Teardrop narrowed his eyes, studying the Gael for a moment. ‘We need what she has. These bridges, these trods use too much power. Each use shortens the life of the Forge. If we want to leave, to be able to travel, to see what is beyond this shell—’
‘To take the war to the Naga?’ Fachtna asked.
This time Teardrop looked irritated. ‘To defend ourselves – or are you going to tell me you would not do that?’
‘I’m no coward.’
‘You fall in love with every mortal you meet, you always have—’
‘Three women! Three!’
‘You like them because their lives are fleeting, and to you that makes them more vibrant, more alive. Much more so than our staid existence, but we are fighting a war—’
‘Very slowly.’
‘And she is only one person. We are not going to harm her, but we must harvest the gifts she was given by the—’
‘Muileartach.’
‘The Seeder.’
‘She is carrying our child, and what we are is built on a lie.’
Teardrop put his arm around Fachtna’s shoulders. ‘You are a romantic. Marry this woman. Have children. Stepping in baby shit will soon drive thoughts of romance from you,’ the Croatan told him. Fachtna stopped dead. Teardrop sighed. ‘You really like this one?’ Fachtna said nothing. ‘Then learn to live with the lie. Anything else will lead to misery.’
Fachtna turned and walked away. Teardrop watched him go. It was all a lie. They changed so much, in their bodies, in their heads. Who knew what was real, and what was put there by the drui, by the medicine societies?
Teardrop glanced up at the Forge. He could see the pipes trailing down from the sun in the distance, carrying the raw materials they needed to survive, to create, to build, all harvested from the sun. He muttered something that was half a prayer, half a working, to the gods who made this place, whose magic had brought them here. Then he followed Fachtna to the edge of the enormous crater.
The Gael was looking down at the hemispherical scar in the earth. The rock looked raw, and ill-used where it had been removed. Fachtna knew that none of the quarried rock would go to waste, but it still looked ugly to him, a wound.
He concentrated and the distant lowest point of the crater came into focus. He could see the simple circle of standing stones and just about make out the pictograms on the rock. Painted members of one of the Croatan’s medicine societies danced among them, chanting, instructing the stones to their purpose. In the centre of the stones was a large, egg-shaped dolmen.
‘What did they make it from in the end?’ Fachtna asked.
‘Quartz,’ Teardrop told him. Fachtna nodded. The hard rock would have been made harder still.
‘And this will work?’ Fachtna asked. Teardrop shrugged. ‘A lot of resources wasted if it doesn’t.’ Fachtna glanced up at the Forge again.
‘The auguries were favourable.’
Fachtna rolled his eyes. The medicine people climbed into a large chariot. It lifted off silently and circled lazily around the stones before it started to rise. Teardrop turned away and let out a loud warbling cry. It was answered across the plain as the Croatan warriors warned each other to be ready.
The ground beneath them shook.
The water was freezing, but Britha had finally warmed up after swimming hard. The crystal-blue water in the cliff-lined fjord was little like the grey northern sea of her home. She’d still had to force Cliodna from her mind.
She reached the rocks just outside Fachtna’s village. The dress was where she had left it. It was a warm day, though, so she lay out on the rock, basking in the sun, her hand unconsciously touching her stomach. She was growing more used to the idea of motherhood.
Suddenly it became darker. Britha sat up and looked at the Forge, expecting to see clouds, or even one of Lug’s wings stretching across its surface for some reason, despite the hour. Instead her breath caught in her throat as she watched the Forge flicker.
She felt pain in her hand. Something hot and warm. She looked down and saw blood where her nails had pierced the skin of her palm. She stared at the blood. Let it drip down onto the rock and into the water.
The ground stopped shaking as light shone through the pictographic symbols on the stones in the circle. Suddenly there was a pool of black water among the stones. It was gone so quickly that Fachtna knew he had only seen it because of the Lloigor magics the drui granted the warrior caste. Then a nearly perfect pillar of water shot miles into the sky as if forced through a hole at tremendous pressure.
‘Something’s just occurred to me,’ Teardrop said.
‘We’re standing too close, aren’t we?’ Fachtna said as the column became spray miles above them and started to collapse. Teardrop had already turned and was running for all he was worth. Fachtna followed.
The medicine society had carefully calculated the amount of water that would be displaced and the size of crater needed to contain it. Teardrop and Fachtna, however, had failed to respect the violence of the water’s re-entry into the crater.
They had one last moment to gasp at air before the wave hit them both as it spread out across the plain. The force of the water tore them off their feet and then slammed them to the ground, through trees and against any rocks that had somehow remained anchored to the earth.
Fachtna’s entire body felt like a very tender and painful bruise. He cried out when he felt bones grind as they knitted together. He gasped for breath and ended up with a mouthful of funny-tasting water. Instinctively he tried to thrash around but more pain shot through his body. Finally he worked out that all he had to do was push his head up. He broke the surface of the water and was able to breathe again. He felt the Forge’s heat on his skin.
He was floating on water so clear he could see all the way to the bottom of the crater. Air began to bubble up through the rock walls but Fachtna could still make out the circle of standing stones. The quartz egg had gone.
He felt the disturbance in the air above him. The chariot was hovering just over the water. The rear section split open and a battered-looking Teardrop leaned out, reaching for him.
‘You used to be a drui and you couldn’t work that out beforehand?’ Fachtna managed through the pain.
Britha had used the voice of authority, one of the twelve voices she had learned in the groves. Her position as Fachtna’s pregnant lover may have had no real standing in the Otherworld, but even the warriors had obeyed her and left the hall. She was waiting for him, alone, when he returned, his clothes torn, his hair a mess, but otherwise he looked well. Though the expression on his face told her he was troubled.
‘The Forge?’ she asked.
‘What of it?’ he asked.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Something happened to it today?’ she asked. Fachtna nodded. ‘You have nothing to say to me?’
‘Do you tell me all your secrets?’ he demanded. It was the harshest tone he’d ever used with her.
‘It’s something to do with how you get from the Otherworld back to my world, isn’t it?’ she demanded.
Fachtna opened his mouth to speak and Britha read the falsehood on his lips before he spoke it. She crossed the stone floor to him quickly.
‘Don’t,’ she said, pointing at him. ‘I was … I am a ban draoi. Do I need a robe and a hollowed-out horse’s head before you’ll respect me enough not to lie to me?’
‘Yes. We opened a trod.’
‘To my home?’
‘Not exactly. You could not have gone through – it would have killed you.’
‘Your magics never fail, do they?’
‘Not so badly that it matters.’
‘And they are a gift from your gods?’ she asked. Fachtna nodded. ‘Do your gods still walk among you?’
‘If they do, then they have not revealed themselves to us. There were only plants and animals when
we arrived here.’
‘You’re no different from us, are you?’
Fachtna went and sat down on some furs close to the fire pit and helped himself to a clay mug of heather ale.
‘The magics of the Lloigor change us. We can do many things that you cannot. You’ve seen them.’
‘But it is different from the magic of Cliodna – that is the magic of blood and quim, the magic of life,’ she said. He nodded. ‘Cliodna changed me.’ He nodded again. ‘And there were no magics before that, were there?’ Fachtna said nothing. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, either, but the answer was written all over his face. ‘It all comes from the gods, doesn’t it?’
‘It not that simple – the way of healing, the way of birth, the knowledge of man, woman, animal, the laws, the stories—’
‘You made the sun dim!’ she screamed at him. He looked up at her, alarmed and more than a little frightened, as his instinctual fear and respect for the drui took over. She was shaking with anger.
‘It was a powerful working.’ It was all he could think to say.
‘What am I to you?’ she demanded. ‘A slave? A plaything to be glamoured? A pet? A broodmare?’
Fachtna took a deep breath. He ran his hands through his long, sandy-blond hair, shaking with emotion.
‘I love you,’ he told her.
She could see the plain truth of it, but she could also see he was holding something back as well.
‘Are you sure? I am not what I was,’ she said quietly. ‘Did you do something?’ She was whispering now. It was the voice of fear. Her magics might have been nothing more than words and stories, but this worked. He couldn’t look her in the eyes.
‘I didn’t …’ he started, and then swallowed.
‘So who did? Grainne and Sainrith?’ she asked. Fachtna nodded. ‘Who rules here?’ she demanded.
‘I do!’ Fachtna was on his feet now. Britha was nose to nose with him.
‘Are you sure?’ He looked away, which was all the answer she needed. ‘It doesn’t matter how many blessings your gods give, a weak man is a weak man.’ The words hit home like a stabbed dirk. ‘How is it fair that Talorcan, Cruibne, Feroth, even Nechtan never had any of the power you possess, yet each of them was worth twenty of you, and they are all dead?’ she flung at him.
‘I don’t know what you talk of—’
‘I am talking of you being nothing! An empty vessel for the magics of long-forgotten gods! You say you love me. How would you know? You dance to your dryw’s tune, hollow man.’ She was savaging him now for the sake of it. There was no reason for it other than to cause pain.
‘And you never manipulated anyone for the good of your tribe?’ he shouted back with such fury that she took a step away, but then regained her ground quickly.
‘Manipulated? Perhaps! But not controlled. The women of the Cirig were their own people!’ she spat. ‘And the men at least had cock and balls, three things you’ll be missing if you ever try and touch me again! And the only way you will ever see this child is if you draw your whispering sword and cut it out of me now!’ With that, she stormed out of the hall.
Fachtna’s head dropped. He was surprised how fast the tears came. Anger, sadness, self-pity and more than a little confusion. She was right. He had no way of knowing which thoughts in his head were his own. He recalled what Teardrop had said to him just before he climbed back into the chariot for the ride home.
‘Perhaps they will let you have children in the future, but the first one, the one she carries now, that child is for them.’
Britha had no idea where she was going other than away from Fachtna. Of course they were waiting for her. The Lain Bhan and her black horse-skulled consort were standing at the edge of the trees that came up to the hall. She stared at them.
‘Take off the skulls,’ she demanded through angry tears. The Lain Bhan, the white mare who is death, raised her gnarled staff and dropped it back onto the earth. Britha collapsed to the ground.
She awoke once. She was in the grove again. Lying on the altar stone. They leaned over her, the animal skulls long and grotesque. She tried to fight but she was too weak. She fought against sleep as it tried to claim her but she lost the battle even as she felt fingers gently probing her stomach.
‘What have you done?’ There was genuine horror in Grainne’s voice.
Britha tried to move but she only succeeded in making her head loll to one side. Then strong arms were picking her up, lifting her. She recognised the feel of boiled leather against her skin. She felt absurdly pleased when she managed to work out that someone wearing armour was carrying her.
Then she saw the Lain Bhan. No, that wasn’t right – she had no head. No, she wasn’t wearing her skull. Her name is Grainne, Britha thought. Through her befuddlement she remembered that she hated Grainne. She tried to spit at her but only drooled on herself. She was naked, she realised. Grainne was staring at them in horror. Britha’s head fell forward and she saw the red body on the floor. Sainrith, she remembered. Then realisation of what had happened cut through her fugue.
‘Put me down,’ she demanded.
‘I can’t,’ Fachtna said.
Grainne was shouting at them in her own language, but Britha knew a curse when she heard one. Fachtna was damned. He had killed a dryw. It was just about the worst crime she could think of. Then she touched her stomach. There was nothing. Her skin was smooth and unmarked under her fingers but she knew it was gone. She started to thrash around in his arms. She was looking for it. Expecting to see its tiny bloodied form hanging sacrificially from one of the branches in the grove.
‘They’ve given our child to your gods!’ she screamed.
‘Stop! Britha, please! She’s alive, but you have to stop fighting!’
She?
Then a branch clawed at Fachtna’s face, drawing a red rent in his perfect skin. He let go of her with one arm and she all but collapsed to the ground. He was holding her up and trying to drag her along with his left arm. She heard his sword sing. Saw its shimmering ghostly blade as he cleaved the branch. All the trees were coming to life now. The altar stone was sinking, being reclaimed by the earth.
‘I can carry you, or I can fight,’ he told her.
‘I can walk,’ she said. Fachtna put her down and she collapsed the rest of the way to the ground. He reached for her. ‘No!’ She forced herself to her feet. She was in awe of the power she could see as trees moved towards them. Branches reached for her. The sword was a blur. She stared at Grainne, who stood her ground, cursing them. Britha realised that she wanted this power. She wanted to kill Grainne, and she wanted her daughter back.
‘Run!’ Fachtna shouted.
Still unsteady on her feet, Britha ran into the woods. She tore through branches that grabbed at her, leaped or ducked any that were too large to break through.
She was aware of Fachtna running with her, the sword moving, flowing like liquid light. He fought and stumbled as the now-living trees and undergrowth reached for him.
Britha was trying to push her way past the branches that were wrapping themselves around her bloodied body. It was only a matter of time now. She could hear Fachtna’s cries, his beautiful face a mask of dark blood as the trees clawed at him.
The woods were turned to silhouette as a bright light all but blinded her. She felt a force push against her. Heard the sword sing close enough to her that she was sure she had lost hair. She was being dragged. More of her skin was opened as she was pulled free of the grasping trees and pushed into something hard. She felt herself rising. She looked out through an opening and saw the grasping trees dropping past them. Then they were over the woods, broken branches falling from the craft as the wood’s canopy reached for them.
She looked down at her blood-covered body. She saw the thick, still-living branch that stuck out of her skin just below her ribs. She could feel it trying to pull its way u
p into her chest cavity.
‘No, no, no, no!’ Fachtna yanked off his gauntlet and the leather vambraces on his right arm. He had a dirk in his left hand. It took him some effort to push the blade through into the flesh of his wrist with an ugly sawing motion. Then she saw the dark blood flow from the wound. She tried to fight him off as he held his bloodied wrist to her mouth, but she was too weak. It was her final thought as darkness claimed her. This place was too soft. It had made her weak.
‘Don’t do this to me,’ Teardrop muttered to himself as he looked up into the night sky. Lug’s wings shielded them from the Forge’s light at this hour.
‘He’s coming here, isn’t he?’ Raven’s Laughter, asked. Teardrop turned to look at his beautiful wife. He held a tomahawk casually in one hand, a knife in the other. He could see Rain, his eldest, standing in the doorway of his home.
‘Inside, now!’ he told Rain. ‘Look to your brother and sisters!’ He thought she was going to argue, but she relented and went inside. Teardrop turned back. He could make out other warriors on ponyback moving rapidly across the network of causeways that covered the marshy river lands he called home. He knew there would be chariots and maybe even a war-curragh making their way here, but he also knew instinctively that the craft he saw in the sky racing towards them was Fachtna’s chariot.
They waited a few more moments, and then the chariot was above them. Adarc brought the craft in to land. The weapons cupola split open and a bloody Fachtna stepped out. Within the darkened interior, Raven and Teardrop could see the bloodied form of the woman lying on the floor of the craft.
Fachtna was armoured and held his shimmering sword in his hand.
Raven bristled. ‘You come to my home with an unsheathed sword! What nonsense is this? Sheathe it immediately and bring the mortal into the house,’ Raven’s Laughter admonished Fachtna. Even through the dried blood that covered Fachtna’s face, Teardrop could see the guilt written all over it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, and then turned to Teardrop. ‘Give it to me.’
A Quantum Mythology Page 18