The Exile

  Sláine

  Sláine the Exile is the first action-packed verse in the Lay of Sláine Mac Roth, son of the Sessair. This epic new series follows the young warrior's life into manhood as he struggles to come to terms with his warrior's gift - the Warp Spasm. Sláine gets his first taste of battle and a chance to prove his bravery when he is chosen to take part in a raid against a rival tribe. But with fate guiding the future of young Sláine, his life will become a lot more dangerous as he strives to fulfil his destiny and become a warrior worthy of legend!

  SLÁINE

  #1: SLÁINE THE EXILE - Steven Savile

  #2: SLÁINE THE DEFILER - Steven Savile

  JUDGE DREDD FROM 2000 AD

  #1: DREDD VS DEATH

  Gordon Rennie

  #2: BAD MOON RISING

  David Bishop

  #3: BLACK ATLANTIC

  Simon Jowett & Peter J Evans

  #4: ECLIPSE

  James Swallow

  #5: KINGDOM OF THE BLIND

  David Bishop

  #6: THE FINAL CUT

  Matthew Smith

  #7: SWINE FEVER

  Andrew Cartmel

  #8: WHITEOUT

  James Swallow

  #9: PSYKOGEDDON

  Dave Stone

  JUDGE ANDERSON

  #1: FEAR THE DARKNESS - Mitchel Scanlon

  #2: RED SHADOWS - Mitchel Scanlon

  #3: SINS OF THE FATHER - Mitchel Scanlon

  MORE 2000 AD ACTION

  THE ABC WARRIORS

  #1: THE MEDUSA WAR - Pat Mills & Alan Mitchell

  #2: RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINES - Mike Wild

  DURHAM RED

  #1: THE UNQUIET GRAVE - Peter J Evans

  ROGUE TROOPER

  #1: CRUCIBLE - Gordon Rennie

  STRONTIUM DOG

  #1: BAD TIMING - Rebecca Levene

  FIENDS OF THE EASTERN FRONT - David Bishop

  #1: OPERATION VAMPYR

  #2: THE BLOOD RED ARMY

  #3: TWILIGHT OF THE DEAD

  For Sven

  A friend when I had none

  A father when I needed one

  The very best man I know

  A Celt at heart - this one is for you

  With love

  A 2000 AD Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  www.2000adonline.com

  1098 7 65 4321

  Cover illustration by Max Bertolini.

  Copyright © 2006 Rebellion A/S. All rights reserved.

  All 2000 AD characters and logos © and TM Rebellion A/S."Sláine" is a registered trademark in the United States and other jurisdictions."2000 AD" is a registered trademark in certain jurisdictions. All rights reserved. Used under licence.

  ISBN(.epub): 978-1-84997-079-2

  ISBN(.mobi): 978-1-84997-120-1

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Sláine the Exile

  The Lay of Sláine Mac Roth

  Book One

  By

  Steven Savile

  Sláine created by Pat Mills & Angela Kincaid.

  THE FIRST TRISKELL

  MOTHER

  One

  Death or Glory

  There was honour in death just as there had been glory in life.

  The old king walked proudly among his people for the last time, offering a smile for the maidens of the Sessair, stopping to embrace each of the mothers who had strewn garlands at his feet so that he might walk on flowers to his death. He saw beauty in every face, in every wrinkle and crease that marked mother, maiden and crone, although the beauty was nothing more startling than lives lived, and lived well. He tousled the hair of the lads and joked with the men of the Red Branch as the warriors said their own farewells.

  These were his people.

  Fierce love for them flowed in his veins.

  He had served them body and soul for seven years. For seven years he had been beloved of Danu, the Earth Goddess. For seven years. But all things must end. Flesh and bone must return to the dirt. It is their way. They are not owned by the soul, merely borrowed from the earth. He had served the Goddess and in doing so served his people. Now, at last, he would be allowed to rest. It would fall to a younger man to care for the Sessair.

  He smiled when he saw her, in the shadows, watching his sacrifice. They would be together soon, for eternity. He would serve her in death as he had in life, as her husband, her lover, her protector, her champion. He would be her king. Danu smiled for him and the love in her eyes broke his heart. She was a woman truly worth dying for: a Goddess. Her smile lent him the strength he needed to join the druid, Cathbad, at the foot of the huge funeral pyre.

  The air reeked of linseed oil. The oil had been soaked deeply into the ash and rowan of the pyre, ensuring that the wood would blaze when lit. The fierce heat would consume him. Soon, in a matter of hours, there would be nothing left of him. He would exist only in the memories of his people. He would live in them forever.

  He knelt and held out his wrists to the druid, exposing his pulse.

  "This is my blood," the old king intoned as Cathbad drew his bone-handled knife the length of his forearms. He held them out at his sides as if they might become wings and grant flight. His blood ran down his arms, splashing on the dirt.

  "Calum son of Cathair," the druid cried, his voice thick with emotion. "King of the Sessair, arise and go into the endless summer night to be joined with your bride, Danu, Goddess of the Earth. Let your flesh become as one with the Land of the Young. Let the vitality of your blood feed the ground beneath our feet while your spirit flies unfettered in the skies above. Your vigil is over, son of the Sessair. Go to your great reward."

  The druid set the crown of antlers on the old king's head.

  The burden weighed his head down. It went beyond the physical. The old king became an aspect of the Horned God himself, by wearing the crown of antlers.

  He rose unsteadily and turned to look one last time upon his people. He recognised every face. He knew these people and their lives. He knew what frightened them in the darkest hours. He knew what drove them, and what hopes they harboured closest to their hearts. His gaze settled on Macha's boy, Sláine. He was a plain-faced lad, a little awkward around the elbows and knees where he hadn't quite grown into his body yet. Growing up could be cruel on the young, desperate as they were to own their muscles. In that, he was just like any other boy his age. It was his eyes that set him apart. The lad met his stare. He was brave, stubborn and stupid, all the things a child was supposed to be, but more than that, the old king realised looking at the boy and seeing, for the first time, the man he could become. He was touched by the Goddess; it was plain to see if you knew where to look. The lad was special. The knowledge steeled his resolve. His people were protected.

  He bowed his head and lay on the sacrificial slab. His blood spilled into the channels that had been carved in the stone, drawing out the pattern of the triskell. It was the Goddess's mark.

  The druid bound him hand and foot with leather tethers. Cathbad had his instructions. He was a good man. He would do as he had been bidden. Calum would be dead before the first flames touched his body. He nodded to the druid. He was ready to die.

  But there was no merciful release.

  A swift cut across the throat with the bone knife silenced his screams before they could be given voice. He would not be allowed t
o humiliate himself in death. He would not be allowed to bring dishonour to his rule.

  He would burn alive, in silence.

  He tried to call for his wife.

  Blood gurgled in his throat.

  He knew fear as the druid touched the smouldering brand to the treated wood, igniting the conflagration. The pyre went up with a soft crump that gave way to a harsher cackle. As the first licks of flame seared his flesh the old king stared at his trusted druid, the man he had called friend, the man who had served as advisor and confidant, and saw at last the hunger that ate away at his cadaverous face. He felt the malice in his black eyes and understood the depth of the druid's hatred. He was burning and the world faded into an agony of black as the flames took him.

  Sláine watched the man burn with grim fascination.

  The man's strength was incredible.

  He didn't cry out - not even once.

  Not even as the flames shrivelled away his hair and charred the flesh from his skull.

  Sláine watched the destructive dance of the flames. There was something distinctly primal about the naked savagery of the fire. It consumed all things equally. He couldn't take his eyes from the dying man as he bucked and writhed against his tethers.

  The druid moved around the pyre, beseeching Danu to claim her husband's spirit even as his mortal remains merged with her body once more.

  The old king's silence was unnerving.

  The people around Sláine cheered Calum's name. The death of the old king was cause for great celebration. He had served his people and earned his release.

  Sláine felt none of their joy.

  His father, Roth, had tried to explain the ritual to him but it made no sense. Why would the best of them choose to die instead of lead them? He saw a good man dying. He wanted to be like his parents and rejoice in the sacrifice but he couldn't. He felt empty.

  His father laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  It wasn't until he turned away from the flames that it began to make sense. He saw a maiden with garlands in her hair - the same garlands, he realised, that littered the cracked and broken path leading to the pyre - holding out her hands to embrace the spirit of the dead king as it rose from the funeral bier. Death was not the end, not for the King of the Sessair. Death marked his ascendancy from the Land of the Young into the Summerland. In death he rose to his rightful place at the side of the Goddess.

  The maiden inclined her head to regard Sláine thoughtfully.

  Then she smiled.

  She was beautiful.

  He stepped forwards, drawn to her, but she shook her head and turned, leading the spirit of her lover as she skipped into the darkness beyond the trees. For a heartbeat, it was as if her smile had stopped the hands of time, but it snapped back brutally as a single voice rang out: "The king is dead!" Cathbad's cry cut through the cheers and for a moment silence reigned.

  "No he isn't," Sláine barely whispered. His father's grip tightened on his shoulder.

  "Aye, he is laddie, but that's just as it should be. He was a fine man, so what say we mourn him in a manner befitting his greatness and raise a jug to the old king?"

  "I just saw-"

  Roth hunkered down in front of his son. "Listen to me, Sláine Mac Roth, in a minute we'll be walking up to the bier to pay our last respects to Calum, are you going to be all right or do you need your ma to take you home?"

  Sláine stiffened.

  "I am not a little boy anymore, father." But of course that was exactly what he sounded like.

  "I reckon you're right. Come on, son, let's say our goodbyes and see about getting drunk, shall we?"

  Together, they made their way to the dead king's side. The line was slow, the mourners taking their time to say their own private farewells. Calum had been a popular leader, although he had remained a warrior at heart right up until his last days. He tempered his strength with compassion and wisdom, although he was never less than ruthless with those who threatened the Sessair. He was, in every way, their king.

  There were whispers, of course, about who would be a worthy successor. A few favoured Kilian, although many feared the consequences of his temper. Others championed Druse against the doubters who argued the need for a Red Branch warrior to lead the tribe. There were others, Cuinn, his brother Ansgar, Grudnew, Orin and Phelan, all men who believed they embodied the future of the tribe.

  Long before Sláine knelt at the dead king's bier, the druids retreated to the nemeton to confer. When they emerged again it would be to name the new king, such was their power. They were the kingmakers, guardians of the earth, and the voice of the Goddess. They were, in many ways, the Sessair.

  Black smoke burned from the nemeton's chimney. When it burned out it would signify that a choice had been made.

  The singing and dancing began again, and with it, the drinking. It was a time for celebration. Even Tall Iesin, the storyteller, had come home to pay his respects to the old king. Iesin sat cross-legged on a dolmen, a beautifully carved stone that had toppled onto its side, and picked out the chords of "Llew Silverhand". The ballad of the legendary hero was a crowd-pleaser; it had all the aspects of a great story, adventure, romance, danger, passion, earth magic and the crawling horrors of madness and betrayal. A few voices sang along. Drinkers gathered around the storyteller as he wove his magic. It was a fitting send-off.

  The first drops of rain fell as Sláine dropped to one knee and bowed his head. He mumbled a few words: a short prayer to the Goddess.

  Roth took a handful of earth and cast it over the blackened remains of the old king. "To the earth returned."

  Sláine savoured the sensation of the rain running down his neck in silence. In the most basic of ways the sensation proved he was alive. The world touched him.

  "Be happy in your new life, my King," he said finally and pushed himself to his feet. He cast a glance over his shoulder towards the trees, but neither the maiden nor Calum's ghost were watching.

  "Fine sentiments, lad," Roth said. "Come, let's send the old bugger off in style, shall we?"

  The rain grew heavier as the day wore into night but it did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the revellers. They drank, they sang, they danced, they toasted the dead king, and as the darkness came more than a few slipped off into the woods, emboldened by the heady mix of drink and lust. It was ever thus: sex and death, death and sex, the two were inextricably intertwined.

  Nine months from now, more than a few babes would come into the world owing their life to the dead king's wake.

  It was natural. There was nothing like the physical act of sex to reaffirm the most basic truths: that you were a living breathing beast, that the blood pumped through your veins, that you were potent, vital, and virile.

  Black smoke still hung in a thick pall over the nemeton.

  No decision had been made.

  The duration of the decision process caused some discussion over the dwindling cups as the men of the tribe got down to some serious drinking. Tales grew taller and more outrageous. Claims of prowess took on epic proportions as every last one of the Red Branch embroidered stories around their heroics. If they were to be believed, each and every one of them had wrestled giant earth wyrms, and cracked open a leviathan's skull, scooped out its rotten brains and fried them for breakfast. Tankards banged on tabletops demanding more ale. The stories grew ever more outrageous. Sláine sat beside his father, watching the men as they made fools of themselves with their boasting. Even a youngster like Sláine could hear the hollow ring of their lies.

  It was all bravado, he realised, listening to the stories. No one dared deny the deeds of others, so they fabricated heroics of their own, layering boast upon boast, while somewhere near the bottom the truth was decidedly more mediocre and far less heroic.

  More drinks were drunk, belches belched, toasts toasted and lies laid down. Most of them wove around Calum in some way. The boy knew that the warriors' tall tales he was hearing in the round hall were the beginnings of what would be
come the old king's legend. They needed his exploits to be larger than life so that he could live on in life as majestically as he would in death. In their own way they were making him immortal.

  "Even death couldn't hold him." The words came out before he could stop them. He wanted them to believe him. "It's true. I saw his spirit disappearing into the trees with the Goddess even as his body burned."

  "Good one, lad," Ansgar said, slapping him on the back. "I can see the old bugger doin' just that. Always was one for thinkin' with his little head when he got his blood fired up." The warrior laughed at his own joke, but around him the laughter began to take a darker turn as the cups ran dry and tempers frayed.

  "He was twice the man you'll ever be, Ansgar Mac Caw," Sláine's father said, shaking his head in disgust.

  Ansgar's brow furrowed with the effort of thought. Not exactly handsome to begin with, the effect made it look as if someone had stuffed a bag with rocks and painted eyes, nose and mouth on it.

  "You're asking for a world of hurt to come crashin' down on your shoulders, Bellyshaker."