The Age of Scorpio

by Gavin G. Smith

  ‘You know that won’t happen.’

  ‘I don’t know anything. Your people will suffer more if they resist.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘Because I must.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I am nothing: less than a ghost, a servant, a mercenary, serving a god I do not believe in.’

  ‘Gods make slaves of people.’

  Bress’s laughter was devoid of humour.

  ‘And people overestimate their importance in the scheme of things, but I cannot deny your words. What is your name?’

  ‘Britha. They say you will bring madness on the land.’

  Suddenly all trace of humour was gone.

  ‘And who are “they”?’

  ‘The spirits on the night wind, the dead who speak to me in my dreams,’ she lied.

  He stared at her suspiciously. Britha met his eyes. She didn’t like how they made her feel, but that feeling subsided as she remembered the pack.

  ‘What you’ve done here – despoiling, slaving – what you did to those children…’

  ‘Flesh is a tool, something to shape for the amusement of the gods.’

  ‘Do you not know this is wrong? Evil!’

  ‘Yes, I just don’t care.’ He wasn’t looking at her now. He was looking out through the entrance to the skin hut into the night beyond.

  Britha stared at him. He just sounded tired and horribly alone. Britha cursed herself for her weakness, remembered the pack and forced down any feeling of sympathy. He was a monster from the Otherworld.

  ‘I have to kill you,’ she said almost involuntarily. He nodded.

  ‘Take your blade and go,’ he told her quietly. Britha stared at him. ‘Fight and die in the battle if you will, or run and live, but if you ever falter then never forget that I have done this to your people.’ He turned to look at her with his dead eyes. It was all Britha could do not to flee. Bress stood up and walked out into the night air. Britha didn’t move. Then the deep howl of the carnyx, the Cirig’s dog-headed brass war horn, filled the night air.

  The carnyx had sounded at the last moment. The warriors had been, like Britha, painted blue as the night, and had slowly made their way on their bellies across the sand as close as they dared. These were cateran, professional soldiers. The spear-carrying landsmen waited in the dunes still.

  With a gesture rather than the sounding of the carnyx, Feroth had sent the chariots onto the beach, each wood and wicker cart pulled by two ponies straining at their harness at full gallop, driven by a kneeling charioteer. Trying to close with the enemy as quickly as they could before they were noticed.

  To Cruibne, the familiar beach was a blur beneath him as he crouched on one knee. Gone were the days when he would stand in a chariot – he didn’t feel so steady on his feet these days. He glanced to his right and saw Nechtan in his armour walking carefully out onto the yoke between the two horses – the chariot feat. The champion had his casting spears at the ready. Nechtan, like all the cateran, wore a wicker framework headdress designed to look like a dog’s skull covered with dog hide. Still, it would have been better if he had gone to battle skyclad like the rest of the cateran. Nechtan was lost to view when the chariots drove into a narrow channel in a spray of water.

  Cruibne reached down to grab the boards of the chariot as it bounced back onto the wet sand. Ahead he could see the spearmen lying down. They had previously agreed lanes for the chariots to drive through. Ethne, who was the only person he trusted as his charioteer, expertly controlled the horses through the prostrate spearmen. Cruibne heard a scream, the sound whipped away from him by the speed of the chariot: someone had not been as accurate. Ahead he watched as the enemy, seemingly unhurried, arranged themselves into a tightly linked shield wall. Cruibne kept his mouth open – he didn’t want to break any teeth as the chariot bounced up and down – and shifted his grip on his casting spear. No shield wall ever stood against a chariot charge.

  Behind him the dog-headed spearmen had got to their feet and were sprinting in behind the chariots. The carnyx sounded again and the spear-carrying landsmen poured out of the dunes and started their long run across the sand. The baying war dogs quickly outpaced them, the rags that had held their jaws closed had been removed.

  As the cart bounced and juddered despite the smoothness of the sand, Cruibne watched as the wall of shields and spears got closer and closer. They had to break. Everyone did.

  Britha heard the carnyx sound again. The attack. Her tribe were about to throw themselves against these creatures and she had not done what she had said she would.

  Britha ducked out of the hut. She had a moment to see the back of the shield wall and hear the hoof beats echoing across the beach. The man she had seen drinking from the chalice of molten metal was standing behind the shield wall with a few others. They didn’t have armour or spears but were carrying swords. They were for those who got through. Britha moved quickly towards him, not allowing herself to think that he was an innocent victim who had been forced into this by Bress’s magic. Britha jumped at him and cleaved the sickle into his neck, driving it down into his chest cavity. She stared at the wound, wet and red, appalled. How can I have the strength for that? The sickle felt hungry in her hand. As the man juddered and sank to the ground, Britha noticed that his entire hand was covered in the red-gold filigree – it looked like it had grown out of the pommel of his sword. Then the chariots hit.

  They weren’t going to break. Ethne slewed the chariot to the side hard, showering the enemy shield wall in sand. Cruibne felt the cart start to turn over and held on for dear life, but Ethne was better than that, forcing the terrified ponies forward through the sand, their speed pulling the cart straight.

  Others weren’t so lucky. Some tried, like Ethne, to turn at the last moment but lost control, sending ponies, cart and passengers tumbling sideways into the shield wall. Others, their charioteers unable to believe that the shield wall hadn’t run, ploughed straight into it in a screaming, tangled, tumbling collision of wood, metal, human and horseflesh.

  Britha threw herself to one side as a chariot went tumbling past her in an explosion of sand. She pushed herself to her feet. A figure charged her. He slashed his sword down. She caught the blade in the curve of the sickle blade and swung the sword away from her. She brought the sickle back and into his stomach, driving the curved blade up into his chest cavity. He fell back; the sickle slid out red; the expression on his face didn’t even change.

  They were galloping along the enemy shield wall now. Cruibne struck out with his longspear again and again. The spear glanced off shields mostly but caught one of them in the head. Cruibne felt the impact in his arm as the spear haft snapped and the man was torn off his feet sideways, his neck broken, head gashed open, skull caved in.

  Ahead of Cruibne, Nechtan stood on his yoke and threw casting spear after casting spear at the enemy shield wall. Shields were raised to block, but Nechtan caught more than one of the enemy warriors. A lucky shot took one of them in the face, sending him staggering back out of the line, but the gap was closed quickly by those on either side. At the end of the shield wall, following Nechtan’s chariot, Ethne steered the ponies in a long circle to bring them back into the attack.

  Britha watched one of the enemy spearmen stagger back, a casting spear embedded in the ruin of his face. He reached up, pulled the spear out and threw it away. They had to call off the attack. She had to find Bress and kill him. She reached down and took the sword from the dead man’s hand. There was resistance – the red filigree had to be tugged out of his flesh and seemed to come to life. There was a moment of panic as she felt it start to dig into her flesh. She felt heat in her hand, wrist and then arm. Then she felt sick, like a strong fever. Her arm glowed with an inner light. She watched as the filigree on the cursed sword retracted into the blade’s pommel. The feeling of heat and sickness passed.

  Sword in one hand, sickle in the other, she started towards the back of the shield wall.
She glanced down the line and saw Ettin with the pack straining at its chains. He looked back towards her. Even over the distance she could feel the intensity of his stare, the hatred. Then she heard a crashing sound. The pieces of metal in the hollow brass sphere at the base of every one of the cateran’s spears were being rattled to frighten their foes. Britha couldn’t see it working this time.

  The war dogs, massive, powerfully built deerhounds, many wearing their own protective leather jerkins, many of them scarred veterans of other battles, were nearly at the Lochlannach line. Their job was to distract and disrupt the enemy shield wall, make them lower their shields just ahead of the attack of the spearmen. The shield wall took a step forward. Many of the dogs died on the ends of spears, or shields broke their leaps, sent them tumbling back into their own advancing men.

  The spearmen hit the shield wall. Britha watched as the force of their charge pushed the enemy back, their feet digging into the sand. The cateran battered against the Lochlannach’s shields, trying to force them up. Some cateran warriors went tumbling over the defenders’ shields, their naked, painted and tattooed bodies dead moments after they hit the sand.

  Britha ran towards the back of the shield wall but was intercepted by swordsmen. She felt her blood sing as she ducked and parried blows. The sickle and sword cut through armour as if it wasn’t there and bit deep into flesh. She leaped and spun; she felt like she was dancing between her attackers. She had never fought like this. Never revelled in it like this. She wanted to see wounds. Feel hot blood on her skin, taste it.

  The swordsmen dead, she went looking for Bress. He was pretty, she dimly remembered through her battle pleasure, but she wanted to see what his innards looked like. She thought they would be just as pretty.

  The cateran had been flung back so hard, many of them had lost their footing and been speared. Now it would be the grind of shield wall on shield wall, Talorcan thought as he looked for a target. The advantage was with the Lochlannach with their large oval shields versus the Cirig’s smaller square ones.

  One of the enemy was looking the other way. Talorcan loosed the notched arrow. The man somehow seemed to know. He ducked down behind his shield and the arrow flew over his head. Talorcan cursed. They were so fast.

  Ettin released the pack.

  Sleek lithe shapes clambered up the backs of the Lochlannach and launched themselves at the cateran. They were so quick that Talorcan struggled to make them out. Demons from the Otherworld, his frightened mind thought. It was easier to think this than acknowledge how much they looked like children. They tore at cateran and war dog alike.

  He watched as one of the red-eyed demons threw itself at Feradach. The warrior swung his shield at it, catching it in the head in mid-air with enough force to knock it to the ground. Feradach stepped forward and ran his longspear through the demon, pinning it to the sand, but the creature was still writhing, fighting, screaming. A wild blow snapped the haft of the spear and Talorcan watched in horror as Feradach staggered back screaming, the demon’s hands redder now and dripping. There was a gaping wound where Feradach’s manhood used to be.

  There weren’t many of the demons but enough of them to disrupt the cateran line. Talorcan glanced behind him. The landsmen were still too far away. As one, and without any order that Talorcan heard, the Lochlannach line moved forward. Spears thrust out. Pecht died. Spearheads embedded themselves in cateran shields. The Lochlannach stood on the hafts of the spears, forcing the shields down, and with frightening speed drew their swords and opened flesh. With each step more of the skyclad warriors died. To Talorcan their wounds looked worse than they should have been. Wide gaping red gashes and rips in his friends’ flesh.

  Talorcan was loosing arrow after arrow, but his targets didn’t even seem to notice. It was when he watched one of them draw an arrow from his neck, toss it away and drive his spear through the head of a Fortrenn warrior that Talorcan knew that not only would they lose but they could not fight these people.

  Talorcan dropped his bow and shrugged off the quiver. The small Pecht pulled his dog’s head on, drew his knife and hatchet, then ran towards the fight.

  They had circled the entire battle looking for a place to attack where they would not run over their own warriors. Now his chariot was in the lead. Cruibne glanced behind him to see Nechtan following.

  Cruibne could see their leader, the tall one. Even from the juddering boards of the fast-moving chariot he looked exactly like the mormaer expected a warrior from the Otherworld to look. Cruibne had shouted at Ethne to head for him. His oldest, and if he was honest, favourite wife had not even acknowledged him – she was too busy. Nevertheless the chariot was heading towards the tall warrior, who just stood there watching as Cruibne’s warriors were massacred. Cruibne felt calm. He was certain he was going to die, but he was with Ethne and sure that he was going to kill this man. So much for growing fat, he thought, well, fatter.

  To Cruibne it looked like the giants exploded out of the sand, and they had in fact leaped out of the holes they had been buried in lying down. Cruibne only had a moment to see them – huge, dark, misshapen figures obscured by all the sand in the air. The closest lumbered towards him. Cruibne found himself in the shadow of an enormous foot. It stamped down, crushing wood and horseflesh, killing Ethne. The destruction of the chariot sent Cruibne flying forward. The beach rushed up to meet him. Darkness.

  Nechtan soiled himself as the giant stamped on Cruibne’s chariot. Screaming, Broichan, Nechtan’s charioteer, yanked on the reins, trying to steer the terrified ponies away. The chariot jumped with each one of the giant’s footfalls as it swept down one massive hand, hitting the side of the cart and the horses, sweeping them up and sending them tumbling through the air.

  Britha was laughing now, now more red than blue, little more human than those she fought. She swayed to the side, avoiding the slash of a sword, cutting at the neck of her attacker, hitting him so hard it spun him round. Ducking and then straightening her legs, she tore the sickle through someone’s flesh. She was oblivious to her tribe dying just the other side of the shield wall as she made her way closer to Bress. Excited, eager to do more violence, she wanted to see what this man really looked like on the inside.

  The darkness had been good – cool, restful, it smelled of the sea. Not the metallic tang of blood or the smell of ruptured bowels. The sand shook beneath him. Giants walked the land now. Cruibne looked up, his face covered in a mixture of blood and sand. He was broken somewhere inside. He felt it. But he could still move.

  Movement was pain. Standing was agony. He stuffed his beard in his mouth so he wouldn’t scream – too many years of not being able to show weakness. It tasted of sand and more blood.

  Tears sprang unbidden and unwelcome to his eyes as he drew his sword, the blade blue from the forge, not polished like a southron warrior’s would be. He looked for their leader; instead he found some deformed but massively built man with an axe stalking towards him. He spat out his beard.

  ‘The gods that piss on you didn’t put your head on straight, but my sword will put you out of your misery,’ he shouted at the creature. May as well do this properly, he thought. He found he couldn’t move his left arm – the bone stuck out through his armour.

  ‘I need your head,’ the creature said.

  Cruibne swung his sword in an overhead arc, bringing it down towards the ugly creature’s head, the speed and violence of the blow causing pain to shoot through his body. Ettin had time to step back and then swing up with his axe. Cruibne stared at the stump of his sword hand. The lopsided creature was huge but had moved so quickly, and Cruibne had never known an axe so sharp. He marvelled that he was able to think this as Ettin swung again.

  Cruibne was lying in the sand again. He could see his leg. It seemed much further from him than a leg should be. He tried to get up. He felt a boot on his chest, forcing him back down into the sand. Beyond his leg he could see the landsfolk fleeing. He couldn’t blame them. How could they fight this? The gi
ants caught up with them easily, sweeping down, killing many with each blow. Broken and crushed bodies rained down on the sand.

  ‘Hold still. I want a clean cut,’ Ettin said. Cruibne didn’t even see the axe as it swung down towards his neck.

  He was running, except he wasn’t running. It was like he was being carried. He tried to stop running. He couldn’t. How could he be running without a leg? Cruibne opened his eyes. To his right he saw the Lochlannach spearmen pursuing the last of the cateran and the landsmen. Some were surrendering. Ahead of him he saw the tall man, the one who had the look of a leader, maybe even a high king, standing with his arms crossed watching Lochlannach swordsmen sprinting towards a warrior. There was joy as he recognised Britha. The ban draoi had always been a capable warrior but Cruibne couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  As one of the Lochlannach charged her, she ran her sword through his stomach and rolled as he crashed into her, sending the already dead body in a clumsy somersault over her. Britha rolled with the momentum, coming back up into a crouch. Her sickle blade went through another warrior’s knee and she pulled him off his feet; the sickle tore out of flesh, rose and then fell again as the man’s throat was ripped out. She spun round, biting her tongue and spitting blood into her next victim’s face before yanking her sword up between his legs. She continued her violent dance towards the tall pale man.

  As Cruibne somehow ran towards her, he leaned down and picked up a discarded longspear without breaking stride. Cruibne did not understand. He was about to attack Britha, and the arm that picked up the spear was not his.

  ‘Noooooo!’ The scream broke Britha out of her bloody reverie. Her head whipped around. Ettin was sprinting towards her, axe in one hand, longspear in the other. He looked less off kilter. He had two heads now. His original head was laughing. The new one was screaming, begging, threatening. She recognised Cruibne’s voice.

  ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll cut you open and shit in the wound! I’ll have your corpse raped by dogs! No please! Don’t!’ Cruibne begged. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. Ettin just laughed. There was something else though: Cruibne could feel what Ettin felt. The creature’s pleasure. He knew things, like that Ettin had an erection and where he came from. He just couldn’t understand. It felt like it was his arm that threw the spear. Did he want it now? To see her corpse. No, that was Ettin. Cruibne prayed to gods who had not heard his people’s prayers in an age. If they heard, they chose not to respond.