Set in Stone Read online

  Of course, that was all just build-up for today. Today's kill had to be something special.

  She didn't need to know about the growing itch. If things worked out according to plan, he'd escape the next bout of crushing sickness. He'd know tomorrow.

  Connor slipped out the door and jogged toward the town square of Alasdair. Their house stood at the southeast corner of town, at the end of a long, straight street of similar, if slightly smaller, homes set close to the river-facing wall. The houses here stood tall enough to enjoy the spectacular views of Alasdair valley.

  The street was known as Wall Street, and was one of three main streets running parallel east to west through town. He passed a couple of smaller lanes to reach Merchant Street that ran through the center of town, straight between the two gates and the town square.

  Men and women were already beginning preparations for the next day's festival. Several of them called to him and he waved but did not stop to field the inevitable questions about his health.

  In the square, Cinaed, the foreman's wife, called out to him from where she monitored the setup of tables in what would be the cooking area for the feast. "Connor, what are you still doing in town?"

  "Running late," he called cheerily and tried to hurry past.

  She placed fists on hips and frowned. "This is no day for your sickness or laziness, young man."

  "Yes, ma'am." It never paid to anger the red-haired, foul-tempered woman, so he ran faster. He'd show her. Today he'd settle for nothing less than a mountain deer from the far eastern slopes.

  Tomorrow was the Sogail, the midsummer festival that would consume the entire. Thinking of it restored his grin, and his pace quickened.

  "Hey, Connor!"

  Hamish, his best friend, waved from across the square where he and four men were unloading heavy planks for assembly into long feasting tables. One day shy of sixteen, the lanky Hamish already stood a full head taller than the other workers, and he ate more than any two of them.

  Connor jogged over. "I thought you were working with Neasa."

  "Well, she ah . . ."

  "How many sweetbreads did you eat before she threw you out?"

  "Fifteen."

  Connor laughed and glanced toward the bakery where the fat, jolly woman worked. He still couldn't figure out how Hamish had managed to talk his way into that apprenticeship the week before the Sogail, but it could never have ended any way but in disaster.

  Hamish grinned, shook his unruly red hair out of his eyes, and pulled a crushed sweetbread from a pocket. Connor refused the offer, and Hamish popped it into his mouth. "You don't know what you're missing."

  "I'll wait till tomorrow." Over the years, Connor had learned to refuse most of what Hamish offered from those pockets.

  "Good luck with the tables."

  "Good hunting."

  He headed for the eastern gate, his mind turning to the hunt. Tomorrow they'd both turn sixteen, along with Jean and Stuart. A good kill today would hopefully impress Jean enough to secure the first dance. He wouldn't let her go until he finally won the coveted first kiss from her.

  No way Stuart kisses her first.

  The town of Alasdair huddled at the base of the towering bulk of Wick Tor that reared thousands of feet in near-vertical cliffs immediately to the north. The Upper Wick River cascaded down the rugged western flanks of the mountain and emptied into Loch Wick, situated just west of town. From there, the Lower Wick began its much more sedate journey south, past rolling hills of sparse forest, and wide expanses of tilled farmland, toward distant Merkland, the seat of High Lord Dougal's realm.

  No good hunting there, so instead Connor jogged east up the long road that skirted the high cliffs and led to the plateau where Lord Gavin lived. On that flat expanse, lanterns glowed in the outbuildings while the downstairs windows of the manor house blazed with multi-colored light. The expensive stained glass windows usually struck him with wonder, but today he couldn't spare the time to gawk.

  The plateau ran south, paralleling the river, while the slope of Alasdair Mountain rose farther to the east. Connor turned north to where a treacherous switchback road crawled up the steep face of Wick Tor. He paused halfway up to rest and glanced out over the panoramic view. Much of the valley still lay in shadow, although Alasdair Mountain and the lesser peaks lining the eastern side of Alasdair valley stood out sharply against the light of the rising sun.

  The road crested the first cliff about a thousand feet above the plateau, although the summit of Wick Tor still reared another mile higher. Here the road flattened and ran straight back along a bluff for a quarter mile to a cut that led down into Alasdair Quarry, the lifeblood of the town. There the Cutters chiseled precious Alasdair White from the flanks of the mountain.

  Perched right up against the edge of the cliff, the icy waters of Loch Sholto lay still as a mirror to his left, while Loch Ladhar, another flooded quarry of old, cut deep into the mountain not far beyond. Connor passed them and paused at the head of the game trail he'd follow into the mountains, and stared toward the distant quarry. Already occasional echoes of hammer blows reached his ears. Part of him longed to risk a visit, but he dare not.

  Connor rushed up the trail. He couldn't risk the quarry today, couldn't afford to push the limits of the Curse so close to the Sogail. Thinking of the Curse awakened it, and Connor shivered as it skittered along his body, just under the skin, like a hundred tiny insects. The itching intensified and he fought the urge to scratch.

  He wouldn't succumb today. Tomorrow at the Sogail he'd finally get to claim Patronage and take the first step toward gaining mastery over the Curse. Today he would hunt and celebrate the last day of the only life he'd ever known.

  Tomorrow . . . well, after tomorrow, nothing would ever be the same.

  Chapter 2

  Something heavy crashed through a dense stand of fir trees at the uppermost edge of the tree line. Connor paused fifty yards upslope of the trees, and drew an arrow from the hunting quiver at his hip. It sounded like something had spooked the herd of large mountain deer he'd tracked from the south side of the ridge since earlier this morning.

  He hadn't expected them to run back toward him. The slope where he stood above the tree line was mostly bare, rocky ground. Only a few large boulders offered partial cover. To his left, along the hillside, a long ridge of stone dropped five feet to a horizontal shelf that offered no cover at all. If the deer came back uphill, he'd have to take one down as soon as they broke into the open.

  Connor half-drew his bow and grinned at the challenge, but the crashing sounds intensified and his smile faded. Unless the entire herd was bolting together in the same direction, there was no way deer could make that noise.

  Maybe it was a bear. Connor had never taken a bear. Few Saor-Linn had. A kill like that was exactly what he was looking for. What a perfect way to celebrate the announcement of his Patronage and appointment as Guardian.

  Although the intensity of the Curse's itch just under his skin had grown all morning, he still felt strong. He'd be fine today, but he'd be lucky to make it to the Sogail at that rate.

  He'd concealed the existence of his Curse for so long, it seemed impossible tomorrow he'd finally get to reveal the secret and claim Patronage. He yearned for that moment of freedom. Never again would he have to choose debilitating sickness as punishment for reining in the destructive power of the Curse rather than granting it deadly release.

  He'd finally get to talk about it with Jean, and with Hamish.

  A huge form crashed through the last screen of underbrush into the open. It wasn't a bear. It was a torc.

  Where, by Tallan, had a torc come from? Connor wondered.

  The rare monster snorted and swung its thick, bony head from side to side, gougin
g furrows in the rocky soil with its wickedly curved tusks. No one in Alasdair had seen a torc in years. He'd heard they were big, scary creatures distantly related to the boars that roamed the slopes near town. The description utterly failed to capture this beast's magnificence.

  Hard, bony plates, almost like slabs of stone under its gray hide gave it an angular, menacing appearance. It pawed the ground with one thick leg capped with a sharply cloven hoof and centered the single long horn in its forehead on Connor.

  A real live torc! Connor knew the mountains around Alasdair better than anyone. He'd tracked or taken nearly every kind of game, and even located the nearest pedra's lair, although he hadn't yet built up the courage to actually spy on the monster. He'd never even glimpsed a torc.

  The beast took a single step toward him and grunted, a low rumbling sound like thirty wolf-hounds growling together that chased away some of the wonder. Built low to the ground, it still stood a full six feet at the shoulder, and its torso, from its thick neck to its muscled haunches, stretched even longer.

  Connor tried to breathe slowly. Torcs roamed unpopulated parts of the Maclachlan Mountains and, unless angered, generally ignored people. At least that's what the stories said.

  The only problem was, this one looked furious.

  The beast bellowed a single deep note that triggered a flutter of icy fear in Connor, and he took a single, involuntary step back.

  The torc charged.

  It surged forward surprisingly fast despite an ungainly gait, as if its legs couldn't quite bend far enough. Even so, its low-slung body raced up the slope with terrifying speed.

  Connor raised his bow despite the growing urge to turn and flee. If Hamish were here, he'd have already soiled himself and tried to run. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to run, and fleeing would only encourage the beast. He had no illusion that he could outrun it, and he shivered at the thought of that long horn plunging into his back.

  Too bad Stuart's not here.

  Then he wouldn't have to worry about outrunning the torc. He'd only have to outrun Stuart.

  Connor planted his feet and drew confidence from the bow's solid weight. He'd trained hard for the past two years and had taken deer, mountain goats, and even one of the huge, flightless eoin birds.

  The constant dull itch of his Curse intensified and raced along his limbs. He pushed the distraction aside and took a deep breath as he drew the goose-feathered shaft to his cheek. The familiar strain of holding the weapon steady as he aimed at the torc, only thirty yards away, helped him regain his hunting calm.

  The monster sounded like an avalanche as it galloped up the slope toward Connor, and he felt the vibrations rattle up through his boots. He refused to acknowledge the growing fear, and held his breath for a single heartbeat that thundered through his chest. His vision contracted to a point on the torc's head where the arrow would strike. In that second, he felt connected to the beast across the distance.

  Connor released the string with a twang, and the arrow leaped away. It struck true but snapped against the heavily armored head.

  Connor's calm vanished. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. His tongue felt like a lead weight and his arms itched so bad he could barely think. The shaking of the ground grew more pronounced as the mighty beast bore down on him.

  Connor snatched another arrow and, as he nocked it, he recognized it by the single black feather. He snarled at the torc as he took aim. His hand had somehow found his lucky arrow, the arrow that never missed, never broke, and always took down its target.

  Fifteen yards.

  With soaring confidence, he released.

  The arrow slammed into the torc's thick gray hide in the center of its chest. The steel point snapped off at impact, and the shaft splintered under churning hooves.

  "No fair," Connor shouted. There was no time to draw another arrow, no time to run.

  Rage at the loss of his lucky arrow burned away some of the desperate fear, while the itch of his Curse blossomed all through his torso, magnifying the rage into a towering fury.

  He charged.

  Connor shouted a wordless bellow and lunged forward to meet the onrushing monster, swinging his bow like a club. It slammed into the torc's head, across one heavy-browed black eye and snapped.

  The beast flinched and, instead of impaling him, the long horn scraped along his hunting jacket. The torc slammed into him like an avalanche and tossed its head, throwing Connor high over its shoulders.

  The world spun as Connor tumbled through the air and landed hard on his back. Breath exploded from his lungs, gravel scraped his neck and hands as he rolled over, and he tasted blood.

  The torc bellowed again, and Connor pushed dirt out of his face to look around for the monster. Upslope, still running full speed, the huge beast gouged furrows in the packed earth as it ran a tight circle to charge him again.

  It seemed in an awful hurry to gore him. It wasn't like he was going to get away. The beast had to weigh over a hundred stone, and ran twice as fast as he did. Connor glanced at the distant trees fifty yards down slope, just to be sure.

  No way I can make it.

  Connor climbed to his feet and managed to draw a full breath. Surprisingly, his chest didn't hurt where the torc struck. He felt nothing but a dull throbbing, as if the skin had gone numb.

  He'd been trying to convince Jean for months that the worst injuries were the ones a person barely felt. She hadn't believed him, but maybe he'd been right. If he outlived this crazed pig monster, he'd be sure to have her examine him closely to prove his theory.

  Connor dropped his broken bow and looked around for cover or anything to use as an effective weapon, but found nothing. Then his eyes fell on the long ridge of stone he'd noticed earlier, and he scurried across the slope toward it. On the way, he picked up two fist-sized stones.

  Skidding to a stop at the edge of the drop-off where the ridge fell away to the lower shelf, he threw the first stone. It struck the charging torc on the head, now barely a dozen strides away.

  The best stone thrower in Alasdair, today Connor's aim was spot on. Too bad he didn't have something more useful to throw, like Stuart.

  The torc bellowed and came on even faster. As it bore down on him, it started swinging its heavy head from side to side. Trampling him was apparently no longer enough. The monster now clearly planned to rip him open with its wicked tusks.

  Connor took a step back until his heel hung over open space, and cocked his arm back to throw the last stone. He met the torc's black-eyed glare, and in that second he could clearly see the monster wanted to smash the life out of him.

  Perfect.

  Connor threw the stone and screamed a challenge at the top of his voice until the sound merged with the torc's bellowing reply. He dropped back off the edge of the ridge, and fell five feet to the stone shelf. He crouched as he landed, just before the torc's tusk ripped a deep furrow in the stone.

  The torc plunged off the edge of the ridge and sailed over Connor before crashing to the ground with an impact that seemed to shake the very mountain. Its front legs buckled, its shoulders slammed into the ground, and its charge turned into a wild tumble. Its heavy, musky scent clung to Connor's nose and throat, and its pain-filled cries echoed across the slope.

  Connor leaped to his feet and shouted with victory as the huge beast settled to a stop ten paces away. The monster shuddered, and its breath rattled in its chest, hopefully for the last time.

  Before he could advance on the monster, it grunted and shook itself, staggered to its feet and swung its head around.

  "Stones take it," Connor muttered as the beast took a shaky step toward him. He'd hoped the fall would at least break its front legs. If it had, the torc hadn't realized it yet.

  Its
head was bloody, and one tusk had broken off, but it looked mad enough that nothing but a fatal blow would stop it. Connor backed up and scratched at the raging itch of the Curse along one arm. His shoulders met the ridge of stone he'd just jumped off.

  The torc took another step toward him, then another, stronger. With a deep grunt, it broke into a clumsy charge.

  Only one option remained. The slope lay empty above him, and the thick pine forest so tantalizingly close below, blocked his view of anything beyond.

  Good. No witnesses.

  Three strides away, the torc bellowed again and aimed its long horn at his chest.

  "Mother, forgive me," Connor murmured, and jumped straight up.

  He vaulted in a single, convulsive movement and, as he cleared the lip of the ridge, drove his left arm down and twisted his legs over the top. The torc stood taller than the ridge and it lunged, trying to spear him before he could roll away.

  Connor leaped again, straight up, and barely cleared the stabbing horn as the beast slammed into the stone ridge like an earthquake. It grunted as it bounced back a bit, and wobbled on unsteady feet.

  As Connor reached the apex of his jump and started down toward the torc, he focused on his clenched fist . . . and released his Curse. The itching sensation skittered across his torso and poured into his right arm, concentrating in his fist with such intensity that Connor screamed aloud.

  His arm, all the way up to the shoulder, first burned like it was being scraped raw across the rocky ground, then went numb as all feeling drained away, leaving it a menacing dead weight. Connor drove that Curse-laden fist down between the torc's eyes with all his might.

  The blow smashed the armored skull into the ground where it imploded like a loaf of crusty bread, spraying blood and flesh out its open mouth.

  The impact jarred Connor all the way up his Curse-numbed arm and sent him tumbling over the torc's broad back. He fell hard and slid a few feet, protected by his hunting leathers.

  The torc collapsed, and lay still but for one twitching hoof.