“I don’t know how to use this thing.” I shoved it back at him.
“You’ll learn.” He began tearing at my clothes. “Get that shirt off.”
“Hey! What—”
“You don’t want to be seen like this,” he told me tersely.
Reluctantly, I began unbuttoning the shirt. “Simon, I’m really glad I found you.”
“Hurry!” Simon scanned the melée. The battle host of which he had been a member seemed to be overcoming their opponents, for the battle had quickly pushed beyond us. The heaviest combat was being waged higher up the hill.
I saw this as a perfect chance to creep away unnoticed. “Look, we’ve got to get away from here. We can—”
“Get if off!” he growled, snatching the shirt from me. “And get rid of this.” He seized my arm and jerked the watch from my wrist. Then he turned and heaved my watch into the stream.
“Wait a minute! You can’t—” The timepiece glinted in the air and disappeared among the rocks and the water.
“Follow me!” he cried, and, picking up his spear, dashed once more into the fray.
Reluctantly, I picked up the sword and tried once more, without success, to wrest the shield from the dead warrior. “Hurry!” cried Simon. “Try to stay with me!”
I followed without the shield, cursing every step. “This is crazy!” I cried. Simon did not hear me above the battle roar. “Bloody crazy!”
He gestured with his spear for me to follow, turned, and flung himself headlong into the fray. He was met almost the same instant by an immense warrior with a round, white-painted shield. The shield was spattered with blood, more red than white now, and the sword in his hand was notched and jagged. The warrior rushed at Simon, swinging the sword wide to strike, bellowing a brutal war cry as he came.
Simon did not hesitate but leaped to meet his adversary’s attack, throwing the butt of the spear up and into the man’s groin, ramming it hard. I winced. The warrior lurched back, swiping down with the blade, chopping off the end of Simon’s spear.
“Run!” I screamed.
But Simon had no intention of fleeing. He drove into the staggering foe, swinging the spear violently against the bloodstained shield. Even above the tumult of the battle I heard the crack. The shield swung aside. In the same fluid motion, Simon turned the spear and thrust its slim, leaf-shaped blade deep into the man’s bare chest. Blood spurted from the wound in a crimson torrent. The painted warrior fell dead to the ground, his mouth gaping in a silent scream.
Suddenly light-headed, black spots swimming before my eyes, I stumbled to Simon’s side. “He tried to kill you,” I mumbled, little knowing what I said. “Is he dead?”
By way of answer, Simon wrested the sword from his opponent’s dead hand. Placing a foot on the man’s chest and gripping the sword in both hands, he swung the blade high, then down, quickly, expertly. With a meaty crack, the dead warrior’s head rolled free.
I yelped and jumped back. “Simon!”
He picked up the severed head and turned, raising his grisly trophy on high. I stared in perfect disbelief. Simon threw back his head and laughed. “Here,” he called to me, “make yourself useful.”
With that, he threw the head to me. It hit the ground with an ugly thump and rolled toward me down the hill, flinging blood from the amputated neck. It stopped at my feet where I regarded it with abhorrence, choking back the sour bile that suddenly filled my mouth.
“Pick it up!” shouted Simon. “Let’s go!”
With difficulty I tore my eyes from the dead man’s empty gaze. “What?”
“Come on,” Simon snapped impatiently. “Pick it up! Let’s go!”
I glanced down at the head and back to Simon. “I can’t . . . I just—”
“Pick the wretched thing up!” he snarled savagely. “Now!”
I stooped and clenched a handful of hair. The head was warm and the hair was wet with sweat. I felt faint. My throat gagged. I thought I would throw up; my stomach heaved, and my knees went spongy. I stood retching, holding that hideous prize, dizzy and reeling with fear and revulsion.
Simon ran to join battle once more, but the fighting was over. The defeated were fleeing over the hill, and the victors—the war host I had encountered first—were throwing spears and hurling loud abuse at the rapidly retreating foe. The dead of both war bands lay scattered over the hillside like so many sun-bleached boulders. Crumpled and contorted, limbs askew, they lay in grass of the softest green I had ever seen, under that incredibly blue sky.
Even as I gazed numbly at the carnage around me, I heard a grating cry and looked up to see the carrion birds gathering. Already, they were flocking to their grim and ghastly feast. One big raven swooped low in front of me and landed on the headless corpse of the man Simon had killed. With a loud croak the big bird jabbed its black beak into the oozing chest wound, bit deep, and tore away a ragged strip of flesh. The raven tossed its sleek black head and gobbled the meat.
I had to look away. I stumbled after Simon, keeping my eyes away from the butchery in the grass.
Simon had joined the other warriors, who were setting the hills ringing with wild whoops of victory. Some leaped in the air and gestured with their spears to the obvious delight of their fellows, who barked with laughter. Simon laughed with them.
The merriment halted abruptly with the arrival of two young men on horseback: one looked to be a warrior and the other an adviser of some sort. But the warrior was dressed in bold checked trousers of gold and green, and a loose red shirt of shimmering satinlike fabric. He wore a large neck ring, or torc, of silver, and a wide belt of silver disks. The hilt of a golden dagger protruded from this belt, and he carried a spear with a silver blade. He, too, flaunted a great, spreading mustache. His hair—a long, full mane of tawny curls—gleamed in the sun.
The other youth was dressed more plainly: brown shirt and trousers of an ordinary cloth, a common leather belt. He wore no finery, and carried no weapons. His only adornment was a fine crimson cloak gathered at one shoulder with an immense silver brooch. He wore his dark hair scraped back tight to his scalp.
Both men were tall and striking, enjoying the ease and grace of youth. And both moved with a command and authority I imagined only Holy Roman emperors possessed: massive and benevolent, inspiring and daunting at the same time. They would have been at home in any of Europe’s royal courts. Even their horses appeared more graceful, more powerful, more beautiful than any of the manifest world’s much-vaunted thoroughbreds.
At the appearance of these two, the cheering and gyrating stopped, to be replaced by a general clamor of approval—a hailing of the chief, I reckoned. I crept next to Simon. “That’s the king, right?” I whispered.
“No. It’s the prince,” he murmured. “Be quiet.”
“Prince who?”
“Prince Meldron,” Simon told me irritably. “Meldron ap Meldryn Mawr. The one with him is Ruadh—he is the prince’s bard.”
“Oh.”
The prince halted amidst his gathered warriors and dismounted to the acclaim of all. Anyone would have thought he had won the battle single-handedly, though as far as I could tell he had not lifted a finger. Meldron beamed as his men exalted the victory; they began shouting and hugging and leaping onto one another and pummeling each other on the back. It reminded me of a locker-room celebration after a football championship match. All they lacked was champagne with which to douse themselves.
The cheering continued for a few moments, whereupon, by no sign or word that I could discern, it concluded. The prince issued a few brief words and everyone sprang into action, scattering across the hillside to the bodies of the slain. Their dead comrades were carried with all pomp to the stream and laid out beside the water. Stones were arranged over the bodies and a mound quickly, but carefully, raised.
The enemy dead were left where they had fallen. But each corpse was decapitated and the heads stacked neatly into a pyramid like so many ripe cabbages. Then their weapons were gathered, a
long with any ornaments—arm rings, torcs, bracelets, and the like. These were placed in a separate heap next to the severed heads.
Simon joined the others in these tasks, and I was left alone for the while. It was then that my presence on the battlefield was noticed and acknowledged for the first time. For, as the warriors were scouring the hillside for booty, one of them saw me standing apart, still holding the head of the man Simon had killed. The brawny fellow strode up to me and regarded me closely.
Not knowing what else to do, I offered him the head. The warrior behaved as if I had breached polite etiquette. His lips writhed back from his teeth in a grimace. He called over his shoulder to the bard, who turned, saw me, and joined the warrior in his scrutiny.
The bard spoke to me in a voice that sounded willowy and guttural at the same time. I could make nothing of the language, but realized that I had encountered it before—in a much altered form, at least. It had much of the same pattern and resonance as modern Welsh.
I stood grinning like an idiot, still holding the head. The bard turned abruptly and called to the prince, who came at once, striding down the hill. With him came several other warriors, and all at once I found myself under the stern examination of the prince and surrounded by naked, blue-stained bodies of powerful warriors—none of whom appeared particularly pleased to see me.
Prince Meldron, like his bard before him, spoke to me in his proto-Gaelic speech. I answered in my own tongue, which caused a small sensation—they murmured excitedly and pointed at my shoes and trousers. A few reached out to touch my bare skin with fingers extended gingerly. They stared at me and at the head I held, as if unwilling to believe their eyes at either curiosity.
Simon appeared in the press around me and came to my rescue. He stepped beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder; he pointed to me and to the dripping head in my grasp—jabbering all the while in their strange tongue. I was flabbergasted by his fluency. This was the same Simon whose linguistic prowess began and ended at the wine list on a French menu. Even more astounding, the bard addressed him solemnly. Simon answered quickly, unhesitatingly, keeping his hand on my shoulder all the while.
This colloquy continued for a short while, and then the bard nodded slowly, turned to the prince, and, I suppose, offered his learned opinion. The prince listened for a moment, then raised his hand. The bard fell silent. Meldron pulled on his mustache, scrutinizing me with sharp appraisal, as if making up his mind about me.
“What’s happening?” I asked in a desperate whisper.
“Shh!” Simon warned, pinching the side of my neck to make me shut up.
Meldron concluded his rumination then, for he waved Simon aside and moved to stand before me, towering head and shoulders above me. I had no idea what to expect: A sharp dagger thrust in the ribs? A kiss of welcome? A slap in the face? A poke in the eye?
He did none of those things. Instead, he reached out to the hand that held the enemy’s head, took hold of my wrist, raised it, and held it up. The head dangled grotesquely, dribbling blood from the raw neck stump. The prince spoke some words to all those looking on, which included the entire war host by now, and then he placed his free hand, palm up, beneath the obscenely dripping head.
Blood puddled in his palm. And when he had collected enough, he took it and poured it over me. Disgust and loathing churned inside me; I wanted to vomit. I wanted to die. But he held me fast by the wrist, so I stood in mute agony while he drizzled blood over my head. Then he lowered his hand and smeared my cheek with the residue.
My flesh crawled under his touch.
No sooner had the prince finished, than his bard, Ruadh, likewise marked me—reaching out, gathering blood and smearing it down either side of my neck, and over my heart in a bright, warm, crimson streak.
My repugnant baptism was far from finished. For I was made to endure the same appalling courtesy at the hands of the entire gathering, as one by one each warrior took blood and marked me with it. Some splotched my pale flesh with designs similar to their own; others simply left a handprint. When they had finished, my upper torso was well-nigh covered in congealing blood. Words cannot express the disgust and abhorrence I endured.
When the last of the warriors had smeared me, Meldron released my wrist, turned to the heap of weapons and ornaments, and selected an item—discarding two gold and several silver objects before settling on a big bronze armband, which he slipped over my hand and pushed onto my upper arm over my biceps. This done, the company erupted in shouts of approval, and I was treated to a solid thumping, as the warriors pummeled me with hearty backslaps. In all, it was a thoroughly disagreeable experience. If I could have melted into a crack in the ground, I surely would have.
Prince Meldron then began to divide the spoils and plunder among his men. Each warrior received something—an ornament or a weapon, some trinket of gold or silver. Everyone hoorayed and laughed and made merry over this, generally behaving like rowdy children on Christmas morning.
In no time at all the loot disappeared. Then the prince remounted his horse, cried for his war band to follow, and they all moved off at a run. Simon stepped beside me, grinning. “Well done, brother,” he said, slapping me on the back. “You’re in.”
“Well done! It was awful. I thought I was going to puke.” With a shock, I realized I still held the warrior’s head. I let the gruesome memento drop to the ground and wiped my sticky hand on my trousers. I shivered with distaste. “I stink. I’ve got to get cleaned up.”
“Pick it up,” he ordered flatly.
“I’m not carrying that hideous thing around.”
Simon’s temper flared. “Stupid! That hideous thing saved your life just now. You are expected to bring it back with you.”
“What?” I demanded shrilly. “You must be out of your mind!”
He pointed at the head, lying faceup in the grass. “That is the enemy tribe’s champion you killed—”
“I killed! Wait one minute, buster. I never killed anyone! I—”
“And if you haven’t guessed, you’ve been made a warrior in Meldryn Mawr’s war band,” he told me. “Now, pick up that head, and let’s go before we are left behind.”
He turned on his heel and, clutching a long spear the prince had given him, trotted off after the others. With supreme reluctance, I retrieved the hateful head and ran to catch up with Simon. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the caer,” he explained. “It isn’t far.”
“The caer—what caer? What for?”
“I’ll explain everything later,” he promised. “Believe me, we don’t want to be seen lagging behind.”
He ran on and I followed as well as I could, clutching my lifesaving trophy and cursing the day of my birth.
14
CAER MODORNN
The caer turned out to be a simple timber fortress atop a flattened hill. The hill soared above a placid river which meandered through a broad valley in a wide, slow sweep of shining water. As Simon had indicated, the king’s stronghold was not far from the battlefield. All the same, I was breathless and exhausted with running by the time we reached the river.
The war band had drawn up at the water’s edge to watch the prince, who continued into the river and halted halfway across, whereupon he withdrew a gold arm ring from among those he had collected as his share of the plunder. He held the arm ring to the sun, said something which I could not understand, and then heaved the golden trinket upriver as far as he could throw. I saw it flash in the air and plunge without a ripple.
The warriors cheered, and everyone splashed into the water at once. I floundered across the shallow fording place, climbed the far bank, and made my weary way up the steep hill track to the caer, last of the troop.
I expected something grand and imposing, but I was disappointed. Once we were past the narrow wooden gate, the caer turned out to be nothing more than an enclosed campsite. There were a dozen or so skin-and-pole tents scattered across the hilltop inside the encircling palisade. Numerous
fire rings marked the various places where the warriors gathered to eat their meals and to sleep.
It was rude and crude, exhibiting none of the magnificence I believed existed in the Otherworld. As far as I could tell, this Meldryn Mawr, whoever he might be, was monarch of a modest wooden cattle pen.
Upon our arrival, those who had stayed behind to hold the fort gathered around to hear the juicy details of the day’s exploits from their comrades. It was clear, by the exaggerated excitement of all concerned— listener and braggart alike—that the excursion had already taken on a rich luster of glory.
And I, owing to Simon’s bald-faced lie, became the object of a considerable amount of this excitement. Killing a champion was powerful stuff, apparently. The way everyone behaved, what with all the shouting, laughing, and leaping around, one would have thought I, David, had beaned Goliath and routed the Philistines with my slingshot.
I was poked and prodded and generally slapped happily from one end of the camp to the other. My clothing was examined with curiosity, and the ghastly head in my grasp made much of. When at last a huge, brawny warrior, whom I took to be the king’s champion, approached with spear in hand and, through pantomime, offered to spike the head for me, I gave up my dubious prize only too gladly.
With Prince Meldron looking on, the warrior expertly mounted the severed head upon the spear and drove the shaft into the ground at my feet. He then seized each of my arms in his crushing grip and kissed me on both of my blooded cheeks. This sealed my acceptance by the warrior band. All whooped and hollered as if some great deliverance had been performed among them. And I was treated to another round of backslaps and thumpings.
“You are in, my friend,” said Simon, when the commotion died down somewhat. Everyone went about their business, and we were left alone for the moment. “We can relax now.”
“Good.” I regarded my gore-smeared torso with loathing. “Can I wash? Is that allowed?”
“Better not. Tomorrow, maybe,” he said. “It’s your initiation badge.