Beneath the Forsaken City (22 page)

“Hold steady, men.
”

Riordan crouched in cover on the rocky hillside, the same rock into which the fortress had been carved. The fire raged more fiercely than any natural fire, consuming acres of trees as if driven by some unseen wind. And then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

The sorcery prickled his skin.

Now, as the first group emerged from the tree line, he could feel the magic rolling from them like steam from the surface of hot springs. One mind, a thousand evil tentacles to do its bidding. Cut one off and a hundred more sprang up in its place.

“Ready,” Riordan called, and hundreds of bowstrings drew taut, their arrows nocked. A few more steps and their attackers would be in range.

“Loose!”

The archers let the arrows fly, a dark cloud that moved across the sky and then fell upon attackers in eerie silence. The men kept coming, trampling the dead and injured.

“Next volley. Loose!”

The second volley had the same effect as the first: no shields raised, no return fire.

They kept coming.

A sick sense of inevitability crept into Riordan’s gut as the archers prepared for the third volley. As they released their arrows once more, the hush suddenly broke with a shout and the clash of metal.

Riordan cast his glance to the east side of the village, where the enemy swarmed from the trees, swords drawn. The Fíréin céads moved methodically to meet them, and across the lake, the first of their men fell.

“Quickly now.” Liam ushered Eoghan down the corridor to the Hall of Prophecies, their footsteps sharp in the stillness. He spoke the words of entry, which lodged no better in Eoghan’s mind than before, and the door swung open.

Eoghan stepped into the passageway and turned to face the Ceannaire. “Master Liam, there must be another way. I can’t sit idly by
 
—”

“This is how it must be, for the good of Ard Dhaimhin, for the good of Seare.” Liam reached out and clasped Eoghan’s forearm, then pulled him close into a tight embrace. “Go with Comdiu, my son. You have made me proud.”

Then he shut the door.

Eoghan stared at the back of the door for several moments, his heart beating in his ears.

Protect him, Comdiu. I beg You. Watch over our brothers. Bring them through safely.

Comdiu did not reply.

Eoghan sighed and began the slow descent to the chamber beneath the fortress.

The soft light intensified for a moment when he entered the Hall of Prophecies. He paced the edges of the chamber, looking over the scrolls, folios, and parchments without seeing them. He had no idea how long he walked the perimeter of the room, praying a wordless litany and pushing down the fear that threatened to choke him.

Then, as if directed by a hand outside him, he paused before one particular cubbyhole. Hand shaking, he removed the scroll from its spot and unrolled it.

The Kinslayer shall rise, the Adversary looming treacherous over the bleeding land. Day shall be night, and the mist, unbound, shall wreak evil upon the sons of men.

In that hour alone, the son of Daimhin shall come; wielding the sword and the song, he shall stand against the Kinslayer, binding the power of the sidhe and, for a time, bringing peace.

Eoghan sank back against the wall of shelving, stunned.

The sword and the song.

Did that mean their battle against the druid would be won by both steel and magic? Led by one who possessed skills with both? Would the one who defeated this foe in such a way again rule over Seare?

Eoghan lowered the parchment to his lap, suddenly weak. He should have seen it all along. How blind had he been?

Conor was to be their salvation after all, the one to end the age of the brotherhood and usher in a new era of peace for Seare.

His apprentice. His best friend. The High King.

Who was now far out of their reach.

Liam strode away from the Hall of Prophecies, his confident steps at odds with his inner turmoil. Eoghan was angry. Humiliated. Worried.

But at least he’d be safe.

In the main hall, Liam passed the brothers whose sole purpose was to defend the fortress against breach. Not that breaching it would be an easy task. There was only one way in, from a narrow balcony through a narrower doorway at the top of three hundred four stairs flanked by a sheer drop-off to the lake below. No, he was not concerned with Carraigmór being taken by force.

Liam stepped out the front door onto that same balcony. It was guarded by a handful of brothers, while more archers perched on the heights. The sounds of fighting drifted to him, and he moved to the arrow slit in the enclosure’s wall to peer down at the battle. Enemy warriors swarmed the city, falling to the Fíréin as soon as they raised weapons. Already he could see the bodies of the combatants, far more invaders than Fíréin, but they kept coming. Plumes of smoke billowed from fires: the thatched roofs of cottages, fields the brotherhood had not been able to defend against flaming arrows.

And in the midst of it all walked Niall in his new body, untouched as if enclosed in a bubble, a sword on his back rather than in his hand. The sorcerer’s magic drew Liam’s attention like a signal fire. Niall looked his way. He knew Liam was there. And he was coming for him.

Liam pushed himself through the barrier of warriors and started for the steps.

“Sir!” one of the brothers said. “You must stay in the fortress, where it’s safe!”

Liam fixed the brother with a steely stare, and the man lowered his eyes. The brother meant well. It was his duty to keep him safe, something he couldn’t do if the Ceannaire exposed himself. But it was not safety Liam was after.

Despite himself, his heart thudded in his chest. It had been
years since Liam had felt true fear. It sparked along every nerve, hummed in his blood. He traversed the slippery staircase, slowing on the final steps. Niall crossed the last bit of open space and waited for him, his arms clasped behind his back.

“We finally meet.” Niall looked him over as if they were not enemies but lords meeting at court. “Your reputation has made me anxious to see you face to face.”

“And you, Niall. We may not have met, but you left your mark on the brotherhood. Before you betrayed us to follow the Adversary, that is.”

Niall cocked his head, a slight smile lifting his lips. The new host was handsome, young, obviously accustomed to fighting. The sorcerer’s mannerisms, on the other hand, didn’t suit the image. They were old, calculating. The combination struck Liam as unnatural.

“Dispensing with the pleasantries already? And here I thought we could have a civil discussion, one leader to another.”

Liam looked around at the still-raging battle, its sounds muted as if heard from a distance. So he was inside Niall’s protective bubble. No help would be coming for him. Not that Liam sought help. He knew how this would end. He had seen how it must.

“There is nothing to discuss,” he said finally. “You come as an invader, killing my men, destroying our livelihood. There will be no peace between us.”

“I would say your men are doing most of the killing.” As if to punctuate the druid’s words, a boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen, fell at their feet, his eyes gazing sightlessly to the sky, red spreading across his chest. Untrained and barely armed, he hadn’t stood a chance against the Fíréin brother who felled him.

“This can all end if you say the word. I don’t want the city. I don’t want the throne. I only want the sword.”

The sword? He could only be referring to Daimhin’s sword,
the oath-binding sword. What did he want with such a relic? Regardless, Liam would never give in to his demands. “You shall never have the sword.”

“I feared you would say that.” Niall lifted a hand, and the cottage nearest them went up in a column of blue flame. “I will take apart your city, bit by bit, until I get what I want. You want to protect your men, your way of life? There is only one way.” He looked farther afield, and the timbered roof of the bathhouse roared with fire. “This costs me nothing, Liam. I will destroy your city around you. How do you think you will support these men without your fields? Your animals? Your lake?”

Liam followed Niall’s gaze. Steam poured in a shimmering cloud from the water, bubbles breaking the surface like a giant cauldron. Within seconds, dead fish began bobbing to the top.

“Why do you want the sword?” Liam asked, buying time while he thought.

Niall shook his head. “No. I won’t make your decision that easy. Give me what I want or your way of life is gone. The age of the brotherhood is over.”

The age of the brotherhood is already over.
Liam reached over his shoulder and drew his sword from the sheath on his back. “Let us see if you remember your training, Niall.”

The sorcerer chuckled but made no move to draw his own weapon. “I confess, I’ve wanted to try this body against you. After a century of living within old men and fools, it’s pleasant to be young again. Fit. Keondric was quite the warrior, up until the time that I killed him. Then he was just another fool.”

If Niall would not fight, that would make Liam’s job that much easier. Lightning fast, he struck at the sorcerer. His sword caught in midair, an inch from Niall’s neck.

The sorcerer lifted an eyebrow. “Most unworthy of you, Liam, to strike an unarmed man.”

Liam pulled back the sword and thrust it toward Niall’s body, jolting to a stop as if he’d tried to pierce a stone wall.

“You see now how you can never win.” Niall crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you never wonder why I left the brotherhood? Why I sought the power of the one you call the Adversary?”

“Because you were weak,” Liam growled. “Corruptible.”

“I was weak. But not in the way you mean. Gracious Comdiu, in all his wisdom, chose to give us his most useless gifts. Prophecy? Music? Sight?” Niall laughed, a tinge of bitterness in the sound. “Suited for weak-minded men who want to stay safely locked away behind strong walls. No way to defend themselves against the spirits who wished to claim the island for themselves. Ah, but you haven’t read Daimhin’s accounts of those days, have you? There’s a reason I destroyed them. Back then, the sidhe roamed freely. Terrorized indiscriminately. Turned men to their vicious appetites.”

“And now you have freed them.”

“Aye. I have freed them. But they are under
my
command. That is where the real power lies. Not in your passive, weak Balian magic. Not in the pathetic little parlor tricks you like to call gifts. I control the elements, the spirits, all that we see before us.”

“No,” Liam said. “Your magic controls you. And when the Adversary no longer has use for you, he will devour you.”

“I am not going to convince you to join me, I see. I had hoped . . .” Niall shook his head. “Never mind. Your incessant whining would become tiresome. This is your last chance, Liam, Ceannaire of the Fíréin brotherhood. Give me the sword.”

The command in the words wrapped itself around Liam’s will, and the smallest part of himself stretched to answer:
Aye, I will give you the sword.
He forced it down and sheathed his blade.

Niall smiled. “Aye. That’s right. Do not resist me. Give me the sword, and the rest of your men shall live. The brotherhood
can be what it once was, and you can be ruler of your own little kingdom.”