Chapter Sixteen

  Gryffin, Dougal and Cerevin sat at a table outside the tavern drinking tankards of ale in the warm afternoon sun. Despite Gryffin’s previous experience with the drink, he found that the more times he tried it, the easier it became to tolerate the bitterness of the taste. He did sometimes wonder why he persevered with it, but he enjoyed the looks of approval he received from the other, older warriors. It had been a busy two days around the village since the arrival of the Ard-mal. The mounted bodyguards of the three kings had supplemented the village defences and had replaced those who didn’t have mounts on the sweeping patrols of the outlying homes. Gryffin was less than pleased about being relegated to the position of onlooker once again but, in the light of his embarrassing confrontation with Amren, he was less than enthusiastic about raising the subject again with either Callun or Cormac. Dougal found the whole episode most amusing and had had to reassure his younger brother repeatedly that the Eron had already forgotten the incident and that nothing more would be said about it. Besides which, Dougal reasoned further, now that the other three Mals had arrived the previous morning, Callun was now much too busy entertaining six of the most powerful people in the Six-tribes as well as making final arrangements for the imminent arrival of Maelwyn, the Chief druid, to bother too much about an overzealous young man.

  As the afternoon wore on and the three began their third drink each, a crowd began to gather. People started to line the road that lead south from the village square, peering as if waiting for something to come into view. The reason for this was that the Arch-druid and his retinue had been sighted not far away and were expected anytime. Many people seemed determined to lay their eyes on the holiest man in the Six-tribes, as if this in itself would bring them closer to the goddess. An excited buzz ran through the crowd at the far end of the square and people closest to where the drinkers sat gravitated in the direction of the noise to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals.

  “I think that they are here.” Commented Dougal as the onlookers spilled into the square at the head of a large band of windborne that marched into view in loose, disorganised ranks. Each of the chosen warriors sported the distinctive spiked blond hair and plain green cloak of their calling, and all were heavily armed. Behind those and slightly in front of a second, larger band of windborne, walked possibly the oldest man that Gryffin had ever seen, accompanied by definitely the largest windborne he had ever seen. The white-haired old man wore the simple robes of a druid, their coarse weave disguising the fact that they were worn by the most revered man in the Six-tribes. Calmness and tranquillity radiated from his slight, partially stooped frame. Yet frail as he seemed physically, an almost overwhelming sense of power seeped from the very pores of his skin. At his shoulder, a heavily calloused hand ever ready should the old man need his aid, walked Geshla, the near legendary windborne warrior, sworn to serve the goddess wherever she commanded him to go. It wasn’t his great height that made him so imposing, for there were many in the Six-tribes that could match his six feet seven, but few indeed had the body with muscles that seemed chiselled out of oak rather than flesh and blood. Unlike the other windborne, he worn no cloak, preferring to walk naked except for the large oval shield that was strapped across his back and the leather baldric that crossed his chest from which hung four heavy headed throwing axes. His clean-shaven face was dominated by deep set blue eyes that glowed with a self-confidence and devotion harder than the finest Mithraline steel. Geshla was a warrior down to the very last ounce of his being.

  Cerevin watched the new arrivals with interest. “The big man, Geshla is it?” He asked Dougal.

  “Aye, it is. He is the nearest thing that the windborne have to a leader. They are all meant to be equal, but Geshla is a bit special, even amongst those handpicked by the goddess, and so most of the others defer to him.”

  “Fetished, is he not?”

  Dougal rubbed his chin as he considered all the stories he had heard of the warrior. “I don’t know.” He finally had to confess. “I’ve not heard that he is, so what makes you think that?”

  The Doomsayer pointed to the unusual weapon that the warrior carried. “I can see no other reason to carry a spear made of iron, can you?”

  Dougal shook his head and shrugged his shoulders simultaneously, indicating his confusion.

  “I would guess that the spear is a fetish - a focus for his magic.” It was immediately clear to Cerevin that he had clarified nothing for either Dougal of Gryffin, who had just begun to listen to the conversation. He tried again. “You do not know much about fetishism, do you?”

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  Both brothers shook their heads.

  “Then let us start at the beginning.” The Doomsayer suggested with a resigned smile. “Fetish magic revolves around a set of runic talismans with which a fetishist can summon and manipulate the powers bound up within the concept of the runic form.” He pulled loose a small pouch that hung from his belt. Easing the drawstring open, he tumbled the contents onto the table. Four objects fell out. Two were made of wood, one of iron and one of silver. All were about four inches long. “I trust that you will keep the contents of my fetish bag secret. No magic user likes people to know exactly what powers they can call upon.”

  The two nodded that they would be discrete, eager for him to continue. The Doomsayer picked up the silver rune, holding it in the palm of his hand for the others to see. “This is the rune form of the spirit. It has various aspects to its nature, from holding someone immobile by controlling their free will, to telepath and many other that I am not even aware of.” He picked up a different fetish. This one appeared to be a thin wooden rod. “This one is called Iz, which means ‘standstill’. The material from which the rune is made also gives an indication of the user’s skill with that particular runic form. With this fetish, mine is only made of wood, whereas Geshla is more adept than I having one made of iron.”

  “But his spear is seven feet long and your fetish is only as big as one of my fingers. How can they be the same thing?” asked Dougal.

  Cerevin laughed. “As in many things, size is not important. The rule is that to use a fetish you have to hold it in your hand. This means that it can be the size of a spear to the size of a coin, it matters not. In fact, many fetishists have them hidden from obvious view. Not everyone wants to advertise their magical talents.”

  “Why not?” Asked Gryffin.

  “In the tribes, all the fetishists I have met are honourable men, like Callun, or holy men, like Dylan. Outside of the land lands of the Six-tribes many of those blessed by the gods use their power purely for their own ends. Remember that. It could save your life one day!” Cerevin quickly scooped up his talismans and replaced them in his pouch. “Look, here comes the reception committee to meet your priest.” He said, indicating that the topic of conversation was at an end.

  Dougal and Gryffin turned to watch as the six Mals filed out of the Eron’s hall. Slightly behind these came Callun and Dylan, as representatives of the village that was to play host to them all for the next few days. The lead group of windborne came to a halt and parted to allow the monarchs to approach the chief druid and his companion. The kings all bowed deeply to Maelwyn and held it in a show of genuine respect and affection for the old man who had been the spiritual advisor of their nation since their father’s time. Maelwyn’s wrinkled face creased into a kindly smile as he motioned them all to rise. He whispered something to the huge warrior at his side. Geshla strode forward, greeting the assembled kings with a perfunctory nod as he walked past them. To everyone’s amazement, he dropped to one knee in front of the lame druid. With a mixture of surprise and embarrassment Dylan crouched down and touched the windborne on the arm.

  “Please, Geshla, get up. I, of all people do not deserve this.”

  “You serve the goddess.” He said as he got to his feet. “You bear her mark. You deserve any honour that is mine to give.”

  “It is too much, Geshla.” Dylan lifted his robe to reveal his twisted lower leg. “See? I am amongst the lowest of her servants. It is I who should bow to you!”

  “You are wrong.” The windborne said, his spiked mane swaying as he shook his head. “The body may be crippled but the purity of your spirit shines like a beacon for all who have eyes to see. You are a druid of the goddess; you carry her mark. Anyone who doubts your fitness for that position doubts the goddess herself. Those who question the wisdom of the goddess will answer to me!”

  Over at the inn, Dougal smiled as he heard the warrior’s words.

  “Something amuses you?” Asked Cerevin.

  “It is just that there is a small, very vocal faction in the village that think that Dylan shouldn’t be a druid, being born physically impaired as he is.”

  The Doomsayer laughed as he understood. “So now if they make free with their complaints, they will have to face Geshla.”

  “Just so.”

  Their conversation was ended by the approach of Callun.

  “So,” said Dougal “you can still find time for your friends then. It is good to see that all these important people you are spending your time with haven’t given you airs and graces.”

  “Less of your cheek. Peasant!” Laughed Callun. He reached down and quickly drained the last of Dougal’s drink. He smacked his lips contentedly. “I only came here to talk to you through necessity. Now that the High druid is here, we are going to see if he can solve the mystery of Albany’s twin fetish marks. Can you come to the hall at sundown? It’s only right that you should be there, she is your daughter after all.”

  “I will. You’d best run along now, Cal. All your new friends are on the move.”

  The Eron nodded farewell and set off in brisk pursuit of his guests as they disappeared in the direction of his home.

  “Well,” said Dougal, looking down at his empty tankard, “there seems nothing for it except for me to get another round of drinks.”