Celtika (17 page)

Cucallos and Borovos immediately returned to Argo and put on their colourful battle dress, keening their swords and selecting light throwing javelins. They came quickly back to land, followed by Manandoun, also armoured, and Tairon, whose dark eyes glittered from his face-clinging bronze helmet. Borovos tossed me a javelin. ‘Come too, will you, Merlin?’

We ran quickly through the gates and along the forest track. Silent eyes watched us from the undergrowth, as Tairon had discovered, and at one moment Cucallos again stopped and sighed in bewilderment. The youthful features of his brother watched him from below its horse-crested helmet. These statues, too, like those at the shore, were down on one knee, spear and shield held at the ready.

It was clear to me that these strange carvings had a great significance for Cucallos and Borovos. I’d seen that each man had streaked his face with a red dye, and imagined this was a sign of mourning. They’d intuited what they were going to discover.

The village sprawled out before us, silent, not even the grunt of a pig disturbing the stillness. Beyond it the land rose towards the high banks and heavy walls of the fort on the hill where Vortingoros held court. There was no sparkle of metal from those walls, however, no flutter of banners, no wild galloping of horsemen along the winding road that came down from its massive gates to the river.

We divided into three groups. Tairon and myself explored the deserted village, while, with Rubobostes’ horse slightly lame after the crossing, Borovos and Manandoun made the long run to the hill. Cucallos went alone, deeper into the forest, to search the oak groves and the rock sanctuary of Maganodons, the god to whom this tribe turned for protection.

The houses had become rat’s nests. They had been abandoned at least a month ago, though there was no sign of pillage or destruction. Wildcats and wolves had probably taken the chickens, and there were signs that pigs had escaped their pens and were no doubt foraging in the woods. There was no armour or weaponry to be seen, but hoes, spades and ploughshares were scattered around.

Tairon and I returned to the jetty to wait for the others. Jason was impatient to row on, to get to Urtha’s land. We were now heading
away
from the warm south where Orgetorix was to be found, and Jason hated delay.

Urtha was impatient too. I found him in a brooding, anxious frame of mind, wandering through the woods, close to the river.

‘There is something very out of place here, Merlin. Not just these strange statues. I almost dread to say the word. I’ll know for certain when I get back to my own hill.’

He was staring at one of the mossy effigies, this one of an older man, long-bearded, brooding-eyed, the jaws of the wood torque around his neck carved in the shape of snarling wolves. ‘I knew this man well,’ he said. ‘He fostered me for seven years. But is this
him?
Or the shell that now contains his ghost? Or just a memory of a man who has been taken from the world? This place has been deserted. But what sort of energy does it take to carve an image of each man who has gone? Too much for the men themselves. There is only one thing that can have caused this.’

He refused to say more. He seemed almost terrified by what he was thinking. And for the moment at least, I did not see exactly what was there before my eyes. I left him to his business.

Borovos and Manandoun returned later in the day. The fortress was deserted too, no sign of life, no sign of violence, just empty houses and an empty royal hall, still laid out with what looked to have been a feast for a large party, though the food had long since been scavenged.

Cucallos didn’t return from the groves, however, and as dusk grew deeper so Urtha’s spirits fell lower. He was now desperate to get to his own land. Hot-tempered Borovos became almost frenzied with concern, and it was all Jason could do to keep him from running after his friend and cousin. We sounded the horn and Urtha called in his war-voice, a terrifying sound that alarmed Ruvio, grazing on the bank, more than our icy and violent departure from Pohjola. There was no answering call or cry and suddenly, when night had fallen, Borovos struck a torch and went ashore.

‘I have to find him. I have to know what’s happened here. Can you wait a while longer?’

‘Until dawn,’ Jason agreed. ‘After that, we’ll strike up river. But we’ll stop on the way back in a few days and call for you again.’

Borovos nodded his thanks, then turned and trotted through the gate, a forlorn figure in his cousin’s cowled cloak, disappearing into the gloom.

He had not returned by sunrise. Jason blew the horn five times, five long blasts separated by long silences. When no sound came back, when there was still no sign of the two men after the fifth blast, we hauled up the stone anchor, cast off from the jetty and rowed on in silence towards our destination.

CHAPTER TEN

Earthworks

A tight bend in the river, flanked on each bank by rows of tall, grey stones painted with Sun Wheels, labyrinthine spirals and the images of lean, leaping horses, marked the beginning of Urtha’s tribal land in the territory of the Cornovidi. Willows crowded the water’s edge for a while, then the stream widened and became shallow. Argo dragged slightly in the weeds. Urtha urged us on, searching the woodland around us for any sign of life. There was an uncanny silence in this early summer, and a growing sense of apprehension among the crew.

Another bend, then Tairon, on the steering oar, pointed ahead of us in surprise. We turned on our benches to see the looming shape of ‘Brigga’s Oak’, standing high above the drooping willows, hung with ragged cloaks and rusting iron, old swords and broken shields, slung from the branches in offering to the river. The woodland opened beside it, showing the road inland. The blackened, burned remains of a landing stage were half submerged in the water. On the bank, two magnificent mastiffs stood by the charred timbers, watching our approach in silence.

Then one began to bark, the other joining in, a tremendous row, teeth bared, eyes wide.

‘Maglerd! Gelard!’ Urtha cried. ‘My hounds. My beautiful hounds! What’s happened to you?’

We up-oared and dropped anchor and Tairon expertly used the steering board to turn the prow into the shore, catching it on the gravel bed. The landing ramp was dropped, just short of the bank, and Urtha crossed it, wading ashore. The dogs came at him, snarling in fury, the larger bowling him over and trying to reach his neck. Urtha was shouting the same name over and over—‘Maglerd! Maglerd!’ The muzzle drew back; the creature stood astride the fallen man, staring down at him; its companion growled, dropping to a low crouch, sneaking forward from the side.

Again the name, gentler now, and Urtha reached out a hand to touch the chin of the maddened hound. The beast drew back, crouching like its companion. Urtha slowly stood, holding his left arm where the teeth had broken skin. He leaned down, reaching out, and the two dogs went wild again, running at him then shrinking back, heads low, their voices more of a whine. After a while the bigger came to its master, let him pat its flanks.

I could hear Urtha whispering, ‘What is it? Gelard … Maglerd … What have you done? Why are you behaving like this? Who gave you these scars? Where are my other fine hounds?’

Then he called to Manandoun and Cathabach, and to me. I followed the men to the shore. One of them tossed Urtha’s pack to him, then they started to put on their battle dress.

Urtha beckoned me over and I approached the panting hounds carefully. ‘Look at this,’ he said, lifting the black fur on Maglerd’s back. I saw terrible scars.

‘This is sword, and this too. This is a spear. And look…’ he touched the crusted stub of an arrow shaft in the dog’s haunch. ‘The other is the same. They put up a good fight; but who were they fighting?’ He rose to his feet, then looked at me with a young man’s dread of what he might discover. ‘And what have I lost?’

‘We’d better go and find out.’

‘But arm yourself, Merlin. Take a spear.’ I noticed that his hands were shaking. His mouth, below his heavy moustache, had gone quite dry. I could hear the fear in his voice.

Now he stripped off his shirt and pinned his short, grey cloak at his bare right shoulder, leaving his sword arm free. He drew a bronze torque from his pack and squeezed it round his neck, the two hound’s-heads facing each other across his throat. He hung his scabbard round his neck, the blade swiftly sharpened. His men had dressed in the same fashion. Then each of them in turn went to the river, scooped up a little mud and smeared one side of their faces. As they did this, so they whispered words to the water.

This ritual complete, we left Rubobostes, Tairon, Michovar and his men and the Cymbrii to guard Argo, since the ship was a prize and Jason was distrustful of the apparent ‘silence’ all around. The rest of us took our weapons and followed the broad track through the woodland until we emerged on to a thin strip of open land, staring across the distance at the stark rise of the vast hill fortification that was Urtha’s home and seat of his tribal kingdom.

Enormous, steep embankments wound around the hill, high palisade walls of dark oak rising rank upon rank to the highest wall of all, where tall watch-towers seemed to drift against the clouds. There were five gates along the winding approach between the earthen banks, the first capped by twin bull skulls, the second with the interlocking antlers of fifteen-summer stags, the third with wolves leering from their bones, the fourth with human skulls grinning from hollows carved from elmwood columns, the fifth with the long-bones of two horses, tied in bundles, wrapped in horse-hide and topped with the red-painted skulls of Urtha’s favourite war-steeds. They had pulled his chariot in raids and carried his children in fun. On their deaths, in combat against Nervii raiders from across the sea, Urtha had elevated them to the highest rank of totem in his clan.

Long before we had reached this final gate, we knew the fortress had been pillaged and abandoned. It was silent, clearly deserted, and two of the gate-towers had been burned. There were no cattle or sheep grazing between the banks, nor dogs chasing them. And on the clear air there was the taint of corrupted flesh. The wind that gusted between the earthworks, as we ascended the steep road, seemed to breathe at us from the grave.

A while later, Urtha and his
uthiin
stood among the ruins of their lives.

Manandoun shouted with anger as he emerged from the
uthiin
’s long hall, where he and Cathabach, unmarried men, were stationed.

‘No weapons, no corpses! Were they even here?’

But there had been slaughter. We all found the grim traces as we searched the streets and houses, the stables and forges. We found remains scattered everywhere, even in ditches near the western gate, where the hill dropped towards the deeper, forested valleys that led towards forbidden lands.

And there were the bodies of several hounds, two of Urtha’s among them, their shrinking maws still caked in blood, but killed by spears. They lay near the main gate, crow-pecked and stinking. They made a dreadful sight.

The worst sight was to come. Urtha finally entered the king’s hall, his own home, and after a long while called for me. I followed him into the long, gloomy house. It, too, had been ransacked, little remaining that hadn’t been smashed, woollen hangings ripped, jars and vessels spilled and broken. The air was putrid with corruption.

In a stream of light, where the wall had been broken through, Urtha was crouching over the body of a mastiff.

‘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.