When Connach’s last words penetrated Morgan’s wine-sluggish brain, the Californian lurched in a knee-jerking reaction, knocking his stool against Eogan. “Nero?” he shouted, turning heads in his direction, heads he thought might be hostile. He was losing control over his dream again. A moment longer and he might find himself alone on the sea with the orca pod. “Ian?” he pleaded. The smell of smoke seemed so real.
Connach’s strong hand gripped his shoulder and forced him to sit. “This is real, Kerry. Real! Do you understand me?” Connach sought his eyes. “If you weaken, you will not be safe from him.”
The High Priest of Reged smiled thinly in Morgan’s direction with the expectation of triumph clearly signaled in his look. Danger lay in that direction. Morgan wrenched his attention back to Connach.
“I gave the others a little longer to adjust,” the Navarchus explained, “but there is no time to help you gradually come to grips with this. There is a crisis brewing tonight, and I need to establish your credentials as a member of the House of Connach, immediately. This House needs all the allies it can get.”
Morgan laughed bitterly. “Ally? Is that what you think I am? What makes you certain that I won’t opt out of the Land of Oz and force you to return me to West Harbor?”
“Nothing. Nothing except the guts and skills you once showed your countrymen, and the sense of honor you still wear like an old coat.”
Morgan stared at Connach in astonishment. Connach was serious. “If you wake certain things up, Ian, they kill honor, and if you awaken some things better left alone, they might take too long a time to put to sleep again. Some of my bad old reflexes came back when the orcas tried to sink Le Fay. You know what, Ian? I enjoyed the killing. I enjoyed it! I spent over ten years of my life with soggy sheets and screaming nightmares before I had that Kerry Morgan all subdued and poked into a safe little hole. What do you think I am? Another weapon you smuggled over in the hull of a 4D?”
“Never. I count you as a friend. And I need you, my friend. If I can call upon your “bad old reflexes” without awakening your personal demons, so much the better. Trust me and listen to me very carefully.” He spoke urgently. “This is an important moment. Go along with me tonight and do exactly as I tell you, when I tell you. Please, Brother.”
Morgan nodded. Just don’t give me any enlistment papers to sign.
One carcass had been lifted from the fire and sliced. Steaming, thick portions of beef had been heaped upon wooden platters so large that two servants strained at each one. Beginning at the table nearest the fire pit, a platter bearing a thigh was offered to a man who Connach identified as the clan chief of the Black Lothians.
Morgan felt the room come alive with tensions that had not before been present. He was not alone. The piper’s bag deflated asthmatically, and the hall became hushed.
The man who rose from the table closest to the fire was a giant, and he was the most brutal looking individual Morgan had yet seen in Connach’s city. He stood a full head taller than Morgan himself, and his upper body was massive. His thick arms could easily have snapped the back of a living steer. A puckered scar ran across the bridge of a broken nose and slid jaggedly to the jawbone. As he spoke, he gestured in the direction of Morgan’s table. Morgan felt that he was being evaluated and did not like the idea. The giant was no Celtic Flower Child.
“That’s a good man, Brother,” Connach whispered. “As long as Coel Chulainn leads the Lothian Ax-Wielders, your back, and mine, will be safe. The Lothians were the only mainlanders to oppose the Viks with weapons. Unfortunately, there were too few to turn the tide. And what you see at that table are the only survivors.”
They had the look of combat-tested soldiers with the assured movements of seasoned troops.
Morgan felt Chulainn’s eyes touch his face like callused fingers. It was the first time Morgan had ever considered himself small. He did not like it.
“If Coel agrees to throw in with the House Connach tonight, we’ll be using Vik balls for fish bait, Kerry, me boyo, and in short order too,” Connach told Morgan with a slight slur on his tongue.
Morgan seethed, resenting Connach’s repeated suggestions that he was already a paid-up participant in Reged’s war. He had already had had one war of his own and knew full well what it was like. He was certain that he did not want another, and did not think he was capable of surviving another, but one nagging part of his psyche was inordinately pleased that Coel Chulainn was partial to wearers of the Connach plaid. The giant also proved to be a spellbinding orator. Even though Morgan could not understand a word uttered by the huge warrior, he could see that many of the seated company were deeply affected by the musical flow of the impassioned speech.
When Chulainn finished speaking and resumed his seat again, the hall exploded with cheers and whistles. Fifty metal goblets were raised in salute, including Morgan’s, and twenty-five liters of the rough, red wine were poured down fifty throats. The platter bearers moved to the next table where the ritual was repeated—less eloquently but with identical results. Morgan was getting seriously drunk.
The aromatic joint of beef moved from table to table. Each clan leader followed Chulainn’s example and refused it, although two heavy-set chiefs who looked more like successful businessmen than potential warriors exchanged angry words. During that ungracious refusal, Morgan felt Connach beside him shake with an anger that threatened to slip its leash, yet the platter moved on as before until it stopped before the senior Connach. The old man unhesitatingly drew and plunged his dagger into the joint with such force that the bearers were driven to their knees and had to recover quickly to save their burden from the wine-slick floor.
Darkly conspiratorial looks were shared by the Advisor to the Council of Ten and two sleek leaders who had abstained from the toasting to the High Chief and his apparent reaffirmation as Reged’s Captain.
“Mark those two, Kerry,” Connach growled harshly. “They will do anything they can to fight this House until it falls. Even if it means Reged is to be crushed. I have no doubts that they have been in negotiations with the Viks. In fact, I’m certain of it even if I can’t prove their treachery.”
“I don’t know the rules around here, Ian, but I’d say that the Connach clan just got some kind of mandate to lead. How can those men successfully counter the will of the remaining eight?” Morgan asked absently as the joint of meat with the dagger still deeply imbedded in it paused before him. His stomach sent out an urgent message and he loosened his blade in its scabbard, making as if to draw. The change from his starvation diet aboard Le Fay would be heartily welcomed.
“Refuse!” Connach hissed.
Startled, Morgan did as he was bidden and looked to Connach for explanation.
“If you had taken meat before my grandfather, it would have been a challenge to his clan leadership and a challenge to fight. And if you were successful in killing him, which I doubt, I would have been obliged to kill you.”
“Tha’s some doctrine of love you’ve got going here,” Morgan replied, swallowing hard. If he chose to remain in Verulamium, he would have to learn the rituals that governed behavior. He had landed in a country where the unintentional offense was not excused by apology, but by the spilling of blood, a country where love was peculiarly defined.
He watched Connach narrowly as the platter made its rounds. When the High Chief was offered the joint a second time, he cut his portion with the dagger he had left as a mark of his ascendancy. Then the platter was sent to each remaining man at the table, apparently according to his rank. Morgan was the last to be served, but he carved a thick, dripping slice worthy of the first, falling to it with knife and fingers, forks being conspicuously absent. As for cleaning his greasy fingers—there was the tartan, after all. Some of the local customs were easy for a confirmed and somewhat drunk bachelor to pick up.
After he had more than assuaged his hunger for red meat, Morgan turned toward Connach, determined to delay his education no longer. “Straight-from-the-sh
oulder time, old buddy,” he said, using the dagger to emphasize his earnestness. “Even if those sour-looking characters are clan leaders, how can they oppose the general consensus? Right now your grandfather sits at the top of the heap. Correct?”
“He’s on top tonight, all right, but that’s a combination of things: his past leadership, the fact that this gathering of the clans is being held on Connach territory, buckets of good cheap wine.” He furrowed his brows. “On the other hand, those two are the chiefs of the second and third most powerful clans in the civitat. If they can persuade one or two fence sitters to join against the House Connach, well...it’s that simple. Politics! Goddamned politics all around!”
“Politics?” Morgan sat straighter, incredulity coloring his words. “Politics? I cross you—you kill me?”
“Just like I said. Politics! You red-blooded American boys all make the same mistake. You confuse democracy with politics, the secret ballot with freedom.” He snorted contemptuously. “Freedom is simply agreeing with the form of government you’ve got and being comfortable living with it. We agree with this. Politics is nothing more than the maneuverings of that agreed-upon government. Sometimes we make our choices by the vote. But it isn’t a secret ballot, and it’s not through any mandate by the masses. We’d never get into that trap. Sometimes we make our own choices with the points of our daggers. We agree with that concept just as readily. Either way suits us.” He stopped and grinned with a less-forced good humor at Morgan.
“This is a bunch of sophistry and crap, Ian. First you talk about love and how it has nearly destroyed your culture, but all you’ve really explained is how your politicians punch their ballots with their knife blades.”
Connach was still smiling indulgently at Morgan. “No crap involved at all. Try to understand the Celtic soul. Throughout our history, we Celts have always been ready to fight with other Celts, sometimes with greater energy than with an outside enemy. That’s so deeply ingrained in us that it’s more like instinct. Even the drivel-spouting priests couldn’t erase that. When the Romans finally defeated us in Gaul and in the islands, they taught us the undeniable truth of proper organization. Still, they never totally civilized us, no matter how well we adopted the exterior trappings of their way of life. But it was the accursed Nero who nearly finished us in the end. I wish the priesthood would someday throw him back into the Roman hell where he belongs.
“I have never worshipped at his altar and never will.” He grimaced triumphantly. And never will the Chulainn, either. You can bet on that.”
Morgan listened patiently, but when Connach halted, Morgan remained unconvinced that he had been told everything. “If you Celts are such willing fighters, why have you allowed these Viks or Mercians, whatever you call them, to push you up against the wall? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t you see?” Connach said pleadingly. “We fight each other because that is our time-honored way, our basic character flaw, perhaps. What the priests did was to forbid us to war on outsiders. Listen, my brother,” he hissed. “It was our own half-witted Druid priests who decided to add that Roman maniac to the Celtic pantheon. We already had enough home-grown gods, and they suited us just fine.” He bit a chunk of meat from the point of his blade and chewed it grimly.
“The Nero-lovers ruined us. I suppose they originally associated Roman strength with Nero, and Nero’s teachings with a magic that could protect the new Celtic Empire that was then taking shape. It sure as hell didn’t work. But tell that to Glassius and Llandaff and the rest of the cowardly appeasers.” He swilled half of his wine, spilling a portion down the front of his tunic. It looked like blood. “People should learn from history, right?”
Morgan nodded.
“Well, we didn’t!” Connach snarled. “While Britain was attacked on its east coast, two of our early explorers, the holy men Brendan and Malo sailed from the west coast of Ireland in their leather boats and found a nearly deserted continent.
“The same trip was undertaken in your world as well, but under much different circumstances. And, unlike your Earth, a westward exodus of the outwardly pious, the truly holy, and the genuinely terrified followed that discovery. In ten wretched years, the home islands were nearly emptied of their rightful possessors; those who remained to make their peace with the invaders became the playthings of the masters of the Long Ships.”
“They just left? No defense? No show of opposition at all? After all, Ian, self-preservation is one of the human animal’s strongest instincts, since we’ve been talking about instincts.” He found Connach’s tale a trifle too rehearsed and naggingly unbelievable.
“Look, Kerry. Nero and the Druid Brotherhood taught them to love outsiders, not to make war on them—and they still teach us that!”
Morgan’s recollection of Roman history from his high school days was sketchy, but Connach’s Roman Emperor and the depraved monster in Morgan’s high school history text did not tally. He told Connach that.
“He was a son-of-a-bitch in both worlds, all right. He just screwed things up here a little bit differently, that’s all. Connach was clearly agitated.
“Because of that bastard, half of my people are absolutely convinced that war is not the way to deal with barbarians who want to destroy them and their way of life. The Old Ones felt so strongly about it that they abandoned their claim to ancestral lands in order to avoid conflict. Instead, they found a new land and prospered there until the dung-eaters attacked their shores again. Even then they refused to arm themselves. The benighted fools moved westward again and eventually founded the present Free States after they considered themselves safe enough.
“But the goddamned Viks hit us again!” Connach groaned. “And now all we’ve got left is one more small island.” He glared in the priest’s direction. “Where do we run now? Am I supposed to let the last Free State die because its people lack the determination to defend its walls and themselves?”
Morgan knew Connach expected no answer and remained mute.
The other guests in the Great Hall were anything but mute. The noise level had been rising steadily as Connach shoved his bitter history at Morgan. The wine continued to flow as though it came from an inexhaustible source. From its taste, Morgan decided that it was being pressed into service considerably before its time or that the Celtic chieftains had palates as discriminating as shoe leather.
There was a sudden clash of steel upon steel and a piercing whoop as a pair of warriors from different clans threw off their tunics, and crouching low, faced one another with naked blades in outstretched hands. Like dancers they circled, first one feinting, then the other. Their initial movements were slow and graceful, ritualistic, knife blades and torcs reflecting the firelight. Morgan was fascinated as well as repelled by his early opportunity of witnessing Reged’s democratic process in action. Connach was transfixed like a man watching a world championship-boxing match. His teeth were stretched back in a rictus and he was yelling in his native tongue.
Jesus! He’s cheering them on! Morgan realized in a moment of revulsion. He’s cheering on a couple of knife-fighters! Suddenly he discovered that he was yelling, too.
Encouraged by the comments and cheers of the men assembled—the followers of Glassius and Llandaff abstaining for the most part—the tempo increased, and the blades became bright points of blurred light, of sweeping arcs and short, vicious jabs.
Primal grunts erupted from the seated men as one blade came away with a redder reflection than before. A second yell and it was over.
Morgan slumped in his seat, covered in perspiration, drained.
The two blooded and bloodied warriors hugged one another unashamedly then took proffered cups, draining them to approving cheers as their clansmen rose and mingled, sharing wine and ribald laughter.
“It’s a somewhat rough society we have here, Kerry,” Connach said after a moment of observing the aftermath. “But those two clans will be bound by blood as long as those men live, and the few drops of blood spilled tonigh
t are a small price to pay for that kind of loyalty.”
A shriek that made Morgan’s spine crawl cut off any response he might have made and slashed across the raucous camaraderie of the clansmen. The room stilled instantly.
The High Druid rose, arms outstretched like a great bird of prey, fingers curved into talons. The macabre figure spat harsh words into the dying jubilation, and as he spoke, the fire in the pit swelled in brightness and intensity until those closest to it leaned away from its preternatural fury. Morgan felt the heat of those abnormal flames reach out for him across the hall and he shielded his unprotected face with his arms.
With a word that could only have been a curse the Druid swept from the hall, followed loyally by the torcless men of the Glassius and Llandaff factions. The fire subsided at once into coals, leaving the hall gloom-ridden—a trick of wine and heated imagination? If so, Morgan thought, it touched each one of us here. He watched men desert the hall in twos and threes, then in groups after first paying homage to the High Chief of the Council. At length, those seated at the head tables and the servants that stood behind them were the sole inhabitants of the cavernous room.
Connach, too, appeared deeply affected by the squashed revel. He took Morgan by the shoulder and looked darkly into his eyes.
“I know you need to know more about us before you can make any decisions. I have no patience with history. Now is my concern. But you need to at least gain the same footing as the other 4D sailors have. I’d do it myself, Kerry, but my immediate job is to sway those fence sitters to our way of thinking. I’m going to let Brigid act as your teacher for a few days, until that job is completed.” For a brief moment, his face softened.
The Celtic Mirror Page 6