Set in Stone (4 page)

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.

Connor examined his fist. He felt no pain. It looked undamaged, although covered in torc's blood. He slowly unclenched his fingers and shook them out. Feeling came back in a rush, an overpowering itch that made him groan with the need to tear at his own flesh. The itch subsided after a few seconds and radiated back across his body.

Before approaching the beast, Connor glanced around again to reassure himself that no one had seen what he did. He'd only ever released his Curse a couple of times. Both times he was alone, and the itch had nearly driven him mad.

The first time, he'd slammed his hand into a small tree, focusing all of his anger and despair into the blow, not caring that he'd probably break bones. His hand hadn't broken. The tree had.

He'd been so surprised the falling tree had nearly killed him. Never before had he understood the Curse's destructive power. All his life it had tormented him with crushing sickness. Now he knew the terrible truth. The Curse was trying to force him to kill.

Today it succeeded.

That itch was a harbinger of misery, a reminder of the danger he faced every day. Tomorrow could not come soon enough. He'd taken a terrible risk in waiting so long to petition for Patronage, and he was starting to wonder if he'd waited too long.

At the Sogail, those celebrating their sixteenth age-day, the Saorsa, would become near-adults. The Curse was not supposed to drive those afflicted with it beyond the bounds of their control before that age, but he was starting to wonder if perhaps the rule was not so hard and fast.

With an effort, he forced the worries aside. Tomorrow everything would be revealed, and he'd be on the path toward becoming a Guardian. Under the high lord's Patronage, somehow the terrible risk of the curse could transform to a force for good. Instead of becoming a danger to his family and perhaps his entire village, he would become their Guardian.

Connor grinned. To celebrate the announcement, he had bested the mighty torc. He could think of no better way to prove his worth to the Curse Finders, the high lord's men who would accept his petition in the name of their lord.

The itch of the Curse seemed weaker now, barely a distraction, as if appeased by the recent destruction. His best defense against it was normally to banish all thought of it, but a new thought occurred to him, one that disturbed him deeply. Without the Curse, he'd have died alone on this mountain today.

The torc twitched a final time. Connor cleared his mind through physical action. He drew his belt dagger and field-dressed the torc. Within minutes, it lay bled out, with its innards steaming in the clear morning air. Connor stayed upwind as he completed the work, and then sat back on his heels and laughed. He'd actually killed a torc.

Connor threw his head back and roared like a torc, and then grinned.

That sounded pretty good.

He could mimic nearly any animal after he'd heard it, and he planned to remember this one.

Alasdair lay six miles back beyond the far side of the saddle between mountains. After removing the long horn as proof of the kill, Connor started back. He needed to fetch a horse. Hopefully the carrion would be content to feast on its guts and leave the rest intact until he returned.

Tomorrow would be a day to remember.

Chapter 3

Connor stopped on his favorite vantage rock and rested, hands on knees, breathing hard. He'd jogged back up the pass from the north peak where he'd left the torc, covering the distance in a ground-eating lope. The noonday sun shone warm on his face as he stood and scanned the valley.

He loved the spot. To his right reared the majestic peak of Wick Tor, its high summit flanked by clouds, with the huge open pit of the quarry cut into its flanks about half a mile from where Connor rested. The pounding of hammers and chisels reached him dimly. The tempo was fast, constant, as everyone worked hard to finish early.

Those sounds taunted him, teasing him anew with the promise of the life he yearned to lead but never could. He fought down the urge to detour to the quarry, to prove he wasn't afraid. It wouldn't do any good. He didn't dare go again today and risk arousing the Curse. For some reason it hated the quarry and every time he spent any time there, its itch grew with terrifying speed.

Instead, Connor turned and forced himself to stare at the rest of the magnificent view. Beyond Quarry Road and the two deep lochs on the bluff, beyond Lord Gavin's plateau, the rest of the valley spread south, a patchwork of forest, green pastures, and square-tilled farmland with the river running through the middle of it all.

Connor knew every inch of it. He'd spent glorious summer days swimming with his friends in the Wick or hiding in the woods with Hamish as they spied on Jean and Moira. His recent hunting had honed his knowledge of the area even further.

He and Hamish had even discovered the girls' secret bathing pool recently. Protected by a dense grove of brush and hardwood, it was devilishly hard to approach quietly. They'd finally managed it, but instead of spying the girls, they'd seen Jean's grandmother preparing to bathe.

They had bolted immediately, chased by the fear of actually seeing grumpy old Mhairi disrobed. Connor shuddered anew. Some things were too scary to think about.

Connor pushed on, leaping down the trail to the road in a rush. He paused by the far edge of Loch Sholto, its solid stone bank barely a dozen feet thick along the outer lip of the ridge, close to the spot where the road began its steep switchback down to the valley below. He was tempted to stop for a swim, but didn't fancy returning to town blue-lipped and trembling with cold.

Halfway down the switchback road, he paused to drink at a small stream that cut the road there. It began higher up in a brush-choked cave that clung to the hill about three hundred feet below the upper rim. He'd made the difficult climb up to the cave once with Hamish, but he'd been the only one who dared enter the cave so he alone had discovered the iron gate blocking its upper end.

Connor moved quickly across the northern edge of Lord Gavin's plateau. Thankfully, he spied no one, even though the manor housed Lord Gavin, his family, and their slaves. A handful of soldiers and a dozen servants worked there, mostly in serving Lady Isobel. He broke into a run down the road that led along the base of the sheer cliff back to Alasdair.

He'd worried that Lady Isobel would spot him descending the road and send for him. He didn't want to waste hours in whatever nasty chore she might assign to him, like she'd been doing so often of late.

The road expanded as it skirted the flanks of Wick Tor and dropped toward Alasdair. Connor loved the tranquil town of modest homes. A high stone wall protected the downslope and downriver sides, giving it the appearance of a fortified town, even though there was never any reason for fortifications so far upriver. Connor had spent countless hours as a child in mock battles with Hamish and Stuart, fighting back and forth across the wall, seeing it as something far grander than one of the final vestiges of the original quarry that gave the town its name.

After passing through the wide upslope gate, Connor took Market Street toward the square. Built upon the site of the original quarry, abandoned fourteen generations ago for the purer stone higher up the mountain, the granite streets were perfectly level. The homes consisted mostly of wood, with some grout and field stone, particularly for the façades of some of the shops.

It was a shame they couldn't use the granite they quarried. Such a staggering expense would be unthinkable. Granite, especially the coveted Alasdair White, commanded premium prices and could never be wasted on the commoners who spent their lives cutting it from the mountain.

In just a few short days, Connor would finally get to see Merkland Tor, High Lord Dougal's castle, with its famous walls made entirely out of precious Alasdair White. Although only a full day's trip downriver, few villagers other than the bargemen ever made the journey to Merkland. As a soon-to-be Guardian, he would have to.