Now he had Ard's full attention. ‘Why would she wreck your tent?’
‘I don't know.’ Ruan ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I wasn't there. When I came back, she was gone, things broken and scattered, feathers everywhere.’ It had looked like snow, and as chilling.
‘It's not like Skaaha to destroy things,’ Ard said. ‘She knows the value of work.’ He frowned, puzzled. ‘You're sure she left of her own accord?’
Ruan nodded. ‘One of the druids saw her leave the grove, running.’
‘Then she's fine,’ Ard said. ‘Annoyed, but fine.’ He paused. ‘Did you go with another woman?’
‘Only Suli.’ Ruan couldn't recall exactly what he'd said outside the hut, but knew what he had asked. ‘Maybe she overheard us talking.’
‘Don't try to work it out,’ Ard warned. ‘Sure as the sun sets, you'll be wrong.’ He swung the last sack into the cart. ‘She'll be back soon, to tell you that and put you right.’
‘You think?’
‘No woman lets such an opportunity pass. It's the way of things.’ Ard raised the tent flap. ‘Come and eat breakfast. If she hasn't cooled off and come back by then, we'll go look.’ He ushered Ruan into the tent.
Skaaha trotted the horse half-way home before letting it slow to a walk. Overhead, a pair of eagles soared. Rau… rau… She didn't look up. Yip – yip – yipp. The sound twisted in her heart. She rode on past the green valley, past the three lochs where she'd sacrificed Kerrigen's armour and weapons. The scent of hawthorn mocked her. If the white-tails barking above brought her mother's voice, it too was mockery. Pain is the teacher. It taught her to run. Yet it couldn't be outrun. Kerrigen would have confronted him. She would not have run, not from any man.
Perhaps she should turn round, go back, face him. Yip – yip – yipp. And hear those words again. I can't be with Skaaha, not like that, not any more. She doubled forward over the horse's neck. Jiya had warned her, before the druids opened the warrior's skull. Don't be fooled. ‘Aha!’ The agony cried out of her, shaking her chest, repeating over and over. She wasn't running anywhere. If she hadn't been on horseback, she would have collapsed to the ground, hugging the grass, prostrate with grief, body heaving. Without the horse, she could not have got beyond the camp. The shaggy pony jerked its head, ears twitching, but its stride didn't falter. It was going home.
By the time Skaaha reached the stream where, so long ago, she and Ruan had broken the fast of sacrifice with water, her howls of grief had run out. Dismounting, she washed, drank. While the horse did the same, she scoured the sky. It was almost midday. Raincloud glowered above Kylerhea, black and brooding. The eagles were gone. Kerrigen didn't always attack. The first rule of war: the foolish run into trouble, the wise run away. Don't send me back to that. The blade twisted again. She wanted home, the cradling of familiar walls, the safety of her bed, the oblivion of sleep. Mounting up, she trotted the pony on. Heavy gobs of rain began to fall.
In Erith's roundhouse, sprawled on the biggest bed he could find, Bartok shifted in his sleep. Caves and heather were his usual sleeping arrangements. Discomfort disturbed him. He stirred, scratched, woke. The ale he'd drunk had filled his bladder. Rolling off the bed, he stood, loosed the flap of his leggings and relieved himself into the corner of the bedchamber. The stream hissed against the hard earth floor, trickling under the wicker screen. He heard rain. Glancing through the chamber entrance towards the open door, he saw that grey light had replaced sunshine.
Not long begun, the rain already puddled the cobbled path, bent blades of grass beyond. They were lucky not to be out in it, or in the boat. It was storm rain, the kind that soaked through to skin but passed as quickly as it came. Bartok was tying his trouser flap when another sound reached him – the beat of galloping hooves. Without a word to alert his two companions asleep in other chambers, he snatched up the long knife he normally kept hidden under his coat and slipped out of the house.
24
Creeping round the stone building, Bartok cursed his luck. His ears told him that horse and rider had galloped down the slope, slowed and cantered past the forge, heading for the animal pens. If there were more of them, if this was just the first, he might not make it to the boat. His only hope, when this rider got indoors, was to make a run for it. He rehearsed the story, of passing travellers from the mainland, in case he was caught. His friends were on their own.
Shifting along the side of the roundhouse, he squinted up the hill. Rain soaked his hair and beard, dripped from his eyebrows. There was no sign of anyone else. No sound, now the first horse made none, of other horses, carts or folk. Running feet splashed across the grass, coming to the house he hid behind, where his companions lay asleep. They were lighter feet than he expected, a youth maybe. His sleeping friends stood a fighting chance. Bartok waited, with no intention of helping, till the running rider reached the path, ran indoors.
‘Fool,’ a voice complained, with that shudder of someone shaking their head. ‘Such a fool.’ It was a female voice. Bartok hesitated. Unless she was that warrior from last time, this could get interesting. He'd heard no clink of weapons as she ran. Maybe his luck was not so bad. As soon as the woman realized she wasn't alone, he'd know. First sound of a sword drawn, or a squeal from either of his friends, he'd be off for the boat. Balancing the knife in his hand, he waited, rain soaking through his coat, watching the hill.
Rain in the south-west headed towards Torrin as Ruan and Ard returned from a fruitless search of Loch Slapin shore, deeply worried. There was nowhere left to look. The lochside had been their final hope. It was also where an outsider's boat would have tied up. Ard was still troubled by that presence at Beltane, sensing connections where there could be none.
‘He watched her’ – he remembered the dagger in the man's hands, his eyes on Skaaha's face, the rising urge to hit him – ‘and I didn't like it.’
‘But if he'd gone…’ Ruan paused. ‘We saw a boat leave the loch, going south. Looked like lobster fishers, but they'd all be here to trade.’
‘All maybes,’ Ard said. ‘Safe to come is safe to go. He risked being here. Skaaha can't have vanished into thin air.’ Ahead of them, marshalled for the parade, the warriors waited, assembled behind druid pipes and drums.
At their head, Mara sat erect on her mount, hair spiked white, inscrutable. In front of her, two decorated ponies stood, riderless. Skahaa's consort approached the druids. Of the goddess who'd lead the parade, there was no sign. Perhaps that late-night visit to Skaaha in the cave meant the girl wasn't keen to ride in front of her warrior queen. Or, if her absence had anything to do with Bartok, she might never turn up at all.
Fronting the Glenelg school, Eefay strained on her mount to see what the hold-up was. The approaching rain promised to douse the twin fires. Instead of the evening party, Beltane would end with the parade. Islanders lined the sunwise route, all packed up, ready for their journeys home. Joining the parade was an honour for the school of warriors, and Eefay's first chance to show off her new authority. Itching for it to start, she twisted round in the saddle to face her father.
‘What are we waiting for?’ she complained.
Donal rode out of line, craning to see past the chapters from the north. ‘Your sister,’ he called. ‘Her consort just arrived to speak with Suli, but I don't see her.’
‘You mean she's supposed to lead? For Danu's sake!’ Eefay kicked her horse out of the line, rode to the front. Pulling up next Ard and Ruan, she leant down to speak. ‘Skaaha's gone,’ she said. ‘I was to tell Ard and Erith, but I forgot. So we better just get on. She isn't coming.’
‘Then where is she?’ Ruan asked. ‘We've looked everywhere. The Kylerheans are still searching.’
‘She isn't lost.’ Eefay sat back in the saddle. ‘She went home. Took a horse and rode off, not long after daybreak.’
‘And you didn't say?’ Ard accused.
‘It's not my fault,’ Eefay protested. She pointed at Ruan. ‘It's his.’
Suli handed Ruan a
cloak borrowed from another druid. ‘For the rain,’ she said. ‘Go. We'll conduct the parade.’
As drums and pipes struck up, Ard pulled the two horses from the parade, holding Ruan's so the druid could mount. ‘She'll be safe home by this time,’ he said. ‘But she shouldn't be alone, not with outsiders about. You get off. We'll follow when we can.’
Quelling the urge to gallop, which would quickly tire the horse, Ruan set off at a trot. He wanted speed, but cantering meant letting the horse walk half the road. A steady trot would get him there more quickly. If that boat was outsiders, they headed south. But there were many empty homes to tempt them ashore long before they reached Kylerhea. On foot, the man might have headed anywhere. Thieves, unless disturbed, were not the greatest threat. Penalties for harming people were greater than those for theft. But anything might startle a horse, throw a rider, leave them vulnerable to lynx or wolves. His fingers found his sling, wild beasts the reason why he always wore it.
He stopped himself. Love made him afraid again, afraid to lose what could be given or received but never owned. His fault, Eefay had said. That's where his real concern lay, not with other men or beasts. He'd let manhood displace priesthood, allowed fear to tarnish what was deep and strong and passionate, but it wasn't broken. No, it wasn't broken yet. Not if they talked. Not if he could reach her.
*
About to haul her wet dress off as she walked to her chamber, Skaaha paused. Adjusting from the sound of falling rain, her ears picked up another – gentle snorts from inside. A warning shiver crept up her back. The door had stood open. Still did, for light. But it wouldn't have been left that way, in case wild animals wandered in. If that breathing was a bear snuffling or snoring in one of the far chambers, she was in danger. A cornered beast was not forgiving. She backed towards the door, eyes straining as they adjusted to the gloom. Half-eaten food and jugs of ale lay around the hearth. Erith would not have left that mess. No bear then, but human.
‘Who's there?’ she asked.
A snort came from one chamber round the left side, but it was three stalls from where she stood that a half-drawn curtain shifted. A young man's head poked out. Relieved, Skaaha automatically raised and dropped her sodden skirt, asserting her femininity and right of occupation.
‘Welcome to my home,’ she said. ‘I am Skaaha, and this the house of Erith, forge-keeper of Kylerhea.’ Her nose wrinkled. She could smell urine. ‘It should be treated with respect.’
A grin spread over the young man's face but didn't reach his lifeless eyes. ‘We'll be sure we does that,’ he said. As he rose, pushing the curtain aside, a smaller man appeared from the chamber on the left. One of his eyes drooped, glowing white.
‘Begging your pardon,’ he said. ‘You people got nothing to worry about. We took the chance to rest but we'll get on our way now. Come on, Stick.’
The young man didn't move. His cold stare had not left Skaaha. ‘I hears no people,’ he said.
Behind Skaaha, the sound of rain changed. She turned. The bulk of a big man, water dripping from hair and beard, filled the doorway. There was a long knife in his hand.
‘There are no other people,’ he said. He looked her up and down, his eyes coming to rest on her face. ‘Sweet Bride,’ he swore. ‘We're in the presence of a goddess, lads. It's our lucky day. Yes, indeed, lucky, lucky.’
Skahaa spun round, grabbed an iron spar from the fire-dogs on the hearth, turned back and swung. The metal bar whacked the man's arm. He yelled, crumpled. The knife spun away. She leapt, high, for the gap between him and the door. Her skirt was grabbed from behind, pulling her over backwards. As she landed, half on top of the young man who caught her, she threw her feet up, somersaulting backwards, tearing free. The young man stumbled, but was quickly on his feet again. Now two of them stood between her and the door, the one-eyed man to her side.
‘Shut the door,’ he shouted, grabbing the other fire-dog spar. His companions hesitated. If they did that then they wouldn't see. There was no fire, no lamplight. She knew the house in dark or light, might slip past. To persuade them to move, Skaaha swung again. The iron rod smacked into the little man's head. Squealing, he fell on to the hearth. The young man, dagger in hand, lunged but the first man grabbed his coat, grunting with pain from his arm.
‘Don't be a fool, Stick,’ he growled. ‘That's what she wants. Go to her, and she gets past you. There is only one way out.’ The little man groaned from the hearth. Skaaha brought the bar down again, across his legs. He howled, scrambled away on his knees towards his friends. Neither of the others moved to protect him. Now she was out of options. Balancing the rod in her hands, she waited, the next move theirs.
‘Stop whimpering, Cut-eye,’ the big man said, flexing his hurt arm. ‘Get my blade.’ Still on his knees, the little man scrambled to the knife, took it back.
Skaaha breathed deep and steady, expecting attack. Instead, hauling Cut-eye to his feet, the big man stepped away from them, ripped down the curtain from the nearest bedchamber and tore a strip off it. Looping it round the door post, he pulled the door almost closed, passing the strip through the metal door ring before tying the ends. The gap he left let in some light but wasn't big enough to squeeze through.
‘Now can I stick it?’ the young man asked, playing his dagger.
‘Put that away,’ the big man said, tucking his own blade inside his coat. ‘She's had her fun. Now she owes us some.’ All three of them leant forward, ready. ‘Now!’ In a body, they rushed towards her, ragged clothes flapping.
Skaaha raised the metal spar in both hands and threw it at Stick's head. He ducked. She leapt, using his shoulders to propel her over in another somersault and past, running for the door as soon as she landed. With all her weight shouldered into it, the cloth stretched, the gap widened. Not enough. Hands grabbed her clothes and hair from behind. Dragged away over the floor, she punched, kicked, bit what was nearest. The musty stench of sweat and dirt filled her nose and mouth. An arm gripped round her throat, squeezing. Her work in the forge had made her strong, but they were stronger, frighteningly so. Weight landed on her chest, crushing. Ill fed and unfit though they were, still the sheer physical power and weight overwhelmed her.
Cut-eye lay across her legs. ‘I got her, I got her, Bartok,’ he yelled. Cloth tore. Her arms were yanked, wrists bound together with a strip torn from the ruined curtain, and tied again to the bottom of a bedchamber post.
‘There,’ Bartok said, sitting up, panting through his beard. ‘Now we'll see what we got.’ He walked to the door, untied and opened it, letting in more light.
Fighting to control panic, Skaaha steadied her breathing. Raiders took women. These were thieves. She was of no use to them, without value. Crouched beside her, Stick played again with his dagger.
‘Hurt me and you'll be in trouble,’ she said, though they must know that.
A sound that might have been a laugh snorted in Stick's throat. ‘Like we's in trouble,’ he said, tucking his knife away.
Bartok loomed over her. ‘Shift, Cut-eye,’ he said. ‘Hold her legs.’
The weight on her knees shifted. Skahaa kicked out, but Cut-eye had already wrapped his arms round her thigh. Stick hooked his around her other knee.
‘You sure it's not bad magic, Bartok,’ Cut-eye worried, but hanging on, helping pull her legs apart, ‘her being Danu? The druids –’
‘Can't touch us,’ Bartok cut in. Kneeling between her legs, he grabbed her skirt, tore the dress all the way up to her throat. ‘Nice, he said, running his eyes down her body. ‘Very nice.’ Rough fingers probed her vulva.
Skaaha gasped, shocked. ‘You can't do that!’ She writhed, struggling to stop the invasion. Cloth tightened round her wrists. Arms tightened round her legs, bone against her bone.
‘Easy, girlie,’ Bartok muttered as she bucked, pointlessly trying to free herself. ‘We not good enough for the likes of you, is that it?’ His head bent, fingers fumbling with his trouser flap. ‘Well, we'll see. Yes, indeed, we'll see abo
ut that.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, you can't. I do not allow. I won't allow…’ She clenched her pelvic muscles to keep him out. There was pressure against her cunt, a snort, and… ‘No-o,’ she shrieked… as he jerked forward, grunting obscenely, her vagina filled with brute flesh… ‘No-o,’ she wailed… rammed in and out, his body weight pressing down. This could not be.
Skaaha's eyes clenched shut against the sudden sting of tears. A stinking beard brushed her face, with every cold, degrading thrust, killing who she was. Why didn't death take her now… that should surely happen… her person dying… but it kept on, shoved and shoved and shoved into her, fouling intimate places that were no longer… and in her ears the slap, slap, slap of filthy flesh against her. Despoiled, she was beyond disbelief, that man could do this to woman, and how easily, so easily that she could not prevent, before the man shuddered, grunting, to a stop and the shrivelling contact of his body slithered out, over her thigh, was gone.
A hand clasped her chin. ‘I think it likes that, Bartok,’ Stick said.
Skaaha snapped, teeth closing on bony flesh, sinking in, shaking it like a dog, with the scream that came, drawing blood. A fist smashed like stone into her jaw.
‘Don't waste the head,’ Bartok warned.
Dazed, numb with pain, brain and body fogged, she lay like the dead thing she was as another fouling repeated the first. Dead limbs, dead mind, dead heart. There was no fight, nothing to prevent. All she was had gone, finished, her inviolable self that centred in her womanhood ended. Fetid breath panted in her face. Semen ejaculated into her vagina. No name existed now that she could own. She was a thing used, knowing every stab into the nothing she became. Her mouth hung open, saliva dribbling. Abandoned by the world she knew, no otherworld claimed the husk of her. No blessing of oblivion came.
The half-blind man, his fear of druids forgotten, swapped places with the young one. Flopping out of his clothes, the lump of his cock nudged her thigh, fingers scraping her flesh, his gasp as it slid into her. Unlike the other two, he talked.
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