by Gavin Smith
This made Fachtna suspicious.
‘Someone else has blessed her?’
Teardrop took an obsidian-bladed knife from inside his jerkin and made a small incision in Britha’s cheek. He brought the blade to his mouth, licked it and concentrated.
‘I can taste the demon blood but something wars with the demon blood within her.’
‘What?’
‘Something old and powerful but so faint.’ Teardrop’s eyes widened. ‘I can taste the Muileartach in her.’
Fachtna stared at his companion.
‘Where’s she from?’
Teardrop leaned in to smell her.
‘Local.’
‘Sure?’ Fachtna asked. Teardrop gave him a look that left him in no doubt as to the stupidity of his question. ‘Can you help her?’
Teardrop gave the question some thought.
‘It will diminish me.’
Fachtna said nothing. It was Teardrop’s decision. More than anything he needed his friend strong, but she might be able to help and he wasn’t comfortable leaving her like this. And she looked strong. He would respect whatever decision Teardrop made.
‘Even if she wins the war in her blood, if she gets closer to Bress and the Red Chalice their influence on her would grow stronger. She’s pretty.’
‘For a mortal. Your head is so swollen, but it’s still the other one you want to use?’ Fachtna asked, amusement in his tone. Teardrop grinned at him. He was happily married; the comment had been for Fachtna’s benefit. It was the warrior, after all, not Teardrop who had an eye for pretty ‘mortals’.
Teardrop wiped the knife on his jerkin and then brought it up to the side of his oversized head. The black blade pushed though swarthy weather-beaten skin, cutting into it. As the blade broke the skin there was no blood, only interlocking crystalline growth. Teardrop closed his eyes, his features wrinkling in concentration. Something leaked through the dry wound. Some of the crystals seemed to melt into a viscous quicksilver-like liquid and run down onto the knife blade. The drop of quicksilver stayed on the blade. Teardrop forced Britha’s mouth open as gently as he could and held the knife over it. The quicksilver hung on the blade momentarily and then dripped into her mouth. Fachtna watched expectantly but nothing happened. Britha continued writhing on the pebbles, staring fixedly. Teardrop started to sing. It sounded like a series of disparate syllables but worked into a soothing melody.
‘Will that strengthen the blood of the Muileartach, weaken the demon’s blood?’ Fachtna asked.
Teardrop looked at his warrior friend, trying to decide if he could be bothered to explain. The warrior didn’t really care about these things. He was just talking for the sake of something to say. That was fine, Teardrop thought; the older he got the more he did the same thing.
‘No, what it should do is give her more control,’ Teardrop said and then had to stifle a smile as Fachtna nodded like he knew what the other man was talking about.
Then Britha woke, still screaming. Both of them jumped.
The impossible, painful-to-view crystalline skull faded away, crawling back into the head of the most bizarre man she had ever seen. His skin was dark but looked different from the southron traders her people had dealt with. There was a reddish tint to the brown. His face looked like it had never seen a blade and yet there was no trace of a beard there. Even allowing for this and the strangely bulbous hairless head, the strangest thing about him was his clothing.
He wore a pair of absurdly large trews, with thick red and thin white stripes. These were tucked into a pair of well made high leather boots. He had a white shirt under a stiff-looking leather jerkin, which was fastened with small metal discs that Britha had never seen the like of before. Over that he wore a piece of apparel that looked to Britha to be a cross between some sort of sleeved over-robe and a cloak. The garment was made from some kind of supple hide.
Next to him on the pebbles was a long gnarled wooden staff. There was a large crystal in the centre of the staff. It looked like the staff had grown round the crystal. Another crystal tipped the staff.
It was clear to Britha that this was some kind of monster. She looked around frantically for her spear but she was not where she had been. She was sore from the battering she had given herself during the visions. It was day now. The night must have come and gone.
‘It’s okay . . .’ the strange man started. Britha kicked him in the mouth from her prone position.
‘Hey!’ Britha turned at the cry and saw another man moving towards her.
She put her hand on Teardrop’s staff and flipped over it onto her feet, coming up holding the staff, a feat she was sure that she would not have been capable of until recently.
The other man had his hand on the hilt of his sword and was bringing his shield to bear. The shield was rectangular with rounded corners, leather over oak with complex spiral knotwork patterns ending in three dragons’ heads. He at least she recognised, or at least what he was. He was clearly some kind of warrior. He looked like a Goidel, warriors reputed to come from an island beyond the land to the west.
He wore a boiled leather breastplate, and armour covered his upper arms, vambraces his forearms, and he wore thick leather greaves over fine plaid trews. Around his neck was a finely wrought torc made of thick strands of silver twisted together rather than the more chainlike designs of her own people.
Britha had a moment to appreciate how handsome the man was – well built, fine-featured, long reddish-blonde hair, his similarly coloured beard and moustache in a plait. Attractive or not, there was something about him that Britha knew she would find irritating even if they hadn’t been about to kill each other. The fact that his armour, shield and face were unscarred gave her confidence that she could beat the pretty young warrior.
‘Wait!’ the swollen-headed man cried from his bloody mouth. Britha kicked him in the face again and then hit him on his head with his own staff. The man cried out and rolled away from her.
The warrior drew his sword. The blade shone even in the pale light of the overcast day. The metal looked silver. The blade seemed to hum and shimmer as if singing. Britha did not like the look of the blade. She sensed magic in it. She had encountered too many weapons that actively thirsted for blood recently. The beautifully crafted longsword looked sharp enough to cut the air. The last time she had seen a blade that fine, Bress had been holding it.
The warrior was charging her. Britha changed her stance, ready to dart to the side.
‘Fachtna, wait!’ the other man cried. Britha understood his words, though she was not sure he was speaking the same language as the Pecht, but there was clearly magic in the air. His accent was strange.
The warrior skidded to a halt, keeping his eye on Britha, clearly ready to attack. The swollen-headed man turned to the ban draoi.
‘Look we’re not here to—’ he started. Britha hit him on the head with his own staff again. She could not risk him weaving magic with his words. She hit him hard enough to break the skin, but there was no blood.
‘Ow! Stop hitting me with my staff. That’s not what it’s for!’
Through the gash in the creature’s head she could make out some kind of crystalline growth. She stared for a moment and then remembered the warrior.
Fachtna made a move towards her. Britha shifted position.
‘Wait!’ the swollen-headed man shouted. Britha made a move to hit him again, but he scrabbled away from her on the pebbles. ‘I said stop doing that!’
‘Then still your tongue. There’s magics in it.’ Britha’s voice was little more than a rasp, and she tasted blood from her throat when she spoke.
‘We just want to . . .’ Britha moved towards the monster. So far her attacks had drawn no blood. ‘Please listen . . .’
‘If you wish to talk, then let him talk,’ Britha said and gestured at Fachtna.
‘I don’t want to talk; I want to fight,’ Fachtna growled. His accent sounded like what she would imagine a Goidel would sound like.
> ‘Many-Edged Ones, take me now,’ Teardrop muttered.
‘Are you working magics?’ Britha demanded, moving towards him,
‘No!’
Fachtna shifted to intercept her.
‘Fachtna, stop, please,’ Teardrop implored. Fachtna stopped but did not look happy.
‘Why won’t you let me talk to you?’ Teardrop asked and then scrambled to his feet and backed away quickly as Britha tried to hit him again.
‘I saw through your glamour,’ Britha spat. ‘I saw your true face. You’re an evil spirit, a demon!’
Fachtna grinned at this, but Teardrop looked thoughtful and more than a bit worried.
‘She has you there,’ Fachtna said.
‘Shut up!’ Teardrop snapped. His warrior friend’s humour often seemed poorly timed.
‘His magics helped bring you back. They fought the demon’s blood inside you,’ Fachtna told her. ‘We only mean you harm if you mean us harm. I will swear by my blood and his if that’s what it takes.’
Britha considered this. If he was a Goidel then she had heard that they had their own honour and could be held to an oath. Teardrop was relieved that Fachtna had decided to be diplomatic and found a way to talk to the woman.
‘We’re here to—’ Teardrop started. Britha swung around to face him again. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said backing away, hands up.
‘I don’t like that sword,’ Britha told Fachtna.
Fachtna smiled. ‘You would like my spear even less.’
Britha could see that he had a spear in some kind of leather tube strapped to the back of his armour. It looked like something was struggling to get out of it. Fachtna was right: she did not like it. She felt its malevolence in her blood.
Teardrop was looking bored.
‘May I speak now? No . . .’ Britha tried to get at him again. Fachtna got in between them but sheathed his blade and dropped his shield, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm.
‘I will give my oath for my friend as well,’ he said. ‘He worked magics on you while you were asleep.’
‘Oh brilliant,’ Teardrop muttered as Britha looked furious again.
‘But they were healing magics only.’ Britha still regarded the pair suspiciously.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I have come to find and kill someone called Bress,’ Fachtna said.
Britha looked for the truth in Fachtna. He seemed the archetypal warrior: cocky, boastful, arrogant and not too bright, but with a modicum of charm. Judging by his lack of scars he was untested and therefore vastly overconfident, particularly about facing Bress, but she could see no untruth in him. She nodded towards Teardrop.
‘And that? Is it some demon you have bound into your service?’
Teardrop made a small humourless laughing noise. He was sitting on the pebbles now. He had spat on his fingers and was rubbing the spit into the dry wounds that Britha had made by repeatedly bludgeoning him with his own staff.
‘No, he is my friend and a wise and powerful dryw in his own right.’
‘Why is his head like that?’
‘Because he has a grand opinion of himself,’ Fachtna said, grinning. Teardrop silently cursed another of the warrior’s poorly timed attempts at humour.
‘It’s this shape because I sing the mindsong. It’s where my power lives,’ Teardrop said, getting to his feet. The previously conciliatory tone had gone. Britha recognised this – she used it herself – it was the tone you used when the tribe needed to listen to her in her capacity as ban draoi. ‘My name is Teardrop on Fire. Don’t hit me with my staff again. In fact, give it back to me.’
‘I’ll swap you for my spear,’ she said.
Fachtna sighed, ‘I’ll go and get it,’ and headed back towards the crannogs. Britha continued staring at Teardrop.
‘Teardrop on Fire, what sort of stupid name is that?’
‘The only one I have.’
‘Then you’re brave to let me have it.’
‘I have no fear of you. My friends call me Teardrop.’
Britha threw the strange creature his staff back to prove that she did not fear him either, and the more she talked to him the less frightening he seemed.
‘Where do you come from?’ she asked.
‘A place where the ground is the sky and the sky is the ground,’ Teardrop said as he grumpily examined his staff.
‘The Otherworld?’
Teardrop put the base of his staff on the ground and leaned on it. It looked to be a familiar pose.
‘If you like,’ he said.
‘What tribe do you come from?’
‘My friend is a Gael descended from Mael Duin himself. I am Croatan.’
The words were meaningless to Britha. Fachtna was running easily across the pebbled beach back towards them carrying Britha’s spear.
‘He is sidhe?’ Teardrop did not answer. ‘You were the two that came through the circle.’ It was more of an accusation than a question. Teardrop nodded. ‘Why do you want to kill Bress?’ There was only a small conflict in her voice. Her treacherous fledgling feelings for Bress were a paltry consideration compared to the plight of her people, but Teardrop’s eyes narrowed. I will have to watch him, she thought. He is clever.
‘Because even if this story had been long ago told, he does not belong here.’
‘That does not make any sense.’
‘He is unnatural to this place and means it ill. He is from elsewhere, and his magics were not made for this world.’
Britha gave this some consideration. He spoke in riddles but confirmed what she had thought.
‘Why are you dressed so strangely?’ she finally asked, more for the sake of something to say. Fachtna overheard as he returned and threw Britha her spear.
‘Because he likes to draw attention to himself,’ the warrior said. Teardrop gave his companion a weary look.
‘Bress has an army. Is there just the two of you, or are you scouts for a great army from the Otherworld?’
Fachtna looked at Teardrop, who just shrugged.
‘Teardrop is a powerful dryw and I am a mighty warrior.’
It was said in jest but Britha could tell he believed it as well.
‘You don’t look like a mighty warrior,’ she said. Teardrop laughed.
‘What?!’ Fachtna cried in mock outrage.
‘Even in training warriors get scars and wear them proudly,’ Britha told him.
‘Where I come from, the women train us to fight and they leave all kinds of wounds, but I have lain in the cauldron and that has made me whole again.’
Again Britha was not sure what he was talking about, but cauldrons with healing powers she could understand.
‘You will have to believe me that he is a good warrior,’ Teardrop said. ‘And very, very vain.’
‘Besides, we are three now,’ Fachtna said, grinning, sure of himself. Britha had decided that her earlier judgement of him was correct. He would annoy her.
‘Are we?’ she said scornfully.
‘Are you hungry?’ Teardrop asked with some concern.
Britha had been ignoring the sensation but she realised suddenly that Teardrop was right. She was hungry to the point of being in pain. She felt as if her skin was hanging off her bones.
They were like her, like her people, or at least Fachtna was. She studied both of them, their features bathed in red from the fire they had lit. The smell of roasting venison filled her nose and made her mouth water. Her stomach called to the meat. Fachtna had stripped off his armour and boots and gone into the wooded hills with just three casting spears. He had come back with a roe stag over his shoulders.
Britha had searched the crannogs for food and found some. She had eaten but it had not sated her hunger. The rest she had given to Teardrop, who had returned from the woods with mushrooms, some berries and herbs.
Britha had also found an iron-bladed sickle. It was pitted and rusted but she had scraped off the rust and honed the blade as best she could. When she had the time, she
would do the ritual that would attune the sickle to her. Though she would not bathe this one in her blood.
They were like her people but too perfect. Meat filled out their shapes as if they had never known a harsh winter. There were few lines on their skin, though she was sure that Teardrop was older than Fachtna. Their teeth were straight and white, and they smelled like they had washed in a mountain burn just moments before. Their clothes and belongings were well made and showed little if any signs of wear. Life must be good in the Otherworld, she thought.
The deer could have fed many. Britha had thought it too much for the three of them, but they had torn into it ravenously. There would be little left for the wolves and the crows. Teardrop was cutting off the remaining meat and putting it into a leather bag. She could see that it contained salt.
‘That’s no way to salt meat,’ Britha said.
Teardrop just smiled. ‘We have a way.’
‘What did you see? When you ate of his flesh?’ Fachtna asked, spearing another piece of meat with his dirk and dipping it into the wooden bowl containing the preparation of wine and berries that Teardrop had made. Britha didn’t answer.
‘Those are dark magics,’ Teardrop said.
‘We can eat what we kill,’ Britha said haughtily, meeting Teardrop’s stare until he turned from her. Britha turned to Fachtna and stabbed her dirk point towards Teardrop. ‘I saw his real face, what he is.’
‘That is not my real face,’ Teardrop said quietly. ‘Only what I must be to serve . . .’ His voice trailed away. He sounded sad. Fachtna was watching him thoughtfully.
‘What are you then?’
This time Teardrop met her gaze unflinchingly.
‘Would you tell me all your ways, your secrets?’
This time it was Britha who looked away.
‘I felt the demon, burning in me, trying to consume me, make me a slave like all the others. I saw people who thought they were dead, who chose to be slaves and a dark man.’ Fachtna and Teardrop exchanged looks. Britha did not notice. Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I saw my people caged, in the sea, and felt their fear and their pain as they died by fire . . .’
