The giant warrior seemed to be sleeping. At least his eyes were closed, and his breathing was steady. Amergein sat by the fire, warming his hands. The ground was cooling fast. The cold could kill the unwary this high up the mountains in autumn. He had gathered more wood from the hostel and some from the forest, which he put beside the fire in the hope that it would dry enough to burn.
They were no longer alone. The old hags had long since left the vale, but the occasional glint of wild eyes would watch them from beyond the range of the fire’s light, a golden characteristic of the company they were now keeping. Amergein remembered wolves were called the ants of the earth and wondered at the strangeness of the name. In the fire’s light, the eyes were golden, and he could not think of anything less ant-like than the glowing eyes of mountain wolves.
Thinking about the wolves, Amergein could only imagine what would befall the warrior after he collected his father’s wares and headed for Temuir, which he intended to do as soon as the new dawn arrived. He did not see much point in delaying beyond the sun’s rising, sure the tale would be long past its climax by then.
He felt honored the dying man had chosen him as the guardian of the story. Despite the warrior being a straightforward storyteller, Amergein thought he could use this tale to prove his father wrong. There would need to be some embellishments because the warrior told it without any, and an audience craved the artistry of embellishment. It would not be enough that the High King had banished his foster brothers after sentencing the other culprits to death; it would also need to have been a geis, a taboo, for him to do so.
He thought there were other points in the story so far that would make good geis. Lifting his head, he saw the warrior gazing at him with a contemplative expression.
“What were you thinking?” the man asked.
“Nothing of much import,” Amergein lied. “Why did you think I was a girl?”
“What?” The warrior was obviously thrown by the question.
“When I found you, you called me girl.”
“Oh, you caught me by surprise,” he mumbled. “You were stealing my sword. All I saw was a skinny body and blond hair. You did not look like a man,” he said.
Amergein nodded and stared into the fire. He had known why the warrior thought he was a girl without asking; he just wanted to change the subject. The young men of Rathdrum often teased him about his looking like a girl. They were filling out with the muscles of early adulthood and getting signs of whiskers. He was not. His chin was smooth, and his limbs lithe—girl-like.
“Can you get me some more mead?” the warrior asked.
“What happened to the brothers?” Amergein asked. “And why do you know so much about that Briton, Ingcél of the One Eye?”
“You get me some more mead, and I will tell you how I know about the Briton.”
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Amergein noticed the man would not look at him. He knew the warrior was making the offer as much to delay his departure as to drink more mead. He was not sure what would be best. He could allow the man to fall into one of his bouts of sleep and slip away. It would be easy.
But it is night, he realized. Where would I go?
Amergein looked over the lip at the blackness of the night. He thought about the golden light of the eyes that had watched him from the dark. The wolves had paid him no attention when the light of a waning day was still in the vale. He was not so sure that would be true now that darkness had descended. He looked over at the warrior, who had a broad grin on his face, which was made grotesque in the dancing shadows.
“Go on, boy, just a short walk down a hill. You can use one of the other swords this time. I need mine in case the wolves get brave. And take a burning branch.”
Amergein stood, walked over to the fire, and took out a branch. He walked to the nearest of the bodies and took the sword that was lying by the dead man’s feet. As he took hold of the hilt, he glanced at the man slumped forward with his head on his chest. Blood was caked to the front of his tunic, and his arms were crossed under it as if he was trying to hold something in its folds. Amergein was glad he could not see more detail in the flickering light.
Finally, armed with a burning branch and a blade, he went to the edge of the dingle and got down on his buttocks for the second time. Pulling with his feet, he crested the rise and shimmied down the hill. He glanced back before his head was below the level of the rise. He saw Black look up, momentarily curious, only to feign sleep when he realized where Amergein was going.
***
The warrior watched the boy’s ritual with a smile. He might look like a girl, but his resourcefulness was evident. The boy wanted the rest of the story badly enough to arm himself with a dead man’s sword and slide down a hill into the pitch black, with only the Sidhe knew what waiting at the bottom. Well, the wolves were down there, but just because it was night and the light of their fire had not attracted them, it did not mean the hags had not returned to the vale, grubbing for trinkets. He knew that armed with fire, the boy was more likely to get trouble from an old woman and an unseen knife between his ribs than he was from a wolf. It took courage for Amergein to do what he was doing. Well, courage mingled with greed and perhaps a little naivety.
A short time later, he could hear the boy laboring back up the hill. As his face came into the range of the fire’s light, the warrior could see a triumphant grin as if he was daring him to criticize the effort. The warrior had no intentions of criticizing him, though. He recognized the courage the boy had displayed by daring to descend into the blackness.
“Did you find any?” he asked.
The boy waved two flagons and walked around the fire. “Got them off the belts of dead warriors outside the hostel,” he said.
He handed one to the warrior and kept one for himself. The warrior was not sure more mead was a good idea. He wanted to stay as conscious as possible, but the cold was nagging at him, and he needed some of the false warmth the sweet liquid provided. It was a risk. As soon as he closed his eyes, the boy would be gone. The itchiness of his feet was evident even in the limited light of the fire.
As he sat beside the fire, Amergein said, “Tell me about the Briton.”
The warrior sighed once more at the impatience of youth, but continued without argument.
“The Briton, Ingcél of the one eye, was a fearsome reaver. Rumors of his viciousness were being whispered throughout the lands of the clans. In Alba, in Gaul, and in Ériu, fear and awe spread like a summer gorse fire.
“The rumors had told how he had fought against the small soldiers from the lands south of the high mountains in Gaul. The Romans people call them. They also told how he had murdered his entire family as revenge for their having betrayed him.
“But the rumors were not only about the reaver. The rumors also touched on the foster brothers. If the stories were to be believed, they had joined forces and were tearing the life out of the Alban clans.”