The Age of Scorpio

by Gavin G. Smith

  Their keening drove the animals before them. Prey fell quickly, slaughtered and partially consumed, their blood splattering limed faces. The lucky people in their path made it to the hill forts. Those less lucky died quickly; the Corpse People didn’t have time for anything else. All those in the hill forts could do was watch from the palisades as the Corpse People left a landscape spotted with carcasses behind them.

  On the isles of madness, the wretched and the broken-minded ignored the exhortations of their priests and made their way to the water’s edge. They could hear her sleeping song. The Corpse People stopped at the top of the hill overlooking the isles. Still, silent, they truly thought themselves dead. Animals were caught in the spell of the Mother’s song. They ran towards her, into the marsh, into the water, into her slithering, somnambulant grasp.

  There had been a battle here. The fort was on a high promontory that overlooked the entrance to the harbour. The fort showed signs of extensive damage. Britha reckoned it had been the giants who had done most of the damage by pulling down the timber-latticed, dry-stone walls. Parts of the rock beneath the fort’s walls were blackened and scorched – by burning oil, the ban draoi reckoned.

  It looked like the Goddodin had made their stand there. Judging by the dead being fed on by crab and seagull in the harbour, they had fought hard. The fact that tattooed, moustached, shaven-headed warriors still prowled the fort’s palisade walls suggested they had succeeded in fighting Bress’s forces off.

  ‘It’s not that they couldn’t do it,’ Fachtna said. ‘I reckon they just didn’t think taking the fort was worth the time.’

  Britha turned to look at the warrior. The sight of the wry smile on his face further angered her. She was still less than happy after his so-called boat skills and instinctive understanding of the Black River had all but got them swept out to sea. The three of them had had to paddle so hard that Britha had felt her arms were close to coming off. She wasn’t sure where she had found the reserves to carry on, but by the time they made it to shore, too tired to beat Fachtna with the butt of her spear, she was sure that she had significantly lost weight and she had been ravenously hungry again.

  At the back of her mind Britha wondered if it hadn’t been Fachtna’s doing; perhaps the sea god of the Goddodin had carried them out to sea. She preferred to blame Fachtna, however. Being swept out into the fog-shrouded choppy sea had scared her. There was nothing you could do against the sea.

  They had walked down the coast looking for horses to steal but had found only devastated or abandoned fishing villages. Even without horses, Teardrop and Fachtna had set an exhausting pace.

  It was the kneelers that were making her angry, many of them naked, some of them with the blue-scaled tattoos of Goddodin warriors. Those that were clothed wore white. They lined the shore of the small bay on all fours, swaying from side to side, singing in some non-language that she didn’t understand but found deeply unnerving.

  ‘Look at their throats,’ Teardrop said. They were standing among them. So far they had been ignored. The kneelers all looked deformed in the same way, as if their mouths and throats had had to change to make the words of the strange keening chant. Britha wasn’t sure why and hated the thought, but somehow they reminded her of Cliodna.

  ‘Is this Bress’s doing?’ Fachtna asked. ‘Do they worship a new god?’

  ‘This looks more like a sickness,’ Teardrop said, distaste and more than a little worry evident in his voice. ‘If Bress is the cause, I don’t think he knew or meant to do this. People are frightened when they witness such power, and there is little they can do about it.’

  ‘Aye, people follow power,’ Fachtna said, nodding in agreement.

  Britha spat and kicked one of them over. The thin elderly man looked up at her, his eyes managing to look both dead and ecstatic.

  ‘How can people live so weak?’ she demanded to no one in particular except perhaps the spirits of the air.

  ‘They won’t. Look,’ Fachtna said, pointing to the promontory cliffs. Some of the kneelers were clambering up to the scorched rocks where the palisade had been destroyed. Britha shaded her eyes from the bright sun and watched.

  ‘I knew fire would have worked,’ she said to herself as she looked at the scorched rocks.

  The climbers pulled themselves over the rock.

  ‘All fire does is set them to burning. They wouldn’t have felt it. When they noticed, they would have just dropped back into the water,’ Fachtna told her to her further irritation.

  ‘If they used the fire oil from the southern traders across the sea, then they would have seen the creature burning under the water. What must they have thought?’ Teardrop said mostly to himself.

  By now there were worried-looking spearmen standing in the breach in the palisade wall as the climbers approached.

  The keening stopped. The swaying stopped. All eyes were on the climbers now, though all the kneelers remained on all fours.

  ‘Why won’t you stand up?’ Britha demanded of them. ‘You’re not animals!’ Teardrop laid an arm on her shoulder, shaking his head.

  ‘They can’t hear you,’ he said.

  Britha actually let out a cry of shock despite herself when the first one jumped. Her vision was now so keen that she saw the red splash he made on the sharp rocks just above the waterline.

  Teardrop’s face was etched with sadness as he looked down, shaking his head.

  Fachtna stared at them, unable to understand what was happening. ‘But he chose to—’

  The next climber jumped. Britha turned towards the shoreline, though she had no idea what she was going to do.

  ‘Stop them!’ she shouted in a language she was pretty sure was theirs. Her voice carried across the harbour but the warriors in the fort gave no indication that they had even heard her. Her hand went to her mouth as the third one hit the rocks, the waves now moving the broken bodies of his two friends.

  ‘Why—’

  ‘There is only death or the sickness of the moon,’ a voice said. It sounded strange – somehow gravelly and wet at the same time. She turned to see the emaciated man she had kicked over staring at her. ‘The sickness of the moon is better. It is a blessing from the Dark Man, but some cannot wait. Some want the gifts he offers in our dreams too soon.’

  Britha stared at him, trying to marshal her thoughts, thinking about the visions that the demon-tainted flesh she had eaten had given her. She thought of the dark man, the figure of nothing and the feeling that there was something terrible beyond him. She started to feel cold. The emaciated man narrowed his eyes, studying her.

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘You’ve felt his touch.’

  ‘How could you give in like this?’ Britha demanded. She had not liked his words. ‘You have slain yourself, what you are, for dreams. Who willingly allows themself to be conquered?’

  The old man shook his head sadly. ‘You can no more fight the moon sickness or death than you can the sea. We followed false gods. Now all of Ynys Prydein belongs to death and madness. Can you not feel it?’ It was the first time she had ever heard of Ynys Prydein. She could not, however, deny that something inside her but not of her was pulling her to the south. The man was smiling at her knowingly. She turned from him and started towards the fort.

  Fachtna and Teardrop had built a fire. They were on the shores of the bay trying to keep as far from the kneelers as they could. Fachtna was cooking the last of the salted deer meat, with some wild vegetables that Teardrop had found. They would have to forage and hunt again soon, particularly if they kept eating as much as they had been. That would slow them down more. The black ships and Britha’s people would slip further from them.

  Britha was sitting away from them, hugging her knees, not really feeling the cold from the fresh clear windy night. Her spear was next to her on the ground. She was looking up at the hill fort. She could see the flickering glow of fires. There were roundhouses behind the palisade walls. Some of them had been damaged, but the intact ones looked ver
y welcoming to her at the moment.

  They had gone up to the hill fort but the Goddodin would not let them in. There had been a shouted conversation through the gate while slingers and warriors with casting spears covered them. Fachtna had not helped by cursing them for cowards who were too afraid to offer hospitality. Teardrop had sent the warrior away.

  They’d had the bare bones of it. The black curraghs had come and with them giant demons from the sea. They had landed warriors further up the beach. The giants had climbed the cliffs while the warriors had attacked in a disciplined formation the likes of which the frightened warriors in the hill fort had never seen before. To hear them tell it, they had bravely fought off the Lochlannach, but Britha agreed with Fachtna: had Bress wanted the fort he could have taken it. Still, she had to admit these god-slaves had done better than her and her people, though she saw no Lochlannach bodies.

  Without hospitality they had the choice of moving on, though it was growing late, or risking a camp close to the kneelers. Their keening and chanting were an annoyance, and their continued murder of themselves was shocking. A few had tried to speak to them. Britha had become so angry that she had set about them with the haft of her spear until she realised that they would have welcomed death at her hands. When Teardrop had threatened to curse them with everlasting life, they had fled.

  ‘You wish you were up there, warm?’ Fachtna asked. Britha had only just heard the warrior’s approach. She sighed to herself – she could guess what was coming.

  ‘I don’t relish the company of cowards and fools who cannot tell friend from foe and break that which should never be broken,’ she said, referring to the law of hospitality, without which there could be no trade, no diplomacy and peace could not be brokered after war. ‘But I would welcome a roof above me and a fire near,’ she conceded. ‘Of course it doesn’t help that your friend looks so strange. Where is he from?’ she asked, not caring but trying to forestall the inevitable.

  ‘From very far away, like me.’

  ‘You are from very different people,’ Britha said for want of anything else.

  Fachtna nodded but Britha wasn’t looking. ‘I could keep you warm and tell you tales of the Otherworld,’ he said. Neither of them noticed Teardrop over by the fire turn to look at them.

  ‘No,’ Britha said.

  ‘You will not lie with me for knowledge?’ Fachtna asked. She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Then it will just have to be for the pleasure of it.’

  ‘If I was going to lie with someone for power and knowledge, it would be with your friend,’ Britha said, still not looking at Fachtna because she was pretty sure that she would have to hit him if she did. She did not see Teardrop smiling as he turned away from them to look back into the flames. ‘As for pleasure, you already bore me. That is not a good start.’

  ‘I like a woman with spirit,’ Fachtna said.

  And I’d like a man who could sing a different song, Britha thought. She tried not to think about Bress. She was not blind to his evil but there was something there, a sadness that had somehow touched her. And he was beautiful.

  Fachtna broke her from her reverie by grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet. ‘Let’s find pleasure together!’

  ‘Look, I’m sure this works with young landswomen—’

  Fachtna covered her mouth with his. Britha was momentarily surprised. Then she felt his tongue against her lips. She opened her mouth.

  Fachtna cried out and staggered away from Britha, his mouth bloody. He looked up at her, anger in his eyes. Britha spat his blood into those eyes. Momentarily blinded, Fachtna did not see the punch coming.

  His nose felt much harder than she was expecting, but he was from the Otherworld, she reminded herself. She was, however, both surprised and satisfied by the strength of her punch. She heard the crack of the nose giving under her knuckles. The force of the blow picked Fachtna off his feet and he hit the ground by the shoreline hard.

  Britha jumped on him. Landing sideways, she jammed a knee into his throat and tore her sickle out of her rope belt. Fachtna was starting to move, to counter, when he felt the blade of the sickle against his nether regions.

  ‘You are no warrior!’ Britha spat through bloody lips. ‘You are a childling grown large and I have gelded men for less! I lay this geas on you: if you ever touch a woman again without her words of permission, what little manhood you have will shrivel up and roll down the legs of your trews to be eaten by worms from the earth! Do you understand me, boy?!’

  Fachtna opened his mouth.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Teardrop said quietly. Britha turned to look at the swollen-headed man, his skin reminding her of smooth varnished wood. ‘Britha, please.’ Something in his tone made her anger subside. She got to her feet and grabbed her spear, stalking past Teardrop. ‘He would not have—’ Teardrop started.

  ‘He touches me again, and I’ll cut the fingers off that did it and then the cock that made him want to.’

  Fachtna watched her go. Teardrop moved to his prone friend and stood over him, leaning on his staff.

  ‘She is quite a woman,’ Fachtna said through a mouthful of blood, seemingly ignoring the pain. Teardrop just nodded. ‘I think I’m in love.’

  ‘You’re not in love. You can’t have her, and that makes you moonstruck.’

  ‘No, it’s love,’ Fachtna said, relishing the thought of the pursuit.

  ‘We’ve been friends for a long time now,’ Teardrop said. Fachtna nodded. Teardrop rammed the butt of his staff into Fachtna’s groin.

  Fachtna howled in agony.

  ‘Don’t touch her again,’ Teardrop said, leaning down towards Fachtna as he rolled from side to side clutching his groin.

  Britha heard the cry of pain, she suspected everyone in the harbour had. She did not look back but she did smile.

  Teardrop stared over at the fort on the promontory. Beyond the gap in the rocks all he could see was darkness, a black sea and a black night. This country had beauty, there was no denying it, but he missed his home. He missed the wide-open plains, the thick woods teaming with game, but after his wife and his four children it was the sun that he missed the most.

  He touched his head. He could feel its weight pressing down. He tried to block out what the crystal wanted to show him. It felt like there were thousands of screaming spirits somehow just out of sight, hiding. Those that didn’t scream whispered obscene things to him in impossible tongues. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember the words of the chant. He let it run through his head over and over again. A string of simple syllables but with power, sometimes the words were enough for peace.

  ‘Are you here because you want to be? Or to anger Fachtna?’ Teardrop asked with his eyes closed.

  ‘Do you think I care about Fachtna?’

  Teardrop thought on the question. ‘No. No, I don’t,’ he conceded. ‘But I think you want something.’

  ‘I do,’ Britha replied.

  Teardrop opened his eyes and turned to look at her. Since he had tasted of her blood and she of the crystal, he could see the demon blood burning inside her, and if he concentrated enough he could make out the thin strand of the Muileartach’s gift as well.

  ‘I want your power.’

  ‘Do you not have enough power?’

  ‘It’s not for me; it’s for my tribe. I will trade for it.’

  ‘What would you trade?’ Teardrop asked wearily.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The secrets of the dryw?’ he asked, going through the motions.

  Britha gave this some thought. The knowledge and the magics that had been passed down to her in the groves were secret. There was a powerful prohibition against telling them to outsiders. On the other hand, this man undoubtedly had power. Britha reasoned that she would be able to add what she learned from Teardrop to the power and knowledge of the groves. She was also prepared to face whatever punishment she would incur for betraying them. After all, she had failed her people; she had to do whatever i
t took to bring them back. Besides, when she had obtained what she wanted of Teardrop, he could always be dealt with.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she answered. Teardrop turned to look at her. She wasn’t sure what she saw in his face, his strange features were so difficult to read. Sadness, perhaps, disappointment.

  ‘The secret of woman’s magics?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

  Britha went cold. That was another matter altogether. Betraying the magic of women to a man was everything the other ban draoi had taught her to guard against. Men were simpler creatures than women and there were just some things they could not and should not know, and if Britha angered the other ban draoi, nobody could wreak vengeance on someone like a woman could. Their magic was darkness, life and blood. They were connected to the moon and the land itself in the same way that men were connected to the sky. The consequences of betraying the dryw would be dire but she feared the ban draoi more.

  She moved closer to him, took his free hand and placed it against her groin, and looked him straight in the eyes.

  ‘That would depend on which secrets you meant.’

  Teardrop could feel the heat of her, ever through her robe. Her smell filled his nostrils. He wasn’t blind to her. He felt the stirrings of lust, but that just made him feel further from home. He wondered how much younger than him she was as he wrenched his hand free.

  ‘A seduction? You would pay for mere power with your body?’

  ‘It’s my body. I use it how it pleases me. There’s little payment involved it if pleases both of us,’ Britha said fiercely. Sex was an intrinsic part of her rites as well as a pleasure. There were many different reasons for having sex.

  Teardrop turned away from her and looked out past the rocks at the darkness. The squirming in his head made the darkness come alive for him. This place was so strange and distant.