by Gavin Smith
Britha unwrapped her robe from around herself. She had been using it as a blanket. She belted it in place as she watched the others rise. Talorcan had already been awake. It had been his turn on watch, his features as impassive as ever.
Nechtan sat up in the heather, pushed his arms through the sleeves of his blaidth and reached for his sword. He didn’t pick it up. It was just an unconscious gesture to make sure it was still there. Many champions were huge muscular men. Britha suspected that they won battles as much through intimidation as skill. Nechtan, though well built, was not overly muscled. He was, however, fast and he practised, a lot; he did not just rely on past glories. Britha also thought larger warriors underestimated him. Nechtan brushed down his short beard with his fingers. Vanity was the enemy of all warriors, Britha thought. She was pleased that Nechtan had managed to limit himself to just his silver torc in terms of decoration. She watched as Nechtan smoothed his dark wiry hair back and tied it into a ponytail with a leather thong before getting up to join the others.
Drest and Giric, the other two warriors, had come from the same womb but not at the same time, although they looked like twins. Both were young, their whiskers sparse, but they had completed the tasks required to join the cateran after training since childhood. They were eager to please. Britha suspected that Nechtan had chosen them as much because they looked up to him as because they needed the experience. That said, Britha had to admit they were both easy on the eye, largely because they had not been in as many fights as the other warriors. They had yet to be scarred; they weren’t missing fingers, ears or teeth. She considered bedding them, wondering if both of them would come to her at the same time. Perhaps to celebrate the shortest night, she thought.
Her musings were broken when the most worrying member of their scouting party walked across her line of sight on the way to make water. With him having no tongue and no knowledge of how to make symbols, there had been little communication. He had nodded when agreeing to lead them back to his village. Not even threats of violence had made the man answer other questions.
This was not the most disturbing thing about him. Britha had had no more visions like the one of crawling flame under his skin, but the man’s wounds had healed very quickly. If this was the result of her ministrations then she had never been that successful before. Despite the severity of his wounds when he had ridden into camp, most of them were just white scar tissue now. Even the stump of his tongue had healed over and he seemed to move with vigour. The lines of blood were still visible in his eyes, however. Most of the time his features were expressionless, or close to it, but Britha was sure that she saw hunger there, somewhere deep down.
‘He did not sleep all night,’ Talorcan said quietly, appearing by her side. Normally Talorcan was one of the few that could sneak up on her, but even on the soft heather she had heard him. ‘He just stared towards the north.’
‘It’s his home and he wants to get back,’ Britha said, but even she did not quite believe this. The man had had an encounter with something else, something from the Otherworld, she suspected, and it had changed him.
‘How far are we?’ she asked.
‘Half a day’s ride, a little more if Ferchair had the right of it.’
Britha knew she had put more time on the ride by insisting on coming through the mountain passes. The coast would have been much quicker, but she did not trust the sea. She hoped it was not just because she connected it with Cliodna, though it could have been Cliodna’s words that had put her off.
Nechtan had mocked her, but Talorcan had guided them without a word of complaint.
The champion, three warriors, the ban draoi and six ponies was a lot of resources to risk, Britha mused. Cruibne must be almost as worried as she was. As an added precaution she had painted some charm stones as protection from the Otherworld. Each of them carried one. They were as much reminders to tread cautiously when dealing with the Otherworld as anything else. Britha smiled bitterly. She should have carried one when she first visited Cliodna, she thought.
When she had made the stones she had not begged favours from the gods like she had heard the Goddodin and some of the other southern tribes did. The Pecht knew that the gods were no friends to men and women. Instead she had invested part of her will into the stones, her will focused as protection against the gods of darkness and ill will.
They rode out of the pass and down towards the coastal plain. Britha could already see the destruction. Even now, some four days since it had happened, there were still wisps of smoke rising into the air from the ruins of the village.
The village had been of reasonable size, not much smaller than Ardestie. Britha had known of it, though the name of the place escaped her. The Ce that lived here, mostly fisherfolk, had traded with the Cirig.
‘I don’t think we’ll find much life down there,’ she said. The warriors gave her a strange look; the man just looked straight ahead and said nothing. ‘What?’ she demanded, tiring of the four warriors staring.
‘Do you not think we should at least look in the village before we make that decision? The smoke could just be from hearths,’ Nechtan suggested, just a trace of mockery in his tone.
Britha turned to look at him as if he was an idiot. The village was obviously burned, not a house left standing. She turned back to look at the village. It was still very far away. She lapsed into silence.
Hungry wounds. Like the one the man had been suffering from when he rode into Ardestie. They were definitely sword wounds but ragged and too deep. Like the blades had eaten their way into the wounds. The warrior was scarred, his shield dented and his sword pitted, but both had the look of being well looked after. The Ce were not a timid people, their warriors were capable, but his blade was not even reddened. It was the same with the rest of the dead. They were either warriors, the ruling family of the village, or landsmen and fisherfolk with spears because all adult Pecht could fight. They were all dead with no sign they had wounded any of the attackers.
The village had been put to the torch, the roundhouses little more than smoking ruins, but it did not look as if anything had been stolen. Even the precious livestock had been left. On the stony beach the small fishing curraghs, the skin-hulled, wooden-framed boats, had been burned as well.
‘They couldn’t have been very good fighters,’ Drest suggested, Giric nodding in agreement, but even Nechtan, who was quick to denigrate another warrior, did not believe it.
‘Where are the rest?’ Nechtan asked.
‘Slavers?’ Giric suggested.
‘Slavers would take things. There’s gold round the necks and the arms of the warriors. They wouldn’t have left the livestock either,’ Britha said from where she was kneeling next to the dead warrior. She used the butt of her spear to push herself to her feet.
It was a beautiful day, fresh; there was a strong wind blowing in off the sea, clouds scudding across the bright blue sky. The wind almost took the smell of burned wood away from their nostrils. It did not take away the smell of five days of rotting flesh. Britha spat at the crows, messengers of malevolent gods. They had disturbed them feasting on the dead. She felt their eyes on her and the others. Talorcan was waving at them from down by the water. Britha made her way towards him accompanied by the sound of stones being moved up and down the beach by the gentle lapping of the waves.
As Britha headed towards Talorcan she glanced back at the man. He had not even got off the pony they had given him to ride. He was among the ruins of his home. He knew the dead and the missing but he did nothing.
Britha was not used to Talorcan looking worried. The hunter was normally very calm.
‘They dragged the ships up here onto the beach,’ he said, pointing at drag marks.
‘How many?’
‘Two ships came ashore. Whether or not there were more I don’t know.’
‘How many raiders?’
‘Difficult to tell. The tracks in the village are too confused. I’m guessing they came late and took the villag
e by surprise. There’s a watch fire further up the headland. I’d wager that those manning it are gone or dead as well.’
Britha nodded. ‘So they killed those who fought, but why didn’t everyone fight? The Ce are not sheep people.’
Talorcan said nothing; he just moved further along the beach to an area clear of stones. He pointed to a mark in the sand. Even without bending down, Britha could see the faint imprint of something that looked like an irregular four-pointed star. The sand had been disturbed as if something ran between each of the deeper indents. Though no tracker, she recognised that five nights ago the indents must have been a lot deeper. The whole imprint was about two feet across.
‘You’ll need to get closer to see it,’ Talorcan said.
‘I can see it,’ Britha said. Talorcan gave her a funny look. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a footprint,’ Talorcan said. Now she understood why he had looked troubled.
Then the screaming started.
The man had got Drest’s sword away from him. He ran the boy through. Drest was still standing, shaking from the wound as he soiled himself and drooled blood down his front.
‘No!’ Giric cried and charged the man with his longspear.
‘Wait!’ Nechtan cried.
The man tore the sword out of Drest and the boy slumped forward to the ground. With surprising speed he turned on Giric. The man threw a sweeping kick; his foot contacted with the haft of Giric’s spear and drove the point into the ground with sufficient force to snap the wood. Giric collided with his own spear. The man was already swinging Drest’s blade. He cut the spear haft again and opened Giric’s throat. The young warrior staggered away, blood pouring from the wound, bubbling into froth. With his left hand he tried to hold the wound closed and to his credit his right was trying to draw his sword, but before he could he slumped to his knees and then fell onto his face.
Britha sprinted across the stony beach, making for the village. She quickly outpaced Talorcan, but when arrows started to fly past her she realised the hunter was fighting the best way he could. Meanwhile, the man had turned on Nechtan.
Arrows started to appear in the man’s flesh. They did not slow him. Nechtan was a judge of fighters. He had to be. The man was not only fast; his technique was nearly flawless. Rapidly the Cirig champion threw one casting spear after another as he backed towards his horse.
The man batted one of them away with the flat of Drest’s sword. The other two hit him true and penetrated flesh, but even they did not stop him. Nechtan backed into his pony. The horse was already nervous but trained for war and did not bolt. Nechtan mastered his fear. He grabbed his small square shield from the pony and drew his iron-bladed longsword from its scabbard just in time.
The man swung at him. Nechtan took the blow on his shield, the force of it splitting the thick reinforced wood, making his arm numb and opening a long gash on it. Nechtan used the parry to duck under the blade and dart away from his pony, giving himself more room.
The man swung again and again at Nechtan, the champion having to use every last bit of strength, speed and skill he possessed just to parry the well-aimed, powerful, fast blows. He was aware of Britha sprinting towards him. Some way behind her, Talorcan was doing the same. The hunter could not now risk using his bow.
Nechtan parried again and retreated, changing position slightly so that when the man renewed his attack his back would be towards Britha.
Britha charged the man, her spear aimed at the centre of his arrow-studded back. He struck at Nechtan. Nechtan parried, catching the blade, realising the mistake he had made just before he was headbutted in the face and kicked so hard in the stomach that he was lifted off his feet and the wind driven from him.
The man turned on Britha, ready to receive her charge. Britha leaped. Nechtan watched in amazement as Britha seemed to fly through the air. The man tried to parry the spear but Britha twitched it out of the way of his blade. The tip took him in the chest, and the force of her landing drove three feet of the weapon through him. Nechtan had to roll to the side to avoid the spearhead.
Still on his feet, the man moved towards Britha, swinging at the ban draoi as she scrambled out of the way.
‘Cut off his head!’ she screamed.
Nechtan was back on his feet now. He clubbed the sword out of the man’s hand with his own blade and then swung it two-handed at the man’s neck. It was like cutting leather. Each blow was more frenzied as Nechtan painted himself with blood. On the fifth blow the head came off, tumbling free of the body, which was still staggering around. From the stump of his neck waved hundreds of rippling strands of what looked like red filigree. In horror, Britha turned to the severed head and saw the same.
‘Cut his body up!’ she shouted. Nechtan swung at the headless corpse’s legs, taking it off its feet. Talorcan slid down next to the flailing body, his hatchet in one hand, dirk in the other, and started frenziedly hacking and cutting. Britha pulled her sickle out of her belt and raised it to strike. It was red work.
They had dismembered the body, then burned the still-twitching remains. Now they were looking to her for answers.
‘How?’ a still shaken Nechtan demanded.
Britha had always hated to give magic as an answer. More often than not, another answer could be found.
‘Magic,’ she said. ‘At a guess the Lochlannach, with help from dark gods.’ The very gods that the Pecht would not bend a knee to? she wondered.
Nechtan and Talorcan both spat. Britha noticed the quiet red-stained hunter touch the small pouch around his neck with the charm stone in it. The Lochlannach were half men, half demon raiders. People said they came from the hell where the sea freezes far to the north. Britha guessed they had somehow possessed the dead man.
‘Can you fight their magic?’ Nechtan asked.
‘As you see,’ Britha said. Nechtan was studying her as if he had just met her anew. ‘What?’ Britha demanded testily.
‘You used magic in that fight,’ he said. Britha almost demanded to know what he was talking about, but from experience it was always best to play at being mysterious. Let their minds come to their own conclusions. Still, she wondered what he meant.
Nechtan thought back to seeing Britha leap the height of a man and make a spear strike that he knew in his heart he was not fast enough to have made.
‘We travel back,’ Britha said. ‘Quickly down the coast; see if we can spot the raiders.’
‘What about Giric and Drest?’ Nechtan asked. He did not like anyone else giving orders, even the ban draoi, though they were definitely living in her world now. ‘They were warriors.’
‘Now they are crow-feeders,’ Britha said, but behind her impassive, almost cruel mask she felt sorry for the two boys. She tried not to get close to the warriors or indeed any of the Cirig. Familiarity would have interfered with those times when she had to make cruel decisions. Still, Drest and Giric had been less obnoxious than many of the other warriors and she felt they had deserved to see more of life than they had.
They had left the sweat-soaked, foaming-at-the-mouth ponies behind in the woods. They had crawled out onto the headland, Nechtan muttering all the while that sliding on his belly was no job for the Cirig champion.
They saw the fires first. Out on the sandbanks. They could just about make out the dark figures surrounding the orange flickering flames. There was the smell of meat on the cool night air. It had taken a while for Nechtan and Talorcan’s eyes to adjust, but Britha very quickly noticed the black bulks of the hulls against the night sky. They were curraghs like her people used. She had just never seen any so large before. There were two of them.
As Britha looked down at the camp, no more than six miles along the coast to the east of Ardestie, she realised that there was something else wrong here. There was no noise. The wind carries voices, and warriors talk, boast, shout, fight, jest and sing, but the wind brought them nothing from this camp. Nor could she see anything that could have made the monstrous footprint that Talorc
an had found.
Britha opened her mouth to point this out, but Talorcan motioned her to be quiet. Then he pointed. Britha cursed herself when she saw the sentry leaning on his spear. She should have expected and then looked for the man. He wore a metal skin like some of the southern tribes and the ones over the western sea that she’d heard of. There was a longsword at his hip and he carried a large oval shield. He was also perfectly still, his cloak flapping in the wind. He did not seem bored nor did he fidget like most did on sentry duty.
Talorcan gestured for them to crawl back towards the wood. Britha started to move but then she heard Cliodna’s song. It seemed to come from inside her head. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. Her head was filled with beauty. Why hurt me like this? Either stay or go, but don’t play with me. She wondered if it was even her will that made her turn and look to the sea.
Cliodna’s dark hair was spread out over the calm surface of the water; only the top of her head and her eyes were visible. The eyes were enough. Britha could feel them looking past her skin and deep into her. They had changed though. They seemed colder.
Britha motioned the warriors to go on but Talorcan shook his head and gestured for her to come with them. She gave him a baleful eye and moved towards the cliff. Nechtan actually grabbed her arm, but she gave him an even more baleful look and he shrunk back from her. He had had enough of messing with things that he did not understand for one day.
She made her way very slowly to the cliff. As she did, she was mindful to keep watch on the sentry, but he did not move at all. She made it to the edge and slipped over. Like most of her people she had been climbing these cliffs or ones like them since she was a child. It was no trouble for her to clamber down into the little inlet and crouch by the side of the water.
