A thousand years have passed since the Sunspear, an ancient weapon forged by the Gods, was lost to the sight of men in the last great battle of the Raven Wars. Now, the Dark God again reaches out from the Land of Eternal shadow to touch the world with his evil. The Goddess Danu gives Ciaran, a young Celtae warrior powerful in the Psi, the vast psionic power of the subconscious mind, the quest of finding the Sunspear. If he fails, the Dark God’s Long Night will fall over the world forever. The quest leads him ever deeper into the Forbidden Lands, perilous realm of the Shadow, where he is pursued by the Dark God’s evil Ring Lords, who also search for the Sunspear. The Ring Lords, however, are not Ciarán’s only worry. The Dark God sends one of his First Born, a Shaádhul mind-slayer, into the world to capture him and bring him to the Stone of Tears where he will either accept the Dark God as his Master or be cast into the Well of Souls. As he strives to elude the Shadow Lord’s hunters, Ciarán must confront his forbidden love of Danu’s tiny priestess, RILLSONG. He is further assailed with guilt over his infatuation with the beautiful Shadow Druidess, ISÉNGÁEL who captures his beloved foster sister KIARA and gives her to the Ring Lords. In the Valley of the Gods, he rescues Iséngáel and her half-Elven Ahati warriors from the deadly, Halfsouled Draugr. Joining forces, they fight their way through hordes of the near-immortal beings to reach the lost city of Gorias where Ciarán claims the Sunspear. Using the ancient weapon’s god-like power, he destroys the Ring Lords’ army that pursued him to Gorias, killing thousands of warriors, and laughing as their dying screams fill his ears. Only then does he realize that the greatest evil he has to overcome is not the Dark God, but the darkness that dwells within him. He must both learn to use the enormous power of the Sunspear wisely and keep his Darksoul at bay. If it gains control, he will become a creature of shadow, a Soultaken.
Sunspear
By J. MICHAEL ROBERTSONAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2013 J. Michael Robertson
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4685-7961-1Contents
Chapter 1 The Healer..............................................1Chapter 2 Compelling Thoughts.....................................17Chapter 3 A Game Of Wisdom........................................31Chapter 4 Penance At Chobá Springs...........................45Chapter 5 The Night Of The Mind Slayer............................61Chapter 6 Someone To Trust........................................77Chapter 7 A Loosing Of Hounds.....................................97Chapter 8 A Night In Hjáran Nor..............................115Chapter 9 Of Dreams And Illusions.................................133Chapter 10 Tent Sisters...........................................147Chapter 11 A Confrontation With The Shadow........................161Chapter 12 What Price Honor.......................................177Chapter 13 A Gathering At Shalott.................................195Chapter 14 The Edge Of Darkness...................................211Chapter 15 An Enemy Saved.........................................227Chapter 16 A Broken Forbidding....................................245Chapter 17 Servant Of The First Born..............................261Chapter 18 Utangárdh.........................................277Chapter 19 Druids Keep............................................291Chapter 20 All Roads Lead To Dubhlynn.............................303Chapter 21 Boat Thieves And A Riverman's Tale.....................317Chapter 22 A Diversion At Kurin...................................331Chapter 23 The Valley Of The Gods.................................349Chapter 24 The Pyramids Of Balor..................................361Chapter 25 Desperate Flight.......................................379Chapter 26 Soul Breaker...........................................397Chapter 27 Strange Dreams And Woods Witches.......................409Chapter 28 Dragon Heart Pass......................................423Chapter 29 Bait For A Trap........................................441Chapter 30 The Guardians Of Gorias................................453Chapter 31 Sunspear...............................................463Chapter 32 The Darkness Within....................................483Glossary..........................................................489The Peoples And Gods Of Ithir.....................................525
Chapter One
THE HEALER
Two brightly painted wagons bounced and swayed over the rough, uneven grasslands of the Arhian Steppe on wheels taller than a man. Summer had hardly begun and already the pitiless sun had turned the steppe into a sea of golden grass. The sweet bunch grass rose to the giant Shiiran horses' shoulders allowing them to snatch bites without having to lower their heads as they plodded along. Ahead the jagged peaks of the Tróndeag Range stabbed into the western sky.
Jórrisael shaded her eyes from the harsh sun. Light was everywhere, a constant like the wind. She shifted uncomfortably on the driver's bench. Even with the thick cushion, her rump ached as though she sat on the bare boards. Absently, she gazed southward where the land ran away in gentle undulations of brown and gold until it faded into a shadowy haze. The wind rippled the grass into constantly changing patterns of wave-like motion that gave the steppe its name—the sea of grass.
Chobá Springs, the site of last night's trouble, lay to the south. She grimaced and turned her thoughts to the unconscious warrior lying on a pallet in the second wagon. The rune sign she had found emblazoned on his chest when she had treated his wounds put a chill on her heart. Three moons, a full moon enclosed by two crescents, made him a living death warrant for anyone who helped him.
"Oh, and let us not forget the killing of a Ring Lord," she muttered, wiping a thin sheen of perspiration from her brow that had little to do with the midmorning heat. "Mother of All, help us! A Warrior of the Three Moons walks the land." Looking skyward, she grumbled, "And You have dumped him in my lap."
* * *
A rumble, like distant thunder, forced its way into Ciarán's awareness as he slowly clawed his way upward through a dreamless dark. The rumble did not fade as it would with a storm, and there were other noises—creaks, rattles, and thumps. It also seemed to heighten the pain in his head, which throbbed, as though a Shadow Troll was beating the inside of his skull with a spiked war-hammer. For a few moments he lay still, trying to focus on piecing together the shards of his life floating in his head.
Ignoring the pain, he cracked his eyes open. A yellow roof swayed in a dizzying motion above him. He raised his head to get a look at his surroundings, escalating his headache into a pounding crescendo. A wave of nausea rolled over him, leaving him in an icy sweat. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on what his ears could tell him. A horse whickered. Recognition came, making his heart thud in alarm. I am in a wagon.
Memories stirred, coming like waves rolling onto a shore, soaking his mind. He had come to the Forbidden Lands on a quest. He had not come alone, but those who had traveled to this land with him were not with him now, of that he was certain. He struggled to draw together the fragmented jumble of events that had led him to end up on a pallet in a stranger's wagon.
Slowly, the fog clouding his mind began to dissipate. Memories of his brief stay in the dead city of Catreath marched into his thoughts, the Red Druid, Oisín teaching him to use his Psi; Scáthach and Alanna's capture by the Horse Clans; their journey to the Horse Clan camp through his mind-gate. He grimaced. He had been banished from the Black Lion wagons by the Horse Clan Chieftess. The reason for his banishment was still hazy, but the result had been his decision to make camp in the shadow of Llew's ruined temple.
Nightwind had sent him a warning of danger and a more puzzling sending about cubs. It had taken him a few moments to realize that the wolf was referring to human children. The giant wolf 's sending, along with knowledge of something called a Gleaning he had coerced from Scáthach had brought him here, wherever here was.
His eyes widened. Light! I can mind speak with dire wolves. Memory of the first time Nightwind had spoken to him flowed into his mind. He had been so startled that he had tripped and ended up on his nose. He chuckled, wincing at the pounding it caused in his head.
Memories of his attack on the Gleaning quelled his mirth. Just thinking about the Ring Lords' monstrous practice of forcing the Horse Clans to give up children who possessed the Godgift to serve the Dark God made him angry. Each year, dozens of children were taken to be raised and trained to serve the Shadow, never again to be seen by their families.
A feeling of grim satisfaction swept over Ciaran. The wolves, along with the Horse Clan Windswords shadowing the Gleaning, had helped him defeat a Shadow Priest and free the children.
You let the priest escape, he thought bitterly. The man had escaped because he was inexperienced in using his Psi as a weapon. There had been no time for Oisín to teach him the battle talents.
"Gods! I killed a Ring Lord!" he murmured, as visions of his battle with the Ring Lord Naphtal Sul and the Ring Lord's death flashed before his mind's-eye. "And more by luck than skill, boyo."
He rolled onto his side. Pain stabbed into his shoulder, and the contents of his belly made another attempt to escape. Gingerly exploring his left shoulder, he found it heavily bandaged. A vision of running between wagons with death bolts striking around him flashed into his mind followed the numbing impact of something striking his shoulder.
A Mhongói arrow, he thought. The searing pain had come later.
He cautiously opened his eyes again. The nausea lurked in the background and his head still throbbed, but he was able to raise it enough to survey his surroundings. He was lying on a pallet against one side of the wagon. Wooden chests and a cupboard filled the other side.
A leather bucket sat on the floor next to his head. The wagon lurched, setting his stomach to churning again. He lay back, swallowing rapidly to hold down the gorge rising in his throat. When he had mastered his roiling belly again, the disjointed remembrance of his confrontation with the beautiful Shadow Druidess Iséngáel pushed its way into his thoughts.
Did she really kiss me? He dismissed her with a snort of disgust.
Moving his hand down his stomach, he tried to remember how he got here. But he could recall nothing after riding out of the Shadow Priest's burning camp past the pyramid of Mhongói heads—a pyramid he had erected. Someone had found him and tended his wound. The question was, who? Then his questing hand found that he was air clad. A feeling of helplessness rolled over him. He formed the núll's cold, emotionless void and opened a vortex through the barrier-of-between to his Psi, the vast energy of his inner mind—or tried to. Searing pain ripped through his skull, and his mutinous stomach would not be denied. He frantically grabbed the bucket and retched noisily into it. When his sickness passed, he fell back on the pallet with a soft groan.
"Ho, Jórrisael! He is awake," a deep male voice called out.
A woman's voice replied, but Ciarán could not make out what she said.
"Donar's Hammer! I know because he is talking to the bucket," the man muttered and then yelled, "Do we stop or not?"
The wagon jolted to a stop. "You be minding your tongue, Ravenfeeder," the woman said. "I be in no mood to put up with your surliness. Haul your bones off that wagon and build a fire. I be needing to heat poultices."
The wagon swayed as the man got down, and their voices faded as they moved away. Exhausted by the attempt to use his Psi, Ciaran drifted into a light sleep. A cool hand placed on his forehead woke him with a start. The oldest woman he had ever seen sat beside the pallet, studying him with piercing blue eyes set in a wrinkled face framed by braided silver hair.
"Good," she said. "You be awake. Your bandages be needing a change. That be easier if you be sitting."
"My head hurts," he croaked.
"Aye, henbane be leaving an aching head. You be lucky Thorfinn found you. The arrow the Mhongói put in you be poisoned." Her bracelets clattered softly as she helped him to sit. Removing his bandages, she gently probed the wound. "It be healing nicely."
"You do not sound overjoyed that I still walk among the living," Ciarán murmured in a plaintive voice. Just talking made his head throb.
"You be causing a storm at Chobá Springs, boy. The Kamen Kha-t be wanting your head on a pike for making off with the Dedicated and killing a Ring Lord. Thorfinn says half the Subuteg Fyrd be looking for you. And there be others, Mhongói, Sebukar, even Ahati."
"Kill her! She knows too much," a familiar voice whispered in his mind.
"Out!" he snarled silently at the voice. "He—they attacked me," he muttered defensively.
"Naphtal Sul would no have come to Chobá Springs had you no attacked the Gleaning and taken the Dedicated," she said, fixing him with a hard look. "You do no look stupid. Did you think he would no try to find the one who be stealing the Dark God's Dedicated?"
"I follow the warrior's triad," Ciarán ground out the words between clinched teeth. "I will not let children be given to the Dark God, if I can prevent it. Those who do nothing to stop such evil have no honor." He shrugged dismissively. "Had the Shadow Priest not escaped, the Ring Lord would not have known about the children for days."
"Bah!" she snorted. "Warriors! Harii or Celt, you all be alike. There be nothing between your ears but air. Honor! Bah! You killed a Ring Lord. Those who rule Harod Sheol be tearing this land apart to find his killer." In a milder voice she added, "The Dark God rules here and others be paying the price of your honor. Until you be living with the Shadow's yoke on your neck, do no speak to me of honor."
Ciarán shivered and his eyes became distant at her naming the City of Darkness. He had been to Harod Sheol—pulled there in a dream of the Dark God's making. Every terrifying detail of that nightmare was burned into his mind. For a moment he relived his terror driven flight through a shattered land chased by enormous glowing eyes surrounded by a billowing darkness that seemed to eat the light
"You be alright, boy?" a voice asked and someone shook him gently.
He blinked and her aged face came into focus. "Ah—yes. It—it is nothing." The words were hardly off his tongue when the gabble of moaning voices demanding that he serve the Dark God filled his ears and he again felt the grasp of the skeletal hands that rose from the ground on his legs. He gasped aloud as the worst part of the nightmare flashed before his mind's eye: the huge disembodied head hovering over him in Rillsong's cave telling him that the Shadow could find him through his dreams.
"Boy!" Jórrisael said in a loud voice. "I no be asking you again. What is ...?"
"I—I was remembering a bad dream," He stammered, interrupting her. He was tempted to tell her about it, but changed his mind. Gods! She will think I am a lack wit if I tell her that the Dark God hunts me. "Who are you?" he asked instead to change the subject.
She stared at him for a moment, a frown creasing her brow. Ignoring his question, she got up and went to one of the chests with a grace that belied her age. Ciarán watched her through slitted eyes. She was a puzzle. In her bright green skirt topped by a short smock of brilliant yellow, with red knot work designs embroidered across the breast, she stood as straight as a spear. She had, he thought, the slender well-formed body of a much younger woman. That rich, melodious voice certainly did not match her ancient face. Something else about her nagged at him, but like the wind, it eluded his grasp.
"I be Jórrisael, a healer."
"How did I come to be in your wagon? How long have I been here?"
"Thorfinn be finding you four nights past," she said over her shoulder. "I gave you a tae of Henbane to keep you in a healing sleep after I took the Mhongói arrow from your hide."
"Four days!" He took a deep breath to subdue a surge of anxiety.
Jórrisael took a leather bag from the chest, poured some of its contents into a cup, and mixed it with water from a pot. Folding her long legs beneath her, she sat down beside him. "Drink this. It be good for aching heads."
"What is it?" he asked, taking the cup and peering at the reddish liquid.
"It be a tae brewed from ground red spike thorns." She gave him an amused look. "It will no put you to sleep, if that be bothering you."
He took a tentative sip and made a face at its bitterness. She placed her hand on his forehead again, and a chill rippled through him. Amazingly, his head seemed to ease almost immediately. He downed the tae in a single gulp. Maybe it would help the rest of his aches.
"Your fever be gone. Now we be needing to get food in you." She went to the rear of the wagon and called, "Thorfinn, be that broth ready?"
"Aye," the man answered. "Give me time to put it in a bowl."
A moment later, one of the biggest men Ciarán had ever seen climbed into the wagon, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of broth, a cup, and a platter of bread. Dressed in a tan tunic and trousers tucked into boots that came up to mid-calf, he matched Gruffydd's size. Raven black hair, braided into a knot on the right side of his head marked him as a Harii warrior.
"Gods be good! He is a stripling, Jórrisael," the giant rumbled in a deep voice, "Bloodaxe will not thank him for the trouble he brought to the Subuteg lands."
Bloodaxe? Subuteg? Ciarán had heard the word Subuteg before. But before he could remember where, the broth's aroma made him forget about everything except food.
"Give him the tray, you hairy-faced aurochs. Do you be wanting him to faint from hunger?" She grimaced. "I be forgetting my manners. Yon stone-head be Thorfinn Ravenfeeder, a Thegn of the Carnúteg Harii before Ivaar the Boneless put a price on his head for killing a Mhongói Khaghan."
Blowing through his moustache, Thorfinn gave her a plaintive look. "No need to bore the lad with old stories, Jórrisael." He handed Ciarán the tray. "What are we going to do with him? The steppe is swarming with all manner of folk looking for the one who attacked the Gleaning. In D'Harinn it was on the tongue of every man in the Prancing Bull. Even old Hengist, the inn keep, was chattering about it like a grass squirrel. And he is no loose-lipped flap-jaw."
Ciarán gave his attention to the broth and bread. His stomach, only an hour before wracked by nausea, was now in the grip of ravenous hunger. He put a spoon-full of the thick soup in his mouth with a shaking hand. It was even more delicious than it smelled. Neither of them spoke as he ate, but they did stare, which made him uncomfortable. He finished the broth and cleaned the bowl with the last piece of bread. Still hungry, he gave Jórrisael a hopeful look.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Sunspearby J. MICHAEL ROBERTSON Copyright © 2013 by J. Michael Robertson. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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