The Defiler

by Steven Savile

  "But there is a chance?"

  Myrrdin shook his head slowly. "There is not, I am afraid."

  "Pity," the soldier said, seeming to shrink as he gave voice to that single word, his powerful frame diminished. He looked past the druid, first at Ukko, then at Sláine's bedraggled corpse sprawled across the grey pebbles. "It feels as though we have been looking for a way out of this hell for eternity, so many rivers and seas have we crossed, always looking and yet never finding a way home." He held a hand to his face, feeling the smoothness of his cheek, cradling his jaw. "My body insists it was only yesterday we were driven from the field, the raving Finians on our heels."

  "Is that how you entered this place?"

  "We fled, that is our shame. The primitive barbarians came at us, and we broke. The Legions of Pax Romana do not flee, they conquer. The night before the battle an old woman walked amongst us, one of you, a Briton, telling stories and healing wounds with poultices and tisanes. When she foretold it as my last night walking the earth I thought she meant I was to die. I never imagined a hell like this awaited. She predicted similar fates for all the men she tended, her words like a canker in our spirits. We entered the field sure we were fated to lose, to shame the Emperor. Carrion birds circled overhead, mocking us with their impatience. Until that day I had never been a coward but that day changed me. It stole my heart. The battle went badly from the outset. Their leader Oswalk, was a canny tactician, luring us in to a double feint that played on our vanity. We were Pax Romana, the finest fighting force known to man, empire builders. Immortals. Until the night before, when the Crone showed us death. All I remember of the fighting itself, and that, not clearly at all, was the sheer mass of blue-daubed warriors streaming naked down every hill like demons from the Underworld itself. We panicked. And then we were stumbling through a bank of fog, the rage of battle still in our blood, the fear, the sweat, the tears, the screams of the dead and dying ringing in our ears along with the maddening chorus of carrion birds, into this place. I have christened it Tartarus; a fitting name, no? We have been banished here for our cowardice, after all. This is our punishment."

  "Who are you, friend? Perhaps I know your name," the druid asked, but he already did. These men had been missing a century before he himself stumbled into a similar trap. The Morrigan's stench was all over their supposed "fate".

  "I am Gwalchmai, and these men of the Eighth Legion of the Bull followed me into this place and share my shame."

  "I am Myrrdin. Well met, Gwalchmai of the Eighth." They clasped wrists. The soldier's grip was iron. "I would that we had time to share tales of the old woman's treachery, for believe me there are many, but time is against us, even in this place where the sun does not rise. Moreso here, even, for the moon holds eternal sway. The Crone's meddling hand is in our arrival also. Indeed, I believe you were brought here four hundred years ago precisely for this moment... There is a way for you to regain your heart."

  "Speak then," Gwalchmai said. "If there is a way I would hear it."

  "My friend is on a hero quest to restore an ancient artefact of his people, and in doing so save the land itself from a creeping death. It is a quest worthy of only the greatest heroes - and you, Gwalchmai, are no coward, your fate is to become a part of that quest."

  "Enough flattery old man, what would you have the Eighth do?"

  "Our people believe in the tripartite Goddess, Mother, Maiden and Crone. You have met the Crone already upon that battlefield. He is the Maiden's champion. A creature of ultimate evil stalks the cliff tops even now looking for a way down to this beach. She is the Night Bringer, daughter of the moon. Her essence is the spirit of the old woman who lured you here, soldier."

  "A woman is no match for the might of the Eighth," Gwalchmai said, his voice flat, obviously remembering how one old woman had undone the might of three and a half thousand men.

  "She is not alone, she leads the wild hunt." Myrrdin scanned the cliffs but saw no sign of the Night Bringer or the spectral hunt at her command. "Do you know the legends of the hunt?"

  "I have heard stories of the ghost hunt, if it is the same thing. To look upon it is to invite death into your life; it rides for eternity drawing souls to it, though I thought it was led by some pale-faced queen; Bouddica, perhaps, having been humbled by the might of Pax Romana. It is the same thing, no?"

  Myrrdin nodded. "It is."

  "So it is not just some silly story then, interesting."

  "There are grains of truth in even the most fabulous of stories, Gwalchmai, it is how they survive."

  "True. So, your friend is being chased by the ghost hunt? Is he already a Ghost Walker? A thing of the spirits?"

  "He gave his life to join the hunt so that he might reclaim a part of the artefact the Crone had given the Night Bringer. We must take his body to a place where the moon has no dominion so that it can be reunited with his spirit."

  "And he is a part of this hunt? You would have the Eighth battle the ghosts for his soul?" Gwalchmai said. "Will this earn our freedom?"

  "I believe so," the druid said, hating himself for planting the seeds of false hope in the soldier's heart. There was no way home for them, even if they returned to Albion, it was not the home they had known. Their civilisation had collapsed. They were relics of a bygone civilisation. They were, in truth, little more than ghosts themselves. They would face the hunt and in those final moments would regain the honour the Morrigan had stolen from them, helping Sláine fight the host of the damned. Victory or failure, the outcome promised to be the same, with the Eighth Legion being consumed by the wild hunt. They would return to Albion with the Night Bringer, one of the dead and the damned running in her wake.

  "I have your word?" Gwalchmai held out his hand.

  Myrrdin grasped it once more. "You have my word. You will be free of this place, and your sacrifice will not be forgotten." Myrrdin's word in this case was nothing more than a flake off the great unbending brute that was the truth.

  "They will sing our names in the ballads of this great hero of yours?"

  "They will, Gwalchmai, they will indeed."

  "That is enough for me, friend Myrrdin. To be remembered not as a coward but as a man, that is worth a thousand deaths. Peace be with you."

  "And you, Gwalchmai."

  "Gather your friend and head down to the water's edge. There is a jetty a half-mile back." Gwalchmai inclined his head. "There is a single flat bottomed coracle moored there. Take it, perhaps this hunt cannot cross deep water."

  "That is a good thought, soldier, you have my thanks again, it seems."

  Gwalchmai's smile was honest, open, "No, it is you who have my thanks, Myrrdin. Through you the Eighth has renewed purpose. We will not fail you, that I promise. Tell me, what is the name of this champion? It would be good to know what legends our band of sword brothers will grace."

  "His name is Sláine Mac Roth and he is a son of the Sessair," said the druid.

  "Ah, ruthless fighters, the Celts. We fought one who when he raged grew in might and size until he was giant-like. An awesome warrior. It was a pity to humble him but that is what death does, is it not, it humbles all of us." And then: "I hear the hounds, you'd best make haste."

  Gwalchmai returned to his men. He drew his short sword as he met the gaze of every warrior lined up before him. "Tonight we dine in the halls of our fathers!" Gwalchmai roared, thrusting the blade into the heart of the grey sky.

  They answered him as one.

  The ground under Myrrdin's feet trembled beneath the voice of the Eighth Legion of the Bull. Their challenge would reach the ears of the Night Bringer, of that the druid had no doubt.

  Sláine had fallen through the mists, cracking his head off a jagged uprising of rock on the skirt of the octagonal causeway, and rolled over to the side of the road into a deep drainage ditch. A huge oak grew between the stone and the earthen ditch, its roots forming a cradle over the side of the causeway. Sláine had rolled into it, eyes closed, breathing hard, all the while expecti
ng the Night Bringer's blade to claim his head - but it didn't.

  He lay in the grey cleft in the grey dirt beneath the grey roots and the grey sky, the ghost of his heart thundering wildly in his chest.

  And then he heard her coming out of the mist and didn't dare make a sound.

  He huddled deep in the charcoal shadows beneath the roots of the evening tree, listening to the Night-Mare's hooves sparking off the hard stones and to the slow mellifluous inhalations of the Huntress as she sniffed him out on the still air.

  She had moved on, down the road, the beasts of her hunt following in her wake.

  Still Sláine did not move. Not until he saw her riding along the cliff edge, back and forth, frustrated that the causeway had simply ceased, falling away to the utterly flat sea. He did not allow himself to dwell on the weirdness of the place. He could feel his body growing more and more distant, the ties that bound his spirit to it all but unravelled. He cradled the fragment of the Cauldron of Rebirth to his chest. There was a peculiar heat to it now that he hadn't felt on the other side of the mist, as though the metal itself knew that it did not belong in this place and radiated its difference.

  He crawled deeper into the cradle of the twisted roots, watching the Night Bringer.

  She turned her head and Sláine felt her black eyes sear into him but she did not come galloping back up the causeway, nor did she denounce him to the hounds of her vile hunt. The Night-Mare shied as she brought the huge beast around, its hooves striking the angles of the octagonal stones harshly, and a moment later was galloping along the line of the cliff in search of another way down to the beach below.

  She had no interest in his spirit; the realisation sank to the pit of his stomach like a smooth-sided stone. She intended to destroy his flesh. Instead of feeling comforting, the cradling roots felt suddenly constricting.

  For the sake of his soul he had to beat her down to the beach.

  The druid and the dwarf manhandled Sláine's corpse onto the flat bottom of the small wooden boat.

  Myrrdin held the boat steady for Ukko to scramble into, then pushed it out to sea and splashed into the dead calm, following it. He launched himself into the boat, almost capsizing it as he kicked frantically, trying to haul himself over the side. Ukko grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him into the small boat.

  The coracle lay low in the water, concentric rings rippling away from the oars as they dipped them into the grey sea.

  Rowing was back-breaking work. It was as though the water itself didn't want them to cross and was battling them every inch of the way.

  The druid began mumbling just beneath his breath and the skin on the water shifted, the reflection of the moon disappearing. The ripples froze in place, never diminishing, as the coracle cut through them, gliding ethereally across the impossibly placid surface.

  He heard Gwalchmai's cry from the shore, and craned his neck to see the soldier thrusting his short blade into the throat of a huge hound, even as the front ranks of the Eighth clashed with the ghosts of the hunt.

  "Row," Myrrdin rasped, forcing the oar back through the grey water. Beside him, Ukko matched him stroke for stroke.

  Steel clashed with bone, fangs sank into flesh, spears cut through fur and ruptured organs, but none of it slowed the beasts of the hunt. They surged on relentlessly, hurling themselves at the soldiers of the Eighth, tearing through their shield walls and their slashing blades.

  And the Night Bringer rode through the heart of their defence, her wickedly curved sword paring flesh from bone and head from shoulders remorselessly. Gouts of blood fountained around her as men fell, clutching bloody stumps of flesh where they could, heads rolling where they couldn't. And then they rose, drawn into the hunt, swords still in hand, bodies mutilated in spirit exactly as they had been in life, and turned on their fellow men, cutting them down mercilessly.

  Myrrdin looked on in horror as Gwalchmai threw himself in front of the Night-Mare, barely deflecting the first careless cut she aimed for his head.

  "For the honour of the Eighth!" his cry echoed all around the beach. It was matched by a roar from the hillside as Sláine's spectre launched itself from the giant's stair into the thick of the fighting. It was too late for Gwalchmai; in damnation he found the freedom Myrrdin had promised them. The Huntress's blade cleaved into his plumed helmet, driving deep into his skull. His body spasmed viciously, the short sword tumbling from his fingers, only for his blazing spirit to grasp it as it hit the grey stones, and rise, bellowing his battle cry once more: "For the honour of the Eighth!"

  Only now it was the spirits of the dead that rallied to him, joining with the living to cull the monstrous creatures of the wild hunt. Shoggy beasts roared their pain as the ghostly blades pierced where mortal blades could not, opening wounds their spirits could never heal. As more and more of the Eighth fell to swell the ranks of the dead, the more invincible they became. They rediscovered their hearts, won back their courage. They died men.

  The battle turned to slaughter, Sláine at its heart, fighting side by side with the ghost of Gwalchmai. The pair were mirrors of each other; Sláine wild, brutal, strong and deadly whereas Gwalchmai was driven by a controlled fury. He was every bit as lethal as the barbarian, though, delivering true death to the beasts of the hunt with precision. Axe and blade joined to release the animals from the Huntress's thrall, as willingly, the men of the Eighth rose to take their place in the eternal hunt.

  Furious, the Huntress broke their ranks, driving the Night-Mare all the way down to the shoreline. The steed snorted licks of flame that matched its mistress's foul temper.

  Myrrdin stared at the serene, frozen perfection of her face as she in turn stared at him.

  For a moment he thought they were free, and then she kicked the Night-Mare's flanks and urged the beast into the water.

  EIGHT

  The coracle cut through the water, but it was back-breaking work. For every stroke it moved an inch or two across the placid surface. Panic forced their strokes, making them erratic and unbalanced. The Night Bringer's hideous mount kicked up the spume, splashing deeper into the water.

  "We'll never make it," Ukko grunted, struggling with his oar.

  Myrrdin looked at him, then at the moon, then back at the ethereal Huntress. "We don't have to," he said, shipping his oar.

  "What are you doing? Come on, row!"

  "We don't have to," Myrrdin said again. The boat moved on even though he had ceased rowing. Ukko stared down at his own oar, lifting it out of the water. The boat glided on.

  "Oh, well that's just bloody marvellous," the dwarf muttered.

  Myrrdin gripped the side and struggled to stand, his balance shifting with the bottom of the small boat. He reached down for Sláine's corpse, trying to lift it. It was a dead weight.

  "What in the name of Crom's hairy left nut are you doing?"

  "We have to get out of here, where the moon holds no dominion."

  "And where in the seven els is that?"

  The druid pointed a withered finger at the water itself. "Down there," he said and Myrrdin pitched himself over the side, taking Sláine's body with him. The sudden shift in weight unbalanced the coracle, pitching it sideways. Ukko clutched at the sides, staring at the ever-decreasing ripples that swallowed the druid and his friend.

  "Why is everyone around me abso-friggin-lutely mad?" Ukko despaired, looking up from the water to see the Night Bringer less than thirty paces away, her beast somehow treading the surface of the still water. The moon shone down on her spectral features, seeping deep beneath her silvered skin to lend her a pearly opalescence. She saw him, her grin curving like a blade across the angles of her face. She spurred the Night-Mare on, the hunger in her dark eyes placing a chill in his heart. "Water, hard place," Ukko said, and closing his eyes, threw himself over the side.

  The moment he hit the water he remembered he could not swim. He screamed out in panic and thrashed desperately at the surface, trying to propel himself back to the boat, and then h
e was sinking and the world above the water disappeared.

  The water closed around him like an icy gauntlet, surging into his open mouth as he gasped for breath, forcing the scream back down his throat, robbing his senses. The was no light, no smell, though other senses were enhanced inordinately; he felt his heart hammering against the inside of his chest, his blood drumming in his ears, and tasted the salt-tang of the water as it rushed in to drown his lungs. He fought the water desperately as the undertow wrapped itself around his legs and dragged him down. He kicked and splashed, lashing out desperately but the more he thrashed the more insistent its grip grew, relentlessly pulling him deeper and deeper under the surface.

  The crushing sensation of the dark waters clenching around his body intensified the deeper the undertow dragged him below the surface. He kicked and thrashed about, swallowing more and more water as he tried to break free of its pull. The darkness was absolute. He kicked out in sheer terror as he felt something grasp his ankle. It took him a moment to realise what it was, and in that moment it was every nightmare from the deep his imagination could conjure, before his mind could interpret it as it truly was: a hand. And then the images swarming through his drowning mind were worse, frenzied, panicked, of monsters from the deep reaching up to drag him down and feast on his scrawny carcass.

  Ukko felt dizziness surging through his head, the drumming of his blood deafening, the hammering of his heart like thunder tearing through the bones of his chest.

  There was no time beneath the surface; he could have been under for seconds or hours. There was no way of knowing.

  The darkness burned.

  There was no hope of return. He would not die in the air, with the sun or the moon on his face. His last taste would be salt, his last sight a lie, his mind playing tricks.

  And then there was silence, cold and implacable, and he knew he was drowning; that was what the hand in the deep was, his mind's way of rationalising the pull of death, dragging him down and down relentlessly. It was a curiously comforting notion, his mind protecting him from the numbing fear of oblivion - for a heartbeat at least.