The Age of Scorpio

by Gavin Smith

  Britha now understood why Fachtna had wanted to fight. This was neither natural nor right. She too felt the urge to drive her spear through the abomination of their hosts’ living god.

  Her people respected the serpent. It was a powerful animal. They invoked it on stone, in paint and in their woad tattoos. It was the symbol of the ban draoi, the female symbol of power, which was why it was tattooed across her back. What she saw before her, however, was nothing more than a mockery of the serpent she respected.

  The chamber was large and lined with stone. They had entered from the shaft through a crawl space following a shallow stream. There was a dirt mound in the centre. The shallow stream surrounded the mound. Some kind of silver-coloured crystals covered the dry-stone walls. They crystals had formed in similar patterns to that made by wax as it melts down the side of a candle.

  Set back further in the chamber, in the shadows thrown by the free-standing bronze braziers that lit the room, was the entrance to another chamber. Through the darkness Britha could make out the second, much smaller chamber. It was also lined with the crystal. There was a strange-looking sleeping pallet on the floor of the room. Something about it made Britha think of a nest. The air was thick with the smell that she had always associated with animals. As ban draoi she shared in the meat and milk provided by the livestock kept by the rest of the tribe. Her roundhouse had to be kept as a ritual space, however, and as such she had never had to share it with cows, sheep, goats or chickens.

  On the mound was a handsomely carved wooden chair. The designs on it were strange to Britha’s eyes. They seemed to flow and run into each other, hinting at some story that was beyond her ken. Next to it was a similarly designed table; it too looked ancient and strange. On the table were little tear-shaped fragments of crystal. Teardrop was looking at them with interest. They looked different to the crystals on the wall, more refined, or made from a different material.

  Fachtna’s face was made of stone. Britha could respect the effort he was putting in to remaining calm. Tangwen had said that their god had wanted to see them on his own. She had left the warning of the consequences of harming him unsaid.

  ‘You have met my people before, I see,’ the creature said. The S wasn’t as drawn-out as she had expected, but it was longer than she was used to.

  It was the very human-looking robes that disturbed Britha the most. They were not of her people nor any of the tribes of this island, but they would not have been out of place on some of the more outlandish traders she had met in her time. They had been colourful, once, finely made of some thick material that Britha could not identify, and fur-lined. They were also old and very worn.

  To see clothes worn by such a creature seemed like a mockery. Its head was elongated, almost like an arrowhead. Its eyes were vertical yellow and black slits. Its skin was a patchwork of scales, mostly an unhealthy off-white colour, though with black patterns running down them. Its legs and hands were wrapped in rags but even disguised they looked wrong, unnatural. Long black nails poked through the rags at the tips of its fingers and toes.

  Strangest of all was the long tail, also wrapped in rags. This strange creature looked very, very old.

  ‘Do you have a name?’ Britha asked.

  ‘A number – I have been alive for a long time. You would be capable of pronouncing few of them. The people of the swamp call me Father. I misliked it at first but have come to appreciate it. People as disparate as they and I coming to have such a close bond.’ When it spoke its long forked tongue flickered out in a way that Britha found unsettling. Behind the tongue she could make out wicked-looking teeth that folded up into its mouth.

  ‘I think not,’ Fachtna spat.

  ‘They call you a god,’ Britha said.

  ‘That is no doing of mine.’

  ‘Are you a dragon?’ Britha asked. The creature hissed at her. It took her a moment to realise that it was laughing. Teardrop was as well. That earned him an angry glare.

  ‘Would you like me to be?’

  ‘I’d like you not to make sport of me with your forked tongue.’

  ‘Then I am not. I am as you are. We have the same mother.’

  His explanation posed more questions than it answered.

  Fachtna grunted derisively, a sneer on his face.

  ‘Do you seek death?’ the warrior demanded.

  ‘I allowed you in here armed as a show of good faith, of trust, as a result of your friend’s mindsong. You look like a warrior from here, but you are unscarred, as are your armour and shield, and I sense you carry weapons of –’ it glanced at Britha and then back to Fachtna ‘– ancient power. You are not from here, though your people once were or may be again, I am not sure which.’

  Teardrop was looking around the cave at the crystal, a look of intense concentration on his face.

  ‘What do you want of us?’ Britha asked, trying to mask the revulsion in her voice. As the creature swung to look at her, she had to resist the urge to shrink away from its gaze.

  ‘To help you, I think. The raiders are no friends of yours and they are certainly no friends of ours.’

  ‘You are hurt?’ Fachtna said.

  ‘I am old and weak,’ the creature replied.

  ‘Else you would have changed these people.’

  The serpentine creature looked at Fachtna for a long time. Its eyes didn’t blink. The warrior held the strange gaze as best he could.

  ‘I am not as others of my kind you may have met,’ it finally said. Despite the creature’s disquieting appearance, Britha could not miss the loneliness in its voice.

  ‘You did not fall,’ Teardrop said finally. ‘Something about this cave protected you. You are not insane and corrupt like the others.’

  The weight of the creature’s years was apparent as it shuffled to its chair and sat down. Despite the strangeness of its face, the sadness there was unmistakable.

  ‘You served the Muileartach,’ Teardrop added. The creature nodded its head. The gesture looked strange in something so inhuman.

  ‘When the madness broke through, I fled with my mother, who I served even as the rest of them were infected. We fled as far as we could, through the seas, but this is a small world.’

  Teardrop walked to the wall of the chamber and reached up to run his hand over the rough crystalline growths.

  ‘The crystal protects you?’

  ‘Or hides me. I’ve never been sure which.’

  Fachtna was following this exchange with a look of confusion.

  ‘What are you saying?’ he demanded. He did not like it that a cornerstone belief of his seemed to be under threat.

  ‘That this Naga is not your enemy,’ Teardrop said.

  ‘I am more than a weapon. I will not use your flesh or plant my warped children in you.’

  Britha was still confused but relieved that this Naga creature did not seem to wish them ill, horrifying though it might look.

  Fachtna muttered something about the Naga not having a chance to defile his flesh.

  ‘We have met other servants – they are starting to fall,’ said Teardrop.

  ‘We were not her servants. We were her, or rather their, children, just like you.’

  ‘You speak of the gods?’ Britha asked, confused.

  ‘I speak of your forebears,’ the creature told her. It turned back to Teardrop. ‘I hear them fight. I hear their song as they fall. My cave keeps me safe. So far.’

  ‘So the Muileartach has fallen?’ Teardrop asked, sounding worried.

  The creature shook its head slowly. ‘No, you would have felt it. She sleeps.’

  ‘So what is Bress doing with my people?’ Britha asked.

  ‘Bress is a servant. I have heard his master at the ceremonies of the Corpse People from the west and the demon-ridden slaves that Bress keeps. I have heard this in my dreams. I have seen the Dark Man in their fires. He comes to give birth. The anti-birth. Instead of life there will be death and Ynys Prydein will become Ynys Annwn, the isle of the dead.’
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  ‘Who is the Dark Man?’ Fachtna asked, his hatred gone now, drawn in by the Naga’s story.

  ‘The Corpse People of the west call him Crom Dhubh. He will kill a man, steal the secret of birth so all will be stillborn, and then the Muileartach will fall and from her poisoned womb will come Llwglyd Diddymder.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Teardrop asked.

  ‘I only know the songs they sing to their servants, nothing more. I do not know this Crom Dhubh, but he is old and has power.’

  ‘Only one man must die for this to happen?’ Fachtna asked. The Naga’s head seemed to wrinkle. Britha guessed it was frowning or concentrating.

  ‘This is what is sung,’ it finally said.

  Fachtna turned to Teardrop. ‘Have you heard this?’

  ‘I have not dared open myself. Even with what little I did today, I heard the murmur of madness in the background. It sounded like ten thousand voices all struck by the moon and wretched.’

  ‘You must beware his followers, the Corpse People. They eat the flesh of heroes, kings and those touched by the gods. They harvest their power.’ Britha noticed the meaningful look that the Naga gave Teardrop as if trying to convey something else.

  Teardrop nodded as if he understood. ‘Where is the Muileartach?’ he asked.

  ‘You cannot go there. The very land itself will fight you.’

  ‘We have no choice,’ Britha said. ‘Bress has my people.’

  ‘Then they are not yours any more.’

  ‘There is no shame in dying even though it proves you right,’ she replied.

  ‘You will not die. Not at first anyway. Not in the flesh.’

  ‘You know we will go,’ Teardrop said. The creature gave this some thought.

  ‘I will ask Tangwen to guide you. Do not go down the coast but instead travel the length of the Grey Father. I will tell her to take you to the lands of the Atrebates to my friend Rin, their rhi. That will take you closer. Do not get Tangwen killed. Her people need her strength.’

  For a moment nobody said anything.

  ‘Thank you,’ Teardrop finally said. Britha nodded in agreement. Fachtna was quiet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the warrior finally said.

  ‘It saddens me to say that I think your response is probably the wisest. When you meet one of my people, don’t hesitate. Kill them. All that they were would thank you for your kindness.’ There was so much sadness in its voice, but even so Britha was surprised to see the tear that rolled down Fachtna’s cheek. The creature turned its head towards her. ‘I wish I could have been your dragon.’ She had no words for him. ‘Instead all I am is a foolish old snake who pisses in a circle to hide from the bad folk.’

  ‘Do you come from the Brass City?’ the creature asked as they turned to leave. Teardrop looked back and shook his head. Fachtna looked confused. ‘You carry weapons of the many-edged ones.’ For a while neither of them answered.

  ‘We are from the Ubh Blaosc,’ Fachtna told him. ‘When you sing, sing of us.’

  The seeds were flung into dark rough waters. They spiralled to the seabed to burrow and grow. Strange roots dug deep into the earth, drinking energy from its heat and travelling far to take metal from its flesh. Slowly it began to rise through the silted depths.

  The captives were quiet now. Ettin had taught them the value of silence when their screams were not wanted. The smell of fear still sickened him though, and he could feel eyes full of hate staring at his back. The black curragh held steady in the choppy sea as he watched its head slowly grow out of the water.

  They were not quiet when they saw it, when they realised what it was, what they were to become. Ettin laid about them with his whip, his latest victim begging him and cursing him to stop from his shoulder as he did so.

  21

  Now

  They had been driving for a while but Beth was sure that she was still on the island. For one thing she couldn’t see them trying to smuggle her out past the roadblocks. They were clearly on a very rough road as she was getting kicked around in the boot of the car. She had struggled with the cuffs but they were solidly built and had been put on tightly. She still had her Balisong knife and her knuckledusters in her jacket – they hadn’t searched her before they dumped her into the boot.

  The car came to a halt. She heard a gate creak open, and the car moved over what felt like soft ground. The car stopped again.

  The bright light after the darkness of the boot made her squint. Markus was just a large backlit shadow reaching for her and dragging her out. Suppress the anger, she told herself. Wait for the right moment.

  Her eyes adjusted to the light. Markus was pulling her towards an old greyhound racing stadium. Dilapidated and gutted, the stands surrounding the sandy track looked like they were falling apart though there were people gathering in the stands closest to her. There was a throbbing bass noise that she recognised as a generator. She presumed it was providing the power for the lights aimed at a corner of the track.

  Beyond the stadium Beth could make out the lights of the police roadblock on the M275 motorway bridge that led out of the city. She had seen this area on the way into Portsmouth. Just past the stadium was the scrapyard with the rusting hulks of amphibious vehicles, submarines, tanks and the like. She was pretty sure the area was called Tipner.

  Anger warred with fear as she saw McGurk in front of her. The light was behind him so she had to squint. She might have done it this time, she thought, pushed too hard. It doesn’t matter how much you can look after yourself, you’re fucked when they’ve got guns and more muscle than you. Still, it seemed a little public for an execution, what with all the people watching.

  ‘What do you know about my sister, you bastard?’ she demanded.

  ‘That she was a dirty little whore,’ McGurk said, to the sound of a few sycophantic chuckles.

  ‘Fuck you!’ The struggling was as instinctive as it was pointless. Markus had too tight a grip on her. She spat at McGurk but had no idea if it hit him.

  ‘I’m a fair man—’

  ‘You’re an arsehole wannabe who’s watched too many gangster movies!’ Beth interrupted. She was willing herself to be quiet but it just wasn’t happening.

  Movement from the other end of the track caught her attention. Next to a brown multi-storey building, the glass in all its windows long since gone, was another gate. She guessed the scrapyard was on the other side of it. Five people were coming through the gate. Four of them were clearly guards, escorting the fifth figure that was in the middle of them all. Their size said muscle. Their body language said that they were nervous of the person they were escorting. The figure in the middle was hunched over and covered in a blanket. Something about this made her even more wary.

  She looked back to McGurk. His smile was predatory and more than a little bit smug. She moved towards him but the gun came up.

  ‘Pussy,’ she said, trying to look him straight in the eyes despite the light.

  ‘Think you’re hard, do you? Even on your best day, love . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘That what you need the stick for?’

  ‘What, this?’ he held it up, examining it. ‘You know what this is? It’s a bull cock.’

  ‘I can imagine you’d want a replacement.’

  Even in the light she could see him frown. The four muscle and the strange covered figure were getting closer. Beth was downwind and could smell something like low tide.

  ‘It’s just an external manifestation, like. A reminder. So people remember who’s got the biggest swinging cock, so everything just jogs along fine. So we don’t have to make too many examples like this.’

  ‘Put the gun away and let’s find out.’

  ‘You’re fucking entertainment. Get used to it.’

  McGurk looked to Markus, the gun still levelled at Beth. Markus unlocked the cuffs and started to back away as Beth put her hand into the pocket of her jacket as she grabbed his collar. Markus tried to turn but Beth’s hand came out wearing brass knuckles.
She punched him in quick succession on the side of his head, all the while moving back, dragging him by his collar, keeping him off balance. By the second punch the tips of the knuckles were red, by the fourth or fifth so was the side of Markus’ head. The sound of metal hitting bone and flesh resonated around the stadium.

  ‘Hey!’ McGurk shouted, brandishing his pistol. Beth let Markus fall to the sand. She rubbed her nose, smearing blood on her face as she turned to stare at McGurk.

  ‘You’re about to do something bad to me. I won’t come after you because you’re a pussy who hides behind a gun.’ She saw McGurk’s mouth tighten in anger. ‘So either shoot me or get on with it.’

  McGurk laughed. He looked down at Markus’ unconscious body, blood reddening the sand around his head.

  ‘Fuck him. Stupid cunt should’ve searched you.’

  ‘Yeah, he might have found this.’ Beth produced the Balisong knife from her other pocket and flipped it open. McGurk looked at the tempered blade as it caught the light and then back at Beth.

  ‘I like you. For some northern sub-literate you’ve got a pair, but that won’t help.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Beth said mildly and then turned to look at the people milling in the stands. Some looked wealthy; others didn’t. Some had hunger for whatever entertainment this was written all over their faces. Others seemed nervous. ‘And fuck your parasite friends.’ Then she turned away from him to watch the group heading towards her. She didn’t realise it, but simply ignoring McGurk had been the biggest insult she’d paid him. She didn’t even register McGurk striding towards one of the stands.

  The four guards were each holding the end of a chain that led under the blanket. They got about fifteen feet away from Beth and stopped. The smell was unbearable. She saw they all wore surgical masks. She wished she had one.

  They clicked some release on their ends of the chains and heard what she guessed were manacles springing open under the blanket. The escorts dragged the manacle-ended chains towards themselves and ran. Now Beth was really worried. She wondered if McGurk was crazy enough to make her fight a gorilla or a small bear.