He was a mere Outlander. No one would dance for him and no one would sing for him, for his ancestors were not Ratharryn’s ancestors.
Galeth, despite his huge strength, found it hard to free the arrows for the stranger’s cold flesh had tightened on the wooden shafts, but the shafts did at last come loose, though their flint heads stayed inside the corpse as they were supposed to do. All the tribes tied their arrow-heads loosely so that an animal or an enemy could not pull out the barbed flint which, instead, would stay in the wound to fester. Galeth tossed the three shafts away, then stripped the body naked, leaving only the flat piece of stone that was tied to the dead man’s wrist. Neel feared that the stone, which was beautifully polished, was a magical amulet that could infect Ratharryn with a dark spirit from the Outfolk’s nightmares, and though Galeth insisted that it had merely protected the man’s wrist from his bowstring’s lash, the young priest would not be persuaded. He touched his groin to avert evil, then spat on the stone. ‘Bury it!’
Galeth’s men used antler picks and ox shoulder-blade shovels to deepen the ditch beside the temple’s entrance to the sun, then Galeth dragged the naked body through the hazels and dumped it in the shallow hole. The stranger’s remaining arrows were broken and tossed in beside him, and then the spoil was kicked over the body and trampled flat. Neel urinated on the grave, mumbled a curse on the dead man’s spirit, then turned back into the temple.
‘Aren’t we finished?’ Galeth asked.
The young priest raised a hand to demand silence. He was creeping through the hazels, knees bent, stopping every other pace to listen, just as though he were stalking some large beast. Galeth let him go, presuming that Neel was making certain the stranger’s spirit was not clinging to the temple, but then there was a rush of feet, a yelp and a piteous howl from deep within the hazels and Galeth ran into the shrine’s centre to find Neel holding a struggling creature by the ear. The priest’s captive was a dirty youth with wild black hair that hung matted over a filthy face, so filthy that he seemed as much beast as human. The youth, who was skeletally thin, was beating at Neel’s legs and squealing like a pig while Neel flailed wildly in an attempt to silence him.
‘Let him go,’ Galeth ordered.
‘Hirac wants him,’ Neel said, at last succeeding in landing a stinging blow on the youth’s face. ‘And I want to know why he’s been hiding here! I smelt him. Filthy beast,’ he spat at the boy, then clouted him again. ‘I knew someone had been interfering here,’ Neel went on triumphantly, gesturing with his free hand at the carefully cleared space where the ox-skull sat, ‘and it’s this dirty little wretch!’ The last word turned into an agonized scream as the priest suddenly let go of the boy’s ear and doubled over in pain, and Galeth saw that the boy had reached under Neel’s bone-fringed tunic to squeeze his groin, and then, like a fox cub unexpectedly released from a hound’s jaws, dropped to all fours and scrambled into the hazels.
‘Fetch him!’ Neel shouted. His hands were clutched to his groin and he was rocking back and forward to contain the agony.
‘Let him be,’ Galeth said.
‘Hirac wants him!’ Neel insisted.
‘Then let Hirac fetch him,’ Galeth retorted angrily. ‘And go. Go!’ He drove the injured priest from the temple’s cleared centre, then crouched beside the hazels where the strange creature had vanished. ‘Camaban?’ Galeth called into the leaves. ‘Camaban?’ There was no answer. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘Everyone hurts m-m-me,’ Camaban said from deep in the bushes.
‘I don’t,’ Galeth said, ‘you know I don’t.’ There was a pause and then Camaban appeared nervously from deep inside the hazel thicket. His face was long and thin, with a prominent jaw and large green eyes that were wary. ‘Come and talk to me,’ said Galeth, retreating to the centre of the clearing. ‘I won’t hurt you. I’ve never hurt you.’
Camaban crept forward on hands and feet. He could stand, he could even walk, but his gait was grotesquely dipping since he had been born with a clubbed left foot, for which reason he had been named Camaban. The name meant Crooked Child, though most of the tribe’s children called him Pig, or worse. He was Hengall’s second son, but Hengall had disowned him and banished him from Ratharryn’s walls, dooming the child to scavenge a living among the folk who lived beyond the great embankment. Camaban had been ten when he was cast out, and that had been four summers before, and many marvelled that Camaban had lived since his banishment. Most cripples died very young, or else were chosen to die for the gods, but Camaban had survived. By now, if he had not been a cripple and an outcast, he would have taken the ordeals of manhood, but the tribe would not take him as a man so he was still a child, the crooked child.
Hengall would have preferred to kill Camaban at birth because a crippled son was a disastrous omen, worse than a daughter, but the boy had been born with the red mark on his belly and the mark was shaped like a crescent moon and Hirac had declared that the baby was marked by Lahanna. The child might yet walk, the high priest had said, so give him time. Camaban’s mother had also begged for his life. She had then been Hengall’s oldest wife and had been barren for so long that it was thought she would never give birth. She had prayed to Lahanna, as all childless women do, and she had made a pilgrimage to Cathallo where Sannas, the sorceress, had given her herbs to eat and made her lie one full night wrapped in the bloody pelt of a newly killed wolf. Camaban came nine moons later, but was born crooked. His mother pleaded for him, but it was the moon mark on Camaban’s belly that persuaded Hengall to spare the boy. Camaban’s mother never had another child, but she had loved her wolf-son and when she died Camaban had wailed like an orphaned cub. Hengall had struck his son to silence and then, in disgust, had ordered that the cripple be cast outside Ratharryn’s wall.
‘Are you hungry?’ Galeth now asked the boy. ‘I know you can talk,’ he said after waiting for an answer, ‘you talked just now! Are you hungry?’
‘I’m always hungry,’ Camaban answered, peering suspiciously from under his tangle of matted hair.
‘I’ll have Lidda bring you food,’ Galeth said. ‘But where should she leave it?’
‘B-b-by the river,’ Camaban said, ‘where Hirac’s son died.’ Everyone knew that benighted place downstream from the settlement. The high priest’s child had drowned there, and now a sloe bush, which Hirac claimed was his son’s spirit, grew among the alders and willow.
‘Not here?’ Galeth asked.
‘This is secret!’ Camaban said fiercely, then pointed up to the sky. ‘Look!’ he said excitedly. Galeth looked and saw nothing. ‘The p-p-post!’ Camaban stuttered. ‘The p-post.’
Galeth looked again. ‘The post?’ he asked, then remembered that there had been one post of the death house left in the Old Temple. It had been a familiar enough landmark, jutting and leaning from the clump of hazels, but now it was broken. The lower half was still planted in the earth, but the upper part lay charred and shattered among the undergrowth. ‘It was struck by lightning,’ Galeth said.
‘Slaol,’ Camaban said.
‘Not Slaol,’ Galeth said, ‘Rannos.’ Rannos was the god of lightning.
‘Slaol!’ Camaban insisted angrily. ‘Slaol!’
‘All right! Slaol,’ Galeth said good-naturedly. He looked down at the wild-haired boy, whose face was contorted with rage. ‘And what do you know of Slaol?’
‘He t-t-talks to me,’ Camaban said.
Galeth touched his groin to deflect the god’s displeasure. ‘Talks to you?’
‘All night sometimes,’ Camaban said. ‘And he was angry because L-L-Lengar came back and t-t-took the treasure away. It’s Slaol’s treasure, see?’ He said this last very earnestly.
‘How do you know Lengar took the treasure?’ Galeth asked.
‘B-b-because I watched him! I was here! He t-t-tried to kill Saban and didn’t see me. I was in here.’ Camaban twisted