Sword of Neamha
By
Stephen M. England
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Stephen M. England
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is dedicated to my parents, my friends, and all those who helped make this dream a reality. Thank you all.
Special thanks go out to the historians of the Europa Barbarorum project, without whose help this story could never have come into being. And to Louis Vaney, whose brilliant map-making brought the world of ancient Britain to life.
Glossary
Warriors
Brihetin (Knights) —these members of the Aeduan nobility form the bodyguard of a prominent chieftain.
Botroas (Sword Soldiers) —the basic medium infantry of Britonic and Gallic armies, these men often hire themselves out as mercenaries.
Cladaca (Sword Carriers) —light swordsmen of the Goidilic Irish, well-trained and fierce in battle.
Dubosaverlacica (Blackened Fighting Ones) —these elite Goidilic warriors come from one tribe—the Ebherni, descendants of the Vasci, ancient Spanish invaders of Ireland.
Eiras (Nobles) —the nobility of Goidilic Ireland, these chieftains are equipped with the best of equipment and fight at the head of lesser men.
Gaeroas (Spear Soldiers) —well-disciplined Gallic spearmen, the rock of an Aeduan battleline.
Iaosatae (Slingmen) —warriors are drawn from the young of Celtic society and armed with one of the cheapest and most effective missile weapons available in ancient times.
Lugoae (Levies) —the militia of Celtic society, these men are predominantly young and poorly equipped, often with a crude spear.
Ordmalica (Hammer Fighters) —wealthy and seasoned, these warriors emulate their god, Dagda, by carrying mighty war hammers into battle.
Teceitos (Axe Soldiers) —Although references to the axe are not prevalent in Celtic history, many have been found in the graves of warriors of the time period.
Vellinica (Swift Fighters) —lightly armed and armored, these men form the militia of Goidilic Ireland, levy fighters called up in the hour of need.
Places
Attuaca: A word roughly translated “fort”, this stands as representative of the Caledonian settlements of ancient Scotland.
Caern-Brigantae: Near Aldborough, England.
Camulosadae: A prominent city of the ancient Britonic tribes, near modern-day Colchester, England.
Emain-Macha: The traditional capital of the Ulaid and founded according to legend by the goddess Macha in the 5th-century B.C., the ancient site is located less than two miles from modern-day Armagh, Northern Ireland.
Ictis: The capital of the Dumnonii even through Roman times, it is the site of Exeter, England today.
Ivernis: Near modern-day Sneem, in County Kerry, Ireland.
Yns-Mon: A settlement of the Cyremniu on the west coast of Wales, near the modern-day island of the same name.
Prologue
Once we had been a nation, a people great and mighty, beloved of the gods, a federation of the Keltoi stretching from sea to sea. All that was gone now, as though washed away by the surging tides of the sea behind me. The past.
Our brothers, the Arverni, led by their heathenous god-king, had turned against us, driving their sword deep into our ribs while grasping our hand in fellowship. Over the last few years, they had succeeded in driving us from our lands. They had robbed of us our birthright, backed our people to the wall. Over a year ago now, our Vergobret, a wise man named Cocolitanos, had made the decision. My people would flee.
We had abandoned our towns and settlements before the Arverni onslaught, fled northward to the sea, to the place we had prepared a small fleet for our departure. Many of the Aedui left immediately, over a thousand fighting men with their wives and children.
I, Cadwalador, son of the Wolf, had not left. I was one of the horsemen detailed to stay behind with Tancogeistla, one of our chieftains. Another detachment was working its way up from the south, from the settlement at Mediolanium. We must wait for them.
I and my fellows formed the leuce epos, the light horse of the Aedui. Taught from childhood to throw our javelins from the backs of our rapidly-moving steeds, to close with spear for the final charge. None of us had passed our thirtieth year. Many of us might never live to see it.
Tancogeistla was a volatile man, fond of his drink and of fighting afterwards. He grew weary of our enforced stay on this barren headland, as did indeed all of us. But he most of all. The ships were back from the land to the north, from Erain as it was apparently called by the natives. He was impatient to be gone.
Rumors ran through the cavalry, stories told by those that said Tancogeistla was preparing to leave immediately, in defiance of the orders given us by the Vergobret. In the end, who would know the difference? We were leaving our homeland for the last time.
I was never to find out if there was any truth in those rumors. Ogrosan closed upon us before he made up his mind and stranded us upon the cliffs, foraging through the snow every day for food for both us and our horses.
One day, as I was out on a scout, I glimpsed men through the trees. I took my javelins in one hand, watching as the column marched forward, all of them on foot. Many of them were bandaged and limping, leaving stains of blood in the snow as they advanced.
It was the column from Mediolanium. But something was wrong. I kicked my horse in the flanks, urging him forward as I rode toward the body.
The men halted as I moved into the clearing. I could see the suspicion in their eyes. There couldn’t have been more than one hundred and fifty. Less than a third of their reported strength.
“Who is your leader?” I demanded, riding to the head of the column. A tall, red-bearded man stepped from the column, an unsheathed sword in his right hand.
“Who asks?”
“Cadwalador, son of the Wolf, a member of the army of Tancogeistla. I was sent to look for you.”
A look of relief spread over his swarthy countenance. “Lead me to him. I am Cavarillos, captain of this detachment.”
“Then the rest of the army follows behind you?” I asked, praying to the gods that he would answer in the affirmative.
He suddenly looked tired, sheathing his sword with the motions of an exhausted man. “We are the army. All that remains of it.”
“The Arverni?”
He merely nodded. I wheeled my horse to the north and commanded him to follow. The rest of the men fell into step behind him, moving sluggishly, wearily. Bloody footprints in the snow…
Chapter I: Across the Waters
I never heard all that passed between Tancogeistla and Cavarillos, but we would soon learn most of the story. That Catamantaloedis, the young chieftain from Mediolanium, had been killed in a surprise attack by Arverni warbands just north of the great mountains. He had died fighting, along with most of his men. All those that survived were here with us now. An incredible blow to our dreams.
We stayed where we were for the rest of ogrosan, waiting for the warm months to come, when we too could sail north.
Over the following months, I grew to know Cavarillos well. This was the first time he had been this far north. He was one of the botroas, or sword soldiers, a mercenary employed by Catamantaloedis.
A man who had seen much fighting. He was unmarried, without children, as myself.
We had much in common, though he was ten years my elder. As the warm months approached, he borrowed a sword from one of the warriors and taught me its use. I had never felt a blade in my hand in all nineteen years of my life, but it was a simple weapon and I learned quickly. Still, I felt more comfortable astride my horse.
In the month of Giamon, we at last set sail for the unknown land to the north. None of us knew what lay ahead. The army sent ahead might already lie dead, slain by the natives. We might be sailing into a trap.
Our boats posed a threat as great as the unknown that lay ahead. They were light craft, hide stretched over wood frames.
We bound the feet of our mounts so that one of their hooves could not pierce the hull, and were very careful in stowing our weapons. At finally, we were off, sailing north. I could scarce help trembling as we hove out of sight of land. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been surrounded by water.
For three weeks we continued, fixing the sail to the mast whenever there appeared to be a breath of wind, rowing till our backs felt fit to break.
I was seated beside Cavarillos on the bow oar of the ponto on the first day of the fourth week when suddenly he grasped my arm. We hadn’t spoken for several hours, just bending steadily to our task, and his action surprised me.
“What is it?” I demanded, nearly losing my grasp on the oar. A strange pallor had come over his dark countenance, contrasting oddly with the fire of his beard.
He gestured wordlessly to the sky, off to the south. A dark cloud about the size of a clenched fist was rising, moving toward us. It did nothing to answer my question.
“What’s wrong?”
Clearly some of the others were considerably more knowledgeable in the ways of the sea than I, for already some of the sailors were engaged in stripping the sail from our mast. Cries to the gods rose from among us.
“It is the squall, the storm,” he responded fearfully. “I have seen it destroy the ships of my homeland.”
A chill gripped my heart. He had told me of the seafarers of the south, and their ships. Any one of which would dwarf the small vessel that was now carrying us to our destination. We didn’t stand a chance…
The squall was upon us almost before we could react, darkening the sky, rain lashing the boat. We lost sight of the rest of the flotilla.
We took our helmets and began bailing water from the boat. They were the only containers we had. My clothing was plastered to my skin, water dripping into my eyes. Cavarillos cursed and prayed alternately, clearly wishing himself elsewhere. As did I.
The storm had not yet abated when night fell, nor when morning broke the next day. The wind ripped at our tiny craft, water poured over the gunwales in a flood. My arms and hands felt like they were on fire, yet to cease bailing was death.
Day and night blurred into one, a dark void into which our vessel was cast. Several of our men had been swept overboard, dragged screaming to their deaths by the merciless waves. There was nothing we could do. We were all alone. Us, the sea, and the gods. Alone on the water.
An eternity later, one of the sailors cried out. For a moment, I paused, the helmet full of salt water still clutched in my raw and bleeding hands.
He was pointing, and in the darkness my eyes followed his outstretched finger. With an angry curse, I flung the helmet into the bottom of the boat. It no longer mattered. Nothing did. All our efforts had been in vain. The caprices of the gods had decided our fate long before we set sail.
Cliffs towered over us, mighty and high. The sailor had glimpsed the white foam of the waves breaking against the rocks. Our destruction was certain.
A breaker lifted our ponto on its crest, tossing us into the air. I glimpsed the look of terror in Cavarillos’ eyes, fear on the countenance of a man who had witnessed countless deaths in his short life. The next moment we came down, slamming into the rocks. I felt myself falling, hurtling through space. Darkness…
When next I awoke, the sun was high in the heavens, beating mercilessly upon my exposed body. I was ashore—somewhere…
Every fiber of my body was aflame, my muscles wracked with pain. I raised myself gingerly on one elbow and looked about. The rocks I had seen just before the wreck lay exposed now, jagged pinnacles pointed like daggers to the sky. How I had survived was anyone’s guess.
A body lay only ten feet from me, prostrate on the sand, the clothes stripped from its back. I staggered to my feet, grasping for the sword at my waist. It was gone, washed away in the chaos of the previous night.
I recognized the corpse. A warrior from my village, one of my boyhood rivals. As I gazed down into his dead, unseeing eyes, I remembered. We had fought over a girl once. Knives had been drawn, my javelin had been in my hand. The elders had intervened before we could do each other harm.
I had wanted to kill him, then. I felt nothing but pity for him now. He deserved better than this.
His wife awaited him in Erain, with the rest of the women and children of the tribe. The girl who put us at each other’s throats.
The thought that once again she was a free woman gave me no joy. He was now nothing more than a comrade, slain by the pitiless designs of the gods.
He had deserved better.
“Cadwalador!” The voice slowly penetrated the haze that seemed to surround me, its tones strangely familiar.
I looked up. Cavarillos limped toward me, a ghostly apparition. He had apparently gashed his head on one of the rocks. What had remained of his clothes was wrapped around his head to form a bandage. In his condition, he looked for all the world like one of the gaesatae, the naked, drugged warriors who had so often served in the warbands of the Aedui. His sword was clutched in his right hand. There was no sign of its scabbard.
“Cavarillos!”
We embraced like brothers there on the beach, hugging and crying in the sheer joy of being alive.
“Have you seen any of the others?” he asked, pulling away from me. I gestured to the corpse that lay at our feet.
“Only he. And you?”
“I saw movement on the cliffs. Perhaps we are not alone.”
I smiled grimly. “I only hope they are ours and not the natives.”
“Then prepare, my brother.” It was the first time he had ever called me that. Perhaps it was true, what the druids told us, how chaos, how crisis binds men together in a relationship unknown to any others.
I shrugged. “How? My sword was washed away.”
Cavarillos gestured to the body of my fellow villager, in an instant reverting to the professional he was. “Take his. He has no more use for it.”
I hesitated, glancing up through the morning mist at the rocks towering above us. There was something moving up there. Friend or foe, I knew not. With a quick motion I bent down and jerked the sword from my rival’s sheath. Cavarillos was right. He had no more use for it. In a few more hours, I might not either…
Chapter II: A New Land
We waited, crouched motionless beside a cliff trail as the sun rose higher in the sky, burning away the fog that surrounded us. Had it not been for the determined look on my comrade’s face, he would have looked quite ludicrous, stripped as he was.
However, despite his decided lack of armor, I had reason to pity whoever came to attack us. I had seen his skill with the sword evidenced back on the headlands of northern Gaul. He had taught me only a bare fraction of what he knew.
The sun was almost directly overhead when a pebble came rolling down the path from above us. Cavarillos tensed himself instinctively, the sound of footsteps following the small slide.
He looked across at me and nodded. My hand closed around the hilt of my sword. Sweat dripped down my brow and the palms of my hands were slippery as a new sensation gripped me. Perhaps it was fear, I had no idea.
The footsteps were moving faster now, there was more than one man descending the path. For all I knew, we were outnumbered.
I glanced over at Cavarillos, watched as his lips slowly formed the word Now!
He sprang from behind the rocks, his sword brandished high above his head. I was two steps behind him, moving swiftly to his side.
A surprised cry broke from the lips of the men on the path, then a long, quavering yell. I grasped Cavarillos’ wrist before his blade could descend, recognizing the Aedui war-cry.
Tancogeistla stood facing us, his hand on the sword in his scabbard. Three of his bodyguards surrounded him, their bodies poised for the defense.
“Cavarillos,” he acknowledged. I could see that he was searching for my name.
“Cadwalador, my lord,” I introduced myself. It was the strangest of moments, Tancogeistla standing before us, surrounded by his bodyguards, his clothes still dripping of saltwater, Cavarillos naked save for the cloth wrapped around his brow, I with the longsword clutched unfamiliarly in my hand.
“I remember you,” Tancogeistla said at long last. He spoke to his bodyguards, ordering them to sheath their weapons.
As we conversed with the great chieftain, we learned that his party had been swept ashore a few miles up the coast. He had no better idea where we were than we did.
But he was our commander, and so we followed him, encamping high on the cliffs. Days passed and more survivors appeared, arriving in various states of disarray. Several came in leading the few horses which had survived the disaster. Eventually, enough arrived to equip Tancogeistla’s bodyguards. I was relegated to the botroas, to serve in the ranks beside Cavarillos. I had an idea that my stern friend found something humorous in my demotion, but he would never own it. We would march together from now on. The question was, march to where.
As it turned out we had lost almost fifty men in the storm, and almost as many horses. Many of my comrades in the leuce epos were drowned or missing, and those of us that remained were either made infantrymen or promoted to Tancogeistla’s bodyguards. We now numbered less than two hundred men, little enough in this strange land we now traversed.
At the time of the next full moon, we set out for the north, having gathered weapons and clothing from many of the corpses which had washed up on the beach.
Several of the general’s bodyguards rode ahead of our column, scouting out the territory before us. On the third day, they came galloping back into camp at sunset, their steeds panting and lathered with sweat.
Cavarillos was close enough to hear their conversation with Tancogeistla, and a few minutes afterward he came over to where I sat beneath a towering oak tree, laboring over a small fire.
“The scouts report a village ahead of us,” he announced without preamble. “It’s name is Ictis.”
“Perhaps we can get supplies there,” I said, gently blowing on the flames.
“Tancogeistla thinks so.”
There was a note of uncertainty in his voice and I looked up in surprise. “You don’t?”
“I believe they will show us nothing except the sharp end of the spear.”
“Why should they? We are no threat to them. They have never even seen us before.”
“Listen to your own words, Cadwalador, listen to the echo of your voice. They have never seen us before. We are alien, strangers. It is the nature of man to suspect what he does not know. We number less than two hundred men, but we are all armed. We are an invading army. How are they to know that we are alone, and not merely the advance guard of more to come?”
“Tancogeistla will be able to convince them otherwise.”
There was no smile on the mercenary’s face as he gazed into the fire. “I pray to the gods that it will be as you say. Until then, Cadwalador---make sure your sword is sharp on the morrow.”
Chapter III: Dead Men Walking
At daybreak, we were up and moving. Breakfast was perforce light, consisting of a mere few handfuls of berries. Once again our scouts rode out ahead of us, cantering up the trail. I swung into step beside Cavarillos at the head of the botroas.
I had been marching for days now, but I still had trouble keeping up with his powerful strides. He glanced sideways at me as though to assure himself of who accompanied him. “Did you sleep well last night, Cadwalador?”
“Tolerable,” I replied, surprised by his solicitude. It wasn’t like him.
“Good,” he retorted gruffly. “It’s liable to be the last good sleep any of us get.”
I nearly stopped marching, looking over at him surprise. “What do you mean? With any luck, we’ll sleep with full bellies tonight.”
“Luck is a fickle wench. Tancogeistla’s been drinking,” was his short reply.
“What? Where did he get liquor out here?”
“Ask the gods,” Cavarillos shot back. “And while you have their ear, pray that they’ll take it away from him.”
I nodded, my cheer suddenly ripped away from me. I had seen Tancogeistla drunken before, back on the headland of Gaul. He had gotten into an argument with one of his subordinates and ended up killing three men before his bodyguards could restrain him. Just the man we needed to conduct diplomacy with the people of Ictis, the Dumnones, as they were called.
Just then, Tancogeistla rode by, as if an embodiment of our thoughts. Cavarillos was right. Our general’s face was flushed with the fire of liquor and he was unsteady in the saddle. Passing the lugoae, the levy spearmen, he cursed their leader and ordered them to march faster.
“If he lives to see the end of this march, I will own that the gods are protecting him,” Cavarillos stated quietly. “If he does not lose his drunken head to the natives here, he will insult one of his own men to the point of killing him.”
“He is the anointed of the Vergobret,” I replied hotly. “They wouldn’t dare!”
“Once again, Cadwalador, hearken unto your own words. We are all alone here, far from the magistrates of the tribe. We may never see our tribesmen again. In this case, the men may decide that one as volatile as Tancogeistla is not fit to lead. A knife in the darkness, a sword thrust on the field of battle. That is all it would take.”
I glanced into the mercenary’s dark face, the man I called my friend. “You speak of treachery as though it were a light thing!”
He shook his great head slowly. “I have lived longer than you have, my brother. I have seen many men die, felt their blood run over my hands, watched their eyes as life fled them. We number scarce two hundred men. Are we all to die because of the foolishness of one? Or is it better for that one man to die that we all be preserved?”
I couldn’t answer him. I could scarce believe what I was hearing. And yet his words made a strange, twisted sense.
The sun was directly above us when we arrived in the clearing before the village of Ictis. A small wooden palisade about the height of a man’s shoulder encircled the small settlement. Behind it one could see the homes and buildings that housed its inhabitants.
Tancogeistla rode to the front, his bodyguard of brihetin or knights encircling him. Very few of them now were of noble blood, most being replacements from the night of the storm.
The king of the Dumnones, a man named Drustan, came out to meet Tancogeistla. He was on foot, surrounded by the champions of the tribe.
I heard our general ask him for food and supplies for his men. Perhaps Tancogeistla had sobered up since his morning binge.
“Why should we give you succor, since you come before our gates with armed men?” Drustan demanded. “Are not there more warriors behind you, to march in once you have spied out the land?”
Cavarillos tensed at my side, his hand going instinctively to the hilt of his longsword. “I pray you followed my instructions, Cadwalador,” he hissed in my ear. “Is your blade sharp?”
I nodded silently, my eyes focused on Tancogeistla. The reply he gave would determine our fate. I silently asked the gods that he would be sober enough.
“A month ago, we were washed up on the shores of your land,” Tancogeistla replied angrily. “We are the lone survivors of the wreck, yet you would turn us back in the wilderness to starve!”
“The lone survivors?” Drustan asked, his eyebrows going up suggestively. “Ten score of heavily-armed men? Nay, but to spy out the weaknesses of our defenses are ye come. Go find your food elsewhere, and get from my sight.”
Tancogeistla drew himself erect in the saddle, towering over the Dumnone chieftain. I could see the flush of liquor upon his cheeks and he was unsteady on the horse’s back. “If it is not within your will to give us food, then by the gods, we will take it! Fall upon them, warriors of the Aedui!”
His naked sword gleamed in his hand and he lashed out at Drustan before any of us could react. With an agility few would have suspected, the chieftain leaped back and Tancogeistla’s blow fell upon one of the champions, laying the man’s shoulder open to the bone.
Cavarillos swore furiously at my side. “He has done it! He has slain us all. See, Cadwalador, he has slain us all!”
As one man, our warriors advanced toward Drustan’s bodyguard, to shelter our general. Seeing our numbers, he began to fall back, toward the gates of the palisade.
Waving his sword in the air, Tancogeistla swung his horse to follow them, but two of his nobles reached out and grasped his bridles, turning him away from the enemy.
It was too late. The damage was done. We could no more stop the battle which was to come than we could stop the chill winds of Imbolc blowing through the trees. Once again, Cavarillos was right. We were all dead men. Only our bodies didn’t realize it—yet…
That night we encamped in the plain facing Ictis, preparing for the fight to come. Several of the nobles had counseled flight, but Tancogeistla, although now perfectly sober, was still adamant. We were the warriors of the Aedui, and we would remain where we were, stand our ground. Eventually most of the brihetin went over to his side of the argument.
“This is madness, Cadwalador,” Cavarillos said as he joined me by the campfire. The flames danced into the night sky, casting strange shadows all around us. The number of our fires was pitiful in comparison to the light blazing up from Ictis. In the distance, torch-bearing runners could be seen hurrying through the woods, undoubtedly rallying the warriors of the Dumnones to the standard of Drustan.
“Tancogeistla actually believes we can win,” he said a moment later, his tones full of disbelief.
“He was not appointed by the Vergobret for nothing,” I said weakly. “Perhaps we can.”
Cavarillos glanced across the fire at me. “Cadwalador, have you been pillaging the general’s wine?” He shook his head derisively. “We have no more chance of winning than we do of taking wing like the birds. Several of the men are planning to run tonight.”
“They are betraying us!” I cried, anger rising within me. My hand reached out for the longsword laying beside me. “Tell me who they are.”
“I don’t think I will,” Cavarillos replied in a voice more amused than angry. His humor nettled me.
“Why do they run?”
“Because they are mercenaries like me, the merchants of war. A dead mercenary does not show up to collect his coin. It goes to another, just like his woman and everything else he possesses. That’s not good business.”
“Serving your country is not about business!”
His eyes locked with mine and all humor was gone from his voice. “These are not my people, Cadwalador. This is not my tribe. All of my tribesmen died in the mountains on our journey to meet Tancogeistla. This mythical country you speak of is but an ancient dream from the days of the Keltoi Confederation. Those days are gone, just as the men who leave camp tonight.”
“Then why don’t you go with them?” I shot back.
He shrugged. “As I said before, I am a businessman. Just as dying does not strike me as a good proposition, neither does running through an unknown land peopled by those hostile to me. There is safety in numbers, Cadwalador---even if those numbers are commanded by a drunken fool. Go to sleep.”
I lay there for a long time as the flames danced high in the air above me, as Cavarillos snored noisily on the other side of the fire. I was seeing another side of my friend, and I didn’t know what to think of it. Finally I fell asleep, there on my cloak on the hard ground. Deserters were not my problem, staying alive soon would be…
When next I woke, the sun was rising in the eastern sky, casting its rays over the camp. Cavarillos was stirring the ashes of the fire, apparently hoping to find some hot coals. Two fish lay at his feet.
“Where did you find those?” I demanded, raising myself on one elbow.
He smiled for the first time in days. “A stream back that way,” he replied, pointing. “Our last meal should be a good one.”
Just then a shout arose from the town. “What’s that?” Cavarillos dropped the fish and sprang to his feet.
I was at his side in a moment, my hand going nervously to the hilt of the longsword at my waist. Before us, we could see the Dumnones issuing forth from the town, their warriors marching in formation.
Drustan was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a man rode out before them with a horn in his hand. “Hear me, outlanders!” He screamed, rising in his saddle. “Prepare to die!”
“He’s not wasting his breath,” Cavarillos observed dryly. He kicked the fire out and grabbed up his cloak and sword. “We’ll fight on empty stomachs, Cadwalador. Perhaps it’s just as well.”
All around us, our warriors were scrambling to get ready. Behind us I could see Tancogeistla pulling on his armor as he called for his horse. The scene was chaos. We were encamped slightly below the town, and we knew without being told what would happen if the enemy charged down the slopes into us. Massacre.
The lugoae were already moving up to the ridge, their simple spears grasped in one hand. Cavarillos was gone, gathering his men. Together we ran to the high ground, barely a dozen of us. Thirty of the gaeroas moved into position behind us.
The enemy continued to pour from their gates, hundreds and hundreds of armed men. I tried counting the battle standards of the chieftains, but lost count. Cavarillos had been right.
The slingers began their fire from behind us, stones whizzing overhead to fall upon the bodies of the enemy. A number of the Dumnones had stripped off their cloaks and were completely naked as they marched against us. I had seen our own warriors do this, but it still unnerved me. They were completely without fear.
“What did I tell you?” Cavarillos appeared suddenly at my side. His javelins were clutched in his right hand, his longsword still sheathed. “We throw these first,” he said quietly, reminding me of my duty.
I flushed hot, returning my sword to its scabbard and taking my own two javelins in my hand. In my excitement, I was forgetting the proper order of things.
I looked back to where Tancogeistla waited, with his band of brihetin. Perhaps they would be the deciding factor in this battle. The enemy seemed to possess no cavalry.
The slingers were taking a toll of the enemy, but I could tell it would not be enough. They would run out of stones before the Dumnones ran out of bodies to absorb them. Nothing would be enough.
To our left, the first enemies advanced, tossing their javelins into the ill-protected lugoae before charging home. I closed my eyes, hearing the sound of metal tearing into flesh, the screams of the wounded and dying.
“So the battle begins,” Cavarillos observed quietly. He looked my way, a quizzical expression on his face. “Have you ever been in a battle, Cadwalador?”
I shook my head. “We raided a village—a year ago. It was just a skirmish.”
“I see.” His voice was studiously neutral, but I could tell he was hardly pleased.
A second band of the Dumnones suddenly appeared in front of us, charging into the gaeroas on our left. Once again the clatter of weapons and the shrieks of the dying filled the air. A new sound, hoofbeats to my right. Tancogeistla and the brihetin were circling around us. They were obviously planning to charge into the axemen that had attacked the gaeroas. Javelins slew several of the nobles even as they passed before us.
One could tell from where we were standing that our brethren were taking heavy casualties. The javelins seemed to tremble in my hand, as though they wished to bury themselves in the flesh of our enemy.
Cavarillos’ face was impassive, unmoved by the carnage. Aloof. The brihetin slammed into the enemy flank, trampling many of the axemen.
For a moment, I thought perhaps they might succeed in routing the enemy army, in turning this debacle into a victory for our tribe. It was not to be. Their moment of glory was short-lived indeed, as yet another warband of our enemy descended, trapping Tancogeistla and his bodyguards.
We were the last uncommitted body of warriors. I glanced to Cavarillos. “Now?”
He looked ‘round, saw the bloodlust in the faces of his men. Perhaps he felt our moment had come. Perhaps he merely realized he could restrain them no longer. “Follow me,” he ordered simply, breaking into a trot.
We charged the enemy spearmen. I hefted my javelin in my right hand, hurling it ahead of me as I ran.
“Rabo!” we screamed, expelling the air from our lungs in the age-old cry of the Aedui.
“Rabo!”
My javelin caught one of the Dumnones in the arm, ripping him open. He lost his grasp of his spear and stumbled backward. One of Cavarillos’ men was upon him before he could recover, nearly disemboweling the man with a single slash of the sword.
We slammed into the enemy ranks, swords drawn. We had never bothered throwing our second javelin. One of the spearmen tried to block my sword, but I knocked him backward. To my right, one of my brothers fell, his face covered with blood. I stepped over the corpse, driving my blade between the ribs of the man who had killed him.
A strangled cry rose from his lips, a strange, gurgling sound. His eyes seemed to glaze over, and he collapsed forward, his blood spilling onto my trousers, a dark red life-fluid. I pulled my sword from his flesh with an effort, raising it to protect myself as a blow descended toward my head.
The force of it nearly took me to my knees, but I recovered. I had lost all sense of what was happening around me. My world was now restricted to the few feet around me, which were filled with my enemies. We were badly outnumbered.
My comrades were dying all around me. We were dead men. I brought my sword’s edge down on the wrist of one of the Dumnones, severing the hand. He screamed in pain, blood spurting from the stump as his shield fell to the ground. He tried to bring his sword up to block me, but I knocked it aside, ignoring the terror in his eyes. Another moment and he lay dead at my feet.
From behind me, I heard a long, keening cry of rage, resounding above the cacophony of the battlefield. A blade sliced across the bare skin of my back, opening a wound. I spun around, my longsword raised high. A boy my own age stood in front of me, a sword in his hand. A sword which was descending toward my head. I raised my shield to block it, but the force of his blow knocked me to the ground. I lost my grasp on the shield, rolled away to escape his next slash.
I saw his eyes in that moment of time, saw the hatred and agony there. Perhaps I had killed his father, his brother—none of that really mattered now. I raised my sword to deflect his, but he beat down my guard. I was losing for all the reasons Cavarillos had taught. Balance, mobility, I had lost both of those and now I stood to lose my life because of it.
I saw his eyes again as he aimed a final blow to my head, and I couldn’t tell which fate was the more merciful. Mine, to die, or his, to live with the knowledge of his loss.
He screamed again, but in pain, not rage. Drops of something wet showered over me and I looked up. Cavarillos stood over me, a bloody sword clutched in both his hands. My opponent was sagging to the ground, nearly beheaded by the blow. I was covered in his blood. I staggered to my feet, starting to thank my savior. Cavarillos stopped me.
“Run for your life, brother!” he screamed in my ear. I glanced around. There were only four of us left. The lugoae had already broken and were running from the field. One of the Dumnones aimed a blow at Cavarillos and I blocked it savagely. My mind refused to believe this was happening. That we were losing.
Cavarillos took me by both shoulders and thrust me toward the rear. “Run, Cadwalador!”
I did as I was told, running for my life. It filled my heart with shame, but Cavarillos ran at my side, threatening to strike me down if I turned back. I kept running.
Behind us, Tancogeistla himself was fleeing, with only a few of his bodyguards remaining. They had been butchered.
Tears were running down my face, tears of shame and rage. Behind me, I could hear the cries of our pursuers, baying like wolves on the trail.
“Have the gods abandoned us, Cavarillos?” I cried. It was a stupid question, but for some reason, I had to ask it.
He struck me between the shoulderblades, forcing me onward. “The gods haven’t been with us since we were washed ashore on this land! Don’t talk—run!”
And we were all running, all those of us that were left alive. All the valiant tribesmen of the Aedui. Running from the enemy. Running in defeat…
How long we ran, I will never know. We ran until our legs ached, till the sun sank low in the western sky. Behind us we could still hear the cries of the pursuers. Drustan was a determined man.
Cavarillos stayed behind me, his sword still unsheathed. I glanced back once and caught sight of his face. Saw the anger there, the bitterness of a man who had always played to win. And who had now lost. His bare chest was streaked with blood, whether his own or that of his enemies, I had no idea.
As night fell, we camped ‘neath a towering oak, inside a dark forest. Perhaps we could rest there in safety. The night air was cold, reminding us both that ogrosan was coming. We dared not build a fire, lest the Dumnones spot it and come looking for us.
“I will kill him,” Cavarillos whispered harshly, rubbing his bare arms to keep warm.
“Who?”
He shot an angry look toward me. “Tancogeistla, that’s who! Next time we meet, I will kill him.”
I looked away, into the darkness of the forest, hoping to avoid the conversation. It was a futile hope.
“Are you with me?” The question came sharp as a sword-thrust, his tones cold as ice.
“He is the anointed of the Vergobret,” I replied weakly. “I cannot raise sword against him.”
“The Vergobret!” Cavarillos hissed the title as though it were a curse. “He is not here. We will never see him again, nor your people. My tribe is dead. I am the last of my clan.”
“Do you want their legacy to be that of a murderer?” I shot back angrily, regretting the words the moment they left my mouth.
He started to rise from his seat on the moss, then apparently thought better of it, his lips relaxing into a sardonic smile. “I should have killed him yesterday morning, before he had the chance to slay us all.”
“How many do you think we lost?” I asked, trying to steer him off the subject of Tancogeistla’s imminent demise.
“Fourscore, maybe a hundred, how am I supposed to know? I was too busy trying to keep you from getting yourself killed. And the first opportunity you find, you call me a murderer.” He laughed humorlessly.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, but my voice must have lacked conviction. At least he seemed to think so.
“I don’t ask that you slay Tancogeistla,” he went on after a moment. “Just help me.”
“They are the same thing. If I help you, I am just as guilty as if I had plunged the sword within his heart myself.”
Cavarillos’ form came erect suddenly, and for a moment I thought he meant to fling himself upon me. Instead, he raised a finger to his lips and reached for the sword at his side.
“Quiet,” he whispered. I looked quickly around us and suddenly saw torches flickering through the trees, the low hum of voices coming from perhaps forty feet away. The searchers.
We threw ourselves flat on the ground behind a fallen tree, watching as the search party went by. I counted fifteen men, all heavily-armed. They flitted along the forest path, moving effortlessly. Without doubt they were part of the Dumnone army that had chased us away from Ictis.
There was no question that Tancogeistla had played the fool. I knew that. But he was the taoi arjos, the “chosen superior” of the Vergobret. I would not—I could not have any part of a plot against him.
We watched until the men had passed, then Cavarillos grabbed my arm. “We can’t stay here,” he hissed. “Let’s keep going.”
I nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of what he said. My legs ached as I rose to my feet and I wasn’t sure I could keep going. But there was no choice…
We kept going all through the night. How we did it, I have no idea, but about morning we met up with two of Cavarillos’ mercenaries, the last survivors. They didn’t know where the rest of the army was any better than we did. Their bodies bore fresh scars, the marks of a brush with a search party. Perhaps the one we had seen—I had no way of knowing.
Tancogeistla—for the moment he was beyond the rage of Cavarillos. We were all alone. We were fugitives…
Chapter IV: A Time for Choosing
Two days later, we ran into the remnants of the lugoae. They carried fresh weapons, the booty of a Dumnone search party they had overpowered. They added to our numbers. And more importantly, they brought news of Tancogeistla…
“Where is he?” Cavarillos demanded the moment they spoke of him. I thought for a moment that they would detect the anger in his voice, but they either did not, or ignored it deliberately. Perhaps they felt the same way.
“A day’s journey toward the rising sun,” their leader replied. “He waits with the nobles who survived, as well as a few of the gaeroas and slingers.”
“Take me to him,” Cavarillos instructed gruffly. I could see the look in his eyes, the look that assured me that Tancogeistla would die. I glanced away, into the meadows and fields that stretched before us.
A man would die, and I knew of it. A chieftain of my people. And yet to warn him would assure the death of a man I called my friend. I felt twisted inside, torn between what I knew was right and what I wished to do. The loyalties of tribe, and the stronger loyalties forged in the fires of battle.
“Cadwalador.” I turned, suddenly aware that Cavarillos was speaking to me.
“Yes?” His eyes seemed to be looking right through me, as though he could see what I was thinking.
“You will march beside me.”
I nodded. It was plain he wanted me where he could see me. And that was all right by me.
We didn’t stop that night, kept pressing onward through the hills and valleys of this strange land we now wandered in. Cavarillos was pushing us like a man possessed. Tancogeistla was not far away. I looked on my left and right, to the men marching there. The last swordsmen from southern Gaul. Mercenaries. I had no way of knowing whether they were part of Cavarillos’ plot.
If they were, I was outnumbered. If they weren’t, I was outclassed still. There was no hope of my beating Cavarillos in a fair fight. I had no desire to. My only wish was to dissuade him from this mad plan that he had conceived, this plot to murder one of my fellow tribesmen.
By morning we had reached a ridge that rose steeply above the surrounding terrain. From its height, we could look down and see the scattered campfires of Tancogeistla. So few. The last of the Aeduan army…
“He is still here,” Cavarillos observed quietly. I didn’t respond. To answer in the way I knew he wanted would be to lie, to deceive a friend. To answer in the negative—I feared what would happen then.
I fingered the javelins in my hand. They were my one advantage. Cavarillos was not skilled in their use. If I could keep him at range—But I prayed it would not come to that. He was one of the few friends I had left. Loyalty to him, loyalty to tribe, to the clan of my fathers…
My heart sank when I saw Tancogeistla. He was sitting beneath a large tree, his back resting against its bark. His sword-arm was swathed in dirty, blood-soaked bandages, clearly the result of a battle wound. He had fought bravely, despite his drunken foolishness.
“Cavarillos,” he greeted quietly as we came to a halt before him. Once again, he didn’t remember my name, and I didn’t expect him to. Cavarillos had been the leader of the warriors from Mediolanium. I was merely a foot-soldier.
“Is this all that’s left?” Cavarillos demanded abruptly.
Tancogeistla nodded, clearly sensing the condemnation in the mercenary’s voice. He was dead sober now. He nodded to the two nobles who flanked him, his bodyguards.
“Help me up.” It was then that I noticed the bandages on his foot as well. They lifted him into a standing position and he faced Cavarillos.
“Let your men rest today,” he said calmly. “We head north tomorrow. You can bivouac your men over there.”
“My men?” Cavarillos asked, irony dripping from his lips. “All four of them? The four that survived the slaughter of Ictis?”
“I understand how you feel, my brother,” Tancogeistla said softly. He was not a bad leader when he stayed away from the bottle. “I lost many good friends in the fight as well.”
Cavarillos nodded, seemingly mollified. He turned and led us over to the place Tancogeistla had indicated. He stripped off his sword and scabbard and threw them on the ground, sighing heavily. The march had been hard on all of us, him not the least.
I waited till we were alone before I spoke. “You have abandoned your plan?” I asked quietly, hope in my voice. Hope that I would not be forced to confront my friend, to match myself against his skill with the sword.
He looked over at me, humor glinting in his dark eyes. “There is a time for everything, Cadwalador. Everything under the sun. Including his death.”
“But he was nearly crippled in that battle!” I protested, keeping my voice down with an effort. “There’s no way he can meet you!”
“So much the better.”
“You would murder him?”
He turned on me, eyes blazing. All humor was gone now, replaced by a frightening earnestness. “Yes, if you choose to call it that. Else he will kill us all. His stupidity has already caused the death of too many.” Once again I felt as though his glance was searching the depths of my soul.
“Are you with me, Cadwalador?”
My eyes met his, and in that moment I knew I had to answer him. It was a time for choosing, between the loyalties I held dearest.
I nodded slowly. “I will be at your side when the time comes…”
We rose at sunrise the next morning, falling into formation almost immediately. The foraging parties had been unable to find food, and I heard the men murmuring as they shouldered what remained of their belongings. I saw the brihetin helping Tancogeistla onto his horse. He appeared to be little stronger this morning.
Cavarillos seemed in unusually high spirits, despite the lack of sustenance. Another day, I would have been deceived into thinking he no longer harbored evil against Tancogeistla. But not now.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, we were marching northward, through rolling fields of tall grass. Several of Tancogeistla’s bodyguards rode out in advance of the column, acting as our only scouts.
By this time, I was sure that the remainder of the botroas were with Cavarillos in his plot. I had seen them talking together earlier, a conversation which had abruptly ended at my approach.
Cavarillos apparently no longer trusted me. I risked a sidelong glance at him as we strode along, his powerful body moving effortlessly when other men lagged. His cloak had been lost in the battle and the muscles of his chest and arms were clearly defined. A formidable foe.
I thought back to the day we had first met, that day in the snows of northern Gaul, how he had stumbled in at the head of the army from Mediolanium. How in the months that followed he had taught me the use of the sword, striving to pass away the time.
I had never dreamed of needing to use that knowledge against him. As our friendship had grown, I had never thought that we would be separated so violently.
Early in the afternoon, one of the riders came galloping back in. He was a noble from my village, a calm, dignified man. I had never seen him so excited.
“There are houses ahead!” he cried to Tancogeistla, striving to get his horse under control. “A village!”
I could see the look in Cavarillos’ dark eyes. The last village we had approached had been Ictis. His memories of that bloodbath were clearly visible.
I heard Tancogeistla demand the number of houses, the strength of the villagers. Clearly he was acting more rationally this time.
Before the nobleman could give a full report, however, another scout came riding in, his mount lathered with sweat. “We were discovered,” he gasped, panting out his message. “One of the village women. She ran back into the houses before we could stop her.”
Tancogeistla hesitated for but a moment. He knew, as we all, what had to be done. He turned to face the column. “Men, warriors of the Aedui,” he began, raising himself in the saddle. “Before us lies a village of the natives. It is too late to go around them. They have already discovered our presence. The village is small and should not pose a problem to our army.” He paused for effect, glancing at the weathered faces of the men he led. “In short, we must leave no one to carry word to the Dumnones. Kill them all!”
Tired though the men were, I saw the line surge forward, each man grasping his shield and spear more firmly. Men once about to drop dead from exhaustion now ran through the meadows, spurred on by the twin motivations of food and women. From the village ahead I could hear the shouts as the hapless villagers rallied each other in their defense.
“Rabo!” Our war-cry burst from the lips of the lugoae as they charged down on the defenders. I felt strangely sick. If the fight at Ictis has been stupid, senseless, then this was twice so. Only this time we were in the position of might.
I kept moving forward, as though lost in a dream. Cavarillos was running ahead of me, eager for blood. And other things, perhaps. He was a warrior, a man who lived for the fight. We were opposites.
I saw the sword of one of the botroas descend upon the neck of a villager, severing the man’s head completely from the torso, sending it spinning into a pile of straw. A young woman, her hair the color of flame, ran from one of the houses toward the dead man, a high-pitched wail breaking from her lips.
The mercenary turned, the blood-red sword still in his hand. I saw him grasp her by the arm, a strange leer on his face.
I stood there numbly as he pushed the sobbing girl roughly up against the side of her home, wiping his blade on her garments. All around me the slaughter continued, but I could not hear it. The screams of the dying were a dull ring in my ears. My eyes were locked on the mercenary, on the girl.
He began to tear at her clothes and her sobs turned instantly to screams. I moved forward instinctively, barely considering the consequences of what I was about to do.
“Stop,” I ordered in an unaccustomed tone of command, laying my hand on his shoulder. I didn’t know what his reaction would be, I only knew I couldn’t stand by. He would rape this girl and then kill my general. I could have no part of either. What had I told Cavarillos?
If I help you, it is as bad as if I had done the deed myself.
There was no difference. The mercenary turned angrily to me, lust glazing his eyes. “You can have her after I’ve finished.”
He turned, ignoring me. My sword was unsheathed, carried in my right hand, down low as Cavarillos had taught me. I didn’t want to kill him.
She screamed again, tears running down her cheeks. The sound galvanized me into action and I thrust my elbow into his ribs, sending him sprawling into the dirt of the street.
He rolled over on his back and lay there for a mere moment of time before scrambling to his feet, roaring like a wounded bull. My sword was already raised to guard myself.
I blocked his first thrust, frustrating him. He swung the longsword in a two-handed sweep toward my head. The ferocity of the blow took me off balance, nearly ripping my own blade from my hands. The point of his sword sank into the flesh of my forearm, which I had raised to protect my face.
I winced, forcing myself to ignore the pain, find the space Cavarillos had told me of. That strange state of mind where the combatant is no longer a participant, but the spectator of his own actions. I reeled backward into the side of one of the houses, with him following hard on my heels.
His sword bit deep into the sod of the house as I dodged the blow. I had reached it. It was as though I was above and behind myself, watching a dirty, bedraggled, bloodstained fighter carry out the dictates of my mind. Except that it was me.
I slammed the hilt of my sword into his cheekbone, breaking the flesh and perhaps the bone. He toppled backward, howling in fury. His blade was left stuck in the wall of the house.
He was defenseless, on his back in the dirt. The girl was still slumped where he had left her, maybe in shock. My blood was up and I followed him, striding down on him as he tried to roll away from my approach. An avenging fury.
The sounds of battle around me had faded to a low hum, punctuated only briefly by the screams of the vanquished and the shouts of the victors. It was he and I.
I glimpsed the terror in his eyes as my sword descended upon him one last time, lust replaced by fear. A crimson spray erupted from his body, spattering my clothes, bathing my sword. Sightless eyes stared back at me as I looked down on the corpse. One less in the plot against Tancogeistla.
The eyes I found myself looking into when I lifted my head were anything but sightless. I was facing Cavarillos.
“Can’t you find a better way to occupy yourself, brother?” he asked, his face creasing into a strange smile.
He kicked aimlessly at the corpse as the slaughter around us continued. “He was a good man. I’m amazed you beat him.” The smile vanished as quickly as it came. “All over a woman!”