The Exile

by Steven Savile

  Ukko was hunched down over something in the field. "Probably something shiny," Sláine muttered to himself, setting out after the dwarf.

  A bell tolled somewhere in the distance. It was a mournful sound.

  Beyond the dolmen lay another desperate village starving under the harsh laws of the Drunes.

  After the trials of the swamp it promised blessed relief.

  When he caught up with the dwarf he saw that Ukko was holding a bone, a child's leg bone, not fully formed. "They're here as well, aren't they?"

  "A child?" Sláine said. "What kind of sickness infects these Drunes?"

  "You remember what Bran said? They take the young and sacrifice them to Crom-Cruach. Those marks, what if every one is a tally, one scratch for each child offered to their vile master?"

  Sláine didn't want to contemplate it but Blind Bran's words came back to him: "The Drunes rounded up the young of the village, all under twenty summers, and butchered them. That was more than half of us. He laughed in my face as I challenged him. What are you upset about, miner? Now there is foodenough for everyone!" Sláine shuddered.

  "We should go around the village," Sláine said.

  "Not a chance, I am dying for a decent meal and, no offence, but a change of company for a while. Who knows, maybe there's a nice fat girl waiting to shower me with kisses. That'd be nice." Ukko set a brisk pace, buoyed by the thought of a warm meal and warmer thighs. Sláine struggled to keep up with the dwarf. His mind drifted to the possibility of a real bed and a real woman to share it with him. They were good thoughts.

  The village was a pale ghost of what it should have been. Sláine saw a boy grubbing around in the dirt after a beetle. For a moment he thought the lad was playing with the insect until he saw him stuff it in his mouth and chew.

  Walking through the houses Sláine had the uncomfortable feeling that they were being watched. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled and his skin crawled. Every time he turned, trying to catch a glimpse of the unseen watcher, the street was empty.

  "Can't say I like this any better than the swamp," Sláine said, looking back over his shoulder at an abandoned street. "The whole place gives me the creeps."

  An old man stepped out into the centre of the street to greet them. He was all slack yellowed skin and bone.

  "What brings you to Gavra, strangers?"

  "The need for food and a bed," Sláine said.

  "Well, ain't much of either here. Best you be on your way, lad. This is a bad place to be."

  "We've been walking for a week through the swamp, old man. I'm tired, I don't remember the last meal I ate, and I could murder an ale."

  "Me, I'd settle for a big-titted woman to use as a pillow," Ukko said, earning a cuff from Sláine. "Hey!"

  "Excuse my, ahhh, companion. He's special."

  "That's right, I'm special," Ukko said, and then turned to Sláine. "Hey, I don't like the way you said that, you made me sound like a simpleton."

  "Is there an inn?"

  "Aye, Madaug Stagshanks runs a small place, but it ain't had beer for as long as I can remember, and as to a shank of venison? I think the old fool was spinning a yarn when he claimed that moniker." He shook his head.

  "But it has beds?"

  "A floor with straw," the old man said with a shrug.

  "Sounds like the Summerland," Ukko grumbled sourly.

  "Beggars can't be choosers."

  "Well, what we have, you're welcome to share," the old man said. "I'm Madaug, innkeeper and what passes as chieftain of this doomed village."

  "Sláine Mac Roth," Sláine said, holding out a hand, "and this ugly runt is Ukko. Don't trust him with anything you hold dear. He's a thief and a liar."

  "But you love me for it," Ukko said.

  Madaug grinned. "Welcome to Gavra."

  For all the privation it was a blessed comfort to be in the company of others. The food, while far from plentiful, was filling. The citizens of Gavra had every right to moan and curse the fates but they didn't. They accepted this hardship as their due and waited for their world to collapse.

  "How can they go on like this?" Ukko asked, shaking his head.

  "What's the alternative, dwarf?" Sláine asked.

  "Fight."

  "Spoken like true idiot. What is there to fight? Do you see the Drunes here subjugating these people? The damage was done years ago. There is nothing to fight here, no enemy. The monsters are all around but they are invisible. They are hunger and fear, debilitating beasts both. Mother earth is no longer fertile. The essence of Danu's magic has been drained from the soil. This is a dead place."

  "And you accept that, warrior?"

  "I have no choice. I could avenge these people with my axe if I had her. Otherwise what? You shouldn't save the lives of people fated to die, Ukko, that's cheating the gods."

  "Soth! You actually believe the gods care?"

  "I know at least one who does, dwarf; one who cares with all of her heart."

  The taproom of the inn was warm. A fire blazed in the hearth. A broth that was mostly water warmed in a huge cauldron. Sláine slapped Ukko on the shoulder, and pointed to one of the women stirring the pot. "That should be ample even for you."

  Ukko grinned. "Now you're just trying to distract me."

  "Has it worked?"

  "Indubitably."

  "In-what?"

  Ukko hopped up and swaggered over to the woman, slapping her on the rump.

  "I'll take that as a yes, then," Sláine called over the hubbub of the taproom. Ukko winked and made another grab for the woman. She didn't seem to mind, laughing and cuffing the little runt around the ear.

  Sláine sat alone for a while, thinking about what he had told the dwarf. It felt as if he hadn't stopped running since he left Murias, and the more he ran the less he actually stopped to think. It was too easy to just run, lurching from one potential disaster to the next. A time would come when he had to stop running. The day would come when the road would take him back north and he would have to face up to his own stupidity, and, he thought wistfully, when Grudnew walked up to the pyre, return to his people to claim Niamh as his bride. It was a thought he had held close to his chest for a long time. A king reigned for seven years. It was not so long. Grudnew had been king for two years before his exile and he had been gone four already. His days were numbered. Soon he would be able to return to Murias without fear of the headsman's axe.

  Did he truly believe what he had said to Ukko? Did he truly think that it was wrong to meddle and save someone fated to die? And if he did, why was he trying so hard to stem the threat of the skull-swords for the sake of his own people. Perhaps it was their time to die. Dare he risk the anger of the gods?

  The answer lay in a memory: the smoke on the horizon and Danu's whispered words: "You needed to see, to understand". He understood why, finally. It wasn't about the black smoke consuming Murias. He felt anger welling up inside him. Images of more flames, of innocents burning, of the despoilers pillaging and raping the earth, turning it sour, superimposed themselves on his memories of home, of Murias, and of places he had visited since his exile. He saw exactly what she wanted him to see, and this time he understood. It was about The Land of the Young and the Goddess and the very power of the earth itself, being soured by the evil of Slough Feg and his foul minions in the name of Crom.

  Madaug settled down beside him, two tankards in hand. He slid one across the table to Sláine.

  "I thought you said there was no ale left?" Sláine said, raising the wooden tankard to his lips and draining a good long swallow from the frothy drink. It didn't taste like any beer he had drunk before. It was bitter.

  "There isn't. I call this gutrot. It sorts the men out from the boys. It's fermented like beer but it's got a whole other set of ingredients. You don't want to know, just sup up, lad. It'll put hairs on your chest."

  Sláine took another mouthful, feeling the intoxicating rush of the drink go straight to his head. "Potent stuff."

  "Oh aye,
and then some. Look, lad, no beating about the bush. Are you sure I can't convince you to stay? We need new blood if we are going to survive."

  "I'm a wanderer, Madaug. It's in the blood. I can't settle down, no matter how inviting the place, or the woman."

  "At least say you'll think about it."

  "No need," Sláine said. "It can't be easy," Sláine raised his tankard and gestured to take in the whole taproom. He watched the door. It was a habit learned from paranoia and too long being hunted. Closed doors still made him uncomfortable, "All of this."

  "There's nothing here, lad. This ain't the place I grew up in. I love this village but the Drunes have sucked the soul out of it. Gavra is dying, just like every other place roundabouts. The Sourland is spreading. Paeder said he met a bard last month who told stories of the blight having crept as far north as Albion and as far south as Gabala. It's a creeping death. The entire land will fall to the scourge and then what? What will we eat? How will we live? We won't, that's the how and what of it. You know there's talk that we're entering the end of days." Madaug shuddered. He took a deep swallow of his gutrot and wiped his lips off with the back of his hand. "Hark on me, prattling away like a fishwife. Don't get many folks to listen to me these days. That little fella of yours knows how to enjoy himself, eh?" Madaug said.

  Sláine couldn't help but smile as he watched Ukko's antics. The little runt had the cook eating out of the palm of his hand. She had scooped him up and was singing a raunchy shanty that seemed to be about small ones being juicier as she swung him round. "Ukko's a law unto himself."

  The door of the taproom flew open and a huge horned silhouette filled the wound it left in the wall. The black night spilled into the inn. Utter silence gripped the revellers. The unmistakable stench blew in with the night wind. Ukko hit the floor with a thud as the woman dropped him. He scrambled back towards Sláine's table, ducking under the tabletop as if that would protect him. The Drune Lord stepped into the taproom. He held a limp body in his arms.

  For a moment no one moved. Drinkers held their cups to their lips, frozen in place. The dancers stood alone in the middle of the floor. Slowly, one by one, heads turned to stare in terror at the slough-skinned sorcerer as he walked up to Madaug and dropped the dead boy at his feet. Skull-swords swelled into the inn, weapons drawn.

  "Murderers," Madaug breathed, pushing the table back so that he could stand. His legs betrayed him. He fell to his knees beside the dead boy. "Caw. Oh, sweet Lug, Caw, what have they done to you?"

  "We killed the child because we believed you were sheltering outlaws." Smiling wryly, the Drune turned to Sláine. "It seems we were right."

  Madaug grabbed a blunt bread knife off the tabletop and surged to his feet. He threw himself at the Drune, stabbing wildly even before he was five steps away from the sorcerer.

  The Drune raised a hand crawling with maggots and jags of lightning streamed from his fingers, tearing into the old man like arrows, punching through his slack skin and spraying blood out of his back. His arms spread-eagled wide, thrown into the air by the black magic shredding his flesh, Madaug Stagshanks was dead before his body hit the floor.

  The taproom stank of ozone and gore; an ugly mix if ever there was one.

  It all happened so quickly. Madaug's kin were on their feet, screaming as they were cut down by the skull-swords.

  Sláine roared to his feet, hurling the wooden table into the faces of the skull-swords charging at him.

  "Come on then! Fight a real man! I'll see you in the Underworld, boys!"

  The rage that hit him was so vehement, so strong, that the beginnings of the burning fire that marked the warp-spasm tore through Sláine. His face twisted, shifting into something animalistic, bestial. He grabbed two skull-swords by the throat and hurled them into the cooking fire. He broke two more over the back of the table he had hurled, shattering their spines. Another he kicked so hard that he shattered the man's pelvis.

  "Say hello to Cernunnos for me!" Sláine growled, spinning around to drop two more, punching the heel of his hand into their throats. They writhed around on the floor of the taproom, suffocating as they clawed frantically at their ruptured Adam's apples.

  After that they came at him in twos and threes, swords hacking away uselessly, unable to get close enough to Sláine to do any real damage. He lifted up a table and charged down four skull-swords, crushing them against the wall. He rammed the table's edge against the heads over and over again. His body burned. The fire of his flesh was enough to sear and scorch them as he fought them back.

  He was struck from behind, hard, at the base of the skull. He didn't see it coming. His legs buckled and he fell.

  "He still burns, lord," the skull-sword said, obviously afraid to touch Sláine.

  Ukko didn't move. He didn't dare. There was no way he was coming out from under the table now that Sláine was unconscious. He fully intended to stay where he was until the skull-swords and the Drune Lord had lost interest and wandered off to torment some other poor souls.

  "Bring vats of water, icy cold. We must cool his fire before he wakes or he will throw himself on your swords in hunger to kill you," the Drune Lord spat. The fumes rising off his pustulant flesh were noxious.

  "Why don't I just cut his throat and be done with it, master?"

  "Because," the sorcerer said patiently, "his death would be a waste. There are times when it is better to cage a wolf than kill it."

  Ukko winced as the skull-sword drove a boot into Sláine's side.

  Sláine groaned and drew his arms underneath himself. He turned to look sideways, under the table at Ukko. "I'm still alive," he said. "There must be a reason."

  "There is always a reason," the sorcerer said.

  Sláine turned to look up at the slough-skinned mage wrapped in stinking pelts.

  "What do you want from me?"

  "All that you are good for, warrior: your strength, your tenacity and your fire. I require the services of a bodyguard." He looked around at the devastation Sláine had caused without so much as a weapon. "You bested a good few of my men with your bare hands. I would rather have a man like you fighting at my side, not against me. Oh, dwarf, do get out from under the table, you aren't fooling anyone by hiding under there."

  Ukko crawled out grudgingly. He stuck his head out and looked around. There were fifteen skull-swords still standing, as many lying broken on the floor of the taproom. He did not think it too many. In all honesty he would have liked the other fifteen to be down there with them instead of pointing their swords at him. He went to Sláine's side as the big man drew himself to his feet. Ukko ducked in close, letting Sláine lean on him.

  "And if I say no? Which, let's face it, I will. I couldn't stand the stench for a start."

  "Oh, you'll soon grow accustomed to my mystic aura."

  "Mystic aura? My sick aura more like," Ukko muttered, making a show of covering his mouth and nose with his hand.

  "Hold your tongue, dwarf."

  "I am, and my nose, and it still stinks in here," Ukko said. "P-eeew-eee!"

  "You'll be paid well for your services," the Drune told Sláine, ignoring Ukko's hectoring.

  "No," Sláine said, "it's not happening."

  "Let me put it another way: these people will be given food enough to last them through the winter."

  "And if I refuse again?"

  "This miserable hellhole will be burned to the ground, every man, woman and child will be sacrificed as an offering to benevolent Crom and you, Sláine Mac Roth, and your cowardly dwarf friend, will suffer the death of the blood eagle. I might even consider dragging your miserable souls back from the half-dead to kill you all over again."

  "An offer you can't refuse," Ukko said, shivering at the thought of his ribs parting company with his backbone.

  "What do you expect me to do?" Sláine asked. Ukko could read the warrior like a book. He was painfully aware of exactly how hungry the people of Gavra were, and of Madaug's corpse lying amid those of the skull-swords. Sl�
�ine looked at the body of the boy, Caw. "I won't kill innocent people for you. I am not a murderer."

  The citizens of Gavra huddled up fearfully against the walls, bunched together. Ukko saw the slack skin and sunken features of the hungry and the desperate, and thought again of what Sláine had told him: "You shouldn't save the lives of people fated to die, that's cheating the gods." But when it came down to it Crom-Cruach was one god worth cheating.

  "I say we do it, Sláine, if it helps these people," he said, "and hey, maybe it'll tick the wyrm off, you know, stealing souls fated to die and all that. So it is kind of a good cause, right?"

  Sláine studied the sorcerer. "How do I know you can be trusted? How do I know you won't just butcher three-quarters of the people and then tell the rest they're lucky because they have plenty to see them through the worst of the winter?"

  The Drune chuckled mirthlessly. "I see you are familiar with the benevolence of Slough Feg. You have my word, they will all be fed."

  "Aye, to the crows," Ukko interrupted, jumping up to sit on the table.

  "They will be cared for."

  "Taken care of, you mean," Ukko said, kicking his feet in the air.

  "Do you want me to flense your hide from your flesh, dwarf? It can be done, believe me," The sorcerer snapped.

  "Just negotiating the terms, don't want any loopholes in the contract, that's all, your smelliness. No hard feelings."

  "There will be food aplenty for everyone. There will be no sacrifices. You will be giving the people of this village a chance at life. Is that plain enough for you?"

  "All right," Sláine said, "but I won't be your butcher."

  "Understood."

  Sláine didn't trust the Drune, Slough Throt, but the sorcerer did keep his word. Food was delivered by skull-swords, enough to fill the empty grain silo, keeping the mill wheels turning. The morning air smelled of freshly baked bread. Sláine had forgotten how good such a simple smell could be.