2
A waning half moon rose above woodlands whose branches, budding or barely started leafing, reached toward it like empty hands. They hid the River of Tiamat, low at this season; among stars that glimmered in the great silence went the Bears, the Dragon, the Virgin. Only water had voice, chirring and rustling from the spring of Ahes to a pool in the hollow just beneath and thence in a rivulet on down the hill, soon lost to sight under the trees. Moonlight flickered across it.
Nemeta came forth. Convolvulus vines between the surrounding boles crackled, still winter-dry, as she passed through. Her feet were bare, bruised and bleeding where she had stumbled against roots or rocks on the gloomy upward trail. First grass in the small open space of the hollow, then moss on the poolside soothed them a little. She stopped at the edge and stood a while catching her breath, fighting her fear.
The whiteness of her short kirtle was slashed by a belt which bore a sheathed knife. Unbound, tangled from her struggle with brush and twigs on a way seldom used, her hair fell past her shoulders. A garland of borage, early blooming in a sheltered spot despite the rawness of this springtime, circled her brows. In her left hand she carried a wicker cage. As she halted, a robin within flapped wings and cheeped briefly, anxiously.
She mustered courage and lifted her right palm. Nonetheless her words fluttered: “Nymph Ahes, I greet you, I … I call you, I, Nemeta, daughter of Forsquilis. She was—” The girl swallowed hard. Tears coursed forth. They stung. Vision blurred. “She was of the Gallicenae, the nine Queens of Ys. M-my father is Grallon, the King.”
Water rippled.
“Ever were you kindly toward maidens, Ahes,” Nemeta pleaded. “Ys is gone. You know that, don’t you? Ys is gone. Her Gods grew angry and drowned her. But you abide. You must! Ahes, I am so alone.”
After a moment she thought to say, “We all are, living or dead. What Gods have we now? Ahes, comfort us. Help us.”
Still the spirit of the spring did not appear, did not answer.
“Are you afraid?” Nemeta whispered.
Something stirred in the forest, unless it was a trick of the wearily climbing moon.
“I am not,” Nemeta lied. “If you will not seek the Gods for us, I will myself. See.”
Hastily, before dread should overwhelm her, she set down the cage, unfastened her belt, drew the kirtle over her head and cast it aside. The night air clad her nakedness in chill. Taking up the knife, she held it against the stars. “Cerunnos, Epona, Sucellus, almighty Lug!” She shrilled her invocation of Them not in Ysan or sacerdotal Punic but in the language of the Osismii, who were half Celtic and half descendants of the Old Folk. When she slew the bird she did so awkwardly; it flopped and cried until she, weeping, got a firm enough hold on it to hack off its head. But her hands never hesitated when she gashed herself and stooped to press blood from her breasts to mingle in the pool with the blood of her sacrifice.
—False dawn dulled the moon and hid most stars. A few lingered above western ridges and the unseen wreck of Ys.
Nemeta crossed the lawn toward the Nymphaeum. Her steps left uneven tracks in the dew. She startled a peacock which had been asleep by a hedge. Its screech seemed shatteringly loud.
A woman in a hooded cloak trod out of the portico, down the stairs, and strode to a meeting. The girl stopped and gaped. Runa took stance before her. Now it was Nemeta’s breathing that broke the silence. It puffed faint white.
“Follow me,” said the priestess. “Quickly. Others will be rousing. They must not see you like this.”
“Wh-wh-what?” mumbled the vestal.
“Worn out, disheveled, your garb muddy and torn and blood-stained,” Runa snapped. “Come, I say.” She took the other’s arm and steered her aside. They went behind the great linden by the sacred pond. Hoarfrost whitened the idol that it shaded.
“What has found you tonight?” Runa demanded.
Nemeta shook her dazed head. “I kn-know not what you mean.”
“Indeed you do, unless They stripped you of your wits for your recklessness.” When she got only a blind stare for reply, the priestess continued:
“I’ ve kept my heed on you. Had there been less call on me elsewhere—everywhere, in these days of woe—I’d have watched closer and wrung your scheme out of you erenow. It struck me strange that you never wailed aloud against fate, but locked your lips as none of the rest were able to. I misdoubted your tale that you snared a bird to be your pet; and tonight it was gone from your room together with yourself, nor have you brought it back. And you have crowned yourself with ladygift, the Herb of Belisama.
“I know you somewhat, Nemeta. I was nine years old when you were born; I have watched you grow. Well do I recall what blood is in you, your father’s willfulness, your mother’s witchiness. Each night after you went to bed, since the news came, I have looked in to be sure. … Ah, you were aware of that, nay, sly one? You waited. But I slept ill this night, and looked in again, and then you were gone.
“Where? And what answer did you get? Who came to you?”
The girl shuddered. “Who?” she said tonelessly. “Mayhap none. I cannot remember. I was out of myself.”
Runa peered long at her. Fifteen years of age, Nemeta was rangy, almost flat-chested. Her face bore high cheekbones, curved nose, big green eyes; the mane of hair grew straight and vividly red, the skin was fair and apt to freckle. Ordinarily she stood tall, but in this hour, drained of strength, she stooped.
“You sought the Gods,” Runa said at last, very low.
Nemeta raised her glance. Life kindled in it. “Aye.” Her voice, hoarse from shrieking, gained a measure of steadiness. “First just Ahes. I begged her to speak to Them for us. Not the Three of Ys, though I did make this wreath to—remind—The old Gods of the land. They might intercede or—or—When she held off—has she fled, has she died?—I summoned Them myself.”
“Did any come?”
“I know not, I told you.” Nemeta dropped her glance anew. Her fingers twisted and twined together. “It was as though I … blundered into dreams I can’t remember—Did I see Him, antlered and male, two snakes in His grasp? Were there thunders? I woke cold and full of pain, and made my way back hither.”
“Why did you do it?”
“What other hope have we?” Nemeta half screamed. “Yon pale Christ?”
“Our Gods have disowned us, child.”
“Have They?” Fingers plucked at the priestess’s sleeve. “Forever? At least the Gods of the land, They live. They must!”
Runa sighed. “Mayhap someday we shall learn, though I think that will be after we are dead, if then. Meanwhile we must endure … as best we can.” Sternly: “You will never be so rash again. Do you hear me?”
Stubbornness stood behind bewilderment; but: “I p-promise I’ll be careful.”
“Good. Bide your time.” Runa unfastened her brooch and took the cloak from her shoulders. “Wrap yourself in this, lest anyone spy your state. Come along to your room. I’ll tell them you’ve been taken ill and should be left to sleep. ’Twould not do to have word get about, you understand—now that we shall be dealing with Christians.”
As she guided the girl, she added: “If we hold to our purpose and are wise in our ways, we need not become slaves. We may even prevail.” Bared to the sky, her countenance hardened.
3
When the warriors appeared, Maeloch spat a curse. “So nigh we were to getting clear. Balls of Taranis, arse of Belisama, what luck!” He swung about to his men. “Battle posts!”
All scrambled for their weapons, some into Osprey where the fishing smack lay beached. The tide was coming in, but would not be high enough to float her off for another two or three hours. With axes, billhooks, knives, slings, harpoons, a crossbow, they formed a line before the prow—fifteen men, brawny, bearded, roughly clad. That was almost half again as many as the craft carried while at work, but these were bound for strange and dangerous bournes. At their center. Maeloch the captain squinted against the morning sun
to make out the approaching newcomers.
From this small inlet, land lifted boldly, green, starred with wildflowers, leaves already springing out on trees and shrubs. Here was no bleak tip of Armorica jutting into Ocean, but one of a cluster of islands off the Redonic coast of Gallia, well up that channel the Romans called the Britannic Sea. fowl in their hundreds rode fresh breeze which drove scraps of cloud across heaven and bore odors of growth into the salt and kelp smells along the strand. A rill trickled down from the woods decking the heights. The foreign men must have followed it. They continued to do so as they advanced.
Maeloch eased a bit. They numbered a mere half dozen. Unless more were lurking behind them, they could not intend hostilities. However, they were clearly not plain sailors like his crew, but fighters by trade—nay, he thought, by birth. It would cost lives to provoke them.
He shouldered his ax and paced forward, right arm raised in token of peace. They deployed, warily but skillfully, and let him come to them. He recognized them for Hivernians, though with differences from those in Mumu with whom Ys now had a growing traffic. Nor were they quite like those he had fought—seventeen years ago, was it?—after that gale the Nine raised had driven their fleet to doom. Here the patterns of kilts, cut of coats and breeks, style of emblems painted on shields were subtly unlike what he had seen before. But swords and spearheads blinked as brightly as anyone’s.
Maeloch was no merchant. However, he had had his encounters when boats put in to Scot’s Landing or chanced upon his over the fishing grounds. It behooved a skipper to speak for his men; he had set himself to gain a rough mastery of the Scotic tongue. “A good day to yuh,” he greeted in it. “Yuh take … hospitality … of us? We … little for to give … beer, wine, shipboard food. Yuh welcome.”
“Is it friendly you are, then?” responded the leader, a man stocky and snubnosed. “Subne maqq Dúnchado am I, sworn to Eochaid, son of King Éndae of the Lagini.”
“Maeloch son of Innloch.” The fisher captain had decided before he left home to give no more identification than he must. With phrases and gestures he indicated what was quite true, that Osprey had been blown east, far off course, by the gigantic storm several days ago. Once she had clawed her way around the peninsula, there was no possibility of making any port; she could only keep sea room, running before the wind, full-reefed sail as vital as the oars. When the fury dwindled, his vessel—seams sprung, spars and strakes strained, barely afloat because the crew spent their last flagging forces bailing her—must needs crawl to the nearest land. They grounded her at high tide, and after taking turns sleeping like liches, set about repairs.
Maeloch refrained from adding that he had not simply chanced on the haven. He had never before been so far east, but some of his followers had, and all had heard about the Islands of Crows. That name had come on people’s lips in the past hundred years, after the Romans withdrew a presence which had always been slight. Pirates and barbarians—seaborne robbers—soon discovered this was a handy place to lie over. With curses and a rope’s end Maeloch had forced his men to gasp at the oars and the buckets till they found a secluded bay. He hoped to refit and set forth before anybody noticed them.
So much for that, he thought harshly. The island folk were a few herders, farmers, fishers. They had no choice but to stay in the good graces of their visitors, furnish food, labor, women … and information. Doubtless a fellow ranging the woods up above had spied the camp and scuttled off to tell. Doubtless he got a reward.
“Scoti come far,” Maeloch ventured. In truth it was surprising to find them here. They harried the western shores of Britannia and, in the past, Gallia. Eastern domains were the booty of rovers from across the German Sea.
Subne tossed his head. “Our chief goes where he will.”
“He do, he do.” Maeloch nodded and smiled. “We poor men. Soon go home.”
To his vast relief, Subne accepted that. Had the warriors searched Osprey they would have found hidden stores of fine wares, gold, silver, glass, fabric, gifts with which to proceed in Hivernia should necessity arise to shed his guise of a simple wanderer.
He was not yet free, though. “You will be coming with us,” Subne ordered. “Himself wants to know more.”
Maeloch stamped on a spark of dismay. “I glad,” he replied. Turning to Usun, he said in swift Ysan: “They’d ha me call on their leader. If I refused, we’d get the lot o’ them down on us. Float the ship when ye can and stand by. Be I nay back by nightfall, start off. Ye should still have a fair wind for Britannia, where ye can finish refitting. … Nay a word out o’ ye! Our mission is for the Nine and the King.”
Stark-faced, the mate grunted assent. Maeloch strode from him. “We go,” he cried cheerily. The Scoti looked nonplussed. Belike they’d expected the whole crew to accompany him. But Maeloch’s action changed their minds for them. Their moods were as fickle as a riptide. Also, he knew, they made a practice of taking hostages to bind an alliance or a surrender. To them, he was the pledge for his men.
He wondered if his spirit could find its way back to Ys, for the Ferrying out to Sena.
Game trails, now and then paths trodden by livestock, wound south from the brooklet, through woods and across meadows, down into glens and aloft onto hills, but generally upward. The warriors moved with the ease of those accustomed to wilderness. Maeloch’s rolling gait, his awkwardness in underbrush or fords, slowed them. They bore with it. Warmth rose as morning advanced until sweat was pungent in his tunic.
After maybe an hour the party reached a cliff and started down a ravine that was a watercourse to the sizeable bay underneath. There men lounged around smoky fires. Below the height were several shelters of brushwood, turf, and stones. Some appeared to be years old. This must be a favored harbor for sea rovers.
Two galleys of the deckless Germanic kind lay drawn up on the beach, their masts unstepped. Leather currachs surrounded one. The other was by herself, three hundred feet away. She was longer and leaner, with rakish lines and trim that had once been gaudy. The sight jolted Maeloch. He felt sure he knew her aforetime.
Subne led him to the first. Those were two separate encampments. Such bands tried to keep peace, and mingled somewhat with each other, but had learned not to put much trust in their own tempers.
Scoti sprang to their feet, seized arms, calmed as they recognized comrades, and gathered around. They did not crowd or babble like city folk; their stares were keen and their speech lilted softly. Subne raised his voice: “Chieftain, we’ve brought you the captain of the outland ship.”
A man bent to pass under the door of the largest hut nearby, trod forth, straightened his wide-shouldered leanness. Behind him a young woman peeked out, grimy and frightened. Maeloch saw a few more like her in the open, natives commandeered to char, cook, and be passed from man to man.
His attention went to the leader. Eochaid maqq Éndae, was that the name? The king’s son was well dressed in woad-blue shirt, fur-trimmed leather coat, kilt, buskins, though the garments showed soot and wear. His age was hard to guess. Gait, thews, black locks and beard seemed youthful, but the blue eyes looked out of a face furrowed and somber. It would have been a handsome face apart from what weather had done to the light skin, had not three blotchy scars discolored it on cheeks and brow.
His gaze dwelt for a moment on Maeloch’s grizzled darkness and bearlike build. When he spoke, it was in accented but reasonably good Redonic, not too unlike the Osismiic dialect: “If you come in honesty, have no fear. You shall be scatheless. Say forth your name and people.”
He must have visited himself on these parts before and at length, Maeloch decided; and he was no witless animal. An outright lie would be foolhardy. The fisherman repeated what he had told Subne, but in the Gallic language and adding that he was from Ys.
Eochaid raised brows. “Sure and it’s early in the year for venturing forth.”
“We carry a message. We’re under … gess … not to tell any but him it’s for.”
“They
know not gess in Ys. Well, if you gave an oath, I must respect it. Nonetheless—” Eochaid reached a swift decision, as appeared to be his way, and addressed a man, who sped off. “We must talk further, Maeloch,” he resumed in the Gallic tongue. “The Dani over there have lately been in Ys. I’ve sent for their captain. First you shall have a welcoming cup.”
He settled himself cross-legged on the ground. Maeloch did likewise. The hut was unworthy of a chieftain entertaining a guest, at least in clear weather. Eochaid gestured. His wench scurried to bring two beakers—Roman silver, Roman wine, loot. A number of warriors hung about, watching and listening although few could have followed the talk. Others drifted off to idle, gamble, sharpen their weapons, whatever they had been doing. All had grown restless, waiting on the island.
“You can better give me news of Ys than Gunnung,” Eochaid said. “He was there two months agone; but a German would surely miss much and misunderstand much else.” The marred visage contorted in a grin. “Beware of repeating that to him.” His intent was obvious, playing Northman off against Armorican in hopes of getting a tale more full and truthful than either alone might yield.
Bluntness was Maeloch’s wont. “What d’ye care, my lord? Foemen break their bones on the wall of Ys and go down to the eels in the skerries around.”
For an instant he thought Eochaid had taken mortal offense, so taut did the countenance grow. Then, stiffly, the Scotian replied: “Every man in Ériu remembers how Niall maqq Echach won sorrow there. Will Ys seek to entrap the likes of me too? I should find out ere I again sail near.”
Maeloch knew what was in his mind. Scoti had learned from the disaster and from the later strengthening of the Ysan navy to confine their raids to Britannia—until this new generation reached manhood. Would the city and her she-druid Queens avenge attacks on the rest of Gaul, as they would any on Armorica? Eochaid must be headlong, and belike driven by a murderousness he could only take out on aliens, to have ventured past it. Now, with his men turning homesick, he was having second thoughts.
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