The Hadassah Covenant

by Robert Holdstock

  ‘This is not Ulgerd,’ he said, ‘but he was once a fine companion. Urien loved him. They ran together after hares, just for the race. Now my son has killed him; and he has killed my son.’

  He reached to the flank of the huge creature and pulled out a small, bone-handled sword, a child’s weapon, a thing of beauty and delicacy, bronze-bladed and designed for play, not killing. It had done its work. Laying the little sword down, Urtha pushed the hound away from the almost skeletal corpse below it. He breathed hard for a moment, his voice almost breaking into a cry. From where I stood I could see a small clenched fist, the broken limbs, the hound-ravaged face and neck.

  ‘Well, Urien. It looks as if you did your part. Well done. By the Good God, I’ll miss you, despite your temper. I would forgive you ten times that temper if I could have you back.’

  He choked up for a moment, his head dropped on his chest, then he took off his grey cloak and wrapped it round his son, standing and lifting the body in his arms. He looked at me through tear-bright eyes, asking in a whisper, ‘What has happened here, Merlin? By the Crow and Wolf, what has happened here? The dogs have turned on their own. There are none of my warriors among the dead. The fort is deserted when it should be in the hands of the enemy. What has happened to the rest of my family? And where are my warriors?’

  ‘I wish I had answers for you. I don’t. I’m sorry for your son.’

  ‘Brave boy. I should have known he would be such a brave boy. I’m proud of him. I can’t go back to Argo until I’ve buried him and found the others.’

  ‘I know. I’ll wait with you.’

  Manandoun was waiting outside the hall. He looked grim and sad at the bundle in Urtha’s arms, then reached out to take the body.

  ‘It’s Urien,’ the warlord said.

  ‘The others?’

  Urtha shook his head. ‘I’ll bury him in Herne’s Grove, close to the river. For the moment, take him to the uthiin’s hall. And close him in. Will you stand watch outside?’

  ‘I will, and gladly.’

  The argonauts had continued to search the hill and the land around. By dusk one thing was clear: none of Urtha’s uthiin were among the dead. Twenty-five men, left to guard this place, to maintain order among the lower ranks and to attend at sacrifice and festival in Urtha’s absence, none of them could be found. And nor could the bodies of Aylamunda, Ambaros her father, nor of little Munda or Kymon.

  Head in his hands, Urtha sat by the well, mourning, frightened and confused. I was about to approach him when Jason came out of the shadows, stared at the forlorn king for a moment, then reached below his jacket for a leather flask of wine. He passed this to the grieving man, then sat down next to him, accepting back the flask and drinking from it, then talking quietly.

  Old warrior, young warrior, a Greek and a keltoi, stumbling with each other’s language, perhaps understanding each other more through the language of loss than through that of war. Or perhaps it was a word or two of hope that Jason offered; after all, only one son was dead, and the rest of his family were not among the corpses.

  Whatever they talked about, whatever passed between them, it was after dark before Urtha called for me again. He was drunk and angry. Gelard and Maglerd, his surviving hounds, were tightly, cruelly tethered before the king’s hall, their eyes wide and bright by torchlight, watching with nervous concern.

  ‘Why would my dogs have done all this?’

  ‘I doubt if they did.’

  ‘But there are no wounds on the dead except for teeth. My dogs turned against my clan and family, killed them, savaged them … Some died in the attack, but most seem to have escaped. Only these two survived and stayed, and not for long. Look at them: aware of their crime, terrified. Their heads will give me a certain satisfaction. I’ll burn their carcasses to Belenos and ask for a vision of what happened here, and where I can find the other bodies.’

  ‘No dogs did all this, Urtha. No pack of dogs, wolves or wildcat. Spare the hounds.’

  ‘I can’t. I once had twelve brilliant hounds. I would have given my left hand to save any one of them. They have turned against me. These two even tried to drive us back from the river. They’re killers, I’m convinced of it.’

  He sounded like a man talking himself into believing the impossible. He needed a focus for the killing blow that might alleviate some of his anger, though not his distress.

  Then a thought occurred to him. Angry eyes held my gaze for a moment before he asked me for the favour that I had already been considering.

  ‘Merlin … you took Jason to Skogen’s sanctuary and showed him his past, the truth of his past. Can you show me what happened here? Would that sorcery be too … difficult for you? I know it will cost you. I’ll pay you back in any way I can.’

  ‘I showed Jason the truth of something he himself had experienced and been blinded to. The magic came from his own mind. I can’t do the same for you. You weren’t here when your son was killed.’

  He seemed crestfallen, but accepted my words. I probably could have seen through time for him, but I was more than reluctant to endure the age that would creep into my skin and bones. Such sorcery, as he called it, must be rationed with the greatest care.

  ‘Never mind, then. We’ll find the truth another way.’

  There was one way I might be able to gain a clue as to his family’s fate, however. By dreaming. I told him this, adding, ‘In the meantime, spare those hounds. As for payment, put it from your mind. I believe we’ll be together, on Argo’s benches, for a long time to come. Favours will flow back and forth.’

  * * *

  It was a bright night and I could see the river in the far distance, a moonsilver gleam winding through the woods and round the hill. I always like to dream by rivers, especially in the embracing reach of an elderly elm or whispering beech. So I took a torch and left the fort, turning away from where Argo was moored, following the path that Urtha had told me led to Herne’s Grove, close to a stream that led to the river itself. I had no difficulty finding it; the grove was edged with statues, indistinctly carved, and centred with grey stones. Among the trees were small mounds, the burial places of Urtha’s kin.

  I planted the torch, curled up against a trunk and summoned sleep.

  * * *

  Shouting … angry shouting, and the sound of women crying …

  Dawn breaks, and a fresh wind begins to blow across the open land …

  After a while the land changes colour and complexion; this is winter. The river runs hard and strong; the wind grows keener, an easterly, smelling of the coming snow …

  Riders suddenly spill from the main gates of the hill fort, thirty or so, their horses laden with leather packs and weaponry. The shouting and wailing continues. Children chase the riders, throwing stones at them long after they are out of range. The men enter the forest, heading towards the river, leaving confusion and alarm behind them, older men in conference, women talking animatedly, youths fetching weapons and piling them at the gates.

  They are the uthiin. They are abandoning the fort. The war band, Urtha’s guardians of his home and family in his absence, are deserting their post. Urtha’s realm is exposed and vulnerable …

  Why have they done this? Why have they betrayed their king?

  * * *

  I woke suddenly to the presence of a face close to mine. It was Niiv, breathing on me, peering at me curiously. She was beautiful in the light of the torch, but startled me so much that I almost struck at her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she whispered, as if the grove might be listening.

  ‘Dreaming,’ I said. ‘And you interrupted me. I was trying to see the reason for something, but you’ve broken the charm.’

  She was suddenly excited. ‘Let me dream with you. Please? Let me share the dream?’

  ‘No! That’s a dangerous thing to do. You must always protect your own charm. Didn’t your father teach you that at least?’

  ‘You don’t trust me.’

  ‘That’s right. I
don’t trust you. I wouldn’t trust anyone who didn’t guard their dreaming sight. Now go away, Niiv. I’m trying to help Urtha.’

  She sulked and sat back, hunched up on the ground, pale face motionless as she stared at me. I had been trying to discover the reason for the uthiin’s leaving, but I’d failed. Nevertheless, I’d sensed the approach of danger and I wanted to go back, to watch what happened next.

  I set up a simple defence against the girl’s curiosity, then called back the dream.

  * * *

  Niiv had gone when I came back again to the world of night and the grove. I could hear voices, men approaching, and see the flare of torches. Dazed and confused, I stood and went to meet Urtha and the others, as they carried the shrouded body of Urien to this sanctuary, to bury him among the trees, in a shallow grave below a cairn of white stones. It was a sad little ceremony, and when it was over Urtha sought me out.

  I told him what I’d seen clearly, the desertion of his horsemen; but I couldn’t make sense of what had followed.

  * * *

  The raiding band approached from the forested valleys to the west. They came in the dead of night, below black storm clouds, visible at first only as torches. The horses thundered across the open land towards the poorly guarded gates. I had struggled to see their shapes in the night, but only streaming fire was visible. There was enchantment at work here. I could see neither shape or face of these riders, nor their horses. The sound was loud, the effect was devastating, but all was invisible to me.

  The hounds behind the high walls were going mad, bounding in a great circle, led by the largest and oldest of the pack. Urtha’s people had run to the walls, some with sling and shot, some with bow and arrow, most with no more than a handful of iron-tipped lances. They too set up a shout, a defiant roar, a scream of rage, rattling iron on iron to make a clatter that might have discouraged a skirmishing band, but not this ghostly host.

  The torches flowed up the hill. The gates to the fort opened as if rammed. The desperate defenders scattered, fighting against men whom they could see but I, in my dream, could not.

  A few minutes later, the hounds turned against their masters.

  It happened so quickly that for a moment I didn’t recognise the way they had been transformed. They stopped in their mad, circular flight, ears pricked, tongues lolling, all staring in the same direction, as if they’d been summoned. Then they turned, spread out like silent hunters, and leapt for their fleeing prey. I saw one woman dragging a boy and girl with her, screaming in terror and anger as two of the mastiffs bounded after her. Torches followed the hounds. This small party disappeared into the darkness towards the river, towards Herne’s Grove.

  There was mayhem in the king’s hall. I guessed the boy, there, was fighting for his life.

  A moment later, it had all gone quiet.

  The torches streamed from the stronghold. As suddenly as the attack had come, so it had ended. Again I heard horses, and the cries of the wild riders; but enchantment still blinded my eyes.

  * * *

  Urtha had listened in silence to my brief and strange account. He was thoughtful and weary, as if he had expected no more than what he’d heard. I was tired and itching, and needed food. It was well after midnight. We went back to the fort and huddled in a morose group in the uthiin lodge.

  Urtha said quietly, ‘You know: I went to that cold place … Pohjola. That lake … because I was told I would find an answer to my fears for this land. But my leaving it was the answer.’

  He was inconsolable for the moment, and I left him alone.

  Shortly after dawn, the ram’s horn sounded three times from Argo, a summons to the ship. Urtha and I went up to the ramparts by the main gate. Rubobostes was cantering towards us. Ruvio seemed fully fit again. The Dacian dismounted at the foot of the hill and shouted up to us. An old man had arrived on the other side of the river, he told us, and was calling for Urtha; he had a bow and some fearsome arrows and was threatening to kill any man who swam across to him before he was ready.

  ‘What did this man look like?’

  The Dacian elaborately described the patterns of green and blue that covered the left cheek and left arm of the man; and that his scalp was shaved except for a topknot of whitened hair that stuck up like the stalk of a mushroom and flowed down like the mane of a horse; that he was missing two fingers, one from each hand, but none that would affect his archery.

  ‘Ambaros!’ Urtha breathed. ‘Aylamunda’s father. The canny old wolf! He survived this slaughter. But how much did he fight?’

  He called the question down to the Dacian.

  ‘From the look of him,’ Rubobostes shouted back pointedly, ‘and from the unhealed scars on his arm and neck … quite a lot.’

  He turned and rode back to the ship, to continue his guard, the rest of us following on foot, all except Elkavar, who stayed in the fort to play and sing for the dead.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Desertion of the Land

  The man waiting for us on the other side of the river was dressed and equipped for single combat. Five thin lances were stuck in the ground beside him, blades upwards; two shields, one round one oval, leaned against each other; an axe with a double blade rested at his right foot and a sheathed sword at his left. He stood, arms folded, facing the jetty. His feet were bare and painted black. His face was shaven down to a grey stubble, his eyes hard, his grey hair tied in a horse tail, rising vertically from the crown and flowing round his shoulders. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket and green and red striped trousers, bound at the waist with a twisted rope.

  ‘Well, Urtha, have you returned in triumph?’ shouted this ageing apparition as Urtha stepped into the reedy shallows on our side of the water. ‘Have you come back with Ignorion’s cauldron, from which our first kings feasted?’

  ‘No, I’ve not come back with that.’

  ‘Or Llug’s lance, which once thrown will not fall to the ground until it has pierced seven of the enemy? Or his cloak pin which can sheer the heads from oaks if cast in the right way?’

  ‘No, I’ve come home with none of that.’

  ‘Then have you found and killed the first of all bristle-backed hog-boars, twice the height of a man, with the failed hunters of his past still bound to his flanks with their own rope snares? You bragged of doing it! Have you got his razor and his tusks?’

  ‘No, father. I’ve come home with none of that. Though not for want of looking on the way.’

  ‘Then have you come home with Diadara’s silver shield, through which we can watch not just our fathers but our unborn children hunt in the Land of the Shadows of Heroes? That, after all, is what you went in search of. For the vision of your future kingdom.’

  ‘No. I’ve not come home with it. I was falsely advised.’

  ‘Then have you at least come home with wonders to tell your children, and tales to excite your uthiin and their brothers? Tales of adventure that will silence even the noisy dead from Ghostland on the night of wild winter?’

  ‘No. I’ve come home with none of that either.’

  ‘Nearly a year,’ the old man shouted, ‘nearly a year, Urtha. For none of that.’

  ‘I followed a dream that was false,’ Urtha shouted back. ‘I’ve returned to a nightmare.’ Then he softened. ‘But I’m glad to see you, at least.’

  ‘For my part, Urtha, I’ll have none of that!’ cried our challenger, snatching a spear from the ground and jabbing its blunt shaft towards Urtha in admonition. ‘You should have been here. You had no business deserting your fine fortress on the word of a dream. Terrible sons grow into men and can learn. Lost shields stay lost! You should have stayed!’

  ‘I accept that. And my loss is all the greater for it. I’m glad to see you, Ambaros. But if it’s a fight you want, a vengeance fight, then we should move to the shallows, below the hill.’

  Ambaros was silent for a long while. Then he raised his left arm. Two raw cuts, still healing, circled the flesh between shoulder and elbow. Urtha
sighed, seemed to stoop a little, then whispered to me grimly, ‘They’re grieving wounds. One for his wife, Rhion; one for his daughter … Aylamunda. My Aylamunda, Merlin. She’s dead, too, along with Urien. But I suppose I knew that. So: my wife and son. And surely now there is no hope for little Munda and wild-haired Kymon.’

  He called across the water: ‘I would rather save my fury for their killers than for you. The choice is yours, father. For myself, I would rather grieve.’

  ‘You will certainly do that,’ his bond-father acknowledged. He was silent for a long time, staring at Urtha. Then he said, ‘But not to the extent you imagine. Come across the river. Bring your friends. Cross at the shallows.’

  ‘Is this to fight?’ Urtha shouted. ‘Because if it is, I’ll come alone.’

  Ambaros looked at him long and hard, then shook his head. ‘No. Not to fight. Not yet. And not between you and me. But save your blood, Urtha. You’ll need it in the time to come.’

  The old man gathered up his spears and shields, slung them over his back and paced off through the drooping, pale green fronds of the willows towards the place where the river surged white and fierce over the black stones of the shallows.

  Urtha and Ambaros met in mid-stream and embraced. I was introduced, then Niiv, who was still staying close to me, then Jason. The two grizzle-beards eyed each other cautiously, exchanging the merest of courtesies.

  ‘That’s a restless ship you’ve sailed up the river,’ Ambaros volunteered. ‘She aches to be away from here. And a strange ship, though why that surprises me I can’t imagine. The world has gone more than strange in the last little while.’

  ‘She’s Argo. I built her with my own hands,’ Jason lied. ‘In Pagasae, the harbour of Iolkos.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘South of here, on the warmest sea you can imagine. In Greek Land, as you people call it.’

  ‘And you built her with your own hands…’

  ‘And then rebuilt her by the light of the North Star, with the help of your son-in-law and this man here,’ he waved in my direction, ‘with frozen timber, and ice instead of bronze. But she still smells the wines of Makedon and the olives of Achaea, which is why she’s restless.’