Unbeknown to the MagaLlan and the Gormagog, there was a third part to Coel’s mission, something Loth had confided in him, and something Coel did only for Loth.
Apparently there was a woman among these strangers, a woman as any other, but who Loth said intrigued him. Loth had told Coel of his vision of the great fleet that was sailing toward Llangarlia, and he had also told Coel that his vision as constantly pulled back to watch this woman—girl, really—giving birth.
‘She intrigues me,” said Loth. “Something about her kept pulling my vision back to her when I had no mind for anything but for the size of the fleet. Coel, my friend, find out for me what she has about her.”
Coel had laughed, and made a ribald comment, but Loth had hardly even grinned.
‘There is something strange about her, Coel. Find out for me what that is.”
COEL PULLED HIS EXHAUSTED HORSE TO A HALT, stared for a long moment at the hill rising in the distance, then slid from the beast’s back, giving it a well-earned pat on its neck. He and his two companions, Jago, a young and smooth-cheeked man, and Bladud, a much weightier and grim-visaged warrior who had a scar neatly bisecting the beard on his chin, had taken almost a week to ride this far. They’d changed their horses twice and sometimes three times a day at villages along their route, invoking the Gormagog’s and the MagaLlan’s names as security against the horses’ eventual return.
Five days out they’d begun to hear rumors, and then firm reports, of a massive fleet of black ships that had entered the Dart River far to the south.
Terror was spreading among the tiny villages of southern Llangarlia, and Coel did all he could to reassure the frightened people: these newcomers were no threat, Gormagog and MagaLlan knew of them, and knew how to control them.
At least, Coel fervently hoped so.
He thanked Og and Mag that there were no reports of fighting: these strange people had arrived, but were apparently content to hunt for food, and to establish a basic camp, and had not embarked on a rampage of terror through the forests surrounding the Dart.
This seventh day since their departure from the Veiled Hills had brought Coel and his two companions to the very edge of the Dart River. Before him, although still some distance away, rose a great hill. Here, so Coel had heard from reports and now could hear with his own ears, the foreigners had established their camp.
He turned to Jago and Bladud, Jago’s face clearly showing his nervousness while Bladud’s remained inscrutable, and nodded that they should also dismount.
‘We’ll walk from here,” he said. “These black ship people will have warriors in the woods surrounding their camp, and doubtless we will be intercepted before long. If we are on foot, then we will the more clearly be seen as emissaries rather than attackers.”
‘I fear them,” said Jago.
‘We all do,” Coel said, “but it weakens us to voice such fear.”
Jago’s cheek reddened, but he bowed his head, accepting Coel’s rebuke.
‘Gormagog and MagaLlan will direct them to our purpose,” Coel continued, now feeling a little sorry for Jago, “rather than allow them to work against us.”
Jago raised his head, about to say something, when all three men jerked to a halt, their horses shying, and stared at the five men who had appeared silently on the forest path before them. Like the Llangarlians, they were dressed in tunics that came to midthigh, but they wore no breeches or leggings, and the material of their tunics was of fine linen rather than wool.
They were well armed with both lances and swords—the like of which Coel had never seen before—and had hardened leather circular shields, a curious device in their center, held on their left forearms by straps.
Their faces were strange, their skin swarthy, and their hair and eyes were very dark—a darkness Coel had only ever seen in one other family before.
Coel risked a single step forward, spreading his hands well away from his sides to show his peaceful intent.
‘I have come to speak with your leader,” he said, hoping the warriors would understand his intent rather than his words. “I mean you no harm.”
The lead warrior grunted, as if he had understood what Coel had said, then nodded, and beckoned the three men forward. Seven other warriors stepped silently out of the woods—Coel had not even realized they were there—relieving the three Llangarlians of their swords and knives, and then the party set off, walking steadily toward the hill.
COEL, JAGO, AND BLADUD WERE ESCORTED TO A CLEAR ing on the edge of the Dart.
Here they were stopped while several among their escort went forward into the greatest mass of people Coel had ever seen.
They were everywhere—the dark-haired, exotic-featured people of the black ships; Coel had no means of estimating their numbers. The people swarmed the open spaces and the gently sloping side of the hill, while scores of ships crowded at anchor in the calmer sections of the river. In the days since their arrival they had managed to set up a basic camp—wooden shelters covered with rushes or branches, hundreds of campfires over which pots bubbled and meat smoked, women crouched at water’s edge washing clothes and minding children, while herds of goats and sheep—even more exotic to Coel’s eyes than the people themselves—were corralled at the edges of the woods.
He was still gaping when he realized that the warriors were returning, and with them walked a man who Coel instantly realized was not only this people’s leader, but a man who wielded great god-power.
G Coel stiffened a little, and he felt both Bladud and Jago shuffle in their discomfort.
The man continued to walk toward them, his face devoid of any expression. He moved with the strength and grace of a hardened warrior, and the gleaming bands of gold about his legs and arms gave him an almost supernatural glow; if nothing else, they told Coel that the man was a king of some standing.
He had very long curly black hair tied at the base of his neck, and wore a fine linen tunic of ivory belted about his waist with a belt of woven gold and silver threads.
He was unarmed, not wearing even a knife for his food. The man came to a halt two paces away from Coel, regarding him with as much care and curiosity as Coel knew he studied him.
‘You have a fine cloak to hang over your equally fine tunic,” said the man in quite reasonable if highly accentuated Llangarlian, and Coel jumped in surprise—he had expected to communicate with this stranger by means of hand signals and significant looks.
One among Coel’s escort of warriors handed Coel’s sword to this man, and he turned it over in his hands slowly as he examined it.
‘And your sword,” the man continued, “is far better crafted than any I have ever wielded. Are you the Gormagog himself, come to greet me?”
He turned slightly, handing the sword back to one of his men.
Despite all his caution, Coel’s face dropped in shock. He knew of Gormagog ? Great Og, what else did he know?
Clearly amused at Coel’s reaction, the man raised a black eyebrow, waiting for a response.
Then the man said, smiling as Coel continued answerless, “I, as you see”—he held his arms out—”have come unarmed.”
‘Save for your knowledge,” said Coel, and stepped forward, holding out both his hands. “I am Coel, son of Erith. I am not the Gormagog, although I am here at the behest of both he and the MagaLlan, and with their authority.”
Brutus took Coel’s hands in his and gripped them tightly. “I am Brutus, son of Silvius, son of Ascanius, son of Aeneas, son of Aphrodite.”
They dropped their hands, the ritual greeting done, and it was apparent that Coel was clearly unimpressed with Brutus’ lineage. “You come from a line of men?” He patently did not know—or was underawed—that Brutus had dropped in the name of a powerful goddess as the founder of his line.
Brutus tried not to smile. No doubt this man, who let his House Mother nag him at his hearth, found the idea of a house of men astounding. He nodded. “In my heritage,” he said, “a family’s name and honor is handed from father to son.
L.
Coel shook his head, then said, “My companions are Bladud and Jago.”
adding their House affiliations, “and we have brought with us flasks of our honey wine, that we might greet you properly. Is there…”
‘Somewhere to rest, and to sit and talk among all this crowd?” said Brutus. “Aye, I think I can find somewhere.” He turned to his men, and continued to speak in Llangarlian, telling Coel that not only he but all his warriors spoke his language. “Hand back to our visitors their swords, and take their horses and water and feed them well.”