The Age of Scorpio

by Gavin G. Smith

  ‘Will you sit by my left side?’ Cruibne asked her formally. Britha looked to Ethne, on Cruibne’s right, for her permission – she didn’t need to but respected the older woman. Ethne nodded. Then she looked to Feroth, on Cruibne’s left. Feroth moved over, always glad of Britha’s counsel and company.

  ‘I’d say you’re late,’ Cruibne spoke to her quietly, ‘but I think you know exactly what you’re doing.’

  ‘Don’t speak out of the side of your mouth – it makes them think we have something to hide,’ Britha admonished him.

  The inner circle consisted mainly of the chieftains of the Cirig loyal to Cruibne. He had invited the mormaers of all seven of the tribes, but by the looks of it only Finnguinne of the Fib, Deleroith of the Fortrenn, both southern tribes, and Drust of the Fotlaig to the west had come.

  None of the northern tribes, the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait, had sent anyone at all. The Cait Britha could understand – it was a long way to come – but the absence of the rest of them worried her.

  Britha saw Finnguinne talking quietly with one of his men. This was a breach of hospitality but Britha let it pass. She assumed that Cruibne, Feroth, Ethne and Nechtan would have noticed as well. They had not achieved their positions without being canny, but they chose not to challenge it. Britha hoped that none of the more hot-headed members of the cateran had seen.

  ‘Cruibne MaqqCirig of the Hundred Heads, meat giver, ale provider,’ the man Finnguinne had been talking to started formally, ‘all of us stand in the shadow of your generosity, but if you will indulge me I have a question.’ Britha took a sip of her own ale from her skull. She was pretty sure the man was called Wroid, an average warrior in the Fib cateran but known for his way with words. He was called Wroid the Provoker.

  Britha cursed the Fib. Cursing the Fib was common among the Cirig, as was the reverse. Living across the river from the Fib meant that the Cirig were the most likely targets for Fib raids. Of course the opposite was true as well, and this summer, as it had been for many summers now, the Cirig were the stronger tribe.

  Cruibne’s look of irritation was obvious to all. Trying to have the patience to put up with the provocation he knew was coming was Cruibne’s least favourite part of being mormaer.

  ‘We came because we hoped to see the other descendants of Cruithne. Where are Fergus of the Ce, Oengus of the Fidach and Calgacus of the Cait? I hope it was no mere boast that they would be present,’ Wroid said, a smile on his face. There was muttering from the younger warriors in the Cirig cateran. Boasting was an inevitable part of being a warrior but Wroid had stopped just short of calling Cruibne a liar.

  Britha glanced over at Nechtan, who was still lying looking relaxed, but she noticed that his skull was full of ale. Drunk champions don’t live long, she thought.

  ‘No boast, lad,’ Cruibne said. ‘Messages exchanged, they said they were coming. If you look to our cattle pens you’ll see more than enough beasts to feed more than twice this number. The Fib can take some home with you if it’ll stop your teeth rattling around in your head.’ There was laughter from all but the Fib. That was good, Britha thought. Put him in his place but do so with an act of generosity.

  ‘They were probably yours to begin with anyway,’ Nechtan said, his tone relaxed but promising easy violence as well. Britha guessed that the body she’d passed had been an example to drive this point home earlier in the festivities. This time the laughter only came from the Cirig. Wroid continued smiling but Finnguinne did not look happy.

  ‘Then might I ask where they are?’ Wroid continued. Britha could all but hear Cruibne grind his teeth.

  ‘I can think of no reason why they are not here,’ Cruibne answered.

  ‘I can,’ Finnguinne said. All faces turned to him. Even Nechtan sat more upright. ‘Because they will not be ruled by a high king and neither will the Fib,’ he spat.

  ‘Who will stand as a champion for the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait, who are slandered when not here present?’ Britha asked.

  ‘What?!’ an obviously startled Finnguinne demanded.

  ‘You think if my spearbrothers thought that I wanted to be high king they’d be too afraid to come and tell me no to my face?’ Cruibne said, trying to sound fierce and not smile into his beard.

  ‘No, that is not—’ Finnguinne started.

  ‘Then do not split you tongue; speak clearly!’ Britha demanded. Already warriors, and not just those of the Cirig, were offering to stand as champions for the three absent tribes. ‘We are not sly southrons who require wriggling serpent words. Say what you mean!’

  ‘I meant no offence,’ Finnguinne muttered.

  ‘Good,’ Cruibne said, smiling before getting up and grabbing a large earthenware jug of uisge beatha and handing it to Finnguinne. ‘Drink this and then we can be really abusive towards each other.’ There was more laughter as the atmosphere relaxed.

  Good, more generosity, Britha thought as she drank more of the heather ale from the skull. Show them we have nothing to fear and all to give. Finnguinne hadn’t been too far from the truth. Cruibne did not want to be high king. There was no need, no external threat sufficient to require it, and the other tribes would never accept it. What he wanted was to make clear his position as first among the mormaers. He wanted to assert the strength of his tribe, their supremacy. He wanted to say that challenging the Cirig, even raiding them, was far more trouble than it was worth. Then he wanted to get on with his real ambition of growing old and fat.

  Britha largely agreed with his plan but needed to make sure that the rest of the tribe did not grow fat, lazy and unused to battle. Britha let the circle around the fire lapse into easy conversation. She remained aloof from it, only saying something when directly addressed and then as little as she could. This was a necessary part of her role: it helped promote the mystery and respect required to do what she did, and she found that the people who spoke the least were often considered the wisest and actually listened to.

  When she was able, Britha slipped away from the fire. Walked into the night and looked down at the moon reflected in the Tatha. Looking at the water made her think of Cliodna. Wondering where she was. Had she returned to her cave? Britha was already trying to think of excuses to return there and then cursing herself for her weakness. She could not explain the sudden change in the other woman. Britha knew she was being foolish. Her mother and her grandmother before her, when they were teaching her the secrets that the male dryw could not, had warned her against becoming involved with those from the Otherworld.

  She felt a large strong hand grab her buttock. Her elbow flew backwards with a satisfying crunch followed by a series of curses. Britha swung round to see which drunken fool wanted to be cursed until his testicles made acorns look large.

  She found Cruibne holding his nose and cursing. He was obviously the worse for drink but not insensible. A champion needed to remain sober, a mormaer just needed to hold his drink.

  ‘My nose! You scabby—’

  ‘Choose your words, Cruibne. Mormaer or no, I will not be manhandled.’ She respected the king and would not have struck him in front of others, but at the same time that did not give him licence.

  ‘Ha! I just came to see if there was a ritual we could do to ensure the success of the gathering.’

  Britha could not help but smile. She knew exactly what kind of ritual he had in mind. Britha guessed that chancing like this to get what he wanted was probably a useful, if at times irritating, quality in a mormaer.

  ‘That is for very specific situations and only with Ethne’s blessing. Unless you think I enjoy lying with a stinking sack of pus like yourself?’

  Cruibne’s expression darkened at the insult. Britha was not terribly worried, but fortunately the mormaer rediscovered his sense of humour quickly.

  ‘You always seemed to,’ he said, reaching up to stroke her hair. It was true to a degree. Cruibne was not an untalented lover, which was important for the success of the rites, the sacrifice – her sacrifice – the seed
they returned to the earth. He’d had to be trained of course. However, all the magic in the Otherworld could not have compelled her to tell Cruibne that.

  ‘Don’t make me hurt you and then ask Ethne to come over here and hurt you as well,’ she told him. Cruibne gave this some thought. He stopped stroking her hair.

  ‘It worries me that the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait did not come,’ Cruibne said, changing the subject, seeming almost sober. Britha nodded. She had been thinking the same. When not thinking about Cliodna. ‘Finnguinne’s a serpent-tongued sheep rapist, but do you think he’s right? That they think I mean to rule them?’

  Britha shook her head. ‘Can you see Calgacus of the Bitter Tongue not coming here to tell you what he thought of that?’

  ‘Do they plan war against us?’

  ‘Maybe Oengus, for the sake of harvesting heads, but he would tell us to our faces. Besides, things are well now. Why risk that in war? And there are easier prey than us.’

  ‘I do not like this. Have they fallen to war among themselves?’

  ‘It seems unlikely that we would not have heard about it, or that one or more of them would not want to ask for our aid. Besides, even at war they know they could come here safely under our protection.’

  ‘What then? Famine? The Lochlannach?’

  Britha just shook her head. Cruibne was more than capable of speculating on his own. He was saying this because he was drunk and wanted to hear a voice. ‘I think we should send a—’ Britha began, knowing that she would have to repeat herself the following day. She was interrupted by a clamour from the circle around the fire. Both of them headed back.

  A landsman stood in the circle of flame-shadowed warriors. Britha did not recognise him but he looked ill-used. He had been beaten and cut. He would have been terrified if he had not been so fatigued that he swayed with the warm summer breeze.

  ‘On your knees!’ one of the Fib warriors yelled. Britha was pretty sure he was called Congus and unlike Wroid he could fight. He was Finnguinne’s champion and known as a dangerous man. From where he sat Congus knocked the landsman’s legs out from underneath him. Britha strode across the circle and kicked Congus in the face. She was not expecting to get away with it but anger overwhelmed better judgement. To her surprise her foot connected and spread Congus’s nose across his face. He reeled back even as his hand went to the sword by his side.

  ‘What are you so frightened of that a landsman has to kneel?’ Britha demanded. Congus, seeing that it was the ban draoi, did not draw his blade though he had hate in his eyes.

  ‘There are mormaer present,’ Finnguinne said angrily.

  ‘So? We’ll make our landsmen go on their knees when we learn to eat swords,’ Britha spat at him.

  ‘Besides, this is my fire. I decide who gets mistreated,’ Cruibne said from behind her as he knelt to cradle the man and gave him ale from his own skull in a bid to revive him.

  ‘The man’s clearly a thief,’ Finnguinne said. ‘He came in riding a horse.’

  Cruibne glanced at Talorcan, and the tracker went to check the horse.

  ‘It’s a brave woman who strikes a warrior knowing he cannot return the blow,’ Congus said. In theory there was a ban against striking a dryw. There was also, in theory, a ban on dryw taking part in combat.

  ‘It is true,’ Wroid said. ‘Poor hospitality is this. The dryw are not meant to strike warriors.’

  ‘Ours does,’ Nechtan said.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Britha demanded of Congus. ‘I do not know you. You could not have done much. Are you sure you received your first meat from the tip of a blade?’

  ‘I am Congus, champ—’ he began angrily.

  ‘Are you known as Congus the Timid? Congus the Abuser of Landsfolk?’ Britha demanded. It was hugely rude to interrupt a warrior formally introducing himself. There were sharp intakes of breath from all around the fire. Britha knew she was pushing the man hard, but his was exactly the sort of arrogance that she despised most among the warriors.

  ‘You go too far even for a dryw,’ Congus said dangerously. Behind her she could hear the warriors in the Cirig cateran shifting, readying themselves.

  ‘Well, Congus the Timid, you have my permission to return the blow,’ Britha said. ‘No ban, no boycott or satire. I promise you the only consequences that you will reap will be those wrought by Flesh Render.’ Meaning her spear. Then she looked Congus straight in the eye. Britha was a fair fighter but she had grown up training to be a ban draoi. Congus had spent his whole life training to be a warrior. She was pretty sure that in a straight fight she would lose, but first Congus had to overcome every bit of inherited dread about crossing a dryw. In many ways, to humiliate him publicly and challenge him was not very fair at all. The two of them stared at each other. Congus looked away first.

  ‘Is this the brave Cirig? Hiding behind a woman?’ Wroid demanded.

  ‘We are stronger than you because our women fight,’ Cruibne said distractedly while he looked over the newcomer’s wounds.

  ‘And any one of us will fight you at any time,’ Nechtan added quietly.

  ‘We are stronger than you because we know enough not to fear our women or our landsmen,’ Britha told him.

  ‘The horse is almost as ill-used as he is,’ Talorcan said, appearing out of the darkness. ‘It’s a warrior’s mount, but it has been ridden long and hard and I don’t like the look of its wounds.’

  ‘See!’ Finnguinne spat. ‘A horse thief!’

  ‘Hold your tongue, sheep king!’ Cruibne spat. There was deathly silence around the fire. Britha closed her eyes and cursed Cruibne for allowing Finnguinne and his people to bait him. ‘You should consider yourself lucky I don’t take your head for breaking my hospitality. Get from my fire and do it now. Think hard if you want to war with us, and I will think hard on the right compensation for what you have done here.’

  There was lots of shifting and muttering from both caterans. ‘Sheep king’ was not an easy insult for a mormaer to walk away from. Finnguinne stared at Cruibne.

  Cruibne ignored him. ‘Britha, he needs your healing ways.’ Britha moved to kneel by the man’s side.

  Finnguinne stood up and stormed away from the fire. Congus accompanied him, quickly followed by the rest of the Fib, Wroid at the rear, raining insults down on the Cirig, many of whom were on their feet.

  Feroth prevented the Cirig from responding to Wroid’s words with violence. It would look ill if they fought the Fib after inviting them to share their fire. ‘They’ll have a hard time on the Tatha the amount they’ve had to drink,’ Feroth said. It was a weak jest but he was trying to lower the tension.

  Britha was all but oblivious to this. Instead she was cursing Congus’s arrogance as she peeled away the landsman’s blaidth to reveal a horrible-looking wound. She exchanged a look of horrified surprise with Cruibne, who was holding the writhing man.

  It was a sword wound. She had seen many before. Except this one looked wrong somehow, too wide even for the thickest blade, and too ragged. Something about it put in Britha’s mind that the sword had been hungry.

  ‘That’s not right,’ Cruibne said. Britha nodded. She had seen wounds this bad, just not on anyone living.

  ‘Who knows this man?!’ Cruibne demanded of the remaining people around the fire. Many peered at the wounded man, who was drooling blood. Britha used her fingers to force his mouth open.

  ‘His tongue’s been cut… ripped out,’ Britha said. ‘He could not have ridden far, not in this state.’ Except that she knew everyone for many miles and she did not know him.

  One of the Cirig’s own landsmen edged forwards. He lived in the northernmost of their lands.

  ‘Mormaer, I would not swear to it, but I think he is a landsman from the land of the Ce.’

  Britha gestured to two of the warriors. ‘Take him to the circle. Go quick and soft – he is badly hurt.’ The warriors picked the man up and carried him out of Ardestie towards the woods to the east. Britha walked with them. She had to mask
how unnerved she was.

  What frightened her the most was that without woad, without mushrooms, she could see the lines of blood within the man’s flesh. They looked like they had fire crawling through them.

  3. Now

  He suspected that the drugs and alcohol made the sea of naked bodies in soft red light seem more erotic than the cold harsh reality probably was, but that didn’t matter. It felt good, edgy, exciting, like they were pushing boundaries. Besides, she was beautiful; they complemented each other in both looks and willingness to go forward, to explore. Being inside her felt right, more than just sex. He looked down at her, hair dark, eyes glazed with narcotics and sex, moving against him, guiding him inside her to where she wanted, where he felt good, moaning slightly when he found it.

  He’d heard the stories but hadn’t believed them, but what mattered was that she liked edge play. He could see the scars on her neck from the bloodletting. The bullshit about people seeing things after tasting her blood was probably just the effects of blood-drinking while tripping.

  As he moved inside her he reached for the razor. Pushing deep into her he held it in front of her looking for consent. She didn’t say no. Best not to spoil their game with words. He used the razor to draw a line in red on her neck.

  He considered himself creative. Perhaps that made him more sensitive, perhaps it didn’t. He would never know the latent talent he had and the tiny tear that talent made when her blood sought it out. A single tear of blood ran down his smooth pale cheek, as he became a beacon first. Then a gate as his mind was torn apart. He saw it, briefly, the red burning ghost world.

  Then as they came through he felt like he was being torn apart at some base level. His scream echoed in another place. Nothing that heard it cared, or even understood it. It was drowned out by a much louder and all-encompassing scream.