Celtika (40 page)

‘Your heart will hold,’ she said. ‘Pick sharp stones if you can find them; avoid large stones. They’re too heavy to deliver the best blow.’

Now Urtha discarded the stone tied across his heart and hung the gold half-moon around his neck.

He embraced Manandoun and Cathabach, then went down to the water. The light was going fast. Cunomaglos met him in the middle of the stream and the struggle began for the third time.

*   *   *

Watching them strike at each other with stones, then struggle, arms entwined, then fall and flounder, surface and spew water at each other, watching this desperate test of strength was like watching such feats of power from the beginning of Time itself. I have never enjoyed witnessing death. I have certainly seen enough bloody outcomes to satisfy any lingering lust for death I might have savoured.

They might have been wearing the skins of mammoths, or the sharp cuirasses of the Achaeans, who had fought so vigorously on the shores of Ilium. They might have been wild cats squabbling, or kings testing each other to win the favour of a fleet of great ships that spread out across a bay not unlike the bays close to this testing ground, where the chariot racing, and the foot racing, and the ball games, were quiet now.

It made no difference to me. I had seen too much of it before. I felt sickened by it now. And except for the fact that I had a soft spot for Urtha, I might have turned away for ever.

As it was, I turned into myself, curled up, let the grunting drift across me.

Elkavar would have sung that they’d pounded enough rock to fill a cove on the coast, as they struck at each other. Ullanna would have said they should have slept through the night; nothing would come of such blunt brutality.

I could smell the stuff of skulls. Both men had battered each other horribly. Neither would survive.

Ullanna’s wailing cry ‘Not fair!’ roused me. It was twilight. I jumped to my feet to see Urtha staggering before the strike of a spear.

The river was full of spears!

‘Anything the river offers!’ Cunomaglos crowed, as he waded after the retreating king.

I realised at once that somewhere, inland, there must have been a skirmish; weapons and bodies came flowing through the stream. Ullanna had dropped to a mourning crouch, her head down.

‘Anything the river offers!’ the cold and bloody man screeched again, and stabbed again at Urtha, striking the
lunula,
piercing the soft gold, driving him down below the water.

I saw my friend’s hand struggle to the surface and grip on a piece of wood, a broken shaft, pointless, ragged, jagged.

He came up from the river like a man renewed and impaled his aggressor on the shattered wood. Blood pulsed from both men’s chests. Cunomaglos seemed to fade.

Then Maglerd barked, ran to the river, leapt into the stream and dragged the man who had once been his handler down to the river’s bed, down below the flow. The great hound savaged and roared, nose coming up for air, blood on its maw, eyes keen: then down again, to finish what Urtha had started.

Dog and Lord of Dogs slipped towards the sea, a dark struggle passing below the small fire where Luturios kept his careful watch.

Urtha crawled to the bank. Ullanna and Elkavar raced to help him, pulling his beaten body into shelter, wrapping a heavy cloak around his shuddering limbs. Ullanna pulled a narrow-bladed knife from her boot and thrust it through the open flesh of his chest wound, then slapped a great handful of herb-infused moss on to the gash.

‘Still food for reindeers,’ Urtha whispered, with a smile.

Ullanna, tears streaming from her eyes, leaned down and kissed him on the mouth.

‘They won’t dare try,’ she told him gently.

Urtha reached out and gripped her arm, struggling to rise. ‘About the other matter … I must be sure…’

‘That he’s dead? Cunomaglos? Dead and devoured. Your blood rage was enough. And now your hounds are enjoying a good meal. Even Luturios let them go after him. He said, “In my judgement, that is not quite fair. But fair enough.” Urtha, Cunomaglos is gone. Now the others of your
uthiin
are waiting for you.’

‘I thought they might be,’ Urtha said wearily. He was clutching the
lunula
in his arms, running fingers around the gaping split in the gold. ‘Tell Luturios that I’ll discuss combat terms at dawn tomorrow.’ He was paler by the moment. He smiled at me. ‘Merlin will discuss them on my behalf. Nothing too heavy, Merlin. Nothing too sharp,’ he said, trying to joke.

Ullanna took his face in her hands and shook him gently. ‘They are waiting for you to say it’s
ended.
They want to go home. They are in disgrace.’

For a moment Urtha couldn’t speak. His breathing was shallow. He didn’t have long. He was keeping me at a distance, I noticed. This was the way he wanted it. He had fought honourably; he would die peacefully, and in mortal arms, not with some enchanter trying to stem a bleeding in his body that only an enchanter’s eyes could see.

I couldn’t have helped him, anyway. A man’s death is not my business.

Goodbye, Urtha.

‘They must
not
go back to their own land,’ he whispered angrily. ‘Not to my fortress. Anywhere else that will have them. But not there.’

‘Luturios will tell them,’ Ullanna said.

‘As for me,’ said the wraith-like man, ‘I do want to go home.’

And Ullanna said, ‘You’ll go there now. I’ll take you. Let anybody try to stop me!’

*   *   *

We lit two fires by the river, and Bolgios donated one of his fine-sided chariots and six excellent horses, plus provisions, for Ullanna’s long and lonely journey. The warlord was exuberant from the recent battle, away in the hills, where a second army had been defeated. None of us had the heart to tell him that the spoils of that skirmish had floated down the river, and interrupted, fatally, the meeting of the two foster brothers.

Manandoun and Cathabach looked grey-faced and troubled. They wanted to accompany Urtha home as well, but were aware they had made Jason a promise to stay with him until his own business was finished.

I assured them that Jason would have understood. They fetched their provisions, and each took one of Urtha’s hounds.

Ullanna came over to me and gave me an arrow she had made, a small thing, with its flights fashioned from a feathered necklace she had made during her weeks of ‘provisioning’ Argo with her skills, but had never worn.

‘I know you have several things on your mind at the moment; but I expect you’ll find the moment to remember an old friend.’

Her look was ambiguous and intriguing; but all I could see were the tears in her eyes.

I might have left it at that, clutching the arrow and already missing the young Cornovidian king who had become important to me briefly, and was not lost. But nothing is ever as simple as letting go. Time shiplashed me once again, reminding me from her hollow groves and gaping caves, and from her ten, watching faces, that my life was not my own.

*   *   *

The cold, nervous touch on my shoulder startled me. Niiv was behind me, pale in the night and apprehensive. ‘Don’t run from me,’ she whispered urgently; and then again, almost angrily, ‘Don’t run from me. I know I was wrong before. I didn’t mean any harm by it. I’m confused about what I can and cannot do. Don’t punish me for my ignorance. Please! But you
must
do something for him.’

‘For Urtha?’

She was still dressed in trousers and padded leather jacket. Where once frost had crystallised around her eyes and mouth, now I thought it might have been tears that were frozen there. But her young face had hard lines about it, and though her hair was still thick and full, it had that wispiness that always tells of ageing. And that was not a sign I wished to see.

‘Why must I do something for him?’

‘You know why!’ she shouted, almost in pain. ‘You must know why! It won’t cost you much!’

Stunned by this outburst, aware that only Elkavar had seen it (and he discreetly turned his head away), I led Niiv to the river. The water flowed clear and bright in the stars; no more dead were floating down; several broken shafts of weapons had clogged the far bank, and weed stretched away from them, like mourning rags.

It would be the work of moments to push her down and hold her there, and let her slip in Death Sleep down to the sea.

‘I ask again. Why must I do something?’

She hugged her own body, saying nothing. Guilty! My heart froze. I could hardly bring myself to utter the quiet words: ‘You’ve looked ahead … You’ve looked ahead…’

‘Just a little,’ she confessed, and seemed to shrink even more. Then she turned to me, pleading, ‘Only a little! And I didn’t use you. I didn’t look for you and me, only for Urtha. It’s all shadows.’

‘Of course it’s all shadows!’ I remember hissing at her. ‘What did you expect?’ I turned from her, my chest thundering.

What had she done? Had she taken from me again? She said not. Was it possible that she had such power herself? No! It was not possible. She couldn’t be inside me still. But if not using me … then whom?

I heard Niiv say, ‘I can see that I hurt you before. This time, I promise … it’s only because you need to look after Urtha. Don’t abandon me…’

I ran from her.

No screaming, this time, but she watched me from the dark, by the water’s edge, a small, hunched figure, lost in the blossoming of a power that was overwhelming her without her knowledge.

*   *   *

I ran after the chariot, a child chasing his father, a dog scampering after his master on horseback.

Wait for me. Wait for me.

The hounds and the
uthiin
were foraging ahead. Ullanna, riding one of the horses pulling the forlorn carriage, was unaware of me until I clambered in and crouched beside the dying man, holding his hands in mine. The carriage came to a halt. Urtha was deathly cold. He watched me through half-lidded eyes, then frowned.

‘Merlin? What are you doing? You look a little tired.’

‘It’s been a tiring day. Not all of us can afford the time to rollick around in rivers.’ He smiled. ‘But you look a little better,’ I told him truthfully. ‘And I’m certainly surprised by that. I believe you’re in good hands. And I don’t mean mine.’

‘I believe I am,’ he agreed. There was fire in his eyes, though he was paler than the shroud. ‘It’s an odd thing: earlier, after the river, I felt like death. But I didn’t feel like dying. This will be one of the Three Recuperating Journeys that all men must take in their lives. So you can go back to Jason, knowing that I’ll be telling lies about you to my friends before next summer.’

There was nothing I needed to do. I felt elated. His steady gaze followed me as I climbed down from the chariot and stood in the darkness, watching its slow departure to the north, through hostile territory.

He called out, ‘And I expect I’ll see you in Ghostland. One of these years.’

‘Sooner than you might think!’ I shouted back. ‘And I’ll expect deer-flesh and partridge when I come. Don’t forget.’

‘I won’t. But when you come…’ he added with a choking little laugh, ‘do come alone!’

The last thing I saw was his pale hand, raised towards me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Hot Gates

I have rarely in my life felt as melancholy as in those few hours after Urtha’s departure on his long journey home. Elkavar kept me silent company, and Gwyrion and Conan joined us by the fire, close to the river. Niiv, devious Niiv, sat on the high rocks, a huddled shape against the crescent moon, as still as an owl. If she was watching me, I didn’t want to know, although I was again intrigued by her. Her urgent words, at Urtha’s departure, were a nagging reminder of the growing talents of the woman.

For the last two days I had been preoccupied with Urtha. Jason had disappeared south, in pursuit of what I was certain was a piece of Medea’s trickery: the image of his son on horseback, beckoning to him. But Orgetorix, too, had slipped away, towards Thermopylae, scouting the land for Brennos.

There was a degree of disarray in the army. Achichoros had had his own ‘vision’, and decided to ride north, along the coast, and cross into the eastern lands, in the footsteps of Alessandros, where he believed there were easier spoils than at Delphi. He had taken several thousand men and their families, to Bolgios’s fury. Brennos had been philosophical about the action. He was aware that he still had forces enough to press through the narrow pass and further down into Aetolia.

Gebrinagoth and Gutthas had gone with Achichoros, however; and Rubobostes was also becoming restless, I was told. The sweep of Achichoros’s break-away army would take it close to his own land, and he was unhappy with this development, imagining that they would not hesitate to forage and pillage the country of his birth.

He sought me out, looking uncomfortable and depressed, and hot in his black, bearskin cloak, though he refused to remove it. We shared some wine. He told me he would have to take Ruvio, but would ensure strong horses to carry Argo’s heart in wood.

‘Although I’d agreed to sail with Jason only as far as my own land,’ he said, ‘I would have stayed longer. I would like to see him happy. But these armies are more interested in pillage than in the sacred dead…’ he glanced at me carefully, ‘as I imagine you already know…’

I told him that I did, and he went on, ‘And my land has been burned once too often in the last few generations. I will have to persuade Achichorus to keep looking east, and not to the north and east.’

‘You’ll need a lot of Gordion knots to hold them back.’

Rubobostes grinned. ‘I can fashion them faster than a man can empty a flagon of wine.’ He passed me the flagon. I tipped it to my mouth and drank deeply. I couldn’t finish it all, but when I dropped my head and wiped my mouth he was holding a small, exquisite knot towards me, made from a leather lace.

‘To remember me by, although something tells me that my small path and your large one will cross again.’

‘I hope so.’

He rose to his feet, bid me farewell and walked back towards the ranks of men massing behind the standard of Achichorus.