Gavin Smith - The Age of Scorpio

Teardrop gave the question some thought.

‘It will diminish me.’

Fachtna said nothing. It was Teardrop’s decision. More than anything he needed his friend strong, but she might be able to help and he wasn’t comfortable leaving her like this. And she looked strong. He would respect whatever decision Teardrop made.

‘Even if she wins the war in her blood, if she gets closer to Bress and the Red Chalice their influence on her would grow stronger. She’s pretty.’

‘For a mortal. Your head is so swollen, but it’s still the other one you want to use?’ Fachtna asked, amusement in his tone. Teardrop grinned at him. He was happily married; the comment had been for Fachtna’s benefit. It was the warrior, after all, not Teardrop who had an eye for pretty ‘mortals’.

Teardrop wiped the knife on his jerkin and then brought it up to the side of his oversized head. The black blade pushed though swarthy weather-beaten skin, cutting into it. As the blade broke the skin there was no blood, only interlocking crystalline growth. Teardrop closed his eyes, his features wrinkling in concentration. Something leaked through the dry wound. Some of the crystals seemed to melt into a viscous quicksilver-like liquid and run down onto the knife blade. The drop of quicksilver stayed on the blade. Teardrop forced Britha’s mouth open as gently as he could and held the knife over it. The quicksilver hung on the blade momentarily and then dripped into her mouth. Fachtna watched expectantly but nothing happened. Britha continued writhing on the pebbles, staring fixedly. Teardrop started to sing. It sounded like a series of disparate syllables but worked into a soothing melody.

‘Will that strengthen the blood of the Muileartach, weaken the demon’s blood?’ Fachtna asked.

Teardrop looked at his warrior friend, trying to decide if he could be bothered to explain. The warrior didn’t really care about these things. He was just talking for the sake of something to say. That was fine , Teardrop thought; the older he got the more he did the same thing.

‘No, what it should do is give her more control,’ Teardrop said and then had to stifle a smile as Fachtna nodded like he knew what the other man was talking about.

Then Britha woke, still screaming. Both of them jumped.

The impossible, painful-to-view crystalline skull faded away, crawling back into the head of the most bizarre man she had ever seen. His skin was dark but looked different from the southron traders her people had dealt with. There was a reddish tint to the brown. His face looked like it had never seen a blade and yet there was no trace of a beard there. Even allowing for this and the strangely bulbous hairless head, the strangest thing about him was his clothing.

He wore a pair of absurdly large trews, with thick red and thin white stripes. These were tucked into a pair of well made high leather boots. He had a white shirt under a stiff-looking leather jerkin, which was fastened with small metal discs that Britha had never seen the like of before. Over that he wore a piece of apparel that looked to Britha to be a cross between some sort of sleeved over-robe and a cloak. The garment was made from some kind of supple hide.

Next to him on the pebbles was a long gnarled wooden staff. There was a large crystal in the centre of the staff. It looked like the staff had grown round the crystal. Another crystal tipped the staff.

It was clear to Britha that this was some kind of monster. She looked around frantically for her spear but she was not where she had been. She was sore from the battering she had given herself during the visions. It was day now. The night must have come and gone.

‘It’s okay…’ the strange man started. Britha kicked him in the mouth from her prone position.

‘Hey!’ Britha turned at the cry and saw another man moving towards her.

She put her hand on Teardrop’s staff and flipped over it onto her feet, coming up holding the staff, a feat she was sure that she would not have been capable of until recently.

The other man had his hand on the hilt of his sword and was bringing his shield to bear. The shield was rectangular with rounded corners, leather over oak with complex spiral knotwork patterns ending in three dragons’ heads. He at least she recognised, or at least what he was. He was clearly some kind of warrior. He looked like a Goidel, warriors reputed to come from an island beyond the land to the west.

He wore a boiled leather breastplate, and armour covered his upper arms, vambraces his forearms, and he wore thick leather greaves over fine plaid trews. Around his neck was a finely wrought torc made of thick strands of silver twisted together rather than the more chainlike designs of her own people.

Britha had a moment to appreciate how handsome the man was – well built, fine-featured, long reddish-blonde hair, his similarly coloured beard and moustache in a plait. Attractive or not, there was something about him that Britha knew she would find irritating even if they hadn’t been about to kill each other. The fact that his armour, shield and face were unscarred gave her confidence that she could beat the pretty young warrior.

‘Wait!’ the swollen-headed man cried from his bloody mouth. Britha kicked him in the face again and then hit him on his head with his own staff. The man cried out and rolled away from her.

The warrior drew his sword. The blade shone even in the pale light of the overcast day. The metal looked silver. The blade seemed to hum and shimmer as if singing. Britha did not like the look of the blade. She sensed magic in it. She had encountered too many weapons that actively thirsted for blood recently. The beautifully crafted longsword looked sharp enough to cut the air. The last time she had seen a blade that fine, Bress had been holding it.

The warrior was charging her. Britha changed her stance, ready to dart to the side.

‘Fachtna, wait!’ the other man cried. Britha understood his words, though she was not sure he was speaking the same language as the Pecht, but there was clearly magic in the air. His accent was strange.

The warrior skidded to a halt, keeping his eye on Britha, clearly ready to attack. The swollen-headed man turned to the ban draoi .

‘Look we’re not here to—’ he started. Britha hit him on the head with his own staff again. She could not risk him weaving magic with his words. She hit him hard enough to break the skin, but there was no blood.

‘Ow! Stop hitting me with my staff. That’s not what it’s for!’

Through the gash in the creature’s head she could make out some kind of crystalline growth. She stared for a moment and then remembered the warrior.

Fachtna made a move towards her. Britha shifted position.

‘Wait!’ the swollen-headed man shouted. Britha made a move to hit him again, but he scrabbled away from her on the pebbles. ‘I said stop doing that!’

‘Then still your tongue. There’s magics in it.’ Britha’s voice was little more than a rasp, and she tasted blood from her throat when she spoke.

‘We just want to…’ Britha moved towards the monster. So far her attacks had drawn no blood. ‘Please listen…’

‘If you wish to talk, then let him talk,’ Britha said and gestured at Fachtna.

‘I don’t want to talk; I want to fight,’ Fachtna growled. His accent sounded like what she would imagine a Goidel would sound like.

‘Many-Edged Ones, take me now,’ Teardrop muttered.

‘Are you working magics?’ Britha demanded, moving towards him,

‘No!’

Fachtna shifted to intercept her.

‘Fachtna, stop, please,’ Teardrop implored. Fachtna stopped but did not look happy.

‘Why won’t you let me talk to you?’ Teardrop asked and then scrambled to his feet and backed away quickly as Britha tried to hit him again.