by N. M. Browne
Carefully he wiped the grease from the sword with the cloth from the chest. He held the sword high to inspect it and the blade flashed, brilliant with silver light. It was very heavy, designed for a tall man and a strong one. It wasn’t a sword for fancy fencing, that was clear. Its beauty could not distract Dan from its brutal power. It was a blade made for hacking flesh from bone. It reminded him of nothing more than a butcher’s cleaver. It was a chilling thought. ‘Bright Killer.’ The name came unbidden to his mind. Heroes always named their swords. He was no hero he knew. It was not at all appropriate in the grim circumstances to name a sword as if he was a child playing, but the name existed now. He had thought it. He could not un-name it. The sword was for him ‘Bright Killer’.
It was also far too long to wear at his hip, even if he could find a way to walk without tripping over it. He had seen a film once where the hero carried a great longsword on his back. He might manage that if he could find some rope to lash it to his back. It would also be a better way of dealing with the sword’s weight, which was considerable. Dan was an experienced runner. He knew how even a light weight dragged you down over any distance. Unexpectedly, he found what he was looking for straightaway. The remnants of a leather harness were stowed neatly on one of the shelves. It looked as if it had something to do with horses so it was strongly made. It is extremely difficult to tie something to your own back, but with a lot of fumbling and some judicious knotting, Dan managed to strap the sword diagonally between his shoulders. The hilt was just level with the tip of his left shoulder blade. With a bit of contortion, he could reach for it over his head and pull it free. He earnestly hoped he wouldn’t need to. It was extremely uncomfortable and he couldn’t secure it tightly enough. Even before he started to move off, he knew it was going to bruise his back black and blue. Still, in spite of the discomfort, its stolen status and his complete ignorance of how to use it, the sword made him feel safer. It was another thing that didn’t make any sense.
He set off more cautiously this time and more anxiously. He didn’t run, though he wanted to. He knew he would make too much noise. He had no experience of moving quietly and that worried him. He was an easy target if the murderer was still around.
He had gone less than ten metres when he became convinced that someone was following him. Someone who wasn’t making too much effort not to be heard. Dan didn’t pause to think, he just ran. The sword clattered against his bones. His feet snapped fallen twigs indiscriminately. He dodged branches and leaped over stones to the rhythm of his frantic heartbeat. His blood roared in his ears. Inevitably his make-do sword harness let him down. The knots broke and the sword fell. As it fell, it caught him a hefty blow to his back, knocking him forward and upsetting his balance. He landed face down in a sprawled heap – just like the dead girl. He tasted earth and blood and salt, from his too dry mouth. His nose was bleeding. He struggled to his feet, grabbed the sword and turned to face his nemesis. It was the biggest dog he had ever seen.
It was like no dog he had ever even heard of, something between a wolf and a red setter. Its massive head was level with Dan’s shoulder and its teeth were bared in a terrifying display of natural weaponry. A deep growl issued from its throat.
Dan was not confident he could deal with the dog before the dog dealt with his neck. It must have weighed more than Dan and had all the swords it needed in its mouth. Dan felt the rivulets of sweat trickling down his face. He tried to control his trembling and hoped he didn’t reek of fear. The dog never took its eyes off the huge sword.
Dan had to make a decision. He could run for it, but four legs would outpace him and he couldn’t run and fight. He could charge and hope he could find it in him to drive the sword home, into the dog’s massive chest. He wasn’t at all sure he could do that. He could wait for the dog to leap at him and gamble on having the speed to ward off the attack. In the end he did none of these. The dog was injured. He could see it now. Dried blood caked one of its hind legs and there was a gash around its neck. Maybe it belonged to the girl. Maybe it thought Dan was stealing the sword. After all he was stealing the sword, if only to hand it in to the police.
Like a sudden gift from God, Dan found his place of calm, somewhere, the other side of fear. It was a place he only usually found when he was playing football or running. It was a place where the world slowed down and he had time to dodge a tackle or control a pass or shoot for goal. It was a place of calm, unhurried certainty. In it he made his judgement. He laid down the sword and waited, one, two, three heartbeats. The dog stopped growling and advanced, it sniffed the sword and whimpered, rather piteously for a dog of its size. From his calm place, Dan could see that in spite of its impressive size it was still a young dog, with too-big feet and a disproportionately large head. Very deliberately, Dan moved forward. He was perfectly balanced to run at any second. He was no longer shaking and his voice was calm and level when he whispered softly, ‘It’s OK, boy. I won’t hurt you.’
The dog was like a coiled spring, or a cocked gun, wary and ready. Dan patted its head, still making reassuring noises. The dog did not relax, but made no move to attack. It was clear that the dog had been badly wounded, the gash in its neck was particularly deep. It was breathing hard from its abdomen and panting. It must have been nearly mad with pain. He wished he had some water to share with it, to show it that he meant no harm. Dan had nothing but his kindest voice and calmest manner. He did what he could with those.
‘Was it your mistress who was killed? Poor dog! I have nothing to give you and you are such a beautiful dog, aren’t you? The handsomest dog I’ve ever seen.’
It was true. Dan had always wanted a dog. It had always been out of the question. He had never seen such an animal as this, lean and muscled with extraordinarily intelligent eyes. He could not but admire it. It still might kill him but it really was a wonderful dog. He could not have cold-bloodedly charged at it with the brutal sword. The sword, that was his problem. He needed to pick it up without threatening the dog. The dog was still alert and ready. He’d been lucky so far. The dog tolerated his touch and voice but that was all.
Suddenly the dog growled, as if in warning, and flattened himself to the ground. Its ears were down. It held its body even tauter than before, muscles bunched ready for fight or flight. It was clear that it had heard something. Dan stopped his whispered crooning and dropped to the ground, ducking his head down to make the lowest profile he could.
Distantly he heard voices. There were two voices, male. He could not hear what they were saying. The dog’s teeth were bared but it didn’t growl. Dan had good instincts and he trusted the dog’s. Danger. Dan held himself very still.
He had fallen in a particularly dense part of the wood. It only now struck Dan how green it was for late autumn. He would be hard to spot if he could keep quiet. The hilt of the sword jabbed into his side. He closed his hand around it, carefully, hoping the dog would not object. The feel of the cool metal of the hilt under his sweating palm made him feel stronger. The voices were louder now. There were definitely two men speaking in undertones and moving quietly. Dan strained to make out the words. They did not sound English, the intonation was wrong. Was it Italian maybe? He could hear them clearly now, though he dared not lift his head to watch them. The dog remained completely still but Dan felt that he could sense its hostility towards the approaching figures. It was quivering with fear. That did not offer Dan much comfort. Dan was again exiled from his place of quiet certainty and was very afraid. He could hear the voices of the men even more distinctly now. They were coming right towards him. He recognised the language – just. He had never heard it spoken before except in class. They were speaking Latin.
Chapter Three
One of the men approached Ursula with long, easy strides. He sheathed his sword, as he walked. That didn’t make her feel any safer. He was a big, muscular man and quiet menace was in every step. Ursula specialised in looking impassive. It worried people and encouraged them to leave her alone. She kept h
erself very still and fought to keep fear out of her eyes. It would not help.
The man spoke. She listened. It meant nothing. He tried again. He wasn’t speaking English and she was sure it wasn’t German or French.
‘Don’t you speak English?’ She was pleased that her voice sounded even and surly.
‘I … know some …’ He sounded amused, though his face was hard to read.
‘Why are you threatening me?’ She was annoyed that she sounded slightly petulant.
‘Rhonwen called you through the Veil. You are a warrior? Warriors are danger.’ He shrugged matter-of-factly. His English was perfectly comprehensible, she just had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Where are your weapons?’ He asked the question quietly enough, but his voice was as sharp as his sword. It was Ursula’s turn to shrug. ‘My men can … search … You want?’
Two of the men were tending to the woman who had fainted. The remaining three were watching the interchange with wary interest. Their grip on their swords had not faltered. No, she did not want to be searched, least of all by thugs in antique dress.
She took off her anorak with deliberate movements, keeping her eyes on the man’s face. The anorak had loads of pockets. If he regarded her bus pass and her biro as weapons, he could have them. She emptied the pockets of her school trousers. Two boiled sweets, thirty pence and a crumpled paper tissue. She threw them on the floor disdainfully.
‘I have no weapons.’
Searching through the pockets of her anorak, it seemed that he agreed with her. He shrugged again.
‘Rhonwen no good at warrior hunt. How old are you, boy?’
Ursula was not surprised at the question. She was used to people mistaking her for a boy. These days she cultivated it. She always wore cropped hair, trousers and loose tops. She kept her face impassive.
‘Nearly sixteen.’
‘You have too much flesh and are too old to train. Can you ride?’
She didn’t think he meant a donkey at Whitby Bay. She shook her head.
‘Well, Gift of the Goddess, you must drink the Cup of Belonging and hope the Goddess knows more than I do. You are with us now.’
He signalled for the men to sheath their swords, turned his back and walked away. She was dismissed. She felt her anger boil. She wasn’t with anybody. She wanted to know where she was and what was going on. She could see that she was far from where she should be. She demanded an explanation.
‘Oy you!’ she shouted, deliberately uncouth. It was not the most sensible way to address an armed man and even as she did it she wondered at her foolhardiness. The atmosphere changed in an instant. Swords were back in hands; eyes flickered their interest. The leader turned very slowly, like a gun-fighter in a Western.
‘If you want to live, never speak that way to me.’
All humour had left his eyes, which were cold as a winter sea. Ursula wanted to crawl under a stone and hide there, but some instinct forced her to answer. Of course, it might have been an instinct for self-destruction.
‘I want to know what is going on. Who are you? What is all this about? I need to go back to catch my coach.’
The man stared at her expressionlessly but she thought he looked slightly less likely to kill her than he had before.
‘I have no time for this. We cannot stay here much longer.’ His face remained expressionless but his tone was irritated. Nonetheless he answered her. ‘I am Prince Macsen of a lineage that takes days to say. You are here. You cannot catch your … coach. I regret, you cannot go back to wherever you came from. After the rite someone will explain. Come.’ He signalled for her to follow. He sounded weary, but he did not sound like he was lying. She did not know what he meant by not going back. Did he mean that he would not let her?
The man looked like no one she had seen before. He would not have looked out of place at a fancy dress party – his size and physique would mark him out anywhere but a Hollywood film or maybe an American football stadium. He was bigger than Ursula by several inches, which must have made him at least six feet six inches tall. He moved with the same innate balance as Dan, but somehow she didn’t think he was a footballer. His hair was long and plaited down his back and the lower half of his face was almost hidden by the most extraordinary moustache she had ever seen. It was a pale gingery gold and was so long it hung to below the level of his chin. Draped over his broad shoulders was a heavy plaid cloak in rich greens and rusts. Under that he wore a long tunic, yellow and green striped trews and soft moccasin-type boots. A thick gold-coloured necklace circled his neck like a serpent and another massive ring coiled around his right bicep. Both bare arms were elaborately tattooed with swirling patterns all around the wrists and forearms. His sword hung from a scabbard of finely tooled leather, embossed with silver and gold. It seemed to belong there. He wore the sword as naturally as Ursula would wear her school rucksack.
Her mind refused to supply her with a credible explanation of what was going on. Her imagination ran wild. She kept herself outwardly calm and retrieved her anorak from the ground where he’d abandoned it. Tying it round her waist, she followed ‘Prince Macsen’ mainly because she couldn’t think of anything else to do.
The men had carried the woman to a tent a little way from the standing stones. ‘Prince Macsen’ followed and his remaining men walked a few paces behind Ursula. She found that less than reassuring. None of them was quite so enormous as their leader but for the first time she felt physically diminished. She could hear them chatting in some foreign language. Adrenalin made her stomach queasy but she was determined not to let her uncertainty show.
They laid the woman inside the tent and emerged a few moments later with an amphora and a goblet. To Ursula’s eyes the goblet resembled some priceless artefact of gold, studded with gemstones. It had to be a fake; such things did not exist outside a museum. The men, including Macsen, squatted on the ground. Macsen indicated that she was to do the same. She could not squat for any length of time; she didn’t have the strength so sat cross-legged, like a little child. She felt foolish. There was a small campfire, though its heat was rather unnecessary for such a warm day. The man handed the goblet and amphora to ‘The Prince’ who sighed.
‘Rhonwen should do this. It is a priestess’ rite. Kai has some of the old druid blood, and a little of the talent that goes with it. He will try and take her place. It will be fine. We haven’t time to waste and Rhonwen may not wake for several watches.’
Macsen nodded his head and the man called Kai started to chant and throw rust-coloured powder from a small pouch into the fire. Although Ursula listened hard, the words were incomprehensible. This chant was not in English; it might have been nonsense syllables for all the sense it made. At first nothing much seemed to happen. But as Kai gained confidence his voice grew stronger. As his sonorous baritone rhythmically intoned the strange syllables, Ursula felt the same electric charge of power in the air. Her spine seemed to quiver with it and her body began to tingle. At the same moment, the powder began to burn to produce a heady yellow smoke that stayed like a mist at ground level, gradually building up to head height. It did not disperse in the open air, as smoke should, but rolled around like dry ice getting thicker and more pungent every second. She didn’t want to breathe it in, but there was no other air to breathe. Kai’s voice at once seemed more distant and more resonant, as if he was chanting from the bottom of a deep well. Through the smoke she could see Macsen drink from the golden cup and pass it to her. He mimed for her to drink it, then pass it on. Some part of her was urging her not to drink it, to spill it on the ground, but the smoke drifted between her thoughts to confuse them. What could be wrong with it if Macsen had drunk it himself? The smoke itself caught at the back of her throat, drying it and making her thirsty. She took the heavy goblet from Macsen and gulped from it thirstily before passing it on. It burned the back of her throat like fire, but it didn’t smell like alcohol. It smelled like perfumed honey. It was a strange taste, but before she could analyse it further she
toppled over, insensible, her head on Macsen’s shoulder.
It was dark when she awoke. She was cold. She was tied by her wrists, ankles and waist to something that was moving. There was total blackness everywhere and she was gagged. Her head hurt. When she moved it, a sharp pain like a hammer blow assaulted her.
She tried to reorientate herself. Did she hurt anywhere else? Her bonds were chafing her wrists slightly and her back ached, but she did not think she had been hurt anywhere. She was strapped to a horse. If she turned her head the very slight amount she could manage before pain overwhelmed her, she could just see through her peripheral vision moving shapes in front and behind her. She seemed to be in a convoy of horses, travelling at a walking pace through countryside. She could hear breathing but that was about all. No one spoke and the horses must have been travelling on grass because they made very little noise.
‘My Prince.’ The male voice, it might have been Kai’s, was scarcely more than a whisper but it sounded loudly in the silence. ‘“Boar Skull” is stirring. He’ll need to throw up.’
Just as the man said this, Ursula became aware of a powerful and building nausea. If she was sick in her gag she would surely choke. Strong hands untied and removed her gag. Two men lifted her bodily and carried her far away from the path of the horses. Ursula heaved and retched at the roadside, until she had nothing left to get rid of. The pain in her head made her sob. Someone handed her the golden goblet. She pushed it roughly away.
‘Drink it! It’s water. It’ll not harm you.’ It was Macsen.
