“Well do it, regardless,” Maeloch muttered. “Don’t s’pose I can bring ye Niall’s head, but how’d ye like a gold ring off his arm, Tera?”—Tera, who after two years was fruitful with their child, first of his children since Betha and all theirs drowned with Ys. “Ye’ll have your revenge, little Princess Dahut, we’ll give ye your honor back.”
4
Dusk fell early in the forest. The sun was beyond the trees and the moon had not yet risen above them. Heaven reached gray-blue over the stealthily flowing Stegir, but beneath the king oak gloom deepened.
Within the cabin was nearly full night. Nemeta put aside the bowl into which she had stared unwavering for hours. She could no longer make out the water within it, drawn from the witch-pool and tinged by drops of her own blood. Whatever visions had drifted there must now form themselves from the half-shapes behind shut eyes. She did not think they would be any more clear.
Wind soughed outside, a noise as of the sea. Two boughs rattled together like clashing swords.
She rose from her cross-legged position on the floor. It had left her joints stiff and painful. Chill wrapped around her nakedness. Well though she knew this room, she must fumble a while before she found her snake staff.
She stretched herself on her narrow bed, hands crossed over the pole. Its top rested at her throat, the mummified head on her small breasts, the scales down her belly, the rest of the wood against her groin and between her legs. Staring into blindness, she whispered in Ysan, “Mother, I’ve cast what few, weak spells I know. Help me. Come to me, mother, from wherever you have wandered, come lend me the wings that once were yours. I will fly to my father.”
5
Gratillonius knew the battle would be chaos. Combats never obeyed any man’s plan; and here he led no soldiers, but a gathering of colonists, rustics, outlaws, barely leavened by some aging veterans and former marines. Working as a whole was beyond their grasp. And they must take the offensive, cast their bodies against sharpened metal, hold down the fear that even legionaries always felt, that told a man to use his common sense and run away. Gratillonius could only form squads of those who knew each other and hope they would hang together and so keep heart in the rest.
The Scoti were warriors by trade, skilled, well-armed, contemptuous of death. They lacked Roman discipline but could keep an eye on the chieftain’s standard and each ward a comrade as well as himself. They numbered about two hundred, Gratillonius fleetingly gauged. Against them he had almost twice as many, who fought for their homes—though the enemy fought for life—That was his solitary advantage.
Since he could not oversee and try to guide operations like Julius Caesar, he took sword and shield himself. He went with the old legionaries. While waiting for this day they had drilled, a little of the craft had come back to them from their youth, they tramped side by side and struck the Scotic flank like a single engine. Drusus was their actual officer. Gratillonius pressed forward on his left but held ready to go elsewhere as necessary. On Gratillonius’s left, a step behind him, his fellow Briton Riwal carried the banner that marked the commander’s place. It was blue, with an eagle embroidered in gold. Julia had made it for him. Her eyes had sometimes been red, but she sewed on and kept silence.
Her man Cadoc was with Amreth and the other Ysans. Nearly all of them untrained and poorly equipped, they were less a unit than a gang of individual men who tried by ones or twos to bring down individual foes. The marines gave a small core of steadiness, though they themselves had scant experience. Still more did the fear of shaming oneself before a neighbor stiffen the will to fight.
Much the same was true of the Osismii. Pacified these past four hundred years, they were brave—no timid man had answered the call that went secretly over the forest trails—but knew nothing of affrays except for private brawls that seldom ended in death. They too rushed, slashed and hacked, fell down or fell back, tried again in the same man-to-man awkwardness, or dithered about dismayed by lifetime friends who lay gruesomely dead or shrieked for pain in the clutter and stink of entrails.
Rufinus and his wolves were the appalling manslayers, murder made flesh. They skulked about, watched for a chance, leaped in with a snap of weapons like jaws, were gone before a return stroke could reach, harried and hooted and grinned. From the sides their archers and slingers coolly waited for a clear target, then let fly and hit as often as they missed. When a band of Scoti made a desperate rush after them, they laughed and faded off on dancing feet.
Once the Confluentians collided with such a sallying party, away from its main group, and cut it to pieces at whatever cost to themselves. The sight brought Gauls to blood lust and they attacked in a mass that almost reached the barbarian lord. His guards drove it back in confusion, and its losses were hideous, but many a Scotian sprawled gaping at the sky. Every islander harvested was a loss Niall could ill afford.
Thus Gratillonius saw the struggle, whenever a respite allowed. A part of him weighed what he learned, gauged how the work went, told him to push onward. Then he must rejoin Drusus’s troop, and for the next while forget all reason, all self. It was cut, thrust, parry, feel the shock of a blow given or taken through metal and bone to the marrow, glimpse an opponent’s face contorted into a Medusa mask, engage an arm whose owner was a blur behind a shield, let sweat sting eyes and salten lips and make underpadding sodden and hilt slippery, haul air down a dry fire of a throat, shake at the knees and know he was not a young man any longer. Clash, clang, thud, scream, gasp filled the universe. He lost footing on soaked ground and lived because Drusus covered him while he got back up. He recollected vaguely how he himself had saved Riwal when a giant of a Scotian broke through the Roman line. He fought.
Betweenwhiles he would catch sight of his goal. Niall reared high in the tumult, helmet like a sun, cloak like a rainbow, unmistakable. His sword and his voice rang. Surely he had suffered injuries, but nothing showed, no stone or arrow found him, he seemed as far beyond fatigue as Mithras at war. How could his sworn men do other than die at his feet?
Suddenly timelessness tore across and time was again. Gratillonius stood on Point Vanis with only the wind and the plaints of the wounded about him. A blackness swept across his eyes, a whirling, he nearly fell. Riwal caught his arm. Steadiness returned and he looked around.
A remnant of Scoti had rallied and hewn their way out of the trap. The cliff trail being denied them, they were headed the other way, toward Ys. They moved in a band, less than a hundred, ragged, reddened, stiff with hurts and weariness, steel dimmed by blood, but together and defiant. At their head, under his own flamboyant flag, blazed the helmet of Niall.
The battlefield was heaped and strewn with dead men, crippled men—hard to tell which grimaced the more horribly—and shields, arrows, spears, slingstones, swords, axes, daggers, bills, sickles, hammers, clubs, some broken, some bent or blunted, some ready to kill afresh. Blood dripped, steamed, glared bright or darkened with early clotting. Brains, guts, pieces of people littered the grass. Gulls had begun to crowd overhead. Their mewing grew loud, impatient.
Gauls and Ysans, such as could, lay or sat or stood droop-shouldered, exhausted. Gratillonius saw a couple of them vomit; doubtless more had already. A number had shit in their breeks. The veterans rested more calmly about Drusus. Gratillonius felt a rush of relief when he found Cadoc nearby, arms lifted in prayer. Rufinus’s woodsrunners were the coolest. Several of them still had vigor to go about cutting the throats of Scoti and trying to do something for casualties of their own side.
That outfit had suffered the least, though its losses were severe enough. Gratillonius tried to count. He couldn’t, really, but he estimated he’d spent a hundred men. That much out of four hundred would have cost him his command in any proper army. But he didn’t have one, of course. The Scoti had died in equal numbers merely because each man of them had two against him.
And the chief devil among them was still alive.
Rufinus approached. “We’re not finished yet,” he s
aid.
Gratillonius’s gaze followed his finger. They happened to be in view of Scot’s Landing. The reinforcements had arrived. Gratillonius recognized Evirion’s ship, anchored at a safe distance, and Osprey closer in. Smaller craft plied to and fro, bringing fighters ashore. The first were now bound up the trail. Several were aboard the Scotic galleys. Apparently those had been captured without bloodshed.
Rufinus guessed Gratillonius’s thought. “No, the enemy didn’t try to hold out on the water,” he said. “They understood right away it was hopeless and made off. Yonder.”
The sun was very low, dull red and deformed behind the mists. Had the battle taken so long? Or, rather, had it taken no longer than this? Things were hard to make out on the heaving gray of the waves. Gratillonius shaded his eyes and squinted. Mosl of the leather boats were loose. The Scoti must have manned them with skeleton crews and fled as fast as possible. They were bound west along the point. Oars sent the light craft skimming, graceful as flying fish. Osprey threshed in pursuit, but heavier, with more freeboard to catch the south wind, had no chance of interception before the fugitives were past the headland. Through Gratillonius flitted an image of Maeloch roaring at his rowers and his Gods.
“Let ’em go,” he said mechanically. “They’ll carry the tale home.”
“No,” Rufinus answered. “That kind don’t run to save themselves. They’ll make for the bay, with the idea of landing and joining what’s left of Niall’s troop. What they’ll actually do is take them off.”
Gratillonius stared into the spare, fork-bearded visage. “By Hercules, you’re right!”
Rufinus yelped a laugh. “I needn’t be. Here’s extra men for us, all fresh and hot. We’ll corner Niall, and with any luck we’ll bag the currach crews as well.”
Lightning sizzled through Gratillonius, It flashed the numbness and every hurt out of him. He went about calling for volunteers. “‘If you think you can fight one more fight, come with me. You’ll get a double share of booty. But if you can’t, stay here, and no disgrace to you. We’re mortal. No sense in dying, if you’re too tired to send a Scotian to hell. Look after your wounded friends. Pray for our victory.” That last was hypocritical, he could well imagine Rufinus’s lip twitch in amusement, but they expected it.
Evirion had debarked, fully armored, at the head of a formidable team of mariners. Cadoc insisted he was able to carry on. Was that a good omen, those two who had quarreled so much now side by side? The fishers newly come were at least a tough lot. Drusus, Bannon, men of theirs; Rufinus, and those of his who survived—About three to two this time, Gratillonius reckoned; but a fair part of his force was unbloodied, whereas the Scoti staggered along.
“You’d better stay, sir,” Rufinus said.
“No,” Gratillonius snapped. “What do you take me for?”
“You’ve fought as well as anybody. We need you alive.”
“I am damn well going to be in at the kill.” There to avenge Ys and Dahut. The eagle banner rippled on Riwal’s staff as Gratillonius led his troops downward.
Point Vanis shouldered off the wind. Mist eddied and smoked over the bay. It was cold and smelled of the deeps. The sun was a red smear out in the formlessness that crept across the skerries. Ruins and rubble hunched nearly as dark as the cliffs on either side. Waves tumbled and clashed. When they flowed off the beach, it gleamed wet until they assailed it again, higher each time. Eastward, night drained into the valley. That part of the sky was clear, purplish, moon ashy above the hills.
The Scoti had formed rank on the strand, as if hoping the sea would guard their backs for them. They were an indistinct mass where swords and spearheads glimmered. In fact, no vessel but their own nimble kind could reach them through the wreckage in the bay. However, a man could wade in the shallows.
Gratillonius stopped his followers out of earshot. “I’ll lead our main body at the center,” he said. “Let us get well engaged with them. Then you, Evirion, on the right, and you, Rufinus, on the left, take your men around and hit them on the flanks, and from behind if you can. We should be done before those boats get here. I daresay they’ll turn tail when they see, but we can try to grab some. Is this clear? Forward.”
He strode ahead at the Roman pace, sword in hand, shield held just below nose. His sandals smote earth. Grass brushed past his greaves. Mail rustled. Sweat chilled him as it dried, but he’d soon be back in action and warm. A vast calm had taken hold. It was his fate toward which he walked.
Something passed at the corner of vision. He heard a man at his back exclaim, and looked. His stride broke. His heart stumbled. Wings ghosted overhead. Great eyes caught the last daylight. It was a bird, an owl, an eagle owl.
No, Forsquilis was dead, she died with Ys, here was nothing more than a stray! Gratillonius told himself to be at ease. If this meant anything whatsoever, it betokened well, because Forsquilis had loved him. His spirit refused obedience. He went on with a high thin keening in his head.
But he must never show fear or doubt. His was to lead the attack. He might even have the unbelievable luck that his was the sword to strike down Niall of the Nine Hostages.
The gilt helmet sheened through the twilight. He choked off an impulse to charge and continued at the drumbeat Roman pace.
A cry like a wildcat’s ripped from among the Scoti. Others took it up till it outrode the rushing of near waters, the booming of surf more distant. Steel shook against heaven.
Gratillonius and his men met it. Shield smashed on shield. He laid his weight behind, leaned against his enemy while his blade searched. A blade gonged off his helmet, skittered across his mail on the right side. He cut. He felt bone give beneath the edge. The barbarian yowled and lurched back. Gratillonius pressed inward. They were everywhere around him. No, here was a mailcoat, a man of his who grunted and thrust; there was another, near naked, but wielding a blacksmith’s hammer, and a skull split before it like a melon. He was in the water, everybody was, the tide lapped around his knees. The flanking assault had worked, the Scotic line was crumpled and crumbled. Niall’s banner went down. Rome’s hung over Gratillonius. The colors were lost in mist and murk, but men knew it for what it was.
The melee opened up. He spied Niall himself, waist deep. The foeman lord was alone, his nearest warriors slain, the rest swept from him into a millrace of slaughter. Two ragged shapes—Gauls, were they Osismii, were they Bacaudae?—closed in on him. He shouted. His sword leaped. A man was no more. The second tried to slip aside. Niall made a step through the tide and clove him.
“After me!” Gratillonius called. He slogged outward. The bottom was lumpy and shifty, the water surged and sucked, but he pushed on to meet Niall, and behind him was a score of avengers.
A curve of white, a drift of gold sprang in the waves. Even by this half-light, he knew that hair was gold, was amber, was a challenge to the sun that would turn it fragrant. Naked she swam, orca-swift, seal-beautiful, and her laughter lilted as he remembered it. She came about in a surge of foam, stood with her breasts bare—rosiness had left their tips, they were moon-pallid—and held out her arms to him. Her face was heart-shaped, delicately sculptured, with full mouth and short nose and eyes enormous under blond brows. “Father,” she sang, “welcome home, father.”
The sword fell from his hand. The shield slatted loose on its shoulder strap. “Dahut,” he uttered amidst a roar throughout his world.
“Father, follow me, I love you.”
She kicked free of the bottom, straightened her slenderness, swam like a moonglade before him. He groped after her. “Dahut, wait!” he howled. This could not be. How had she outlived Ys? Yet every dear shape was there, head, smile, the little hands that had lain in his. “Dahut, come back!”
He did not see how the men behind him recoiled, stopped where they were, gaped and shivered. He fought his way on into the deepening water. She frolicked close by Niall. The Scotian hefted his sword and went to meet the Roman.
6
It is Dahut, flew throug
h Niall, it was always Dahut, I knew but down underneath I dared not name her.
She streamed by him, supple as the water, white in the twilight. Her speed left a wake in the waves. The wet hair trailed like seaweed, but heavy and clinging to the back that once arched against his weight. Her glance crossed his. It smote into him. The bloodless lips parted in laughter. She rolled over. Light washed across her belly. Legs and one arm drove her onward. The uplifted arm beckoned to the man who raved behind.
She plunged and vanished. Niall wrenched his neck around. Yonder foe who had lost his wits wallowed ahead yet, wailing for her. He’d let go his weapon. She had chosen this prey, Niall thought awhirl. He knew not why, but it was her will, and here in Ys that they had slain together he was her slave. And a new killing should bring him back to himself, make him able to save his last few men—somehow, with her aid.
He hefted his sword and went to meet the Roman.
Wings beat, soundless above the sounding breakers. He looked up. The span was great, an eagle owl’s. He glimpsed hooked beak and cruel claws. The eyes were glass bowls full of venom. The bird glided straight at him. It could flay his face and gouge his own eyes out.
Witchcraft was abroad. Niall took firmer grasp on his shield. As the owl swooped near, his blade swung.
He should have struck and flung down a bloody carcass. The iron bit into water. The owl veered. Feathers brushed him and he felt just spray off the waves. The owl swept around and came back. He saw the sword pass through. It was like slashing fog. The owl hit him. Nothing tore, but he was blinded. He dropped his shield and with his left hand batted uselessly at the thing that flapped about his head.
It was a wisp, a ghost. It could not strike him nor he it. But it could hold him here, harry him if he fled, keep him fumbling helpless till an enemy found him. “Dahut!” he cried.
She rose from below. The blindness slipped aside. He saw that she had caught the owl by the right wing. It struggled. Maybe it screamed unheard. Claws raked, beak slashed, left wing buffeted. No mark appeared on her white arms. She clung, her strength against its, and dragged it downward toward drowning.
The Dog and the Wolf Page 30