Son of the Shadows Read online

  “Go on, Chief,” said Gull. “It’s harmless enough.”

  “Why don’t I start,” I said, “and if you feel my words are a danger, you can stop me when you choose. That seems fair.”

  “Does it?”

  Well, he hadn’t said no, and there was an air of hushed expectancy among the strange band gathered around the fire. So I started anyway.

  “For a band of fighters such as yourselves,” I said, “what could be apter than a tale of the greatest of all warriors, Cú Chulainn, champion of Ulster? His story, too, is a long one made up of many tales. But I will tell of the way he learned his skill and honed it so that no man could master him on the field, be he the greatest battle hero of his tribe. This Cú Chulainn, you understand, was no ordinary man. There were rumors, and maybe there was some truth behind them, rumors that he was a child of Lugh, the sun god, by a mortal woman. Nobody seemed quite sure, but one thing was for certain: when Cú Chulainn was about to fight, a change would come over him. They called it riastradh, the battle frenzy. His whole body would shake and grow hot, his face red as fire, his heart beating like a great drum in his breast, his hair standing on end and glowing with sparks. It was as if his father, the sun god, did indeed inspire him at such times, for to his enemies it appeared a fierce and terrible light played around him as he approached them, sword in hand. And after the battle was won, they say it took three barrels of icy river water to cool him down. When they plunged him into the first, it burst its bands and split apart. The water in the second boiled over. The third steamed and steamed until the heat was out of him, and Cú Chulainn was himself again.

  “Now, this great warrior had exceptional skills, even as a boy. He could leap like a salmon and swim like an otter. He could run swifter than the deer and see in the dark as a cat does. But there came a time when he sought to improve his art, with the aim of winning a lovely lady called Emer. When he asked her father for Emer’s hand, the old man suggested he was not yet proved as a warrior and should seek further tuition from the best. As for the lady, she’d have taken him then and there, for who could resist such a fine specimen of manhood? But she was a good girl and followed her father’s bidding. So Cú Chulainn asked and he asked, and at length he learned that the best teacher of the arts of war was a woman, Scáthach, a strange creature who lived on a tiny island off the coast of Alba.”

  “A woman?” someone echoed scornfully. “How could that be?”

  “Ah, well, this was no ordinary woman, as our hero soon found out for himself. When he came to the wild shore of Alba and looked across the raging waters to the island where she lived with her warrior women, he saw that there could be a difficulty before he even set foot there. For the only way across was by means of a high, narrow bridge, just wide enough for one man to walk on. And the instant he set his foot upon its span, the bridge began to shake and flex and bounce up and down, all along its considerable length, so that anyone foolish enough to venture farther along it would straightaway be tossed down onto the knife-sharp rocks or into the boiling surf.”

  “Why didn’t he use a boat?” asked Spider, with a perplexed frown.

  “Didn’t you hear what Liadan said?” Gull responded with derision. “Raging waters? Boiling surf? No boat could have crossed that sea, I’ll wager.”

  “Indeed not,” I said, smiling at him. “Many had tried, and all of them had perished, swallowed up by the sea or by the huge, long-toothed creatures that dwelt therein. Well, what was Cú Chulainn to do? He was not the sort of man to give up, and he wanted Emer with a longing that filled every corner of his body. He measured the distance across the bridge with his keen eye, and then he drew in his breath and let it out, and drew it in again, and the riastradh came on him until his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, and every vein in his skin swelled and stood out like a hempen cord stretched tight. Then Cú Chulainn gathered himself and made a mighty leap, as of a salmon breaching a great waterfall, and he landed lightly in the very center of the shaking bridge, neatly on the ball of his left foot. The bridge bounced and buckled, trying to throw him off, but he was too quick, leaping again, such a leap that when his foot touched ground he was on the shore of Scáthach’s island.

  “Up on the ramparts of Scáthach’s dwelling, which was a fortified tower of solid granite, the warrior woman stood with her daughter, watching.

  “‘Looks a likely fellow,’ she muttered. ‘Knows a few tricks already. I could teach him well.’

  “‘Wouldn’t mind teaching him a few tricks myself,’ said the daughter, who had something quite different in mind.”

  There was a ripple of laughter. Unused to stories these men might be, but it seemed they knew how to enjoy one. As for me, I was warming to my task and wondered, fleetingly, what Niamh would say if she could see me now. I took up the tale again.

  “‘Well then,’ said the mother, ‘if you want him, take him. Three days, you can have, to teach him the arts of love. Then he’s mine.’

  “So it was Scáthach’s daughter who went down to welcome the hero, and very welcome indeed did she make him, so that after three days there was little he did not know of the needs of a woman and how to please her. Lucky Emer. Then it was the mother’s turn, and when his lessons began, Cú Chulainn soon realized Scáthach was indeed the best of teachers. She taught him for a year and a day, and it was from her he learned his battle leap, with which he could fly high above a spear flung through the air by his adversary. He learned to shave a man with quick strokes of the sword, a skill with little practical use, maybe, but sure to drive terror into an enemy.”

  Dog ran a hand nervously over the bald side of his scalp.

  “Cú Chulainn could cut away the ground under the enemy’s feet, his sword moving so quickly you could scarce see it. He could jump lightly onto his adversary’s shield. He learned to maneuvre a chariot with knives on its wheels so that his opponents would not know what hit them until they lay dying on the field of battle. He learned, as well, the art of juggling, which he could do as cleverly with sharp knives or flaming torches as he could with the leather juggling balls. While he was on that island, Cú Chulainn lay with a warrior woman, Aoife, and she bore him a son, Conlai, and that began another tale, a tale of great sadness. But Cú Chulainn himself returned home, after a year and a day, and again sought the hand of the lovely Emer.”

  “And?” asked Gull impatiently when I paused. It was late. The fire had died to a glow, and a network of stars had spread across the dark sky. The moon was waning.

  “Well, Emer’s father, Fogall, had never expected the young man to return. He had been hoping Scáthach would finish him off, if the bridge and the sea didn’t. So Cú Chulainn met with armed resistance. But he had not studied with the best in the world for nothing. With his small band of warriors, each of them carefully picked, he routed Fogall’s forces with little effort. Fogall himself he pursued to the very edge of the cliffs and fought there man-to-man. Soon enough Fogall, completely outclassed, fell to his death on the stones far below. Then Cú Chulainn took the fair Emer as his bride, and much joy they had in each other.”

  “I’ll bet he taught her a thing or two,” said somebody in an undertone.

  “Enough.” Bran stepped around from behind me, his voice commanding instant silence among the men. “The tale is ended. Those men on relief watch, be off with you. The rest, to your beds. Don’t expect a repeat performance.”

  They went with never a word. I wondered how it would feel to be so in fear of a man that you never questioned his orders. There could be little satisfaction in such an existence.

  “You, back to work.”

  It took a moment or two before I realized Bran was speaking to me.

  “What am I supposed to say to that? Yes, Chief?” I got up. Dog was close behind me, a constant shadow.

  “What about keeping your mouth shut and doing as you’re told? That would be easier for all of us.”

  I shot him a glance of dislike. “I am not answerable to you,” I
said. “I’ll do the job I’m here to do. That’s all. I will not be ordered about like one of your men. If they choose to follow you like terrified slaves, that’s their business. But I cannot work if I must go in fear and be always restricted. And you said yourself, be properly prepared so you can do your job effectively. Something like that.”

  He did not answer for a while. Something I had said had clearly touched a nerve, although that strange face, summer and winter, scarcely moved a muscle.

  “It will help, too, if you use my name,” I added severely. “My name is Liadan.”

  “These tales,” said Bran absently, as if his mind were on something else entirely. “They are dangerous. They make men dream of what they cannot have, of what they can never be. They make men question who they are and what they may aspire to. For my men, there can be no such tales.”

  For a moment, I could not speak.

  “Oh, come on, Chief,” protested Dog unwisely. “What about Cú Chulainn and his son, Conlai? A tale of great sadness, that’s what she said. What about mermaids and monsters and giants?”

  “You talk like an infant,” Bran’s tone was dismissive. “This is a troop of hardened men with no time for such trivial nonsense.”

  “Perhaps you should make time,” I said, determined to get my point across. “If what you want is to achieve a victory, what better to inspire your men than a heroic tale, some tale of a battle against great odds, won by skill and courage? If your men are weary or downhearted, what more fit to cheer them than a foolish tale—say, the story of the wee man Iubdan and the plate of porridge, or the farmer who got three wishes and squandered them all? What better to give them hope than a tale of love?”

  “You take a risk, talking of love. Are you so innocent, or so stupid, that you cannot imagine what effect such words will have in this company of men? Or perhaps that’s what you want. You could take your pick. A new one every night. Two, maybe.”

  I felt myself grow pale.

  “You show the man you are when you insult me thus,” I said very quietly.

  “And what sort of a man is that?”

  “A man with no sense of right or wrong. A man who cannot laugh and who rules by fear. A—a man with no respect for women. There are those who would seek a terrible vengeance if they heard you speak to me thus.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “And on what do you base this judgment?” he asked eventually. “You have spent but the briefest time in my company. Already you believe me some kind of monster. You are indeed quick to assess a man’s character.”

  “As are you to judge a woman,” I said straightaway.

  “I need not know you, to recognize what you are,” he said bleakly. “Your kind are all the same. Catch a man in your net, draw him in, deprive him of his will and his judgment. It happens so subtly he is lost before ever he recognizes the danger. Then others are dragged in after him, and the pattern of darkness stretches wider and wider so that even the innocent have no escape:” He stopped abruptly, clearly regretting his words.

  “You,” he said to Dog, who had been listening openmouthed. “Take her back to her charge, then go to your bed. Gull will stand guard tonight.”

  “I could do it, Chief. I’m good for another watch—”

  “Gull will stand guard.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  That was the second day. The smith, Evan, held his ground, though I was not happy with the way his body trembled and shivered, or the heat of his brow that could not be relieved, however much I sponged him with cool water in which I had steeped wild endive and five leaf. A certain competition developed among my three assistants. All were eager to help with nursing duties and, though they lacked skill, I welcomed their strength in lifting and turning the patient.

  Bran’s men seemed always busy, rehearsing combat, tending to horses or harness, cleaning and sharpening weapons. Eamonn had been wrong on one count. They used the conventional armory of sword, spear, bow, and dagger, as well as a wide range of other devices whose names and functions I had no wish to learn. The camp was self-contained and highly organized. I was amazed, on the third morning, to find my gown and shift neatly folded on the rocks outside my shelter, washed and dried and almost as good as new. There was evidently at least one capable cook there, and no shortage of efficient hunters to provide a supply of fresh meat for the pot. Where the carrots and turnips came from, I did not ask.

  Time was short. Six days until they moved on. The smith was in pain and needed the soporific herbs to control it. Still, if he were to be ready to go on without me, he must know the truth. There were times when he looked down at what lay where his strong arm had once joined his powerful shoulder. But his fevered eyes showed no real recognition, as I spoke to him of what had happened and how things would be.

  I walked through the camp on the third day with Snake close by me. My borrowed clothes were in need of washing, for they were now, in their turn, stained with my patient’s blood, and here and there with drafts Evan kept in his stomach no longer than the count of ten before he retched them up again.

  When we reached the bank of the stream, we found the tall man, Spider, and another whom they called Otter wrestling on the grass. Otter was winning, for in such a sport, height gives little advantage if your opponent is swift and clever. There was a big splash, and there was Spider sprawled in the water, looking very put out. Otter wiped his hands on his leather trousers. The upper part of his body was naked, and he bore a complex pattern on the chest of many links forming a twisting circle.

  “Morning, Snake. Morning, lady. Here, you oaf. Get up. Need to put in a bit more practice, you do.” Otter reached out an arm and hauled the embarrassed Spider out of the water.

  “Fools,” commented Snake mildly. “Don’t let the chief catch you mucking about.”

  I unrolled my bundle and began to rub the stained cloth on the smooth stones in the shallows.

  “Better go back up to camp, or wherever you’re meant to be,” Snake went on. “Chief wouldn’t be happy to see you talking to the lady here.”

  “All right for you,” mumbled Spider, clearly put out to be seen thus, dripping wet and defeated. “How did you score permanent guard duty then?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Why are you all so frightened of him?” I asked, pausing in my labors to look up at the three of them. It was a pity there was no soapwort growing nearby. I must ask how they had gotten my gown so clean.

  “Frightened?” Spider was perplexed.

  Snake frowned. “You’ve got it wrong,” he said. “Chief’s a man to respect, not to fear.”

  “What?” I sat back on my heels, amazed. “When all of you fall silent at his least word? When he threatens the direst punishment if you transgress some code which no doubt he himself invented? When you are somehow bound to him in a brotherhood from which it seems you can never escape? What is that but a rule of fear?”

  “Ssh,” said Snake, alarmed. “Keep your voice down.”

  “See?” I challenged, but more quietly. “You dare not even speak of these things openly lest he should hear and punish you.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Spider, settling his long, ungainly form on the rocks near me, but still that careful three or four paces away. “He knows how to set rules and enforce them. But it’s fair. The code’s there to protect us. From each other. From ourselves. Everyone understands that. If we break it, that’s our choice, and we take the consequences.”

  “But what holds you here if not fear of him?” I asked, perplexed. “What sort of a life is it, killing for money, never able to go out into the real world, never able to—to love, to see your children thrive, to watch a tree you planted grow to shade your cottage, or fight in a battle where right is on your side? It is no life.”

  “Don’t suppose you could understand,” said Snake diffidently.

  “Try me,” I said.

  “Without the chief,” it was Otter who spoke, “we’d be nothing. Not
hing. Dead, imprisoned, or worse. Scum of the earth, every one of us. You can’t say this is no life. He’s given us a life.”

  “Otter’s right,” said Snake. “Ask Dog. Ask him his story; get him to show you the scars on his hands.”

  “We’re the men nobody had a use for,” said Spider. “The chief made us useful; gave us a place and a purpose.”

  “What about Gull?” Snake went on. “Comes from foreign parts, Gull does, some place far off, hot as hellfire and all over sand. Land of black people, like himself. Anyway, somebody had really put him through it. Saw his people hacked to death right before his eyes. Wife, children, old folks. All he wanted was to die. Chief got him out, talked him around. Tough job. Now Gull’s the best we’ve got, barring the chief himself.”

  I had completely forgotten my washing, and it was in danger of floating away. Snake reached past me to grab it, put it into my hands, moved back three, four paces.

  “Every man here has a story,” said Otter, “but we try to forget. No past, no future, just today. Easier. We’ve all been cast out. Not one of us can go back, except perhaps the smith. This is our existence, here in these woods, or out there on a job, knowing we can be the best at what we do. It’s our identity: the band of the Painted Man. He commands a good price and shares what he gets. Me, I’d sooner be here working for him than in the uniform of some jumped-up lordling’s private army.”

  “Who’d have you?” chuckled Snake. “Too full of funny tricks, you are. You’d be in trouble before you had the chance to hear your first order.”

  “I’ll take his orders any day,” replied Otter seriously. “The chief saved my life. But life’s cheap enough. I owe him something far more valuable, my self-respect.”

  “But …” I was totally confused. I began to wring the garments out. “But … I don’t understand. Can’t you see that what you do is—monstrous? Evil? Killing without scruple, for money? How can you call that a trade, as if it were no different from—from breeding pigs or building boats?”