Lisa Agnew
Copyright 2011 Lisa Agnew
Smashwords Edition
Throughout the ages, it has been called many things – names both base and exquisitely beautiful. Names that, in translation, mean terrible and beautiful things. Firebrand, The Screamer, Widow Maker, Scythe of God, Sword of the Desert, Hiss of the Wind.
A sword, of course, has no soul of its own, yet the souls of those who have carried it, and the souls of those it has slain imbue it with something akin to soul.
I am Abeth, voice of the Sword. I narrate without conscience, for I have witnessed things that no conscience could bear, throughout the many ages of the Sword.
- O -
223 BCE
Rael
A clear blur of ozone hung incandescent over the mountains. The higher peaks, deep in the range, glittered with a smattering of snow. Here above the Pass however, the view was unbroken to the valley.
Rael ducked low to avoid the overhang of the cave. There was no hoar frost here as there would have been on the plain where he had been born, yet it had been cold enough for it last night. Here in the mountains though, conditions were not right. He stared over the panorama of hill and valley, searching the details of crag and crevice that he had come to know. He could see no movement yet.
He yawned and shook an unkempt mane of brown hair, cleared his nostrils with two quick snorts, and walked a distance towards boulders brought down by some rock fall of ages past to relieve himself. Eight moonrises he had been here amidst the mountains. Eight moonrises he and the other mercenaries had camped with the tribesmen, waiting for the final onslaught, and the time that they could prove their worth.
Rael knew that today was the day, and he revelled in the knowledge.
He glanced down at his side, at the great shard of forged metal hanging from his waist. The sword never left his side; not when he was sleeping, not when he was fornicating. Never. The sword had become an extension of him, advertising his prowess every bit as much as the thick silver torque around his neck. He had found it whilst still a child, a sprog of six, in a bog near the plain of his home, out in the centre of this island to which his tribe had sailed and settled long before his birth. He had spotted its soft warm gleam beneath the surface of the brackish water, had reached out greedily, expecting to withdraw a golden chain or a fallen warrior’s torque within his chubby hand. The hilt of the weapon was lodged in mud, and Rael had been forced to dig for his prize instead. Yet he had understood its significance even then, and had never hinted of its existence to anyone until he had been old enough to wield it in anger.
Rael smiled at the remembrance. He had killed three men and taken his first woman that day. All because of the sword. Now its image was tattooed on his back, as his arms were tattooed with symbolic images of his ancestry; animals real and imaginary, as were all his tribe. Yet the sword was his identity now, much more than his tribe had ever been. He was here, in these mountains now, because of the sword. It was the reason his mercenary skills were so in demand. He had never been defeated whilst wielding the sword – and he always wielded it.
“Rael!” The spell of remembrance snapped at the sound of the voice. Rael looked up, scowling. “We must make the valley early today. Everything is ready.”
Rael nodded. “I’m ready, Cunrewc.”
He returned to the cave to join his comrades-in-arms, and march down into the valley.
Cunrewc was leader of their group, a stocky, typically Celtic-looking man, with bronze blond hair and wide, steady eyes, chieftain of the local tribe here in the mountains, one of the triad of leaders fighting a war against interlopers from the south-east. The conflict had turned their way since the last moonrise. His warriors were full of heady optimism.
Rael took his place at the head of the band with the other principal fighters as they followed a track down the mountain-side into the trees of the valley. These sheer granite behemoths had been occupied for generations by hardy people grown used to the toil and reverence demanded by such a landscape. They had learned to love these mountains – their soaring majesty and sheer drops, the extremes of season, an insistent respect for the dangers that lurked everywhere. The mountains had heart. They instilled backbone, it was said. Rael though had no great love of stone. He was a man of open spaces. He was, however, also a disciplined fighter, a warrior of fortune, and stoic of necessity.
They reached the lower land, the tree line within the valley, and stopped to wait.
“They will come through Skeleton Pass,” said Cunrewc. “There is no other way for them now.”
Rael smiled grimly at the name of the place.
They rested on the ground and on the handful of boulders that had rolled within the tree line from higher ground. All around them the boughs were just beginning to open green-leaved to the spring.
As they waited, Rael could feel envious eyes upon his sword. The mercenaries especially coveted his prize. He had had to kill two of them already. Now, they only looked, yet Rael felt gratified by their jealousy. He knew it propelled him above these people.
“… above and over the blind section of the Pass,” Cunrewc was saying. “They will be expecting an assault, of course, but not this early. Selthor will trap them from behind, cutting off the retreat. Bor’s are marching in from the North. They will join Selthor. We confront the enemy as they are shunted into the valley.”
“They are such stupid cur!” shouted one of the tribesmen.
Rael turned to face him. “Why do you say that? Have they not fought hard? Have they not killed many of our number? Respect you enemy, or they will pull out your heart and eat it in front of you!”
The tribesman shot Rael a look of hatred, yet said nothing further. Rael smiled another grim smile and sauntered to the edge of the gathering, rubbing his hands together as had become his habit when preparing for battle. He then gently touched his talisman armband.
He had visited the shrine of the Shining One on his way here from the plain of his people. He had stood among the old gnarled oaks above the mightiest river flowing in this part of the country. Not usually a spiritual man, he had felt confirmation sweep over him, like a breeze through his being, and had known then that he would win this fight on behalf of these people of the West.
Cunrewc watched him from the head of their contingent.
Cunrewc respected Rael’s ability and his weapon. He did not, however, like the man. Rael was arrogant, surly of nature, had a nasty habit of taking tribeswomen against their will whenever he found them roaming the foothills collecting berries and tubers. Rael was not a big man but had developed a big man’s ego merely because he could not be stopped - because of the sword.
The mercenary never seemed to tire of talking about the weapon. He had named it Firebrand, and indeed it appeared to be a bright bolt of cold fire as Rael handled it. Cunrewc had examined it surreptitiously, from a distance by firelight as Rael slept. It was an alloy metal, he had decided, but stronger than bronze or even iron. The sword was so finely crafted. He had asked where the sword had come from, and Rael had told him the story of how he had found it, adding that he suspected it was a gift to him from the goddess of the water mass.
Cunrewc doubted any goddess would see fit to bestow gifts upon Rael. It probably originated in the eastern lands. He had heard that people there knew how to alloy metals with great vigour, creating weapons that would shear clean through any native variety. Rael’s weapon looked as though it could have come out of the east, with its finely shaped hilt and massive, polished blade. Cunrewc even thought he could see the glint of jewels in the hilt from time to time, but had never be able to get close enough to be certain.
It was evening before they had word of the enemy. Sentries returned with news of their allies, who were driving the foe through Skeleton Pass. Cunrewc resumed command from the front of the ranks, and they started into the Pass.
Dusk descends quickly in mountain climes. It was soon completely dark.
The moon was waxing. The tribesmen moved forward in loose formation, animal-skin cloaks wrapped snugly around their torsos, concealing weapons and keeping out the cold. The mercenaries prowled around them, scanning a landfall washed charcoal and silver under the moon’s light.
Rael walked with Cunrewc, watching as Skeleton Pass opened out before them. Huge chunks of mountain littered the narrow valley floor. Dark-boughed trees climbed each side in sparse clumps until they met the rocky scree of the higher slope. Further above, the silhouette of the mountains was outlined in moonlight.
Rael chuckled to himself, then drew the sword from its scabbard merely to hear the hiss of its blade against the sheath.
“This is what she was forged for,” he said almost lovingly, passing a hand over the silver-coloured, finely worked blade.
Cunrewc looked over at him, scowling slightly. “Let’s hope she does her job well. This is my life and the lives of my clansmen.”
“She’ll do her job,” he replied, absolute conviction in his voice, “and I’ll do mine.”
They had walked perhaps two miles into the Pass before they heard sounds of their foe before them. Cunrewc brought them to a halt, signalling for them to disperse into the surrounding trees. There most crouched in silence. Rael elected to stand in the shadow cast by one of the larger trees, sword unsheathed, head down, waiting with the rest.
The noise of approaching conflict grew louder. A few shadowy figures fled down the length of the gorge before the hidden men, like wraiths of souls fallen in battle.
Cunrewc let them go. The sounds of conflict were moving towards them. There was no time to deal with the enemies’ deserters. They could be rounded up later. Another moment and they could see the scuffling warriors - tribesmen dressed in a similar fashion to themselves, in defensive stance against a ferocious double onslaught.
“Firebrand!” screamed Rael, stepping out into the open gorge.
An answering cry went up as men followed him into the open to attack the unsuspecting ranks at the rear of the body of interlopers.
Cunrewc swore to himself. That currish mercenary thought himself a leader of men now! “Push them back towards Selthor and Bor!” he shouted to his men. “Crush them between us!”
Cunrewc’s reinforcements encountered little in the way of forceful resistance. The interlopers had been battered by Selthor and Bor and were near exhaustion. Surprise their main weapon, the fresh warriors slew their enemy almost effortlessly. At one point, having just dispatched a foe, Cunrewc paused momentarily to watch Rael, an enemy warrior just behind him. In that split second, he hoped the enemy would kill him, that cocky cur, even though it would mean that the sword, Rael’s precious Firebrand, could conceivably fall into the hands of their enemy.
As he looked on, some warning sense made Rael turn. Sword blade presented, he parried the interloper’s blow, breaking the man’s own blade in the process. Then he skewered him gleefully through the heart and looked up across the narrow battlefield, his eyes meeting Cunrewc’s.
He smiled his cold, grim smile.
The battle proved short. Their adversaries were well routed. Prisoners were gathered into groups and shackled, ready to disperse amongst the three tribes who shared the victory.
“These cur have put up a good struggle,” Cunrewc admitted as he, Bor and Selthor met to congratulate each other in the middle of the Pass. “Three winters they have tried to take this land by force.”
“They’re greedy for iron,” Selthor, a woman of early middle age, put in. “I have interrogated some prisoners we took at Raven’s Broad a moon since. They hunger for ore, and know of the gold deposits on the Mystics’ Isle. They believed they could steal our souls with their warriors and their metal!”
Cunrewc nodded. “They did fight well though.”
“We fought better!” Bor grinned like a wolf. He was a lithe man of sinew and energy, who took obvious delight in warfare.
“Yours fought well, Cunrewc,” carried on Selthor. “They were losing, of course, by the time you joined us, yet our combined forces shattered them! I saw a man of yours, a mercenary I believe, wielding a sword of unparalleled beauty.”
“Rael,” Cunrewc acknowledged.
As if he had heard his name mentioned Rael materialised from the shadows of people, men and women both, moving through the midst of the Pass.
“I want my due now, Cunrewc,” he announced abruptly. “I’m leaving these forsaken mountains. My talents are no doubt needed elsewhere.”
Selthor and Bor looked the mercenary up and down. Whilst they acknowledged the skill of such men, and often made use of them during inter-tribal scuffles and any larger conflicts, mercenaries were never men to be trusted. Bor’s eyes lingered on Firebrand, stained with blood, clenched in the man’s fist.
“Let me see the sword, mercenary,” he said, extending a hand.
Rael scoffed. “None but I feel her weight in my fist. She was gifted to me.”
The three leaders exchanged a glance.
“Alright, Rael,” put in Cunrewc. “No one is planning to rob you.”
The shallow, cold smile spread across the mercenary’s features. “You could not even if you dared. You know what has happened to those who have tried.”
“Give the man his price and bid him from our lands, Cunrewc,” muttered Selthor.
“Five pieces of gold for each moon you have fought with us. I don’t carry metal like that into battle. You will have to return to the cave with me to retrieve it.”
Even in the scant moonlight, Cunrewc could see Rael’s eyes harden. “Very well,” he snapped, and disappeared immediately amongst the groups of various tribesmen and prisoners.
It was the cold hour before dawn, and the moon had set before the tribes took their leave and started out for their homes with an allotted number of prisoners. Cunrewc had two dozen to escort back through the mountains. From there, each settlement would take three or four prisoners to utilise as they wished. Any disagreements between the settlements under his leadership and Cunrewc was within his rights to commandeer the outstanding number of prisoners.
Of all the booty taken from their enemy, there was nothing to match the beauty or efficiency of Firebrand. There was much personal jewellery, torques and brooches, rings, pendants, charms. Some fine daggers and swords, heavy shields, helmets, boots. A satisfactory haul, if not outstanding. Cunrewc offered Rael and the other mercenaries booty in lieu of the gold he had promised, and whilst some, whose asking price was not as high, took up the offer, Rael scoffed.
“I need no other weapons. I need no baubles to adorn me. I want what I was promised, Cunrewc. Eight moons I’ve been with you! There is nothing here to match the value of forty pieces of gold.”
It took them a further day to return to the cave. The prisoners did nothing to co-operate and six of their number were put to the sword before they came to realise the wisdom of meekness.
Rael felt his buoyant mood dispel as they traipsed back into the deeper mountains. With no more fighting to come, he had no reason to dwell amidst jagged barren peaks. He spoke to no one.
As soon as they arrived at the cave they were greeted warmly by those who had been left behind to guard the site. They had heard the news, having picked off a few of the enemy’s deserters who had strayed close to the camp. Rael, however, joined none of the celebrations, gave no thanks to the manifestation of the Three-Faced One carved into stone at the rear of the cave. When he found the opportunity, he pestered Cunrewc again.
“Alright, Rael!” Exasperated by the return trek back with the prisoners, Cunrewc turned to face the persistent mercenary. “Take your gold and be gone!” He crossed to the
rear of the cave and rummaged for a while amongst the pile of domestic detritus that had built up during their occupation.
After no apparent success in finding what he was after, he turned to one of the men.
“Where is the hoard, Gathen?” he said.
Gathen, a tall, impressive-looking man who had been left to watch over their home base, immediately looked worried. “I have seen no one move your belongings. Perhaps your woman has put it somewhere.”
“My woman returned to her village two moons hence if you do not remember!”
Gathen reddened. “I have not touched your gold, Cunrewc. I have watched the cave day and night!”
Ire got the better of Cunrewc. He grabbed out at Gathen, holding him by the throat.
“Where is it, then? That gold is the tribe’s! It is to pay the mercenaries!”
Gathen shook his head with difficulty.
“Can you pay me from your hoard, Gathen?” asked Rael, watching from the centre of the cave.
Gathen glowered at the mercenary as Cunrewc let go of his throat. Facing questions from his chief was one thing; being interrogated by a churlish mercenary was something else again.
“Pay you? I cannot pay you in gold, you know that!”
“I think you can pay me, but perhaps not in gold.”
“Are you accusing me?” he shouted across at the smaller man. “Who are you but a dog who fights with no honour, a cur who does battle only for gold!”
“A cur who won your tribe’s fight for you, and who now wishes to be paid!”
Those standing close to Rael heard a hiss like that of an animal preparing to spring. Too late, Gathen heeded the glitter of metal in Rael’s hand, and reached for his sword.
Rael smote the tribesman with a single slash of the blade.
For an instant, there was shocked silence, yet then the stunned warriors, tribesmen and mercenaries alike drew their own swords. As Gathen lay bleeding at Rael’s feet, Cunrewc stepped forward.
“You may be Rael of the Firebrand, or you may merely be a stinking dog from the Plain Beyond Hills. Whichever way, you are outnumbered here, and you will die for that act of murder.”
“I accept that man’s life as payment,” said Rael, only now realising that he may have acted too hastily. “I ask for no more. You would do well to let me pass, or I shall have no option but to take your life and the lives of anyone else who stands in my way.”
“You are arrogant, Rael!” Cunrewc cried, his voice rising. “You treat us with contempt and expect us to thank you for it! We are warriors, honourable men …”
He never finished. The man standing next to him, a tribesman, made a sudden dive at Rael.
The mercenary parried elegantly, drawing the blade up to cut the man’s bicep red with Firebrand’s point. Undeterred, the tribesman lunged again, slashing out at Rael’s neck. The mercenary stepped back and aimed a lightning quick thrust at the man’s midriff. The tribesman doubled over, dropping his weapon.
This time is was not one, but many men who stepped forward, swords raised in attack. As good as Rael was, he and Firebrand could not keep over a dozen men at bay.
He managed to fight off three before someone struck him from behind. The blow, with the hilt of a sword, stunned him, and he went to his knees. Yet he still managed to keep his adversaries at bay with Firebrand flashing ire in his hands, and glanced over his shoulder to see who had not had the courage to face him in combat.
Cunrewc stood at his shoulder, sword raised.
“That is the only way to defeat me,” Rael said quietly. “None who face Firebrand live. You know that to be true.”
The chieftain nodded. “I know that to be true.”
As the horde of men came down upon him, hacking with their weapons, Rael surrendered to the onslaught. He had always somehow known that he would never get out of these mountains.
The mercenary died clasping Firebrand lovingly to his bosom.
- O -
And so the Sword changed hands, remaining long in the possession of a single clan of Celtic North Wales, passing from parent to child. Firebrand it remained, held in quiet awe by its owners and those it faced in battle, until, more than two centuries later, it fell into the hands of a man sworn to fight a far more determined band of interlopers.
60 CE
Lledur
Wherever he looked, there was devastation. Of all the battles and skirmishes he had fought, he had never seen such destruction. The Legion had razed everything. Mona was no more.
Lledur stood on the beach, looking up at the burnt palisades below a sombre sky, and wept. Beside him, other warriors did likewise.
“Anu strike them! Fry their livers and send them to their hell!”
“What good will that do?” said Lledur, voice hoarse with emotion.
His neighbour glared at him. “Pain and horror for the invaders such as they dealt to our kin!”
“Revenge will not return Mona or the Groves to us.”
The other man scoffed. “You are a warrior as well as an acolyte, Lledur. Even now the Iceni are routing the Ninth! Mona will rise anew. We will overcome!”
Lledur knew that was not true. He had foreseen as much. Perhaps the destruction of Mona signalled the beginning of the end for his people and his culture. The Romans had come. The beaches were stained with blood. Lledur knew that this was the way it would be for years to come.
His neighbour had turned away to join an expedition to hunt for survivors within the island’s interior. Lledur, though, could not face it. Instead, he turned to face the Menai Strait, red water frothing in the depths where sharks had arrived from the Irish Sea to thrash amid the gore.
His contingent had arrived hours too late. He was sure there was no one left alive. Suetonius Paullinus had led his Roman legion over the North Welsh coast to Anglesey, the Celtic haven of Mona, and razed it. The Groves, Druidic temples, were gone. The school was gone. Mona, centre of the Gold Road, was gone.
Lledur had always loathed the Romans. Now he vowed to do all in his power to destroy them.
It was the latter half of the first century of a new millennium, according to the Roman calendar. Britain had been successfully invaded, after three attempts. Now was the time for consolidation.
From fortress towns in the South of what would, some day, be England, curates appointed from Londinium governed the surrounding countryside. Their garrisons kept the native tribes compliant, and an uneasy, unwritten truce prevailed.
In 60 CE however, rebellion was sown as the Iceni tribe, led by their widowed queen Boudicca. The rebels succeeded in destroying Camulodumum, Verulamium and Londinium as vicious retribution for their equally vicious treatment at Roman hands. After razing the three cities, Boudicca and her followers managed to annihilate the Ninth Legion before being decimated themselves. Suetonius, ruiner of Mona, saw to that.
60 CE was a black year for the native Celts. The loss of Mona and the failure of the Iceni uprising struck at the heart of their collective nationhood, which had remained strong, despite the yoke of Roman rule. Now, as famine stained the land in the aftermath of their tragedies, British desperation threw up bands of predominately leaderless warriors bent on waging a guerrilla war against the imperialists. Lledur of the Ordovices joined one such band.
The landscape was a contrasting mass – bleak and hilly to the north-east, boggy to the south, deeply wooded to the west.
The bog, in particular, seemed to draw Lledur. Yet to most of the exiles, it was an evil, malodorous place. Indeed, so frightened were some, they risked discovery by the Romans by camping at the periphery of the Demilitarised Zone, as far away as possible from the brackish mass of water. Lledur, though, felt serenity exuding from the area. The drear atmosphere somehow seemed to comfort him.
He had been in this present encampment for three months, having fled into the Demilitarised Zone when his former band, based near Calleva, had been ambushed and almost destroyed. Lledur had been with the band for a year. He had lost a number of good friends during that final Roman attack.
Morale was low among the exiles. There were about a hundred people in the Zone, mostly dispossessed of their own land by the Romans, or members of various decimated guerrilla bands; their numbers growing occasionally as the newest influx of routed freedom fighters managed to find their way there. The leaders of this dishevelled group had spent the last two months, since their newest recruits had arrived, arguing amongst themselves. Druids and warriors, they were at fundamental odds with one another over how best to continue the fight against Roman imperialism. Of only one thing were they certain – the Romans were winning. Lledur, who was in the unusual position of being both apprentice druid and fully fledged warrior, could not abide the indecision. He had his own ideas on how to better their chances. Yet being only an acolyte, he knew that the Head Druid of their group, a man called Geeneth, would not heed any advice he had to offer. Lledur had no chance now of completing his Druidic training, which was the way to gain influence within the group of exiles. He was gifted in the natural arts. He was also gifted, thanks largely to the sword handed down through the male line of his family for generations beyond his ability to memorise the names, in the art of war. He had an affinity with the warriors of the group. Recently he had approached the leader of the warriors with an idea.
Callem, a tall, grim-looking man who had seen too many battles, was initially taken aback at the suggestion. Yet Lledur pushed him to make an approach to Geeneth. So it was that the council summoned Lledur before them, in the grove of elder trees deep inside the Demilitarised Zone.
“You are an acolyte,” Geeneth was saying. “However expert in the art of war, you are but an acolyte here. You are not one to be burdened with such ideas as this.” The Druid gazed at him impassively below heavy-lidded eyes.
Lledur stared back. The day was overcast, and the Druid looked insipid in the weak light.
“It is what is needed” he replied simply.
“You talk of Divine Sacrifice as if it is an everyday occurrence,” continued the Druid, his eyelids lifting a little in his annoyance. “The same idea has occurred to me. Yet it is a dire thing. We no longer sacrifice the human soul to feed the whims of warriors!”
“This is no whim!” said the youth, daring to raise his voice against his senior. “Think of the last few years! Famine, destruction of our groves and our tribes, our land taken, the yoke of imperialism placed about our necks! We have fought – it does no good. The Romans are too strong. We need divine intervention.”
“And you know how best to ask for it, do you, acolyte?”
“Yes! I know! And I am willing to make the sacrifice. I am willing to be that sacrifice. Am I not the perfect messenger? I am druid and warrior both!”
Geeneth watched him silently for a moment. A young man he was, too young to want to join his ancestors. Yet he was right. A young man was the best messenger.
“Why do you want to do this, Lledur?”
Lledur gazed back at Geeneth and then turned to face each of the Druid council in turn.
“Because it must be done,” he said.
That was that. It was the only option open to them now. They had fought their enemy, used their enemy’s tactics against them, to no avail. Now they had to turn back to their own culture, the very culture the Romans were busily attempting to destroy, and try to gain some final show of strength from older ways.
It was night. Lledur lay under his lean-to. The exiles did not build huts or leave any evidence for Roman scouts to find and possibly use to track them. They moved about the Demilitarised Zone in small groups, coming together at every new moon for a council discussion. Lledur lay there in silence, and let his mind walk.
He wandered the fen, exploring the water and scant groves of trees, feeling his druidic ability grow as he concentrated on the more intimate observations – a frog croaking softly beside a small, strangely shaped stone, an owl in a birch tree, watching over everything, just as he was; a fox on the scent of a vole, men coughing and stirring with lung sickness in their sleep, vapour rising from the bog into the starlight. Exploring further, he soared for a while in the ether, looking down upon the hill-forts to the north and west, extolling the moon as it rose now in the east, studying the gatherings of armed and armoured interlopers in encampments along the border of the Demilitarised Zone. The Romans were restless for some reason. He could discern an expectant air emanating from the camps. The Romans did not relish the fey atmosphere of the bogland and, for a brief moment, Lledur let himself hope that they were in the process of breaking camp in anticipation of a retreat. Yet, in reality, he knew it was not so. He let his mind wheel closer to one particular camp.
Large men in Roman raiment were moving amongst the tents. They were not Roman by birth, Lledur knew; more likely Germanic or even Celts of the Gaulish lands, yet they fought the Roman cause in this land. Some of them struggled with large weapons that could be used in siege, dragging contraptions of wood to the gate of the camp. Lledur realised they were preparing to leave and lay siege to some native encampment. Where, he could not guess. Yet they would attack, set siege, and ultimately win. Time was rolling towards their domination.
Lledur left the camp, returning to his own body beneath the lean-to. For a while, he pondered what he had witnessed, then rolled over in his furs and attempted to go to sleep.
Yet sleep would not come. His mind was working, not on anything in particular, but mulling and worrying over vague fancies. He felt himself fingering the sword that lay beside him in latent frustration. He wanted to DO something. Whilst they waited and skulked, the Romans were busy decimating all attempts at resistance. The sacrifice would be something, yet when that would come about, Lledur did not know. The time had to be right. The druids would know but, until then, they waited, waited!
He did not look upon the sacrifice as death. He was a druid – he knew that life did not end with physical departure. He would come again, yet when and in what form he could only attempt to guess. While he was in human form, he could only do his best for what he believed in. And his best was to take this message of homage from this world in the hop that those left to fight would be strengthened by it.
He fingered the sword once more, then peered down at the shape of its hilt in his hand. Embedded gems gleamed there, catching some faint light even as he looked. The huge blade itself was curved slightly, and bright as any sword he had ever seen. The metal did not tarnish like other men’s blades. Lledur polished and caressed it as he saw the other warriors do with their own weapons, but it was only for show. The integrity of the sword was stronger than any he had known. He wondered about it constantly – how it had come into his family, where it had been forged, indeed how it had been forged! Such strength! Who were these people who could forge such vigour into their weapons? If Lledur could answer that, he could drive the Romans from this land! He remembered that he had once been told that the sword had risen in the East, like the sun, and come westward with ancient folk. This, he realised, was probably a myth that had been told within his family to explain some of the questions surrounding it. Yet myth held power. At the root of all myth, there lay a grain of truth. Lledur, acolyte druid, realised this above most things. The sword looked Eastern. It had an aura. It was a thing that did not belong in this age of men. Lledur stroked the blade once more. Smooth. So smooth under his fingertips - like Eastern silk. It was neither Roman nor Grecian. He knew that the natives of the Black Land, long ago, had skill in metallurgy. Who could know what riches lay at the heart of that continent, from whence all ancestors had sprung at the root of time? There were even kingdoms east of there from where great warriors had come in elder days. They could well have forged the sword. Lledur’s mind flew over the possibilities, yet there was no way for him to know for sure.
At last, as his thoughts slowed and his consciousness delved into the realm of possibilities more and more sublime, he found his way to sleep.
Two moons passed.
It was spring now, with the Beltane festival approaching. There was no way for the outlaws of the Demilitarised Zone to celebrate the festival without risk of discovery by the Romans. The Romans were well aware of their existence within the Zone. They tolerated them, for they knew that the outlaws had no power and no organisation whilst they dwelt in the middle of a no-mans-land. They made the occasional foray into the Zone – more a show of strength than anything – and, once or twice, a few of the outlaws had been arrested and taken back to one or another of the Roman camps. Yet whilst the natives continued to be so disorganised, the Romans felt unthreatened. They did not know about the monthly meeting of the Druid and Warrior council. If they had known that, they would look upon the outlaws as more of a threat. If the Celts were to build the Beltane fires and celebrate their festival as it ought to be celebrated, they would leave themselves open to Roman attack. For while they basked in the glow of the fires, paying homage to the forces of life with one another, the Romans would zero in upon them, and there would be a wholesale slaughter.
Geeneth knew this as much as anyone. It rankled him. This was yet another manifestation of Roman imperialism. Now the Celts could no longer celebrate their own festivals.
He sent for Lledur.
“You know why I have asked you to come to me, Lledur?” he started.
They were out in the open, upon the slope of a hill overlooking the southern portion of the Demilitarised Zone; the bog land and sparse wood.
There was a joy in the earth at spring. Lledur could feel it emanating within him as he stood with the Druid to gaze over countryside made bright and hopeful by the season.
“I think I can guess.”
“You have a brave heart, Lledur.” Geeneth turned to look into his face. “There are not many who would go willingly to your fate, let alone suggest that fate for themselves.”
“I am not brave. I know the power of such sacrifice. I will be elevated in the life that follows.”
“Perhaps.” The Druid looked dubious for a moment. “I have decided upon a time, Lledur.”
Lledur had realised as much. If it were not so obvious, he would have been able to pull it from Geeneth’s mind.
“Beltane,” he said.
Geeneth nodded. “It will be our way of celebrating. The Romans will not have everything their way, even as they conquer us.”
“So you believe it also?” He gazed plaintively at the druid. “They will be victorious?”
The older man nodded again.
“Then why do you agree with this notion of sacrifice if you think I am to die from this life for nothing?”
“At first I thought that,” said the Druid, “yet now I know what you know. You are very powerful, Lledur. The Romans will get what they want, seemingly. Yet we will remain. Our people are not destined to die off as they would have us die off. We will remain here, in body, in heart and in soul. Those born after you have died will be born with the blood of Celts, even if they be spawned by a Roman father, or a father of some race as yet unknown in this place. A Celt does not need to be wholly housed in a body of flesh to survive, as you very well know, Lledur, or else you would not be willing to make this sacrifice.” He paused, as if with a sudden thought. “You are not ignorant of the flesh, lad?”
Lledur shook his head. “I have celebrated Beltane many times, although I have no one woman.”
“Then you live on,” said the Druid. “Simple as that.” He wandered a short way down the hill and then waited for Lledur. “I have no power to foresee this land very far into the future. My gifts lie elsewhere, in the healing arts. You, who would be sacrificed, are the best candidate to officiate over your own death. You will be able to read the portents, I feel. You can see clearly, can you not?”
Lledur looked into the Druid’s languid face. “All I know is that the
Romans win, this time. They will not be here forever though. Others will come. Others will conquer. But it is as you say. Celts will still be here, at the edges, in the hills, beyond reach.”
Geeneth nodded sagely.
“So your sacrifice will not be in vain.”
It was the evening of May 1st, 62 CE, by the Roman calendar. The previous evening there had been a Roman foray into the Zone. Two of the rebels had been found, arrested, beaten into submission and dragged away. Callem had been one of the two unfortunates. Now everyone was on edge as they gathered near the copse at the head of the bog land.
Lledur was there, dressed in his finest – knee-high boots of good leather; leggings of stout, dyed goat-hide; his battle jerkin of hardened leather, scarred with a sword mark across the breadth of his back. Over the top he wore a red cloak of wool with feathers interlaced along its fringe. He wore no headdress.
At his side was the sword.
Firebrand would see no fire tonight, thought Lledur. It would do its work though, bright as a lick of flame. He unsheathed the sword and handed it to Dalmair, the Druid who would act as the sacrificer today. She was dressed in surreal garb of feathers and a shaggy half bird half bestial headdress. The exposed portions of her skin had been daubed with patterns of ochre, and her eyes held a gleam that informed Lledur she had partaken of the sacred potion.
She received the weapon with due reverence, then hefted it carefully in both hands, testing its weight. Lledur looked around at the gathering. There were perhaps thirty people; those who dared the vigilance of the Romans on this, a sacred day.
“Light the fire, Mordreth!”
Geeneth had arrived, looking splendid in the softened hide of a stag, the antler crown upon his head.
“We will have fire this night!” he exclaimed, grinning viciously. “It is Beltane, and no Romans are going to obliterate our worship.” He looked towards Lledur. “Your gift of sacrifice shall be properly saluted!”
Mordreth, the youngest of the company of Druids, drew back into the trees of the copse. As Lledur watched, an orange glow rose and was reflected out towards them. The Druids had built a bonfire in the midst of a little clearing back within the trees.
Dalmair moved over to stand beside Geeneth, behind the sacrifice.
“It shall begin” started Geeneth. “Fire of sword and fire of flame shall bless the night. For tonight is Beltane and, although the interlopers forbid it, we will celebrate and do you honour, Lledur. Tonight we send forth your soul to plead our cause. Tonight is the beginning.”
Lledur watched his peers, now bathed in the glow of the fire taking hold in the clearing. The Romans would surely see the flames, yet it did not matter. By the time they got here, the deed would be done.
“This blade shall take Lledur’s earthly life,” Geeneth continued, “and send him as a messenger to those who hear all, see all, feel all our suffering as their suffering. Lledur shall speak for us, as did messengers of old, and stir the vengeance of the powerful against the Roman enemy. Mordreth! Rayne! Take him!”
The two Druids, dressed plainly as beheld their rank, moved to pin Lledur’s arms behind his back. Then they dragged him out to the edge of the bog land. Geeneth and Dalmair followed and the crowd crept up behind them, eager now to see the deed.
Mordreth and Rayne forced Lledur to his knees. This was the symbolic offering up of sacrifice. Lledur felt his head forced forward, over the water.
Fire behind, water in front.
Dalmair came forward. “I am the sacrificer,” she said simply and lofted Firebrand high, displaying it to the crowd. The blade caught the reflection of the flames and flashed brightly, the image of its name.
Without any more words, Dalmair approached Lledur’s prostrate form. The two Druids holding him held on all the more, playing their parts to the end. Lledur saw a glint from the corner of his eye as she hoisted the weapon in one clawed hand. For the briefest of moments, Lledur felt fear bloom and rise inside him.
Then the blade came down.
Lledur exited this worldly life.
- O -
Firebrand played its part. Deliverer of blood.
Each owner tried, in their own meagre way, to discover the secrets of the Sword – its origin, its strength. The means, however, were not yet availableThe Sword was quiet for now, merely singing occasionally with the joy of its work. Dalmair kept it for a while, as a tool of her duty. Yet Dalmair’s line did not endure, and the Sword became lost. Centuries passed before it was found again.
470 CE
Artorius
Rigotamos Artorius was dead.
If not dead, then he was missing in action. Ambrosius Aurelianus looked out over the countryside from the battlement. He had heard the news that morning, as an exhausted messenger from the colony of Little Britain appeared at the gate of Camalat.
So it was over. He could carry on; do his best to hold the Saxon and his allies at bay. Yet he possessed none of Artorius’ strategic brilliance.
“Treachery!” he muttered. “There is always treachery!”
Artorius had been his friend as well as his king.
He scowled out over the view offered by the heights. The hill-fort on which they had built their citadel held fine vantage over the surrounding landfall. He could just see the Tor in the distance. It dominated the pastoral landscape here in the Summer Country. It was mid morning now; spring, sunny if not exactly warm. Not a day on which to receive such news. He turned away and went back to his chambers.
Ambrosius, Ambr to his men, was Artorius’ general, a man of some forty years, which was old for a warrior. An idealistic and intelligent man, he had always suspected the consequences of his leader’s move to fight the Saxon foe away from his own territory. The king had led an army into Gaul at the bequest of the beleaguered Roman emperor. He had sailed to Little Britain, advanced up the Loire Valley and engaged the Saxon settlers in battle. Yet there had been betrayal. They were outnumbered in the final onslaught and the Romans had failed to send promised troops. Artorius had been forced to flee into the Gaulish heartland, and had not been heard of since.
That evening, Ambr called council and broke the news to them. There was anger and distress, as he had foreseen, yet there were no answers. It seemed that it would be left to him alone now.
Six days later, Ambr took a mounted patrol to the edge of the River Cam. The river was in buoyant mood, high and gurgling with spring flows. There was peace upon the land. The Saxon had not heard the news yet.
“Hail to the Tor!” Ambr shouted above the river’s din.
“HAIL!” echoed his men.
The Tor stood sentinel here. No one could look at the ancient hill amidst its wide mire and not feel her magic.
“Take men east, Cai,” said Ambr. “Ride with vigilance. Question all you meet. If you see or hear sign of any enemy, send a messenger back to me.”
Cai, Ambr’s second, nodded and turned in the saddle to bark orders at the following riders. Twenty men went with him on extended patrol. The rest returned with Ambr to Camalat.
“I having been fighting the Saxon and his allies nearly all my life, Llacheu, and always dreaded this day.”
Llacheu, a large, dark-haired man riding beside his general, could offer little constructive comment. “I have never envied you your rank, Ambr. Second to the king himself, second in regard, but now you are king in all but name.”
They rode on in silence. Llacheu did not intrude further upon his general’s contemplative mood until Ambr brought his horse to a halt. They were within sight of their rising hill-fort stronghold now. It made for a fine view above the copses of oak, elder and yew spreading across the lower land.
Ambr waved the other riders onward, all except for Llacheu.
“It would help if I knew for certain,” he said once the others had gone. “Rigotamos Artorius has disappeared, simply disappeared. Word has it that Euric does not take prisoners, and the dead have been searched, as far as they can be. The Franks know nothing of his fate, only that he fled towards Avallon.”
Llacheu shrugged. “The name means nothing to me.”
“What do I do, Llach? Do I go to Gaul and leave the kingdom open to the Saxon, as he did?”
The old warrior, a grim and balding man, had never seemed to Llacheu to be the type who sought advice. He took a moment to consider his response.
“No. You stay, Ambr. We need a man like you. Artorius is gone. You are his second. You must take on his mantle and not desert us.”
It was evening. Ambrosius had just returned from wandering the battlements, as was his habit. He had searched the countryside to the East, watching, always watching now. He was aware that Cai and the other patrols he sent out at staggered intervals knew their jobs well enough. Yet the storm lay there, simmering, ready to rise and devastate as it had done in the years preceding Artorius’ intervention. Then he had looked to the West, where the sun set, melting into the sea beyond his vision.
Both he and Artorius had been born in the West, he at Plymouth and Artorius at Kelliwic on the far western coast. Ambr had always enjoyed the smell of the sea and, occasionally, he could catch it here on the battlements, when the wind was high.
Back in his quarters he bathed and shaved and pondered whether to visit
Creiddylad, the lady most in his favour, who never turned him away. Yet he was not in the mood now. He went and sat on his cot instead, and bent to open the large chest next to it, where he kept his personal possessions.
His hoard was in that chest – chainmail, helmets, shields, an accumulation of coinage including some gold ones, and his weapons; a dagger of fine bronze, an iron-headed axe, and his sword. The sword folk had christened Caliburn. They said it should belong to the king, yet Ambr would not part with it, not for the ladies, not for the Saxon, not for the king. He owed much to that sword.
He pushed aside one of his helmets and grasped the weapon. He had made the scabbard himself, as a blade this fine needed to have equally ornate protection and its original had been lost. He had wrested the sword away from foe he had fought in his younger days.
The enemy at that time had been the Picts. He had been fighting with Artorius and a force of twelve hundred beyond the Pictish Line in the Celidon Forest. Their foe had split ranks, drawing a portion of the enemy into following them. Ambr had taken his contingent north through the huge, ancient trees, hunting the wild men who, they knew, were attempting to draw them further into Pictish territory. Ambrosius, though, was a strong leader. His men were disciplined. They would not get lost or disoriented amid the claustrophobic trees. They had pincered the Picts on the shore of a lake, and massacred them. Ambr remembered the face of the man from whom he had wrested his prize. A wild man indeed, ginger-brown hair to his waist, semi-naked, painted with woad. He had been a savage fighter, but had stumbled in the freezing water. Ambr had wrestled the man, holding his head under the water’s surface and punching him senseless, just to be certain. Then he had finished him with the sword.
He remembered the ride back to meet up with the rest of the army; the sword, bright as a bolt of god-sent lightning at his side. He smiled at the memories, lines etched in his face by stress and age seeming to ease for a moment.
He had led a fortuitous life. He had never been seriously injured during the countless battles in which he had fought. He had seen lads of a mere twelve summers hewn mercilessly by various enemies, bards on the sides of the battlefield hoping for inspiriting butchered for no other reason than an excess of bloodlust, yet he, a warrior, had escaped such a fate, so far. He had come to know Artorius in his youth. They were similar men, in many ways. Rigotamos Artorius had also lived a blessed life, which appeared to have come to an end now. Yet he had never possessed the sword. Artorius had always coveted the sword, and attempted to make Ambr feel guilty over the fact that he had never gifted it to his king.
The sword’s blade was a fine, strong, silver-coloured metal. The hilt, made of a baser alloy but no less beautiful, was pocked, as if it had once housed precious stones or been carved with symbols of some kind. Ambr hefted it in both hands. It was not as heavy as a weapon of its efficiency should be.
He shook his head. What was the use of questioning? It was his. That was all that mattered. He placed it back in the chest, hiding it below his less grand pieces of armoury. Then he rose, looking around thoughtfully for a moment. He decided that he did feel like seeing Creiddylad after all.
Ambrosius decided to take the offensive in the years following Artorius’ disappearance, engaging the Saxon wherever he deemed it prudent. His successes outnumbered his failures and, after every victory, he paid tribute to the beneficence of She whose spirit was embodied in the Tor; to the memory of Artorius, who had taught him the mysteries of strategy; and to Caliburn, his own metal fist.
In 472, life took a happy turn. Creiddylad became the mother of his son.
Ambr had never touched flesh so young. Through all in days, he had been pre-occupied with ending the lives of his enemies. Here was life he had created.
Creiddylad watched him with gentle humour as he cradled the swaddled mass awkwardly in his arms. The expression on his face could have easily reduced her to tears.
“What do you choose to name him, Ambr?” she asked, breaking the magic of the moment.
He glanced at her for a moment, then returned his gaze to the child.
“Name?” He had not even begun to think about a name. “I don’t know, Creiddy. You should name him. You are his mother.” He looked up again, smiling at her this time. “His mother, for which I will be forever grateful.”
A sensitive woman at the best of times, Creiddylad could feel the tears coming.
“No, Ambr. He is your son. I shall name our daughter when she comes.”
“Daughter? I’m not a young man, Creiddy, you know that. How long did it take me to father this child? Years!”
Creiddylad shrugged. “Maybe the problem is not with you. I have also left my best childbearing days behind me.”
Ambr looked at her again. She was a beautiful woman to him, as she was to most of the young men at Camalat. He was constantly amazed that she chose his bed above any other. It had always been like that, since well before he had become commander-in-chief of the forces under Camalet’s control. She was twenty-eight, a tall fawn-haired woman with laughing hazel eyes.
“Name? There is only one name I can think of for him.” He muttered something to himself, so that Creiddylad did not hear him. “Artorius,” he repeated as he saw her puzzled look. “He shall be called Artorius.”
Artorius grew into a robust boy who thrived under his father’s tutelage. Whilst the office of commander-in-chief was an elective one, Ambr realised that Artorius stood a good chance of holding it after his own days had come to an end. Family connections were important in such decisions, yet the lad would have to be thoroughly versed in the art of warfare if he was to inherit his father’s mantle. He would have to glean his father’s knowledge of strategy, which he himself had gleaned from the boy’s namesake.
There was peace on the land for many years as the Saxon seemed content to till their own fields. Camalat grew into a prosperous town. Creiddylad had another child, a daughter, as she had predicted. Yet in the summer of 480, the Saxon attacks renewed. What was worse was the fact that immigrant Saxon incursions still ransacked the South Coast, pushing ever northwards in an attempt to wrest land away from the natives.
The situation could not be tolerated. Ambr strove to raise an army once more. Men had returned to their trades and to the fields as their vigilance waned. There were always fields to be harvested, buildings to maintain, animals to tend, war or no war. Ambr marched his reconstituted army away from Camalat one morning before dawn. They thundered upon war mounts down the dark slope of the hill-fort, leaving family and fellows to wave, full of mixed emotions, from the gate and battlements. Ambr rode at the head of the procession, his faithful second, Llacheu, beside him. Cai had been killed by the Saxon a number of years before.
It was a hard ride to the mouth of the Solent, where a sizable force of newly arrived Saxon waited. The weather hung above the scene as if undecided whether to squall, thunder or shine. The Saxon, a confident race, had known of Ambrosius’ coming and had chosen to stand their ground. They were large men on the whole, uncultured men to Ambr’s eyes, who held themselves like brutes and swarmed along the riverside like some strange sub-genus of beetle, horned and armoured against the righteous defenders.
Ambr brought his men to a halt and surveyed the enemy’s numbers.
“We shall form two battalions,” he announced after a while. “The larger shall attack this force farthest from the sea. The second shall cross the river, then cross back to subdue those between here and the sea. Those we don’t slay we’ll drive back into the waves. None shall take what is rightly ours!” He glared defiance at Llachau. “Spread the plan!”
Llachau passed word amongst the liegemen. When all were aware of the strategy, a spontaneous exultation leapt from the throats of the native Britons. Then they rode forward as one to follow their battalion leaders.
At first, the Saxon seemed confused by the tactics, but rallied to face their protagonists. They did not utilise cavalry, so immediately found themselves at a disadvantage. Their cousins, who had settled in this kingdom, had learned to fight the enemy using the enemy’s tactics, yet to these men, horse-mounted battle was alien. Force of numbers, cunning and ferocity had always won their fights for them. Cavalry was the Roman way, and the Roman way had all but died from the world.