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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  The Island of Alba, Territory of the Cornovidi, 272 BCE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Part One: Hardship and a Long Sigh

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two: The Return of the King

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Three: The Light of Foresight

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Four: Argo in the Otherworld

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Afterword

  By Robert Holdstock from Tom Doherty Associates

  Praise for Robert Holdstock

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For the Sisters Three: Sarah, Nancy and Rachel

  … your country under bondage

  cattle straying on the ways

  for five tear sodden days

  hardship and a long sigh

  one against an army

  your own blood a red plague

  splashed on many a smashed shield

  on weapons and women red eyed

  the field of slaughter growing red …

  from The Bull Raid on Cuailnge,

  from the Irish Celtic legend

  Is this the Warped One?

  We’ll have corpses’

  shrieks in our enclosures,

  tales to tell.

  ibid.

  THE ISLAND OF ALBA, TERRITORY OF THE CORNOVIDI, 272 BCE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Three of Awful Boding

  The great fortress of Taurovinda, its causewayed heights rising steeply from the Plain of MaegCatha, bloody playground of the Battle Crow, stood abandoned, burned and silent. The brooding forest encircling the plain had encroached deeply into the empty land around the hill. Twisted blackthorn, briar rose and scrub oak whispered at the base of the ramparts, edging closer, clawing at the towering earthen walls. The high watchtowers, blackened by fire, seemed to drift against the clouds. Nothing had passed the outer gate, however, save for the birds, the Dead, and those who lived outside of Time.

  The oldest of the Five Fortresses of Alba, stronghold of the warlord Urtha, mournful Taurovinda still defied the land that sought to bring about its corruption. It stood strong against the storm of nature. And for days, now, it had been calling to me: an urgent whisper, a sound-scent summoning me, drawing me from the seclusion of my hidden valley, away to the west.

  I crossed the plain from the evergroves, Taurovinda’s gloomy sanctuaries, spread along a curve in the mysterious river Nantosuelta, whose fords at this point the fortress guarded. I was aware, as I followed the traces of the path between groves and gate, that I was watched from the shadows of grey rocks and stooping oaks, which had grown as fast as weeds since the desertion of the hill. It was early spring, but the plain and the groves might have been in early summer.

  Enormous, steep embankments enclosed the hill, capped with high palisade walls of dark oak rising rank upon rank, enclosing a maze of roads. Five gates opened along these winding approaches between the earthen banks, the first carved with twin bull skulls, the second with the interlocking antlers of stags, the third with the leering faces of wolves, the fourth with human skulls grinning from hollows carved from elmwood columns, the fifth hung with the long-bones of two horses, tied in bundles, wrapped in horse-hide and topped with the red-painted skulls of Urtha’s favourite war-steeds. This was the Riannon Gate. The horses had pulled the king’s chariot in raids and carried his three children in fun. He had mourned their slaughter as he would mourn the death of a brother.

  It was a long climb, a gloomy climb, an ascent made in shadow and silence. From the Riannon Gate I surveyed the sprawl of houses and lodgings, animal sheds and barracks. The king’s hall lay ahead of me, long, steep-roofed, its great oak doors closed. It had been much repaired after the sacking of the fort and as I walked around the boundaries of the enclosure I saw the colour and sheen of shields lining its northern wall, the arms of ancestors and champions. But who had undertaken this renewal?

  I walked as far as the western gate, which looked out over willow marshes and a distant, untidy forest. Beyond that were rocky gorges, reaching to the edge of the Realm of the Shadows of Heroes itself: Ghostland, playing ground of the honoured dead and the as yet unborn.

  In the centre of Taurovinda was a dense orchard of apple trees and berry bushes, hazel spinneys and shimmering birch. This was the druids’ place, the place of deep shafts, deep tombs, stone shrines and bone shrines and the effigies of those who were invoked during the cycle of the year.

  Apart from the wind in the foliage, this too lay in silence.

  When the first sounds came, they were a surprise. I had expected to hear the same whispering summons that had called me to the fortress, but now I picked up a plaintive mewling, the sound of pain, three voices murmuring with pain, I thought. I noticed, also, the creaking of rafters, steady and slow. The crying seemed to come from the king’s hostel, and I walked past the wall of broken shields to the wide, double door of carved and red-painted oak.

  Now the doors were open; I could see they were broken, the intricately carved faces of horses and hounds battered, their colour fading. I entered the gloomy interior of the hall, but enough light streamed from narrow smoke holes in the roof to illuminate the grim and gory sight of three naked women hanging by the neck from the central rafter. Their hands were tied, their bodies flayed from throat to thigh, but they showed the sharp glitter of life and expectation in their eyes as they watched me, giving the lie to their apparent condition.

  Though I gagged for a moment, I had seen such threesomes many times before. In Greek Land they were commonly known as the Fates, and were easier on the eye, far easier, quite beautiful. In the north they were called Nornir, sometimes Skaldir, monstrous and sadistic women, with raging appetites for war, men and gore. In the forested gorges of my childhood, in the distant past, they had been Scrayzthuk and had worn patchwork cloaks of the hides of deer, jackal and bear over their own bodies, bodies that had been cut with flint knives to the very bone. They, like their later apparitions, were the organisers of birth, crisis and death; they were bad news masquerading as good; favourable fortune thinly daubed on worm-infested wood.

  The three before me now, common in these western lands, were the Three of Awful Boding. They were commonly found at the field of battle, or at a king’s house where murder would soon occur. I had heard them called the Morrigan. They could be beautiful or corpselike, depending on their whim. It was too much to hope that they were waiting for someone other than me, but I questioned them just the same.
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  ‘Are you waiting for Urtha, High King of the Cornovidi? He’s still coming home from Greek Land. He was badly hurt in combat, but is in good company; loving company.’

  ‘Not him,’ whispered Mornga, the oldest of this grisly threesome.

  ‘Then are you waiting for the king’s elder son, Kymon? He is hiding in Ghostland with his sister, Munda. They are still children. They survived the destruction of the fortress, but I don’t expect them home just yet.’

  ‘Not him, not them,’ whispered the second of the Three, Mornbad. The breeze from the open door blew on them gently, and the roof creaked as they turned, but their gaze remained fixed on me.

  ‘Then is it Cunomaglos, Urtha’s foster brother and closest friend, the man who betrayed him by abandoning Taurovinda, causing the death of his wife and younger son? Urtha pursued him to Greek Land and killed him. I saw the whole combat. We are not expecting Cunomaglos home at all!’

  ‘No, not that hound-harried wretch,’ Skaald, the third of the Three, whispered. ‘He prowls the edge of Ghostland, but he will always be denied.’ Her blackened features were draped with long, russet hair. It stuck to the raw flesh of her breast. It was this one who continued in that same ghostly whisper. ‘We are waiting for the timeless man who walks an endless path. A man of charm. A young man who should be old.’

  Eyes like ice gazed at me without blinking from the gruesome, throttled faces. Three crows settled on the hanged women, pecking lightly at their shoulders.

  ‘I think you’ve found him,’ I said.

  ‘We know,’ was the reply, almost amused. The crows seemed suddenly alarmed but it was merely a gust of wind curling through the hall. Skaald whispered, ‘Three are returning who are a threat to you. A fourth is already here and hiding.’

  I waited for enlightenment. They waited for me to ask for more. When I proposed the question, Skaald said: ‘The first is a man who needs you and will use you. He will weaken you dangerously.

  ‘The second is a man you betrayed, though you believe otherwise. He wishes to kill you and can do so easily.

  ‘The third is a ship that is more than a ship. She grieves and broods. She is rotting inside. She will carry you to your grave.’

  The crows had become very still, watching me quietly from their raw perches, as if waiting for me to respond to these ominous visions.

  I felt sure I knew to whom the first two ‘awful bodings’ referred, but I was puzzled by the reference to the ship. It had to be Argo, of course, the argonaut Jason’s fabulous vessel on which I had sailed with him in the past. But why did she represent a danger to me? She had just helped me escape from Greek Land; she had helped me come back to this island of Alba.

  She was a threat to me! She grieves and broods. She will carry you to your grave.

  It made no sense. Argo and I were friends, or so I’d thought. I was clearly missing something.

  This was an event that I would have to glimpse, in due course, but not yet. The cost to my strength of opening such foresight would be too great. For the moment I merely enquired after the fourth arrival, the one who was already in Alba, though I was sure of the answer I would get. Each of them spoke in turn.

  ‘Fierce Eyes,’ murmured Mornga.

  ‘Your childhood friend,’ whispered Mornbad.

  ‘Your lover,’ breathed Skaald, almost sneering. ‘The one you lost. She still loves you, but until you open your memory to the time in the long-gone when you were together, there can be no further love between you.’

  My childhood friend; the fierce-eyed girl who had become my lover, then abandoned me as she and I had been sent to walk the Path around the world, developing our powers of enchantment, forgetting everything about our pasts.

  She had ended up in Colchis, established as the Priestess of the Ram, and had taken a name that continued to live in legend.

  ‘Medea, then. Medea is already here. I understand, now. She has sent you to warn me off!’

  ‘Medea, yes; among her many names.’

  ‘She sent you.’

  ‘Her gift to you.’

  Her gift? These rank and rotting corpses? It took only a moment to realise that the gift was the ‘warning off’.

  ‘Your gift to her could be as easy as rejoining your path. Go away from this land. There will be other times for you and Medea.’

  ‘Where is she? Is she here now?’ I asked the Three, but they answered only, ‘In Ghostland. Stay away from her. She must protect herself from the Warped Man, Dealing Death.’

  And with that final statement, the encounter was concluded.

  I had no doubt that the ‘warped man’ was Jason, the man who had betrayed Medea seven centuries ago, and who, now that they were both in the same time again, sought to obliterate her from memory.

  After such an intervention by either Nornir or Fates, it was considered polite to host a feast, initiate games and allow for uninhibited sexual encounter. The thought sent a chill through me as I stood in the breezy house. Nothing in me was aroused by these clotting corpses and it was a relief to find that they, too—reading my expression, no doubt—thought the idea untenable. Their strangled laughter mocked me. A moment later, the crows spread their wings, jumped towards me and chased me from the king’s house.

  But I sat for a long while at the edge of the untended orchard, among the cairn-covered sacred shafts into the hill, thinking of what had been said, in particular what had been said concerning Argo. Argo was the means by which I had come here, to misty, mysterious Alba, hiding out and licking my wounds. She had once been Jason’s ship, and had become Jason’s grave; then she had been Jason’s resurrection and his new life. She had done much the same for me, though in a different manner.

  As the day advanced, and the sky darkened towards a storm, I thought back over seven hundred years, searching for a memory—any memory—that would make sense of the foreboding words from the grim trio.

  I remembered at once a terrible dawn in the harbour town of Iolkos, in Greek Land, where everything had begun …

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Blood Pact

  News of the murder passed from house to house and street to street throughout the city, spreading from the palace on the hill, through the markets and suburbs until it reached the harbour, with its silent fleets and stinking quays, where gulls screeched and nets rotted in the hot sun.

  ‘Glauce is dead! Jason’s lover is dead. His betrayed wife Medea has killed the princess! A witch spell from the barbarian north. Glauce is burned to ash and bone!’

  * * *

  Nine of Jason’s argonauts had stayed in Iolkos, after the quest for the Bloody Ram’s fleece and the abduction of its guardian, Medea. As each heard the news he gathered his armour and weapons and ran through the narrow alleys, calling for the man who had been the captain of Argo, most ancient of ships, strangest of ships, and taken her to the ends of the world.

  One of them, faithful, practical Tisaminas, knowing of my skills, first came to find me. I was one of the nine, and known as Antiokus at that time.

  I had been making ready to leave this warm, sweet part of the world, to venture on the Path again. Seven years with Jason had finally taken its toll, though I would be sad to leave the adventurer. His lust for life appealed to me, as did his mercenary tendencies, always pushing forward, always looking for something new, ever searching for spoils and charm in all senses of that word. We were the same side of the shield, he and I, at that time at least. The other side of the shield is laziness and complacency—to conquer part of the unknown, as he had done, too often leads to the disabling condition of believing you are invincible; timeless.

  Time, and the consequences of conceit, were catching up with Jason; but I still loved the man.

  Tisaminas entered my room, unannounced, in a panic, his eyes wild. ‘Glauce has been slain. By Medea! And she’s taken the boys to her palace. Jason’s sons. She intends to murder them too. She intends to destroy everything that is hers by Jason. Even us! Battle-harness and sword, Ant
iokus. Jason needs us.’

  I had not seen this coming. I had not been blind to the growing agony and fury in the enchantress from Colchis since Jason’s irresponsible courtship of the king’s daughter became a cause of great gossip, hatred and considerable diplomatic adjustment; I had been blind to the certain consequences.

  Following Jason’s desertion of her, Medea had withdrawn behind the cool, high walls of her stark, green-and-black-marbled palace. She had closed the heavy bronze doors. The smoke from the roof holes was heady, colourful and suspicious. Only the sound of horns and cymbals told clearly of her anguish. But for six full months she had done nothing but mourn, while her two children by Jason—Kinos and Thesokorus—had played innocently in the gardens of both father’s and mother’s houses.

  This murder came as a shock. Half-armed and half-dressed, I staggered after lithe Tisaminas, seeking Theseus. The hero, one of the original argonauts, was visiting his old friends. It would be essential to draw him to the fight as well. He had a vital way with the sword, and could help with the labyrinthine corridors of Medea’s palace. We met Anthos and Argastus in the olive market. They were armoured, sharp-eyed, not quite sure what was happening around them. Then Jason himself, in the company of Anteon and Hephastos and the others, caught up with us. The red-eyed, taut-cheeked man, his face stained with tears, his hair lank, led the way up the hill to the copper-green gates that protected Medea herself.

  Here for a moment he paused, wild eyes surveying the palace façade. I could smell his fear and his sweat. Medea’s guards were lined up on the nearer side of a blazing wall of fire. They carried long-bladed spears and curved shields marked with the head of Medusa. Their gleaming ram’s-skull masks, like crescent moons, half bright, half in darkness, were all the more sinister for the urgency of the situation. They seemed to laugh at us. Ten archers crouched behind them. From the palace beyond came the wilderness-screaming of women and the relentless, deep, three-beat rhythm of skin drums.