The Defiler

by Steven Savile

  A man knelt by a stone cairn on the roadside up ahead. Sláine slowed his walk. The man reached out and touched one of the rounded stones. He turned and looked their way. The moonlight made him appear ill, his skin impossibly pale, dark crags drawn in by age, and hollows added by grief.

  "Can I help you?"

  "We have no wish to intrude on your farewell," Sláine called.

  The stranger eased himself slowly to his feet. He was a wisp of a man, built like the willow bow at his feet. Even as the shadows shifted it was plain to see that he was an ugly man, his face pitted with the scars of some pox he had survived. His smile was warm, belying the sadness in his eyes.

  "Well met," he called out, dusting his hands off on his britches. "Caoilfhionn would not object to you joining our farewell, I am sure."

  "Your friend?" Sláine nodded towards the cairn. "I am sorry for your loss."

  There was a scattering of trinkets, a jade necklace and a silver brooch fashioned in an endless knot, left as an offering for the dead. Neither piece looked particularly valuable. Beside them were a pack and a small harp. The harp's frame bore the countless chips and dents of constant travel.

  "She was murdered this gone night," the stranger said, looking down at the mound of stones. "It seems so little for a life doesn't it? A pile of rocks and a few cheap jewels on a roadside in the middle of nowhere. She was worth so much more in life."

  "Keeps the crows off," Ukko said, earning a cuff around the ear from Sláine. The dwarf grumbled, twisting his face. "Well, it does, doesn't it?"

  "I'm sure she'd be happy to feed the Morrigan's birds. There are worse fates, especially for a woman like Caoilfhionn. She was a devotee of the three-faced Goddess, though she lived as a Weatherwitch. It was a petty magic, to be able to read the whims of nature and make gewgaws that promised luck in love and healthy harvests, but even such a small gift in these dark days appears to be worth the enmity of the butcher Feg."

  "Slough Feg; now that is a name I never tire of hearing, stranger." The irony of his words was not lost on the man.

  "You know the Lord Weird then?"

  "Who does not? A man of his appetites earns his fame."

  "More importantly," said Ukko. "His weirdness knows old Sláine here."

  "Indeed? Feg's soldiers sought Caoilfhionn out. Her friends tried to hide her but what can a handful of farmers do against armed soldiers?"

  "Precious little," Sláine agreed. "They turned her over to the skull swords?"

  "No, they refused, forcing the soldiers' hand. These were simple people. They couldn't have anticipated the wrath their refusal brought down upon their heads. The skull swords went from house to house, setting fire to every homestead in the village and still they would not give her up, so the soldiers dragged one of the women into the village square and cut her tongue out, promising to do it again, every five minutes, until Caoilfhionn gave herself up. She had no choice. She surrendered to save her friends; her life in exchange for theirs. The cowards slit her throat, bleeding her out into the dirt like some fatted calf. And worse, they forced her friends to watch her die."

  "And then they killed them," Sláine said, supplying the end of the bloody story.

  "And then they killed them," the stranger agreed. "War - because that is exactly what this is, make no mistake - war should be between soldiers, not slaughtering peasants whose only crime is poaching to fill their bellies. Not burning down their homes. Not slitting the throat of a woman who made love potions and told people stories to bring happiness. It is barbaric." There was anguish in his voice, sadness in his eyes.

  "These are black times," Sláine agreed.

  "That they are, my new friend, that they are. Come, sit with me, raise a jug of pocheen and toast the departed on their way to the Otherworld."

  "It would be an honour to stand vigil with you."

  The man held out his hand. "Siothrún."

  Sláine clasped Siothrún's wrist. "Well met, Siothrún. I am Sláine Mac Roth, and this little weasel is my, and I use the term very loosely, friend, Ukko."

  They broke cornbread on the roadside. The thick cakes were dry and needed considerable chewing to digest, but they were food. Sláine hadn't realised how hungry he was until he had swallowed the first dry mouthful and felt his gut revolt. He crammed the rest of the cake into his mouth and ate ravenously.

  Siothrún pulled a clay jar of potato wine from his sack and uncorked it. He took a swig and handed it to Sláine. It was a bitter brew, and potent. Sláine drank deeply, feeling the bite of the alcohol even before the first swallow was halfway down his throat.

  He smacked his lips and passed the jar on to Ukko.

  "They killed everyone, yet you live," Ukko said, stating the obvious. He took a deep swallow and spluttered, nearly coughing up half of his lungs. "That's disgusting! The drink," he said a moment later. Ukko shook his head violently, contorting his face as though trying to scrape the taste of the pocheen from his tongue with the top row of his teeth. "Not the fact that you're alive. You being alive is good, obviously." He broke off into a coughing fit. Sláine slapped him on the back, hard enough to rattle his jaws. "Much better than being dead."

  "Ah, thank you for clarifying. Yes, I live. Though I will confess that right now it feels like my curse. I live but I don't weep for the lost. These were my friends too, my people. I should weep for them. I ought to be wracked by grief. Instead Feg's men have planted a black need for vengeance in my soul. I want them to hurt. I want them to fear for their children, their wives. I want them to forget what it feels like to be safe. I want their homes to be ash, their loved ones dead at their feet. And they have done this to me."

  Sláine took the jar of potato wine back from Ukko and drank deeply. He felt a moment's light-headedness as he turned too quickly to pass the clay jar back to Siothrún, who stoppered it and stowed it back in his pack. As he did, his sleeve rode up, revealing a small crescent-shaped scar, the skin burned smooth.

  "So you didn't run away to save your own skin?"

  The stranger chuckled mirthlessly. "No, friend Ukko, I did not run. I arrived at the village too late to save them. Otherwise, if I thought it could have made a difference, I would have been down there with them at the last. As it was I saw the last few fall beneath the bloody swords of Feg's men. There was nothing I could do."

  "Well at least you didn't run in like an idiot and get yourself killed," Ukko said encouragingly. "That's something."

  "You'll have to excuse my ugly little friend," Sláine said. "He idolises cowards. I think he aspires to be one."

  "I already am," Ukko smirked. "And proud of it. The world can never be short of enough cowards, believe you me. The very foundation of any functioning society is built on cowardice."

  "I am not sure I understand, and to be honest I am not sure I want to understand," Siothrún said.

  "Oh, it is. It is," Ukko said enthusiastically. "Cowardice spawns discussion, alliances, treaties, even peace. Imagine a world filled with heroes. Not only would it be excruciatingly dull, dull, dull, it would be brutal. No hero ever solved a dispute by the power of his mighty intellect. He hits things. Cowards make life safe for normal folk like you and me. He who turns and runs away lives to run again another day."

  "Well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose," Siothrún conceded.

  "Don't listen to his blather, he'll have you convinced day is night and black is white and somewhere along the way to that revelation he'll have you parting with your purse and thanking him for making off with your money."

  "You say that like it is a bad thing," Ukko said, his grin anything but innocent.

  They talked some more, Siothrún recounting some of the stories he had heard on the road, Sláine sharing some of the horrors he had seen perpetrated in the name of Feg. They talked of death and sadness; of children being caught and set alight for the amusement of the soldiers, of wives being hunted like game, brought down by arrows in the legs and raped savagely for sport, criminals burnt alive in
giant wicker effigies, and of the sickness blighting both crops and villagers across the desolate land.

  Siothrún reached across the pack for his harp. Setting it on his knee, he plucked a few stray notes, teasing a melody out of it as he adjusted the tautness of the strings. Like the harpist, his instrument was ugly to look at, but the beauty of both resonated through the music they created together. Siothrún sang a song of sorrow and joy, his voice rich and melancholic. It was a song of keening. A lament. His voice rose, his words bittersweet:

  "Do not look to my pillow in the morning

  Do not reach out to touch my cheek

  I am not there.

  I do not sleep.

  Do not look to my grave and weep

  Do not mourn, my love

  I am not there.

  I know no rest

  I am scattered on the thousand winds that blow away my pain

  I am the thief that steals from your heart

  I am the whisper half-heard in the night

  And when you turn

  I am not there.

  I have no face.

  I am melting in the newly fallen snow.

  I am the kiss of sunlight on ripened corn.

  I am the soft and gentle autumn rain on your face.

  I am not gone.

  I am here, my love, I am here."

  Siothrún laid his harp aside and closed his eyes. His pitted cheeks were stained with the tracks of his tears.

  "We will build a fire. You are welcome to join us later if you wish," Sláine said, offering the harper a few moments of solitude.

  Siothrún met his eye, and nodded his thanks. "I appreciate your kindness, friend Sláine. As, I am sure, Caoilfhionn would."

  "Think nothing of it, the kindness of strangers costs nothing, Siothrún."

  "And yet it can be the most precious kindness of all."

  "The pair of you have gone soft in the head," Ukko rolled his eyes. "I'm off to find some faggots to feed to the fire."

  They bedded down a short distance from the cairn. The fire burned low, crackling and spitting sparks. Shadow dancers flickered and writhed across their makeshift camp. The wind carried its eulogy across the night.

  When it came, Sláine's sleep was restless. He tossed and turned fitfully while Ukko snored, oblivious, his lips rattling against his teeth.

  He dreamed a thousand fragments of dream, but one rose up within him, fevered by the edge of prophecy. A woman knelt by his side, her face close to his, her lips leaning in to taste him. He gave himself to the kiss though their lips never touched. He felt the invasive presence of her mind within his, scratching around through all the memories that made him who he was.

  Who are you? He gasped but he knew - because just as she touched him, so he touched her, melding with the woman of his dreams.

  Caoilfhionn, the name sang through his head. Whether it was Sláine, the voice of his dreamself, or the Weatherwitch naming herself, there was no way of knowing.

  Her ethereal fingers slipped inside his skull, pressing deep into his mind. He wanted to scream but this dream-self had no mouth. He bucked and writhed, trying to dislodge the witch but it was as though bonds of iron tied him to the earth. He could not fight her.

  Do not struggle, Son of the Sessair. Let me inside you. Deeper. Surrender.

  If you weren't already dead, woman, you would taste my axe.

  I would taste so much more, warrior. Her icy hand reached down to cup the silver tusk of his boar's head codpiece, tugging it aside. There was no tenderness in her touch when it came. It was hungry. Such anger in you, such pain. Let me take it away. Let me help you. I can, with just a word.

  GET OUT OF MY HEAD, WITCH!

  He concentrated on his hands, even as his body responded to her touch, forcing them to reach out and grasp either side of the witch's head. Her grasp on him tightened. An elemental charge, like lightning, coursed through his body as he pressed and his fingers sank into her insubstantial skull. Sláine screamed out against the charge wracking his body, the agony fierce enough to tear a raw hole where his mouth ought to have been. The pain was visceral, his response to it primal. He struck out, looking to batter the witch until she relinquished her hold on his flesh.

  Such sadness consumes you, warrior, the ghost of Caoilfhionn said, feeding off his pain. She licked from his nose to the centre of his brow in a parody of erotic sensuality. The greater his suffering the more substantial she became beneath his hands, the more forceful her grip. She threw her head back, relishing the spasm that shook his body. A sheen of perspiration clung to her too-pale skin. Her lips parted hungrily, eager to devour more of him. Ribbons of mist leaked out between sharpened teeth, coiling lazily down towards his nose and mouth and slipping easily into him. The mist clogged in his throat. Sláine thrashed about wildly, retching and choking on the ethereal ribbons as they delved deeper inside him. He tried desperately to reach out for the Earth Serpent, to harness its power with his mind, to surrender to it, but the witch's fingers drew more exquisite pain from him, and the serpent recoiled, leaving him alone with Caoilfhionn, helpless against her invasion.

  What do you want from me? It was more of a plea than a question. The final spasm wracked his body.

  And in answer to it she offered him a sunburst of images; places he did not know, names he could not grasp or understand flashed through his mind. Spiralling towers of ivory and bone clawing up into the red sky, a city of wonder and fear populated by the pale ones, burning giants brought low, The Morrigan and Blodeuwedd, black hounds and crows and scaled monstrosities all blurring into one as her final words floated like a ghost beneath, behind and between everything that he saw: find the Skinless Man.

  Sláine came awake with a start, gasping and sweating in a tangle of fur where he had become embroiled with his cape. The fire was dead, charcoal and ash all that remained. He looked around, trying to focus. Dawn had brought a fine mist with it.

  The tenuous fingers of the dream-witch clung to him even as he blinked back the sleep, feeding on his guilt and sorrow. And still the trailing edge of her voice echoed inside his mind: find the Skinless Man.

  "Where?" he asked, but there was no one there to answer him - not that he needed an answer. The city he had seen belonged to the pale ones: the Sidhe. Ukko's bedroll was empty and the harper was gone. Sláine rose unsteadily, the dream had drained him more than it had any right to. The mist made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. On the verge of panic he spun left and right, and stared running. "Ukko!" he called out, "Ukko!"

  He staggered, turning his ankle in a rut in the dirt, and cursed. The curse was met by childish laughter.

  And a moment later he saw the runt with his britches around his ankles relieving himself against the side of a roadside marker.

  "Were you worried?" Ukko grinned. "You were, weren't you? Oh, I'm touched, Sláine. I am. I'm touched."

  "Just pull your britches up."

  There was no sign of Siothrún.

  Sláine wandered over to the Weatherwitch's cairn. It was no burial mound. It was nothing more than a pile of chipped and broken stones. He kicked at them, toppling the stones. There was no body buried beneath.

  The tang of pocheen was still bitter on his tongue.

  The charade bore the hallmarks of the Sidhe.

  Ukko came to stand beside him and pointed up at the sky, "Look." A lone black bird watched them from a high branch. "I've got to say I've no liking for the way this day has started. None whatsoever."

  TWO

  Ukko hurled a stone at the bird's head.

  "Go on, scat! Get out of here! Shoo!"

  The crow burst into flight in an explosive flurry of black wings.

  It cawed angrily.

  Ukko gestured obscenely at the creature as it flapped in circles around his head. Its beady yellow eyes glared back at him malevolently.

  "Bloody creepy birds," Ukko grumbled. "Go on! Hie! Hie!" He bent down and picked up another shard of rock and hurled it
at the bird, missing by a good yard and a half. The crow, mocking him, circled lower and lower until its wings beat at his head. Ukko lurched backward spluttering and swatting at the air, nowhere near close enough to threaten it. "I hate the damned things. If I get my hands on it I'll wring its bloody neck!"

  Sláine watched the bird as it evaded Ukko's miserable attempts to catch it. It banked low and swept high, its trajectory forming a rough circle around the pile of broken stones once, twice, deosil, and on the third counter-sunwise pass vanished into thin air mid-wingbeat. One moment it was there, the next it wasn't. Sláine stared at the air it had disappeared into. There was nothing remotely peculiar about it. The bird had simply ceased to be.

  "Go on, disappear, you damned bird!" Ukko cursed, aggrieved. He sat down on the grass and grabbed his pack, rooting through it until he found a chunk of hard cornbread which he broke off with dirty fingers and started to eat. He threw a nugget of cornbread to Sláine. "I am so tired of this damned bread. I'd kill for a good bit of goat, nicely charred over a fire, still dripping fat and juices."

  "That was... unnatural."

  "You always did have a way with words, big man. It was peculiar, uncanny, outlandish, extraordinary, bizarre, mysterious, inexplicable, remarkable, you could even say astonishing but let's be honest, it was just plain wrong."

  "That's what I said," Sláine walked across to the stones, half-expecting to feel something, a charge in the air, a peculiar static, anything that could offer a hint as to how the bird had disappeared. He knelt, touching one of the stones. It was cold beneath his fingers but otherwise utterly unremarkable. He turned it over. There were no markings on it. He tossed it up into the air and caught it, then dropped it back onto the pile along with the other stones. "I had a dream last night."

  "Sounds like a confession. I'm not sure I really want to hear about it. It's been a long time since you had a woman. What I don't know won't hurt me and all that," Ukko said. "If you did unspeakable things to me, or a goat, I think you should just keep them to yourself."