A Gathering of Ravens

by Scott Oden

  A chorus of curses and taunts rose from the throats of the Irish vanguard; a few rode nearer to the gates, leapt off their ponies, and flashed their lily-white backsides. Another tried twice to lob a child’s body over the palisade. On his third attempt, as he leaned from the saddle to snatch the bloody, towheaded corpse off the ground, a Norse arrow punched through his face from the back of his skull. He toppled into the dirt; his pony shied and pranced, then bolted as a second arrow gashed its dust-streaked flank.

  Still laughing, O’Ruairc led the outriders away from Dubhlinn’s walls.

  24

  King Sitric paced the battlements of Dubhlinn Castle, his mailed shoulders wrapped in a voluminous green cloak pinned at the breast with a brooch of Byzantine gold, and watched as the Irish vanguard retreated from the gates. He scowled at the bodies left in their wake: farmers and settlers who had lived to the west of Dubhlinn, mixed with refugees from the now-burning village of Kilmainham, three miles distant—men, women, and children abandoned by their king, left to rape and slaughter under his very nose. His honor, his pride, sacrificed for the ambitions of that wretch Half-Dane. Dubhlinn’s king unclenched his jaw.

  “Again,” he growled to his lieutenant, who turned and motioned to the dozen or so archers among the Norse. These men, as lean and sinewy as hunting dogs, drew back their yew bows and sent a second flight of arrows aloft. The king saw one saddle emptied, but the balance of the volley fell short. He cursed.

  “That’s women’s work, Silkiskegg,” said a voice at Sitric’s back. He stiffened and turned, glowering at the men who joined him on the battlements. His uncle was there … soft, languid Maelmorda, accompanied by the chiefs of the newly come dragon ships: Sigurðr, jarl of Orkney, a thick-bearded bear of a man who fought under the raven banner of Odin; at his side, in stark antithesis, stood Bródir of Mann—as lean and feral as a rabid wolf. If the skalds sang true, Bródir was as rune-wise and battle-cunning. Of dwarf make was the axe cradled in his arms, and from that blighted folk came the spells of protection that were woven with silver wire through the links of his mail hauberk. “Women’s work,” he repeated. “Why do we tarry? Send forth our reavers and we’ll slay these Irish dogs that scratch at your door!”

  “Aye.” Sigurðr’s voice was a basso rumble. “I didn’t come all the way from Orkney to rub beards with the likes of you lot. Give the word and we will crush them ere the moon rises and bring that cross-kisser, Mac Cennétig, back to you in chains.”

  Maelmorda scoffed. “If it were that easy, why would we need you louts?”

  “Lout, is it?” Sigurðr started forward, hands knotting into fists; he took two steps toward the pale king of Leinster before his companion’s hand on his shoulder stilled him instantly. Neither of them saw the twisted shadow of Bjarki Half-Dane lurking behind them, watching.

  “Because you have no men, Hollow King,” Bródir said, making no effort to mask his scorn. “No men, no land, no crown save for that useless bauble you wear.”

  “The men of Leinster fight for me!” Maelmorda drew himself up, seeking to regain some standing among this gathering of chiefs.

  Sigurðr’s booming laughter echoed off the battlements. “Men?” he said after a moment, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes. “Those yapping dogs? They don’t fight for you, idiot! They fight because those curs”—he jerked his shaggy head toward the fires at Kilmainham—“pissed on their doorstep!”

  Bródir cracked a rare smile, mirthless and cruel.

  “Enough!” Sitric roared. “Gold, land, honor … what difference does it make? We’re all here for the same reason, and we dance to the same tune!” The king of Dubhlinn glared at the silent figure of Half-Dane.

  “True,” Bródir said. “And the war note plays on, Silkiskegg! The Choosers of the Slain ride in the twilight of the North, and the web of fate is spun! Sound your trumpets, add to the din, and let us bring doom upon the Gael!”

  Sorcery lurked in Bródir’s words and its effect was not lost on Sitric. Dubhlinn’s king felt his blood sing; he very nearly loosed his war cry and called on his Norse mercenaries to join him on the red-stained road to Glory and Death. Bjarki’s silky voice, though, snuffed Bródir’s enchantment the way a man snuffs a candle’s flame.

  “You have seen them?” Bjarki said. When he moved to join the chiefs, the king of Dubhlinn noticed an emphasis to his limp, to his sense of twisted infirmity. He was playing a role—the misshapen goði, his health sacrificed in the acquisition of wisdom. Sitric would have laughed had he not seen a look of fear pass between Sigurðr and Bródir when Half-Dane stepped from the shadows. “You have seen them, mighty Bródir? You have beheld the valkyrjar with your mortal sight? No?” Bjarki grimaced; even under the afternoon sun, a gloom seemed to cling to Half-Dane. His eyes burned like embers as he fixed his gaze on first the jarl of Orkney, then the chief of the Manx reavers. “I have! I have seen the twelve daughters of Odin, terrible and fair, with eyes like corpse light and hearts as cold as a whetstone’s hollow. You say the web of fate is spun? I tell you, Bródir of Mann, the Norns yet weave the cloth of this spear-shattering upon the loom of slaughter! I have glimpsed it: severed heads they used as weights, sinews for the weft and entrails for the warp; a notched sword was their beater, and the shuttle was a barbed arrow! The omens are plain: the swords of the North will remain in their sheaths, this day, their spears grounded and axes unwhetted! Ignore these signs at your own peril!”

  “How long, then?” Sigurðr said. “How long do we wait?”

  Sitric glanced sidelong at Bjarki, who had lapsed into silence. “The priests will take the omens, again, with the dawn,” said the king of Dubhlinn. “We will know the gods—”

  “Two days hence,” Bjarki said suddenly. “Mac Cennétig must die on the day those wretched hymn-singers celebrate the nailing of their god to the cross. That is the will of Odin.”

  Bródir’s vicious smile returned. “Long Friday,” he said with a curt nod. “Fitting.”

  “Aye.” Sigurðr grunted; he scratched at one bearded cheek. “But, will the bastard meet us on his holy day?”

  “Never.” This from forgotten Maelmorda. “It is a sin to spill blood that day. The old fool will refuse battle.”

  “Then we make him meet us,” Sitric replied, drawing himself up to his full height; the chiefs of the dragon ships nodded their approval. Even Bjarki held himself silent, watching. “Mac Cennétig’s choice to draw steel or not, that is between him and his god. But we will draw steel, my brothers. We will harrow the ground with that red piss these Gaels call blood, whether they choose to fight us or not!”

  “Then you’d best pray, Silkiskegg,” Sigurðr replied, a twinkle in his eye. “You’d best pray the mead holds out! My lads are a thirsty lot, and those Manx bastards drink ale like fish drink water!”

  Sitric laughed with them. “My uncle will show you where I keep the barrels and bottles, for he is well-acquainted with that part of my castle.” Braying with laughter, Sigurðr crooked an arm around Maelmorda’s neck before the latter could object and dragged him off like a boon companion; Bjarki and Bródir fell in behind them, side by side. After a moment, the king of Dubhlinn was once again alone on the battlements of his castle, looking down on the ravages of an enemy.

  Soon, he felt his mother’s presence beside him. Kormlada was cloaked and hooded, as dark as the ravens that were her familiars.

  “You heard?” the king said.

  Kormlada nodded.

  “He has gone too far,” Sitric said quietly. “My own men look to him for their orders, as though I am my wretched uncle made over—an empty tunic with a borrowed crown.” He exhaled. “These deaths are on my head. They came to me for safety and this is how I repay their loyalty? I should have ridden out and engaged their vanguard, but he ordered me to stand down and closed the gates. He ordered me!” Sitric hissed between clenched teeth, penning his emotions behind the walls of breath. “I am the son of Olaf Cuarán, not some monster’s plaything!”

 
“Persevere, my son,” she replied. “Temper your anger and play your part. It is I who conjured this demon into our midst, and it is I who must banish him back to whatever hell spawned him.”

  Sitric turned away. “Whatever you’re planning, Mother, do it quickly. We are running out of time.” Dubhlinn’s king withdrew from the castle walls, leaving Kormlada alone. A shape caught her eye; she glanced up to see a dark fleck riding the updrafts over the long sloping plains. It was Cruach, rising ever higher into the blue and gold sky, searching, hunting, bearing her message to the monster she had met atop Carraig Dubh. There was her answer, beautiful in its simplicity, for the problem of Half-Dane’s continued existence.

  It takes a monster to kill a monster.

  25

  Grimnir eluded the hunters that the Irish chief sent after him with hardly any effort. Indeed, a kaunr whelp, his mother’s milk yet damp on his lips, could have run circles around the louts, so lazy and spoor-blind were they. He considered having a bit of sport with them, hounding them to the edge of exhaustion and then picking them off one by one, but he thought the better of it. He meant to strike an accord with the Irish king, and that meant earning his trust. What fool would trust him, then, if it got around that a swarthy, fanged demon had ambushed a few of the lads in the forest?

  So, Grimnir let them slip away ere temptation got the better of him. He retraced his steps, reaching the crumbling foundations of the burned-out farmstead near sunset. The sky above shone a deep blue through the ragged drifts of cloud, turning to ruddy fire on the western horizon. It was the same hue as the banked heart of a blacksmith’s forge.

  “Red sky,” Grimnir muttered, trying to recall some bit of doggerel Gífr had been fond of. He considered hunkering down there, amid the brambles and the fallen rocks, when the doom-laden cr-r-ruck of a raven raised the hackles on his neck. He heard the rustle of giant wings. Recalling the witch’s minions, Grimnir dropped to a crouch; he whirled toward the sound, drawing his seax as an ancient raven alighted on the pile of moss-rotten stone that had once been the farmstead’s chimney.

  For a long moment the two stared at each other—the raven’s coal-black eyes glossy and unblinking, while Grimnir’s eyes narrowed to slits and smoldered like the westering sun. Slowly, he straightened.

  “What of it, old crow? Has that one-eyed whoreson of a god sent you to bedevil me?” And it did not startle Grimnir in the least when that giant bird answered him, its voice the harsh croak of his kind:

  Wise is the wary | when speech is sought

  So let the death-dealing | be stayed.

  From high-stone hall | above the Black Pool,

  The daughter of kings | seeks counsel.

  Grimnir grunted. “Daughter of kings, eh? You mean Half-Dane’s whore?”

  The daughter of kings | seeks counsel.

  “Does she, now?” He looked askance at the bird; he did not flutter and twitch in the manner of his younger kin, but rather kept still—a certain quiet majesty draping from him like a fine cloak. The creature was a familiar, a soul-servant, and he reeked of a primeval sorcery, now long forgotten. “Why?”

  Entwined is the lady | in the plots of the foe,

  Though bale and hatred | be his portion;

  Wisdom she would share | with wolf-born Grimnir,

  Against thy kinsman, | Grendel’s slayer.

  Grimnir smelled a trap. She had wanted him as a pet, and that whiteskin he’d killed had meant something to her, of this he was certain; why meet with his killer unless she had vengeance on her mind? Perhaps, though, he could twist this into an opportunity. He needed to know the mind of Half-Dane, to find out what that blasted little fool had planned. He needed something he could translate into leverage. And who better to put the irons to than his wretched bedmate? “Tell her midnight. The Black Stone. Tell her to come alone.”

  Thence she will come | by her own devices,

  But what oath do you give | that she will leave?

  “I give her no oath!” Grimnir laughed. “What oath does she give me, you buzzard? That’s right … none! If she can’t look after her own skin what use is she to anyone? Tell your so-called daughter of kings that if she wants to parley, come to the stone by midnight!”

  And without another word, the raven lofted into the twilight sky on powerful wings, leaving Grimnir alone once more. He looked back at the walls of Dubhlinn, its palisades and earthworks tinged with fire, its roofs the color of blood; he chuckled. The bitch had spleen, he gave her that. To call for a parley? That took more sand in her belly than most men could claim. But was she honest? That, Grimnir would not give her. Was she not Half-Dane’s whore?

  Grimnir withdrew through the darkling wood and ascended to the heights of Carraig Dubh. There, in the shadow of the Black Stone, he would bait a trap for the Witch of Dubhlinn …

  26

  The Irish host made its camp at Kilmainham, where the thatch yet smoldered and the stones still radiated the heat of a hundred pillaging fires. And like the mythical phoenix rising from the ashes, a new village sprang from the war-ravaged bones of the old, at once larger and far more diverse. Tents lined its crooked streets; some were no more than a cloak stretched between three poles, while others were sprawling pavilions made from colorful linen and embroidered in the Saracen script, looted from the mysterious East and brought to market in Hlymrekr or Dubhlinn itself.

  Neighborhoods sorted themselves out by kin and clan even though the soldiers gathered under common banner; in their makeshift squares cook fires blazed. By that diffuse light the chiefs and captains of the army ate a quick bite with their men and gave orders for the rotation of the watch before trudging up the long slope to the ruined monastery claimed by Brian mac Cennétig, to attend the high king of Ériu.

  Cressets burned in the courtyard of the monastery. For three centuries it had stood watch from a ridge overlooking the turbulent waters of the River Liffey, and those centuries had not been easy. Stones blackened by ancient burnings now bore a veneer of moss; roofless and open to the elements, the monastery—dedicated to Saint Maighneann—had been spared the indignity of being used as a roost for flocks of birds or as pasture for cattle, since its cracked paving stones allowed only ragged weeds to take root. Instead, heathen hands had turned its walls into a mosaic of scratched runes, pictograms, and obscene etchings.

  Outside the nave, under an awning of plain linen, King Brian held court. Though past seventy, his hair and beard both gone to silver, Brian nevertheless remained formidable in manner—the dangerous light in his eyes undimmed and the steel in his voice unbroken by the shadow of his advancing years. He surveyed this gathering of his captains, drawn from the clans of Munster and Connacht and reinforced by war bands of fearsome Galloglas fighters from Alba across the Irish Sea and mailed Danes from Hlymrekr, newly baptized to the Christian cause. Leading the convocation was his eldest son and heir, Murrough mac Brian. The son, like the father, cut a redoubtable figure—rangy and muscular, his black hair shot through with silver and his scowling visage etched by the stylus of war. He wore a tunic of iron rings beneath his cloak-wrapped shoulders, woven in the manner of the Dalcassians.

  “I gave an order, Murrough,” Brian said. “Who defied me? On whose shoulders did you place the responsibility for leading the vanguard?”

  The prince turned and nodded to Cormac O’Ruairc, who stood among the captains of Connacht.

  “I had that honor, sire.” Cormac stepped to the fore. To his credit he did not fidget, nor did his face betray any hint of emotion. “I led the Uí Ruairc of Lough Gill in advance of the main army. It is by our hand that the invaders were driven from this place.”

  “Did my son fail to make my wishes clear?”

  O’Ruairc glanced sidelong at Murrough, whose face darkened in anger. “Answer him, by God!”

  “No, sire.”

  “Then tell me this, kern: by what right did you feel you could ignore the wishes of your king?” Brian growled. By using the label for a common warrior, “kern
,” he denied O’Ruairc the dignity of his title before his peers; the insult brought a flush of color to the man’s cheeks. “I gave leave to plunder, for anything these foreigners possess is hard-won from our people, but I forbade the slaughter—”

  “Blame the feckin’ Danes!” O’Ruairc snapped. “Aye, blame them for not giving up the road! Blame them for not letting go of their paltry belongings! And if you must find fault, sire, then put it where it belongs: square on the heads of those miserable swine that fought tooth and nail for land that wasn’t theirs, and died to the last man and woman!”

  The silence that followed was gravid with the threat of violence. Murrough flexed his scarred fingers, eager to throttle the life from his oath-man. But he didn’t move. No one did, save the king. Slowly, Brian mac Cennétig leaned forward, his throne creaking as he nailed O’Ruairc with a look that could melt iron.

  “And what of the children?” he said quietly. “Did the children fight you as hard as their parents? Mark me on this, Cormac son of Airt of the Uí Ruairc, when the spears have shattered and the ravens have fed, you will stand before me in judgment for these crimes—and if you and I fall beneath the axes of the Danes, then we will both face the judgment of the Son of Man, himself! Now get out of my sight!”

  Jaw clenched and fuming, O’Ruairc sketched a perfunctory bow to the king, glared hard at Murrough, and stalked from the convocation. Muttering followed in his wake.

  “Heed me well, all of you.” Silence returned as Brian rose to his feet. “This is my army. It trades upon my name, and its authority comes from me. And my authority”—the king’s voice rose to a thunderous pitch—“my authority comes from the Almighty himself! So when Dubhlinn falls—and it will fall!—I’ll not have it bandied about that King Brian is only Christian when it suits him! Kinsmen or not, you will control yourselves and your men or you will become my enemy! Go, now. Rest and prepare for the morrow.”