The Exile Page 2

  "Oh aye?"

  Ansgar lurched to his feet and staggered forwards. He swung a clubbing fist at the side of Roth's head but missed and went sprawling across the reed floor where he lay in a stupor. After a minute, he spluttered something that sounded like "urrrgh", gurgled and lapsed into unconsciousness. That brought a different kind of laughter from the drinkers as their good humour returned.

  Roth was the first to notice the white smoke. He slammed his tankard on the table and smacked his lips loudly. "Come on, lad. They've made up their minds." He pushed back the bench and rose unsteadily to his feet. Sláine ducked in under his father's shoulder to stop him from falling as they walked to the nemeton.

  The protectors of the faith made them wait, filing out of the nemeton one by one, each bearing some symbol of the Goddess: a tree branch, a sprig of mountain heather, feathers from a crow's wing, a pot-bellied earthen figurine and a garland of spring blossoms.

  Sláine studied their movements. It was plain to see, even from the way they walked, that the priests of Danu were half-men. They moved without any of the natural grace or power of a Red Branch warrior. Their bones were brittle. He knew that all their strength resided in their link to the Earth Power. They were conduits. They tapped the very magic of the Goddess herself. They fed off the earth, touching the essential mysteries of nature. They claimed that their link to Danu made them favoured of the Goddess, chosen children, and that in turn made them more powerful than even the mightiest warrior. Sláine pictured a stone axe cracking a few druid skulls. The image raised a smile to his tight lips. It was hard to argue strength with a stone axe buried in your head.

  Cathbad raised a hand for silence. In his other hand he held the mask of the Horned God, the masculine aspect of the land's magic.

  The druids circled around him, falling to their knees and lowering their eyes to the dirt of the earth. They laid their talismans at their feet.

  The rain added a sense of the elemental to the ritual.

  They waited.

  Cathbad called on the men who would be king, beckoning them to stand forward. Sláine looked at his father. Even at this late juncture there was still a chance that a new claim could be staked.

  Roth made no move to join the claimants.

  Kilian, Druse, Cuinn, Grudnew, Orin and Phelan stood before the druid awaiting judgement. Only Kilian's face betrayed any trace of emotion. The warrior's pride was plain for all to see. Sláine knew that he was the obvious choice. His father had schooled him in the relative merits of the would-be kings.

  "Are these all who would guide and serve as protector of our people?" Cathbad intoned, turning slowly in a circle. He cast ash from the holy fire on each of the cardinals, north, south, east and west, letting the powder disperse on the four winds. The ash was from the rowan tree, one of the sacred woods. "Blessed be our protectors, beloved of Danu; may the Goddess look upon the Sessair with grace and favour in the days ahead. May she grant our new king strength when strength is called for and wisdom when wisdom is lacking. May the new king of the Sessair have the bearing of the mountain and the relentless nature of the stream, carrying us forwards into the sea of tomorrow. Let him flow around obstacles and stand undaunted in the face of our enemies. Let the essences of the earth, of river and mountain, embody our leader."

  One by one, Cathbad walked the line of men, marking them with a thumbprint of white ash on the bridges of their noses.

  "Who is the river?"

  None of the men answered.

  "Who here stands as the mountain?"

  Still no one spoke.

  "Who here is rightful heir to Calum Mac Cathair?"

  Cathbad walked the line of men again. This time he paused behind Grudnew. No one dared breathe as the old man laid a cadaverous hand on the new king's shoulder.

  Grudnew remained unmoving as the druid placed the mask of the Horned God over his face.

  While all eyes were on the new king accepting the horned mask, Sláine looked along the line of men, at those passed over. His father had taught him that the measure of a man was in how he took defeat. Sláine found it a fascinating notion that the greatest strength came in the mastery of failure and not in the simplest successes. Kilian flinched physically as Cathbad proclaimed: "The king is dead! Long live the king!" to the raucous cheers of the gathering.

  Sláine made himself a silent promise:

  He would be the mountain.

  He would be the river.

  Two

  Beltain's Fire

  Beltain promised to be a rare treat. With a new king, the traditional celebrations took on an added air of importance among the men of the Sessair. Grudnew would light the huge Beltain bonfire, and with it, signal the beginning of the games. Murias was abuzz with anticipation. The men drove themselves hard. They ran, they sparred, and they tossed cabers and hurled spears, forcing themselves into greater and greater feats of prowess. Their spears sank into the earth a step further on, they crossed the finish line a step sooner, and they punched harder, climbed higher, and dived deeper. They forced themselves to do everything better because to do less was to fail. Grudnew was an unknown entity. He had not curried favour or promised alliances as Kilian, Orin and Phelan had. He hadn't fallen into the first - and perhaps most fatal - trap of kingship: elevating fools because of friendship. He kept his own council. He watched the men, judging them on their abilities, allowing for their weaknesses and seeking out the strengths in others to complement and compensate for them.

  Every king gathered his faithful to his side. Every leader had his chosen ones. Grudnew was no fool. He understood that the men he chose to surround himself with stood as the foundations for his reign. It was through them that the Sessair would find greatness, not through him. He was one man. They were the heart of the tribe.

  And so the competition for Grudnew's favour would be fierce.

  Each man approached the games with the sure and certain knowledge that his place in the tribe depended very much on his showing in the coming games.

  No warrior wanted to be humiliated before the new king.

  The children's games were no less competitive, and the young men of the tribe no less eager to prove themselves in the eyes of the men. The games were a trial, a trial of strength, of guile, of technique, and, as with their fathers' games, only the most exceptional of the youths could hope to triumph.

  "If that is the best you can manage, Sláine Mac Roth, you might as well stay in bed come games day!" Cullen of the Wide Mouth sneered. His own spear had fallen six inches closer to the mark than Sláine's, just as his clachneart had sailed another foot before the stone embedded itself in the dirt, and his caber turned a degree closer to true. Núada and Cormac had yet to throw but it didn't matter, neither could hope to match Cullen's spear for distance or accuracy.

  They didn't. Núada's landed a full fifteen feet shy of Sláine's mark. Cormac's was closer, but not by much.

  Sláine trudged up to reclaim his spear.

  He dragged his feet.

  He wasn't used to being second best.

  "Another throw?" he asked, working his spear free.

  "Why bother? We all know how it will end." Cullen held his hands up, fingers just wide enough apart to signify the shortfall between their spears. "Or do you enjoy losing?"

  Cullen of the Wide Mouth had been swaggering around the settlement for weeks, boasting about how he would walk the path of heroes and be crowned champion of the games just as his father would emerge victorious in the senior tournament. Sláine was loath to admit it and with good reason. Cullen was almost a full year older than Sláine and the other lads. This made him a step faster and stronger, and he already had the endurance of men twice his age. He was also every bit as cunning and ruthless as a weasel. Few doubted he would follow his father into the Red Branch when the time of the choosing came.

  For all that, his talent hadn't earned him any friends. Cullen was a dour spirit who solved his problems with his fists. He saw little joy in life outside f
ighting. He was a natural bully and saw his strength as proof of his divine right to make life a living hell for anyone who couldn't stand up to him. Of all the young men of the tribe Cullen of the Wide Mouth was the one Sláine Mac Roth had least time for.

  Sláine saw Wide Mouth for what he was: a bully, a liar and a cheat.

  That was how he had earned his name.

  Fionn had caught him out in a series of vile lies involving his younger sister, Elspet, and made sure that everyone knew exactly what kind of a gutless liar Cullen was. Cullen had blackened Fionn's eye for it but it didn't matter. The name stuck because Cullen was incapable of giving an honest answer; his mouth was so wide he couldn't even speak straight, that's what Fionn said. In the eyes of the Sessair Cullen would be a man soon, but he would not be known as a good one.

  These would be his last junior games - and a new king would be watching.

  Sláine wanted nothing more than to humble the wide-mouthed braggart. Nothing would give him more pleasure.

  "I'm done here. I'll let you have a taste of victory, Sláine. Even you ought to be able to outdistance these losers."

  A murder of crows flew in a thick bank of black overhead, circling over the rooftops of the village while the boys threw again. Sláine hurled his spear a full six feet beyond the scar in the earth that marked where Wide Mouth's spear had fallen. There was no satisfaction in it. Cullen wasn't there to see it. Sláine collected his spear and threw again, and again, both times surpassing Cullen's last throw.

  Dian, Cormac's younger brother surprised them all, coming out of the mountains at a sprint to be crowned King of the Mountains. It was a brutal race across six miles of crofters' paths and dirt tracks through the wild country, across the fields of wheat and rye and up into the heather-purple mountains, taking in three peaks and traversing rugged mountaintops. Dian was smaller and lighter than the other boys, and though normally not as fast, the nature of the course made it perfect for his slight frame and long legs. He ate up the ground, leaving a blustering Cullen of the Wide Mouth in his wake.

  Sláine ran, arms pumping, chest heaving, gasping for breath, his eyes fixed on Niall's back. His lungs were bursting and his legs burned like fire but somehow, no matter how hard he pushed himself, Niall always managed to stay a few feet ahead of him. He collapsed over the finish line in fourth place with Núada, Fionn and Cormac bringing up the rear. Sláine rolled over onto his back and looked up at the clouds. His chest heaved on deep dizzying breaths. He heard Cullen laughing but he didn't care. The day was far from over.

  "Come on, son."

  A face swam in front of his eyes, obscuring the sky. His mother, Macha, held a cup of water to his lips. He struggled to sit up, leaned on one elbow and drank thirstily. With the nimbus of sun and sky surrounding her head Macha could have been the Goddess herself. Her hair, black like a raven's and oiled, cascaded down her back. She was beautiful, but in a different way from the maiden he had seen all those months ago. She cradled him as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of water.

  "It was a good race, lad," his father said, coming up behind them. "That young Dian ran as if the spirit of the wind had taken hold of his legs. Unbelievable. There's no shame in losing to him. He's still light and small: built for speed. Your muscles have bulked up more; your frame is meant for explosive bursts of strength and power. The spear throwing'll be a different proposition entirely, lad. Technique and strength of arm will win it."

  There was very little to separate the seven boys after the first three events. Cullen had won the caber toss, and come second in the other two events. Dian had won the mountain marathon but had not placed in either the caber or the clachneart. Sláine had won the clachneart, hurling the sixteen-pound stone eight feet further than Cullen of the Wide Mouth.

  Sláine forced himself to his feet. He walked unsteadily over to Dian and slapped the youngster on the back.

  "Good race," Dian said. He hardly looked winded. He was breathing lightly and grinning with the exhilaration of victory. Sláine couldn't help but grin along with him. Dian was the last boy that anyone would have expected to win an event, making his win all the sweeter for its surprise.

  "Aye, not bad," Sláine agreed. "Nice to see Wide Mouth humbled, that's for sure."

  "We aim to please. Another mile and it might have been a different story though."

  "Good job there wasn't another mile, then, eh?"

  They walked together to the rack of spears, picking out the weight and length that best suited their arm. Cullen was already there, putting himself through a series of warm-up exercises to work the kinks out of his shoulder muscles. Sláine mimicked some of the older boy's movements. He breathed deeply, drawing his focus into himself. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted by anything. His world narrowed down until it consisted of the spear in his hands and nothing more. Gobhan, a Red Branch warrior, acted as judge for the spear throwing. He heard the sharp intake of breath from the crowd as Cullen launched his spear and the appreciative sigh as it sailed through the sky. He didn't need to see the throw; he knew it was long. It didn't matter. He couldn't change what happened to Cullen's spear so there was no point worrying about it. Instead he concentrated on regulating his breathing, maintaining a shallow regular rhythm, and keeping his mind clear of everything except for the throw. Catcalls and appreciative claps rang out. It was a good throw. It only meant that his had to be better.

  Cormac was up next, and again judging by the crowd's response, it was a good throw, although not as long as Cullen's.

  Fionn's flew true, but Núada's and Dian's throws were greeted with little more than polite ripples of applause from the spectators.

  Sláine stood and walked to his mark.

  Gobhan said something - he wasn't listening. The world had ceased to exist. It all came down to his hand and the spear in it. In a few seconds even that would cease to be.

  He scuffed his foot in the dirt, marking the point he wanted to launch off his lead foot and send the spear flying. He turned away from the run, looked up, feeling the wind on his face. It was slight, a cross-breeze blowing from left to right. It was fast enough to affect the throw if he launched the spear too high. He needed to throw flat and hard. He paced out nine steps - enough to lend the throw some momentum, not enough to tire his legs after the mountain run. He turned. Sláine closed his eyes, visualising the snap and throw before he made it: low, hard, bouncing and skimming across the grass, not stabbing into the earth abruptly. He nodded, rocked back on his heel, and started his short run. He almost missed his mark, forcing him to adjust his balance and throw all of his weight onto his front foot as he loosed the spear. He skidded as his footing betrayed him but it didn't matter, the spear was away. The power was all in the shoulder, the trick to beating the wind lay in keeping the spear-tip flat, that would negate the weapon's natural instinct to launch up into the sky and arc down sharply. He couldn't readjust his balance and ended up flat on his face in the mud. Gobhan's hand went up. The throw was good! It didn't matter that he had fallen; he hadn't crossed the mark. He lay there, watching the spear. It flew low and hard.

  Cullen's laughter rang out harshly.

  Sláine held his breath, silently urging the spear to fly.

  And it did.

  Cullen's laughter choked in his throat as he realised that, despite his fall, Sláine's spear was in danger of matching his own.

  Cheers went up as spectators urged it on, yelling: "Fly! Fly!"

  And it did.

  He held his breath, trying to force it on with the sheer strength of his mind. His lips mouthed the beat of the crowd's invocation: Fly! Fly!

  His eyes widened as he realised how close to perfect the throw was.

  Sláine drew himself slowly to his knees, unable to take his eyes from the spear as it began to waver. He willed it on another precious foot.

  The spear dipped sharply and stabbed into the dirt, quivering.

  The cheers were deafening.

  Sláine pushed himself to his fe
et.

  He closed his eyes to savour the moment, knowing that he had outdistanced Cullen's spear by more than twenty paces. It wasn't just that the throw was good - it outdistanced even the best throws of the warriors. It was an incredible feat, one, most certainly that would draw the attention of Grudnew and the warriors of the Red Branch. It couldn't have been better. He held out his arms and spun in a slow circle, drinking in the crowd's adulation. He could lose the games now - it didn't matter how good Cullen of the Wide Mouth was, how many events he won. Nothing he could do would come close to matching Sláine's powerful throw, and judging by the look of seething hate on Wide Mouth's face both of them knew it.

  To add insult to injury, Dian came running up and wrapped Sláine in a fierce embrace. Cormac and Fionn joined the bear hug, the four boys dancing and shouting and spinning around in a circle, unable to hide their delight. Núada and Niall bundled into them, sending all six of them sprawling across the floor, laughing and whooping and punching the air.

  When Sláine looked up, King Grudnew was standing over them. "Graceful," the new king said with a wink and held out his hand to help him up.

  "It was incredible," Dian blurted, unable to contain himself.

  "That it was, young man; much like your triumph over the three peaks. The future of the tribe is in such good hands. There are good days ahead, but for now there is a tug-o-war waiting for you lads, is there not?"

  The tug-o-war came down to Cullen and Sláine in the end. As with everything the boys did it was a close-run thing. They weren't evenly matched in terms of sheer brute strength and muscle, but with the adrenalin still surging through his body Sláine gave Wide Mouth the fight of his life. The rope straddled the river, a boy on either bank, heels dug in to the earth and stubbornly refusing to budge. Roth and Macha led the cheers for their son. Sláine's feat with the spear had won him a lot of support. To Sláine's ears it sounded as if no one was cheering for Cullen.