The two leaders clasped hands tightly, knuckles white. Blood flowed freely between their fingers and fell to the rich earth below, mixing with that of the animal sacrifices.
The men surrounding the chieftains let out a loud, throaty roar. On the heels of the blood bond, horns clanged, fire pits burned, and mead flowed freely. The people shared food and stories, some gambled and traded, and others openly fornicated when the urge took them. It was unrestrained chaos, with no rules except one—no killing.
This was a celebration to end the past—the promise of an alliance, a new era. His people—who had been coined Gauls by the natives—had finally claimed peace and settled in this new land across the great, open sea. After months of waging war, the native people had finally submitted to their advanced weaponry and agreed to unite peacefully.
Tritus sat alone at one of the fire pits and watched his people mingle with the blue men. They appeared a strange tribe with their blue facial tattoos, and their numerous gods. His people only believed in two gods—the All-Father and the All-Mother. Everything else was their creation and thus did not need their worship.
As Tritus sipped his mead, he wondered how the blue men could so easily reach an agreement with his people, forgive the lives lost, the wars fought, and the devastation of their homes and crops. He didn’t know if he could have forgiven that loss, the shame that it brought. The All-Father and the All-Mother would bar him from the Other if he showed such cowardice.
Tritus reached for the meat stick over his fire, pausing when two shadows lingered. He looked up in wary greeting to find two of the blue men. They were both of similar height, their dark hair loose and unbound. Tritus blinked. If not for their clothing and tattooed markings, they could have been the same person.
The one dressed as a warrior spoke first, “Are you Tritus, son of Devus?”
Tritus subtly turned his body to face them, casually laying one hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to his side. The familiar feel of the grooved metalwork calmed him. “What of it?”
The warrior stepped forward, hand thrust out, “I am Drust, son of Caimbeul.”
Tritus looked at his hand, hesitating for the briefest second. He’d heard of the man, a leader of the clan, a warrior who led their skirmishes—a warrior who fought well and bravely.
Tritus gripped his hand firmly and gestured at the fire. “Please, sit with me.”
Teeth flashed as Drust nodded, sitting on the log on the other side of the fire. Tritus shifted his gaze to Drust’s companion, who remained standing.
Sensing Tritus’s unasked question, Drust indicated the man, who wore a brown robe. “This is my brother, Talorgan.”
Talorgan did not offer his hand.
Tritus assessed him frankly, well aware that Talorgan was doing the same.
Going by his robe, Tritus knew that the man was a Druid. But as he noted the white strip on the hood, he corrected that assumption, for it illustrated that Talorgan was only an apprentice. Tritus shifted his gaze to the man’s face, so like his brother’s, noting the large blue whorls. The circles held no ending, and Tritus recognized the tattoos as their clan’s infinity symbol.
At that moment, a log in the fire burst into flame, and light spilled across Talorgan’s face. Tritus stilled at what he saw. Talorgan’s right eye was identical to his brother’s, but the left was a fractured burst of color, the blue iris coalescing with flecks of yellow, red, and turquoise. The sight was unsettling, and he couldn’t help but draw an audible breath. How had the clan allowed this child to live? Surely Talorgan should have been sacrificed to the gods?
Talorgan’s face twisted into a sneer, as though daring him to comment, but Tritus shifted his gaze back to Drust, who had silently watched the exchange. “What brings you?”
Drust took the olive branch. “We heard you have some skill in the forge.”
Tritus nodded. Word traveled fast. He wasn’t surprised his new allies had noted his craftsmanship; after all, he’d made most of the weapons that had killed the blue men. “What is it you want?”
“We need weapons,” Drust said. “Thirteen daggers, all identical.”
“For what purpose?”
“Samhain is nearly upon us, and Cailleach will require a sacrifice worthy of our new alliance. The blades need to be special, momentous to the occasion.”
“Cailleach?”
The name felt awkward on Tritus’s tongue—as all their gods’ names did. The blue men worshipped many, far too many to keep track of. For all their clan’s similarities, there were still so many differences. The migration of Tritus’s people to this new land in the west was full of many discoveries but also many oddities.
“Cailleach is a powerful goddess who rules over winter,” Drust explained. “They can be harsh here, oftentimes deadly. If we want to survive, we need to appease her with an offering worthy of her goodwill.”
Tritus knew what a cold winter could bring. Their lands back home were frozen in winter, dry and arid in summer. Even though they’d traveled hours by sea to reach this land, he wasn’t so naive as to believe that the winter here would be any less extreme. Here, the land was plentiful, abundant with wildlife and plants, not as heavily populated as it had been in the east. Here, they had not only shelter but ample opportunity to build food caches and store meat and grain to last the winter.
Because his people prayed to the All-Father and the All-Mother for a fortunate winter, he understood the need for a worthy offering to the gods. However, what he was hesitant to agree to, was his own hands forming the blades.
Tritus raised his concern. “I am unfamiliar with what would appease this goddess. Surely, your blacksmiths would fare better?”
Talorgan’s eyes flashed at the comment, but he didn’t utter a word. It was a tell, and in that instant, Tritus knew it was a sticking point between the two brothers.
Drust gave a slight smile and replied, “In light of our new alliance between our clans, the Wise Ones believe that the blades should be forged by your people’s hands, but that our people will wield them during the ceremony. After all, we are one people now—one clan—and they believe the ceremony should reflect that.”
It took a second for Tritus to realize that Drust was referring to their Druid leaders, those they called the Wise Ones. Tritus knew the Wise Ones were highly revered in Drust’s clan, recognized by their distinctive brown robes which they wore with their hoods up, faces shadowed and hidden from view.
By Tritus’s count, there were five in the village; one who was skilled in herbs and medicine, another a teacher, and yet another who they called a writer. He used a small hammer and a nail to make etchings, or symbols, as the blue men called them. The fourth seemed to follow the patterns of the sun and moon, and the fifth was something else entirely. He was also the most dangerous of them all. Different than the others, darker and colder; and his robes were a deep blood red, instead of the common brown.
Tritus had come across the fifth while hunting in the woods two moons ago. It was the screaming that drew him, a piercing shriek that held notes of pain and terror. The sound broke the stillness of the forest, causing the wildlife to scamper. He gave up the hunt for the sly fox he’d been chasing, curious as to what was going on.
He crept nearer, hidden by the abundance of trees. As he peered around the thick trunks, his eyes were arrested by the woman dressed in white. She was tied to a pole in the middle of a stone circle. Six men surrounded her, one of them the Wise One in his red robes. The rest were dressed in brown robes, a red strip lining their hoods. Clearly, apprentices to the Dark Master.