Chapter 58
Chapter fifty-eight
The Climb
Before sunrise, Skyre selected nine men and gathered in the town square with blades, bows and targaid shields. The village brazier burned—a piece of the Eternal Flame. Should it ever go out, the village would be plagued, or that is what the priests had said.
Skyre watched the mountain. Its peak was buried above the cloud, its silhouette black against the twilight.
He recalled an hour before when he had gone to Greyv’s door. “I am going up,” he’d said, “I want to tend this matter myself. Will you come?”
His friend sat, shrouded in the dark of morning, barely lifting his head to acknowledge him.
“You’re giving me the choice? If you wish me to come, simply give the command, sire.”
“I would have you come as you have always come… willingly.”
“Then you will go without. I’ve a warm bed and no mind for the mountain air.”
“Greyv…”
“Oh, fuck off, Skyre. You’ve fifty other men at your disposal. Go beat them about, instead.”
“You ken I never meant to—”
“You meant exactly what you did! And I’ll carry that. Now go off and be the hero and leave me to myself.”
Skyre had allowed him to remain. He supposed they both deserved it—he the punishment, and Greyv his space. Instead, Skyre had chosen some of the younger and more agile boys, though still strong for whatever fighting was to be done.
Amongst them was Cían, wide-eyed and hopeful. “If we’ll find trolls it’ll be an awful time for them.”
The mountains were filled with angry things. Bears and wolves, but also brutes and fells.
Skyre desired to go swiftly, and with any luck, they would make it back by nightfall.
As they prepared to depart, there emerged two figures from the inn. First was Nacht, though stoic, his dissent was clear. “If my liege should go to battle a beast, I would walk beside him.”
It was the second time Skyre would give the holler the order to remain, but this time held purpose. “And I would accept the Beast of the Bridge, but now I must ask you to stay.”
The warrior’s clear eye flickered, and the darkened one seemed to say Why?
“You made me Aard to serve. And serve you I would, but again you leash me behind.”
Skyre put a hand on his shoulder and spoke quiet, but deep. “Of all my men, it is your strength I hold highest. None amongst us could match it. And that is why...” His gaze trailed to the second figure who stood, ghostly beneath the fading moon. “That is why I need you to stay.”
Nacht followed his lead, glancing towards the druid. A moment dripped passed. Then, with a firm nod, he said, “Aye, my Vaich. I will stay.”
Skyre came last before his consort, with the sounds of night slipping away; the crickets a chorus to their goodbye.
“I will return by night. Or… morning next, if luck is ill. And then I…” His fingers lingered over the druid’s skin. “Then you may have my ear so long as you like.”
Those moon-pale eyes held him tight, then slid behind him to the hills. “Do you swear it?”
“What?” The king’s breath hitched.
“Do you give me your word that you will return?”
“Aye,” he whispered. “Aye, I swear it.”
Cerys reached out, tracing the sun brand above the king’s heart. “I believe you.”
A panting breath spilled between his lips, and before he could stop himself, Skyre grasped the druid’s shoulders in a desperate grip. At once, fire filled his blood, but he forced himself to still.
“You will see,” he muttered. “My word and all of them I give to you… I’ll make them worth something. Till promise means truth.”
Cerys smiled, small but certain. “Then, I’ll see you in the morning.”
The party started up, and as they climbed, the sun peeked out over the horizon. They’d packed light, but their kits were heavy in preparation for any enemy they might find. All manner of wildness made home in the Fír, but the men found it all quite quaint.
The slope was carpeted in heather, and the moss-clung rocks were damp with dew. A cool, crisp breeze goaded them eagerly onwards.
They passed weathered shrines, unrecognizable to the Vaich. One of the men, Torin, came from the east near Brannoc, and was versed in the Old Gods. He spoke their names as they went.
“The stones are laid for Taig, spirit of the river, and that one there is Bréchan, Lord of Mountains.”
“What about this?” asked Cían, pointing at a totem carved into the head of a bearded man.
“Carn’Thalach—the Huntfather—god of the wild and of predators.”
Skyre smiled. “I like the sound of that.”
Cían said, “Is it alright for you to say so?”
“Who is going to say otherwise? If you dinnae crawl back and tell them.”
The incline became steeper, but nothing troubling, and the shrines became more sparse. Skyre wondered how old they were. It was reasonable they dated back to the founding of the villaigh, during the time when all of Cullach still honored earth spirits. And maybe, he thought, even older than that.
“That there,” said Torin, nodding towards a large, twisting stone, “is for Túr, spirit of the land.”
It was a word Skyre knew well, but had never questioned from where it had come. How many other words had they borrowed from the druids? He considered when he got back, he might ask.
“And this one?” questioned Cían. They stopped before a bronze carving. Its features were eroded, but one could still make out the face of a ram and the mounts where the horns had been.
Torin grew quiet and, carefully, he said, “Tis Rún. Spirit of the sun.”
Skyre had never seen the face of his divine master, and yet it was curious to think the ancient Cullain had imagined him a ram. The An’Atherin spoke of AEon’Righ as the blazing sun, but when embodied, he had the body of a great hooved beast.
Skyre tilted his head, as if to get a better look, and he couldn’t deny the similarities. His chest tightened, but he painted his smile back on.
He said, “A noble attempt. But at the end of the day, mutton’s place is the supper table.”
The men laughed.
The path wound up and down in places where the rocks dipped and crested. Skyre felt like a currach bounding over the sea, riding waves of earth. The steps were worn with time, hardly discernible beneath a layer of dirt.
“Mind your footing,” said Skyre. He led at the front, second only to Eirn, who hailed from the north.
He was used to the terrain and walked like a ghost over the stone folds.
The same could not be said for Maran, who was widest amongst them, and—the men often joked—built like a bull.
He moved well, given his size, but struggled with balance, and so they teased him.
“It’s a long way down!”
Maran growled, refusing to look. “Dinnae ya think I ken’ih?”
It was hours before they reached a natural break in the path. The land jut out, forming a small outcrop.
“It’s a good view here,” said Eirn, urging them over.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” said Cían.
“Strange?” asked Skyre.
“There.” The youth pointed into the distance as the king came and stood beside him at the ledge. The mountains sprawled south towards Annath. “All the snow there above the treeline,” Cían said. “But… this peak hasn’t any at all.”
Skyre hadn’t considered it. In fact, he hadn’t heard anyone mention that it was odd. Not all mountains were capped in white—that wasn’t unusual. But Cían wasn’t wrong. Every peak around them glistened shining silver; those lower and higher than they were now.
“It is strange,” Skyre muttered. “Suppose this one’s got warm skin.”
They sat amongst the craigs and lunched on what small provisions they had. He thought about the druid and wondered how his day had been. Had he rested? Was he still aching?
“Sire, did you want something more to eat?” Cían tossed the Vaich a wild apple and he caught it out of the air. “Nice arm! You must play a mean game of connigan!”
Skyre laughed. “Someday soon, we’ll test your theory.”
Cían supped happily on a handful of pine nuts. He was spritely. Not at all like his brother—he had none of Jor’s teeth, and Skyre was glad of that. Perhaps it was the youth. Or maybe the water of the womb had thinned, and the second son been spared.
“You ken,” Skyre said, “It’s a shame you never came to Righnach’Dúir.” Cían looked over, interestedly. “You would have liked it there, training beneath the trees. The warmth and the wild… That place was full of boyhood. Primal and eager and strong.”
He thought he would stay that way forever. And, perhaps, for a while, he had tried. But then, he supposed it was natural. One day, a man would wake and know he could be young no longer. And maybe… maybe he didn’t want to be.
“Do you think about it often?” asked Cían. “Those days you left behind?”
Skyre smiled. “Aye. But less and less. Or rather, I remember it differently.”
“How so?”
He shook his head. “Suppose one day you’ll know.”
Cían laughed. “Now you sound like Jor.”
“Your brother is the stiffest cock I’ve ever met, but the thing about cocks is—they’re often upright.”
“He’d piss himself in anger to hear you say that.”
“Aye, you're better mannered by fair measure.”
“They say he’s more like átha, and I like Máta.”
Skyre nodded. “Your brother was born a little king. But there’s something to be said for one who is born with the blood of a queen.”
“If we rattle on, it’ll be a tenday ‘fore we get up this damned mountain,” called Eirn.
Skyre agreed. “Let’s push on.”
They continued upwards along overgrown paths. The roots of trees curled out in thick tangles, and mossy pillows lined the way. Their boots splashed in the crystalline brook that trickled lazily down the slope, over crisp leaves and dark slate.
It wasn’t long before they reached a fork in the trail. The right curved up steeply while the left sloped down into a shallow green ravine. Torin knelt down and inspected the dirt.
“Odd tracks, these are. Big, too,” he muttered.
Skyre glanced out through the trees. Something large would be easy to spot, or better yet—hear.
“Split up,” he said, “check the area for any more tracks. Dinnae stray and keep up your horns.”
They paired off.