A Rising Moon Read online

  Greum grunted. He looked around at the other àrds and chief draoi, and Orla knew he saw little support for himself there with the exception of Ceiteag. His fingers tightened around his walking stick, then plunged the tip of it into the ground. “Then so be it,” he said. “Destroy the ships, and leave the bridges. We’ll bring Savas and his army to battle.”

  * * *

  The draoi approached the first bridge in the late afternoon. The foothills that crept down to the River Meadham were swaddled in the gray wool of clouds, with the distant mountains hidden behind them. A mist beaded on the plain cloaks the draoi wore, dampening their hair. They’d removed their torcs, shed their usual Onglse cloaks for the tartan of local clan farmers, and left all their weapons behind but for a few knives. They’d also brought a hand of sheep and a dog borrowed from a local farm. They pulled a small two-wheeled cart of vegetables, now caked in mud from the road.

  Just a clan family heading to town to sell what they’d raised and grown: three women and three men. Four of them were draoi: Orla, Magaidh, a man called Niall, and an older female called Caoimhe. The other two men were younger warriors there as additional protection in case someone in town could see the anamacha that accompanied the draoi and raise an alarm.

  As they approached the northern end of the bridge, they saw a quartet of guards emerge from the drystone guardhouse set to one side of the bridge on the northern bank. Orla watched their faces carefully, but none of them reacted to the ghost-like presences with the group. The officer moved toward them, his men sliding out to either side of the road with their pikes ready while the officer straddled the muddy ruts, his arms crossed. The visor of his helmet dripped water, the leather armor he wore was untied and askew, as if he’d hastily donned it, and the expression on his face indicated that he wished for nothing more than to return to the guardhouse next to the bridge entryway, where there was presumably a fire against the drizzle.

  Magaidh glanced back at Orla, who nodded. The older woman stepped forward, her arm interlaced with that of Niall. “Good day,” she said to the officer in heavily accented Mundoan. “We’re from Clan MacDonoghue. We’ve sheep to sell and some lovely fresh vegetables.”

  “You’re two days late for the opening of market, woman.”

  “I know, but my man here was out hunting and didn’t get back in time. I’d let himself tell you, but he doesn’t speak Mundoan beyond a few words.”

  The officer grunted, standing his ground and blocking the road. “I doubt you’ll find buyers today. They’ve already bought what they can, and the weather’s foul.”

  “You may be right in that,” Magaidh told him. “But surely you’re not going to deny us the chance. We’ll take what we can get.”

  The guards had spread out among them, poking through the produce on the cart. One of them nodded to the officer, who grunted and inclined his head toward the island at the other side of the bridge. “I suppose you know where the market is?”

  “Across the island, just over the second bridge,” Magaidh answered. “We’ve been there many times, sir.”

  “G’wan with you, then.”

  “Many kindnesses on your head, sir,” Magaidh said, “and may the sun shine on your back today.”

  The officer sniffed at the expression, wiping at his thin Mundoan nose. “That’s about as likely as you selling those lice-ridden sheep,” he told her, but he stepped aside. Orla could feel the soldiers watching them as they passed, but none of them said anything or moved until the sheep were on the bridge and their cart was rattling the wooden planks underneath their feet. Orla found herself holding her breath until they reached the island. Glancing back, she saw the soldiers entering their guardhouse again, already talking among themselves, and Orla allowed herself to breathe once more.

  The island was occupied mostly by inns for travelers and a few stores. The island was also where the shipyards of Muras were located, along the southern bank. As the draoi neared the second bridge, they could see a hand and four of ships moored there, far larger than any Orla had ever seen before, with two masts with fine canvas sails lashed around each and two hands of oars on either side for when there was no wind. “Savas’ army must be huge,” Niall said softly as they stared. “Those ships alone could carry twice as many warriors as Greum has.”

  Orla shivered, thinking of the Mundoan army. She’d traveled with it in the wake of her hated husband, along with First Wife Azru, and their children, little more than a slave and a convenient body for him to use as he saw fit when he was in the camp. Through her mam’s memories, she’d seen the army of the Mundoa sprawling over the land, and she’d seen it broken and shattered after the Battle of Siran. she heard voices say, and realized that her anamacha had pressed close to her.

  she told them.

  This time it was her mother’s voice dominant in the chorus.

  Orla shouted at them in her mind, and the anamacha slid away from her. She glanced up at the clouds; the hidden sun was marked by a lowering brighter spot to the west.

  “Let’s get to the market and set up,” Magaidh said to the group. “The rest can wait a few stripes until it’s dark.”

  They continued moving south along the lane toward the bridge entrance leading from the island to the town of Muras proper. The bridge let them out in the main market square, where there were stalls set up, though only a few sellers were behind the planks and fewer buyers strolled the area. Across the square was the Muras garrison, a two-story stone structure protected in front by a second wall. There were dark scorch marks on the granite wall of the garrison, and some of the stones had obviously been shattered and replaced with new-cut ones. Magaidh pressed close to Orla, whispering, “Your mother did that, casting her spells from the chariot of Ceannàrd Iosa when we came here and took the town. That was a glorious day and our first victory.”

  Orla stared at the garrison, then shook away the vision of her mother sending fire and destruction into the midst of battle. She pointed to an empty stall near the bridge entrance. “Let’s take that one,” she said. “We’ll get things set up and at least pretend we’re interested in selling what we have. . . .”

  * * *

  By the time the light had failed and the torches around the square had been lit, they’d sold one of the sheep and a few of the vegetables, haggling for prices half-heartedly with a mixture of well-dressed Mundoa and shabby Cateni—giving far better prices to the Cateni. “It’s time,” Magaidh said as the last of the torches was lit. Already the market was largely deserted except for the out-of-town sellers who would be sleeping in their stalls; the locals had already packed up and left for their own homes.

  “You know what to do,” Magaidh said to the two warriors. “We’ll see you on the island.”

  Magaidh, Niall, Caoimhe, and Orla left the warriors and walked back over the bridge to the island, skirting around toward the western quays and the masts that speared the twilight sky like a forest of limbless trees. The small lane along which they walked fell steeply downhill toward the rushing currents of the ever-widening river; Orla stopped there, where they could easily see the quay and the ships. The workers on the quay had gone home. Firelight glimmered behind the shutters of the houses nearest them while the low voice of a singer drifted from an inn’s open door where the lane met the docks a quick walk away.

  There was no one else visible along the lane.

  Orla took a long, slow breath. I can do this. It’s no different from what I did with Greum and Magaidh. This will be easy. . . .

  “Can you reach the ships with a spell from here?” Magaidh whispered; Orla, Niall, and Caoimhe nodded. “Let’s do this, then,” she told them.

  “I can take the three ships on the right,” Orl
a told them.

  “So many?” Magaidh asked. “You’re certain?”

  Orla nodded. With a deep breath, she called the anamacha of the Moonshadow to her, opening her arms to allow them to fully enter her. She was immediately caught up in the chaotic storms of Magh da Chèo, feeling the cold wind and seeing the rocky landscape illuminated by stuttering lightning from the racing thunderheads, while the real world became a faint underlying shadow. The ghosts of her anamacha surrounded her, calling out to her, and she looked for her mother among them. The Moonshadow herself remained hidden and distant, though her dominating presence seemed to touch each of the other dead draoi within the collective. She could feel her mother emerging from the crowd of spirits around her, but she suddenly felt frightened by her approach. Orla called into the Otherworld’s winds.

  her mother’s shade insisted.

  Orla swallowed hard. She pushed the fear to the back of her mind and nodded.

  Voada’s shade slid forward, her face prominent within the shifting features.

  Orla told her.

 

  Orla could feel the crackling of the energy of the Otherworld, the hair on her arms lifting in response. Her hands began to move, to make the spell cage to hold the energy her mother’s spirit was feeding her. She absorbed it as a furious, angry blaze spilled into the spell cage before her, snarling and fuming, the bright lines of the cage shivering and threatening to snap apart. Iomhar’s power had never been so strong, so difficult to handle. Orla redoubled her concentration—so this is what my mam had been capable of, even without the Moonshadow—and tried to keep the vision of the real world before her and not become lost in Magh da Chèo.

  She concentrated on the ships she’d chosen, gauging the distance and how she needed to spread the energy she’d gathered from her mam. She lifted her hands, raising the spell cage, and shouted the release word as she flung it toward the ships: “Teine!”

  As if angry at its confinement, the spell cage shattered as the flames arced away from her, breaking into three distinct fireballs that sent shadows racing across the buildings around the quay and spreading over the water beyond the ships. The fireballs hurtled toward the quay, each striking a different ship. Orla could see the hulls shudder with the impact, the fire spreading along the planks, hissing and crackling audibly even at a distance. As she sagged with the exhaustion of the spell, letting Voada and her anamacha slide away from her, she saw more fireballs impact the other ships, and to the far left of the docks, a foaming, impossible wave lifted the remaining ships on its white crest and hurled them over the quay and down onto the land, masts snapping and timbers cracking.

  But that wasn’t all. Orla heard cries of pain and surprise; there were crews—workers and sailors—sleeping aboard the ships. As she watched, men with clothes afire ran from the hatches and plunged into the water, screaming. Orla saw them fall, pushing and shoving each other to get away from the inferno of the ships. Some of them were screaming not in Mundoan but in Cateni.

  She felt them die. Because of her.

  “No!” she called out aloud, the denial raking her throat.

  People ran shouting from the buildings and houses in the area into the sudden light and heat of the burning ships. Orla watched the flames climbing higher as the smell of charred wood and melting tar spread on the easterly breeze fanning the fires. The draoi gazed down at glorious, growing chaos. Townsfolk, both Mundoan and Cateni, were running wildly about, some toward the fires, others away. More doors were opening all around them. The lane was beginning to fill with people, though none seemed to pay much attention to their quartet, just another group gawking at the scene before them.

  “Orla!”

  Orla stared, her mouth agape. This wasn’t the same as sending fire at some inanimate target. This wasn’t the same as creating a temple from the energy of the Otherworld. This was genuine pain and blood and death happening to people she didn’t know, who had done nothing at all to her.

  Burned and injured and dying because of her . . .

  “Orla! We have to go!” Magaidh shouted against the growing noise and clamor. “We’re done here. Orla!” She felt Magaidh take her shoulder and shake her, pulling her back and away, turning her from the sight of the destruction they’d caused.

  Orla stumbled away with them, away from the docks and back to the main lane, with Magaidh leading them. They had to stand aside as several Mundoan soldiers dressed in full armor came running from the main street down toward the quays, but the soldiers paid no attention to the draoi. Once the squadron was past, Magaidh quickly led them away, pushing through the curious spectators who were coming to see the fiery uproar. The two warriors were waiting for them there in the swirl of the crowds, and the six of them moved quickly toward the northern bridge.

  For Orla it was as if they moved in a dream landscape. Nothing seemed real. Nothing seemed solid.

  The bridge’s guards, pikes and swords in hand, were at the island end of the span, staring toward the glow spewing smoke on the western end of the island. The officer who had spoken to them earlier was still on duty, staring outward as if uncertain whether he should take his men to the blaze or stay at their post. His gaze snapped around as the Cateni approached, and his face twisted in a snarl.

  “You did this,” he said, the realization lifting his eyebrows. “It was you.” He gestured toward them. “Take them!” he shouted to the guards.

  The guards rushed toward them. Orla knew she should call her anamacha back to her; the warriors with them had only cudgels and knives for defense. She should enter Magh da Chèo again, take its energy, and kill these guards before they could attack. She could do it.

  But she didn’t move. The sound of the dying men on the ships was still ringing in her ears, and her hands lifted too slowly. The guards were nearly upon them.

  “Teine!” she heard Magaidh shout, and Orla felt the heat of flames rushing past her, a wall of fire that slammed into the officer and his men, scorching clothing, armor, and flesh. They screamed in agony, falling and writhing on the ground as the spell-fire engulfed them.

  Then everything was still except for the flames that still licked at the grass on either side of the road. Blackened corpses lay smoking on the cobbles. “Quickly! Over the bridge before others come,” Magaidh said. “We’re done here.” Orla felt Magaidh’s hand on her shoulder again. “Orla, come on!”

  Orla followed them. She tried not to look at the charred corpses as they passed, but she could smell them all too well.

  * * *

  “Did you somehow think you were going to fight a war without ever killing anyone?”

  Orla looked up to see Magaidh standing at the tent opening. Sorcha let her arms drop away from Orla, taking a step back from her. Orla could see Magaidh watching the two of them, the light of the oil lamp gleaming in her pupils.

  “Magaidh . . .” Orla began, but the older woman only shook her head.

  “No, just listen,” she said. “I understand, believe me. You’re Voada’s daughter, but you’re not her. Your mother . . . well, she killed easily, probably too easily. She was driven by revenge and hatred. That suited the Moonshadow well, and she used that to shape her. But you, Orla . . .” Magaidh stepped fully into the tent. She took Orla’s hands in her own, her pale eyes searching Orla’s. “You’ve never used your power to kill anyone before, but now you have. It wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be, was it?”

  Mutely, Orla shook her head. On their return to the Cateni encampment, she’d asked Magaidh to report to Ceanndraoi Greum and Comhnall of their success. She hadn’t wanted to face them. Instead she’d returned
to her tent. When she started to tell Sorcha what had happened in Muras, she was suddenly, violently ill, vomiting bile when her stomach emptied. Sorcha held her hair, stroking her back and wiping her face with a cool, wet cloth when the nausea finally passed, leaving Orla’s stomach muscles sore. She could still taste the sickness in the back of her throat.

  Magaidh’s lips tightened in a mirthless smile, still holding Orla’s hands. “That’s what happened with me; the first time I was in battle, I was sick afterward too,” she said. “But it gets easier each time. Honestly, that’s the sad part. If you survive, if you continue to be a war draoi, you get used to the killing, and eventually you don’t even think about it. That’s what will happen to you, too—that’s what must happen. If it doesn’t, the Moonshadow will consume you and you’ll just be another minor forgotten voice lost in the anamacha, nowhere near as powerful as your mam. As I said, you’re not your mam, but I’ll also tell you what she once said to me.” She paused, her gaze holding Orla’s. “She said it was you the anamacha of the Moonshadow were searching for when they first came to your village. Not your mam. You, Orla. But you were stolen away by the Mundoa before they could become one with you, and so it was your mam who finally merged with them.”

  Magaidh let go of her hands, and Orla heard Sorcha release a breath behind her. Orla glanced at her anamacha, standing in a corner, faces of the dead draoi within flickering across their face. She saw her mam there, who nodded once and was gone again. “That’s true?” she asked.

  “Tha,” Magaidh told her. “Your mam will tell you the same. Those in the Moonshadow and the Moonshadow itself saw something in you that even your mam didn’t have. As I do. As Sorcha also does.” Magaidh took a step back toward the tent’s entrance flaps. “But if you’re to be the draoi of the Moonshadow, you have to understand that more people will end up dying at your hand. Many more. There’s no way for you to escape that, not in these times.”