Sword of Neamha Read online

  Sword of Neamha

  By

  Stephen England

  Kindle 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.