They had come back in small groups, anything from four men to forty, rowing up the river, or riding on stolen horses. Many returned on foot. They were all exhausted, many angry, a few triumphant, though only with the mercenary spoils of war that could be gained during retreat.
Families welcomed the men. Vortingoros set ten fires burning around the perimeter of his stronghold, each with roasting oxen and pig, and stone jars of sharp, scented ale.
Vortingoros was never short of surprises and delights, and never backward in sharing them.
A few days later, the howling from the forests began again, this time at dawn.
Wrapped in their cloaks, a few men and two of the Speakers rode towards the river, through the early mist. Several shapes moved ahead of them, shields held above heads, swords stretched out to the right. When the riders caught up with them, they saw they were the effigies of those living who had returned. They howled like wolves, a sound that rose to a sort of keening as the oak-warriors reached the river and stepped into the water. There they at once became shapeless, simple cuts from the trunk of a tree, the gloss of their skin turning to the deep, winding grooves of oak bark.
The dead wood floated away towards the sea. The sudden silence was welcome.
Day after day the same apparitions occurred, the same wailing. There had been a form of life in the oak men. Perhaps they were mourning their return to the shadows.
Then, out of curiosity, and in the hope of learning something about the life of oak, the druid who was the Speaker of the Land persuaded Morvran—lately returned from the quest—to let him ambush his own effigy as it stalked to the river. Morvran, informed by ignorance, agreed readily. The statue struggled with Morvran and four others, but eventually succumbed with a terrifying scream of anguish and fell, frozen in the position in which it was now preserved.
Morvran was at first delighted with the trophy. He helped haul it to the stone-and-thorn enclosure where it would be kept, dressed it in his own battle-harness and war kilt, and spent a great deal of time using the curiosity of visitors to explain his combat deeds in Greek Land.
Vortingoros and the Speaker for the Land tolerated the man’s blustering and bragging until, during the feasting for the day of fire, celebrating the first sowing of corn, he claimed that the effigy demonstrated “triumph over the tricks of the Otherworld.”
The moment he used these words, the king condemned him. Speaker for the Land cursed Morvran roundly before leaving the feasting bench to return to the apple orchard, to consult with skulls on what had occurred.
“A little after this,” Vortingoros told Urtha, “the man began to behave very strangely. His wife would wake to find him gone from the bed. But a short while later he would be back, stinking of the night forest. There would be blood on his mouth and sometimes wolf-stench on his back. He would be asleep, but then would wake in tears. He often said a name, someone in the town, and would avoid them. It became noticeable that the person whose name he had cried out in despair would fall ill, or break a limb, or die. Four men died quite unexpectedly after he had called their names. All of them were those who had returned from the raid on the oracle in Greek Land.
“I’m sure I remember that you, like us, practise night-hunting under the Wolf Moon.”
“We do,” Urtha agreed. “And under the Stag Moon as well. Strange deer can surface at that time. Strangely coloured.”
“It’s a common practice, then. A night-hunt went out as the Wolf Moon was rising. A pack of wolves had been seen hiding among the stones of the long-mound groves. The runs and traps were set, the hides built and covered, the scents prepared, the torches ready for the confusion as the family broke cover.
“We were waiting at the crouch, faces blackened, keeping our eyes away from the reflection of the Moon, when a proud grey wolf, a big male, suddenly bounded from the woodland edge, stopped, and sniffed the air. This was a fine foe, and would be a fine spoil, a fine skin. But even as we thought this, so we became sweaty with excitement and the brute smelled us and turned on us. Teeth bared, we could see that his canines were as long as daggers, silvery-white in the moonlight. We would have to attack fast, and risk a savaging.
“At that moment a figure appeared out of nowhere, a man, cloak flying, eyes gleaming. The wolf turned to face him, howled angrily, and charged. The figure of the man somersaulted over the brute’s back, landing on his feet and turning to face the return charge. Those teeth could sever two heads with one quick flick of the neck. Again, the apparition of the man ran towards the animal and somersaulted across its back.
“This time, when the brute wolf ran at him, he dealt it a massive blow on the head, killing it at once. Then he straddled the wolf’s carcass and turned it over, peering down into its features, holding the limp head by its jowls. And he cried out, the cry of a man who has committed a dreadful deed.
“As fast as he had appeared, the cloaked man ran from the scene of the killing and was lost in shadows. We approached the dead creature carefully; the wood beside us was heavy with the breathing of the rest of the pack, and a sudden charge would overwhelm us. We had not struck the torches. By moonlight alone we looked at the dead face, with its black and white markings and glazed eyes. And for a moment we saw a human face there, just an instant. And we all agreed that we recognised the man.”
“And shortly after that the man fell ill.”
“The man died in the night. He had been a champion in the field, and in the games. He was a well-liked and well-known man. We all mourned him.”
“And the cloaked man … Morvran?”
Vortingoros nodded gravely. “He cried out in his bed, he cried the name of the man who would die. He reeked of the night and of the musk of the wolf. He didn’t deny what he had done, though he claimed only to have been dreaming. When our friend died, the Speakers and priests called for a trial and judgement. They took him to the groves for five days and nights. They couldn’t decide on what he was, what he had become, or what possessed him. So they consigned him. And that was that.”
Consigned him! That meant he had been hung head down, gagged and bound tightly, suspended from a cross-beam at the bottom of a narrow shaft, dug to the depth of a deep well; then closed off from the world above by a thick round of oak, with stones on top, earth and offerings of meat and drink, berries and marrow-bones on top of that, all to satisfy the hunger of any “descending spirit” that might be curious as to the corpse below; an encouragement to leave it alone. And charms in metal and stone placed at the top of the shaft, to seal it. Earth piled high over the seal.
And Morvran was gone for good.
These events had rapidly become known in the towns and villages of the tribal territory of the Coritani. The Coritani had become a people afraid of their own dreams. The events were incomprehensible to them, and to the seers and to the druids and to the Speakers. The High Women, with their powers of imbas forasnai, “the light of foresight,” had no answers either.
Urtha watched his old friend closely; Vortingoros seemed disturbed just at the memory of the story he had told. “Why didn’t you come to Taurovinda before, when these things were happening? Perhaps we could have helped.”
The other man was mildly scornful. “Do you think I didn’t think of asking? But how could you have helped? Bearing in mind the location of your own stronghold, I imagine you have problems enough on your hands.”
“Problems indeed. And puzzles. Which is why I’m here, to ask to borrow some of your best men. I’ve brought my counsel and Speaker for Kings, to negotiate a fair tribute in return.”
From Urtha’s experience before the raid on Greek Land, Vortingoros would normally have cocked an ear to that and asked, what exactly are you offering: Horses? Cattle? The loan of a bull? Chariot wheels?
But to Urtha’s dismay, Vortingoros shook his head. “Your puzzles are with the Shadows of Heroes? With Ghostland?”
“Aren’t they always?”
“Then even if I could spare them, I doubt that they wo
uld want to enter your land. This is a frightened nation, Urtha. I’ve just made that plain enough, surely?”
“But if the threat against us is as great as our Speakers think it may turn out to be, then your territory is unsafe as well. You helped me once before, Vortingoros. The sight of a hundred of your horsemen bounding from the woods at the edge of the Plain of MaegCatha, as we struggled to take back Taurovinda from the occupying army, is a sight that has gone into many poems and songs within our walls. It was a heroic moment. My son here fought alongside your own champions.”
“I remember,” Vortingoros murmured with a fond glance at Kymon. “It was a good piece of chariot work. You kept control of the horses well. But things were different then.”
Kymon rose to his feet stiffly, resting his right hand on the ivory grip of the small iron sword hanging at his waist. His was the only sword that had been allowed into the king’s enclosure. Urtha caught the whiff of irritation in the boy, but the action was so swift, Kymon’s tongue loosed like an arrow, that he was helpless to silence the reckless lad.
“Maybe men were braver then. So if not the men to our assistance, then what about the boys? I could lead them.”
Now Urtha, too, rose to his feet, fuming and red-faced. He loosened the golden brooch that held his cloak at his shoulder and let the robe fall, a sign of apology to his host. He fixed his gaze on his son, who returned it coldly. “You will pay dearly for that remark. And the choice of debt will be at Vortingoros’s whim. Now leave the hall.”
Vortingoros said quickly, “Urtha, I would like him to stay. I am not insulted by his words. Discourtesy in a comment does not necessarily mean that the comment is untrue. Kymon is right. It isn’t just fear that afflicts us. It is a lack of courage. The forests are beginning to smell of dhiiv arrigi, the outcasts of generations coming back for vengeance. They seem to know that we are weak.”
“The dhiiv arrigi are becoming a nuisance in my land, too. It’s part of the puzzle.”
Vortingoros tugged at one of the long curls of his moustache. “The Dead are raising a new army?”
“I suspect so. The Wanderer is at the river even as we speak, assessing their strength. The Five Hostels have reappeared. We believe this signals a greater invasion than previously.”
“The Wanderer? That enchanter friend of yours?”
“Merlin, yes.”
“Well, that’s useful. He can cross the river and gain insight and farsight.”
Urtha shook his head. “His powers are curtailed once he crosses Nantosuelta. Besides, he shares his powers of enchantment like an old man shares his ale: grudgingly.”
“Unlike a king’s wife shares her favours,” Vortingoros sighed.
Urtha, startled by the unkingly indiscretion, noted the comment but showed no response. Aylamunda, his own wife, had been impeccable in her manners towards her husband before her death; Ullanna, his wild accomplice in the royal lodge, would kill any man who tried to touch her in an intimate way, or try to charm her.
Vortingoros seemed aware that he had overstepped the mark and with a quick cough returned to the subject. “The Five Hostels,” he repeated. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard talk of them.” He turned slightly to his bard, Talienze, who leaned forward and whispered in his ear for a few moments. Talienze’s gaze never left Urtha’s as he spoke to his own king. Urtha was curious that Talienze should know of the Hostels, since he was from another country. But then: all bards had prodigious memories. It was almost certain that the ex-prisoner had absorbed the history of the land to which he had been brought, and of the kingdoms around.
“I need to give some thought to the matter,” Vortingoros finally said. “I can agree with you that the situation is serious; I will offer you what help I can. First, I must discuss the matter with my counsel.”
“This is appreciated.”
“And I must introduce Kymon to my nephew. I have a feeling the two young men will get along very well.”
Kymon smiled and bowed his head. Was he aware of the murmur of humour in the ranks of champions in the king’s hall?
“At least, before the chin-cut,” the host king added to more mirth.
Vortingoros rose and gripped wrists with Urtha. “By the way. Despite all I’ve told you, we still practise the Moon Hunt. Its time is nearly here, and if the Speaker for the Land agrees, we could hunt the night after tomorrow, after moonrise.”
“For boar?”
“For a stag, whose belling tells us that he’s a prize on four legs.”
“After what you’ve described to me, are you sure it’s wise?”
“Wise? No. But the hunt is still in our blood. You and your son must join us. I will present you with the best portion of the flesh, though we must go to convivial combat together if you wish to secure the velvet and the horn.” He laughed. “What do you say?”
“I say yes.”
An owl, dark-faced, tawny-feathered, suddenly swooped through the hall and rose into the stream of light from the smoke-hole in the roof.
Frowning at the bird, which had startled him, and with the quiet comment, “Do you watch everything I do?” Urtha retired to the guest hall with his son and retinue, weary, apprehensive, unable to sleep.
I would have to be careful how I answered his question, when it came to the moment.
Chapter Nine
The Chin-Cut
The evening before the Moon Hunt, by arrangement and agreement between the two kings, Kymon and Vortingoros’s nephew Colcu met in the circle where the game was to be held, a wide space, defined by feathered posts and filled with a scatter of rusting weapons, wooden swords, bent-shafted spears, ropes and “leaping” points, the cut trunks of trees and carefully positioned flat-topped blocks of grey stone. A few thornbushes had been allowed to grow there, and a central oak, sufficiently battered and broken as to suggest the hazardous and limb-damaging use to which it had often been put.
Kymon inspected the circle and was contemptuous. “Nothing bright. No bright iron. No sharp-edged bronze. No shields. This is a child’s playground.”
Urtha picked up one of the discarded blades and bent it until it snapped. He had seen at once what this circle represented. Not a playground for children but an echo of the crow-ground after battle. These weapons, even the wooden batons, had been taken from a skirmish field. Urtha glanced into the fading light above him. Sure enough, a bird was hovering there, swooping and disappearing as it eyed the ground. One of the Morrigan’s daughters, given a small role as she herself grew to become a retriever of souls when blood-tempered iron was dipped again into the life-forge.
There would be no killing today. The bird was young, her presence in the clouds simply to watch and learn.
Colcu had been out with the group setting traps for the coming Moon Hunt. Now he trotted through the main gate into the hill on a white pony, which was decked with red and black feathers above its bright bronze eye-covers. His feet almost touched the ground. He rode straight to the games circle with his uncle leading him and swung down from the narrow saddle to confront Kymon. The two youths engaged each other’s gaze coldly while their guardians talked and laughed. Colcu was a full head taller than Urtha’s son, and he seemed to be in distress at having to “prove” himself with this Cornovidian “child.”
Although Kymon kept wisely quiet, he was alarmed to see the purple “torque heads” tattooed on each side of Colcu’s throat, a mark that always preceded the fitting of a golden torque, the mark of royalty but also of having taken a life. Colcu saw the slightly nervous glance from his opponent and let a smile touch at his lips.
Fair-faced, pale-eyed, Colcu looked like the warrior he was determined to become, his hair limed white and stiff for that form of conflict that would most likely lead to death. He wore a loose leather battle harness, a grey-and-green kirtle with red-embroidered edges, and black bull’s-hide ankle boots. The sword at his right hip had an ivory-and-onyx grip, wound around with white leather. Colcu drew the weapon slowly—with his
right hand, of course—and presented it to Kymon.
No word had been spoken, but Colcu’s amused yet moody gaze had remained unblinking.
Kymon passed over his own sword. The guardians received them, and the parties withdrew to their benches, for refreshment and instruction.
The boy was anxious. “He has the marks of a torque on his neck,” he said to his father. “What does that mean exactly?”
Urtha had already spoken to Vortingoros. “There was a raid on a hunting party in the wolf-glen, south of the hill. A while ago, now. Several of Vortingoros’s horsemen were surprised by a band of dhiiv arrigi. Colcu and two companions were among the party, and though they withdrew when the attack came, Colcu launched a sling-stone that killed the leader of the vengeful outcasts. It was a timely shot, and he is promoted in the order.”
“Then why the contest with me?”
“He still needs to go through the formality of the youth game. This is a good opportunity for you, Kymon, should you win the contest.”
In the brief, shocked silence that followed, Kymon’s face turned from astonishment to outrage as he stared at his father. Urtha tugged nervously at his greying moustaches.
“A formality?” Kymon said in a thin voice, and then at full volume, “A formality? I am not a formality! I am nobody’s formality. This is an intolerable insult.”
“Not at all,” Urtha retorted. “It’s an excellent opportunity. How many times must I remind you: to keep your anger for when it can be used to full advantage. And always look for the opportunity in any situation.”
Some way distant, there was laughter. Colcu and his escort of pale-featured youths had heard Kymon’s outburst and were mocking him. It had the effect of cooling the boy’s blood, concentrating his fury.
“He’s tall and looks very strong,” Kymon murmured. “This will be a hard game. Hard to put the chin-cut on him from the vantage point of victory.”
Urtha glanced at the tall chalk-haired youth, now parading barefoot and in his battle harness. “Yes. You are up against the odds. But remember: what to Colcu is a formality to you is a challenge that will earn you a line in the history of the year. There’s a bard watching us. He’s quite young, probably looking for some good verses, some good sneers and gibes. To be mocked or praised? That’s up to you, now. Make an opportunity out of a formality. Whatever happens, you will have received your chin-cut. Then the game can begin in earnest. And then—never forget—there will always be other bards!”
The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex Page 8