The Exile (16 page)

"Friends," he said, his voice shaky with disuse. "An enemy unlike any we have faced walks amongst us. An enemy-"

"How do you know?" someone called, interrupting him.

"Do you know this? Is it some form of ancient wisdom you discovered?" another heckled.

"Silence!" Gorian barked, levelling a warning finger at the speaker. "I am sorry, Cathbad. These are trying times. Forgive the fools this one interruption. There won't be another, I assure you. Please go on. I for one would know the enemy I face."

Cathbad nodded, shaken by the challenge to his authority. That they mocked him, even now, cut deep, but his words would end their mocking. He took no delight in the knowledge. "My thanks, warlord. As I was saying, we face an enemy far greater in strength and cunning than any we have faced down before. I have used my arts to divine what may be learned from the dead, although I fear it will prove precious little over the coming fight. They are warriors known where they come from as Drunes." He waited a moment, letting his words settle. "They serve the enemy of the Goddess." He knew he had them then. "They give devotion to Carnun, the Horned God himself." A ripple of superstitious fear ran through the watchers as they gasped at the mention of the Horned God. "They are his soldiers."

"Can you be sure?" It was Grudnew, the king - an interruption even Gorian would allow. Cathbad turned to face the king.

"Yes, sire. I have communed with the Goddess and she has shown me their lands, and many of their heathen ways. Their lands were much like ours, once, lush, with plentiful game. They supported livestock and yielded rich harvests but now the soil is sour, crops wither and choke and livestock sickens and dies with barely enough meat on its bones to feed a few mouths. The people, like the land and their livestock, suffer. Villages are dying out, starved by the infertile land, and refugees flock to towns incapable of feeding them."

"A grim picture, druid. What ails the land? Is it these Drunes who somehow make it barren," Grudnew asked. "Or some other?"

"Their masters, the Slough priests, draw the vitality out of the land to feed their purpose, and that of their master, Carnun. What that purpose is, the dead would not reveal, sire. His grip on them is fierce, even in the afterlife."

"You think they seek to turn our lands sour like their own?"

"I fear that they are being forced further and further north in search of fertile earth, my lord. Whether the aim is simply to sour the soil or to leach the essence out of it for some secret task, I know not. I fear not the purpose so much as I do the result. I see fields of dead bones planted like spring crops. I see fat-bellied crows picking over the remains of friend and foe. I see a blood red sky." Cathbad lapsed into silence.

"You have given us much to think about, druid," the king said, "much indeed. What of their grim mien?"

"A mask, my lord, although for what purpose I am not sure. Made of hair, it covered the face of otherwise normal men, making monsters of them."

Grudnew nodded.

"You have done well, druid. There is more to fear in the unknown than there ever is in an enemy named. You have my thanks."

"Did the dead truly speak to you, master?" Dian asked, as they retreated into the quiet sanctity of the nemeton.

"No boy, I have long known of the Drune lords and their vile masters. I just never thought to see their taint spread this far."

"Then why the charade? Surely you could have identified the dead in the field?" Dian was shocked by the idea that the old druid would so willingly stage a performance, making something mystical out of what was a very mundane truth.

"A lesson, my young learner. What is more valuable, the easy truth laid bare or the more difficult truth, hard earned?"

Dian thought about it for a moment. "Their value is the same, they are both the truth."

Cathbad smiled at that. "You're a quick thinker, laddie. I like that. If I were to simply tell you something, how long do you think you would remember it?"

"For as long as possible."

"That is saying nothing. Whereas, if you learned something for yourself, how long then do you think you would remember it? It's like walking, if I tell you to do it, I can describe it as controlled falling over and that won't help you walk, but that is exactly what it is. If you stand and take a step and fall and get back up again and take two more steps you will learn. Agreed? On the other hand, which is more powerful, knowledge handed from father to son, a legacy, or knowledge gifted from the divine?"

"More difficult," Dian conceded. "The divine must surely be the ultimate truth."

"Indeed, so, outside when I said the Goddess had spoken to me?"

"You were claiming the ultimate truth."

"I was indeed." Cathbad nodded.

"Yet Danu did not speak to you?" Dian asked, clearly horrified by the lie.

"She seldom does, but that does not make the wisdom we hold here in the nemeton any less precious does it? If she spoke to our brothers in years past, they are still her words, are they not?"

"They are," Dian said, seeing where Cathbad was leading the conversation.

"So the knowledge handed down can also be the ultimate truth, you see? That is why we gather it and hold it dear, boy. That is why you must study and learn. The Slough priests, the Drunes, the Sourlands are all real. I have known this since I was your age. That is our true power, lad, we know the truth. The rest is performance. That is the only magic of it."

They walked a while in silence, Dian thinking on the old druid's lesson, beginning to understand.

"When did the Goddess speak to you?" he asked later.

"Once, when I was young."

"What did she say?"

"That is a story for a different day."

Ten

Heaven's Gate or Hell's Teeth

Sláine was furious. He wanted nothing more than to break something, and right at that moment that something was the man standing in front of him telling him he was being left behind, again. The fact that it was his king only made it worse. He felt his rage rising. His lip curled into a sneer.

"Listen to me, boy," Grudnew said, gripping him by the shoulders to shake some sense into him. Sláine shook the man's hands off and raised his fist to strike.

The King of the Sessair faced him down, a look trapped between anger at his temerity and sympathy for his pain etched onto Grudnew's face.

He shook his head. "This is why I can't bring you, lad. You're a liability. You're angry. You aren't thinking. If another man raised his hand to me I'd have it cut off. I can't trust you not to do something stupid."

"It's my right!"

"Aye, lad, it is, and I'm taking it away from you. There's no easy way to do this. You're stuck between the Mountain and Crom himself. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. I understand your need for retribution. I truly do, lad, but I cannot put it first. Your anger won't help the others fighting with you, not on this hunt. This one requires a cold heart. We cannot surrender to fury. Most importantly, lad, we cannot let you surrender to your anger. A warp spasm taking you at the sight of Macha's killers could damn every man around you. Would you want that?"

"Why should I care?" Sláine said, petulantly. "Just as long as the skull-swords die miserably, vengeance will be mine. I can live with that."

"Well, I cannot. So, you can either back down and stay home of your own will, or I can have Gorian place you under house arrest. Just know that wasting good men to keep you locked up will no doubt jeopardise what little chance of success the rest of us have of avenging your mother."

Sláine's face twisted. "You hate me so much?"

"I do not hate you, lad. In any other fight I would have no other stand at my side, but in this brutality is not what I need. I need ruthless cunning, stealth, the prowess of the hunter not the strength and brave heart of the warrior. So what will you do?"

"What choice do I have?" Sláine asked.

"I will give you justice, Sláine Mac Roth. You have my word," Grudnew promised.

"Well that makes me feel so much better," Sláine muttered. He turned his back on his king and walked away.

He knew he lost sight of the path to his higher soul in a fog of bitterness and anger. His head swam with a swarm of dark thoughts. Justice demanded an eye for an eye, a cut for a cut, no more, no less. He wanted more than that. The need that coiled around his heart craved it. It wanted to exterminate the skull-swords, every last one of them. It thought of nothing beyond purging Tir-Nan-Og of their taint. Sláine saw visions of himself reaching in and ripping their spines out from their shuddering corpses, cracking their skulls open and playing ballgames with their brains, and taking bites out of their warm hearts while they still beat. He breathed deeply, savouring the vision even as it shattered beneath Grudnew's refusal to allow him his vengeance.

He thought about following them, but knew it wouldn't work. The Red Branch had men capable of picking up the faintest spore. They would know he followed, and what then? Would Grudnew have him beaten? Imprisoned? Exiled? Killed? To defy the king of the Sessair was treasonous and for all the understanding Grudnew spoke of, the man was still king. He would brook no more defiance from him.

It wasn't a foregone conclusion that the trackers would pick up his scent; even dogs lost the scent in water. The answer lay in the River Dôn and its fast flowing current. The mighty river and its white water rapids were not the unbreachable defence Grudnew imagined them to be. Sláine had mastered them once. He could do it again.

He knew that they would be watching him, expecting him to do something reckless, so he walked, pacing every street and alley in Murias, visiting old ghosts. He stood on the corner where Macha had died, looking for her blood in the hard-packed dirt but already the rain had washed it away or the earth itself had leached it up, feeding on her as it would any other nutrient offered up to it. He visited the croft where she told him Roth had first pledged his troth, a stone where she sat him on her knee and told stories of Finn and Llew Silverhand, the legendary heroes of their people. He dug up a handful of dirt and cast it over his shoulder, as any dutiful son in mourning would, mouthing a silent prayer for Macha's soul.

He visited the places she loved, seeing her there even though she was not, and knowing she never would be again. He did everything they would have expected a grieving son to do.

His actions were a charade, but even so he began to hate the game for the emotions it stirred within him. Every new landmark added fuel to the fire that burned inside him. Only vengeance would quench it.

They were buying him time to think, to plan.

He thought about one thing and one thing only: crossing the river and following the hunters.

Dian found him an hour after the scouting party had ridden out.

The young druid was sombre as he settled down beside his friend. The riders had finally disappeared from sight.

"How are you doing?"

"How do you think?" Sláine asked, still staring at the spot where the last of the riders had been just moments ago.

"I think you're planning on doing something stupid. You've got that look on your face."

"That's why I love you, Dian. You know me so well," Sláine said, picking at the dirt with his fingers.

The young druid shook his head. "What are you going to do?"

"You mean apart from the obvious?"

"The obvious being hunting the skull-swords down and killing them, I take it?"

"That would be the obvious, yes," Sláine conceded.

"Don't do it, Sláine, please. Grudnew's been good to you, you know that, but you are putting him in an impossible situation. If you go against him like this he'll never be able to forgive you. He isn't just Grudnew the man, he is King Grudnew. The man might understand your grief but the king cannot countenance such an insult from his warriors. The Red Branch is unquestioningly loyal. He won't be able to forgive you, Sláine."

"He won't have to."

"You're not thinking straight. Just wait, please, for me. Wait.

"The king made you a promise. Give him a chance to honour it."

"You mean sit here and twiddle my thumbs while they chase around like headless chickens without the slightest inkling as to what they are hunting?" Sláine shook his head emphatically. "No. Do you know why?" He didn't wait for his friend to answer. "I'll tell you why. Because I can feel them out there, Dian. I can feel the skull-swords feeding off the Goddess's body. When I dare give my anger its head I can feel all sorts of things crawling across Danu's dirt."

"That is your grief talking."

"No, it isn't. I can feel them. They are parasites. They leach away at the earth power, their poisons feeding back into it, tainting it. Their presence is a canker eating at her flesh. I know that now. I could follow them to the ends of the Land of the Young and beyond if I wanted to. There is nowhere they could hide. All I have to do is surrender to the anger, let the earth power rise within me, and then I would be able to give the Goddess what she wants."

"What does she want?"

"Vengeance," Sláine said.

"That is not Danu's way, my friend," Dian said, sadly.

"You think not? You forget that it is the Morrigan's way, and that she is an aspect of the Goddess. You doubt me? Then tell me why she led me back in time to see my mother die? Why she said it was necessary for me to see it if it wasn't to cut that canker out? Answer me that if you can."

But Dian had no answers.

They sat side by side in silence, each of them thinking about the other's words and the implications they held.

"I want to be alone," Sláine said after what seemed like an age.

Dian studied his friend's face. "Nothing I've said has gotten through, has it? You're still dead set on some stupid crusade of self-destruction."

Sláine looked his friend in the eye. "We've both grown up a lot haven't we? Both changed. There was a time when you would have been the first to raise your fists and fight, now look at you."