Gavin Smith - The Age of Scorpio

‘Do you not think we should at least look in the village before we make that decision? The smoke could just be from hearths,’ Nechtan suggested, just a trace of mockery in his tone.

Britha turned to look at him as if he was an idiot. The village was obviously burned, not a house left standing. She turned back to look at the village. It was still very far away. She lapsed into silence.

Hungry wounds. Like the one the man had been suffering from when he rode into Ardestie. They were definitely sword wounds but ragged and too deep. Like the blades had eaten their way into the wounds. The warrior was scarred, his shield dented and his sword pitted, but both had the look of being well looked after. The Ce were not a timid people, their warriors were capable, but his blade was not even reddened. It was the same with the rest of the dead. They were either warriors, the ruling family of the village, or landsmen and fisherfolk with spears because all adult Pecht could fight. They were all dead with no sign they had wounded any of the attackers.

The village had been put to the torch, the roundhouses little more than smoking ruins, but it did not look as if anything had been stolen. Even the precious livestock had been left. On the stony beach the small fishing curraghs, the skin-hulled, wooden-framed boats, had been burned as well.

‘They couldn’t have been very good fighters,’ Drest suggested, Giric nodding in agreement, but even Nechtan, who was quick to denigrate another warrior, did not believe it.

‘Where are the rest?’ Nechtan asked.

‘Slavers?’ Giric suggested.

‘Slavers would take things. There’s gold round the necks and the arms of the warriors. They wouldn’t have left the livestock either,’ Britha said from where she was kneeling next to the dead warrior. She used the butt of her spear to push herself to her feet.

It was a beautiful day, fresh; there was a strong wind blowing in off the sea, clouds scudding across the bright blue sky. The wind almost took the smell of burned wood away from their nostrils. It did not take away the smell of five days of rotting flesh. Britha spat at the crows, messengers of malevolent gods. They had disturbed them feasting on the dead. She felt their eyes on her and the others. Talorcan was waving at them from down by the water. Britha made her way towards him accompanied by the sound of stones being moved up and down the beach by the gentle lapping of the waves.

As Britha headed towards Talorcan she glanced back at the man. He had not even got off the pony they had given him to ride. He was among the ruins of his home. He knew the dead and the missing but he did nothing.

Britha was not used to Talorcan looking worried. The hunter was normally very calm.

‘They dragged the ships up here onto the beach,’ he said, pointing at drag marks.

‘How many?’

‘Two ships came ashore. Whether or not there were more I don’t know.’

‘How many raiders?’

‘Difficult to tell. The tracks in the village are too confused. I’m guessing they came late and took the village by surprise. There’s a watch fire further up the headland. I’d wager that those manning it are gone or dead as well.’

Britha nodded. ‘So they killed those who fought, but why didn’t everyone fight? The Ce are not sheep people.’

Talorcan said nothing; he just moved further along the beach to an area clear of stones. He pointed to a mark in the sand. Even without bending down, Britha could see the faint imprint of something that looked like an irregular four-pointed star. The sand had been disturbed as if something ran between each of the deeper indents. Though no tracker, she recognised that five nights ago the indents must have been a lot deeper. The whole imprint was about two feet across.

‘You’ll need to get closer to see it,’ Talorcan said.

‘I can see it,’ Britha said. Talorcan gave her a funny look. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a footprint,’ Talorcan said. Now she understood why he had looked troubled.

Then the screaming started.

The man had got Drest’s sword away from him. He ran the boy through. Drest was still standing, shaking from the wound as he soiled himself and drooled blood down his front.

‘No!’ Giric cried and charged the man with his longspear.

‘Wait!’ Nechtan cried.

The man tore the sword out of Drest and the boy slumped forward to the ground. With surprising speed he turned on Giric. The man threw a sweeping kick; his foot contacted with the haft of Giric’s spear and drove the point into the ground with sufficient force to snap the wood. Giric collided with his own spear. The man was already swinging Drest’s blade. He cut the spear haft again and opened Giric’s throat. The young warrior staggered away, blood pouring from the wound, bubbling into froth. With his left hand he tried to hold the wound closed and to his credit his right was trying to draw his sword, but before he could he slumped to his knees and then fell onto his face.

Britha sprinted across the stony beach, making for the village. She quickly outpaced Talorcan, but when arrows started to fly past her she realised the hunter was fighting the best way he could. Meanwhile, the man had turned on Nechtan.

Arrows started to appear in the man’s flesh. They did not slow him. Nechtan was a judge of fighters. He had to be. The man was not only fast; his technique was nearly flawless. Rapidly the Cirig champion threw one casting spear after another as he backed towards his horse.

The man batted one of them away with the flat of Drest’s sword. The other two hit him true and penetrated flesh, but even they did not stop him. Nechtan backed into his pony. The horse was already nervous but trained for war and did not bolt. Nechtan mastered his fear. He grabbed his small square shield from the pony and drew his iron-bladed longsword from its scabbard just in time.

The man swung at him. Nechtan took the blow on his shield, the force of it splitting the thick reinforced wood, making his arm numb and opening a long gash on it. Nechtan used the parry to duck under the blade and dart away from his pony, giving himself more room.

The man swung again and again at Nechtan, the champion having to use every last bit of strength, speed and skill he possessed just to parry the well-aimed, powerful, fast blows. He was aware of Britha sprinting towards him. Some way behind her, Talorcan was doing the same. The hunter could not now risk using his bow.

Nechtan parried again and retreated, changing position slightly so that when the man renewed his attack his back would be towards Britha.

Britha charged the man, her spear aimed at the centre of his arrow-studded back. He struck at Nechtan. Nechtan parried, catching the blade, realising the mistake he had made just before he was headbutted in the face and kicked so hard in the stomach that he was lifted off his feet and the wind driven from him.

The man turned on Britha, ready to receive her charge. Britha leaped. Nechtan watched in amazement as Britha seemed to fly through the air. The man tried to parry the spear but Britha twitched it out of the way of his blade. The tip took him in the chest, and the force of her landing drove three feet of the weapon through him. Nechtan had to roll to the side to avoid the spearhead.

Still on his feet, the man moved towards Britha, swinging at the ban draoi as she scrambled out of the way.

‘Cut off his head!’ she screamed.

Nechtan was back on his feet now. He clubbed the sword out of the man’s hand with his own blade and then swung it two-handed at the man’s neck. It was like cutting leather. Each blow was more frenzied as Nechtan painted himself with blood. On the fifth blow the head came off, tumbling free of the body, which was still staggering around. From the stump of his neck waved hundreds of rippling strands of what looked like red filigree. In horror, Britha turned to the severed head and saw the same.