The other man had his hand on the hilt of his sword and was bringing his shield to bear. The shield was rectangular with rounded corners, leather over oak with complex spiral knotwork patterns ending in three dragons’ heads. He at least she recognised, or at least what he was. He was clearly some kind of warrior. He looked like a Goidel, warriors reputed to come from an island beyond the land to the west.
He wore a boiled leather breastplate, and armour covered his upper arms, vambraces his forearms, and he wore thick leather greaves over fine plaid trews. Around his neck was a finely wrought torc made of thick strands of silver twisted together rather than the more chainlike designs of her own people.
Britha had a moment to appreciate how handsome the man was – well built, fine-featured, long reddish-blonde hair, his similarly coloured beard and moustache in a plait. Attractive or not, there was something about him that Britha knew she would find irritating even if they hadn’t been about to kill each other. The fact that his armour, shield and face were unscarred gave her confidence that she could beat the pretty young warrior.
‘Wait!’ the swollen-headed man cried from his bloody mouth. Britha kicked him in the face again and then hit him on his head with his own staff. The man cried out and rolled away from her.
The warrior drew his sword. The blade shone even in the pale light of the overcast day. The metal looked silver. The blade seemed to hum and shimmer as if singing. Britha did not like the look of the blade. She sensed magic in it. She had encountered too many weapons that actively thirsted for blood recently. The beautifully crafted longsword looked sharp enough to cut the air. The last time she had seen a blade that fine, Bress had been holding it.
The warrior was charging her. Britha changed her stance, ready to dart to the side.
‘Fachtna, wait!’ the other man cried. Britha understood his words, though she was not sure he was speaking the same language as the Pecht, but there was clearly magic in the air. His accent was strange.
The warrior skidded to a halt, keeping his eye on Britha, clearly ready to attack. The swollen-headed man turned to the ban draoi.
‘Look we’re not here to—’ he started. Britha hit him on the head with his own staff again. She could not risk him weaving magic with his words. She hit him hard enough to break the skin, but there was no blood.
‘Ow! Stop hitting me with my staff. That’s not what it’s for!’
Through the gash in the creature’s head she could make out some kind of crystalline growth. She stared for a moment and then remembered the warrior.
Fachtna made a move towards her. Britha shifted position.
‘Wait!’ the swollen-headed man shouted. Britha made a move to hit him again, but he scrabbled away from her on the pebbles. ‘I said stop doing that!’
‘Then still your tongue. There’s magics in it.’ Britha’s voice was little more than a rasp, and she tasted blood from her throat when she spoke.
‘We just want to…’ Britha moved towards the monster. So far her attacks had drawn no blood. ‘Please listen…’
‘If you wish to talk, then let him talk,’ Britha said and gestured at Fachtna.
‘I don’t want to talk; I want to fight,’ Fachtna growled. His accent sounded like what she would imagine a Goidel would sound like.
‘Many-Edged Ones, take me now,’ Teardrop muttered.
‘Are you working magics?’ Britha demanded, moving towards him,
‘No!’
Fachtna shifted to intercept her.
‘Fachtna, stop, please,’ Teardrop implored. Fachtna stopped but did not look happy.
‘Why won’t you let me talk to you?’ Teardrop asked and then scrambled to his feet and backed away quickly as Britha tried to hit him again.
‘I saw through your glamour,’ Britha spat. ‘I saw your true face. You’re an evil spirit, a demon!’
Fachtna grinned at this, but Teardrop looked thoughtful and more than a bit worried.
‘She has you there,’ Fachtna said.
‘Shut up!’ Teardrop snapped. His warrior friend’s humour often seemed poorly timed.
‘His magics helped bring you back. They fought the demon’s blood inside you,’ Fachtna told her. ‘We only mean you harm if you mean us harm. I will swear by my blood and his if that’s what it takes.’
Britha considered this. If he was a Goidel then she had heard that they had their own honour and could be held to an oath. Teardrop was relieved that Fachtna had decided to be diplomatic and found a way to talk to the woman.
‘We’re here to—’ Teardrop started. Britha swung around to face him again. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said backing away, hands up.
‘I don’t like that sword,’ Britha told Fachtna.
Fachtna smiled. ‘You would like my spear even less.’
Britha could see that he had a spear in some kind of leather tube strapped to the back of his armour. It looked like something was struggling to get out of it. Fachtna was right: she did not like it. She felt its malevolence in her blood.
Teardrop was looking bored.
‘May I speak now? No…’ Britha tried to get at him again. Fachtna got in between them but sheathed his blade and dropped his shield, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm.
‘I will give my oath for my friend as well,’ he said. ‘He worked magics on you while you were asleep.’
‘Oh brilliant,’ Teardrop muttered as Britha looked furious again.
‘But they were healing magics only.’ Britha still regarded the pair suspiciously.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I have come to find and kill someone called Bress,’ Fachtna said.
Britha looked for the truth in Fachtna. He seemed the archetypal warrior: cocky, boastful, arrogant and not too bright, but with a modicum of charm. Judging by his lack of scars he was untested and therefore vastly overconfident, particularly about facing Bress, but she could see no untruth in him. She nodded towards Teardrop.
‘And that? Is it some demon you have bound into your service?’
Teardrop made a small humourless laughing noise. He was sitting on the pebbles now. He had spat on his fingers and was rubbing the spit into the dry wounds that Britha had made by repeatedly bludgeoning him with his own staff.
‘No, he is my friend and a wise and powerful dryw in his own right.’
‘Why is his head like that?’
‘Because he has a grand opinion of himself,’ Fachtna said, grinning. Teardrop silently cursed another of the warrior’s poorly timed attempts at humour.
‘It’s this shape because I sing the mindsong. It’s where my power lives,’ Teardrop said, getting to his feet. The previously conciliatory tone had gone. Britha recognised this – she used it herself – it was the tone you used when the tribe needed to listen to her in her capacity as ban draoi. ‘My name is Teardrop on Fire. Don’t hit me with my staff again. In fact, give it back to me.’
‘I’ll swap you for my spear,’ she said.
Fachtna sighed, ‘I’ll go and get it,’ and headed back towards the crannogs. Britha continued staring at Teardrop.
‘Teardrop on Fire, what sort of stupid name is that?’
‘The only one I have.’
‘Then you’re brave to let me have it.’
‘I have no fear of you. My friends call me Teardrop.’
Britha threw the strange creature his staff back to prove that she did not fear him either, and the more she talked to him the less frightening he seemed.
‘Where do you come from?’ she asked.
‘A place where the ground is the sky and the sky is the ground,’ Teardrop said as he grumpily examined his staff.
‘The Otherworld?’
Teardrop put the base of his staff on the ground and leaned on it. It looked to be a familiar pose.