The Dog and the Wolf

by Poul Anderson

  “And this makes you hang behind?” Niall’s sneer was meaningless, as he himself well knew. They had been over and over the grounds for Conual’s counsel against the expedition—recklessness, the gains not worth the risk—and Niall’s for going ahead—glory, wealth, binding closer to him his allies here at home, the fact that he had uttered his intention and could not now back down.

  “It does not,” said Conual evenly, “as you know. However, I think the morrow is His. I will go to the Gods of my fathers, but it may well be that after me the Rock of Cassel upbears His Cross.”

  Niall cast a glance at the druid Étain, the sole woman present. Her face remained shut and she said nothing. Thus had it been since she cast ogamm wands and kept silence about what she read.

  In sudden cold fury, Niall spat, “Hell have a harder time in Mide!” He turned and beckoned to Laégare, youngest of his living sons, heir to this Kingship; so the tanist Nath I had sworn beside the Phallus. At six years of age, the boy was reckoned ready to join men at their board. He had sat quietly, for he was of such a nature, though fierce enough in sports and battle practice to gladden his father.

  “Come here, my son,” Niall bade.

  Laégare obeyed. Straight he stood, his hair a brightness amidst leaping shadows. Niall leaned forward and laid hands on his shoulders. “Tomorrow I go from you,” Niall said. A hush spread like ripples from a stone thrown into a pool, as others heard.

  “If only I could too!” Laégare cried.

  Niall smiled. “You’re a wee bit young for that, my dear.” He grew somber. “But I will take an oath of you, here and now.”

  Laégare’s voice barely trembled. “Whatever it is, father, I swear.”

  “This: that never in your life you make sacrifice or give pledge to the God of the Romans.”

  “That is heavy gess to lay on a King,” said Conual, troubled. “Who knows what will come to him and his people?”

  “At least he shall keep the pride of old Ériu,” Niall told them all. “Do you take this last command of mine, my son?”

  “I do that,” Laégare replied. His voice was still childish, but it rang.

  4

  As Niall rode toward the sea, a hare darted across his path and a fox in pursuit of it. At once he called to him those men nearby who had seen and ordered silence about this. “Many would lose heart if they heard of such a sign,” he reminded them. His head lifted against heaven. “I go where the Mórrigu wants me.”

  His old henchman Uail maqq Carbri said nothing to that, but bleakness took hold of the gaunt face.

  A generation ago, the mouth of Boand’s River had seen as great a fleet as was gathered there now. Currachs drawn up ashore or bobbing in the water seemed beyond counting, as did the warriors who milled around them. At anchor in the shallows lay over a dozen Saxon-built galleys. Once more Niall’s bore a Roman skull nailed to the stempost; but this hull was painted red, for blood and fire.

  The day was cloudless. Light flared on weapons aloft as men shouted greeting to the King. Color on shirts, kilts, cloaks, shields made a whirlpool rainbow. Gulls soared a hundredfold, a snowstorm of wings. Niall sprang from his chariot and strode toward his ship.

  Uail squinted upward, shook his head, and muttered to Cathual, the royal charioteer, “The last time, you remember, a huge raven came down and perched on his shield. What have we today?”

  “I fear I shall never be driving him again,” said Cathual. Hastily: “Because I am not the lightfoot youth I was. It was kind of him to let me hold the reins on this final trip of his.” He winced. Somehow he seemed unable to speak his meaning; the words came out unlucky.

  He was not alone in his forebodings. Things had been happening for months which betokened trouble. They could be as slight as a cuckoo heard on the left or as terrifying as groans from the graves at Tallten on Beltene Eve. Old wives wove amulets for their sons to carry. Druids made divinations and shook their heads.

  Yet somehow there was no portent of utter disaster, of anything like the ruin suffered at Ys. The feeling in the air was more akin to a sorrow, though none could name that from which it welled. Niall, conqueror of the North, showed no trace of sharing it. Warriors must therefore deny it in themselves and follow him with good cheer. They dared not open their hearts to each other about it. Thus nobody knew how widely and deeply the cold current ran. The clamor at his back was as of wolves and wildcats.

  He waded out to his ship, laid hand on the rail, and boarded in a single leap. Tall he stood at the prow. The light touched his hair with a ghost of the former gold. To Manandan son of Lir he offered a red cock, slashing its head off with his sword and laving the skull with its blood. “And white oxen shall You have when I bring home my victories!” he cried.

  Men went to their craft. Oars rattled into place. They bit the ebb tide, and the fleet walked out over the sea.

  Never did Niall look back at his country.

  He passed it on that first day and made camp for the night south of the Ruirthech outflow, in Qóiqet Lagini. No fighters came to trouble them, nor did they find cattle or sheep to take. The coast stretched desolate. Not yet had the Lagini recovered from the woe that Laidchenn’s satire brought on them. When they did, Niall knew, vengefulness must kindle the marches. Well, he would deal with that then; Nath I would after him; Laégare would when his day came; such was the fate of a King.

  At dawn the camp roused and the voyage went on. Weather stayed fine in the next days while the vessels worked their way down the side of Eriu. Their last evening on it, Niall called the tuathal leaders together at his fire. They were many, as diverse as their homelands, some fair as he, some dark, some redhaired, some gray, clad in linen or wool or skins, a few with hair drawn into horsetails like Gauls or with tattoos like Cruthini—subjects, allies, all the way from Condacht’s western cliffs to Dál Riata’s colony beyond the Roman Wall.

  “You see how the Gods are with us,” he said; “but they only want us to run mad in battle. First we must get there, the which will take both cunning and patience.” While they knew more or less what he intended, he now laid it out at length and answered questions with unexpected mildness.

  They would not cross over to the Dumnonic tip of Britannia. The Romans must have gotten at least a breath of what he had afoot. They would look for such a layover. Weakened though their forces were, they, with help from the fierce hillmen north of the Sabrina, might have readied an ambush. “We could doubtless fight them off and get away, but we’d take losses without any gain of booty,” Niall said. “Don’t belittle them.” His mind harked back to a combat near Deva, three years ago, and the strangely impressive centurion with whom he spoke. “Rome is an aged beast, but she still has fangs. We’ll get enough of her at the Liger.”

  He would go on without further stops. That was a long way across open sea; and he would make it longer still by steering very wide of the headlands where Ys had been and the hungry skerries were yet. The Scoti must keep together. Let fog or storm scatter them, and they were foredone. “It is for us to dare,” Niall finished, “and undying will be the honor we win.”

  He overbore objections. They were scant. Everybody knew that their lives were his, and his alone. It seemed to them that he had taken power over wind and wave as well as war; or so they must needs believe.

  Therefore, at sunrise they departed due south. This day was also bright. A favoring wind raised whitecaps on the glittery sea, and sails blossomed. Unutterably green astern lay Ériu. To watch it fall from sight was like waking from a dream of someone beloved.

  Niall did not. Always he looked ahead.

  Sunset smoldered on the rim of vast loneliness and went out. The night was moonless. He had planned things thus. The Romans would reckon on a force like his waiting till it had light after dark, for skippers to keep track of each other. To catch the enemy unawares, he had his galleys spaced well apart, lanterns burning at their rails. By these beacons the currachs would steer.

  The wind continued friendly.
It filled the sail and yet did not much chill the flesh; it lulled through the undertone of the seas, the seething at the prow, the slight creak of timbers and tackle as the ship rolled onward. Gentle as it was, it did not make the stars gutter. They glinted uncountable around the frosty River of Heaven, almost drowning out the pictures they made, Lúg’s Chariot, the Salmon, the Sickle—but high astern stood the Lampflame by which men know the north; and as it sank night by night, it would tell him when to turn east for his goal. Yellow gleams swayed in strings out on Ocean’s unbounded night, the riding lights of the galleys.

  Niall stood by himself in the bows of his ship. Save for the steersman and two on watch at the waist, sleep filled her hull. With his back to the lanterns he had some vision of mysterious shimmers and foam-swirls under the stars. The skull nodded gray above him.

  I am bound for that which I was robbed of, these many years agone, he thought.

  It was a quiet thought. He felt beyond hope or anger; his mind was like the wind, steadily bearing south. I am going at last to my luck.

  A surge passed through the water. A white and rounded slenderness lifted half out of the bow wave. It swam alongside, or it flew or it was borne, softly and easily as the wind. He saw how the heavy hair streamed behind. She turned toward him, raising her right arm—to greet, to beckon?—-and he saw starlight wash over the wet breasts. Her face was ice-pale, her eyes two nights with each its own tiny star.

  “Manandan abide!” he choked. Somehow the men on watch did not hear. Was the cold that flowed over him from her or from within himself?

  She smiled. Her teeth were the hue of bleached bone. In a way unknown to him he heard: I have said that never will my love let go of you, nor will it ever, Niall, my Niall.

  Dahut—But we are so far from Ys where you died.

  Across the width of the world can I hear your name, Niall, my lover. It has flown on the wind and the wings of the gulls. Tide had carried it along, and the secret rivers of Ocean, and the whispering of dead men in the deeps. The Gods Whose vengeance I am have told me. Your name was a song and a longing. I followed it, blind with my need; and now again I behold you.

  His desire terrified him.—Why can you not rest peaceful?

  That which we did in Ys, the work of the wrathful Gods, binds us together and always will. My doom is to love you.

  That dooms me too.

  Fear not. For you I am the blessing of the sea. I give you fair winds, sweet skies, starlight and moonlight and radiant days. I guide you past rocks and shoals, I bid the storm swing wide of you, I bring you to safe harbor. I wreck the ships of your foemen, I drag them down below, I cast what the eels have left of them ashore for their widows to find. I am your Dahut.

  But you cannot free me from the dread of what you are, nor from the sorrow of it, that this is because of me.

  Aye, you betrayed me then, and left me alone. You shall betray me again, and leave me alone.

  Not willingly, haunter of mine.

  Nay. But by dying, as all men must. Unless your death be at sea—

  Niall shuddered.

  She reached toward him. Her fingers brushed his, which clutched the rail. Cold stabbed through. She lowered herself back into the starlit water and told him sadly:

  I cannot bring that about. I can only wish for it, while I strive to make your years on earth as long as may be and your death as happy as may be, old and honored among your own kindred; for I love you. Let me fare by your side, Niall. Your men shall not know. They shall merely wonder at how easy a voyage is theirs. By day I will look at you from the covert of the foam. By night—all I ask is that you stand like this a little while before you seek your rest, that I may feel your gaze upon me and smile at you. You will hear my songs in your dreams.

  The fear left him. There grew in its stead a gentleness toward her yearning, and a sense of the strength that coursed in his blood, and a sly hankering for King Grallon to learn of everything. “I give you that, Dahut,” he said.

  5

  Mightily swept the Liger to the sea. Where Corbilo guarded it on the right bank, its mouth gaped more than a league from shore to marshy shore. Sandbars in late summer, swollenness in late winter made navigation tricky; and at every season the Saxon laeti of that neighborhood were ready to fight for their new homes.

  Sight of the Scotic fleet sent the few ships they had on patrol rowing back at full speed. More would be marshalled at Corbilo, and warriors flocking in from the countryside. The city was a husk of its ancient self, inside walls hastily and clumsily raised, but the only sure way to go past it was to take it first, and that meant a hard battle.

  Beyond it, though, were nothing but Gallic reservists and legionary garrisons too depleted to put any stiffness in them. The valley lay open for ravishing.

  Niall’s achievements stemmed from his ever having been more than the ablest and boldest among fighters; as much as the wildness of his followers allowed, he gathered knowledge and laid careful plans beforehand. According to orders, galleys and currachs made landing just north of the estuary, in a sheltered bay which spies had come to know very well during the year that was past. There he would establish himself unassailably before taking the bulk of his forces on foot against the city.

  A Roman road led to it through lands that had otherwise largely gone back to forest in the past century or two. A couple of fisher hamlets and a nearby farmstead stood empty, their dwellers fled. Aside from some livestock they had nothing worth reaving and were soon burnt. The smoke of them blotted the sunlight streaming from the west.

  Vessels necessarily put in over a lengthy stretch of that shoreline. In case of an alarm, skeleton crews were to take them off the beach while most men ran to the Kings encampment and formed a war-host. Eochaid’s small galley had kept near the tail of the fleet throughout the journey. He brought her to rest farthest north of any, along with her accompanying boats. “Make things ready here,” he ordered Subne. “Rufinus and I will go scouting a while.”

  His henchman peered into the marred face. He saw how tightly it was drawn and how the lips quivered within the beard. “You have been strange on this faring, my heart,” said Subne; “and the strangest is that you came at all. Is it wise what you are thinking, whatever that may be?”

  “It is what I have thought for these long years,” Eochaid answered.

  Subne sighed. “Come what may, I will keep faith with you.” He glanced around. The crew were abustle unloading, seeking firewood, shouting to other gangs on the strand. “I cannot speak for every man here. Some could remember too well that they have women and little ones in Dál Riata.”

  “You borrow trouble, my friend,” said Rufinus smoothly. “We’re just off for a look around, this lovely evening.”

  Naturally they went armed. He wore his woodsman’s leather, with knife and short sword, sling tucked into belt, spear in hand. Among the stones in his pouch he had, unobserved, put some coins. Eochaid’s litheness was in kilt of somber green, a sheathed dagger tucked into it. On his back were a longsword and quiver. He carried a hunting bow.

  They left the tumult and went in among the trees. “Likely we are only scouting,” said Rufinus. “Don’t get rash, my dear.”

  “Nor dither and dawdle,” Eochaid grated. “Now, while all is in turmoil—” He snapped his jaws shut.

  Brush rustled about legs, old leaves beneath feet. These woods were not yet high or thick. Between the boles was a sight of Ocean, still and burnished-bright. A faint sound of waves mingled with the silence here, a tang of salt with the warm odors. Leaves glowed golden overhead. Rays streamed through to cleave the shadows around.

  Having gone a ways inland, the companions turned and went south. Presently Rufinus gestured and moved right. He had taken note of landmarks, a beech standing above its neighbors, a coppice of dogwood likewise visible from the water. They gave him his bearings. Noise waxed as he neared the strand. He stopped, laid finger to mouth, squinted against a sunbeam, finally drew Eochaid aside into the cornel.


  From its shade and densely growing stems they looked upon the King’s ground. Drawn up where wavelets lapped shore was the red galley. The Roman skull grinned above a pack of currachs nestled on either flank. At hover on Ocean’s rim, the sun cast their shadows long upon Gallia. Men scuttered and bawled, making ready for night. They had pitched a tent and started a cookfire, now they claimed places for themselves and sought the best spots to post guards. Spearheads and axes blinked athwart the shining reach of the bay. Banners fluttered brave in a light breeze. Shouts, laughter, lusty song flew with the seabirds on high.

  Rufinus heard the breath hiss between Eochaid’s teeth. His gaze followed the other’s. A man had come into sight from the left, where he must have been talking with chieftains. Like the beech in the wood, he towered over the rest. His powerful frame was as roughly clad as any, but across his shoulders he had pinned a cloak of seven colors. The sunset light passed by it and made a golden torch of his head.

  “Niall,” Rufinus heard, both name and curse.

  How beautiful he is! the Gaul thought.

  Movement drew his heed away. At his side, Eochaid strung the bow.

  Rufinus grabbed the Scotian’s arm. “Wait, you,” he warned.

  Eochaid shook the grasp off. “I’ve waited too long already,” he snarled. “May he choke on the blood he has shed.”

  Rufinus stood motionless. Any struggle would give them away.

  Eochaid finished stringing the bow and reached for an arrow. “May the winds of winter toss his homeless soul for a thousand years.” He nocked the shaft, raised up the bow, drew the string to his ear. Niall had stopped by the galley. He waved aside a man who wanted to speak to him and looked out across Ocean as if in search of something. “May he be reborn a stag that hounds bring down, a salmon on the hook of a woman, a child caught in a burning house where its father and mother lie slain.” The bow twanged.

  Niall flung his arms aloft, staggered, fell down on his face, feet in the sea, head beneath the skullpost. Red poured out into the water.