Chapter Nine

  They ran into Dougal as they walked back towards the village. From his breathless condition it was obvious he had been running for a while.

  “Is everything alright?” Asked Gryffin, his voice full of concern at the sight of his brother’s wild-eyed expression.

  “Yes…no…I’m not sure.” He gabbled. “It’s Bronty – she’s gone into labour.”

  “But she’s not due for weeks yet!”

  “I know! That’s just what I said.”

  “Is it dangerous, Dougal. You know, for the baby to come early?”

  “Damned if I know!” He admitted, his voice betraying his fear for his wife and unborn child.

  “There is nothing to worry about.” Said Cerevin. “Albany will be born healthy, and your wife will be fine.”

  Both the brothers looked at the Doomsayer. “How do you know?” They both asked in unison.

  The mystic merely raised an eyebrow in answer.

  “Is she part of you quest? Is my wife and child part of the reason you are here?” Asked Dougal.

  “All in the village are part of my doomquest.” He replied vaguely. “As I have said, both your wife and child will survive the event of giving birth.”

  When it became obvious that Cerevin would say no more, Dougal sighed in disappointment. “I need a drink. Will you come and join us at the inn, Doomsayer?”

  “My name is Cerevin.” He said with a half-smile. “I would be pleased to join you for a tankard.”

  Dylan saw to it that Bronty was comfortable in the large bed that Callun had given for their use. He sat beside her and chatted amiably to her to take her mind off the wracking pains that gripped her body periodically. The door to the room opened and Cassie entered followed closely by a tall, dark haired woman who’s face bore a strong resemblance to the young girls. Morwen’s hair was starting to turn grey at the temple and her waste was slightly thicker than it had been in her youth, but she was still a striking woman with large, dark, brown eyes that had melted the hearts of many over the years. She bowed to the druid and then with a practiced, business-like manner, set about organising things for the task ahead.

  Dylan watched her bustle about the room. “I can see that I leave you in good hands. Morwen has helped me on numerous occasions with births in the village.”

  “And I have asked my two sisters to help. They will be shortly.” Added the woman as she looked at the linen that Callun’s housekeeper had put in the room for their use.

  “Then I have no doubts that you will be safe in their capable hands.” Dylan rose as if to leave.

  “Do you have to go just yet?” Asked Bronty, her nervousness plain on her face.

  “I have no duties to perform until the manhood rites, and that is not until well after sundown.” He sat down again. “I will stay with you until then.”

  Callun joined them at the Inn. He called for another round of drinks and then sat at the table. They spent the afternoon questioning Cerevin firstly about his quest in the village, which he would not answer, then about the many lands he had seen in his years of travel, which he was more than happy to. Dougal only half listened, so worried was he about his wife. In fact, it was a measure of his worry that, during the whole afternoon and past sunset, he only managed to drink three tankards of ale. As the day wore on, he seemed to develop a set of nervous twitches that almost rivalled Gryffin’s own.

  Callun placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Dougal. If there is anything wrong, Dylan will send word.”

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  “But does he know where to find me?”

  “My friend, “the Eron laughed, “everyone knows where to find you when you are in the village. Believe me when I say that this is the first place he will look for you if there is need.”

  At that moment, the inn door opened and in walked Dylan. Dougal’s face immediately drained of colour, visions of catastrophe running rampant through his mind as the druid walked over to the table.

  “How is my wife?” Dougal asked him.

  “Her waters have not long broken.”

  She’s broken what?” He said, his voice rising to almost a scream. Before anyone could react, Dougal was out of his chair and exiting the door.

  Once out of the inn, he raced across the square, barrelling people out of the way when his manoeuvrability failed him. Twice dogs tried to bite him, the second time as he lay on the floor having tumbled, head over heels, over the animal. In breathless terror, he finally burst into the Eron’s hall.

  “Bronty!” He yelled. “Bronty, where are you?” He quickly decided that upstairs was the best bet in finding her, so he charged up, taking the steep flight of stairs three and four at the time. “Bronty?” He shouted again as he reached the main landing.

  At the end of a long side passage, a door opened and Morwen emerged. She waited in stony silence until Dougal reached her.

  “What is it you want?” She asked with considerable displeasure. “Your wife has a hard-enough task ahead of her as it is without you disturbing her.”

  “Is she alright?” He asked. “Dylan told me that she has broken something.”

  Morwen gave him a withering look that made him feel as though he were something unpleasant that she has just discovered on the bottom of her shoe. “It never ceases to amaze me how men can reach adulthood and still be so stupid. What the good druid probably said was that Bronty’s waters had broken.” When Dougal nodded, she continued. “That is perfectly normal and would have caused us concern had it not done so by now. Now, be off with you, before I fetch a broom and beat some sense into you with it!”

  With that, the door slammed shut on him. He heard voices raised in laughter from the room beyond, Bronty’s being one of them. He didn’t even want to start guessing what was being said about him, but he was willing to bet everything that he owned that it was nothing complimentary. Mustering what little remained of dignity, he made his way back to the tavern to find his friends. His sole consolation was that Bronty sounded well.

  Upon his return, he found that both Callun and Dylan had already left.

  “They have gone to prepare for the giving of weapons.” Gryffin informed him nervously. It seemed to him that the day was going altogether too quickly. Already it was dark outside and so the part of the day he had long dreaded would soon be upon him.

  “Do you feel ready, Gryff?” Dougal asked.

  “Ready or not, it doesn’t appear that I have much choice.”

  “Come on then. It’s time we made our way up to the circle.” Said the older brother, quickly downing the remains of the drink he had so hastily abandoned minutes before.

  All three rose and made their way to the door.

  “Oh, goddess,” Gryffin quietly prayed, “please don’t let me make a fool of myself tonight.”

  Once outside, they joined the steadily growing procession of villagers that were beginning to slowly make their way up to the stone circle that stood on the low hill outside the village. Many of them carried torches to light their way now that it had now become fully dark.

  Gryffin stared at the clear night sky with its smattering of stars just becoming visible as he moved out of the life-lit village of lamp filled houses into the deeper darkness of the lane that led to the hilltop temple. On many occasions he had spent the evening looking up at the small silver beacons. He would spend hours trying to spot the different constellations and, when he tired of that, he would spend more time making up his own. But on this night, he found no joy in the sight of them, only a slowly growing sense of terror as they become increasingly visible. He wished that he had not had that last drink, forced on him by Callun, to settle his nerves. It had done nothing more than make his mouth dry and his bladder uncomfortably full. He wondered if anyone would notice if he ran back to the village for a drink of water and to empty his aching bladder. With dull resignation, he realised that even if they did not, no amount of water would make his mouth feel any better, and that the other condition was not caused by physical need but rather by nerves. Before he had time to ponder his state of mind any further, he realised had entered the outer ring of stones. Silently, the villagers congregated at the edge of the inner ring. Those that bore torches thrust them into the ground creating a moat of light between the two circles of stones. As Gryffin looked around the wall of faces, he could pick out those of some of the other boys that would become men tonight, all being well. He felt a small amount of consolation from the fact that all looked as worried as he did. As his gaze travelled further around the ring, he saw Callun and Dylan standing motionless by the altar, arms folded, awaiting the proper time for the ceremony to begin. Behind them on the altar stone itself were the eight sets of weapons and cloaks – an ash shafted, iron tipped spear, a rectangular leather covered wooden shield and the prized green and red plaid cloak, to be presented to the newest members of the warband if they were judged worthy. When it seemed to Dylan that everyone was present, he held up his hands for silence.

  “Friends, we are gathered here on this night, the Night of Fires, for two reasons. The first is to call down the protection of the goddess onto this village, to keep us safe from harm and to guide us safely through another year. The second is so that we may bear witness to those amongst us who undergo the transition from childhood into manhood, becoming men who will bear arms in defence of the village, and the nation, should the need ever arise. Will those whose time has come stand forward.”