Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  “Or we could see the plan through,” said Arthur. “These corpses are undoubtedly headed for the Morgens. This may just be a brief stop on the way.” He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of climbing back in among the dead. He would much rather abandon the plan and think of another. They were within a stone’s throw of the wall but Cei was right; Guihir was still risking his life for the sake of the plan. Could they really do any less? “Aye, let’s find him and get out of here.”

  They had to be cautious. They may be dressed as Gaels but their blood-soaked tunics would arouse suspicion and besides, this settlement was scarcely large enough to allow for anonymity. They were strangers and would be challenged by the first warrior who set eyes on them. That Guihir had not already been killed was undoubtedly due to some claim of his that he was from a different settlement but their lack of Gaelic would give them away the minute they were questioned.

  They followed the perimeter wall, keeping to the shadows. Guihir could be in any of the huts and Arthur had no idea how they were to find him. They hadn’t got far when something bright and fast sailed through the night air above them. At first, Arthur thought it was a shooting star but it landed in the muddy compound and sizzled before going out. Another streak of flame followed it and this one landed on the roof of a roundhouse and began to burn brighter as the thatch caught.

  Somebody else had spotted it and gave up a cry. By the time the third fire arrow landed – this time in the wattle wall of an outbuilding where it flamed and kindled the overhanging thatch – warriors had begun to emerge from the dwellings, some of them tying their breeches, others taking up their spears. All around the settlement was a growing sense of panic and a mustering to defend themselves against their unseen attackers.

  “Looks like Gualchmei’s shoulder is better,” Cei whispered to Arthur.

  “Right time, wrong place,” said Arthur. “But I suppose he knows that. They must be trying to give us an opportunity to escape. Come on!”

  They drew their swords and hurried towards the roundhouses. There was little need for subtlety now. The settlement was in so much of an uproar that nobody would stop to question them. Two roundhouses were blazing and the villagers were forming bucket lines from the spring in a desperate attempt to douse the flames. Warriors ran towards the north-eastern wall of the compound and formed a defensive line at its gate. Hounds yelped and bayed as they were whipped into action and small parties made to leave the compound to flush out the attackers but they hesitated in the face of the darkness and the woods. The did not know how many enemies were out there.

  Arthur and Cei tensed for a fight as a figure ran towards them but relaxed their guard when they saw it was Guihir.

  “Get out of sight, you fools!” he yelled at them. “You stick out like sore thumbs, the pair of you!”

  They made for the western wall and clambered over it, rolling across its turf surfacing to land in the mud on the other side. Somebody within the compound yelled and they knew that their escape had been noticed.

  They cut a bee-line for the woods but by the sound of the hounds giving chase behind them they were being hotly pursued. Branches snapped at them like whips and ferns and roots tried to trip them as they plunged into the earthy blackness of the woods. The moon was shielded by the wavering pines above and the dank darkness of the forest consumed them.

  On and on they pushed, the sound of the chase behind them reminding Arthur of that awful day they had been pursued across the breadth of the island by the same enemy. That had led them to Cunedag’s lys (and to Guenhuifar). Where would this chase lead them?

  The forest grew thicker and running became impossible. It wasn’t just the terrifying feeling of not knowing what lay three feet in front of them but the tangles of thorns and dense foliage seemed like an impenetrable wall that was intent on keeping them out. They had to push through it or face the hounds and warriors that pursued them.

  “Where are Menw and the others?” Cei panted over Arthur’s shoulder. The muffled density of the forest made them feel like they were breathing into each other’s ears.

  “Way behind us,” said Arthur. “Or retreated to safety with any luck.”

  “Then why did we head into this?” Cei demanded, batting a branch away with his sword.

  “It’s the only cover,” said Guihir. Better in here than running across open fields.”

  “Have you any idea where we are going?”

  “No. I wish Cundelig were with us.”

  It didn’t matter to Arthur where they were going, only forward; away from their pursuers. They would press on until it was dawn and then they would have a better idea of where they were. They were on an island. This forest could only be so big.

  They found a stony glade which provided them with a respite from the cloying claustrophobia of the woods and gave them a window to the starry sky above, encircled by the gently swaying tips of the pine trees. The air was cool and refreshing. They had long given up running, the thick foliage forcing them to walk for over an hour now, yet Arthur felt the desperate need to stop and breathe.

  “Well, I think we can safely say that the plan has gone sideways,” said Cei. “You led us into the Gael’s bloody camp, not the sacred lake of the Morgens!”

  “I hardly had a choice,” said Guihir. “When those hunters spotted us, they insisted on escorting me to their village.”

  “Did they ask you about the cartload of corpses you were driving?”

  “Of course they bloody did! That settlement we escaped from is the closest settlement to the lake of the Morgens. Those villagers provide the nine sisters with the bulk of the corpses and they wanted to know who I was. I had a hard time of it convincing them that I had been sent from a settlement on the eastern side of the island. I told them that the Morgens were branching out as there were more graves on that side. They seemed to believe that readily enough.”

  “Did they say what they are using the corpses for?” Cei asked.

  “No. They have no idea. This lot are farmers, fishers and craftsmen. Only a few of have any contact with the Morgens; the ones who deliver the corpses for their necromancy but even they don’t know much about it.”

  “Necromancy?” Arthur asked. “That’s what they said?”

  “Well, the Gaelic word is close enough. They’re a superstitious lot and believe whatever the Morgens tell them. They only rob Christian graves. The graves of pagans and the ancient mounds are to be left well alone and that suits the Gaels well enough. They’re mostly pagans themselves and are only too happy to desecrate the graves of Christians.”

  “A grave is a grave and should be bloody well left alone,” said Cei. “Pagan or otherwise.”

  “Can’t disagree with you there,” Guihir said.

  “How long until dawn?” Arthur asked.

  “Difficult to say with nothing but trees around us,” said Guihir, “but my guess is that it’s a good four hours off.”

  “Let’s keep walking south,” Arthur said. “If the lake of the Morgens is beyond this forest then maybe Menw will lead the others to it and we can meet up there and plan what to do next.”

  They plodded on, single file. Cei led the way, hacking a path through the thorns and low branches with his sword. The ground rose up and down in a series of hills and dips, carpeted with pine needles which muffled their footfalls as well as those of anybody who might be following them.

  The moonlight was filtered by the piny branches and little of it reached the forest floor. Cei pushed through to a low sweep of ground and his sword arm was granted a respite. It was then that they heard it; a distant crackling of somebody or something moving through the woods to their right, a little behind them.

  “Are we being pursued?” Arthur whispered.

  “They’re being bloody quiet about it if we are,” said Cei.

  They stood stock still and looked behind them. There, where the small rise dipped away to their right, something was causing the branches to waver. There was a snapping of twig
s.

  They hurried down the slope at a quiet jog, stumbling and sliding before the density of the trees thickened once more and they pushed on blindly. Arthur was in front now and he could feel Cei’s hot breath on his neck and farther back the frightened panting of Guihir.

  Thoughts ran through his mind of what pursued them. He knew that it had to be the Gaels from the village they had escaped from but the moonlit trees and the blackness that filled the gaps between them coupled with the island’s dark history made phantoms leap and caper in his mind. He thought of the druids, butchered by the Romans an age past, their spirits haunting the forests and moors of Ynys Mon. He thought of the Morgens and their dark sorcery, of the dead risen from their cauldron.

  He was so thirsty. They had not carried any water with them in the cart. It had been sometime that morning when he had last drunk anything and now thirst burned in his throat, making every swallow a dry and painful exercise. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, every pace through the forest fought for with his sword as if he were on the battlefield, fighting for quarter against innumerable hosts.

  The forest grew thicker and thicker and as the ground rose up into another hill, Arthur slipped and scrabbled for a foothold on the mossy rocks. There was no way through. They would have to turn back and find a way around and hope they didn’t run into their pursuers.

  There was no sign of Cei and Guihir. A feeling of deep fear crawled up out of his gut with the realisation that he was totally alone. Where had they gone? When had they gone? How long had he blundered onwards, oblivious that he was wandering away from his companions?

  He retraced the last few minutes in his mind. He had definitely heard Cei treading behind him recently so they couldn’t have been separated for very long. They were probably nearby, looking for him. He wanted to call out but fear held a check on his voice; fear that the others would hear.

  He squinted into the blackness. It was hopeless. Cei and Guihir might only be a few paces away and he wouldn’t see them for the silver trunks, tangled briar and impenetrable darkness. If only he could call out to them…

  But there! A crackle of branches to his left. A dim movement. They were nearby after all! They had just lost sight of each other for a moment. No need to panic.

  “Cei!” he hissed. There was no answer. “Cei!”

  The movement and the snapping of twigs continued. Cei had to hear him at this close distance. Why wasn’t he answering? “Cei!” he said, louder this time.

  The movement stopped. The branches shivered in the wake of whoever had brushed past them and then were still. Nothing.

  Something struck Arthur on the left side of his face. A blinding white light filled his vision and his head was seized by an agonising pain. He felt the forest floor under his right cheek – pine needles sticking to his sweaty face. And then he felt nothing at all.

  Voices.

  Woodsmoke.

  Pain.

  Daylight.

  Daylight? How long had he been asleep?

  And then he realised that he had not been sleeping. The daylight that streamed in through the smoke hole above and peeped in from behind the hide apron, bluish and blinding, was not the light of morning shining through his Roman arch window at Cair Cunor. The bracken beneath him was not the straw of his bunk in the praetorium. Where the hell was he?

  The events of the last few days shuffled themselves into some sort of order in his mind. Menw. The cauldron. The Gaels. The village. The forest and… here. Smoke hole. Thatched roof. Daylight. Pain. Gods, the pain! The left side of his face felt twice as big as the right. His left eyebrow sagged, partially obscuring his vision. He reached up and touched it gingerly. It was swollen and several bristly things brushed his fingertips. Stitches?

  He sat up and the walls swirled nauseatingly. He was in a roundhouse. It was morning. He could hear people outside. Birds. Wind.

  The hide apron was swept suddenly aside and Arthur shielded his eyes from the blinding light. A figure crawled in and squatted beside him. A wooden ladle was pressed to his lips and Arthur drank, cautiously at first and then, upon realising that it was fresh water, gulped and slurped thirstily, unable to stop much of it running down his chin to soak the front of his tunica.

  His carer moved back and Arthur got a better look at him. He was old, impossibly old, with wispy bits of white hair sprouting from the sides of a bald pate which was peeling and liver spotted. The old man grinned at Arthur and there were no teeth in that grin.

  “You’re drinking the Goddess’s waters, lad,” he said. “Sacred water.”

  The Goddesses waters? Then it occurred to Arthur where he might be. “The lake? The lake of the Morgens?”

  The toothless old man gurned at him and scuttled off. Arthur tried to get up off his pallet but his leg was restrained by something. He then found the manacle that attached his right leg to one of the roundhouse’s supports by a length of chain. He tugged at it but both chain and support were strong. He knew that if he dug deep enough into the hard-packed earthen floor he would be able to free himself but he had a feeling his attendant would not leave him alone for long.

  As he suspected, the old man was soon back, this time bearing a wooden bowl of stew which was thin and watery. Lumps of unidentifiable meat floated in it which, upon tasting, Arthur could deduce that they came from some sort of bird.

  “Eat,” urged the old man. “Be strong. You will need your strength.” He smiled.

  “What for?” Arthur asked him.

  The toothless grin widened. “The Nine wish to question you.”

  Arthur felt a deep, primal fear rising in his gut. It was the same fear he had felt ever since they had set out form Cair Cunor but now that somebody was here to give voice to it, the fear threatened to choke him.

  The Nine. The Sea-born.

  Here he was then. At the goal of their quest, alone, injured and – now it occurred to him – completely unarmed.

  The old man left him with his stew and Arthur ate slowly, reluctantly giving in to his hunger knowing that he was being fed for a purpose. He was being kept alive for questioning.

  He was left alone for much of the day and all he could do was lie on his pallet and listen to the sounds outside. Many different voices passed back and forth beyond the hide apron of his prison. He guessed that he was in some sort of settlement built to support the Morgens. Its inhabitants, like the old man, were probably their servants.

  He wondered what had happened to Cei and Guihir. Had they been killed? Had they wandered off after losing sight of him to meet up with Menw and the others, abandoning him to an unknown fate in the forest? Or had they been captured too? The thought of them being held in separate huts somewhere nearby kindled a dim hope in him. If they could somehow work together, they might just be able to escape.

  The old man returned as the light outside was starting to bronze with the onset of dusk. He was not alone this time. Two youths were with him. One was strong and broad in the chest while the other was thin and had the look of an idiot about him. Both were shaven-headed. “It is time,” the old man said to Arthur, and produced a pair of pliers.

  At first, Arthur thought he was going to be tortured on the spot, but the old man used the pliers to remove the pin from his leg manacle. As soon as he was free, the two youths pounced on him and began to bind his arms behind his back. Arthur tensed, his body wanting to lash out, to defend himself, but he knew it would be fruitless. The old man had brought along help for a reason.

  He was hauled to his feet and pulled out of the roundhouse. The sun was setting, turning the ocean to the west a disc of fire. He was near the coast on marshy land where the reeds danced in the wind. The settlement was clustered around the shores of a small lake, the surface of which shimmered in the breeze. Simple folk in rough spun garments stared at him as he was led off.

  He was taken to the shores of the lake and led around its reedy edge to an area set apart from the settlement. There was no fence or enclosure although
a lone portal of timbers had been constructed through which Arthur was led. Its lintel was crowned by a raven carved in age-blackened wood and the wooden posts that supported it contained cavities into which human skulls had been set, their idiot grins laughing at him.

  A large roundhouse occupied the area and at a glance, it was markedly different to the other roundhouses clustered around the lake. It was decorated with many twisted feathers, skulls and bones – both animal and human – and woven figurines that dangled and turned in the wind.

  Several cookfires radiated heat nearby and the steam from three or four bubbling cauldrons drifted on the wind. But none of these charred old things could possibly be the cauldron of legend they were pursuing. They were little more than cookpots although what boiled within Arthur could only guess at. The stench was foul and as they passed, he was able to peer over the rim of one. He saw bones, white and glistening, turning over and over in the milky depths.

  As he was brought up to the doorway of the roundhouse, the hide apron twitched and was pulled aside. Figures began to emerge and the sight of them made Arthur cringe in fear for he felt as if he had entered the darkest and most nightmarish parts of the pagan Otherworld.

  They wore black robes which concealed their forms and he did not know if they were fat, thin or even man or woman beneath them. All had long hair; straggly, greasy tendrils into which had been woven many ornaments of bone and bronze. Their faces had been smeared with some sort of greasy white substance and their eyes circled in charcoal which made them look like spectres. The paint was cracked and peeling as if it had been applied a long time ago and never washed off, only slathered with new layers. Despite the lack of any concrete evidence, Arthur got the impression that they were women. They seemed to be very old although it was difficult to tell beneath the caked cosmetics. They were nine in number.

  “Welcome,” said one of them who seemed to be both the least decrepit and the senior in command. “Are you feeling rested?”