When Death Birds Fly

12

Bright was the weather as Norn eased through the straits of Mor-bihan, bright the weather and gloomy the mood of the reivers. As the vessel moored, a horse came plunging along the beach. Its rider unhesitatingly urged it up the timber ramp and galloped recklessly along the jetty.

He was Prince Howel of Bro Erech. The reverberations of hoofbeats on timber yet echoed while he greeted them.

“Cormac! And Wulfhere, I see! No wounds that show?” Then he looked again, seeing Cormac’s moodiness and the thundercloud darkness on Wulfhere’s brow. “It went not well, did it?”

Cormac shrugged, then vaulted the ship’s rail. He performed the feat with ease and landed well balanced, despite the weight of his mail shirt. The links of it chimed together on his body. Howel’s horse shied a bit. The prince patted its shoulder, soothing it with an absent, “Sa, sa my beauty.”

“It went not well,” Cormac admitted. “Almost we had success-bah! Almost! The beggar who squats naked on the modden can say he’s almost a king! All he requires is different parents.”

Wulfhere trod down the gangplank. It bent like a drawn bow under his weight.

“Three men slain! With those who had their death in a sea-fight with the Basques, far south, there be nine-and-twenty living of the two score sailed from Galicia with us. And neither vengeance nor plunder to show for any of it! Sigebert yet breathing! I think that bastard of Loki’s get must bear a charmed life!”

Howel swore in genuine disappointment. “That be worse than a sorry business. What will you do now?”

“Return to Nantes and make a new attempt!”

“Nay, Wulf,” Cormac said. “That we’ll not be doing. Sigebert now knows we be about, and hungry for his blood. He’ll not be exposing himself to weapon-steel of ours again. Nor will he omit to have every ship to dock in Nantes searched most carefully from now on, the moment it touches the quayside! And it’s thrice as many guards Sigebert will surround himself with, now.”

“Franks of the likes of those others?” Wulfhere snorted. “How will he get them? Conjure them out of the air? And if he makes do with Gallo-Romans, I fear them not.”

“Something in that, mayhap,” Cormac conceded, “although it’s many Frankish warriors there may be serving as mercenaries or levy troops in the Roman kingdom.” He sighed. “Yet my main argument holds, even should Sigebert be unable to get any such. He will be expecting us again, and take all the precautions he can. It’s too long the odds are, Wulfhere.”

Wulfhere spoke angrily, knowing it was not feasible but hating to give up-and hoping Cormac would devise a scheme to make it succeed. “We might try an attack from the landward side.”

Cormac considered the notion. At last he shook his head. “Not with such few men as we have left. We’d never get through the city gates. It’s unlikely that we could sneak over the walls at night; but supposing we did, Wulfhere. We’d just about be after reaching Sigebert’s mansion-and die there, not even slaying him, but once again failing to slay him. Bear the truth, Wulfhere. We have failed.” Cormac added grimly, “For this time.”

Gnawing his beard, Wulfhere snarled, “So! So! When we have been to Jutland and gathered a full crew, though-”

“Oh, aye!” Cormac said. He gave Howel the thin-lipped ghost of a smile. “Your gallop along the jetty was fine to see. Although some might say it wasn’t befitting your princely dignity, quite.”

“My princely dignity is my concern!” Howel answered. “And strong enow to survive, I’m thinking. I’d been exercising this horse along the beach when I saw Norn’s sail. The day I return sedately to my hall and sit my throne looking splendid while a friend’s fate is in doubt will-will-”

He sputtered briefly, searching for words to describe what sort of improbable day that would be. Cormac’s heart lightened. He clapped Howel lightly on the shoulder and proceeded along the jetty with him. Their destination was the great hall, Cormac dreaming of shedding his war-gear, of bathing luxuriously and donning fresh clothes. He did bend an appraising gaze on Raven.

The war-bird’s lean dark length had been drawn far up the shore, beyond reach of the highest tide or any likely excess of storm-lashed sea. Rough triangular cradles had been made for her from timber baulks, and tenting of sail-leather was folded nearby to prevent rain from delaying her drying out. Some few of Howel’s seamen had begun scraping weed and barnacles from her hull.

Wulfhere, ambling beside his Gaelic bloodbrother and the prince, cast a middling jealous eye at this activity.

“Those planks near the prow that were sprung in Galicia-they want renewing, Cormac,” he said. “Remember ye when we rammed yon deathly barge and sent it splintered into the arms of Ran?”

“Who could be forgetting? Was made of monstrous bones,” Cormac explained to the prince, “and it burned with fire that did not consume. The crew were sea-women of spectral beauty, or seemed so, though in truth it’s monsters they were, in a disguise of illusion. We smashed their craft and slew them all… and the look in your eyes warns me ye have doubt on you that it’s the unadorned truth ye’re hearing.”

“Never!” Howel said valiantly, and they entered his hall.

Evening fell, warm and dark blue. In a chamber panelled with beechwood and lit by oil lamps, the two reivers sat clean and freshly clad. Morfydd was present, in a gown blue as the gloaming. Gold-worked at the border it was, and gold cinctured her tiny waist. For once, her hair was decorously coiled atop her head. Prince Howel stood with feet planted wide, his strong features heavy with concern. His tunic was almost ridiculous on him; plunder it was, off a ship out of Greece. The tunic was silk, and deep blue and silver bordered.

“I’ve held converse with Odathi,” he said. “By the Great Abyss! I like not the omens that haunted your voyage, Cormac!”

He used the word carelessly. Two days’ run to Nantes was scarce what Cormac would have called a ‘voyage,’ or Howel either, had he been thinking about it.

“They were summat… disconcerting.” Cormac agreed. “It’s with Odathi ye’ve spoken, ye say. With his crew as well?”

“With some of them. All spoke of Arawn leading the Wild Hunt through the sky-”

Wulfhere sighed deeply. “By your leave, prince, not one o’ them knows whereof he speaks-and Cormac here is in error for once! Was Odin the Spear-Brandisher, on his way to some great battle in the east, with his valkyrior! Ask any of my Danes. They, too, were there.”

Cormac shrugged, and spoke to Morfydd. “There it is, lady. The Skull-splitter knows what he saw, and so do I. What make you of this?”

“Peradventure it is not the mystery it seems, Cormac. Captain Wulfhere… your Spear-Brandisher, Odin the One-eyed… he is a god of death, is he not?”

“Of death in combat, aye,” Wulfhere answered, looking askance at the wise-woman, wondering what she was about. “Slain warriors revel and fight in his halls until the day of the last battle for gods and men.”

“My people have known Arawn the Hunter for very long. He too is a god of death, and all that live is his warranted prey-but equally he is the god of rebirth. The one-eyed wanderer or the antlered huntsman; what matters it.” She gestured. “These are the guises of poetry and common memory. It’s in my mind that neither of you saw what was truly there. No matter; surely was a presage of great death coming. A war perhaps-and there is usually a war. I’m satisfied it does not hang over this realm of Bro Erech. I would know.”

“It may be that I will add to that, very soon,” Prince Howel said. There was a note in his voice that none could have taken lightly. “We’re hard upon Midsummer, and I am priest as well as prince. The rites may tell us more than we’d comfortably wish to know.”

“Why, here’s a thing, prince!” Wulfhere chuckled. “Ye follow the old ways still, and intercede before the gods for your people? What does this Christer bishop over in Vannes think of such?”

Morfydd’s eyes flashed. Although the query was addressed to her lord, she bit back an angry outburst of her own. Cormac observed it, and sympathized with her. The subject was a sore one with him also.

Howel grimaced as if he had swigged ale from a barrel with bad wood in it. “Paternus? He says little to my face! To be sure, he knows the people still keep the rites of Beltaine and Samhain, Midwinter and Midsummer as the year turns, and he likes it not. He’s too wise to provoke trouble to no gain. I suppose he fancies that Bro Erech will come within his Church’s net gradually.”

“It’s no fancy, that,” Cormac said, and his bearing was grim. “Given time, this Church will destroy the worship of all other gods. Hang your Bishop Paternus, Howel; see him swing and make it known ye’ll be having none to replace him. An rulers enow act so, the Cross-worshipers may yet be stopped.”

“Not by the hanging of bishops!” Howel said. “Were it so simple, Cormac, the spread of this faith had been stopped long agone, by the rulers of Rome’s Empire. The gods know their power was greater than mine, and yet they failed.”

Morfydd gripped his hand and shoulder. “Listen to Cormac mac Art, my dear lord! You can do something, if you cannot do everything! Well may you save yourself from seeing the ruling power slip into the Church’s hands within your lifetime, our people tortured and slain for worshiping the old gods!”

“True is that,” Cormac agreed. “Is knowing on ye what the Christians dare claim? Ye must have heard it time and again from the Bishop of Vannes! They say their god is the only god, all others being false demons who deceive men. They say that Arawn-Cernunnos, the Horned God, as the Romans called him when they found him worshiped in Gaul-is the greatest and worst, and make him one with their own arch-demon. I forget me what name they give him.”

“Satan,” Morfydd supplied.

“It’s only fools they are,” Howel said impatiently. “The Antlered God was worshiped in Gaul and Britain ere Christianity was ever heard of, or Rome either.”

“As we well know! The Christians do not, or care what is true-the ignorant, rigid-minded clods! They’re after believing whatever their bishops tell them!”

“Enough!” Howel was beginning to grow angry. “I know my own demesne, Cormac, and by the gods I still rule it! You will see. Come to the ring of standing stones in the Forest of Broceliande upon the Night. It is very near now. See what multitudes of folk attend the old rites, long though the journey is. Then tell me the Church and its bishops are a threat!”

Well, Cormac thought wearily, I tried. Mayhap Morfydd can make him see sense, when they are abed,together. He loves her. Knows he not the Church calls her a witch, and would joyfully burn her alive?

“We spoke of the Horned One,” Howel said. “You will be knowing I personify him in the rites, and take his spirit upon me. Mayhap then I will know what these skyward portents mean. I cannot promise to recall it fully when I am a mortal prince again, but an I do I’ll share the knowledge with you, Cormac.”

“Cormac… why should you not take part in the rites yourself?” Morfydd suggested. “You too are a descendant of kings.”

“I?” Cormac was half startled, half drawn to the notion. “What should I do?”

“Be Winter, in the combat of Winter and Summer.” Morfydd looked at him, appraising his height; his hard, rangy form leanly muscular as a wolf’s; the black hair and dark, sinister face. “You more than look the part!”

“I should,” Cormac said broodingly. “It’s at Midwinter I was born… all save the most hardy babes entering the world on that night are keened for ere spring.”

“Who could be better?”

“Hmm. Who’s to personate Summer?”

“Garin the shore-watcher. He’s known to you.”

Cormac nodded, thinking of the golden-haired, outgoing warrior. Aye, Garin was well chosen for his part in the ritual conflict. Twice yearly it was fought, at Midsummer and Midwinter, and held strong meaning for folk whose lives were regulated by the changing seasons. In the depths of the bleak season, the symbolic defeat of Winter by Summer gave hope for the future, when it seemed the dark and cold might swallow all the world forever. At the height of Summer, the outcome was reversed, as a boding reminder that time was burning and that after this night, the Sun’s power must commence to wane. It lent a certain spur to industry at the harvest.

“A good man,” Cormac said, speaking of Garin. “Well then, I’ll be matching meself with him at the standing stones.”

“An it’s Winter you’re to be,” Morfydd said smiling, “it were best you not wear that talisman you have about your neck! Surely it partakes of the power of Behl, the Blessed Sun.”

“I’ve been told so, Cormac answered, noncommittally. He balanced the Egyptian sigil on his hand, frowning at it. The mage Zarabdas’s words rang in his ears.

…and sorcerers stand across your path, and wraiths of darkness fly from the shadows. Whether you or they will triumph, I cannot know. In this only can I advise you helpfully; keep ever on your person the golden sigil you once showed me. It will aid you.

Words!

Had the serpent of gold aided him to see the Basque ships as they really were, in that southern sea-fight? Cormac doubted it. He put small faith in sigils and talismans. Besides, he was among friends here, and surely it was true that would not be fitting for him to wear a symbol of Behl the life-giving Sun for his chosen part in the Midsummer ceremony. He’d give it to Garin then, just afore they entered the ring of standing stones in the forest north of Vannes. Any dark power would be hard tested to touch him at a place of such holiness!

“Garin may wear it, during our ‘battle’,” he said.