The Dark Mirror (34 page)

It was freezing outside; a heavy mist hung over the slopes above Pitnochie and blanketed the waters of Serpent Lake from sight. Here and there the bole of a great oak, moss-crusted, loomed eerily green out of the gray-white vapor. It was not a day, or a season, for old men to go out walking in the forest.

“Time to be off,” Wid announced
calmly and took up his staff, which was resting in its customary spot by the hearth. He looked at Tuala where she stood by the fire. Through her shock and dismay, she read in his expression the truth about what seemed a terrible, sudden betrayal. She saw that if he stayed here, his grief would overwhelm him. To survive it, there was a need to begin a journey, as Erip had done.

“I’m so sorry you
are going,” she said softly. Others were close at hand and she could not say all she felt. She could not say how cruel it was to lose the last friend she had left. “I wish you had told me. But I understand.” She even managed a smile as she rose on tiptoe to kiss her old friend on one cheek and the other. “May the Shining One light your pathway.”

“Be brave, little one,” Wid said. “May the Flamekeeper
warm your hearth and your heart. We’ll meet again, I’ve no doubt of it. I’ll expect you to be able to demonstrate that you’ve built on the excellent education we gave you, the old man and I.” His lips were trembling.

“I’ll do you both proud, I promise,” Tuala said, making her expression as confident and strong as she could. But as she watched them go, the white-robed, mysterious Uist in front,
the tall, bearded figure of her old tutor walking steadily behind until the mist swallowed the two of them, she felt the chill weight of utter bereavement in her chest. Everyone was gone. Now she was truly on her own.

T
HE MACE STONE WAS
considered the most impressive of all the Kin Stones that marked the ancient territories of the Priteni. Greater than a tall man’s height, it was carven on either side with patterns of subtlety and grace. The north face bore the tale of a great conflict: at the top, a king and his warriors advancing into battle, the monarch astride a stocky horse, his men marching behind, spears
at the ready, curling hair bold and fine across their shoulders, eyes set straight ahead. In the center was depicted a melee as the Priteni clashed with their foe; here, the king drove his spear through the breast of his adversary. At the bottom could be seen the heads of the enemy displayed on pikes and the corpses of the slain set in neat rows. Beside them a hound devoured a goose. Perhaps
each king had one of these creatures as his kin token.

The south face of the great stone had a less formal pattern—it was a wild and joyous tribute to the gods, the entire surface filled with small carvings of every kind of animal that was to be found in the kingdoms of the Priteni: wolf, stag, fox and badger, marten and vole, eel and salmon, bull, boar and ram, all rioted across the face of
the stone in wondrous celebration of life. On the eastern and western sides of the Mage Stone were great swirls of interwoven snakes, with here and there small, grinning faces of man, woman, or creature.

Bridei had never seen it. The Mage Stone stood far to the west, where King Lake opened to the sea, and in an ill season the Gaels had moved in and seized control of the hillside from which it
had looked down for generation on generation. It was Broichan who had first described the stone to him: “It is a true wonder, Bridei; not merely a marvel of the carver’s craft, but heavy with the lore of our people and full of the mystery of the ancestors.” Erip had told Bridei, later, that the strange little faces on the sides were the sculptor’s own touch, his personal contribution to the overall
design; in all great works of art, he’d said, one would find such evidence of a need to break free of established patterns, if one looked hard enough. That had provoked a heated argument with Wid; Bridei remembered it fondly. He imagined the two old scholars, back home at Pitnochie, still devoting their days to endless debates on philosophy. It was good that they had Tuala to teach now that he
was gone; she was clever and would keep the old rascals well occupied. Thinking of that, imagining the three of them before the hall fire, telling tales or playing games or arguing a point of history, made Bridei feel better. Knowing that world remained at Pitnochie awaiting his return was like knowing he had an anchor to keep him safe, or being assured his spirit would remain strong even when he
must see unthinkable things, face unknowable risks.

It was not that Bridei was afraid. He had been taught to assess any situation, weigh up opportunities and dangers, make a decision and act on it. Years of Broichan’s tuition had ensured he responded thus no matter what the event; Talorgen had commented, when Bridei began his seasons of battle training among the warriors of Raven’s Well, that
in strategic grasp, in decisiveness, and in making sound judgments, Broichan’s foster son had little to learn. On the other hand, no young man, however promising, knows just how capable he is until his first real taste of war. The small skirmish in which Bridei and Gartnait had taken a prisoner apiece was one thing. A genuine battle was quite another. Talorgen had trained them hard. They’d had long
expeditions across country in weather fit to freeze the stoutest man; they’d been hungry, exhausted, angry, bored. It seemed to Bridei that they must by now be ready for the real thing. He knew, all the same, that perhaps one could never really be ready.

It helped having Donal around. Donal did his best to tell it straight; to prepare Bridei for both best and worst.

“Remember what I told you
once,” Donal said when the two of them
were alone together, snatching a moment’s peace between the endless training sessions. They were riding out soon and the pace was relentless. “The first time’s always the worst. That’s the time you think about the fellow you’re killing, what’s his name, does he have a wife and children, is he scared and so on. You stick your knife into him anyway, because
if you don’t, he’ll have you. After that, you learn to snuff out that part of yourself, the part that asks questions like, should I really be doing this? You don’t think of them as men like yourself, you think of them as the enemy, stinking Gaels with your countrymen’s blood on their hands and pure darkness in their souls. Then you don’t strike to kill a son, a husband, a father; you strike to destroy
the bane of Fortriu. There’s no other way to do it, Bridei. It seems odd to say this, but the best way to fight isn’t with your heart or even with your belly, it’s with your head. Cold, clean, detached. Not a killing, a just execution.”

Bridei greeted this with silence.

“Believe me,” Donal said, “you can’t afford any scruples. That’s why we practice the forms of it over and over, swords, spears,
knives, bare hands—so when it comes to the point, we just do it. Helps hold back fear, too, if you know the moves so well you could do them in your sleep. Don’t look like that, Bridei. You will be afraid. We all are. Even Talorgen.”

Bridei glanced at him. “I didn’t think you would be,” he observed. “Donal, victor of more battles than I’ve got fingers and toes to count them on, isn’t that what
you once told me?”

Donal grinned. “I doubt if you’d notice when I’m on the field,” he said. “Fear’s good, if you use it right. Keeps you sharp; keeps you on your toes.”

“I don’t think I’ll be afraid,” Bridei said. “I think I’ll be able to do it.”

“Aye,” said Donal. “I’ve no doubt of that. But you’ll see things you won’t like, things it can be hard to come to terms with. There’s no way to prepare
a man for the death of his friends, nor for the acts of savagery that are the daily bread of these Gaels. That can stay with you a long time.”

Bridei did not ask a question, simply looked at his companion.

“I’ve learned to put it away,” Donal said quietly. “Lock it away inside where it’s best kept. Sometimes it comes back. Sometimes I dream. Not often. A man can’t well afford that if he’s to
be any use as a fighter.”

Bridei considered, not for the first time, the fact that Donal, a man of middle years, had neither wife nor children to his name. He said nothing.

“I’ll be with you, lad,” Donal said. “Don’t expect it to be easy, that’s all.”

“I’m not a fool,” retorted Bridei, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks.

“No,” said the warrior, “and I did not say so. All I’m saying is, a druid’s
wisdom may teach you a lot, things far beyond the comprehension of a simple man like me. But it can’t prepare you for this, and nor can all the combat training Talorgen and I can give you. Just so you know.”

“I do know,” Bridei said, thinking of the Dark Mirror. “The gods have shown me.”

“They show glimpses, images, shadows,” said Donal. “This is blood, gore, hacked limbs, severed heads, women
lying sprawled where the vermin have left them, infants smashed, houses torched. It’s the smells and the sounds that go with that. Worse, it’s your comrades turned suddenly into strangers. That’s the hardest part.”

Donal’s voice had changed; Bridei looked at him sharply.

“What do you mean?”

Donal folded his arms. His close-set eyes took on a distant look. “Maybe it won’t happen,” he said. “Maybe
you’ll walk through it shielded by the breath of the gods. Would that it might be so. Now, I think I can hear Elpin calling us; must be our turn for spear throwing. You coming?”

THEY MOVED DOWN
the Glen in groups of ten, setting out from Raven’s Well as soon as the leaf buds began to swell on the birches. A small force was
left behind to guard Talorgen’s property from raids; his family had traveled up toward Serpent Lake, heading for the safety of court.

Talorgen’s army numbered close to a hundred men when it set out. It was, by its leader’s choice, principally a force of foot soldiers, although there were horses with them, pack ponies to bear supplies and a few riding mounts which allowed the quick relay of messages
when the terrain was suited to it. There had been a debate over this: whether the problem of fodder outweighed the creatures’ usefulness in the field, where a mounted man had increased visibility, range, and speed. There was a further dispute concerning the use of the lakes; forces and goods could be quickly conveyed by sailing vessel or barge, saving long, weary marches that sapped the men’s
energy and dampened their spirits. The reverse argument was that boats were clearly visible to spies on the open hillsides above Mage and King Lakes; there’d be no element of surprise if they used the water paths. Besides,
carrying the vessels overland beside the linking streams was just as wearying as tramping the whole way on foot.

It was, in the end, the long, slow way, the more covert route
that was chosen. The small groups went severally, camping close but keeping each to itself, covering their tracks as best they could and keeping to the natural concealment of rocks and trees by the water’s edge. Cold and wet it certainly was; clothing never quite dried after the first drenching rainstorm, and Bridei became used to the smell of ill-dried boots, sweat-soaked wool, and unwashed bodies
huddled close. They caught their food on the way, when they could, to conserve the supplies the ponies carried.

They had set out not long after the festival of Balance, and the journey stretched out until some of the men were heard to utter dour jokes about not getting there until time for Rising. When it was possible, the daily marches were long, but the season did not always smile on their
endeavors, and there were times when mist or rain slowed their progress to a painful, creeping advance. An ailment that caused retching and purging stopped them in their tracks for many days on the southern shore of Mage Lake. They lost two men to that, burying them with a brief ceremony before they moved on again. Day merged into night and night into day; suppers were taken for the most part in silence,
the men like dark, despondent shadows around their little fires.

Bridei kept a count of the season’s passing, neat lines incised on a birch twig he carried in his pack. It had been many days’ walking, many nights’ restless sleep. They sent scouts ahead, but saw nothing of the enemy. Gartnait grumbled that he wished they could hurry up; his hands were itching for a Gael’s throat, and he wouldn’t
be so careful of the fellow’s safety as he’d been last time. Donal told him to shut up, and he did. There had been no meat to share that night beyond a couple of rabbits among the whole team, and their bellies were complaining.