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Forked Spirits
Prologue
I stand upon a scarred battlefield littered with the dead and dying. Yet these fallen are not Gaelic warriors, not Urdaal nor City Folk nor Feral, but an army of ravens, their lifeblood black upon their ebony feathers. And as I watch, for watch is all that I appear able to do, down from the hillsides, out from the forests, along the many roads that lead to this forsaken place, come a host of people – townsfolk, farmers, spinners, dyers and weavers, moneylenders, blacksmiths, even children – all silently descending upon the gore-soaked meadow. And when they reach it, when they stand between the countless thousands of slain fitheach, they crouch and kneel and stoop, and begin to feast. Like beasts. Like carrion. Tearing at wings and biting off beaks and forcing their grime-coated fingers into the birds’ eyes and plucking them from their sightless sockets…
It has been many moons since I last awoke screaming in the dark. And now it happens again. Then it was with visions of the murdering of my tribesmen, and the sight of our beloved homestead being put to the torch. Now these are less fathomable nightmares. And they are not just affecting me. For several days the whole of the Caravan Jodassian has been plagued with tormenting dreams. On any given midnight mine is not the only cry to pierce the darkness. Many speculate, yes, but none know. Yet I am not in my own tent, but in that of the tribe of the Dobunni, the warriors from which came to request my services as bard and loregiver for their fireside. This very afternoon I left the caravan, more than eager to leave the encampment I was ever-increasingly convinced had been pitched again on curséd ground. Fame, it would seem, has its fortunes.
Our coming to this dire place was written in the soil even before we left the harried province of Jahan. Even as Tormod A’Fuar had turned victorious from his honour duel with the Urdaal warrior. Even as the fallen champion was removed from the arena and the first scent of treachery was detected in the soldier’s wound. It was not known to me then, and not for some time after, that when the Gael had strode so confidently into battle that his blade was coated with a swift-acting poison. One quick parry, one feint, one slash across the left side and the Urdaal was doomed. This dishonourable act had almost sealed the fate of the mighty caravan before it had taken a single step toward its distant destination, and just as swift were the reparations made by Thuram as he bargained for the life of every soul under his care. For a time the Urdaal chieftain – the fittingly named Crazy Like Snake in the common tongue – was appeased, but only now was I beginning to comprehend exactly the true nature – and depth – of the bargain struck. There was to be a trial; a trial to discover Tormod’s guilt or innocence, to discern if he had foreknowledge of the venom on his weapon, and if not he, then who had placed poison on the blade; a poison that might just as well have been poured into that evening’s broth, so close had it come to slaying every man, woman and child in the caravan. So close had it come to slaying me.
Since the time of the eighth week out from Finnisraen, the caravan’s pace had been much slowed as our progress north meant we were forced to enter a vast expanse of forest. At this time of year the trees had already begun to shed their leaves, the way painted with colours I had not seen since disclaiming in the great halls of my father and his kin. Then were the rafters adorned with brightly coloured banners, dyed in ochres and reds and golds; now the woodland mirrored this, returning my mind to happier days. Days before the threat of darkness and a journey out to discover more of the encroaching horrors of an all-consuming night. This was the time when the nightmares began, heralded by many changes in mood and circumstance for the caravan. I had grown quite attached to duties as herald and diplomat, as had the others who had been granted places upon Thuram’s informal council. While encamped at Finnisraen, the ranger Snake had been granted the honourable title of Cocal of Caravan Jodassian, meaning that from that point until our journey’s end he was part of the caravanmaster’s own family. Bestowed with seemingly endless rights and the ability to act as he wished, what actual tasks he performed for Thuram I could only guess as they forever spoke in hushed whispers. To Sir Rhodry befell the task of military command, while the curious position of trade adviser was given to the head of the newly-formed co-operative, the Tezcatax Pochteca; a curious choice as I saw little need for Thuram to take trade advice. The last place, that of the security and internal affairs of the caravan was still open, though for now there was more than a little debate over who would be best to fill the post. It was while undertaking my council duties that I learned of the reasons behind our deviation of course, of the poisoned blade, of Tormod’s trial and of the Urdaal’s request that this should be undertaken in a forest on Feral territory. In knowing these matters, in understanding what was to befall the other Gael of the group, I began to realise that, while my powers of diplomacy would surely be sorely tested, by far greater would be tested my loyalties to my tribesmen, my people and my friends.
Friday Evening
Yet these was not the only troubles that rose to greet us as we finished our unloading, unpacking and hurried preparations for welcoming our guests. For it transpired that some way not too far distant another caravan had been travelling almost parallel with our route. Snake had first detected its tracks and brought them to Thuram’s attention, but now our camp was swollen with the remnants of those wagons and carts, each with stories of how they too were appointed to the Urdaals and how their caravanmaster and aides were slaughtered horribly after strange chanting was heard coming from their tent. At least, they are assumed to have been slain, for there was blood everywhere, yet no bodies could be found. And these were not the only new people seated around our campfire as the purple dusk turned to dark. Word of our coming had reached far further than even the caravanmaster could have anticipated. Still, as I tried to mingle with the less familiar faces, the evening was halted by the arrival of our hosts, the Feral Chieftain that they called Alpha and his fur-clad hordes of beastmen, shaman and vixens, followed by Crazy As Snake and his black-clothed bowman and priests. Ferals and Urdaal make a less than palatable mix and I was soon busy with the task of playing go-between to both these volatile races. Having had some dealings with the tribes my people named the fennshe, I felt able to pander to both these creatures’ love of hunting, strength and battle and the totems, blood and sacrifice of their spiritmasters. Yet of the Urdaal, these fast-tempered savages of the hinterlands, I knew next to nothing. Maybe being all but felled by an Urdaal archer’s arrow meant I had built a wariness for this bellicose race, but it did nothing to compliment my ignorance as to the correct ways to address them or the subtleties – if any – of their culture. It was a meeting made of both sides of the Great Spine Mountains, and there was I, finely balanced along the central ridge. To falter for but a moment would have been to plunge our caravan into danger, to cast us into an even greater trouble than we were undoubtedly in already.
So the evening became night, and the night wore on. Filled with barbarous roars, shouts for feasting and a constant air of tension as if before a great storm, I attempted to both assuage the imminent threat of violence and appease the frequent requests from all three of my masters. At times I turned to Shaikahan, the Feral who had been gifted to us by the Gael chieftain, Conant, but she was herself being constantly tested by her kindred and could spare few words of guidance to a pleading bard. At others, I retreated to the tavern and sat quietly for a while, gathering my frayed thoughts. I sang to start the festivities. I negotiated over squabbles. And then I was chosen to accompany the Urdaal’s shaman on a spirit walk.
Dressed in ragged robes hung with a myriad of bangles, beads and fabrics, the Urdaal shaman and his fellow took me beyond the firelight, beyond the edges of the encampment and into the deepening hollows of the forest. There, with a nose filled with the acrid scent of some unknown incense, I saw conjured before me the spirits of the sacred animals of the Urdaal; I saw the golden feathers of the wise owl, the shimmering coat of the coyote, the matted hide of the bison, the venomous green eyes of the python. Yet amidst these visions of animals and ancestors, I found my own totem; the raven. Then, and only then, did I know that I was safe, that I was home. Then and only then did I begin to fully understand the nature of these new peoples and how their own magics mingled with my own, how the one spirit was seen through many different eyes, perceived under many different lights. I appreciated why perhaps a Gael would comprehend better the confluence between Feral and Urdaal, and how such knowledge could aid me in the trials ahead. And in one trial in particular. Exhausted, I was driven back to my bed for the night, yet not before witnessing the last of the happenings that evening.
It was the fennshe shaman who first announced his intention of protecting the camp within a ring of warding. Telling tales of creatures of darkness, of a great monstrous beast that had trailed the pack from the far north, and other unpalatable stories of warning and distress, he announced in his gutteral growl that to make such a protective barrier he required the blood of each and every member of those assembled to anoint a sacred stone, and in this way would we be safe in our beds. Yet while many flocked to have their hands sliced on the ritual knife and grasp the fist-sized rock, many did not. The Celestials sneered at such pagan sacrifices, along with some of those new to our caravan, those who may not have learned, as have I, that when seated as a guest at a strange table, it is best to obey that table’s master. After this grandiose display of ritualistic power, the eventual attacks by red-eyed beasts were it would seem inevitable. Dancing like fireflies through the blackness, I at first thought them spirit, but they turned out to be much more fearsome; they turned out to be made of darkness itself. Terrifying though these were, they were as if nothing when compared with the immense and fearsome monster that accompanied them; a monster that roared like a lion and then screamed like a child. I trailed in Mianas’ wake, letting the Saurian track the creature as it hovered at the edge of the torchlight. I knew that he alone amongst us may have the lore to tell what this manifestation was, or of what it was made. Perhaps here also would we find the reason for our nightmares, but soon tiredness overtook me and I retired within the camp, hoping that my blood had not been spilt for nothing.
Saturday Morning
Awaking at first light, I wandered the woods in commune with the goddess, this morning contemplating the sacred tin from the tree alphabet; the holly bush. Taking a sprig, I returned to the camp, clutching it in my palm to remind of the wounds I had sustained in recent months. There I found breakfast had arrived, ably brought by Carolynne, one of our most hard working cooks. She stood speaking with two of the Urdaal shaman at the edge of the circle of warding; her on the outside, them on the inner. She, it seemed, had forsaken the blood rite of the Ferals the previous night and now found that she could not enter past the protective wall. Not that was unless she made the appropriate sacrifice. And this day, the required offering had increased. No longer was it sufficient for a knife blade upon the palm. Now the wound was longer, deeper; the amount of blood much more than before. Though her aide agreed, she balked as the shaman sliced his left arm from wrist to elbow, crippling him, and as he passed into the encampment, she turned ashen-faced and fled back to the baggage train. Yet the cook was not the only victim that morning. The ranger Snake, the brewer Malthus and several others were seen with their arms in slings as the day wore on. Of Sir Rhodry and his fellows, the Father Peter, his wife Mileena, and their brethren, none had made the sacrifice, and only escaped wounding by not having left the camp since the ritual.
Yet the imminent trial forced my thoughts away from such matters. As the Feral and Urdaal returned, I joined the judging council along with the wise ones of each tribe. We were to observe the tests of strength and honour, and then pronounce sentence. Unfamiliar with the ways and laws of these peoples, I could only watch and gape amazed at what befell the three who were this day to be tried. Tormod was the first, Thuram was the second, while the third was a strange fur-wrapped figure they named Daenn. Crowned with bright red hair, I had marked his presence the previous eve, noticing most that his tattered skins and furs were held in place by a golden penanular broach; markings of both fennshe and Gael. He was to be tried for the attacking of our gracious hosts as he stalked the tented encampment the previous night. With the three introduced and their crimes told to all those that gathered around the guttering fire, the tests began. First there was a race from one side to the clearing to the other, then physical feats of skill dexterity. I winced as the Gaelic warrior limped on his withered leg as he ran, hearing clearly how the Ferals sneered at this overt show of weakness, and how they cheered at the young man’s speed and mettle. The caravanmaster also they saw had a tenacity, especially in the tasks of skill. Once these tavern games were over, the questioning began. And after the questioning came the sentence. Unsurprisingly the half-Gael, half-Feral was cleared of all taint, yet as no final decision could be made as to which of Tormod or Thuram was the instigator of the venom, both were forced to fight to the death with poisoned blades. In this way one would die by his own evil methods, while the other would gain no honour from the killing. Stepping up to Tormod, I placed a black feather from my raven cloak in one fist and asked him to choose. He tapped my left and empty palm; the mark of victory went to the caravanmaster. So it was to be that I would lose another Gaelic companion and as I turned away from the warriors as they prepared and the green bottle containing the vile liquid was fetched, I began to say my farewells. Muttering the words of Tormod’s song, I knew that soon I would be writing the last verses.
The end came a little less swiftly than most expected. Both assailants were deft in their thrusts and parries, yet the fight was over soon enough for me. At the last, his arms swollen and crippled from several deep wounds, Tormod, unable to lift his sword for another blow, bared his breast to Thuram, who, pausing for but a moment, stuck the Gael in the heart. With wet eyes, I crossed to the fallen warrior, removing my feathered mantle and placing it upon him. Then to the cheers of the watching beastmen, and under the caravanmaster’s grave stare, we carried the corpse into the nearest tent and I began preparations for another Gaelic funeral. Yet when I returned with the correct herbs and adornments for the noble’s death rites, I found another there at his side; a golden haired man in a grey furred cloak. And also I found Tormod alive! Dropping the items that I carried, I knelt by him, suspecting some necromantic wizardry, yet I detected none. Tormod was dead, now alive and I had only this man to thank for the transformation. Introducing himself as Eldris Wolfhaven, he said that he had bestowed this gift upon the man due to having felt that he did not believe the trial had fairly proven him guilty. He was aided also by a merchant named Ronaldo de Zedes who purged the Gael of the remaining poison left in his body. Yet now further problems haunted me, namely how to keep this information from falling into the hands of our hosts. Again, the newcomer proved instrumental to my plans. Purchasing from him a cloak, cast with a spell allowing its wearer to pass unseen, I continued carrying out my preparations for Tormod’s wake. Building a pyre just outside the camp, Magnus and I carried the Gael down to the bonfire and then, keeping others away as much as possible, began our private ceremony while Tormod slipped away invisibly into the dense woodlands. Once the conflagration was out, I danced in the ashes to ensure few traces of our deceit would be discernable, and then, as quick as maybe, I myself left the encampment.
Saturday Afternoon
I met the Gaelic warrior about a league distant and we said our farewells. Knowing that to return would mean at the very least being slain by Thuram once more, Tormod knew that his time with the caravan Jodassian was truly ended. The last I saw of him he was hastening through the undergrowth, passing beneath the soft afternoon light and into mere memory. And so I had indeed lost another friend and companion to the fates that followed the caravan, and as I ambled back to the distant circle of tents, I did so with a heavy heart, and one which did not feel compelled to hurry in my return. Instead I spent some time with the archaeologist, Ralphanous, both in talking with him of the learning of cartography and geographical knowledge of this continent, and also helping discover an amphitheatre in the forest along with Mianas, Seshnar and Soonam Shukri. When I eventually returned it was with a certain amount of gladdening that I heard of the arrival of the Gaels from the Dobunni tribe who had come to trade some iron weapons for a Feral thrall. Ultimately unsuccessful in this, they were relieved to find that their sojourn had not been entirely wasted. Hearing of my recent officiation at a Gaelic wake, they beseeched me to accompany them so that I might guide their dying comrades to Danu’s embrace. I left even as the Feral shaman began preparations for a second and more powerful ritual and that night, at the dead warrior’s feast, I sang for the first time the lay of Tormod in its entirety…
Tormod A’Fuar
The storm clouds are blowing
Fly high, on the winds,
As your honour grows high
A Fenhound, a king’s son
A leader in battle
O Tormod A’Fuar:
O warrior, O king.
Sired to Clan Nial
Fostered in great halls
Famed cattle raider
Stag bold and true
Gold torced in battle
O Tormod, your gods call
The other awaits us;
Yet thrones wait for you.
Darkness it haunts you
Your wound e’er reminds you
The warriors of spirit
They took your lone son
In a night, black as moth’s eyes,
You saved Nial king’s nephew
The goddess is with you
Fly freely, alone.
O Tormod A’Fuar
The fever has left you
Yet the memory it lingers;
The memory remains
Now you are a traveller
On the road of your honour
The last way is left you;
The last way unknown.
Black tales spread before you
Like the cloak of the warcrow
Like wind-brushed grass whispers
Their distrust you hear
Yet let no mortal judge you
Unless they be blameless
So fear not their hatred;
And hate not their fear.
Though grim was the hour
As gifts were we given
To Conant, proud chieftain;
Your sword arm; my song.
In hillforts we fought hard
At the vanguard of battle
Your spearhaft so favoured
Your broadsword so strong.
And so came the hour;
The hour of your judgement
As a black wingéd raven
I stood by your side
Their blades will not find you
While death cloaks and hides you
Your wounds are all healed now;
The poison is gone.
O Tormod, dark warrior,
I long to go with you
To sing of your honour
When it comes at last
But the flames now they take you
Where I cannot follow
Go freely, O Tormod,
Your spirit alone.
Yet always remember:
Fame is forever.
O Tormod A’Fuar
O warrior, O king.
Saturday Night
And these verses bring me back to this night, of awakening in the dark, sweating and uncomfortable from my nightmare, of the dead ravens and the encroaching, grasping darkness that drives men to commit unspeakable horrors. And my mind wanders to Thuram and his company, knowing that however much my heart pounds at this shocked waking, I am glad not to have to face the fearsome creatures who shall no doubt return to attack their warded clearing once more…
Other Tales:
Thuram Speaks To The Caravan Of
Recent Events And Times To Come Magnus
The Blacksmith And The Attack Of The
Dark Feral The
Great Hunt
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