The Last Summoner: Famine

Blurb

Abe was devastated after the Battle of Mag Iotha when Upthóg seized Lia Fáil and handed it over to Partholón’s demon messenger. Leaving the battlefield, he stole the legendary twin maces of the Undead Warrior, Abartach.

Now, as the shadow of civil war looms, Abe taps into the extraordinary power of the maces, only to discover that this newfound strength comes with harrowing consequences. His transformation into a nearly unstoppable force on the battlefield leads him to unintentionally wreak havoc, endangering both allies and enemies alike. Disturbed by this dark change, Abe turns to his stepfather for wisdom. Fearghal sends him south on a treacherous quest to seek the elusive aid of the seeress, Cassandra. With the spectre of Upthóg looming nearby, Abe sets off, determined yet wary of the dangers ahead.

Meanwhile, guided by the evil disciple Myddrin, Choca delves into the ancient arts that Partholón needs to awaken his disciples and unleash them upon the Five Kingdoms.

The intertwining of Abe and Choca’s destinies sets the stage for an epic showdown that will determine the fate of their realms. Prepare for a thrilling adventure brimming with heart-pounding action, enchanting magic, and the ultimate battle for salvation!

Excerpt

Note: The following is pre-publication prose and is subject to change.

The rider reined in his mount and gazed at Drombeg’s early morning activity from atop the knoll. He smiled at the sight of leanaí—the settlement young—helping with the morning chores; he smiled at the mothers preparing food at their outdoor cauldrons—food to break the fast of their loved ones. He was less inclined to smile at the swords across the knees of old warriors, swords they were rubbing with oil-soaked cloths, cleaning them in preparation for the coming war—a war the warriors had anticipated with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. A war their families had anticipated with fear—a war that was sure to signal the end of humankind.

A war the rider had done all in his power to prevent.

‘They’re a little on the old side,’ he said to his mare, patting her neck, which she acknowledged with a whinny and a toss of her mane.

Is that approval or disapproval?

Finally, he looked at the roundhouse where he grew up and spotted his mother beating a rug outside. He grinned at the memories the scene evoked, regretting his lapse last time he was here.

Time enough for regret, he thought as he dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and rode down the hill and through the settlement gates.

‘Good ta see ya, Captain,’ Donal, the gate guard, said as he rode past.

The rider nodded a greeting but said nothing, his mood on edge despite his smile at the sight of his mother. He’d been stressed since he rode from the Vale of Iotha with Abartach’s maces strapped to his saddlebags, one left and one right. He’d felt the weight of the monster’s weapons throughout his return to the settlement of his birth—unsure about his right to possess them. Riding away from the battlefield in front of Átha Cliáth’s walls had been the easiest thing he’d ever done. Easy because he’d felt her betrayal like a kick in the kidneys. Each time he closed his eyes to sleep, an image of the demon dragging the wagon carrying Lia Fáil away from the battlefield burnt the inside of his eyelids, reminding him of it. As such, he’d felt no guilt when he swung down from his horse to collect the maces from the discarded armour and weapons, all that remained of Balor’s Undead Horde. He’d been surprised at how light they were when he strapped them to his saddlebags. They’d looked so heavy, and the demon captain had been so strong. Far too strong for him. It was so strong that the rider was lucky to be alive if it could be called luck.

Their weight is the mental kind.

Despite its lack at Mag Iotha, the guilt had grown as he rode north, and with the guilt, the weight. When he reached Tayvir, he was ready to throw the Undead Captain’s clubs in the Big River. Something stopped him. It was that something that was now on his mind; a constant worry. The maces were tipped with shards of Lia Fáil and had power—power he didn’t understand and so feared, wondering if they controlled his actions.

Wondering if the dreams were coming from them.

I should have left them to her, a thought repeating like under chewed meat since he had ridden away from the battlefield. This was not the time to dwell on it but the time for overdue reunions.

He turned his mare to the right after passing through the gate. Their roundhouse was near the palisade just a little back from the rear entrance to the stables. As he drew rein, the rider wondered why he hadn’t stopped to greet his Ma last time he was in Drombeg. But then, those had been trying times, when Magón’s mouthpiece insulted him and ran for the feast hall as fast as he could. He wouldn’t be running anymore. Not unless he was somehow brought back from the dead.

‘Hello, Ma,’ he said.

The woman stopped whacking her rug and used the beater to shade her eyes for a better look.

‘Where’ve you been, boy?’ she asked.

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Aye, well, nothing better than a good long story. Fearghal will tend to the horse. Get yourself in beside the fire. I’ll be in shortly to give the gaimbín his oats.’

Grinning, Abe swung down from the saddle and led his horse to the stable. He thought that nothing would change his Ma. Sitting beside the fire and eating or drinking had always been her response to everything, even in high summer. Good news or bad, made no never mind. Sit by the fire and talk it through. He supposed it was a throwback from her years as a warrior when talking beside the firepit had been most of what they did, just with the occasional battle thrown in to break the monotony.

‘So, you’re still here,’ he said to the old man tending the plough horses in the large communal stables behind the settlement palisade.

‘Where else would I be, Abe? Out seeking infamy with those that oughtta know better?’

Abe laughed as he pulled Fearghal into a tight embrace. Patting him on the back, he could feel the wiry strength in the old man. Age hadn’t changed him much, apart from the wrinkles and lack of hair. He’d always been an outside man, so his skin was nut brown, making his sky-blue eyes stand out in his homely face. Fearghal stood a head shorter than Abe but was probably slightly broader in the beam. Even as an old man, Abe would welcome him in the shield wall, knowing he would be dependable.

‘Your ma know you’re here?’

‘Yes. I found her whacking that old rug.’

‘Aye, she does a lot of that lately. Reckon it takes her mind off the coming troubles. That or she’s thinking of her time as a warrior. Hard to say.’

‘How are you both? Really, I mean.’

‘We’re getting by. Like most these days. Heard Magón got hisself killed in Tayvir not so long back. Always too big for his helmet, that one.’

Abe couldn’t disagree but said nothing about it, not yet. He would tell them when they were together. It was going to be a harrowing tale about their Chief’s demise—how Lugh of the Long Arm led him like a donkey on a leather-plaited rope and how he died because of it, stabbed in the back by Gurk. All the machinations of a mischievous Tuatha—a race his parents did not believe existed. Abe, too, used to be a non believer.

Now I know better.

Instead, he asked, ‘Who has taken over as Chief?’

‘There’s no one here, boy. The young warriors all went to war with Magón. He rode out, promising fame and riches, and they all followed like mares after a stallion. Ain’t seen them since. Only the unworthy were left—’

‘I wouldn’t call you unworthy,’ Abe interrupted.

‘Unworthy or no, I’ve enough on me platter without caring fer this settlement of amadáin and gaimbíní. Besides, I’ve not been a warrior for twenty summers.’

Abe frowned at the plough horses as he led his mare to a stall. He’d always disagreed with the custom that Chieftains had to come from the warrior caste. It made sense to have a strong leader in some ways, but Abe would vote for a clever one every time. In his experience, up to the point where they no longer counted—the point when violence couldn’t be avoided—good sense and sagacity invariably beat muscles and a sharp sword.

‘What of the warriors I saw cleaning their weapons?’ he said.

‘Aye. Sad, no. The old and unwanted. Those Magón refused to take. Not a leader among ’em.’

‘So, who’s running things?’

Fearghal shrugged as he forked dried grass into the feeding trough. ‘Truth be told, there was never much need except for disputes. There ain’t been any of those since the young bloods followed Magón. Come, there’ll be time enough to talk while we break our fast. Reckon your Ma’s waiting for us. I’ll settle your mare and follow you.’

Agreeing, Abe handed Fearghal the reins and squeezed his shoulder before heading to the roundhouse. He found his mother leaning over the cauldron, stirring the contents. Stopping in the doorway, he watched her for a moment, studiously looking at the food with her tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth. The sight brought back his younger days.

‘It is good to see you, Ma,’ he said as he sat at the rough table, hoping her cooking had improved in the moon cycles he’d been away.

His mother didn’t respond immediately but watched him for a few moments. Eventually, she said, ‘You look tired, son.’

‘I’ve not been sleeping too well of late,’ he admitted with a half smile.

‘That ain’t good. A man needs his sleep.’

‘I know, Ma. Believe me, I know.’

‘Where’ve you been, Abe? Last I saw of you; you were riding for Caer Scál on an errand for Magón.’

‘Aye, well, the errand became a quest—like I said, a long story.’ And I was so distraught last time I came, I forgot to stop and say hello. ‘Let’s wait for Fearghal. I don’t have the energy to explain it twice.’

She agreed, and they sat in silence until Fearghal came in. Abe wasn’t sure but thought his stepfather had a pensive expression. After washing in the water bucket, the old man sat opposite Abe and accepted a bowl of oats and mutton with a nod of thanks.

‘You want to wait ’til we’ve finished eating?’ he asked Abe.

‘It’s a long story. If you don’t object, I’ll tell it eating.’

Neither objected and listened as Abe told a tale of war and monsters, murder and mayhem. The most reaction he got when describing the arena under The Point of Death was a grimace from Fearghal when he said the demon had split Maga in two from crown to crotch and took Fachta’s legs off at the waist. Fearghal threw his spoon into his bowl in disgust when Abe mentioned the witch betraying her brother. The old man whistled when Abe described his fight with the Tuatha monster, Abartach. His mother squeezed his hand when he told them of his combat with Mac Da Tho and how he’d decided to yield when he got a surge of unexplained power. Both of them were interested in the logistics of the Battle of Mag Iotha and asked for clarification at different times during his description. Eventually, he reached the point in his story when the witch gave Lia Fáil to Partholón’s demon. His mother patted his hand as he told how he rode away without a backward glance, anger coursing through his veins like the molten rivers under the Fiery Mountain.

‘The stone will give Partholón the power—the draíocht—to release his demons. The Five Kingdoms no longer have the strength to face them. We lost too many fighting the undead at Caisel and Mag Iotha. This demon war will be the one to end all wars.’

‘And you believe this story of a scourge?’ his ma asked.

‘If you’d been there and seen those disciples in The Point of Death, you wouldn’t be asking.’

‘They’re just the stories I used to tell you as a child.’

‘I know, Ma. You won’t believe how many times I said the same thing over the last few moon cycles.’

‘You think this demon war will come here?’ Fearghal asked.

‘Yes. Nowhere’s going to be safe, old man.’

‘We can hide in the forest until it’s over,’ his ma said.

Abe was unsure how to tell her there would be no hiding from what was coming. The Tuatha witch had guaranteed their entry into an age of darkness where the Giant would reign. With the witch’s actions, it was only a matter of time.

‘Where did you come by them maces?’

‘I took them from the field at Mag Iotha,’ Abe said, staring at the cauldron.

‘There’s something about ’em. They feel wrong, somehow.’

‘They belonged to the Undead Captain, who made them using shards from Lia Fáil. They are full of Earth Power. They worry me, in truth.’

‘That explains much. I felt the malice in ‘em when I took yer bags off the mare. My advice, get rid of ‘em.’

‘Don’t think I haven’t tried,’ Abe mumbled into his oats.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I tried to throw them in the Big River. It was like trying to throw away an arm. This will sound foolish, but I think they’ve claimed me somehow.’

‘I’ll bury ‘em in the forest,’ Fearghal said before spooning cold oats into his mouth.

Abe nodded, realising it was a sensible solution. He suspected his stepfather wouldn’t be as plagued by the addiction of the maces, not having been a part of the battle which saw them dropped by Abartach.

‘Thanks, old man.’

Fearghal was about to answer, but a sudden noise broke out. It sounded like the demon war had already arrived, which Abe knew was impossible.

‘It’s coming from Main Square,’ his ma said.

‘Let’s go see what all the commotion’s about,’ Fearghal said, pushing himself to his feet.

‘I’ll get my sword,’ Abe said as he stood.

‘No need,’ Fearghal said. ‘It’s loud, but I don’t hear any animosity.’

When they arrived at the square, they found the way blocked by everyone crowding the space, pushing and jostling to get closer to the steps leading up to the feast hall doors. Abe didn’t think he’d ever seen so many of Drombeg’s people crowded into one place at one time. Even the hostel during feast days like Imbolc and Samhain wasn’t this crowded. Together, Fearghal and Abe forced a path through the throng, Abe’s ma close behind. After much shoving and cajoling, they reached the feast hall and pushed in through the open doors.

As usual at this time of day, the inside was gloomy, the braziers and firepit not yet lit. When his eyes had adjusted, Abe could see several of the old warriors he’d noticed cleaning their weapons when he arrived, crowded around a man in a dusty cloak. They were all talking at once, the cacophony so intense that it was impossible to distinguish words from the general noise.

‘What’s this all about?’ Abe asked.

Fearghal shrugged and shook his head to indicate he couldn’t hear. Holding up a finger, he took the hunting horn from above the door and blew a long, hard note, which echoed through the hall, making Abe’s ears ache.

The reaction was immediate. The old warriors stopped their clamour and turned towards the door in outrage.

‘What’s going on here?’ Fearghal asked, not giving any of them time to voice their annoyance.

They all spoke at once, making their words once more unintelligible. Fearghal blew another note—something that should be banned in confined spaces, and the warriors quieted again.

‘Dealgán, you tell me,’ Abe said to the man in the cloak.

‘Connavar’s dead.’

‘The King’s dead?’ Abe asked, more because he needed time to think than because he needed an answer. Connavar’s demise came as no surprise. The last time Abe saw him, the man had been listening to Magón’s advice while dribbling on his chin. ‘So, why are you here?’

‘There’s to be a Bull Feast. The council sent messengers to all the settlements to call for candidates. We need a new king.’