In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Yet, as contentment flourished in the tribe, so too did Conor’s frustration. For all his effort, he was no closer to gaining membership in the king’s ardféne, much less of discovering evidence of Brecan’s treachery. Indeed, life with the Brigantes was so amiable, so pleasurable, it was easy to forget why he had come among them in the first place, easy to forget his suspicions. He even found himself beginning to doubt his own aims. Brecan mac Lergath, to every appearance, was not a tyrant. Might Conor have misjudged him?

  Then, a few days before Samhain, a messenger appeared at the gate—a dirty, undernourished youth in tattered clothes, barefoot, and shaggy haired. Conor happened to see the lad standing in front of the Bards’ House in the company of one of the guards—but only for as long as it took to deliver his message to Mog Ruith. The boy was given some bread and meat and a cup of ale, and then sent on his way.

  Conor noted this, but thought nothing more about it until Cethern showed up in the practice yard a short time later and began pulling warriors away from their training. One of those chosen was Galart, Conor’s sparring partner of the moment. ‘What’s this?’ called Conor as the fellow quit the yard.

  ‘Find another,’ replied Galart. ‘The king is called away. We have to go.’

  Conor turned toward Cethern, who, having picked his men, was walking back to the hall. Clearly, Conor had been passed over to accompany the retinue.

  The frustration he had felt and suppressed broke through Conor’s fragile defences then and flooded over him. He stood watching the warriors chosen for the retinue, gripping his sword hilt so tightly, his knuckles went white. By the time the last man entered the hall, Conor had decided what to do.

  He spent the rest of the day making his preparations. He ate and slept well that night and the next morning, after Brecan and his retinue left the stronghold, Conor picked up his bag of provisions—now stuffed with food and his fine clothes—and took a sword and knife from the wall of the Warriors’ House. He stole around the back to the stables, and ordered one of the stable boys to prepare the grey stallion for a ride. When the horse was ready, he led Búrach across the yard and out through the gates, pausing to exchange a word with the gatemen. Then, he swung up onto the grey’s back and, with a last backward glance at the ráth that had been his home for the last months, rode out. He picked up the king’s trail as soon as he reached the bottom of the ramp—fresh and not difficult to follow—but maintained a fair distance at a leisurely pace, pausing often to rest and water Búrach—all the while taking care to remain well out of sight of the retinue.

  When the king’s company made camp for the night, he stopped, too—in a young birch grove beside a clear-running burn. Tethering the stallion to graze nearby, he ate a little from his bag, washing down the cured meat and new cheese with cool water from the stream. Then, wrapping himself in his cloak, he stretched out on the mossy bank and watched the stars come out as the sky darkened into night.

  He slept well and rose to the sound of birdsong in the trees round about. He stripped off his clothes and bathed in the stream, then watered Búrach and moved the tether to better grass so the horse could graze a little before they started off again. He strolled to the edge of the birch grove and scanned the near horizon for the smoke signature of Brecan’s camp—and found it right where he expected it to be: no more than half a league south and a little west of where he stood. The king and his travelling company would be breaking their fast and striking camp soon, but he would wait and allow them a fair head start before picking up the trail again.

  He returned to his horse and offered him a few handfuls of oats from his bag; after Búrach had eaten, Conor pulled up the tether pegs, remounted, and continued on his way. By the time he reached the place where Brecan and his retinue had camped, the company had moved on leaving nothing behind but bent grass, horse dung, and warm ashes in the fire ring.

  Conor kept a respectful distance through the morning, but nevertheless came upon them unexpectedly when he crested a low hill and found the company stopped at a stream at the bottom of the glen directly below. He wheeled the grey and ducked out of sight below the hilltop, dismounted quickly, and crawled back up to a place where he could overlook the camp without being seen.

  Perched in a nook between two big rocks, he watched the activity below. The sun had only just passed midday, but it appeared that his lordship was already making camp for the night. Conor watched long enough to confirm this suspicion, and also to determine that his lordship, his champion, and his druid were no longer among the men in the valley. After a time, Conor grew restless and decided to see if he could find where the king and his two closest advisors had gone.

  Remounted, he rode back down the hill and worked his way around to the woodland east of the camp where, hidden among the trees, he could pass by unseen. With the camp to the north now, he traversed the wood from east to west until he found the track Brecan and his retinue had used—actually, he smelled it before he saw it, for fresh horse dung alerted him to the fact that horses had very recently passed that way. He marked the fragrant green pile and paused to examine the trail where it soon became apparent that the little woodland path was a well-used track: there were many hoofprints, some quite old and washed out, as well as scatterings of dung, some of it well rotted and broken up. By this, Conor surmised, the king had passed this way before; perhaps it was a place he came to often on his clandestine travels.

  With a click of his tongue, he nudged Búrach onto the trail and began to follow it, alert now to any sign of his quarry up ahead. To be seen now would ruin all his hard work so far—as well anything he hoped to gain in the future. He proceeded with slow stealth until he heard the murmur of voices on the trail ahead—not far away, but muted so that he could not make out what they were saying. He dismounted and led Búrach off the trail a little way, and hid him behind a stand of elder. Putting his mouth to the stallion’s ear, he whispered, ‘Shhh … quiet now, brother. Wait here and keep still.’

  Returning to the trail, he moved cautiously through the heavy undergrowth, pausing now and then to listen. The voices had gone silent—either out of earshot, or the riders were no longer speaking. Sword in hand, he advanced with a hunter’s stealth, placing each foot carefully lest he break a twig or snap a branch. He came to a hedge wall of berry-heavy brambles overcrowding the path on either side. As he made to pass, one spiny tendril of thorns snagged the shoulder of his siarc. He halted to work the barb free, trying not to become further entangled in the mass of spikes.

  That was when they caught him.

  35

  Conor was still trying to work himself free of the thorny vines when he heard the rustle of leaves behind him. He cast a quick look over his shoulder and saw a dark shape on the path a short distance away. Reaching up, he tugged the cloth free and bolted ahead—ignoring the brambles snatching at his clothes and raking his skin. His pursuer gave chase. Conor quickened his pace, pushing through the undergrowth.

  A little farther ahead, the brush thinned somewhat and he entered a stand of alder saplings—to be met by three members of a Scálda scouting party. Hard-eyed, wary, their long hair unbound and beards untrimmed, they stared in grim-mouthed earnest at their accidental captive, long iron spears levelled and ready for a fight. Conor fell back a step, preparing a swift retreat into the wood—and felt the spear point of the enemy scout behind him. His captor nudged him forward.

  Clad in the hardened leather armour of their kind, the four circled around him and Conor, blade steady, searched their impassive faces for any trace of fear and, finding none, decided to go for the biggest of the four—a hulking, battle-scarred brute with knotted veins on his arms and a curved knife stuck in his sword belt. This one, Conor decided, must be the leader of the group. A swift, sudden attack might create a moment’s hesitation on the part of the others, and a moment was all Conor would need. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and rose onto the balls of his feet, ready to strike when a voice called out from the wood.<
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  Without taking his eyes from Conor, the leader called a reply, his voice loud in the silence. A moment later, the group was joined by a fifth Scálda: a slender, beardless fellow, he wore no armour and carried no weapons. His hair was bound in a leather band and he had a Dé Danann cloak of yellow-and-blue-checked weave fastened at his shoulder by a Dé Danann brooch. The fellow pushed past the leader and stepped before Conor, regarding him curiously and, with an air of cool indifference, said, ‘Who are you?’

  The question caused Conor to jump. Though simple enough, the words in the mouth of a Scálda raised a cloud of confusion in Conor’s mind. What? What did I just hear?

  Conor stared, his mind scrambling for a suitable reply as the Scálda addressed him in his own tongue, and asked, ‘You Brigantes?’

  There was something in the fellow’s tone that awakened hope in Conor and he snatched it with two greedy hands. ‘Yes.’ Conor tapped his chest with the hilt of his sword. ‘Brigantes.’

  ‘Why you here, Brigantes? What you wanting?’ The tone was cautious, the words twisted almost out of recognition by the rough intonation, yet Conor understood, and replied, ‘Lord Brecan—I have a message for the king.’

  The words were out before Conor even knew what he had said. But the plan came with the words and he committed himself to it completely. Fixing the young interpreter with a firm expression, Conor summoned up an air of command and demanded, ‘Take me to Lord Brecan.’

  ‘You should not be here,’ the youth told him. ‘Go back.’

  Conor lifted his chin and shook his head. ‘Not until I have seen the king. Take me to him now.’

  The leader growled something at the young interpreter, who replied, and the two conferred briefly. Turning back to Conor, the young Scálda said, ‘He say you cannot see king. Go back now. Or we kill you.’

  Conor shook his head slowly. ‘I have a message for Brecan. Very important.’

  One of the other scouts called to his chief, who answered in his own uncouth tongue. The chief addressed the young interpreter, who then asked, ‘What is message?’

  Conor shook his head again. ‘Only for the king. Only for Brecan.’

  The leader glared and tugged at his unruly beard. Though not the opening Conor had hoped, he seized it, saying, ‘Tell him’—he pointed at the leader—‘tell him the message is from the queen—Queen Sceana. There is trouble at home. I must see Lord Brecan. Now!’

  This message was relayed and the Scálda chief hesitated and looked to his men, who were now looking to him. Conor was quick to increase the pressure. ‘If I go back, you will pay. Brecan will tell Balor—and you will pay.’

  ‘I will tell your king,’ offered the youth. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I will not tell anyone but the king.’ Lowering his sword, Conor thrust a finger at the leader of the scouting party, and said, ‘Blood is on your head.’ Then, tucking his blade into his belt, he turned around and, shoving aside the spear levelled at his chest, started back along the trail as if he would return the way he had come.

  The Scálda began shouting then—at him and at each other. But they made no move to stop him. Conor was six steps down the path when the young interpreter called, ‘Stop!’

  Conor turned around and crossed his arms. ‘Well?’

  ‘We take you to king. He will decide.’ He gestured to the nearest scout, who rushed forward with his spear and took possession of the captive once more. Conor allowed himself to be led away, and the party proceeded through the wood a fair distance; after a while the tall trees gave way to scrub oak and brush, which in turn gave way to a boggy marsh. Beyond the marsh rose a rocky humpbacked hill and, crowning the hilltop, a small ráth. A timber causeway snaked out across the quagmire and up the base of the hill. The Scálda scouts led him onto the wooden walkway, and they proceeded toward the hill over the bog to the base of the hill and began the climb on a steep, switchback path to the settlement which, on closer examination, appeared to be a haphazard construction made of flimsy materials carelessly thrown together. The makeshift ráth had a low circular wall made of nothing more than wattles trussed together with strips of rawhide, and a crude gate made of cedar boards. Above the rickety walls rose a single, high-peaked round house; the lower half was constructed of rubble, and the upper of, again, crude wattles of hazel branches woven over frames made from elm saplings.

  The group passed through the unguarded entrance and into an equally paltry yard of beaten earth studded with a few miserable weeds. A low, mean outbuilding, little more than a shepherd’s hut, squatted in the shadow of the round house. With a flat roof made from rough planks and a ship’s sail held down with a net of stones, the crude structure, like the rest of the ráth, gave every appearance of having just been bodged together in haste with whatever materials came to hand.

  Along the wall next to the hut, several horses stood at a picket line, and five more Scálda warriors slouched in the shade nearby. They rose to watch the new arrivals, but made no move to join them.

  As the scouting party approached the entrance to the round house, Conor’s eye fell upon the door and his interest quickened: three bare oak planks bound with wide iron bands, simply constructed, and in no way unusual, but something about the door piqued his interest. He stopped and turned around, scanning the yard behind him. And then he saw it—a feature so subtle he had missed it in his initial survey of the place: iron hoops. The same iron hoops Conor had seen being made in the Scálda forges and stacked in the Scálda storehouse; the same, in fact, that formed the rims for the wheels of the Scálda war carts. The wattle wall of the ráth was reinforced by a circle of chariot rims, overlapping one another in such a way as to form an interlocking ring of iron.

  Before Conor could wonder about this curious feature, one of his escorts gave Conor a prod with the butt of the spear and shoved him on. He moved to the door of the hall where, much to his disgust, loomed the grisly remains of a severed head. Stuck on a sharpened stake above the door, and burned black by the sun with patches of white skull showing through the rotting flesh, the hideous thing had obviously been on display for some time. Conor spat and averted his eyes as he stepped across the threshold.

  The light was dim inside; there were no wind holes or openings, not even above the central hearth where Brecan, Cethern, and Mog Ruith sat in three crudely made, overlarge chairs. The three turned as Conor and the Scálda scouts and their interpreter entered.

  ‘You!’ cried Cethern, leaping to his feet.

  ‘Greetings, Cethern,’ said Conor as his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness of the room. ‘I thought I might find you here.’

  ‘What is this?’ said Mog Ruith, rising slowly. He looked to the king. ‘Why is he here?’

  ‘But you, Mog Ruith—I would have expected you to caution your lord against conspiring with the Scálda.’

  Lord Brecan, sighing heavily, heaved himself out of his chair and came to where Conor stood just inside the door. ‘Why did you bring him here?’ demanded Brecan. He looked to the young interpreter. ‘I told you no one was to come up here.’

  ‘He has message from queen,’ explained the young man. ‘He would not go back to the others.’

  ‘He was never with the others,’ said Cethern.

  ‘A message?’ said the king, looking to Conor. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘That is what I told him.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Cethern.

  The king put out a hand to his champion. ‘Step back. He’s here now. The damage is done.’ To Conor, he said, ‘How did you find this place?’

  Conor indicated the Scálda scouts crowding the door of the hall. ‘They brought me.’

  ‘You followed us?’

  ‘Aye, and they did the rest.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Brecan, ‘this message—what is it?’

  Conor looked around at the Scálda scouts. ‘You might want to hear it first in private—and then decide if you want it repeated in company.’

  Lord Brecan considered this,
then, with a nod to the interpreter, said, ‘You have done well. Leave him, and tell the others to return to their duties.’

  This command was relayed to the scouts, who, with much grumbling discussion, reluctantly obeyed. With a nod to Brecan, the interpreter departed and the scouts followed, closing the door behind them. As soon as they were gone, Brecan grabbed Conor by the arm and said, ‘I grow weary of this fool’s game, warrior. Tell me what you came to tell me, or I will let the Scálda have you.’

  ‘Is that supposed to frighten me?’ said Conor mildly.

  Brecan seemed at last to understand that Conor would not be bullied. ‘Then tell me quickly, because you are not staying. What is this message of yours?’

  Mog Ruith stepped up beside his king. ‘Who else knows you are here?’

  ‘Only a few druids just now,’ replied Conor, stretching the truth beyond breaking point. ‘Still, I imagine they could quickly spread the word to all Eirlandia if pressed to it.’

  Brecan regarded him thoughtfully.

  ‘Kill him and be done with it,’ suggested Cethern. ‘There is too much at stake here to have him flapping his tongue.’

  Mog Ruith leaned forward to sneer in Conor’s face. ‘Do you imagine the Learned Brotherhood will bother themselves over the disappearance of a solitary, troublesome warrior of the ranks?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Conor allowed. ‘But if this troublesome warrior disappears, then they will know that what I told them is true and they will have the evidence they require to unite the tribes against you.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded the druid. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘I told them that his lordship here has made an alliance with the Scálda to help him snatch the high king’s torc.’ He watched Brecan’s face as he said this and, to Conor’s surprise, the false king did not flinch—nor did he make the slightest attempt at a denial.