The Age of Scorpio

23. Southern Britain, a Long Time Ago

‘Why are they here?’ It was unusual for Bress to hear nervousness in Ettin’s voice.’

At Crom Dhubh’s behest. They harvested the crystal,’ Bress said emotionlessly.

‘But then why does the dragon remain?’

‘It feeds from her while poisoning her like a parasite. It wants to ride her corruption when it comes. Besides, it is a little added security.’

‘These primitives are no threat to us.’

‘Some of these primitives have the blood of the gods in them.’

Ettin stared at Bress for a moment, trying to fathom him. ‘Watered down,’ the two-headed creature said, turning away.

‘Not all.’

‘Your woman. The one you spared.’

‘She is not my woman, but she is coming south with two others.’

‘As I said, primitives.’

‘They are from the Eggshell.’

Ettin turned to Bress again. ‘That is a myth.’

Bress could not be bothered to respond. If it was a myth then where had the warrior and the swollen-headed demon come from? He looked at what they had grown. It towered high above the ships and the wading giants. He tried to ignore the smell, the screams. They were allowed to scream now as they were feeding her. He thought of the dragon burrowing into her flesh like a venomous tick and he tried to ignore the feeling that he had just betrayed his entire species.

Dead men writhed on the ground before the fire. They looked like worms, grubs, their movements a mockery of dance. The dead men averted their eyes and cowered as a figure formed in the fire. Formed of flickering black flame, the figure was warped, twisted and difficult to see, as if parts of its shape made no sense. The horses whickered, whinnied and stamped nervously where they had been tethered. It was not the sight and smells of the corpse-studded ground that made them nervous.

Those prostrate on the ground felt the power of this mere shadow of their charnel god. The Dark Man in the flames, Crom Dhubh, the man the witch folk fire-danced with, was just a more powerful messenger of oblivion than they themselves.

‘Carrion warriors, continue to drive the weak before you, take your fill of their flesh and drive the rest to the sacrifice.’

Cadwr was nervous, but the young warrior knew he had led his small part of the warband well. They had ranged along the south-western banks of the river of the Grey Father. They killed those they caught, let the rest flee to be herded to the south by the larger bands led by Ysgawyn. They burned the land and slaughtered the cattle. There would be famine when winter came. Only the dead gods would feast, as would their servants, those who ate the flesh of heroes blessed by the gods themselves.

‘What would you have us do?’

The warped, living black flame turned to look at the young warrior covered in lime and blood.

‘When you meet Ysgawyn, go to the Crown. Slay this Rin; he is old and weak like the blood of the god within him. Bring the rest of his people to my servant, the tall man. I will send beasts from the Otherworld to aid you.’

Britha stood in the darkness just beyond the light of the fire and the circle of lime- and gore-crusted warriors. She knew that simply by being still they would not see her for looking. It was movement that gave away the hidden.

The figure in the fire was making her sick. She could feel it in the air somehow. She felt the violation of the natural order of things, a connection between the living fire and wherever this dark figure actually stood. The Cirig knew that you never looked too hard into a fire as you risked attracting the attention of callous gods who lived in burning places.

As sick as it made her, she felt its call. Was this shadow Bress’s master? she wondered. The figure spoke to the same parts of her that the dreams of Bress did. The dreams were more frequent and intense now. But perhaps it was just the thought of battle that was making her wet.

They were in the northern lands of the Atrebates, the tribe whose king they sought. What the black curraghs had left, the Corpse People had despoiled. Tangwen said that the Corpse People had been one of the many tribes that made up the Durotriges, a confederation of peoples from the far west. They had been expelled from the confederation for their dark practices. They lived on the plain where many of the other tribes placed their dead in barrows or left them for the crows to carry to the Otherworld. The plain bordered Annwn, the land of the dead, and the Corpse People were thought to have strayed too close to that border.

They had been travelling for ten days now. The last Britha had seen of the People of the Snake had been the little girl holding one of Fachtna’s arm torcs. The Will of Dagon had carried them west up the river until Hanno had finally refused to take them further despite there being plenty of loot for the Carthaginians from deserted and destroyed villages. Tangwen had led them on foot from there. The young hunter and warrior had taken them deeper into the ruined landscape. They had gone west first, skirting areas that had been raided, trying to avoid bands of warriors from further north seeking to protect their lands. Then they headed south. Britha did not trust the land here – its flatness seemed unnatural – but she had to admit that before its despoliation it must have been very rich.

‘What have you brought for me?’ the warped figure in the living flame asked. Its inhuman voice made Britha’s skin crawl. Bress must be his slave. This monster must have forced him to drink from the chalice she had seen. She had to push down these thoughts, focus, forget about Bress. All that mattered was her tribe. Regardless of this thing’s hold on Bress and her attraction to him. Bress still had to die.

The boy they brought forward was too terrified to cry. Pale and naked, there were cuts on his head and face where hair and eyebrows had been shaved off. The smile on the face of the warrior who’d asked about Rhi Rin told Britha that he took pleasure from this. She’d seen the look before on the face of blood-drunk warriors and black-robed sacrificers who relished what should have been no more than their duty. The boy shook like a leaf. They were not a strong people, Britha thought.

They made the boy kneel before the fire. Cadwr crawled behind him, averting his eyes. He put the stone blade into the small of the captive’s back. He would destroy the bone there so the boy could not move and then feed him to the fire so the Dark Man could drink the weakling’s suffering. The smiling lime-covered warrior wanted the smell of blood boiling in blackening skin so that Crom Dhubh would know his devotion. He was looking forward to the ragged feel of the rough stone blade tearing through soft skin and hard bone. He savoured the boy’s fear as stone touched flesh.

An arrow grew from Cadwr’s head. He felt the impact. Knew something was wrong.

Across the fire he saw Edern staring at him. Behind Edern the darkness parted, revealing a strange man with skin like wood and a swollen head. Not a man but a demon! The demon had a black knife in his hand. The blade had somehow captured the flames from the fire within it. A red smile appeared on Edern’s neck as the demon drew the blade across limed flesh with no more effort than a man slicing butter. Then the darkness came for Cadwr. Confused that he could die again, he hoped he was travelling to his reward.

Two of their number were dead before the Corpse People even started to reach for spears and swords and climb to their feet. Even hardened warriors who thought themselves dead jumped at the horrible keening noise. Britha seemed to fall from the sky. After all, they hadn’t seen her leap off a nearby moss-covered boulder. Her face contorted as she made fear magics with her voice. She landed behind one of the Corpse People; the head of her spear exploded out of the man’s chest. Part of the haft followed as Britha’s momentum pushed it through and rammed the point into the ground. Rather than try and tear the spear out, Britha pulled her sickle from her belt and turned to face the closest warrior.

Teardrop had insisted that their weapons, including Tangwen’s arrowheads, were first soaked in the blood of either himself, a reluctant Fachtna or Britha. Teardrop had then burned some kind of sweet-smelling plant to make smoke and chanted at the weapons. He said that he was telling them what to do. Britha thought this nonsense. Iron knew how to kill before it was forged. The heat in the pregnant metal of the belly of the forge was just the pain of birth.

The warrior had drawn his sword. The pitted blade shone in the firelight. Southron warriors polished their blades rather than leaving them blue from the forge as they did in the north. He swung the sword two-handed at Britha, who parried, also using both hands, catching the blade in the curve of the sickle. Surprise flashed across the warrior’s face. He had not been expecting Britha to be strong enough to stop the force of his blow.

Behind Britha another of the Corpse People swung a carved stone and bone club at the back of her hooded skull. Fachtna emerged out of the darkness behind him. His angry-sounding, singing, ghost-bladed sword made a cut through the warrior from shoulder to deep in the man’s stomach.

Britha kicked the swordsman back, again surprising him with her strength and staggering him. Then she swung the sickle two-handed up into the warrior’s groin. A long way from dead, he collapsed to the ground clutching his ruined manhood. This time she used his high-pitched screams to cast her fear magics. Her first victim was still sliding down the haft of her spear.

Two warriors charged Fachtna’s back. Two arrows appeared in the back of one, Tangwen firing from the trees, her snake mask high up on her head to give a clear view as she shot. The man hit the ground, sliding in the dirt as Fachtna spun around, lifting his leg over the fallen man. The second warrior had been going for a low strike with his spear, hoping to push it into Fachtna’s bowels. The Gael brought down his leg with incredible speed and stamped on the haft of the spear, splintering it. He swung the large oval shield strapped to his left arm into the charging spearman, lifting him off his feet and then slamming him to the ground. Fachtna pulled the shield up and then drove his sword through the man’s chest and deep into the earth beneath him.

Tangwen sprinted through the woods illuminated by the beams of moonlight the thick branches of the burned trees let through. She kept the flames from the campfire to her left, trying not to look directly at it as she changed position. She knelt down, dropping the two arrows she had already taken from her quiver to the ashen earth next to her. She watched as three warriors advanced on Teardrop, two with spears and one with an axe. The swollen-headed man was holding his own, parrying the spears with his crystal-tipped staff, but the axeman had his weapon held high and was waiting for just the right moment to strike.

It didn’t matter that he had trained as a warrior as well as a shaman. It didn’t matter that he had been in battles before. Whenever he was attacked, Teardrop was always aware that he was fighting for his life. Fachtna never let the thought of defeat enter his mind, so he said, but Teardrop always felt he was one mistake from death. He always felt the rise of panic within him and had to fight not to succumb to it.

The axeman was cagey, biding his moment as the spearmen pressed him. The sound of wood and metal on wood filled the air. Both spearmen thrust at once. Teardrop swept both spearheads to the side but they pushed against the staff, trying to force his guard down. Then the axeman charged.

Tangwen had one of the arrows nocked. She loosed and then grabbed the other arrow, nocked and loosed that before the first arrow had even reached its target.

The arrow caught the axeman in the side of the head with sufficient force that the arrowhead burst out of his skull on the opposite side. The momentum of his charge kept him moving forward even as he collapsed to the ground. Another arrow appeared in the back of the neck of one of the spearmen. He hit the ground before he was aware of what had killed him. The final spearman made the mistake of glancing towards his dead friend. When he looked back at Teardrop he saw the butt of Teardrop’s staff flying towards him.

Tangwen heard the crunch of Teardrop’s staff caving in the final spearman’s face. He turned and raised a hand to her in thanks.

‘Oh, Teardrop!’ Tangwen moaned as one of the lime-covered, gore-streaked Corpse People charged him, sword raised high. Tangwen nocked another arrow but she had her own problems. Three of the enemy were sprinting into the burned forest heading straight for her. How they could see her so well she did not know, and they were running in with the fire directly behind them, which would affect her aim.

Teardrop only just managed to spin out of the way of the swordsman’s blow. He continued to spin in a full circle, and his staff caught the man in the back of his head with sufficient force to lift him off his feet. Teardrop quickly closed with the swordsman as he rolled over. All but standing over him, Teardrop slammed the butt down towards the warrior’s head. The swordsman parried the blow two-handed. Teardrop slammed it down again. The swordsman rolled to the side and then smacked the staff out of the way, knocking Teardrop off balance. The man rolled to his feet and grinned at Teardrop, drooling. Teardrop knew he was outclassed.

Teardrop pointed the staff at the swordsman and called upon the crystal. He felt it creep further into his head. He screamed as it went directly to the pain receptors in the soft matter of his brain. Suddenly he saw things in a different way, in a way that mere humans were not meant to see. He reached out with impossibly long limbs only notionally attached to him and made a tiny change before he snapped back into his own body with its agony-filled mind. The swordsman’s scream drowned out Teardrop’s. It looked as if the hilt of the enemy warrior’s sword had slipped through his hand to fuse itself into the man’s arm. Fighting the pain and the seemingly inexorable advance of the crystal tendrils in his mind, Teardrop spun again, using his staff to sweep the man’s legs out from underneath him. The agonised warrior hit the ground. Teardrop stood over him, raised his staff and put the man out of his misery.

An arrow flew through the fire-blackened wood. It took the first man in the throat. Tangwen loosed the second arrow from a standing position in a hurry. She barely had time to curse as it hit the man in the leg. The third was almost on her. She tried to distract the charging warrior by throwing the bow at him. This gave her time to grab the hatchet from her belt as the man batted the bow to one side and charged. Tangwen had long ago learned the pointlessness of trying to fight much larger opponents head on. As he reached her she sank to one knee and swung her hatchet hard at the side of his knee. She felt the blade bite deep into flesh and hit bone. The man screamed even as his sword sliced into her wood and wicker snake’s head helm and opened the side of her head. She lost hold of the hatchet as the man barrelled into her.

Tangwen found herself lying on the floor fighting pain, nausea and unconsciousness, the side of her head wet, sticky and covered in dirt. She managed to push herself up as the man rolled towards her. She threw herself on him, grabbing the stone dagger from his belt and ramming it into his mouth, breaking teeth and, with a scream, pushing it up into his brain. The corpse bucked under her and then was still. She caught her breath.

The kick caught Tangwen in the side of her chest, picked her up off the body of the man and slammed her into a tree, burned bark crumbling under the impact. Then he was on her, hands around her throat, bestial look on his face as he squeezed the life out of her. It was the one she had shot in the leg. She dimly wondered why he hadn’t run her through with sword or spear. As things got darker, as she lost the fight for breath, as she clawed at him, she was horribly aware of his stench – of decay and the corpses he tried so hard to emulate.

The blade of the sickle dug deep into the warrior’s stomach as Britha wrenched it upwards. His war cry choked out and was replaced by the screams of the eviscerated. Britha yanked the sickle out. She staggered back as another of the Corpse People seemingly appeared out of nowhere, charging her, axe held high. Sidestepping, she fish-hooked the axeman in the face with the sickle and used his momentum to guide him into the fire. There was an explosion of sparks as the screaming man rolled around in the flames, his hair and trews catching fire. It looked like he was writhing around in the shadow of the Dark Man. As if his own god was consuming him. Good, Britha thought.

Wetness sprayed her face and the fingers around her throat fell away. Tangwen opened her eyes and saw Teardrop standing over her. The black-bladed knife he held in his hand was dripping. He raised a foot to kick the now-dead strangler off her.

Fachtna moved the shield rapidly between the blades of the two swordsmen. The shield shook with each impact. A third warrior stabbed at him with a spear. He turned the point with his sword and then swung to counter-attack. The spearman brought the haft of his weapon up to block. The singing sword cut through the wood and sliced the warrior open diagonally from hip to shoulder. Fachtna sidestepped rapidly, knocking the falling man towards the swordsmen. Fachtna bisected one of the warriors’ heads as he tried to move out of the way of his dead companion. As the other one charged him, Fachtna ducked behind his shield and rammed it forward, putting all his force behind it, battering the man’s sword strike out of the way and knocking him back. Fachtna reached around the front of the shield with his sword and slashed the blade across the man’s legs. Flesh just seemed to open up at the touch of the ghostly blade. The man fell into Fachtna’s shield and the Gael braced as he slid down it. Fachtna finished him by running the blade through the back of his neck.

Britha’s blood was up. Breathing hard and covered in blood, she wanted to fight more. Kill more. She looked around. All were still or almost dead, their fight long gone. Disappointed, she let the dripping blade of her sickle hang at her side. The burning man launched himself out of the fire, axe held high. Britha started to turn. Something passed her face, brushing against it. An arrow appeared in the burning axeman’s mouth, and he fell to the ground. Britha became aware of the smell of burning flesh mixed with the coppery tang of blood and the smell of ruptured bowels. She turned and looked into the woods. Tangwen was lowering her bow. The blood that caked the other woman’s face looked black in the moonlight. Teardrop was standing next to her. Britha could make out both perfectly despite the darkness. She nodded to the hunter.

The figure was still there watching them from the fire. ‘I know you,’ it said. Somehow Britha could feel the words in her blood. She did not want to look at the figure. There was something wrong with it. It hurt her head to look. His shape, though the shape of a man, did not make sense at some fundamental level.

‘Get up!’ she snapped at the blood-splattered and terrified boy the Corpse People had been about to sacrifice.

‘You are close to being one of us,’ the figure continued. Impossibly deep, its voice seemed to reverberate inside her. She tried not to stumble. She reached for the boy, who was shaking uncontrollably, and after several attempts she managed to pull him to his feet.

‘You have to go to your people,’ she told him. It was useless. The boy did not understand her words.

‘He has no people,’ the voice said. There was no maliciousness there: it was a simple statement of fact. It earned the figure a glare from Britha despite the nausea-inducing pain that lanced through her head as she did so.

‘Is your power to mock us through the flames?’ she demanded.

‘I have no power. None of us do. Our mistake is to believe that we are something when we are less than nothing.’

‘Crawl on your stomach if you will, but do not try to drag us down there with you,’ Britha shouted.

‘I apologise. I have misled you. I am not talking of my beliefs. This is knowledge, simply a case of understanding my place in things and yours.’

Teardrop was striding towards the fire, the hood of his cloak pulled up.

‘Release my people and you can do what you will. We will trouble you no more.’ Britha sensed and tried to ignore Fachtna glaring at her.

‘I don’t know or care who your people are. I want to know you better. Bress wants to know you better. Death wants to know you better. I can promise you the fulfilment of every desire you have and those you do not know before the end comes.’

Britha tried to suppress the images of Bress that came to her mind, how they made her feel. The Dark Man was there as well, watching, his presence not unwanted.

‘I desire my people released.’

Teardrop stared into the fire. Fachtna joined him, sword in hand. The warrior had put his cloak back on and pulled the hood up.

‘Can you see it?’ Fachtna asked.

‘I see it,’ Teardrop said quietly. Fachtna swung his blade into the fire. There was an explosion of sparks. The figure warped and then was gone. Glowing embers filled the night air. Britha turned to look at the pair.

‘What were you looking for?’ she demanded.

‘A crystal blackened by the fire,’ Teardrop muttered. ‘And you know better than to talk to them.’

‘Not if she’s swiving them,’ Fachtna muttered.

Britha bit back an angry retort. ‘If you saw it,’ she said to Teardrop instead and then pointed at Fachtna, ‘how did he know where to strike?’

Neither of them answered. There was the wet sound of iron hitting flesh and the sound of bones breaking. All of them turned to look at Tangwen as she struck again and again at a corpse. Finally satisfied, she moved on to the next one and repeated the process. Feeling their eyes on her, she looked up. One whole side of her head was covered in blood.

‘We break their bones so when they rise again all they can do is crawl,’ she told them and then sat down hard, holding the side of her head. Teardrop moved quickly to her and knelt down to examine the wound. As far as Britha could make out, the serpent had given some of its people the blood magic, but it was not as strong as hers and certainly not as strong as Teardrop and Fachtna’s.

Fachtna looked out over the trees. They were heading down into a plain where there was little in the way of woods. It looked like many of the trees had been cleared long ago to make way for farmland. Britha had glimpsed the once-fertile plain earlier in the day when they had been in the trees trying to find a way past the patrols of Corpse People. She had never seen anything like the scale of the farming here. It must be able to feed thousands, she had thought.

Far to the south there was a line of hills. She could make them out only because her night sight was suddenly so good. That, and the crown of one of the hills seemed to be on fire, while flames from campfires and torches spotted one of the other nearby hills.

‘Wolves,’ Fachtna said, looking out over the plain. ‘They are the size of lions, white in colour with red feet and maws.’ The warrior did not sound happy. He glanced at the frightened boy.

Teardrop’s head whipped round. He had been making a poultice and dressing for the side of Tangwen’s head. Britha was watching him closely enough to notice that he’d added a silver tear squeezed form the corner of his eye to the dressing. She would have his secrets yet, she thought.

‘From the Otherworld?’ Britha asked, meaning the wolves, still watching Teardrop. White-furred animals with red eyes and maws were known to come from there.

‘At least changed by Otherworldly powers,’ Teardrop muttered. Something in his tone made Britha bristle. It was as if he was trying to appease her somehow.

‘We cannot leave the boy,’ Fachtna said. Teardrop was nodding. Tangwen looked up at Teardrop, an incredulous expression on her face.

‘If he will not go to his people or others that will help him, then he will die,’ Britha said, giving word to Tangwen’s thought. Not for the first time she wondered how comfortable things must be in Fachtna and Teardrop’s Otherworldly home that they could afford to think such things.

‘We may as well kill him ourselves then,’ Fachtna snapped. Their reliance on magic made them soft, Britha decided as she moved over to the swordsman Teardrop had killed. She saw that the sword had embedded itself in the man’s forearm, fusing with the flesh somehow. She glanced over at the swollen-headed sorcerer.

‘It would be a kindness,’ Britha said.

‘He comes with us,’ Fachtna said firmly. He looked to Teardrop for support. Britha could see that Teardrop desperately wanted to agree with him but understood the practicalities of their situation. The boy’s courage was spent. He would be insensate for the foreseeable future. ‘The boy is under my protection,’ Fachtna announced.

Britha decided to make the decision easier for the rest of them. She stalked over to the boy. Fachtna, realising what she was about to do, ran towards her. Britha grabbed the unseeing drooling boy and opened his throat with her sickle.

‘No!’ A heartbeat later Fachtna had yanked her away from the boy. Letting go of her, he grabbed the child, trying to will life back into his body.

‘Are you out of your mind?!’ Britha screamed at him, furious. ‘Laying your hands on a dryw!’

Fachtna was back on his feet, the shimmering, singing ghost sword sliding from its scabbard. His features seethed in fury.

‘No!’ Teardrop shouted, putting as much authority into his voice as he could. He knew his friend well and was certain he would kill Britha. Fachtna hesitated, staring at Britha with unbridled hatred. She met his gaze defiantly. Teardrop could see her own anger at the breaking of the ban on touching a dryw, but it was as nothing compared to the rage that was close to pouring out of Fachtna.

‘Fachtna, please.’ Teardrop poured the magic of reason and old friendship into his words.

‘If we baulk at the first hard decision then we will not succeed,’ Britha told the seething warrior. Teardrop cursed her, wishing she would keep her tongue still behind her teeth.

‘If we become our enemy then we are already lost,’ Teardrop countered calmly. Britha turned to look at him.

‘The boy was weak.’

‘So were you when we first found you,’ Teardrop said.

‘I would have survived.’

‘Not if we’d cut your throat,’ Fachtna spat and turned away into the darkness.

Britha watched him go, trying to mask her contempt. She looked back down at the dead boy. Then what she had done hit her, and she almost retched. Teardrop watched the stricken expression crawl across Britha’s face.

‘It’s getting worse the closer you get, isn’t it?’ he asked as he returned to dressing Tangwen’s head wound. The hunter from the People of the Snake had chosen to remain quiet. She was not sure that she would have done what the ban draoi had done but she had recognised the need for it. If Britha hadn’t killed the boy then he would have been torn apart by wolves or tortured to death by the next band of Corpse People that came through here.

‘I’m not—’ Britha started and then looked from the dead boy back to Teardrop. All the colour had drained from her skin now. ‘For my people…’ she started. They were all that mattered, she thought, but traces of doubt were creeping in.

‘Freeing your people will mean nothing if this madness remains unopposed,’ Teardrop told her as he tried to control the harshness in his voice.

It wasn’t just the responsibility to her people that was making her doubt. A kingdom of desire was not an unattractive idea.

Britha had lapsed into a feverish sleep lying in a wet ditch listening to Fachtna and Tangwen having sex. Fachtna was making most of the noise.

It was like the time that Cliodna had taken her far out into the sea and then pulled her down with her as she had dived deep. After Britha had conquered her fear, once she had understood how much time she had under the water on one deep breath, she had found that she liked it. She had liked looking up at the sun through the water. Except that this was cold and dark and she felt the weight of the water pressing on her. She heard the songs of the mighty fish that Cliodna had claimed were not fish, but their singing was wrong, twisted, as if both pained and malignant somehow. Yet these songs were familiar from long ago. From before she was born, before any of them had been born. It was welcoming in a disconcerting, bordering-on-obscene way, like returning to a once-familiar place after a hideous crime had been committed there. And she burned, Britha burned from within. She felt like she contained the pregnant fire of a forge within her, but the pain and the heat were not unwelcome.

She could go deeper. There was something beneath her through the cold murk of the water, something huge and old.

Britha’s eyes flickered open. She was immediately aware. She was uncomfortable and cold but not to the degree she should be. The normal aches and pains she would expect from spending the night in a cold wet ditch just weren’t present. She knew the wind had changed; she could smell wood smoke on it. She could hear the sound of distant hoof beats. She could smell the metal, leather, wood and sweat of her companions. She had not liked the dream, least of all her response to it.

She could smell the cake made from flour and ground tansy leaves that Tangwen was eating. Britha sat up to look at the other woman. The lean hunter was younger than Britha had first thought, her hair cropped very short. Tangwen realised she was being watched and looked over at Britha.

‘I do not wish to bear his children,’ she said, gesturing with the tansy cake. She turned away from the ban draoi. ‘They would be stupid.’ Britha tried to suppress a smile. All warriors wanted children, well, sons anyway, so part of them would carry on and probably grow up to repeat their father’s short brutish life.

Fachtna was kneeling in the ditch some distance away looking to the south. It was late afternoon, Britha guessed. She had slept a long time and woken ravenous. They had decided that night was the best time to travel, though the Corpse People seemed to fight and patrol as much at night as they did during the day.

‘They have seen more of the white-furred animals from the Otherworld. Teardrop has a potion that helps disguise our scent,’ Tangwen told her quietly. ‘It seems there is little natural left here.’ And it was true. The Corpse People seemed more interested in burning, killing and destroying for the sake of destruction than looting or taking slaves. Crop-rich fields had been burned and even salted in some cases.

Teardrop came crawling along the ditch. Britha risked a peep over the top. The line of hills seemed closer now. Three of the hills were topped with wood-walled forts surrounded by defensive ditches: the Crown of Andraste. Two were besieged; the third had fallen last night. The gentle breeze brought the screams of the defenders of the fallen hill fort, their torturous executions a portent for the other two garrisons.

Teardrop sat down next to her, keeping his head well below the lip of the ditch.

‘What are we doing here?’ Britha asked

‘If we are to fight Bress, we will need help.’

‘Those forts are about to fall; these people cannot help us.’

‘They were strong enough to last this long.’ But Teardrop didn’t sound like he believed it himself. ‘We will see if we can make it to the forts during the night.’

‘And then we will be trapped in there like the defenders until these people break the gates or come over the wall and kill us all.’

‘Do you have a better idea?’ Suddenly an angry Fachtna was right next to her. ‘Can you summon an army of dead heroes to fight with us?’ He was right: she had nothing. ‘It’s very easy to come up with reasons not to act.’

It had started to rain heavily, making the dark night darker and colder. The torches and the campfires were dimmed but did not go out. Fire arrows still left arcs of light in the night sky as they flew into the hill forts. The thatched roof of more than one roundhouse was ablaze behind the forts’ walls. They could hear the cries of the defenders, screams of anger or pain. The attacking Corpse People were strangely quiet, however.

They kept their heads down and approached where they saw the fewest attackers. They were the least of the Corpse People’s problems. After all, who would be stupid enough to join the besieged during a siege? The problem was that the Atrebates inside the walls had no reason to trust them and every reason to think that anyone wanting to gain entrance was part of a ruse.

This was how they found themselves running along the second-innermost defensive ditch. Those Corpse People they had encountered had ignored them, though more than one had glanced in their direction, wondering who the warriors and the dryw not covered in lime were, but then they knew that Crom Dhubh had other allies in the south.

Teardrop skidded to a halt and sank into a crouch. Fachtna stopped and backed towards him, keeping an eye out all around. Tangwen did likewise, an arrow nocked, though she did not like using her bow in the rain.

‘This is pointless,’ Teardrop said. ‘They will not let us in during this.’ Fachtna said nothing. Despite what he had said earlier, he had to agree with Teardrop. Had he been a defender he would not have let them in. ‘We have to retreat, hide and then come back when there is a lull and treat with those inside.’

‘Ware!’ was all Tangwen had time to say. The Corpse warrior did not even cry out as Tangwen’s arrow took him in the chest, the arrowhead easily penetrating his boiled leather breastplate and silencing his heart. The enemy warrior slumped to the ground and slid to the bottom of the ditch in the mud.

Realising that Britha and her companions were not allies, more warriors were running down the muddy slope towards them. Tangwen was nocking, drawing and loosing arrows as quickly as she could. Fachtna raised his shield high and swung his sword low. He took a blow on the shield but the shimmering sword blade sliced through the skin, flesh, muscle and bone of his attackers’ legs. More of the Corpse People charged him. Almost every blow of his sword killed or incapacitated one of them.

Orange flame blossomed to the east where they knew the main gate was. There were shouts of victory and cries from the wounded. The air was rent with the sound of bellowing. Britha recognised the sound. It was the roaring of an angry and pained bear, a large one by the sound of it.

‘The Crown falls!’ Teardrop cried.

Britha grabbed him. ‘Come on!’ Pulling him with her, she started running towards the gate.

They killed any who got too close as they ran, but now all the Corpse People knew they were not friends. Britha had taken an arrow in her arm, but after snapping off the haft she found she was able to ignore the pain. Fachtna was running and killing with a spearhead in his leg and an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. More and more Corpse People, eerily quiet, were turning to attack them, charging down into the ditch. As they ran around a bend they could see the flames from the burning gate. It seemed the fort was about to fall. The defenders and attackers were frenetic violent shadows against the orange glow.

The four skidded to a halt as one of the largest shadows rose up onto its hind legs and roared in pain and fury. Fachtna spat and made the sign against evil. The others just stood and stared. It was the largest bear that Britha had ever seen, fully twenty-five feet tall. Its Otherworldly heritage was obvious in the white of its fur and the red of its eyes, which seemed to glow in the firelight. The red on its paws and maw were more likely from the blood of its victims than signs of Otherworld origins. Parts of its flesh were covered in a crusty, almost spiked, stone-like material, but the most terrifying thing about it were the six animated tendrils that grew out of its back. As they watched, the tendrils dragged screaming defenders from the wall and crushed them, or brought them to the bear’s paws for the creature to tear apart, or offered them to the bear’s maw for its huge teeth to shred. Britha was both frightened and offended by this violation of nature.

Arrows, sling stones and casting spears filled the air, studding the creature’s white fur, but it ignored them as it lumbered on its rear legs towards the gate. Britha was running, a cold anger controlling her movements. She sprinted up to the top of the bank closest to the wooden wall. The track that led to the gate zigzagged between the defensive banks along the ditches that divided them to make it more difficult for attacking forces. The bear was on that track. But on its hind legs it towered about ten feet above the bank that Britha was sprinting along. She was oblivious to the arrows and casting spears from both defenders and attackers flying past her. She was unaware of Fachtna running after her, killing anyone who got close. She was unaware of Tangwen putting arrows into those that Fachtna could not deal with. She was focused on running and whispering to the demon that lived in her spear, feeling its heat through the haft.

Britha leaped with a power she had never known she had. She curled her legs up underneath her as she sailed though the night air and the pouring rain, almost untouched by the hail of spears and arrows. She didn’t even feel the defender’s arrow as it pierced her leg. The bear turned ponderously, some instinct warning it. She screamed as she stabbed the spear two-handed through the creature’s skull. The weapon bit, cracked armoured skull and was forced by nearly inhuman strength into the creature’s brain, where unseen branches of metal shot out from the spearhead. Britha stood for a moment on the creature’s shoulder, then twisted the spear and tore it out in an explosion of gore that spattered her frenzied features. The head of the spear was still waving tendrils of metal, the spearhead slowly reforming to a point. Britha turned and leaped off the bear as it started to topple.

The Corpse People ran as the massive malformed creature toppled to the ground with a resounding thud in an explosion of mud. Britha landed easily on the soft ground, knees bent to take the impact. Teardrop stalked to the top of the second ridge in the knowledge that he had a role to play now. He sent the magic of fear ahead of him through the air despite the cost. The Corpse People recoiled, though he felt the protection that had been given to them by Crom Dhubh.

‘All those who oppose the will of the true gods will die!’ he screamed. Then, steeling himself, almost weeping with expectation of the pain, he closed his eyes. Inside, more of him died as he felt the other burrow deep into what was him and consume it. He saw the other, watched it reach out through places that shouldn’t be, and he watched the changes it made. Too long, too much, too soon. There was too little left of him now. Teardrop hit the ground. In a large semicircle around him the warriors of the Corpse People went down like wheat mown with a sickle. Reshaped bones had burst through flesh, killing them before they’d even had the chance to scream.

Fachtna strode out of the ditch and onto the track. He was heading straight towards the remaining Corpse People.

‘Come and die!’ he screamed. ‘Come and die with me!’ Steam poured off him. He seemed to glow from within. A haze surrounded him, and where he stepped the mud hissed and more steam rose. Britha followed Fachtna, but only as close as the waves of heat would allow her to get. The two of them marched at the transfixed Corpse People backlit by the burning gate. As one the Corpse People took a step back. Any who raised a casting spear or a bow found themself with an arrow sticking out of somewhere vital as Tangwen covered Fachtna and Britha from the shadows.

The Corpse People decided that they were not as ready for death as they thought. They found that there were still things to be afraid of. They turned and ran.

Ysgawyn watched his army, with victory in its grasp, break and run. He could see perfectly in the night from where he stood before the other besieged hill fort. He could see what the two men and the two women had done.

He turned to his second, Gwydyon. The older man was massively built, balding and wore a sheepskin cloak over his limed skin. His body was a patchwork of scar tissue earned from hundreds of hard-won battles and one-to-one challenges. He had been a tribal champion before he had become a leader.

‘I want examples made. We are dead. The dead do not fear the living. If they choose to be afraid again then let them fear me.’ Gwydyon nodded. Ysgawyn knew that Gwydyon would turn enough of the cowards over to the tribe’s most talented torturers to make his point.

‘This is good,’ he said. ‘I had thought all the heroes and those blessed by the gods gone, that we had killed them all, but these are powerful. We will feast on their flesh and steal that power.’

Gwydyon did not answer.