You are dead to her, now. How does that feel? The cold certainty that you are utterly alone?"
"I am not alone," said Sláine.
"No, you have that ugly dwarf and the painted man, companions who strike fear into the heart of every evil man in the world."
"Do not mock me, Murrough. You are a decent man. It will hurt to kill you."
The skull sword chuckled. "As I imagine it will hurt to die."
On Murrough's signal four riders spurred their mounts and cantered ahead. The procession rolled slowly down the shallow hill, into a wide glade. It took two men to open the heavy timber gates. They groaned inwards. Ukko prodded him in the side with a stiff kick. "Idiots built this place." They were the first words he had said in days. A cunning smile spread slowly across his face. "Who builds the gate of a fortress gate to swing inwards ? It doesn't take a genius to know that a crew with battering ram would make light work of those gates."
"Stupidity or supreme arrogance," Myrrdin Emrys offered, struggling to rise. A backhanded cuff from Taranis's gauntlet dumped the tattooed man on his back. He groaned, wincing. The blow had split his lip. "Thank you for demonstrating my point with such brutal efficiency."
"You talk too much, old man," Taranis said, shaking his head. "Perhaps Maug will pull out your tongue."
The irony that those four words were all that the tattooed man had said in hours was not lost on Sláine. Taranis was a bully and easy to despise for it. He lacked the empathy of Murrough; he didn't care about what Murrough had called the "greater good", he enjoyed hurting things. People.
It had begun to rain - or it had been raining all along with only the dense trees sheltering them and now they were gone, either way. The first fat drops spattered on Sláine's upturned face. He closed his eyes.
"It is not unreasonable to suppose that they fear no one," Myrrdin continued. "Because there is no one here to fear. Who, after all, would - could - come this far into their forest to bring the fight to their door?"
And that was the truth; it wasn't stupidity, or even arrogance, it was a message to every captive brought to Cor Havas: you are ours. No one can help you once you pass beneath the portal.
With the message ringing joyful and triumphant at the front of their minds, they entered the stockade.
It was no more impressive inside, but then it did not need to be. Sláine rolled onto his shoulder, enduring the increased discomfort of the fresh knots for the chance to take in the layout of the fortress. A little pain in advance could inevitably save considerably more later.
To the left of the gates were all the necessities of life; the bakery, the oast house, the smithy, the kitchens and the smoke house, and to the right the reasons for the fortress: the barrack buildings, the stables, the training ground and drill hall, and the hovels the cadets shared and the latrine trenches. No doubt the goal house would be there as well. Sláine studied his surroundings as they passed, seeing the young cadets twelve and thirteen summers old, sparring on the training grounds to the bark of a harsh instructor. He could just as easily have been watching Murdo put the Red Branch through their paces. He remembered all too well the relentless drilling; the driving rain only served to make the image more vivid. The boys struggled in the quickening mud, stumbling and slipping. The instructor slapped a wooden sword out of the hand of a wide-eyed boy soldier, yelling furiously in his face. His words carried to them: "No, no, no. You left yourself wide open, Braifar! Why can't you be more like Gannon?" The admonishment took him back ten years. He saw again Cullen's open loathing, Wide Mouth mimicking: why can't you be more like Sláine? The memory sent a cold shiver through Sláine as he realised: but for the grace of Danu, that could be me.
There was no sense of permanence to the settlement. The buildings appeared on the verge of collapse. The
"I am not alone," said Sláine.
"No, you have that ugly dwarf and the painted man, companions who strike fear into the heart of every evil man in the world."
"Do not mock me, Murrough. You are a decent man. It will hurt to kill you."
The skull sword chuckled. "As I imagine it will hurt to die."
On Murrough's signal four riders spurred their mounts and cantered ahead. The procession rolled slowly down the shallow hill, into a wide glade. It took two men to open the heavy timber gates. They groaned inwards. Ukko prodded him in the side with a stiff kick. "Idiots built this place." They were the first words he had said in days. A cunning smile spread slowly across his face. "Who builds the gate of a fortress gate to swing inwards ? It doesn't take a genius to know that a crew with battering ram would make light work of those gates."
"Stupidity or supreme arrogance," Myrrdin Emrys offered, struggling to rise. A backhanded cuff from Taranis's gauntlet dumped the tattooed man on his back. He groaned, wincing. The blow had split his lip. "Thank you for demonstrating my point with such brutal efficiency."
"You talk too much, old man," Taranis said, shaking his head. "Perhaps Maug will pull out your tongue."
The irony that those four words were all that the tattooed man had said in hours was not lost on Sláine. Taranis was a bully and easy to despise for it. He lacked the empathy of Murrough; he didn't care about what Murrough had called the "greater good", he enjoyed hurting things. People.
It had begun to rain - or it had been raining all along with only the dense trees sheltering them and now they were gone, either way. The first fat drops spattered on Sláine's upturned face. He closed his eyes.
"It is not unreasonable to suppose that they fear no one," Myrrdin continued. "Because there is no one here to fear. Who, after all, would - could - come this far into their forest to bring the fight to their door?"
And that was the truth; it wasn't stupidity, or even arrogance, it was a message to every captive brought to Cor Havas: you are ours. No one can help you once you pass beneath the portal.
With the message ringing joyful and triumphant at the front of their minds, they entered the stockade.
It was no more impressive inside, but then it did not need to be. Sláine rolled onto his shoulder, enduring the increased discomfort of the fresh knots for the chance to take in the layout of the fortress. A little pain in advance could inevitably save considerably more later.
To the left of the gates were all the necessities of life; the bakery, the oast house, the smithy, the kitchens and the smoke house, and to the right the reasons for the fortress: the barrack buildings, the stables, the training ground and drill hall, and the hovels the cadets shared and the latrine trenches. No doubt the goal house would be there as well. Sláine studied his surroundings as they passed, seeing the young cadets twelve and thirteen summers old, sparring on the training grounds to the bark of a harsh instructor. He could just as easily have been watching Murdo put the Red Branch through their paces. He remembered all too well the relentless drilling; the driving rain only served to make the image more vivid. The boys struggled in the quickening mud, stumbling and slipping. The instructor slapped a wooden sword out of the hand of a wide-eyed boy soldier, yelling furiously in his face. His words carried to them: "No, no, no. You left yourself wide open, Braifar! Why can't you be more like Gannon?" The admonishment took him back ten years. He saw again Cullen's open loathing, Wide Mouth mimicking: why can't you be more like Sláine? The memory sent a cold shiver through Sláine as he realised: but for the grace of Danu, that could be me.
There was no sense of permanence to the settlement. The buildings appeared on the verge of collapse. The
Similar Books
