The Defiler Read Free

Weird then?"
    "Who does not? A man of his appetites earns his fame."
    "More importantly," said Ukko. "His weirdness knows old Sláine here."
    "Indeed? Feg's soldiers sought Caoilfhionn out. Her friends tried to hide her but what can a handful of farmers do against armed soldiers?"
    "Precious little," Sláine agreed. "They turned her over to the skull swords?"
    "No, they refused, forcing the soldiers' hand. These were simple people. They couldn't have anticipated the wrath their refusal brought down upon their heads. The skull swords went from house to house, setting fire to every homestead in the village and still they would not give her up, so the soldiers dragged one of the women into the village square and cut her tongue out, promising to do it again, every five minutes, until Caoilfhionn gave herself up. She had no choice. She surrendered to save her friends; her life in exchange for theirs. The cowards slit her throat, bleeding her out into the dirt like some fatted calf. And worse, they forced her friends to watch her die."
    "And then they killed them," Sláine said, supplying the end of the bloody story.
    "And then they killed them," the stranger agreed. "War - because that is exactly what this is, make no mistake - war should be between soldiers, not slaughtering peasants whose only crime is poaching to fill their bellies. Not burning down their homes. Not slitting the throat of a woman who made love potions and told people stories to bring happiness. It is barbaric." There was anguish in his voice, sadness in his eyes.
    "These are black times," Sláine agreed.
    "That they are, my new friend, that they are. Come, sit with me, raise a jug of pocheen and toast the departed on their way to the Otherworld."
    "It would be an honour to stand vigil with you."
    The man held out his hand. "Siothrún."
    Sláine clasped Siothrún's wrist. "Well met, Siothrún. I am Sláine Mac Roth, and this little weasel is my, and I use the term very loosely, friend, Ukko."
    They broke cornbread on the roadside. The thick cakes were dry and needed considerable chewing to digest, but they were food. Sláine hadn't realised how hungry he was until he had swallowed the first dry mouthful and felt his gut revolt. He crammed the rest of the cake into his mouth and ate ravenously.
    Siothrún pulled a clay jar of potato wine from his sack and uncorked it. He took a swig and handed it to Sláine. It was a bitter brew, and potent. Sláine drank deeply, feeling the bite of the alcohol even before the first swallow was halfway down his throat.
    He smacked his lips and passed the jar on to Ukko.
    "They killed everyone, yet you live," Ukko said, stating the obvious. He took a deep swallow and spluttered, nearly coughing up half of his lungs. "That's disgusting! The drink," he said a moment later. Ukko shook his head violently, contorting his face as though trying to scrape the taste of the pocheen from his tongue with the top row of his teeth. "Not the fact that you're alive. You being alive is good, obviously." He broke off into a coughing fit. Sláine slapped him on the back, hard enough to rattle his jaws. "Much better than being dead."
    "Ah, thank you for clarifying. Yes, I live. Though I will confess that right now it feels like my curse. I live but I don't weep for the lost. These were my friends too, my people. I should weep for them. I ought to be wracked by grief. Instead Feg's men have planted a black need for vengeance in my soul. I want them to hurt. I want them to fear for their children, their wives. I want them to forget what it feels like to be safe. I want their homes to be ash, their loved ones dead at their feet. And they have done this to me."
    Sláine took the jar of potato wine back from Ukko and drank deeply. He felt a moment's light-headedness as he turned too quickly to pass the clay jar back to Siothrún, who stoppered it and stowed it back in his pack. As he did, his sleeve rode up, revealing a small crescent-shaped scar, the skin