The Iron Grail

by Robert Holdstock

  Urtha ignored her. He strode towards me, glaring at me before indicating the ramparts. I followed him to one of the towers where we could see the sprawl of the plain below, and the shimmering host who penned us in.

  ‘Where have you been? A quarter of a year, you bastard! A whole season! Look what’s happened to us in the meantime.’

  ‘I fell under a spell.’

  He laughed sourly. ‘You fell under a woman! I know your tastes, Merlin. I spent time with you in the Northlands, remember? And on the way to Delphi. And I saw the way that skimpy creature Niiv dangled from your shoulders.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that.’

  ‘You were lovers, don’t deny it.’

  ‘I do deny it. The woman is after my secrets, not my kisses.’

  ‘What took you so long?’ he asked angrily, punching me hard on the arm. ‘Look at this host of men! Of ghosts! Of heroes! My ancestors are there. Probably the sons of my sons! They haunt us and taunt us, they pin us down. Only the druids can get to the river without interruption … and my daughter, apparently! We’re starving, depleted, and the bastards won’t engage us in single combat. And so I ask again: where in the name of Sucellus have you been?’

  It took me a moment to summon the words; Urtha was clearly in a foul mood. ‘With a woman,’ I said.

  ‘Hah!’

  ‘But not just any woman.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Medea. She has run me ragged just as these heroes have run you down. We’ve both spent the last season under siege, only you knew it and I didn’t! She tricked me, Urtha. But it has opened my eyes.’

  ‘You and my damned daughter! Always complaining you they can’t see properly! What am I to do with you?’

  ‘A drink would be very welcome. And meat. And cheese, and a small bowl of olives? And less of that glaring, baleful eye.’

  Urtha smiled behind his long, dark moustache, his eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘A drink? We have Nantosuelta’s wine in abundance!’

  He meant river water. Surely they’d managed to ferment something in this place: from apples, from grass, from thorn berries, haws or rose hips? It occurred to me that even if they had, they’d have drunk it all by now.

  ‘As for meat, with luck I’ll be able to oblige,’ he went on. ‘Here it comes now. Stand by at the gates!’ he added with a shout across the wall.

  In the evergroves by Nantosuelta there was a sudden glint of light on armour, a swift movement out on to the Plain of MaegCatha and three riders came hurtling along the winding way, one with the flopping carcass of a doe tied across the withers of his mount.

  From the grass of the plain, ghost riders erupted just as they had risen to tackle Jason in the hinterland. A long column raced alongside the three hunters, the air shimmering, almost drawing the human riders away from the track they followed. The three kept low, kicking the flanks of their mounts and beating left and right with long rods tied about with strips of coloured cloth, pierced at the ends with the curves of an animal’s bone. The ribs of a bull, I later learned; and the flapping rags were strips that had been taken from the bodies of the Dead. As a renegade wolf can be scared away by the grinning skull of its own kind, so the spirit riders shied away from the smell of their Otherworldly kin.

  The Bull Gate was flung open and the three hunters galloped through to safety.

  It was then that I asked Urtha about the rods. Ullanna answered me: ‘Charm sticks,’ she said. ‘I asked myself what you would suggest if we were to get our hunters back safely. And I’d seen something similar used when my father went to the oracle at Airan Kurga, in my own country. The passage to the oracle is dangerous because of the wandering lost, the dishonoured. They are beaten back by their own bones.’

  ‘A little bit of this and a little bit of that,’ I said, impressed, and she gave a little bow.

  ‘It’s often the best way. The Wolf-heads helped. They’ve had a long journey of survival. They’re charmless in one sense, but they have a good knowledge of the powers of enchantment.’

  * * *

  I had returned to a restless, unhappy citadel. The host from King Vortingoros’s Coritani, who had agreed a short spell as mercenary help, were now frustrated and confused by their extended stay. They were concerned for their families. They had seen that it was possible to escape from Taurovinda, through the shadowy siege-works, and only Urtha’s charismatic leadership had kept them rooted to the Thunder Hill.

  Urtha’s powers of persuasion were wearing thin, however, as were supplies, and the co-operation in the manner of entertainment and games. Mock fights and challenges, combats and races, were increasingly turning lethal as tempers frayed and hearts became increasingly forlorn.

  There was a good supply of food, however; Urtha had made sure of that. And as pacification on this particular day, and partly to welcome me back, the new kill was paunched and its liver grilled at a feast given for the men of rank among the mercenaries. Fourteen of us sat at the low benches, Ullanna included, Cathabach, and the Thoughtful Woman Rianata, who would need to hear my account of Ghostland. Urtha’s hall was richly coloured again; weapons hung from roof beams, shields gleamed on walls, and cloaks were spread between them to help cut out the draughts and sounds of the melancholy nights. The house was once more encircled by a deep ditch and thorn stockade, hung with the colours of the Cornovidi and the ancestral colours of the Tectosages.

  The king’s feisty son Kymon was not present; Munda’s wailing objection to her incarceration could be clearly heard at times. The girl was furious.

  As strips of deer flesh were beaten flat to make them tender, then held above the burning fire, so the conversation lightened and the spirits rose. There was a little apple cider, sharp and strong, pear wine, and a drink made from fermented milk, which was disgusting but which delighted the Scythian woman, whose concoction it was. She sat next to Urtha and made rude remarks about him, and even ruder ones about the bull-breasted, red-bearded Morvodugnos, brother of Gorgodumnos, to both men’s apparent amusement.

  I was given a slice of the deer’s tongue, a chieftain’s cut, Urtha’s way of saying welcome, and perhaps: I was angry that you went away so long, but that’s that, it’s done. Now to work!

  Urtha described how the first signs of the siege of Taurovinda had been at the return of a hunting party similar to the one I had witnessed running the gauntlet today. ‘Morvodugnos and two others had gone on a recruiting mission, east as usual, since that is where most of the returning spearmen are showing up as they creep back from the conquest of Greek Land.’

  Conquest? That disorderly if massive raid through Makedonia to Delphi and its oracle? This story had sweetened in the telling!

  ‘They came across a king’s son, Conary, of the Clan Thulach, with his retinue of knights and three slaves, captured from Makedonia as they’d returned. The Makedonians are good fighters and have given their bond to fight as mercenaries for seven years in return for their release to find their own way home. They’re an unhappy trio, as you can imagine, but we need all the help we can get.’

  I felt sorry for the three men, brought to this hostile climate and its earthy fortresses.

  Urtha went on, ‘This band had followed the river as far as the forest. When they saw our high towers in the distance they broke into a canter across the plain, sing-shouting to us to let us know they were coming.

  ‘The Shadows of Heroes must have been waiting in the long grass. Forty or fifty of them just rose up on horseback and attacked them. I was watching from the tower on the Riannon Gate. Those marauders appeared to ride up out of the ground, as if from hidden tunnels. Conary was struck by seven darts each as thin as a thorn, as long as an arrow, and died in agony out there on the plain. All in his retinue were wounded; the Makedonians were luckier. They seemed to pass through unscathed, though they too sustained glancing blows. It was a bloody troop that streamed into Taurovinda; one of the slaves had picked up the body of Conary, and we later buried him by Nantosuelta’s well. I will a
rrange for his body to be taken home as soon as this siege is finished.

  ‘Where had they come from, I imagine you will ask? It was impossible to tell, Merlin. But over the following days the whole plain, and the marshes to the west, became filled with the shades of the Dead and the Unborn. When it rains you can see them, like water ghosts, hovering in the saturated grass, gesturing towards us, or riding around us, either “counting coup”, or trying to kill us.’

  I remembered that from my first return to the deserted hill.

  ‘Can you tell one from the other, a dead man from an unborn hero?’ I asked, but Urtha shook his head.

  ‘If their armour is familiar, perhaps they are from the past. If they ride those very large horses, and their armour seems strange, then from a time to come. Perhaps.’

  Morvodugnos raised his meat knife to get my attention. ‘One thing I’ve noticed: some of the host on the plain are very active, attacking our riders, when the moon is new, before the silver has grown bright. Others, quite different—those who seem strange to us—ride more when the moon is approaching full face, when the silver gleams brightest.’

  ‘I have seen that too,’ said the Thoughtful Woman, Rianata, quietly. She was watching me carefully. ‘The host who surround this place are not at one with each other. There are struggles and arguments. I have seen it. There is much coming and going among the bands. There is a sprawling spirit hall to the east, close to the forest. That is where the High Lord resides. That is where the conflicts are acted out among the host, on the plain before it.’

  Cathabach clapped his hands together, striking them three times. ‘I’ve seen it too. The hall is protected by shades of creatures that are only half human. The High Lord’s banners bear the emblems of no kingdom or chiefdom that I have ever seen.’

  Which was not saying much.

  ‘But what do they want with Taurovinda?’ Ullanna asked, shaking her head as she chewed both meat and the question.

  ‘What indeed?’ Urtha echoed. ‘I’d hoped that Merlin might have some insight. Merlin?’

  ‘If I do,’ I replied truthfully at the time, ‘it’s very much in; very much out of sight.’

  But my understanding of the Shadows of Heroes had grown a little with this suggestion that each presence from Ghostland was influenced by a different time in the regular darkening of the moon. It made sense: the moon, through her springs and groves on the land below her, exerted many influences on the living. She showed her dark and doleful face to the Dead and her comforting white breast to the Yet-to-be-Born. She was certainly playing a role in events.

  I gave an account of my journey into the hinterland, hiding nothing of my vulnerability under the spell cast by Medea. Urtha seemed excited at the thought of Jason’s return—I imagine he was thinking of boosting the numbers of his warrior host—but less than intrigued by the thought of the artful northern enchantress Niiv’s returning to our company.

  Brawny Morvodugnos suddenly climbed to his feet, adjusting his short scarlet cloak and sheathing his meat knife. He frowned at me, his heavy face filled with a sudden concern. Firelight made his red hair seem to writhe with life.

  ‘If my brother, Gorgodumnos, is dead, as I believe him to be … then he is among the Dead, in Ghostland. He was a fine man, a fine fighter, a little short of temper, a little long in vengeance, intolerant of taking prisoners, keen to claim trophy, sometimes harsh in his actions when it came to claiming cattle from across territorial boundaries, not one to take an insult lightly, or even a compliment, but a fine man none the less. As those of you who knew him will remember, he was the best among us at five of the twelve winter feats: the feat of the twelve thunderous drums, the feat of the five shields ringed with bronze and gold, the feat of the ten somersaulting knights, the feat of the six brightly decorated goose eggs, and the feat of the eleven significant whistles. Who else in this house can claim as much?’

  There was a general murmur of agreement that Gorgodumnos had been good at his feats.

  Manandoun whispered to me, ‘For all of that, the one feat he never mastered was the one feat we all learned first, and to perfection: the feat of the nine whirling women.’

  ‘You whirl nine women? To what end?’

  ‘One woman: nine whirls,’ Manandoun said with a significant frown, as if the feat should have been obvious. I realised, then, that he was not talking about dancing.

  Morvodugnos came to the point. ‘If he has ridden in the company of Riannon and Avernos, across the river and into the Realm of Heroes…’

  If he has been killed …

  ‘… then he could now be part of that haunting host, out there among the long grass and twisted thorn of MaegCatha. Will he attack us? Will he attack his own brother? What am I to do if we face each other, sword to sword, open breast to open breast? What is the consequence for Gorgodumnos if I deliver the breath-denying thrust? What for me if he delivers the mournful blow?’

  Morvodugnos’s question brought home yet again the strange and sinister situation in which the defenders of this stronghold found themselves: they were at war with their ancestors … and with their unborn offspring. What Morvodugnos had done was to bring that discomfort right to the heart of the king’s hall. For months each man and woman in this place must have been scouring the field of the Battle Crow, searching among the shadowy figures camped on the plain for some sight, some glimpse of a husband or son or father whom they had buried with dignity and honour. And in searching the field in this way, they would certainly have lived in private dread of seeing that once-loved coming towards them, sword drawn, perhaps, or bow stretched, spear held high … the mournful deed, as Morvodugnos would have put it, clear in their mannerisms if not in their hearts.

  The Thoughtful Woman rescued the silence that followed Morvodugnos’s plaintive question.

  ‘There is no dishonour in turning away from a brother or father that you recognise. Leave the field. From what I have seen, these Shadows of Heroes are weak in our land, weaker than us. Remember the scatter of bones we left when we took back the Thunder Hill? Whoever it is that has led this invasion across the Winding One, those we once loved, those who will love us in memory in their own time to come, are here against their will. The Warped Man Dealing Death has caused this to happen. There have been such men before; and there will be such men again. But they are only ever in this land one at a time. Some are good. Remember Cuhuloon, that great man of Ierna, that man of Twelve Feats and the famous warp-spasm in combat. Yes, some are good. And some are evil. This one is evil. And Munda, the girl who has the Light of Foresight, has already seen that he is close.’

  As if she had heard her name invoked, from somewhere in the distance Urtha’s daughter began to screech her annoyance at being separated and incarcerated.

  I couldn’t take my gaze away from Rianata. She met that gaze steadily.

  There have been such men before; and there will be such men again.

  This woman had once possessed the imbas forasnai, I was sure of it. It had gone from her, now; such foresight is doomed to fade. She had her memory, deep and detailed; she had her insight, in need of constant testing. Munda might become her protégée; the girl would certainly walk the same path.

  * * *

  What could Ghostland want with Taurovinda? The answer, perhaps, lay in the past of the fortress, a subject that the Speaker for the Past now addressed.

  I listened to him carefully; he was eloquent, descriptive, passionate, but it soon became apparent that he was talking simply by rote, verses learned and remembered, without any deeper understanding or vision; these were words that had been passed down across the centuries. Two centuries, in fact: the time that had passed since the vanquished Teutoborgan kings had first come to this sprawling hill, in the heart of Alba, and fought in combat to agree which of them would claim the steep slopes and rich woodland for his own.

  Durandond and his wife Evian had won the day. Three of their four companion exiled families had moved south; one had journeyed to th
e north. New kingdoms were quickly established; but this Thunder Hill had been the first place of gathering, the place of the first Council of the Exiles, and the first to be protected.

  Later, the five kingdoms would again be involved in bloody war and bloody mayhem, this time against each other.

  I knew of Durandond and men like him; my path, my eternal walk around around the world, took me through the centre of those forested lands and open pastures where the aristocratic ancestors of Urtha and his kind had once presided over estates that were devoted to the support of luxury and the indulgence of an elite. That elite had had no concept of honour beyond its own set of castes: the well-born, the knights, the holy ones, and the High Women, the true rulers of those vast estates.

  I remembered seeing the bodies of the favoured knights of the High Women, dead after battle, folded up in full armour in great golden vases. The lids of these extravagant coffins were sealed with pitch before being buried in deep shafts, covered with shards of marble and granite, sealed with oak, and decorated with flowers of the field.

  The betrayers of those of noble birth were similarly confined—but alive, and in barrels made of wood; dropped into deep pits and covered with dank earth.

  The five dynasties had been weakened by a series of minor wars against invaders from the east, including the Cimmerians and Scythians, and by a devastating invasion from Greek Land, an army that had marched across four lands and through two ranges of mountains. They had taken booty and deposited much of the treasure in the oracle at Delphi.

  But it was their own greed that led to the fall of the kingdoms, ravished by the people they had used and suppressed.

  What might those exiled rulers have brought with them that could make Taurovinda so attractive to the spirits of the Dead? Surely not the corpses of Durandond and Evian, even if they lay in a gilt-edged chariot?

  I had tried to see into the hill, and though their shaft, like all the shafts, was clear to the inner eye, there was nothing else visible, save for the spiralling flow of water that fed the springs in the stronghold, crystal wine drawn from Nantosuelta. If anything else lay below our feet, it was hidden even from me.