The Age of Scorpio

2

Northern Britain, a Long Time Ago





The sound of the water lapping against the rocks at the mouth of the cave had pushed through into her dream and gently woken her. Britha opened her eyes. Her lover’s silver skin reflected the sunlight that had managed to penetrate the sea cave. The selkie’s fine scales turned the light into a glittering rainbow pattern.

‘You slept,’ Cliodna said.

Cliodna was sitting next to her, naked as she always was, gently stroking the border where the shaved stubble on the side of Britha’s head met her long dark-brown hair.

Britha rolled onto her side to better look up at the other woman. The muscles on her back flexed, making the tattoo of a Z-shaped broken spear entwined with a serpent move as if the snake lived. ‘More like passed out,’ Britha said, smiling up at Cliodna, who smiled back, but the smile looked sad.

The dark pools of her lover’s eyes were impossible to read, so different were they from those of Britha’s own people, the ancestor folk, the Pecht as they called themselves.

Britha propped herself up on her elbow. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I . . .’ the selkie started and went quiet as if she was searching for the words. The last few times Britha had visited her, Cliodna had seemed even more quiet than normal. Britha felt an ache in her chest.

‘Cliodna . . .’ Britha reached for her. The change was instant. Cliodna hissed, the nails that Britha liked to feel across her skin suddenly looked like claws; needle-like teeth were bared, and the selkie bolted for the back of the cave. Britha started away from her lover. She knew that the other woman shared ways with the animals, as Britha did if the ritual required it of her, but Cliodna had always seemed so gentle. Britha angrily suppressed her moment of fear. She bore her scars well. Fear was not something she could entertain even in the face of the Otherworld.

Britha pushed herself up onto her feet and made her way into the darkness at the back of the cave. She was still naked; it did not occur to her to clothe herself. Like many of her people she was more comfortable naked, she was even prepared to go to war like this. Intricate interwoven tattoos of animals whose traits she wanted, or symbols of power that could armour her, covered her upper right arm, across her muscular shoulders and down her left arm to her fingers. More tattoos curled down onto her breasts and ran up her right calf. All of them were various shades of blue, from the darkest midnight to the brightest summer sky. The woad had taken her to many places and shown her many visions when they had pierced her skin with it. She had lost days travelling beyond this land in the waking dreams it brought on.

Cliodna was crouched down hugging her legs, her long dark hair covering her features. Britha crouched down and reached for her, but Cliodna flinched away from her touch.

‘Cliodna, what’s wrong?’ Britha asked.

‘I . . . we’re not like you.’

‘Selkies?’

‘That’s just what you call me. To give me a name, so you can understand . . . We have to do things – we’re governed by different laws.’

‘What are you telling me? That your people wouldn’t approve?’ Britha asked. She didn’t think that the rest of the Cirig would like what they were doing either, but none would dare challenge her and after all, one of her responsibilities as ban draoi was to treat with the Otherworld. Though this probably wasn’t what they had in mind, Britha mused.

Cliodna’s laugh was short and bitter. ‘My people . . . they would not understand but nor would they care.’

‘Then what?’

‘I can’t explain . . . my responsibilities – things that I have no choice but to do . . .’

‘What are you telling me?’ Britha all but demanded. She was not the most patient of people and she was beginning to feel exasperated. Britha felt she was already being a lot more patient than she would have been with a male lover but then something about their pricks turned them into lack-wits.

Cliodna looked up at her, her long black hair parting. The selkie’s eyes had never looked so alien to Britha. She could see herself reflected in those deep black pools.

‘I’m leaving. I have to go south. I have no choice.’

It was the pain – she actually felt it physically – that made Britha realise just how much she loved Cliodna. At first it had just been for the thrill of it. Then her visits had become more and more frequent. They had swum together. Cliodna had taken her far out into the cold sea on warm days. Guided her through the dangerous currents and fierce tides. The selkie was much more at home in the sea than on land.

Britha hated the tear that ran down her cheek. She could never show weakness. Tears were for the men in their cups listening to laments of ancestors long gone.

‘I don’t want you to go,’ was all she managed.

‘You will. I’m changing. Who you know will soon be gone.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand.’ Britha hated the desperation in her voice.

Cliodna cocked her head to one side. Her face crumpled with emotion but no tears came. Britha wanted to hate her for the lack of tears.

‘I have to go south, far south. The waters have been poisoned. There’s something . . .’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Britha said, knowing she couldn’t even as she said it. Cliodna shook her head, looking frightened. She grabbed Britha’s arm, her nails digging in.

‘Promise me you won’t!’ Cliodna all but hissed. Britha looked down at her arm, blood flowing from five wounds where Cliodna’s nails had broken the skin. She looked back up at Cliodna. ‘See?’ Cliodna asked desperately.

‘I’ll not go where I’m not wanted,’ Britha said evenly, trying to compose herself, trying to wrap her pride around herself like armour.

Cliodna took Britha’s head in her hands, leaned forward and kissed her. Britha wanted to resist, but she couldn’t. She wrapped her arms round her lover and reciprocated. Cliodna tasted the salt of her lover’s tears.

‘No matter what happens, please remember that I love you, that I loved you,’ Cliodna said when they finally broke apart. Britha just stared at her, her face stained with tears.

Cliodna stood up. She jumped from the rock. Powerful legs propelled her through the air and into the pool at the mouth of the cave. Sinuous movements carried her rapidly through the water, helped by the webs of skin between her long fingers and toes.

Britha watched her go.

‘Loved?’ she asked an empty cave.

Britha cursed herself and turned to look out at the sea. Hoping that the wind and salt spray would explain her red eyes. Normally grey and rough, the sea was bright blue under a cloudless sky today, an otherwise beautiful day. Talorcan was waiting for her. The finest tracker in the tribe, the short wiry man was considerably less full of himself than the rest of the cateran, or warband. Even so, Britha did not wish him to see her emotion. She looked out at the sea making sure she was fully composed.

‘Ban draoi?’

‘Do you know what happens to the curious who follow too closely dealings with the Otherworld?’ Britha asked.

‘The mormaer bid me fetch you – it’s starting,’ Talorcan said. His expression was difficult to read but he seemed to be looking at her as if searching for something. His beard was trimmed, his long dark hair let loose and blowing in the coastal wind. He wore no trews, just his blaidth, which came down to just above his knees. Tattoos spiralled up both legs and also ran down from his temple, across his cheeks to his chin. He had his bow with him, but no weapons of war, just his dirk at his waist.

Britha smiled.

‘More like Cruibne’s worried that I’ve run off with his horse.’

Talorcan nodded but kept his peace. Britha looked at him a while more; he held her look. There was little scar tissue on him: he fought quickly and cleverly when he had to.

Britha went to one of the powerful heavyset ponies that the Pecht favoured. She called it Dark Cloud because its near-black colouring reminded her of storm skies. Britha wrenched the spear that Dark Cloud had been tethered to out of the ground. She retrieved her iron-bladed sickle. Cliodna didn’t like the cold metal anywhere near her. Britha pushed the sickle though the belt that held the rough-spun brown wool robes of her calling closed and then swung up onto the pony, riding it bareback, her legs against the horse’s flanks. She pulled her fringed hood up to protect her eyes from the sun and headed south and west down the coast. Talorcan broke into an easy run to keep up with her.

Ardestie was on a flat plain that looked down on the silver water of the mouth of the River Tatha where it emptied into the cold harsh northern sea. It was a large settlement of about twenty or so roundhouses, wattle and daub structures with conical thatched roofs, surrounded by fields of spelt, bere barley, flax and fat hen. The fields had been hacked out of the soil generations before. Fields not used for crops were grazing for horned Soay sheep and the hairy cattle, not all of which they had stolen on raids. Beyond the cultivated fields were the thick woods that covered all but the most mountainous or boggy parts of the land. In the woods the wolf, lynx, bear and spirits from the Otherworld ruled.

The roundhouses lived in the shadow of the broch, a circular tower of stone blocks at the summit of the Hill of Deer. The broch was a watchtower and place of refuge if they were attacked. From it they watched for raiders from the Fib, the rival Pecht tribe across the river, and the blonde sea devils from the sea and ice far to the north. It also provided them with sight up the river over the thick woods to the hill fort some five or six miles to the west. From the broch they could see when the traders came down from the crannogs on Loch Tatha in their log canoes to trade with the foreign merchant ships that came from hot lands far to the south.

The broch was also where the Cirig stored the parts of their war chariots. The small cart-like vehicles could be assembled rapidly for battle. Each chariot was pulled by two of the small, rugged ponies that belonged to the horse-rich Cirig. The chariots’ lightweight construction meant that they were capable of considerable speed and were very useful against the northern tribes, who did not use chariots as the mountainous terrain of their home made them useless. They were also useful on the long coastal beaches when the blonde sea demons from the ice raided.

The largest of the houses was the meeting place as well as home to Cruibne MaqqCirig, the mormaer, or sub-king, of the Cirig. Ardestie was the capital of the Cirig, one of the seven tribes of the Pecht, descended from the seven sons of Cruithne.

Britha passed the forge set apart from the village, ignoring the fire watcher who gazed longingly towards the village. Britha, like all women, was banned from the forge. It was where the men did their ritual sex magic. As a child in training she had sneaked into the forge, eager to learn the secrets of their magic as well. She had watched them stoke the belly of the furnace, watched the molten metal pour hot from the men’s metal vagina. She had not been impressed. They could keep their magic. Later, when she had learned her own sex magic, she had thought it more fun. Yet, like her, the metalworkers wielded magic and like her had to live outside the tribe to serve it.

As Britha rode towards Ardestie, the sun had not yet turned the sky to blood on the western horizon but the feast was already under way. As she rode by the grain pits, already sealed after the harvest, she saw the body. The powerfully built and scarred man had been opened across his chest. Britha did not recognise him but thought him one of the Fib from across the river. She did recognise the cut. Nechtan, Cruibne’s champion, had done this. Presumably the man had challenged him for the hero’s portion. Britha’s smile was without humour. She understood the need for this but always found it wasteful. Still, the ravens and crows deserved a feast too, and he would have died well with a sword in his hand.

She could hear the sound of voices raised in jest and laughter, accompanied by the crwth lute, bodhran drum, the feadan flute and the triple pipes, though they were playing softly. People would be relaxed now. Cruibne would have displayed his largesse but there would still be business to discuss.

Britha rode to where the rest of the horses had been tethered. She did not like that there were not nearly as many guests as she had expected. She dismounted Dark Cloud and slipped the rope off her neck. Talorcan watched impassively as Britha whispered into Dark Cloud’s ear. Then she slapped the large pony on her flanks. Dark Cloud was free to roam. She knew to come back close to Ardestie once night finally fell. Even a pony trained for war by the Cirig was no match for a pack of wolves or a bear, both of which lived in the forest to the north and east of them.

Britha turned towards the feast.

‘Why haven’t the others come?’ Britha asked Talorcan, seeking as much information as she could find before she had to join the feast and play her part. Talorcan just shrugged. ‘Do you receive many compliments for the way you use your tongue?’ she asked. Talorcan finally smiled but didn’t answer. Britha sighed and turned, heading towards the feast.

‘Look at the size of this head!’ Cruibne said. The hulking grizzled old man held up a massive misshapen skull that had been embalmed in cedar oil. Rents and cracks in the skull had been filled with pewter. ‘This one gave me no end of trouble, I tell you!’ The mormaer was wearing his best plaid trews – well, his only pair but it looked like he had dunked them in the river – and a new blaidth. He had iron rings in his beard made from the blades and spearheads of dead enemies and a thick white-gold torc around his neck as befitted his position in the tribe. Similar torcs, also of white gold, were wrapped around either arm. Because of his advanced age – he was in his late thirties – most of his skin was covered in the tattoos that told his story, armoured and protected him. What skin that wasn’t tattooed tended to be scar tissue. He was missing three fingers from his left hand and two from his right. Part of his skull was misshapen and no hair grew there due to a blow from an axe swung by a sea raider not three years past. ‘A sea demon! Allied with the Goddodin!’ The Goddodin were a tribe of Britons to the south, constantly warring with the Fib and the Fortrenn.

‘Or another small man with a huge swollen head!’ Britha smiled. It had been Ethne who had shouted. She was Cruibne’s oldest and fiercest wife, a heavyset woman of an age with Cruibne and just as scarred and tattooed as he was. In battle she could be looked for standing next to the mormaer or driving his chariot. Like the rest of the cateran she wore a thick silver torc around her neck. Ethne had killed more than one of Cruibne’s other wives whom she had felt was getting above herself. There was laughter at Ethne’s comment.

Good. They were already in their cups. Britha had brewed the heather ale herself, an old and secret recipe. Cruibne had made sure that there would be more than enough of the uisge beatha, and he was not drinking as much as he appeared to be.

‘Och woman, you spoil all my stories. Well I tell you, it was worth taking his head. Look how much drink it holds!’ Cruibne tipped the massive skull and drank deep from it, much of it running down his neatly trimmed beard to the sound of more laughter. Cruibne had a hundred skulls and a hundred stories.

Some of the guests at the feast were starting to notice Britha’s quiet approach. Her hood was up. Much of what she did was about performance, a lesson she had learned early in her training. Hush spread across the feast. She had timed it well: the sun was bleeding into the sky and the light was changing. The time between times, a good time to evoke the Otherwold.

The quiet was broken only by the sound of one of the landsmen, who had not noticed the ban draoi’s approach, dropping a red-hot stone from the fire into the cauldron. There was a crack as the stone split. People would be having stone with their stew, Britha thought. The landsman Britha recognised as Ferchair, a crofter from land to the north of the woods. Britha had delivered his first child, a daughter, in the cold winter. The child had survived, she knew. Spring was the best time for birthing, but at least Ferchair knew his daughter would grow up strong now.

Ferchair turned to see why it had gone quiet. He saw Britha, averted his eyes and made to sit down again far behind the inner circle of the cateran and their noble guests.

Looking round the inner circle, Britha saw missing eyes, ears, fingers and a lot of scar tissue. All were ugly enough to be warriors; there were few who looked blade-shy around the fire.

Cruibne looked up and smiled. His two massive deerhounds, lying close by and sporting nearly as many scars as their master, got up as Britha entered the circle and wandered over to stand by her. Absently she scratched behind their ears.

Britha took her time looking around the circle. She nodded to Nechtan and Feroth, the war leader of the cateran. She did not like Nechtan – he was as sly as he was violent, a careful bully – but she had to admit he was a more than capable champion. Feroth was even older than Cruibne and many whispered that his place at the ravens’ feast was long overdue. Britha, however, liked the canny old warrior. The tribe would miss his clever stratagems when he was gone and she suspected more would die on raids and in battle. Most of them were too caught up in thoughts of their own personal glory to appreciate what Feroth did for them, but Britha understood.

The meat on the spits was mostly gone but the cauldron still looked full. Still not speaking, Britha made her way to the cauldron, removing her meathook from her belt. She leaned in and hooked a choice piece of mutton from the thick stew. She left it to cool it for a few seconds, then took a bite, chewed slowly and then swallowed.

‘Cruibne, I think the belly of your cauldron is pregnant with more meat than you would see on lesser mormaers’ spits.’ There was laughter from the Cirig and most of the guests. Some, however, had heard a slight in Britha’s words and were less pleased. ‘I also hear that your heather ale’s particularly fine.’

‘You should know – you made it,’ Cruibne said. He then made a show of serving her himself, as he had done with all his guests, including the landsmen and women. However, the skull that Cruibne served the ale in had been taken by Britha. It was not the way for the ban draoi to take heads, but Britha had insisted on it. Killing someone in battle was a quick and easy way to get the warriors to listen to her when she spoke.

‘Will you sit by my left side?’ Cruibne asked her formally. Britha looked to Ethne, on Cruibne’s right, for her permission – she didn’t need to but respected the older woman. Ethne nodded. Then she looked to Feroth, on Cruibne’s left. Feroth moved over, always glad of Britha’s counsel and company.

‘I’d say you’re late,’ Cruibne spoke to her quietly, ‘but I think you know exactly what you’re doing.’

‘Don’t speak out of the side of your mouth – it makes them think we have something to hide,’ Britha admonished him.

The inner circle consisted mainly of the chieftains of the Cirig loyal to Cruibne. He had invited the mormaers of all seven of the tribes, but by the looks of it only Finnguinne of the Fib, Deleroith of the Fortrenn, both southern tribes, and Drust of the Fotlaig to the west had come.

None of the northern tribes, the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait, had sent anyone at all. The Cait Britha could understand – it was a long way to come – but the absence of the rest of them worried her.

Britha saw Finnguinne talking quietly with one of his men. This was a breach of hospitality but Britha let it pass. She assumed that Cruibne, Feroth, Ethne and Nechtan would have noticed as well. They had not achieved their positions without being canny, but they chose not to challenge it. Britha hoped that none of the more hot-headed members of the cateran had seen.

‘Cruibne MaqqCirig of the Hundred Heads, meat giver, ale provider,’ the man Finnguinne had been talking to started formally, ‘all of us stand in the shadow of your generosity, but if you will indulge me I have a question.’ Britha took a sip of her own ale from her skull. She was pretty sure the man was called Wroid, an average warrior in the Fib cateran but known for his way with words. He was called Wroid the Provoker.

Britha cursed the Fib. Cursing the Fib was common among the Cirig, as was the reverse. Living across the river from the Fib meant that the Cirig were the most likely targets for Fib raids. Of course the opposite was true as well, and this summer, as it had been for many summers now, the Cirig were the stronger tribe.

Cruibne’s look of irritation was obvious to all. Trying to have the patience to put up with the provocation he knew was coming was Cruibne’s least favourite part of being mormaer.

‘We came because we hoped to see the other descendants of Cruithne. Where are Fergus of the Ce, Oengus of the Fidach and Calgacus of the Cait? I hope it was no mere boast that they would be present,’ Wroid said, a smile on his face. There was muttering from the younger warriors in the Cirig cateran. Boasting was an inevitable part of being a warrior but Wroid had stopped just short of calling Cruibne a liar.

Britha glanced over at Nechtan, who was still lying looking relaxed, but she noticed that his skull was full of ale. Drunk champions don’t live long, she thought.

‘No boast, lad,’ Cruibne said. ‘Messages exchanged, they said they were coming. If you look to our cattle pens you’ll see more than enough beasts to feed more than twice this number. The Fib can take some home with you if it’ll stop your teeth rattling around in your head.’ There was laughter from all but the Fib. That was good, Britha thought. Put him in his place but do so with an act of generosity.

‘They were probably yours to begin with anyway,’ Nechtan said, his tone relaxed but promising easy violence as well. Britha guessed that the body she’d passed had been an example to drive this point home earlier in the festivities. This time the laughter only came from the Cirig. Wroid continued smiling but Finnguinne did not look happy.

‘Then might I ask where they are?’ Wroid continued. Britha could all but hear Cruibne grind his teeth.

‘I can think of no reason why they are not here,’ Cruibne answered.

‘I can,’ Finnguinne said. All faces turned to him. Even Nechtan sat more upright. ‘Because they will not be ruled by a high king and neither will the Fib,’ he spat.

‘Who will stand as a champion for the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait, who are slandered when not here present?’ Britha asked.

‘What?!’ an obviously startled Finnguinne demanded.

‘You think if my spearbrothers thought that I wanted to be high king they’d be too afraid to come and tell me no to my face?’ Cruibne said, trying to sound fierce and not smile into his beard.

‘No, that is not—’ Finnguinne started.

‘Then do not split you tongue; speak clearly!’ Britha demanded. Already warriors, and not just those of the Cirig, were offering to stand as champions for the three absent tribes. ‘We are not sly southrons who require wriggling serpent words. Say what you mean!’

‘I meant no offence,’ Finnguinne muttered.

‘Good,’ Cruibne said, smiling before getting up and grabbing a large earthenware jug of uisge beatha and handing it to Finnguinne. ‘Drink this and then we can be really abusive towards each other.’ There was more laughter as the atmosphere relaxed.

Good, more generosity, Britha thought as she drank more of the heather ale from the skull. Show them we have nothing to fear and all to give. Finnguinne hadn’t been too far from the truth. Cruibne did not want to be high king. There was no need, no external threat sufficient to require it, and the other tribes would never accept it. What he wanted was to make clear his position as first among the mormaers. He wanted to assert the strength of his tribe, their supremacy. He wanted to say that challenging the Cirig, even raiding them, was far more trouble than it was worth. Then he wanted to get on with his real ambition of growing old and fat.

Britha largely agreed with his plan but needed to make sure that the rest of the tribe did not grow fat, lazy and unused to battle. Britha let the circle around the fire lapse into easy conversation. She remained aloof from it, only saying something when directly addressed and then as little as she could. This was a necessary part of her role: it helped promote the mystery and respect required to do what she did, and she found that the people who spoke the least were often considered the wisest and actually listened to.

When she was able, Britha slipped away from the fire. Walked into the night and looked down at the moon reflected in the Tatha. Looking at the water made her think of Cliodna. Wondering where she was. Had she returned to her cave? Britha was already trying to think of excuses to return there and then cursing herself for her weakness. She could not explain the sudden change in the other woman. Britha knew she was being foolish. Her mother and her grandmother before her, when they were teaching her the secrets that the male dryw could not, had warned her against becoming involved with those from the Otherworld.

She felt a large strong hand grab her buttock. Her elbow flew backwards with a satisfying crunch followed by a series of curses. Britha swung round to see which drunken fool wanted to be cursed until his testicles made acorns look large.

She found Cruibne holding his nose and cursing. He was obviously the worse for drink but not insensible. A champion needed to remain sober, a mormaer just needed to hold his drink.

‘My nose! You scabby—’

‘Choose your words, Cruibne. Mormaer or no, I will not be manhandled.’ She respected the king and would not have struck him in front of others, but at the same time that did not give him licence.

‘Ha! I just came to see if there was a ritual we could do to ensure the success of the gathering.’

Britha could not help but smile. She knew exactly what kind of ritual he had in mind. Britha guessed that chancing like this to get what he wanted was probably a useful, if at times irritating, quality in a mormaer.

‘That is for very specific situations and only with Ethne’s blessing. Unless you think I enjoy lying with a stinking sack of pus like yourself?’

Cruibne’s expression darkened at the insult. Britha was not terribly worried, but fortunately the mormaer rediscovered his sense of humour quickly.

‘You always seemed to,’ he said, reaching up to stroke her hair. It was true to a degree. Cruibne was not an untalented lover, which was important for the success of the rites, the sacrifice – her sacrifice – the seed they returned to the earth. He’d had to be trained of course. However, all the magic in the Otherworld could not have compelled her to tell Cruibne that.

‘Don’t make me hurt you and then ask Ethne to come over here and hurt you as well,’ she told him. Cruibne gave this some thought. He stopped stroking her hair.

‘It worries me that the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait did not come,’ Cruibne said, changing the subject, seeming almost sober. Britha nodded. She had been thinking the same. When not thinking about Cliodna. ‘Finnguinne’s a serpent-tongued sheep rapist, but do you think he’s right? That they think I mean to rule them?’

Britha shook her head. ‘Can you see Calgacus of the Bitter Tongue not coming here to tell you what he thought of that?’

‘Do they plan war against us?’

‘Maybe Oengus, for the sake of harvesting heads, but he would tell us to our faces. Besides, things are well now. Why risk that in war? And there are easier prey than us.’

‘I do not like this. Have they fallen to war among themselves?’

‘It seems unlikely that we would not have heard about it, or that one or more of them would not want to ask for our aid. Besides, even at war they know they could come here safely under our protection.’

‘What then? Famine? The Lochlannach?’

Britha just shook her head. Cruibne was more than capable of speculating on his own. He was saying this because he was drunk and wanted to hear a voice. ‘I think we should send a—’ Britha began, knowing that she would have to repeat herself the following day. She was interrupted by a clamour from the circle around the fire. Both of them headed back.

A landsman stood in the circle of flame-shadowed warriors. Britha did not recognise him but he looked ill-used. He had been beaten and cut. He would have been terrified if he had not been so fatigued that he swayed with the warm summer breeze.

‘On your knees!’ one of the Fib warriors yelled. Britha was pretty sure he was called Congus and unlike Wroid he could fight. He was Finnguinne’s champion and known as a dangerous man. From where he sat Congus knocked the landsman’s legs out from underneath him. Britha strode across the circle and kicked Congus in the face. She was not expecting to get away with it but anger overwhelmed better judgement. To her surprise her foot connected and spread Congus’s nose across his face. He reeled back even as his hand went to the sword by his side.

‘What are you so frightened of that a landsman has to kneel?’ Britha demanded. Congus, seeing that it was the ban draoi, did not draw his blade though he had hate in his eyes.

‘There are mormaer present,’ Finnguinne said angrily.

‘So? We’ll make our landsmen go on their knees when we learn to eat swords,’ Britha spat at him.

‘Besides, this is my fire. I decide who gets mistreated,’ Cruibne said from behind her as he knelt to cradle the man and gave him ale from his own skull in a bid to revive him.

‘The man’s clearly a thief,’ Finnguinne said. ‘He came in riding a horse.’

Cruibne glanced at Talorcan, and the tracker went to check the horse.

‘It’s a brave woman who strikes a warrior knowing he cannot return the blow,’ Congus said. In theory there was a ban against striking a dryw. There was also, in theory, a ban on dryw taking part in combat.

‘It is true,’ Wroid said. ‘Poor hospitality is this. The dryw are not meant to strike warriors.’

‘Ours does,’ Nechtan said.

‘What’s your name?’ Britha demanded of Congus. ‘I do not know you. You could not have done much. Are you sure you received your first meat from the tip of a blade?’

‘I am Congus, champ—’ he began angrily.

‘Are you known as Congus the Timid? Congus the Abuser of Landsfolk?’ Britha demanded. It was hugely rude to interrupt a warrior formally introducing himself. There were sharp intakes of breath from all around the fire. Britha knew she was pushing the man hard, but his was exactly the sort of arrogance that she despised most among the warriors.

‘You go too far even for a dryw,’ Congus said dangerously. Behind her she could hear the warriors in the Cirig cateran shifting, readying themselves.

‘Well, Congus the Timid, you have my permission to return the blow,’ Britha said. ‘No ban, no boycott or satire. I promise you the only consequences that you will reap will be those wrought by Flesh Render.’ Meaning her spear. Then she looked Congus straight in the eye. Britha was a fair fighter but she had grown up training to be a ban draoi. Congus had spent his whole life training to be a warrior. She was pretty sure that in a straight fight she would lose, but first Congus had to overcome every bit of inherited dread about crossing a dryw. In many ways, to humiliate him publicly and challenge him was not very fair at all. The two of them stared at each other. Congus looked away first.

‘Is this the brave Cirig? Hiding behind a woman?’ Wroid demanded.

‘We are stronger than you because our women fight,’ Cruibne said distractedly while he looked over the newcomer’s wounds.

‘And any one of us will fight you at any time,’ Nechtan added quietly.

‘We are stronger than you because we know enough not to fear our women or our landsmen,’ Britha told him.

‘The horse is almost as ill-used as he is,’ Talorcan said, appearing out of the darkness. ‘It’s a warrior’s mount, but it has been ridden long and hard and I don’t like the look of its wounds.’

‘See!’ Finnguinne spat. ‘A horse thief!’

‘Hold your tongue, sheep king!’ Cruibne spat. There was deathly silence around the fire. Britha closed her eyes and cursed Cruibne for allowing Finnguinne and his people to bait him. ‘You should consider yourself lucky I don’t take your head for breaking my hospitality. Get from my fire and do it now. Think hard if you want to war with us, and I will think hard on the right compensation for what you have done here.’

There was lots of shifting and muttering from both caterans. ‘Sheep king’ was not an easy insult for a mormaer to walk away from. Finnguinne stared at Cruibne.

Cruibne ignored him. ‘Britha, he needs your healing ways.’ Britha moved to kneel by the man’s side.

Finnguinne stood up and stormed away from the fire. Congus accompanied him, quickly followed by the rest of the Fib, Wroid at the rear, raining insults down on the Cirig, many of whom were on their feet.

Feroth prevented the Cirig from responding to Wroid’s words with violence. It would look ill if they fought the Fib after inviting them to share their fire. ‘They’ll have a hard time on the Tatha the amount they’ve had to drink,’ Feroth said. It was a weak jest but he was trying to lower the tension.

Britha was all but oblivious to this. Instead she was cursing Congus’s arrogance as she peeled away the landsman’s blaidth to reveal a horrible-looking wound. She exchanged a look of horrified surprise with Cruibne, who was holding the writhing man.

It was a sword wound. She had seen many before. Except this one looked wrong somehow, too wide even for the thickest blade, and too ragged. Something about it put in Britha’s mind that the sword had been hungry.

‘That’s not right,’ Cruibne said. Britha nodded. She had seen wounds this bad, just not on anyone living.

‘Who knows this man?!’ Cruibne demanded of the remaining people around the fire. Many peered at the wounded man, who was drooling blood. Britha used her fingers to force his mouth open.

‘His tongue’s been cut . . . ripped out,’ Britha said. ‘He could not have ridden far, not in this state.’ Except that she knew everyone for many miles and she did not know him.

One of the Cirig’s own landsmen edged forwards. He lived in the northernmost of their lands.

‘Mormaer, I would not swear to it, but I think he is a landsman from the land of the Ce.’

Britha gestured to two of the warriors. ‘Take him to the circle. Go quick and soft – he is badly hurt.’ The warriors picked the man up and carried him out of Ardestie towards the woods to the east. Britha walked with them. She had to mask how unnerved she was.

What frightened her the most was that without woad, without mushrooms, she could see the lines of blood within the man’s flesh. They looked like they had fire crawling through them.