The Red Winter Page 10

  “How did you—”

  “Yield.”

  Max had almost laughed. “But my sword’s in a thousand—”

  Flicking her wrist, Scathach slashed him from chin to cheek. The wound was not deep, but a thin line of blood appeared and began to drip steadily upon the flagstones. Ariana gasped.

  Max did not. He had not even flinched or recoiled, but simply stared at Scathach with a look of disbelief. By degrees, his expression hardened into a mask that betrayed no emotion, no glimpse of the Max whose company she had come to enjoy.

  “I yield.”

  Nodding curtly, Scathach turned and tossed her sword to her shield maiden. “I think we have more to teach him, Ariana. If nothing else, he can learn to follow instructions. Come with me while he sweeps up this mess.”

  Ariana hurried after Scathach as she strode quickly from the battlements and down the broad steps to the central courtyard. When they were out of earshot, the girl spoke up.

  “He’s our lord’s son! What have you done, Scathach?”

  “Our lord’s will.”

  “But to slash the prince’s face!”

  “He’ll have worse shaving.”

  From that day forward, a gulf existed between Max and Scathach, as she knew it must. They no longer ate with one another or talked and laughed in Summervyne. Nevertheless, he remained her student and they trained together from dawn until dusk until he’d mastered every feat she knew. And when she found that she could no longer best him, Scathach sought an audience with Lugh.

  The High King’s hall had been empty that evening, its windows thrown open to the rain that drummed on its timbered roof. It was the grandest chamber in Rodrubân and on some occasions it seemed all of gold and flowered vines that twined like filigree. But tonight it was cold and dark, for no fires had been lit and its throne had seemed a tomb upon its dais, ancient and forgotten. Despite the empty throne, Scathach remained, for Lugh would know she was present and might appear if it pleased him to do so. His whims and whereabouts had always been fickle, but they were becoming even harder to predict. Years might pass between glimpses of the sun god. Some feared that he, like others among his kind, was growing weary of existence and preferred to sleep or wander in another form.

  An enormous tapestry hung above the stone hearth, and Scathach raised her lantern to gaze at it. It depicted the Second Battle of Muigh Tureadh, the decisive contest between the gods and the giants. On that day, Lugh Lamfhada had led the Tuatha Dé Danaan to victory and slain Balor, his own grandfather who was king among the Fomorians. It was always easy to spot the sun god among the tapestry’s embattled figures, for he was at its center and the threads radiating from his person seemed to shimmer. Even as she studied it, those threads grew brighter until she realized that the hall itself had filled with a golden light. A voice spoke.

  “How does my son progress?”

  She turned to find Lugh standing behind her, looking as strong and youthful as he had at Muigh Tureadh. But unlike his image in the tapestry, the god was not armed or dressed for battle. Instead, he wore robes of green linen and a silver belt and his countenance was gentle. Scathach kneeled.

  “He progresses well. I have nothing left to teach him.”

  Lugh gazed thoughtfully at her. “Is he worthy of us, Scathach?”

  “He is a true warrior, my lord. I have never taught finer.”

  “That was not my question.”

  She cleared her throat. “I believe he may become worthy. He is still young. Only time will reveal if he has strength and wisdom enough for what my lord wishes.”

  “You presume to know my wishes?”

  “Of course not,” said Scathach quickly. “Forgive me.”

  But Lugh looked amused rather than angry. “You were ever wise, Scathach. I do not doubt your guess. And seeing your sorrow, I do not doubt mine.”

  “My lord?”

  “It is time you and the lad were parted,” said Lugh, but not unkindly. “It is time for him to leave us and resume the errand that brought him to the Sidh. At dawn, others will come for him and you must say farewell. Give him this before he goes.”

  Handing her an ivory brooch, the god explained its purpose and sent her away.

  Having gathered Max’s things, Scathach climbed the many steps to his tower. The hour was late, but a light still shone beneath the door. She had not knocked, but simply stood and listened to the rain while trying to make sense of her emotions. There had been many and some were new opponents she had yet to master. She would not do so tonight, but she had to drive them back until her duties were fulfilled. Once the rain had stopped, she knocked and entered and said goodbye.

  When Scathach’s mind returned to the present, she found that Max was awake. His eyes were glassy slits, staring up through snow-dotted lashes.

  “The sky,” he croaked.

  “Aye,” she said, glancing up. “A crimson sky and snow in June. A sailor’s delight.”

  A spasm of pain flickered on his face. His hands moved slowly beneath the blankets, searching for the wound. The passive fetter prevented him from reaching it.

  “You were wounded,” she explained. “With what, I don’t know, but I had to restrain you. You must let it heal.”

  Max’s voice was so hoarse and weak it nearly broke her heart. “It’s not healing.”

  “Of course it is,” she said sternly. “Watched pots never boil. Fussed wounds never heal. Leave it be.”

  He nodded. “What about Cooper?”

  She’d been dreading the question. Now that it came, she gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. There was an explosion. We must hope that they escaped it.”

  Max said nothing for some time while Scathach heated the remains of his tea. He grimaced as she coaxed it down his throat.

  “Do you think it’s snowing at Rowan?” he asked, staring up at the vast, alien sky.

  Scathach wiped his chin. “I think it’s snowing everywhere.”

  “Does it snow in the Sidh?” he wondered faintly. “I never saw any.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Even Lugh’s reach does not extend everywhere and the Sidh has many kingdoms. It snows in the high places and when the Wild Hunt roams abroad. There is snow, yes, but never in summertime. These skies are evil. Would that Lugh were here to chase them away.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  His words were barely more than a whisper but their plaintive note was clear.

  “You should rest,” Scathach urged.

  “No,” said Max. “I know nothing about him apart from stories and legends. You know him. What he’s like?”

  She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Lugh is a god. You want me to describe him in human terms, but I don’t know how. And I’ve spent little time in his presence.”

  “But you were his warden.”

  Scathach shook her head. “Even gods can grow weary and fade. Some of the Tuatha Dé Danaan have disappeared. Even those who remain are often asleep within their hills and palaces. Nuada Silverhand was slain; the Dagda has not stirred for an age. Goibhniu’s forge is cold. Lugh is younger than they and very great, but he slumbers and dreams more often than he did. Only the Morrígan never sleeps. She is always moving, always hunting.”

  Max glanced at the gae bolga in its scabbard gilded with wolves and ravens. Scathach knew the Morrígan was a part of the weapon, that her essence was woven into its being. The goddess had always lusted after heroes—they were the sparks that kindled wars. Blood and death were her delight and she cared not whose. Scathach could never trust such an accursed blade. From Max’s expression, it appeared he did not trust it either.

  “Have you ever seen the Morrígan?” he asked quietly.

  “No,” said Scathach. “And I have no wish to. All the Sidh fear her.”

  “Does my father?”

  “I don’t think Lugh Lamfhada fears anything.”

  Max looked pained. “There must be something you can tell me. I know nothing about him.”

&n
bsp; Scathach watched snowflakes settle and melt on Nox’s blue-black coat. She was no philosopher or poet. When the words finally came, they were halting and elusive.

  “Lugh Lamfhada is noble and loving, a giver of life, savior of the fallen, a bringer of hope and harvests. And Lugh Lamfhada is proud and pitiless, a slayer of kin, the scorching sun that withers the farmer’s crops. He is a summer storm upon the plain, beautiful and terrifying.”

  “A paradox.”

  “That’s what gods are.”

  Max’s ragged breath quickened. “Maybe he would help us,” he gasped. “The Tuatha Dé Danaan aided our people before. Their magic built Rowan when Solas was destroyed. We’re seeking the Fomorian when we should be seeking my father …”

  “Never invite a god into this world.”

  “But—”

  “Never.”

  “Why?” demanded Max. “Lugh. The others. They could tip the balance. They could destroy Astaroth and Prusias and all the rest!”

  Her patient was getting agitated. Taking a cloth, Scathach dipped it in a pail of cold water and pressed it to his burning forehead. Her voice was gentle, but firm.

  “A god’s nature is to shape and rule and master. Shall we defeat Astaroth only to see Lugh or the Dagda or—heavens forbid—the Morrígan take his place?”

  When Max did not reply, Scathach leaned close.

  “Do you know what happens when a god’s at play in the mortal world?” she said softly.

  “What?”

  “Summer snow.”

  Max tried to smile, but could not. What little energy he had was spent. Closing his eyes, he breathed deep and gave a long, shuddering exhale. When his breathing steadied, Scathach kissed him and sang a song her mother had two thousand years ago.

  The sky’s red gloom smothered the dawn. The clouds had settled lower overnight and were now a sagging canopy that pressed down upon the world. A flock of puzzled geese went honking south, their calls fading like phantoms in the mist. Ormenheid’s oars plied on, the ship skimming upon seas as smooth as scuppered cream. Rising, Scathach saw that they’d left the land behind. There were no more riverbanks, no hints of land peeking from the horizon. The Isle of Man was somewhere ahead.

  Max was still asleep. He’d grown paler throughout the night, and while Scathach didn’t wish to wake him, his breathing worried her. It came in harsh, uneven gasps. Periodically, his body seized up, as though every nerve had been jolted.

  Removing Nox from her resting place beneath his chin, she peeled back the outer blankets to examine his dressings.

  What she found shocked her.

  The inner blankets and bindings were drenched with blood. It had spread over his midsection and run upon the deck, cooling to a sticky pool in the cold. Unsheathing her dagger, Scathach quickly cut away the dressings to reveal the wound beneath.

  The stitches and ointment were gone, as though they’d simply vanished or burned away. The exposed wound was still bleeding, its edges ugly and raw. Cursing, Scathach snatched up her needle and thread and set the kettle boiling.

  Working quickly, she flushed the wound with hot water and a fresh mixture of herbs. Dabbing it dry, she passed her needle through his skin, sewing the wound tight as Max moaned in a fever dream. Before she could even finish the final stitch, the threads dissolved and blood began to seep and trickle through.

  Her mind raced. The passive fetter was enchanted. Perhaps it would serve where common thread would not. Slicing the cord’s end, Scathach unraveled several fine, silvery fibers. Threading her needle, she stitched the wound a third time, muttering a prayer with every pass. Once the gash was closed, she watched and waited.

  The stitches held.

  Nox started as she thumped the deck with joy. Crushing the last leaf of agrimony, she packed it over the wound and covered it with a clean piece of linen. The drowsy lymrill waddled over to settle in her lap.

  From Max’s pack, Scathach retrieved an iron ingot. Nox took it almost delicately, purring with satisfaction as the metal slid down her throat. Hugging the creature close, Scathach stroked the lustrous black quills of her ruff.

  “The Fomorian will help,” she whispered. “He’s Max’s kinsman and he’s not far away. He’ll save our Max.”

  Their Max did not awaken the rest of that day. He lay utterly still, his face cadaverous while the two held vigil. He’d lost no more blood, but his breathing was so shallow, Scathach could not keep her eyes off his brooch.

  She heard the birds long before she saw the island.

  The calls sounded over the ocean, thousands of cries and shrieks that sounded vaguely, horribly human as they carried out over the calm seas. Taking Nox, Scathach walked forward to Ormenheid’s prow where they saw gray seals rising and falling on the cold swells, staring curiously at the longship and its occupants.

  A huge, ghostly shape emerged from the gloom. It was one of Prusias’s war galleons, a gargantuan vessel that had been driven upon a jagged reef. What must have been a horrific collision had flipped the vessel on its side so that the foaming seas coursed like a river through its shattered hull. Perched upon its splintered masts were hundreds of skuas and gulls that silently watched the Ormenheid slip past.

  As they neared the island, they encountered more shipwrecked vessels: carracks and cogs, clippers and lorchas scattered across the isle’s coastline. Some, like the galleon, had apparently run aground while others were no more than charred hulks burned down to the waterline.

  The spectacle grew more grisly as Ormenheid entered a cove where it could land. Piled corpses lined the beach like sandbags, the remains of vyes and ogres, ettins and demons. Birds and crabs had already stripped most of the edible flesh so that much of what remained was just armor and bone, hair and sinew.

  Did the Fomorian do all this?

  She’d hardly formed the question in her mind when her gaze drifted to a pillar that had been driven into the pebbled sand like a barrow marker. Five demons were nailed to the stone’s summit, their grotesque bodies untouched by the birds and left twisting twenty feet above the beach. Each wore Prusias’s colors and marks of rank upon their breastplates. They also wore expressions of fixed, almost frenzied terror. Beneath their feet, ancient Ogham runes had been chiseled deep into the pillar’s pale stone.

  They are gone. I remain.

  Frightened as she was, there was no time to lose. As Ormenheid slid up onto the beach, Scathach gathered what would be needed. Laying Max upon the cold wet sand, she grabbed their packs and shrank Ormenheid down to its miniature size.

  Scavenging limbs from fallen trees, Scathach made a hasty travois to transport Max. As she lashed the poles together, she tried to recall everything Max had shared about his previous dealings with the Fomorian. The warnings had been straightforward and severe: Do not stare. Do not run. Do not lie. Checking Max’s dressings, she strapped him to the travois and dragged him up the sandy dunes.

  She walked for hours, scaling hills and windswept ridges that peered down at the broad valleys. The landscape’s colors were muted, summer flowers shriveled and gray from winter’s ambush. There were few birds and almost no tracks in the snow. The only sounds were the scuff of her boots and the crash of distant surf. Despite the appalling massacre at the beach, the isle felt lonely and abandoned.

  Again at nightfall, the sky retained its grim red cast. Scathach trudged on, late into the evening, until they reached a series of ancient hills dotted with weathered cairns. Weary and frustrated, she set down their packs.

  “HELLO!” she shouted into the twilight.

  Nothing answered but the wind. While Nox prowled about for prey, Scathach made camp and gathered enough material for a bonfire. Once lit, the bracken hissed and sputtered, sending smoke billowing up into the night.

  “That’s it,” said Scathach, snapping a dead sapling and tossing it on the pile. “We want you seen for miles. You’re going to catch us a Giant.”

  From out in the darkness there came a hiss, the sound of animals fighting,
and a high-pitched squeal. Moments later, Nox waddled into the firelight, dragging a weasel in her powerful jaws. Settling down by Max, the lymrill set upon her supper. Scathach’s stomach growled.

  She’d eaten nothing since the Naming feast. Rummaging in her pack, she found a small wedge of cheese and half a sausage wrapped in waxed paper. Leaning back against their gear, she ate her supper and shook off sleep to keep the fire blazing. Wintry gales came screaming through the cairns as they nestled in the hilltop’s lee.

  As the hours passed, Scathach found herself listening to the trees, to the rhythmic, brittle clicking of their branches. They seemed to be calling to her, murmuring a song, as the comforting smells of turf and wood smoke lulled her mind down into a pleasant haze. She could almost hear the words, their sounds and syllables echoing softly in her ears.

  Idle on the hill

  Rest upon a heath

  Lie upon a summit

  Its stones an ancient wreath

  Barley in the field

  Honey in the comb

  All is warmth and comfort

  All is hearth and home

  Lay down thy weary head

  Let others lift thy load

  Resume another day

  Thy journey on the Road

  You’re dozing off, she thought irritably. Stamp out the drowse. But before she could rise, she relaxed. Sleep had been scarce and there might be none tomorrow. Max seemed at rest and the night was so peaceful. Gazing out at the landscape, she now saw hundreds of tiny lights winking in the gloaming like little blue and green fireflies. They were dancing, weaving through the air like little fishes swimming in a lagoon. And as they approached, the wind and the trees began their song anew. The words lapped at her soul and soon Scathach found herself wishing she might sprout roots and brambles and cling to this charming hillside forever.

  At last, one of the soft blue lights settled on her knee. Blinking sleepily at its radiance, she glimpsed a tiny figure at its center. Scathach tried to speak but could offer only the faintest smile before her head bowed low. She barely felt the bindings as they twined about her wrists and ankles. When Scathach tried to move, she found she could not. But what did it matter so long as the singing continued? With a sigh, she lay back and let her eyelids flutter shut.