A Gathering of Ravens

by Scott Oden

  Silence met his question. Maelmorda shrugged; Sitric stroked his triple-braided beard—so full and thick that it earned him the nickname Silkiskegg, “Silken-beard”—and stared at the map, as though he could divine an answer from the arrangement of the pieces.

  Bjarki glared at them. He started to speak but Kormlada’s voice forestalled him: “It’s simple,” she said. “Offer him the same thing you offered that Manx bastard, Bródir, and Jarl Sigurðr of Orkney to come and fight under your banner.” The Witch of Dubhlinn descended the stairs that led to the gallery above. She felt their eyes on her, even her son’s, as she sauntered around the table to stand opposite Bjarki. “Offer him gold, land, and the hand of Kormlada.”

  “You set great store by your thighs, sister,” Maelmorda said, lips curling in a moue of distaste.

  Kormlada graced Leinster’s king with a smile that dripped charm even as the gleam in her eyes hinted at flensing knives and scourges. “I know men, dear brother.”

  Bjarki chuckled. “And Malachy knows you. He put you aside once, already, and if we offer you up again as his prize he’s going to know we mean him ill.”

  “Perhaps not,” Sitric said, looking askance at his mother. “Malachy is old, and prone to bemoaning his days of glory. I think he might take her back as a way of seizing on to those bygone years.”

  Kormlada caressed her son’s shoulder in a gesture of approval.

  Bjarki glanced from mother to son. “Send spies,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Find out if what you say is true, if the gift of a well-worn saddle would secure the king of Meath’s indifference, if not his loyalty. Leave us.” And Bjarki Half-Dane, a man with no royal blood and no titles, a man who belonged to no storied clan the Gaels would recognize—a man they would kill outright if they but knew his true parentage—dismissed the two kings as if they were naught but rag-clad peasants.

  Kormlada stood by as her son and brother withdrew; once they were alone, she whirled. One slender hand shot up and cracked across Bjarki’s bearded cheek. “A well-worn saddle?” she hissed, nostrils flared. “Is that what you think of me?”

  Bjarki took the blow, the sting of it only deepening the cruel smile that drew up one corner of his mouth. He gave a soft snort. “Witch, I think you’ve been mounted more often than Odin’s favorite mare.”

  “Bastard!” Kormlada slapped him again, harder this time. Like flint striking steel, the impact kindled something in Half-Dane’s eyes, something hot and murderous that lent his gaze a wolfish gleam. “I hear no complaints when you’re the one doing the mounting!”

  “Nor do I complain when I ease my foot into a loose and well-oiled boot,” he replied. “You’ve—”

  Kormlada cut him off with an inarticulate cry; she drew back to strike him a third time—her fingers hooked into claws that could rip the flesh from his bones or the eyes from his sockets. Her rage came up short, however, when Bjarki reached out and seized her pale throat in one black-nailed fist.

  Kormlada let out an involuntary gasp; her eyes widened.

  “Odin’s balls, woman!” Bjarki said in a fierce whisper. “You hiss and spit like a wet cat! I’ve seen two-a-penny bawds with more composure.” Half-Dane gave her a contemptuous shove. Kormlada stumbled and fell back against the table, knocking wooden thegns awry. She glared at him as he turned and ascended to the throne of Dubhlinn, rising on its dais beneath the raven banners of the House of Ivar—the Norse dynast who founded the town. With the arrogance of a conqueror, Bjarki seated himself and thrust his legs out before him. “You’ve been abroad this night? I heard the cry of the elf hags. Was that your doing?”

  With effort, Kormlada mastered her passions. “No. Something else has roused the mná sidhe. I’ve sent Cruach—”

  “But you have been abroad? Set your spirit loose to wander?”

  The Witch of Dubhlinn nodded. Before the cry of the mná sidhe had woken her, her dream self had journeyed far beyond the walls of the city, past the storm-racked height of Carraig Dubh and down into the vale of the River Bhearú, deep in the heart of Leinster.

  “And?”

  She closed her eyes and watches a long column of men marching in loose formation, through the rain: Gaels in sodden homespun tunics and ragged woolen mantles; most are naked of armor, though a few sport boiled leather or rusting mail hauberks taken from slain Norsemen. But besides weapons, axe and spear and short sword, the men carry shields—their broad faces daubed white and green, brown, bloodred—of wickerwork covered in leather or hammered from bronze. They march under gilded crosses and limp banners of rich blue depicting an arm holding a sword, or bright yellow with a lion drawn in red.

  She watches as this army of Gaels makes its camp on the banks of a river in spate. They go about their duties mechanically, lacking passion. As night falls and the rain continues unabated, no fires spring up; the Gaels gnaw a cold repast while eyeing the lightning-scorched shadows as if they’re unwelcome guests. Watches are set. And with reluctance the great mass of men roll up in their damp cloaks and fall into nightmare-haunted slumber.

  She sings to them, then, weaving a sibilant lyric that calls forth the creatures of the night. They creep out from rocks, from trees, from the river itself. They are small, ugly things, sharp-eyed and malicious; she bids them work their evil and they crawl from man to man, whispering revelations of horror, agony, and death. To these warriors, the creatures take delight in describing in gory detail how it feels to watch helplessly as a Danish axe lops off their arm, or to have their manhood ripped away on the iron-bright point of a Norse spear. Every fear, every doubt, every misgiving they latch upon and make worse. They hiss that God has forsaken the Gael, that they will burn in Hell for each and every sin they’ve committed. The tittering creatures conjure images of Lucifer walking among them. Men wake screaming …

  “And?” Bjarki said.

  Kormlada’s voice was hollow, distant. “I have seen Brian’s vanguard. I have sat among them and fed their despair. They will reach Dolcan’s Meadow, ten miles west of where we stand, by midday, tomorrow. Brian’s eldest leads them—Black Murrough of Kincora. He is a harsh man, but even he senses their misery; he will grant them a day of rest, there, before setting out for the ruins of Saint Maighneann’s at Kilmainham. Brian has sent his second son, Donnchad, off with a force of old men and youths to raid my brother’s kingdom.”

  Kormlada opened her eyes. “They have crossed the River Bhearú and are striking deep into Leinster. A messenger has come to Dubhlinn, bearing word of the raid to the war bands of Leinster—the fianna—who attend my dear brother. Already, their resolve is as brittle as old tinder. News of this raid will be the spark. At dawn, they will seek an embassy with Maelmorda … and try to break their oath.”

  “Your art told you this?”

  Kormlada’s smile was the smile of a cat, toying with its prey. “That … and my spies among my brother’s precious fianna.”

  At the mention of the clannish fianna, Bjarki Half-Dane flicked his chin in dismissal. “Well, let them try. This embassy they plan will be in vain, regardless of Maelmorda’s wishes,” he said. “I’ve come too far to have my plans thwarted by chance or design. We walk the precipice, now. The pawns line up in their accustomed places, and the lordly puppets dance to my tune. One wrong move, one misstep”—Bjarki caressed the arms of the throne—“and all this will come to nothing.”

  Kormlada’s smile faded as she turned her attention to the map table. Furrows creased her brow. She picked up one of the fallen wooden figures, carved to represent a thegn bearing spear and shield, and set it upright near Dubhlinn. “Your plan even I can divine readily enough—lure Brian into laying siege then crush him and his accursed kin beneath the iron-shod heels of the Danes—but to what end? If you seek to propel a weakling like Maelmorda to the throne of high king of all Ériu, to rule through him, then why risk it all by allowing him near the battlefield? You realize he means to lead the men of Leinster in the coming fray?”

  Bjarki rose and
came back to the table. “Indeed. I am counting on it,” he said.

  “Will you seize Brian’s crown, then, and try to rule Ériu under your own auspices?”

  “Me? Rule you lot of half-mad Gaels?” Bjarki laughed. “A fool’s errand, that is! No, I trust you will rule over whichever would-be kinglet survives the spear-shattering with enough sand in his belly to take up Brian’s mantle. My prize is of a different sort.” Slowly, and with exaggerated care, he took the thegn she’d just set upright and placed it on the bone inlay inscribed in runes with Veisafjorðr; he placed another on Veðrafjorðr, and a third on Hlymrekr. Kormlada herself moved a fourth thegn onto the Viking stronghold marked Corcaigh. “And Mann,” Bjarki continued. “And Orkney. With their chiefs dead, and with a bit of coercion and the blessings of the Allfather, they will look to one of their own for leadership. To me.”

  “You would control the slave markets,” she said, nodding as the last piece of the puzzle suddenly fell into place. “Gold and silver from abroad. Fleets and crews at your disposal. A kingdom within a kingdom.”

  “An empire.”

  She picked up a fifth thegn and paused with her hand poised above the map. Then, wood ticked softly on bone as she placed it on the disc marked Dubhlinn, the strongest and richest of the Norse kingdoms of Ériu. Kormlada looked askance at the spine-twisted giant Half-Dane. “And my son?”

  “A trusted ally, of course,” he replied.

  “But only if he survives this battle we will force upon the Gael?”

  “That is the nature of the game, woman. We roll the dice and hope the Norns weave us a path to Glory. And glory or grave, Sitric Silkiskegg knows this game as well as I.”

  The Witch of Dubhlinn listened to his words, but behind each syllable she apprehended the naked truth: none of the chiefs of the Danes, nor of the Gaels, would survive. Not even her son. Not if Bjarki Half-Dane had his way. They would fight, bleed, and die somewhere beyond Dubhlinn’s walls while he stood aloof, a vulture eager to feast off the corpses of the slain. “An ally?” she echoed.

  “The most trusted,” Bjarki assured her, his voice dripping false sincerity as a comb drips honey. “You understand, now? You comprehend my ultimate purpose?”

  “Perfectly.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, each taking the other’s measure, before Half-Dane nodded. “Good.” He stalked past her, toward the door. “Find me when you learn what disturbed the elf hags.”

  Bjarki’s footsteps receded. Kormlada’s eyes blazed with cold, black fire. She glared across the map table at Bjarki’s retreating back, and then shifted her gaze to take in the multitude of wooden thegns—pawns like her, all of them dancing for the grave as Half-Dane called the tune.

  All but one oblivious to his true intent.

  I have abetted him in his schemes for ten years, Kormlada mused as she tried to isolate the source of her anger. And I, too, would sacrifice my witless brother—and even my son—if it meant bringing peace and unity to the chaos of Ériu. Why, then, did she rage?

  It was the arrogance of it. His conceit. That he, some Northern half-breed steeped in the arts of a bygone world, could play them like a bard plays his lute scraped her raw. I am the Witch of Dubhlinn! I am no man’s pawn!

  I trust you will rule, he had said. And that thought, alone, cooled her anger. You will rule. She was Kormlada ingen Murchada, a child of the Tuatha, who was daughter, sister, wife, and mother of kings. Maybe Bjarki Half-Dane was right, though he would have her rule through another, merely as his puppet. Perhaps it was high time for the piecemeal kingdoms of Ériu to know the sole and silken hand of a queen.

  3

  From the long, rocky beach Grimnir carried Étaín inland, scrabbling up through a cut in an eroded escarpment where gray sand met rich green turf. He loped across a rain-lashed heath, thunder shaking the earth and lightning searing the heavens with every step, and sought shelter beneath the eaves of a dense oak grove. “D-Down,” Étaín muttered. “Put … Put me d-down.” Through thin and sodden clothing, Grimnir felt shivers racking her body. And though her teeth chattered audibly she still managed to add, “I c-can walk f-from here.”

  “Can you, now?” Grimnir set her on her feet with her back to a thick trunk. She stayed upright for a moment before sinking down, her knees hugged to her chest. Overhead, the trees creaked in the fierce wind. Grimnir crouched. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and pulled her head up. There was no tenderness in the gesture, but there was the smallest glimmer of concern in his eyes as he studied her drawn and haggard expression. Étaín swatted his hand away. Grimnir rose again, sucking his teeth in disapproval. “I should have left you back in that wretched shack on the English coast,” he said. “I knew you’d be nothing but a stone around my neck.”

  “I c-can walk, I said!”

  “Faugh!” She needed shelter, he knew. She needed rest and food and something to wear besides rags. “You need a blasted nursemaid!” His nostrils flared as he snuffled the air, picking out the faint scent of woodsmoke beneath the dampness of the rain, the leaf mold, and the rich loam. A fire. And where there was a fire he’d likely find her some sort of shelter.

  For himself, he needed nothing. This land was like a wellspring of power. He had felt it when he first touched solid earth—when the night hags that haunted fens and moor had raised their voices in warning. This island was hallowed ground. His sire, Bálegyr, had consecrated it with his own blood at Mag Tuiredh, when he fell in battle against the hated vestálfar, the west-elves—known to these pathetic Gaels as the Tuatha. And not even the crossbearers from the East, with their miserable hymns and their holy water, could cleanse this land of its heathen taint.

  Grimnir felt the essence of his people rising up into his bones, stronger even than in the hinterlands of the Danemark. It surged through muscle and sinew, made him shrug off pain and weariness, sharpened his senses, and quickened his mind; it scourged from him every last vestige of indolence—that stultifying torpor that was deadly to his kind; his black blood sang with the promise of dark deeds and slaughter.

  “Up, little fool! Up! This is no place to dawdle!”

  Gamely, Étaín struggled to rise; after a moment, Grimnir cursed and scooped her up like a limp doll, bearing her weight as effortlessly as he might an empty sack. He took off at a run. Deeper into the oaks, they ventured, following a trail of smoke so weak no human could have detected it.

  A mile flashed past, then another. Though not even winded, Grimnir nevertheless slowed his pace, his long stride becoming the prowl of a hunter as the air grew rich with the scent of prey: woodsmoke and spices, spade-turned earth leavened with dung, human sweat and the acrid stench of a hound’s piss. He crept closer until he could see a clearing in the trees. At the center of it stood a stone and timber cottage with a low roof of mossy thatch, rain dripping from its eaves and into a pair of huge barrels. Surrounding the cottage was a patchwork of well-tended seed beds, staked and ready for the spring planting; beyond lay a small grove of fruit trees and a freestanding stone wall pierced by a dozen carved niches, out of which came the muted drone of bees.

  Grimnir edged closer; nestled in the crook of his arm, Étaín stirred. He saw a peculiarity about the place: ropes radiated out from the door of the cottage, creating a complex web between the gardens, the orchard, the bee shelter, a stone-curbed well, and a hive-shaped hut that must have been for storage. Firelight seeped out from chinks in the wood-shuttered windows.

  Grimnir meant to steal around back and find a dry corner for the foundling while he investigated the main cottage. He wanted to know how many men dwelled within, and how many he’d have to kill in order to secure the place for his own use. That plan, however, collapsed like an earthen dam before a torrent. He had not gone ten paces into the clearing when from inside the cottage he heard the reverberating bellow of a hound.

  Grimnir shifted his weight, his free hand dropping to the hilt of his seax; he was poised to draw steel as the door to the cottag
e thumped open. A spear of firelight pierced the damp night, and it cast into silhouette the figure of a woman, bent and twisted with age, flanked by an immense wolfhound. Only the crone’s hand, resting lightly on the beast’s neck, kept it from charging.

  She called out in Gaelic. She was blind, her head tilted up slightly and away. After a moment she switched to Danish. “Who’s out there? Gael or Gall? Man or devil, eh?”

  Grimnir gave no answer; he took a step back. The movement caused the giant brindled gray wolfhound to bare its fangs with a low growl of menace. He could see its muscles bunching as it tensed and made ready to run him to ground.

  “Blind Maeve might not be able to see you, aye, but Conán does not share my infirmity,” the woman said, her accent a thick brogue. “Come, it is too wretched a night to stand here at loggerheads.”

  “Sh-She’s right,” Étaín muttered.

  Instantly, the crone craned her neck forward, head cocked to one side. “Is … Is there a woman among you? Answer me!”

  Grimnir’s eyes became slits of gleaming ember. Slowly, he put Étaín down. She gathered her feet beneath her and stood unaided, swaying in the wind-driven rain. Grimnir clapped a hand to her shoulder and motioned to her that she should answer for herself, but leave him out of it. She shot him a defiant look. “A-Aye. There … Th-There are two of us. Our b-boat … w-we … we n-need … m-might we s-seek shelter in one … in one of your out-outbuildings?”

  The old woman shook her head. “You think Blind Maeve so poor a host as to offer only a pile of cold straw and no fire? Nay.” She shooed and shoved the hound out of the doorway. “Move! Aye, get out of the way, you great hairy heathen. Come inside. Quickly, now! This is no weather to be abroad in. Devils stalk the unwary, and only a warm hearth and God’s blessings can preserve man or woman’s soul on a night such as this.”