In the Region of the Summer Stars

  ‘But the night is only half through,’ Donal pointed out. ‘We still have plenty of time before sunrise.’

  ‘Look down there,’ instructed the ollamh. ‘Tell me, what do you see?’

  Donal squinted into the darkness. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Mádoc. ‘And that is why I think we must stop. We dare not risk blundering into an enemy ráth or holding.’

  ‘He is right,’ Conor said. ‘We should wait until we can determine how best to proceed.’ He turned his horse toward the downward slope. ‘Come, we will find a place to make camp—but not up here where we can be seen.’

  In a coombe below the crest of the ridge, they made a low lean-to of the tent among the rocks and, securing the animals down the slope and well out of sight, they settled back to wait for the sun to rise. Huw served a modest meal of bread and dried meat, and they rolled themselves in their cloaks to doze until daylight. Conor was the first to stir. Seeing the others were still asleep, he crept quietly from the shelter and climbed to the top of the ridge for a view of the other side. Dawn was showing a dull, ruddy glow in the east by the time he gained the spine of the ridge and stopped to look down. What he saw stole the warm breath from his mouth, for it was a charred wasteland as far as the eye could see: nothing but dead earth and ashes.

  Whole forests had been set ablaze; the blackened skeletons of trees—trunks blasted and limbs burned to stumps—dotted the scorched landscape. The ravaged hillsides were pocked with shallow craters and mounds of broken stone. Fields had been put to the torch and the ground gouged and ripped. Scattered over the valley floor were the remains of settlements and small holdings, levelled, the houses pulled down and foundations scattered, high timber walls and stout protecting gates wrecked and burned. Nothing hale or whole was left standing. All was either black with soot and smoke, or grey with ash. What once must have been fertile fields and forest was now but a wilderness, a bleak and barren desert of destruction. Here and there brambles and nettles struggled to reclaim a patch of ground, theirs the only green showing.

  Conor was still staring at the wasteland, trying to fathom the extent of the ruin and the terrible rapacity behind it, when Mádoc appeared beside him. ‘I expected it would be changed,’ he said, his voice cracking.

  ‘This is not a change, old man,’ he said, his voice the quiet calm before the storm breaks. ‘It is annihilation.’

  The old druid seemed not to hear him. ‘I did not know it would be…’—he lifted a limp and empty hand to the grim panorama before him—‘that anything could be this bad.’

  ‘The creatures that did this are not fit to live beneath the blue sky of heaven,’ Conor declared. ‘While I draw breath in this worlds-realm, I will not cease fighting while any of them remain in Eirlandia.’

  Fergal and Donal joined them just then. ‘How?’ whispered Fergal, his face grim and pale. He shook his head and turned away. Donal gazed in silence at the great swath of devastation, stunned to silence.

  One by one, they returned to their crude camp, where Huw had laid out the last of the cold venison and leftover porridge. ‘We will move on after we’ve eaten,’ said Mádoc. Fergal opened his mouth to speak, but the druid anticipated his question, adding, ‘Pointless to travel at night. There is no one here.’

  They ate their unhappy meal in silence, and then broke camp and resumed their journey beneath a low sky of heavy grey clouds. They rode slowly, picking their way down the ruined slopes into the wasteland, a nightmare realm as grim and dead as the cinders crunching beneath the hooves of their horses. The air was rank with the scent of stale smoke and rot, and left a bitter metallic taste in the mouth. No one spoke.

  They proceeded into the lowlands that stepped away in ever-lowering slopes from the height of the ridge and soon came upon the dull, irregular depression of an empty lough—a wide, barren gash in the valley floor. A channel had been cut through the bank at one end, allowing the water in the lake to drain away into the valley beyond, flooding the fields and settlements downstream. Even from a distance they could smell the sour stench, for the bottom of the ruined lough was a quagmire of slime and reeking sludge. Grim-faced, they moved on.

  All that day, they saw no wildlife; not even crows or buzzards traversed the sky. At one place, they crossed a riven field and came to one of the nearer settlements; nothing remained but heaps of ash and the tumbled, blackened spars of collapsed roof beams; corner posts jutted up from the debris like misshapen spears. Sometimes, amidst the destruction, they saw the green shoots of a stunted bush or tree, occasionally a brave little patch of grass caught the eye, stark against its drab surroundings.

  Conor kept his eyes on the far horizon, but every now and then some object would claim his attention: the rim of a shield; here and there, sword blades bent out of shape by the heat; a smoke-grimed cup or bowl that had otherwise escaped destruction. And once, what he thought was the round base of a pot turned out to be a fire-blackened skull. On closer inspection, there were fire-chewed bones everywhere.

  As they rode farther into the deadlands, Conor thought he heard someone singing. He listened for a moment and then urged his mount forward to draw even with Mádoc. He saw the druid’s lips moving to a bleak and mournful melody barely uttered.

  ‘A song, Mádoc?’ he said. ‘You think of music in the face of … of this?’

  ‘I sing because I have no more tears,’ the bard replied. ‘It is a charm against evil—the most powerful one I know.’

  ‘Sing on, then,’ Conor told him. ‘I will uphold you.’

  Mádoc did sing on—all the way through the valley and to the banks of a river where they stopped to rest and water the horses. They dismounted and Donal gathered the reins and led the horses to the water’s edge where he stopped—making no attempt to let the animals drink.

  ‘What now?’ asked Fergal, joining him a moment later.

  ‘The water is foul.’ He pointed to a stream that was little more than a scum-crusted ooze. There were dead fish floating and in the mud at the water’s marge.

  Fergal squatted down for a closer look. The water was a putrid grey, and held a strange oily sheen. He dipped a finger into the sluggish flow and lifted it to his nose. He sniffed gingerly and then poked out his tongue.

  ‘See now, you’re not—’ began Donal.

  Fergal touched the drop to the tip of his tongue, tasted, and then spat. By this time, the others were watching, too.

  ‘Well?’ said Conor.

  ‘It tastes of rotten eggs, or rust … rock.…’ He wiped his finger on the bare ground. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Then we move on,’ said Conor.

  At the next burned-out settlement, they paused long enough to search the ruins for a well—and found one beneath a heap of stone that had once formed the rim. After shifting some few of the larger stones aside, they were able to lower Huw’s leather pail down on a rope and bring up potable water for themselves and the horses. ‘At least the dog-eaters did not think to poison the well,’ observed Donal.

  ‘Why would they bother?’ asked Fergal. ‘No one would be crazy enough to come here.’

  ‘We’re here.’

  When all had drunk their fill, the company moved on without stopping until the sun dropped beneath the low cloud ceiling. For a time, the stark barrenness of the landscape lay exposed to the true light of day and was, if possible, even worse. The horror of the day, grown more tangible with every blighted field they crossed and every violated fortress they passed, solidified into a vile and malevolent force that owned the air above and the soil below.

  When the brief light began to fade, they found a place to make camp, choosing a flattened area in what might once have been a cattle enclosure at the foot of a denuded hill; they erected the tent and tethered the horses close. They lit no fire—what was left to burn?—and gnawed on trail bread and scraps of bósaill from their provisions. Talk dwindled into dismal silence as each found what solace they could in their private thoughts. Th
ey slept in fits and starts, snatching at slumber’s elusive peace, and woke to another dismal day beneath dull, dirty cloud.

  A half day’s ride through the barren waste brought them to what appeared to be the farthest extent of the destruction. On a rising slope across a scoured valley they glimpsed a woodland, still green and whole, apparently untouched by the damage inflicted on all that they had passed through.

  Upon reaching the edge of the wood, they paused. ‘At last,’ sighed Fergal, casting a last glance at the deadlands behind them. ‘We’re through the worst.’

  ‘From here on,’ Conor said, ‘we must be on our guard. We don’t know how close we may be to Scálda strongholds—we must assume there are enemy warriors about.’

  Donal rode into the wood, returning a short time later to report that it was safe to proceed; they resumed their foray. When the light began to fade, they had made camp in a tiny glade a fair distance into the green woodland. Though the heavy sky began leaking a cold drizzle over them, and they did not dare to risk a fire, they nevertheless welcomed the cleansing rain.

  Some little time after dark, as Donal and Huw were settling the horses for the night, Huw came running back to the tent. He made an excited motion with his hands, and Mádoc stood abruptly. ‘Where?’ he said aloud. The question was accompanied by a gesture and a sign. ‘Show me.’

  The boy darted away again, with Mádoc close behind.

  ‘What was that now?’ asked Fergal.

  ‘Let’s see.’ Conor hurried after the two and found them with Donal at the edge of the glade where the horses were tethered—all three merely standing there, looking at something. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Up there,’ said Donal, raising a hand to the sky.

  Conor looked where he was pointing and saw a faint reddish glow reflected on the low overcast sky.

  ‘Is that—’ began Fergal.

  ‘Fire,’ said Donal. ‘A big one.’

  ‘Half the forest must be on fire,’ suggested Fergal.

  ‘Either that, or we are very close,’ said Conor. He looked to Mádoc, and added, ‘I think we know where to look for the nearest Scálda settlement.’

  Liam

  They were wrong to let him live. The elders knew best. Nothing good would come of it, they said. Why endanger everyone for the sake of an ill-omened infant? The welfare of the tribe is at stake. So they argued, and they argued truly.

  By right custom, common sense, and the greater good of the tribe, Conor should have been placed on the midden heap the day he was born, or thrown to the scavenging animals outside the ráth. But our mother would be having none of that! She wanted him alive, her firstborn son, and fought to save him. Fierce as a wildcat and spitting mad, fresh from the birthing bed, our mam refused to let anyone touch her baby boy.

  ‘Look at its face!’ they cried, the old wives and elders, pointing to the ugly crimson mark that stains Conor’s cheek and throat. ‘That is the mark of evil! A curse! It must be cast out.’

  ‘So, you say!’ she raged. ‘And have none of you ever had a spot on those perfect skins of yours?’

  ‘This is different,’ they shouted. ‘That child is marked for destruction. You let it live and it will bring destruction down on us all. Better that one should die so that all may live.’

  Everything that happened and was said that day is well known among the clans of the Darini, and the story is often told and the outcome argued over—usually in times of hardship or threat.

  But on that fateful day, Ciara looked to her husband for help. Our da was so deeply shocked by the scarlet birthmark that disfigured his precious son that he found it hard to rise to the infant’s defence. I say this not to blame him—anyone else would have done the same. Even so, seeing his wife in such agony stirred the warrior within him. He came to her aid and threw the midwives and elders out of the birthing hut, slammed the door on them, and defied anyone to challenge him.

  The matter did not end there, of course.

  The clansmen, upset and anxious now, took the decision to the king. Fortunately for Conor, Lord Eochaid was so far sunk in his cups that he would not be roused from his hall. So, when the elders brought their complaint to him, he merely lifted his ale-sodden head from the board and said, ‘Ach, well, he won’t be the first Darini with a defect. Let the lad live if he will.’

  Those early years passed, and our mam weathered this hardship as well as she could. She was ever at pains to defend her blighted child, always protecting him, worrying, watching over him. By the time I came along, the pattern was firmly set and though I was born clean-skinned and healthy, I received little of her affection or care. Likely, she had none left over to give me. I may be wrong in this, but for a fact I never felt the warmth from her that Conor endlessly enjoyed.

  In any case, the weight of that disfigurement weighed on her, preyed on her, and I do believe it wore her down and weakened her so that by the time Rónán came along she no longer had the strength or will to live and died a few days after he was born.

  I was too young to understand this at the time, to be sure—but I have brooded over it through the years. Aye, and a blind man could see that Conor’s birthmark was ever a concern of the clan. That never changed. Any misfortune set the tongues wagging, and certain folk readily lay the hardship, whatever it might be—from a sick cow to summer drought—at Conor’s feet.

  Truly, some of the old folk even blamed Conor for the invasion of the Scálda! Daft, I know, but old ways run deep. Thanks to our da, Conor became a warrior—and a good one, too, give him that—but even then some of our clan yet begrudged him his life. Indeed, the fact that he could wield a blade like a whirlwind only made him all the more dangerous.

  Fortunately, for Conor—he is never less than fortunate, mind—by the time the Scálda invasion had settled into a standoff many of the elders who so opposed his life had given up their own, so there were few left to raise the old complaint. Most folk had long ago resigned themselves to Conor’s odd looks and, for good or ill, accepted him as he was. Aoife surely did. Strange to say, but I don’t think she has ever even noticed that vile red stain. Certainly, it has never made the slightest difference to her glowing opinion of him. To hear fair Aoife tell it, Conor was the sun and stars and the soft sea breeze all in one and could do no wrong.

  To those who point the finger and accuse me of dishonouring my blood kin, I can only say that until they have come of age in the shadow of a brother who soaks up all the air and light in every room he happens to enter, they should bite their flapping tongues. Who among them know the disappointment and frustration of being always overlooked, always coming second, always ignored, disregarded, unnoticed—and this because you are not blemished and disfigured!

  Whatever another would have done in my shoes, I can tell you Conor’s presence made me try all the harder—I stayed longer on the training field, I toiled at weapons craft until I could no longer hold a spear shaft or sword hilt. If I could not run faster, I ran farther. I climbed higher and swam more treacherous waters than any of the other boys who took the warrior path. I made myself into a man who could fight fearlessly and well. I listened to my elders tell of battles won and lost, and learned from their triumphs and defeats. In the years since taking up the shield, I made myself the best. No one gave me anything. Everything I have achieved is on the strength of my own arm alone.

  And when an injury forced Eilhon, our serving warleader, to step down and a new battlechief was appointed to take his place, it was me that Ardan chose, not Conor. That was the happiest day of my life.

  I have heard it said that the king was only giving in to outmoded belief, bowing the knee to the long-accepted custom that says a blemished, injured, or impotent man can neither lead nor rule. But that is not true. Not true at all.

  The king chose me because I was the best choice. It is as simple as that. Custom did not come into it, and I will fight the man who says otherwise. Conor may be quick-witted in a fight, aye—and his luck is always with him. Ach, but
he is too often rash and reckless, and never coolheaded in the battle heat. Add to that the fickleness of men—for, when the time comes to engage the enemy, it will not do to have any warrior doubting his battlechief, or hesitating at the last moment because he distrusts the ability of the one who leads him into the fray.

  Conor could never lead men into battle because there will always be those who cannot bring themselves to wholly trust a blemished man. My father understood this—and understood, too, that a king has a greater duty to seek the best for his tribe and that is why he chose me. That choice has never rested easily with Conor. So be it.

  So long as Conor bears the evil stain on his face for all the world to see, he will never rule so much as a pig wallow. For good or ill, that is the way of it.

  Am I sorry he is gone? Truth be told, I am. The warband has lost a good swordhand. As I say, Conor swings a fine blade—and just now the Darini need every single warrior we can get. He will be missed.

  All the same, the churn is upturned and it is no use crying about spilt milk now. He brought this trouble on himself, and there is the good of the tribe to consider. The life of the tribe comes first and we will all have to accept that, and accept the fact that Conor is gone and never coming back. Aoife, too, will accept that. Sooner or later, she will see the folly of waiting for someone who will never return.