Cruibne could see their leader, the tall one. Even from the juddering boards of the fast-moving chariot he looked exactly like the mormaer expected a warrior from the Otherworld to look. Cruibne had shouted at Ethne to head for him. His oldest, and if he was honest, favourite wife had not even acknowledged him – she was too busy. Nevertheless the chariot was heading towards the tall warrior, who just stood there watching as Cruibne’s warriors were massacred. Cruibne felt calm. He was certain he was going to die, but he was with Ethne and sure that he was going to kill this man. So much for growing fat, he thought, well, fatter.
To Cruibne it looked like the giants exploded out of the sand, and they had in fact leaped out of the holes they had been buried in lying down. Cruibne only had a moment to see them – huge, dark, misshapen figures obscured by all the sand in the air. The closest lumbered towards him. Cruibne found himself in the shadow of an enormous foot. It stamped down, crushing wood and horseflesh, killing Ethne. The destruction of the chariot sent Cruibne flying forward. The beach rushed up to meet him. Darkness.
Nechtan soiled himself as the giant stamped on Cruibne’s chariot. Screaming, Broichan, Nechtan’s charioteer, yanked on the reins, trying to steer the terrified ponies away. The chariot jumped with each one of the giant’s footfalls as it swept down one massive hand, hitting the side of the cart and the horses, sweeping them up and sending them tumbling through the air.
Britha was laughing now, now more red than blue, little more human than those she fought. She swayed to the side, avoiding the slash of a sword, cutting at the neck of her attacker, hitting him so hard it spun him round. Ducking and then straightening her legs, she tore the sickle through someone’s flesh. She was oblivious to her tribe dying just the other side of the shield wall as she made her way closer to Bress. Excited, eager to do more violence, she wanted to see what this man really looked like on the inside.
The darkness had been good – cool, restful, it smelled of the sea. Not the metallic tang of blood or the smell of ruptured bowels. The sand shook beneath him. Giants walked the land now. Cruibne looked up, his face covered in a mixture of blood and sand. He was broken somewhere inside. He felt it. But he could still move.
Movement was pain. Standing was agony. He stuffed his beard in his mouth so he wouldn’t scream – too many years of not being able to show weakness. It tasted of sand and more blood.
Tears sprang unbidden and unwelcome to his eyes as he drew his sword, the blade blue from the forge, not polished like a southron warrior’s would be. He looked for their leader; instead he found some deformed but massively built man with an axe stalking towards him. He spat out his beard.
‘The gods that piss on you didn’t put your head on straight, but my sword will put you out of your misery,’ he shouted at the creature. May as well do this properly, he thought. He found he couldn’t move his left arm – the bone stuck out through his armour.
‘I need your head,’ the creature said.
Cruibne swung his sword in an overhead arc, bringing it down towards the ugly creature’s head, the speed and violence of the blow causing pain to shoot through his body. Ettin had time to step back and then swing up with his axe. Cruibne stared at the stump of his sword hand. The lopsided creature was huge but had moved so quickly, and Cruibne had never known an axe so sharp. He marvelled that he was able to think this as Ettin swung again.
Cruibne was lying in the sand again. He could see his leg. It seemed much further from him than a leg should be. He tried to get up. He felt a boot on his chest, forcing him back down into the sand. Beyond his leg he could see the landsfolk fleeing. He couldn’t blame them. How could they fight this? The giants caught up with them easily, sweeping down, killing many with each blow. Broken and crushed bodies rained down on the sand.
‘Hold still. I want a clean cut,’ Ettin said. Cruibne didn’t even see the axe as it swung down towards his neck.
He was running, except he wasn’t running. It was like he was being carried. He tried to stop running. He couldn’t. How could he be running without a leg? Cruibne opened his eyes. To his right he saw the Lochlannach spearmen pursuing the last of the cateran and the landsmen. Some were surrendering. Ahead of him he saw the tall man, the one who had the look of a leader, maybe even a high king, standing with his arms crossed watching Lochlannach swordsmen sprinting towards a warrior. There was joy as he recognised Britha. The ban draoi had always been a capable warrior but Cruibne couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
As one of the Lochlannach charged her, she ran her sword through his stomach and rolled as he crashed into her, sending the already dead body in a clumsy somersault over her. Britha rolled with the momentum, coming back up into a crouch. Her sickle blade went through another warrior’s knee and she pulled him off his feet; the sickle tore out of flesh, rose and then fell again as the man’s throat was ripped out. She spun round, biting her tongue and spitting blood into her next victim’s face before yanking her sword up between his legs. She continued her violent dance towards the tall pale man.
As Cruibne somehow ran towards her, he leaned down and picked up a discarded longspear without breaking stride. Cruibne did not understand. He was about to attack Britha, and the arm that picked up the spear was not his.
‘Noooooo!’ The scream broke Britha out of her bloody reverie. Her head whipped around. Ettin was sprinting towards her, axe in one hand, longspear in the other. He looked less off kilter. He had two heads now. His original head was laughing. The new one was screaming, begging, threatening. She recognised Cruibne’s voice.
‘I’ll kill you! I’ll cut you open and shit in the wound! I’ll have your corpse raped by dogs! No please! Don’t!’ Cruibne begged. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. Ettin just laughed. There was something else though: Cruibne could feel what Ettin felt. The creature’s pleasure. He knew things, like that Ettin had an erection and where he came from. He just couldn’t understand. It felt like it was his arm that threw the spear. Did he want it now? To see her corpse. No, that was Ettin. Cruibne prayed to gods who had not heard his people’s prayers in an age. If they heard, they chose not to respond.
Britha had a moment to wrestle with trying to understand why Ettin wore Cruibne’s head and then the spear was flying towards her. She tried to leap it. She had done so many times this night, but somehow Ettin had anticipated this, as if he had known what she would do. The spear caught her in the stomach. It felt almost as hungry as her sickle. She felt it grow inside her like a tree of iron tearing through her body. The force of the blow carried her through the air and she hit the sand hard. She lay still, looking at the spear sprouting from her. The shaft was moving slightly as the head continued to grow through her body.
Ettin appeared over her. Cruibne’s head was sobbing.
‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ her mormaer’s head said from Ettin’s shoulder.
It was getting darker and colder, like something wrapping its wings around her. Britha was pretty sure that she was going to like death. She wasn’t feeling pain now. It had to be better than this, the death of her people.
Bress appeared over her. So, so pretty, she thought, even with his dead eyes.
‘I’m going to wear your head so you can see what I do to your corpse,’ Ettin told her. There was more wailing from Cruibne’s head. That’s no way for a mormaer to act, Britha thought faintly. Bress just shook his head. He grabbed the haft of the spear. Britha actually felt the spearhead contract back to its normal shape. Then nothing.