Chapter Ten

  From around the ring eight young men, Gryffin included, walked into the ring, coming to a stop in a line facing the druid and Eron.

  “This is an important day in your lives.” Dylan began to the boys. “For as from today you will be counted as children no longer. You will be men and have all the rights and responsibilities of men. You will bear arms in the Eron’s warband, to fight and even die for the sake of the Six-tribes. You have the right to marry and to have children of your own. From this day forward you will be responsible for your own actions, right or wrong, and you will gain or lose honour accordingly. Your standing in the village is your own to create and is no longer based upon that of your mother or father. The goddess demands only this; that you be generous to those in need, be respectful to those older and wiser, be gentle with those less strong. Become the men that your parents wished you to be on the day of your birth.” He turned his attention to the silent circle of villagers. “Does anyone have a good reason why these boys may not become men?” There was no reply. “Then from this moment on treat them as such!”

  Callun stepped forward. “Gryffin, come forward.” He commanded. “Do you swear to behave as the goddess commands, and to be a faithful member of the warband?”

  Gryffin was visibly shaking as he replied, “I do.”

  “Then receive these weapons. Never dishonour them or your people.” Callun held out the weapons. After he had handed them over, he walked behind the young man and placed the thick woollen cloak, in the green and red tartan of the Aedua, around the young man’s shoulders. “You are now a warrior of the Aedua and the Six-tribes nation.”

  With a deep bow, first to Dylan and then to Callun, Gryffin retreated into line as the next boy was called forward to receive his weapons. He watched as the next six swore to be faithful to the goddess and the warband, stepping back, as he had, with their weapons and the proud bearing of young men. The last of the eight was Sigur, a farmer’s son, and the youngest of those present this year. Even though he was only seen fourteen summers, he was already heavily muscled from long hours in the fields, and he was said to be a great warrior in the making. He waited his turn with such unnatural calm that Gryffin almost wished that he would trip or sneeze at the crucial moment. Sigur stood forward as his name was called, and Callun asked him if he would be loyal and uphold the commands of the goddess. Before he had chance to reply, a deep voice boomed out across the ring.

  “He does not!”

  Surprised chatter rippled around the ring of villagers as two figures pushed their way through the rows of villagers and entered the light. Both men were naked except for their long green cloaks and their weapon belts. Each wore a thick band of twisted gold wire, or torque, around his neck that were decorated at the ends with jewel eyed animal heads of the same metal. For all their unusual appearance, the most striking thing about them was their hair, almost white in colour and styled in a stiff, spikey, mane. They were the windborne, warriors of the goddess. They crossed the inner ring until they stood before the altar. Each made a deep bow to Dylan, followed by a simple nod of greeting to the Eron. If Callun was angered by this lack of respect, he didn’t show it.

  “What do you here, Windborne?” He asked.

  “We have come to claim one that the goddess chosen to serve her.” The taller of the two replied. “Sigur is destined to be borne on the winds of our mistress.”

  “Is it true?” Callun asked the druid.

  “Th Windborne are never wrong on this matter.” Dylan confirmed. “Sigur is not destined to be one of your warband but that of the goddess.”

  “Then let the goddess claim him.” Callun intoned in ritual response.

  The two windborne approached the youth and told him to kneel before Dylan. As he did so, those closest to him could see that his shoulders were starting to shake, the first signs of nerves he had displayed all night. The windborne each placed a hand on his shoulder whilst the druid raised both hands in the air, clenching them together in a single fist. In clear ringing tones he beseeched his patroness to witness the dedication of Sigur to her service. As he spoke, the power of his birth fetish coursed through his body, enveloping the four of them in a glowing ball of white light. The consecration of a new windborne was an infrequent event, even though there were thousands of them throughout the lands of the Six-tribes, and the villagers strained to pierce the veil of energy that surrounded the main participants in this unexpected drama. Although the details were vague, they could make out Dylan moving his hand to place it on Sigurs’ head. The nature of the energy field began to change, becoming somehow more alive as pulses of vibrant green flashed within it in ever increasing frequency until, eventually, the entire sphere was emerald green. The whole stone circle began to fill with the aroma of summer meadows and the delicate odours of wildflowers, with each person there able to smell their own personal favourites, fragrant reminders of special memories. Then the light increased in intensity until it became painful to watch, forcing many to turn their heads away. In a silent explosion, the ball of energy erupted, momentarily flooding the entire temple in a wash of green light. Then the darkness returned. As people’s eyes adjusted to the rapid change in illumination, an awed silence descended. Whereas before Sigur had been a normal boy, like many in the village, now before the druid knelt a windborne, his naked body topped by a spiked mass of white hair.

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  “Rise, windborne, and serve your mistress.” Said Dylan. He smiled warmly as he drew the young man to his feet.

  Sigur stood on shaky legs that threatened to betray him at any moment. He bowed deeply to the druid then turned to do the same to Callun. A rough, heavily calloused hand under his chin stopped him from doing so.

  “You are windborne now.” Commanded the shorter warrior. “You bow to those who carry the mark of the goddess, no one else.”

  Somewhat embarrassed, Sigur complied, giving the most important man he had ever known in his short life a nod of equals.

  “Come.” Said the same warrior. “We will prepare you for the ritual combat.”

  The two warriors flanked him as they led him through the crowds and out of the temple to await the next phase of the rites of manhood.

  Bronty bit down hard on the length of rope that had been placed between her teeth as the most powerful contraction yet squeezed her abdomen. An involuntary groan of pain escaped her clenched jaws.

  “I want to push.” She gasped.

  “Not yet.” Ordered Morwen. “Don’t push yet. You will only end up tearing yourself. Stay calm and push when I tell you to and not before.”

  “Oh, goddess.” The pregnant woman cried, her voice rising to almost a scream. “Please let it be over soon and I promise I’ll be your most devout follower, only let it be over soon!”

  Morwen and her sisters laughed gently. “We have all made vows like that, my girl. It doesn’t make the baby come any easier. But don’t worry – the goddess will not hold you to any oaths you make during the pain of birth.

  Bronty grunted in relief at the momentary respite from the contractions. “How much longer, Morwen?” She begged.

  “Soon, my child.” She answered in soothing tones as she wiped the young girl’s brow with a cooling wet cloth. “The baby will be here soon.”

  Gryffin stalked around the torchlit circle, new shield strapped to his left arm, wooden stave gripped spear like in his right hand. Although there could be no ‘failing’ in this part of the ceremony, all boys knew that failure to put up a good display of skill could so ruin a reputation that they would never be called to serve the village except in dire circumstances. This is what all the newly created men feared more than anything. The crowd had been almost silent through the first part of the ritual combat, but now that only four remained in the battle circle, their support was becoming more vociferous. The older warriors started yelling well-meaning but often contradictory advice, whilst the women just called out encouragement. The four squared off into pairs and advanced slowly on each other. Gryffin had already beaten one opponent, surprising himself in the process with how well he had remembered all of Dougal’s lessons. He had not committed himself too hastily, forced himself to be patient and waited until the younger man to make a mistake. When the chance appeared to win the bout, he had taken it, his training spear thudding into his opponent’s chest. Now he found himself facing Baric, the blacksmith’s son. Although Baric was two years younger than Gryffin, he was already carrying the heavy muscle build by spending long hours at the forge learning to bend the stiffly resisting metal into a shape of his choice. They warily circled each other, observing defences and occasionally probing the others attentiveness with a feint thrust of their spears. Gryffin danced backwards as Baric finally committed himself to the attack with a flurry of thrusts. His shield swayed from side to side as he deflected or blocked each lunge as it came. When it seemed that the attack had spent itself, Gryffin moved forward with purpose, thrusting high and low, forcing Baric back over the ground he had forced Gryffin to yield moments before. They recommenced their wary circling of each other, both breathing heavily from their exertions, aware that in both speed and skill they were evenly matched. All around them the crowd roared in approval as the other combat finished with a spectacular flourish of skilful spear work from one of the contestants. It took all Gryffin’s willpower not to turn to turn his head to see what had happened on the other side of the ring to see the outcome for himself. Baric lacked the other’s focus and momentarily glanced to the side. He turned to find Gryffin leaping to the attack, his spear thrust out very low. The Blacksmith’s son tried to lower his shield enough to block it but found he could not move quickly enough. The blunt spear point hammered painfully into his knee, causing him to cry out in surprise and pain. The joint gave way slightly, causing him to stagger sideways. Anticipating such a result, Gryffin’s next thrust was out to the side of Baric’s original position, catching him squarely in the middle of the chest. The Blacksmith fell to the floor, all breath driven from his body by the force of the blow. Again, the crowd roared its approval. Savouring the sound, Gryffin confidently wheeled around in search of his last opponent. His smile of victory was short lived as he found the other quietly awaiting him, weapons at the ready. It was the new windborne, Sigur.