The Hadassah Covenant

by Robert Holdstock

  Dogs roamed and scavenged. Horses were broken, trimmed and harnessed, given names, a few sacrificed, their haunches cast into the flooding water, the rest distributed to the elite among the horsemen.

  Everything was restless, nervous, a suppressed energy that would very soon burst out into the land around like water from behind a frozen wall of ice. Brennos sensed the urgency of the need to make a move sooner, rather than later.

  But a moon waxed and waned.

  Then horns and trumpets, sounding a distant din from the western hills, signalled the final arrival of the Gauls, and the Albanii from the Island of Ghosts, and the fiery Celidonii with their wild running-dancing way of moving. It was evening. Orange light glinted on what seemed a thousand raised spears and shields, and then a thousand more as the tribes spilled over the crests of the hills and down towards the river, wildly yelling, racing their small horses, pursued by a horde of barking dogs and shouting children.

  As these last arrivals were greeted, fed, numbered and divided between the armies, away from the mayhem a small band of skirmishers from the south rode quietly to the gates of Brennos’s enclosure, six men in all, wrapped well against the chill, well provisioned, well armoured, totally exhausted. Lord Bolgios, wine flask in hand, came out to meet them.

  ‘We’d given you up for dead.’

  ‘The dead have given us back,’ the dark-eyed man who led them answered. ‘We’ve been in Hell, and no doubt about that, but it seems we’re not welcome there. But the route you propose will work. There are watch stations at the heads of most of the valleys, easy enough to overcome. Only the pass in Thessaly will cause difficulty.’

  ‘You’ll be able to tell us all about it later. But first you need sleep. Welcome back, Orgetorix. And well done.’

  A day later, Brennos lit five great fires in the sprawling royal enclosure he had constructed at the heart of the gathering, and sent for the kings, warlords and champions of every tribe to come and feast and learn the details of the quest ahead. They came dressed for ceremony, high-crested helmets, bright-coloured cloaks, shimmering bronze and gold at their necks and arms, riding the best of the horses, which shone behind their armoured masks. The smell of roasting meat and hot, honeyed wine was rich in the air. Four hundred men feasted for a day, and not one was allowed the best cut but rather all who had come to the feast were given a portion of all cuts; fighting and abuse were limited to the verbal kind, though a few jugs and plates were thrown. But a guard of men with throwing spears stood around the feast with instructions to strike down any man, no matter how high in rank, who drew sword from scabbard.

  Truth to tell, it was curiosity as much as anything that kept these champions on their best behaviour.

  Early in the afternoon, a pair of hawks appeared, hovering above the fires in the enclosure as if watching the events below. When, later, drunk, Tungorix of the Avernii used slingshot to strike the male on the wing, bending back the feathers, Brennos ordered him to leave the enclosure. He had taken the birds as an omen of far sight and good luck. That luck had been wounded

  ‘Nemetona has sent them. Hawks like those can see both danger and their prey as if by magic. In the same way we shall see danger ahead, and spot our prey as if with the eyes of hawks. All birds are good omens.’

  A while later, though, one of the hawks flew down to get a closer look. But a raven dropped suddenly from the sky in a panic of spread wings, chasing the hawks back to the blue before landing on the table where Bolgios and his commanders were seated in brooding silence. It raised its wings to cast shade over the weary face of Orgetorix, seated at the same table. Then it snatched a bone from the wooden platter from which Bolgios himself was eating and launched itself into the air, but rather than departing back to its rook, it attacked the hawks again, which dived and veered and fled the scene, though they returned soon after to continue their hovering observation.

  After that, Bolgios’s mood darkened, though he refused to refer to the counsel of a wise man in order to correctly interpret the sign.

  Brennos now decided to call an end to the feast and finally declare the nature of the quest to which he had dedicated two years of his life, and for which he had sent riders to the ends of the known world.

  He pinned a red, rough wool cloak at his shoulder, climbed the ramp to the watch platform inside the wall, and looked down at the gathered host, smiling as he saw the mess of bones, bread and spilled wine that covered the long tables. The mood was good. He had carried a small oval shield with him, and this he now placed at his feet. There was nothing on the shield but polished wood and a small bronze boss. In effect, he was stripped of status. And with this humility he addressed the assembled kings, chiefs and champions.

  ‘I am Brennos! I have a clan, a family and land. But as of this moment I have no clan, family or land. You are my clan. You are my family. And my land is the dream that was sent to me from Ghostland—to summon and lead a great army of the best of us, the most courageous of us, the most feared of us!

  ‘I am nothing without you. When the dream is fulfilled, I will be nothing more than a man who once dreamed. But until then, I am Brennos! And you have answered my call to arms. And now you need to know the reason for the call.

  ‘Is there any man here who does not know how our ancestors were robbed by brutal pillagers, murderers and mercenaries, people who were strangers in our land? Armed men who came without thought of peace or trade, but only with thoughts of destruction, despoliation, desecration and the plundering of our sacred groves and the high, proud tombs of our forefathers! If such a man is here, then he was born without a past. But there are no such men here, I am certain of that.

  ‘Those strangers took away our chariots, our shields, our heads and our hearts. And they took all that was shaped from gold and silver, and was sacred. All that had been fashioned from bronze and obsidian, all that was sacred to us because it held the richest part of the life of our clans—our ancestors! Those precious objects were the vessels from which the dead were able to move among us. They were stolen. To be offered to the blind caves in the mountains of the south, where windy voices and wine-sodden gods and goddesses tell lies about their futures. These places are called oracles and they are stuffed with infamy. And filled with treasure. And that treasure is our stolen heritage.

  ‘Is there any man here who has not heard the wailing of our ancestors, now that their lives of adventure, of feasting and of combat in our ghostlands has been blighted? Their worldly memory is not in its place in our houses, but locked away in those temples of lies, the sick booty of men who are strangers to us. Every man here has heard those wails, I am certain of that. Looking at you, I see the tears in your eyes. We have all suffered.’

  He was silent for a moment, then went on, quietly at first:

  ‘When I was a boy, I watched my father fight for honour in single combat. Five times in as many years. What man among you has not done the same at some time in his life? Not one of you, I am sure of that. Five times in all, my father fought: in each fight using chariot and our swift, short, throwing spears; then on foot with sword and the long stabbing spear; then in water with axe and shield, and then in the racing, running, jumping way. Four times, in these challenges, he was the victor, and the fifth time he gave his head, and it was honourably given and honourably taken. I was older by then. Two years later I raided his killer and took back the head. I did it swiftly, fairly, decisively. Honourably! If any one of you has taken back the head of a father, a brother, an uncle, a foster brother, strike the table! Strike it now!’ he shouted.

  ‘By the Lord of Thunder himself, that is a frightening sound you make. Even iron-striking Teutates, Lord of Lightning, would quake at that sound. Yes, as you have made clear by that clamour, we have all done it. We have all seen a loved one killed swiftly, fairly, decisively. Honourably! And we have taken vengeance swiftly, fairly, decisively. Honourably!’

  He looked up to the sky and pointed. ‘We are like those two hawks that hover over us. Do yo
u see them? They are still there. They are from forest-loving Nemetona, or perhaps from battle-hungry Badb, Queen of Slaughter, what does it matter? They are no ordinary hawks, they are watching us, and listening to us, and we are the same, ready to watch, to listen, and then to strike, suddenly, swiftly, decisively!

  ‘You saw the raven that pecked at the bones on Bolgios’s plate. That was not an omen of death. Cheer up, Bolgios, good friend! That raven was a lesson. It struck without honour; it is a carrion bird; but it will steal good meat if it finds it; the strangers who came to our lands were carrion seekers. They found something precious and took advantage of our infighting and our weariness of war. They stole our ancestors.

  ‘After a day’s fighting, we are all weak. Our spilled blood turns rivers red. Wolves could bloat on the flesh we carve from each other’s limbs. But in the morning we are strong again, our strength returns, and the fight is on.

  ‘The strangers struck when we were weak. They stole our memories, they stole our lives. Now we are strong. Now we will take back our lives, our gold, our silver, our masks, our chariots, everything that is precious to us, everything that was looted from us, everything that is hoarded by those strangers.

  ‘It will be a long march, and a difficult passage. But the further we go the warmer and brighter that march will be. Why? Because we are going to Greek Land! We are going to raid Greek Land! We will take back everything that is ours, from the land of the Illyrians, and from Makedonia, where Aleksandros kept his spoils. But Greek Land is where we will find the glory of our ancestors! At a place called Delphi, where a snake guards the cave where most of our past lies stored. We will cut the head from the snake, rip the hearts from the so-called priests who collect the tribute, then break open the earth itself. And take back our fathers’ lives!’

  These last words, almost screamed, drew a clamorous response from the guests in the enclosure. As they cheered and drummed the tables with their fists and swords, Brennos again looked up at the hovering hawks, and for a moment, so fleeting that only Orgetorix at the feast noticed it, there was uncertainty in his eyes.

  As Brennos came down the ramp, Orgetorix came towards him, bringing him his boar’s-tusk helmet. Brennos watched him carefully but kindly.

  ‘That was a fine speech. I’m impressed by this gathering, Lord Brennos. Aleksandros, as you call him, raised an army and conquered half the known world and much that was unknown. But this horde is countless. You could conquer the gods themselves. And you called them here on your word alone. I’m impressed.’

  Brennos accepted the compliment humbly. ‘It still remains to be done, Orgetorix. I’m making a claim for more warriors than I actually have. Sometimes what seems like a thousand is only a hundred. So several thousand can seem tens of thousands. And I have no intention of conquering the gods themselves. Except for that snake at Delphi. For the rest, I’ll leave the Greeklanders’ gods alone. This is about plunder; and the return of a plundered past.’

  ‘The past can be robbed in many different ways, Brennos.’

  The warlord tugged at his moustache as he digested this impertinent observation. He smiled thinly, then agreed. ‘Yes it can. And one day I shall ask you about your own plundered past. And why you, a Greeklander, pretend to be other than you are, and call yourself “King of Killers”. Orgetorix! But for the moment, you are my guide into Greek Land—your land!—and I trust you.’

  ‘You trust me?’

  ‘Yes. I choose to trust you. Only Lords Bolgios and Achichoros know our true strength. Yes, I trust you, and I suppose I must trust those grim-faced vagabonds who guard your back. What I don’t trust is those hawks.’ He glanced up at the hovering birds. ‘They have watched us for too long. They are not natural.’

  ‘Nor was the raven,’ Orgetorix agreed. ‘It upset Bolgios, but it was my face shadowed by its wings.’

  Brennos considered this carefully. ‘Yes. It frightened Bolgios. And Bolgios is not an easily frightened man.’

  ‘It took his food. That’s what frightened Bolgios. But ravens do that. They scavenge. This raven scavenged. But the scavenger was only the bird in the raven. There was something else in the raven, something that raised its wings to block my eyes from the evening sun. Or perhaps from those hawks.’

  ‘More than a bird, then. A ghost.’

  ‘More than a bird,’ Orgetorix agreed. ‘Perhaps a ghost. But not frightening. Almost … protecting. Those hawks trouble me more. We are being watched, that’s certain. All my life I’ve been watched. And suddenly I feel I’m being hunted. I don’t know if those hawks are watching me, or you. But even if you do not have the one hundred times a thousand men-at-arms your dream insisted on, by my count you have a good quarter of that number—the Greeks are good at counting, this one at least—and I can lose myself inside that fierce-raging horde of iron.’

  Brennos said, ‘Lose yourself if you must, but don’t lose sight of me, or where we’re going as we flood into Greek Land, and bloody it. When it comes to those mountains, and the narrow passes—those Hell’s Gates—I shall need your counsel.’

  ‘In my short life I have never met a Celt who trusted a Greek as much as you seem to trust me,’ the young man said.

  Brennos smiled coldly. ‘But you are more Celt than Greek. Everything about you tells me so.’

  ‘I was born in Greek Land. I was stolen from Greek Land. My brother, too. I miss my brother. I am lost from Greek Land, Brennos. I am betraying it to you by guiding you there. But Greek Land is in my heart.’

  ‘Lost land is in your heart,’ Brennos observed, with a quizzical stare at the other man. ‘Your father may have been a Greek, but from what you say, your mother rattled with coloured glass and bright bronze, drank ram’s blood and stank of bitter herbs. An enchantress. In other words, not from Greek Land. You know it and I know it. King of Killers? You would be better named King of Ghosts. Though the Scald Crow alone knows which ghosts clasp their cold fingers around your heart. But I’ve promised to help you with that, and I will. First, though, help me south! Help me to the warm land where my father lies. The warm embrace. Not my father’s embrace alone, but the embrace of all my fathers, and my mothers, my brothers, my sisters—all the stolen dead, carried away by your ghosts, all that time ago, so long ago that perhaps even the stars looked different.’

  Orgetorix smiled, then looked to the evening sky again.

  ‘Do the stars move? Except to fall, I mean. If they do, I’ll not live long enough to see it. But birds … look at those birds … How they move!’

  The hawks had stooped, turned, and suddenly were flying west. Orgetorix watched them, noting with a moment’s puzzlement—indeed, fascination—the way they vanished from the dusk-stained clouds, like puffs of smoke struck by a sudden wind.

  ‘I won’t let you down, my Lord Brennos. But the truth is, we all need ghosts inside us, and I am short of ghosts. If I can find them, if I cage them, I will not answer for anything that has to do with Greek Land coming back to me.’

  ‘You’ll betray me.’

  ‘Certainly not. But I will turn against you. But in the day! Not by night.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Brennos said, reaching for his cloak.

  * * *

  At dawn, all camps were struck and the first of the armies began its ponderous march to the south, Brennos and his cavalry at its head. For two days all that could be heard was the sounding of horns, the rattle of carts and the shouting of orders. In three great waves the shores of the Daan were cleared and left in smoking silence, save for the wolves and dogs that fought for scraps among the smouldering fires and rubbish pits.

  Even this activity had ceased by the time dream-driven Argo drifted into view, sail slung low, grabbing the breeze as she followed the eastward flow of the Daan.

  Desolation and desertion greeted Jason and his crew, but the course of the Great Quest was easily apparent. The horde, Brennos’s legion of vengeance, had cut a swathe south through wood and country that would remain for a generation.

&nb
sp; CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Out of Time

  I have woken from the Death Sleep many times, but never to find a woman laughing in my face with delight.

  ‘We did it! We did it!’ cried this fair-haired vision, her blue eyes wide and radiant with excitement. ‘We flew together!’ She was straddling my body, her hands slapping my cheeks as she roused me from the haunted passages of death.

  ‘Wake up! Merlin! Wake up!’

  When she saw that I had come back to consciousness, she leaned down and pressed her mouth to mine, a strong, hard kiss, hungry and consuming. Her thighs gripped me powerfully, her fingers stroked my closed eyes, celebrating the sights we had seen, perhaps.

  Now she started to tremble, hugging me, soft cheek against mine. ‘We are strong together, Merlin. My father never flew like that. I didn’t think it possible: to fly through the days and weeks. We could fly through the years together!’

  I pushed her away and stood. She looked annoyed. I was shaking too, and was giddy and nauseous with the sense of being high and looking down. I felt like falling. And my right arm was bruised and aching.

  What had she done? What had this northern charmer done to me?

  ‘You look tired, Merlin. And older,’ she murmured, propped on her elbows as she watched me. I held up my hands. The skin was grey, and where wrist joins arm there were ridges and creases that had not been there before.

  ‘You made me fly through time! That was a dreadful, dangerous thing to do.’

  ‘But it was wonderful!’ she said, the excitement returning. She jumped to her feet and tried to hug me again. ‘It was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. We saw the whole army, all of them. And we saw where they’re going! Why are you so angry?’

  ‘Because it was the most dangerous and dreadful thing to do!’ I shouted at her again, stunning her momentarily. My face was sore. My sight still hadn’t returned to normal, I still seemed to be staring down from a great height.