The Exile

by Steven Savile

  He wrapped the rope around his shoulder and looped it around his wrist.

  The nature of the games changed. What had been healthy rivalry took on a darker edge.

  Cullen didn't wait for the signal from Gorian, Warlord of the Red Branch. He pulled viciously on the rope, unbalancing Sláine a moment before Gorian's arm came down and the contest began in earnest. Sláine fought to regain his balance. The rope burned against his shoulder and hands, and his feet took him closer to the edge, slipping and sliding in the mud even as Wide Mouth's anger drove him on. Sláine found his footing and somehow managed to arrest his slide. He dug his heels in and clawed first one and then a second step back. With Cullen on the back foot the pull could have gone either way. Their faces betrayed the strain. Cullen grunted. Sláine growled. Cullen roared. Sláine howled. Neither gave an inch. Their arms trembled violently and the sweat stung as it ran into their eyes. Still neither Sláine nor Cullen gave an inch of ground up to the other.

  Then, from somewhere, Cullen Wide Mouth found the strength he needed to up-end Sláine and dump him unceremoniously in the river.

  The crowd applauded but it wasn't the wild adulation they had afforded Sláine. It burned him; that much was plain to see. Cullen turned his back and stalked off towards the wrestling circle for the final event. He didn't give Sláine's floundering a second glance.

  Sláine swam to the bank. This time it was Fionn who offered him a hand to help him clamber out. All of the boys had taken a dunking during the tug-o-war. Dian sat huddled on a stone bench, wrapped in a fur and shivering. Núada and Niall flapped their arms and stamped their feet, trying to work the chill out of their bones. He saw some of the village girls clustered together, heads down and giggling as one of them turned quickly away from his gaze. Grinning, Sláine shook the river out of his hair. He unwound a leather thong from his wrist and bound his hair up in a long ponytail.

  It all came down to the final event, the wrestling.

  Sláine drew Dian to one side, away from the others.

  "Paint me, like a demon."

  Dian grinned. The boy's smile was infectious.

  "Come on, quickly, before they notice we've gone!"

  They ran back towards the village together. The first series of bouts would give them about quarter of an hour to craft their horrors on Sláine's skin. The warriors of the Sessair daubed themselves in woad before battle, depicting the very pits of the Underworld on their skin. The intention was to put the fear of devils into their foes. Dian was a deft artist; his brushstrokes were precise, his art haunting. He drew a spiral vortex across Sláine's left cheek and the face of some nameless demon in the centre of his brow, talons reaching down and digging in to either temple. The right cheek was transformed into an endless knot that curved away down his throat and across his chest. It lacked subtlety and finesse but it was impressive. The knot spread into a huge Celtic cross, and behind it Dian sketched a warped warrior in the full grip of a mighty spasm. As Sláine's chest rose and fell the warped one grew as if seething with earth power.

  Fionn burst in on them and stopped dead in his tracks seeing Sláine, slowly rising to his full height. The effect of the woad tattoos was startling. He looked like something risen with vengeful fury from Cernunnos's underworld.

  His knowing smile undid the illusion.

  "They're waiting for you, you've drawn Wide Mouth and he's ranting about how it should be a forfeit because you aren't there."

  "Well let's go put him out of his misery shall we?" Sláine said.

  The three of them strode through the village and out to the tournament fields. Heads turned and seeing Sláine, eyes widened. He walked tall, proud, Fionn and Dian at his side. He ignored the whispers. His eyes sought out Cullen Wide Mouth, who could easily have been renamed Cullen Slack Jaw when he saw his opponent striding out of the crowd to face him.

  Sláine didn't say a word.

  He strode into the centre of the fighting circle, bowed to Brand, Wide Mouth's maternal uncle, who served as judge, and dropped into a tight crouch, circling, circling, lips curled back in a feral snarl.

  Cullen stood on the edge of the circle, staring at the beast that was Sláine. He moved hesitantly, dropping into a crouch and scuffling forwards, fingers clawing at the dirt.

  The pair circled each other warily, each weighing the other up, looking for a weakness. Sláine's bone-white grin was stark against the blue woad. He curled his lips back in a feral snarl and slapped his own face. Then he winked at Cullen, knowing that Wide Mouth's temper would get the better of him. It was almost too easy to goad him into losing his concentration.

  Cullen slapped out at the side of Sláine's face but Sláine rolled around the blow, coming to his feet six feet from where he had been, and threw his head back, howling at the sun.

  To a man, the spectators were silent. No one dared utter a word for fear of breaking the spell the combatants had cast over the scene. It was almost like watching a dance, such was the grace and fluidity of the boys as they feinted, blocked and rolled around blows, neither gaining the upper hand for more than a few seconds at a time.

  Sláine reared up, luring Cullen in. Wide Mouth lunged, throwing himself forwards, off balance. Sláine drew in a huge breath, feeling the surge of earth power infusing his blood as he gave in to his anger. It gave him strength beyond anything he had ever felt in his life. When he came down on Wide Mouth's head it was with all the ferocity of a cudgel of stone, slamming both fists into the hard bone of Cullen's skull. The blow sent Wide Mouth reeling, spitting cracked and broken teeth as he tried to gather his wits about him. Wide Mouth struggled to get his legs under him. His left leg twitched uncontrollably. He was beaten, badly, but his body refused to lie down. All that remained was for Sláine to move in for the coup de gras. There was nothing pretty about it. He reached out, grabbing a handful of Cullen's hair and pulled him off balance. Brand moved to intercede but Sláine was determined to win, not be given victory. He spidered sideways, scuttling on all fours and keeping just beyond the judge's reach, forcing Brand to drop a strip of white cloth between Sláine and Cullen. The cloth signified the end of the fight.

  Sláine saw it fall and ignored it.

  The power of the earth roared through him. He was the mountain. He was the river. He was Sláine. No one would take this victory from him!

  He roared forwards, spitting and hissing like a man possessed.

  Wide Mouth was too disorientated to do anything but slump into Sláine's forearm as he brought it crashing into his face. Blood sprayed from Wide Mouth's broken nose as the cartilage ruptured and smeared across his face. Brand grabbed at him, but before the warrior could haul Sláine off he finished it with a scything kick that took Cullen's legs out from under him and left him on his back in the dirt, groping out desperately for something to hold on to as his world spun away from him.

  Wide Mouth wasn't just beaten; he was humiliated.

  Sláine stood over his fallen enemy, blood singing through his veins.

  Brand made to grab him as Sláine threw his head back and roared, beating his fists off his chest.

  The crowd had fallen utterly silent.

  They stared at the painted Sláine as if he was indeed the warped demon Dian had depicted him as.

  Sláine put his boot on Cullen's chest and pinned him to the dirt, claiming his victory.

  "Crom's balls, that was harsh," someone said, finally.

  Then someone else said, "Was that Roth's boy? He's got a hell of a temper."

  And someone else said, "You bet he has. That lad'll make a hell of a Red Brancher."

  Sláine smiled. He had done it. They had seen him. They knew what he had within him. He walked away, leaving Wide Mouth sprawled in the dirt, with his arms and legs splayed out like some cheap whore begging for business.

  He walked through the crowd, seeking out his king. They people parted around him. A few patted him on the back as he passed. None stood in his way. He could hear woodland sounds, forest sounds, earth so
unds, all around him - the crowd was so quiet. These weren't tranquil sounds. He heard nature coming alive. He heard predators stalking and killing succulent prey. He felt empty inside: dead. The thrill of the earth's power had left him a hollow shell of a man. He walked woodenly through the press of people, unwilling to believe what had happened - what he had done. It was as if a dark spirit had found its way into his skin and turned him into a stranger. He didn't know himself. He could see his friends looking at him, although none of them looked at him the way they used to. Now their eyes were clouded with fear. They had seen what he had done to Cullen of the Wide Mouth. He knew what they were thinking. They were thinking that if he could do that to Cullen what was he capable of doing to them?

  The worst thing was that he couldn't find it in himself to blame them.

  He would have been thinking the same thing, in their place.

  It frightened him.

  Sláine found Grudnew standing with Gobhan and Gorian. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  "Well, Sláine Mac Roth, you are full of surprises," the king said. "You fought well and the honour is yours. Rise."

  "He fought like a dog," Gobhan spat derisively. Sláine didn't rise to the bait. Gobhan was only looking for an excuse to bring him down a peg or two.

  "That may be so," Gorian agreed, "but he walked away victorious. I would trade grace for a butcher's instinct in my warriors every day of the week."

  "Is that what you are, lad? A butcher?" Grudnew asked, studying Sláine.

  "No, sire. I am the mountain. I am the river," Sláine said earnestly.

  The new king smiled. "You'll do well, lad," he said after a moment. "Now come on, stand up. A man doesn't debase himself longer than he must, even before a king. Let the sycophants bow and scrape. Warriors stand tall."

  "Sire."

  Sláine stood. His hands trembled. He wasn't frightened. It was a peculiar thing; with the threat long gone his body finally allowed the fear to catch up. He looked at his hands, fascinated by their treachery.

  "That's an interesting design," Gorian said as Sláine straightened. "Quite elaborate." The warlord pointed at the warped figure emerging from behind the endless knot. "What is it? Some kind of warped demon of the aether?"

  "I don't know, lord. My friend drew it. I wanted him to make me look scary."

  "Oh, he did that, son. You're a sight to drive the fear of the Horned God into a soul, take my word for it." And as he said it Sláine heard the honesty in Gorian's voice. The warlord wasn't mocking him. He felt pride colour his cheeks, and was grateful for Dian's woad taking the sting out of the blush.

  "Thank you," he said.

  The old warlord leaned in close. "You gave young Cullen a sound beating, lad. Today was supposed to be his day. It didn't work out that way and you are the reason for that. He isn't going to thank you and I doubt very much that he will forgive you, either." Sláine nodded and started to say something. Gorian held up a finger. "Don't think we haven't seen him lording it over you boys," Gorian interrupted. "We aren't blind and we aren't fools. We know exactly what he's like, just as we know exactly what young Dian is like, and Fionn, and you for that matter. We look at you and we see the future, lad. It behoves us to pay a great deal of attention to your exploits. Believe me, you took the wood right out of his pecker. If he's anything like his father Wide Mouth's going to nurse that grudge. So take care of yourself, boy."

  Sláine saw Brand helping a dazed Cullen to his feet. Wide Mouth had never been particularly easy on the eye but Sláine had left him with a face even his mother would find it difficult to love. Cullen lifted his head and stared straight at Sláine. The animosity in his glare was venomous.

  Sláine knew that Gorian was right. Sláine had humiliated Cullen. He knew Wide Mouth well enough to know that he wouldn't rest until he had returned the favour.

  He didn't have to wait long.

  Wide Mouth dragged himself to Sláine's champion's feast. He hadn't cleaned the blood from his face. He walked unsteadily into the roundhouse and pushed his way through to where Sláine sat, beside Grudnew and Gorian, claiming the hero's portion. Thick meaty juices ran between his fingers as he tore at the succulent rack of lamb. He licked his fingers, smacking his lips even as he tore another hunk of meat free from the bone. The meat was cooked to perfection: crisp on the outside and pink and juicy at the core. It peeled away in his fingers and melted in his Mouth.

  "You have no right!" Cullen bellowed, slumping against the side of a table and needing its support to keep from falling. "You cheated! You broke the laws of combat by delivering blows after the white flag. You are a coward and a cheat, Sláine Mac Roth, and I demand my right as winner of the games. I demand the hero's portion."

  Sláine tore another strip of meat from the bone and tossed it onto the floor at Wide Mouth's feet.

  "Your share of the spoils, Wide Mouth. Eat it. Lap it up like a dog. Go on, get down on your knees. Eat the scraps from my plate, loser. It is all you are good for, grubbing around in the dirt, begging."

  Cullen snarled as Fionn, Dian, Cormac, Niall and Núada all moved to stand between their friends.

  "Enough," Cormac said.

  One of the Red Branch warriors caught hold of Wide Mouth's arm and held him firm. "Aye, the lad has the right of it, son. Get yerself away home. No good's gonna come of this here fight."

  "I don't need you to tell me what to do, old man. Get your hands off me!"

  "Calm down, laddie, yer don't want this gettin' any uglier than it already is."

  "Oh just shut up you drunken fool. This is between me and him!" Cullen levelled an accusing finger at Sláine. "Do I need to come up there and get you, coward?"

  "Did I damage your brain with the pounding I gave that thick skull of yours? Do I need to come down there and beat you again? I will if you want me to. I'll beat you to a bloody pulp so you never walk again if it will make you shut the hell up." Sláine laid aside the stripped bone and tore another rib free from the rack.

  "Enough, children," Grudnew said, the calm authority of his voice cutting across theirs easily. He was not amused. "In defeat, you need to learn grace, Cullen Mac Conn; in victory you need to learn humility, Sláine Mac Roth. There is more to being a great warrior than winning your battles. A great man carries himself with dignity. He doesn't stoop to name calling and throwing his fists around. He doesn't humiliate his foe; he befriends him so they need be foes no more. You both have a lot to learn, but that is unsurprising. For all your exploits on the games field today you are still children. You will learn, and I would wager that there are plenty of people willing to beat that learning into you, if needs be. Look at your friends. Right now each one of them is more of a man than either of you. You might have beaten them on the tournament field, but in life they have the measure of you. They have shown great courage in putting themselves between you. You could learn from them. Now, both of you, out of my sight before I decide it is time for your first lesson."

  Roth Bellyshaker grabbed Sláine by the arm and hauled him from the roundhouse. Conn was no less gentle with Wide Mouth, dragging him so that his feet barely touched the ground.

  "Just wait 'til I get you home, boy!" Roth growled, shoving Sláine in front of him. "Making a show of our family in front of the king!"

  Then, when they were out of sight of prying eyes, Bellyshaker wrapped his arm around Sláine's shoulder and said, "You did yourself proud today, my boy. You took down a stronger, faster opponent and he'll not forget the beating you gave him in a hurry. You caught the king's eye; he marked you, lad. Do you have any idea what that means? The king's marked you, six months from the time of the choosing, the king has singled you out. Do you think it was a coincidence that Gorian was talking to you? The man's the Warlord of the Red Branch, son. The bloody warlord! When you were out there they saw something in you that they liked. Then you had to go and show them something ugly. You better get a grip on that temper of yours before it gets you in even more trouble."

  "Yes,
father," Sláine said, remembering the intoxicating touch of the earth power as it seeped into his body, remembering the feeling of strength it promised, and yearning to feel it once more.

  Three

  The Choosing

  It was the first day of the trinox Samoni: the three nights of Samain.

  They called Samain the feast of the dead. Feis Samain. At Samain, the barrier between the world of the Sidhe and the mortal world was at its thinnest and most fragile. These were the days in which old ghosts returned to their familiar haunts. It ought to have been the stuff of nightmares but it wasn't. It was a time for remembering. A time for celebrating those lives that had gone before. It was a time for reflection.

  And, they whispered, if you were lucky, a time to remake old acquaintances.

  More practically it was the time between times, between the death of summer and the birth of winter, outside the ordinary turn of the seasons. Tithes were paid to the king from the harvest and the king himself settled the Ugarta. These were tribal taboos, old scores that demanded the sovereign's hand in settlement because the claimants couldn't find satisfaction between themselves. Some were held over from Calum's reign, others were new to Grudnew's. The king would seek to settle many with a bountiful feast and even more bountiful ale. A full year had passed since the marriage of Grudnew to the Goddess, crowning him King of the Sessair.

  It was also the birthday for the men of the tribe, marking the turning of another year.

  Today Sláine became a man.

  The Choosing began at noon. He would learn his fate soon enough, as would the others. Sláine woke early and sat on the edge of his cot, watching the sun rise orange on the horizon. He hadn't slept well the night before. He was restless, nervous. He wanted nothing more than to be accepted into the Red Branch, to be a true warrior of the Sessair. But doubt gnawed at him, and for good reason. It had been six years since Gorian allowed an apprentice into the Red Branch. Six years. Why should they embrace him where they had overlooked so many others?