Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Adventure, #Historical, #fantasy
Simon appeared in the press around me and came to my rescue. He stepped beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder; he pointed to me and to the dripping head in my grasp—jabbering all the while in their strange tongue. I was flabbergasted by his fluency. This was the same Simon whose linguistic prowess began and ended at the wine list on a French menu. Even more astounding, the bard addressed him solemnly. Simon answered quickly, unhesitatingly, keeping his hand on my shoulder all the while.
This colloquy continued for a short while, and then the bard nodded slowly, turned to the prince, and, I suppose, offered his learned opinion. The prince listened for a moment, then raised his hand. The bard fell silent. Meldron pulled on his mustache, scrutinizing me with sharp appraisal, as if making up his mind about me.
“What’s happening?” I asked in a desperate whisper.
“Shh!” Simon warned, pinching the side of my neck to make me shut up.
Meldron concluded his rumination then, for he waved Simon aside and moved to stand before me, towering head and shoulders above me. I had no idea what to expect: A sharp dagger thrust in the ribs? A kiss of welcome? A slap in the face? A poke in the eye?
He did none of those things. Instead, he reached out to the hand that held the enemy’s head, took hold of my wrist, raised it, and held it up. The head dangled grotesquely, dribbling blood from the raw neck stump. The prince spoke some words to all those looking on, which included the entire war host by now, and then he placed his free hand, palm up, beneath the obscenely dripping head.
Blood puddled in his palm. And when he had collected enough, he took it and poured it over me. Disgust and loathing churned inside me; I wanted to vomit. I wanted to die. But he held me fast by the wrist, so I stood in mute agony while he drizzled blood over my head. Then he lowered his hand and smeared my cheek with the residue.
My flesh crawled under his touch.
No sooner had the prince finished, than his bard, Ruadh, likewise marked me—reaching out, gathering blood and smearing it down either side of my neck, and over my heart in a bright, warm, crimson streak.
My repugnant baptism was far from finished. For I was made to endure the same appalling courtesy at the hands of the entire gathering, as one by one each warrior took blood and marked me with it. Some splotched my pale flesh with designs similar to their own; others simply left a handprint. When they had finished, my upper torso was well-nigh covered in congealing blood. Words cannot express the disgust and abhorrence I endured.
When the last of the warriors had smeared me, Meldron released my wrist, turned to the heap of weapons and ornaments, and selected an item—discarding two gold and several silver objects before settling on a big bronze armband, which he slipped over my hand and pushed onto my upper arm over my biceps. This done, the company erupted in shouts of approval, and I was treated to a solid thumping, as the warriors pummeled me with hearty backslaps. In all, it was a thoroughly disagreeable experience. If I could have melted into a crack in the ground, I surely would have.
Prince Meldron then began to divide the spoils and plunder among his men. Each warrior received something—an ornament or a weapon, some trinket of gold or silver. Everyone hoorayed and laughed and made merry over this, generally behaving like rowdy children on Christmas morning.
In no time at all the loot disappeared. Then the prince remounted his horse, cried for his war band to follow, and they all moved off at a run. Simon stepped beside me, grinning. “Well done, brother,” he said, slapping me on the back. “You’re in.”
“Well done! It was awful. I thought I was going to puke.” With a shock, I realized I still held the warrior’s head. I let the gruesome memento drop to the ground and wiped my sticky hand on my trousers. I shivered with distaste. “I stink. I’ve got to get cleaned up.”
“Pick it up,” he ordered flatly.
“I’m not carrying that hideous thing around.”
Simon’s temper flared. “Stupid! That hideous thing saved your life just now. You are expected to bring it back with you.”
“What?” I demanded shrilly. “You must be out of your mind!”
He pointed at the head, lying faceup in the grass. “That is the enemy tribe’s champion you killed—”
“
I
killed! Wait one minute, buster. I never killed anyone! I—”
“And if you haven’t guessed, you’ve been made a warrior in Meldryn Mawr’s war band,” he told me. “Now, pick up that head, and let’s go before we are left behind.”
He turned on his heel and, clutching a long spear the prince had given him, trotted off after the others. With supreme reluctance, I retrieved the hateful head and ran to catch up with Simon. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the caer,” he explained. “It isn’t far.”
“The caer—what caer? What for?”
“I’ll explain everything later,” he promised. “Believe me, we don’t want to be seen lagging behind.”
He ran on and I followed as well as I could, clutching my lifesaving trophy and cursing the day of my birth.
T
he caer turned out to be a simple timber fortress atop a flattened hill. The hill soared above a placid river which meandered through a broad valley in a wide, slow sweep of shining water. As Simon had indicated, the king’s stronghold was not far from the battlefield. All the same, I was breathless and exhausted with running by the time we reached the river.
The war band had drawn up at the water’s edge to watch the prince, who continued into the river and halted halfway across, whereupon he withdrew a gold arm ring from among those he had collected as his share of the plunder. He held the arm ring to the sun, said something which I could not understand, and then heaved the golden trinket upriver as far as he could throw. I saw it flash in the air and plunge without a ripple.
The warriors cheered, and everyone splashed into the water at once. I floundered across the shallow fording place, climbed the far bank, and made my weary way up the steep hill track to the caer, last of the troop.
I expected something grand and imposing, but I was disappointed. Once we were past the narrow wooden gate, the caer turned out to be nothing more than an enclosed campsite. There were a dozen or so skin-and-pole tents scattered across the hilltop inside the encircling palisade. Numerous fire rings marked the various places where the warriors gathered to eat their meals and to sleep.
It was rude and crude, exhibiting none of the magnificence I believed existed in the Otherworld. As far as I could tell, this Meldryn Mawr, whoever he might be, was monarch of a modest wooden cattle pen.
Upon our arrival, those who had stayed behind to hold the fort gathered around to hear the juicy details of the day’s exploits from their comrades. It was clear, by the exaggerated excitement of all concerned— listener and braggart alike—that the excursion had already taken on a rich luster of glory.
And I, owing to Simon’s bald-faced lie, became the object of a considerable amount of this excitement. Killing a champion was powerful stuff, apparently. The way everyone behaved, what with all the shouting, laughing, and leaping around, one would have thought I, David, had beaned Goliath and routed the Philistines with my slingshot.
I was poked and prodded and generally slapped happily from one end of the camp to the other. My clothing was examined with curiosity, and the ghastly head in my grasp made much of. When at last a huge, brawny warrior, whom I took to be the king’s champion, approached with spear in hand and, through pantomime, offered to spike the head for me, I gave up my dubious prize only too gladly.
With Prince Meldron looking on, the warrior expertly mounted the severed head upon the spear and drove the shaft into the ground at my feet. He then seized each of my arms in his crushing grip and kissed me on both of my blooded cheeks. This sealed my acceptance by the warrior band. All whooped and hollered as if some great deliverance had been performed among them. And I was treated to another round of backslaps and thumpings.
“You are in, my friend,” said Simon, when the commotion died down somewhat. Everyone went about their business, and we were left alone for the moment. “We can relax now.”
“Good.” I regarded my gore-smeared torso with loathing. “Can I wash? Is that allowed?”
“Better not. Tomorrow, maybe,” he said. “It’s your initiation badge.
Wear it proudly. Most of these men have trained for battle since they were infants, so you’re getting off lightly. You should be grateful.”
I cast my eyes upon Simon’s blue-stained body. “But look at you, Simon. I would never have recognized you.”
“This is just war paint,” he explained, then extended his arms. “But these are the real thing.” I saw that each inner arm had a bold blue tattoo in the distinctive Celtic design of intricate interwoven braided whorls. “This one is a salmon,” he said proudly, indicating his left arm. “And this one is a stag.” He lifted his right arm for my inspection. “I got them for killing enemy warriors—five each.”
“You’ve killed ten men?” I gasped.
“I might have received a torc for my kill today,” he said, somewhat peevishly. “A champion—that was my best one yet.”
“Simon, what has happened to you?” I was still shaken by the battle, the scene still fresh in my mind.
“Happened to me?” He snarled and jerked his thumb at the nearby spear. “If I hadn’t done what I did, it would be
your
head on the pole right now. Don’t you forget it. I saved your life.”
“And I’m grateful, believe me,” I insisted. “It’s just that—”
“Wandering out on a battlefield like that,” he continued angrily. “If the Cruin hadn’t killed you, the Llwyddi would have.” Simon stooped to a cloth bundle at his feet, unwrapped it, and shook out a long shirt of fine yellow cloth.
“Who?”
“Clan Cruin,” he said, putting his arms into the sleeves of the shirt. “They are the enemy we fought today. We are the Llwyddi.” He unrolled a pair of yellow and black checked trousers and drew them on.
“What was the fight about?”
“King Meldryn and one of the Cruin kings had a falling out over some hunting hounds.” He sat down cross-legged on the ground and began pulling on soft leather boots.
“Dogs? Did you say dogs?” I plopped down beside him.
“The Cruin king said that Meldryn’s hunting dogs stank.”
“What? You mean to tell me that all that—that slaughter was over an insult to some dogs?”
“Don’t be an ass. Of course it is more than that. There is honor at stake here.”
“Oh, good. Glad to hear it. Dozens of men lost their lives today because somebody said King Meldryn has smelly dogs! I don’t believe it!”
“Keep your voice down! You don’t understand.” He laced and tied one boot.
“Sorry, Simon, but I came this close to getting murdered out there, and I—”
“You did not,” he said flatly, his lips drawing back from his teeth. He glared at me, then softened. “You should have seen your face,” he said with a laugh. “I never saw anyone so scared! It was priceless.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Actually,” he continued, more the Simon I knew, “you were lucky to find us at all. We are going home tomorrow.” He laced and tied the remaining boot.
“Why? You mean this isn’t the king’s fortress?”
“This?” Simon dismissed it with an impatient flick of his hand. “This is just an overnight stopping place. Meldryn Mawr has hundreds of these scattered from one end of the realm to the other. This is just a small force made up of some of the younger warriors. We are only out here to avenge the affront to the king’s honor; then we go back to Sycharth.”
“We?” I heard the unmistakable note of pride in Simon’s voice. I asked him again: “Simon, what has happened to you? What is going on here?”
“Nothing has happened to me. As you see, I am fit and happy. I have never felt better in my life.” He turned the question back on me. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know. I came to find you,” I said and decided to skip a lengthy explanation of all I’d been through since his disappearance. “There’s some trouble, Simon. We don’t belong here. We’ve got to find a way to go back—you know, back to the real world.”
Simon frowned. I could tell he did not like the idea. “That is not going to be easy, chum.”
“Maybe not,” I allowed, “but we’ve got to try. And the sooner, the better.” I began telling him about the nexus and plexus and Professor Nettleton’s notions about interdependent reality and all the rest. I finished with a much-abbreviated version of Nettleton’s Unraveling Plexus Theory and the danger we were all in because of it.
Simon listened, staring at the ground the whole time, his eyes distant and cold. He did not say anything; he just nodded and pulled up a few blades of grass, which he twirled between his palms. I could not tell whether what I had said made any impression on him at all.
“Did you hear me, Simon?” I asked when I had finished.
“I heard.” He glanced up at me and flung the grass away impatiently. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “I told you, I’m fine. Never better.”
“Then why the long face? I thought you would be glad to see me. Really, it’s a miracle that I found you at all. I still can’t believe I’m here.”