Holder of Lightning (69 page)

“We’ll get through this,” MacEagan told her. “The tuatha have never been able to conquer Inish Thuaidh. The Rí Ard will suffer the same fate as the rest, and fifty years from now, the bards will be singing the
Song of Kiernan O Liathain
the way they sing of Máel Armagh now, and laughing at the man’s foolishness.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am. We might lose this battle, but we’ll prevail. Inish Thuaidh is a hard land, and the Tuathians are soft. They will break here, as they always have.” He stopped. His hand lifted as if he were about to touch her shoulder, then dropped back to his side. “
You’ll
live, Jenna,” he said. “And so will your child.”

Jenna nodded. On a pole on the keep’s tower, the blue-and-white flag of Inish Thuaidh snapped in the wind. Far out to sea, she could see the banners fluttering above the sails: the colors of the Tuatha: green and brown, blue and gold, green and gold. She could see the oars churning the water as the sun glinted on mail and steel.

“They’ll be here soon,” she said. “Then we’ll know.”

The battle for Dún Kiil began with a single sound: the
k-thunk
as the arm of a catapult was released out on Harbor Head and a flaming ball went hurtling across the late afternoon sky. It splashed into the water in an eruption of water and steam a dozen yards short of the lead boat just entering between the inner bay’s arms. Four more fireballs followed; two of them struck the ship and burning oil and grease splattered over the deck. Faint screams could be heard from the crew, and the oars splintered and fell as those on the ship leaped into the water, some of them aflame. Jenna, standing next to MacEagan near the end of the dock, heard a ragged cheer go up from the troops assembled close by.

The cheer nearly immediately went silent. The catapult nearest the fleet erupted in a gout of black smoke, pieces of shattered timber flying through the air. There were more screams, but this time it came from the Inishlanders man ning the catapult.

The Clochs Mór had entered the battle.

The sky near the entrance to the inner bay darkened and swirled with storm clouds as a gale force wind blew out to sea, howling and shrieking and laden with blinding curtains of rain: Stormbringer awakened. Jenna could see the ships gathered near the harbor entrance and already trying to avoid the flaming hulk of the lead craft, suddenly heel over. Sails went down—cut or torn, she didn’t know—and oars lashed the water, pushing the boats forward against the tempest. Two more catapults fired, and another ship was bathed in a gushing inferno; a moment later, fireballs hissed away from the incoming ship, and both catapults exploded. The ships pushed on.

The Inner Harbor had been closed off with chains and nets hung just under the water between Little Head and Harbor Head. The first few ships hit the barriers and were stopped, but only for minutes before they were cleared. The first ships moved into the Inner Harbor.

Smoke was beginning to drift over Dún Kiil, laden with the scent of charred wood and the burning oil; curtains of driving rain obscured the bay. A constant roar dinned in her ears, the wordless cry of the massed thousands. Kianna Cíomhsóg raised her sword a hundred yards away, her mouth opened as she shouted something to the troops; Rí MacBrádaigh was with her, a sword clutched in his hand also, though its point dragged the ground at his side.

“Jenna, it’s time.” MacEagan’s hand closed around his Cloch Mór. He nodded to her. “I’ll be with you.”

Jenna took Lámh Shábhála in her right hand.

She sent her mind into the cloch.

The world faded about her for a moment, then the doubled vision of the cloch-world came to her, brilliant and saturated. Jenna gasped in wonder and terror—so many clochs, so many points of brilliance set like burning suns about her: at least twenty of the Clochs Mór, and dozen upon dozens of the clochmion as well, faint pinpricks against the glory of their powerful cousins.

Some of them she knew, their colors and shapes familiar: Ennis’ cloch wielded by Mac Ard; Árón Ó Dochartaigh, the nameless tiarna with the Cloch of the mage-demon. Nevan O Liathain was out there, and other tiarna she had met at Lár Bhaile. They were out there, and they were aware of her as well—she could feel their minds turn as the greater sun of Lámh Shábhála rose.

They saw her. The first attack came before she could draw breath.

A wave seemed to tower in front of her, a surging surf of green whose crest glowed white. It loomed high, ready to fall like an immense tower down on her. She could feel the inexperience of the Holder behind the cloch’s attack—there were holes in the wall of energy before her. With near contempt, Jenna shaped Lámh Shábhála’s power, gathered up the wave, and threw it back to its source. The emerald wave crashed over one of the ships just entering the Inner Harbor; a thin, single scream cut through the noise of the rising battle. The Mage had squandered all the energy in the cloch in one flurry, and Lámh Shábhála greedily sucked it out, emptying the cloch utterly and spitting it back over the ship. More screams came, this time from the people around the Holder; the luminescence that had marked the cloch’s position vanished like a snuffed candle.

One ...

The Clochs Mór of Inish Thuaidh were alive now, attacking on their own, and Jenna realized that no matter how much she might have disliked Máister Cléurach’s tutelage, the quality of the Order’s teaching showed. The Inishlander cloudmages were superior to any of the Tuathian Mages—she saw Mundy Kirwan’s cloch open and tendrils of blue-green death streak outward across the water, thrust ing aside the defenses of two Clochs Mór and smashing into one of the ships, its touch setting the hull afire as the boat capsized. Most of the Tuathian Mages were inexperienced, their handling of the mage-light’s power awkward and tentative. For the first time, Jenna began to have some hope.

Sudden flights of arrows arced from the bay, a thousand barbs streaking down through the smoke, surprising Jenna with their suddenness, and Jenna barely managed to throw a shadow of Lámh Shábhála’s power toward them. The arrows closest to her burst into flame and went to drifting ash, but those to either side did not and soldiers fell, screaming in pain or silent in death. The assault brought back to Jenna the realization that it would not be the clochs only that won this battle. Even Lámh Shábhála couldn’t stand alone against an army.

And not all the clochs had entered the fray.

A shout went up from the western end of the harbor—the first of the Tuathian ships had landed, the soldiers on it swarming out to be met by Kianna Cíomhsóg and her vanguard. The
caointeoireacht na cogadh
—the war-keening—burst from their throats as they charged. Jenna heard the first clash of steel on steel as men rushed past her, moving toward the battle. Another ship landed; a second mass of arrows was launched hissing through the air; again, Jenna spent a tithe of Lámh Shábhála’s energy to destroy those raining down toward her.

“Jenna!” she heard MacEagan call. “Fall back! Keep yourself behind our troops.” She felt MacEagan’s arm on hers, and she allowed him to pull her back through the press of soldiers until they stood in the shadow of the tavern. His face was drawn, his hand white around the cloch. His eyes closed and he groaned, staggering, and in her cloch-vision, Jenna saw the fire-creature recoil as a thicket of glowing spears thrust into its torso.

Through the smoke at the edge of the harbor front, Jenna saw a banner of green and brown appear, waving above a troop of mailed knights not thirty yards away. Then the smoke obscured them as a squadron of Inishlander troops rushed past Jenna toward them.

The mage-demon appeared in the air over the harbor front, tendrils of smoke writhing about it like a mad cloak. It shrieked, its head seeming to search the city, then it folded its wings and fell toward Jenna.

From there, what little vestige of order remained disintegrated into chaos, and Jenna was too busy to see what happened anywhere but in front of her.

The demon fell upon them, claws and horrible mouth open in fury. Jenna sent a pulse of energy toward it, nearly too late: a taloned hand slashed air so close to her face that she felt the wind of its passage. The creature slammed into the wall of the tavern, timbers cracking and stone walls tumbling in. Splintered wood and sharp fragments of shattered stone splattered over Jenna; she ducked instinctively, raising her left hand to protect her face.

The mage-creature howled in rage and pain, leather wings lashing as part of the roof collapsed and dust rose in a gray pall. It stalked out of the ruin, thrusting aside shattered roof beams, as Jenna stood again. She sent her mind into the well of the cloch, sending arcing bolts of energy toward the beast. It howled and screamed as they struck and went down to its knees. Jenna prepared a second strike, knowing that alone the creature couldn’t sur vive against Lámh Shábhála. But it was not alone, suddenly.

Behind you . . . !
She could hear the scream of a chorus of ancient Holders in her head.

Light flared in her cloch-vision, slashing toward her from two directions within the Inner Harbor: firebolts accompanied by streaks of azure lighting, both of them all too famil iar to Jenna: Mac Ard and Árón Ó Dochartaigh. Cursing, Jenna brought the energy she’d gathered to bear on the new attack: mage-power exploded so near her that she was thrown back, landing on the paving stones with a grunt, her clóca torn and skin scraped away on her left arm and side. Almost, she lost her grip on Lámh Shábhála; the cloch-vision shuddered, blinked, then returned. The demon pulled itself erect again . . .

. . . but a form of molten rock hurtled past in front of Jenna, colliding with the demon with a screech of rage; MacEagan, somewhere close by, shouted in unison with the creature. A fury surged through her, overlaid with the memory of Árón’s murder of Ennis. She reached out with Lámh Shábhála, rushing back along the lines radiating from Árón’s cloch with the full force of her own cloch. But two additional clochs had joined in the attack; Jenna felt an unseen force drape around her; where it touched, it clung like a stinging spider’s web. The net constricted, pulling tighter, and she had to divert some of the force of Lámh Shábhála to push it back and allow herself to breathe. At the same moment, she felt the touch of a cloch on her mind. There was disconcerting sense of invasion, then it went away . . .

. . . and Ennis was standing before her, smiling, his hands out. “Ennis . . .” Jenna breathed. Ennis, still smiling, raised a sword that appeared impossibly in his hands and slashed at her. She fell back, raising her left hand, and the blade cut deep in her forearm, opening a long wound through which bone shone white for a moment before blood poured from the gaping cut. The blade finished its diagonal slice at her hip, opening a shallower wound along her right side. The strike intended for Árón Ó Dochartaigh went wild, vanishing as she lost control of the power. Ennis was still smiling as he raised the sword—dripping red along its keen edge—once more.

“Ennis!” She screamed his name. A line of fire hurtled toward her—Mac Ard—and she barely managed to turn the fireball aside; she could feel its terrible heat as it exploded in one of the buildings behind her. She heard screams from behind but couldn’t turn to look. The net tightened around her; in her cloch-vision, she could feel the snarling power of Ó Dochartaigh’s and Mac Ard’s clochs gathering for another stirke.

Ennis—smiling fixedly like a mad creature—brought the sword down.

Jenna brought up a shield of Lámh Shábhála’s energy. Where the power met Ennis’ sword, the blade hissed, smoked, and sheared away. Screaming wordlessly, Jenna sent the red-tinted fury past the useless weapon, hurtling into Ennis’ body, burning and tearing at it as if it were her own hands even as she cried. Ennis screamed in pain, calling her name like a curse, and she wept even as she pulled at the ribbon of energy that linked his image to the cloch that had created it. She could feel the Mage at the other end shrieking with agony as she raked the phantom with Lámh Shábhála’s power, and that fueled the anger even more. She ripped every last erg of energy from the other’s cloch and sent its remnants hurtling toward the netting laced around her. The impact loosed the constriction, and she rolled aside as azure lightning and red-orange fireballs both gouged craters in the earth at the spot where she’d been standing an instant before.

For a moment, she was free, but the cloch-vision roiled with bright points of power even as she threw shields around Lámh Shábhála to keep it hidden. Some of them were matched with the clochs of the Inishlanders: Máister

Cléurach, MacEagan, Aithne, Galen . . . Most of the Tuathian clochs were set against the Inish troops, but she could feel several searching for her. She wished she could make sense of the uproar and confusion around her. Men were shouting and yelling and moaning all around her; there was movement and the bright sound of clashing steel; the scent of blood and death, but she was standing alone in a small circle of calm. She spun around, looking for MacEagan, but though she could sense his cloch close by, she couldn’t see him. “MacEagan!” she shouted. “Kyle!” There was no answer.

She thought for a moment she glimpsed Kianna through a gap in the clouds of smoke, sword lifted and bloody, hacking at two Tuathian solders, then the smoke covered her again. Where Aithne or Máister Cléurach or Rí Mac Brádaigh might be, she had no idea. She tried to walk and nearly went down; pain shot through her right hip, and she looked down to see her clóca ripped and covered with gore, her left arm slathered with blood and the wound gaping and raw. The sight of it made her nauseous and weak and she nearly fell. Her fingers loosened on Lámh Shábhála, and the cloch-vision faded, the world going gray and dim. She forced herself to stand erect, to pull strength from the cloch.

“This is what war is like . . .”
The voices came from within Lámh Shábhála.

“. . . we warned you . . .”

“. . . it’s pain and blood and loss and death . . .”

“. . . it’s only in the songs and myths that war is glorious and brave and only the enemy is hurt . . .”