A Quantum Mythology

by Gavin G. Smith

  ‘And the other?’ she asked.

  ‘This Bladud, he wears the black robe of a false dryw?’ Guidgen asked. Tangwen nodded. ‘He is moonstruck with the sickness of greed. I could smell it on him. He would have more than he could see from the highest point in his land. He would make slaves of his fellows. He would pass through today, but tomorrow he would conquer us.’

  Kush and Tangwen were quiet.

  ‘I think he is right,’ Kush said. Tangwen nodded. ‘Why tell us this?’

  ‘What I tell you will not make any difference.’

  ‘Because you will kill us,’ Tangwen said.

  ‘That is a poor way to treat a guest,’ Kush said.

  ‘It would be,’ Guidgen agreed.

  ‘But we are not guests,’ Tangwen said quietly. ‘We have been offered neither food nor drink.’

  ‘Your people are invaders. You are prisoners, and we do not keep slaves. All go to our gods.’

  ‘I could snap your neck with my bare hands,’ Kush growled.

  Guidgen laughed. ‘Now that is the truth,’ the old man said.

  ‘Kush,’ Tangwen said.

  ‘What?’ the Numibian demanded.

  ‘He is being courteous.’

  Kush stared at the young Pretani woman.

  ‘You are people of many different tribes,’ Guidgen said as he poked at the fire, sending sparks into the air. Tangwen nodded. Kush just glared at the strange dryw. ‘What is chasing you?’

  Tangwen told him. Guidgen was quiet for a long time after she finished her story. He stared into the fire.

  ‘That cannot be believed,’ he said eventually.

  Tangwen gritted her teeth, choking back an angry challenge. You did not threaten or harm a dryw, not even if they would be the one to peel the skin from your flesh.

  Finally Guidgen looked up, his eyes catching the red glow of the flames: ‘So it must be true.’

  Bress rode his horse slowly into the valley along the muddy track beside the river. Britha rode next to him. The Lochlannach, silent and impassive, rode behind. It was raining hard.

  It looked like all had come to see them. Row after row of dismounted warriors stood on the track and in the trees. Those on the opposite side of the river held slings, bows and casting spears. She was aware of people keeping pace with them in the trees. Behind the warriors came the lines of landsfolk. Almost all of them were armed, even if it was just a stick with a fire-hardened point. They stared at Bress and the Lochlannach with undisguised hatred. They stared at Britha the same way. She glanced over at Bress. She could not read the expression on his pale, beautiful face.

  Bladud stood at the head of the army, his hood up against the rain. Nerthach was at his side. Behind him were more black-clad warriors in bearskin cloaks. She saw the emaciated but still regal Anharad of the Trinovantes, though there was no sign of Mabon. Borth the Tall and Eithne of the Iceni both stood on Bladud’s left side. She looked for and found Germelqart. The Carthaginian navigator was watching her, studying her as if he was looking for something. There was no hatred there, but maybe a little fear.

  Then she saw the girl and felt her heart do something strange. She could have been no more than eight years old, dirty, bedraggled, thin, ragged, hungry and very, very frightened. She was perched in a tree, watching the Lochlannach ride through the mud. Once she would have been too far away for Britha to notice, but not now. And Britha knew her.

  She was the daughter of a family of landsfolk who had lived and worked in one of Ardestie’s outlying farms. Britha had delivered her. The birth was something of a fight. She had been a sickly baby, and winter-born. Britha didn’t expect her to last the white season, but she lived until spring and then grew up strong enough. She blinked back tears as she realised she could no longer remember the girl’s name.

  Bress glanced over at her as they brought their horses to a halt a little way in front of Bladud and his assembled warriors. Bladud put his hood down.

  ‘I am Bladud of the Brigantes. I would say well met, but …’

  Bress just looked bored. Nerthach’s face started to turn red, furious at the rudeness. The big warrior’s hand went to the hilt of his sheathed longsword.

  ‘Are you afraid to say your name?’ Bladud asked. If the Witch King was angry, he was masking it well.

  Bress turned to look at the black-robed man. ‘I am here because Britha would see you spared, nothing more. Let’s get on with this, or I will ride your people down right now.’

  Nerthach’s sword was half out of its sheath.

  ‘Enough!’ Britha shouted in the voice that brooked no argument. She might have been with the enemy, but Nerthach and the other Brigante warriors at least had enough respect for the dryw to hesitate. Britha glared at Bress. ‘There may well be bloodshed this day, but you will treat these people with respect. Some of them did, after all, defeat your forces on the Isle of Madness and escape from the wicker man!’ Her anger was not entirely for show.

  Bress watched her for what felt like a long time. Finally he appeared to come to a decision and turned his attention to Bladud once more.

  ‘I had heard of power. So far all I have seen is arrogance and rudeness,’ Bladud said mildly.

  ‘I am Bress of the Lochlannach,’ he told Bladud, ‘and whatever you feel is due to you, remember that you are not my equal. Will you let us pass?’

  ‘I mislike looking up at a man,’ Bladud said. ‘It hurts my neck.’

  Bress glanced over at Britha. She could tell he was irritated. He climbed off the back of his white horse and strode through the mud to stand in front of Bladud. The Witch King was not a small man, but Bress towered over him. He was of a height with Borth the Tall, though much thinner.

  ‘You still find yourself looking up at me,’ Bress said quietly.

  ‘Aye, but you look like you’ll snap in the first strong wind,’ Nerthach said. There was laughter from the other Brigante warriors. Bress glared at the one-eyed warrior. Nerthach held his stare.

  ‘Where are his scars?’ Eithne asked. ‘His smooth skin makes him look sword-shy.’

  Britha shook her head. Eithne stared at the other woman and spat.

  ‘I am no warrior because I prefer to give scars, rather than receive them?’ Bress asked, glancing at Eithne’s disfigured face. He looked up at Britha. ‘How long would you have me tolerate this? These people are no match for us. They know that and would fight with words before they will draw iron.’

  Britha caught Nerthach looking at Bladud, but the Witch King shook his head.

  ‘Will you let us p—’ Britha began.

  The small figure darted out of the woods and leaped at Bress. Britha was already sliding off the back of her horse but none of the Lochlannach moved. Bress merely reached out his hand and caught Mabon in mid-air, by the throat. Mabon’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, but the boy still tried to stab down with his dagger.

  ‘No!’ It was the Trinovantes woman, Anharad, who cried out.

  Bress slapped the dagger out of the boy’s hand. His long fingers were wrapped all the way around the boy’s neck as he squeezed the life out of him.

  Anharad ran to Bress. ‘When the black curraghs came, his mother, father and two older brothers died fighting you. His sister wasn’t strong enough. She died in our arms in the wicker man …’ Tears covered her face. It was obvious to Britha that this was a woman unaccustomed to begging.

  ‘Do you believe he will be with them soon?’ Bress asked.

  The warriors surrounding Bladud were surging forward. Britha moved between Bress and the warriors, mostly to keep them alive. The Lochlannach still had not moved. They sat on their steeds, impassive.

  ‘What treachery is this?’ Britha shouted at them. The warriors stopped moving forwards. They were not quite ready to defy a dryw, not even a hated one.

  ‘Enough!’ Bladud shouted at
the warriors before turning to Britha. ‘He is but a child!’

  ‘He is but a child wielding iron!’ Britha shouted back, glancing behind her. She needed to get Bladud to stop his people, to prevent Bress from massacring them. Then she would try to save Mabon. The warriors were still edging forwards, weapons at the ready. Bladud stepped in front of them and drew a line in the mud.

  ‘Nerthach, to me!’ Bladud shouted. There was a moment of indecision on the big warrior’s face as he glanced at Bress, who was still strangling Mabon, but he went to his king’s side. ‘Any who cross this line, who defy me, will be killed, their blood forever cursed!’

  He behaves like a dryw when it suits him, Britha thought as she turned back to Bress. She could still hear Anharad’s pleading. She had been surprised to see Germelqart surge forwards with the warriors, a skull-topped club in his hands.

  ‘Bress, release him!’ Britha told him. The boy was limp now, his feet still dangling above the ground.

  Bress looked at her. ‘You do not command me.’

  ‘Would you serve the one who does in this matter?’ she demanded.

  Bress dropped the boy into the mud at his feet and stepped back. Anharad fell into the mud next to her grandson, cradling him. Britha slid into the mud next to her. Bladud was there a moment later.

  ‘Unless you are an excellent healer, stay out of my way,’ Britha snapped. She knew that the boy was either dead, or not. If Bress had already crushed the breath out of him, there would be nothing any of them could do for him. She examined his neck. Looked in his mouth, down his throat. ‘Hold him still!’ She watched his chest and then listened to it. ‘He still breathes,’ Britha announced. She looked at Anharad. They stood up, the Trinovantes woman carrying Mabon. She gave Bress a look of absolute hatred and then took her grandson into the trees.

  ‘Are we done with this farce?’ Bress asked.

  Britha glared at him and then faced Bladud. ‘May we pass?’

  Bladud was trying to rub the mud off of his hands. ‘Do you know what awaits you south of here?’ the Witch King asked.

  ‘I have walked with them,’ said Britha. ‘They were once my brothers and sisters.’ Bladud stopped rubbing his hands and stared at her. Britha knew he was trying to work out if she was lying or not.

  ‘That is a bold boast,’ he said, cautiously.

  ‘Watch your tongue, Witch King,’ Britha told him evenly. She heard Eithne spit again.

  ‘Are you a friend of monsters, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Speak plainly,’ Britha told him.

  ‘I would deal with the enemy at my back first, then the enemy at my front.’

  ‘An alliance?’

  ‘A temporary truce.’ There were angry mutterings from the assembled warriors. ‘Nothing’s forgotten. Bress will answer for his crimes in time.’

  Britha glanced behind her at Bress, who was standing in front of their horses. He shook his head. She knew that Bladud’s people – particularly the refugees – were of no use to Bress.

  ‘No,’ she told Bladud.

  ‘Surely we share an enemy?’ Bladud asked, leaning forward on his staff. This was the first time his mask had slipped. Britha wasn’t sure if his agitation was fear or anger.

  ‘May we pass?’ Britha asked.

  Bladud straightened up again, regarding Britha carefully. ‘A challenge – your champion against mine. If you win, then you may pass.’

  Britha couldn’t believe the stupidity of the suggestion, particularly from such a seemingly shrewd man.

  ‘They are from the Otherworld. They have incredible magics at their hands. Nobody has been able to stand against them,’ Britha told him in exasperation.

  ‘They raided, used surprise, often attacked farms and villages where there were few, if any, warriors present. They ran when the warriors came looking for them,’ Borth the Tall said. There were muttered agreements from the surrounding warriors. She saw Nerthach nodding. She couldn’t read the expression on Bladud’s face.

  ‘They weren’t running,’ Britha spat, angry at their warrior idiocy. ‘They killed any in their path. Those are stories told by warriors to justify their failure.’

  ‘Even from a dryw we do not have to suffer such insults!’ Eithne shouted. ‘Assuming you are still a dryw!’

  The Iceni warrior’s words stabbed home closer than Britha would have cared to admit. ‘Fine!’ Britha spat. ‘Which one of your people are you going to kill?’

  Nerthach started to step forwards but Bladud put a hand on his chest. The look of betrayal was written all over Nerthach’s face. He stared at Bladud, appalled.

  ‘Borth, would you be prepared to fight?’ Bladud asked. Nerthach opened his mouth to protest, but Bladud silenced him with a look. Borth looked surprised.

  ‘It would be a pleasure,’ he growled.

  Then Britha saw what Bladud was doing. She knew that Borth didn’t stand a chance, but all the Witch King had heard were warrior’s tales, and second-hand ones at that, because the Lochlannach had killed all those they had not taken. He had to see for himself. He had to gauge the Lochlannach’s strength, but he wasn’t going to kill his ‘strong right arm’. Bladud had just saved Nerthach’s life and killed Borth, and the Witch King knew it.

  Borth put on his helmet, transferred his longspear to the hand that already held his shield and picked up one of his casting spears. He pointed the spear at Bress as he walked forwards.

  ‘I am Borth of a Hundred Battles, Borth the Head Harvester, the Child of the Red Man, and I will drink my beer from your skull.’

  Bress started walking towards Borth, looking irritated. ‘Is this the man I must kill to pass?’ Bress asked Britha.

  ‘You may fetch your helm, shield and spear,’ Borth told Bress. The pale warrior didn’t answer, just continued walking towards the huge Iceni. Borth looked confused for a moment. Then he threw his casting spear. Bress ducked. It narrowly missed Britha’s horse and one of the Lochlannach had to deflect it with their shield. Borth transferred his longspear into his free hand and stepped forwards, thrusting the weapon at Bress. Bress quickened his pace, darting to one side, getting inside the spear’s reach. He still did not have a weapon in his hand. Borth dropped his spear and reached for his sword. In one movement, Bress drew his sword and sliced up through Borth’s shield, the iron blade of his almost-drawn sword and the tall man’s cuir bouilli armour, opening the warrior’s body from hip to shoulder. Bress sheathed his blade as he walked past Borth and came to stand in front of Bladud.

  ‘Have you learned enough?’ he asked, leaning down to whisper into the other man’s ear. Borth’s corpse toppled to the ground.

  ‘Let them by,’ Bladud said. People started shuffling towards the trees, making way for the Lochlannach. Bress turned away from Bladud and walked back towards the horses.

  Britha was watching Bladud, but she could not quite make out the expression on his face as he observed Bress mount his horse. There was more than fear in his eyes, she knew. She climbed up onto her own horse.

  They rode through the warriors and the landsfolk, who parted for them. The silence was broken only by the occasional sob. The little Cirig girl from Ardestie was still sitting in the tree. She watched Britha ride by. Britha saw that the girl recognised her.

  34

  Birmingham, 3 Weeks Ago

  They were finding more of them. Or rather, Grace was finding more of them. She had used the Circle’s resources to do an invasive city-wide Internet history check, looking at the most unpleasant content on the net, who was writing horrible things, who was creating horrible artwork – in short, anyone who was showing signs of a significantly deviant imagination. In a number of cases they found the brass scorpions, the Alpha- and Theta-wave recorders and transmitters. Silas appeared to have learned from Letchford, though, as none of them remembered seeing him. They also had no memory of the brain surgery they’d un
dergone to remove the brass scorpions, though they would perhaps have dreams of abduction experiences.

  Control had sought ways to trace the Alpha- and Theta-wave transmissions, but as yet had found nothing. It looked as if the carrier wave for the transmissions was too ubiquitous to spot and blended into the background electromagnetic radiation of modern-day life.

  Nanette Hollis’s brain had been removed, but they found no traces of Silas in or around the Moseley Road Swimming Baths. He had not revealed his presence this time. Du Bois checked. It was less than a mile from the closest waterway to the baths, but then most of the city was just as close, or closer.

  They were both in du Bois’ room at the Malmaison Hotel. Du Bois was seated at the desk. Grace was lying on his bed with her boots on, much to du Bois’ annoyance. They were transferring files back and forth between their heads, or rather between Grace’s head and du Bois’ phone, much to Grace’s annoyance.

  ‘He doesn’t have enough time – he’s working towards something and it’s about to come to fruition—’ Grace started.

  Du Bois sighed. It was just more speculation. The case was all she thought about now, all she talked about. Going over the same things again and again.

  ‘So we’re agreed that Galforg was a misstep,’ she went on. ‘He killed the wrong person, he pretty much said so. Then Songhurst, Jaggard and Hollis. He thinks they’re the real deal, psychic or something. So he takes their brains because he wants something from them, presumably their “power”, because it feeds some element of his fantasy life. Then he puts transmitters in the brains of sick individuals. Why?’ Grace was talking to herself. Du Bois had heard variations of this a dozen times since they’d dealt with Letchford and found Hollis. ‘Does he think he’s transmitting to the brains? Torturing them in some way?’ She looked over at du Bois. ‘You said he always goes for the pain.’ Du Bois nodded. ‘But why just torture brain matter? That doesn’t make sense.’ Grace went quiet for a few moments. ‘Unless he doesn’t think he’s transmitting it to them. He thinks their brains are transmitting to someone or something else.’ She looked over at du Bois triumphantly.