The Exile

by Steven Savile

  Gorian held the silvered skull of Paidrag the Fair to his lips and drank deeply of the red wine before passing it on to the warrior on his right. The old king, Calum, had had Bluth plate Paidrag's skull so that they might drink in his humiliation over and over in every victory the Red Branch toasted. Today was no exception. It had been a rousing success. Not a single warrior had fallen and the winter famine the druid had warned of was staved off.

  The warriors drank their fill, passing the silver skull around the table. Sláine, having not blooded himself in the fighting, was the last to drink.

  Grudnew stood up and leaned forwards, pressing his fists onto the table. "Who here claims the hero's portion from today's battle? Who today is the mightiest of us all? Let us take a count, shall we?"

  Warriors spilled the contents of their sacks onto the tabletop, heads rolled across the floor. Gorian claimed fifteen heads. Murdo nineteen. Sláine watched as Gobhan Mac Tadg waited until all of the others had made their claim, and then stood up and emptied two sacks onto the table, one of heads and another of tongues.

  The warriors took in his number with something approaching awe. He had delivered easily fifty heads and tongues, more than double any other man.

  "Thirsty work today, eh boys?" Gobhan smirked. "I killed fifty today and I didn't think it too many. I claim the hero's portion as bravest of them all, but lads, it is no shame to be bettered by Gobhan Mac Tadg."

  "That's a mighty count indeed, Gobhan," Grudnew said. "It's with great honour that I proclaim you hero and invite you to claim your portion."

  Gobhan rose and tore an entire leg off the spitted boar and tore at it with his teeth.

  "Good stuff, lads, tuck in, even you, young Sláine. There's no shame in not blooding yourself in battle, lad."

  "And you should know," Sláine said without thinking. "You're a fire without smoke, Gobshite."

  "Watch your tongue boy, or I'll add it to my pile." Gobhan chewed loudly, licking the dripping juices from his lips.

  "Well, it'll be the first you've won today," Sláine sneered.

  "You want to die, pup? It can be arranged, here and now if you are in a hurry."

  "Go easy, Gobhan," Murdo said, laying a restraining hand on the older man.

  "Take your hands off me. I'll have this out with the boy. I want an apology, and I want him salting meat with the women in the kitchens all winter."

  "Apologise to a coward? I don't think so, Gobshite. I saw you scavenging the battlefield, cutting out the tongues of other warrior's kills. You're craven. You don't deserve the honour of the hero's portion. You don't deserve to sit at the same table as these men. You disgust me."

  "Lies!" Gobhan roared, leaping over the table, sword drawn. "You want to challenge me? Face my wrath, boy. Taste my iron."

  "Leave him be, Gobhan," Murdo said, his chair scraping back as he pushed himself to his feet.

  "Oh no, I will not be dishonoured. I killed these men."

  "Did you hell," Sláine mocked. "Did anyone actually see you kill a single man, Gobshite?" He looked at the assembled warriors, challenging them to defend the liar. "Well, did you? Any of you? Surely someone must have seen your heroics? It's hard to kill fifty men without anyone seeing you do it."

  "You talk too much," Gobhan said, and swung. Sláine reacted instinctively and snatched up a huge carving knife from the table, burying it in Gobhan's chest even as the warrior swung for his head. He ducked under the sword and stepped sharply to the left, planting his elbow on the back of Gobhan's neck as he stumbled forwards, and pushing him down into the fire pit. His face began to crackle and burn but the warrior didn't make a sound. He was already dead.

  Silence engulfed the round hall. Sláine stood over the dead man.

  "He..." Sláine started, trying to defend himself.

  "It's all right, lad," Gorian said, standing beside him. "The man's reaction betrayed him for the braggart he was. Had he claimed nineteen no one would have doubted him, but fifty... It is as you said, to kill fifty unseen is impossible, even in the heat of battle. You did well here, Sláine, you kept your head standing up for what was true and honourable. You've proven yourself as one of us."

  "Aye, that he has," King Grudnew echoed the warlord. "And in doing so, you blooded yourself. Take the liar's tongue, boy. It's only fitting."

  Eight

  Skull-Swords

  Rumours of raiders came to Murias that winter: creatures out of the Fir Domain.

  The descriptions were unreliable, exaggerated by fear and made almost mythic in monstrosity as word moved from mouth to mouth, becoming more and more horrific. Inevitably that didn't matter. What did was the headcount. People were dying, too many people: people under Grudnew's protection, people who looked to Murias for leadership. They paid tribute and tithe for both.

  Grudnew bore the burden with difficulty.

  All his life he had been taught that life was sacred.

  What Grudnew heard was that fell beasts were plundering deep into all of Eiru, unafraid. That alone did not auger well. For one, it did not instil confidence in the fringe borderland territories. Fear had them dispatching riders to Murias, the second leaving before the first could possibly have arrived, so desperate were they to impress their urgency upon the king. They begged Grudnew to unleash the Red Branch and drive the creatures back into the hell that had spawned them.

  Tensions ran high in the capital, and tempers flared.

  Word of the increasingly audacious raids came with unerring regularity. Over the course of a month the creatures hit many of the villages close to Murias.

  Initially, Grudnew held back from the expected swift strike in retribution.

  He counselled caution. If there was one thing he knew it was that a reckless king costs lives.

  Instead he chose prudence, watching, listening to the riders as they reported on the raids, and building a more thorough picture of the invaders and their motivations.

  But there was only so much watching he could do before people started to call it weakness and after weakness, fear.

  The fundamental rule was that a king governed by respect. If his people did not feel safe they would not support him, and there would be no foundation to his power, it was that simple.

  It was prudent to be cautious but there was a fine balance to be met. His people needed to be able to trust that he had their best interests at heart in every thing he did, even inaction, but his caution could soon be misinterpreted as fear. Fear could spread like a canker undermining faith at every turn, bringing with it turmoil, bitterness, and distrust.

  Grudnew was afraid, only a fool would not have been, but it was a healthy fear born of respect for the threat they faced. Word of the attacks came from as far a field as Aileach the Bold's heart, Cruachu, and Ulaid the Mighty's capital, Rath Grainne. That two of the three Sessair territories reported such terrors was disturbing, that they should reach Airghialla the Fair was inevitable.

  People were looking to Murias to see how the king would deal with the threat they faced.

  He knew that however he reacted he would fail some of them.

  Some of his people would die, and whatever he did, others would blame him. It was the cost of being king.

  He made his decision; a decision that he would have to live with.

  The Red Branch would ride forth.

  "Wake up!" Sláine shouted, emptying a bucket of ice-cold water in his father's face.

  Roth spluttered and came awake, cursing and shaking as he lurched out of his chair. His feet tangled beneath him and he sprawled out across the floor, pants around his ankles.

  "Wah?"

  Sláine looked down at the old drunk, with a mix of pity and disgust. Bellyshaker hadn't managed to completely extricate himself from his clothes as he rolled home, blind drunk, and had only succeeded in falling asleep in a chair where he'd soiled himself during the night. He stank.

  "You're no father of mine, fat man. Gorian commanded us to the hunt, come dawn, and you, you can't even pull
your damned pants up. Drink yourself to death if you must, but don't force us to watch you do it. I hate you."

  Bellyshaker grunted but didn't move. His lips blew bubbles of spittle.

  Sláine stepped over him as if he wasn't there, digging a good firm kick in before he took the old man's axe and slammed the door. He went to join up with the others. He wouldn't excuse his father, he promised himself. Not this time. The old man was a disgrace. He had let his body run to seed and only functioned with more alcohol in his veins than blood. It was a sorry sight. Every day it became more and more difficult to remember the great man he had been. That was the worst of it, the drinking was killing both aspects of the man - the wreck he was and the hero he had been. It was more than Sláine could bear to be a party to.

  It was a hunting party.

  They were supplied for seven days; that would give them time to scout out the surrounding territories and sniff out signs of the hellish beasts supposedly ravaging the countryside.

  The axe felt good in Sláine's hand. The old man had called it Brain-Biter but it had been a long time since the axe had done any biting of brains or other body parts.

  "Alone?" Murdo called, seeing Sláine.

  "He's too drunk to stand so I left him where he'd pissed himself," Sláine said.

  "You shouldn't speak that way of him, lad. He was a fine man once," Gorian said, mounting up.

  "Once," Sláine agreed, claiming a mount from the stable boy. He grabbed a handful of mane and hoisted himself into the saddle.

  "Drink's a foul enemy, boy, I pray you never have to battle it."

  "And be like him?" Sláine shook his head. "I'd rather die."

  "I suspect your father would as well," Murdo said, spurring his horse forwards.

  They rode on in silence, forty-nine of the Red Branch, each of them thinking of the fiftieth, lying at home in his own filth. It wasn't a fate they would have wished on their worst enemy.

  They divided into three parties on the plain of Airghialla, thinking to take in more ground, and Danu willing, come back from the hunt with something more to show for their efforts than whispers of ghosts and monsters. The landscape was wild, embodied with a savage grace that matched the Celts; untamed, unfettered and free. High grasses lashed at the horses' fetlocks as they cantered across the plain. Far to the left savage granite cliffs denoted the edge of Airghialla, the right bounded by an apparently endless rank of denuded trees.

  Sláine travelled with Murdo and eight other men, tracking back towards the Great Cairn and south towards Airde Mogha and Falias. They rode hard for two days. The brothers, Liam and Lomman, led the way, Lomman moving on foot, reading the signs of nature for the mark of corruption. At night the wind keened so mournfully it was easy to imagine where tales of the banshee were born. It was the curse of the Great Plain. The longer they searched the more convinced they became that there was nothing out there with them, meaning that the entire adventure was little more than a wild goose chase.

  It galled Sláine that Brain-Biter wouldn't get to taste the monster's blood but the anger wasn't his own. He was curiously detached from it. It didn't boil his blood in the way that Cullen's betrayal had. It didn't ignite his flesh or blind his reasoning. It was somehow less intimate and yet more powerful for it. It grew day by day. He felt it more when he walked, his feet coming into contact with the ground. Some part of him knew that it was the earth herself talking to him, feeding him with images of the corruption that defiled her. He could feel Danu's thoughts as clearly as if they were his own. She hungered to be free of the abomination that trod on her flesh, turning it sour. She wanted the despoilers to suffer the way she suffered in their presence. She wanted them to die just as she did, one foul step at a time. He was her instrument. That much he had known since he emerged from the burial chamber. He was her weapon to wield just as Brain-Biter was his.

  There was nothing they could do but turn around and head home.

  She came to him while the others slept.

  He knew her.

  Even before he opened his eyes, he knew her.

  How could he not?

  It was the maiden with the garlands in her hair. It had been more than two years since he had seen her leading Calum Mac Cathair into the trees but it didn't matter, she was impossible to forget. It was not that she was pretty, although she was, nor was it that she was lithesome, although she was as supple as a willow, and as pretty as the flowers tangled in her hair. It was the life that suffused her, the sheer and complete vitality of her. He had never seen it in another living soul. It marked Danu for what she was: a Goddess.

  The sight of her made his blood sing.

  She smiled at him, giggled, and skipped away into the shadows, beckoning for him to follow.

  He hesitated and then levered himself onto his elbow, watching her move. The sway of her hips captivated him. He knew that it was purely sexual. It felt much the same as when Brighid undressed him with her eyes even as she played him with her fingers. He smiled as she turned to see if he followed. She beckoned again, teasing him with a tantalising glimpse of flesh, her leg, inner thigh and the swell of her hip, and disappeared into the moonlight shadows.

  Sláine counted to ten and followed.

  He crept slowly through the camp, careful not to wake Ansgar as he moved past the warrior's bedroll. He caught a glimpse of her pale skin as she danced just beyond the fringe of dark. He followed, giving himself over to her dance. She led him a tantalising chase into the edge of the woods, hiding behind trees, peeking out when she needed him to see her. For an hour, he followed nothing more substantial than her giggles, her voice haunting the last moments of deep night.

  It was a game.

  She led him; he followed.

  She allowed him glimpses to draw him on, left her gown draped over the bough of a tree, her garland in the thorns of a bush further along, and then, as the sun rose lush and orange in the sky, he caught up with her. She stood before him naked and beautiful, her smile all the invitation he needed to approach.

  The maiden took him in her arms, her lips finding his, her hands guiding his, and brought him down to the grass, opening her legs to him. He felt the moistness of the early morning dew as he knelt, lips kissing as he offered devotion.

  "Oh my beautiful boy," she breathed, as his fingers found her. "Look." And he did. For a second he didn't know what he was looking for but then he saw it - smoke on the horizon. He followed it with his eyes, seeking the source. "You needed to see, to understand," she whispered, kissing the side of his face even as he pushed her off, the sickness of certainty settling in his gut. "You're too late, my love, always too late."

  He understood where she had led him, and why. They were on the ring of low wooded hills overlooking Murias. The thick black smoke came from the town, burning. Sláine started to run even though he knew she was right, he was too late. His legs tied up as he charged down the hill. He didn't have a weapon. He had left the axe on the grass by his bedroll. He didn't slow down, not for a second. He forced himself to run, driven on by the anger he felt surging through him. Images of more flames, of innocents burning, of the despoilers pillaging and raping the earth, turning it sour, superimposed themselves on Murias. It was her doing. He saw what she wanted him to see. She forced him to understand that it was about more than his home, his parents and his friends. It was about The Land of the Young and the Goddess, and the very power of the earth itself, being soured by the evil of these fell beasts.

  The flames leapt high into the morning.

  The smoke was thick and choking.

  Sláine battered his way through it, drawn by the screams of the dying.

  "Mother!" he yelled into the smoke. "Father!" But the only answer was another scream. He stepped over the body of a young boy, not even five summers old, his arm bent unnaturally across his back, face pressed down in a puddle of blood. He didn't know the boy. It did not matter. These were his people. He felt his anger rising.

  You're too late, my love, alway
s too late.

  "No," he said, although the denial was useless. He walked through the carnage where once there had been happy families. Bodies lay in tangles of bloody flesh, mothers dead, their arms wrapped protectively around dead children.

  The screams drew him deeper into the smoking ruin of Murias.

  "Face me!" He bellowed the challenge, daring the beasts to come charging out of the smoke and take him.

  They didn't.

  They had other sport to occupy them.

  Terrified screams came from the burning building in front of him: a woman's voice counterpointed by the shrill cries of children. He couldn't tell how many. It didn't matter. Sláine didn't allow himself to think; he plunged recklessly into the leaping flames but was beaten back by the intense heat before he'd made two steps inside the door.

  The flames hadn't spread into the neighbouring roundhouse.

  "I'm coming! Work your way to the back of the house if you can!" he yelled, running around the side of the burning building. The flames hadn't spread all the way through the building but even so the walls were beginning to warp and buckle beneath the heat, and it would only be a matter of minutes before something gave and the whole structure came down.

  Sláine yanked at the window shutters, tearing them savagely from their hinges, and clambered through the tight hole.

  The heat was unbearable, the smoke so thick it made his head spin just breathing it in.

  He was in a bedroom.

  "Where are you?" he shouted and was answered by a feeble cry from deeper in the house. He couldn't be sure it was anything more than the spirit of the fire luring him like a siren. He had to believe it was the woman. He had no choice. Sláine reached out to open the dividing door but despite the fact there was no fire, the metal handle seared his hand as it closed on it. Wincing, he looked around the room quickly, but there was nothing of much use. Then he saw the thick fur rug at the foot of the cot. He draped it over his head and shoulders and battered down the door.