Night of the Fifth Moon (20 page)

While as for Gortigern . . . Ket opened his eyes and scowled at the champion's tent, ringed by burning candles with big, bushy wicks.

‘Just like the candles of a king,' he scoffed. ‘He thinks he is such a grand, important personage.'

He thought of Tirech's struggle for compensation, he thought of Gortigern at the king's banquet striking his unarmed opponent with a dagger. Despite Nessa's words, despite the druid's declamations, Ket could not believe that Gortigern was worthy.

‘He doesn't deserve to win. He doesn't deserve the druid's support. And Bran doesn't deserve to die!'

A picture of the deer's entrails, spattered and bloody on the altar stone, rose in Ket's mind. He leapt to his feet, trying to escape the nauseating image, but now other pictures kept flashing into his head, imaginary pictures of Bran with dead unseeing eyes like the deer, Bran with his head chopped off, and his brains all . . .

Ket clutched his belly and vomited into the fire.

He sank down and buried his head in his hands.

‘I can't let it happen,' he thought, ‘I can't let it happen!'

There was a sourness in his mouth and it was not just from being sick. It was the taste of loss, of fear, of bewilderment. In his race to be the chosen anruth, he had thrown himself into every task that Faelán had set him, followed every command with blind faith. But this . . . he couldn't do it. Bran had been part of his life, part of his family. Ket couldn't stand by and let him be killed, just to glorify that bully Gortigern.

Ket stood up, his legs shaking. He would creep across to the fence, call out to Bran and warn him.

But even as the plan crossed his mind, he knew it wouldn't work. Even if Bran were awake, and heard him, he would scoff at Ket and refuse to believe, as he always had.

‘Bran! Bran!' Ket groaned the name in frustration. ‘What else can I do?' He gazed round helplessly at all the tents. So many of them! Every man and boy from the Ardal clan was there, and they'd even gathered supporters from other clans. ‘There must be a hundred men here! If they attack, Bran doesn't stand a chance.'

Ket beat his fists despairingly against his thighs. What could he do? What could he
do
?

He longed to just turn and run, away from this terrifying threat, away from the battle. He wanted to run to the druid's camp, to the Sacred Yew and the hollow oak, back to a life that was familiar, and safe.

And suddenly, though he knew the clearing would be dark and deserted, he could resist no longer. Nobody stirred or called as he fled along the path, dodging between the tents. He stumbled into pools of mud, lurched out again and ran on. He reached the solid ground of the plain, his lungs struggling for air, and there, rearing in front of him, was the mound of the cairn, ghost-coloured in the moonlight.

He slowed, gasping for breath; and the next instant his mind was ablaze with a wild, impossible idea.

Ket threw himself at the boulder blocking the entrance to the tomb and, with all his desperate strength, heaved it out of the way. A wave of icy air, like the breath of death, poured over him. Ket recoiled, then, gathering his courage, he thrust himself into the narrow opening, slithering on the stones, and striking his head against the low ceiling. His forehead throbbed as he stumbled forward, running his hands along the walls.

He reached the place where the tunnel opened into a chamber and straightened up, heart pattering wildly, ears filled with the rasp of his own frightened breathing. His eyes raked the darkness, seeking along the grey blur of stone walls for a glimmer of the silver horn.

It wasn't there.

His throat tightened as he took a tentative step, haunted by the memory of a dead white hand thudding onto his foot.

His toe clanged against something hard, and he stopped, frozen. Slowly, fearfully, he ran his gaze downwards. At his feet lay something faintly shiny. He let out a cry. Of course, the horn was lying on the floor, where he'd dropped it. He bent and scooped it up, but as he cradled it in his arms he saw that the silver no longer gleamed with newness. The long curve of metal was covered with holes and dints, the brightness tarnished.

Feverishly now, he plunged outwards, searching for the warriors. Dust billowed as he swept aside fragments of embroidered hangings. Rusty spears clattered to the stone floor. Bare bones rattled under his feet. For the first time, he noticed the grave goods arranged in the chamber – drinking horns studded with jewels, a wine flagon in a tarnished bronze stand, coloured beads in a circle with their thread rotted away.

But there was no sign of the Shadow Ones who had been here at Samhain. The warriors who might have protected Bran and led a charge against Gortigern were at last crumbled to dust. There was nothing left but their skeletons.

Ket sank to his knees.

‘I destroyed them,' he said in an anguished moan.

For endless, agonising moments, Ket knelt there, the horn clutched in his arms, crushed with disappointment.

Then, as before, his hands, of their own volition, lifted the horn to his lips. This time, the sound when it came, was a plaintive note like the call of a plover.

The darkness around him stirred as if taking a breath. Dust clouds rose and swirled, though here under the ground there was no wind. The hard, gleaming whiteness of a bare skull wavered and softened. A luminous, transparent face hovered over it. For a moment, the bone still showed, then the flesh thickened and the skull faded. The next instant Ket was staring into a pair of dark, living eyes.

‘Is it time?' asked a voice.

Ket couldn't speak. In front of him, the jumble of bones and rusty metal had disappeared. In their place, the warriors with shining swords had returned. They were groaning and stretching as if waking from a sleep. One of them struggled upright, and Ket gaped at the dagger hilt protruding from his chest. Then, as they all began to stand, he saw that each bore the marks of battle, though none seemed disturbed by their ghastly injuries.

They were tall and bearded, clothed in rough fabrics and animal pelts. Over their long blond hair they wore strange bronze helmets decorated with animal horns, or even whole heads of wolves and eagles. Their shields were long, covering them from knee to brow, and made not of wood and iron, but of wicker or leather.

In a few minutes they were all standing. Watching him.

Ket rose, stumbling, to face them, and licked his dry lips.

‘I . . . I have called you for battle,' he croaked.

They all nodded.

‘We are the Tuatha de Danaan, and we will follow where'er you lead us, Master of the Horn,' said the first warrior. His voice was deep, resonating inside the stone chamber of the tomb.

Ket glanced down. The instrument in his grasp was now shining and new again. He cleared his throat.

‘Uh . . . thanks. Well, er, let's go then.'

He turned to lead the way and felt the Shadow Ones close in behind him. His hands, gripping the horn, were sticky with sweat.

BATTLE LINES

The cheerful
peep peep peep
of a robin broke the stillness. Ket tensed and lifted his head. He was so nervous he felt as if his body was on fire. Beside him, in the darkness, he was conscious of his band of warriors drawing themselves to attention.

There was a stirring in the battle camp in front of them, and as the dawn broke, the Ardal clan came charging up the slope, shields gleaming, spearheads glinting. ‘Victory for Gortigern!' they yelled, in full-throated battle cry.

Then they skidded to a halt.

Standing in a row along the boundary of Morgor's fields, caught in the first beam of golden sunshine, were Ket and his band of warriors.

There was uproar from the clan of Ardal, and Gortigern pushed his way to the front, shaking his fist. He showed no sign of recognising Ket as he began to bawl, ‘Who are you?! Morgor's nose-pickings? I am the champion of King Breasal! I am the one who brought Cellach o Muiredaich to his knees. I am the one who conquered Eochaid of the Seven Spears. Morgor is not even fit to wipe my backside! If you try to resist me, I will raze your walls and burn your homes and mash you into pulp!'

He paused to catch his breath and Ket flung back a retort.

‘You can't! These warriors are the Tuatha de Danaan. You
can't
defeat them. They are dead already.'

Trembling, he held Gortigern's gaze. Around him, the men of the Ardal clan pressed close, muttering threats. Ket could almost feel their angry breaths.

All of a sudden, the mob parted, and Ket saw the druid moving through their midst, the smoke of the rowan fire wafting up behind him.

Ket felt a rush of guilt. Faelán's face was drained of colour and when he reached the front and pointed at Ket, his arm was trembling.

‘What . . . is the meaning of this?' Faelán sounded old and bewildered.

Ket stood there, mute with agony. He wanted to protect Bran and defy Gortigern, but he hated to pit himself against his master. An agitated figure burst out of the crowd in front of him.

‘Ket! '
Nessa's face was distorted with shock. ‘What are you
doing
?'

‘I . . . I had to stop the battle,' Ket spoke at last, his voice quavering. ‘So I fetched the Tuatha de Danaan.' He lifted his chin defiantly. ‘Gortigern is not worthy to be chieftain.'

Nessa stared at him in disbelief.

‘Druid!' Gortigern spat the word as he whirled round. ‘Get rid of these . . . these . . .'

Faelán had not taken his eyes from Ket. Now, slowly, very slowly, he lowered his arm and shook his head.

‘I am afraid that is not possible.' His voice sounded hollow and distant. ‘My magic arts will be of no avail against the Shadow Ones.'

He turned, tottering slightly, so that the anruth rushed to support him, and the crowd parted to let them through. Lorccán cast a triumphant glance in Ket's direction before he followed in their wake.

‘But . . . wait . . .' Gortigern sputtered.

In a fury of spite, the champion spun round and hurled his spear at the Tuatha de Danaan. Ket dived out of the way but it thudded into the man beside him. As the Ardal clan let out a roar, the Tuatha de Danaan warrior glanced down, tugged the spear from his chest and dropped it disdainfully on the ground.

Taking a breath, Ket raised the horn and blew a short, rousing blast.

As one man, the Shadow Ones lifted their swords. With one voice, they let out a bellow.

The Ardal clan turned and fled, Gortigern in the lead.

Ket lowered the horn and stared at their retreating backs. In a moment the battleground was deserted. The Tuatha de Danaan were once more silent and motionless.

‘Well, well,' mocked a familiar voice behind him. ‘Aren't you the big hero?' It was Bran, standing by the fence, hands on hips and a derisive expression on his face. ‘I suppose you expect us to fall down and kiss your feet?'

‘I . . .' Ket felt his cheeks flush. ‘It doesn't matter what you think,' he muttered.

Bran raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, and what are you going to do now? I don't reckon Old Feather-cloak is exactly going to welcome you back with open arms.'

Ket couldn't reply. He had been carried away on a wave of bravery and defiance. But now . . . Faelán and the anruth would despise him. By his one desperate act he had made himself an outcast. He could never return to the druid's camp. That last image of Lorccán's face, lit by an exultant gleam, rose to taunt him. He turned his back on Bran.

‘Come on,' he mumbled to the Tuatha de Danaan. ‘I'll take you home.'

They followed, silent as they had come. No footfalls, no clatter of weapons. They flowed back into the tomb. When he came to a halt in the dark chamber he could feel them clustered around him, waiting and watching.

‘Thank you,' he whispered. He peered into the gloom, trying to see the faces of these men who had risen from the past and obeyed his command, but all he could distinguish was shadowy outlines and the glimmer of helmets. ‘Thank you,' he repeated. ‘You may rest again now.'

He bent and laid the horn on the ground. It clinked as it touched the cold stone. He waited a moment, his head bowed. When he raised his eyes, the warriors had sunk to the floor, and already he could see the white of their bones. Without looking back, he groped his way to the door.