Free The Iron Grail by Robert Holdstock Page A

life. Life comes where life is demanded. He was sucking vitality from the humid air of the valley itself!
    ‘You know as well as I,’ he said, ‘that Ghostland is encroaching on us. That the war band will be facing an army of shadows. I’m proud of my children. But I believe that Urtha will return; and if that happens … can you imagine what it would do to him to find all his family dead? Please make sure that whatever happens—whatever!—those children are protected. You can do that, can’t you, Merlin?’
    ‘It’s certainly within my abilities,’ I reassured him.
    The grip on my arm relaxed. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the sprawl of painted animal figures that seemed to flow across the ceiling of this old home, like a herd of horned creatures and horses from some feverish dream. This was a very strange haven.
    ‘Why, I wonder? Why are they doing it?’ he mused. ‘Why cross the river? I have lain here for however long, and I cannot understand why the Dead should be unhappy with their own realm … to me, when I watch it from Mourne Hill, even from the river’s edge, I see the forests and fields of my strongest wish. I’d be happy there. If this split in my heart fails to heal, I’ll be content to ride through the tracks there, hunt the forests, cross to the islands. What has made them so angry? So warlike?’ His eyes met mine for a second. ‘Not a question for the likes of me, I can hear you thinking. Keep your senses alert, Merlin. You see farther than anyone I know.’
    ‘So I keep being told.’
    He drifted away from me. He had achieved what he wanted, with simplicity and candour: that I was to care for the children, and not to neglect my talents when it came to understanding the blighting wasteland beyond this valley.
    But now it was as if the uthiin had woken from a dream. The idea of a ‘quest ride’ set them combatively and competitively at each other. Only four of them could be spared to ride in search of recruits. So they engaged in games and a tournament to win the right to leave the camp of the exiles.
    Gorgodumnos was among the winners, and Cimmenos, and a young knight called Munremur, and his foster brother Cethern. These four then trimmed their beards and tied their hair, waxed their leathers and high boots and the curves and strips of bronze that they used to protect the more vulnerable parts of their bodies. They each selected a ‘full grip’ of the thin-shafted throwing javelins that were useful in all conditions of battle, and the smith keened the edges of their long-bladed iron swords. Lastly, they attached charms to their leather-scaled jackets and trousers.
    Amalgaid the poet was persuaded to pay them tribute in verse, though he clearly found it hard to say anything at all favourable about Gorgodumnos, who merely shrugged off the insult. ‘A poet’s tongue is like a bull’s prick,’ he said indifferently.
    We waited for him to explain, but he seemed to think his meaning was clear enough and turned away.
    Whatever darkness lay between them, no one referred to it. This was not the time to settle enmity between survivors of a greater threat.
    Provisioned, and given the protection of Nemetona after washing at the gushing spring, they rode out in a group at dawn, slowly at first, then at the canter, their wolf-cries echoing back along the valley for half the morning before at last all was silent again.
    *   *   *
    Later, Kymon sought me out; I was curled up against a rock, close to the stream, a favourite place. He sat down beside me, cross-legged, drawing his cape around his body to protect against the night dew. His hair was unbound, though he now wore a thin torc around his neck, signalling that he was taking the role of a warrior in the coming events.
    But he was less triumphal, more thoughtful.
    ‘How can the ghost of my great-grandfather, say, shoot an arrow that can kill me?’
    ‘On our side of Nantosuelta, the Dead are both dangerous and