The Age of Scorpio

17. Northern Britain, a Long Time Ago

They came out of the plains in the west, warriors who slept in mounds next to the rotting bones of their ancestors. The peoples from the lands surrounding theirs sacrificed food to them so they wouldn’t be dragged down to Annwn, the land of the dead. Riding or running tirelessly, they headed north-east and then turned south.

Their keening drove the animals before them. Prey fell quickly, slaughtered and partially consumed, their blood splattering limed faces. The lucky people in their path made it to the hill forts. Those less lucky died quickly; the Corpse People didn’t have time for anything else. All those in the hill forts could do was watch from the palisades as the Corpse People left a landscape spotted with carcasses behind them.

On the isles of madness, the wretched and the broken-minded ignored the exhortations of their priests and made their way to the water’s edge. They could hear her sleeping song. The Corpse People stopped at the top of the hill overlooking the isles. Still, silent, they truly thought themselves dead. Animals were caught in the spell of the Mother’s song. They ran towards her, into the marsh, into the water, into her slithering, somnambulant grasp.

There had been a battle here. The fort was on a high promontory that overlooked the entrance to the harbour. The fort showed signs of extensive damage. Britha reckoned it had been the giants who had done most of the damage by pulling down the timber-latticed, dry-stone walls. Parts of the rock beneath the fort’s walls were blackened and scorched – by burning oil, the ban draoi reckoned.

It looked like the Goddodin had made their stand there. Judging by the dead being fed on by crab and seagull in the harbour, they had fought hard. The fact that tattooed, moustached, shaven-headed warriors still prowled the fort’s palisade walls suggested they had succeeded in fighting Bress’s forces off.

‘It’s not that they couldn’t do it,’ Fachtna said. ‘I reckon they just didn’t think taking the fort was worth the time.’

Britha turned to look at the warrior. The sight of the wry smile on his face further angered her. She was still less than happy after his so-called boat skills and instinctive understanding of the Black River had all but got them swept out to sea. The three of them had had to paddle so hard that Britha had felt her arms were close to coming off. She wasn’t sure where she had found the reserves to carry on, but by the time they made it to shore, too tired to beat Fachtna with the butt of her spear, she was sure that she had significantly lost weight and she had been ravenously hungry again.

At the back of her mind Britha wondered if it hadn’t been Fachtna’s doing; perhaps the sea god of the Goddodin had carried them out to sea. She preferred to blame Fachtna, however. Being swept out into the fog-shrouded choppy sea had scared her. There was nothing you could do against the sea.

They had walked down the coast looking for horses to steal but had found only devastated or abandoned fishing villages. Even without horses, Teardrop and Fachtna had set an exhausting pace.

It was the kneelers that were making her angry, many of them naked, some of them with the blue-scaled tattoos of Goddodin warriors. Those that were clothed wore white. They lined the shore of the small bay on all fours, swaying from side to side, singing in some non-language that she didn’t understand but found deeply unnerving.

‘Look at their throats,’ Teardrop said. They were standing among them. So far they had been ignored. The kneelers all looked deformed in the same way, as if their mouths and throats had had to change to make the words of the strange keening chant. Britha wasn’t sure why and hated the thought, but somehow they reminded her of Cliodna.

‘Is this Bress’s doing?’ Fachtna asked. ‘Do they worship a new god?’

‘This looks more like a sickness,’ Teardrop said, distaste and more than a little worry evident in his voice. ‘If Bress is the cause, I don’t think he knew or meant to do this. People are frightened when they witness such power, and there is little they can do about it.’

‘Aye, people follow power,’ Fachtna said, nodding in agreement.

Britha spat and kicked one of them over. The thin elderly man looked up at her, his eyes managing to look both dead and ecstatic.

‘How can people live so weak?’ she demanded to no one in particular except perhaps the spirits of the air.

‘They won’t. Look,’ Fachtna said, pointing to the promontory cliffs. Some of the kneelers were clambering up to the scorched rocks where the palisade had been destroyed. Britha shaded her eyes from the bright sun and watched.

‘I knew fire would have worked,’ she said to herself as she looked at the scorched rocks.

The climbers pulled themselves over the rock.

‘All fire does is set them to burning. They wouldn’t have felt it. When they noticed, they would have just dropped back into the water,’ Fachtna told her to her further irritation.

‘If they used the fire oil from the southern traders across the sea, then they would have seen the creature burning under the water. What must they have thought?’ Teardrop said mostly to himself.

By now there were worried-looking spearmen standing in the breach in the palisade wall as the climbers approached.

The keening stopped. The swaying stopped. All eyes were on the climbers now, though all the kneelers remained on all fours.

‘Why won’t you stand up?’ Britha demanded of them. ‘You’re not animals!’ Teardrop laid an arm on her shoulder, shaking his head.

‘They can’t hear you,’ he said.

Britha actually let out a cry of shock despite herself when the first one jumped. Her vision was now so keen that she saw the red splash he made on the sharp rocks just above the waterline.

Teardrop’s face was etched with sadness as he looked down, shaking his head.

Fachtna stared at them, unable to understand what was happening. ‘But he chose to—’

The next climber jumped. Britha turned towards the shoreline, though she had no idea what she was going to do.

‘Stop them!’ she shouted in a language she was pretty sure was theirs. Her voice carried across the harbour but the warriors in the fort gave no indication that they had even heard her. Her hand went to her mouth as the third one hit the rocks, the waves now moving the broken bodies of his two friends.

‘Why—’

‘There is only death or the sickness of the moon,’ a voice said. It sounded strange – somehow gravelly and wet at the same time. She turned to see the emaciated man she had kicked over staring at her. ‘The sickness of the moon is better. It is a blessing from the Dark Man, but some cannot wait. Some want the gifts he offers in our dreams too soon.’

Britha stared at him, trying to marshal her thoughts, thinking about the visions that the demon-tainted flesh she had eaten had given her. She thought of the dark man, the figure of nothing and the feeling that there was something terrible beyond him. She started to feel cold. The emaciated man narrowed his eyes, studying her.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘You’ve felt his touch.’

‘How could you give in like this?’ Britha demanded. She had not liked his words. ‘You have slain yourself, what you are, for dreams. Who willingly allows themself to be conquered?’

The old man shook his head sadly. ‘You can no more fight the moon sickness or death than you can the sea. We followed false gods. Now all of Ynys Prydein belongs to death and madness. Can you not feel it?’ It was the first time she had ever heard of Ynys Prydein. She could not, however, deny that something inside her but not of her was pulling her to the south. The man was smiling at her knowingly. She turned from him and started towards the fort.

Fachtna and Teardrop had built a fire. They were on the shores of the bay trying to keep as far from the kneelers as they could. Fachtna was cooking the last of the salted deer meat, with some wild vegetables that Teardrop had found. They would have to forage and hunt again soon, particularly if they kept eating as much as they had been. That would slow them down more. The black ships and Britha’s people would slip further from them.

Britha was sitting away from them, hugging her knees, not really feeling the cold from the fresh clear windy night. Her spear was next to her on the ground. She was looking up at the hill fort. She could see the flickering glow of fires. There were roundhouses behind the palisade walls. Some of them had been damaged, but the intact ones looked very welcoming to her at the moment.

They had gone up to the hill fort but the Goddodin would not let them in. There had been a shouted conversation through the gate while slingers and warriors with casting spears covered them. Fachtna had not helped by cursing them for cowards who were too afraid to offer hospitality. Teardrop had sent the warrior away.

They’d had the bare bones of it. The black curraghs had come and with them giant demons from the sea. They had landed warriors further up the beach. The giants had climbed the cliffs while the warriors had attacked in a disciplined formation the likes of which the frightened warriors in the hill fort had never seen before. To hear them tell it, they had bravely fought off the Lochlannach, but Britha agreed with Fachtna: had Bress wanted the fort he could have taken it. Still, she had to admit these god-slaves had done better than her and her people, though she saw no Lochlannach bodies.

Without hospitality they had the choice of moving on, though it was growing late, or risking a camp close to the kneelers. Their keening and chanting were an annoyance, and their continued murder of themselves was shocking. A few had tried to speak to them. Britha had become so angry that she had set about them with the haft of her spear until she realised that they would have welcomed death at her hands. When Teardrop had threatened to curse them with everlasting life, they had fled.

‘You wish you were up there, warm?’ Fachtna asked. Britha had only just heard the warrior’s approach. She sighed to herself – she could guess what was coming.

‘I don’t relish the company of cowards and fools who cannot tell friend from foe and break that which should never be broken,’ she said, referring to the law of hospitality, without which there could be no trade, no diplomacy and peace could not be brokered after war. ‘But I would welcome a roof above me and a fire near,’ she conceded. ‘Of course it doesn’t help that your friend looks so strange. Where is he from?’ she asked, not caring but trying to forestall the inevitable.

‘From very far away, like me.’

‘You are from very different people,’ Britha said for want of anything else.

Fachtna nodded but Britha wasn’t looking. ‘I could keep you warm and tell you tales of the Otherworld,’ he said. Neither of them noticed Teardrop over by the fire turn to look at them.

‘No,’ Britha said.

‘You will not lie with me for knowledge?’ Fachtna asked. She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Then it will just have to be for the pleasure of it.’

‘If I was going to lie with someone for power and knowledge, it would be with your friend,’ Britha said, still not looking at Fachtna because she was pretty sure that she would have to hit him if she did. She did not see Teardrop smiling as he turned away from them to look back into the flames. ‘As for pleasure, you already bore me. That is not a good start.’

‘I like a woman with spirit,’ Fachtna said.

And I’d like a man who could sing a different song, Britha thought. She tried not to think about Bress. She was not blind to his evil but there was something there, a sadness that had somehow touched her. And he was beautiful.

Fachtna broke her from her reverie by grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet. ‘Let’s find pleasure together!’

‘Look, I’m sure this works with young landswomen—’

Fachtna covered her mouth with his. Britha was momentarily surprised. Then she felt his tongue against her lips. She opened her mouth.

Fachtna cried out and staggered away from Britha, his mouth bloody. He looked up at her, anger in his eyes. Britha spat his blood into those eyes. Momentarily blinded, Fachtna did not see the punch coming.

His nose felt much harder than she was expecting, but he was from the Otherworld, she reminded herself. She was, however, both surprised and satisfied by the strength of her punch. She heard the crack of the nose giving under her knuckles. The force of the blow picked Fachtna off his feet and he hit the ground by the shoreline hard.

Britha jumped on him. Landing sideways, she jammed a knee into his throat and tore her sickle out of her rope belt. Fachtna was starting to move, to counter, when he felt the blade of the sickle against his nether regions.

‘You are no warrior!’ Britha spat through bloody lips. ‘You are a childling grown large and I have gelded men for less! I lay this geas on you: if you ever touch a woman again without her words of permission, what little manhood you have will shrivel up and roll down the legs of your trews to be eaten by worms from the earth! Do you understand me, boy?!’

Fachtna opened his mouth.

‘That’s enough,’ Teardrop said quietly. Britha turned to look at the swollen-headed man, his skin reminding her of smooth varnished wood. ‘Britha, please.’ Something in his tone made her anger subside. She got to her feet and grabbed her spear, stalking past Teardrop. ‘He would not have—’ Teardrop started.

‘He touches me again, and I’ll cut the fingers off that did it and then the cock that made him want to.’

Fachtna watched her go. Teardrop moved to his prone friend and stood over him, leaning on his staff.

‘She is quite a woman,’ Fachtna said through a mouthful of blood, seemingly ignoring the pain. Teardrop just nodded. ‘I think I’m in love.’

‘You’re not in love. You can’t have her, and that makes you moonstruck.’

‘No, it’s love,’ Fachtna said, relishing the thought of the pursuit.

‘We’ve been friends for a long time now,’ Teardrop said. Fachtna nodded. Teardrop rammed the butt of his staff into Fachtna’s groin.

Fachtna howled in agony.

‘Don’t touch her again,’ Teardrop said, leaning down towards Fachtna as he rolled from side to side clutching his groin.

Britha heard the cry of pain, she suspected everyone in the harbour had. She did not look back but she did smile.

Teardrop stared over at the fort on the promontory. Beyond the gap in the rocks all he could see was darkness, a black sea and a black night. This country had beauty, there was no denying it, but he missed his home. He missed the wide-open plains, the thick woods teaming with game, but after his wife and his four children it was the sun that he missed the most.

He touched his head. He could feel its weight pressing down. He tried to block out what the crystal wanted to show him. It felt like there were thousands of screaming spirits somehow just out of sight, hiding. Those that didn’t scream whispered obscene things to him in impossible tongues. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember the words of the chant. He let it run through his head over and over again. A string of simple syllables but with power, sometimes the words were enough for peace.

‘Are you here because you want to be? Or to anger Fachtna?’ Teardrop asked with his eyes closed.

‘Do you think I care about Fachtna?’

Teardrop thought on the question. ‘No. No, I don’t,’ he conceded. ‘But I think you want something.’

‘I do,’ Britha replied.

Teardrop opened his eyes and turned to look at her. Since he had tasted of her blood and she of the crystal, he could see the demon blood burning inside her, and if he concentrated enough he could make out the thin strand of the Muileartach’s gift as well.

‘I want your power.’

‘Do you not have enough power?’

‘It’s not for me; it’s for my tribe. I will trade for it.’

‘What would you trade?’ Teardrop asked wearily.

‘What do you want?’

‘The secrets of the dryw?’ he asked, going through the motions.

Britha gave this some thought. The knowledge and the magics that had been passed down to her in the groves were secret. There was a powerful prohibition against telling them to outsiders. On the other hand, this man undoubtedly had power. Britha reasoned that she would be able to add what she learned from Teardrop to the power and knowledge of the groves. She was also prepared to face whatever punishment she would incur for betraying them. After all, she had failed her people; she had to do whatever it took to bring them back. Besides, when she had obtained what she wanted of Teardrop, he could always be dealt with.

‘Perhaps,’ she answered. Teardrop turned to look at her. She wasn’t sure what she saw in his face, his strange features were so difficult to read. Sadness, perhaps, disappointment.

‘The secret of woman’s magics?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Britha went cold. That was another matter altogether. Betraying the magic of women to a man was everything the other ban draoi had taught her to guard against. Men were simpler creatures than women and there were just some things they could not and should not know, and if Britha angered the other ban draoi, nobody could wreak vengeance on someone like a woman could. Their magic was darkness, life and blood. They were connected to the moon and the land itself in the same way that men were connected to the sky. The consequences of betraying the dryw would be dire but she feared the ban draoi more.

She moved closer to him, took his free hand and placed it against her groin, and looked him straight in the eyes.

‘That would depend on which secrets you meant.’

Teardrop could feel the heat of her, ever through her robe. Her smell filled his nostrils. He wasn’t blind to her. He felt the stirrings of lust, but that just made him feel further from home. He wondered how much younger than him she was as he wrenched his hand free.

‘A seduction? You would pay for mere power with your body?’

‘It’s my body. I use it how it pleases me. There’s little payment involved it if pleases both of us,’ Britha said fiercely. Sex was an intrinsic part of her rites as well as a pleasure. There were many different reasons for having sex.

Teardrop turned away from her and looked out past the rocks at the darkness. The squirming in his head made the darkness come alive for him. This place was so strange and distant.

‘I have a family, and a wife I miss so much,’ he said.

Britha nodded. She could hear the sadness behind his words. She could also hear the honesty, and it sounded raw to her.

He turned to look at her. ‘And I think your heart – no, not your heart, maybe somewhere lower – wants another.’

Britha blinked at him. She was trying to think what she had said or done to give herself away. Was she under the control of magic? Had Bress done something to her and Teardrop could sense it?

‘We weren’t talking of hearts…’ she started.

‘We were talking of desire. Love Bress or help your people. Trying to do both is folly.’

‘I don’t lo— I have to have that power.’

Teardrop rubbed his eyes. He could feel it moving in his head. At times the pain was close to unbearable. Just after he had joined with it he had screamed and screamed, trying to claw it out with his fingernails. Now he just felt so tired.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. The price is too much. It would consume you. What you think of as you would cease to be.’

‘So who did you use to be?’ she asked.

Teardrop looked back at her, anger in his expression. You told her too much, old man, he thought. You gave her enough to hurt you. There was no triumph in her eyes.

The figure exploded out of the water, crossing the narrow strip of shore on all fours to where they stood. Pale skin in the moonlight as the figure leaped at Britha. Caught completely by surprise, she was carried to the ground, the figure on top of her. Britha was appalled to feel fingers under her robe, on her sex. A mouth on hers, a kiss that tasted of the sea, familiar except for needle-like teeth and the taste of blood and meat.

Teardrop was moving towards them, staff in his hand.

Britha fumbled for the iron-bladed knife in her rope belt. She grabbed her attacker by its long dark hair, yanked it back, and brought her head up and its head down at the same time. Britha’s attacker’s nose crashed into her forehead. There was a satisfying crunch and Britha felt something warm on her head. She stabbed at the figure with the blade but it had rolled away.

Teardrop reached them and raised his staff. Britha was also aware of the sound of someone sprinting towards them along the shore. The attacker leaped high into the air, legs curled tight under its body. Long, thin but powerful pale fingers ending in black claws grabbed the staff in mid-air. Both legs straightened into a double kick that caught Teardrop in the face and chest. He went flying, hitting the ground hard enough to wind him.

The figure landed on the ground just as Fachtna charged, his gently singing silver-bladed sword held high. The figure rolled towards Fachtna with incredible speed, closing the gap, grabbing the surprised warrior and then rolling back, using his momentum to throw him. Fachtna hit the ground face first.

Britha was on her feet, slashing with the knife at her attacker. The figure was bent low, hair covering its face, naked, obviously female. She hissed, backing away from the iron blade. Blood pouring from his face, Fachtna was back on his feet, angry, sword in hand and looking to hurt someone.

Teardrop, more cautiously, was trying to flank their attacker. His jaw hadn’t just been broken, it had been powdered and was hanging loose from his face. He’d heard and felt ribs crack and found himself short of breath. He felt bones grinding together in his chest as they healed rapidly. It hurt. A lot.

The attacker flicked her hair back and Britha saw Cliodna, almost. Britha stepped back, shocked by the changes wrought in her lover’s flesh. Her features were drawn back, angular, predatory. Lips opened to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. The gills on her neck sucked down air. Her body was leaner, there was something about it that made Britha think of a sword or a spear, with spikes of bone sticking out of newly formed fins on her forearms and lower legs, a spur of bone sticking out of each heel. She looked like a weapon now.

Teardrop also took a step back. In a language she was sure she shouldn’t understand, Britha heard him beg a many-faced god for protection. Even Fachtna, as his damaged features rearranged themselves back to their original positions, looked unsure.

‘Teeth and claws, and you won’t look so pretty, sword-slave,’ Cliodna spat at Fachtna. The warrior was ready to attack but his normal arrogance was absent.

‘Is this a festival of rapine?’ Britha demanded, furious at the attempted violation and appalled at what had become of her lover.

‘I wasn’t trying to—’ Fachtna started.

‘Quiet,’ Teardrop told him.

‘You spread your legs for him.’ Cliodna jerked her head at Fachtna. ‘And him!’ She jerked her head at Teardrop.

‘I didn’t!’ Britha protested.

‘Not for want of trying!’

Fachtna spared a moment to glance at Teardrop. Teardrop was aware of it, rather than saw it. That was a future conversation he wasn’t looking forward to.

‘You left me!’ Britha practically screamed, furious at herself for the tears that came unwanted to her eyes. Fachtna, while readying himself to attack Cliodna, was also listening hard to what was being said.

Realisation spread across his face like a sunrise. ‘Oh really?’ he said.

‘Be quiet, Fachtna,’ Teardrop said.

‘And what of Bress?’ Cliodna hissed, her face a mask of malice. Britha felt like she’d been slapped. Both Fachtna and Teardrop turned to look at her. She could feel the judgement in their glares without having to look at them. ‘Just can’t keep your legs closed for the Otherworld, can you?’

‘It would seem that—’ Fachtna started.

‘Fachtna!’ Teardrop shouted.

But that was it for Britha. The words were little more than magics woven to wound. She could see the intent. Anger overcame hurt.

‘What, you spurn me so you can follow me and then throw my actions back in my face? Do what you please. Look what you’ve done to yourself! You are nothing in my eyes.’ Cliodna was not the only one who could weave those magics.

‘You swived Bress?’ Fachtna demanded.

‘No. Now be quiet, boy,’ Britha answered in the voice she used on arrogant warriors. Fachtna’s conditioning to obey whatever passed for the dryw where he came from silenced him.

Cliodna was suddenly in front of Britha. She tried not to flinch, tried to meet her eyes. The black pools that she had once found deep and beautiful now seemed alien and hard.

‘Then why can I smell his stench in here?’ she asked, pointing at Britha’s head. ‘And hear him here?’ She pointed at Britha’s heart.

Britha had no answer for herself, let alone her former lover. Tears were trickling down her cheek now. She flinched as Cliodna moistened her fingertip on the tears. There was something obscene about Cliodna’s long tongue as it protruded between her teeth to lick at the tears, seeming to savour them.

‘You’re a pure-blood servant of the Muileartach, aren’t you?’ Teardrop asked quietly. There was fear in his voice.

‘Not so pure now, witch-boy. Tell me, does it hurt, slowly being eaten from the inside?’

Teardrop swallowed hard but said nothing. Fachtna was resisting the urge to look at his friend.

Cliodna turned to stare at Britha. ‘The Dark Man comes. Water and earth mean nothing. All women must feel the boots of the sky gods on their necks. It has been this way since Marduk struck down Tiamat. Run and hide while you can. I am only a weapon from this time on, nothing more.’

Cliodna turned, practically running on all fours, and leaped into the water, her sleek form making a minimal splash as she disappeared into its blackness.

‘She seemed nice,’ Fachtna said. Teardrop silenced him with a glare and looked at Britha. She turned away from him to wipe her tears. With one eye on the water, Fachtna moved across to her.

‘Look, I know—’ he started as he went to put an arm around her.

The iron-bladed knife was in her hand before he could finish. She opened his face from temple to cheek. Fachtna cried out and staggered back, holding the gash closed as he reached for his sword. Teardrop started towards them. Britha licked his blood off the blade, smearing her mouth red. The singing sword was half out of its scabbard when Teardrop reached Fachtna and grabbed his arm. He looked him in the eye, shaking his head. Fachtna was trying to control his breathing as the wound healed before Britha’s eyes.

There is much rage in him, Britha thought. She found it less than frightening. ‘I have tasted you and found you wanting, boy. Touch me again and I will curse you and your line. After I’ve gelded you.’ She turned and walked away from them.

‘You don’t have any power!’ Fachtna screamed at her.

‘Fachtna, that’s enough,’ Teardrop told the furious warrior.

‘Your power’s a lie! You hear me? Nothing more than a jest!’

Teardrop wrenched the warrior around with surprising strength. He said nothing but the look he gave Fachtna shamed the other man into silence.

She had wanted to hear the sound of wind in the branches of the trees; the sound of the water lapping against the shore just reminded her of Cliodna. Instead she got the moaning sound that the god-slaves made as they appealed to their deity.

She had to lock it away, all of it. Her feelings were too close to the surface, too ready to burst out. Revealing them weakened her in Teardrop and Fachtna’s eyes, and if she meant to use them against Bress, to help her people, then she could not allow that.

Cliodna was gone from her. Driven mad by her apparent mother, the Muileartach. Britha had to accept that she was not the same person and be prepared to fight her. Bress was pretty, and sad, and not like other warlords and warriors, but that was all. His reasons for doing what he did, his enslavement, sounded like weakness to Britha, and she could not hesitate when the time came to kill him.

The only person she could have any interest in was Teardrop, and that was only in terms of ritually taking his power.

These thoughts rampaged angrily through her mind until she used some of the techniques she had been taught in the groves to quieten her head. Britha slipped into a restless unquiet sleep to the sound of people offering themselves to an unnamed god.

She had nestled into a small cleft of earth between some stones. The moon, high and full overhead, shone a path of light across the otherwise dark water. What clouds there were, were little more than wisps. In her sleep she was aware of the light changing. Her eyes flickered to see the silhouette of a tall dark man standing over her, reaching towards her.

Then she woke up. Teardrop stood over her, leaning on his staff. The silhouette of his oddly shaped head was picked out by the light of the moon.

‘I mislike people watching me sleep, and I mislike the kind of man who would do so.’

‘Your sleep looked troubled,’ he said, his face in shadow. Britha sat up, moving errant hair away from her face.

‘Any reason it shouldn’t be? What is it?’

‘Bress?’

‘I am going to kill him,’ she said, and she meant it. Teardrop could read this from her but he could also see the song of her heart and the song of her mind conflicting in her face. However, he was prepared to take her at her word.

‘What did she mean when she asked you how it felt to be eaten?’ Britha demanded, still angry at how she had been woken. It had obviously been meant to put her on the back foot, to intimidate her. An answer was a long time coming.

‘Power consumes you eventually,’ he said, his voice flat, his face still in shadow, making him difficult to read, but she could tell there was more to it than that.

‘That depends on the—’

‘Always.’

There were cries from the fort. Britha caught the look on Teardrop’s face as he turned. He looked troubled. Britha got to her feet, rearranging her robe. Through the break in the cliffs she could see a ship approaching, its prow crashing through the rough white water between the rocks.

Britha grabbed her spear and headed towards the shore. The god-slaves had picked up their pitch. They seemed to feel that the ship was an answer to their prayers.

Even in the darkness and with the distance, Britha found herself able to make out the details of the ship clearly. The vessel was huge and made from planks of wood that looked to have been both painted and varnished. It looked like a southern trading vessel. She knew that the crew would have skin darkened by the hot suns of the south.

She had only seen their like once before, though she had heard stories from others of the Pecht who had dealt with the strange traders from the hot lands far across the seas. She found herself awed by the strange craft. It made the wood and skin boats of her people look so rudimentary and primitive.

The oars had been raised to prevent them from being splintered by the rocks on either side of the narrow entrance. The ship moved only by its gaily coloured sail, though even without the oars it was a close fit for the large vessel.

In the stern of the ship Britha could see hugely muscled men and women in kilts made of bronze-tipped strips of leather, labouring at the huge lever of the ship’s rudder. The navigator looked like those who worked the rudder, but older, gone to seed, though still powerful. He wore a blaidth-like garment but shorter and with no trews, and his footwear was a complicated series of leather straps. His eyelids and the skin around them were painted black, his head shorn, his beard trimmed short. He shouted instructions at the rudder-men and -women. Again, Britha wondered at how she could make out so much from so far away.

All of the crew looked so different to Britha’s tall, pale, hairy people. With skin colours in various dark hues and bizarre clothing and ornamentation, the crew of the ship looked very strange to the ban draoi’s eyes.

‘From your world?’ Britha asked suspiciously as she and Teardrop walked down to the shore. The ram prow of the ship splashed through the water of the harbour, the sinister-looking eyes painted on it disappearing in the white foam.

Teardrop shook his head. ‘Carthaginians, at a guess.’

A large, powerfully built man was holding on to the rail at the front of the ship. He wore a boiled leather jerkin over another blaidth-like piece of clothing. The light brown fur of some beast formed a small cloak. The man’s trews seemed overlarge to Britha. She could also make out the hilts of a sword and dirk on a belt. He had a necklace from the teeth of some mighty beast around his neck and wore a studded leather band on his head. His hair was neatly trimmed to the shoulder except for two long braids. His beard and hair were dyed and lacquered. Part of his face was white, limed, Britha assumed, like some of the southron tribes did. More black dye traced out a pattern across his face, all of it running due to the salt spray. To her eyes the ship’s master looked decadent, his face paint an extravagance that should only have been used for war or ceremony.

The Goddodin in the fort above raced along the stone palisades, keeping pace with the ship. Britha saw braziers placed for fire arrows. She wondered if they had any of the oil left. Would it look like a water- fall of flame pouring down on the ship if they used it? she wondered. It was something she almost wanted to see.

The man was shouting and laughing. He seemed to be by turns exhorting the sea, daring it to do its worst and crying out to a god named Dagon. Britha had no idea how she knew the language, she just did, it seemed.

Next to the master was a wiry man with the darkest skin she had ever seen, a deep rich brown colour. He was nearly as tall as Bress. He was stripped to the waist, though also wearing very large trews and leaning on a long-hafted great axe, the heads of which were two massive crescent-shaped bronze blades.

With a final crash the ship made it through into the natural harbour. The white-clad god-slaves on the shore seemed ecstatic, and were crying their thanks to the Dark Man.

The ship struck its sails. The oars came down to back row and slow the ship down. Stone anchors were slung overboard.

Britha was angrily shoving the god-slaves out of her way. Fachtna was following her, watching the ship manoeuvre closer to the shore. The injuries Britha had given him were gone. The man in the leather jerkin and the face paint was shouting up to the fort in a broken version of the Goddodin’s language, which Britha was still able to understand, assuring them that he was here for trade as he had been before.

‘So you’ll ride your fish woman, you’ll ride Teardrop, you’ll even ride Bress, despite him killing half your people and enslaving the other half, before you’d ride me?’ Fachtna asked.

‘It’s my right, the right of every woman to take their pleasure where they want and with whom they want. And it’s not before, it’s instead of, and frankly I would ride the Cirig’s entire herd of beasties and the wolves in the wood before I got near you.’

‘I’ll have to warn them you’re coming,’ Fachtna told her. Britha turned to face him, her irritation with the Goidel warrior overcoming her fascination with the strange ship and its even stranger crew.

‘Decide what it’s going to take to get you to stop talking to me and decide now.’

Fachtna’s retort was cut off by a ramp being dropped onto the shore from the ship. The master strode down it followed by the tall brown-skinned man, who seemed to be his bodyguard.

The quality of the master’s clothing and his slight paunch marked him as wealthy. His bearing, however, was more that of a warrior than a merchant, but there was a definite intelligence behind his brown eyes.

The emaciated old man, who had spoken to Britha before, approached the ship’s master. Britha again shoved him out of the way, sending him sprawling.

‘This is not a fitting welcome,’ the ship’s master managed in the Goddodin tongue.

‘We speak the language of Carthage,’ Fachtna said. The ship’s master looked thoughtful. His guard, bronze axe at the ready, was studying Teardrop with suspicion.

‘And what would a northern barbarian know of the might and splendour of Carthage?’ the master asked.

‘Enough to recognise its tongue shouted across these waters.’

‘You speak it well.’ The ship’s master looked at Teardrop then back to Fachtna. ‘Did your demon whisper it? Pour it into your ear like honey?’

Britha was confused. ‘We don’t pour honey in ears.’ She was surprised to find herself apparently speaking Carthaginian. ‘We eat it.’

‘And I am no demon,’ Teardrop said.

‘A sorcerer then?’ the brown-skinned guard asked. Teardrop gazed at the man but said nothing. The guard met Teardrop’s look and held it.

‘My friend asked you a question,’ the ship’s master said.

‘I heard,’ Teardrop told him.

‘Who is he to ask it?’ Britha demanded.

‘Where I come from the women let the men speak,’ the Carthaginian answered.

‘Where I come from it is courteous to introduce yourself, and where I come from we geld men for discourtesy. Since we’re closer to where I come from than where you come from, which one of my ways would you like to respect?’ Britha asked. Fachtna was staring at her with a raised eyebrow.

The Carthaginian gave it some thought; the guard shifted, ready to strike.

‘The introduction, I think!’ he finally said, his face splitting into a wide grin.

‘Good choice,’ Fachtna muttered.

Men, Britha thought, shaking her head. Just another pissing contest. Still, at least she seemed to have won.

‘People call me Hanno, or Hanno of Carthage if there are more than one of my name here. My friend here has the honour of being Kush – once a slave, then a gladiator and now a close friend who keeps me safe from my enemies, though I have few of those.’

‘Must you always mention me being a slave once?’ Kush asked, sounding less than happy.

‘It is a great thing to rise from being a slave to a free man!’ Hanno cried.

Kush leaned in towards Britha, Fachtna and Teardrop. It was all Britha could do to stop herself from pulling away from him. ‘I was not a slave for very long, you understand?’ The three of them nodded. ‘And it is an ill thing to keep a slave.’

‘Oh, I agree,’ Fachtna said. Britha couldn’t help but glance down at the white-clad kneelers all around them. Hanno was looking a little uncomfortable.

‘I am Fachtna, a Gael of the line of Mael Duin.’ He stepped forward and grasped Hanno by the arm. The Carthaginian reciprocated. Fachtna turned to Kush but the bodyguard would not relinquish his hold on his axe.

‘He means no offence but he likes always to be ready to use it,’ Hanno said.

Fachtna shrugged, choosing not to take offence, for which both Britha and Teardrop were relieved.

‘I am Teardrop on Fire of the Croatan.’ He moved towards Hanno, offering his hand. Hanno looked to Kush, not taking the proffered arm immediately. Kush studied Teardrop and then Fachtna in turn.

‘I think we walk with gods and demons,’ he finally said.

‘My friend has the nose for this,’ Hanno said.

‘And we will treat you as you treat us,’ Britha told them. Hanno glanced at Kush again, who nodded. Hanno took Teardrop’s arm.

‘And I am Britha, ban draoi of the Cirig,’ Britha said, offering her arm. Hanno regarded it coolly but took it.

‘I do not know this word, ban draoi.’ Hanno admitted.

‘She is priestess, blessed by their gods or touched by their demons,’ Kush said.

Britha turned on him. ‘My power is my own and we do not make ourselves slaves to men or gods,’ she told him angrily.

‘You speak her language?’ Teardrop asked, hoping to ease the tension.

‘Anyone can see what she is for the looking,’ Kush told them. Teardrop was looking at him with interest.

‘You are not with these cravens who cower behind their wall?’ Hanno asked, turning towards the fort. ‘Without even so much the offer of a drink!’ His voice echoed around the harbour.

‘They were attacked,’ Teardrop told them, ‘by black ships.’

Kush and Hanno exchanged another knowing glance.

‘You’ve seen them?’ Britha asked.

Hanno shook his head. ‘Kush here smelled them,’ the Carthaginian said.

‘There was something evil and unnatural on the seas in the south,’ the tall axeman said. ‘We wanted none of it.’

‘We are traders, that is all. We will fight to protect ourselves but…’

‘Only a fool picks a fight with demons,’ Kush finished and looked at Teardrop again.

‘Good luck getting them to come out to trade,’ Fachtna said as he nodded towards the fort.

Hanno spat. ‘I told you we came too far north. There is nothing up here but sharp rocks, cold seas and colder women.’ Britha stared at him. ‘See!’

‘We need passage south,’ Britha said.

‘Aye,’ Fachtna agreed.

Hanno turned to regard them with a calculating expression on his face.

‘Where the demons are?’ Kush demanded.

‘They will be moving faster than you and they are also heading south,’ Teardrop said.

‘The Will of Dagon is one of the fastest—’

‘We know,’ Britha said. She had met merchants before. They were always very proud of their ships.

‘They are demon ships,’ Kush said. ‘Their unnatural power will move faster than even the Will of Dagon.’

‘Take us as far south as your nerve will allow you,’ Britha said. Hanno glared at her. ‘My nerve, woman, was tried in battle when you were still an infant wriggling in your own shit, and not against the likes of the savages you have on your small cold island.’

‘Well argued,’ Britha said, smiling. ‘So you’ll have no problem taking us.’

‘If you can pay,’ he said, crossing his arms.

Britha cursed herself for not taking any of the Cirig’s gold. They had died on the red beach wearing their torcs, silver for the cateran and gold for the mormaer. She had not taken it because she had not earned it. Such gifts were for those who had proved themselves in battle as warriors. When they were defeated they belonged to the victors. The Cirig expected nothing less when they met enemies in battle. That said, these considerations seemed foolish in the face of practical requirements, but if they let their ways go, what was left of them? It was her job to keep, even enforce, their ways no matter how hard or inconvenient it was. She felt shame at wanting to barter away gold and silver bought with skill, strength and blood.

Britha had not noticed Teardrop staring at Fachtna. He sighed and took off a finely wrought silver torc wrapped around his left arm. It was in the style of the Goidel, not as chunky and chain-like as those worn by the Pecht.

‘I will cut off a piece of this for you,’ Fachtna told Hanno.

‘Then you will spoil it for us, as we will soon own all of it if you wish passage south,’ Hanno said.

‘That is a gift worthy of a mighty mormaer,’ Britha said angrily. ‘One that you have not earned with mere trade.’

‘So haughty, walk if you prefer. I’m sure your demons will wait.’

‘This is not a good way to behave,’ Britha told the merchant. ‘You are taking advantage of us.’ People just didn’t act like this; they asked a fair price for the service rendered. They did not steal from you just because they knew you needed what they had to offer.

‘Britha,’ Teardrop said softly. She lapsed into a fuming silence. Fachtna reluctantly gave Hanno the torc.

‘We would also like to seek passage,’ the old man from the kneelers said.

‘All seem to seek the demons this night,’ Hanno said as he turned to the man. ‘But can you pay?’