forget she was a Shadow Druidess. She wore her dark auburn hair in a simple braid that fell between her shoulders. He shook his head.

Old fool! As soon put a dragon on your spear as that one. Besides, he really did think of her as his daughter. It would seem we are closing on our quarry, Asar, he said, nodding at the approaching riders.

Whoever they are, they were not far from SaaDahk Nur’s camp the night of the attack, Thegn Cerdic, Eréngáel said in the lilting brogue of the Horse Clans. I will know for certain if the one we hunt is with the wagons when we overtake them.

Sound the halt, Cerdic growled at a bannerman. A horn trilled and the column of riders rumbled to a halt. It would help, Asar, he said in a low voice, If I knew the real reason we are turning the steppe upside down. Yes, I know someone attacked the Gleaning—someone powerful enough to kill four hundred Mhongói and build a cairn with their heads. He shivered. Only a score of bodies were found and all of them with their throats torn out. My gut tells me that the loss of the Dedicated is only part of it. She did not even bother to look at him. You have said that we are looking for a tall youth with dark hair and light eyes, he grated through clinched teeth. Hel’s Spear! That describes half the men in Balmora Shire.

Is not the attack on the Gleaning enough cause for this hunt, Cerdic? Eréngáel asked, leveling an imperturbable gaze at him. Your scouts await your leave to approach. As they waited, she wondered, Would you be as eager to catch our quarry if you knew that we hunt one of Danu’s Chosen, Cerdic—one powerful enough to kill a Ring Lord and two Shau Semati?

Cerdic scowled and motioned the two warriors forward. They rode up, darting quick glances at Eréngáel before placing a clinched fist across their hearts in salute. So, she worries you too does she? Good, I hate having the only head she puts gray hair in.

He let them wait a moment longer before acknowledging their salutes. Tell me what you found, Donalric. Quickly now, Lady Eréngáel grows impatient. He knew a brief moment of satisfaction when her mouth tightened at his use of the honorific. She was a warrior, not a lady, and did not hesitate taking anyone who thought otherwise to task. Every day she practiced the forms of the cíatáina until she was exhausted. It was as though she fought against herself—against the darkness that had been loosed within her. He admired her for it, but it was a struggle she could not win. In the end her Darksoul would rule. That both saddened him and made him angry.

Donalric bobbed his head and began. Lord Cerdic, La… ah, he broke off and started over. His Thegn could get away with calling her lady, but she would make a dog’s meal of a lowly man-at-arms for it. Lord, Asar, those we follow are no more than two hours ride ahead.

Well? Who is it, man? he growled. The heat was making him irritable.

Old Jórrisael and her tame Carnúteg, Thorfinn Ravenfeeder, Lord, Donalric answered hastily. The Thegn’s temper was always short when he argued with the Asar. They are heading for D’Harinn.

Cerdic grunted. So it is a false trail, and we have wasted three days. He arched a questioning brow at Eréngáel. Do we return to Chobá Springs?

She stared past the scouts at the wagon tracks. Take us to Jórrisael, Donalric.

How far ahead of us are they? Cerdic asked.

Donalric looked at the sky. The sun was well into its downward trek to the western horizon. We will not overtake them before they reach D’Harinn, Lord.

I can send Cnut’s Fyrdahn ahead to detain them until the rest of us catch up, Asar, Cerdic offered.

That would not be wise, Cerdic, Eréngáel said. Best we stay together. If the one we hunt is with Jórrisael we should ride in the opposite direction as fast as our horses can carry us.

You heard the Asar, Donalric. Take us to Jórrisael, Cerdic said, giving the scout a barely perceptible nod when the man looked at him first. Eréngáel might be a Shadow Druidess, but he was Donalric’s liege lord. She was silent, but her narrow-eyed stare said Donalric would do well to stay out of her path for a day or two. He raised his hand and made a circling motion. A horn trilled and the column moved forward at a trot.

They had gone less than a league when the hair on Cerdic’s neck prickled for no apparent reason. A feeling of being watched came over him, and he let his eyes roam the grasslands they were moving through. Other than a hawk circling overhead, the only movement was the tall grass swaying in the ever present wind’s embrace. He grimaced and was pushing the feeling from him when a movement in the grass that did not seem born of the wind pulled his eyes to it. But there was nothing there, only a swirling of the grass.

The heat has you skittish as a colt in a steppe lion’s gaze, lad. He had convinced himself that he was being foolish when Eréngáel suddenly stood in her stirrups and stared around them.

We are being watched, Cerdic, she said.

Where? There is no place for anyone to… Before he could finish the thought, the grass around them erupted with deep howls. His mind had hardly registered the sound when a huge black direwolf hurtled out of the grass from almost beneath Narihn’s feet and straight for the big Destran’s throat. In an instant the ordered column became a bedlam of shouting warriors trying to control screaming, bucking horses bolting in every direction, and he was too busy just trying to stay in the saddle to do anything.

By the time he got Narihn under control, it was over. He looked for Eréngáel. She was on foot, crooning softly to her mare. Seeing she was safe, he looked to his warriors. A score had been unhorsed; but other than bruises, some broken bones, and wounded pride, they were unharmed. An hour was lost catching Destrans and packhorses that had broken free. Another was lost healing the wounded and getting everyone mounted and moving.

He cursed himself for a fool. Years of peace, when the only task of the Fyrd was to hunt down the occasional band of outlaws, had lulled him into complacency. There is always danger in the steppe, boyo. Carelessness can kill you here as quickly as a sword thrust. He called the swordtans commanding the three Fyrdahn to him. War-trail discipline is imposed. I want one man in five on picket. Pair them. No one rides alone until we are in D’Harinn.

When the swordtans had returned to their Fyrdahns, he turned to Eréngáel. Can you give any meaning to what happened, Asar? I have seen much that is strange, but I have never known direwolves to attack a large group of warriors.

They are out there watching us, she said in a low voice, staring into the steppe. She caught him watching and. abruptly the coolness was back. Those wolves did not act on their own, Cerdic. They were sent to delay us.

Gods be! They are dumb animals, Eréngáel. Cerdic was incredulous. Next you will tell me they can mind-speak.

She sniffed. Laugh if you will, but answer this. What was the purpose of their attack? Not one man or horse was killed. Whoever sent them told them not to harm us.

Sky Father, give me strength! he barked, giving her a disbelieving look. You are telling me those wolves were sent by someone? He started to laugh, but swallowed it at the look in her eyes. Shaking his head, he signaled the trumpeter to sound the advance.

The direwolves attacked them twice more before they reached the D’Harinn road. Both times they evaded the pickets and disrupted the column without seriously injuring a single horse or rider. After the third attack Cerdic was convinced. He waited in dour silence for her say, I told you so.

All she said was, We will find the one we hunt in D’Harinn.

Chapter 2

COMPELLING THOUGHTS

asas.jpg

Far to the east, in the vast wilderness of the Kulan Shan, the air stirred. A hole, blacker than the darkness before dawn, opened in a clearing high in the rugged mountains. Golden motes sparkled in the blackness, coalescing into a being not seen in the Land of the Living for two thousand years.

A casual look could easily mistake it for a tall woman with black hair and pale ivory skin, dressed in a long gray robe. Full, dark red lips, shapely nose and opaque, blue eyes gave her pale face a demonic beauty. In human myth she was known as a Shaádhul, a Mind Slayer.

The faint mind-pattern of the one she had been sent to hunt penetrated her awareness. He was far to the west. For a moment, her hatred of humans bordered on madness. She saw little difference between those who served Dark Father and those who had helped the Shining Ones defeat him. But even those who defeated him were not powerful enough to prevent him from touching this world. Come the day when he broke free of the Land of Shadows, she and her sisters would prey on all of humanity—even those who served.

She stood in the shimmering veil of her mind-gate for a few moments, warily surveying her surroundings. Two millennia had passed since her last walk in the living world and there were powerful enemies here who could and would kill her without hesitation. Sensing no danger, she strode into the chill mountain air. A shiver of anticipation rippled through her lean, muscular frame that soon turned to disappointment. The land should be alive with human prey, but she sensed only animals. She suppressed her hunger, refusing to feed on lesser creatures.

Behind her, dawn’s faint light spilled over the Kulan Shan. The jagged peaks stabbed the sky, casting shadows far out into the desolation of the Maarath Badlands. For a moment, she gazed at the featureless sea of grass sweeping away to the west in gray waves unbroken by house or tree. A pair of black feathered wings emerged from within her. With a bone-chilling cry; she launched herself into the air, following the wind westward into the Arhian Steppe.

075642%20121.pdf

Jórrisael pulled her shawl close and sipped her caife. A fold in the land sheltered them from the ceaseless wind, but it did not take the chill from the night. She frowned into the fire, oblivious to the flames dancing among the logs. Word had quickly spread that she was camped on Balmora Road. Village-folk seeking her help had been full of wild talk about Chobá Springs and the attack on the Gleaning. Most thought it was the work of the Horse Clans. She had kept her tongue behind her teeth. If Harii eyes are on the Horse Clans, they will not see what is beneath their noses.

Strange that there is not even a whisper about Naphtal Sul’s death. No doubt those who rule Harod Sheol will keep it a secret as long as they can. In truth, I would not believe it either, if the killer was not sitting across the fire from me. Her eyes dropped to the sketch lying in her lap. Thorfinn had given it to her after returning from a visit to D’Harinn. That the sketch had reached a remote village on the western edge of the Arhian Steppe so soon was a measure of the Ring Lords’ effort to find Naphtal Sul’s killer.

The drawing was a perfect likeness of Ciarán as he had been a few days ago—before she had made subtle changes in his appearance. Now, with dark bronze hair, the beginnings of a moustache, and dressed in the tan and brown tunic and trousers characteristic of the southern Harii, he looked like half the young men in Balmora Shire. He could even speak anglic, the Harii language. Unfortunately, it was the high-tongue, which was spoken only by the high nobility and the priesthood. It had not been spoken by commoners since the time of the Rune Wars. Eyebrows would rise if he said more than a few words. But it was not his speech that would give him away to the Soultaken Psi’ans hunting him. It was the strength of his Psi. She took a moment to make sure her cloaking of his Aura was adequate.

Why did You send him to me, Great Mother? Is he the one foretold in the prophecies? She stifled a sigh. The Dragon Scrolls could give her the answers, but she no longer had access to the scribery of Rhóen Goria. Her banishment suddenly seemed heavier than a mountain. Forming a liaison with one of Great Mother’s lesser children had not been the sin. Her people did that from time to time. But none had ever conceived a child through such a relationship.

Bearing the golden haired warrior’s child had been a violation of the high laws. Her son had been taken from her as soon as he was born. She had been taken to the Hall of Moons, stripped of her rank, and cast out to wander among the lesser children in the Forbidden Lands until the Tara Eldárhií saw fit to call her home. She sighed. That had been a thousand years ago. Thorfinn’s voice intruded into her thoughts.

Why are you staring at me, boy? Have I sprouted horns and a tail?

You are not what I expected a Harii to be, Ciarán answered truthfully.

Am I not? The big warrior arched a brow. And what did you expect? That I would have four glowing eyes like the Aasha Mer, or be ten spans tall with horns like a Trollien?

Ciarán’s face reddened. I—we… his voice faltered. Taking a breath, he began again. We are taught that Harii paint their faces black and wear only black clothes and armor. And that Harii women are fiercer than the men—and will not go into battle until they have shared the friendship of the thighs. he blurted. That is what I was taught, he finished in a faint voice, feeling like a complete scatter wit. From what he had seen as they passed through D’Harinn, many Harii did not have dark hair and eyes, and none were dressed in black.

Sky Father save me from ignorant barbarians, Thorfinn said and roared with laughter. His mirth was joined by Jórrisael’s rich, throaty laugh that was so out of place coming from her wrinkled face. Catching his breath, Thorfinn gasped, Only Haúskarhls wear black, and they no longer paint their faces. As for our women sharing the… His broke off in another guffaw.

Aye, Ravenfeeder, Jórrisael, chortled. The only part of you that be black be your heart. That brought more laughter that left them wheezing for breath.

Barbarian? The hulking, black-haired savage calls me barbarian? I am not a barbarian, Ciarán snapped.

You say so? Thorfinn said, knuckling laughter’s tears from his eyes. Then why do the Celtae allow their life-bearers to carry weapons and go into battle like men? Civilized people do not risk their women that way—only barbarians.

Ciarán swallowed a heated retort. The survival of my people depends on the skill and strength of every arm, including those of our women, he said in an even voice. It has always been so.

The giant warrior stroked his beard in thought for a moment. Is it because your men are few? Like the Horse Clans? Is that why your women have to be warriors? If so, I apologize for naming you a barbarian.

No, that is not the reason. He paused to gather his thoughts. "Not all Celtae women choose to be Ainnir. Most do not, but it is their choice. Even those who do not walk the Spear path are taught to use weapons. They are free persons. It is their right. So why do you insult me?

Thorfinn stared into the fire for a moment. Your elders should invoke a forbidding on women being warriors. They are the life-bearers, he finished, as if that explained everything.

Forbid them? Ciarán said as though tasting the words. Forbid them to be Ainnir. He shook his head. A man does not forbid a Celtae woman to do anything that she has made up her mind to do. Not unless he wants a geis laid on him.

He tried to picture himself telling Scáthach or Erinian or Kiara they could not be Ainnir because they were life-bearers. Forbid indeed!