The Exile (2 page)

The singing and dancing began again, and with it, the drinking. It was a time for celebration. Even Tall Iesin, the storyteller, had come home to pay his respects to the old king. Iesin sat cross-legged on a dolmen, a beautifully carved stone that had toppled onto its side, and picked out the chords of "Llew Silverhand". The ballad of the legendary hero was a crowd-pleaser; it had all the aspects of a great story, adventure, romance, danger, passion, earth magic and the crawling horrors of madness and betrayal. A few voices sang along. Drinkers gathered around the storyteller as he wove his magic. It was a fitting send-off.

The first drops of rain fell as Sláine dropped to one knee and bowed his head. He mumbled a few words: a short prayer to the Goddess.

Roth took a handful of earth and cast it over the blackened remains of the old king. "To the earth returned."

Sláine savoured the sensation of the rain running down his neck in silence. In the most basic of ways the sensation proved he was alive. The world touched him.

"Be happy in your new life, my King," he said finally and pushed himself to his feet. He cast a glance over his shoulder towards the trees, but neither the maiden nor Calum's ghost were watching.

"Fine sentiments, lad," Roth said. "Come, let's send the old bugger off in style, shall we?"

The rain grew heavier as the day wore into night but it did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the revellers. They drank, they sang, they danced, they toasted the dead king, and as the darkness came more than a few slipped off into the woods, emboldened by the heady mix of drink and lust. It was ever thus: sex and death, death and sex, the two were inextricably intertwined.

Nine months from now, more than a few babes would come into the world owing their life to the dead king's wake.

It was natural. There was nothing like the physical act of sex to reaffirm the most basic truths: that you were a living breathing beast, that the blood pumped through your veins, that you were potent, vital, and virile.

Black smoke still hung in a thick pall over the nemeton.

No decision had been made.

The duration of the decision process caused some discussion over the dwindling cups as the men of the tribe got down to some serious drinking. Tales grew taller and more outrageous. Claims of prowess took on epic proportions as every last one of the Red Branch embroidered stories around their heroics. If they were to be believed, each and every one of them had wrestled giant earth wyrms, and cracked open a leviathan's skull, scooped out its rotten brains and fried them for breakfast. Tankards banged on tabletops demanding more ale. The stories grew ever more outrageous. Sláine sat beside his father, watching the men as they made fools of themselves with their boasting. Even a youngster like Sláine could hear the hollow ring of their lies.

It was all bravado, he realised, listening to the stories. No one dared deny the deeds of others, so they fabricated heroics of their own, layering boast upon boast, while somewhere near the bottom the truth was decidedly more mediocre and far less heroic.

More drinks were drunk, belches belched, toasts toasted and lies laid down. Most of them wove around Calum in some way. The boy knew that the warriors' tall tales he was hearing in the round hall were the beginnings of what would become the old king's legend. They needed his exploits to be larger than life so that he could live on in life as majestically as he would in death. In their own way they were making him immortal.

"Even death couldn't hold him." The words came out before he could stop them. He wanted them to believe him. "It's true. I saw his spirit disappearing into the trees with the Goddess even as his body burned."

"Good one, lad," Ansgar said, slapping him on the back. "I can see the old bugger doin' just that. Always was one for thinkin' with his little head when he got his blood fired up." The warrior laughed at his own joke, but around him the laughter began to take a darker turn as the cups ran dry and tempers frayed.

"He was twice the man you'll ever be, Ansgar Mac Caw," Sláine's father said, shaking his head in disgust.

Ansgar's brow furrowed with the effort of thought. Not exactly handsome to begin with, the effect made it look as if someone had stuffed a bag with rocks and painted eyes, nose and mouth on it.

"You're asking for a world of hurt to come crashin' down on your shoulders, Bellyshaker."

"Oh aye?"

Ansgar lurched to his feet and staggered forwards. He swung a clubbing fist at the side of Roth's head but missed and went sprawling across the reed floor where he lay in a stupor. After a minute, he spluttered something that sounded like "urrrgh", gurgled and lapsed into unconsciousness. That brought a different kind of laughter from the drinkers as their good humour returned.

Roth was the first to notice the white smoke. He slammed his tankard on the table and smacked his lips loudly. "Come on, lad. They've made up their minds." He pushed back the bench and rose unsteadily to his feet. Sláine ducked in under his father's shoulder to stop him from falling as they walked to the nemeton.

The protectors of the faith made them wait, filing out of the nemeton one by one, each bearing some symbol of the Goddess: a tree branch, a sprig of mountain heather, feathers from a crow's wing, a pot-bellied earthen figurine and a garland of spring blossoms.

Sláine studied their movements. It was plain to see, even from the way they walked, that the priests of Danu were half-men. They moved without any of the natural grace or power of a Red Branch warrior. Their bones were brittle. He knew that all their strength resided in their link to the Earth Power. They were conduits. They tapped the very magic of the Goddess herself. They fed off the earth, touching the essential mysteries of nature. They claimed that their link to Danu made them favoured of the Goddess, chosen children, and that in turn made them more powerful than even the mightiest warrior. Sláine pictured a stone axe cracking a few druid skulls. The image raised a smile to his tight lips. It was hard to argue strength with a stone axe buried in your head.

Cathbad raised a hand for silence. In his other hand he held the mask of the Horned God, the masculine aspect of the land's magic.

The druids circled around him, falling to their knees and lowering their eyes to the dirt of the earth. They laid their talismans at their feet.

The rain added a sense of the elemental to the ritual.

They waited.

Cathbad called on the men who would be king, beckoning them to stand forward. Sláine looked at his father. Even at this late juncture there was still a chance that a new claim could be staked.

Roth made no move to join the claimants.

Kilian, Druse, Cuinn, Grudnew, Orin and Phelan stood before the druid awaiting judgement. Only Kilian's face betrayed any trace of emotion. The warrior's pride was plain for all to see. Sláine knew that he was the obvious choice. His father had schooled him in the relative merits of the would-be kings.

"Are these all who would guide and serve as protector of our people?" Cathbad intoned, turning slowly in a circle. He cast ash from the holy fire on each of the cardinals, north, south, east and west, letting the powder disperse on the four winds. The ash was from the rowan tree, one of the sacred woods. "Blessed be our protectors, beloved of Danu; may the Goddess look upon the Sessair with grace and favour in the days ahead. May she grant our new king strength when strength is called for and wisdom when wisdom is lacking. May the new king of the Sessair have the bearing of the mountain and the relentless nature of the stream, carrying us forwards into the sea of tomorrow. Let him flow around obstacles and stand undaunted in the face of our enemies. Let the essences of the earth, of river and mountain, embody our leader."

One by one, Cathbad walked the line of men, marking them with a thumbprint of white ash on the bridges of their noses.

"Who is the river?"

None of the men answered.

"Who here stands as the mountain?"

Still no one spoke.

"Who here is rightful heir to Calum Mac Cathair?"

Cathbad walked the line of men again. This time he paused behind Grudnew. No one dared breathe as the old man laid a cadaverous hand on the new king's shoulder.

Grudnew remained unmoving as the druid placed the mask of the Horned God over his face.

While all eyes were on the new king accepting the horned mask, Sláine looked along the line of men, at those passed over. His father had taught him that the measure of a man was in how he took defeat. Sláine found it a fascinating notion that the greatest strength came in the mastery of failure and not in the simplest successes. Kilian flinched physically as Cathbad proclaimed: "The king is dead! Long live the king!" to the raucous cheers of the gathering.

Sláine made himself a silent promise:

He would be the mountain.

He would be the river.

Two

Beltain's Fire

Beltain promised to be a rare treat. With a new king, the traditional celebrations took on an added air of importance among the men of the Sessair. Grudnew would light the huge Beltain bonfire, and with it, signal the beginning of the games. Murias was abuzz with anticipation. The men drove themselves hard. They ran, they sparred, and they tossed cabers and hurled spears, forcing themselves into greater and greater feats of prowess. Their spears sank into the earth a step further on, they crossed the finish line a step sooner, and they punched harder, climbed higher, and dived deeper. They forced themselves to do everything better because to do less was to fail. Grudnew was an unknown entity. He had not curried favour or promised alliances as Kilian, Orin and Phelan had. He hadn't fallen into the first - and perhaps most fatal - trap of kingship: elevating fools because of friendship. He kept his own council. He watched the men, judging them on their abilities, allowing for their weaknesses and seeking out the strengths in others to complement and compensate for them.

Every king gathered his faithful to his side. Every leader had his chosen ones. Grudnew was no fool. He understood that the men he chose to surround himself with stood as the foundations for his reign. It was through them that the Sessair would find greatness, not through him. He was one man. They were the heart of the tribe.

And so the competition for Grudnew's favour would be fierce.

Each man approached the games with the sure and certain knowledge that his place in the tribe depended very much on his showing in the coming games.

No warrior wanted to be humiliated before the new king.

The children's games were no less competitive, and the young men of the tribe no less eager to prove themselves in the eyes of the men. The games were a trial, a trial of strength, of guile, of technique, and, as with their fathers' games, only the most exceptional of the youths could hope to triumph.

"If that is the best you can manage, Sláine Mac Roth, you might as well stay in bed come games day!" Cullen of the Wide Mouth sneered. His own spear had fallen six inches closer to the mark than Sláine's, just as his clachneart had sailed another foot before the stone embedded itself in the dirt, and his caber turned a degree closer to true. Núada and Cormac had yet to throw but it didn't matter, neither could hope to match Cullen's spear for distance or accuracy.

They didn't. Núada's landed a full fifteen feet shy of Sláine's mark. Cormac's was closer, but not by much.

Sláine trudged up to reclaim his spear.

He dragged his feet.

He wasn't used to being second best.

"Another throw?" he asked, working his spear free.

"Why bother? We all know how it will end." Cullen held his hands up, fingers just wide enough apart to signify the shortfall between their spears. "Or do you enjoy losing?"

Cullen of the Wide Mouth had been swaggering around the settlement for weeks, boasting about how he would walk the path of heroes and be crowned champion of the games just as his father would emerge victorious in the senior tournament. Sláine was loath to admit it and with good reason. Cullen was almost a full year older than Sláine and the other lads. This made him a step faster and stronger, and he already had the endurance of men twice his age. He was also every bit as cunning and ruthless as a weasel. Few doubted he would follow his father into the Red Branch when the time of the choosing came.

For all that, his talent hadn't earned him any friends. Cullen was a dour spirit who solved his problems with his fists. He saw little joy in life outside fighting. He was a natural bully and saw his strength as proof of his divine right to make life a living hell for anyone who couldn't stand up to him. Of all the young men of the tribe Cullen of the Wide Mouth was the one Sláine Mac Roth had least time for.

Sláine saw Wide Mouth for what he was: a bully, a liar and a cheat.

That was how he had earned his name.

Fionn had caught him out in a series of vile lies involving his younger sister, Elspet, and made sure that everyone knew exactly what kind of a gutless liar Cullen was. Cullen had blackened Fionn's eye for it but it didn't matter. The name stuck because Cullen was incapable of giving an honest answer; his mouth was so wide he couldn't even speak straight, that's what Fionn said. In the eyes of the Sessair Cullen would be a man soon, but he would not be known as a good one.

These would be his last junior games - and a new king would be watching.

Sláine wanted nothing more than to humble the wide-mouthed braggart. Nothing would give him more pleasure.

"I'm done here. I'll let you have a taste of victory, Sláine. Even you ought to be able to outdistance these losers."

A murder of crows flew in a thick bank of black overhead, circling over the rooftops of the village while the boys threw again. Sláine hurled his spear a full six feet beyond the scar in the earth that marked where Wide Mouth's spear had fallen. There was no satisfaction in it. Cullen wasn't there to see it. Sláine collected his spear and threw again, and again, both times surpassing Cullen's last throw.