The Iron Grail

by Robert Holdstock

  But if tensions were beginning to rise on the beach, shortly after dawn they were dispelled when the low call of a horn droned through the sea fog from the south.

  A slow drum beat and the swish of oars told of a ship pulling cautiously along the coast. Urtha went down to the surf, letting the sluggish waves roll over his boots. Manandoun at his shoulder, he peered hard through the mist. If someone was navigating the channel, they must have a direction finder; the two small boats, with their passengers, might then row in convoy.

  The ship passed them by, the strike of the drum slow and relentless, the creaking of boards and ropes in rhythm with the dip and rise of the oars on the still water. Urtha was about to hail the vessel when one of the villagers stopped him

  ‘They are almost certainly coastal raiders,’ he said urgently. ‘This weather is their preying weather. They count distance by oar strikes. Watch: they’ll pull into the mouth of the river when they’ve navigated the sand flats.’

  Urtha followed along the beach to where the cliffs dropped away and the muddy estuary of the small river was lined with wooden jetties. The drum beat had stopped; only the gentle rush of the waves against the shallow moorings and the reed beds could be heard. The fog shifted, thinning one moment then closing in.

  And the ship appeared, drifting lazily across the mouth of the river, the eyes of the man who stood by the massive figurehead at the stern and the woman who was braced at the high prow looking to the land, searching hard.

  Urtha recognised the ship at once: the narrow, sinister painted eyes on the hull at its prow, the carved image of the Northland’s Forest Lady, Mielikki, the protecting goddess of the vessel, her face leering forward across the deck, her long, straggling hair appearing to blow in a strong wind. Shields of all descriptions were slung from its rails. Ten oars rested gently in the swell on the landward side. A low, sleek, beautiful ship, a ship from another age.

  Argo.

  Urtha met Jason’s gaze, the big man, the dark-bearded man who stood in black cloak and copper-sheened Greek Land helmet below the face of the growling wooden goddess. But Jason appeared not to see him. The woman at the prow, her cloak brightly patterned with gold and crimson chevrons, her hair a loose flow of auburn-tinged black, called out something in her own language, and the drum took up the strike again, and the oars dipped and heaved.

  Urtha recognised Niiv, the Northlands enchantress who had so taunted and charmed Merlin on their long journey to Delphi.

  Who else was aboard Argo, Urtha wondered. Which other of those argonauts? Certainly, if there were twenty rowers, ten each side, then Jason must have made new recruits along the way. Was that giant Dacian aboard? Rubobostes? With his ship-dragging horse, Ruvio? And perhaps Merlin too was hunkered down at his rowing bench, the young man who used his gifts of enchantment as Urtha used his skills with weapons: with cautious, controlled facility. Merlin, ageless but kept youthful by his own reluctance to practise his skills. Merlin, who had recognised something in Urtha of Alba, just as the High King of the Cornovidi had intuited a fateful interweaving of his life with the unwashed, lice-ridden creature on that occasion—how many years ago was it now?—when the charmed man had been given winter quarters in the same tent as the warlord and his uthiin.

  On the eerie ship, Niiv suddenly made a birdlike call, a strange sound that seemed to echo up the river, between the low chalk cliffs. Urtha felt his body chill, the hair on his neck prickle. Had she seen him? Or was she in that same trance, the journey-trance, which had once allowed her to guide Argo to the narrow, shallow headwaters of the great river Reinus?

  Hull-shields glistening, guardian spirit brooding darkly, the Greekland ship moved away into the fog, turning out towards the grey sea, to make the silent crossing to Alba.

  Urtha realised that Manandoun was calling to him. The older man was pale-faced with irritation. Urtha realised that he had been in a dream.

  ‘That’s Argo!’ the red-bearded man was saying. ‘Our own ship. Our old ship … why aren’t we following?’

  Manandoun had hailed the vessel several times; Urtha had heard nothing of this. The men of the village stood silently and grimly in the mist, but one of them spoke up. ‘I’ve seen ships like that before. They’re of the older world; spirit ships, sent by the Prowler to entice us into deadly waters.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Manandoun snarled. ‘It’s no ghost ship. But even if it was, we once sailed on her. Those are our friends!’

  There was a ripple of cynical laughter. ‘They didn’t seem to know you.’

  Ignoring them, Manandoun said, ‘Urtha! We can still find the drum beat if we launch now. We can follow her. Why else would Jason be returning to Alba if not to find you? He has no other business there. Has he?’

  ‘He has the business of his second son. The boy called “little dreamer”. Don’t you remember what Merlin told him? The prophesy from the oracle at Arkamon? Jason’s second son has been hidden between “sea-swept walls”.’

  ‘An island!’ Manandoun stated. ‘“Sea-swept walls”? An island. Is that what you’re saying? But it could be any island! This is not the only island in the world as we know it, Urtha.’

  ‘True enough. It just seems strange that Argo should come back to the west.’

  Manandoun was insistent. ‘Follow, then!’

  But their hosts, this small tribe of the clan of the Atrebates, would not sanction such a crossing under such conditions.

  Gloomily, Urtha led the way back through the dense sea-fog to the grim quarters within the village.

  * * *

  Not long after, however, the sound of a two-horse chariot, being recklessly driven by two screaming, delighted youths, penetrated the choking blanket of mist. Urtha rose slowly to his feet as he heard the rattling of chariot wheels, the lash of the whip, the complaint of the horses. Curious, he went out on to the top of the cliffs. Beside him, his uthiin, Manandoun and Cathabach, scoured the fog with their sharp eyes and sharp ears, pointing to where, beyond their sight, the chariot was being driven.

  ‘I know those voices,’ Cathabach muttered. ‘Why do I know those voices?’ The mist had condensed on his red beard and dripped from the points of his moustaches.

  ‘I know them too,’ Ullanna called from below the animal shelter. ‘Those twins from our time on Argo! The Cymbrii. They went on to Delphi with Jason after we’d left the quest.’

  Urtha recognised them as well. ‘Yes. Conan. Gwyrion. Those irresponsible sons of the Bright God Llew.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ Cathabach said. He had thrown back his heavy woollen cloak and rested his hand lightly on the ivory pommel of his sword. But Manandoun added, ‘If it’s a chariot, and they’re looking for us, then we’ll get to Taurovinda faster! One chariot between four has been very crowded.’

  Cathabach shook his head. ‘Chariots can’t cross the sea. And there’s little enough room in those boats as it is.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Urtha said. ‘What in the name of Kernos are they doing?’

  Golden light flashed through the fog. The chariot streaked past, out of sight, from west to east, made a sharp turn—the whip cracked, a voice cried, ‘Too sharp! Too sharp! The axle will break.’

  ‘Breathe the fresh air, brother, leave the driving to me!’

  There was boyish laughter. Again, the mist was penetrated by a blinding flash of gold and the earth thundered as the chariot streaked towards the cliff.

  Urtha ran in the same direction, suddenly alarmed. ‘The land ends! The land ends! Turn, you fools, turn now!’

  From the sudden whinnying panic of the chariot horses, the terrified screams of the charioteers and the grinding, smashing sound of the car being thrown end over end, it was clear that the fatal fall had been avoided by a damaging last minute turn. Whether they had heard the cry of warning, or simply seen the end of the land where it dropped to the wide shingle beach below, was of no importance.

  Cathabach led the way to the edge at a run. The two young men were dazed and disheve
lled. They were pushing the chariot the right way up and inspecting the damage.

  ‘Have you no eyes?’ one of them was demanding of the other. ‘Couldn’t you see the cliff?’

  ‘I drive, brother! You watch our backs and when danger threatens, you throw spears. That’s your job. At least the wheels are intact.’

  They looked up as Cathabach marched towards them. They were almost identical; long golden hair reaching to their shoulders, bright, shaven faces, bronze circlets round their brows and their dress that of princes, richly coloured; they each wore a short cloak, pinned at the breast, and bore the solemn face of the Sun Lord on their tunics.

  ‘Cathabach!’ one of them cried in delight. ‘What a welcome sight you are. We’d thought you long lost. Help us get the chariot into shelter; it needs repair.’

  Speechless with fury, Cathabach came up to the boys—the driver was Conan, the spear thrower Gwyrion—and knocked their heads together.

  Conan looked furious and began to reach for his sword. Cathabach’s withering gaze made him ease the gesture. Gwyrion kept searching for blood, rubbing hard at his temple.

  ‘You pair of mindless fools!’ the warrior priest shouted at them. ‘Do you think chariots grow on trees?’

  The twins stared at him blankly. ‘I understand that they’re made from trees,’ Conan offered.

  ‘A chariot is a precious thing. How can you use it so recklessly?’

  ‘We’re in a hurry to return to Alba.’ They exchanged nervous glances. Cathabach was immediately suspicious. ‘Why? Whose chariot is this?’

  ‘We obtained it from Nodons,’ Gwyrion explained. ‘Some old sanctuary. It was lying around in a corner. Somewhere in Divodurum.’

  ‘Nodons? Sanctuary? Obtained? What are you telling me?’

  ‘We stole it from Nodons. From his sanctuary. At Divodurum,’ Conan amended.

  For a moment, watching this interchange, Urtha thought his friend the druid would burst into fire, like a willow effigy on midwinter’s eve. Whatever Cathabach was thinking, he managed not to express it. Gwyrion said, as if intuiting the older man’s thinking, ‘It’s what we do best.’

  ‘What is what you do best?’

  ‘Stealing chariots,’ Conan explained.

  ‘We were born for it!’ his brother emphasised. ‘That’s all I know. Speaking only for myself, when the time comes to go into battle, I want to be driving the best chariot in the land, and have the best spearman at my side. Preferably not this unbalanced idiot. We were born for it. But chariots break up when you practise with them…’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Conan. ‘Especially when you hold the ponies. Which is why we must keep stealing them.’

  ‘We’ve stolen the best,’ Gwyrion agreed. ‘We even stole our father’s! Llew’s golden chariot, with its yokes of polished cedar and wheel rims of mother of pearl.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we crashed it,’ Conan confessed uneasily, then, brightening, ‘This is his cousin’s, though. Nodons. A very great man, it has to be said.’

  Gwyrion frowned critically. ‘Though his chariot has poor cushions, not enough goose-down, and its turning curve could be improved. But there’s no doubt about it, it’s still a fine car!’

  ‘And will be again, when we repair the damage,’ Conan said reassuringly.

  Cutting through this, Cathabach roared, ‘And Nodons? The good god Nodons, the silver-handed protector of limbs in combat, the good healer, the Cloud-maker … does he know about the loss of his chariot?’

  Conan laughed nervously. ‘Well, yes. It’s the only one he had. I suspect he’s missed it by now. Which is why we’re in a hurry to get back to Alba. To lie low for a while.’

  ‘You may be the flesh and blood sons of a god,’ Cathabach said solemnly and carefully, ‘but I swear I shall put a geis on each of you if you behave recklessly again before we get back to Taurovinda. You will be forbidden the luxury of riding on the feat-days or into battle.’

  ‘Only a druid can pronounce such things,’ Conan sneered at the older man.

  Cathabach pulled open his shirt to reveal the nineteen cuts of the moon and the four spirals of the seasons. ‘I was a druid; and I will be again. A geis has condemned me to carry a sword for ten years.’ He leaned close to Conan, staring him straight in the eyes. ‘And time’s almost up.’

  Conan scratched his temple, his face echoing his curious concern. ‘You’re a complicated man,’ he said.

  ‘We’re all complicated men,’ Cathabach replied cryptically.

  * * *

  The reckless youths had broken the axle of their splendid chariot, and lamed one of the ponies, though not seriously. And despite his threat, Cathabach’s fury was merely oil off two already oiled heads. Each of the twins was furious enough with the other for shifting his weight when he should have been crouching! They couldn’t agree on whose wrong step in the car had caused the accident. But when the chariot had turned over, as they had failed to see the thorn roots that ridged the approach to the sheer chalk cliff, they had damaged the fine gold-inlaid image of the man who had built the car in the first place: Nodons!

  It was bad enough that their god-father, Llew, the Bright Father, Lord of Light and no stranger to head-hunting, was after their blood for stealing his chariot, years ago. Llew’s flame-haired cousin would now be asking for tribute, recompense, and possibly bloody-necked trophy.

  Their only hope—they had decided, in their brotherly argument—was to cross back to their own land as fast as possible. Better the vengeance you knew than the vengeance of a stranger. Fathers were always a soft touch when a son’s humility could be convincingly displayed. And they could make a gift of Nodons’ chariot, and leave it up to their father to tussle with the ethics of that gift.

  So they were in an agitated but cheerful mood when Urtha and Manandoun approached them in the camp. The two youths were ready to carry their broken chariot down to the beach. They were quite convinced that they could repair it sufficiently to make a dash at the ocean, and cross the sea, riding on top of the waves.

  Urtha had other ideas.

  ‘Answer me this: what happened in Greek Land? What happened to Jason and Merlin?’

  Gwyrion looked perplexed. Conan simply shook his head, staring at the king. ‘Jason? He died searching for his eldest son. He went into the oracle at Delphi, during the battle, and never came back.’

  ‘You didn’t wait for him? Or look for him?’

  Gwyrion threw out his hands, the sign of innocence in the face of what he imagined was an accusation from Urtha. ‘He was dead. Argo’s protecting goddess told us as much. We were guarding the ship’s heart. You and Jason had cut the heart from the ship—that grim figurehead—and we carried it on a cart overland. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘I do remember.’

  ‘We sat with her, that scowling face in wood, while the battle raged in the valley where the sanctuary was being looted. Conan went off to gather weapons from the dead, and while he was absent, Jason’s friend Merlin came to me on the hillside above the slaughter.’ He struggled to remember the events of that encounter during the chaos in the valley of the oracle of Delphi. ‘He uncovered the figurehead of Mielikki and prayed to it. Something like: “Mielikki. Argo! Spirit of the Ship. I need to go to Dodona, where a part of you was cut to build you.” Something like that.

  ‘After that, he went into that vacant-eyed state. When he was using enchantment. He walked away, down the hill, and the land swallowed him up. Conan came back and we waited for a day or more. Then the goddess herself came to us. The Northlands goddess. She was veiled in white, and in her youthful form. She said: “It’s all over. Merlin is gone. Jason is gone. There is nothing more for you to do. You must find your own way home.” Who were we to argue? We caught horses that had been abandoned with the deaths of their riders, and did as we were told. That whole time in Delphi was a disaster. The place had been abandoned long before we reached it.’

  ‘You took the goddess’s words to mean that Merlin and Jason were de
ad.’

  Conan shrugged. ‘Yes. The quest for Delphi had been dedicated to slaughter and plunder, we all knew that. As far as we knew, you had died of your wounds as well after fighting Cunomaglos.’

  Urtha exchanged a long glance with Manandoun. ‘Jason is alive,’ he said. ‘And Niiv. They are on Argo, heading back to Alba. And I cannot believe that Merlin would have been so foolish as to allow himself to die, despite the violence of events at Delphi. I wonder if he was on the ship?’

  Manandoun was staring into the fog. ‘There is something happening over there, and we should be a part of it. It’s your land, after all. I’ll persuade Cathabach to break taboo and finger one of his nineteen cuts. If he calls on Teutates, perhaps we can summon a storm to blow this veil away…’

  Persuading Cathabach would not be necessary, however.

  Ullanna suddenly emerged out of the mist, wet and shivering. She had been exercising the dogs, which is to say, she had been looking for game, but without success.

  ‘Where are my hounds?’ Urtha asked as she reached to draw a little warmth from inside the king’s cloak.

  ‘By the sea, staring into this gods-forsaken fog, sniffing their island and howling for it. I swear they can smell the place!’

  It took a moment only to realise the implication of this: that in Maglerd and Gelard they had their guides to Alba, however blind the channel!

  ‘Take all the horses. Leave the chariot for our hosts. We’ll take both boats, with or without their agreement.’

  ‘The chariot must be taken,’ Conan insisted loftily.

  ‘The chariot stays,’ Urtha retorted. ‘It’s too bulky. Leave it with your mark of apology for Nodons. And the gold on its panels will be good compensation for the boats. To remind you of your own words, you’ll steal another before too long.’