The Age of Scorpio

by Gavin Smith

The figure was still there watching them from the fire. ‘I know you,’ it said. Somehow Britha could feel the words in her blood. She did not want to look at the figure. There was something wrong with it. It hurt her head to look. His shape, though the shape of a man, did not make sense at some fundamental level.

  ‘Get up!’ she snapped at the blood-splattered and terrified boy the Corpse People had been about to sacrifice.

  ‘You are close to being one of us,’ the figure continued. Impossibly deep, its voice seemed to reverberate inside her. She tried not to stumble. She reached for the boy, who was shaking uncontrollably, and after several attempts she managed to pull him to his feet.

  ‘You have to go to your people,’ she told him. It was useless. The boy did not understand her words.

  ‘He has no people,’ the voice said. There was no maliciousness there: it was a simple statement of fact. It earned the figure a glare from Britha despite the nausea-inducing pain that lanced through her head as she did so.

  ‘Is your power to mock us through the flames?’ she demanded.

  ‘I have no power. None of us do. Our mistake is to believe that we are something when we are less than nothing.’

  ‘Crawl on your stomach if you will, but do not try to drag us down there with you,’ Britha shouted.

  ‘I apologise. I have misled you. I am not talking of my beliefs. This is knowledge, simply a case of understanding my place in things and yours.’

  Teardrop was striding towards the fire, the hood of his cloak pulled up.

  ‘Release my people and you can do what you will. We will trouble you no more.’ Britha sensed and tried to ignore Fachtna glaring at her.

  ‘I don’t know or care who your people are. I want to know you better. Bress wants to know you better. Death wants to know you better. I can promise you the fulfilment of every desire you have and those you do not know before the end comes.’

  Britha tried to suppress the images of Bress that came to her mind, how they made her feel. The Dark Man was there as well, watching, his presence not unwanted.

  ‘I desire my people released.’

  Teardrop stared into the fire. Fachtna joined him, sword in hand. The warrior had put his cloak back on and pulled the hood up.

  ‘Can you see it?’ Fachtna asked.

  ‘I see it,’ Teardrop said quietly. Fachtna swung his blade into the fire. There was an explosion of sparks. The figure warped and then was gone. Glowing embers filled the night air. Britha turned to look at the pair.

  ‘What were you looking for?’ she demanded.

  ‘A crystal blackened by the fire,’ Teardrop muttered. ‘And you know better than to talk to them.’

  ‘Not if she’s swiving them,’ Fachtna muttered.

  Britha bit back an angry retort. ‘If you saw it,’ she said to Teardrop instead and then pointed at Fachtna, ‘how did he know where to strike?’

  Neither of them answered. There was the wet sound of iron hitting flesh and the sound of bones breaking. All of them turned to look at Tangwen as she struck again and again at a corpse. Finally satisfied, she moved on to the next one and repeated the process. Feeling their eyes on her, she looked up. One whole side of her head was covered in blood.

  ‘We break their bones so when they rise again all they can do is crawl,’ she told them and then sat down hard, holding the side of her head. Teardrop moved quickly to her and knelt down to examine the wound. As far as Britha could make out, the serpent had given some of its people the blood magic, but it was not as strong as hers and certainly not as strong as Teardrop and Fachtna’s.

  Fachtna looked out over the trees. They were heading down into a plain where there was little in the way of woods. It looked like many of the trees had been cleared long ago to make way for farmland. Britha had glimpsed the once-fertile plain earlier in the day when they had been in the trees trying to find a way past the patrols of Corpse People. She had never seen anything like the scale of the farming here. It must be able to feed thousands, she had thought.

  Far to the south there was a line of hills. She could make them out only because her night sight was suddenly so good. That, and the crown of one of the hills seemed to be on fire, while flames from campfires and torches spotted one of the other nearby hills.

  ‘Wolves,’ Fachtna said, looking out over the plain. ‘They are the size of lions, white in colour with red feet and maws.’ The warrior did not sound happy. He glanced at the frightened boy.

  Teardrop’s head whipped round. He had been making a poultice and dressing for the side of Tangwen’s head. Britha was watching him closely enough to notice that he’d added a silver tear squeezed form the corner of his eye to the dressing. She would have his secrets yet, she thought.

  ‘From the Otherworld?’ Britha asked, meaning the wolves, still watching Teardrop. White-furred animals with red eyes and maws were known to come from there.

  ‘At least changed by Otherworldly powers,’ Teardrop muttered. Something in his tone made Britha bristle. It was as if he was trying to appease her somehow.

  ‘We cannot leave the boy,’ Fachtna said. Teardrop was nodding. Tangwen looked up at Teardrop, an incredulous expression on her face.

  ‘If he will not go to his people or others that will help him, then he will die,’ Britha said, giving word to Tangwen’s thought. Not for the first time she wondered how comfortable things must be in Fachtna and Teardrop’s Otherworldly home that they could afford to think such things.

  ‘We may as well kill him ourselves then,’ Fachtna snapped. Their reliance on magic made them soft, Britha decided as she moved over to the swordsman Teardrop had killed. She saw that the sword had embedded itself in the man’s forearm, fusing with the flesh somehow. She glanced over at the swollen-headed sorcerer.

  ‘It would be a kindness,’ Britha said.

  ‘He comes with us,’ Fachtna said firmly. He looked to Teardrop for support. Britha could see that Teardrop desperately wanted to agree with him but understood the practicalities of their situation. The boy’s courage was spent. He would be insensate for the foreseeable future. ‘The boy is under my protection,’ Fachtna announced.

  Britha decided to make the decision easier for the rest of them. She stalked over to the boy. Fachtna, realising what she was about to do, ran towards her. Britha grabbed the unseeing drooling boy and opened his throat with her sickle.

  ‘No!’ A heartbeat later Fachtna had yanked her away from the boy. Letting go of her, he grabbed the child, trying to will life back into his body.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?!’ Britha screamed at him, furious. ‘Laying your hands on a dryw!’

  Fachtna was back on his feet, the shimmering, singing ghost sword sliding from its scabbard. His features seethed in fury.

  ‘No!’ Teardrop shouted, putting as much authority into his voice as he could. He knew his friend well and was certain he would kill Britha. Fachtna hesitated, staring at Britha with unbridled hatred. She met his gaze defiantly. Teardrop could see her own anger at the breaking of the ban on touching a dryw, but it was as nothing compared to the rage that was close to pouring out of Fachtna.

  ‘Fachtna, please.’ Teardrop poured the magic of reason and old friendship into his words.

  ‘If we baulk at the first hard decision then we will not succeed,’ Britha told the seething warrior. Teardrop cursed her, wishing she would keep her tongue still behind her teeth.

  ‘If we become our enemy then we are already lost,’ Teardrop countered calmly. Britha turned to look at him.

  ‘The boy was weak.’

  ‘So were you when we first found you,’ Teardrop said.

  ‘I would have survived.’

  ‘Not if we’d cut your throat,’ Fachtna spat and turned away into the darkness.

  Britha watched him go, trying to mask her contempt. She looked back down at the dead boy. Then what she had done hit her, and she almost retched. Teardrop watched the stricken expression crawl across Britha’s face.

  ‘It’s gett
ing worse the closer you get, isn’t it?’ he asked as he returned to dressing Tangwen’s head wound. The hunter from the People of the Snake had chosen to remain quiet. She was not sure that she would have done what the ban draoi had done but she had recognised the need for it. If Britha hadn’t killed the boy then he would have been torn apart by wolves or tortured to death by the next band of Corpse People that came through here.

  ‘I’m not—’ Britha started and then looked from the dead boy back to Teardrop. All the colour had drained from her skin now. ‘For my people . . .’ she started. They were all that mattered, she thought, but traces of doubt were creeping in.

  ‘Freeing your people will mean nothing if this madness remains unopposed,’ Teardrop told her as he tried to control the harshness in his voice.

  It wasn’t just the responsibility to her people that was making her doubt. A kingdom of desire was not an unattractive idea.

  Britha had lapsed into a feverish sleep lying in a wet ditch listening to Fachtna and Tangwen having sex. Fachtna was making most of the noise.

  It was like the time that Cliodna had taken her far out into the sea and then pulled her down with her as she had dived deep. After Britha had conquered her fear, once she had understood how much time she had under the water on one deep breath, she had found that she liked it. She had liked looking up at the sun through the water. Except that this was cold and dark and she felt the weight of the water pressing on her. She heard the songs of the mighty fish that Cliodna had claimed were not fish, but their singing was wrong, twisted, as if both pained and malignant somehow. Yet these songs were familiar from long ago. From before she was born, before any of them had been born. It was welcoming in a disconcerting, bordering-on-obscene way, like returning to a once-familiar place after a hideous crime had been committed there. And she burned, Britha burned from within. She felt like she contained the pregnant fire of a forge within her, but the pain and the heat were not unwelcome.

  She could go deeper. There was something beneath her through the cold murk of the water, something huge and old.

  Britha’s eyes flickered open. She was immediately aware. She was uncomfortable and cold but not to the degree she should be. The normal aches and pains she would expect from spending the night in a cold wet ditch just weren’t present. She knew the wind had changed; she could smell wood smoke on it. She could hear the sound of distant hoof beats. She could smell the metal, leather, wood and sweat of her companions. She had not liked the dream, least of all her response to it.

  She could smell the cake made from flour and ground tansy leaves that Tangwen was eating. Britha sat up to look at the other woman. The lean hunter was younger than Britha had first thought, her hair cropped very short. Tangwen realised she was being watched and looked over at Britha.

  ‘I do not wish to bear his children,’ she said, gesturing with the tansy cake. She turned away from the ban draoi. ‘They would be stupid.’ Britha tried to suppress a smile. All warriors wanted children, well, sons anyway, so part of them would carry on and probably grow up to repeat their father’s short brutish life.

  Fachtna was kneeling in the ditch some distance away looking to the south. It was late afternoon, Britha guessed. She had slept a long time and woken ravenous. They had decided that night was the best time to travel, though the Corpse People seemed to fight and patrol as much at night as they did during the day.

  ‘They have seen more of the white-furred animals from the Otherworld. Teardrop has a potion that helps disguise our scent,’ Tangwen told her quietly. ‘It seems there is little natural left here.’ And it was true. The Corpse People seemed more interested in burning, killing and destroying for the sake of destruction than looting or taking slaves. Crop-rich fields had been burned and even salted in some cases.

  Teardrop came crawling along the ditch. Britha risked a peep over the top. The line of hills seemed closer now. Three of the hills were topped with wood-walled forts surrounded by defensive ditches: the Crown of Andraste. Two were besieged; the third had fallen last night. The gentle breeze brought the screams of the defenders of the fallen hill fort, their torturous executions a portent for the other two garrisons.

  Teardrop sat down next to her, keeping his head well below the lip of the ditch.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Britha asked

  ‘If we are to fight Bress, we will need help.’

  ‘Those forts are about to fall; these people cannot help us.’

  ‘They were strong enough to last this long.’ But Teardrop didn’t sound like he believed it himself. ‘We will see if we can make it to the forts during the night.’

  ‘And then we will be trapped in there like the defenders until these people break the gates or come over the wall and kill us all.’

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’ Suddenly an angry Fachtna was right next to her. ‘Can you summon an army of dead heroes to fight with us?’ He was right: she had nothing. ‘It’s very easy to come up with reasons not to act.’

  It had started to rain heavily, making the dark night darker and colder. The torches and the campfires were dimmed but did not go out. Fire arrows still left arcs of light in the night sky as they flew into the hill forts. The thatched roof of more than one roundhouse was ablaze behind the forts’ walls. They could hear the cries of the defenders, screams of anger or pain. The attacking Corpse People were strangely quiet, however.

  They kept their heads down and approached where they saw the fewest attackers. They were the least of the Corpse People’s problems. After all, who would be stupid enough to join the besieged during a siege? The problem was that the Atrebates inside the walls had no reason to trust them and every reason to think that anyone wanting to gain entrance was part of a ruse.

  This was how they found themselves running along the second-innermost defensive ditch. Those Corpse People they had encountered had ignored them, though more than one had glanced in their direction, wondering who the warriors and the dryw not covered in lime were, but then they knew that Crom Dhubh had other allies in the south.

  Teardrop skidded to a halt and sank into a crouch. Fachtna stopped and backed towards him, keeping an eye out all around. Tangwen did likewise, an arrow nocked, though she did not like using her bow in the rain.

  ‘This is pointless,’ Teardrop said. ‘They will not let us in during this.’ Fachtna said nothing. Despite what he had said earlier, he had to agree with Teardrop. Had he been a defender he would not have let them in. ‘We have to retreat, hide and then come back when there is a lull and treat with those inside.’

  ‘Ware!’ was all Tangwen had time to say. The Corpse warrior did not even cry out as Tangwen’s arrow took him in the chest, the arrowhead easily penetrating his boiled leather breastplate and silencing his heart. The enemy warrior slumped to the ground and slid to the bottom of the ditch in the mud.

  Realising that Britha and her companions were not allies, more warriors were running down the muddy slope towards them. Tangwen was nocking, drawing and loosing arrows as quickly as she could. Fachtna raised his shield high and swung his sword low. He took a blow on the shield but the shimmering sword blade sliced through the skin, flesh, muscle and bone of his attackers’ legs. More of the Corpse People charged him. Almost every blow of his sword killed or incapacitated one of them.

  Orange flame blossomed to the east where they knew the main gate was. There were shouts of victory and cries from the wounded. The air was rent with the sound of bellowing. Britha recognised the sound. It was the roaring of an angry and pained bear, a large one by the sound of it.

  ‘The Crown falls!’ Teardrop cried.

  Britha grabbed him. ‘Come on!’ Pulling him with her, she started running towards the gate.

  They killed any who got too close as they ran, but now all the Corpse People knew they were not friends. Britha had taken an arrow in her arm, but after snapping off the haft she found she was able to ignore the pain. Fachtna was running and killing with a spearhead in his leg and an arr
ow sticking out of his shoulder. More and more Corpse People, eerily quiet, were turning to attack them, charging down into the ditch. As they ran around a bend they could see the flames from the burning gate. It seemed the fort was about to fall. The defenders and attackers were frenetic violent shadows against the orange glow.

  The four skidded to a halt as one of the largest shadows rose up onto its hind legs and roared in pain and fury. Fachtna spat and made the sign against evil. The others just stood and stared. It was the largest bear that Britha had ever seen, fully twenty-five feet tall. Its Otherworldly heritage was obvious in the white of its fur and the red of its eyes, which seemed to glow in the firelight. The red on its paws and maw were more likely from the blood of its victims than signs of Otherworld origins. Parts of its flesh were covered in a crusty, almost spiked, stone-like material, but the most terrifying thing about it were the six animated tendrils that grew out of its back. As they watched, the tendrils dragged screaming defenders from the wall and crushed them, or brought them to the bear’s paws for the creature to tear apart, or offered them to the bear’s maw for its huge teeth to shred. Britha was both frightened and offended by this violation of nature.

  Arrows, sling stones and casting spears filled the air, studding the creature’s white fur, but it ignored them as it lumbered on its rear legs towards the gate. Britha was running, a cold anger controlling her movements. She sprinted up to the top of the bank closest to the wooden wall. The track that led to the gate zigzagged between the defensive banks along the ditches that divided them to make it more difficult for attacking forces. The bear was on that track. But on its hind legs it towered about ten feet above the bank that Britha was sprinting along. She was oblivious to the arrows and casting spears from both defenders and attackers flying past her. She was unaware of Fachtna running after her, killing anyone who got close. She was unaware of Tangwen putting arrows into those that Fachtna could not deal with. She was focused on running and whispering to the demon that lived in her spear, feeling its heat through the haft.

  Britha leaped with a power she had never known she had. She curled her legs up underneath her as she sailed though the night air and the pouring rain, almost untouched by the hail of spears and arrows. She didn’t even feel the defender’s arrow as it pierced her leg. The bear turned ponderously, some instinct warning it. She screamed as she stabbed the spear two-handed through the creature’s skull. The weapon bit, cracked armoured skull and was forced by nearly inhuman strength into the creature’s brain, where unseen branches of metal shot out from the spearhead. Britha stood for a moment on the creature’s shoulder, then twisted the spear and tore it out in an explosion of gore that spattered her frenzied features. The head of the spear was still waving tendrils of metal, the spearhead slowly reforming to a point. Britha turned and leaped off the bear as it started to topple.