Baubles From Bones: Issue 4
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The Songweaver

Andrew LiVecchi
8400 words

Connal stood before the songweaver’s door. He waited in the pouring rain, the water dripping along his skin like blood down a heathen altar. When at last he found his courage, he stepped forward and knocked with gentle rap. Yet no answer came. He knocked again, louder now, the drumming of his fist rising above the din of rain.

The door creaked open. A young woman appeared, framed by the hearth’s soft glow. Connal stood a moment and watched her. For all that the fishermen said, he had expected more, yet the woman who stood before him—her pale, freckled face, long brown braid, and drab brown frock—seemed no more remarkable than any island fishwife.

She looked at him but asked no question.

“I seek the songweaver,” he said, deciding this must be nothing more than a servant. “Is she at home?”

The serving girl lifted her brows and smiled. “She is.”

She said no more. And he stood there in his wet black cloak, cold and miserable, waiting for her to fetch her mistress.

At last she bid him enter. He sighed his relief and lowered his hood. There was but one room, simple, a table and bed, a low-burning hearth, and a collection of musical instruments—harp, flute, viol. There was no sign of another here.

Where is the songweaver? The words were nearly past his lips before it struck him.

He looked her over again, wondering what he had missed. What he still did not see. “You can speak to eagles?” he asked at last.

She gave no answer, and he asked again. He slipped the dripping cloak from his shoulders and loosed the shield and sword that clung to him.

Her eyes narrowed, challenging him.

“Who is it would know? And for what purpose?” she asked.

“I am Connal MacCraedon.” He straightened his back, his spine clicking. “A lord and beastmaster of Cregeirann.”

If this impressed her, she gave little sign of it, watching him still with those seeking eyes.

“I was told you have a gift for language,” he said. “That you speak in lost tongues and can converse with any man or beast.”

She moved her head slightly in what was barely a nod.

Her silent manner disconcerted him. He felt foolish as he went on, “And you understand the high speech of the eagles?”

“Ilurian,” she said. “Lowest of the Bárdor tongues. It is high only to men.”

Connal wasn’t sure if this was confirmation. He crossed his arms and sighed. “Show me.”

At this, she started.“I will show you nothing, stranger.” Her voice lowered nearly to a growl. “You have come to my doorstep amid the storm, and I will give you the warmth and food due a guest. But you will give me no commands. Nor will I sing for you like some cringing servant.”

Her anger rattled him. His blood rushed to his ears, and his eyes fell to the rush-strewn floor. He knew not what to make of her.

For days he had sailed the isles of the Ellthiar, seeking the aid and counsel of every village seer, every wandering quack with a staff and a penchant for riddles. And he had found them all useless and false, babbling garbled nonsense about Old Ones. As ignorant as they were eager to please.

And as he drifted further south, despairing that there were any that held the knowledge he sought, he heard her name, spoken in hushed whispers among the reeking fishermen of the Culsiorc. Dán was her home, in the southernmost reach of the Ellthiar, almost to the haunted coasts of Logren. It was there, the old men told him, he would find his answers. There that the songweaver spun her sorcerous songs.

But now he had found her, he felt a fool’s shame. He looked upon this peasant girl and sighed. Just another islander, grown bored of a life of fish and salt, drunk on the lays of wandering bards, fancying herself a sorcerer. Reticent to perform the skills she claimed to hold. A convenient excuse for one pretending at power.

Or was there more? He looked her over again. Here was nothing of the eagerness dripping from the druids and loremasters who heard his name and saw his purse. No, there was something refreshing in her outrage. Honesty. If she really had the gift, would she not bristle at his demand? His wyrd had led him here, of this he was certain, luring him over the grey sea, drawing him to her door.

He would begin again, shedding his speech of accusation and mistrust.

“Forgive me, songweaver. For three weeks, I have travelled on the open sea, and have forgotten my manners.” He bowed. “Do you—do you have a name?”

She laughed softly. “I am called Ilenna. Far more often than ‘songweaver.’”

He smiled then, feeling the tension subside.

“Why do you need someone who speaks Ilurian?”

“I seek Banilur. You know this name?”

“Of course.” She seemed taken aback. “The pale god, the dragon’s heir...”

“Add to this, Cregeirann’s scourge.”

Her brow arched.

And so Connal began, spinning for her the tale of his misfortune. He told of the starry night when Banilur came to Cregeirann, an evening of laughter and celebration. Late into the night, as ale cups emptied and warriors sang, he had come, dropping from the sky with the silence of the tomb. He rent the air with frightful shriek and shook Rigtalla’s frame with godly rage. He tore the thatch from Craedon’s hall, tossed great beams like bits of straw. Man and woman ran from him, seeking shelter, seizing weapons. But the feathered god was not dismayed; towering above them, he split their mortal frames with beak and talon. And at last, as Rigtalla’s boards ran red with blood, heaped with mangled flesh and shattered bone, Banilur came to young Eonar, Connal’s nephew, scarcely more than a child. With wing, he beat aside the boy’s little sword and with claw he seized him, impervious to the arrows and spears that fell against him.

There was no saving the poor lad from those talons. Connal had cast down his bow and charged, but the white eagle struck him with the rush of his wings, hurled his head against the wall. As darkness descended upon him, he heard the feathered god howl again in that wild speech, that vengeful cry. And up he flew, beyond the touch of mortal weapon, bearing the hapless Eonar and others of his people.

“I failed to protect him,” he said, lowering his eyes. “My sister’s son. My own blood. Banilur took him from us. I cannot forget it. It comes to me in dreams unbidden, as sure as the night’s stars follow day’s bright sun. Every night, when sleep at last finds me, I dream. And in those dreams I hear it: the howl of Banilur, his cry of desperate rage. I see him then, in every nightmare, that pale shadow of winged death, and every time, I am powerless to stop him.

“I seek him, Ilenna, because I can do nothing else. My nephew’s soul cries out to me from the depths of sleep and memory. If he still lives, I must save him. And I need you, because strength alone will not bring Eonar back to us. I must reason with Banilur. And for that I must speak to him.”

She was silent as he spoke and long after, though she watched him closely. “And ‘reason’ is all your aim? You would not try to fight him, ‘beastmaster,’ and bring down his wrath afresh?”

“No,” he said, “I fear that weapons pose little threat to him.”

“He bears a charm,” she said. “Given him by Gabhail the Devourer. A reward for loyalty, it sets him above all others, even his own kind.”

Connal raised his eyes to meet her. “A charm? Then he was not always thus?”

“No, yet none now live who saw such days.”

“Then how do you know all this?”

She laughed. “I remember the songs. Is that not why you came to me? And among the lore of the Ellthiar is this: the lay of Banilur the Pale, who served his lord well, in the days when the dragon Gabhail ruled all of Iarlir. And for his service the serpent blessed him, giving him the armour of a god.”

“And this blessing, it protects him from spears and arrows?”

“Would you like to hear it in full?”

“Yes,” he said, happy to find her warming to him. “Yes, I would.”

She stepped towards the hearth to where the great harp stood, propped on a wooden stand. With one long hand she plucked a string, then closed her eyes and sang:

No weapon born of earth will harm you.

No blade of iron nor point of wood.

The jagged rock shall not dismay you,

Nor shall the fire singe your flesh.

And till your very blood betray you

Safe you will boast of dragon's armour.

Connal listened and frowned. When she had finished, he said, “No weapon born of earth? What kind of weapon would hurt him then?”

“You miss the point, beastmaster,” she said, removing her hand from the harp strings. “It means no weapon can harm him.”

“Perhaps no ordinary weapon. But there must be one that hasn’t been tried.”

“Oh many have tried.” A shadow passed over her face. “The seas round Grìobenn are choked with the bloated corpses of those who’ve tried. But unless a terrible sickness should take him, turning his blood against him, he will not die.”

This galled him. “But there must be an exception!” he said. “I know monsters, songweaver, and I tell you: there’s always a weakness. You’ve just got to be clever enough.”

“Banilur is no mere monster,” she said, folding her arms. “He is closer to a god than a beast. Our people worshipped him once, before the Faith came to us.”

He held his tongue an awkward moment, unsure of what to say. They passed some moments thus.

“But you needn’t worry of this,” she said eying him. “For you plan only to reason, yes?”

“Yes,” he said, and for the moment even he believed he spoke the truth. He thought of Ada’s inconsolate sorrow, the mother weeping for a child lost. “I just need Eonar back.”

She peered at him again with those hard eyes, weighing his words like a merchant an unfamiliar coin. “What caused the eagle lord to attack? To steal away a child? It is not his habit to destroy the halls of men.”

“I do not know.” A lie of course. The broken body of Banilur’s queen yet hung a trophy on Rigtalla’s walls, her plumage feathering the arrows in his quiver. “The ways of gods are beyond me.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes still upon him.

“So you will come?” he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Stand in as interpreter for me? I have gold—” he patted the leather purse at his side— “your services would not go unrewarded.”

“I will come,” she said, checking him with a raised hand. “But not for your gold. It is long since I have traded words with the sons of Ilur.”

Alone at the rudder, Connal steered a longship a score of men might crew. Yet no such crew accompanied him, none but the songweaver of Dán, silent as they sailed the grey-blue waves of Iarlir, drifted languidly towards the eagles’ mount. Silence save for the rhythmic breaking of waves against hull, the endless drumming of Lir’s sleepless children.

And Connal mused, his thoughts borne upon the sea’s gentle breeze, drifting towards his home. He saw them in his mind’s eye: the faces of those with spirits broken. His mother’s tears, his sister’s sorrow. The frozen rage in his father’s eyes, the twisted frown, carved into his memory. In that moment, when Craedon learned Connal’s mistake, the identity of who he had killed that day over Dorran, he had cursed him with a fomor’s fury, a lunatic rage. He chided the recklessness that saw him hunt her, the arrogance that bade him feast in celebration, no thought to the danger he’d exposed them to. Out of his sight he drove him, the son who brought shame to his father’s name and endangered the lives of those he was meant to protect.

And Cregeirann’s warriors, brothers of blood and iron, those who had stood their shields by his shield, had rowed the seas at the roar of his command, they too forsook him now. They fled him as one diseased, one marked by heaven’s curse, the fool who awakened the sleeping gods of old.

And of Eonar, too, he thought. The young lad, brimming with spirit and hope. At eight years of age, the boy had lost his father, fallen in the wars against Ganwae’s pirates. And for four years, Connal had taken to him like a son, training him to hold a shield and swing a sword, teaching him the secrets of the waves and how to master them. He told him tales of his adventures, seeing the gleam of adoration in his eyes. But now, set like hardened clay, he saw only the face on that fateful night, the look of stricken fear as the eagle took him, wrenched him from hall and home. And ringing in his ears he heard still the wrath-laden cry, Banilur’s song of destruction, echoing as it did in Craedon’s hall.

Yet now, from the sun-soaked summit of Grìobenn, a new song arose to meet him. A dirge of pain and anger. Not the pale god’s lordly call; this was a song more shrill, laced with yearning rage and teeming menace.

Connal shaded his eyes and followed the song to its source. Even from a league away, he could see the eyrie with his naked eye. A tangle of branches crowning the high dun rock. And upon that crown, two eagles perched, dark figures woven against the heavens’ tapestry. They raised their heads and shrieked, their mourning stretching out across the sea, enveloping him like a shroud.

“What do they say?” he asked.

Over her shoulder, she looked at him, then faced the ship’s bow again. “They mourn the passing of a god.”

Connal was silent. Guilt washed over him like an icy wave.

“They are Banilur’s children,” she continued. “Luath and Taga, heirs to the dragon’s throne. And they weep for a mother’s murder. Cut down by the hand of man.”

Connal’s hand tightened on the steerboard as he guided his ship toward that tower of rock, that frightening wail. He felt their rage and knew it, a grief which despises reason and abhors peace. And it was with creatures such as these he sought to parley.

He looked at Ilenna and nodded. Yet even as she rose from the oar bench and stretched her arms to either side, he felt his heart sink, as if the all-prevailing wyrd spoke through her action and the eagles’ cry, weaving a tale of despair and blood.

She opened her mouth and sang, the eagles’ speech springing from her lips, the high language of those winged gods, cousin to the mighty wyrm. She mimicked their shrill cry so well that, closing his eyes, Connal could hardly tell the difference.

And the winged gods responded to her plaintive call. Beating their wings like the fans of fawning slaves before a Telian king, they rose slowly from the eyrie, hovering a moment above Grìobenn’s peak.

“They’ve answered,” she said. “But they are angry. What would you say to them?”

“Tell them we come in peace.”

She sang out again, but the reply was deafening. Connal needed no translator to know their rage. The eagles were closer now, dark against the sun.

“Tell them I do not seek a quarrel. That I only want the boy back.”

They traded words again and when she turned to him, her face was grim. “They say it is too late. The quarrel is already begun.”

“Gaillag damn them!” he struck the ship’s sides. “And Eonar?”

“They did not say, but Connal, I fear—”

“Ask them! Where is the boy?”

She sang again and one sang back, Taga the pale god’s daughter. Her voice was different now. Scornful, laughing.

“What did she say?”

Ilenna bowed her head.

“Damn it, songweaver, what did the creature say?”

“She said ‘seek the boy in Ifryn’s hall. With all of Banilur’s rightful prey. Blood answers blood.’”

Horror pierced his heart like a warrior’s spear. He gripped the rudder till his knuckles paled, blood thundering against his temples.

“What does she mean, lord?” She stared at him in bewilderment.

Connal said nothing. He unslung the linden shield from his back, leaning it against the oar bench. He loosened the sword at his waist and fixed the seax in his belt.

“Connal!” she said. “You said you meant to reason. So let’s reason. Perhaps there is still a way to—”

“No,” he said. “That time has passed.”

The creature spoke truly enough. Eonar’s blood compelled an answer. He bent the bow, Wealan’s pride, the godslayer, stringing it from top to bottom, feeling its weight and pull, the weapon hungering for death. He drew an eagle-feathered arrow from his quiver.

Ilenna turned from him, holding her hands high, singing once again to the eagles. They were closer now, circling the ship in wide arcs, calling out to each other, a ritual song of destruction and woe.

“Connal,” she said at last, as he knocked the arrow to the string. “You lied to me.” She turned upon him now, her eyes betraying her shock.

He would have asked what the eagles told her, but there was no time. The beasts drew closer still. And he already knew. He cast his eyes heavenward, to the celestial realm of God and His saints, beyond the firmament in which the eagles flew. “Forgive me,” he prayed under his breath, “For the sinful pride that brought poor Eonar’s death. And every death of my countrymen. But grant me now this last grace. Let this arrow fly true. Let not the young lord’s death be in vain. Saint Urient guide this shaft. Bring down the beasts of Grìobenn!”

So saying he drew back the string. And as he pulled, his sinews straining under the godslayer’s weight, the eagles dropped from the heavens like falling hail, plunging silently towards his ship.

Connal loosed, and the bow, given liberty, nearly leapt from his hand. The arrow flew from that quivering string, arcing through bright sky towards the eagles. Urient speed you, he thought, watching it rise to meet his enemy.

But the saint was deaf to Connal’s prayer. Short by an arm’s breadth, the arrow fell uselessly towards the mocking sea.

And the eagles were upon him. Silent no more, they shrieked till the blood curdled in his veins. The rush of wind from their wings tossed his bark like a child’s boat. Connal steadied himself with the balance of a trained sailor. He drew his sword and gripped his shield, braced for the eagles’ assault.

“Get down!” he bellowed and Ilenna threw herself upon the sole.

Taga struck first. The pale god’s daughter, she was mighty in size, the span of her brown feathered wings longer than half the ship’s length. She tore at the sail, her talons rending the cloth from head to foot, shaking the mast with the wrench of her claws.

And her brother Luath, smaller than she, his coat the colour of ash, darted at Connal. A fearful creature, one stab of his beak or talon would end his life, pour out his blood. The warrior steadied himself, then thrust his weight forward, striking the eagle’s talons with his shield.

Like the clash of swords they met, eagle and warrior, god and man. The limewood sundered and Connal fell to his back. But Luath too was stunned, his claws scraping the deck as he stumbled backwards.

Connal sprang to his feet, wobbling as the boat rocked under Taga’s assault. He cast aside the broken shield and held his sword in both hands, watching for the creature’s assault. Luath too had righted himself, and he lunged again, thrusting his beak like a lance. Yet in that moment, the ship pitched portside, jerking Connal from the piercing beak and blinding him with the ocean’s waves.

Without sight, his sword led on by an inexorable wyrd, he slashed outward. The cry of pain and the soft bite of flesh told him he had struck well. Again and again, though his vision blurred, he cut at Luath with his blade, each time finding reward in the eagle’s shrieks.

After those moments that felt like ages, his sight returned, and he looked upon the shattered body of Banilur’s son. The eagle lord, crumpled in a feathered heap, shrieked no more, his body moved only by the violence of laboured breath. Only his eyes, bright and golden, held still the spark of life, the seed of hatred.

Connal raised his sword and readied to strike.

“Connal, don’t!” Ilenna cried, staying his hand. “They have suffered enough! Taga flees and Luath fights no more.”

He looked up, shading his eyes from the sun’s glare, and saw she spoke truth. Banilur’s daughter glided away, back towards Grìobenn, calling out to the sea and sky beyond.

The warrior panted, lowering his sword. Death it seemed was not woven in his destiny. Not yet.

But as he watched the eagle retreat, he felt the darkness of fear pass over his heart, a fearful, disquieting premonition.

“What is she saying?” he asked.

Ilenna was silent. She hid her face from him.

“Songweaver?”

“I will speak for them no more. You are a man of blood and lies.”

“This was no fault of mine! I merely defended myself. Defended you.”

But she would not answer him, no matter his words or curses.

So he looked to the ship, assessing the damage. The sail now hung in tatters, a pitiful ragged thing, drooping from fallen mast, split in twain like a timbered tree. It would not catch the wind, would not sail again without the labour of several days. There was nothing to be done for it now, nothing but to sit and drift toward land, toward the island of Grìobenn, where Taga cried into the wind.

The ruffle of feathers drew his attention. Luath still lay bleeding, writhing in silent agony, too weak to cry out. Connal’s heart broke for him. A warrior of his people. A headstrong prince, driven by rage and honour. Yet it was too late. Every moment merely prolonged his suffering.

Connal lifted his sword, holding the point over Luath’s throat. “I had hoped for reason, my lord,” he said. “But what do such as us, princes of blade and talon, know of reason?”

And so saying, he drove his sword downwards. Luath shook and spluttered, his eyes rolling back. And then he was still.

Ilenna gasped, holding a hand to her mouth. The tears ran more freely now, and Connal felt the water welling in his own eyes. He stumbled to the nearest bench and sat heavily upon it.

She came to him and knelt before the eagle’s lifeless body, all covered in blackened blood. She crooned softly some moments in the eagle tongue. He did not know her words, but knew her sorrow. She sang her funereal dirge, while in the distance, accompanying Ilenna’s song, Luath’s sister called mournfully from Grìobenn’s peak.

He sat in silence, listening as the last notes faded into the wind. The ship had drifted closer to shore, borne by the rocking hands of Lir. He saw Taga seated on high upon the jagged brown rock, calling out again and again to the silent sea, her voice growing weaker with the passing of time.

“She calls for Banilur, doesn’t she?” he said. He took his companion’s silence as affirmation. Taga called for her father, and, sooner or later, the pale god would come. His wrath would kindle against him, the man who took his mate and offspring from him. And against such a creature, thrice Connal’s size, a monster armoured in dragon’s charm, there would be no chance of victory.

He could not sail away, not with the shattered mast and sail. And even if he could, where would he go? Cregeirann was home no more. Not while Craedon’s curse held, while his sister, Ada, wept for Eonar’s unavenged death. Where else could he turn? Was there any island in all the Ellthiar could hide him from the dragon’s heir? Taga would tell him all, and from the eagle lord’s watchful eyes, Connal could not hide himself.

Taga then must die, here and now, before Banilur’s return, while God yet gave a chance for life. He would cling to that chance as a man fallen into the raging sea clings to the rope thrown him. This, this would at last be a plan even his father would condone. It was Craedon himself who told him, long ago, when as a boy he sat upon his father’s knee, that a man’s life is shrouded in fog. That in the murk and dim of his life he stumbles like the blind. The days of his life are numbered, but the sum is known only to God. Death will come, as surely as winter’s ice follows summer’s green. But till it finds him, till it grips him round the throat and binds his hands, he must not give up the fight, must not accept his fate as the heathen does. Each second of his life is a gift from God; and he must cling to it so long as he can maintain his honour.

“Remember,” his father would say, “Ifryn welcomes the coward soul to her cold bosom, the heathen to her table. They sup with her for all time, drinking tasteless gruel from her cup. But heaven awaits the brave, the man who sees the path of life and follows it.”

And so Connal would follow it. He would fight his way to life, out from his misery and woe. A man must earn his death. And he would earn it. He would kill what stood in his way. Destroy a host of warriors. Burn halls to ashes. Slay gods.

“Ilenna,” he said. His voice was quiet. “Our lives hang in the balance. Hate me if you will, but, if you would live, you must do as I say. When Banilur returns, he will slaughter us both. Nor will he stop there. Every isle of Iarlir will quake under the shadow of his wrath. For a queen’s death, he brought destruction to Cregeirann. For Luath’s, he will pile again the sacrificial dead. He will punish our kind with death and destruction, and no song of yours can pacify him.

“There is no going back now. Either we do nothing and die. Or we seize the blessing of providence. We must end the eagle’s line, and put the blood feud to rest.”

She said nothing as she looked at him. Tears sprung to her eyes and rolled down her bony cheeks. She was angry, yes, but surely she knew he spoke the truth.

Wealan’s bow lay before him, cast aside in the violent struggle. The bow had failed him before, but now it seemed his only hope. Yet even Wealan himself, that slayer of dragons, could not make such a shot.

Somehow, he would need to bring Taga from that rocky height, before her father heard her cries, before the winged god sought vengeance.

Seized once more with somber purpose, he leapt from his seat, moving to the middle bench. And there, with either hand, he gripped an oar. Two men could have rowed thus, with one oar apiece, among a crew of twenty. But with no such men at hand, he would do it himself. He beat the rocking sea with his oars, inching the ship forward.

And Taga, seeing his advance, beat her wings, renewed afresh the warcry, her complaint against a pitiless heaven.

“Ilenna,” he called between laboured breaths. “I must borrow your tongue once more.”

She said nothing.

“Our lives depend on it.”

“So you say.”

“So it damn well is! Our lives hang by a slender thread, soon severed.”

He stopped rowing and turned to look at her. Her tears were dried and the face she wore was haggard and flat. She too would cling to life, for all her sympathy.

“Help me,” he said.

“What would you have of me?”

“Call out a challenge to her. Taunt her. Goad her from the mountain with barbed words.”

“What words? I am not in the habit of taunting.”

“I am,” Connal said, daring a grin. “It’s something of a gift.” He stood up again and took hold of the longbow. “I will speak. And you translate.”

She said nothing, but by now he had grown used to her silence. “Go on,” he said. “Call out her name.”

Behind him he heard the songweaver’s voice, rising above the rhythmic din of the waves. It reached out to Grìobenn and disturbed the eagle’s cry.

“She listens,” said Ilenna. “Now what?”

“Winged beast!” he began, launching into the well-familiar course of taunting. “Why do you sit atop the mountain, crying for an absent father? Behold, the one you wish to kill stands before you. I, Connal the son of Craedon, Beastmaster of the Iron Rock, of all the Ellthiar. It was I who broke your mother over the shores of Dorran. A mere thief of cattle she was, no god that I should fear. And it was I who slew young Luath. Sword for talon I matched him; the eagle was no match for man!

“Why do you cry for Banilur? Are you not also a god, an heir to the scaled dragons? Cannot Taga the mighty slay one mortal man? Or are you afraid, feathered god; do you fear the son of Wealan’s bite as your brother learned to fear him? As every beast of the sea and the land has come to fear the Beastmaster? I, Connal, eagleslayer, say you are not gods but beasts. And like a beast you cower before me!”

He shouted these words into the gentle wind, and Ilenna sung after him. Whatever pity he had felt for the eagles’ sorrow now fled. He felt only the blazing pride at conquering gods, the glory of heroic deeds. Taga was silent as he spoke, but as the words carried up to her, she lifted herself from the peak once more, speeding towards them like a javelin.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Connal,” Ilenna said. “She is enraged beyond all measure.”

Connal knew what he was about. He felt a tingling in his blood, the kind a warrior feels before victory. He knocked an arrow to his string and drew it, felt the feathery kiss of fletching on his cheek. Again he prayed beneath his breath for victory, seeking the teeming heavens for favour. Urient don’t fail me now, he entreated of the warrior saint. I will build chapels in your name, devote hoards to your order. Only speed this shaft. Guide it to the monster’s heart. This pretender to godhood.

Again he loosed as Taga neared. The arrow flew from his bow, and Urient carried it, over the restless waves and through the drifting breeze. Too late did Taga see it, her death from Wealan’s bow. For Urient heard the warrior’s cries, bore it in his hands, planted it in the eagle’s breast.

She cried out. Blood oozed from the place the arrow struck, dripped from her body to splash the water’s surface. Yet still she pressed on. Screaming louder now, she beat her wings like a heathen’s drum.

With the speed of instinct, Connal drew another arrow from his quiver. He bent the bow and aimed, but only for a moment. She was so close now, he needed no saint’s blessing. The warrior loosed and watched the arrow fly, striking a finger’s breadth from its fellow.

Taga fell from the sky. She struck the waves with a thunderous splash, launching a burst of white-foamed spray. And Connal thanked the martial saint, repeating again the promise of alms.

The body floated along the water’s surface, mere feet from the prow. A shame to let it waste, that enviable hunter’s trophy. He set aside his bow and leaned over the strakes, seizing the eagle’s corpse. She was heavy, weighed down with seawater, and with great strain he lifted her from the ocean, throwing her onto the deck, next to her brother’s body. Near where Ilenna stood.

“That was well done,” he said.

But Ilenna said nothing. She regarded the fallen eagles, Luath and Taga, in silence, with eyes both wide and dry.

By now, they had drifted almost to the shore and were in water shallower than a man’s height. Connal leapt from the ship and held the mooring rope, landing chest-deep in cold water. On he trudged through pebble-studded sand, pulling the ship along with him. He dragged it onto the stoney beach, wedged snuggly amid the sand and pebbles.

He stood upon the rocks and held out his hand. Ilenna hesitated a moment, then accepted it, letting him help her descend from the ship. They said nothing for some time, their feet on land, their gazes fixed on the now silent mountain, dwarfed in its shadow. The rush of battle had fled him, and he felt again the pangs of guilt and shame. He wanted to speak to her, to touch her, to have her tell him it was all right. That he had redeemed himself. That she forgave his betrayal and lies.

“Ilenna, I—”

But no sooner had he begun, then the sky once more tore with an eagle’s shriek. Not the pitiful scream of Luath or Taga, this was a sound imperious and dreadful. It was the cry that he heard in his every nightmare, the haunting, hunting call of the avenger.

Banilur the pale god had returned.

Huddled in a cleft beneath the shadow of the mountain, they listened to the eagle lord’s searching cries. They were sheltered there, hidden from view of the eyrie, the bodies of Luath and Taga hidden with them. But the ship he could not hide. Though he covered it in brambles, he knew he could not keep it long from Banilur’s watchful eyes.

He looked at Ilenna, seated an arm’s length from him, her arms crossed over bent knees, head buried in her arms. She was silent.

“Ilenna,” he said, struggling to form his thoughts amid the cacophony of Banilur’s call. “Don’t blame yourself for what has happened. The eagles, they were mad. It couldn’t be helped.”

She lifted her head and stared at him blankly. “I don’t. I blame you, Connal.”

He felt a stab of guilt, like a talon in his heart.

She continued. “Since you first came to me, you have told nothing but lies. Lies and twisted half-truths. You had no intention of ‘reasoning’ with Banilur.”

“That’s not true!” he protested. “I was ready to make peace. It was they who wanted war.”

“You slew their mother!” she roared, in a voice louder than any he had heard from her. “Then stripped her to feather your arrows! When you came to me, you said nothing of this, telling me Banilur attacked unprovoked. And like a fool I believed you.”

“And what if I did?” he said. “The eagle raided our people, carrying off our livestock. And when our shepherds fought back, she slew one. I did what I had to do. I protected my people, and my land, and took vengeance for the shepherd’s death.”

“And so doing, you brought down Banilur’s wrath.”

He hung his head. “I did not foresee that. I never meant to expose my people to his anger. The glory of slaying a great eagle went to my head like a potent wine, and I thought only of my triumph. The lives of those slain weigh heavily upon me. Most of all, Eonar. I blame myself for all their deaths. For his death.” He raised his tearful eyes to look at her. “But I blame Banilur more! He is no god to me. A devil perhaps, but no god.”

He stared at the eagles’ lifeless bodies before him. Within his breast, he felt the stirrings of remorse. “I am sorry, Ilenna, that I lied. I was blinded by desperation and grief. And I thought—” he choked on his words— “that if I could only bring Eonar home, then perhaps I could wipe away the guilt. That my family, my people, would forgive it all. Would welcome me back.”

He dried the tear. “But I was wrong. I know now that a man cannot wipe away his past as he would writing in the sand. Our deeds are carved into stone, and none may remove one letter from his record before the day of his judgement. I am a man of blood, as you said. I was wrong to run from my sins, to pretend at virtue that was not mine. And I was wrong to deceive you, Ilenna. For that I am sorry.”

He hung his head and wept hot, bitter tears. He wept for himself, for his wicked pride. He wept for Eonar, his life’s thread cut. He wept for the men and women of Cregeirann, slain by Banilur’s vengeance. He wept even for the eagles, for the savage pride that brought them to ruin. And for Ilenna, who admired them, dragged into the chaos of violence and destruction.

She spoke to him at last, in a voice hard as the rock they sat against. “You are right. What has been done today can never be undone. We all stumble through the dark. Rarely do we see where the path we take will lead us. Yet there is choice for all that. And you chose to break my trust.

“You are sorrowful now and full of pity. But your family will welcome you again, should we ever leave this accursed place. Despite what your father may have said, despite your failures today, you are his son. And they are your people. The bond is not so easily sundered. And when you are restored, how soon will it be before you turn again to blood? There is a wolf in you that no conscience can subdue.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, and her voice softened, “And for that I could pity you, beastmaster.”

Her words tore at his wounded heart. He wanted to say something, to tell her she was mistaken, but no words passed his trembling lips. They remained some moments, quiet, listening only to the beating of their hearts, the distant screeching of Banilur.

She removed her hand from his shoulder. “And what now, Connal? I am thrust into it, your blood feud. And you are not the only one who longs for home. Is there a way off this island that does not see us become Banilur’s prey?”

Connal lifted his head and wiped his nose. “I don’t know. I tried to fight him once and failed. And our ship—even if it were fit for sailing—it would not take us beyond Banilur’s reach.” He sighed. “And what of you, songweaver? If you know any sorcery, now would be a good time to reveal it.”

She shook her head. “I’m not a sorcerer,” she said. “I don’t seek to alter the fabric of creation. Just remember what was.”

“Well, there might be use for that as well. How did the charm go? The one Gabhail said over Banilur? Something about no earthly weapon…”

“No weapon born of earth,” she said warily. “And that’s all your weapons.” Her eyes roamed over his spears and arrows, his sword and seax.

“Bah!” he said, slapping the ground beside him. “I will find a way. Banilur must die.”

“He must,” she agreed sadly. “But you cannot kill him.”

“While strength remains, I will not give up hope. Let us pray, songweaver, entreating all the saints in heaven. You, uh, you don’t pray to the Old Ones, do you?”

“I am not a heathen, Connal! I speak to eagles, not worship them.”

That was a relief. He was growing fond of her, his quiet companion, suffering with him all the chaos and horror the day had brought.

And so they knelt, imploring mercy of the heavens. They prayed to Agrum, the lawgiver, the enemy of Bárdor tyranny. To Herriah, the martyr, who kept the faith when darkness surrounded her. To Tenan and Farron, Abria and Ernath. And to the one God, shapeless and formless, beyond the sea and land and sky. Greater than all the gods of the Ellthiar.

And then they waited.

And as they waited, Banilur’s cry grew sharper, rising to an ear-splitting screech.

“What is it?” Connal asked.

“The ship. He’s seen it.”

“Drog smite it!”

“He calls out for his children more frantically now. ‘Luath’ he says, ‘where are you my ashen one? Taga, my rage, my darling. Answer me, my children. My flesh. My blood.’”

Connal swallowed his horror, feeling black terror take hold of him.

“‘Who is it dares land ship on Grìobenn?’ he says. ‘What mortal fool comes empty-handed to the Horn of Supplication? Know you not, that I am god? That upon this rock I rule in Gabhail’s stead? Gaillag and Drog are nothing to me. Gallos and Bodtha but speechless idols. I laugh at all the impotent saints in heaven. I am Banilur the pale, the dragon’s heir. I am vengeance and death. Show me your pitiful faces, you truant worshippers. Show me the hands empty of gifts. Let your very bodies be the sacrifice you deny me. Be consumed by your jealous god!’”

His voice grew louder as he spoke, and Ilenna had almost to shout to have her translation heard. With a splintering crash, he landed on the covered ship, and they caught full sight of him now, his body thrice the size of Cregeirann’s tallest, his plumage pallid white, the fierceness of his golden glare, the whir and flash as he tore the brambles with his talons. He whipped his head this way and that, searching with eagle’s eyes for the trespassers. But the cleft hid them, the shadows kept them from Banilur’s gaze.

With a shout again he rose into the air, covering the island in wide circles, calling out again and again the eagle’s challenge.

“What does he say now?” Connal whispered.

“More of the same. He threatens us. And calls to Luath and Taga.”

His children. Connal looked at the eagle’s corpses at his feet, hidden from Banilur’s view. They would not answer him, never again. His line was ended. The blood of the dragon’s heir poured out.

And then, like a bolt of lightning it struck him: the answer he sought.

“God be praised!” he yelled, rising to his knees. “I have it!”

“What?”

“The charm: what was the line?”

“What line?”

“The one about blood.”

“Till your very blood betrays you—”

“That’s the one!”

“Connal, I don’t think—”

“Don’t you see?” he roared. “Luath and Taga, they are his blood! He called them that himself. They are our weapon.”

“How? Connal, they’re dead.”

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his hands together. He reached for his seax and brandished it. “But Banilur doesn’t know that. Sing to him, Ilenna. Take on Taga’s voice. Call for his aid. He will come. Like a goose to the hunter’s call.”

She looked at him with rapt attention. “And what then? That knife will do nothing to him.”

“Not the knife. His blood.”

He walked in crouch to where Luath’s body lay. And bending, he placed his seax at the eagle’s toe, right above the talon. Then he sawed away, cutting through flesh and bone, till at last the talon came loose in his hand.

“A sword,” he said, holding the hooked weapon aloft. “Though not of earth.”

Then he turned to Taga and cut free another talon. It was longer than Luath’s, and he held it in his right hand, holding the other in his left.

“Now we are ready,” he said.

“You are sure of this?”

“No,” he said, baring his teeth as he laughed. “But nothing is sure this side of heaven. And sooner or later we must face the lord of Grìobenn.”

She nodded and stood up to face him. He placed his hand on her shoulder, then touched a gentle hand to her face. It was dirty, stained by blood and dirt.

“Go on then,” he said. “Sing to him. Like you’ve never sung before.”

Ilenna sighed and brushed away his hand. Then she stalked from him and lengthened herself, expanding her chest and throwing back her head. Her hair fell about her, wild and unbound. And she opened her throat to sing. Taking the voice of fallen Taga, she cried out to Banilur, with a voice so pathetic it stirred Connal’s own heart.

And Banilur, suspecting no treachery, called back his response. His voice drew closer, seeking the place that hid his stricken daughter.

At last he alighted before the opening of the cavern, blotting the sun with the whiteness of his form. He stuck his eagle’s head into the mouth, piercing the darkness with yellow glare.

And Connal struck. With Taga’s talon he smote him, catching him with a violent thrust under the beak. Blood gushed from that wound; it fled the eagle’s neck like wine from a punctured skin. Banilur howled, a cry of pain and shock. He reeled from the attack and stumbled backwards into the light.

And Connal pursued. He stabbed with the left hand now—Luath’s claw—tearing the wing the eagle proffered as a shield. Again the pale god howled, bleeding who could not bleed. He looked down at his spurting wounds, the warrior before him, and his yellow eyes widened as he fell into a crouch.

“Translate!” Connal barked, “so that the beast might understand my words.”

Ilenna stepped out into the light beside him, watching the wounded eagle with worried eyes.

“I know your speech, fool,” Banilur hissed in the Ellani tongue. “I have flown these isles for many lifetimes.” He nudged his beak in the songweaver’s direction. “How comes this one to know mine?”

“Never you mind,” Connal said, holding aloft the talons and readying himself to attack. “Tell me this. Eonar, does he yet live?”

The eagle sighed, his fierce eyes bent in resignation, his pale feathers soaked in blood. When he spoke, his voice was weaker. “This name means nothing to me.”

“Eonar!” he squeezed the weapons. “The young lord. The one you took from us that night in Cregeirann.”

“I know not where his soul may be. But his bones are scattered about the eyrie with the rest. This surprises you?”

Anger took hold of Connal, and he raised Taga’s blade to strike him.

“Connal,” Ilenna said softly. “He dies already.”

He heard her words and let himself be overruled. He lowered the talon.

Banilur watched her and sighed. “So it seems. I feel it in my flesh, my spirit leaking out from me. Gabhail’s charm has failed.”

“It did not fail,” Connal said. “No weapon born of earth brought you low, O lord of Grìobenn. No, it was your own blood that betrayed you, as only Connal of Cregeirann could decipher. For you see—”

“Spare me your boasting,” the eagle said weakly. “I understand now full well the riddle’s meaning.” He lowered his beak. “So much for a dragon’s kindness! Even for a loyal retainer there must be a riddle, a way to undo the blessing. They are loath to share their power, even with one they call friend.”

Connal fell silent. He had more to boast of, more charges to lay at the eagle lord’s feet. But the wounded creature before him, resigned to his fate, shut up his mouth, staunched his words. He regarded the dying Banilur with a strange sadness.

“So they are dead, then,” Banilur said, more statement than question. “And you, a man of Cregeirann, you say, you are the one who took her too? My beloved, my queen.”

Connal nodded. He found himself on his back foot, when all the while he should have been the one making the accusations

“She stole sheep from my people. And slew a shepherd. A man under my protection.”

“Is that all?” the eagle seemed almost to chuckle. “There was a time the people of the Iarlir gladly offered us their livestock, their enemies bound and haltered, even the children of their servants. They plied us with gifts, to invoke our blessing, or turn aside our wrath. How the wind changes! For now you hunt us like beasts, slay us like common thieves. Enchantment has gone out from among the Ellani, who stoop now before a formless god, his host of invisible saints.

“Perhaps it is good then, that I must die. Perhaps old Gabhail saw this day would come, his curse of death a gift. Wily old serpent.”

Uttering these words, he folded his wings, collapsing into himself. He opened his beak, as if he would say more. But a cold and glassy fog passed over his eyes, and, sighing, the breath of life escaped him.

Connal watched him for some time, the lifeless body, still and bloodied. He lowered his arms, let the talons fall from his hands.

Ilenna came to him, stood at his side. Gently, slowly, like the beginning of a summer breeze, she sang over the body of Banilur. And Connal’s spirit, carried by her gentle song, rose over the carnage, high above Grìobenn’s eyrie, back to his home, to where his family waited. He would come to them again, would brave his father’s wrath and his sister’s sorrow. The songweaver spoke truly enough. Yet, what did he have to offer when he returned?

Nothing but vengeance, a cavernous hollow brimming with blood.

Baubles From Bones: Issue 4
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Andrew LiVecchi

Andrew LiVecchi is a writer of epic fantasy. Since childhood, he has been obsessed with all things ancient and medieval, starting with Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, and Greek myth and culminating in an English PhD from Western University. In his fiction, he attempts to capture some of what he has found so endlessly fascinating about his favorite stories, drawing inspiration from classical mythology, medieval romance, and modern fantasy.

Andrew lives in Cambridge, Ontario and works as a literature and humanities professor. In his free time, he enjoys Brazilian jiu-jitsu, playing piano, and gaming. To follow his work, subscribe at andrewlivecchi.substack.com.

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