A Gathering of Ravens

by Scott Oden

  Sitric bellowed in fury, a lust for blood kindling in his eyes; he shoved Bjarki back and clawed for the hilt of his longsword. Half-Dane staggered and nearly fell, his footing uneven on the damp sand. But, before the king of Dubhlinn managed to bare more than a handspan of steel, Draugen caught him from behind in a rib-splintering hug. Sitric tried to break the grapple; he tried to ram the back of his head into Draugen’s face, but the old Dane was a wily fighter. He held the king close, his encircling arms like iron bands.

  Bjarki’s twisted form seemed to grow in the thickening gloom until he towered over Sitric. A horny fist smashed into the king’s jaw, splintering teeth and drawing a bloody froth. Draugen held the younger man upright. Kormlada started forward, stopped. Maelmorda simply watched. A second thundering blow and Sitric sagged, his hand relinquishing the hilt of his sword. Bjarki caught a fistful of the king’s famed beard and wrenched his head up, heedless of the blood and snot. With his other hand, he drew Sitric’s longsword. Half-Dane held the damascened blade to the king’s throat.

  Kormlada hissed a warning; Bjarki glared at her but said nothing. His eyes returned to those of Sitric. The king displayed no fear; indeed, he matched contempt with contempt.

  “I should end you, here and now!” Bjarki snarled. “But you still have use to me. Tomorrow’s glory will be mine, boy. That is Odin’s will. The gods have decreed that your place is upon the walls, with your mother.” At a nod from Bjarki, Draugen turned the king loose and shoved him to the sand. Half-Dane drove Sitric’s sword into the earth by his head and knelt. “By day’s end if I let you call yourself king of Dubhlinn, much less allow you to live, it will be because mercy suits my mood!”

  Bjarki rose and swaggered off the long strand, Draugen in tow. Maelmorda lingered a moment. Though related by blood, the king of Leinster felt no great loyalty for his nephew; he knew whose hands held the reins of power, and until things changed he would follow Bjarki’s lead. Without a word, he turned and trotted after him like an obedient hound.

  That left Kormlada, who went to her son’s side. Sitric spat blood and shoved her away. Through broken teeth he rasped, “It’s done! I’ve allowed him to humiliate me like you asked … now, tell me why! To what cause have I bartered my pride, and the pride of the House of Ivar?”

  “The cause of vengeance,” Kormlada replied.

  Dubhlinn’s king blinked. This time, he accepted his mother’s help. With her support, he hauled himself upright. His ears yet rang from the blows, and lights danced before his eyes. He wiped the froth from his beard with the back of his hand and tried to focus on his mother’s pale face. “What do you mean?”

  “I came to you and asked you to provoke him, to suffer humiliation and perhaps risk death, as a way of driving home the final nail in our enemy’s coffin,” she said, her voice all but lost to the keening wind. “If all goes well, my son, by sunset tomorrow Dubhlinn will again be yours.”

  35

  In the second hour after sunset, the Irish who had raided deep into Finegall and Howth returned to their camp wreathed in triumph. They bore the spoils from half a dozen razed estates: herds of cattle and goats; ox drays overloaded with sacks, bales, and barrels of loot; strings of fine ponies; coffles of hollow-eyed women and trembling children bound for the slave markets at Corcaigh and Hlymrekr. The whole camp turned out to celebrate and among those who looked on was Cormac O’Ruairc, who was in no mood for merriment. The chief of the Uí Ruairc of Lough Gill elbowed his way through the mass of soot-stained fighters until he found Prince Murrough.

  The prince stood with a knot of Dalcassians, his son Turlough among them. Father and son were cut from the same cloth; of a similar height, both had the raw and muscular build of Brian in his youth. Though only fifteen, dark-haired Turlough already had a grim reputation with an axe.

  “I don’t trust the bastard,” Murrough was saying; he hawked up road dust and smoke and spat it out to one side. “Known Malachy since I was a lad, but I wouldn’t let that old snake stand at my back with a spear even if Christ himself commanded it.”

  “You think he’ll betray us?” Turlough nodded to O’Ruairc, as much for his father’s benefit as to acknowledge the Connacht chief. Murrough clapped his son’s broad shoulder and leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial hiss.

  “I think he already has.” The prince turned to greet his oath-man. “What’s the word, O’Ruairc?”

  “It comes from Dubhlinn, my lord,” Cormac replied. “Sitric’s so-called allies—the Manx and Orkneymen—have put back to sea. One of my lads got close enough to hear them screaming threats at each other.”

  “Is it a ruse, you think?” Murrough’s heavy brows beetled. “What does my father say about it?”

  “That’s the feckin’ question isn’t it, my lord.”

  “Did you not report it to the king?”

  “I am now,” Cormac replied.

  Murrough cuffed him hard, across the mouth. The Connachtman took the blow; he grimaced and spat blood. “You have a seditious tongue, O’Ruairc,” Murrough snarled.

  “Aye, but it’s honest.” O’Ruairc followed the prince to where a barrel of water stood. Murrough plunged his head into the barrel and came out spluttering, the water sluicing away a day’s worth of grime, sweat, and blood. The prince swiped hair from his eyes and fixed O’Ruairc with a fierce glare.

  “Even an honest tongue can be torn out.”

  “There’s something else. My lads and I, we came in with … with something we captured on the Dubhlinn Road. A devil, if you ask me. We’ve kept it out of sight.”

  “A devil?” Murrough’s eyes narrowed. Though his belly griped with hunger and his limbs ached, to hear the tone of uncertainty—of awe—in O’Ruairc’s voice bothered him more than he cared to admit. “What do you mean a devil? It’s either a man or it’s not…”

  “Once you see it, you’ll understand.”

  Murrough whistled for his son. “Let’s go, boy.” To O’Ruairc, the prince added, “Bring your so-called devil up to the monastery. We’ll sort all this out together, for good and all. And if it is one of Lucifer’s own you snared, at least we’ll be on holy ground.”

  Cormac O’Ruairc chuckled; he gave a cursory bow and retreated back through the throng of clansmen and camp followers. Murrough, flanked by his son and the chiefs of the Dalcassians, turned his steps toward the hilltop ruin of Saint Maighneann’s.

  Light filled the courtyard of the monastery. Saint Flannán’s gift, the Cross of Kincora, stood ringed about with cressets and lanterns; candles burned, along with torches and braziers whose smoldering coals gave forth the sweet smell of precious incense.

  Murrough saw his father sitting on his throne beneath the linen awning, old Ragnall behind him; at his feet, perched on a low settee, the prince beheld a slender woman in a long faded tunic, its gray linen stained, torn, and hastily mended. She wore a broad belt of rough leather and green brocade, and her copper hair was short as a youth’s.

  “Father,” Murrough said warily.

  Brian mac Cennétig looked up and gave his son a smile both peaceful and sad. “It is the eve of the Lord’s crucifixion, and yet I fear you bring news that will gather the ravens to war.”

  “There is much news,” Murrough replied, walking across the monastery courtyard to the awning where his father’s throne rested. Other chiefs filed in after Murrough, along with the captains of the allied Danes and the petty kings of Connacht and South Munster. “But is it for every ear?”

  “She is a friend of Ragnall’s … and of mine. Étaín of Wessex, my son.”

  “Prince Murrough,” she said, in the tongue of the Danes.

  Murrough nodded to her, but looked sidelong at the king. “Are we to count the camp rabble in our councils of war, now?”

  “Do we count them among the dead? Among the spoils of victory?” Brian replied. “I am not so arrogant that I would ignore wisdom from any quarter, my son. Especially not from those whose lives our swords defend. Speak. Tell me your news.”<
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  After a moment, Murrough shrugged. “Finegall burns and they will sing laments to this day in Howth for many years to come. What’s more, the raid seems to have provoked dissension among our foe: Dubhlinn’s allies from over the sea have pulled up stakes and fled, sire. It might be a ruse, or it might be bad blood among their captains—especially if they were promised estates in those districts we put to the sword.”

  “The pagans do our work for us, you think?”

  “It is worth considering,” Murrough said.

  In a momentary lull, a harsh growl echoed from the rear of the monastery: “It’s a trick, little fool.”

  “Be silent!” That was the voice of Cormac O’Ruairc. Men shifted from foot to foot, nervously looking at one another. Prince Murrough turned, a scowl drawing his black brows together.

  “Faugh! I came to speak with the old king, not his lackey!” There was the sound of a fist striking flesh, followed by a soft spitting sound and a low chuckle that froze the blood. “I’ll remember that, swine!”

  “Bring your devil closer, O’Ruairc,” Murrough said.

  A rustling arose from the gathering of chiefs and captains. Men long inured to the perils of strife, grim and unforgiving in matters of war, hastily crossed themselves, averting their eyes from the thing the lord of Lough Gill brought forward at the end of a rope.

  It had a broad chest and long arms knotted with muscle; bandy-legged, it had a slouch to its shoulders when it walked that nevertheless lent it an aspect of gnarled strength. Tattoos in cinder and woad snaked across its swarthy hide. It glared at the weapon-men through a stringy veil of black hair, its locks woven with beads of silver and gold and carved bone. Slitted eyes blazed with unquenchable hate.

  Even Black Murrough of Kincora took a step back. “You did not lie when you called it a devil, O’Ruairc.”

  “Aye, we caught it on the Dubhlinn Road, sire. It—”

  The thing snarled at Cormac, lips skinning back from yellowed fangs. “Caught? Bah! You didn’t catch me, runt!”

  Étaín stood. “He is a friend, sire.”

  King Brian raised his hand for silence; he glanced at Étaín. “Is this the … the creature you spoke of? The fomórach from your tale?”

  “He is called Grimnir, sire,” she said. “And he is the last of his kind, one of the kaunar—known to your people as fomóraig, to mine as orcnéas, and to the Northmen as skrælingar. In the time I’ve known him, he has been ever a fomenter of trouble, a murderer, and as cruel a bastard as any I’ve met.”

  “Hanging me out to dry, eh, foundling?” Grimnir’s confidence faltered; he glanced about, suddenly all too aware of his predicament. He licked his lips with a pallid tongue.

  But Étaín continued unperturbed. “I can vouch neither for his honesty nor his morals, as he is bereft of both. And while he did kidnap me, threaten me with death, mock my faith, and expose me to the hates of a forgotten world, he also saved my life … twice.” She winked at him, then.

  Grimnir blinked, caught off balance, and then roared with laughter. “Finally learned to be crafty, you blasted little hymn-singer!”

  “You trust him?” said the king, unsure of what to make of the creature.

  “God help me, but I do. Prince Murrough, may I borrow your knife?” The prince looked to his father, who nodded. Steel rasped as he drew his heavy war dagger and handed it over to her. Étaín went to Grimnir’s side; she took his wrists and slashed the cords that bound them. “Don’t make me regret this,” she muttered.

  “So, you’re a spy?” Murrough said, taking his knife back and sheathing it.

  Grimnir flexed his fingers, massaging his wrists where the cords bit into him. “I am many things, princeling. Most of all, I am no ally of Dubhlinn’s, not while Bjarki Half-Dane shelters behind those walls.” Grimnir glanced from son to father, from prince to king. “He knows you mean to lay siege. So they will come at you tomorrow. This launching of ships? A ruse! They mean to gull you, catch you making merry on some holy day you hymn-singers hold dear, and slaughter you.”

  “Good Friday,” Étaín said.

  Murrough stared hard at Grimnir. “But who’s to say you’re not part of their plot, too? Some foul-looking rumormonger sent to sow discord?”

  “What does your gut tell you, my son?” Brian asked.

  The prince snorted and glanced back at his assembled captains; he saw his son, Turlough, standing among the sons of Thomond, the princes of Dal Cais. Murrough’s eyes crinkled. “Aye, damn them! If I were a heathen I’d do the same thing. If we believed Dubhlinn’s allies have deserted them, then we might take the day to observe the crucifixion of our Lord.”

  “Bjarki’s wagering on your religion winning out over your good sense.”

  “What will you do?” Étaín, like the others, looked to the king.

  King Brian exhaled. “I am loath to fight on Good Friday. To spill blood on such an auspicious day…”

  “Aye, but what choice do we have?” Murrough shrugged. “I say we steal across the Liffey tonight and get a leg up on those heathen bastards. Unless they want to stray far afield, there are only a few places near Dubhlinn where they can land their ships and mass in formation.”

  Turlough stepped forward. “The mouth of the Tolka, Father?”

  “Aye, that’s my guess. There’s a fishing weir there by the plain of Chluain Tarbh, not far from Black-Hair’s old bridge. If we can catch them there, maybe we can push them back into the sea.”

  After a moment, the old king nodded. “Make your preparations, then. Ragnall, send word to Malachy. If he would lift a finger in defense of his land, now is the time.” He looked to Grimnir. “Will you fight for me?”

  “I will fight,” Grimnir replied. “But I will swear no oaths. I fight for myself, and when I’ve done what I need to do—when that murdering wretch Half-Dane is dead—you’ll not see me again.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Rouse your men,” Murrough said, turning to his assembled captains. “Bid them take only food, water, and their war gear. Leave everything else! And leave the fires burning … let those God-cursed rebels and their heathen allies think they’ve gotten one over on us!”

  And as the warriors of Ériu mustered and made ready, Étaín walked out into the torchlit night. Stars wheeled in the heavens; in the darkness between lurked the gods that were, cruel and fair and eager for blood. She heard their doom-laden song, heavy with the clangor of war, with the echo of the grave.

  Étaín did not flinch away; she was the beacon of Christ, and in a clear voice, she replied with a song of her own:

  Hail now the holder of heaven’s realm,

  That architect’s might, His mind’s many ways,

  Lord forever and father of glory,

  Ultimate crafter of all wonders,

  Holy Maker who hoisted the heavens

  To roof the heads of the human race,

  And fashioned land for the legs of man,

  Liege of the world-born, Lord almighty.

  And the darkness between the stars trembled …

  BOOK FOUR

  THE PLAIN OF CHLUAIN TARBH, NORTH OF DUBHLINN

  GOOD FRIDAY, APRIL TWENTY-THIRD

  THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1014

  1

  The ravens gathered under a lightening sky, driving the birds of morning deep into hiding. From a rocky perch at the edge of Tomar’s Wood, north of Dubhlinn, Grimnir watched the flocks of wheeling black shapes staining the firmament, drawn by the promise of blood and slaughter. As he watched, he sang—his voice like iron scraped across flint:

  Brothers shall strive and slaughter,

  Sisters shall sin together;

  Ill days among men:

  An axe-age, a sword-age,

  Shields shall be cloven;

  A wind-age, a wolf-age,

  Ere the world totters.

  Grimnir squatted on his haunches; his shirt of antiquated iron rings gleamed with a fresh coat of grease. He wore trousers of leather, now, and hea
vy Danish boots taken from the spoils of Finegall. He carried his long seax sheathed at his waist, along with a bearded axe fitted with a curved haft a few spans longer than his knotty forearm. The helmet that rested on the rock beside him once belonged to a Norse chief; the iron had chasings of bronze, with a thick ridge that came down to a heavy nasal carved with a wolf’s head. A crest of black horsehair hung from a socket at the peak of the helm. A spear he had, too, and a limewood shield, banded and bossed in cold wrought iron, that bore on its blackened face the fresh-painted sigil of the chiefs of Orkahaugr in the Kjolen Mountains: the red Eye of Bálegyr.

  Grimnir sang on:

  The sun shall be darkened,

  Earth sinks in the sea,

  Glide from the heavens

  The glittering stars;

  Smoke-reek rages

  And reddening fire:

  The high heat licks

  Against heaven itself.

  As the harsh echo faded across the mist-wreathed plain of Chluain Tarbh, Grimnir heard the soft tread of a woman coming up beside him. He glanced sidelong at Étaín, her slight form cloak-wrapped and trembling with exhaustion. The Irish army had marched through the night—great divisions of men moving ever north and east, curving through the silent groves and fallow fields between Finegall and the Howth Peninsula, until they reached the thick forest called Tomar’s Wood. Here, Murrough, the grim prince of the Dalcassians, had called a halt.

  “I remember that song,” she said, leaning on the great boulder that was his perch. “You sang it once before, so many years ago it seems, on the road to Roskilde. It does not speak to hope, does it?”

  “Hope for what, foundling?”

  “Tomorrow,” Étaín said. “The day after. Next week. Next year. Hope for the future; hope that there is more to our time on this earth than war and loss and heartache.”