Gavin Smith - The Age of Scorpio

On the mound was a handsomely carved wooden chair. The designs on it were strange to Britha’s eyes. They seemed to flow and run into each other, hinting at some story that was beyond her ken. Next to it was a similarly designed table; it too looked ancient and strange. On the table were little tear-shaped fragments of crystal. Teardrop was looking at them with interest. They looked different to the crystals on the wall, more refined, or made from a different material.

Fachtna’s face was made of stone. Britha could respect the effort he was putting in to remaining calm. Tangwen had said that their god had wanted to see them on his own. She had left the warning of the consequences of harming him unsaid.

‘You have met my people before, I see,’ the creature said. The S wasn’t as drawn-out as she had expected, but it was longer than she was used to.

It was the very human-looking robes that disturbed Britha the most. They were not of her people nor any of the tribes of this island, but they would not have been out of place on some of the more outlandish traders she had met in her time. They had been colourful, once, finely made of some thick material that Britha could not identify, and fur-lined. They were also old and very worn.

To see clothes worn by such a creature seemed like a mockery. Its head was elongated, almost like an arrowhead. Its eyes were vertical yellow and black slits. Its skin was a patchwork of scales, mostly an unhealthy off-white colour, though with black patterns running down them. Its legs and hands were wrapped in rags but even disguised they looked wrong, unnatural. Long black nails poked through the rags at the tips of its fingers and toes.

Strangest of all was the long tail, also wrapped in rags. This strange creature looked very, very old.

‘Do you have a name?’ Britha asked.

‘A number – I have been alive for a long time. You would be capable of pronouncing few of them. The people of the swamp call me Father. I misliked it at first but have come to appreciate it. People as disparate as they and I coming to have such a close bond.’ When it spoke its long forked tongue flickered out in a way that Britha found unsettling. Behind the tongue she could make out wicked-looking teeth that folded up into its mouth.

‘I think not,’ Fachtna spat.

‘They call you a god,’ Britha said.

‘That is no doing of mine.’

‘Are you a dragon?’ Britha asked. The creature hissed at her. It took her a moment to realise that it was laughing. Teardrop was as well. That earned him an angry glare.

‘Would you like me to be?’

‘I’d like you not to make sport of me with your forked tongue.’

‘Then I am not. I am as you are. We have the same mother.’

His explanation posed more questions than it answered.

Fachtna grunted derisively, a sneer on his face.

‘Do you seek death?’ the warrior demanded.

‘I allowed you in here armed as a show of good faith, of trust, as a result of your friend’s mindsong. You look like a warrior from here, but you are unscarred, as are your armour and shield, and I sense you carry weapons of –’ it glanced at Britha and then back to Fachtna ‘– ancient power. You are not from here, though your people once were or may be again, I am not sure which.’

Teardrop was looking around the cave at the crystal, a look of intense concentration on his face.

‘What do you want of us?’ Britha asked, trying to mask the revulsion in her voice. As the creature swung to look at her, she had to resist the urge to shrink away from its gaze.

‘To help you, I think. The raiders are no friends of yours and they are certainly no friends of ours.’

‘You are hurt?’ Fachtna said.

‘I am old and weak,’ the creature replied.

‘Else you would have changed these people.’

The serpentine creature looked at Fachtna for a long time. Its eyes didn’t blink. The warrior held the strange gaze as best he could.

‘I am not as others of my kind you may have met,’ it finally said. Despite the creature’s disquieting appearance, Britha could not miss the loneliness in its voice.

‘You did not fall,’ Teardrop said finally. ‘Something about this cave protected you. You are not insane and corrupt like the others.’

The weight of the creature’s years was apparent as it shuffled to its chair and sat down. Despite the strangeness of its face, the sadness there was unmistakable.

‘You served the Muileartach,’ Teardrop added. The creature nodded its head. The gesture looked strange in something so inhuman.

‘When the madness broke through, I fled with my mother, who I served even as the rest of them were infected. We fled as far as we could, through the seas, but this is a small world.’

Teardrop walked to the wall of the chamber and reached up to run his hand over the rough crystalline growths.

‘The crystal protects you?’

‘Or hides me. I’ve never been sure which.’

Fachtna was following this exchange with a look of confusion.

‘What are you saying?’ he demanded. He did not like it that a cornerstone belief of his seemed to be under threat.

‘That this Naga is not your enemy,’ Teardrop said.

‘I am more than a weapon. I will not use your flesh or plant my warped children in you.’

Britha was still confused but relieved that this Naga creature did not seem to wish them ill, horrifying though it might look.

Fachtna muttered something about the Naga not having a chance to defile his flesh.

‘We have met other servants – they are starting to fall,’ said Teardrop.

‘We were not her servants. We were her, or rather their, children, just like you.’

‘You speak of the gods?’ Britha asked, confused.

‘I speak of your forebears,’ the creature told her. It turned back to Teardrop. ‘I hear them fight. I hear their song as they fall. My cave keeps me safe. So far.’

‘So the Muileartach has fallen?’ Teardrop asked, sounding worried.

The creature shook its head slowly. ‘No, you would have felt it. She sleeps.’

‘So what is Bress doing with my people?’ Britha asked.

‘Bress is a servant. I have heard his master at the ceremonies of the Corpse People from the west and the demon-ridden slaves that Bress keeps. I have heard this in my dreams. I have seen the Dark Man in their fires. He comes to give birth. The anti-birth. Instead of life there will be death and Ynys Prydein will become Ynys Annwn, the isle of the dead.’

‘Who is the Dark Man?’ Fachtna asked, his hatred gone now, drawn in by the Naga’s story.

‘The Corpse People of the west call him Crom Dhubh. He will kill a man, steal the secret of birth so all will be stillborn, and then the Muileartach will fall and from her poisoned womb will come Llwglyd Diddymder.’

‘What does that mean?’ Teardrop asked.

‘I only know the songs they sing to their servants, nothing more. I do not know this Crom Dhubh, but he is old and has power.’

‘Only one man must die for this to happen?’ Fachtna asked. The Naga’s head seemed to wrinkle. Britha guessed it was frowning or concentrating.

‘This is what is sung,’ it finally said.

Fachtna turned to Teardrop. ‘Have you heard this?’

‘I have not dared open myself. Even with what little I did today, I heard the murmur of madness in the background. It sounded like ten thousand voices all struck by the moon and wretched.’

‘You must beware his followers, the Corpse People. They eat the flesh of heroes, kings and those touched by the gods. They harvest their power.’ Britha noticed the meaningful look that the Naga gave Teardrop as if trying to convey something else.

Teardrop nodded as if he understood. ‘Where is the Muileartach?’ he asked.