Free Holder of Lightning by S. L. Farrell

the light of the fire shuddered, making the shadows move all around them. “Mam?” Jenna called out.
    “Stop!” Mac Ard commanded Seancoim, and he brought his bow back to full draw. The crow stirred, wings fluttering, and at the same moment the arrow snapped in half like a twig even as Mac Ard released the bowstring. The crow settled again on Seancoim’s shoulder; the wind in the trees died to a breeze, the leaves rustling. “Put out your fire and follow me,” Seancoim repeated. “The tiarna can keep his sword in his hand, if it makes him feel better. But it won’t do him any good here, and the trees hate the smell of iron.”
    With that, the old man turned, shuffling slowly into the darkness, his staff tapping the ground before him.

7
    Seancoim’s Cavern
    J ENNA wrinkled her nose at the smell: musty earth, and a strange, spicy odor that could only be Seancoim himself. A draft wafted from the entrance of the cavern, the mouth of which was a narrow slit in a rocky, bare rise another stripe’s walk deeper into the forest. Yellow light beckoned beyond, outlining the stone arch, and she smelled burning peat as the wind changed.
    “It’s warm inside,” Seancoim said, gesturing to them as he ducked into the passage. Dúnmharú cawed and leaped from his shoulder, disappearing into the cave. “And light. There’s food as well, enough for all. Come.” He vanished inside, and Jenna saw her mam glance at Mac Ard. “We’ve followed him this far,” she said.
    “I’ll go first,” Mac Ard answered. He drew his sword and, turning sideways, followed the old man. Maeve waited a moment, then went into the opening with Jenna close behind.
    Beyond the narrow passage, the cavern widened significantly, the roof rising to follow the slope of the hill, the sides opening up quickly left and right. The passage led slightly downward a dozen strides, and Jenna found herself in a large room. A central fireplace ringed with stones sent smoke curling upward toward the roof, lost in darkness above. The low flames from the peat sent wan light to the stone walls, and Jenna could dimly see another passageway leading deeper into the hill. Along the wall were several querns, small stone mills used for grinding corn and other grains. Hung everywhere around the cavern were racks with drying herbs and various plants laid over the wooden rods. Some of them Jenna recognized: parsley, thyme, lemon grass, mint; others were entirely unfamiliar. The smell of the herbs was almost overpowering, a barrage of odors.
    Dúnmharú had roosted on a rocky shelf nearby. Beyond the drying racks and querns, there was almost no furniture in the room. If it was a home, it was a bare one. Jenna could see a straw pallet laid out near the fire, a bucket of water, and a long wooden box that Seancoim eased himself down on. He leaned his staff against the box, but it fell to the stones and the sound echoed harshly.
    “It’s not pretty,” he said. He leaned down and placed the staff within reach. “But it’s dry, and warm enough, and not susceptible to enemies burning it down.” He glanced at Maeve as he said that, and Jenna heard her mam’s intake of breath. Mac Ard scowled, walking around the perimeter of the cavern, his sword sheathed now but his hand on the hilt.
    “This is where you live?” Jenna asked, and Seancoim laughed.
    “Here, and other places,” he answered. “I have a dozen homes in the forest, and a dozen more I’ve forgotten about over the decades.”
    Jenna nodded. “You live alone?”
    Seancoim shook his head. “No. There are others like me here, a few, and I see them from time to time. And there are more of my people, though not many, in the old forests that are left, or in the high mountains, or the deepest bogs. We were the first ones to find Talamh an Ghlas.”
    “You’re Bunús Muintir,” Jenna said. The word was like breathing a legend. The oldest poems and songs spoke of the Bunús Muintir, of the battles that had raged between