The Sword and the Song (14 page)

They continued the slow trek
down through the pass for the next three days, but Conor struggled to keep his mind on the terrain in light of what Aine had told him. The druids had once been followers of Comdiu? It wasn’t so much that Conor had thought them evil, exactly. His interactions with the ones who occasionally came to Balurnan from the Timhaigh nemetons had been pleasant, if a bit confusing. But being raised a Balian in a country that was hostile to his faith, he’d begun to think of all those who held opposing viewpoints as the enemy. In some cases, like his uncle, he had been right. But it sounded as though the druids weren’t necessarily one of those cases.

What else might they have been wrong about?

Aine had promised to continue to dig through Shanna’s journals to see if she could find anything that shed light on the runes, but that still didn’t solve the more pressing problem: the druid was collecting them, and they had no way to stop him. Facing him and his ten-thousand-strong army was no more advisable now than it had been when they were trying to protect their countrymen.

That made taking Ard Bealach all the more important. It was too new to contain any standing stones, but it would be a valuable stronghold from which to deploy men, another location to which they could recall their sworn brothers. Assuming they ever figured out how to use the sword to do that.

Oenghus moved up beside Conor, his hand resting on his sword. “This would be Esras coming.”

Conor followed the man’s gaze, but he didn’t see anything but trees and granite. “Where?”

“There.” As Conor watched, what he thought was part of the forest clarified into the shape of a man dressed in dark brown and green, his only visible weapon a short sword at his waist. He descended the granite rock face with the gravity-defying balance of a mountain goat and then came to rest in front of them.

“What did you find?” Oenghus asked.

“Four only. No difficulties.”

Oenghus glanced at Conor and explained, “Four sentries in the pass ahead of us. Esras has taken care of them.”

“Won’t they notice that they’re missing men?”

“Our men have replaced them. We’ve been watching them long enough to know their signals. As usual, overconfidence will be their downfall.”

“We’re indebted to you.”

“We’re counting on that.” There was a touch of humor in the words though. Oenghus nodded a dismissal at Esras, who disappeared back up the cliff face as quickly as he had appeared.

“And how far does your assistance reach?”

“Will we fight with you, you’re asking?” Oenghus’s humor faded. “We will clear the passes and perimeter of sentries. We can give you information, but we don’t involve ourselves in matters that don’t concern us. How do you think we’ve lived peacefully for so long?”

“That sounds exactly like the Fíréin’s policy,” Conor said. “And look where we are now.”

“You’re alive, which is more than I can say about most of those who oppose Keondric. No, I will not send men to die in your battle. But our offer of hospitality continues.”

Conor understood. It would have to be enough. The less effort they had to extend on hunting and reconnaissance, the better. And the mountain dwellers certainly knew the region much better than the Fíréin did.

Besides, with any luck, it would not be much of a battle.

They reached the rendezvous point almost exactly three weeks after leaving Carraigmór, two days prior to the full moon on which they had agreed to attack. Oenghus’s men sited their camp up a small, rocky path cut into the side of the canyon, where they could watch for the Clanless below and bide their time until the attack. While the other men prepared cold food and checked their weapons, Conor removed the leather harp case from the pack pony and checked the instrument’s frame for any damage that had come about from the pony’s jostling gait. Finding none, he looked to the strings instead and tuned them as quietly as possible.

“You’re going to play this close to the fortress?” Oenghus asked, his tone doubtful.

“No. Just preparing.” Conor didn’t elaborate, and the Clanless leader didn’t press, though he must have been confused by the response. When Conor was sure, even through his light touch, that the notes were tuned true, he carefully laid it back in the case and settled down to check his own weapons.

The rest of the day passed slowly and stretched into night. Despite the men’s discipline, Conor could feel their edginess at being stationary and exposed. Oenghus’s men came and went with offerings of food that could be eaten cold, even if he
didn’t know exactly where they had come by it. The Clanless community seemed to be even larger and more widespread than anyone had ever dreamed. Did they owe it all to the use of the runes?

The moon wasn’t even fully up yet when Conor felt the first touch of unnatural cold. “The sidhe are here,” he murmured to Oenghus.

“Aye,” the man agreed in a low voice. “They carry with them the chill of the grave.”

He should have expected it. The sidhe had been watching, waiting for their moment to strike. And now they must know that within earshot of the fortress’s sentries, Conor’s men had little chance to guard against them. Conor had the charm to help keep his mind clear, but his men were still susceptible while the order of silence was in effect. For a moment, he considered drawing the rune on them anyway
 
—consequences be hanged
 
—but something held him back. What if that was the very thing the sidhe wanted them to do? What if the consequences of taking the mark
 
—or smearing or miswriting the mark
 
—were even worse than they thought?

“I need your men,” he said in a low voice to Oenghus. “All of them, on guard duty tonight. Is that something you’re willing to do?”

The answering light in the man’s eyes said he followed his thoughts. “Aye. To keep them from disappearing.” Oenghus raised his hand toward one of his men, who immediately approached, and they conversed in low voices before the sentry disappeared. Less than an hour later, eight more men had arrived and stationed themselves at various points around the perimeter. Conor gave Oenghus a nod of thanks.

The night passed quietly without any incursions from the sidhe. Conor took the first watch and then curled beneath his
blanket by the fire. His hand remained on his sword while he fell into a state of half slumber, still too edgy to sleep deeply. Every sound took on an ominous cast, starting him awake. Then sometime near morning, the sound of a scuffle in the brush woke him. He was on his feet, blade in hand, before he’d completely shaken off sleep.

One of his men
 
—Lachtna, judging from the flash of white-blond hair
 
—struggled beneath two of Oenghus’s warriors. Instantly, Conor rushed to their side, realizing as he did that the men were only restraining him.

“What’s happening?” Conor whispered fiercely.

“Trying to leave the camp.” Oenghus arrived beside him. It was clear from Lachtna’s wild-eyed look that he was under the influence of the sidhe. “What do you want done with him? Restrain him until the sidhe decide to release him?”

If they ever decided to release him. Conor had firsthand knowledge of how hard their influence could be to overcome without something to break that hold. And with the way Lachtna was thrashing and moaning, he would bring the sentries down on them.

There was only one option left to him. Conor dragged the ivory charm over his head and pressed its rune-carved surface against the back of Lachtna’s neck, the first bit of exposed skin he could find. The warrior thrashed for a moment longer, then went still. When Oenghus’s men released their grip to roll him over, his eyes at last looked clear.

“What happened?” Lachtna asked, his eyes darting around their grim circle.

“Deceived by the sidhe,” Conor murmured. “Do you recall what happened?”

Lachtna shook his head. “No. I was on watch. Then I woke up here on the ground.”

“Back to your post, then,” Conor said. “We’ve only a few hours until sunrise. Their influence will be diminished then.”

The men sorted themselves back into their previous posts, but Oenghus held back, his attention still directed toward the charm. “You know something of the runes?”

“Aye, a little.” Conor returned the necklace to its place beneath his tunic and furs.

“Yet you don’t protect your men?”

“We don’t have enough information about them. You may be willing to brand them, but I’m not. And these objects are hard to come by.”

Oenghus said nothing, but as he trudged away, Conor felt that he had somehow disappointed him, like he was being careless with his men’s lives. Given the nature of the threat, maybe he was. But there was far too much at stake here if he were wrong.

Morning arrived, and the day passed at a rate akin to slow torture. Men came and went from the traveler party, replacing the ones who had spent the night on watch and once more making Conor wonder how many skilled warriors Oenghus had at his disposal. The Fíréin grew restless, as did the animals, who had been hobbled in the clearing with little fresh grazing for nearly two days now. Conor expected an alarm to be raised at any moment, but the Clanless warriors were true to their assurance that they had effectively replaced the sentries. By now, surely someone would be aware of their presence.

Unless they were being set up.

No. He had no reason to believe that Oenghus was going to betray them. The fact they bore runes didn’t automatically make them trustworthy, of course; it just meant they probably weren’t working directly with the druid. Still, he trusted Oenghus’s motivations: they were on the side of the future High King, and
they expected to benefit in thanks for their help in the siege on Ard Bealach.

At last the sun dipped behind the hills and the light slid from white to blue to black. Conor kept a close eye on the moon as it rose from its spot near the edge of the horizon, trying to time how long it would take to reach its zenith, that point when Daigh would make entry from the other tunnel. When he thought it was only perhaps three hours away, Conor signaled for the men to ready themselves.

Conor turned to Oenghus and grasped his forearm. “Thank you for your help. We are indebted.”

“Aye, I know. We’ll keep your passage clear while you make your entry, but as soon as you’re in, you’re on your own.”

“Understood. Thank you. We’re only going as far as Throne Rock, so if you can keep that area open until morning, we’ll be safe.”

“Aye. Go with Comdiu.”

They painstakingly made their way back to the pass below, where they proceeded down the rocky path with only moonlight guiding their steps. Conor squinted at their surroundings in the dark, looking for the landmarks that would signal the tunnel’s opening was close and wishing he’d been able to scout ahead. It had been deemed too dangerous, but now he wondered if they wouldn’t be simply wandering around for hours in the dark.

Then Larkin nudged him in the back and pointed to the dim shape of the rock face ahead and to their left. Indeed, even barely outlined against the night sky, the outcropping appeared to be chair shaped, a throne sized for a giant. According to the map, that meant they were close. The cliff, however, seemed to be a solid chunk of rock without any distinguishing marks. Conor retrieved a wax cloth-wrapped torch from the packhorse and lit the pitch with his knife and flint. When at last the torch flared to
life, he walked slowly along the wall of the canyon, illuminating patches of rock in the hope of finding the entrance.

Then he stopped short as something caught his eye. Not a variation in the stone, exactly
 
—just something different, like the hidden panel that led to the Hall of Prophecies back at Carraigmór. He ran his hand over the area, indistinguishable from the rest of the rock. It was here, he was sure of it. He gestured for them to bring the packhorse near.

“Are you sure?” Larkin whispered. “If you’re wrong, we could be digging into a solid mountain of stone.”

“I’m sure.” He handed off the torch, removed a chisel and a small mallet from one of the packs, and began to painstakingly chip the softening rune into the jagged rock wall. He purposely kept it small, the entire thing near the ground and barely wide enough for a man’s shoulders. Even though he trusted Oenghus to keep the area clear, there was no reason to draw attention to the tunnel’s location.

It took him nearly two hours to carve the rune into the rock wall, only a finger width’s deep, checking against the small scrap of parchment onto which he had copied it. Then he took a different chisel and began to carve it deeper. To his surprise, the rock crumbled away like sand, the marks growing deeper and deeper with almost no effort.

Finally, he stepped back and looked around at his party, the men’s faces alight with anticipation. “Ready?”

Slowly, they drew their weapons. Conor took that as an affirmation. He hefted the shovel, drew back the haft, and rammed the blade end through the center of the rune. It bit into the rock as easily as the shifting surface of a sandy beach. A single twist and the whole area crumbled into powder.