The Defiler Read Free Page A

burned smooth.
    "So you didn't run away to save your own skin?"
    The stranger chuckled mirthlessly. "No, friend Ukko, I did not run. I arrived at the village too late to save them. Otherwise, if I thought it could have made a difference, I would have been down there with them at the last. As it was I saw the last few fall beneath the bloody swords of Feg's men. There was nothing I could do."
    "Well at least you didn't run in like an idiot and get yourself killed," Ukko said encouragingly. "That's something."
    "You'll have to excuse my ugly little friend," Sláine said. "He idolises cowards. I think he aspires to be one."
    "I already am," Ukko smirked. "And proud of it. The world can never be short of enough cowards, believe you me. The very foundation of any functioning society is built on cowardice."
    "I am not sure I understand, and to be honest I am not sure I want to understand," Siothrún said.
    "Oh, it is. It is," Ukko said enthusiastically. "Cowardice spawns discussion, alliances, treaties, even peace. Imagine a world filled with heroes. Not only would it be excruciatingly dull, dull, dull, it would be brutal. No hero ever solved a dispute by the power of his mighty intellect. He hits things. Cowards make life safe for normal folk like you and me. He who turns and runs away lives to run again another day."
    "Well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose," Siothrún conceded.
    "Don't listen to his blather, he'll have you convinced day is night and black is white and somewhere along the way to that revelation he'll have you parting with your purse and thanking him for making off with your money."
    "You say that like it is a bad thing," Ukko said, his grin anything but innocent.
    They talked some more, Siothrún recounting some of the stories he had heard on the road, Sláine sharing some of the horrors he had seen perpetrated in the name of Feg. They talked of death and sadness; of children being caught and set alight for the amusement of the soldiers, of wives being hunted like game, brought down by arrows in the legs and raped savagely for sport, criminals burnt alive in giant wicker effigies, and of the sickness blighting both crops and villagers across the desolate land.
    Siothrún reached across the pack for his harp. Setting it on his knee, he plucked a few stray notes, teasing a melody out of it as he adjusted the tautness of the strings. Like the harpist, his instrument was ugly to look at, but the beauty of both resonated through the music they created together. Siothrún sang a song of sorrow and joy, his voice rich and melancholic. It was a song of keening. A lament. His voice rose, his words bittersweet:
     
    " Do not look to my pillow in the morning
    Do not reach out to touch my cheek
    I am not there.
    I do not sleep.
    Do not look to my grave and weep
    Do not mourn, my love
    I am not there.
    I know no rest
    I am scattered on the thousand winds that blow away my pain
    I am the thief that steals from your heart
    I am the whisper half-heard in the night
    And when you turn
    I am not there.
    I have no face.
    I am melting in the newly fallen snow.
    I am the kiss of sunlight on ripened corn.
    I am the soft and gentle autumn rain on your face.
    I am not gone.
    I am here, my love, I am here."
     
    Siothrún laid his harp aside and closed his eyes. His pitted cheeks were stained with the tracks of his tears.
    "We will build a fire. You are welcome to join us later if you wish," Sláine said, offering the harper a few moments of solitude.
    Siothrún met his eye, and nodded his thanks. "I appreciate your kindness, friend Sláine. As, I am sure, Caoilfhionn would."
    "Think nothing of it, the kindness of strangers costs nothing, Siothrún."
    "And yet it can be the most precious kindness of all."
    "The pair of you have gone soft in the head," Ukko rolled his eyes. "I'm off to find some faggots to feed to the fire."
     
    They bedded down a short distance from the cairn. The fire burned low, crackling and spitting sparks.