The Exile

by Steven Savile

  He hadn't felt the rush of the earth's power in his blood since he rounded Lugh's Spike, and that felt like another lifetime.

  He was actually beginning to think in terms of life being perfect right up until he saw Donagh lurching up the bridal path, out of breath from running all the way from the village. He had been splitting logs and still had his axe in his hand. It slipped through his fingers when he saw the old farmer's face.

  "It's you isn't it?" Donagh asked, clutching at the fence post to keep from falling. "You're the warped one on the run from Murias?"

  Sláine staggered back as if he had been punched. "How?"

  "They're here - they are looking for you - five hunters from the Red Branch. They are telling everyone you are a traitor to your king and that they mean to drag you back to Grudnew for execution. You've got to run lad, now."

  He looked back at the homestead where Bedelia was cooking his dinner.

  "I need to say goodbye."

  "No you don't, lad. You need to run."

  "But-"

  "She'll understand, lad, trust me. I'll see to that. Now get yourself gone. I don't care what you did or didn't do, I ain't about to have her burying two men in a year. She ain't that strong."

  Sláine knew exactly what he meant.

  "Where are they now?"

  "In the town, asking around. Sooner or later someone is going to put two and two together and they'll point the hunters this way. Enough people hate the happiness of others to make that a certainty. You'll need to skirt the village completely. Best bet is over the river and through the forest toward Dun Barc. I'll tell them I saw you heading off two days ago in the direction of Dun Keif."

  "Thank you."

  "Danu be with you."

  "That's what got me into this mess in the first place," Sláine said without the slightest trace of amusement in his voice. He shouldered his father's old axe and looked back one last time at the homestead, thinking he could see Bedelia's silhouette in the window. He turned his back on her.

  He hated himself as he started to run but he knew he could live with it. He hated himself for so much else already.

  Sláine earned a crust as a mercenary in Dun Barc.

  It was not a rewarding experience. He hooked up with a clan chief in a petty dispute over territorial rights and the spoils from a raid, adding his axe to the chieftain's small army. It should have been good to swing Brain-Biter again and crack a few skulls, but all it succeeded in doing was reminding him what he had lost in leaving the Red Branch. When the warp-spasm overtook him during a skirmish Sláine knew it was time to move on. He saw the fear in his comrades' eyes. It hurt him. These were men he had come to call friends in the short time he had known them, drinking together, whoring together and fighting together. He had thought they shared a bond of brotherhood. He ought to have known better. There was nowhere in the Land of the Young that he could truly claim to belong, not anymore.

  Each day was an exercise in survival. The next would have to take care of itself.

  He deserted long before the conflict was settled.

  He didn't care, it wasn't his fight.

  Spring came. A new spring deserved a new day beginning.

  "Looking for work?"

  Sláine studied his would-be employer. The man was a small weaselly individual with close-set feral eyes and a twitching nose. The man was unpleasant and quite possibly dangerous. He harboured no illusions. Whatever the greasy creature was about to suggest, it was almost definitely illegal.

  "What have you got in mind?"

  One benefit from the dubious nature of the deal was that it promised to pay well. The man's nose twitched through a series of contortions. There was little about his appearance that inspired either trust or confidence. His oily hair was combed flat against his scalp although a cow-lick at the crown refused to lie down, but his clothing was cut well, befitting a man of no small means, and it was one of the finest weaves Sláine had ever seen.

  "Ah, nothing too exciting I'm afraid. I'm looking to move some goods from Breiddin to Crumlyn. It's a long road, and often seen as easy pickings by bandits. I'm looking to discourage that line of thinking with some big strong boys guarding the caravan."

  There was obviously more to it, but Sláine wasn't about to push his luck. He needed to head south and Crumlyn was about as far south as you could go without leaving the Land of the Young.

  "I'm listening."

  "Not much more to tell. I need someone handy with a weapon - sword or axe, I'm not fussed - who can ride and has a few other, ahhh, talents."

  "Talents?"

  The trader chuckled. "You make it sound like a dirty word, lad."

  "For all I know it could be, it isn't as if you're owning up to what those talents might be, now is it?"

  "You make a good point."

  "But you're still not going to tell me," Sláine said.

  "I am still not going to tell you," the trader agreed. "So, with that settled, do we have a deal?"

  He had met men like this before, always in the same kind of circumstances. They withheld a certain vital piece of the puzzle and then feigned bewilderment when the elaborate construction of half-truths they had built came tumbling down.

  "What do I get in return?"

  "Ah, a pragmatic soul. I like that in a man. I am thinking the job is worth a good-sized purse, shall we say fifty bits?"

  Sláine pretended to weigh up the offer for a moment.

  "Shall we say seventy-five? It's a long road after all and if it is worth fifty as an opening gambit it must be worth seventy-five."

  "You drive a hard bargain, friend." The trader spat in his palm and held out his hand.

  "Should have said one hundred and fifty shouldn't I?" Sláine said, sealing the deal. "You caved in far too easily."

  "Ahhh, don't feel bad. It's a fair price. I wouldn't go out of my way to swindle you."

  "I don't believe that for a moment."

  "You cut me to the quick, lad. You know, I can't keep calling you that, what's your name, big fella? After all, we're old friends now, aren't we?"

  "I wouldn't go that far. I am Sláine Mac Roth."

  "Now that's a fighter's name if ever I heard one. Good to have you on the team, Sláine. I'm Mannix. Well I was born Mainchin but not even my dear departed mother ever called me that. I've been Mannix for as long as I can remember."

  "Mannix," Sláine said.

  "Right, well, we're shipping out at first light tomorrow. You know where the cider house is?" Sláine nodded. "Right next door is a narrow gate. It'll be open. Come on through about an hour before dawn. We'll be loading up. Don't forget that axe of yours!"

  He was not the only guard on the caravan.

  There were two others, brothers, Finbar and Fergus, both redheaded, freckled boys with more muscle than sense. Sláine didn't doubt for a minute that they thought they could handle themselves if things got messy, but there was a peculiar softness - at odds with their bulging muscles - about the pair that didn't inspire confidence. He would have wagered half of his purse on the fact that the brother's had never been in a real fight. The eyes gave them away.

  "The best of a sorry lot," Mannix said, following the direction of Sláine's dubious stare.

  "Doesn't say a lot."

  "Well, we've got you, so all's well that ends well."

  "If you say so."

  There were three wagons, one covered, the other two flatbeds. The horses looked ready for the knacker's yard. He patted one on the neck. The first flatbed was piled to overflowing with crates and sacks, each bearing the mark of a small monk, which he assumed was something to do with Mannix's trading company. The second flatbed was half empty, and carried the team's supplies, bedrolls, cooking tins and other odds and ends for the journey.

  Sláine walked around to the side of the covered wagon and reached up to draw back the canvas flap.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Mannix said, coming up behind him and staying his hand. "The, ahhh, beautiful Bla
thnaid was in a foul humour when I looked in on her earlier. Woe betide anyone disturbing her beauty sleep." The trader chuckled at his own pale attempt at humour. "It always amazes me how a good-looking woman can look so damned ugly in the morning."

  "So is she the real cargo?" Sláine turned his back on the wagon. He looked up at the sky, feeling the first few drops of rain on his face.

  "You could say that. I was asked as a favour to an old friend to see her safely to Crumlyn. I thought it would be convenient to run some other business along the way, so which is the real business, well that's a matter for interpretation, I suppose. Both pay well, that's what counts."

  "Not well enough for decent horses though," Sláine said.

  They left a little before sunrise. Sláine rode alongside the front wagon, Finbar and Fergus bringing up the rear. They were not the most talkative pair. Over the next four days Sláine heard them manage only a handful of words between them.

  "It's going to be a long journey," he remarked to the trader as the wagons rumbled through another tiny hamlet. Children lined the streets, watching the short procession roll by. Mannix threw a couple of jellied treats down to them.

  "They always are," Mannix agreed.

  Blathnaid did not make an appearance until the fifth day.

  She was an interesting conundrum of personality and beauty all jumbled together and reassembled in a manner that ought to have been pleasing but was just slightly out of kilter, making her an almost-beautiful almost-interesting almost-woman. She wore a simple dress, although it was dyed emerald green, a rare colour, marking it as an expensive piece despite its roughness. The only jewellery was a colourful heather-gem brooch, with a dozen fragments of multi-coloured stone. Again it was a simple piece, and heather stone was hardly a precious gem. It was a cold stone. After a few minutes of trying to make conversation with the woman Sláine decided it suited her, muttered something that made him look busy and rode off to the back of the wagon train to watch the leaves bud with the red-headed brothers of mirth.

  Finbar and Fergus were no more fun than usual but anything was better than their precious "cargo".

  That didn't stop him from watching Blathnaid from a distance. She moved with an economy that surprised him. There was little in the way of excess about her. Everything, even her body's form, was tailored to minimalising things, be it movement, flesh, even the attention it drew. There appeared to be nothing at all remarkable about the young woman, which was, conversely, rather remarkable in itself. It seemed at odds with her role as the helpless maiden. The longer he studied her, the more he began to wonder if it wasn't an act she cultivated. There was almost certainly more than met the eye about their travelling companion, although what, exactly, he could only guess at.

  She retreated into the wagon a little further down the road, and didn't come out again until nightfall.

  Mannix amused them with tales of his travels while they ate. The trader had been to places and seen things that Sláine had never heard of. In many ways, the trader reminded Sláine of Tall Iesin. He spun a captivating yarn. He told tall tales of adventure, always painting himself in the hero's role. Sláine chuckled at stories of his escape from the clutches of the witches of Drunemeton, and his escapades with a troupe of female players in Caer Lyonesse. If Mannix was to be believed he had bedded the actresses, fended off the unwanted lusts of an amorous lamia and still had the stamina to rescue a chieftain's only daughter from where she was imprisoned in a high tower.

  "It was all I could do to convince the old man that I didn't want the girl as my reward. There're only so many notches the bedpost can take, after all," he finished with a grin.

  "I can imagine," Fergus said enviously.

  "I can't," Sláine said with a wink. "Some stories are far too tall for imagining, that's what's best about them."

  "You really are a man after my own heart, Sláine Mac Roth," Mannix said, slapping the young Sessair on the back. "Come on, let's eat."

  He continued to watch Blathnaid over the coming days.

  There was something about the woman that didn't ring true but he didn't know what it was.

  It made him decidedly uncomfortable in her presence, more so when he found himself alone with her.

  "You don't like me very much, do you?" she asked. She had a way of tilting her head that made her hair fall across one eye, and then, when she knew he was looking, she would brush it away from her face. It was decidedly theatrical. He had noticed her doing it whenever she talked to the redheaded mirth brothers as well, but she never did it when she was with Mannix. She was obviously flirting although how she could have imagined it made her more attractive he had no idea.

  "Am I supposed to?"

  "Well it would be nice. We've got a long way to travel."

  "We've managed well enough so far without me liking you," he said. "I am sure we could manage a few more miles without too much trouble."

  Blathnaid turned away from him. There was nothing for her to see in the darkness beyond the campfire but he wasn't about to tell her that.

  She didn't say a word for a full five minutes.

  When she finally turned back to face him her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were streaked with tears. He felt like a complete idiot. Flustered, he lurched forwards not sure whether to hug her or try to wipe her tears away, and ended up elbowing her in the face. Blathnaid recoiled, raising her hands to protect her face from any more of his good intentions.

  "Sorry, sorry, ahhh woman, I didn't mean anything by it, I mean, nothing to be getting upset over. Me and my big mouth, I open it without thinking, you know? Say the first thing that comes into my mind, no matter how stupid. You looked like you could handle a bit of banter so I-" He was rambling and he knew it. He didn't know what else he was supposed to say.

  She looked at him, vulnerable and suddenly attractive, her eyes wide like those of a startled doe and her cheeks flushed.

  He didn't think, he leaned forwards and kissed her.

  Blathnaid slapped him, a hard stinging blow across the face.

  "I was only trying to make you feel better!"

  For that, she slapped him again.

  He winced, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears.

  He turned to see Mannix laughing at him, thoroughly delighted by the whole sorry spectacle.

  Sláine shrugged as if to say, what is a man to do?

  Over the coming weeks he was doubly attentive to Blathnaid. He apologised several times, making such a fuss of her that she finally grabbed him by the front of his tunic and hauled herself up to within an inch of his face.

  "Shut up and kiss me."

  It was an offer he couldn't very well refuse.

  Thirteen

  Simple Magics

  They had been robbed by bandits on the Crumlyn road.

  It hadn't been some random attack, a robber looking for an easy mark on the highway. It was quite by chance he had ridden around the back of the covered wagon in time to see Blathnaid giving three sharp owl hoots into the darkness - a signal for cohorts to bait their trap. They had a slick operation going, with Blathnaid infiltrating caravans in her guise as the helpless young daughter of the well-to-do local. It took some prior planning but having someone on the inside assured things went down without a hitch.

  Three men and a wagon with a broken axle pulled up on the side of the road, greasy with sweat and thoroughly exhausted. They waved Mannix down.

  "Got a problem?" the old trader asked, stating the obvious succinctly.

  "Aye, the axle snapped," the shortest of the three said, equally obviously, given the broken stave of wood lying on the side of the road. He was bald and slightly rotund. Beside him stood a curly haired fop with his hands on his hips, and a brute of a man with a face that looked as if it had been trampled by a herd of aurochs. The short one was obviously the leader of the mismatched troupe. "We've been caught a bit short. Don't have an axe to chop down a decent sized sapling to make a new one, so we're stuck here. Don't suppose y
ou boys could help us out?"

  "Muscle-boy has a big chopper," Blathnaid called from her wagon. "Don't you, Sláine?"

  The brute rolled the orphaned cartwheel into the centre of the road. He dusted his hands off and looked at Blathnaid.

  "Hello, lady."

  Blathnaid smiled. She turned to Sláine who was still eyeing the three men suspiciously. "Come on, Sláine, anyone can see these honest travellers are in need of your strapping muscles."

  So he dismounted and shouldered his axe.

  "Go with him," the short man said to the fop. "Help him pick out the right tree."

  The fop nodded. "Come, let us find a straight tree to chop down shall we?"

  He followed the fop into the trees, pointing out several he thought perfectly adequate to do the job but none satisfied the other man. He followed him deeper and deeper into the woods until he couldn't see the road, the wagons or anything else apart from row after row of trees.

  "This ought to do it," the fop said.

  Sláine couldn't see what was different about this sapling over any of the others. He shrugged, pulled back his axe and swung, sinking Brain-Biter's blade deep into the wet wood.

  Then his head was ringing and the world was spinning, and his legs buckled.

  The last thing he saw was a blur that was vaguely fop-shaped peering down at him and then the world went black.

  He had no idea how much later it was when he came to. His head hurt. Tentatively, he felt out the lump where the fop had hit him. It was tender to the touch. When he drew his hand away it was wet with blood. He shook his head, angry with himself for being taken so easily - from behind - and the world reeled around him. He lurched sideways, heaving up the contents of his guts. He wiped the mess off his mouth and counted to thirty, breathing deeply.

  He staggered back out to the road.

  The bandits were gone, as was their covered wagon, and Blathnaid.