Horns of the Hunter: Tales of Luah Fáil Book 1 Read online

  Horns of the Hunter

  Tales of Luah Fáil

  Book I

  Frank Dorrian

  Copyright © 2021 Frank Dorrian

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Felix Ortiz

  www.artstation.com/felixortiz

  Cover design by Shawn T. King

  www.STKKreations.com

  Internal map by Frank Dorrian

  Impaled Monarch logo artwork and design by Frank Dorrian

  Edited by Sarah Chorn

  www.bookwormblues.net

  www.sarahchornedits.com

  ISBN – 978-0-9955184-9-0

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Impaled Monarch Publishing

  Liverpool, UK

  For more info, please visit:

  www.frankdorrian.com

  https://frankdorrian.wordpress.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  The Hunter and the Warrior

  Things were different once, back when the land was young and thick with the Weaving. There are tales of those days, well-known and oft told with fondness and reverence. Tales of our gods. Myths, really, for those days are so far flung in our people’s history that there are none who could possibly have ever witnessed them. Don’t tell that to any of them, though. To them, Béchu, Aodhamar and Ogmodh are as real as your mother’s tits, boy, and twice as lovely.

  Oh, they might not walk our land, anymore. But you can still see them, they say, if you look hard enough. The gloom between the oak tree’s limbs. The faces that twist through silt on the riverbed. The scream of warring gods upon the wind, trembling the earth like their mighty fists once did.

  There are many tales, many ways they are told, and many lies are slipped in for flavour. But all share one common tenet, my boy – it was those fools, Cu Náith and Luw, whose arrogance and lust destroyed the gods of Luah Fáil.

  – Chief Cunall of Clan Faolán, Wolf of the Western Glens, slayer of Chief Ódri, of Clan Mag Maoláin

  Movement through the forest ahead, a subtle stir among the dappled shadows. Bann’s mane bristled, wet nose twitching. The smell of the ancient mountain elk drifted through the forest’s palisade. Earth, moss, shit, and mating musk. Sweet, aged flesh beneath it all, rich with Earthblood. Luw breathed deep, the scent tingling upon every sense. Bann licked his chops silently, a ribbon of drool dangling from the hound’s chin.

  Today’s the day, my friend, thought Luw. The wolfgazer shifted in answer, hind legs ready to spring.

  Luw nocked an arrow fully to his bow, raised it half-drawn as shape and shadow shifted. There you are, old boy. The great elk slipped silent as a shade from the trees, pausing to sniff the air, its mighty antlers haloed against a creeping shaft of sunlight.

  Luw’s bow dipped for a moment, the utter majesty of the old beast never failed to stun him. A web of moss spanned its antlers, a proud and ancient crown rising to blend with the canopy, enough to make Luw feel envious as he thought of his own mantle of horns. A long, puckered scar ran down the elk’s shaggy flank, a sunken memory of their first encounter – the kiss of the spear planted at Luw’s side. He smiled, glancing at the matching scar those antlers had left across his shoulder. Today would be different. Today, the King of Elk would finally be his, after so many years. The prize of all prizes, honour of honours, and a worthy sacrifice for the forest.

  Luw stood, smooth and swift, drawing as he rose, while Bann shifted, ready to pounce. The elk’s ears twitched, a sudden bluster and noise burst the forest stillness like foam upon rock. The beast crashed through the undergrowth as the bowstring snapped, braying its disdain. A snort, a single flash of its scarred, muscled rump as Luw’s arrow slammed into the tree beside it – and it was gone, swallowed by the forest’s gloom.

  Bann burst forth, barking like a lunatic at the trampled undergrowth and snapped branches left in its wake. Luw’s arrow quivered lamely from a knotted trunk. He blinked at it, blinked again, lowering his bow. Bann’s barking snapped him out of his disbelief, letting disappointment slink into its place. ‘Leave it, boy. He’s gone.’ Bann whimpered and returned to his heel with a soft whine. ‘I know, I know, boy. I thought we had him, too.’ Luw gave him a sympathetic scratch behind the ear.

  The hound’s head whipped sharply about, that blustering cacophony starting up again. He gave a low growl, staring at where the sunlight broke through the forest’s cluttered edge. Luw’s brow knotted, a growl simmering in his own throat as he made out an all too familiar laugh. He stooped, laid a hand to the leaflitter. He summoned the Earthbond, and let the trees take his senses to the forest’s border.

  Half-formed images, rising like driftwood through murk. Impressions of what little the trees understood beyond their realm of sunlight, soil, and darkness.

  Swaying grass beneath a sapphire sky, verdant blades crushed callously underfoot by a monster made all of muscle and leather. A fat, scarred mouth filled with tombstone teeth – roaring, rippling with laughter. A monstrous length of sharp iron gripped in its fist, fresh blood slick upon its edge. The earth supped at what had spilled upon it.

  Luw withdrew with a snarl, clenching a fist before his face. ‘Náith.’ That fucking idiot! Clumsy, obnoxious, useless fat bastard!

  Bann was still growling, itching for a fight, ears flattened to his skull. Luw stood, shouldering his bow. He tore the spear from the ground and spun it about himself, the long blade chiming as it cleaved the air. That putrid, sweaty prick’s blood would be a poor substitute for the King of Elk’s flesh, but the vengeance…

  ‘No.’ Luw shook himself. Not today. Not with that one. ‘Bann!’ The hound’s growling cut off. He gave Luw a wounded look. ‘Home, Bann. Home!’ He pointed south to the forest’s heart. Bann whined, glanced toward the noise beyond the trees. ‘Not today, boy. Come. We’ll check the snares on the way. See if we’ve got us a hare to spit.’ He strode off, into the trees, clicking long fingers for the wolfgazer to follow him. Anger bit at his heels with every step.

  *

  Náith laughed as Mag Cáitha stumbled and missed with a one-handed swing. He barely had to sidestep for the fool’s sword to bite grass. Blood was pissing from the stump of Mag Cáitha’s left arm. The limb lay ten strides behind him, still clutching its shield. Náith booted him in the ribs as the warrior struggled to rise and a long ribbon of steaming blood lashed his chest and face. Copper-stink in his nose, copper-taste on his tongue. Fucking delicious.

  ‘Come now, Mag Cáitha!’ Náith chuckled, spreading bloody arms. ‘Surely that’s not all you have for me. Let us not forget who asked for this duel. I’ve not a scratch!’

  Mag Cáitha sat up, crimson from the waist down, grey skin bleaching bone-white. ‘Get fucked,
Náith,’ he wheezed. ‘I’ll have your bollocks before this day’s done.’

  Náith put his boot in Mag Cáitha’s face as he tried to stand, sending him spinning arse-first across the plain. The warrior slammed his sword into the earth, tearing a gouge a dozen strides long before he came to a halt, cut blades of grass whipping about him. He struggled back to his feet, shattered nose dribbling blood down his chin, and charged. Náith let him come, cast aside his shield and let his blade hang loose in his fist.

  Mag Cáitha’s feet rumbled the earth, a galloping mountain of bloodstained muscle and bone, a roar building in his throat. Náith raised his chin, the distance disappearing. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, stance deceptive, guard lowered but ready to move. Mag Cáitha swung high to take Náith’s head off at the shoulder. A feint – the warrior’s arm whipped back, sinuous as a redbite viper, and he dropped into a lunge.

  Náith stepped off, sword swinging up to the left, sparks bursting as their blades met. Mag Cáitha’s went off target, pitching the warrior to the side. Náith stepped about him, blade arcing as his opponent fell, laying open his back right down to his arse.

  Mag Cáitha landed in a grunting heap, blood billowing from his wound, pumping from his severed arm. Náith stood over him, legs either side of the twitching warrior’s hips. He was strong, Mag Cáitha – strong, and rightly feared across the island – but all too predictable in a fight. Náith sat on him as his remaining hand groped for its dropped sword. He yanked Mag Cáitha’s head back by a fistful of his raven hair, tutting.

  ‘Not your best, Mag Cáitha. Far from it. Don’t worry… I’ll kiss your woman goodbye for you.’ The warrior grunted, blowing bubbles of blood as the severed ends of muscles twitched furiously in his back, fingers tightening in the grass. Náith pulled his head back further, bent him like one of those scribbling fancy-boys’ runes, until he could see the fury in those jet eyes of his. ‘She was sweet last night. Been a while since I’ve had one that squeaked like that when I slipped into her!’

  Mag Cáitha’s mouth opened to voice his fury. Náith stuck his hand in it, gripped him by the upper jaw and tore the warrior’s head in half as he stood. A pink tongue lolled over a flopping jaw, blood fountaining from neck and severed skull. Náith pranced in it, let gore shower him and laughed heartily. He breathed, lowered Mag Cáitha’s head to his own by the hair and stared into the warrior’s black, slanted eyes. ‘Sweet. Not worth dying for, though,’ Náith sneered. Mag Cáitha blinked.

  Náith dropped the prick’s head and punted it two miles high, shielding his eyes against the sun to watch it vanish beyond the western ridges. He waited a moment after it disappeared, blew a farting, splattering noise with his tongue and cackled to himself.

  Sighing happily, Náith turned away, toeing Mag Cáitha’s corpse to make sure the cheeky little bastard was actually dead. Killing always gave him a mind to fuck, and what a kill that was! ‘I should visit Saebha again,’ he muttered, flicking a scrap of flesh from his chin and scratching at blood-crusted stubble. Mag Cáitha’s little smash-bag had been sweet sport, there’d been no lie in that.

  Náith paused. No. A kill like that deserved to be celebrated with one woman alone.

  Síle.

  He licked his lips, tasted Mag Cáitha’s dirty blood. Now Síle was a woman. None were sweeter than she. It had been a while since he’d had her. A long while. Years. If there was any way to celebrate another crushed rival, it was with her – between the furs and with a bellyful of meodhglin. Náith shouldered his sword, rumbling to himself as he thought of how Síle had once swayed her hips to catch his eye. How she had swayed them atop his, hair spilling down her arched back like a blackglass waterfall. Never had there been one so utterly enchanting as Síle, the Maid of Mael Tulla.

  Nor so infuriatingly mysterious. That had never stopped Náith before, though. Wouldn’t stop him today, either.

  He turned southeast where the land sprouted hills like plump breasts, took one bounding step and halted. Something about the Southern Forest caught his eye, his ear. Some movement, or sound among those tangled boles and knotted boughs. Náith squinted, thought he saw a glimpse of something sharp duck behind a tree as his stare brushed it. He laughed loud, harsh, obnoxious – the kind of laugh that starts in a man’s belly before it bursts the ears of all around him. A flock of white birds leapt from the canopy and fled into the west.

  ‘Is that you, Luw?’ Náith called out, wiping a tear from his eye. The trees at the forest edge shook with the force of his voice. He pointed at their shadows with his reddened blade. ‘I’d say come out and let’s have a quick dance, you little dandy-boy! But no doubt you’re off polishing your spear again!’

  Náith pulled a cross-eyed, gormless face, made a furious wanking gesture at the forest with his free hand. Laughing hard, laughing hearty, he bounded off across the plains to the southeast, the earth shaking beneath his mighty step and his loins hungering for Síle.

  Chapter 2

  The Maid of Mael Tulla

  Síle. Ah, Síle!

  Such beauty comes but once in a lifetime, if ever. Words could not describe her, or at least not so well as to do her justice! The grace of the spearhawk soaring across the Sisters’ peaks. The strength of the salmon that braves the fall. The majesty and pride of the great wolves that ruled the western glens. A thousand such things could be said of her and still the words would be lacking. She was all of it, and more. A priceless, precious treasure of beauty.

  And one possessed of an absolutely fantastic arse.

  Náith took a long moment to watch it as he reached the stone wall of Síle’s land. She was fussing about her garden, or a fraction of it, for it spanned the many miles between the Southern Forest and the heathered mounds of Ulmóna.

  Bent over a swathe of red flowers, her head snapped about and caught Náith staring. Brave and mighty as he was, Náith couldn’t hide his start at the intensity of her gaze, his heart skipping a thunderous beat. He caught it, though, the little smile that quirked the corner of her lovely mouth. She stood and dusted off her long, grey hands.

  ‘Náith,’ she called, striding along her path toward him, hands upon her swaying hips. Tiny flowers sprouted from the earth wherever her feet touched, withering as she left them behind. She came to him with a raised brow. ‘What are you doing here? Last I heard, you were in the Heartlands, butchering the Fomonán and any warrior brave enough to test you.’

  Náith blinked, pulled himself free of those big, black eyes of hers. ‘And so I was,’ he said, nudging the sword upon his shoulder. ‘I fear they’ve grown boring. My path takes me to old Ulmóna. I’ve heard there’s serpents there. I thought I would stop by on the way. See how the joy of my heart is.’ He gave her the boldest smile he could muster.

  Síle studied him, fists pressed into buxom hips. A halo of bees buzzed around her shimmering hair, butterflies weaving their fae paths about her face. A grin lingered beneath her sardonic pout. ‘Mhm.’

  ‘It’s true, I tell you!’ Náith gave her a wounded look.

  ‘You’re filthy,’ she commented, eyes roaming Náith’s flesh. ‘I know blood when I see it and I know the smell of it too well on you. Who did you kill?’

  Náith couldn’t keep his smirk in check, couldn’t keep the boast from rolling off his tongue. ‘That upstart, Mag Cáitha.’ He hefted the blade for her to see. ‘I ripped off his head and kicked it to the western end of the isle.’

  He could see how Síle struggled not to grin at that, how she bit her grey lip in that delightful, teasing way of hers. Her expression suddenly hardened.

  ‘So. That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘And to see my dear-heart!’ Náith flapped, arms spread. Síle fixed him with that lancing gaze of hers. She had a way of disarming him that no man ever could, a way of laying his very soul bare so she could trace the fingers of her curiosity across it and leave him wanting more. He could see himself reflected in her eyes. Black as the night’s heart and yet brighter than the
sun’s fury.

  ‘Your dear-heart knows how you like to celebrate your wins, Náith. And don’t think she doesn’t know you’ve been celebrating them with those little playthings of yours in the Heartlands.’

  She turned away from him, striding back up her path, a hundred little blooms bursting beneath every step. Náith’s heart plummeted, hit his stomach and sent him lurching after her.

  ‘Síle, my heart! I would never! Never! There is no one who could take your place in my soul! I swear it on my sword! On my warrior’s pride!’ He beat a bloody fist against his thumping chest. Síle ignored him. ‘Of course, there were fillies from time to time! But little strumpets don’t catch my eye! I have room for no other but you in my heart, Síle!’

  Her home appeared past a magnificent tree laden with golden, glittering fruit. A roundhouse upon a quaint hill overlooking her garden, overgrown with flowering vines and pulsing blossom. She started up the steps to it, the bees and butterflies scattering from about her. Her arse reached Náith’s eye-level, drawing him toward it like a moth spying an open flame. He followed, snapped himself out of the trance the thing put on him.

  ‘Please, Síle, my love. Please, I –’

  ‘Stop staring at my arse, Náith.’

  Náith halted, reaching for her, and then dropping his arm, feeling every bit the skirt-clutching child. Síle laid a hand upon the door of her home, gazing at him over a haughty shoulder.

  ‘Síle…’ A finger on his lips stopped Náith mid-step and mid-sentence. A faint smile curled Síle’s mouth.

  ‘You stink,’ she said, white petals drifting about her black hair. ‘I’ll draw you a bath.’

  Náith sighed, reclining into piled furs. Hands behind his head, he closed his eyes, the gutful of meodhglin he’d downed spreading a pleasant tingle through his limbs. ‘That, my heart, was something special,’ he muttered. A titter answered him.