A Quantum Mythology

by Gavin G. Smith

  Her woad tattoo of a Z-shaped broken spear with a serpent entwined around it wasn’t blue any more. The molten, living red gold she had chosen to drink had pushed through the surface of her skin. It had taken the form of her tattoo and crept over her body, forming disconcerting patterns.

  She could hear the whispering constantly – from her dirk, from her spear, from her flesh – but she was pretty sure she was under her own control because of how disgusted she felt with herself. Her robes were black now, like those of the feared sacrificers who performed the tasks the other dryw balked at. She had worn masks as a dryw. The shy maiden when it was time for the sex rituals, the stern mother of the tribe, the fearsome hag when war threatened. This was another mask she would have to wear.

  Her people were gone, so there was nobody to serve now. This had to become about her child. She couldn’t fail the child like she had the people of Ardestie.

  Below, on one of the smaller hills to which the Mother Hill had given birth, the Lochlannach were preparing their mounts.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Bress asked softly from behind her. Britha glanced back at him. He looked beautiful, Otherworldly. His leather armour had been moulded to fit his body. His sword was sheathed at his waist, its blade too long to have been forged from mortal metal. His fur-lined cloak fluttered in the wind, its hood up to cover his long silvery blond hair. She wondered if this was how she would look to mortals now. Had the demons in her blood cast a glamour on her human form to make her look prettier? To add to their sense of awe when they met her?

  ‘Am I ready to hunt someone I fought beside, someone I lay beside?’ Britha asked.

  ‘If he brought you both here, then he knows the way back to the Ubh Blaosc, to your child. He must also have a rod – to your eyes it would look to be made of copper or bronze.’

  If Fachtna had this rod on him she had not seen it, but she had been badly injured.

  ‘And that is what we go to take from him?’ Britha asked quietly. ‘He fought beside me, at the wicker man.’

  ‘I know. I killed him,’ Bress said.

  Britha didn’t look back again. ‘We fought against your evil,’ she added. Bress did not reply. ‘It was the right thing to do, but I did evil to accomplish it.’ The silence stretched out. ‘Do you come from a place like the Ubh Blaosc?’

  ‘No,’ Bress said.

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Cythrawl,’ he told her. It was an old word for hell. This time she turned to look back at him, searching for a lie, searching for warrior bravado. She found neither. That was the thing about Bress: his heart might be black as pitch, he might be capable of the most awful things, but she didn’t think he lied much.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, meaning it, and feeling lost. ‘I want you, and I will do what I must to get my baby back. I will wear the mask for you, not for your master—’

  ‘I …’ Bress started.

  ‘Quiet,’ she told him. It was one of her old voices, one she had learned among ancient oak trees, their bark coated with long-dried blood. Cythrawl or not, Bress respected her enough to remain quiet. ‘I will be your terror, for you. I will be like you, but that’ – she pointed down to where she knew the entry to the cave was – ‘is a thing which should not be.’

  ‘I helped murder your future,’ he said, and there was something pathetic in his voice that she had not heard before.

  They rode south through the cliff-edged hills, past farms, settlements and small villages, all burned out. Their people had been harvested for their bones to build the obscene tower far beneath the hills. Britha, like Bress and the rest of the Lochlannach, rode in silence. It was a cold, wet morning when they started out and mist shrouded the land. She realised she had become one of the things people feared in the mist. She was one of the things that made people spit to avert evil.

  Bress’s eyes were closed as he concentrated. Britha had the disconcerting feeling that he was looking through the eyes of one of the Lochlannach he had sent ahead to scout. The sky remained cloudy, but the worst of the mist was gone now. The day had been interspersed with heavy showers, though none of them had lasted long, and somehow her robe still wasn’t soaked through. They had been riding, more slowly now, along a track next to a river in a narrow cliff-lined valley. They stopped on the track and Bress had ordered them into the woods, though the trees were providing little in the way of cover for their large white horses and more than a dozen fully armoured warriors.

  ‘Well?’ Britha asked.

  ‘Many warriors, easily in the hundreds, and they are escorting a column of landsfolk in their thousands.’

  ‘They will be fleeing the Muileartach’s children,’ Britha said.

  ‘And they will come upon us soon.’

  ‘You don’t mean to fight them?’ Britha asked incredulously. ‘Not even your Lochlannach could fight that many.’ Then she thought about it and knew that wasn’t true. Bress’s expression hadn’t changed. ‘You can’t – the slaughter would be appalling.’

  ‘They are in my way and they are no friends of ours.’

  ‘Because you raided their villages, killed their families, enslaved the rest and tried to sacrifice them!’

  ‘All true, but none of it matters.’

  ‘We could go around the valley rather than through it.’

  ‘That would put many days on the journey. Each day we waste means that we will have to ride further into the changed land of the Muileartach’s spawn, and they will be able to hurt us. We will ride through them, and keep riding. We will kill as few as possible.’

  ‘All to make sure you kill as many people of this island as you possibly can!’ Britha spat.

  ‘I’ve just said—’

  ‘This isn’t ruthlessness, this is the red pleasure in taking lives, in hurting others, in spreading pain. You’re no different from that … that sick thing back in the cave!’

  For a moment, Britha thought she had pushed him too far, and she saw his face harden.

  ‘I take no pleasure in it. I just don’t care,’ he told her.

  ‘There has to be another way,’ she said evenly.

  ‘Those are nothing but words. Find me another way.’

  They had been keeping pace with her in the woods for some time now. They were good. At first Britha thought that an animal, perhaps a lynx, was stalking her, as she had caught sight of something with fur moving in the trees. Quickly she realised it was scouts moving ahead of the huge column of warriors and landsfolk they were approaching.

  She rode down the muddy track, her spear pointed down to show that she came with peaceful intent. That and her robes, which marked her as dryw, should be enough to keep her safe. Initially, at least, she thought.

  She did not recognise the tribe of the warriors who met her on the track. They all favoured long, intricately braided moustaches but eschewed beards. They carried longspears and shields, with sword and daggers at their hips, as Britha would expect. Casting spears had been driven into the earth close to where the warriors stood. A number of them had skulls they had taken hanging from their belts. A few wore mail, but most had armour made of plates of boiled leather. They looked tired, and travel-worn, but they were alert. Most of them were scarred in some way, and many were missing fingers. Britha knew that these were real warriors, not pretenders. She also knew they were on edge.

  Beyond them she could see the refugee camp, which spread up the hillside on both sides of the track and out of the valley. It was odd that they were not moving if they sought to escape the children of Muileartach.

  ‘Are you come from them?’ one of the warriors demanded. He was a big man, his face a scarred and mangled mess, which suggested that either he was not a particularly good warrior, or he had been around for a long time. Judging by the skulls hanging from his belt, Britha suspected the latter.

  ‘Who?’ Britha asked.

 
‘The spirits from the forest,’ another warrior answered, this one younger.

  ‘I come from a place where warriors are not too afraid to introduce themselves before they question strangers. I am Britha, ban draoi to the Cirig, a people who come from far to the North.’

  ‘What do you want—’ the younger man started, but the scarred warrior cuffed him around the back of the head.

  ‘I am Borth, whom they call the Tall, Borth of a Hundred Battles, the Head-Harvester, the Child of the Red Man,’ the scarred man said. ‘And you have my apologies for my rudeness. You may claim what you want of me, and I will of course submit to any judgement you make.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Britha replied. ‘It is easy to forget your manners when times are hard, and enemies are at your front and back.’

  ‘Aye, true enough,’ Borth said, nodding. ‘Will you eat and sup with us? As you see, we have many under our care, but what we have is yours.’ It was a formal offer of hospitality.

  ‘Now I must be rude, I am afraid,’ Britha told him. She saw a frown appear on the warrior’s scarred visage. ‘I feel that to accept your offer of hospitality, well made though it is, would be to do you a disservice and mislead you.’

  Borth remained silent for a moment as he thought on her words. Then he turned to the younger warrior he’d cuffed and nodded towards the camp. The young man loped off in that direction.

  ‘Speak plainly,’ Borth said, turning back to Britha.

  ‘I come on behalf of the Lochlannach and their warleader Bress,’ she told them.

  Borth was shaking his head. ‘You speak as though I should know who this is.’

  ‘The raiders in the black curraghs.’

  That got their attention. There was the sound of sharp iron sliding out of leather. Others readied their longspears or picked up casting spears. Borth held his hand up to stop them from attacking.

  ‘Those are sour words indeed, as they are no friends to any here.’ His tone was cold now. ‘They harvested great suffering among our people.’

  ‘Let me kill her,’ one of the other warriors said, a short, squat, powerfully built woman almost as badly scarred as Borth.

  Britha faced her. ‘I am still a dryw, and you will respect that unless you would see your line cursed,’ Britha told her in the voice that brooked no argument.

  ‘What line?’ the woman spat, taking a step towards Britha. ‘Those you didn’t kill you took away in your curraghs to sacrifice to your god who is a sickness, so I hear it.’

  ‘Enough, Eithne,’ Borth said quietly. He appeared to command enough respect among his warriors that the woman lapsed into an uneasy brooding silence and settled for just glaring at Britha. ‘You have come with your spear down, so we will listen,’ Borth told her. ‘What would you have of us?’

  ‘Yes, what would you have of us?’ another voice asked. Five figures were making their way down the trail. The one who had spoken wore a dark robe not unlike hers, except the shape suggested that it covered armour, which was very unusual for a dryw, and he looked to be well built beneath it. A hood covered his features, a sword hung from his hip – also unusual for a dryw – and he carried a staff.

  With him was a large warrior with an equally large belly, clad in mail with a black cloak, thick beard and long, black hair shot through with white. One of his eyes was milky and clearly blind.

  There was a wiry-looking boy of about ten or twelve. Something in the boy’s movement and his guarded expression reminded Britha of a wild animal.

  A woman who looked old enough to have seen forty summers accompanied the boy. Her emaciated frame and the rags barely covering it told of her recent trials, but she still carried herself with strength and dignity.

  The fifth person with the group was Germelqart.

  She felt a warmth spreading through her at the sight of the Carthaginian navigator who, along with Kush and Tangwen, had saved her from Ettin. Then she saw his expression: guarded suspicion, bordering on fear.

  She was also aware of quiet, careful movement in the woods at her back but resisted the urge to turn and look. She assumed it was the scouts who had kept pace with her, preparing to act in case she tried something.

  ‘Why do you hide your face?’ Britha demanded of the black-robed, armoured man as the five figures stopped by Borth. The other warriors had made way for them. The man reached up and pushed his hood down. He had a long beard and moustache, both intricately braided, and his head was shorn of hair.

  ‘To keep the rain from my head. I am Bladud, who some call the Witch King. This is Nerthach, my strong right arm. This is Anharad of the Trinovantes and her grandson Mabon.’ The boy was now glaring at Britha with hatred. ‘And—’

  ‘And Germelqart, the Carthaginian,’ Britha finished for the Witch King. ‘I am glad to see you well.’

  The navigator inclined his head slightly but remained quiet. She felt like he was studying her.

  ‘She is with the raiders,’ Borth told them.

  Britha noticed that Mabon was still moving towards her. She was worried he would do something stupid and force her to hurt or kill him. The woman was also glaring at her with undisguised hatred. She looked familiar to Britha but she couldn’t place her.

  ‘Indeed,’ Bladud said. There was no hint of hostility in his voice, though she noticed Nerthach’s hand was resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword. ‘And what would they have of us?’

  ‘I beg your forgiveness, but I must ask Germelqart something.’ She turned to face the navigator. ‘What of Kush and Tangwen?’ She could see the conflict written all over the quiet man’s face.

  ‘I do not think I should answer that,’ he said eventually.

  Britha had half-expected this response, but she was still surprised by how much it hurt. On the other hand, she now knew they were still alive.

  ‘Why not?’ she asked, but she knew the answer.

  ‘Because you have fallen.’

  She had not expected him to put it that way. ‘I …’ she started, but found she had nothing to say.

  The woman, Anharad, spat on the ground and made the sign to ward off evil.

  ‘Fallen or no,’ Germelqart said to Anharad, ‘you owe this woman your life, as do we all.’

  Nerthach grunted his disdain and spat as well. Britha felt her fingers tighten around the shaft of her spear.

  ‘She will be dealt with fairly,’ Bladud said.

  ‘I mistrust a warrior who dresses as a dryw and styles himself a king,’ Britha said. Nerthach bristled and stepped forwards. Bladud put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Understandable, for you do not know me, but I am afraid you’ll just have to accept it,’ he said, affably enough.

  ‘I have come from Bress, warleader of the Lochlannach. He and his warband wish to pass this way and do you no harm. Will you let us by?’

  There was a lot of angry muttering from the people gathered there. Mabon actually hissed at her. Bladud just looked thoughtful.

  ‘Why are you asking?’ Bladud asked. ‘He has never cared about the niceties before.’

  ‘Our business is not with you. It is with our mutual enemies that follow behind you, and I would not see bloodshed here.’

  ‘She cannot be trusted. She is a traitor to her people,’ Anharad said. Britha turned to glare at her, a look that would cow most people. The other woman held it, and gave it back.

  ‘You do not wish bloodshed, or he does not wish bloodshed?’ Bladud asked.

  ‘You cannot be considering this?’ Anharad demanded, forcefully enough to make Nerthach turn a questioning eye on her.

  ‘I do not wish bloodshed,’ Britha said. ‘He truly does not care.’

  ‘Then let him come here,’ said Borth the Tall, ‘and we will meet him with sword and spear. His people fared well enough against landsfolk and a few warriors taken unawares. Let us see how he doe
s against an Iceni shield wall.’ There were nods and muttered agreements from the other warriors present, including Nerthach.

  ‘Bring him here,’ Bladud said. The others stared at him, and then a clamour of angry shouting broke out. The so-called Witch King let it wash over him. He never took his eyes off her. Britha knew she was being studied. What worried her more was that she was struggling to read his intent. Finally Bladud looked over at Nerthach and nodded.

  ‘Quiet!’ the black-bearded warrior roared.

  ‘Will he be attacked if I bring him to you?’ Britha asked.

  ‘Is he frightened?’ Bladud enquired. Some of the warriors laughed.

  Britha sighed. ‘I ask you this for your own safety, but I think you will not believe me.’

  The warriors present were still laughing and said exactly what she expected them to. She kept her eyes on Bladud. He gave little away.

  Then Bladud spoke. ‘He does not have hospitality because I will not suffer those he has wronged so grievously to have to share meat and drink with him. Whilst we treat, however, he is under my protection. If any attack him, then I will defend him to my death.’

  ‘As will I, and all warriors sworn to Bladud,’ Nerthach said begrudgingly. Borth the Tall and the other warriors that Britha guessed were Iceni looked less than pleased about this.

  ‘And how do I know—’ Britha asked. Bladud held his hand up. It was a simple gesture, but she fell silent despite herself.

  ‘You are about to insult me. Please don’t, because then I will be forced to act, and nobody will get what they want. Rest assured that I was learning the laws and the lore in the groves whilst your father’s father was a young man.’

  Britha stared at him for a while. ‘Very well,’ she said, and turned her horse around. She kicked the beast into a gallop along the muddy trail. She glanced back, again despite herself. The others were talking amongst themselves, but Germelqart stood apart from them, watching her ride away. Britha wondered if Tangwen was watching her from the woods, an arrow nocked, her bow ready.