II

1

The sun was not yet down, but the single glazed window was grayed and dusk beginning to fill the room where Apuleius Vero had brought his guests. It was a lesser chamber of his house, well suited for private talk. Wall panels, painted with scenes from the Roman past, were now vague in vision. Clear as yet sheened the polished walnut of a table which bore writing materials, a pair of books, and modest refreshments. Otherwise the only furniture was the stools on which the three men sat.

The news had been brought, the shock and sorrow uttered, the poor little attempts at condolence made. It was time to speak of what might be done.

Apuleius leaned forward his slender form and regular features. “How many survivors?” he asked low.

Gratillonius remained hunched, staring at the hands clasped together in his lap. “I counted about fifty,” he said in the same dull voice as before.

The tribune of Aquilo drew a sharp breath and once more signed himself. “Only half a hundred from that whole city and … and those from outside whom you say had taken refuge? Christ be with us. Christ have mercy.”

“There may be two or three hundred more who stayed in the countryside, including the children. We’ve tried to get in touch with them.”

Corentinus’s fist knotted on his knee. Tears gleamed under the shaggy brows. “The children,” he croaked. “The innocents.”

“Most will starve if they don’t soon get help,” Gratillonius said. “Afterward the reavers will come.”

Apuleius forced business into his tone. “But I gather you have leaders for them while you are off seeking that help. Where have you been?”

“Thus far, only Audiarna. The reception we got there decided me to come straight to you.”

“What did they say?”

Gratillonius shrugged. Corentinus explained, harshly: “The tribune and the chorepiscopus both told us they had no space or food to spare. When I pressed them they finally cried that they could not, dared not take in a flock of pagans who were fleeing from the wrath of God. I saw it would be useless to argue. Also, they were doubtless right when they said our people would be in actual danger from the dwellers. Ys is—was near Audiarna. The horror of what has happened, the terror of more to come, possesses them in a way you should be free of here at your remove.”

Apuleius looked at Gratillonius and shook his head in pity. The centurion of the Second, the King of Ys had lacked strength to dispute with a couple of insignificant officials and must needs leave it to his clerical companion.

“We can take in your fifty at once, of course,” Apuleius told them. “A trading town like this has a certain amount of spare lodging in the slack season. It is not a wealthy town, though. We can find simple fare, clothing, and the like for that many, but only temporarily. The rest shall have to stay behind until something has been worked out with the provincial authorities. I will dispatch letters about that in the morning.”

“God will bless you,” Corentinus promised.

Gratillonius stirred and glanced up. “I knew we could count on you, old friend,” he said, with a slight stirring of life in his voice. “But as for the tribunes or even the governor—I’ve given thought to this, you understand. They never liked Ys, they endured it because they had to, and some of them hate me. Why should they bestir themselves for a band of alien fugitives?”

“Christ commands us to succor the poor,” Apuleius answered.

“Pardon me, but I’ve never seen that order very well followed. Oh, Bishop Martinus will certainty do what he can, and I suppose several others too, but—”

“I’ll remind them that people who become desperate become dangerous. Don’t fret too much.” With compassion: “It’ll take time, resettling them, but remember Max-imus’s veterans. Armorica continues underpopulated, terribly short of hands for both work and war. We’ll get your people homes.”

“Scattered among strangers? After they’ve lost everything they ever had or ever were? Better dead, I think.”

“Don’t say that,” Corentinus reproved. “God’s left the road open for them to win free of the demons they worshipped.”

Gratillonius stiffened. His gaze sought Apuleius and held fast. His speech was flat with weariness but firm: “Keep them together. Else the spirit will die in them and the flesh will follow it. You’ve been in Ys. You’ve seen what they can do, what they know. Think what you’ve gained from the veterans and, all right, those former outlaws who came to these parts. We’re going to need those hands you spoke of more than ever, now Ys is gone. It was the keystone of defense for Armorica. How many troops does Rome keep in this entire peninsula—two thousand? And no navy worth mentioning; the Ysan fleet was the mainstay of that. The barbarians will be coming back. Trade will be ripped apart. I offer you some good fighting men, and some more who can learn to be, and others who’re skilled workmen or sailors or scribes or—Man, can you afford to waste them?”

He sagged. Twilight deepened in the room. Finally Apuleius murmured, “You propose to resettle the Ysans, your former subjects, rural as well as urban, in this neighborhood?”

Gratillonius was barely audible: “I don’t know any better place. Do you?”

Corentinus took the word. “We’ve talked about it a little, we two, and I’ve given it thought of my own. I used to live hereabouts, you recall, and though that was years ago, the King’s brought me the news every time he paid a visit. There’s ample unfilled land. There’s iron ore to be gathered nearby, and unlimited timber, and a defensible site that fishers and merchantmen can use for their terminus.” Apuleius opened his mouth. Corentinus checked him with a lifted palm. “Oh, I know, you wonder how so many can be fed in the year or more it’ll take them to get established. Well, in part we’ll have to draw on Imperial resources. I’m sure Bishop Martinus can and will help arrange that; his influence isn’t small. The need won’t be great or lasting, anyway. For one thing, the Ysan hinterland grazes sheep, geese, some cattle and swine. Their herders would far rather drive them here and see most eaten up than keep them for the barbarians. Then too, Ys was a seafaring nation. Many a man will soon be fishing again, if only in a coracle he’s made for himself, or find work as a deckhand on a coastal trader.” He paused. “Besides, the former soldiers and former Bacaudae who owe their homes to Gratillonius—I think most of them will be glad to help.”

Apuleius gripped his chin, stared afar, sat long in thought. Outside, sounds of the town were dying away.

Finally the tribune smiled a bit and said, “Another advantage of this site is that I have some small influence and authority of my own. Permissions and the like must be arranged, you understand. That should be possible. The situation is not unprecedented. Emperors have let hard-pressed barbarian tribes settle in Roman territory; and Ys is—was—actually a foederate state. I have the power to admit you temporarily. Negotiating a permanent status for you will take time, since it must go through the Imperium itself. But the, alas, inevitable confusion and delay are to the good, for meanwhile you can root yourselves firmly and usefully in place. Why then should the state wish to expel you?

“Of course, first you require somewhere to live. While land may lie fallow, it is seldom unclaimed. Rome cannot let strangers squat anywhere they choose.”—unless they have the numbers and weapons to force it, he left unspoken.

“Well?” asked Corentinus tensely.

“I have property. To be precise, my family does, but God has called most of the Apuleii away and this decision can be mine.”

Gratillonius’s breath went sharp between his lips.

Apuleius nodded, as if to himself, and continued methodically. “You remember, my friend, that holding which borders on the banks of the Odita and the Stegir where they meet, a short walk hence. On the north and east it’s hemmed in by forest. Of late, cultivation has not gone so well. Three tenant families have farmed it for us, one also serving as caretakers of its manor house. They grow old, that couple, and should in charity be retired. As for the other two, one man has lately died without a son; I am seeing what can be done for his widow and daughters. The second man is hale and busy, but—I strongly suspect—would welcome different duties. God made him too lively for a serf. Can the Lord actually have been preparing us here for a new use of the land?”

“Hercules!” Gratillonius breathed. Realizing how inappropriate that was, he gulped hard and sat silent.

“Hold on,” Apuleius cautioned. “It’s not quite so simple. The law does not allow me to give away an estate as I might a coin. This grant of mine must employ some contorted technicalities, and at that will involve irregularities. We’ll need all the political force we can muster, and no doubt certain … considerations … to certain persons, if it is to be approved. However, I’m not afraid to have the actual work of settlement commence beforehand. That in itself will be an argument for us to use.”

“I knew I could count on you—” Abruptly Gratillonius wept, not with the racking sobs of a man but, in his exhaustion, almost the quietness of a woman.

Apuleius lifted a finger. “It will be hard work,” he said, “and there are conditions. First and foremost, they were right as far as they went in Audiarna. We cannot allow a nest of pagans in our midst. You must renounce those Gods, Gratillonius.”

The Briton blinked the tears off his lashes, tasted the salt on his mouth, and replied, “They were never mine.”

Corentinus said, like a commander talking of an enemy who has been routed at terrible cost, “I don’t think we’ll have much trouble about that, sir. How many among the survivors can wish to carry on the old rites? Surely too few to matter, except for their own salvation. Let most hear the Word, and soon they will come to Christ.”

“I pray so,” Apuleius answered solemnly. “Then God may be pleased to forgive one or two of my own sins.”

“Your donation will certainly bless you.”

“And my family?” Apuleius whispered.

“They too shall have many prayers said for them.”

Both men’s glances went to Gratillonius. He evaded them. Silences thickened.

“It would be unwise to compel,” Corentinus said at length.

The door opened. Light glowed. “Oh, pardon me, father,” said the girl who bore the lamp. “It’s growing so dark inside. I thought you might like to have this.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Apuleius to his daughter.

Verania entered timidly. It seemed she had taken the bringing upon herself, before it occurred to her mother to send a slave. Gratillonius looked at her and caught her look on him. The lamp wavered in her hand. She had barely seen him when he arrived, then the womenfolk and young Salomon were dismissed from the atrium.

How old was she now, he wondered vaguely—fourteen, fifteen? Since last he saw her, she had filled out, ripening toward womanhood, though as yet she was withy-slim, small-bosomed, barely up to his shoulder if he rose. Light brown hair was piled above large hazel eyes and a face that—it twisted in him—was very like the face of Una, his daughter by Bodilis. She had changed her plain Gallic shift for a saffron gown in Roman style.

She passed as near to him as might be in the course of setting the lamp on the table. “You are grieved, Uncle Gaius,” she murmured.

What, had she remembered his nickname from her childhood? Later Apuleius had made her and her brother be more formal with the distinguished visitor.

“I brought bad news,” he said around a tightness in his gullet. “You’ll hear.”

“All must hear,” Apuleius said. “First we should gather the household for prayer.”

“If you will excuse me.” Gratillonius climbed to his feet. “I need air. I’ll take a walk.”

Apuleius made as if to say something. Corentinus gestured negation at him. Gratillonius brushed past Verania.

Within the city wall, streets were shadowed and traffic scant. Gratillonius ignored what glances and hails he got, bound for the east gate. It stood open, unguarded. The times had been peaceful since Ys took the lead in defending Armorica. Watchposts down the valley sufficed. How much longer would that last?

Careless of the fact that he was unarmed, Gratillonius strode out the gate and onward. His legs worked mechanically, fast but with no sense of vigor. A shadowy part of him thought how strange it was that he could move like this, that he had been able to keep going at all—on the road, in council, at night alone.

The sun was on the horizon. Level light made western meadows and treetops golden, the rivers molten. Rooks winged homeward, distantly cawing, across chilly blue that eastward deepened and bore a first trembling star. Ahead loomed the long barricade of Mons Ferruginus, its heights still aglow but the wrinkles beneath purple with dusk.

He should turn around, raise his arms, and say his own evening prayer. He had not said any since the whelming of Ys. There had been no real chance to.

He did not halt but, blindly, sought upward. The rutted road gave way to a path that muffled foot-thuds. It wound steeply among wild shrubs and trees, occasional small orchards, cabins already huddling into themselves. Boughs above him were graven black. Ahead they were mingling with the night as it welled aloft.

He reached a high place and stopped. This was as far as he could go. He wanted in a dull fashion to trudge on, maybe forever, but he was too drained. It would be hard enough to stumble his way back down. Let him first rest a while. And say that prayer?

From here he looked widely west. A streak of red smoldered away. “Mithras, God of the sunset—” No, somehow he could not shape the words. Mithras, where were You when Ocean brought down Ys and her Queens, where were You when it tore Dahut from my hand?

He knew the question was empty. A true God, the true God was wholly beyond. Unless none existed, only the void. But to admit that would be to give up his hold on everything he had ever loved. But if the God was too exalted to hear him, what matter whether or not He lived outside of human dreams? A good officer listens to his men. Mithras, why have You forsaken me?

The sky darkened further. Slowly within it appeared the comet. It was a ghost, fading toward oblivion, its work done, whether that work had been of warning or of damnation. Who had sent it? Who now called it home?

The strength ran out of Gratillonius. He sank to the ground, drew knees toward chin, hugged himself to himself, and shivered beneath the encroaching stars.

2

A waning half moon rose above woodlands whose branches, budding or barely started leafing, reached toward it like empty hands. They hid the River of Tiamat, low at this season; among stars that glimmered in the great silence went the Bears, the Dragon, the Virgin. Only water had voice, chirring and rustling from the spring of Ahes to a pool in the hollow just beneath and thence in a rivulet on down the hill, soon lost to sight under the trees. Moonlight flickered across it.

Nemeta came forth. Convolvulus vines between the surrounding boles crackled, still winter-dry, as she passed through. Her feet were bare, bruised and bleeding where she had stumbled against roots or rocks on the gloomy upward trail. First grass in the small open space of the hollow, then moss on the poolside soothed them a little. She stopped at the edge and stood a while catching her breath, fighting her fear.

The whiteness of her short kirtle was slashed by a belt which bore a sheathed knife. Unbound, tangled from her struggle with brush and twigs on a way seldom used, her hair fell past her shoulders. A garland of borage, early blooming in a sheltered spot despite the rawness of this springtime, circled her brows. In her left hand she carried a wicker cage. As she halted, a robin within flapped wings and cheeped briefly, anxiously.

She mustered courage and lifted her right palm. Nonetheless her words fluttered: “Nymph Ahes, I greet you, I … I call you, I, Nemeta, daughter of Forsquilis. She was—” The girl swallowed hard. Tears coursed forth. They stung. Vision blurred. “She was of the Gallicenae, the nine Queens of Ys. M-my father is Grallon, the King.”

Water rippled.

“Ever were you kindly toward maidens, Ahes,” Nemeta pleaded. “Ys is gone. You know that, don’t you? Ys is gone. Her Gods grew angry and drowned her. But you abide. You must! Ahes, I am so alone.”

After a moment she thought to say, “We all are, living or dead. What Gods have we now? Ahes, comfort us. Help us.”

Still the spirit of the spring did not appear, did not answer.

“Are you afraid?” Nemeta whispered.

Something stirred in the forest, unless it was a trick of the wearily climbing moon.

“I am not,” Nemeta lied. “If you will not seek the Gods for us, I will myself. See.”

Hastily, before dread should overwhelm her, she set down the cage, unfastened her belt, drew the kirtle over her head and cast it aside. The night air clad her nakedness in chill. Taking up the knife, she held it against the stars. “Cerunnos, Epona, Sucellus, almighty Lug!” She shrilled her invocation of Them not in Ysan or sacerdotal Punic but in the language of the Osismii, who were half Celtic and half descendants of the Old Folk. When she slew the bird she did so awkwardly; it flopped and cried until she, weeping, got a firm enough hold on it to hack off its head. But her hands never hesitated when she gashed herself and stooped to press blood from her breasts to mingle in the pool with the blood of her sacrifice.

—False dawn dulled the moon and hid most stars. A few lingered above western ridges and the unseen wreck of Ys.

Nemeta crossed the lawn toward the Nymphaeum. Her steps left uneven tracks in the dew. She startled a peacock which had been asleep by a hedge. Its screech seemed shatteringly loud.

A woman in a hooded cloak trod out of the portico, down the stairs, and strode to a meeting. The girl stopped and gaped. Runa took stance before her. Now it was Nemeta’s breathing that broke the silence. It puffed faint white.

“Follow me,” said the priestess. “Quickly. Others will be rousing. They must not see you like this.”

“Wh-wh-what?” mumbled the vestal.

“Worn out, disheveled, your garb muddy and torn and blood-stained,” Runa snapped. “Come, I say.” She took the other’s arm and steered her aside. They went behind the great linden by the sacred pond. Hoarfrost whitened the idol that it shaded.

“What has found you tonight?” Runa demanded.

Nemeta shook her dazed head. “I kn-know not what you mean.”

“Indeed you do, unless They stripped you of your wits for your recklessness.” When she got only a blind stare for reply, the priestess continued:

“I’ ve kept my heed on you. Had there been less call on me elsewhere—everywhere, in these days of woe—I’d have watched closer and wrung your scheme out of you erenow. It struck me strange that you never wailed aloud against fate, but locked your lips as none of the rest were able to. I misdoubted your tale that you snared a bird to be your pet; and tonight it was gone from your room together with yourself, nor have you brought it back. And you have crowned yourself with ladygift, the Herb of Belisama.

“I know you somewhat, Nemeta. I was nine years old when you were born; I have watched you grow. Well do I recall what blood is in you, your father’s willfulness, your mother’s witchiness. Each night after you went to bed, since the news came, I have looked in to be sure. … Ah, you were aware of that, nay, sly one? You waited. But I slept ill this night, and looked in again, and then you were gone.

“Where? And what answer did you get? Who came to you?”

The girl shuddered. “Who?” she said tonelessly. “Mayhap none. I cannot remember. I was out of myself.”

Runa peered long at her. Fifteen years of age, Nemeta was rangy, almost flat-chested. Her face bore high cheekbones, curved nose, big green eyes; the mane of hair grew straight and vividly red, the skin was fair and apt to freckle. Ordinarily she stood tall, but in this hour, drained of strength, she stooped.

“You sought the Gods,” Runa said at last, very low.

Nemeta raised her glance. Life kindled in it. “Aye.” Her voice, hoarse from shrieking, gained a measure of steadiness. “First just Ahes. I begged her to speak to Them for us. Not the Three of Ys, though I did make this wreath to—remind—The old Gods of the land. They might intercede or—or—When she held off—has she fled, has she died?—I summoned Them myself.”

“Did any come?”

“I know not, I told you.” Nemeta dropped her glance anew. Her fingers twisted and twined together. “It was as though I … blundered into dreams I can’t remember—Did I see Him, antlered and male, two snakes in His grasp? Were there thunders? I woke cold and full of pain, and made my way back hither.”

“Why did you do it?”

“What other hope have we?” Nemeta half screamed. “Yon pale Christ?”

“Our Gods have disowned us, child.”

“Have They?” Fingers plucked at the priestess’s sleeve. “Forever? At least the Gods of the land, They live. They must!”

Runa sighed. “Mayhap someday we shall learn, though I think that will be after we are dead, if then. Meanwhile we must endure … as best we can.” Sternly: “You will never be so rash again. Do you hear me?”

Stubbornness stood behind bewilderment; but: “I p-promise I’ll be careful.”

“Good. Bide your time.” Runa unfastened her brooch and took the cloak from her shoulders. “Wrap yourself in this, lest anyone spy your state. Come along to your room. I’ll tell them you’ve been taken ill and should be left to sleep. ’Twould not do to have word get about, you understand—now that we shall be dealing with Christians.”

As she guided the girl, she added: “If we hold to our purpose and are wise in our ways, we need not become slaves. We may even prevail.” Bared to the sky, her countenance hardened.

3

When the warriors appeared, Maeloch spat a curse. “So nigh we were to getting clear. Balls of Taranis, arse of Belisama, what luck!” He swung about to his men. “Battle posts!”

All scrambled for their weapons, some into Osprey where the fishing smack lay beached. The tide was coming in, but would not be high enough to float her off for another two or three hours. With axes, billhooks, knives, slings, harpoons, a crossbow, they formed a line before the prow—fifteen men, brawny, bearded, roughly clad. That was almost half again as many as the craft carried while at work, but these were bound for strange and dangerous bournes. At their center. Maeloch the captain squinted against the morning sun to make out the approaching newcomers.

From this small inlet, land lifted boldly, green, starred with wildflowers, leaves already springing out on trees and shrubs. Here was no bleak tip of Armorica jutting into Ocean, but one of a cluster of islands off the Redonic coast of Gallia, well up that channel the Romans called the Britannic Sea. fowl in their hundreds rode fresh breeze which drove scraps of cloud across heaven and bore odors of growth into the salt and kelp smells along the strand. A rill trickled down from the woods decking the heights. The foreign men must have followed it. They continued to do so as they advanced.

Maeloch eased a bit. They numbered a mere half dozen. Unless more were lurking behind them, they could not intend hostilities. However, they were clearly not plain sailors like his crew, but fighters by trade—nay, he thought, by birth. It would cost lives to provoke them.

He shouldered his ax and paced forward, right arm raised in token of peace. They deployed, warily but skillfully, and let him come to them. He recognized them for Hivernians, though with differences from those in Mumu with whom Ys now had a growing traffic. Nor were they quite like those he had fought—seventeen years ago, was it?—after that gale the Nine raised had driven their fleet to doom. Here the patterns of kilts, cut of coats and breeks, style of emblems painted on shields were subtly unlike what he had seen before. But swords and spearheads blinked as brightly as anyone’s.

Maeloch was no merchant. However, he had had his encounters when boats put in to Scot’s Landing or chanced upon his over the fishing grounds. It behooved a skipper to speak for his men; he had set himself to gain a rough mastery of the Scotic tongue. “A good day to yuh,” he greeted in it. “Yuh take … hospitality … of us? We … little for to give … beer, wine, shipboard food. Yuh welcome.”

“Is it friendly you are, then?” responded the leader, a man stocky and snubnosed. “Subne maqq Dúnchado am I, sworn to Eochaid, son of King Éndae of the Lagini.”

“Maeloch son of Innloch.” The fisher captain had decided before he left home to give no more identification than he must. With phrases and gestures he indicated what was quite true, that Osprey had been blown east, far off course, by the gigantic storm several days ago. Once she had clawed her way around the peninsula, there was no possibility of making any port; she could only keep sea room, running before the wind, full-reefed sail as vital as the oars. When the fury dwindled, his vessel—seams sprung, spars and strakes strained, barely afloat because the crew spent their last flagging forces bailing her—must needs crawl to the nearest land. They grounded her at high tide, and after taking turns sleeping like liches, set about repairs.

Maeloch refrained from adding that he had not simply chanced on the haven. He had never before been so far east, but some of his followers had, and all had heard about the Islands of Crows. That name had come on people’s lips in the past hundred years, after the Romans withdrew a presence which had always been slight. Pirates and barbarians—seaborne robbers—soon discovered this was a handy place to lie over. With curses and a rope’s end Maeloch had forced his men to gasp at the oars and the buckets till they found a secluded bay. He hoped to refit and set forth before anybody noticed them.

So much for that, he thought harshly. The island folk were a few herders, farmers, fishers. They had no choice but to stay in the good graces of their visitors, furnish food, labor, women … and information. Doubtless a fellow ranging the woods up above had spied the camp and scuttled off to tell. Doubtless he got a reward.

“Scoti come far,” Maeloch ventured. In truth it was surprising to find them here. They harried the western shores of Britannia and, in the past, Gallia. Eastern domains were the booty of rovers from across the German Sea.

Subne tossed his head. “Our chief goes where he will.”

“He do, he do.” Maeloch nodded and smiled. “We poor men. Soon go home.”

To his vast relief, Subne accepted that. Had the warriors searched Osprey they would have found hidden stores of fine wares, gold, silver, glass, fabric, gifts with which to proceed in Hivernia should necessity arise to shed his guise of a simple wanderer.

He was not yet free, though. “You will be coming with us,” Subne ordered. “Himself wants to know more.”

Maeloch stamped on a spark of dismay. “I glad,” he replied. Turning to Usun, he said in swift Ysan: “They’d ha me call on their leader. If I refused, we’d get the lot o’ them down on us. Float the ship when ye can and stand by. Be I nay back by nightfall, start off. Ye should still have a fair wind for Britannia, where ye can finish refitting. … Nay a word out o’ ye! Our mission is for the Nine and the King.”

Stark-faced, the mate grunted assent. Maeloch strode from him. “We go,” he cried cheerily. The Scoti looked nonplussed. Belike they’d expected the whole crew to accompany him. But Maeloch’s action changed their minds for them. Their moods were as fickle as a riptide. Also, he knew, they made a practice of taking hostages to bind an alliance or a surrender. To them, he was the pledge for his men.

He wondered if his spirit could find its way back to Ys, for the Ferrying out to Sena.

Game trails, now and then paths trodden by livestock, wound south from the brooklet, through woods and across meadows, down into glens and aloft onto hills, but generally upward. The warriors moved with the ease of those accustomed to wilderness. Maeloch’s rolling gait, his awkwardness in underbrush or fords, slowed them. They bore with it. Warmth rose as morning advanced until sweat was pungent in his tunic.

After maybe an hour the party reached a cliff and started down a ravine that was a watercourse to the sizeable bay underneath. There men lounged around smoky fires. Below the height were several shelters of brushwood, turf, and stones. Some appeared to be years old. This must be a favored harbor for sea rovers.

Two galleys of the deckless Germanic kind lay drawn up on the beach, their masts unstepped. Leather currachs surrounded one. The other was by herself, three hundred feet away. She was longer and leaner, with rakish lines and trim that had once been gaudy. The sight jolted Maeloch. He felt sure he knew her aforetime.

Subne led him to the first. Those were two separate encampments. Such bands tried to keep peace, and mingled somewhat with each other, but had learned not to put much trust in their own tempers.

Scoti sprang to their feet, seized arms, calmed as they recognized comrades, and gathered around. They did not crowd or babble like city folk; their stares were keen and their speech lilted softly. Subne raised his voice: “Chieftain, we’ve brought you the captain of the outland ship.”

A man bent to pass under the door of the largest hut nearby, trod forth, straightened his wide-shouldered leanness. Behind him a young woman peeked out, grimy and frightened. Maeloch saw a few more like her in the open, natives commandeered to char, cook, and be passed from man to man.

His attention went to the leader. Eochaid maqq Éndae, was that the name? The king’s son was well dressed in woad-blue shirt, fur-trimmed leather coat, kilt, buskins, though the garments showed soot and wear. His age was hard to guess. Gait, thews, black locks and beard seemed youthful, but the blue eyes looked out of a face furrowed and somber. It would have been a handsome face apart from what weather had done to the light skin, had not three blotchy scars discolored it on cheeks and brow.

His gaze dwelt for a moment on Maeloch’s grizzled darkness and bearlike build. When he spoke, it was in accented but reasonably good Redonic, not too unlike the Osismiic dialect: “If you come in honesty, have no fear. You shall be scatheless. Say forth your name and people.”

He must have visited himself on these parts before and at length, Maeloch decided; and he was no witless animal. An outright lie would be foolhardy. The fisherman repeated what he had told Subne, but in the Gallic language and adding that he was from Ys.

Eochaid raised brows. “Sure and it’s early in the year for venturing forth.”

“We carry a message. We’re under … gess … not to tell any but him it’s for.”

“They know not gess in Ys. Well, if you gave an oath, I must respect it. Nonetheless—” Eochaid reached a swift decision, as appeared to be his way, and addressed a man, who sped off. “We must talk further, Maeloch,” he resumed in the Gallic tongue. “The Dani over there have lately been in Ys. I’ve sent for their captain. First you shall have a welcoming cup.”

He settled himself cross-legged on the ground. Maeloch did likewise. The hut was unworthy of a chieftain entertaining a guest, at least in clear weather. Eochaid gestured. His wench scurried to bring two beakers—Roman silver, Roman wine, loot. A number of warriors hung about, watching and listening although few could have followed the talk. Others drifted off to idle, gamble, sharpen their weapons, whatever they had been doing. All had grown restless, waiting on the island.

“You can better give me news of Ys than Gunnung,” Eochaid said. “He was there two months agone; but a German would surely miss much and misunderstand much else.” The marred visage contorted in a grin. “Beware of repeating that to him.” His intent was obvious, playing Northman off against Armorican in hopes of getting a tale more full and truthful than either alone might yield.

Bluntness was Maeloch’s wont. “What d’ye care, my lord? Foemen break their bones on the wall of Ys and go down to the eels in the skerries around.”

For an instant he thought Eochaid had taken mortal offense, so taut did the countenance grow. Then, stiffly, the Scotian replied: “Every man in Ériu remembers how Niall maqq Echach won sorrow there. Will Ys seek to entrap the likes of me too? I should find out ere I again sail near.”

Maeloch knew what was in his mind. Scoti had learned from the disaster and from the later strengthening of the Ysan navy to confine their raids to Britannia—until this new generation reached manhood. Would the city and her she-druid Queens avenge attacks on the rest of Gaul, as they would any on Armorica? Eochaid must be headlong, and belike driven by a murderousness he could only take out on aliens, to have ventured past it. Now, with his men turning homesick, he was having second thoughts.

His words reminded him of that which brought heat into his tones: “Not that I can ever really go back—never to my father’s house. And this is the work of Niall. O man of Ys, in me you have no enemy. The foeman of my foeman is my friend. Might we someday, together, bring him low?”

A thrill rang through Maeloch. “Mayhap we do have things to say one to the other, my lord.”

The runner returned with the foreign skipper. Eochaid lifted a knee in courtesy to the latter and beckoned both to sit. The wench brought more wine while namings went around.

Gunnung son of Ivar was a huge blond man, young, comely in a coarse fashion. His tunic and breeks were wadmal, but gold gleamed on his arms and was inlaid in his sword haft. A certain slyness glittered in his eyes and smoothed his rumbling voice.

Talk went haltingly, for he knew just a few Celtic words, Eochaid and Maeloch no more Germanic. The runner, a sharp-faced wight called Fogartach, could interpret a little. Moreover, Gunnung had a rough knowledge of Latin, picked up when he went adventuring along the Germanic frontier and in Britannia, while Maeloch had gained about as much over the years—though their accents were so unlike as to make different dialects.

Regardless, Gunnung was happy to brag. Not many of his kin had yet reached the West. It was Juti who were beginning to swarm in, together with Angli, Frisii, and Saxons. Hailing from Scandia, outlawed for three years because of a manslaying, he had gathered a shipful of lusty lads and plundered his way down the coasts of the Tungri and Continental Belgae. Finally they settled for the winter among some Germanic laeti in eastern Britannia, but found the country dull. Defying the season, they embarked for Ys, of which they had heard so much. Piracy there was out of the question, but they did a bit of trading and saw many wonders. “Of course, ve said ve vere alvays peaceful shapmen, ho, ho!”

Eochaid had been watching Maeloch. “Gunnung tells of strife in Ys,” he said slowly.

The fisher scowled, searched for a way out—it was loathsome, opening family matters to strangers, let alone barbarians—and at length muttered, “The quarrel’s more ’twixt Gods than men. The King has his, the Queens have theirs. ’Tis nay for us to judge.”

“They’ve sent challengers against the King, I hear.”

“And he’s cut them down, each filthy hound o’ them!” Maeloch flared. “When he comes back—” He broke off.

“Ah, he is away?”

“On business with the Romans.” Maeloch swore at himself for letting this much slip out. “He may well ha’ returned since I left. He’ll set things right fast enough.”

Gunnung growled a demand which Fogartach relayed, to know what was being said. Eochaid nodded and the interpreter served him.

The Dane guffawed, slapped his knee, and cried, “luk-hai!” Looking at Maeloch, he went on in his crude Latin, “Vill the King then throw his datter off the ness?” He leered. “That douses a hot fire. Better he put her in a whorehouse. She make him rish, by Freyja!”

Maeloch’s belly muscles contracted. “What you mean?”

“You not hear? Vell, maybe nobody but they she got killed. For I think they also first yumped through her hoop.” Gunnung sighed elaborately. “Ah, almost I vish I stayed and fighted too like she vant. Never I have a gallop like on her. But I do not vant for only nine vomen till I die, haw-aw!”

“Who … she?” grated out of Maeloch’s throat.

“Aa, Dahut, who else? She vant I kill her father and make her Qveen. I am a man of honor, but a she-troll like that is right to fool, no?”

“Hold,” interrupted Eochaid. He laid a hand on Maeloch’s arm. “You’re white and atremble. Slack off, man. I’ll have no fighting under my roof,” as if that were the sky.

“He lies about—a lady he’s not fit to name,” the Ysan snarled.

Gunnung sensed rage and clapped hand to hilt. Eochaid gestured him to hold still. “He s told me how a princess lay with him, hoping he would challenge her father and win,” the Scotian said in Gallic. “Was it true, now?”

“It was nay, and I’ll stop his mouth for him.”

“Hold! I think the Gods were at work in this. You yourself said we must not judge. Dare you, then? If he lies, sure and They will be punishing him. If he does not lie—I know not what,” Eochaid finished grimly. “But to me he has the look of a man whose luck has run out. Yet today he is my guest; and I will never spend my men on a bootless quarrel that is none of ours. Heed.”

Maeloch stared around the circle of warriors. They too had winded wrath and drawn closer. Their spearheads sheened against the sun. Inch by inch, his fingers released the helve of the ax that lay beside him. “I hear,” he said. To Gunnung, in Latin: “I be surprised. Hurt. You understand? Grallon be my King. Bad, bad, to know his daughter be wicked.”

The Dane smiled more kindly than before. “Truth hurt. I tell truth.” Wariness reawoke. “You no fight, ha?”

Maeloch waved a hand at the men. “How? If I want to. No fight.”

“He’s gloated about it,” Eochaid said in Redonic. “That is ill done, and now here to your face. But you told me you have a task of your King’s. Save your blood for that.”

Maeloch nodded. He had gone impassive. “I will.” He pondered. “Mayhap he can even help. There’d be rich reward.”

“How?” asked Eochaid instantly.

Maeloch considered him. “Or mayhap ye can. Or both of ye. My oath binds me to say no more till I have yours. Whatever happens, whatever ye decide, ye must let my men and me go from this island.”

“If I refuse?”

Maeloch drew down the neck of his tunic. White hairs curled amidst the black on his breast. “Here be my heart,” he said. “My oath lies in it.”

That was enough. Barbarians understood what Romans no longer did, save Grallon: a true man will die sooner than break his word. After a pause, Eochaid answered, “I swear you will go freely, unless you harm me or mine.”

“Vat this?” Gunnung wanted uneasily to know.

“Scoti help me?” Maeloch replied. “You help me too? Gold. Scoti protect me.”

“You no fisher?”

“I travel for the King of Ys. You not fought King. Not his enemy. You like to help? Gold.”

“I listen.”

Maeloch passed it on Eochaid. The four sitting men rose. Solemnly, the Scotic chief called his Gods and the spirits of this island to witness that no unprovoked hindrance should come to the Ysans from him.

“Now I can say this much,” Maeloch told him. “We’re bound for Hivernia … Ériu. The errand’s about your enemy Niall and nay friendly to him. Our craft be just a fishing smack, damaged. We’ve nay yet got her rightly seaworthy, though we can sail in fair weather. This be a tricky season. We’d house at home were the business not pressing. An escort ’ud be a relief. We can pay well and … get ye past Ys without trouble.”

Fogartach explained to Gunnung. “Haa!” the Dane bellowed in Latin. “You pay, you got us.”

“It may be best that the men of Ériu guide you,” Eochaid said.

“Yours and his together?” Maeloch suggested. “Well, settle that ’twixt yourselves. First ye’ll want to see what we can offer ye.” He paused. “Wisest might be that none but ye twain have that sight. Too often gold’s drawn men to treachery.”

Eochaid took a certain umbrage at that. Gunnung, however, nodded when it was rendered for him; he must know what ruffians fared under his banner. “He be not afraid to go alone with me,” Maeloch stated in Gallic, leaving Eochaid no choice but to agree.

The Scotian did order a currach full of warriors rowed to the inlet to lie offshore—“in case we have a heavy burden to carry back,” he explained. “This eventide all our seafarers shall be my guests at a feast.”

He gave directions about preparing for that, sent word to the Dani, called for refilled wine goblets. When those had been drained to Lug, Lir, and Thor, the three captains set off.

Forest took them into itself. Beneath a rustling of breeze, noon brooded warm and still. Branches latticed the sky and wove shadows where brush crouched and boles lifted out of dimness. Sight reached farther on the ridges, but presently nothing was to be seen from them either except tree crowns and a glittery blue sweep of sea. Nobody spoke.

The trail dipped down into a glade surrounded by the wood. Folk said that one like that lay near the middle of the grove outside Ys and was where the sacred combat most often took place. Maeloch, in the lead, stopped, wheeled about, and brought his ax up slantwise. “Draw sword, Gunnung,” he said in Latin. “Here I kill you.”

The big bright-haired man hooted outraged astonishment. Eochaid sensed trouble. He poised the spear he carried. Maeloch glanced at him and said in Gallic, “This be no man of yours. He befouls my King. Ye swore I’d be safe of ye. Stand aside while I take back my honor.”

“It’s breaking the peace you are,” Eochaid declared.

Maeloch shook his head. “He and I swapped no oaths. Nor be there peace ’twixt Ys and Niall. Later I’ll tell ye more.”

Eochaid’s mouth tightened. He withdrew to the edge of the grass.

“You die now, Gunnung,” Maeloch said.

The Dane howled something. It might have meant that the other man would fall and his ghost be welcome to whimper its way back to the little slut he served. Sword hissed from the sheath.

The two stalked about, Gunnung in search of an opening, Maeloch turning in the smallest circle that would keep the confrontation. The Dane rushed. His blade blazed through air. Maeloch blocked it with his ax handle. Iron bit shallowly into seasoned wood. Maeloch twisted his weapon, forced the sword aside. Gunnung freed it. Before he could strike again, the heavy head clattered against it. He nearly lost his hold.

Maeloch pressed in, hewing right and left. His hands moved up and down the helve, well apart as he drew it back, closing together near the end as he swung. The sword sought to use its greater speed to get between those blows. A couple of times it drew blood, but only from scratches. Whenever it clashed on the ax, weight cast it aside. The next strike was weaker, slower.

Gunnung retreated. Maeloch advanced. The Dane got his back against a wall of brush. He saw another blow preparing and made ready to ward it off. As the ax began to move, Maeloch shifted grip. Suddenly he was smiting not from the right but the left. The edge smacked into a shoulder. Gunnung lurched. His blood welled forth around two ends of broken bone. The sword dropped from his hand. Maeloch gauged distances, swung once more, and split the skull of Gunnung.

A while he stood above the heap and the red puddle spreading around it. He breathed hard and wiped sweat off his face. Eochaid approached. Maeloch looked up and said, “Ye had right. His luck had run out.”

“This is an evil thing, I think,” Eochaid replied. “And unwise. Suppose he had slain you. What then of your task?”

“I have a trusty mate, and ye promised my crew should go free.” Maeloch spat on the body. “This thing misused the name of Dahut, daughter of Queen Dahilis—or misused her, which is worse yet. The Gods wanted him scrubbed off the earth.”

“That may be. But I must deal with his gang.”

“Yours outnumbers them. And ’twasn’t ye what killed him. Come with us to Ériu like ye said ye might.”

“What is your errand there, Maeloch?”

“What be your grudge against King Niall?”

“This.” As Eochaid spoke, it became like the hissing of an adder or a fire. “He entered my land, the Fifth of the Lagini, laid it waste, took from us the Bóruma tribute that is ruinous, made a hostage of me. And I was not kept in honor; he penned me like beast, year upon year. At last I escaped—with the help of a man from Ys—and took my revenge on that follower of his whose satire had so disfigured me that never can I be a king after my father. That man’s father cursed my whole country, laid famine on it for a year. Oh, the women and children who starved to death because of worthless Tigernach! But he was a poet, for which I am forever an exile. Do you wonder why I am the enemy of Niall?”

Maeloch whistled. “Nay. And I think he brews harm for us too.”

“How?” Eochaid laid a hand over Maeloch’s. “Speak without fear. I have not forgotten that man from Ys.”

Maeloch stared down at the corpse. He gnawed his lip. “It goes hard to tell. But Dahut—she guests a stranger who admits he’s from Niall’s kingdom. They go everywhere about together. The Queens be … horrified … but she mocks them, and meanwhile the king be away. Has yon outlander bewitched her? His name is likewise Niall. I’m bound for Ériu to try and find out more.”

Eochaid clutched his spear to him. “Another Niall?” he whispered. “Or else—It’s; always bold he was; and he has sworn vengeance on Ys. He lost his first-born son there, in that fleet which came to grief long ago.” Louder: “What does this Niall of yours look like?”

“A tall man, goodly to behold, yellow hair turning white.”

“Could it truly be—Go home!” Eochaid shouted. “Warn them. Seize and bind yonder Niall. Wring the truth out of him!”

Maeloch gusted a sigh. That be for her father the King. Besides, at worst he, whoever he be, he can only be a spy. Let me fare on to his homeland and try to learn what he plans, ere he himself can return. … What ye say, though, ids me make haste. I’d meant going to friendly Mumu and asking my way for’ard piece by piece. But best I make straight for … Mide, be that the realm? We need to stop in Britannia first and finish our work on the ship. I’ll send a man or two back to Ys from there—we’ll buy a boat—with word for King Grallon of what I’ve found out here.”

Eochaid had calmed. “Well spoken that is. And indeed you should not bear home at once. When the Dani learn you’ve killed their chief, they’ll scour the waters for you—along the coast, believing you’ve headed straight west. If you go north you’ll shake them.”

“Will ye come too? We could meet somewhere.”

Eochaid sighed and shook his head. “They remember in Mide. This face of mine would give your game away.” Bleakly: “We’ve thought we’ll seek folk like ourselves, Scoti, where we may be making a new home; but that cannot be in green Ériu, not ever again.”

Maeloch chopped his ax several times into the turf to clean the blood and brains off it. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

“I’ll come with you to your ship, and sign to my own men that they return. Heave anchor when they’re out of sight. I must let Gunnung’s men know what happened to him, though I need not tell them more than that.” Eochaid grinned. “Nor need I hurry along these trails. For it may be that in you is the beginning of my revenge.”